"Am I hallucinating?"

Peter felt dazed. He was proclaiming his musings aloud for nobody, really.

The world around him looked deserted, but he knew that was deceptive. There would be security ahead, for sure – Peter didn't know whether he'd have to sneak or break his way inside. It was dark and he was alone, which would complicate things. Or, he was pretty sure he was alone. Either that or he was going crazy, which was uncomfortably inside the realm of possibility at this point.

The hallucination cocked his head at him. "Do you think there's any chance the alternative is true?" He sounded just a bit amused.

"No," Peter mumbled, heart sinking in his chest with a force that he should really have had under control by now. "Is it- drugs? Am I drugged?"

Bruce Banner knelt in front of him, critically observed his eyes – coldly, scientifically, doctor-like. "Likely," he decided, standing back up. "But what would I know, really?"

Peter found he didn't much care after all. "Why would it be you, though?"

"Harsh. Elaborate?" he suggested lightly. Since Peter knew this was a product of his altered state of mind, he didn't much appreciate how a section of his brain was deciding to play stupid.

He huffed. "Why would I hallucinate you, out of-"

"Out of all the dead people you used to know? Or out of the Avengers?"

"Yes."

Bruce's eyes became softer. "Is there someone in particular you'd rather talk to?"

Peter was very thankful that both sides of his brain having this discussion had kept the name hanging around like an elephant mute. He found he didn't want it materialized.

"D'you know where the enhanced is?" Peter asked, because as long as he was hallucinating backup, he might as well make it useful.

"Why would I? You don't."

So, not useful at all.

Peter approached the wire fence and jumped over it. Bruce followed him, phasing right through. It made Peter's feat feel much less impressive. The fencing protected a very large area – lots of empty green space, some sparse trees littering the ground. It was so spacious, he could barely see his targeted building in the distance. He started walking.

Peter kept a side-eye on his uninvited companion, walking among the shadows in the night. Bruce eyed him back.

"I guess you're grateful," he mused without being asked, still pondering Peter's question, apparently."I saved your life."

"I am grateful," Peter whispered, stopping in his tracks for a moment. "I'm sorry it killed you."

"I thought it might. I chose to do it anyway."

Choice. Bruce Banner had chosen death. Was it a good thing? It almost sounded like it.

Peter glanced at him. "How come you look like you used to? Colonel Rhodes told me you became the Hulk for good, before."

"Reality forces you to take certain shapes, wear certain masks. I don't have to deal with reality anymore." It sounded like an explanation. Peter didn't really try to understand. "Sometimes, what you are right now is all that's necessary. Other times, it isn't. It's okay, Peter."

"Was one of your PhDs on the duality of man?"

Bruce laughed. "No. I could teach a class or two, though."

Peter heard the distant whisper of voices, honing in on a bud of activity just outside his field of vision. He leapt up a nearby tree, and stood vigil among the foliage. A handful of people were clustered around a small aircraft, loading non-descript cargo inside. Medium-sized cardboard boxes. Peter had a fairly good idea what he'd find inside. He saw no signs of the entrance to the one-story structure they were obviously coming from. Presumably, someone had locked up already.

He dropped back down. The last of the boxes was carried inside, and the aircraft's door slammed closed. There was no pilot, as was common, in this future Peter had been returned to.

"It's gonna take off," Peter mumbled.

"Yup," Bruce agreed.

"How do I stop it?"

"You don't. Not from here."

"I don't think you'll be fast enough, Peter," Karen said too, apologetically. "Maybe you could call Sam to have him track the plane when you lose it."

When you lose it. It was possible Peter was a little extra sensitive at this point.

"Maybe I don't have to stop it from taking off."

"No, but it'd be consistent with your character," Bruce said. Peter struggled not to grin a little.

"You don't have a plan for me, Dr. Banner?"

"Peter, if I may ask – who are you talking to? There is no one in your vicinity," Karen asked politely. Peter felt bad. She'd probably been running dozens of diagnostics and sensory checks.

"I'm hallucinating."

There was a silent pause. "I believe the best course of action would be for me to contact Doctor Strange."

Peter deactivated her and took the mask off. He let the fabric drop to the grass and continued creeping forward, watching the plane's engines come to life. The people that had loaded it were skittering about, some going back inside, some lounging under the light of the moon. Peter just did his best not to be noticed – he was far enough away and stayed behind obstacles when he could. The aircraft sped forward, right in Peter's general direction. Peter watched it – for some reason, take-off involved flying directly over the officially titled Bad Guy Base of Operations.

Bruce stared up at the flying contraption with a glassy, far-away look in his eyes. "It's not always about brute force, you know."

Peter calculated the distance. Then his eyes shifted to the building in its path, a solid bloc of concrete.

He looked down at his web-shooters. In its current trajectory, the flight path would take the aircraft zooming over the roof. Peter could shift that trajectory. Just a little.

He ran. He jumped over debris and inconvenient obstacles, and found himself right beneath his goal. When he shot it, the webbing held on to the metal nicely. The plane sped forward, and Peter scrambled, grabbing onto his tightening web.

"But sometimes," a deeper, scratchier, rumbling version of Bruce's kindly voice sounded, and Peter risked a flashing glance to see the Hulk staring up at the building, hungrily, vibrating with energy. "Not always. But sometimes."

Peter pulled. The little aircraft hit the target – at least the one Peter had intended – and disintegrated with a fantastic explosion. It left an impressive scorch mark on an otherwise unblemished wall.

The air sizzled, and the noise – the smell – it was awful. When he turned to him, the Hulk grinned, wide and toothy – Peter blinked and turned away because there was no longer anyone there.

"Tony Stark's tech should be in SHIELD's hands. We can do a lot of good with it. He'd want us to pick up where he left off."

Nick Fury was a difficult man to avoid. Apparently, Tony had learned that lesson before, too.

He'd dragged Peter to a storage facility ("You know, this would be totally creepy if you were some old guy luring a kid into a suspicious unassuming warehouse – oh, wait."). Walking in, however, had properly tied Peter's tongue, because it felt like stepping inside Tony's workshop, except Peter hadn't mentally prepared himself for it.

He was introduced to Quentin Beck and Maria Hill, and stared at the high-tech monitors lining the far wall instead of replying. He was pointed to a seat next to Fury, and approached a cabinet lined with Widow bites instead of sitting. The place was stocked – arrows (so many arrows), vests, blankets, first-aid and basic necessities kits, along with a full wardrobe of clothes for all of the six original Avengers.

Peter blinked and returned to the present, concluding he'd understand better if he paid attention.

"Okay," he replied noncommittally. "What do you want from me, then?"

"To track down all of it."

"You've lost it?"

"More like we've lost the only person who knew the full list of locations. We were lucky to find this place."

Peter looked away from Fury to scrutinize Maria Hill instead, who offered him an unimpressed look in return. "Lucky?"

"We've been cross-referencing whatever limited information we have to pinpoint a few stashes," she explained. "This is one of them."

"Where are you looking?"

"We're currently focusing the search in Moscow. We're not having a lot of luck, but it seems like a strategic location."

"He's got nothing in Moscow," Peter told her absent-mindedly, "he'd call it clichéd."

Hill paused. Mysterio arched his brows at him. Fury lounged back like he was bored. "Kill the Moscow operation, Hill."

She complied and proceeded, unfazed. "Next likely target would be the Azores. The Lajes base, given Colonel Rhodes-"

"There's nothing anywhere within reach of the army. Or the air force. Or any of the American-"

"Point taken. Madrid."

"He hated Renaissance architecture."

Hill finally squinted at him like she wasn't sure whether he was quipping. Good, Peter thought.

"Madrid actually preserved very little from the Renaissance period," Fury commented thoughtfully, and Peter cocked his head and stared at him blankly.

"You must be desperate, if you called me in."

Fury hummed. "Desperate or no, I'd call you in. I lost my team – I need a new one."

"Oh, and that's me, is it?" Peter steamrolled on before anyone had an answer for him. "And by the way, I still haven't figured out what you need a team for."

Mysterio spoke up for the first time, then. He was eyeing Peter in unconcealed interest and curiosity, and maybe growing admiration. "My bad, that. I have intel to suggest there's some very bad people after this tech too – I'd like to help collect it back."

"I'm sorry, and who are you again?"

Quentin Beck told a fascinating story that even included the word multiverse, but unfortunately for him, Fury wasn't going to be robbed of his spotlight for long. Peter was more interested in the backstory of this tech too – and how it'd been lost. All of it was obviously Avengers' gear, or had been, in better days. Unused – untouched, from the looks of it – but Peter recognized Tony's handiwork when he saw it.

He explored Iron Man's corner of the stockroom, by far the largest and most complete, while Fury talked at him. "Few years back, Tony had an unfortunate run-in with a juiced-up mad scientist. He was very far from home-"

"Harley's told me this story."

The unknown name clearly gave Fury pause, but he didn't dwell on it. "Like I was saying – no home base, no tricks and gadgets. So he winged it at the dollar store. From then on out, though, he started keeping gear stashed all over the world, for him and for the Avengers – in the States especially, but SHIELD's got that covered. Someone's pillaging these stashes. You need to stop them."

Fury sounded so self-assured. Probably a tactic.

And Peter – Peter wandered over to a nearby table and picked up what was clearly an early version of an Iron Man gauntlet. It didn't even look like Tony had implemented self-assembly in this one yet.

He stopped playing along. "His – their funerals – it's not even been a month. Did you respect them this little? Did you learn nothing?"

Fury stiffened. Hill and Mysterio exchanged glances. "Excuse me?"

Peter took a deep breath.

"You think I don't know what you tried to do with the Tesseract when SHIELD had it? You think I don't know Mr. Stark refused to give you guys any sort of weapons designs? You think I'm stupid enough to not figure out what you want is for me to hand you his tech on a silver platter? Like he'd allow this anywhere other than the Avengers' hands, when he spent his life trying to make sure no one else could get near his stuff."

"I think-" Peter let the repulsor clatter violently, and then turned to stare at Fury with a calm he didn't feel. Fury's eye was narrowed into a slit. "I think I underestimated how close you and Stark were."

"I think you were trying to manipulate me."

"I think you're perceptive," Fury returned, unconcerned.

"Is this all of it?"

"All of what?"

"All you have of his things."

"Do you expect me to answer that honestly?"

"Depends on whether honesty would serve your agenda."

"Good on you," Fury said amicably. "I'm not the bad guy here, Spider-Man. We have a problem – you have a problem.

Peter's face contorted. "How do I have a problem?"

"Stark made you an Avenger-"

"Stop saying his name."

"He made you an Avenger, and that's all I need to know. You gonna help or what?"

"Yeah, I'll help. Least I can do for him. FRIDAY, disable all of this equipment. Destroy any schematics files and fry everything you can," Peter ordered. "Shut down your interface here too, afterwards."

"Of course, Peter. You have one minute to clear the perimeter before the EM blast."

If Fury was startled that FRIDAY was active somewhere within this warehouse, or that Peter had control over her, he didn't show it. An alarm began blaring – on an obnoxious-looking screen, giant red digits declared a countdown. Several disks, embedded on the walls, sputtered and fizzled, smoking a little.

Peter turned to Fury, whose expression was inscrutable. Mysterio and Hill were already vacating premises.

"This was me being helpful. Get someone else to clean up your mess."

"That's it? That's all I get from Spider-Man, Iron Man's hand-picked-"

Maybe it was panic that made Peter tell him, coldly, "Maybe I'm done being Spider-Man." He left without another word.

He didn't realize until much later that Quentin Beck had followed him. They met on a roof – Peter staring out at the city, Beck approaching him from behind, sitting on the ledge by his side.

"Are you alright, Peter?"

Peter started. "What?"

"This must be hard for you."

Peter gave him a confused look. "You've known me five minutes."

Beck's smile was small, and a little sad. "I need to know you to show you empathy?"

Peter looked back down at the skyscrapers. "I'm gonna track down his stuff."

"I figured."

Peter carried on like he hadn't heard that. "I can't let Fury have it. And I can't let this- criminal guild, or whatever, I can't let them have it either."

"So you are helping SHIELD?"

"This isn't for SHIELD. It's for him."

Can't you just be a friendly-neighborhood Spider-Man?

Beck had taken in the sight of him quietly. Peter probably made for a pretty morose one, if not downright pitiful.

Beck didn't show him pity.

"This isn't alright," he'd said, quietly angry and sympathetic. "I didn't know, I'm sorry. It's disrespectful to the memory of a great man. Stark obviously meant a lot to you, Peter. You wanna get his tech off SHIELD's hands, off everyone's hands – I'm with you. I'll help."

Beck had shown him empathy. Beck had shown him kindness. Beck had lied.

Peter had known – some deep part of him, and not even the bitter cynical part, had sounded the alarm. Like he sensed something off about his partner's altruism – and didn't pay attention to it. Beck had figured out Peter was a much surer bet than Fury in finding Tony Stark's hidden inventions. Which is not to say he didn't convince Peter to take advantage of SHIELD's resources anyway – he just told everyone a different story. Peter thought Mysterio was lying to Fury – Fury thought Mysterio had talked it out with Spider-Man until Peter became reasonable.

Every time Peter located another pile of Avenger gear so he and Beck could 'protect' it, a nearby distraction drove Peter away, and the tech disappeared. River tsunamis, fires that were burning purely on air – Peter took an embarrassingly long time to work out what was happening. Illusions. Nothing was real. Mysterio was right beside him, except not really – Peter was fighting villains, except not really. Friends vanished in his arms, and he'd still suspected nothing.

Peter was such a failure. Iron Man would never have been tricked and fooled like this. Tony Stark would never be this naïve and useless. Peter Parker was no Tony Stark. Spider-Man was no Iron Man.

It ended badly.

Fury was there, at the end, invaluable in keeping Tony's biggest outpost safe from Mysterio. Peter fought him while the SHIELD director watched from the ground – Peter even won.

Peter remedied instead of preventing, the kind of thing Tony despised.

He landed in the middle of debris and dust, a substantial amount of warehouse wall blown up behind him, and eyed the way Fury was lounging by the stack of Stark tech.

"You still can't have that."

Fury scoffed and threw his hands in the air. "What, am I working for free here?"

"For my begrudging trust," Peter corrected, and Fury's frown turned into a grin. "And, quite frankly, you should be paying me. If you could afford me, that is."

"You are his kid."

Peter worked hard not to let his expression crumple at that and made his way to Fury, intent on taking care of this stash of weapons the way he had every other one. Fury put a hand on his shoulder when he got close enough. Peter stared at it and then up at him.

"Whatever you think of me, or my methods," Fury said quietly, "I did care about Stark, Parker. Not just because I knew I never had to worry about this world while he was around. And I was very sorry to see him go."

Peter wavered. "What's keeping you from worrying now?"

"Stupid question." Fury's hand was still gripping Peter's shoulder.

"I'm not done being Spider-Man," Peter blurted out. He was very far from friendly neighborhoods by that point.

Fury nodded. "No shit. So what now?"

Peter went back to school.

He'd missed a lot of classes over the past week and it hadn't gone unnoticed. One of his teachers took it upon himself to take the sympathetic approach to this.

"I know you had an internship with Tony Stark," Mr. Anderson was saying to him, forced to stay behind at the end of one of his classes. Peter stared morosely at Ned's back as he walked away. "I don't know how much interaction you had with him. I'm sure it's strange, that someone you've probably talked to once or twice is no longer here, and I just want you to-"

My parents are dead. My uncle is dead. I understand loss better than you. What even is this conversation?

"I barely knew him, honestly," Peter interrupted, on edge. He was good at playing dutiful, agreeable student. "I've just been dealing with a lot of logistical stuff, you know, both me and my aunt were gone these past five years. It's been a busy week, I'll make it up, I promise."

Mr. Anderson still didn't look satisfied. Peter groaned internally. "It's not good to ignore your feelings, Peter. Denial will only keep things at bay for a little while."

Peter nearly flinched at that. Instead, he put on his best, most earnest acting face.

"I'm alright," Peter assured him, "I'm fine. And- but, thank you, really. It's very good of you to- check on me. You're a great teacher, Mr. Anderson, and I'm real glad you've shown I can come to you with- with anything. Thank you," he repeated, just in case Mr. Anderson had forgotten it over the following twenty seconds of further words. "I'll make sure to talk it out with my aunt."

And Mr. Anderson seemed so relieved, so ridiculously pleased with himself, that when Peter grinned back, it almost felt like what a smile used to feel like.

Hawkeye appeared with no warning. "One meter, three quarters back; half a meter left."

Peter obeyed almost without thinking. He'd been too close to the building. Debris was falling. Right where he'd been standing a millisecond earlier, a flaming scrap of metal shattered and splintered against the ground. It felt warm and hazardous near his toes.

"Stop that."

"What?" he wondered wildly. Clint was glaring at Peter's feet.

"Feeling."

"I'm sorry," Peter replied tonelessly, still calming his racing heart. "I'll try to emote less. Puberty hit me like a ton of bricks."

"Sensing," Clint clarified, now smiling. "Do it like you do your witty, witty snark."

"What?" he said again, and Clint rolled his eyes.

"Don't think. Just move."

Against his better judgement and really any sort of judgement at all, he threw himself back against the wall of the building, latching onto the cold surface just in time to watch even more flaming debris litter the pavement. Clint eyed him critically. Peter eyed him right back. "How am I supposed to decide to move without thinking? Without processing my-" The words fumbled in his head. "My sensory input?"

Clint shrugged carelessly. "You don't process shit. You learn to skip that step."

"I can't hack my brain to just- index input to reaction, Agent Barton."

"Speak English, brat," he replied affectionately. "If I say you can, then you can. Crouch."

Peter did, camouflaging himself among the smoke and the fire raining from the sky. Instantly, he heard voices. His bold move had attracted attention. Clint was crouching beside him, lazy and leisurely. Peter almost expected him to start whistling.

Clint Barton's body had never been recovered. Somewhere among the ruins of the Avengers' compound was his final resting place – under debris and an alien spaceship, a home torn apart, one Avenger at a time. Like the Black Widow and the Hulk, Hawkeye hadn't made it to the final battle, presumably crushed on impact.

He'd lived just long enough to watch Bruce Banner die to bring his family back. Something smarted on the back of Peter's throat, and he blinked, forcibly removing thoughts from his own brain.

"Easier not to think?"

Clint's eyes were glittering. "So much easier."

"What do you even have a brain for?" Peter muttered, inching away from the source of the voices. He was still hidden. If he could only reach the opening between the fading smoke and the corner of the building, sprint through-

"Stop," Clint commanded roughly. Peter froze. A shadow blinked by, right over the step Peter had been about to take, accompanied by someone's quick feet. The trap Peter had almost set for himself passed without incident and he relaxed again. "No more thinking."

There was a long moment of silence. "No more thinking," Peter agreed hesitatingly.

Clint was unimpressed, unconvinced and impatient. "You're gonna cook some pasta. You get the water boiling. You dig out the salt. You check your SnapApp." Peter scrunched up his nose, because that really sounded like intentional butchering. "You add the stuff. You let it cook. Take it out."

"Are you passing down some family recipe or something? 'Cause this is really not the time."

Clint grabbed his arm, so Peter turned back to him, let himself be halted. The archer had an urgent look on his face. "You don't remember any of it. You don't decide what the next step is. It just is."

Peter slid beside Clint to retreat into shadows the fires hadn't quite reached. Someone was going to pass right in front of him, he knew it, he knew it, and his webbing shot out fast and true. Peter pulled and glued the fly he'd caught to the ground; wrists, ankles and midriff. The web taping the woman's mouth shut kept the situation silent, and her back being turned to him kept him invisible.

"I've got it."

He was getting closer, he just needed to avoid two more men. Clint followed him when he hurried out of his hidey hole.

"It's not about paying attention to the alarms when they start screaming," Clint advised. "It's about ignoring the screaming altogether. Don't check your systems, don't read the codes. Let your brain remind you what the right move was, last time they screamed like that."

Peter breezed around the corner of the building so silently and gracefully, avoiding two separate collisions with unwanted gazes, that he didn't even notice when Hawkeye went away, just as quietly.

"Peter!"

The true succession of events was like this: he predicted it before he did something reckless, he did something reckless before he sensed it, he sensed it before he heard it, he heard it before it hit, and it hit before Doctor Stephen Strange yelled out his name in warning. It hit several seconds before it hurt, too.

Peter knew this. Doctor Strange, brilliant as he was, couldn't possibly have spider-clarity.

"Oof," Peter gasped, hitting the concrete.

Mutant experimentation, these days, was all the rage. If someone had told Peter this sentence would fail to put him into a vibrating state of excitement, only a short few years ago, he'd have promised whoever it was that their future Peter had been replaced with an evil clone. Now, well, it was the sort of responsibility people tended to push onto Peter, and who knew how much he could grow to dislike responsibility?

Either way, it was his responsibility. Which meant that there Spider-Man was, getting hit full-on with a projectile thrown by their latest enhanced headache, so that Strange didn't have to.

The new Avengers worked in disconnect, for the most part, like a network of individually connected gears. Doctor Strange got word of a Queens-based operation, and called Spider-Man for backup. Spider-Man reached out to SHIELD, so they could trace the involved parties. When several bases were located, presumably storing illegal chemicals and test subjects in varying stages of horrifying experimentation, Peter also gave Sam a call. Falcon and the Winter Soldier were the only ones sufficiently combat-ready in their would-be team – let them storm the militia's real estate (all of the locations turned out to be a bust, anyway – wherever SHIELD had gotten their intel, it was clearly an unreliable source).

Meanwhile, Peter and Doctor Strange handled the enhanced. Whoever it was, under a gaudy – ghastly – hood and cape, they were fast, strong, and determined. And they kept throwing things. Peter's neighborhood was supposed to be a litter-free space, thank you Spider-Man.

Several seconds passed of Peter silently wheezing, and then Strange was fluttering down right beside him. The doctor pulled him up, pulled his mask off – Peter noted his fall had dented the road, which was cool – and put his face way too far into his personal space. Peter shifted back and his head pounded.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Strange demanded, using the hand not holding up said fingers to keep his chin immobile.

Clarity had almost been fully returned to him – he knew he could fall from very high and recover fast, he remembered Germany – so Peter took the safer approach.

"In this dimension or the next, Doc?" he quipped back by way of deflection. "Where's the enhanced?"

Doctor Strange scowled. "Gone as soon as you went down. I'll assume that lip is you avoiding answering my question. Which means, best case scenario, you're seeing double."

"That's very clever."

"I'm very clever, Parker."

Peter beamed. His head barely hurt anymore. "What happened to Peter? I heard all that concern in your voice earlier. It was heartwarming."

"Your mental faculties," Strange decided, standing up, "are plainly as unimpaired as they'll ever be."

Peter stayed on the ground because he wasn't quite all that sure his legs were ready to hold him up. The doctor was still scrutinizing him.

"Listen, if you're gonna ask me what I was thinking, I have to tell you-"

"Oh, no, don't bother," Doctor Strange deadpanned. "I already assumed you weren't."

He seemed so worried – if it comes to saving you, or the kid, or the time stone, I will not hesitate to let either of you die – Peter patted his ankle, which he could reach best. "I'm all good. You don't have to stress about it."

Strange's eyebrows shot up. "You still haven't stood up."

"It's easier to convince you if I don't fall splat on my face the minute I get back on my feet."

The look on his face then reminded Peter of the thin-threaded patience Tony had shown the Guardians on Titan. He thought he saw the older man's temple jump. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"If it hadn't hit you, that- vial would've hit me."

Peter looked away. "Is that what it was?"

"Why did you do it?"

He shrugged. "Gut feeling told me I should."

Strange's scrutiny intensified. "I'm going to be very honest with you, Parker – I have a growing concern about your behavioral patterns."

Peter snorted, then giggled. "Oh, c'mon. Am I supposed to take that seriously?"

"Very much," Strange said calmly.

"I'm Spider-Man. That was Spider-Man's behavioral pattern."

Strange still seemed unsure. "That doesn't justify this kind of recklessness."

"Recklessness?"

And then – then, the good doctor finally said something to render Peter stiff and speechless. "I won't drop this via deflective behavior, Parker. I owe Stark too great a debt to neglect you like that."

Peter stared at him. Strange crouched down in front of him again.

"I'm not a debt payment," Peter muttered inevitably, probably with a little too much bite to brush it off.

There was a second of tense silence. "It wasn't my intent to imply that you were," Doctor Strange replied tightly but carefully.

Peter was lucky it was just Strange. If Sam had been there, Peter would never have been able to get away with his bullshit.

("Spider-dude," Sam had greeted, in a rare visit to Peter's neck of the woods. "Roof have a flee infestation or something?"

"Or something," Peter greeted back cheerfully. "Thanks for the save, Captain America."

Sam gave his leg a strong shake. Peter's entire body wobbled mid-air, zooming through the streets of New York under Falcon's wings. "It's Sam."

"That's weird, but okay! Thanks for the save, Captain Sam."

Sam huffed. "Spiders can withstand very long falls, right? I should get you higher."

But Peter had come to an amazing realization, and he wasn't paying attention. He gasped, letting his mask retreat to stare at Sam intently. "Uncle Sam."

Sam gave him a look like he'd gone crazy. "If I were related to you, you'd already be disowned."

Peter grasped at his arm, determined to make him understand. "You're someone's Uncle Sam, and Uncle Sam is Captain America."

Sam caught on then. His face screwed up. He kept up a valiant front for a few seconds, but then he broke.

"God," Sam laughed, "you sure you and Stark aren't related?"

Peter thought Sam realized what he'd said at the exact same time Peter did. They both stiffened simultaneously.

"Sorry, kid," he said immediately, an earnestness to his voice that didn't even feel manufactured. "Didn't mean to-"

"'S okay," Peter interrupted forcefully. From the sharp look that earned him, Peter figured he hadn't been very successful. "Not gonna fall apart just because I hear his name, c'mon." Sam said nothing in response.

They flew the rest of the way in silence. When Sam landed, he pulled up his goggles and gave Peter a firm, kind look. "Why did you fall off that building?"

Miscalculated. Panicked. Didn't think, or thought too much. "Totally meant to do that. Looked cool, right?"

"No."

"You could've said yes, like, as a participation trophy."

Sam's lips twitched. "Listen, Parker – I have a way with words, and a good ear. If you need me to-"

"By the way," Peter interrupted casually, almost like an irrelevant aside, "next time, you can just tell Mr. Barnes to wait for you in the landing zone. He'll have to stop avoiding me eventually, there's only so many dark mysterious alleys around. It really just doesn't help the emo vibe."

Sam stared at him. Then he smirked, pressing a finger to his ear. "You get that, L'Oréal? Kid thinks the helicopter stalking is emo."

Peter web-slung himself away before his distraction wore off.)

Peter scratched his head and finally stood. He wasn't even wobbly, which Strange noted with sharp awareness, standing right after him. "My job is saving people, right? That's all I was doing."

Strange's lips pursed, but he seemed appeased. He didn't press further. "There's a tear in your suit's shoulder. Don't touch it," he warned instantly, grabbing Peter's wrist before he did just that. "It's covered in some sort of substance. Your skin has already come in contact with it. Let's limit your exposure while we don't know what it is, shall we?"

"Well, it doesn't hurt or burn or anything," Peter informed him. "So it probably doesn't have any sort of topical effect."

Strange huffed. "Which hardly means anything. All that tells us is that it's not affecting you immediately or visibly. You should shower," he advised. "And fix the suit. After you clean it."

Peter felt an unexpected pang and nodded, not trusting his vocal cords. He pulled his mask back on under Strange's heavy scrutinizing gaze, brushing off his offered hand.

"Are you sure you're alright, Parker?"

And of course he was, and why couldn't everyone just tell? Why couldn't everyone just see without being told?

The world went tilted and dizzy for a second, and Peter became petrified he might be taking a little too long a pause before answering.

"Of course I am, Mr. Doctor Strange," he said at once, and enjoyed his triumph in the way the older man overtly rolled his eyes. "I'm alright," he assured further, "I am. Just fine. Thanks for caring."

Peter injected the last sentence with the appropriate amount of teasing, so he obtained his desired outcome – Doctor Strange harrumphed, cursed someone's ancestors while gazing heavenwards, and then took off silently.

And Peter, well – Peter did, too.

"How do I get inside?" Peter murmured. It was quieter here, on another end of the building. He was sure he'd avoided all guards, or successfully diverted their attention, at least.

Peter wasn't entirely certain he was speaking to himself, though. He thought he heard lightening strike, and the hairs on the back of his arm stood up on end, as though he'd held a friction-charged plastic pen against them. "They must've barricaded the enhanced in there."

The voice that spoke up seemed to faintly crackle. "You think the enhanced's in charge?"

"Wouldn't it make sense?" Peter questioned by way of replying. "With power comes-?"

"Even more power?"

Peter laughed. It sounded like a joke, anyway. He finally looked at his newest companion, standing tall and bright against the ashy smoke and facility they were visiting. "This is evil. Gotta get at the heart."

Thor assented firmly, perfectly attuned. "Evil sits there to be conquered."

It sounded easy. It probably was easy. It was easy because Thor was there, almighty and all-powerful. His chest was even puffed.

Peter shook his head. "I can't just rush the gate. I wouldn't make it five feet."

"You underestimate my friend, the Man of Spiders. An unforgivable insult."

Peter cracked a grin. "I might've lost my mask, back there, somewhere," he said, vaguely gesturing in a near-circle. "Maybe it's just Peter I'm- estimating. I don't think Peter can take half a militia when they're alert. And armed. And dangerous."

"Whatever names you call yourself, masks are only as mighty as whoever wears them."

When Peter responded, he did it with his gaze trained firmly on the ground. "Either way, I need another way in."

Thor crouched and literally stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps they've left a backdoor unbolted." Peter stared and the God of Thunder shrugged unconcernedly. "Or a window unlocked."

"They don't – I don't think there's windows."

Thor seemed appalled. "That seems appalling."

Peter wasn't sure why he started rambling, but talking to Thor was so simple, because the load to the Norse god's words was only as heavy as he wanted it, and Thor never wanted anything heavy. "It's- it used to be a plant, they've got all these specific architecture models – windows are irrelevant, there's not even supposed to be a lot of human dwelling. I mean, then you've got- sort of, the basement- level? I guess? It's probably not the easiest thing to do, breathing down in the underground tunnel network – they had to bury it, you know, because of dangerous chemicals and stuff, safety regs and all – honestly, I'm surprised they had any respect at all for regulatory oversight and federal guidelines, but Karen did say we were standing over- we were- standing- standing over-" The way Peter trailed off, it felt like losing his voice. "Tunnels."

"Is that not a window?" Thor wondered cheerfully, but fully non-judgmental.

"More of an unbolted backdoor, I guess," Peter stammered out.

"Best to wait to make such optimistic assumptions. Not everyone forgets to keep all locks locked."

"I'm sure that sentence has all sorts of logical senses, but I'll need an excel spreadsheet to work them out later."

By the time Peter had made it to the battlefield that day, Thor had already fallen. Iron Man and Captain America were the only two Avengers left standing, in fact, hovering between Thanos and Thor's body protectively, like the fierceness of their grief would do them any good now.

Then, Thor had been a scary warning. Now, he was a beacon of power.

Peter followed him, let his own subconscious – Thor, let Thor – guide him to where he thought his way in might be. It led him dangerously close to the gaggle of henchmen he'd just evaded – they turned another corner and Peter could hear them.

But then he saw it, and his attention refocused – it was embedded into the ground, a large square framing a wooden door. Something – maybe a glimmer of the plant's plans he'd seen on a computer screen – told him that was it. That was his way in.

There was one person guarding it. Peter kept to the shadows, hesitating.

"Only one?"

"Shall you dispatch of her?"

Thor hit his hammer against his own palm. Peter stared even though he knew very well it was imaginary. "Dispatching is not my usual style."

"But you could. Easily."

"There's a lot I could do."

Peter had left it at that. Thor grinned approvingly. "Power is a privilege," he declared, "and therefore a responsibility."

"Feel like I've heard that one before," Peter muttered back. "Feel like I've said that one before."

"Surely not as eloquently."

"Well, we can't all have that accent."

Thor chuckled at him absently, which Peter supposed meant the Asgardian manner of speech would remain a mystery. "So, you will not kill her."

"Obviously not."

Peter eyed his web-shooters and wondered about the chances he had of getting this guard out of the way without being spotted. Without his face being spotted.

"A weapon is a tool," Thor said seriously. "You are the wielder."

"You say a lot of non-sequiturs."

"I most certainly do not."

Peter contemplated him, glanced down at his wrists again, and swung up. There was a chance his face had been seen – he'd swung right in front of the woman, in order to grab hold of the wall behind her. It had the benefit of drawing her away and into his path, at least. He shot a web at her eyes and she fell on her ass, blinded. He dropped to the ground and trapped her the same way he'd trapped the others.

The trapdoor-like entrance to the tunnels underneath the base was locked by a cheap locker. That was disappointing. Peter snapped it in half and pulled the doors apart. Pure black greeted him – he stuck a hand down there and felt nothing. No telling how high he might fall if he just dropped inside.

Peter met Thor's eyes again. "Take a leap of faith," the god suggested. "Grasp your source of courage-" he waved Mjölnir around like a toy – "wield it."

Peter shot support webbing at the edges of the trapdoor. It looked so thin – he pulled to test its strength.

"And, of course," Thor said, smiling, so that Peter could see his teeth shining white and elated, "swing really, really hard."

Another web shot, caught, and swung him into darkness.

Peter's endless stream of texts to Happy had abruptly cut off around two months and five years ago. Happy had apparently decided to pick up where Peter had left off. He woke up with anywhere between one and five texts on his phone, and it always got worse during the day, no matter how many polite leave-him-on-read hints Peter sent.

Peter drew the line at having to call at the end of each patrol, when he got home. He wasn't sure why Happy was suddenly so protective of him – some weird tribute to Tony, surely, although Peter couldn't imagine why he – and Doctor Strange, and Bucky Barnes, and Sam Wilson – had decided Peter's wellbeing was how they'd show their gratitude for Tony's sacrifice, when Morgan was right there.

(Peter knew they didn't forget Morgan. Pepper told him the little girl had caught Barnes on some sort of protective vigil, having made what could only be described as a nest on a tree near their house.)

"I don't think Tony would've done what he did," Happy said to him, once, probably thinking something stupid like, Peter might feel better if he were held responsible for this mess, "if he didn't know that you were gonna be here when he was gone."

That was fine. Wouldn't be the first time Peter had let Tony down.

All of this was why Peter knew, when he called Happy that time, that the man would pick up on the third ring at the latest. He picked up on the first instead.

"Hey, what's going on? Spider-Man in trouble? I can call Strange-"

"Don't need you to call anyone," Peter interrupted. "And I was just with Strange. I just need- uh, my suit needs stitching up. Think Mrs. Stark would mind if I stopped by Tony's lab?"

Happy was silent for a second too long. "I'll pick you up."

It was obnoxious, in all honesty. Peter Parker, some dumpster-diver from Queens with a handful of oversized sweaters and a ratty old suitcase to his name, calling for a ride from Tony Stark's personal driver. Bodyguard. Friend. Whatever. To Tony Stark's personal workshop. Where Peter hadn't stepped foot in months.

Peter told Happy he'd swing to Pepper's house himself and hung up.

Morgan opened the door for him, chewing thoughtfully on a carrot. "Hey, Spidey," she greeted. ("You're on my team, Spidey?" "Forever.") Pepper arrived behind her, smiling too. Her eyes zeroed in on Peter's shoulder.

"It's nice to see you, Peter. You're more than welcome to use the garage. Everything is in the same place – you know your way around his organizational methods, don't you?"

Pepper was always so effective and efficient. Tony used to call her perfect, and Peter wasn't entirely sure how to disagree, so he didn't. He kissed both girls on the cheek, and headed down to the garage.

("Peter," May had said urgently, pulling him aside after Mr. Stark's funeral. Her hand was warm on his shoulder. "I know this isn't the best time, but I need you to listen to me for a second, okay? Pepper's about to need all the help she can get," she'd continued, very serious, very careful. Peter couldn't muster up the energy to wipe the blank look off his face. "I know what it's like to be a single mom."

That got a reaction out of him. His throat seized up. "I-"

"Shh, baby, it's okay," she told him soothingly, hand tightening. "I'm not trying to say- What I'm trying to tell you is, I'd like to be around for her, as much as possible. She could use the ear of someone who- knows what it's like. But," she added suddenly, much firmer and much sharper, "only if you're okay with it. Only if you-"

"Why wouldn't I be okay with it?" rushed out of him in a breath, something outraged and hurt and shocked, spurring him into activity. This couldn't possibly be within Peter's power– something so terrible as to deprive grieving people of some small relief. May's expression did a funny little twist.

"If you need distance – Peter, you're my first priority, you understand?"

He found himself horrified, for some reason. "Of course I- No, stop thinking like that. Of course we'll be around for Ms. P- for Mrs. Stark. I'd never- I don't need distance," he summarized, hoping that would be the end of it. "I- I probably need the exact opposite." Peter thought he even believed it for a hot second.

May had given him a sad smile, a kiss on the cheek, and left to find Pepper.)

His workshops, Peter thought, were the places where Tony's ghost loomed stronger, more visible. Apart from Morgan, who would, for the rest of her life, be living proof of Tony Stark's time on this planet – a beautiful story scratched onto tree bark – Tony's lab was his essence painted on a canvas, in some weird way.

"If we stay here, nothing bad ever happens," Peter would sometimes tell Tony in his sleep. His dreams took place in the Avengers' tower, in the compound, in Tony's home – always in his workshops, even if Peter had to use his imagination to picture the ones he'd never visited.

Tony would snort like Peter had said something stupid, endearing, and amusing. "That's the thing about dreams. You wake up eventually." He'd throw a nostalgic look around. "This moment is already gone."

Peter ignored the framed photos of Tony's parents, of teenaged Tony and MIT-aged Rhodes, of Happy holding Morgan, of Tony with his girls, of Pepper posing like a runway model, of the Avengers. Of Peter and Tony, holding the paper trail for Spider-Man's stupid cover. He dodged the forgotten signs of Tony's exercise in inventing time travel – because Tony had invented time travel – the models FRIDAY had defiantly kept open, and made his way to her physical interface instead, searching the inventory so he could get to work.

(Tony had had an easier time living not for himself, but for everyone else. Maybe he'd been happier that way. Or maybe Peter was trying to paint it into less of a tragedy, for the sake of his heart.)

Peter was thinking too much about Tony. Today is going in the wrong direction. This is exactly why he'd been avoiding this place. He resolved to think nothing at all for the next few hours.

Happy showed up – it took twenty minutes of Peter's meticulous snipping and replacing of Tony's handmade fabric, and then he was there, thundering down the stairs to meet him.

"I could've given you a ride."

"So you said. Clearly, this was faster."

Happy sighed. "Are you okay, kid?"

"Why does everybody keep asking me that?" Peter wondered.

"I wonder," Happy replied drily. "Why did you call me if you were just gonna ditch me?"

Peter froze, realizing that yes, he had done exactly that. No wonder Happy was keyed up. "I- Oh, I'm sorry," he said, genuinely contrite. He turned around to face the other man, who was looking aggravated. "Sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I just realized, when I called, I was probably- there was no reason to bother you."

Happy ran a hand down his face. "I would like you to bother me," he said, slowly and carefully, his version of dumbing it down for Peter's benefit.

Peter made a face. "Kinda feels like an abuse of power and privilege."

"Tony gave you that privilege. I'm giving you that privilege."

Peter started replying to Happy's texts, after that.

Peter's feet caught purchase on rocky ground. The air felt humid and heavy to breathe.

It was still dark down there, but he could see better. Some light source, coming from wherever – it might be a good idea for him to find it, because exiting the way he entered was going to be problematic. Peter wouldn't be able to shoot a web to climb, not that far up.

He took a deep breath and took his first step. A voice broke the quiet like glass shattering.

"If you are where you're expected to be," Natasha murmured, by Peter's side as if she were standing vigil with him, "if you do what you're expected to do – have you relinquished control? Or are you just keeping a secret?"

It panicked him that noise could be his downfall. "I don't – not gonna do so good with riddles right now, Agent Romanoff," Peter whispered, frantically looking around. Stupid – it wouldn't be her imaginary voice that attracted evil henchmen. Every shadow looked like one of his targets.

"The riddle's not for you, Parker," she reprimanded sharply, as though demanding his attention. It was effective. His head snapped to her in an instant, wide-eyed and alarmed, but she was no longer there. Two fingers tapped on his shoulder and he whirled around to come face-to-face with her.

His mistake. The lack of personal space made him instinctively yelp and take a step back – he gracelessly tripped on whatever trap she'd set up for him, exactly where she'd been standing earlier.

Logically, he knew this was a product of his imagination and his imagination alone – in all likelihood, he'd just reverted to his clumsy ways and tripped on his own feet, noisily yelling out as a result. And yet, and yet – he was still staring up at an unimpressed assassin looming over him, his butt stinging and his brain firing on all cylinders and somehow none at once.

"I'm tired of visitors. Visiting my brain. Can you get- could you get out?" Peter tried his best to be polite. The Black Widow grinned back like a shark.

"Not yet."

"Right. Advice coming up."

"Advice given. I'm waiting to watch it play out."

Peter stared at her. He was still lying on the floor. Reality was starting to catch up to him, maybe because the drug could be running its course – and maybe it was the dark, the emptiness of the tunnels. Call Peter crazy, but the dead people hanging around were starting to creep him out.

"I'll go. Eventually."

His head snapped up. "No."

Natasha shook her head and laughed at him, softly.

So far, what these hallucinations had to say had proved – weirdly useful. A bit of heartbreaking, heartwarming whimsy that would make Peter cry to sleep later, but now – now it felt like the best, last gift these people could have left him.

The prospect of letting go made the creepiness turn to clinginess. So Peter waited. Natasha offered a hand. "They're coming," she warned, and he accepted her help to stand. "Write a riddle for them." He looked at his hand, then at her, and kicked his ass into gear.

Peter didn't budge from his position, but he did prepare. A strange move – a dead-end behind him, a funnel ahead. This was chapter one in the how-to manual for getting pummeled.

Four. There were four of them, showing up all at once. None failed to stop and stare at him, standing around like he was waiting for his next appointment.

When they moved, two got caught in Peter's web traps. The other two barely evaded the same fate, suddenly thrice as alert. They didn't try to free their companions, looked over the walls instead, careful gazes and tense shoulders. "Got more where those came from, spider?"

Peter shrugged, jumped on the wall behind him to climb up to the ceiling. "Might do."

One of them, sharp-eyed, located him among the shadows. He seemed emboldened and warily tracked his way to Peter, gaining confidence with every step he took free. His companion didn't move, just watched. Learned.

Peter dropped down right behind the one trying to get to him, who whirled around with none of the jumpiness Peter had demonstrated earlier.

Natasha stood over the man's shoulder, making eye contact with Peter. Something impossible was illuminating her features perfectly, the sharp shadow of her cheekbones and the half-lidded lashes over deceptively dismissive eyes. Too alert.

Peter stared at her. She arched a brow. "Where does he want you to be?" she hummed. "Where do you want to be?" Peter had no response. Time seemed a little slow. "Figure out what he knows and what you know, bitsy."

Peter's attention returned to the man eyeing him dangerously. Aggressively. He saw his hand coming, but didn't move to avoid it. The hit, Peter barely felt, but the satisfaction of having the advantage was empowering. His super-strength was a surprise only to one person in this confrontation.

The man's arm was now within Peter's reach, so reach he did. Twisted – stuck him to the wall with the others. Strong-armed him into it – natural human resistance, strength, wasn't enough to stop him.

"Seen your face," the man gasped, his only move. "Now what?"

Peter stiffened but didn't let it show. "Alright, my self-esteem can take this: it's a very forgettable face."

"I'm not gonna forget it," he retorted instantly. "Not gonna forget that face."

"Listen. I like you, there's a connection here. But. Bit much for a first date, man." Black Widow's eyes flashed, somewhere. "And you've only seen as much as I let you."

Whoever it was, under all the red and blue, smart and sparkling on the nearest screen, May didn't recognize him.

And who could blame her? What did Peter Parker have in common with Spider-Man? One was quiet, the other loud. One wore t-shirts masterfully decorated in pun, the other cracked witty quips mid-swing. One was Peter. The other made it onto the local news on a semi-regular basis. National news too, nowadays.

It was a mask than ran much deeper than fabric. Sometimes, Peter wondered if he could still split clay from man, tear down the smoke and mirrors. If it came down to it, whether he'd really want to see what he could dig up.

He saw it in the expression of curiosity she wore whenever he was featured prominently on their flat-screen, because some random passerby's smartphone had gotten too close. It wasn't that they didn't crack jokes together, but there was a certain degree of detached coolness attached to a sassy one-liner thrown into a muggers face mid-stab attempt. He knew May didn't recognize that kind of lip on wholesome, awkward, doe-eyed Peter. He still didn't know if it was as easy for her to separate Peter Parker and Spider-Man as it was for him.

He tried his best to be Peter for her, always. That day, though, he crawled through his window in the suit, and she was waiting in his room.

"Stephen called me," she informed him without preamble.

"Why are you on a first name basis with Doctor Strange?" was Peter's first question. "Why does Doctor Strange have your number?" was his second question.

May narrowed her eyes at him. "Were you at Pepper's?"

"Didn't she call you too?" He didn't mean to make it sound brattish or insolent. At least it wasn't aggressive. Peter reeled back immediately. "I'm so sorry, I- sorry, I didn't mean that-"

"Yes, you did," May said heavily in response to the downtrodden expression on his face. "I'm worried, Peter."

She said it so simply. "Don't be, Strange isn't very good at- human-ing. What did he tell you?"

May's lips twitched, but she didn't let herself be distracted. "Nothing I needed him to say. This isn't coming from any of your weird Avenger friends – it's coming from me."

Peter sunk down on his bed beside her. He flopped back, and May twisted around, sat back against the headboard, and pulled his head into her lap. Peter's heart skipped a beat for a second at the action – he wasn't even sure why – and he clung to her too tightly for a second. It only consolidated May's concern.

"I'm okay," he told her. "I was just thinking about Tony a lot today."

It wasn't even a lie, just a convenient excuse. May knew it too. She frowned. "Is there something- what made you think of him more?"

"Nothing. I dunno. It's just one of those days, I guess."

The trick, Peter knew, was telling the truth and what people were already expecting to hear, at least partially. Whatever he didn't say would be left, cleverly hidden behind a curtain of less off-putting honesty.

Of course, it worked on some people better than it did on others. Peter always had trouble selling it to May.

"You're lying," she told him in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

"I'm not."

"You're omitting."

Peter sighed. "What did Strange tell you?" he asked again.

"Peter, I don't want to be in contact with these people," she said carefully. "I know it's not my place. But if you're going to be like this – if I can't trust that you can handle-"

Peter stiffened and shot up. Hiding under May's skirts was embarrassing, all of a sudden. "I'm an Avenger."

"Okay, Avenger, can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

She was staring at him, put upon, and Peter was sitting at the end of his bed, dejected. "Why won't you talk to me?"

"Why won't you believe me?"

"Because you look like a kicked puppy."

Peter turned that to his advantage and made eye contact with her, frowning and forlorn. "Because you won't believe me."

May finally hesitated, doubt seeping into her self-assurance. "If you were just thinking about Tony – do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?"

Her voice was soft, and he finally smiled at her, making a show of perking up at her beginning to take him at his word. "I talked with Happy."

She seemed surprised but pleased beyond belief. "You did? He- did you call him?"

Peter nodded. May beamed. "I'm gonna be okay."

She deflated, a gentle expression replacing the delight. "Of course you will. And I'm glad you called Happy – but I hope you know, I'm right here too, Peter. For anything. Tell me you know that."

"May," he dragged out, petulant and chirpy. "You know if there was anything serious, you're my first person to tell, right?"

It hit him much, much later, this was the first time he'd so blatantly outright lied to her. He'd been dancing around her questions this entire conversation – omission, misdirection, vague, distracted nodding and humming; in the past, he'd used all the tricks in the book and then some. The biggest thing he'd kept as a secret was Spider-Man, and not even for very long.

In the moment, though, all that would occur to him was that it was a lie. May didn't even figure in his mental list of emergency contacts, she hadn't for a long time. Ned might be there. Total strangers were absolutely there. Like the King of Wakanda, for instance, that was a thing. And at the very top was Doctor Strange, someone Peter couldn't even say he particularly liked. Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson – people he'd once fought on behalf of Mr. Stark.

Peter thought his definition of emergency might have drifted too far from the scope of May's qualifications. That was probably it – Peter and May definitely meant completely different things, right then. May herself had definitely gone from his biggest source of strength and support to his biggest weakness, and therefore the first thing he needed to protect.

It was distance. It was cold.

The all-encompassing guilt that filled him for a minute prompted him to blurt out, far more serious, "It's okay, I swear." May's face was still wary and completely unconvinced, but he was feeling something – he was feeling something different than what he'd become used to, and that was something, even if it was guilt. "I'm alright," he assured firmly. "Promise. Thank you. For- for asking, and for being the best mom I could ever dream of."

So then, May's eyes filled with sudden tears, she gasped, and he was jerked into a hug – and it was so tempting to lose himself in the comfort, because it smelled like his childhood, like years past and Peters past. It was so tempting to cry with her.

Peter was really good at impulse control. And, apparently, at deception and manipulation too, now. He hugged back tightly and dutifully. Then he let her sniffle away, eyes vacant and quiet, and called Ned.

Peter knew Natasha was gone without checking, so the hand that suddenly slammed down on his shoulder could only belong to his final opponent. He was spun around not of his own accord.

No longer natural human strength.

Found the enhanced, he thought dully for a stupid moment. And then his head kicked back into gear to sound some sort of vague alarm that wasn't all that helpful. He had enough time to internally acknowledge he'd never been evenly matched like this, and the first fist flew out, making his ears ring and his vision go shiny and indecipherable. Outmatched. His brain short-circuited for a second.

When he came back to himself, the next couple of fists had already followed. It was all he could do to throw up random, uncoordinated limbs to completely miss blocking his opponent, who seemed to find it funny. "Look at you, all soft and untrained. Have you ever even found out what a proper right hook feels like?"

The woman followed her taunt with a demonstration. Backed up against a wall, Peter couldn't exactly do much. There was a tight grip keeping one of his arms under control. He shoved at it with a surge of something, and gained a momentary reprieve.

Momentary.

Running away seemed unseemly. Also very much an unattainable goal, but mostly unseemly.

Peter ran away.

He followed the light. At the other end of the large tunnel, there was a simple door, blown wide open, clearly how the four stooges had made it down there. Peter sprinted his way inside too, finding himself climbing a stairwell – he'd finally breached the base, which he supposed meant mission accomplished. He could hear the enhanced behind him, chasing him up and gaining ground quickly.

Peter barged into a wide, deserted room, dusty and clearly meant for storage. There were support columns all around him – he had a horrible sense of déjà vu. His steps echoed around, as did the enhanced's; he was thrown off his feet, slamming into the first column, before he could catch his breath.

And Peter was suddenly right back to his escaped fate – her hand on his throat, his back pressed to cracking and splintering concrete, and an unrelenting attack, wherever she could reach.

He crumbled, this time.

"She w- won't s- stop, what-" Peter swallowed a cry and grunted instead, eyes stinging under tears and sweat, dirt and what he suspected was blood. "I just keep taking the hit, please, what do I do, what do I do?"

He knew who it was behind him before he looked. "Take the next one."

When the knee came up to his stomach, his legs wanted to give. Peter wanted to buckle. He wanted to tap out – he didn't want to take the next one. But he looked up instead – found Steve Rogers staring down his assailant without a hint of negativity on his face. No discomfort, no anger, no hurt or pain or disgust. No fear or hesitation. Just a determined, dangerous glint in his eyes that somehow came off as warm and friendly, the personification of some steely, unquantifiable virtue Peter could never emulate. Captain America.

Couldn't emulate, but could borrow.

Nothing changed about his frankly one-sided fight. He was getting slowly and surely beat up. The punch kept coming, the kick kept landing. But - the sudden steel in his limbs seemed foreign. All the pains and aches were happening to someone else's body. Peter, though – Peter wasn't hurt. Peter was an immovable object.

Peter could do this all day. He just maybe didn't really want to.

"Right," he breathed. "Taking the next one." He grunted and lost his breath for a second, lungs emptied by a foot to the chest. Immovable. "A-and step t- two? Should I just keep playing a punching bag, or- what am I waiting for?"

Captain America looked away from the enemy to actually grin at him. "Your turn."

And, as though through magic, or just really convenient hallucinations, Peter identified a crystal-clear opening – his arm slipped loose, his hand curled into a fist. It landed on her stomach – she never saw the mutant kid's counter-strike coming. Complacency was a bitch.

She flew back some ten feet, and Peter walked forward on what should, by all accounts, be rather wobbly legs. He'd never felt surer of his footing in his life. Steve strutted confidently nearby, falling into step with him.

Pepper had told Peter that it was when Tony had seen Captain Rogers go down that he'd realized what would need to be done. Peter honestly understood why – to watch all of that resilience go down, to watch it finally break and give – Peter would have let desperation overtake him too. Peter would've played his last, most terrible card, too.

"Hey, do you ever say something cool right before you kick someone's ass?" Peter croaked at Steve.

Steve squinted at him. "Gotta be sure of the ass-kicking first, son. Otherwise, you just look like an ass."

Peter nodded. "That's great advice. Thank you, Captain America."

Peter leapt and slammed into the enhanced woman, who was already back on her feet, a warier, more guarded fighting stance. There wasn't much art to the brawl – at some point, he thought he might have bitten down – but it somehow worked better against her, just like that. They danced all over the room – hitting walls and empty crates and concrete alike.

Peter got the upper hand. She stumbled and tripped, and stayed down under his assault. He waited for a few seconds, panting, but she remained still, lying on the floor a few steps from Peter's feet.

He thought, well, that was easy. Steve winked at him. "You can say something cool now."

Peter opened and closed his mouth. "I got nothing." Steve laughed.

The first column collapsed. Peter stared at the collecting dust and debris, the entire base groaning around him.

"Repeat performances are lazy," Peter said dumbly, and the second column cracked too.

The mutant woman pushed herself up on her elbows, then hands, and finally stood. She grabbed a hold of Peter before he could process her recovery. The point, he was fairly certain, was to keep him from running away.

The building's structural integrity had already been shaken, earlier, when Peter had literally crashed a small aircraft against its side. Solid concrete it may have been, but anything could come down with enough perseverance.

"Tell me, Spider-Man," she said, "who's here to pay attention to your surroundings for you?"

She dropped him and darted away inhumanly fast, and that would have been Peter's warning if not for his screaming spidey-sense, but he was too late, and the world was disintegrating all around, all over him. A particularly large piece of stone and rebar and dust and skeletal building fell directly on his right shoulder, and then his back and legs, because he went down with it. The impact forced the air from his lungs, possibly his bones from their place, and Captain America out of existence.

And Peter couldn't move.

This really needed to stop happening.

"Hey. I require guy-in-the-chair services. Are you busy?"

Ned grinned widely at Peter's head peeking through his window. "I'm never busy for Spider-Man."

Peter crawled inside. "It hurts that you didn't say Peter Parker there."

"Peter is too cool to need a guy in the chair."

Peter snorted, but the smile was inevitable. "Not so."

When they'd both been returned to the world through the death of the Avengers, five years been and gone, Ned hadn't asked questions about the team. He hadn't asked about what it felt like to watch Steve be run through with Thanos' sword, or if he'd heard Tony's heartbeat stutter and give out. Instead, he'd asked what it'd been like to partner with Iron Man and to be a part of Captain America's army – asked about real magic, and if the only sorcerer Peter knew was as weird as he'd expect any sorcerer to be. He'd asked about meeting and fighting actual aliens, and how it felt to be back to regular old Earth.

(Peter was so glad to be back to regular old Earth.)

At first, Peter had thought it was borne out of some immature callousness, the kind of age-appropriate insensitivity Peter couldn't afford anymore, not since he'd become Spider-Man. Peter didn't exactly advertise how close he and Tony had become in a short span of two years, anyway. In time, he came to the conclusion that he had it all wrong – Ned was avoiding the questions that were clearly giving Peter anxiety. Ned wasn't asking about the pain, or the fear, or the grief – Ned wanted him to focus on the fight in him, on what Peter could do, on what he'd managed to save and win.

Ned made him feel like a superhero.

The only way to end a day where everyone was asking questions Peter didn't want to hear was to go to the one person who wouldn't do that to him. Plus, he actually did need Ned's help.

"What's up?"

Ned was already at his desk, a super concentrated look on his face. Peter clasped his hands behind his back. "I was fighting an enhanced today-"

"A what?"

"Um, a mutant," Peter clarified. "Anyway, we were fighting, and they threw some- liquid? I didn't know what it was, but FRIDAY did some molecular analysis-"

("There is a psychoactive agent in this substance, Peter. Would you like me to analyze it further? I can forward my results to Doctor Stephen Strange."

"Uh – no, no, that's okay. I'll be- it'll be fine. Is it a known molecular structure?"

"There is a similar chemical compound, patented two months ago."

"Who owns it?")

Ned was nodding very quickly, absorbing more information than Peter thought he was providing, he thought. "You need me to find where it came from?"

"Sort of – I've got the manufacturer. But what I need is a location. The enhanced I fought today – they're holed up somewhere, and I'm sure you can tie some storage facility or old abandoned- I dunno, somewhere creepy and lair-like. Where I can find them."

Ned was typing away as fast he could, though for what, Peter didn't know, since he didn't have a name yet. "What's the manufacturer?"

"Oscorp."

"Oh, wow. That's big. Are they in on it?"

"I don't think so. Just their stuff – intellectual property, more like. My guess is it's a corporate security problem, not an evil business empire problem."

"That's why you asked for abandoned warehouses and everything?"

Peter nodded and dumped himself on Ned's bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn't come for this kind of thing often – Ned was a poor substitute to SHIELD's resources, or Doctor Strange's resources, or even FRIDAY's resources. The reasons he came to his friend at all were all avoidance-based – using FRIDAY required all of his emotional processing skills on a good day; going to Doctor Strange always made 'Why would you do that?' ring in his brain, like a church bell slamming into his skull over and over again; and any day he managed to have no contact with SHIELD was a stress and annoyance-free day.

So, Ned was his favorite and least effective resort. Peter would choose him every time if it weren't for the fact that lack of effectiveness was a fatality-inducing problem, in Spider-Man-land.

"Okay," Ned eventually said, breaking through Peter's thoughts, "I think I've got something – a few somethings, but I can narrow it down. I've got activity where it's not supposed to be, vans pulling up in places where they shouldn't, incoherent power consumptions-"

"Give me the numbers," Peter requested, sitting up.

Ned cocked his head. "Numbers?"

"Electricity – either you've found where they're storing stuff, or where they're staying, where they're experimenting. Consumption will tell 'em apart."

Ned's eyes had lit up at the idea. "Oh, clever. Okay, gives us a couple possibilities, but if you fought them today, maybe I could pull up footage-" He trailed off abruptly. Something appeared to have occurred to him. Peter eyed him questioningly. "Peter," Ned called carefully, "why couldn't FRIDAY have done this for you?"

Peter's eyes dropped to Ned's comforter at once.

"Because then FRIDAY would know where I'm going tonight."

"Why can't FRIDAY know where you're going tonight?"

"Because then Pepper will know where I'm going tonight, and if Pepper knows, Sam will know, and if Sam knows, Bucky will stop me."

Ned had frozen, fingers stuck on the arms of his chair. "Is this the Vulture all over again?"

Peter instantly scowled. "No. What? No. What does that even – I'm not being stupid and childish, I'm just- tired of all of them. I can't- uh, I can't hear any more questions about my well-being this week. This month."

Ned was gaping like a fish. "You're tired of- How is that not stupid and childish?" he demanded.

"C'mon, Ned."

"Peter, Mr. Stark isn't here to rescue you this time."

For a heartbeat, Peter hated Ned. He hated his concern, and he hated the panicked look on his face especially. It was like a betrayal, that he was bringing up the name – Peter had come expecting it to be a taboo. Feeling unexpectedly combative, pulse racing, he crossed his arms. "He wasn't there last time either. I did it all by myself. Which is what I'm going to do today, too."

"Peter," Ned insisted, clearly frustrated at his stubbornness, "you should really- maybe I'll- just please, call your aunt."

"Really? Is she an Avenger? A cop? A new vigilante on the block I haven't run into yet?" Peter muttered snidely. "When'd she get bit by a radioactive spider?"

Ned's brows knitted together like he was still puzzling out Peter's behavior and not liking the overall picture. "Doctor Strange, then," he suggested alternatively.

"He's already involved," Peter said truthfully and vaguely. It seemed to sufficiently appease Ned.

"Oh – oh. Dude, why didn't you just say that?" he said, immensely relieved. Peter felt only a little bad.

Ned turned back to the computer at once, happily returning to his work. It didn't take him long to come up with an address.

Before he handed it to Peter, he hesitated and looked him in the eye. "You'll stop by tomorrow? We've got that Hogwarts model to build."

Peter smiled at him. "I'll be here. We're good – I'm good. Don't let me worry you. Thanks, man."

He jumped out the window and Karen set a trajectory.

Tony didn't appear out of nowhere, nor did he walk in quietly, call Peter's attention in a friendly, reserved manner. He strutted into his line of vision, wandered toward him casually like he both meant and didn't mean to be there, gracing everyone with his presence while scanning the situation to see what potential it had to offer. Caught the spotlight he wanted and kept it.

The way he eyed Peter, it was like he just happened to glance down at the kid stuck under yet another collapsed building, and found himself vaguely interested.

Tony crouched down beside him, balanced precariously on continuingly falling dust and bits and pieces of the ceiling. Mostly, he was fazing right through it, like a hallucination should. "Caught between a rock and a hard place, kid?"

Peter couldn't really produce much more than a choked wheeze. "No."

"Oh-ho. I take it you meant to get trapped under half the ceiling?" Peter closed his eyes and focused all his energy into inhaling another breath. "Nothing? Let's go with that, then. If it makes you feel better, the other half's still holding up."

"Guh," Peter said, and it sounded eloquent to his oxygen-deprived brain.

"Here's what's tripping me up, though," Tony carried on, as though that had been a full-throated, confident response that Peter had just given, complete with bullet-points and references,"this feels like the sort of thing that only has to happen once before you grow smarter for it. Or something. I think. I'm pretty sure. I've never not been smarter. Who knows, maybe I'll be surprised by the stats on people who keep getting buildings dropped on them."

The thing about these hallucinations, Peter mused, was that they never even really felt legitimate. Talking to six dead Avengers felt like a bubble, a pocket in time – where there was nothing except him and Tony. Where he could breathe and forget there was a building on top of him, sort of. A little scene playing out within the cozy confines of his brain, purely for his indulgence and entertainment.

But then Peter would look at Tony – he'd take in the goatee, and the warmth of his eyes, and all the skin imperfections he still remembered perfectly and already forgot, somehow. That's when Peter's brain would take its opportunity to confuse, muddle and twist reality for his benefit.

"You don't have some unbelievably convenient knowledge to impart to me right now?" Peter heard himself ask, dazedly. Tony waited patiently for him to finish speaking, which was uncharacteristically big of him. "Something to get me out of this particular pickle?"

"Hang on, let me check my pockets. Ah-ha!" Tony crowed dramatically, faux-triumphantly. "Got it. A laser that can disintegrate all sorts of matter into nothing, cleverly disguised as a ballpoint pen. Should just melt all that concrete like butter. And any actual pickle, it's super effective on pseudo-vegetables, I'm telling you. This is the kind of scientific breakthrough that completely delegitimizes all previous breakthroughs in- well, every field of science, really. My kind of breakthrough, wouldn't you say?"

"Mr. Stark. 'No' has, like, one syllable. It was right at your disposal. It's such a short word."

"Which is why I avoid it as best I can."

"You know, what I was asking for was more along the lines of transcendent advice or something."

Tony seemed to mull that over very carefully. "Nah, kid. I say you've got everything you need already."

Peter shook his head, because that was so wrong. "What? No. How would you- Mr. Stark. I wasn't- I'm not ready. To- to-" The rest of the sentence got stuck somewhere along his throat. "There was too much you didn't have time to teach me."

"Good," Tony replied, unexpectedly fierce. "There was too much too many people didn't have time to teach me. Most important thing I ever learned was just that – I don't know jack shit, and experience beats genius every time."

Peter was feeling like a child whining for impossible things to a helpless parent, but the moment the needy, emotional black hole got a hold of him, he went spiraling. Tony was right there. The strangled sob that escaped his throat was the one sound he knew was real. "Wasn't r-ready to l-lose you."

"I know, Pete." Tony was quieter, gentler now. "I won't tell you I regret what I did, but – I am sorry. You didn't get a say."

All Peter could figure out was that this was a wonderful, awful, self-indulgent hallucination, and his subconscious was pathetic. "Wouldn't have changed a thing if I did. Like you'd listen."

"That's not fair. I always listened to you, kid. Learned that one the hard way."

"Maybe. Just didn't always approve of what I said."

Tony pulled up one corner of his mouth in a smug, flamboyantly staid sort of way. Peter imagined sunglasses shading his eyes. It hurt, how well he remembered that expression. "You know the score. I'm old and wise and extra. That and they keep telling me I'm a genius."

"Dumb genius," Peter mumbled. His vision was vibrating and fading, but the panicked adrenaline this would normally bring wasn't enough to keep him conscious anymore. He was slipping under, and didn't seem to want to do anything about it.

Tony snapped two fingers right on his ear and Peter jolted. "Hey. Falling asleep after such a lame burn is doubly lame."

"Don't think it was sleep."

"No, it wasn't."

Peter gazed at him, more than a little disoriented. "Are you worried, Mr. Stark?"

Tony had a dark, heavy look in his eyes. Peter couldn't really process much else. "Always. C'mon, Parker. You know the drill, look alive. Shake it off."

That made Peter laugh. He imagined wiggling his toes. "Can't. Stuck."

Tony's expression was now rather pinched. "Your sense of humor is so innocent and stupid."

"I call it a coping mechanism."

"No, I call it a coping mechanism. You're just a distasteful plagiarist."

"Still think I shouldn't be like you?"

Tony gave him a shark-like grin, all teeth and no happiness. "More than ever."

Peter smiled. "You're like – just, straight up, the self-preservation part of my brain, huh?"

"To be honest, I'm just shocked to find out you actually have one."

"What if I need more than encouragement and concern?"

Tony gave it a long moment's pause. "What do you need, kid?"

Peter remembered meeting Morgan. A little girl much too clever for her own good, who took in her mother's red-rimmed eyes, the way she was clinging to Colonel Rhodes, and instantly burst into tears. She and Pepper had held on to each other right there on the porch of a home built over the five years that Peter had blinked away. He hadn't even been aware of the existence of a new Stark up until that exact moment, and all he could think was huh – this place is weirdly rustic for Tony Stark.

Peter remembered being entranced by the wildly shifting expressions on Bucky Barnes' face, then, who was somehow almost taking the whole thing harder than anyone else there. He seemed like he had been as aware of Morgan's existence as Peter had, so Peter focused there – read all the horror, guilt, grief, and realization crashing down on him all at once, and then thought – I wonder if he thinks they're all dead because the Avengers broke up over him; I wonder if he thinks he tore apart another family of Starks.

Peter remembered braving Tony and Pepper's house for the first time, remembered Mrs. Stark accompanying him only until she saw the stacked, dirty expresso cups scattered around the least appropriate places in his workshop, at which point her sure steps stuttered. She'd fled without another proper word, just a sob she couldn't shove back down and a stumbling gait. Left Peter to stare around in morbid fascination and masochistic effort. That's when the thought had hit him – one he'd digested in the most brutal way possible, later, unable to trust Fury, unable to trust Beck, unable to trust his own friends – but truly, deeply, for the first time, then.

"I'm all alone."

He needed – he wanted help.

"Peter. I'm right here."

Tony was right there, hand outstretched invitingly. Peter reached for it, the tanned, calloused, comforting palm opened to the sky. His arm was impossibly unblemished, waiting either for rain or something Peter couldn't give.

Peter's own hand, smaller, paler, less worn – it hovered over Tony's, but he wasn't really sure what he was trying to do anymore. Wasn't sure what he wanted, what Tony wanted, what he was allowed or supposed to do.

"No, you're not."

Instead of grabbing, his hand slammed down. It went through an offer of support that wasn't really there, hit the floor hard enough to dent, and pushed.

He used the momentum to shove the debris off him – the metal, the concrete, whatever had collapsed over his chest, his legs. It went flying, and Peter could no longer understand what it was that had been keeping him from breathing.

He stood up and faced the enhanced hostile, who'd been in the unfortunate path of some of Peter's debris and was now scrambling back up with a renewed terse look on her face. Peter glanced back at Tony and was met with the cold, silvery mask of Iron Man. "Kick her ass," his metallic voice suggested. Bored, exasperated, like it should have been done yesterday.

Peter surged forward.

He'd never fought angry before. Scared, check – terrified out of his wits, more like. Determined, of course, or stubbornly righteous, in-keeping with Tony's alternative denominations for anything he found insufficiently cynical; worried and cheeky, only all of the time. Even cocky – once or twice or three times. Never angry.

Except now he wondered why not, damn it, and what the hell was the benefit of anger management and impulse control anyway, because rage made him invincible.

Invincible because Tony wasn't there. Invincible because he was Spider-Man and his tally for buildings collapsing on him was two now. Because the Avengers were all over and gone and he was just Peter, furious Peter.

He couldn't slip on the broken concrete, he couldn't trip on ragged edges of a broken power plant – all he could do was shove, and hit, and hurt the enhanced woman that had brought it – brought Peter – down. It didn't help that the scene surrounding him was eerily similar to the one haunting his nightmares for two months now – any second now, he'd turn his head the wrong way and maybe see Thor's blonde hair spilling over his own blood. If he went too far, walked away from the thick of the battle, he might stumble on Steve, blade shoved through his torso, eyes permanently open.

If Peter tripped and fell to his knees, he could come face-to-face with Tony, half his body burned away and snuffing out the rest of him.

The hostile enhanced collapsed in his hold. Peter had a hand on her throat.

"How did I get here?" he asked.

"Matters more how you move forward," Iron Man advised.

Peter let go of her immediately. She was unconscious, she was bloody, and she looked terrible – but he could hear the steady thump-thump-thump of her heartbeat.

Peter turned back to Iron Man. The helmet retreated in a hive-like crawl of nano-tech. Tony was smiling that warm smile that he saved for the rare moments that truly settled some deep turmoil in his gut – Peter refusing to join the Avengers; laying eyes on Pepper; dying to save the universe.

An Iron Man finger poked his chest, right over his heart. "This is the best suit of armor I could've ever built for the world. I see that now. We left the gig in good hands."

"Shouldn't have left at all."

Mr. Stark sniffed. "Say goodbye, Pete."

Peter blinked back something prickly. He pretended he could grab the ghostly Iron Man gauntlet. "Bye, Tony."

Tony's lips pulled at one corner, and a weightless hand ruffled Peter's hair. "For the record, kid," he said, and Peter felt a renewed, irrational surge of panic at the realization that the man was about to go like the rest of the hallucinations, "there's no way in hell you'll ever be alone."

And just like that, the panic went with him.

"Thank you," Peter told the cold, empty air.

"What," Peter said, and it sounded too rough, so he cleared his throat, "what're you doing here?"

MJ quirked a brow at him. "Drawing. You?"

Peter looked around carefully but wildly to make sure he wasn't going crazier. This was still a random rooftop in Queens, and he was still wearing his suit but no mask. Incidentally, said mask was by MJ's feet.

It was an engineered paradox, naturally: a mix of 'oh I didn't see that there, lying directly under my nose, by my feet' and 'I dropped this right there to make a point and a scene – subtly enough for making a show out of plausible deniability, but obviously enough that even your friendly-neighborhood clueless loser would take the hint – even though there's no realistically plausible way I could have found it'.

Peter thought it best to roll with it. He rubbed at his temple and his hand came away bloody – maybe swinging around after taking that beating hadn't been the best idea. When he approached MJ, he had an easier time appraising the notepad in her hands. She was sitting on the dirty ground, back against the wall, legs crossed, pencil in hand.

MJ was drawing Stark tower – what used to be Stark tower – mid-construction. A work in progress of a work in progress. A broken canvas is a work of art, she'd told him, once. Peter remembered cracking a joke in return, his mind tuned to what would Tony Stark say?

"I don't know how to fill that void," he said, this time, staring at her handiwork. "I don't know why I just told you that."

MJ hummed. "Who's asking you to?"

"Asking me to what?"

"To fill a void."

Peter swallowed. "I am. He did. I'll do it for him."

Peter almost expected to hear Tony quip something back, maybe something biting, maybe some nonsense, a touch offensive, always funny. Heartfelt only from a distance. He could even make his imagination provide it for him.

If you're shoe shopping, I gotta tell you, mine are not your style. Besides, I've barely just stepped out of them, don't try them on before the Iron Man graffiti fully dries, at least.

Peter's imagination sounded like him. But reality was silent. Reality was cold. Reality had already forgotten Tony's voice.

MJ patted the floor next to her. Peter sat without being entirely sure why he was doing it. He picked up the Spider-Man mask and stared at it emptily.

He didn't know why he wanted to talk, but now he wasn't about to stop. MJ seemed at ease either way.

"I told him once – how I wanted to be like him."

MJ glanced at him very briefly. "Did it stroke his ego the way you were hoping it would?"

Peter felt his lips curl up despite himself. "He told me he wanted me to be better."

She was quiet for a bit. "Never thought I could be made to feel sad about Tony Stark."

"He was a good man, MJ."

"He must've been. If you looked up to him that much."

"Look," he corrected. "I still look up to him."

That earned him a wary glance. "Careful. The path he was on has a bad way out. Don't emulate him too hard."

Peter snorted, unable to help himself. "I'll never be like him. No one will. And – and if there's one thing I know is he wanted me to be my own person. Better than him, whatever – he meant for me to make my own choices. One day, I'm sure I'll figure out how you get better than dying for the entire universe, anyway," he grumbled.

"That does seem impossible," MJ agreed. "So imagine just how much he must've believed in you."

Peter's head whipped up to stare at her, and found her staring back. I don't think Tony would've done what he did, Happy echoed in his head, one more time, if he didn't know that you were gonna be here when he was gone. The words rang different, now, in some strange way.

Just like that, Peter thought. MJ could always just tell, without being told.

"I'm alright, MJ," he assured her anyway. He didn't even know what he was saying. "I'm alright. I'm just fine. It means a lot that you-"

"You're not," she informed him flatly. Then she wavered. For some reason, Peter and MJ were suddenly holding hands, nails scratching the asphalt beneath them. "But it's gonna be. You'll be alright."

Peter swore he heard something crack and shatter.

"How do you know?" His voice came off as a whispered croak. One moment to the next, suddenly going from a perfect mask to the crumbling sum of the past few weeks, it was jarring.

MJ trailed her eyes to him fleetingly, and if Peter wanted to insult her as well as himself, he'd say he'd seen sympathy there. A split second before she said it, he understood something very obvious – what Fury, what his teacher, had been trying to say – just like Strange, Sam, Happy, May, and Ned. What everybody had been trying to get through his thick skull.

"You're not alone."

"My name is Peter Parker. I am not Iron Man. But I am an Avenger – one of several."