c'mon, c'mon, c'mon.

tony is sick to his stomach when he ends up stuck in that damn cave. all he can think about is surviving and getting back to you. he spends a lot of time reminiscing about you to yinsen as they build the first suit, recalling everything from your first steps to your kindergarten graduation. he's worried he's going to miss your first grade one.

as soon as he's home, you're the first person tony asks for. when you arrive, you run into his hospital room, squealing your head off with pepper in tow. you tackle tony in a hug so hard he thinks you might mess with the arc reactor in his chest.

tony holds you dearer than ever after that. he swears he'll do anything to protect you, to keep that smile on your face.

once the avengers are formed, you run around asking tony if your new "aunt and uncles" can come and play with you. tony temporarily pacifies the idea by gifting you a plush set of all the avengers, custom-made, of course. it works for a little. you keep the plush set for the rest of your life.

obviously, your attachment to them leads the avengers to fighting over who's your favorite. which leads to even more chaos.

after important avengers meetings, tony finds thor and nat playing tea party with you. they're both dressed in neon feather boas and tiaras. thor looks like he might crush your imported china tea set if he holds the teacup too hard.

somehow, bruce is the one tony trusts you the most with. he's careful and gentle with you, making sure you tie your shoelaces and giving you gentle lectures on how to regulate your little kid emotions.

there's one time where clint, thor, and steve all lay out their weapons, asking you to pick which one is your favorite. you just stared at the bow, hammer, and shield in front of you, walked away, and came back with one of tony's iron man gauntlets. you nearly shot a hole in the wall that day and tony learns to keep his workshop locked from you, for now.

you continue to grow up spoiled, and thankfully only a little rotten. tony would basically let you get away with anything if you wanted. but pepper is there to reign it in a bit, offering you stability that tony sometimes lacked.

when you're old enough to realize that your dad randomly disappearing to go save the world from aliens, androids, or wizards isn't normal, you set some ground rules. he has to give you thursday nights, at the very least.

on thursdays, you and tony go and try new restaurants in new york city, which subsequently gets both of your faces plastered all over the news, declaring the two of you "trendsetters". the next day, wherever you ate will have a line wrapped around the block.

if not eating out, then watching old movies in, pointing out the inconsistencies and bad special effects to each other with wicked cackles.

then tony recruits peter. you meet him not long after, and your father feels a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach as he sees the way peter looks at you. and it seems you're looking at him the same way, too.

he goes and whines about it to pepper, who tells him you're growing up, which is the last thing tony wants to hear. you're his baby, his angel.

you become fast friends with peter. you secretly exchange numbers with him behind tony's back and spend many nights messaging him back and forth under the covers of your bed.

at the beginning of your friendship, there's some cognitive dissonance between you and peter. one time you told him to "come over," which made peter confused, because you were upstate at the avengers compound. then he looked out his window and saw happy standing with a grumpy expression and a limo in front of his apartment building. you end up foregoing the personal driver and just meeting him in the city to hang out after that.

there's one time you and tony run into peter while on the way to one of your thursday dinners. tony watches as peter blushes at every word and touch you give him, and he dramatically pretends you gag. you scold him (since when did you start sounding like pepper?) and tell him to be nice to peter.

at dinner, he suggests setting you up with harley instead. you smack his shoulder in response.

you'd always begged peter to swing you around the city, which he finally agrees to one day. unfortunately for both of you, that's when the paparazzi catch you. the next day, articles reading "stark heir seeing webbed-vigilante?!" are published, and tony has choice words for both of you.

you end up grounded, which usually doesn't mean much, but this time tony was serious. you had to stay upstate at the compound for two weeks, away from peter, until you could "think about the consequences of your actions".

you protest by refusing to leave your room. tony tries to talk to you through the door, pepper leaves food for you. you still don't come out.

after a few days of not seeing you, tony relents and opens your bedroom door himself, only to find it empty. he groans. you'd run away. maybe you were a bit too much like him.

he finds your set of avengers plushies neatly displayed on your bed, and notices a new addition. a little spider-man plushie that you sewed yourself, displayed at the front with your iron man plushie. his arc reactor pangs with a little regret at that.

but it's all gone when he tracks you (because he has trackers on everyone important to him) to peter's apartment.

he doesn't even bother with a car, instead opting to fly his iron man suit all the way there.

after pulling off some bullshit excuse with may about why he was at their apartment, he stomps towards peter's room, expecting debauchery and betrayal, only to be met with you sitting at peter's desk, tinkering with one of his web-shooters. tony spots peter on his bed, scratches and cuts covering his face and hello kitty band-aids covering his arms and legs. his chest rises and falls slowly, indicating sleep.

you look up in surprise when tony enters the room, face morphing with annoyance once you realize it's your father. you go back to fiddling with the web-shooter, ignoring him.

"he was hurt," you say, nodding to peter's resting form. "he called me for help. and that's what i'm doing."

tony can't fight against that. peter was important to him too, after all. he feels guilt for making assumptions about both of you. he knows you're a good kid. he's just scared of you growing up.

"i'll leave you to it," is all tony tells you as he gives you an awkward bob of his head and leaves peter's room. you sigh in relief, shoulders relaxing for a moment.

but then tony is poking his head back into the room, clicking his tongue to get your attention. "thursday night. don't forget," he reminds you before leaving again.

you can't help but chuckle at that. neither of you could stay mad at each other for that long.

tony thinks about you for the rest of the night. to him, you're still his baby. but to the world, you're growing up and unfortunately, he hasn't found the technology to stop that yet. you'd always be his angel, but seeing you with peter, he knows. he has to let you go spread your wings and fly, even if it means without him.

“Bruce,” you greet him with a sweet smile as you approach, and he’s forced to look at your bright eyes. He tries to offer you a smile back, but his lips fail him, pressing into a slanted line. “I…didn’t think you would come.”

He shrugs and fidgets with the glass of cider in his hands, gaze falling to the floor once again.

“It’s for charity.”

He can’t say that someone is waiting for your charity gala to end so they can do god knows what to you. That the remnants of the Riddler’s followers have marked you as their next victim. That would scare you.

“Charity, yes, but I didn’t expect the city’s prince to show up,” you point out and take a sip of your champagne. “This is the first public appearance you’ve made since the memorial, no?”

He nods.

“With everything that’s happened, I thought it would be best if I used my family’s wealth to help the city recover,” he explains. It’s a half-truth, a practiced lie.

You hum thoughtfully, your champagne glass still at your lips.

“I see.”

You consider Bruce with a long gaze and a tilt of your head. He still won’t look back at you. You wonder if it’s because of what was exposed about his family, the stress of the flood, or something else.

You know that people are probably staring, whispering amongst themselves that you’re speaking to Bruce Wayne, the recluse, the bachelor, the prince. But you still see him as Bruce. Your Bruce, who would sneak you candy behind Alfred’s back as a child. Your Bruce, who broke your heart as a young adult. 

You feel multiple pairs of eyes on you, scrutinizing you like you're a bug under a microscope. You know he does, too. The two of you talking will surely cause a stir in tomorrow’s Gotham Gazette gossip column. 

Slowly, you lean closer to him and whisper, only loud enough for him to hear.

“Want to get some fresh air?”

Bruce’s eyes snap up. They’re blue and wide and surprised and asking, “are you sure?”

You answer by taking a step away from him, nodding, and gesturing for him to follow you. He does, setting his untouched cider down on a passing waiter’s tray. Silently, he follows you through the crowd of your gala, weaving through crowds of potential donors. They were all clamoring for your attention, and yet. You shut them down with a gentle gesture of your hand. Tell them you’ll speak with them later. You choose him over all of them. Always him. He feels something in his chest he hasn’t felt in a while. 

He keeps following you until you’ve both reached a private balcony overlooking Gotham. You’re already leaning over the railing, the night breeze shifting your hair. He sidles up next to you and stares down at the city. From this high up, he couldn’t see the ugly underbelly he dealt with every night. Gotham almost looks like a starry sky, a sea of flashing lights. You seem to be captivated by it.

You don’t acknowledge him yet. Neither does he. 

“Did Alfred get the flowers I sent him?” You break the silence first, eyes still on the city below. 

“He did,” Bruce answers in a hushed voice. He remembers how Alfred’s face lit up when they were delivered to his hospital room. Sat up so fast that Bruce had to scold him.

“That’s good.” 

Bruce hums in agreement. He notices how your eyes flicker to him and then away, something caught in your throat, but doesn’t say anything. The breeze passes you both by. 

“You know,” you finally muster, shifting to face him. “I missed you.”

Bruce looks away, continuing to focus on the view below, and scoffs.

“You know I don’t deserve that,” he says bitterly, brow pressed down and shoulders hunched in his tailored suit. Shame bubbles in his chest like tar. 

You frown at that, leaning further over the railing to try and catch his gaze.

“You’re my friend,” you insist, emphasizing the word by bumping his shoulder with yours. “I’m allowed to miss you.”

“Friend” is far too light to describe what you have with Bruce. You both know it and the word torments you with a cackle. Warm limbs tangled in sheets and kisses, handwritten letters and confessions taped with pressed flowers. A “friend” isn't exactly what Bruce is to you. A companion, a confidante, a lover, something in between. He’d been all of them. 

You've known him since you were a baby, your parents being business partners. You were bound to be close. Some days, you worry that a part of you will always belong to him, his name carved into your soul. Maybe a part of him will always belong to you. You think it fate that you were meant to be intrinsically woven together, an invisible string connecting you, no matter how wide the chasm grew. 

Bruce is silent. Replaying that night in his head, when he said, I can’t do this anymore, and you’d demanded to know why. Bit his tongue, didn't tell you the truth. Nearly did, though, turning the thought around in his head again and again and again. Considered your reaction to him saying, I'm going to fix Gotham. Fix me. Considered it until he deemed it unsafe, until you were sobbing and already out the door, leaving him alone in Wayne Tower. 

Yet despite it all, you’d been kind to him. Gentle in a way he could never understand. Patient with him the way one would be with a wounded animal, still offering a hand even after he’d scratch it away. It disarmed him. You were the one thing he couldn’t predict, the one thing he couldn't make a plan for. He almost wishes you’d hate him instead. At least he knew how to respond to that. 

And here you are again, standing next to him above Gotham. Preferring to mingle with him above the other socialites at your gala, even if it meant sitting in silence. You’d wait for him, as you’d always done. Wait until he lets his walls down and lets himself breathe.

Wait until he allows himself to look at you, to study and memorize your pretty face all over again. 

Wait until he allows himself to admit, in a tired grumble that you almost don’t catch, “I missed you too.” 

Your lips curl up at that. You feel his pinky brush against yours until they're linked together. His cold, blue eyes firmly stare back into yours with a gentle glow. It’s a quiet renewal of unspoken vows. 

He’s as much yours as you are his.

The air between you is buzzing, heavy, and filled with hope and longing. The chasm shrinks, the string gains slack. You see Bruce part his lips hesitantly, like he’s about to say something, when you hear someone calling for you.

Bruce’s hand swiftly flees from yours. You feel a chill from where it was. Turning, you see one of your assistants peering through the balcony door.

“Pardon me,” she says, one arm clutching a tablet. “But a representative from Luthorcorp would like to speak with you.” 

You quickly straighten up, face and posture returning to perfect professionalism. 

“Tell them I’ll be there soon,” you respond smoothly. “Mr. Wayne and I were just having a discussion about his company.” 

Your assistant nods, closing the balcony door behind her. 

Once she’s gone, you turn back to Bruce and wordlessly begin fixing his tie, just like you always used to. He lets you, watching as you adjust it into place.

“Have to make sure you look good,” you murmur as you straighten his shirt collar. “Can’t have Bruce Wayne looking bad, can we?” 

“No, we can’t,” Bruce replies softly. His eyes flutter as you push his mousy hair back. You feel the subtle weight of his head in your hand. He pushes into your touch like it's instinct with a sigh. You allow it, tracing your thumb along his cheekbone before withdrawing your touch. 

Lapels are saved for last. Your hands wander over the firm planes of his chest before you tug on them. He feels the same, all electric and warm. You let your hands rest against his body, savoring the feeling of closeness. You can feel his heartbeat through your palms. Bruce’s gaze is trained on you through hooded lashes, breath in time with yours, lips almost touching. 

You’re being greedy. So is he. 

“I'll see you in there?” you ask him quietly, barely a whisper, afraid that any louder would scare him away.

You see him glance away from you. Nervous. Hiding, like always. 

“Maybe,” Bruce answers. There’s that familiar tone in his voice, the one that tells you he’s keeping something from you in partial truths and broken promises. “I might go soon. Check in on Alfred.” 

Your brow furrows in suspicion. He notices, jaw tightening. You know he does. 

“Okay,” you start slowly. “Just…don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I won’t.”

Liar, you almost utter. You don’t. You drop your hands from his lapels and take a step back. Bruce swallows thickly, blue eyes darting back and forth from you to the ground. 

“I- I can call later-” he tries, and you nearly roll your eyes at his attempt. 

“It’s fine.” You cut him off, raising a hand to stop his feeble efforts. “I know you’re busy after…well, everything.”

Bruce stands awkwardly in front of you for a second, staring blankly and fidgeting with his gold cufflinks before realizing that was his signal to leave. He gives a hesitant nod before slipping inside, taking one last glance at you over his shoulder. You don’t look back.

Once you hear the balcony doors shut behind you, you let your posture sink, cursing to yourself. You try to blink away the tears that threaten to spill from your eyes as you rub your brow. 

You’d lost him again. Just when you thought you had him, when you thought he could be yours again, he slips from your fingers like smoke. And you let him. 

“Damn it,” you mutter to yourself, staring down at Gotham’s city lights one last time before willing yourself to return inside.

The chasm grows. The string goes taut.

It seems Bruce has left the gala. As expected, of course, but you can’t help the pang of disappointment that has made its home in your chest for the rest of the event. 

Without Bruce, it's back to your usual dance of charming potential donors, trying to sway rivals to your side as allies. Unsurprisingly, it’s hard to convince rich people to donate a sliver of their money to charity. You find reprieve in speaking to some people, like the newly elected Mayor Bella Réal and Lieutenant Gordan. But nothing compares to Bruce. 

As you meander around the ballroom, you think of those steely blue eyes of his. Cold like winter, yet with a hidden softness beneath the surface. You’d seen them euphoric, infuriated, and tonight, utterly defeated like a kicked puppy. Trying not to linger on the thought, you chew the inside of your cheek and take another flute of champagne from a nearby table. You'll need it if you're to survive the night.

After a few more hours of giving the same spiel to donate over and over again until you were sure your tongue would fall off, you finally say goodbye to your last guest before exiting the ballroom yourself. You only have to wait for a moment in the Gotham cold until your car back home arrives, sleek and discreet in black paint, and punctual as always. You step into the back seat with a sigh, waving at the driver to start the car again. You watch as the Gotham skyline flies by. The gothic architecture of Wayne Tower in particular catches your eye, towering over the city like a goliath. You wonder if Bruce was home yet. But suddenly, your view of the skyline is interrupted by darkness. You realize your driver had taken a turn they didn’t normally take. You had every driver you had remember a strict route that they weren’t to deviate from as they drove you, for your own safety and to prevent scenarios like this. You conceal your mistrust under a practiced smile as you question the driver- if it was even one of your drivers, at all. “Excuse me, how close are we to home? I’m awfully tired after the ball.” You hear him swallow heavily before he speaks. “Just around fifteen minutes. Please sit back and relax.” You spot the faintest hint of anxiousness in his eyes in the rearview mirror, and that’s enough for you. Too nervous, too vague. This was not your driver. You give the man another faux smile, perfectly playing the part of dumb rich socialite that they expected from you. But slowly, you reach your hand out to your side, feeling for the door handle. Whoever was trying to kidnap or kill you right now was an amateur. He hadn’t even bothered to lock the damn door. In one swift movement, you swing the door open and throw yourself out of the vehicle, grunting as you tumble down the rough asphalt. You move to stand, wincing at the small scraps now on your body when you hear the screech of tires and an angry yell. Before you can even anticipate what’s happening, more men come out of the dark alleys surrounding you, all of them wearing the same question mark masks the Riddler wore. Maybe these guys weren’t amateurs after all. They just stand around you, like a predator waiting for its prey to run. And you do. Bolting down the dimly lit street, you run like hell. But you then learn that your gala outfit is no good to run in. Your first mistake of the night. You can’t fully extend your legs the way you want, and your feet are killing you from wearing your heels for so long. You can’t help what comes next- tripping over the bottom hem of your gala outfit like a fool, crying out in pain as you feel all your weight put onto your ankle. You fall back to the ground with a thump, and soon, one of the Riddler goons is in front of you. You hear the heavy breathing behind his mask as you attempt to get up and run again, but your ankle burns too much. You try to avoid him as he reaches for your hands, grunting as you struggle against him. “Don’t resist,” the man says to you. “You’ll only make it worse.” “Fuck you,” you hiss through gritted teeth. The man only laughs, belittling and demeaning. “You silly, poor fool. Soon the truth about your crimes will be revealed, and-” You interrupt his monologue by kicking him square between the crotch with your knee. Your second mistake of the night. You see the anger rise in his eyes, and he grabs your shoulder, pinning you to the concrete below. It’s only then you realize how much bigger this guy was than you. The rest of the men slowly surrounded you, and you hear their jeers and mocking voices as they watch gleefully for what was going to happen to you. Maybe you were in danger, after all. You almost think you see your life flash before your eyes. You hoped all the money you received as donations today would go to the right place. You hoped Alfred could leave the hospital soon. You hoped Bruce was home, safe. You wait for the man above you to deal a blow, knock your teeth out, anything. But nothing comes.

Then- you feel it before you see it. A burst of wind, the man’s hand pried off your body. An inky black flourish of a cape billows before you and settles. As it does, you begin to recognize the figure. Heavy armor, dark as night. A cowl pointing up on both ends like horns. Vengeance, as street gossip called him. The Batman, as the news had recently dubbed him. The men surrounding you turn to cowards as they cry out and run in fear.

You let out a quiet gasp, heart still pounding against your rib cage. Despite the recent positive press about the vigilante, all the good things you heard about him, you instinctively cower away. 

And maybe you're right to do so, as the Batman swiftly hits your perpetrator over the head (multiple times, in fact) before tossing him aside like a rag doll. Dread crawls up your spine. 

You listen to him mutter to himself, cursing about something you can't quite hear. Then his hunched shadow straightens up, as if remembering you were right behind him. He turns to face you fully, revealing himself in his full, dark glory. Under the Gotham streetlights, he looked more beast than human.

You swear your heart stops beating.

“He’s alive,” he gruffly states, nodding his head to the passed-out lackey on the sidewalk. You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything, frankly, still too stunned by his sudden appearance and actions, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Are you hurt?” Batman tries again, kneeling to your level, extending a hand to you. “I'm here to help.”

His voice is just the slightest hint gentler this time, as if he was attempting to soften his edges as to not scare you. You look at his gloved hand, then the unconscious men behind him. You swear Batman’s shoulders slump at your hesitancy for just a second.

“Who are they?” you finally manage to ask, voice hoarse from the shock of it all. 

Batman lets out a tired sigh, shaking his head.

“Remnants of the Riddler. They still have an ongoing hitlist, and you were next.” 

“Oh,” you dumbly respond.

“Are you hurt?” Batman asks again, a bit more urgently this time.

“I- I don’t think so,” you mumble back, attempting to stand but wincing once you put weight on your injured ankle. 

In one swift motion, Batman slips your heels off your feet with practiced precision and hooks them on his fingers. Next, he scoops you up in his arms, carrying you bridal style. His armor feels cold against your exposed, scraped skin.

“Looks like a twisted ankle,” he murmurs, observing your injury. “I’ll take you to the hospital after the police interview you.” Your trembling slows as he continues to treat you delicately, like you were something precious to protect. His hold is almost comforting as he walks you over to the gathering police cars down the street. You’re almost tempted to think that you’re seeing the man behind the bat. “Thank you,” you say softly. You feel Batman’s grip on you tighten ever so slightly. As you pass under another streetlight, you’re finally able to get a good look at Batman’s face. A sharp jawline, stubble prickling his skin. His mask is sculpted to perfectly fit his high cheekbones. You move up until you see- his eyes. Even though they’re smudged with black eye makeup, the color is unmistakable, perfectly blue and cold. Your heart drops to the floor.

Those eyes. Those damn eyes. Those piercing blue eyes that you knew like the back of your hand, that you’d seen so many times and longed for many others. Those eyes that could only belong to the one who shattered your heart, who you knew was trying to piece it back together. Those eyes that could only belong to-

“Bruce?” you whisper.

Batman freezes, stopping dead in his tracks. “Bruce,” you whisper again, cautiously reaching up to brush his jaw with your fingers. “I know it’s you.” Bruce doesn’t answer you, doesn’t look at you. You cup his jaw, forcing him to turn his head. “Is this what you were hiding from me?” you ask him, half-speechless. Bruce remains silent, as if that would prevent you from recognizing that it was him carrying you. But how could you not? You’d always be tied to him, one way or another, whether he liked it or not. He knew you as well as you knew him. He’d know you by breath alone, and the same for you, his name still carved into your soul with a dagger. You see the bob of his throat before he speaks. “I’m sorry,” he tells you, and you can’t tell if it’s earnest or not. And luck must be on Bruce’s side tonight, because Lieutenant Gordon walks up to the two of you, interrupting the moment. “She alright?” the lieutenant asks, nodding towards you. “She’s okay,” you hear Bruce’s voice return to the timbre of Batman. “Just a sprained ankle. But take her to the hospital just in case.” You open your mouth to protest, but the look Bruce gives you has you going quiet again. “You’ll be alright,” he assures you, and you’re not sure if it’s Bruce or Batman speaking. “The Lieutenant can take you from here.” He gently sets you back on your feet, making sure you’re balanced before fully letting go. You already miss the cold of his armor. You move to leave with Gordon, heart feeling heavy in your chest, when you hear Bruce clear his throat. 

He wordlessly offers your heels back to you, and you take them with an awkward thank you. “I should be going now,” Bruce excuses himself with a firm nod to Gordon. “Let me know if there are any updates on this case.” Gordon nods in return. “We will.” Bruce takes one look back at you before he runs and disappears into the darkness of an alley, the inky black of his cape concealing him from your eyes. And then he was gone. Hiding from you, again. Like always.

You stare into the alley, trying to make shapes out of the darkness as if to will Bruce- will Batman- back to you. You hear the Lieutenant call your name, telling you he’s going to take you to the hospital for a check-up and questioning. You nod your head, only half listening to his words as you shakily limp behind him. The memories of the night replay in your head. Bruce alone in the ballroom, your near kiss on the balcony. The look in his eye as he left you there. The brutality he dealt to your would-be captors, only to hold you so delicately in his arms. The way he tried to deny you a truth that you knew you were owed.

It seems that even after all these years, you still don’t know what Bruce is to you. A friend, a lover, a savior, a stranger. Something in between. The chasm grows. The string goes taut. And a bat watches you over your head. 

“Come on, you big baby,” you'd murmur under your breath while you stitched up one of his wounds (a skill your father Tony had taught you). “If you keep moving, it’s only going to hurt more. Aren't you a superhero?” 

Peter would shake his head and scoff, “Why did I even bother coming here?” but let you continue to work on him anyway. 

You'd tease him as you patched him up, poking at his bruises and making snarky remarks. Though in the end, you'd always cover him in Hello Kitty band-aids and hand him a pack of Oreos you'd kept under your bed. 

“For being such a good patient,” you'd smile as you handed him a cream-filled cookie. “And for coming back alive.” 

One time you'd even kissed a scrape on his knee, declaring it would make his “boo-boo go bye-bye”. Peter hoped you couldn't tell how red the action made his ears. 

But those days are gone. It’s been over four years since everything changed. And it seemed like you'd changed too.

“Can you stop looking at me?” 

Your voice- the voice of the current you, that is- snaps Peter out of his nostalgia. He averts his gaze away from your glaring form. He didn't realize he'd been looking at you that long.

You give him an ice-cold glare, pulling your hoodie tighter over your shoulders.

“Asshole,” he hears you whisper. 

“Sorry,” he quickly murmurs back.

A part of Peter’s heart cracks. He knew you wouldn't know him, but that didn't stop a small part of him from believing that if he just stared at you long enough, willing you to remember him, remember everything, you'd look back at him with a wide, toothy smile as you'd always done.

The familiar sound of the 7 trailing down the tracks grabs his attention. 

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” the train's automatic announcement blares.

When he glances back to where you’d been standing, you’re gone.  Peter lets out a heavy sigh, blowing his curls away from his forehead. Figures, he thinks to himself. He’d been too scared to say anything to MJ, so why would it work out with you? His ride back home feels even longer than usual, the 7 leisurely humming along the track as memories of you flood his mind.

Peter still remembers the first time you met. Tony was giving him a tour of the Avengers Compound after declaring him his intern and unofficial Avenger post-Germany and post-Vulture. 

Tony was proudly showing off the sprawling expanse of the compound’s living room when your voice cut through his bragging explaining.

“Daddy! Happy won’t take me into Manhattan for that new Japanese restaurant.”

Peter’s head shot up to meet your pouting face as you leaned over the staircase above them, swinging your legs impatiently.

Chuckling, Tony shook his head and pointed at you.

“Don’t be alarmed, Parker. This is just my spawn. Or I guess the more socially acceptable term is child.” 

You rolled your eyes at your father’s sarcasm (they had that same mischievous glint as Tony’s, unmistakably his kid, unmistakably his) as you skipped down the stairs to meet him. 

“Daddy,” you groaned. 

“Angel,” Tony nodded back, pulling you into a hug and kissing the top of your head. “I’ll get Happy to take us to that restaurant you’re talking about later, okay? I’m giving this guy a tour of the compound first. Just one more hour.”

You nodded, shifting your focus to Peter, who suddenly felt small under your intense stare. You narrowed your eyes at him, tilting your head as if there was some familiarity about him. Peter opened his mouth to introduce himself with his semi-fake intern alibi, but you beat him to the punch.

“Oh hey. You’re that Spider-Kid person from Germany, right?” 

Peter blinked, stumbling over his words and scrambling for a cover-up like usual. “W-well, I don’t know about that-”

You interrupted him before he could even defend himself. 

“Oh yeah, Daddy showed me that vlog you made. It was pretty cool when you stole Uncle Steve’s shield. Though it was less cool when Daddy made that comment about your aunt-”

Peter winced at the thought of you seeing that video. 

“Um, how did you know about that-?”

Tony raised a hand. 

“It’s okay, kid. My spawn-”

You elbowed your father in the side, frowning.

“-my angel here knows everything that goes on in that part of my life. Including you.”

You turned away from Tony to extend your hand to Peter and introduce yourself, the Stark surname proudly attached to your name. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Spider-Boy,” you grinned. 

“It’s, uh, Spider-Man. But you can call me Peter. Peter Parker,” Peter sheepishly replied, giving you a firm handshake. 

“Peter…” you tested the name on your tongue. “I like that.” 

That was the first time you gave him that wide, toothy smile he’d become familiar with, the one that made his heart race just a bit faster and made his ears burn red. 

Tony eyed Peter, then you, then back to Peter with crossed arms and a displeased expression.

“Hey, Parker?” Tony called, not even bothering to look at the boy. 

“Yeah?” Said boy chirped. 

Tony’s face turned dark as he pointed a finger at Peter’s chest, a look Peter had only ever seen him give to his enemies.

“You better not do any funny business with my kid. Or I swear, every single Avenger will be on your ass.”

“Mr. Stark, I swear I was not thinking about doing that-” Peter threw his hands up in surrender as Tony backed him against the walls of the compound living room.

“Yeah? Don’t think I didn’t see that stupid grin on your face; how do you think I ended up with them in the first place-”

“Daddy.” 

Your stern tone is enough to have Tony immediately off Peter, his usual carefree expression returning to his face as you gave him a disappointed look.

“Angel, I wasn’t actually going to do anything to him, you know how I get-”

“I do,” you swiftly cut off Tony, which Peter gawked at; you’d cut off your father, Tony Stark, for Gandolf’s sake! 

Walking past Tony, you casually looped your arm through Peter’s. Peter swallowed at the action, praying his ears wouldn’t turn red again.

“Do you like sushi, Peter?” you asked with a sweet expression, as you guided him away from your irritated father. 

Peter nodded. 

“Yeah.”

Your face lit up at that. 

“Daddy, Peter’s coming with us to dinner tonight!” you yelled over your shoulder to Tony, who could only groan in response.

And that’s how Peter ended up at a Michelin-star omakase restaurant with you and Tony. You’d eagerly pressed him for the details of his life (well, the details you didn’t already know) while Tony watched carefully. At the end of dinner, you forced Peter and Tony to take a selfie with you “Smile!” you’d said as you took the photo. Peter did. Your father did not.

Ned hardly believed him the next day (“What do you mean you met the Stark heir? Were they cute?”) and May scolded him for coming home past curfew (“Does Mr. Stark really need to keep you so late? Surely he knows you have school tomorrow, hon.”)

But most importantly, that was how Peter ended up with your number. A crumbled-up sticky note you’d passed to him under the table when Tony wasn’t looking.

Text me! We’re friends now :) The note declared, and Peter’s heart swelled when he read it under the safety of his bunk bed.

In his current, semi-depressing studio apartment, Peter turns your note over between his fingers as he lies in his half-made bed. Your handwriting was now faded, time wearing away at the black pen ink.

He wonders if he texts the number you’d written, if you’d answer. If it was even your number still. He half considers the idea before pushing it aside, shoving the note back into his nightstand drawer along with his other memories of the past. 

You didn’t remember him. You shouldn’t remember him. It was for the best, for you and for him. 

Still, a nagging part of Peter wonders. Wonders why you seemed so…sad. Broken down, more like. He’d thought making you and everyone else forget him would make everyone happier. But now, you seemed like even more of a stranger to him than he was to you. 

Peter sees you again the next week on the 7 train platform. You’re in another uncharacteristically plain outfit like the last time he’d seen you, headphones still firmly on your ears. He decides he won’t look at you that long this time, but you’ve already noticed him.

“You seriously have a staring problem,” you call out to Peter, eyes still focused ahead. 

“And you have unusually good catching-people-staring instincts,” he instinctively counters, still used to the banter he’d have with you all that time ago. 

You peer at Peter from the corner of your eye, the slightest hint of curiosity in your expression. 

“Funny,” you say dryly. “But could you tell me why you’re still looking at me like a creep when I told you to stop last time?” 

Scrambling for an answer and not wanting to lose this moment with you, Peter blurts out the first thing that he can think of. 

“I, uh… you have cool clothes on?”

His comment makes you pause, your icy wall coming down for a moment as you stare down at what you’re wearing. One of your dad’s old band tees from his youth, a random pair of jeans you’d dug through a thrift bin for, and a well-worn pair of sneakers your adoptive mom, Pepper, had gotten you a while back when she decided you needed “practical shoes” over your designer ones, which were slowly getting holes in the bottom. In your eyes, you looked like a mess. But this guy somehow thought you still looked cool. You can’t help but snort. 

“You tell every person on the subway that?” you ask the mousy-haired stranger, smirking wryly. 

“Only the cool-looking ones,” he answers without hesitation, looking at you with his big brown eyes. 

There’s something in his gaze you can’t quite place. He’s staring so deeply at you, straight to your soul like he can see the core of your very being. Like he knows something about you that you don’t. Your instincts are telling you to be hesitant, like always, that strangers are nothing but trouble to you. But there’s this nagging part of you that won’t stay quiet, asking what it is about this guy? Again and again and again until you let yourself relent. 

“What was your name again?” you find yourself asking before you can ponder more, your mouth moving before your brain.

Peter brightens up at that, quickly extending a friendly hand out to you. 

“It’s, um, Maynard. Maynard Reily,” he bites back an eager smile as he introduces himself to you for the second time (though you don’t know that).

Slowly, you take his hand, giving it a light shake and introducing yourself back. Peter waits for you to proudly append the Stark name to yours, as you’d always done with a puffed chest, but you don’t.

“...Pots,” you say instead, using the surname of your mother. 

Peter’s breath hitches at that. You’d always been a proud Stark, no matter how much your family’s name got dragged through the mud. Though he supposes he can’t blame you. After all, he’s using a fake name as well. Touché.

“...it’s nice to meet you, Maynard,” you continue, hand still shaking Peter’s. 

“Yeah. Nice to meet you too,” Peter nods and offers you a friendly expression that makes you think he looks like a puppy wagging its tail. “So, uh-”

The sound of the 7’s arrival interrupts him. He watches the train roll into the station, watches the busy passengers file off. When he looks back to where you were standing, you’re still there. Almost like you’re…waiting. For him.

“Come on,” you beckon to him as you step onto the train car. “Are you getting on, or not?” 

Peter grins at that, nearly tripping over himself as he follows after you.

When Tony had finally agreed to buy you that midtown apartment you’d been begging for (it was closer to your private school, and you were getting sick of being upstate), it became Peter’s new crash spot as Spider-Man. He got hungry on patrol from swinging too much? He arrived at your apartment window, and you already had a pot of instant ramen ready for him. He had to pee really badly but didn’t want to go in a cafe or bodega? You opened your window without question and gestured to the bathroom without another word. And of course, you were his safe space when he was too hurt and too afraid to go to a hospital, or Tony, or May, always waiting and armed with Hello Kitty band-aids and teasing remarks. 

Sometimes, he’d just lay around your apartment in his suit, telling you he was taking five before going back into action. 

“Should I be worried that Spider-Man is lying on my bean bag instead of saving the day?” you asked him one of those times, prodding at his side with your foot as you ate one of the shawarma you’d ordered for the two of you.

“No,” Peter’s voice was mumbled as he spoke through mouthfuls of shawarma, mask only half pulled up due to laziness. “Besides, you’re the one who got food.”

“Only because I knew you’d complain if I didn’t,” you fired back with a sly smirk.

“‘S not my fault you like to spoil me so much,” Peter grumbled as he chewed.

You didn’t have a comeback for that. He was right, and you both knew it. 

“Scoot over,” you told Peter, waving your free hand at him. He did, making enough room for you to plop down next to him on the bean bag.

“Look, Peter,” you spoke again, tone serious enough to make Peter look at you rather than the ceiling. “I can’t do anything for my dad. Not when he’s off Avenging or dealing with company politics and shit.”

Peter sensed the uncharacteristic waver in your tone. He scooted closer to you on the bean bag, just enough so your shoulders touch.

“He won’t let me do anything to help him. And I know, I know it’s because he’s afraid of me getting hurt or caught up in something I’m not supposed to, but…it hurts, alright?” 

“Yeah,” Peter responds hoarsely. “I get it.” 

Tony had done the same to him. It was his version of tough love, as May would call it. 

“But I can help you.”

You turned your head to meet Peter’s gaze, finding his familiar brown eyes through the mask's lenses. He swallowed nervously as you did. “Are you saying that Spider-Man stuff is easier to help with because it’s less important than Avenger stuff?” Peter questioned you, half-teasing and half-serious. 

You snorted at that, playfully smacking his arm. Peter feigned hurt, with a dramatic “ow” that had you smiling ear to ear. 

“No,” you insisted. “What I’m saying is that you’re important to me, Peter.”

Your words had a weight that Peter rarely heard from you. Most of the time, you were filled with the same sardonic sarcasm as your father. But this. This was different. 

“...and if letting you piss in my toilet and ordering you takeout on my dad’s card is what keeps you coming back to me alive, then I’m going to keep doing it.” 

Shawarma long forgotten, Peter let himself scoot closer to you on the bean bag again, until he could feel your breath tickling his chin. 

“Yeah?” he whispered, trying to hide the sappiness he was feeling. “I’m important to you?”

“Obviously,” you swiftly answered. “Of course you’re important to me.”

Peter felt something in his chest jump at that. He hadn’t felt like this- clammy hands and fidgeting fingers- since Liz. He’d told himself that after Liz, he’d wait a little to get a new crush. Perhaps, make sure their parents weren’t supervillains first. But now. Now, Tony Stark’s only child was toying with his heart like a cat pawing a ball of yarn.

“Your dad’s right,” Peter murmured absentmindedly. You tilted your head in confusion.

“You really are an angel,” he elaborated. “My guardian angel.”

Your lips curved up at that. Peter could feel his ears burning red again. Before you could reply, police sirens blared outside your apartment. 

The noise had Peter shooting up from the bean bag, back on high alert. 

You sat up with him, glancing out the window to see NYPD flying by on the street below.

“That’s your cue, Spider,” you told him with an elbow to his side. 

Peter nodded in agreement, finishing off the last of his shawarma before pulling the rest of his mask down the lower half of his face. You followed him to the window, watching as he opened it and jumped on your fire escape.

“I’ll leave it open for you,” you said as he cracked his knuckles in preparation to swing away. 

“You really should lock it. What if someone opens it and it’s not me?” Peter reminded you as he scanned the streets below. 

You grabbed Peter’s shoulder, forcing him to look back at you. Your eyes were earnest and sweet as you spoke without a single hint of hesitation. 

“I know it’ll be you, Peter.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat for the second time that day. He was only able to stare at you for a moment, voice failing him. You searched the white lenses of his mask, waiting for his response. “I’ll come back to you, okay?” Peter finally managed to whisper, only loud enough for you to hear. “Alive.”

That makes you beam.

“I know you will,” you let go of his shoulder. A signal that he could get back to saving the city. “Bye, Spider-Man.”

Peter gave you one last nod before swinging away. You watched him go until he was only a flicker of red and blue in the distance. Shutting your apartment window, you collapsed on your bean bag with a sigh. A part of you still worried about him, like you worried about your father or any of his allies. But you knew he’d come back to you- he always did. 

It’s been a few weeks since Peter had somehow slipped his way back into your life. He’s learned a bit about your life since he last saw you, with you dropping small tidbits every time he rides the subway with you. For one, you’d majored in mechanical engineering, just like your father. And at Oxford, of all places. 

“Must be smart,” Peter compliments you after you tell him. The subway clanks along as the two of you speak. “But why so far?”

“I wanted to get away from the city,” you tell him with a shrug. “And Oxford was away.”

“Away from what?” he prods further. He can’t help himself. The you he used to know would never leave New York. “Getting nosy, today aren’t we?” you quip sharply. “You know- I don’t even know why I tell you all this stuff. You’re just some guy.” “A trustworthy guy,” Peter corrects you with a nudge that makes you roll your eyes. “Sure,” you huff, trying to sound annoyed, but Peter can see the glimmer of amusement in your eyes. “Whatever you say, Maynard.” Maynard. That name still sounds so wrong coming out of your mouth. He just wants you to say Peter, Peter, Peter. “Besides,” you continue. “I barely know anything about you. Besides the fact that you think my dad’s dusty old tees look cool. You’re just my subway buddy.” “We could be more than subway buddies,” Peter blurts, not wanting to lose the little he barely has with you. You raise a suspicious brow like that. “Oh, not like that. No, no, no. I meant we should progress beyond the subway. Like how about…dinner buddies?” 

“Dinner buddies,” you repeat in disbelief. Peter nods. 

“Dinner buddies. We can go somewhere near your place. My treat.” That’s how you ended up at the shawarma restaurant near your apartment, tucked away in the back corner at a two-top. The fluorescent lights gently hum above the two of you as you eat. 

“I haven't been here in forever,” you tell Peter as you chew on your food. “I used to get-” you pause to lick your fingers, “-takeout from here? Like, all the time. Funny you picked this spot.”

“Lucky guess,” Peter lies as he takes a bite of his own shawarma. “I used to get takeout here too. With a friend.”  

“A friend,” you parrot as you watch Peter with that intense stare he’d grown accustomed to. “Sounds nice.” Peter can sense your bitterness. How could he blame you, though? With your memories of him gone, all those days you ordered takeout to share with him became days spent eating alone in your apartment. The two of you continue to eat in silence for a moment, Peter occasionally stealing glances at you, still not believing that you’re sitting across from him. He’s trying to rememorize your face, burn every drip and curve into his mind so he’ll never forget.

Maybe, he thinks. Maybe things can go back to normal.

“Be honest with me, Maynard,” you break the silence, bringing your attention back to Peter. “You know who I am, don’t you?” Peter feels himself short-circuit at that, hope bubbling inside of him. Did you know, did you remember? “What…do you mean?” he questions cautiously, heart racing so fast he could feel it in his whole body. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, looking around the restaurant before leaning close to Peter, close enough that only he can hear you speak. “Don’t play dumb,” you say just loud enough to hear over the fluorescent buzz of the lights. The suspicious look on your face makes Peter want to shrink into his seat. “I know you didn’t fall for that ‘Pots’ bullshit I gave you. You’re a terrible liar. You know who I am.” Ah. That’s what you meant. Not that you remembered. That he knew you were a Stark. His heart sinks with a hint of disappointment. But you were still here. Still with him, and he couldn't lose that. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Peter replies to you with attempted nonchalance, but you just raise your brows and tilt your head knowingly.

“Fine,” he relents. “I know who you are.” You let out a huff, crossing your arms in victory, a familiar smug look crossing your face. “Everyone does,” you hum. “Who wouldn’t want to be friends with Tony Stark’s kid?” You spit the last words out like they’re dirty, cynicism tinging them. Peter can’t really believe it. What happened to the pride you’d held yourself with? You used to crave the press and attention, almost as much as Tony. He’d say you were almost a shell of your former self, but who is he to talk? He was the same. You were the same. You’re practically stewing in your own angst, picking at the tin foil wrapper of your shawarma with a scowl. Peter hates seeing you like this. He used to be able to make you laugh so hard you cried, your smile lighting up the whole room. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to do that anymore. But still, he tries. Tries to get your spark back, get the you he knew back, even if you don’t remember him. 

“Listen,” he says, trying to get you to look back at him. “I really do want to be your friend.”

You stubbornly stay quiet, scowl still firmly on your face as you try to avoid eye contact.

“I want to be your friend,” he repeats. “Stark or no Stark. Promise.”

The honesty in his voice rustles something in the back of your memory. Something, someone, from long ago. You don’t remember who. It’s the same feeling you got when he first introduced himself to you on the subway. That feeling of conflict, your instincts telling you not to trust but your heart telling you to trust this one guy for reasons you can’t place. You finally meet his gaze and his big, brown eyes are full of a sincerity that makes you shiver. You hadn’t seen a look like that in a long time- but when was the last time you saw it? You didn’t know. “Hey, I’ll walk you home, okay? It’s getting late,” Maynard Peter calls after a moment, drawing you out of your scrambled thoughts. He pulls out his chair, standing and rounding the small table to offer you a hand up. You nod and take it, still half in a daze of your own mind. What was it about this guy that had you feeling so crazy? He was like an itch you couldn’t scratch, looking forever and forever on your skin until you were ripping it off your bones. You remain in your daze as Peter walks you home (he’s relieved to see you’re still living at the same place he knew. He wondered if it was lonely without his visits). You wave weakly at him as he watches you enter your apartment building. As you ride the elevator up, you keep thinking about your mysterious subway, now dinner buddy. You ran through all the possibilities of his peculiarity to you. Was he an alien doing weird alien-shit to you? No, you would’ve immediately caught onto that. And besides, he’s a bit too human to be an alien. Was he using technology to manipulate your brainwaves? No, he was smart but seemed too nice for that. You pause to think again, the elevator slowly going up floor by floor. Could he have cast a spell on you? You were familiar with magic through hearing your father’s encounters with Loki and Stephen Strange. You knew magic could manipulate the heart and mind. But what you were feeling didn’t feel like manipulation. It felt like you were trying to unlock something in your head that you weren’t supposed to. A key jammed in a door. Like you were remembering something. Remembering, remembering, remembering. As far as you were concerned, you had a damn good memory. You were the child of a supergenius, after all. But…what if you did? What if you forgot something important? 

You feel the itch again. Closer, closer. But then it goes. Back into the darkness of your memory, back behind the locked door. The elevator opens on your floor, but you don’t step out. What did you forget?

At Tony’s funeral, you kept a strong front. For Pepper, for your new sister Morgan, who you barely knew. For Happy, for Rhodey, for everyone. Everyone who had come to the Eco-Compound knew- they all knew Tony had fought out of that damn cave for you, his child, his angel. Happy used to tell you were Tony’s first love- the first real one, at least. And now he was gone. One day you were praying for your father’s safe return from space, and the next you were donning black to mourn his loss from a battle you had never witnessed. You hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye.

You kept your front on for the entire funeral, not letting a single tear fall as you watched Tony’s final recorded message with your family and his closest circle. You held Morgan’s hand as you walked with her and Pepper down the front porch steps, the wreath containing Tony’s first arc reactor balanced on your palm. You watched as you let the wreath go onto the lake. Letting it slip further and further away until you couldn’t see it beyond the horizon. Until it was gone.

You had excused yourself not long after the funeral ceremonies had ended, dodging everyone’s attempts to wish you well as you slipped away to the front porch of the Eco-Compound, away from everyone and everything. But there was someone who knew you too deeply to let you go like that. 

“Hey,” Peter cut through your melancholy as he sheepishly approached you, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dress pants. 

You glanced over your shoulder, giving him a once-over. 

“That suit fits terribly on you,” you dryly responded with your usual snark. 

“Ha ha, very funny,” Peter half-heartedly chuckled, sidling up next to you on the front porch railing. Digging into his pocket again, he pulled out a ziplock baggie filled with what were Oreos. They looked more like a pile of cookie shards and cream now.

“These were, uh, supposed to be for you,” Peter bashfully admitted as he handed you the bag. “Thanks,” you mumbled hoarsely as you opened the bag, popping a cookie piece in your mouth.

Peter watched as you silently ate the broken Oreos, chewing his bottom lip in anticipation. “I’m not dumb, Peter,” you finally said. “I know you didn’t follow me back here just to give me cookies.” 

“I just-” Peter paused, trying to find the right words, brows knit in concern. “Are you okay?”

That was enough to break you. Gritting your teeth, you swung your head around to face him, tears welling in your eyes, all the emotions you’d been holding in throughout the day spilling out of you at once.

“You tell me, Peter,” you spit, anger burning in your throat. “I turn to dust one day, wake up five years later, only to find that I missed my parents’ wedding, I have a new sister who barely knows me or wants to know me, and my father is dead from a battle I never got to see.” 

Peter reached out for you and murmured your name softly. You slapped his hands away. “Don’t,” you hissed. “Don’t act like you know what I’m going through. At least you got to say goodbye to him. I didn’t even get that.”

“Look,” Peter tried again. “I know losing Tony was hard, especially for you. But we’re all here for you, okay? I’m-” “Shut up!” you yelled loud enough for the other funeral guests to hear from the other side of the house. Fat tears fell from your eyes, and you hurriedly tried to wipe them away. The shaky breaths falling from your chest grew faster and faster until it felt like you were suffocating. You thought you were going to die from how hard you were heaving, and a small part of you thought that if you did, you’d be able to see your father again. “Hey, hey, hey,” you heard Peter call. Before you could snap at him again, you felt his strong arms wrap you in an embrace. You protested with tepid kicks and hits, but your body wouldn’t obey your mind. Slowly, slowly, your breathing calmed down. Your flailing against him turned into you holding onto his lapels as tight as you could, anchoring yourself back to your body. Peter rested his chin on top of your head and rubbed soothing circles into your back until your sobs lessened to quiet whimpers.

“You okay, honey?” A familiar, soothing voice asked. You peeked over Peter’s shoulder to see Pepper walking towards the two of you. Peter nervously let go of you, but you stubbornly clung to his arm, keeping your nose buried in his shoulder. 

“‘M fine, Mom,” you lied, muffled by Peter’s tear-stained jacket. 

“Oh, baby,” Pepper sighed, reaching out to brush some hair out of your forehead. “Why don’t you say goodbye to everyone and then go back to your room? It’s been a long day.” You nodded slowly at her suggestion, looking anxiously at Peter for reassurance. “I’ll come with you,” Peter answered your wordless question, taking your hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry.” His sweet words were enough to give you the determination to see everyone again. Wiping the last of the tears and snot off your face with your knuckles, you gripped Peter’s hand and dragged him back to the backyard, putting on your brave face. Pepper watched you two go with a knowing smile. Peter stood by your side as you said your farewell to Steve, who pulled you into a hug and kissed the top of your head like he did when you were little. He watched in worry as Thor pulled you into a crushing embrace that had you off the ground. Rhodey ruffled your hair to your dismay; Bruce patted your back in comfort. You hugged Clint, whispering that you were sorry about Natasha before high-fiving all of his kids. You made sure you shook hands with every other Avenger who came. Finally, you gave your longest hug to Harley, who whispered something in your ear that Peter couldn’t hear. He knew jealousy wasn’t an appropriate emotion to be feeling at a funeral, but he couldn’t help himself. As soon as you were done speaking to Harley, Peter quickly came to your side, guiding you back inside and up to your room.

Your bedroom looked exactly the same as the one you had at the Avengers Compound- nothing out of place or touched, like Tony knew you were going to come back to it one day. And he was right.

Sighing heavily, you walked over and sat on your bed, which still had the same sheets as your old room. Peter sat next to you, silently offering you his hand again. You reached out, slowly tracing over the wrinkles and lines on his palm, touch so featherlight it made him shiver. “Are you going to be okay?” Peter asked his previous question again, softly so as not to break the stillness in the air. 

“Peter,” you turned to him, eyes still red from your crying. “Promise me you won’t leave me, too.” “That’s not answering my question,” he objected with an incredulous shake of his head. “Peter.” Your fingers stilled on his palm, instead pressing your hand on top of his. You held his gaze in yours, the gravity in your words clear. Peter was your best friend, your closest confidante. The only one who knew the real you, who could see beneath all your sharp smirks and quips to the softness inside. He was bound to be yours the moment you saw him from the top of the stairs at the compound. Your Peter. Yours. Weaving his fingers with yours, Peter held your hand firmly as if to tie himself to you. 

“I promise,” he swore to you, rubbing circles on your knuckles with his thumb. “I won’t leave you. I told you before, I’d come back to you, yeah?” His promise was a vow that bound him to you. Proof of his dedication and affection. It was enough to soothe you for now, and Peter saw you smile, actually smile, for the first time that day. He felt his heart relax. Your smile made him feel so warm. 

“I’m going to hold you to that, Peter,” you murmured as you leaned your head to rest on his shoulder. The first sense of peace you’ve felt since waking up from the snap washed over you as you took in Peter’s familiar scent. The first time you’ve felt like you were home since you woke up. “You better,” Peter hummed, and you could feel his voice rumble through his strong body. “If I forget, you have to remind me.” “Oh, I will,” You said proudly, your usual confidence gradually returning. “And believe me, Peter, I don’t forget.”

You wake up the day after you had shawarma with Maynard, confused. Your head hurts- burning in the back of your skull like you’d been thinking too hard. But you had been thinking too hard. Peeling through memory after memory, trying to find the itch in the back of your mind. You let out a groggy groan, turning over in bed and throwing your arm over your eyes. You didn’t have the energy for this. But you had gotten yourself into this mess, agreeing to be friends with some guy on the subway to the point where it had you spiraling over what you thought was nothing. Turns out that nothing was driving you insane on a Saturday morning. You knew that if you didn’t figure out what was bothering you so much, you would regret it for the rest of your life. But why? Why so much guilt over something you didn’t even know? 

You clumsily reach for your phone on your nightstand, turning it on and scrolling through your old photos, hoping something would jog your memory. Most of your old photos are of you at parties, or galas, or on vacation with your dad when he got a break from Iron Man and avenging. You find yourself captured by nostalgia for a moment, reminiscing on old times, back when things were simpler. You laugh at a particularly funny photo of you and your father, a selfie at a Japanese restaurant where Tony is scowling as you beam. You zoom in on his face, snorting at his displeased expression. But something else catches your eye. You zoom into the photo again, noticing what seems to be a third figure sitting behind Tony. A boy. But your hand is covering his face. Suddenly, you get that feeling again. The feeling of the itch coming closer, closer than it’s ever been, as you can finally see what it is- a face, a name? And then it’s gone again. You drop your phone on your bed, defeated. “Shit,” you curse out loud to no one in particular. Sitting up, you look at the photo of you and the mystery boy again. Who was he? Why would he be at dinner with you and Tony? An intern, maybe? But Tony rarely ever had interns, besides Harley, who was more an unofficial intern than anything. With a grumble, you pick up your phone again and dial Pepper’s number into the keypad. She immediately picks up. “Hello, honey? Everything good?” your mom greets. You can tell she’s driving- probably on her way to drop Morgan off at her summer science camp. “I’m good, Mom,” you reply, fiddling with the collar of your sleepshirt that reads “I survived my trip to NYC” (a gift from- someone. You can’t remember who). “I just had a quick question.”

“Okay, but ask it quickly,” Pepper says, and you sense the urgency in her tone. You smile as you hear Morgan yell from her car seat, something about wanting to talk to you too. “I’m almost at Morgan’s drop-off.” You bite your tongue for a second, not wanting to sound crazy in front of your mother, who was already constantly worried about your mental health and well-being. “Did- did Daddy ever have any interns?” you carefully ask. Pepper stays quiet for a second, and you hear the gentle clicking of her turn signal. 

“...no, not that I can remember. Why?” Your heart sinks with disappointment. Of course you were wrong. The boy in the photo must’ve been some other rich kid who ended up at the restaurant on his own. “Oh, nothing. A friend just asked me about it. I was just wondering,” you lie. “A friend!” Pepper hums, clearly pleased. “I’m glad you’re making friends again, sweetie. You’ll have to tell me about them when you visit us upstate- oh, I’m at Morgan’s camp now; I have to go-” “I wanna talk too!” Morgan yells again. That gets a small chuckle out of you. “I’m so sorry, hon, I’ll call you later, okayloveyoubye-!” Pepper blathers quickly before hanging up. You stare at the “call ending” screen of your phone for a moment, shaking your head with a slight smile. Your sister was getting to be a handful, that was for sure. But you still didn’t have answers. In fact, you were even more confused now. Maybe you were going crazy because of some weird alien-shit. Or maybe Maynard was a wizard casting some crazy spell on you. You mull over calling Dr. Strange for a second. You decide not to. Something inside you is still telling you to trust Maynard. But why? Who was he?

It’s been a rough night for Spider-Man. He’d finally managed to capture The Hand, but they’d beaten the lights out of him. DeWolff insisted he go to the hospital, just a hint of motherly worry in her concern, but Peter denied. Most of the time, he was able to take care of himself. But it seems he’d misjudged tonight. By a lot, actually. 

As he swings through Manhattan, Peter can feel himself growing weaker and weaker by the second. Vision spotting, blood pooling out from the gash on his abdomen. The pouring rain slowly soaking into his suit and weighing him down. He needed to get home, and fast. But his apartment was nowhere near where he was- in fact, he’d forgotten where he was in the first place. Shit, shit, he curses to himself. Spider-Man is going to end up dead in a ditch. But something out of the corner of his eye catches his attention mid-swing. The familiar neon signage of the shawarma restaurant. Even in the storm he was in, it was as clear as day. That could only mean one thing.   You were near. After a moment of deliberation, which actually isn’t a moment at all, Peter unthinkingly finds himself swinging towards your apartment. The soft place he used to land. He can practically taste the Oreo crumbs on his tongue. Peter stumbles onto your fire escape and peers into your window. No sight of you, for now. He half-heartedly attempts to pry the window open, expecting it to be locked, but it isn’t. His breath catches. Why would you leave it unlocked? You had no reason to, not anymore. Hesitantly, he opens the window just enough to slip into your apartment without letting the rain in. He stays silent as he looks around the familiar space, a familiar nostalgia and warmth filling his body. You still had the same posters of your favorite bands messily plastered on the wall, the same mugs in your kitchen sink. Your oversized bean bag still lay on the floor. Peter feels himself relax. Which is actually a bad thing, he realizes, as his one moment of decompression has him stumbling to the floor with a loud thump and groan. As Peter lies on the floor, gripping his side in pain, trying to put pressure on his wound, he hears shuffling coming from your bedroom. His foggy mind tries to scramble for an excuse, any explanation that would make sense of why the local vigilante was bleeding out on your floor. You come into the main room just a moment later, fiercely examining for any threats, the Iron Man Gauntlet on your wrist glowing a bright blue light. 

Peter involuntarily lets out another whimper from his place on the floor. That instantly has you aiming your gauntlet at him, and Peter is sure you are going to blow his face off. “Wait!” he helplessly yells at you before you can blast him. “It’s me, Spider-Man!” You pause and take a moment to study the figure in front of you. Recognition flickers in your eyes, and you let out a soft gasp, dropping your gauntlet back to your side. Peter sighs in relief.

“I can explain. I feel really bad about breaking into a normal citizen’s apartment but-”

Before he can finish his words, he hears a loud crack and feels a sharp pain against his masked cheek. It takes him a second to realize what just happened. You had slapped him.

“You asshole.” You seethe between your teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that coming through a stranger’s window and bleeding on your floor is an asshole move-” 

“I don't care about that,” you hiss in reply, firmly gripping Peter’s shoulders and rolling him onto his back. He watches you stand and disappear from the room again, returning from your bedroom a moment later with a familiar box. He can’t believe it. It’s the same med kit you used to use on him. 

Saying nothing, you open the box and find a pair of scissors. Before Peter can ask anything, you’re confidently cutting open his costume, revealing the gash on his side. “W-what are you doing?” Peter asks dumbly as you quickly apply pressure to the wound with gauze. “I’m helping you, dumbass,” you grumble, clearly unpleased. “Maybe you forgot what that was.” “Normally people don’t cut open the costumes of superheroes,” Peter mumbles feebly in response. “Well, you aren’t just some superhero to me, Spider. Or did you forget that too?” Peter stares at you, dumbfounded and confused. You’re paying him no mind, annoyance and anger and something else clearly on your face. Then it hits him. You remembered him. Well, not “Peter” him. But a part of him. You remembered Spider-Man. “You left your window open,” Peter realizes in shock, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths as he tries to stay awake for you. There’s a flash of something soft in your gaze before you go back to holding down the gauze. “Of course I did,” you say, and Peter can hear you choking up. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past four years?” Through his darkening vision, Peter can see the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. He realizes then that he is an asshole. You’d been waiting for him- waiting for Spider-Man- all this time, and he’d been too busy rotting in his own regret and grief that he had forgotten about you. He’d forgotten his promise. He didn’t come back to you, as Spider-Man or Peter Parker. How many days had you left your window open, hoping he’d arrive to crack jokes or have a bruise for you to take care of? How long did you hopefully wait for him before hope turned to resentment? All his justifications of why he should stay far away from you now fell flat. How could he have avoided you for so long when you had been waiting for his return this whole time?

He opens his mouth to say something, maybe a half-conscious apology, but you cover it with your hand. “Save your breath,” you tell him as you blink the tears from your eyes. “You can give me your excuses later.” Peter can only bob his head slightly, energy leaving his body and darkness entering his vision until everything melted away into nothing. The last thing he hears is the irritated sound of your voice, complaining about how much blood he was getting on your carpet. 

You sit on the floor next to your bed where Spider-Man is safely resting, foot restlessly bouncing. You glance back over at your nightside clock. 3:00 AM, it reads. Spidey had been out for about an hour and a half at this point. You’d managed to stitch him up while he was asleep, but now it was a matter of him waking up. Your heart raced with anxiety, all the worries you had that morning forgotten. After all, Spider-Man somehow came back into your life after ghosting you for four long, lonely years. 

You wonder if you shouldn’t have patched him up. If you should have just left him to fend for himself, for dead, as he left you. The kinder, more forgiving part of your soul pushes that idea down. He was Spider-Man, after all. You’d been close. You think you were close. It seems that every time you search your memory today, you’re met by another wall. Maybe you should try to get more sleep like Pepper had told you to. Try melatonin, while you’re at it. The sound of Spider-Man weakly keening your name snaps you out of your thoughts. You rush to stand, worry against your brow once again, and your resentment washes away. Spider-Man says your name again, reaching up to you. You take his hand in yours right away, giving it a light squeeze. “Shh,” you shush him gently, rubbing your thumb into his costumed hand. “It’s me. It’s me. You just need to rest up, okay? I’m going to take care of you.” You can tell that one comment makes Spider-Man smile from underneath his mask. “I missed you,” he croaks roughly. “So much.” You don’t have a response for that. Not now, at least. You wordlessly check on his stitches again instead, setting his hand back down at his side. Spider-Man watches as you do, and you swear the lenses of his mask droop in dejection. Once you’ve confirmed they seem to be healing okay, you turn back to him, coldness returning. “With your healing factor, I give you about two to three days to heal. You should stay off your Spider-Man activities for now, and-” “I’m sorry.” 

Spider-Man grabs your wrist, as if to beg you not to leave him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I broke my promise.” There’s an earnestness in his voice that has you pausing. You feel the itch reappear. “What promise?” you ask him quietly and full of suspicion. Carefully, Spider-Man reaches up for the edge of his mask. Your eyes widen. You never remember him doing that. Right? He lifts the mask, revealing his sharp jaw and lips. Then his cheeks. Then his eyes. Then- “Maynard?!” You gawk at the familiar face. “You’re- you’re Spider-Man?!” No, that didn’t seem right. Maynard as Spider-Man? That didn’t seem right at all, something was wrong, and you knew it, and the itch was getting stronger and stronger and stronger. Something is very, very wrong, and you didn’t know why, what did you forget, who did you forget? You feel yourself mourning. Mourning that your subway buddy is Spider-Man, that you’d lost something that you didn’t even know you had. You don’t even realize you’re crying until Maynard is wiping away the tears from your cheeks. “No,” Maynard murmurs tenderly. “Not Maynard. It’s Peter.” Peter. Peter, Peter, Peter. 

The name rings in your head until you discover you’ve finally scratched your itch. That’s the key to the door. Peter. Your Peter. But still, something was missing. You couldn’t remember why or how he was yours. But a part of you knew that he was. You knew he was yours like a bird knew the wind, like a tree knew the soil, like a Hello Kitty band-aid knew a wound. He was yours. Peter. “Peter,” you gasp, the name not sounding real to you. “Peter.” 

Your tears of fear turn into relief as you collapse onto him. Peter pulls you into his arms, his embrace somehow so familiar to you. The way he holds you reminds you of a moment in time you can’t recall as you cry quietly into his shoulder, your mourning turning into exhilaration and disbelief. “Peter,” you echo again. You wanted to say that name until you couldn’t speak anymore. It sounded so warm and safe on your tongue. 

Peter nods, laughing with relief, his own tears filling his brown eyes. “Yeah, that’s me,” he reassures you. “It’s me. Your Peter.” “I- I don’t remember,” you hiccup through choked sobs. “Why don’t I remember you? Why did you lie to me on the subway?” He holds you tighter with every whimper and cry you let out, tracing circles into your back with the palms of his hands. “I promise, I will explain everything to you,” Peter swears with unwavering truth. And he will. He’ll tell you about your past with him, the spell, the four years he spent missing and craving you. But for now, he silently swears a second vow to you. He wouldn’t leave you again like this, ever. He’d come back for you, just like he promised you on the fire escape, just like he promised in your bedroom. He’d fight his way back to you this time and the next, not letting anything or himself get in the way of his promise to you. And he wouldn’t forget it this time. 

He’d be your Peter, for as long as you remembered him, for as long as you wanted him. Yours.