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It takes Ben Parker ten days, fourteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes to find his kid.
It could have taken twenty G-ddamn years and he would have kept looking but ten days, ten days it what it takes. Ten days of stumbling to the door of an apartment rented to the wrong people, to a gravestone that shouldn’t be there, to a google search that yields nothing, nothing, about Peter Benjamin Parker, not even the time he won the spelling bee when he was eight and made it into the school newsletter.
So standing here now, panting after the sixth floor walk-up of what’s gotta be one of the shittiest apartments in Queens, feels unreal. Feels beyond supernatural. Feels like G-d himself plucked Ben out of time and space and set him down right here because this is where he needs to be.
Ben knocks.
The year is 2025 and isn’t that something. According to the countless internet searches he conducted trying to find his nephew, lots of world-ending mind-boggling meshugas has occurred in the last few years. But he was there when a Norse god tried to blow up Manhatten, so it’s all still kind of par for the course.
No one answers. Ben knocks again.
It’s 9PM. Maybe Ben should have come by at a different time. Maybe he’s got the wrong apartment. It’s just that the second his old high school buddy Leonard from the DMV emailed him the address, he was out of that damned internet cafe and running, running to find a G-ddamn taxi to get him there. And if he goes another damned second without seeing his kid’s face then he might just—
The door opens, jerks to a stop when the deadbolt runs out of slack.
It’s him. Older and taller and Ben can’t get a good look through the cracked-open door but G-d, it’s really him. He’s the most amazing thing Ben has ever seen and he can’t even speak.
Peter’s eyes go wide. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and it seems like neither of them can find the words.
“Pete,” Ben finally chokes out. “Hi, oytser.”
The door slams shut. But the walls are thin and the door itself isn’t made of much, so Ben can hear Peter gasping, gasping on the other side.
“Hey,” Ben says. “Take it easy, kiddo. Big deep breath.” He lays a hand on the wood and in his mind he’s in Peter’s childhood bedroom, rubbing his hand on the kid’s back while May scrambles for the inhaler in the next room. “You got your inhaler, bud? Grab that for me, will you?”
Ben hears what he thinks is Peter scurrying away from the door.
This was a terrible idea. He hasn’t—he can’t even begin to comprehend what Peter must be feeling. Every time he thinks about it, all four of those G-ddamn gravestones lined in a row, he tastes bile because Peter is alone and if there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve it, anyone who deserves to be free of tragedy it’s his sheifale, his Peter. And he’s been alone and he’s not anywhere on the internet, and Nana Leeds didn’t recognize his name, and—
Focus. Peter is here, focus. He’s here.
Ben sinks down to the floor, pressing his ear to the wood. He can barely hear Peter’s voice on the other side.
“Please—“ Peter is still gasping. “I don’t. Please come, please. Yes. No, it’s…I don’t know. I don’t know.”
His kid’s voice is shaking, his breaths wheezing in and out. Ben hates himself for putting his kid there, he’ll say three Shemas tonight for it, he’ll never sleep again.
“You want me to leave, Petey?” Ben asks through the door. His kid is losing it on the other side and it’s his damn fault. He should have thought of a better way to do this.
“I can go. Look, I’m gonna get up and go. And then maybe tomorrow I can come back and I’ll leave you a note with my number and you can tell me what you wanna do. Okay? Your call, baby.”
There’s no sound on the other side of the door. Ben imagines that Peter is holding his breath, hand clamped over his mouth and tear-stained cheeks.
“Okay. Okay, Pete, I’m leaving.” Ben says, and rises to his feet slowly, knees creaking. “I’m getting too old for this.”
He’s three steps way when he hears something, barely hears something, on the other side of the door.
Stay. He hears.
Ben steps back to the door. “You say something, Pete?”
A short pause. “Stay,” Peter says hoarsely. “Please stay.”
Ben lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and sags against the door once more.
“Okay. Okay, Pete, take your time. You wanna talk? Ask me something?”
Silence.
“You wanna just sit here and wait for a little? Let ourselves calm down?”
Another silence. Then, "Yeah.”
“Alright. I can do that, Petey. Just take some deep breaths.”
He sits against the door for a time, straining to hear Peter’s breaths, until two men are coming down the hall. Ben clambers to his feet.
“Hey pal,” They come to a stop at the door. “You looking for someone?” The older one asks with the kind of politeness that’s also a warning and Ben is relieved, so relieved, that Peter has got someone looking out for him. Two someones.
“Yup,” Ben replies. “My nephew. Peter.”
There’s a short silence, but Ben can tell the two men know who he is. He can see the gears turning as the older one nods slowly to himself and the younger one starts to smile.
“Typical for Peter One’s Uncle Ben to be a total dilf.” The younger one says.
“Oh my g-d.” Mutters Peter, from the other side of the door.
And if Ben’s world hasn’t been turned upside down enough in the last few days, it’s Peter Two who sits him down in a diner and explains everything. A radioactive spider. His kid, a literal superhero. An avenger with Tony Fucking Stark. Quantum multiverse…stuff. Three Peters. One Ben.
“Okay, so its 2025, but my kid is actually eighteen.”
“Right.”
“Because magic rocks got put in a glove and killed half of the known world.”
“Right.”
“But only for five years, because Tony Stark invented time travel and then un-killed everyone.”
“…right.”
Also, a fucking wizard that did a spell so everyone in the world forgot his kid existed. And Ben’s not an angry guy, May had all the anger for the both of them, all the bite and bark, but Ben feels like he’s channeling her ghost right now, thinking of this g-ddamned wizard doing something like that to his g-ddamned kid.
“Yeah,” Peter Two shakes his head. “We tried to find this wizard ourselves, Peter Three and I, but Peter insists it had to be this way. The multiverse wouldn’t have been fixed without it.”
And just like that the anger fizzles out between his fingers. Ben has never been the kind of guy to hold onto those feelings for long. “Parker luck.”
Peter Two chuckles. “Yeah, Parker luck.”
There’s some discussion as to how Ben is here. Peter Two is smart, g-d he’s smart, of course he is because he’s Ben’s own kid from another universe and Ben doesn’t believe there’s any universe where Peter Parker isn’t smart and kind and wonderful, but this Peter doesn’t know. Doesn’t know why he’s here.
“You’re not from another universe, probably, because my understanding is that the wizard can sense it. He would have found you and sent you back by now.” Peter’s age bleeds through in the heaviness to his eyes, the weight in his sigh as he scrubs the lower half of his face and looks out the window. “I’d like to think the universe realized that the hand it dealt Little Peter wasn’t fair, and he deserved to get someone back after everything he lost.”
Ben wasn’t sure about the universe, but he was damn sure glad there was a Peter Parker—two Peter Parkers—looking out for his kid.
They go back to the apartment. Peter Two talks to Peter Three who talks to Peter One, who says he’s ready to see him. Ben walks in to find Peters One and Three hunched over a computer, murmuring and pointing at the screen. And then Peter looks up and Ben is a shooting star falling down to earth, finding it final resting place in some soft warm dirt and it’s here, with his boy, his Peter.
His big brown eyes are the same. Hair’s a little longer, messier and ungelled. He’s in a thin undershirt in the middle of winter and a worn pair of sweatpants and then he’s right here, squeezing the life out of Ben before he can blink. Ben grips him tight, feels Peter mush his face into the junction of Ben’s neck and shoulder, shaking, and this is the best feeling in the whole world. He’d die a million times to feel this once.
“I don’t care,” Peter whispers. “I don’t care if you’re real or not, I don’t care.” The kid is shaking like he never has and Ben hugs him as tight as he can, as if he can hold him together all on his own.
“You’re okay,” Ben says. “Hey, you’re okay.”
Peters Two and Three slip out of the room.
“We’re going for churros!” Peter Three shouts from the hallway.
The two of them end up laying on the bed, Ben resting his back against the headboard, legs stretched out and Peter curled into him, clutching at him for dear life. Peter’s crying and shaking and Ben’s crying too, hitched sobs tugging at his shoulders while he hums and mutters comforting phrases. Eventually they manage to wrangle their emotions back down, and Peter settles while Ben drags his fingers up and down his back.
“I was six,” Peter says into Ben’s shirt. “We had a pillow fight. What happened.”
Ben presses a kiss to Peter’s curls. “You had your first asthma attack. And I shit my pants.”
Peter shoots up to face him, pressing bony elbows right into Ben’s stomach. “No you didn’t.”
“Maybe not literally. Metaphorically, yes. Brown explosion. Geyser. Brownstone National Park.”
“Ew.” Peter wrinkles his nose even as his eyes are filled with wonder, darting around Ben’s face like he’s memorizing every detail. His chin wobbles and Ben tugs him back to his chest.
“When you were fourteen, you and Ned had a sleepover while May and I went out to dinner, and when we came back the Grey Goose vodka on the third shelf in the pantry had been watered down, hmm, I’d say about halfway.”
Peter tenses in Ben’s arms. “I never told you about that.”
“No,” Ben reasons. “But in case you were thinking I was some kind of figment of your imagination, now you know. Because you didn’t know I knew that, you little ganif.”
He strokes his fingers through Peter’s curls. “Did you guys actually drink all of that?”
Peter hunches his shoulders, curling into Ben. “No. We kept spitting it out in the sink.”
Ben smiles. This kid. “That’s alright. It’s normal to experiment. And I’d rather you do it at home than somewhere else, even if fourteen is a little young.”
“Flash said he did it,” Peter replies. “He kept bragging and we wanted to…” He breaks off, tense again.
“What’s up?” Ben rubs his back. “C’mon, you know you can tell me. I just outed your alcohol theft and said it was fine, like a cool uncle.”
“I don’t—“ Peter starts. “I can’t…believe this, I can’t.” And then he’s pulling away, standing and wrapping his arms around himself and looking back at Ben. And the expression on this kid’s face—Ben doesn’t know how else to describe it but as haunted and exhausted. Wide, wide eyes, no color in those cheeks. Slow, controlled breaths through his nostrils like a wounded animal that’s been hurt too many times to trust a hand outstretched with food.
“Who are you.” Peter speaks flatly. He starts to shift his feet, not quite pacing but restless as if he can’t find a safe place to stand. “Just tell me who you are. No tingle, so you’re not Beck.” And there’s no sound but Ben sees his lips form the words again as he stares. No tingle, so you’re not Beck. No tingle, so you’re not Beck. “Are you…like Fury, in Europe?”
Ben is wholly out of his depth.
“Pete,” Ben slowly raises his hands up, stands to his feet. He aches to go over and bundle Peter up like he always has, wants to squeeze him and whisper reassurances until Peter gazes up at him with a big toothy smile like Ben’s magic, like he poofed the problems away, but this is different. It’s a different Peter—his Peter, always his Peter—and this isn’t about Ben.
“Honey, all I can say is…I feel like me. I…remember my life. And I remember dying and then I was just here, in that alleyway. And you’re my kid. I’ve been trying to find you for days, matok.”
Ben steps forward and Peter steps back, keeps backpedaling until he hits the wall. “Stay there!” Peter says hoarsely. His face is beginning to crumple, his chest heaving in and out. “You—you stay there!”
The other Peters take this moment to enter, as if they knew something was about to go wrong or maybe had been waiting in the hallway. Peter Three is holding two churros that he spontaneously shoves in his jacket pocket with an explosion of sugar and crumbs.
“We good, Pete?” Peter Two asks carefully, eyes flickering between the two of them.
“Baby, it’s me.” Ben says and then the words are tumbling out of him faster than he can think. “I promise it’s me. When you were little you were obsessed with olives, until one day you ate so many that you threw up all night and you never had them again. And when we watched E.T. together you were terrified of the little alien, had to sleep in our bed for a week. I know you like your sandwiches smushed flat and you tuck your sweatpants into your socks like a complete lunatic—“
“—no,” A low sob tears out of Peter’s throat and Ben can’t breathe, he’s never seen Peter like this, shaking and so so afraid, and he never wanted see it, never ever.
“You can’t be Ben. You can’t come here and act like nothing’s changed, like I’m not living in a random apartment like I’m not a high school dropout like May’s not dead!” His words erupt into a scream and after there’s a deadly silence, all the air has been sucked out of their chests but Peter gasps a mighty inhale and continues. “She’s dead and you’re supposed to be with her! I sat shiva for you and I sat shiva for her and—and—“ Peter runs out of breath and when it looks like his legs are going to fail him, Peter Two steps in and pulls him into his chest, shushing him softly while his kid trembles, crying heavy, painful sobs.
“I can’t, I can’t,” Peter cries. “I can’t.”
“That’s okay,” Peter Two soothes him. “You’re okay.”
They collectively decide that it’s best for Ben to give Peter a little space. Ben ends up heading back to the hotel where he’s been staying, and Peter Three tags along.
“Apartment’s always a little cramped with the three of us,” The kid says with a kind of fondness. “And we never cared but I think Little Pete could use the one-on-one time.”
“Little Pete?” Ben recalls the other Peter saying that earlier. “Is that what you two call him?”
Peter grins wryly. He’s sitting on the side of the bed, toeing his shoes off and kicking them away in a way that’s very reminiscent of a kid Ben knows. “Yeah. He’s Little Pete. Other Peter is Mom Pete. I’m Crazy Pete.”
Ben barks a laugh. “Crazy Pete? Jesus, what did you do to deserve that?”
Peter shrugs, bashful. “Blew myself up a couple times. It was originally Mad Scientist Pete, and then that became MS Pete, and then that became Multiple Sclerosis Pete, which was when Mom Pete put a stop to it and settled us on Crazy Pete.”
“Wow. That’s a rollercoaster.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ben showers and scrubs the stress sweat and tears off. While Peter showers, he scrolls through the TV guide.
“Holy shit,” Ben mutters. “There’s a Pirates of the Caribbean seven.”
“There’s what?” Peter ambles out, toweling his hair.
“A seventh Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Peter peers at the television. “Yeah, no idea what that is.”
“Oh my g-d. That’s our first movie night. Well, maybe Empire Strikes Back will be first, cause it’s Petey’s favorite. Then pirates.”
Peter grins. There’s something else there too, the shadow of a feeling etched in the kid’s features. Peter turns away and goes into the bathroom. And for a moment Ben thinks he should drop it and not pry, because he’s only just met this kid but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like he’s known the other Peters all their lives, like meeting them today wasn’t an introduction but a strange and unexpected reunion.
“What’s eating you?” Ben asks while Peter brushes his teeth.
Peter pops his head out. “What do you mean?” Except, there’s a toothbrush in his mouth so it sounds more like whahhwooween.
“Something’s bothering you. You wanna talk about it?” You’re sharing a hotel room with your dead uncle from another universe, kid. Some feelings are bound to be felt.
Peter seems to recognize that Ben sees straight through him, so after he spits out his toothpaste and pads back out, his face is schooled in a sobered expression.
“I don’t…” Peter purses his lips, leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “Little Pete is really struggling with this. And maybe we all are, a little, given the circumstances. But I want to be there for him. I—I need to.”
Ben nods. “Okay. Emotional breakdown’s on the backburner?”
Peter laughs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Exactly.”
They both putter around and stay up for a little longer until their yawns are too monstrous to be ignored. Peter tries to take the stiff, ratty couch against the wall to which Ben promptly orders him under the covers of the Queen-sized bed, this instant, the floor is made of lava in case you didn’t know and the couch is actually a giant lava monster.
“Ben, I’m twenty-seven.” Peter laughs as he walks over.
“Oh, is twenty-seven too old to fight lava monsters? My apologies, sir.”
Peter flops into the bed and burrows under the covers. “If they’re anything like electricity monsters…then maybe. I could make lava-proof webbing.”
“I bet you could.” Ben switches a light off and it’s quiet. Peter’s restless, shifting every thirty seconds and sighing.
“You sure that emotional breakdown is on the backburner?” Ben asks after fifteen minutes.
“Yeah—no. I’m not thinking about that.”
“What are you thinking about, then?”
“…well, now you’ve got me on the lava-proof webbing.”
“Peter.”
“I’m sorry, it’s an interesting concept! And maybe I will run into a lava monster one day. Seems more likely than a purple alien or one made of black goo, but that’s happened already. So.”
“Okay.” Don’t ask about the aliens. Don’t ask about the aliens. “Black goo?”
“You’ll have to ask Peter Two about that one. And Peter One about the purple one. I’m not cool, so I didn’t get any aliens.”
Ben turns on his side. “You don’t think you’re cool?”
“No—it’s—I didn’t say that. Ignore that. Peter Senior already gave me the talk on self-talk, I’m good.”
Ben waits. This is May’s game, the waiting. She could wait long enough for the President to sweat buckets and give her the launch codes, the power that woman had.
“Look,” Peter blurts out, and Ben grins devilishly. “I can’t see you but don’t look at me like that. I already told you, emotional breakdowns are on the backburner.”
“Mm. You did say that.”
“Yes, I did, because I want to be there for Little Pete! Your Pete!”
Ben props himself up on an elbow. “Okay, let me stop you there, because I have come to an official, executive decision. Peter Parker is my Pete. Damn whatever universe he came from, I’m claiming him. Spit on my thumb and rub it on your forehead like Simba.”
Peter scoffs. “That’s unsanitary. What if you have alternate universe germs? Resurrection germs? You’ll kill me like Christopher Columbus killed the Indigenous populations. With a foreign magic plague.”
“Did a mutant spider give you superpowers or not? You’ll be fine. A little dirt is good for you. Now, hey—stop distracting me, I’m making a statement here—“
“—statement away, I’m listening—“
“—yeah, sure, now you. Peter Parker. And the two Peter Parkers down the road. All mine. I’ve—fucking—decreed it. You’re mine.”
Peter shifts, and from the sound of his voice Ben knows he’s turned to face him too.
“Jesus, you’re like a father duck. Reverse imprinting.”
“One father duck, three spider children. Now Peter, listen to me, bud.” Ben reaches out in the dark and grasps hold on something—a wrist, he thinks. “There’s a lot of honor in wanting to set your own problems aside to take of someone else.”
“Thank you, I’m an honorable guy.”
“But—“
“—uh oh, there’s a but—“
“—sometimes, people use helping others as an excuse not to help themselves. Because they don’t think they deserve it in the first place.”
It’s quiet, then. Ben has finally managed to speak that into the air and damn, he never thought he would find someone better at talking him into a circle than his own Peter, but this kid has skill.
“Man,” Peter mutters. “I’m not getting out of this, am I?”
“I’m afraid not, boychik. But we can keep the lights off. Give our best Jew shot at confession like the Catholics.”
“Alright,” Peter situates himself on his back again. “Father duck forgive me, for I have sinned.”
They talk for hours.
The next day they take it slow. Big Peter takes Little Peter to breakfast, just the two of them. Peter Two explained on the phone that he’s hoping, after a good night’s sleep, some time alone will help Little Peter process the events from last night. Ben agreed: Peter doesn’t need him right now. He needs someone who can help him survey this clusterfuck of a situation and slowly parse through it, which in this case would be big brother Peter Two.
Big brother. G-d, Ben loves it. He loves to say it, he loves to think it.
“What are you all smiley about?” Peter Three is walking down the street with Ben. They each have a bodega breakfast sandwich in hand and are on the hunt for jobs.
Graveyard shift, Peter had read from the newspaper as they waited for their food. That’s perfect! Tell them you have nine years experience.
“My kid’s got two big brothers.” Ben says. “Or two little brothers. Or one big brother and one little brother. Depends on how you look at it.”
“Yeah,” Peter says. “I always wanted brothers.”
They check out a few job postings, get Starbucks, and it’s the iced coffee that makes Peter decree that they also need to look at apartments.
“Let’s not forget that I am legally dead, Peter.”
“Oh shit, okay, let’s do that first.”
Tracking down Ben’s birth certificate and social security card is complicated. Ben Parker’s things were left to May Parker after his death, where they sat in their apartment in boxes and gathered dust. But then May and Peter blipped, and all items in the apartment were shipped to a storage unit as directed by one Tony Stark. Then, May and Peter un-blipped and all their items were returned in their new apartment. And then May died.
And Peter Parker didn’t exist.
With no living relatives, the New York City Council took charge of May Parker’s estate.
“And then what?” Ben asks, peering over Peter’s shoulder where the kid has hacked into government records. They’re in the internet café again. Ben probably shouldn’t have allowed it, because now Peter’s on his second iced coffee and his knee won’t stop bouncing.
“And then….” Peter squints his eyes. “ ‘For security purposes, all government-issued documents were destroyed. Household items, clothing, etc were donated to a local center.’ I’m sorry, man.”
Ben leans back and sighs. “So…what now? Fake ID? New identity? I’ll assume my alter ego, Parker Benjamin.”
“Easy there, double-o-seven. Let me look around.”
Ben checks Peter’s phone. He hasn’t bought his own yet, has been renting a hotel with just the cash in his wallet, and deemed it not yet necessary.
There’s a text from Peter Two. He wants to see you.
“Okay okay okay,” Peter says, scrolling too fast for Ben to read. “Okay. Okay. So you can thank a giant, genocidal purple alien for this one.”
“Of course.”
“After the un-blip, a lot of people came back and found that their identifying documents had been lost or destroyed. Passport, birth cert, socials, all gone. So, the government instated a new program where you can apply to have your government documents re-printed. You just need two witnesses to come to court with their documents and attest that you are who you say you are.”
“Well that’s convenient.”
“I guess if four billion people need documents, you can’t really get strict about it. Better to allow some identity theft and fraud than permit an economic collapse due to half the world being unable to quickly get housing and jobs. So you can thank a big purple alien and American capitalism.”
“Problem, though,” Ben replies. “I didn’t get blipped. I died before. Won’t they know that?”
“Dude, wizards exist here. Time travel exists. The program description here doesn’t actually mention a blip, just ‘unexpected life after documented death’. If you tell them that you are Ben Parker and you have two witnesses…I mean, they might not even ask. I’m sure they have better things to do than arrest a random grandpa from Queens who just wants his documents back.”
“Yesterday you called me a dilf, and now I’m a grandpa? I don’t know if I’ve been demoted or upgraded.”
Peter peers at him over the rim of his glasses. “Do you know what dilf stands for?”
“No, because I’m an actual adult, Mr. Caffeine Junkie Millennial.”
Peter scoffs and sips his drink thoughtfully. “Dilf means…duck I’d like to fornicate with.”
Ben narrows his eyes. “No it doesn’t.”
“Yes it does.”
“No, my spidey sense is tingling.” Ben remembers Peter Two used that phrase last night at the diner. “and it says you’re lying.”
“You mean your duck sense. Duck tingle.”
“Okay, enough with the duck jokes.” Says Ben. “Or I’m gonna have to bill you.”
Peter grins. “Keep making jokes and we’re gonna sound like quacks.”
And then Ben starts laughing, and Peter starts laughing, and it takes a good long time before they can both catch their breath again.
“Alright,” Ben claps Peter on the shoulder and stands, popping joints as he does. “Time to face the music. Our kid is ready for us.”
Peter closes out of their browsers and Ben takes the liberty of trashing the rest of Peter’s coffee. This will be probably be a pretty serious conversation, and the kid is already bouncing off the walls.
“Hey Pete,” Ben says as they’re walking out. “Thanks for helping me out.”
Peter blinks, as if he isn’t used to being thanked, and doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “Aw,” He says as he turns red. “No problem, man. I’m happy to help.”
“You’re a smart kid, you know that?”
Peter covers his face, but Ben can see him smiling behind his fingers. “Stop it.”
“The smartest. The best, ever. Hey—hey Peter, honey?” Ben stops him in the middle of the sidewalk, makes sure he’s looking him in the eye. “I’m so proud of you.”
Peter’s eyes are wide, uncomprehending. Then the corners of his lips turn down, thinning to a grimace like he’s trying to hold it all in, and all it takes it one ragged inhale for Ben to pull him into his arms.
Back in the apartment. Three Peters are sat on the edge of the bed. The smallest Peter sits in the middle, grounded by his brothers on either side. Ben pulls up the desk chair to face them.
“I’m sorry, um…about before.” Peter One twists his hands in his lap. “I got confused. I’m…still confused, I guess.”
Ben smiles softly. “That’s alright, kiddo. I haven’t got a clue about any of this either.”
“I—um,” Peter One glances hesitantly at Peter Two, who nods supportively. “I’m still having trouble, with like, believing that you’re…real.”
Ben nods. “Okay.”
“There was this guy,” Peter says. “Beck. And he made these drones that could create…illusions, like really advanced light projection. And he made me see things that weren’t there, and then after that all this stuff—“ He gestures to the other Peters. “—happened, and I don’t know. It feels like—“ Peter chokes up a bit, and Peter Three leans in, drapes himself over his younger brother and gives him a supportive squeeze before pulling back. Peter takes a big deep breath and lets the words out.
“It just feels like every time I think things are okay, something back happens. Back when you were—alive—and we had that fight and then—“ A sob takes over Peter’s voice and he visibly holds himself together, arms tight around his middle. The Peters lean into him. “And then we all got blipped, but the Avengers saved us and then Mr. Stark died.” Peter directs his eyes to the wall. Ben can tell his kid is fighting, fighting, to say what he needs to say.
“But then we went on a field trip, and I finally told MJ how I feel and everything was good, or at least better, but then my identity got revealed and I just wanted to help and May—“ And this time his lung just deflate, and he sobs hoarsely. Peter Three pulls him into a tight hug. Peter Two keeps a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder while he cries, but he shoots Ben a reassuring smile. He’s doing good.
Pete pushes away from Peter Three. He’s trying to force his breaths under control, he keeps jerking with sharp sharp inhales one after the other, never really achieving the exhale.
“And then I met them—“ And Peters Two and Three smile in response. “And I got a job and—and new friends and now you’re here and it just--feels like—like there’s no way this is a good thing.” The monster squeezing Peter’s lungs releases and he lets out a long, shaky exhale. He speaks quietly.
“I’ve been doing…better, I guess, since everything. And when I start doing better,” Peter Three rubs his back again, and Little Pete blinks back tears. “Bad things happen. Not good things.”
And Ben is taking slow deep breaths, quietly digging his fingernails deep into his palms because he can’t have a breakdown right now, not when his kid needs him. His kid, who has lost everything imaginable, suffered more than a kid his age should even be able to comprehend, who’s still fighting, still saving people, still Peter.
Breakdown later. Peter now.
“Pete,” Ben leans forward, sliding his elbows to his knees so he can look Peter straight in the eye. “I can’t even imagine how hard it is for you to sit down and share that with me. Thank you.”
Peter inhales shakily. Tears start to fall down his face but they’re silent affairs, dripping down like water while he keeps his eyes on Ben, captivated.
“And as for that way you’re feeling,” Ben says. “Not knowing what to trust, what’s real and what’s not, what’s gonna happen next...that’s normal, kiddo. After everything you’ve experienced, I’d say that that’s even good. Good, in that you’re still here, and haven’t gone completely insane, and actually managed to sit me down and vocalize those feelings to me. That’s really, really good.”
Peter sniffs, nods. Peter Two squeezes the kid’s shoulder and Ben can see the clear pride on his face.
“So let me propose something to you,” Ben says. “I’ll get an apartment. You can see me as much or little as you like. And if we’re together and you’re feeling overwhelmed, all you gotta do is say the word. I’ll leave. No hard feelings, no nothing. We can go wherever you want, talk about whatever you want, you set the pace. Ball’s in your park. Hell, the park is in your park.”
Peter blinks, sighs. Starts twisting his hands again.
“I don’t want—“ He stutters. “I feel like I’m just making things difficult. And it’s not fair to you.”
“Peter,” And Ben takes a leap of faith here and leans forward, clasps Peter’s hands in his own. “Listen to me, baby. You are allowed to have boundaries. And you are allowed to say no, and take things slow. There’s no secret deadline or set of expectations that I’m holding behind my back. I want you to be okay, and if this is how I can help you do that, then I’m all for it. And please, please take me at my word, bud, when I say that no matter what happens or how you feel, I will always love you and always be proud of you.”
And that…is what does it. Peter’s face crumples and he lunges forward, wraps his arms around Ben’s neck and buries his face in his shoulder. Ben holds him tight and, finally, just a little, lets himself cry as he holds his nephew in his arms.
He would have done anything to get to his kid. Anything. Walked across the desert, traversed the whole damn galaxy. But here he is now, and he’s got his kid, and things aren’t okay, not even a little bit, but they will be. Because he’s got Peter.
And Ben glances up through Peter’s tiny window to the setting sun, and thinks that if he were ever to bet on a lucky night in Queens that a star would be visible through the smog-filled sky, it would be this one.