You sat at his bedside, your warm hands encasing his cold one. His chest rose and fell with the sound of the machine, the mask cupped around his mouth and nose. Needles poked in his soft skin, attached to long tubes filled with blood and fluids, connected him to each machine.

All of these things were working nonstop to keep him alive, yet he looked dead. He felt cold. He made no sounds.

His eyes didn't move behind his eyelids, which you knew was a bad sign. He didn't respond to touch or sound, even you or Aunt May, and the doctors said that he was brain dead. There was no activity in his brain. He was gone, they had said. There was nothing they could do to bring him back.

They said they wanted to pull the plug as soon as possible, so they could have room for other patients (patients that had a chance, your mind had thought bitterly), but they understood if you needed to have a little more time to say goodbye to him.

Time.

How could you and May decide when it had been enough time? Would it be cruel to keep him here on Earth, when he was ready to leave and go to Heaven? Was he in pain? Did he want to wake up? Did he remember you? Recognize your voice, even if he couldn't respond? Was he even aware of anything at all?

You couldn't say goodbye to this boy. He was yours. Your Peter, so soft and caring, so incredibly selfless and eager to help those he didn't even know. A hero behind and mask and not.

And you were going to lose him.

Time was such a fragile thing. A week ago, you were heartbroken over never having enough of him. He was always gone. And now - now, sitting here, holding his limp hand, those couple of hours you got to spend with him a week sound like a gift.

It was never enough, the time you had with him.

"Oh, the shine of a thousand spotlights," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of machines. "Oh, the stars we steal from the night sky will never be enough-"

Your voice broke, tears pooling in your eyes. You leaned closer and laid your cheek on his chest. You could hear his heart and the air pushing out of his lungs, feel his muscles, but he smelled weird, like clean sheets and disinfectants, like medicines and stillness.

"Never be enough..." you breathed. "Towers of gold are still too little." You picked up his hand, slipping your fingers between his. "These hands could hold the world but it'll never be enough... never be... enough." You broke down, soaking his hospital gown with hot tears.

You wanted him to wake up and playfully yell at you for staining his clothes with tears, like how he did when you got emotional as you watched Disney movies with him.

You wanted him to squeeze your fingers back, like he did the first time he ever became brave enough to hold your hand.

You wanted him to kiss your hair, like he did whenever you were sick or sad or sleepy.

You wanted him to call you babe or sweetheart or love like he did with adoration in his big brown eyes.

You wanted him to talk to you, to tell you that he was still in there, that he wasn't gone. Because where could he be? His soul was still here. It had to be. His body was still working for the most part. So where was he?

You didn't want to believe he was sleeping because it only made it harder. So you shifted your head so that your chin was pressed against his flesh. You lifted your free hand and brushed a lock of soft hair out of his eyes. Gently, you pushed it into place behind the tubes wrapped around his ears.

"Peter," you said. "Peter, baby. I'm here. I don't know if you're here, but I am." You pressed your lips together and sniffed, feeling a fresh pool of hot tears gather in your eyes. "I'm sorry it wasn't enough for me. I- I didn't think - you and I - we should have had so much longer."

You leaned in and pressed a wet kiss to the side of his head. He didn't move. You kissed his closed eyelids, practically willing him to open them, but he wouldn't.

Wherever he was, it wasn't here.

You pulled back and trailed the same hand that moved his hair down his temple and cheek. Your fingers touched his eyebrows and eyelashes, the line of his jaw and the point of his chin.

Before, time was never enough for you.

Now, time was everything.

He didn't respond, but he was here. His lungs were still expanding and his heart was still pumping. His veins were filled with blood and his lips still opened to release air. He was still there, he just needed help to keep going.

And while he was still here, you were going to make use of this time.

Your fingers danced across his face once more, tears slipping down your cheeks, head filled with memories that only pained you now. So you pressed another kiss to his forehead and then touched the skin of yours against his and shut your eyes, imagining that time would just stop, that you could have this moment right here forever, and there wasn't a group of doctors out there, waiting, and Aunt May wasn't signing papers to agree to take him off the machines, and Tony Stark wasn't on a rampage of anger and hurt and grief, and it was just you and Peter, together forever, skin to skin, hands cupped around hands, eyes closed to block it all out.

"Peter Parker," you breathed, "you'll never know how much I love you."

You would love him endlessly. He had set off a dream in you, a drive to help and care for people, a love so big it could end the world and begin it again.

For the first time, the moment you had was enough for you.

Always, Peter would be enough for you.