(this is a rewrite of a 2020 spooktober oneshot that I did on my first irondad book. it's called "supernatural enemy" if you wanna go read it first and see how much I changed my writing style in two years lol)

He thinks the last thing he said before he passed out was, "two hours of sleep isn't enough to deal with your tomfoolery." The joke, of course, ends up on him, as the new baddie of the month decides to hit him with bomb-shaped object that spewed a yellow mist, and immediately all 140 muscley pounds of Peter Parker, broken nose and all, goes down to the floor with a thud.

As he's gaining his consciousness, the first thing he feels is the painful pounding of blood in his head. Definitely a concussion. He peels his eyes open, the lamplight in his room burning into his vision. He squints and slowly sits up with aching muscles.

It smells of burnt breakfast and smoke. He's wondering how he got home, how bad his concussion must have been for him to not remember crawling back in through his window, when he hears May's laughter ring out from the kitchen. (Laughter's a hard thing to come by these days, it seems. May's laughter might just be one of his favourite sounds, so this distraction from his thoughts is welcome.)

He hits the emblem on his chest and lets the suit fall to the floor, quickly getting dressed in jeans and a sweater before stumbling out into the hallway. He turns the corner, into the kitchen—

Peter sucks in a breath so quickly he becomes lightheaded. His world tilts.

Ben— Ben Parker, standing at the stove, bacon cooking on a greased pan as smoke rises into the air, and he's twirling May around as she laughs; as if he never left. As if he'd always been here. As if he weren't a ghost. As if he weren't dead.

His hair is a dark brown, just like Peter remembered it, with silver strands throughout it that match May's. Kind eyes, creased with joyful crows-feet at the edges. He wore a button up shirt, blue and red plaid-patterned, rolled up to his elbows, and an apron that wasn't tied around his back. He smiled with the most light and wisdom that could be seen in a man. It occurs to Peter then, in a spiraling moment, that this is what May last saw. She wanted a closed casket– didn't want the last thing she remembered of Ben to be cold.

("He lived life too warmly," May had explained through her sniffles, dressed in a black dress. She nodded firmly, her bottom lip quivering. Her eyes were red. "That's how we should remember him, Peter. Warm, and– and full of life, how he lived."

Peter never wanted to remind her that he wasn't that lucky. The last image he had of Ben was warm only of the blood soaking his shirt, and his eyes were dead, and he was dead, and Peter felt like dying.)

"Woah," Ben says, the gentle voice rupturing Peter's thoughts in half like a paper torn in the rain. "You're looking pale, kiddo, are you feeling alright? You got a fever?"

Peter blinks once. He blinks twice. Three. Four times. He tries to rationalize it– obviously he's dreaming. And his dreams have been... weird, since the whole getting-sent-to-space-and-dying-and-coming-back-and-fighting-a-war-and-watching-your-mentor-die thing. He's been under whole heaping mountain loads of stress, and sleep has been less than satisfactory, and he does get a lot more concussions lately. This whole thing is just his brain's way of coping, right? Giving him... Giving him familiarity. That's all it was. A dream.

"Um," Peter says dumbly. Could you pass out in a dream? He's about to find out; his knees feel shaky."Yeah, I'm– I'm fine."

Peter stumbles to the kitchen table and sits down with a thump. He meets May's eyes, and god, she looks so relaxed, less worried in the dream, which is the most heartbreaking thing Peter could imagine. Gut-punch right to the responsibility complex.

Peter looks around the house, cataloging everything. Ben's old jackets are hung up on the coat rack beside the front door, which is strange because Peter remembers the very day May decided to put them in a F.E.A.S.T. donation box. He remembers driving with her to drop them off, remembers her taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. He remembers wiping away his own tears falling down his cheek and him only being able to think about how strong May was, and how much he loved her.

On the fridge, photos of AcaDec competitions and graduations and daytrips, Ben in each one even though in reality he had never even made it past the January of Peter's freshman year. One photo in particular is missing, a photo he remembers taking with just him and May, their first trip to Coney Island without Ben, eight months after it happened, was very evidently missing.

Ben's movie collection, every DVD stacked haphazardly on a bookshelf beside the television. He had moved those to the storage closet exactly three weeks after it happened, because it was one of many unbearable reminders and Peter's grief was eating him alive then. But there they were. And there were the photos. And there were the jackets. Peter's head is hurting.

He looks back at May, his mouth dry and a lump in his throat. May, who he saw grieve. May, who he heard sob between the paper thin walls for nights on end until Peter couldn't take it anymore and snuck out the window. May, who as he looks at now, is smiling with a genuinity to her that he never thought he would see again. Peter smiles back at her through his prickling tears because this is such a nice dream– he's so grateful to be able to remember when things were really like this. He thought it had all been tucked away behind moving boxes, police reports, funeral bills, and the pain equivalent to that of an army.

Ben puts three plates on the table and sits down with them. This will be the first time Peter eats at a family breakfast in years. He grins and eats charred bacon while Ben rattles off the baseball stats for the Mets in the 1990s. Peter never realized how much he missed it until now, where it's happening and his heart feels like it's bleeding out of his chest.

"Pete, you're about to be late for school," Ben twists around in his seat to look at the clock above the oven. "Better get moving."

Peter stands up with an eager nod. It's not like he's going to fight against the plot of a dream. Besides, seeing Ben again... That was more than enough nostalgia to ease him. He wouldn't be upset if he woke up the second he left the apartment.

Just in case— Peter hugged Ben as tight as he could before he left. Breathed in the scent of cologne and a cotton sweater and something distinctly Uncle Ben. There wasn't blood. There wasn't red.

But he doesn't wake up; after he leaves. He doesn't wake up during the monotonous subway ride, and he's even able to study the familiar faces on the train that he usually sees on his way to school every other morning. He doesn't wake up when he crosses the football field, or when he crosses the street, or when he walks through the front doors of the school.

At his locker, Ned's nowhere to be seen. Instead, it's Betty and Liz, who are talking quietly to eachother. Peter hesitated before walking up.

"Peter, you're so late," Betty rolled her eyes. "We've been waiting for you, for like, twenty minutes."

"It hasn't been twenty minutes," Liz smiled. "It's been five at most, Betty."

"Whatever!" Betty pulled her backpack higher up on her shoulder. "Get your stuff, Peter. I bet Mr. Dell already opened his door for study hall."

"Uh," Peter stuttered. He nodded quickly, unable to pull his eyes away from– from Liz, who had left New York before Peter even finished his sophomore year. She looked just as Peter had remembered her when he was crushing, although her hair was curlier and she wore a faded leather jacket, her shirt was a faded quote from Emily Dickinson.

(Hell, she almost looked like MJ.)

"Right," Peter continued, opening his locker and taking books out of it. "Right. Yeah. Mr. Dell's room."

The three of them trailed to History, and Peter can't help but repeatedly look around for his missing piece. Ned wasn't anywhere in sight, as if he had simply not existed in Peter's dream-state of mind. Which was depressing. He loved Ned a lot, he was his best friend in the entire universe and can't imagine any dream-world where he wasn't at his side.

The hour long class seemed to pass as fast as Peter blinked, and the bell ringing had all the students gathering their things over again.

"I have trig next period," Betty sighed, pulling her backpack over her shoulder. "Liz, you have AP Calc, right?"

"Yep," Liz smiled. "Peter, I'll see you around, right?"

"Yeah," Peter trailed off. "I've got Shop, so, I'm— Yeah. Anyways, uh... see you around, Liz. Betty."

Betty smiled forcefully and dragged Liz out the door, leaving Peter to himself in the emptying classroom. He picked his backpack up and went off to find his next class, his head feeling fuzzy and full of cotton.

He's trailing through the hallways, and bumping into people with his own confusion. In Shop, Ned sat tiredly, not even looking up at him when he walked over to their table.

"Ned," Peter spoke up quietly. "Are you okay?"

Ned glanced up, and almost looked surprised to see him. He opened his mouth and then closed it with a slight frown. "Hi."

Um...

"Hi," Peter said hesitantly. He sat down beside Ned and slid his backpack onto the back of the chair. "I know this is a dream and everything, but like— are you... Is everything okay, dude?"

Ned huffed a laugh. "I didn't know you cared anymore."

Peter's heart twisted in his chest with the rush of something instinctively wrong. He furrowed his eyebrows painfully. "Why would you say that?"

"I dunno," Ned sighed. He didn't even look hurt— that was the worst part. He looked like someone who was beyond wanting forgiveness. Who was just tired of being upset and wanted to move on. "You're just busy all the time. Either with your new friends or, like, that internship thing with Tony Stark."

Peter blinked several times in quick succession.

"I guess I can't blame you," Ned shook his head. "I just thought... I don't know. I thought you'd still remember me even when you got all cool."

"Ned," Peter said quickly. "I don't— c'mon, you're joking, right? The Stark Internship was just a cover; you know that. He's not even—"

He's not even alive, Peter almost said. Ned knew better than to pretend he was.

(Because Ned surely remembered how Peter fell into his arms after the war. After Peter changed out of his suit and stood in the shower, hot water pelting down his back as he stared at the blood, dirt, concrete dust, all swirling down the drain in a horrible trail at his feet. After the funeral. After a week of staring blankly at the air and trying to believe the unbelievable truth.

Yes, Ned surely remembered how Peter fell forward, how he buried his face in Ned's neck and clung to him, how they both cried so hard their chests hurt. How Peter pulled away a few seconds, a few minutes, an hour later and his own voice was so wrecked he couldn't recognize it, and said: "He's gone. Mr— Tony, he's—"

And Ned hugged him even tighter.)

"Not even what, Peter?" Ned said, his face glum. "Not even that cool? Let me guess, I'm cooler? Yeah. Just— let's focus on the schoolwork, okay?"

But here was Ned now, in his best dream, looking at him with a distance in his expression that went beyond his eyes. A frown on his face. Peter couldn't say for sure if this was even his best friend. It was Ned Leeds— but it wasn't his best friend.

"Ned," Peter tried, trying to keep his voice level. "C'mon. I'm sorry, whatever it is. It's Spider-Man."

"Yeah. I get it, you're friends with the Avengers." Ned smiled plainly. It didn't even reach his dimples. "It's really cool. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Can I tell you something?" Peter asked, leaning forward.

Ned hesitated but nodded. (Where was the trust in his eyes?)

"Ben's still alive," Peter said with a small smile. "I know we aren't the closest for some reason, but I... wanted to tell someone, and you're always there for me when I have something to say. Thank you."

Ned furrowed just eyebrows with confusion. He stayed silent.

Peter's trying to rationalize all of it again. This dream he's having. He trusted Ned more than anything, has relied on him and his support like a crutch since this year went down in such a universally horrific way. Peter stared down at his dream-Shop assignments and the only thing running through his brain is how he might have subconsciously been pushing Ned away.

Dream-Ned doesn't seem to know he's Spider-Man; maybe Peter regretted telling him.

The intercom came on, a crackly microphone ringing through the walls of the classroom. "Peter Parker, please come to the office. Again, Peter Parker, please come to the office. Thank you."

People turned to look at him and he fumbled before standing up with his backpack. He nodded to the teacher before he stepped out and into the hallway.

He tugged on his backpack straps all the way to the office, rolling them up and down; wrestling the fabric anxiously. He pushed the door open and looked around with a healthy caution.

For not the first time, the sight he's met with has him suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

Tony Stark, in the flesh. Standing tall in dress shoes that cost more than Peter's college fund, a dark navy suit jacket layered over a shirt that he probably picked from Target. Aviator shades covered his face, a neutral expression as he stared down at the carpet, pretending dramatically as if he didn't notice Peter walk in.

Very assuredly not dead.

Peter felt his grip go weak, and his arms fell weakly to his sides. He couldn't think of what to do. His breath is coming out in slow, calculated inhales and exhales. He didn't want to move. Didn't want the mirage to fizzle out in a cloud of du—

("You're alright.")

With the realization that Peter wasn't moving, Tony finally tilted his head up at him. His left eyebrow quirked up over the glasses.

("Underoos!"

"I did listen, kid."

"Alright... Skedaddle there, young buck."

"Kid, where'd you come from?"

"Pete? You gotta let go, I'm gonna catch you."

"Happy trails, kid. FRIDAY, send him home."

"Alright, kid. You're an Avenger now.")

"Kid?" Tony asked. "You're spacing out."

Peter sniffled. "What?"

"I'm picking you up," Tony explained. He shifted on his feet, crossing his arms casually. "Spontaneous lab day. Thought it'd be fun. Was I wrong?"

Peter struggled for words.

"Let's get on the road," Tony jutted his chin out. "I signed you out already. We're wasting good time here."

Peter felt faint. He moved anyways, his legs pulling him forward like he was a puppet on strings. He was haunted in the grey area between wanting to wake up, because the shock of it all was hurting the soft scarred skin that hadn't fully healed over yet, and wanting to savor the memory of how it felt when Tony was still alive. He missed it. He really did.

The whole world had grieved over Iron Man, but few lucky people got to grieve over Tony. Peter was one of them, and he had already endured the several painful months of looking at wall-to-wall memorials, hearing the stories and the rumours and the pity, and he made it out the other end even when he felt held together by loose thread stitches.

Peter Parker grieved. He wasn't over it yet, and he knew that. He missed Tony so badly sometimes it felt like the weight was impossible on his shoulders— and apparently, his brain knew that too.

He walked with Tony to the car carefully. Tony shut the car door with a dull thud, but Peter still flinched. He dropped his backpack to the floor of the car and held his breath.

Peter studied the dashboard with extreme precision. The smooth texture of the leather. The glass of the windshield, and the blue to clear fade from bottom to top. He didn't want to turn his head, didn't want to break the illusion. Even in a good dream, this is where things start to turn awry.

His heart pounded in his chest.

"Everything okay?" Tony asked, his tone loose and naturally suave in a clipped sort-of fashion, overall very reminiscent of how the man used to talk to him, not very long ago.

"Yeah," Peter said quietly, his voice barely above a weak whisper. The words left his tongue with wavering uncertainty.

"Hm," was all Tony said.

Peter imagined for a moment that he does look to his left, that he does look at the ghost of Tony Stark. He remembered... other nightmares. Where Tony's lip curled into a zombish sneer and his skin crumbling off the side of his face, and he was yelling and screaming in a horrific mess of discordant notes. Peter shuddered.

Tony reached forward—Peter flinched again— and flicked on the radio. Some classic rock filtered through the car, something Peter couldn't concentrate hard enough on to understand the lyrics to, and Tony began mumbling to the words under his breath.

Tony finally cleared his throat. "Alright. You're giving me nothing here. We're doing small talk now, hope you're happy."

Peter's heartbeats hurt with the familiarity of Tony's cadence, the words, the dryness. He almost could smile, but he was still afraid.

"So?" Tony tried. "What's, uh... School. You go to school. Tell me about your homework."

Peter swallowed hard. He racked his brain. "Um... I have physics homework."

Tony nodded slightly, giving a smile while his eyes remained on the road. "See, Pete? Knew you could talk. I believed in you. Physics homework. Bet that's a walk in the park, huh?"

"Yeah," Peter said, frail. He inhaled stiffly. "It's real easy."

He risked a side glance.

Tony looked... normal. Younger, Peter supposed, than when he really last saw him— less wrinkles, less salt and pepper in his hair. His smile lines were more faded than he remembered, too. He looked lonely. This was the Tony he first met, Peter decided. The one who showed up to invite him to Germany.

(Not the one who he leaned beside with sweat and blood dripping down the side of his face, gripping Tony's arms and begging the Universe that he would hear him, saying: "We won, Mr. Stark. We won. You did it, sir. You did it. I'm sorry. Tony?")

"Where are we going?" Peter asked.

Tony made a face and glanced over at him. "The Compound?"

As if Peter didn't stumble through the remains of buildings, inhaling the smoke and dust, blood and saliva thick on his tongue, his lungs squeezing as he fought for his life. As if Peter didn't watch Pepper announce quietly on the news that Avengers Compound would not be rebuilt, looking like a shell of the woman that the world (and him) had known; and yet so strong, as she ignored the tear crossing down the side of her nose and kept her voice collected while she trembled with every breath.

He admired it, at the time. He usually refused to talk about it, because when he did, he cried. If he started crying he'd never stop.

"Right," Peter said. "The Compound. Because it's not... Right."

Peter looked down at his hands and pushed his cuticles back anxiously. He sniffed. "So, what have you been up to recently?"

Tony gave him another weird look, furrowing his eyebrows with concern. He took his shades off and hung them on the collar of his shirt. "Kid, I saw you just the other day."

No, I haven't, and I miss you I miss you I miss you Imissyou Imissyou Imissyou ImissyouImissyouImissyou.

"I know," Peter said with a nod. He blinked back the burning tears in his eyes and tried to keep his voice calm. "Yeah. Duh, I know that. I just— since then, y'know?"

"Well," Tony chuckled slightly. "Okay. Well, uh. Been taking care of company bullshit. Meetings with the Rogues. Other top-secret information that I shouldn't tell my fake intern."

Peter smiled painfully. "Tell me more anyways. Please, Mr. Stark?"

"Are you okay?" Tony huffed a laugh, undertoned in concern. "You're acting like my clingy aunt who came over for Christmases when I was a kid."

"I just—" a traitorous tear slid down Peter's cheek and he quickly wiped it away. "Sorry. I just miss you."

Tony frowned slightly and brought his hand up to ruffle it through Peter's curly hair. "Well, I'm right here, okay? No need to miss me. I'm right here."

Peter leaned into the warmth of Tony's hand. He shut his eyes tightly, begging the dream to last a little longer. Just a moment more.

"We're here, kiddo," Tony said softly. He parked the car at the front of the Compound and pulled his hand away. "Ready to do some cool science shit?"

"Yeah," Peter smiled slightly. He opened his eyes. "Definitely."

Peter walked down the backdoor lobby of Avengers Compound with Tony, looking at the place in perfect condition compared to what it really became. They're in the elevator— Tony is crossing his arms and looking up as they travel down floor by floor.

"I'm dreaming," Peter blurted. Who could it hurt to tell? This was all fake anyways.

Tony's silent for a beat, as if processing what Peter's saying and trying to figure out if he needed to be consoling or logical. He cleared his throat. "What about?"

"Everything," Peter murmured. The elevator dinged with every floor going down. "Ben's alive. Ned doesn't know I'm Spider-Man, and it's like Thanos never happened, and you— You're not dead, Mr. Stark."

Tony paused, a frown twisting his features with genuine worry. "Are you feeling alright, kid?"

"I'm being serious," Peter said firmly, bordering on desperate. "This whole day has just been so crazy. I obviously love you and Ben so much, but I know I'm gonna wake up soon. And I know you're fake, but I just— I really do miss you, Mr. Stark."

"So, you're saying this is a dream?" Tony asked carefully. "This is a dream, and I'm really six feet under?"

"I went to your funeral," Peter answered quietly. He laughed sourly. "And it's been so awful, since you've been gone. Really. People expect me to be the next you, but I have to fight to get out of bed some days and Iron Man— Iron Man doesn't struggle with all of this like I do, you know? You're— You were invincible."

"You don't want to wake up," Tony clarified.

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his dirty shoelaces.

"I don't blame you," Tony murmured. "I wouldn't wake up, if it were me. I'd stay in the dream."

Peter chewed guiltily on his bottom lip.

"You don't have to wake up," Tony drawled. He stepped closer.

"But..."

"What's so wrong with dreaming if it's a helluva lot better than the miserable day-to-day you've got going on, kiddo?" Tony asked, smiling sharply. Dangerously.

The hairs on Peter's neck raise.

"The city needs Spider-Man," Peter tried. "I can't just not wake up. That's not how dreams work. I'm sleeping somewhere, and I need—"

"You need?" Tony asked. He stepped forward, tilting his head. "Peter, you don't need to do anything. You don't need to be anything. You put too much pressure on yourself, kiddo."

Peter sighed.

"You want to be happy," Tony continued. "Ben makes you happy, right? Ben makes May happy."

"That wasn't May though," Peter pleaded. "The real May is waiting for me when I wake up, and I love her more than anything— and she's real, and she loves me too."

Something in Tony's face flickered. He blinked and spoke again. "But I love you too, Peter. You're like a son to me. You're... you're my kid. Don't you miss me? You can stay with me. I'm right here for you. I'm alive, and I'm here."

His whole life on a silver platter, gleaming and sparkling. It was too easy, though, wasn't it?

Where did he fall asleep again?

What was he doing before this?

His head hurt.

"Um," Peter's body felt heavy. He fell forward into Tony's arms like a toothpick being blown over by the wind.

"That's right," Tony soothed. "Just take a nap. Stay here and sleep, bambino. Everything will be perfect."

Something... is wrong.

Everywhere that dream-Tony held him was burning with warning. He cringed backwards. "No, I—"

The fight, Peter remembered. He was fighting someone. A dark shadowy figure in an alley between Hell's Kitchen and the Financial District, and a nasty punch had shattered a lense on his mask, messing up his heads-up display.

He got hit with something before he went down, didn't he?

"Stop," Tony begged. His voice echoed around the elevator's walls. The lights flickered. "Kid. Just rest. Stop thinking so much."

Tony's eyes looked dull of their usual colour, and a crackling fractal of black and grey was moving up the side of his left arm, and God, Peter didn't want to be here anymore. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to go home.

He shut his eyes tightly, and then heard glass shatter all around him. It ringed through his ears and echoed, a shiny noise that circled his head blindingly loud.

A slap to the face made his eyes shoot open.

And just like that, he's wide awake, looking up as Ned leaned over him with panic in his eyes. Peter tried to catch his breath, every hair standing on end and prickling in pain.

"Oh, thank god," Ned blubbered. "I've been looking for you for hours, and I finally just managed to get the stupid tracker working again and— and I came here and I thought you were dead—"

He jerked away from Ned and sat up, his head spinning. His eyes dart around his surroundings. He's in a warehouse. He's sitting on a cold metal table; and his suit's mask has been torn off and thrown to the side. There's a ripped bandage on his arm, and an IV drip that Ned held in his hands. (He must of yanked it out?)

"Ned?" Peter gasped. "Is that really you?"

"Yeah, dude," Ned said breathlessly. "Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?"

"Am now," Peter said shakily. He tried to pull himself off the table, and his knees collapsed under him. Ned quickly lunged forward and slung his arm over his shoulders.

Peter grunted painfully, his cheeks feeling wet from the tears. "What happened?"

"You were on patrol," Ned sniffed. He guided a limping Peter out of the cold warehouse. "It didn't go well, obviously, but the guy drugged you with this hallucinogenic thing. Karen sent me a message but the tracker was still offline from last time, and I had to do a lot of shady business to get it up and running, I may have put myself on a watchlist but it's worth it because you're really okay—"

Peter choked down a sob.

Ned paused. "Peter?"

"I'm okay," Peter said shakily, looking down. His body trembled. He swallowed another sob. "The hallucinations. They were a lot. I'm okay."

"I thought so," Ned said gently. "You kept talking while I was trying to take your IV out. The good part is that it's over now, right?"

Peter nodded and sniffled wetly. He ducked his head down and buried his face in Ned's shoulder.

Ned hugged him tightly. "As your best friend," he began. "You can always talk to me. I'll listen. I'll be there."

Through all the rush of exhaustion and emotion, despite the pain, he nodded against Ned's shoulder.

"We should get back to my place, though. I told May we were having a sleepover to cover for you, but it's like, six in the morning and school is in two hours."

The information settled.

"You stayed up all night to find me?" Peter mumbled tiredly.

"Of course I did," Ned rolled his eyes, smiling lightly. "You're my best friend. Duh."

Peter smiled tearfully, and he cried and cried and cried.

In the grand retrospect of things, when all of the dust has settled, perhaps things are better off happening in the way that they're meant to happen.

As long as it were real— he would be okay.

(And at the end of their school day, Peter still was mainly quiet about what all went down. Ned stuck next to him like glue, and the warmth and pressure of his best friend at his side kept him grounded.

It's night then, when Ned is staying over at the apartment by his own request, a real sleepover rather than a fake one. It's dark in Peter's room and the credits of the movie they were watching have just finished.

"Tell me about the dream," Ned says.

And for the first time, Peter does.)

a/n: i just have to say, from the bottom of my heart— my bad❤️