Chapter Text
Peter stumbles back. His foot catches on a crack in the cement; he falls on his backside, but he’s too stunned to get back up: he just sits on the roof, gaping up as the Iron Man suit lands in front of him.
“What?”
It takes him a second to recognize that he is the one who just spoke. There seems to be some problem in the wiring between his mouth and his brain.
“Always with the eloquent greetings,” says Mr. Stark. “But honestly, I think we know each other well enough at this point to dispense with the niceties. So I ask again: who’s Peter?”
“Who?”
Definitely a problem in the wiring. Peter isn’t being flippant. He genuinely can’t tell what Mr. Stark is talking about. It only lasts a moment, though. Then he remembers—he is Peter. That’s his name, coming out of the Iron Man suit. His real name.
“Not that the monosyllabism isn’t a welcome relief after the messages Happy’s been forwarding me all day, but I feel like I should probably ask if your brain is broken. Bank explosions can sometimes do that.”
This time the hum of encroaching panic, rather than blacking out his vision, lends clarity. His thoughts thunk into place. He scrambles to his feet.
“You tracked me,” he says. “You said you wouldn’t do that.”
“Uh, I think my exact words were ‘the tracker is emergency-activated,’” says Mr. Stark. He is sounding less amused by the second. He hasn’t gotten out of the suit. “You blew up two buildings and then your heart rate spiked so high I thought FRIDAY was piping a John Bonham solo into my earpiece when I first heard it. I realize the word ‘emergency’ has sort of a nebulous connotation in this line of work, but I figured it was better to hedge my bets. But look—you’re alive. Hooray.”
Peter doesn’t miss the irony, nor what it means: Mr. Stark was clearly expecting a warmer greeting than what he received. Peter is surprised at himself, too. This is what he’s been waiting for for weeks, but rather than pleased he feels…
Angry. The same way he felt the day he blew up at Ned. And when Michelle cornered him by the drinking fountain.
(He’s got you cornered, Peter. He knows your name.)
“You promised you wouldn’t try to figure out who I am,” he says. “That was the deal. I held up my end, man, so what gives you the right to follow me out here, huh? This is my business, it isn’t—”
“Woah, hey. What? What happened to Mr. Call Me if You Need Me? I’m not backing out on our deal, kid. I told you about the trackers. Don’t accuse me of not being on the up-and-up, only one of us here refuses to take off the mask.”
Mr. Stark's voice is no longer oozing with irony. It sounds irritated—not as angry as Peter’s, but getting there. The edge of it makes Peter’s breath catch, and the slight fear it inspires makes something that should have been clear from the beginning clear now:
Mr. Stark said Who’s Peter.
Not, Hey, Peter.
Who.
Peter slumps.
“Oh, shit,” he says again. “Shit, man—sir. Mr. Stark. I’m really sorry. I just—you showed up and I really wasn’t expecting it, and I was already on edge because of—because of the whole bank thing, and I just—”
Peter really doesn’t mean to—he is, in fact, focusing all his energy on not betraying the fact that all of the fight has just drained out of him in one massive rush—but he staggers a little.
Mr. Stark catches him.
Peter straightens right away, steps back. He doesn’t feel unsafe—maybe it’s ironic, considering the suit is basically a wearable weapon, but when Mr. Stark is in it he feels less threatening—but he doesn’t want Mr. Stark to see how close he is to falling over.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine.”
“I can see that.” Nevertheless, Mr. Stark steps back, gives Peter his space. “Suit says you’re not injured. Not physically, anyway. You been doing okay there, Spider-Man?”
Peter starts to shake his head automatically, but catches himself. He nods. “You just caught me on a bad night. Sorry.”
Horrifyingly, he feels his eyes fill with tears. Luckily they’re hidden by the mask, but he still blinks them away, furious with himself. Two months of waiting and this is how he reacts to Mr. Stark showing up?
But Mr. Stark just nods.
“I get those sometimes. Wanna talk about it?”
Peter shakes his head.
“Okay. Then can we talk about the fact that it’s ten thirty on a Friday night and you’re peeping through some little girls’ window? Don’t get me wrong, Spidey, I’m a fan of all kinds of debauchery, but this one’s a bad look no matter how you slice it.”
“Oh, God. No. No. That’s—it’s not like that at all. I know them, I just—”
“Relax. Relax, it was a joke. Clearly the kid wasn’t afraid of you. I’m just pointing out how it might look to someone without my inside information, okay? So—third time’s the charm, I’m hoping: who is Peter?”
(You’re caught, idiot. Give it up, you’re going back.)
Calm, Peter tells himself, firmly, ignoring the other voice. Stay calm.
He’s not caught yet. It’s an unexpected development, but it’s not the first time he’s had to lie about who he is. Which is why he has the lie at the ready.
“He’s… just some kid I know. He used to live here.”
“Uh-huh. And now do you wanna fill in the wide gap between some kid you know and sneaking on a five year old’s bedroom window in the middle of the night?”
“They’re eight.”
“Not helping your case here, Spider-Man.”
And—shit. This part is new. He’s lied to Emma about where Peter is— who Peter is, which is him—but he’s never had to lie about why he’s there. An eight year old will readily accept that the superhero at her window is there to protect her. Mr. Stark is more complicated.
Because it’s too late to lie outright: he already knows Peter’s name. But if Peter tells him the truth—tells him why ‘that kid he knows’ ran away in the first place, then what was the point of running away at all? He can’t tell him what Skip did. He still has to protect the girls.
And anyway, why would Mr. Stark believe him?
“It’s… complicated,” says Peter slowly. He can taste his heart in his throat, but his voice is unexpectedly steady. “I don’t know the whole story. I just… run into him every once in a while. And he asked me to check in on them when I get a chance. So I… do.”
“How old is this guy?”
“I… didn’t ask?”
“He’s a kid?”
“Maybe. No. I mean, he seems young. But he’s not that young. He seems like he’s, you know, really independent and stuff.”
“And you don’t know anything else about him?”
“Um… should I?”
Mr. Stark is silent for a moment. Even though he hasn’t lifted the faceplate, Peter imagines behind it his face is contemplative, the way it was when they silently ate together in the hotel room in Germany.
“You think those kids are in danger?” says Mr. Stark finally. “Because if they are—”
Peter shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, they seem fine. It all seems fine. Maybe—maybe he and Sk—his dad just got into a fight or something. I don’t think he gets to see them anymore.”
“And you’re his sibling-visiting proxy, huh? That’s very magnanimous of you, Spider-Man.”
Mr. Stark still sounds concerned. Peter’s heart is still in his throat.
“I’m a magnanimous guy.”
He tries to make it sound like a joke. It falls flat.
Mr. Stark is silent for another moment.
“You haven’t been doing this very long,” he says.
“Long enough. I know what I’m doing, I—I do okay.”
“No offense, kid, but bank explosions are pretty standard fare. The near-heart attack was—”
“It wasn’t anything. I wasn’t scared, I—I overexerted. Went too hard. It won’t happen again, I’m fine.”
“I’m just saying,” says Mr. Stark, “maybe stay close to the ground for a while. Literally—don’t stick your nose into family affairs by creeping around twelfth-story fire escapes in the middle of the night. Just… what about the old lady with the churro? She seemed trustworthy, right? Do more of that.”
Mortification makes Peter’s heart drop out of his throat and into his abdomen, where it shrivels in his stomach acid to a withered lump.
“I’m fine,” he says again. “I handle myself fine. You didn’t have to come all the way out here, Mr. Stark, I’ve got everything under control.”
“Oh, I’m not—here.” The faceplate flips up, revealing an empty suit. “WiFi is a wonderful thing, kid. Look, I’m gonna look into all of this, okay? Just—stay away from the weird domestic stuff and the alien weaponry in the meantime. Be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, but, you know—not too friendly. Don’t be weird. So—you all good then? Good to go?”
“I’m—yeah.” Peter is still swallowing disappointment from the sight of the empty helmet. “Yeah that’s—oh, wait! The alien weapons! Mr. Stark, Karen said those things were made from Chitauri cores, I think we should—”
“Did I not just say I have it handled? Also—Karen? What did we say about picking better names, Spider-Man?” The suit powers up, hovers a few inches above the flat-top. “Keep your nose down, kid. We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait!” Peter shouts. “But I can help, I can—”
“Mr. Stark is no longer connected,” says a cool female voice from within the helmet.
And the suit blasts off.
As soon as it is out of sight, Peter collapses again. He sits, hands on his head, panting and trying to calm the buzz in his brain and stop it from going full-on blackout again.
“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god, that was so close.”
“So close to what?”
Peter jumps. He had almost forgotten Karen was still there.
“Karen!” he hisses. “What the hell? I thought you said you didn’t transmit outgoing messages!”
“I don’t,” says Karen innocently. “The emergency tracker is a separate feature, I don’t have any control over that. If you wanted to turn it off you would either have to ask Mr. Stark or remove it yourself.”
Peter’s head snaps up. “I can remove it?”
“It’s not advisable. The emergency protocols are there for a reason.”
“But I could do it.”
“Not without a significantly powerful computer, but yes. Peter, I think it’s time to go home. You should go to bed.”
Peter ignores her. His heart is in his throat again. A significantly powerful computer. He uses the computers at the libraries all the time, but there’s no way any of the libraries has a computer that’s a match for Stark technology as advanced as his suit.
But he knows someone who does.
It’s past eleven by the time Peter finds himself clinging to the wall outside Ned’s seventh-story bedroom window, but his tiredness is gone, washed away by anticipation. This is the closest he has been to Ned in almost five months.
He can hear Ned inside, snoring softly, but he hasn’t looked in the window yet. He doesn’t need to: he knows that snore from dozens of sleepovers, though most of those are distant memories now. The sound cuts straight to Peter’s center.
He shouldn’t be here. Peter knows Ned hates him. He should hate him, after everything Peter pulled last winter. In fact, the certainty that Ned despises him has been a weird comfort, on the rare occasions Peter has spotted him outside the bodega. It makes him less tempted to try to speak to him. Reassures him that what he is doing is for the best—both for him and for Ned.
But of all the things Peter gave up to be Spider-Man, this one has still been the hardest.
If it weren’t such a dire situation, Peter wouldn’t be here at all. But the thing tonight was way too close a call. Mr. Stark knows about Emma and Lily. He knows Peter’s name. He might not know that Spider-Man is Peter, but that was a very near thing. Ironically, the very indifference Peter has spent two months battling against might be his saving grace this time: Mr. Stark seems too preoccupied to really care, if that empty suit was any indication. And despite the invasion of Peter’s privacy on the rooftop earlier, Mr. Stark does still seem like he wants to keep his end of their deal. But thinking about the alternative still makes Peter queasy. What if Mr. Stark decides to follow up, maybe use the trackers for something other than an emergency? And Peter might have talked his way out of it this time, but what if the emergency tracker activates when he’s incapacitated for some reason? Then there will be nothing to stop Mr. Stark from just—taking off the mask.
And that can’t happen.
So here Peter is.
He takes one final steeling breath and peers over the ledge. The room beyond is dark, but just as with the girls Peter can see the outline of Ned’s shape in the bed, just barely visible in the light filtering through the window. He opens it, slowly, and creeps inside.
Once he is standing on the carpet, Peter is struck by the sudden and surreal sense that he has crawled right into one of his own dreams. He never spent much time here—because Ned’s mother never liked Peter, they mostly spent time at Peter’s, first with Ben, later with Skip—but he would come over occasionally, when there was some mother-approved reason AKA a school project, and the nostalgia from those times is so powerful now it almost bowls Peter over. Almost everything about the room is the same, from the Star Wars posters, to the stacks of comic books, to the figure sleeping soundly in the twin bed in the corner. The fact that this world still exists, despite Peter having left it so firmly in the past, is unsettling in all sorts of unexpected ways.
He shakes it off. Ned’s laptop is charging on his desk. Peter tiptoes past Ned’s sleeping form and gently unplugs it from the wall. It shouldn’t take him too long to figure out how to remove the tracker. It would be faster if he had Ned’s help, of course, but Peter still has enough faith in his own tech skills he feels certain he can have the computer back before Ned wakes up in the morning. He just has to be—
Peter drops the cord with a thunk.
—quiet.
“Mom?”
“I think your friend is awake, Peter,” says Karen.
Peter whirls. Ned is sitting up in his bed, blinking blearily and groping on the nightstand.
“Mom, you promised you weren’t gonna come in here without my permission anymore, what are you—”
Ned finds the light switch and turns his lamp on. As soon as his eyes focus on Peter, dressed in full Spider-Man attire and clutching Ned’s laptop in one hand, Ned’s eyes go wide.
“Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god. You’re the Spider-Man. From YouTube.”
Peter’s mind is chanting a string of curse words. But his mouth says something different.
“Uh—halt, citizen!” He holds out a hand, dropping his voice a few octaves even though he is whispering. “I need to commandeer your—um—computing device for… official Avengers business.”
“You’re an Avenger?”
Peter flinches.
“I’m—it doesn’t matter what I am. I just—I’ll bring it back. Just don’t tell anyone you saw me.”
Peter starts to make a dash for the window.
“Wait.” Ned is still in his bed, his mouth hanging open, apparently to shocked to move. “Mr. Spider-Man, sir, um, I would totally love to help you out or whatever but see the thing is, my mom got me that laptop and if it goes missing she’ll send me to boarding school in Siberia. Is there anyway you could maybe not steal it please? Sir?”
Peter, who has one leg over the windowsill, whispers, “Shit,” and turns back.
“Um—don’t, don’t fear” —Peter flinches again; he sounds like an idiot— “Spider-Man isn’t a thief. I said I’ll bring it back and so… I will. Just. Hold tight and I’ll be back… son.”
A third flinch. He has got to get out of here.
But it’s not in the stars. Because right as Peter starts to make his way back to the window, Ned starts to yell.
“Mom? Mom? Mo—”
The last shout is cut off, because Peter has leapt across the room to the bed and clapped a hand across Ned’s mouth. Ned goes-bug eyed with fear, struggling, and—
What the hell is Peter doing?
It’s a split-second decision, a choice made because there is no other choice. He can’t hold Ned forever. And even though his parents didn’t hear him the first time—Peter can hear them sleeping down the hall—there will be nothing to stop Ned from getting them as soon as Peter lets him go.
So Peter takes off the mask.
“It’s me,” he whispers. “Ned, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just me.”
Ned goes absolutely, perfectly still. Peter didn’t think it was possible, but his eyes go even wider.
Guilt washes over Peter in a boiling wave.
Slowly, he removes his hand from Ned’s mouth. Ned doesn’t shout again. He just stares.
“Peter?” he says.
The tears from the rooftop are back. Peter doesn’t want Ned to see them. He takes a step back from the bed, into the shadows. The shame he feels is more powerful than it was after the initial fight, more powerful, even, than when he told Ned he didn’t want to be friends anymore.
“Yeah,” Peter whispers. “Yeah, it’s me. Hey, Ned.”
There is a pause, then Ned launches himself out of bed. Peter braces himself for a fist he knows he deserves and—
Then Ned is wrapped around him, enveloping him, speaking in his ear.
Peter is stunned. At first, he can’t understand what Ned is saying.
“You’re alive. You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive. You’re not dead, you’re—” Ned breaks the hug, holds Peter out at arm’s length. “You’re freaking Spider-Man?”
Ned releases him. He turns away, starts pacing.
“I knew it. I knew something was up. You had been acting so freaking weird, and everyone said you were just being a jerk, but I knew something was wrong, and then you were just gone—poof!—and first I thought maybe it was me because you really seemed like you hated me but then I started to think all these other things, awful things, and did you know they made me see the school counselor because of you? I tried to tell her something was up but she wouldn’t listen, she just kept calling you troubled, like that was some big character flaw, right, like oh, we should just write off the troubled kids, they’re lost causes. So that was BS. And my mom, she said I was better off without you, but to be fair, dude, my mom has always said that about you and it didn’t—” He stops pacing and rounds on Peter, who has been watching him rant silently, rooted to his spot at the center of the room. “Where the ever-loving heck have you been, Peter? Did you know everyone thinks you’re dead? Everyone except Flash, who thinks you’re like, selling crack on a street corner or something. How could you do that to me, dude? How could you disappear on me again? ”
“I—”
There is an explanation ready in Peter’s mouth, but it dies on his tongue. He closes his mouth. Stares at Ned while Ned stares at him, panting from pacing.
Only then does Peter notice Ned is wearing Iron Man pajamas. They are the same ones Lily has, in a much bigger size, of course: a red background with Iron Man’s faceplate splashed asymmetrically all across them. The same faceplate that, less than an hour ago, opened in front of Peter to reveal an empty suit.
Peter snorts. The snort turns into a giggle.
Before he can stop himself, Peter is full-on laughing. He clamps his mouth shut to keep the hysterics from making any sound, but that just makes his sides cramp up, so Peter doubles over, clutching his ribs, then drops to a crouch, then finally sits, burying his face in his hands to stifle himself.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh man, I just—I just—”
Abruptly, without warning, the laughter turns to tears.
“I’m sorry,” Peter says again. His hands are still over his face, but this time they are stifling sobs. “I’m sorry, Ned. I know you hate me. You should—you should definitely hate me. I’m sorry I’m here, I’m—”
Ned puts a hand on his back.
It’s just like in the alley, after Ben died, when Peter was still living with the Arlingtons. Except this time when Peter looks up, Ned is not crying. His face contains nothing but concern.
“Peter,” he says, “where have you been?”
Maybe it’s because of what happened at Mr. Delmar’s. Maybe it’s because Peter is still operating on less than four hours of sleep and an empty stomach. Maybe it’s because he just unwittingly took himself back to the worst place he’s ever been and then came within a hair’s width distance of exposing himself to the one person whose respect and admiration he still desperately craves, a person who, it turned out, was not even present for said almost-exposure. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Ned asking, and Peter owes Ned. He owes him anything he wants.
Peter tells him everything.
He tells him about the spider bite. The realization that he has superpowers. He tells him about running away, about his job at Delmar’s, and living at the warehouse. He tells him about meeting Mr. Stark. Flying to Germany. Fighting the Avengers.
He tells him about today.
The only thing Peter doesn’t tell him is what happened with Skip. He thinks about it, but for barely a second. The moment the thought rises, his throat snaps shut.
So he doesn’t say it.
The rest, though, comes out. And then it is out. The truth. The truth of who Peter is, what he’s done, what he is doing—it’s all out there, for the first time in months. When it’s finished, Peter feels like he has just set down a barbell weighing fifteen tons. The relief is so powerful he sways from it.
Then he looks up, and he sees the expression on Ned’s face. Blank. Unreadable. So unlike Ned that Peter is sure it can only conceal some untold anger, justified anger, and Peter holds his breath, bracing for it.
“This,” says Ned, finally, just when Peter doesn’t think he can stand the tension for another second, “is the greatest night of my life.”
Peter’s mouth falls open as Ned leaps to his feet, carding his hands through his hair.
“What?”
“You heard me. Oh my god dude, of all the things—of all the stuff I was imagining—superpowers? I’ve been watching every video of you for months and I didn’t even know it! It has actually, ironically, been a major source of comfort in some admittedly shitty times and—woah! The whole time I was feeling sad about you being missing, I was comforting myself by watching videos of you! How cool is that! And you know Tony Stark? Tony Stark made you that suit? Peter, this is incredible. This is—”
“Ned.” Peter finally finds his voice, and his legs. He gets to his feet. “What are you talking about?”
“Um, I’m talking about you being Spider-Man, dude, what are you talking about?”
“I yelled at you,” says Peter. It hurts, but he feels like he has to, because clearly Ned has some sort of selective amnesia, and Peter doesn’t deserve to get off this easy. “I said terrible things and then I just disappeared. You should hate me right now, you know that right?”
“Oh, totally,” says Ned. “I did hate you—well, sort of. The counselor said a lot of stuff about how hate and love are two sides of the same coin, but whatever, the point is I totally hated your guts for a while. But I always missed you. You’re my best friend, dude. And besides, that was all before I knew you were going through spider puberty when you freaked out. Developing superpowers is a completely valid excuse for losing your shit. I mean—”
He gestures at the Hulk poster on the wall.
Peter decides now might not be the best time to point out he did not yet have his powers when he flipped on Ned in the lunchroom. Ned, spent from excitement, drops to sit on his bed, and Peter takes a step toward him.
But he can’t think of anything to say.
For a second, Ned just sits there, grinning to himself. But as his breathing slows the grin fades, until he is frowning just a little bit, his brow slightly furrowed. This looks more like the expression Peter expected, so when Ned looks up again, he braces himself once more.
“Peter.” Ned’s voice sounds more serious now. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Peter fiddles with his gloves. He doesn’t notice he’s doing it until Ned reaches across the space between them and pries his hands apart. Peter lets them fall to his sides.
Ned gestures to the spot on the bed next to him. Peter sits, a little uncertain, and looks at his hands.
“I wanted to,” he says. “I thought about it all the time. But after everything I had already put you through… it didn’t seem very fair, you know?”
“You always do that.” Now Ned sounds frustrated. “You act like you’re such a huge burden, Peter, but when have I ever said I don’t want you around? When have I ever said it was too hard to be your friend?”
Peter shakes his head without looking up.
“I don’t deserve it, Ned. I don’t deserve you being nice to me. And if you ever got hurt because of this stuff, I would never—”
“Peter.”
Peter looks up. Ned’s face is hard, serious. Like it was when he told Peter it wasn’t his fault Ben died.
“The worst thing that ever happened to me was not knowing what happened to you,” says Ned. “You don’t want me to get hurt? Stop cutting me out, dude. Simple.”
Peter holds Ned’s gaze for a moment, then reaches into his boot. He pulls out the burner phone.
“I always kept it,” he says, handing it to Ned, wiping a stray tear as he does. “I know I never called you, but… I always had it with me.”
Ned flips the phone open, gazes down at the inked-in panic button for a long time.
“Peter,” he says. “Why did you have to run away? Why couldn’t you have stayed at Skip’s and been Spider-Man?”
Now Ned looks up. There is something new in his eyes, something Peter immediately recognizes as fear. He’s afraid of what Peter is going to say.
Which is exactly why Peter can’t say it.
He forces a smile.
“I got superpowers, dude. Skip would never have let me do this stuff if he knew people tried to kill me every night. And I” —the smile slips— “I have to do this, Ned. I don’t know if I can explain it. But I have to.”
Ned considers him for a moment. Then he nods. Flips the phone shut and hands it back to Peter.
“Stay here tonight,” he says.
“What? Ned, I can’t—what are you doing?”
Ned has gotten to his feet and crossed the room to the closet, where he pulls out an armful of blankets and spare pillows.
“Stay,” he says, and this time it sounds more like a command. “And in the morning, I’ll help you with your super awesome, Tony-Stark-made suit. But that’s my price. You have to spend the night, and you have to hang out with me tomorrow. Or no deal.”
Ned stands in front of Peter, his face barely visible over the armful of bedding but set into an unconvincing-but-determined look of sternness nonetheless. Peter doubts Ned would be able to keep his hands off the suit if he tried, but…
But Ned has already surprised him tonight. Many times.
“What about your mom?” Peter says.
Ned grins, drops the blankets on the floor, and starts to arrange them into a bed.
“You won’t believe it, dude, but I have a lock on my door now.”
“For real?”
“For real. It was the one good thing to come out of counseling. The counselor convinced her she was stunting my emotional growth by not letting me have my personal space, it was amazing. She totally didn’t want to do it, but my dad made her. And okay, there’s a key and stuff, but my dad hides it from her and she only finds it every once in a while. She hasn’t been in here in weeks.” He finishes making the bed. “I’ll take the floor. You want pajamas? How comfortable is that thing? I bet it’s pretty comfortable, because, you know, Tony Stark, but I have to be honest, you’re a little ripe, dude. I wish I could sneak you into the shower but—”
“I’ll take pajamas. And I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“That’s okay, you must—”
“I like the floor,” says Peter firmly, sliding off the bed to prove his point.
Ned shrugs.
“Suit yourself. Grab what you like.”
Ten minutes later the lights are off again. Peter is lying on the floor, blankets drawn up to his chin, staring at the glow-in-the-dark star decals on Ned’s ceiling, arranged in the shape of Orion’s Belt. Ned is lying above him, doing the same.
Peter has no idea how he got here. But he doesn’t, at the moment, have the energy to question the feeling in his chest, which is warm and a little painful at the same time.
It feels like if happiness and sadness could exist at once, and side-by-side.
Maybe they can.
“Peter?”
Ned rolls over, looks down at him.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you’re alive, dude.”
Peter swallows, hard. He’s exhausted, wracked with disbelief at the events of the day. He doesn’t think he could lie if he wanted to. But even he is surprised by the truth that emerges from his mouth when he replies.
“Me too, dude. Me too.”