Chapter Text
Peter’s plan is this: he… well… he doesn’t have one.
He likes to think he’s pretty savvy when it comes to schemes; he’s got a long list of them in his repertoire inspired by an equally long list of movies. Some of them are good, like jettisoning Squidward out of that ship a la Aliens, and some not so much (see the time he took the hours of Grey’s Anatomy he’d caught over May’s shoulder as training enough to stitch up a stab wound to his thigh. Spoiler: it wasn’t). The point is that he’s not lacking for ideas. The problem is that there’s almost nothing for him to work with here.
It’s clear that the only way out of here is through the keypad activated, steel reinforced door. It’s also clear that said door is directly within sight of the camera blinking away in the corner. The only place in the room that isn’t covered by the camera is the spartan bathroom in the corner, shielded from prying eyes by a thin partition wall. Small mercies, he thinks sitting within it, trying to gather his thoughts.
Above him, the shower pipe sits precariously in its frame, warped, but still firmly attached. Peter rubs at the fatigued muscles of his arms and scowls up at it. It had taken almost all of his energy to bend it in the slightest, and by the time he had managed that he was sweating and breathing heavily and had needed to sit down for fear of passing out otherwise. It doesn’t bode well for an escape attempt.
The boost that realising the collar hadn’t been reset gave him has long expired, and he now has to face the bitter sting of reality: his strength might have partially returned but it isn’t enough, nowhere near it. Who was he kidding, to think he could have pulled a door off its hinges, anyway? Even if he were able to manage it, he wouldn’t have gotten much further. Not once whoever is keeping an eye on the camera raised the alarm. All he would’ve succeeded in is blowing his one shot at escaping and invoking the wrath of the man with the stringy tie.
No. He needs to be smart about this.
He splashes his flushed face in the sink, but the cold water offers little in the way of rejuvenation or inspiration. He’s just as tired and as stumped as he’s been for the past few hours.
Tony would figure it out, he finds himself thinking as he watches the droplets plink plink plink into the basin, Tony Stark would know what to do. But Peter Parker doesn’t, so he half crawls, half stumbles back to the bed to conserve his energy and waits for something to come to him.
And something does, it’s just not a plan.
He sits up at the sound of the door opening again, like a Pavlovian response. Has the man realised his mistake with the collar, Peter wonders, tense. He expects anger, expects to hear the soft beep that will drain his energy once more and eliminate any chance of him making his own way out of here. But he gets neither. The man just stands there, holding another plate. This time, one covered with fruit, by the looks of things.
“You didn’t sleep,” he says by way of greeting. “Is the bed not comfortable?”
Peter supposes he should have stopped being surprised by the polarity of this creep by now, but still, he is taken aback by the seemingly genuine concern. Also, by the fact that it’s morning already—but yes, a cursory glance at the window and he can see the grey lines of dawn creeping through the dark if he squints. Day three, then. It’s funny how time can pinch and stretch when you’re starving and being held against your will.
He turns his attention back to the man. “The bed is… fine.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good. I’m glad to hear it. Can’t have you sleeping on a poor mattress now, can we?” The man raises the plate, a light smile on his face. “Here. I brought you some breakfast.”
He’s being too nice. Peter eyes his hands with growing suspicion. He’s waiting for the rub, waiting for the next hoop—jump through this one, now, Spider-man—but again, he’s surprised. The man simply places the plate on the ground and pushes it through the slot at the bottom of the door, no strings attached.
Peter doesn’t trust it.
Still, he isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth; he snatches up the food before the man can change his mind and retreats with it back to the relative safety of the bed. The man watches him go with something that seems almost like approval, and though it makes Peter’s skin crawl, he endures it. He won’t have to put up with it for much longer. He’ll be out of here soon if he has anything to say about it.
He curls over the plate and it’s meagre offerings on the bed, casting a glance at the clear wall when he realises he hasn’t yet heard the door closing. The man is still standing there, watching him. Peter hesitates, hand hovering over the apple he’s been given. He aches to eat, but he isn’t going to do it while he’s being leered at like the star attraction of a zoo exhibit.
“Um,” he says, and then, despite it paining him to do so, “thanks.” He hopes that’s all the guy is waiting for—gratitude before he takes his leave, like last time. “For the food.”
“You’re welcome,” the man replies, and doesn’t move.
Tension creeps further across Peter’s shoulders, drawing them up and back. He frowns down at the apple and banana on the plate in his lap, mouth watering, but doesn’t touch either. What does this guy want? Whatever it is, Peter wishes he’d just say it and go. He can’t bear the pregnant silence; he’d rather have his solitude.
After what feels like an age, the man clears his throat. “Your webs,” he says. “Are they organic?”
Peter blows out a breath. For all the times he’s lamented running out of his webs, or had to delay a patrol to resupply, he’s relieved now to be able to answer, no. “I make them.”
“Make them?” The surprise is evident. More so is the disbelief, the scorn. “But you’re barely out of high school.”
Peter just shrugs. Super strength and sticking to walls is fine, but apparently a basic comprehension of chemistry is where this guy draws the line for him? Whatever.
“Where do they come from, truthfully?”
“I told you. I make them.”
A scoff. “Really.”
“Dude, I told you,” Peter says shortly. “It’s not my fault if you don’t believe me, is it?”
The man’s eyes narrow. “Ah. Now that’s what I’d expect of a highschooler. You’d do well to keep that attitude in check though, I think. I won’t stand for it, and I certainly won’t stand for it around my daughter.”
Peter bites his tongue. He burns with frustration but forces himself to keep his head. He’s not going to piss this guy off, he can’t give him any reason to reach for the remote. He does that, and any hope at escape goes up in smoke. With a slow, even exhale, he drops his eyes. “You’re right,” he grinds out, “sorry.”
It sounds insincere to his own ears, but apparently it’s enough, because the man nods. “That’s quite all right. But I don’t expect it to happen again. Now” —he claps his hands together. Peter is so on edge that the noise makes his pulse jump— “back to the webs. A shame to not be able to have the complete Spider-man experience, but I can’t allow you to have chemicals in there, of course. You understand, right? We’ll have to think of something else.”
Right, Peter thinks sourly. Can’t have him cooking up anything corrosive. Something that might eat through a steel door, say. That would sure put a dampener on little Emilia’s Christmas, wouldn’t it?
He stares blankly at the man, refusing to dignify him with a response.
“All right, well,” the man continues after a moment. “Enjoy the food. We’ll speak again later, yes? See what we can come up with.”
Peter can’t outwardly express his thoughts about that, so he says nothing, simply watches as the man exits. And if he bites into the apple with more force than necessary once he’s alone again, well, that’s his business.
Later turns out to be not that much later at all.
The sun has risen proper by the time the man comes back, but is not yet high enough in the sky to mean lunch (though Peter’s growling stomach is content to argue on that front).
The man doesn’t return with food though, he’s holding something else in his hands. Something soft and malleable. He pushes it through the bottom of the door and gestures for Peter to come and collect it, which he reluctantly does, trepidation rising with every step.
“I was thinking,” the man is saying, mostly to himself. “Webs. What a silly place to start. The webs are hardly what make you Spider-man, are they? They’re an important part, yes, but definitely not the most important. Not the most recognisable.”
Peter gets the distinct feeling he isn’t going to like where this is headed. He reaches down for the shapeless lump of cloth on the floor: red and blue with thin black lines running throughout and made of cheap synthetic material, he holds it up, lets the scratchy fabric fall through his fingers.
“What,” he says, “is this.”
“Well, you have to look the part, don’t you? I mean, right now you could just be any person off the street. How is Emilia supposed to know you’re Spider-man if you’re not in your suit?”
Peter stares at the garish dollar store replica hanging limply from his grip. To call it a suit is downright insulting—compared to the ingenuity and design of his usual getup it’s practically a Halloween costume. It’s got poppers up the back, for christ sake.
“I’m not wearing this.”
“No?” The man arches a brow. “I thought we had an understanding.”
Peter’s cheeks flare hot. “We—” He bites his tongue, clamping down on everything he’s desperate to say. He reminds himself of the plan, what little one he has. Don’t give him a reason to look at the remote. Don’t piss him off.
“Yes?”
Peter exhales, measured, calming, relaxes his jaw. The unsymmetrical spider design of the ‘suit’ looks up at him from where it lays across his palm and Peter would rather burn the thing than put it on, but really, what’s one more humiliation if it helps him get out of here?
A jolt runs through him, then.
What’s one more humiliation if it helps him get out of here?
This right here could help him get out of here.
He has an idea.
“Right,” he says slowly. “I mean, uh, what I meant to say is I’m not wearing this...right now.” He gets a frown in response and clears his throat. “You want me to change into it, I'm going to need some privacy.”
The man’s expression relaxes a little, but his eyes remain somewhat suspicious. “There’s privacy in the bathroom. You can change in there.”
“Right,” Peter says. “But I mean like, actual privacy.” He jerks his chin toward the camera in the corner of the ceiling. “No eyes in the sky, you know?”
“The camera doesn’t extend to the bathroom,” the man says, sounding somewhat exasperated. Peter already knows this, of course, but that isn’t the point.
“No offence, dude, but I’m just supposed to take your word on that? I mean, the kidnapping and the captivity doesn’t exactly scream trustworthy, you know? How do I know it’s not some kind of x-ray camera or something that can see through walls? I don’t know you’re not watching me in there, do I?”
“How—” The man’s face flushes a deep scarlet as he splutters, chest barrelling. “How dare you. How could you even suggest that I would— that I—” He presses his lips together, nose flaring. “Fine. You have five minutes. Then the camera goes back on. And I expect you to be in the suit.”
“Ten,” Peter counters, adrenaline making him bold. “I haven’t had a shower since I got here.” But he falters when the man’s fingers twitch towards his pocket.
“Are you playing games? I've been reasonable so far, but I could make you put it on, you know.”
Peter’s stomach drops into his shoes. “No,” he says quickly. “I’m not, I just… please. I’ve been wearing the same stuff for days. All I want to do is have a shower and get clean. Then I’ll put it on, I swear.”
He holds his breath, wide eyes locked on the man’s hand, dipped into his pocket, maybe just millimeters away from wrecking his only plan. His fingers clench tightly around the costume in his hands and he does his best to appear as earnest as possible, pulling out his last trick—something May has affectionately dubbed The Bambi Eyes. This guy’s a father, as horrible as that thought is. Maybe he’s got some sliver of a heart in there somewhere. “Please.”
He doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or grateful that it works.
“Five minutes,” the man repeats. It will have to do. Whether his agreement is down to stupidity or sheer arrogance—the belief that the cage is impenetrable, that the collar (or more importantly, the man operating it) is infallible—Peter doesn’t care. All he cares about is that he has his window. Five minutes. Five minutes to execute a ham-fisted plan and get the hell out of here.
The man pauses on his way out of the door, throwing Peter a warning look that says, no funny business. Or else. Peter can only hope his own face betrays nothing of his intentions, and that the trembling that’s taken over his body isn’t as obvious as it feels.
The heavy slam of the door punches right through him, echoing in his ears long after. He stands in the centre of the room, watching the blinking red light on the camera, his heart beating up a storm in his chest, waiting, waiting, waiting. The second the blinking stops, he springs into action.
The shoddy suit is the first thing to go. Peter tosses it to the ground and only regrets he doesn’t have the lighter fluid to give it the treatment it so thoroughly deserves. After that, he rushes to the bathroom. The shower pipe is exactly where he left it, bent out of shape and clinging to the wall. Peter wraps his shaking hands around it once more and yanks. Again and again until sweat beads on his brow, he pulls. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” He doesn’t have time.
With one last mighty tug, the bar comes free. Peter stumbles in surprise, cracking his elbow against the tiled wall. But he can’t focus on the pain; he’s down probably two minutes already, maybe three. He has to move.
By the time he’s back to the clear wall, he’s starting to feel the exertion. He’s been running on fumes for days at this point, it’s no surprise his head spins, dizzy. Still, desperation is a powerful thing. Summoning all the Spider-man he can reach, he hefts the pipe up, two handed, and swings at the glass for all he’s worth.
It bounces off, leaving not even a scratch.
“No,” he gasps, heart sinking. “No, no, no.”
He swings again. Again. Through gulping breaths and mounting terror he hammers the pipe against the wall to no avail. How much time has passed now, he thinks frantically, too afraid to glance at the camera. How long since he left the bathroom? The guy will be back any minute and he’s done nothing but tire himself out. This isn’t going to work. He’s so screwed.
And then, a chip. Where metal meets glass, a tiny fissure opens, splintering out in an ironic likeness to a spiderweb. A laugh bubbles out of Peter at the sight, delirious and frantic. He swings the pipe into the same spot again, watching the cracks grow. His arms have long lost feeling but still he keeps going. A few more hits and the glass might actually break. A few more hits and—
“You.” The exterior door swings open with a bang. Like a bull, the man dives into the airlock, rage colouring his face crimson. “You little—”
Peter stumbles back, chest heaving. And then he lurches forward, slamming the pipe against the glass with every last shred of his reserves. The glass groans under his assault, so close to giving way. The pipe is slippery in his palms but Peter doesn’t stop. He isn’t trying to make it all the way out of here anymore, he just has to make it to the man before the man makes it to the remote he’s currently fumbling about his person for.
Another hit, another. One more and the glass is bound to shatter.
But Peter doesn’t get that far.
He gasps. The pipe clatters to the ground and Peter follows suit, body burning as his legs collapse beneath him. A thousand tiny needles prick across his skin. The agony is all consuming, incomprehensible. His fingers claw uselessly at his neck, at the source of it all, desperate to make it stop.
“I tried to be nice,” the man is shouting somewhere in front of him, but Peter is blind, his mouth open in a scream that gets trapped behind his teeth. “I give you a nice bed, and food, and you, you ungrateful little brat, it isn’t good enough for you?”
Peter’s heart stutters and lurches with the current surging through him. Please, he thinks, beyond all bravado, beyond all rationale, please stop, please stop. His tongue won’t obey him. All he can do is writhe on the ground like a bug that’s been stepped on, twitching, shuddering.
“If this is the way you want to play it, fine! Nothing is going to ruin this Christmas, do you hear me? You will cooperate one way or—”
A deafening crash drowns out the rest of that rant, louder than the man’s rage, louder than the screeching noise in Peter’s skull. In an instant the agonising charge ceases. Peter slumps over on the floor, lungs spasming as he drags in harsh, desperate breaths, muscles clenching and unclenching uncontrollably in the aftermath. Weakly, he raises his head.
There’s a cloud of dust on the other side of the clear wall. The man is half crouched in the corner, though quickly straightening, and across from him...
“Stark.” The man greets the Iron Man suit that’s just crashed through the ceiling with wide eyes. He smooths back his hair, dusts down his shirt, and a tentative smile splits his face—wary, like a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar. “Uh, it’s good to see you?”
In response, the impassive red and gold helmet tilts to the side. “Mercer, isn’t it? Never a pleasure.” And then a gauntleted hand lifts, palm forward, and blasts Peter’s captor into the wall. The man— Mercer crumples to the floor and doesn’t rise.
Glowing eyes turn on Peter, then, pinning him in place. The faceplate of the suit flips up and he finds himself looking into the equally glowing eyes of Tony Stark.
“Once,” Tony says. “Just once, I’d love for there to be a time you leave the house and don’t somehow end up in imminent peril. Really, is that too much to ask? I feel like it’s not too much to ask.”
Peter lets out a wet laugh. Relief sweeps over him, a huge, heady rush that takes the last dregs of his energy out on the tide. “It’s really good to see you, Mr Stark.”
“You too, kid.” Tony’s face is grim. He raises a glowing palm. “What do you say we get you out of there, huh?”
“That sounds—“ Peter feels his voice crack. He swallows. “That sounds really good. Yeah.”
It doesn't take much; one weak blast from Tony’s repulsors and what remains of the glass wall comes crashing straight down. Just like that, Peter is free to go. He could walk right out of here, but now that he has the option he finds his legs don’t seem to want to move. With a heavy exhale, he lets his head fall into his hands right where he sits shivering on the floor. He hears the approach of footfalls, boots crunching over glass, followed by a gentle touch to his shoulder. “Pete, hey, don’t check out on me, now. You all right?”
Peter just nods, palms pressed over his eyes. The hand on his shoulder squeezes once, and he lifts his head. Blinks. Tony is crouched in front of him, eyes full of concern. But that concern is quick to shift to cold fury when he zeros in on the device around Peter’s neck.
Once more, Peter is struck by the destructive urge to touch it. Hide it. But he’s so damn tired. He hasn’t the energy. He just sits there, letting Tony make his observations. “I’m okay,” he tells him, though the wobble and hoarseness of his voice is sure to give him away. “He didn’t use it. Not really. Just— just at the end there. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Let me be the judge of that, hm?” Tony says, tipping Peter’s chin to get a look at the ring of electrical burns he can feel around his throat. Peter watches Tony’s lips thin, sees the fury in his eyes dissolve, and what replaces it is worse, somehow. Remorse. Guilt.
That’s the thing about Tony: he blames himself, even when it makes no sense, even when it’s completely unfair. He blames himself now—probably because he’s the one who asked Peter to look out for Morgan, like the situation would be any different if he hadn’t. It’s written all over his face, and Peter can’t bear to see it.
“Is she okay?”
Tony blinks at him. “What?”
“Morgan,” Peter says. “Is she okay?”
A frown. “Kid—“
“Tony.”
Tony looks at him, brows furrowing deeper. Peter knows he must look like shit, exhausted and half-starved and brain still unscrambling from the unsanctioned electrotherapy, but he does his best to hold his gaze. Defiant. Clear. This isn’t your fault. I chose to put it on, and I’d choose to do it again. My choice .
A beat passes under Tony’s scrutiny, but whatever he reads in Peter’s face makes his own relax, turn soft as he lets it go. “She’s fine, kid. Shaken up and worried about you but she’ll be all right.”
Peter exhales hard. “That’s good.” He’d gathered from the way Tony’s been acting that she must be okay, but it isn’t until now, hearing it confirmed, that he finally lets the worry he’s carried for the past few days slide off his shoulders. “That’s… yeah.” He winces. “Mr Stark, look, I'm sorry I—“
“Uh-uh, no. I’m going to stop you right there,” Tony says firmly. “What you did….” He blows out a breath. “Listen, I’m not going to thank you, because I’m pretty sure you’ve shaved about ten years off of my already tenuous lifespan with this little stunt, but…Morgan told us how it went down.” He ducks his head, makes sure he has hold of Peter’s gaze. “Thank you .”
“I just wanted to keep her safe.”
“I know.” Tony’s cheek ticks up. “And you did. She’s safe and sound at the cabin with Pepper because of you, kid, and now we’re gonna get you back there, too. You’ve got an aunt and a six year old who are itching to see you. But first” —he claps Peter’s shoulder— “bolt cutters.”
“What?” Peter frowns.
“Don’t suppose there’s any lying around? To get this medieval thing off of you.”
Peter blinks. Oh. Right. “The um, the remote’s in his pocket,” he says. “Or it was. I don’t know if...”
“Got it. Sit tight a minute, okay?”
As if Peter needs to be told. He folds his arms over his knees, lets his head rest against them. The tinkling of glass reaches his ears as Tony sweeps through the debris on the ground, apparently having had no luck with Mercer’s person. And then:
“Ah. Here.”
Peter lifts his head just as two short beeps ring out from the collar, followed by a mechanical click. The thing disengages, dropping from his neck like a stone, and Peter reels . Everything comes surging back to him all at once. It’s like being bowled over by a tidal wave—he’s helpless in its swell.
“Better?” comes Tony’s voice from above, rich and booming and too loud and too close.
Peter flinches. “I don’t— Yeah, I— whoa.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Ugh.”
“Too much?” Quieter this time.
“A little. Just— just give me a moment, okay?”
Peter presses his palms flat to the floor and steadies his breathing, drawing his focus inward until he can tune out the noise, begin to separate out the sensations bombarding his senses. He picks out the three heartbeats in the room, three sets of inhales and exhales, the buzzing of the lights above and the hum of A/C. He can feel every thread as it brushes against his skin, the cold seeping from the tiles below and the prickling at his neck as the burns there start to heal. And there: the familiar sensation of power thrumming through his limbs once more, the quiet strength that’s become as much a part of him as his name, or the colour of his eyes. A ghost of a smile lifts his cheek. Exhausted though he might be, he feels whole. He feels right.
He blinks up at Tony, adjusting to the kaleidoscope of colours the world had seemed so grey without.
“You good?” Tony murmurs.
“Yeah,” Peter says. And then another sensation wracks his body, the accompanying growl loud enough that even Tony’s unenhanced ears would struggle to miss it. Peter presses a hand over his stomach as Tony raises an eyebrow.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“I think we can fix that,” Tony says, holding a hand out to Peter, who takes it and lets himself be pulled up. “Pep’s put a no-touching-on-pain-of-death order on all the holiday food, but I’m pretty sure she’ll make an exception this once. What do you say?”
Peter glances at the room, at the collar, capable of so much misery, now lying inert on the floor. He suppresses a shudder. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Great minds,” Tony says, hooking an arm around Peter’s back for support (which Peter is neither too proud nor too embarrassed to admit is necessary).
The repulsors charge up, ready to take them home, but Peter puts a hand out. “Wait.” Tony glances over. Peter angles his head to the corner of the room. “What about him?” Mercer is lying slumped there still, definitely breathing, but it doesn’t seem right to just leave him. Not in his state and not after everything he’s done.
Tony shrugs. “Eh. I might have tipped off some birdman and his robot sidekick. They’re en route. Pretty sure they can handle it from here.”
And as they take to the sky, Peter can’t help but feel a little sorry what’s coming Mercer’s way.
“Peter. Peter, come look, come on.”
Peter groans, rolling over to avoid the little feet of the six year old currently bouncing up down on his bed. “Morgan,” he mumbles. “It’s—” a bleary-eyed glance at the alarm clock “—oh.”
“So late,” Morgan finishes for him as he reads the time: eleven. “Mom said not to wake you, but I waited ages already and you have to come see!”
“Hm.” Eyes still closed, Peter tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, digging his fingers into her ribs until she giggles. “See what?”
“That’s the point, silly. You have to come down!”
Peter flops his head back onto the pillow with a put upon sigh. “Okay, okay, I’m up. Go on, lead the way.”
Morgan scrambles off of the bed, and Peter follows with a yawn. It’s been four days since he got back from his ordeal and it feels like all he’s done in that time is sleep. Well, that and eat. Cho says it’s something to do with his metabolism being suppressed and then bouncing back in full force; May says he has a chronic case of Teenager, but she still keeps slipping snacks into his hand with worried eyes every chance she gets. Either way, he’s healing. The burns on his neck are almost gone, and his stomach barely remembers what it felt like to be empty, so full of chocolate and fancy meats and cheeses is he now. His body regains its strength every day, and every day it gets a little easier to put the whole thing behind him.
Morgan seems to have bounced back, too, though she’s barely left his side since he’s been back. Whether it’s a result of growing up around superheroes or simply repression, Peter doesn’t know, but the child psychologist she’s booked in to talk to in the new year, just to be on the safe side, can help her figure it out.
“Close your eyes,” she says now as they descend the stairs. “No peeking, it’s a surprise.”
Peter obeys, feeling for the edges of the steps with his toes on the way down. He hears the quiet conversation of Tony, May, and Pepper in the living room hush as the two of them reach the bottom.
“Okay,” Morgan says, breathless with excitement. “Open.”
Peter does.
“Whoa.”
Standing in the corner of the room is quite possibly the coolest thing Peter’s ever seen: a six foot tall wooden skeleton of a dinosaur, like one of those build-your-own sets, but on an enormous scale. Tinsel and baubles and twinkling lights of all colours adorn it from top to tail and a tiny Spider-man hangs from one of its claws. Atop its head sit two miniature figures, one hot-rod red, one cobalt blue—Iron Man and Rescue.
“It might not surprise you to hear we’ve gone off the idea of Christmas trees,” Pepper says with a gentle laugh as he stands there, mouth hanging open.
“It was Little Miss here’s idea. We are but her humble servants.” Tony ruffles a hand through Morgan’s hair. “Something she saw on TikTok, right?”
Morgan nods. Peter tears his gaze away from the dinosaur to frown at her. “Wait, you have TikTok?”
She frowns right back. “Who doesn’t have TikTok?”
“Even I have TikTok, honey,” May chimes in from her perch on the end of the sofa.
Brushing off the weirdness of that, Peter turns to Tony. “This is what you’ve been doing in the garage for the past few days?”
Tony shrugs. “Nothing says Happy Holidays like a Parasaurolophus in tinsel, now, does it.”
A laugh bursts out of Peter. He can’t help but agree.
“You all said I could choose, so I chose this,” Morgan says proudly. She looks up at Peter then, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. “Do you like it?”
And maybe it’s the ups and downs of the past week, maybe it’s cause he’s only been awake for a few minutes, but standing there, surrounded by the most important people in his life and a giant sparkly dinosaur, Peter feels a lump rise up in his throat.
He tugs Morgan into his side, heart blooming with warmth for her, for his family.
“Mo,” he says, “it’s perfect.”