A/N: Hey, guys. So this fic is done. I'm sad to see it go, but it was its time. Also, for some reason FF won't let me use my italics so if it feels weird, that's why. (Also, I know that I don't really reply to reviews anymore, but I read them all, and I adore you guys. Seriously. Thank you so much for sticking with me for this fic.)

He is ash and dust on a titanic planet, aptly named, blood red air and gasping for breath that he won't need because he's crumbling, he's nothing, he's—

Tony's hands on him, desperation in his throat, feeling his body uselessly try to stitch itself back together, breaking faster than it can mend—

Crimson skies and golden light and a landscape the colour of a stop sign, the earth beneath him and rocks tracing his spine—

The world is pale blue when he wakes, still dark, early, the bed cold and his breath rattling in his chest like a firecracker popped.

The lines of the wood supporting the mattress of the top bunk above him are dark, familiar as his eyes readjust to the light (or lack thereof) and he takes a moment to just stare at it, trying to catch his breath again, counting in his head, five, four, three, two, one, exhale, five, four, three, two, one, inhale, five, four, three…

He's still a bit tired, but the temptation to sleep eludes him, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him like saran wrap to skin.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

He climbs out of bed, taking the time to make it, smoothing his pillow and smoothing his blanket to the corners before turning down the top so that he can see the pillows, smoothes it one more time, feels a bit more alive, a bit more awake.

He notices, now, that there's a bird chirping outside, and he glances for it as he opens the window to filter in the dim blue morning light but Peter doesn't see it.

It's fine, he thinks, shaking the cobwebs from his mind as he tries to remember what to do. Catches sight of the bright pink sticky note on the door (a gift from MJ), scribbled in sharpie, DRINK WATER! with the usual slanted scrawl, and his body moves on autopilot to find his water bottle, which should be on his desk but isn't, for some reason.

He peers at his web shooters, smooth and shiny sitting on his desk and for a moment he thinks… no. He doesn't need them, right now, doesn't need the safety they provide as a placebo at times, he's fine, he's good, and Peter walks on.

(It feels good, somehow.)

Ah. His water bottle's on the balcony. He must have drank it as Spider-man and…

Well.

Oops?

It's empty, so he moves to the kitchen, even though he usually prefers to stay in his room while it's still dark out like this, when it's early morning, silent and still and he can take all the time in the world to slowly, fully wake.

May is already up when he goes out, he can make out golden light peeking from beneath her bedroom door, so he tries not to think too much of it when he knocks and, after a soft come in, moves into May's bedroom.

She's still in her pyjamas, curled in the corner over her bed, reading Shannon Hale's Princess Academy, which she sets aside when Peter enters.

"Morning," May raises an eyebrow, smiling, "This isn't breakfast in bed, I suppose?"

"No," Peter laughs at her exaggerated groan. "Just here for company."

"I'm great company," May agrees, laughing when Peter rolls his eyes at her. "Alright, kiddo. What's up? We need to talk?"

Peter takes a moment to think about it, and then he shakes his head and pulls May's blanket over his chest, "I had a nightmare."

"Ah," May runs her fingers through his hair, "Want to talk about it?"

"I just," Peter closes his eyes. Focuses on her touch, lets it ground him, "I just wanted to be with you, that's all. Or someone. Fengchi said it's not good to be alone."

"It isn't," May agrees, "I'm proud of you for choosing to come to me."

Peter grins at her.

May grins back, "So, plans?"

Peter twists his lips to the side. Thinks about it. Then, leaning into May's touch, "Read to me?"

"You ask so much of me," May teases, the edges of her eyes crinkling as she smiles. "So demanding."

Peter laughs.

May clears her throat, and then, light, lilting as she goes back to the beginning, "Miri wakes to the bleating of a sleepy goat…"

She reads to the end of the fourth chapter, bookmarking it neatly and moving her hand from the top of Peter's head, where she had run her fingers absentmindedly, as though she hadn't really noticed herself what she was doing.

The light has turned from faded blue to golden white, peeking in through the gaps in May's blinds, and when she opens them, the room brightens, her lightbulb deemed unnecessary.

"Pancakes?" May asks, kissing Peter on the cheek.

"Delivery?" Peter asks hesitantly.

May scrunches up her nose, "Definitely not homemade."

He breathes a dramatic sigh of relief and she swats at him playfully. The pancakes come with a half-awake teenager who May tips well, smiling at them wearily as she says, "Awesome pjs. Wish I could be wearing mine."

May shakes her head, "Your job have a dress code?"

"Yeah," A dreamy sigh, "Man, can you imagine delivering food in a onesie? I'd be so warm and comfy."

"It's the dream," May agrees sagely.

They have a short conversation that somehow ends in the girls exchanging numbers, and then May returns to Peter with a box of those fancy Japanese soufflé pancakes in hand.

They eat on paper plates, cross legged on the balcony, watching the world begin to wake, people spilling from buildings and cars and chatter filling the streets as cars inch by below.

The sky is blue and the light is gold and the landscape is too many colours to list, and Peter is solid, solid and real and this is good, he thinks, as he leans into May and rests his head on her shoulder, enjoying his pancake.

And this isn't stable, he knows, this peacefulness, this stillness of the morning, but he has a solid foundation, he has hands waiting to pick him up if he falls, if the world falls beneath him, and he thinks, he's alright.

"I love you," he says to May, mouth full.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," she answers, mouth, equally full, because she is a total hypocrite like that.

"I looove you," Peter repeats, a bit louder and more obnoxiously, just to make her laugh.

He succeeds, and May tweaks his nose, "I love you too, you obnoxious brat."

He laughs at her, she laughs back, and in the slow wake of the day, he's alright.

When Peter arrives at school, Flash is leaning against the lockers, bleary eyed and weary as he holds a tray of paper cups with plastic lids in hand.

Flash is rumpled in formal attire, a black button-down and dress pants meaning that he hadn't the time to change after work that morning, and Peter takes a mental note to be there later when MJ inevitably teases him and calls him Mr. Thompson.

"Hot chocolate," He mumbles when Peter walks up to him, fingers hovering over the cups before picking one with HC scrawled on top with white chalk and handing it over.

Peter accepts the cup with a cautious sip, noting the empty space that means MJ has probably already taken her tea and the white hot chocolate for Ned. "It's orange flavoured!" He exclaims, delighted.

"Yeah, you disgusting creature," Flash wrinkles his nose, "I knew that you'd like it."

"It's heaven," Peter melts into the drink.

"It's orange and chocolate," Flash adopts a pained expression, "It's an abomi—I mean, it's just so—gross. I'm sorry."

Peter shakes his head at Flash, who has the look of one who can never agree but is forced to tolerate his friend's strange tastes.

Orange flavoured hot chocolate, he sees Flash mouth to himself, incredulous, as though he's still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he just bought such a thing.

"Look at it this way," Peter says, gingerly tucking his hot chocolate in the crook of his elbow so that he can pull out a textbook, "It's an actual thing, right? Which means that lots of people like it."

"Weird people like you," Flash takes the hot chocolate from Peter's elbow, and Peter shoots him a grateful look as he puts his textbook between his knees to lock his locker again.

"Well, what did you get?" Peter raises an eyebrow.

"Coffee," Flash raises an eyebrow, "Like a sane, normal person."

Peter wrinkles his nose, "Black?"

"Yes," something defensive creeps into Flash's voice. They've had this conversation before, and he knows how it will end.

"And you think that I'm the weird one," Peter takes the cup back, "You study for the chemistry test?"

"Not enough," Flash sighs despairingly, "Let me guess, you know everything and plan to ace it, looking effortless all the while?"

"No-o," Peter pouts, "You got enough sleep, right?"

"Sleep is for the strong," Flash answers, a distant look on his face, "And I am very weak."

Peter shoots him an unimpressed look.

Flash holds up the tray of drinks in response, pointing at his coffee.

"You need to take care of yourself," Peter stresses.

"Yes, mom," Flash rolls his eyes as they walk into the classroom, where Ned is already waiting, having come early to study with MJ. "Okay, poll: is Peter's orange flavoured hot chocolate gross or great?"

"Great," Ned says immediately, "But gross."

"Toeing the line," MJ raises an eyebrow.

"Wimp," Flash says accusatorially.

Ned inclines his head, "I mean, I wouldn't drink it, but it's a pretty nice idea. I mean, people already like orange with chocolate, so why not orange with hot chocolate?"

"Because it's a drink," Flash says.

"Gross," MJ says decisively, "Just like all of you."

Peter laughs at her, "You always say that."

"And it's always true," she agrees. Takes a sip of her tea. Pauses. Raises a smooth eyebrow at Flash, "You're not so bad."

"So bribery works with you, too, hm," Flash says with a note of amusement.

MJ inclines her head, says nothing.

Peter drags a chair over and drops down next to Ned, "How's studying?"

"I love it. We just spent twenty minutes figuring out moles."

"Oh," Peter scrunches his nose, "Great. Isn't it just, like, a unit of measurement?"

"But, like, a specific number," Flash sits across from Peter, "Like a dozen, right?"

"Yeah," Ned nods, "So I'm brain dead and we haven't even started the test yet. How about you two? How's your morning been?"

"Maybe it's because I'm only half awake," Peter sighs, sipping his hot chocolate, "But this is really good."

"There was this drunk girl who told me that my hair was 'goals'," Flash says, looking uncertain of how to feel about that, "Then she ordered coffee with seven espresso shots."

MJ whistles, "And you gave it to her?"

"She downed, like, half of it in one standing," Flash answers, looking queasy, "I was a bit worried, but she said that she was a med student."

"And she was drunk this early?" Ned scrunches up his nose.

"Maybe not," Flash allows, "But she acted like Peter."

"Ouch," Peter pouts, pressing a hand to his chest, "I don't act drunk."

"Well…"

"I mean…"

"You kind of do," MJ says unapologetically, stacking up her feet on Peter's legs.

"Do not," Peter pouts.

Whistling from Flash. Side glances from Ned. A flat stare from MJ.

Okay.

Fine.

"Maybe just a little," Peter allows.

Flash, Ned, and MJ exchange amused little glances, "Whatever you want to say," Flash teases.

Peter sighs and shakes his head, knowing that he is defeated. "So, moles?"

"Trying to change the subject?"

"Shush. Oh, Ned, Flash got you hot chocolate, too."

"Not orange?" Ned asks, looking queasy at the thought.

"White hot chocolate," Flash hand it over, "Because you are the more sensible one."

"We're all more sensible than Mr. Spandex over here," MJ answers, jerking a thumb at Peter.

"Spandex?" Flash's forehead creases.

MJ exchanges glances with Peter, blinking, "I thought that you were going to tell him."

"I was," Peter hisses, "After exams. I didn't want to distract him from school."

"Oh my god," MJ groans, tipping her head back, "I cannot believe you."

"I can't believe you," Peter buries his face in his hands.

"We haven't told him yet?" Ned demands, "I thought we agreed on this, like, last time you came in through my window!"

Peter shakes his head mournfully. Peeks at Flash. And then pulls back his sleeves. "Hi, Flash," He sighs, "I'm Spider-man."

Flash stares.

Opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Holds up a finger.

Lowers it.

"You crashed my dad's car," He finally says, "What the fuck, man."

"I'm still fifteen!" Peter exclaims defensively, "I don't have my driver's license yet."

"But you crashed my dad's car!" Flash throws his hands in the air, "Dude! I'm still working to pay that off right now!"

Peter winces, "I'm sorry. I thought Mr. Stark reimbursed you?"

Flash stares, "That was real?"

"Yes!" Peter yelps, "You didn't accept it?"

"You're the reason my dad got that shifty 'you-won-a-car' thing in the mail?"

"It wasn't shifty!" Peter protests.

"He recycled it! It screamed 'scam'! Why would Tony Stark let us win a car when we never entered any contests for this? Why would Tony Starkrandomly hand out cars? Why is that even logical, Peter?"

"Mrs. Potts is going to be so mad," Peter buries his face in his hands, "She told Mr. Stark that SHIELD could have handled it better, but he insisted it would be funny if—"

"What is my life," Flash moans.

"I feel you, man," Ned pats his shoulder.

"Okay, then," MJ says brightly, "Back to moles."

He's on the edge of the rooftop, about to stop a drug deal, when the dude who he thought was selling drugs pulls out a gun and says, "Look, man, we had a deal."

The dude who he thought was buying drugs pulls out a gun as well (and Peter's brain is all ! What is going on?) and snaps, "I didn't agree to sell drugs. We can't just ruin kids like that. I agreed to rob a bank with you, I didn't agree to sell drugs in my nephew's neighbourhood."

Ooh.

Oooh noooo.

It's Mr. Aaron who is not agreeing to sell drugs and he has a gun pointed at him but also he i gun and what does Peter do?

"Yo, man," Peter pulls the gun from the drug seller dude who he decides is the bad guy in this scenario, "Didn't you see all those Captain America PSAs as a kid? Don't do drugs, They're totally not cool."

The drug guy charges, Peter dodges, trips him, elbow strikes between the shoulder blades and the dude is out like that.

Wow, training with Mr. Stark really paid off.

Focus, Peter.

"Um," Peter holds out a hand and pulls the gun from Mr. Aaron, trying to deepen his voice, "Was this gun, like, legally obtained?"

"What are you doing with your voice?" Mr. Aaron asks.

Peter groans and tips his head back, "I'm trying to disguise it, Mr. Weapons Dude."

"You sound ridiculous," Mr. Aaron says.

Peter crosses his arms over his chest, "I am feeling so attacked right now."

Mr. Aaron raises his hands, "Just saying."

"Can you—" Peter sighs, "Can you not do crime? You're not a bad guy?"

A wry smile from Mr. Aaron, grin crooked as he says, "Even good guys have to find some way to make a living, kiddo. I've got a nephew to care for, too."

"Then…" Peter chews on his lower lip, "Didn't you ever want to do something that wasn't crime?"

Mr. Aaron squints at him, "What's up, Spider-man? Why so invested in my life?"

Peter scrambles for an excuse that isn't 'I-eat-dinner-with-you-biweekly'. "You, um, you said that you had a nephew? And you didn't want to sell drugs? And you told me about the Vulture. So you're not a bad guy. And I don't want you to do… bad… things…"

Wonderful speech. So rousing. 10/10.

"Look, kid," Mr. Aaron sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets, "Sometimes people just do stuff like this. And even if I wanted a job, I spent the time that I should've spent in college acting as a bodyguard for some underground people. All my skills are more suited to doing—y'know—illegal stuff."

Peter sits on the ground, cross legged, and sets his chin in his hands as he tries to figure out what to say.

A quiet laugh, and then Mr. Aaron drops down beside him. "You're pretty young, aren't you."

Peter groans, "I'm not that young."

"Still in high school or near there, I bet," Mr. Aaron says, "You're doing an alright job, Spider-man. I just don't need saving."

Peter buries his face in his hands, "I don't want to catch you one day, Mr. Criminal."

A moment of silence, and then, "Am I making you have to decide?"

"No? Yes. I will, if I have to, I just—it feels not-good."

"I'm just one guy," Mr. Aaron shrugs, "No big deal. If that makes you feel any better, I chose this. It's not like I'm a victim."

"If you could go back in time," Peter asks, "Would you choose the same path? Or would you go to college and try to get a normal job?"

"There's no point in regretting, kid."

"So you would," Peter says, unburying his face and turning to stare at Mr. Aaron, "There. That's why I want to help you."

A quiet huff of laughter, "You're ridiculous."

Peter gestures at himself, "I'm wearing this, aren't I?"

"Fair," Mr. Aaron pats him on the head, "I'll try, kiddo. But no promises."

"Okay," Peter says reluctantly. "Tell your nephew I said hi."

A blink, and another laugh, "Alright, Spider-man."

So Peter ties up the drug dude, leaves a note, tells Mr. Aaron to call the police, and swings off.

He finds Miles sitting on the edge of the balcony, sketchbook in hand, scattered pastels beside him.

"This is so dangerous," Peter sighs as he swings his legs over the rails to sit down beside Miles, only vaguely comforted by the fact that if worst comes to worst he has his webs on his wrists.

Miles laughs and pulls his headphones onto his neck, tilting his head at Peter, "I see you finally escaped Mrs. Joyce and Uncle Aaron's attempts at making you like eggplant."

Peter shudders, "I gave up after they added it to the spinach and cheese tarts. Spinach and cheese tarts! Why would you ever ruin that with eggplant?"

Miles snickers, "You're so weird. I can't believe you like spinach."

Peter huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, "Spinach is a perfectly delicious vegetable."

"Still a vegetable," Miles shudders.

Peter props his chin on Miles' shoulder and nods at the sketchbook, "Do I get to peek?"

A beat of hesitation, before Miles says, "I deciding which of two pictures I want to put up. I like the first one better, but I feel like the second would look cooler with spray paint, the first one's kind of, y'know, made for pastels."

Peter makes a gimme motion with his hands and Miles rolls his eyes, because they both know that never works.

"You can see it just fine while I hold it," Miles teases, and Peter pouts at him but doesn't argue.

He's seen Miles' stuff before, it's all stuff that says something that Miles can't put in words, really bright and bold and saying it's gotta be said. Which is why he doesn't really know how to react when, "It's Spider-man."

"Yeah," Miles nods, "What do you think?"

Peter's brain is still kind of stuck on the fact that it's Spider-man. "Why is it Spider-man?" his mouth blurts instead of saying something that even vaguely resembles intelligent.

Miles raises an eyebrow, "Spider-man's cool. He looks out for the little guys, you know? He's down to earth, unlike the Avengers."

"The Avengers are cool," Peter's mouth says because his brain is crashing.

"Yeah, but," Miles shrugs, "Guess I'm just more of a Spidey fan than an Avengers, fan, y'know? He does—he does small stuff."

"And small stuff is important," Peter mumbles, nodding. "I guess that I just—Spider-man just does little stuff, you know?"

"Well, he helps the Avengers sometimes," Miles adopts a somewhat defensive expression which is vaguely hilarious, "But Spider-man—you know, he dresses up and fights people and stuff, sure, but at the end of the day, I think, he's just a guy who wants to do what he thinks is right. He can do all these other things, can choose to only focus on big things, but he helps old ladies across the street and helps kid reach things they can't and stupid little things like that. And that's—that's really cool."

"He's just a normal guy, then," Peter says, "Just a normal guy with powers."

"Exactly," Miles grins, "That's what I like about him. That most of the stuff he does, anyone can do, if they choose to. I saw a video compilation once of Spider-man just picking up trash for, like, an hour."

Peter remembers that video compilation. MJ sent it to him with the message are you serious and Peter had tried to ignore the fact that he was dividing the garbage and recycling at McDonalds as he was reading her text.

"So you like him because he picks up trash?"

"Because he chooses to when he doesn't have to," Miles shrugs, "I like that he goes out of his way to make people happy even when he won't get that much credit for it. Like, I saw him buy a girl a rose once because her date turned out to be a jerk and stay with her for a bit. He just does—small things like that, and doesn't expect anything in return. It's inspiring."

"Oh," Peter says, voice small, "Thanks, man."

Miles raises an eyebrow, "Um, okay? Anyways, which drawing do you think would look better on a wall?"

So, it's the little things. Peter used to think that the little things didn't matter, that it was the big things, but—maybe little things are alright, too.

Maybe a new big bad will come. Maybe doing little things doesn't matter too much. But if he can make someone smile—well, maybe it's worth everything, just to make one person's bad day a little bit less bad.

It's a soft morning when he wakes. Rain dripping outside, the sky a blurry sort of grey, but pale blue light bleeding through the blinds nevertheless.

The kid's asleep on the sofa, still, which is odd because he's an early riser but maybe not so odd, considering that he had come over last night after a panic attack.

(May's in Europe with Mrs. Potts, Peter had mumbled, shifting in his oversized sweater and May's pink leather boots, so I thought that I could stay the night?

Tony, hands in his pockets, head bowed, can't say no, just jerks his chin and says was planning on watching a movie anyways even if he was planning nothing of the sort.)

Peter stirs while Tony's flipping through the pages of Howl's Moving Castle, a slow kind of stirring, joints creaking and toes curling like he's learning how to use his body properly again.

"Morning, Mr. Stark," Peter yawns like a cat, arms going up, chest going forward, it's a motion that involves his whole body, animated yet still.

"Morning, kid," Tony marks his page and sets his book down, "How we feeling for breakfast?"

Peter hums, "Maybe something simple?"

Peter makes oatmeal while Tony washes some blueberries, back-to-back but the kitchen is big enough that they aren't crammed into each other's space.

They eat on the sofa, start watching that new show She-Ra while Peter puts a spoonful of red sugar in his oatmeal.

"It's good," Peter whispers, moving to Tony and holding out the bag of sugar.

"Oatmeal is bland and gross," Tony whispers back, somewhat offended.

Peter rolls his eyes so Tony takes the bag and puts in the sugar. Tastes his oatmeal.

"Fine," he admits, "It's not bad."

Peter grins and curls up next to Tony, resting his head on Tony's shoulders as they watch, rain pattering outside, still in the quiet of the morning.

"Hey, Spidey," Maya grins and leans over the counter, "Here for some ice cream?"

"And the pleasure of your company," Peter winks, "Where's Robin."

"Dying," comes a voice from behind to counter. Peter peers over the edge and Robin, lying on a yoga mat, waves wearily at him.

Peter waves back, "Are you okay?"

"No," Robin says, muffled by an arm thrown over her face. "I thought that exercising with Maya would be fun."

"It was fun," May crosses her arms over her chest.

"It was torture," Robin squints at Peter, "Please tell me that exercise isn't fun for you, too."

Peter shrugs, "I mean, yeah, it burns, but it's a good kind of burn because—"

"Stop," Robin holds up a hand, "If you like exercising, your opinion isn't valid."

"Rude," Peter huffs.

"Totally," Maya agrees, and pretends to step on Robin, who shrieks and rolls off the mat. "Get up, lazybones, we have a customer."

"Where?" Robin pops up, trying to smooth her hair.

"Me!" Peter says.

"Oh," Robin makes a face, "You always come here."

"That doesn't invalidate that I'm a customer, though?"

Robin makes a face at him and shakes her hand, "I mean, like, kinda? Just a little, though."

"Rude. Offended. You're officially blocked."

"This is a real conversation."

Peter holds up a hand in Robin's face, and repeats empathetically, "Blocked."

Maya clutches her sides and tries to hold back her laughter. (She fails. Epically. It's hilarious.)

"Okay, fine," Robin rolls her eyes, "Then I guess you don't want to hear about our new delicious shaved ice option with—"

"Unblocked," Peter bounces onto the counter, "Tell me!"

A laugh, and Robin begins describing their new shaved ice option, which eventually ends with Peter shoving a twenty dollar bill at her to buy the green tea shaved ice with red bean sauce on the side and mochi on top.

"Didn't we say that we'd give you free ice cream?" Maya props her chin on her hands and raises an eyebrow. It's a tired old argument, but they insist on going through it each time.

"You're part of the reason that I go to therapy," Peter shovels a spoonful into his mouth, "You should be paid."

"Just accept the money," Robin says, tossing her head a bit at Maya.

"But my honour!" Maya pouts, slinging her arm around Robin's shoulder, "You wouldn't want to date someone without honour, would you?"

"You're not Zuko," Robin rolls her eyes, "I think that I'll manage."

"But I'm your knight in shining armour!" Maya insists, "What kind of knight has no honour?"

"Accepting money is perfectly honourable," Peter says, "You've got to pay for your living expenses."

"We wouldn't be living if you didn't save us before," Maya puts her hands on her hips, "So of course we should give you free food!"

"You've helped save my life by sending me to therapy," Peter pops one of the little rice cakes into his mouth, "So you paid me back."

"Nooo," Maya groans, "It's not the same."

"It totally is," Peter grins and then changes the subject, "So how's business been?"

Maya brightens, "Oh, well, this girl who's really popular on Instagram started becoming a regular so business has been great! She's super sweet, and a business major, too. Actually, she was the one who recommended that we—"

May takes him to a lake, where by the shore there are giant rocks, each the size of Peter, rocks instead of sand and the water is cool and there's algae inside by he likes swimming in it anyways.

May dresses in a swimsuit with a skirt on it, Peter keeps his shirt on, and the only other people there are an old couple who live by the lake in retirement and their granddaughter, a teenager who strums on her guitar with her toes dangling in the water.

There are a few dragonflies hovering near the shore, but when Peter gets further from the shore and into deeper water, there aren't anymore insects that he can see, just the water.

It's a warm day and the sun is hot. May insists on putting on sunscreen and Peter groans but obliges. They swim for the better part of the afternoon and only get out when May's stomach starts to grumble, Peter laughing until his stomach grumbles in agreement.

The old couple trades them lasagna for their fried rice (we've been eating so much lasagna lately, the old woman groans dramatically as she shows them her fridge, which is filled with lasagna, my husband's been trying to make the perfect lasagna and I am sick of it. If he wants good lasagna, he can have it, but I' m dying for some variety) and they all eat on the rocks while the couple's granddaughter strums out a few chords of Here Comes the Sun.

"You like the Beatles?" May asks, tipping her head back.

The girl grins and strums a bit more, "Yeah, you?"

May starts singing, and, laughing, the girl joins in.

When they finish Here Comes the Sun, the girl starts to play some Fall Out Boy's Immortals (huge Big Hero 6 fan, she says, grinning as Peter joins in the off-beat yelling that their singing dissolves into), and they go through her repertoire before the day ends.

It isn't the beach. It isn't sandy shores and salty waves.

But it's close enough, and he likes it, all the same.

It's still not totally perfect, obviously. There's stuff that happens, life that occurs between the snaps of photos that Peter takes to put on his Instagram. Bad stuff doesn't stop.

But good stuff happens, too, stuff that makes Peter laugh, stuff he wants desperately to remember, so he pulls out his phone and remembers.

Life occurs in the photos, too, and he grows, in and between the clicks of his camera.

Click.

"For the last time, that is not how you fold a paper star!" The origami lady yells, waving her hands in the air.

"It is a perfectly fine experiment!" MJ hollers back, "I am allowed to experiment instead of blindly following instructions!"

"Please stop," Peter whispers, burying his face in his hands.

Fengchi pats his back comfortingly. Peter resists the urge to shrivel up and die. Instead, he sighs, laughs a bit, and pulls out his phone.

Click.

"Movie night," Ned says, bouncing a bit as he sets The Devil Wears Prada onto Mr. Stark's coffee table.

Mr. Stark comes in, rumpled, coffee in hand, a day-old shirt half tucked into bright pink pyjama pants with little cartoon rockets on them. He takes one look at the DVD and says, vehemently, "No."

"C'mon, Tony," Mrs. Potts grins, "It's not a bad movie."

"Nooo—" Mr. Stark takes a step back.

"It's all I brought," Ned says innocently, as though he weren't conspiring with Mrs. Potts to finally make Mr. Stark watch it after weeks of planning.

Mr. Stark turns to run, Mrs. Potts jumps on him to stop him, Ned is still waving the DVD in hand but about to be knocked over by the Stark and Potts duo, and Peter snaps a photo, just before the three hit the ground.

Click.

"You started eating the chips without me?" May asks, betrayed, pressing a hand to her chest.

Mr. Stark's eyes dart side to side, handful of chips halfway to his mouth. He drops the chips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "No," he says quickly, fingers still stained.

"Liar," May accuses, pulling the spoon from her cup of hot chocolate and brandishing it. "Fight me, you coward!"

Mr. Stark raises a chip and narrows his eyes, "It's on."

Peter snaps the shot as May's spoon breaks Mr. Stark's chip.

(Mr. Stark screams, horrified, and May begins to laugh maniacally.)

Click.

"We sounded amazing," Ned says, high five-ing Flash as he readjusts his guitar's position on his lap.

Flash grins as he flips to the first page of his new book of sheet music, "I can't believe MJ actually gave the book to me," he says, dreamily, "These arrangements sound amazing."

"From the top?" Ned asks.

Flash nods and sets his fingers in position, "From the top."

Peter takes a video, this time.

Click.

"Did you drink enough water this week?" Fengchi asks.

Peter shoots a guilty look at the water bottle on Fengchi's desk, which he had left the last appointment, and laughs nervously.

Fengchi sighs, "So, about the water balloon fight that you signed up for, it's in the field and—"

They make their way to a soccer field, where some of Fengchi's other patients are waiting, and Peter takes a photo right before Fengchi is hit by five water balloons.

Click.

"Can I take a picture?" Peter asks, breathless as he looks at Miles' finished work, the spray painted image of Spider-man on the wall of an old alleyway, paint cans still lying by Miles' feet.

"Oh, um," Miles reddens a bit as he scuffs at the ground with his toe, "It's not that good."

"It's perfect," Peter says, seriously.

Miles grins, and the shot is of him posing beside his art.

Click.

"Do I smell something burning?" Mrs. Joyce asks as she and Peter go into her apartment, groceries in hand.

"No," comes a muffled voice from the kitchen, followed by, "Don't come in."

Mrs. Joyce pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, "What did you do, Aaron?"

"Nothing!"

They eat burnt apple pie for dessert that night. Peter takes a photo just as Mrs. Joyce throws her slippers at Mr. Aaron's head.

Click.

"So you've been the amazing chef that Peter's been raving about," May smiles as she shakes Mrs. Joyce's hand, "I could use some tips, if you don't mind."

"You're banned from the kitchen," Peter says, grinning at Miles over the table, "You won't have anywhere to practice."

"I'm not that bad," May says, scandalized, "it's not like I'm Tony or anything."

"She can't be as bad as Uncle Aaron," Miles smirks at Peter.

Peter takes the shot of Miles yelping as Mr. Aaron kicks his shin under the table.

Click.

Peter meets Black Widow after Mr. Stark enlists her to teach him how to fight.

FRIDAY snaps the photo of him, a blur as she flips him on his back.

"Worth it," Peter groans, rubbing his back as Mr. Stark cackles in the background.

Click.

"Pillow fight," MJ says, tapping on her phone, sounding almost bored.

Ned laughs nervously.

Flash looks confused, "Is this, like an inside joke, or does she actually mean that we're going to have a pillow fi—"

The photo that Peter takes is an indistinguishable blur, Flash screaming as MJ surprise attacks him with a pillow. The picture doesn't catch MJ's war cry of triumph as she stands over Flash's writhing form, nor Ned's hysterical laughter.

Click.

MJ gets Peter with a pillow next, he only manages to see a blur of pink before his phone smashes against his nose, the photo taken by accident as Peter joins Flash on the floor, groaning while Ned tries to flee.

Click.

"Mini Avengers movie nights," Mr. Lang says as Peter gapes at the Avengers, all sitting in various cars the size and design of Hot Wheels. "No chance of being seen, and we get a big screen without needing—well, a big screen."

"I get to go to Avengers movie nights," Peter squeals, bouncing on his feet, "This is so cool!"

Mr. Lang grins, and snaps a photo of Peter riding on the back of an ant. This one goes on Spider-man's new Instagram, set up by MJ.

Click.

Peter in space, wide eyed with wonder as he presses two hands against a window, staring out. Taken by Gamora, this one is private, not up on any social media.

Click.

"Punch it again," the king of Wakanda says, fist against his mouth.

Shuri's cackling in the background as Peter flies across the room.

Click.

Mr. Stark's laughter as Peter bounces to his feet and shouts, "That was awesome! Again!"

The camera spins to Shuri's face, vaguely confused but intrigued, T'challa's horrified expression. "He doesn't have a concussion, does he?" T'challa asks.

Shuri pulls a whoopsie face and turns off the video as she goes to confirm that Peter doesn't have brain damage, he's just naturally weird and enjoys flying across rooms.

Click.

"I'm just interested in the physics of it," Peter explains to the Wakandan nurse as she checks his pupils, "And the best way to understand something is to see it in action."

"Or," Shuri says, burying her face in her hands, "You could just ask me instead of being blown across the room again."

"I could do that," Peter agrees in a voice that very much suggests he is not going to do that.

Click.

"Where did I go wrong?" Tony mourns to T'challa's mother, "How do you raise children with self-preservation?"

"The only reason that my son is alive is because of Shuri's technology." the Wakandan queen says wearily, "If you learn how, please, teach me."

From their spots hiding in the vents, Peter and T'challa exchange guilty looks while Shuri giggles.

Click.

Peter, in the middle of falling, May's arms around his neck as they tumble to the ground after returning from his trip to Wakanda.

Click.

MJ throwing a sandwich at Ned's head. Ned looks vaguely confused.

Click.

Flash poking Spider-man, "Dude, this isn't, like, actually spandex?"

"It's very technologically advanced," Peter says, suffering.

"It's very skintight," Flash crosses his arms over his chest. "You're not, like, the Nightwing of the superhero community, are you?"

"I told you," Ned says, triumphantly, in the background. "You're, like, Discowing."

"It's not that bad," Peter says.

Flash shoots him a pitying look.

Peter looks up to the sky, like he's begging for mercy, and MJ snaps the photo.

Click.

A candid shot of MJ sketching out Flash's face after he drops his loose-leafed binder and his papers are sent scattering everywhere, Ned cackling in the background.

Click.

May grinning at the camera, holding up two fingers in a peace sign, arm looped around Peter's shoulders. Peter's arm stretching forward to hold the phone as he takes the selfie.

Click.

Peter in a tree, screaming as he's assaulted by snowballs, half-melted snow in Ned's hair while Flash looks almost like a snowman. Taken by MJ.

Click.

A candid shot of May reading on the windowsill, soft orange light tracing her profile.

Click.

Iron Man and Spider-man in the sky, Spider-man screaming as he clings to Iron Man and Iron Man laughing. This one's a video, shaky as Pepper tries to suppress her laughter.

Click.

Peter has too many photos, now. (All of them are perfect.)