Spider-Son & Iron Dad two shots

Tell Me About The Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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