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It's not sadness, not really, not most of the time.
It's not sadness that led him to this bridge, and it's not sadness that's led him to the bridge in the past.
Maybe it's the ache in his shoulders from carrying the weight of the world. That's what May likes to say, she says: “You'll hurt your shoulders if you keep going like this, Peter, not everything is your responsibility.” Peter can't help but disagree. If she had been there - if she had felt the sticky blood under her fingers, or watched the light go out from Ben's eyes - it's possible she'd understand. But she wasn't, and she doesn't. No one does. That doesn't mean his shoulders don't hurt, because they do. Fuck, they hurt.
Maybe it's the exhaustion that builds itself up in Peter's bones, and paints his short-lived dreams into nightmares. The ice cream stash in his and May's fridge has greatly diminished in recent months, while the screen time on his phone has shot upwards. He watches sunset turn to night sky and night sky turn to sunrise, and the next day he watches it again. Like clockwork. So too, like clockwork, he wakes up screaming into his pillow, the fabric sticking to the tear tracts on his cheeks.
Maybe it's the heavy numbness, the fog that sweeps over his mind. That same haze is the reason why Karen's been logging more hits to the suit in recent weeks, and the same reason why Peter's chemistry teacher has chided him for his carelessness with the dangerous chemicals. He blames the haze for lots of things, like the blank stares he gives in response to Ned's vibrant rants over Star Wars, or even the well-hidden criss-crosses of thin red lines across his thighs.
In the end, Peter doesn't think it matters all that much. He's not interested. He's not interested in much of anything at all, anymore.
Maybe that's the problem.
Slowly, Peter realizes that his lungs are full, so he exhales sharply and watches as his breath fogs in the air. By the time he's counted to five, all traces of the air have vanished. For a moment, he wonders if it's that easy to extinguish his breaths. To just... stop breathing. And then, in five seconds, it could be like he was never there at all.
Of course, the logical and objective side of Peter's brain knows that this is an unfair comparison. That not only would it take longer than five seconds for his air supply to die out, but that his impact on the world wouldn't disappear so easily.
Ned's in the middle of his Reylo 100k slow-burn fanfiction; it's got over 50,000 hits by now, and he had named one of the main original characters Peter, after his best friend. MJ has a few poems published in a few literary journals, and one of them briefly alludes to her friendship with him. Mr. Delmar named Peter's signature order - number five with pickles, squished down real flat - the Peter Parker. May and Peter had planted a little tomato garden a few paces away from their apartment, and it's only grown since then.
Those will all stay, long after Peter's gone. And that doesn't even factor in the impact that Spider-Man's had - on New York, on the Avengers team, on Mr. Stark.
It would take longer than five seconds to wash Peter from the world. But in that minute, as he stares down at the inky water, it doesn't feel that way. It doesn't feel that way at all.
Peter's visited this bridge a few times before. After Ben died. When May lost her job. The first time someone had died on patrol. Post-The-Ferry-Incident.
For an hour or so, nothing felt okay, and he really believed that he'd do it. He drafted and re-drafted letters (suicide notes, but he hadn't called them that) on the notes application on his Stark Phone. One for pretty much everyone he knew, to ensure that no one would feel left out. He'd even tied his shoelaces together and webbed his arms up, so that he wouldn't be able to climb out of the water. Slowly, though, he would remember all the things that he'd miss. All the people that would miss him. And he'd gather himself up, troop back home, and fall into May's open arms. (She didn't know where he had been, and she never will.)
There's something different about tonight's visit.
Peter isn't sure what it is - once again, he's not feeling particularly introspective - but it almost seems like it's his last visit there. Or, more accurately, it feels like it's his last visit... anywhere.
That's a concerning thought. Even right now, Peter logs that as a concerning thought, and the goosebumps on his skin get goosebumps. Seemingly without prompting, Peter's fingers reach into his jean pocket and pull out his cell phone, tap the neon green square, and thumb in: 800-273-8255.
The call rings before he can stop it. He stares down at his swinging feet for a moment until automated message plays:
“You have reached the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, also servicing the Veterans service line. If you are in emotional distress or suicidal crisis or are concerned about someone who might be, we're here to help. Please remain on the line while we route your call to the nearest crisis center in our network.”
Peter registers the voice, but he's not listening at all to what's being said. He can't feel anything, and it's... it's petrifying. All he wants in that moment, is to feel his lungs struggle to fill themselves with oxygen. Feel them fail.
And, slowly, he stands up, his phone still clutched in his hand, to look over the bridge and assess the physics of the fall. His shoes take a step forward, and another, and another, and he's about to climb up over the thing when his phone crackles to life.
“Hello, there,” the man says, and if Peter had better control of his faculties, he'd recognize the voice. “How can I help you?”
Peter doesn't respond, but he does take a step away from the edge. In a few minutes - just until after this conversation is over - he'll do it, and he really will. Just until this conversation is over.
“My name is James,” he continues. “Do you want to tell me your name?”
“No.”
“That's perfectly alright. Is there something you'd like me to call you?”
Peter thinks for a moment. If this is to be his last conversation, he'd like to make it count. So, “Ben,” he decides.
“Alright, then, Ben, I'm glad to be talking to you. Can I ask if you're safe right now?”
“No.”
“No, I can't ask, or no, you're not safe?”
It'd be easy to go with the first option, but why lie? What'll James be able to do about this?
“I'm not safe, or whatever.”
“Okay, how about we continue this conversation in a safer place?”
“I'd rather not.”
“Well, how about we try, Ben? What danger are you in?”
“On a bridge.”
“Can you by taking a few steps away from the edge? Let's start with three steps. Is that alright, Ben?”
“Do I have a choice?” Peter grumbles, the blur over his mind slowly dissipating.
“Of course you have a choice. I can't force you to do anything. But I think this conversation might go a little better if you're safer. Yeah?”
Peter doesn't have the energy to argue, so he doesn't. One. Two. Three, and then two extra steps to make five. This feels like an accomplishment and, no matter how pitiful it is, he's anxious for James to be proud of him.
“I took five steps back,” he shares, licking his dry lips and staring up at the sky.
“Five? That's great, Ben, thank you for doing that. Now, what would you like to talk about?”
In response, he shrugs, then remembers that James is only a faceless voice on his phone, and his mood drops. But, nevertheless, he responds with a “Whatever.”
“Hm. Would you rather just listen to me for a little bit?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, my name is James, and I'm a volunteer at the Crisis Line. I'm an MIT graduate, War Machine is my favorite Avenger, and I love pineapple on my pizza. Is there anything else you'd like to know about me?”
Yeah, why does James keep asking questions? Why can't the man let him die alone?
“Why did I fucking call?” Peter hisses to himself, not at all intending to speak.
“Because in your heart, Ben, you don't want to die. You know that there's so much to live for, and so many people to live for. How about you give me five reasons to live? I'll shut up if you tell me five reasons you should live.”
James shutting up does sound like the ideal scenario, so Peter thinks for a little while. “My aunt May,” is the first one.
May's failed attempts at dinner, and the ensuing Thai meal. Dumb jokes like “I larb you,” or, “I dove you,” or, “I leaf you.” Blanket forts and movie nights and air-popped popcorn without the movie-theater butter because she's always on some health kick. The way her perfume smells, or all the times she loses her many reading glasses and sends Peter on a hunt through the couch cushions to find each pair.
“That's great work,” James encourages, and the next reason is:
“Working in the lab with Tony.”
It's highly possible that the man doesn't share the same sentiments, but Peter's started to see the man as a type of father-figure. Or maybe like one of those super rich uncles that brings Hannukah presents for all eight days. Either way, spending time in the lab is one of the few things that still brings Peter joy nowadays. DUM-E and his fire extinguisher, or FRIDAY's constant reminders to sleep that Tony only ignores. But mainly, it's Tony itself. His snark, his scent, his smiles, his “shit! Don't repeat that”s.
“Tony?”
“Um, yeah.”
James is hesitant when continuing. “That, er, sounds like lots of fun. Can you tell me a little more about him... Ben?”
A worry begins prickling at the back of Peter's mind, and he isn't well enough to discern whether it's his spidey-sense or just paranoia. “I'd rather not.”
“Um, okay. Yeah. Okay.”
Something's off. James seems distracted.
Peter takes a step toward the water, and tunes out the next thing that the voice on the other line says. Instead of listening, he watches the waves lap over each other. Parts of the water are illuminated by the full moon, rippling lines of white contrasting against the darkness. He'll be down there soon enough, submerged, and that'll be that.
“Hey, kid!” Someone screams in the distance. “Get down from there.”
The noise jolts him back to reality, and he tunes in just in time to hear James say: “... a real fun guy, Ben, I wonder if our Tonys would - er - like each other?”
From context, Peter figures that James has a friend named Tony, and he decides to play along with the gag. Why not? The call will end in a few minutes, anyway, and then he'll be gone. Dead.
(Peter's never been up on the bridge for this long before. That means something, and Peter can't find it in himself to care. Not anymore.)
“My Tony,” Peter responds, and it's a little funny calling Tony Stark his. “Doesn't really like anyone.” Then, because it'll all be over soon anyway: “I don't know if he likes me all that much, either.”
“He does, P - Ben. I'm sure he does. If he lets you in his lab, he's... how about you stay on the line with me for just... er, three minutes longer? Then I'll leave you alone, Ben, if that's what you'd like.”
Peter doesn't catch James' slip-up. The haze is coming back, stronger than it ever has before, bringing not only numbness, but a sense of peace and resignation. There's no rush. In three minutes, it'll be over. He won't have to worry about what May or Ned or MJ or Tony or anyone will do or will think, because he'll be dead. That'll be it.
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
“Okay, sure. Okay. Okay. You still owe me those three reasons to live, Ben, don't think you're done with that.”
“To help people.”
The smiles - wrinkly smiles, babies' smiles, lipsticked smiles, eye-smiles - that he receives on the daily as Spider-Man. Watching Melanie, age three, reunite with her lost pet, or helping Doris, age seventy-three, with her overflowing tote of groceries. Assisting someone in choosing anniversary present, or selecting a box of chocolates for Valentines Day. Spider-Man helps lots of people, every day.
(What does Peter Parker do?)
“That's nice, Ben,” James says. “Number four?”
The answer is, "Snowmen," because the small area of Peter's mind that isn't pumping with anticipation regarding his upcoming jump is just caught up in memories.
Snapping gloves on and rolling the dirt-tinted slush into a ball, patting more and more snow on until it's big enough for a base. Hurrying to roll the middle layer before the sun comes out and turns the ice to water. And then slapping one last ball together for the head, accepting the carrot and raisins the neighbor's daughter hands him for the nose, eyes, smile, and buttons. The last step will be Peter's red-checked scarf.
“Sounds good. And number five?”
In the distance, with his enhanced hearing, Peter makes out a very familiar noise. It sounds like goatees and like motor oil smoothies, like his first sip of eggnog and like AC/DC, or maybe Led Zeppelin. Really, though, Peter knows what it sounds like, and his inkling is confirmed by the additional star that appears in the sky.
Only, this star isn't a star, and it's shooting right towards him, two trains of smoke in its wake.
This is Iron Man.
And it's just like blinking out of a reverie. When he reopens his eyes, he's seeing the bridge for the first time, hearing James' voice for the first time, smelling the fresh air for the first time. James is speaking again, but Peter doesn't want to hear it. He tosses the cell phone over the edge of the bridge, and watches as it plops into the water with a splash.
It moves with the harsh current, and Peter feels this ugly, ugly envy for his cell phone.
Then there's the sound of metal hitting wood powerfully, and of gears whirring into each other. Peter doesn’t bother to watch; he’s seen the sight many times before. Instead, he contents himself with watching the cell drift away.
“Pete,” Tony says, and his voice sounds broken in a way Tony Stark’s voice shouldn't sound. “Are you – I – Do you - Peter, can you look at me?”
He does so, because this’ll all end quicker if he follows directions. But he can’t help how his throat momentarily closes up upon seeing his mentor look so – so defeated. There are half-dried tear tracts on his cheeks, but his eyes are still red-rimmed and shining with unshed sobs. Above them, his eyebrows are cinched together tightly, and above that, there’s a collection of worry lines on his forehead.
And all Peter can think to say, all he can manage to say is, “I’m sorry.”
Tony takes a step forward and rests a hesitant hand on Peter’s arm. Upon further inspection, Peter realizes that the man is wearing a pair of stained sweatpants and a ridiculous science pun T-Shirt that says: Never trust an atom, they make everything up. Tony’s in his pajamas.
“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats, just as his mentor opens his own mouth. “I don’t - I can’t -”
“Breathe, Peter. In and out. Five breaths in, five out. You can do it, buddy, I know you can.”
Tony tightens his grip on Peter’s arm, squeezing it softly a couple times, while Peter attempts to follow those instructions.
In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out.
Once he’s finished, he looks up, and he finds Tony to be openly crying. Sheepishly, the man wipes his tears away quickly and throws his arms around Peter’s midsection, pressing Peter’s face into his chest. Peter wants to cry. He doesn’t, but he wants to.
“Pete,” Tony whispers into Peter’s curls. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll -”
“I don’t want it to be okay.”
Both men freeze for a second, Tony longer than Peter. Really, Peter hadn’t meant to say that, but it’s true. It’s one of the most true things he’s said in ages, which isn’t telling much.
“Why... not?”
And he doesn’t want to say the next part, because he’s never said those words before. But he says them, right into Iron Man’s shoulder, says them until his throat is raw from the knot that’s all tied up in there.
“When I was younger,” are the first words, “I used to be afraid of dying. All the time, I - I would just freak. Constantly. But I just... don’t care anymore. It’s easier that way. I don’t care about anything anymore and – and I want to die, you don’t under – understand I do, I want to be dead -”
“Peter,” Tony cries. “Please don’t -” He cuts himself off. Pulls away from the embrace. Lifts his thumbs up to Peter’s eyes. Wipes nothing away. When his fingers come back dry, he gulps and gnaws on his bottom lip. “Okay, just – just let it out, then, kid. Let it out.”
“Please.”
It’s this word that finally starts up the waterworks, that brings forth a sob from his throat. His body begins convulsing with the cries, shivering and quaking until he rams himself into Tony, who stumbles back a little with the superhuman force, but immediately sets a steadying hand on Peter’s back.
“Please what, buddy?”
Peter gasps for breath, the cries blocking his lungs from pulling in the necessary oxygen. Tony’s saying something, but Peter isn’t listening. His heart is thumping in his ears, his throat is throbbing, and all he wants is for everything to stop.
“Peter. Can you hear me?”
Blinking the remaining tears out of his eyes, Peter looks up at Tony and nods. Then, belatedly, he realizes that his position has changed. He’s not on the bridge any longer. Instead, he’s sitting on a park bench, propped up against his mentor. Peter wonders just for a moment where his phone is, right about now.
“Okay, bud. I’m right here. I... do you still – are you still feeling -”
He thinks for a minute.
Does he really want to die, or does he just want everything to stop? And does he really want everything to stop, or is he just so goddamn exhausted? And is he really so goddamn exhausted, or does he just need help – real, legitimate help?
If he was on that bridge again, would he jump?
“No,” is the honest answer, and the relief that coats Tony’s face is unrivaled.
“That’s - that’s good. No, that’s great. That’s... that’s important, bud, I – the next time – no, not – if you ever feel like this again... you tell me, Pete, okay?”
Peter nods, not at all intending to follow through, and staring hard at his shoes until his eyes sting.
“Okay,” Tony repeats, rubbing Peter’s knee. “I... thank God. Okay. Pete, I don’t know what I’d do if I... therapy, therapy, therapy – FRI -”
“I’m tired,” Peter says, because he is, and because he doesn’t want to hear anything else about therapy.
“Tired. Okay. That’s - do you want to head to the Tower or Queens?”
No – Peter is not facing Aunt May right now. He doesn’t want to see the look in her eyes when she learns what he’s done, because she’ll blame herself and he knows it. She’ll blame herself, and she’ll... Peter is not facing Aunt May right now.
That leaves, “The Tower,” with a tacked on “please,” for good measure.
Tony nods stiffly, letting out an exhale that deflates his posture, and squeezes Peter’s shoulder reassuringly. “Of course, bud.”