While There's Still Something Left

To My Intrusive Thoughts: uhm. Rude.

Peter laid in bed for a while after he got off the phone with Ned and MJ, tossing his "Stark Industries" stress ball in the air. He didn't even have to look at it, his eyes trained onto nothing in particular, while his muscles knew just how hard and how high to toss it. The light thud sound it made as it hit his palm was relaxing, almost meditative.

It was always easier for Peter to think if he had something to do with his hands and right now, Peter craved simplicity. When he was younger, he preferred bouncing a ball off the wall, as his mind enjoyed the challenge, but ever since he and May moved into their apartment he had to find a quieter way to work through his thoughts.

Nowadays, it was much harder to keep them in order. Instead of sorting through them like a tangled wire, they were dense fog figures manifesting in the corners of his mind. Just as he would reach out to grab one, they would dissolve a puff of into smoke, leaving him nothing but frustration, no better off from trying.

There was just too much to think about. He was more relieved than he expected that MJ knew about him being Spider-Man, but he also found himself feeling anxious, restless, even a little guilty.

It seemed like it always came down to secrets, and it felt like his were piling dangerously high, just waiting to crumble all around him.

Peter snatched the ball from the air a final time, laying it down of the bed beside him. He couldn't think like that. If the Avenger's chose to keep him in the loop, he wouldn't have to lie.

Like my parents did to me.

Peter scowled at the thought, gripping a fist into his hair as if ready to tear it out through his scalp. He was nothing like them, and never would be. Goggles must have sensed his heightened distress, crawling over from his charging station across Peter's pillow to tap him on the forehead with a small, pointed metal leg.

"I know, buddy. I'm sorry. It's okay," he said as he reached up to pat him softly, the gentle slide across the metal more comforting than fur. As much as he wanted to believe them, the words felt empty. "I just don't understand, you know? I want to, but I just can't."

Goggles chirped back, crawling within his eyesight, and Peter stared at every little detail that made up his mechanical friend. If you'd have asked Peter a few months ago, he wouldn't have believed that he would be able to create such an amazing little guy, but then again, he wouldn't have believed it was possible for a lot of things to be true.

Peter rolled what he learned from the video over in his mind most of the night, but no matter how he dissected it, he didn't like the implications of the conversation.

"Maybe I missed something. Maybe I didn't understand what they were saying," Peter rationalized.

Goggles cameras zoomed in on Peter's face, then folded itself on the center of Peter's chest. The motion was oddly comforting, but it also made Peter realize just how alone he felt for the gentle touch to make his chest hollow out.

Peter traced a finger over Goggles again and fought with himself for a long minute before he pulled himself up, careful to move Goggles to the warm spot on his pillow where his head had been and grabbed his laptop to pull up the feed he watched the night before.

The image of Tony and Bruce huddled closely together on the far side of Bruce's lab came up on the screen. Peter pressed play, his lips pressed into a grim line.

"Man," Bruce breathed, carefully laying Tony's tablet on the table. There were articles, records, even a few pictures littering the screen. He sat on the edge, his gaze still lingering on them, unsure how he felt about the new development. He seemed to be weighing his words carefully before he spoke, his tongue farting out to lick his bottom lip. "What are you going to tell Natasha?"