𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒 | 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘢 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘧𝘧 [✓]

Ch. 18 Pro-created Happiness

Word count: 1.15k

*TRIGGER WARNING: PANIC ATTACK*

Eliza's POV:

Night before

Stark had told the group at dinner about his idea to throw Peter a party for his 18th. I was still surprised how much of a parenting role the man was taking on for a boy who wasn't even his own flesh and blood, but then realised that Pete had probably wooed his way into the man's heart, and everyone knows you can't reject an orphan. Common fact. The night went smoothly, with Peter away on a night residential with school and all. In a way, the morrow night's party would be both a 'Welcome to the compound' and a 'Happy Birthday, Spider-Boy!'. It was all very touching, until Steve mentioned the name Sharon Carter and my heart shattered again in my chest. For a vague second, I felt it coming, only to rush out when I knew I wouldn't make it through the meal. My first panic attack since the accident.

It felt like a fragment of my shattered heart had punctured a hole in my lungs, and the air was escaping into my body, swelling it up until it would finally burst. Impossible, I know, but it happens to me in dreams, so it's real enough. Nat watched on from the table, and I knew it took everything in her not to run out after Wanda to check that I was alright. I lay in Wanda's arms for a while, waiting until my breathing calmed and my head stopped it's pounding, which it didn't until Wanda brought up an ancient memory from my mind bank. It was touching, to say the least. At last, I took control of my senses again, just in time to hear the faintness of Tony's voice complimenting the meal; Nat's thank you in response and Steve's laughing at something Bucky must have said. Wanda held my head to her chest, kissing my hair softly, promising me things that would never happen, but they were, at the very least, a comfort to hear.

As I tried to stand up again, I hissed at the tightness of my chest, but insisted that I stay on my feet - despite Wanda's reasonable pleads for me to sit back down again. I waved her away as I returned back to the table, clearing it of my glass. Nat must have collected my plate. I thanked her inwardly and turned the faucet on, running the cold water for a second or two. After, bed was calling name.

Present time

Peter got back to the compound around midday, something unheard of. Peter on time? The fuck? But I already had his gift lain out on the kitchen counter top, a nicely wrapped present in a box. His face lights up when his eyes land on the blue colouring of the wrapping. I swear a squeal leaves his mouth as he drops his bags where he stands and launched towards the countertop like a kid on steroid - or more precisely, a kid with spider abilities. As is seeking permission, his eyes wander over to me, but instead of his own, excitable hazel colouring, all I'm greeted with is the longing glance of a puppy. I nod with a chuckle and watch as he tears the box to shreds. He's never really gotten a present from me since out parents died when he was eleven, ever since then it was nice days out to the park or small trips to the café. May only ever got him what she could afford, which was at most some run down parts of a computer that he gladly fixed back up.

Blue paper landed on the floor, revealing the box hidden within. I heard his usual groan of annoyance, to which I laugh at because I know how desperate he must be feeling. In all honesty, there was a part of me that didn't know what to get him this year. I almost felt like I didn't know him, like he had fallen from the brother I knew and was now some kid I lived with. But I never lost hope in his smile; the one that got me through tough times and heartaches. My first few break up and upsetting arguments. He was the only close family I had left, if you exclude Aunt May and Wanda, so I found it in my heart to realise what he needed.

His eyes light up again, widening as he lifts the gift carefully from the cardboard box. A sad smile, though eyes filled with joy, runs across his lips as he flips the first page open, revealing a block of four pictures, trimmed, plastered and decorated to fit in perfectly with the running theme of the scrap-book. He laughs as he scans the pictures, mostly ones taken when our parents still breathed air instead of soil. As the tears start to fall, he runs towards me, arms wide. He crashed into me with a thud and I propel backwards, luckily into the couch conveniently placed behind me.

"Thank you, Lizzie." He cries tears of softened happiness. "Thank you so much." His words make me swelter with pride. I got it right, for once. I actually got it right.

"You're welcome, Petey." I hold him in my arms for a while. He rests his head on my chest, listening to the soft beats of my heart and the rise and fall of my chest.

"Liz?" His voice floats through the air gently, and I reply with a faint hum. "Is it bad . . . is it bad that I don't remember them so much any more?"

An answer falters in my throat, the words edging closer and closer to the tip of my tongue but never quite reaching the end. I take a swift breath in before making an attempt to satisfy the question. "No. Of course it isn't. Because you were young and you've been through . . . so much. But as long as you know that they will always be in your heart, it doesn't really matter that you can't see past the grief. It blinds you, but you smile away the pain."

He nods and I feel a tear soak my shirt. He doesn't say anything so I say quietly, "You know what's the one thing I always remember mum saying? 'If everyday you smile, it makes the world a brighter place. It doesn't mean you're hiding the pain, only saying not today!' " I smile at the memory and hold back my own set of tears. Peter sniffles against my chest, muttering lightly, "I love you, Lizzie."

"I love you too, baby bro."