Chapter Text
When Ben died Peter expected his world to come to a sudden halt, for the sun to wither and fall behind thick and furrowed clouds, for spring and summer to simply pass New York while winter and fall remained constant.
When Ben died, Peter had a phantom hand, firm and unyielding, yank out his stomach, coiling the warm organ around his throat. A source of eternal suffering and suffocation.
The fault laid on Peter, despite May’s quiet denial, he knew the harsh truth.
It all came from irresponsibility, he was late for a science project; overwhelmed with needless things that now he can’t even remember the stressors of. May had just finished her overtime shifts, working four twelves that week which were all nights. She was sleeping on the couch, some re-runs of The Housewives playing on mute, wearing stained pants and a shirt.
Peter slipped past, not wanting to wake her.
Ben was working overnight at the station, Peter didn’t think much of himself leaving. He needed the supplies, didn’t want to wake May, didn’t want to text Ben and potentially ignite his nerves with his late-night travel.
So he left, lacing his thrifted shoes as he exited their apartment still wearing a pair of loose flannel pants that may have been Ben’s years prior and a punny sweatshirt.
Peter wasn’t afraid of New York, he knew that there were some unsavory parts, rough around the outer-edges, but he lived here his entire life. He thought he had enough experience to survive on a thirty minute excursion.
Peter found a 24/7 convenience store. The humming from the fluorescent lights washed throughout the building, absorbing and dimming the color that packages might’ve carried, leaving everything pale.
Peter was going to perform a quick food experiment, see what fast food object had more acidity compared to others. He grabbed a few random chip bags, buying them wordlessly as he then began to leave. It wasn’t until he was only a few feet away from his complex, he knew the park he passed–designed for dogs but a known hook-up spot, when he felt a hand settle on his shoulder.
Peter felt his pulse quicken, already the constant warnings of sex-traffickers or pedophiles ringing in his head. When he turned, he met the furious eyes of Ben.
Growing up Peter never knew Ben as angry, he contained and controlled his emotions well. He would still cry at the occasional sad film, he’d laugh freely with May, but he tried to handle his rage. When asked about it, all he would tell Peter was that growing up he was a very angry and sad child.
He didn’t wish to return to such a state.
So, seeing his brown eyes; so familiar to his dad’s own, stare at Peter with such anger he felt his chest physically curdle.
“Weren’t you working tonight?” Peter found himself asking, voice weak as Ben’s eyebrows only knitted further, lips thinning and creasing.
“Too many extra hands.” He spoke plainly, “Care to explain,” he gestured around them.
Peter nodded, “I forgot some supplies for my school project.”
Ben dropped his gaze to the plastic bag, bottom sagged by the weight of the chips. “You do know what I’m going to say right?” Ben suddenly asked, his earlier expression of anger melted to that of worry.
“That it’s dangerous going out at night.” Peter answered, unmoored. He needed these supplies, he was fine, knew he would be.
“Pete, are you aware of the time?” Ben crossed his arms over his chest, the light shirt he wore strained over his biceps.
He wanted to say twelve, but from the dark circles beneath Ben’s eyes he knew it was later, “One?”
“Two.”
An hour difference.
“Oh.”
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, for a kid that is so smart, so insanely smart—” Ben clapped his palm over Peter’s shoulder, guiding them forward. Peter could see the yellow light from their apartment building staining the dark road, they were almost there. “You can be unbelievably foolish. Pete, what if something happened to you?
“May and I wouldn’t know what to do if something happened. We don’t really talk about it, not really, maybe we should—but, we do,” Ben struggled for a moment, Peter turned his head to witness the severe furrowing of his brow, “We do see you as our kid.”
Peter felt his heart thump, beating rapidly in his chest, an expansion of both elation and nerves.
“And we try to be more lenient on you, you’re so incredibly smart, sometimes it’s scary. But guys like you, who have natural intelligence, have an inherent responsibility, it’s a gift—a power—I mean look at Tony Stark.” He took a brief inhale, “But Pete,” Ben stopped walking, taking a new shallow breath, “with great power comes great responsibility.”
“I know.” He murmured, suddenly sullen after the improv-lecture, he knew it was deserved, but it didn’t stop the tightening to his lungs. A mix of humiliation and shame; Ben was disappointed.
“Come on, let’s go in.” They were still a cross-walk away from their complex.
They both took a step forward before footsteps sounded behind them, a grit over the gravel.
Peter saw Ben turn.
“Money—Money, any, any type.” The man stuttered, Peter shifted his head to try and watch what was happening. Ben shoved Peter behind his back, he couldn’t see over the torso of him, even peeking over his side was difficult with how dark everything was.
“I’m sorry, I left my wallet at home.” Ben spoke calmly, his hands behind himself rested on Peter’s shoulders, fingers clutching onto him tightly; expressing his quiet fears.
“M-man, you don’t have none?” The guy was holding something, Peter couldn’t see. The increasing rate of his heart brought his breath to escape in a tight wheeze, compressing downwards.
“I really don’t,” Ben stood tall.
“Fucking shit,” the guy was shouting now, aggressive and violent.
Peter knew that Ben was pushing him backwards, they both were stepping away from the stranger. He doesn’t know how it happens, sometimes he tries to imagine it; it could’ve been a mistake, a misfiring, or it simply could’ve been planned, intent on shooting.
All Peter knew was that Ben and him were slowly moving away, and then Ben suddenly collapsed onto the ground, blood spilling from the large gash—hole—in his throat.
Peter couldn’t stifle the yell, didn’t even know he was capable of making such a sound. The man ran, Peter only stood as Ben laid, gurgling and choking on blood, the entire side was dismembered.
He fell to his knees, hands trembling as he watched Ben die, incapable of doing anything. Even when he ended up pressing his hands over the open wound, trying to stop the rushing of blood all it did was seep through the gaps of his fingers.
“Ben, please–Ben,” he gasped, voice weak; someone came out of their apartment complex, it wasn’t May, it was one of their downstairs neighbors who heard the gunshot.
After that, time seemed to bend against all normal conventions; it went both rapid, an acceleration of unintelligible questions, but slowed, that night lasted forever.
Both May and him were in the police station when it resumed to normal, Peter’s hands clean but fingernails embedded with Ben’s blood, they sat opposing the large window that overlooked the public lobby.
May’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, she hadn’t truly stopped crying, she’d pause and then resume.
But they both watched as the sun rose over New York, a pale hue of pink and yellow that washed all surrounding objects with the pale coloring.
An officer came out, her hair was tightened into a braid, she smiled at them sadly, “We’re still looking for the armed figure, saw reports of him near a possible intersection.”
Peter’s description of the man was poor, he could hardly see.
May sighed, nodding.
The officer left, offering them complimentary donuts or coffee, anything to ease the pressing knowledge that Ben was gone, declared dead at the hospital gates. There was nothing more to be done.
“Give me your glasses, Pete,” she spoke softly, her hand outstretched. He gave them to her, watching as she dug her long fingernail in the gap between the lens and frames, he didn’t even notice but blood had gathered in the small crevices.
It loosened from his glasses, when she pulled her finger out the rustic red was stuck along her nail; stained to her finger, she gagged, standing as Peter watched her run to the bathroom.
He wanted to die, couldn’t wish harder that it was him and not Ben. He hadn’t even realized he was crying, glasses left sidewalks on May’s seat on top of the unfinished paperwork.
—
Their apartment was quieter with his death, it was an unannounced presence, one that could never find a perfect remedy.
His funeral passed in black, May and Peter stood at the closed casket, lacquered wood polished and smooth, reflecting the warbling lights in the funeral home.
They had friends come, May’s father and mom both passed later in the past years. Meaning that the family each of them had, was only found in the other; even if May had an older brother, he didn’t attend, she didn’t seem surprised.
Ben’s and May’s old and new friends came, hugging her as they’d cry. Exchanging brief but warm anecdotes about Ben. They’d hug Peter, squeezing at him and murmuring their apologies.
He felt unreasonably cold at the funeral.
They followed the typical Jewish traditions, both May and Peter tore a piece of their clothes, with May being the edge of her sleeve, and her helping Peter with his.
The funeral was fast, twenty minutes of prayer and eulogies. The burial outside was unnaturally warm, the sun ridiculously bright, a few guests had to hold their hands above their forehead to blur the direct rays of the sun from blinding them.
Peter watched as they lowered Ben’s casket into the ground, everything made of a biodegradable material.
He wasn’t crying then, he felt May squeeze at his shoulder, when he looked up he saw the rush of her tears. The tremble that accompanied both her shoulder and grasp.
“Oh god,” she moaned, it was terrible; painful.
It was the reality that he was truly gone.
—
The first month of Ben’s death was hard, they couldn’t afford their apartment; not with a single income. They had to move to a smaller one, the old ladies on the bottom all smoked outside, laughing until late, Peter could always hear them from his window when he tried to sleep.
May picked up shifts after her mourning grace ended, she tried for him. She’d bring home Thai, they’d eat it slowly, rice clumping along their tongue, turning into unappetizing sludge as they both would remember how Ben loved Thai.
They’d watch Star Wars, the films now a ghost of when they were watching it with Ben.
She tried and he did, but the phantom of him filled up any empty silences.
They were being haunted by their own accord.
May and him both tried to mend the distance that Ben’s death built. May was never religious, truly they weren’t overly anything—Ben was openly Jewish, but they weren’t dedicated to it. They’d light the candles for Hanukkah, but that was the furthest they’d usually go.
Even with his death their unreligious zeal remained, December was cold and dry, bitter in the worst sense. They lit the candles on the menorah, while also going downtown to look at the Christmas decorations—Ben used to call them omnists, smiling as he spoke.
They were walking in Central Park, Peter wore an oversized coat, thick and tweedy, possibly Ben’s. Probably Ben’s.
The sleeves passed his palms, leaving his fingers completely submerged in the material as May wore a cotton scarf paired with a tacky Star Wars hat, her own coat long, sweeping past her knees. Peter only had his sweatshirt hood over his head.
Their walk hadn’t been going for very long before he began to sniffle. Mucus dripped from the left nostril that he kept rubbing at.
The ground was swept by white, wind picking up the scattered snow making miniature flurries surrounding them. Each breath slightly pained his chest by how freezing it was.
May sighed, a white plume escaped from between her lips. Peter looked over his shoulder to her, she stared upwards.
“You think there’s a heaven, Pete?” She asked, he couldn’t form a proper response. “I don’t think so,” She answered instead.
“If, if there is one, Ben would be in it, though.” He responded, eyes steeled in conviction.
May smiled, her face was flushed pink, kissed by the wind. “Yeah, he was a good one, huh? You know how we met?”
Peter did, he was told this story when he couldn’t sleep when he was younger, when he was bored during car rides, dinner conversations, their friends would tell Peter the story, sometimes. “No.”
She smiled, knowing the lie, “Well, we met in Spring,” the last time they told the story it was Fall, he just listened. “And, I was at a club, just broke up with my art boyfriend named Dave, who was a real condescending jerk.” She scoffed, she picked up Peter’s limp hand, holding his cold fingers as her gloved ones seeped warmth into his palm.
“Anyways, I was heartbroken over this guy though, I remember I had a few drinks—don’t do that, Peter. If you break up with someone, don’t drink, it makes everything worse. God,” May shook her head, smiling faintly, “Anyways, got really drunk, and all my girlfriends were tired of me crying over him, on them, so I was left at the booth just sobbing over all these empty glasses and someone touched my shoulder.
“I look up, and I swear I saw an angel. My tears stopped immediately, Ben was so young then. Did you know he tried growing out his hair? Down to his shoulders, slightly wavy, kinda straight. But, he was so concerned, he asked me if I was alright and put down a glass of water at the table. He worked at the bar, wore their black uniforms with this really nerdy, small bowtie.
“I rubbed away my tears and tried flirting with him, but I was so drunk all I could say was that I thought his teeth were beautiful. Sounded like some crazy dentist, he only smiled, which I then told him again that his teeth were so perfect. I felt like his presence sobered me up, I couldn’t stop visiting the bar after that. I wouldn’t leave him alone.
“He asked me out on a date after the tenth time of me visiting, which I thought all my hours spent at the bar getting slightly tipsy were our dates, I honestly was telling my friends that we were dating so I was surprised when I realized we actually weren’t even talking. I agreed obviously. With Ben though, it felt different. It felt like my future was solidified, I could not think of my life without thinking, ‘we,’ and I was so correct. Probably the only thing I was right about.”
She was crying, it didn’t affect her voice, she continued speaking without a single waver. Thin tear trails fell from her bottom lids, pooling at her chin before dropping to the ground, melting the snow beneath their feet.
Peter squeezed her hand, throat tightening.
“Whoever you meet Pete, I don’t care if it’s a boy, girl, anyone; I just want you to make sure that they will treat you well no matter what. Ben never treated me bad, even when I wasn’t the best. He was understanding, that’s what you need to find.”
Peter nodded, “Yeah. I will.”
She smiled.
—
Peter used to hear the stories of true loves, soul mates, where once one dies the other simply has to closely follow behind; dying of a broken heart, souls not capable of being apart.
Like Johnny Cash and June Carter, souls that weren't incapable of being separated by death.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t fearful of May also going, soul not bearing the burden of Ben’s death. Peter knew that his fears weren't unfounded, everyone always told him how destined May and Ben were for each other, how perfectly made their relationship was.
It was in the third month when Peter got a call. He was lounging in their apartment, the end of December practically arrived with a daunting threat of a new Year about to begin.
With each dial of his phone, there was a tension that coiled in his stomach, tight and unrelenting.
When he picked up he could hardly hear his own thoughts, blood rushing through his ears when the woman on the other end softly asked, “Is this Peter Parker?”
He couldn’t respond, until she repeated the question.
“Yes. Yeah.” He answered, voice tight.
“I regret to inform you of the passing of your Aunt, May Parker.” There was a pause, a moment for him to comprehend what was being said, and then she rapidly followed with, “Child services have been notified and will be retrieving you, do you wish to remain on call as we wait?”
Peter couldn’t contain the gag, thick bile clawing up his throat and nestling in the back of his mouth.
Peter led the children to an alley near his ‘home,’ “Just, give me a moment,” he said to the little boy, Peter kept watching his eyes grow wet before he’d blink the tears rapidly away, leaving them to dry before becoming damp again.
He slowly and carefully placed the girl to the ground, her breathing was steady, but there had to be some internal damage for her to faint. Withdrawing away from them both, Peter attached his web to a wall and flung himself to his room just a few buildings away.
Digging out the old first aid kit in his cramped bedroom, he tightly clutched onto it as he swung back to the kids. When he rolled to the ground he heard Lalia groan softly. Watching as the boy scrambled to hunch over her, lower lip wobbling with visible emotion.
“Here,” Peter said, announcing his presence as he immediately dropped on his knees next to her. “Do you know what’s wrong? What happened?” Peter asked, the boy nodded.
“Well, her ankle, or–or, her head hit something, the stairs, the door?” His voice kept stuttering as his hands shook. Peter moved his focus upwards, touching her head; trying to see if he could feel any fractures or wounds, there was nothing. He turned his attention to her ankle which was grossly swollen, the bone puffed outwards as her foot appeared bulged.
The pain must’ve been excruciating.
“She probably just passed out because of it.” Peter muttered, flipping open the blue plastic lid of the first aid kit as he shuffled through the cheap healing products he had.
He looked around himself, seeing one long discarded wooden plank tossed into the dumpster. He retrieved it, snapping it into two. Pulling out the nails embedded in the surface as he aligned the makeshift splints over her leg. Securing them with the bandages in the kit, holding just below the ankle to keep it alleviated.
Her face twinged in pain, dark skin turning a shade lighter as her eyes clenched downwards sharply.
“She tripped.” The boy sniffed, “we didn’t see the stairs, I swear.” None of his explanations were making any sense, but Peter couldn’t focus on that, he was more worried with the state of Lalia.
He didn’t respond, continuing to hold her leg above as he tried thinking of another remedy for her ankle. “Come here,” he gestured for the kid with a soft shake of his head, the boy obeyed, coming to his side.
“Hold up her leg like how I am, I’m going to grab some ice, okay?”
The boy nodded, Peter adjusted his hold on her, switching positions as he ensured the hands were steady on the calf. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”
“Okay Spider-Man.” The boy answered, voice quiet in the otherwise night.
His legs carried him to the nearest store, he had a five dollar bill stuffed in his suit. When he entered the empty store, the cashier looked up at him. Eyes blown wide.
“Holy shit, Spider-Man!” He shouted, head swiveling.
“Yes, it’s me,” he spoke quickly, not even minding to mask his voice into something deeper. “I need ice!” He was about to retrieve the money in his pocket when the guy pointed to the freezer outside, handing him the key.
“Here!”
“I haven’t paid,” Peter deadpanned, suddenly confused.
“Dude, you saved my uncle from a car crash a few weeks ago, I owe it to you. New York owes it to you.”
Peter was silenced, accepting the key, “Thank you,” he said it honestly, the guy shook away his gratitude.
“Nah man, thank you.”
Peter ran to get the ice, unlocking the lid as a cold burst of wind surrounded him, grabbing the smallest bag he returned the guy his key, waving away any more compliments as he ran back to Lalia in the alley.
He switched positions with the boy, with Peter returning to holding up her leg as the kid held the ice over the wound. Not dropping all the weight onto the tender injury.
“Spider-Man, she’s okay, right?”
Peter nodded, “She’ll be fine.”
He hoped he wasn’t lying.