Chapter Text
The darkness conceals him, up where he clings to the wall.
Peter Parker has never been a particularly patient boy. He has always been a restless soul, always on the move. This night, though, it’s different.
(He’s different.)
(But he won’t think about that now. He’ll think about it later, when the deed is done.)
He waits there, in the pitch black alley, patient like never before.
Suddenly, he hears footsteps. He hears what he’s been waiting for. The person, a blonde man in his mid-twenties with a tattoo on his wrist, strolls into the alley with his chest puffed up, confidence on display.
The tattoo, Peter doesn’t see - he just knows it’s there.
The man sighs, impatient, unlike Peter right now, and taps his foot against the ground.
The blonde man grumbles, “Damn kids these days... never on time…”
Peter feels his lips quirk upwards without his permission.
Peter observes quietly, eyes on the man as he takes out his burner phone and taps it aggressively. The man places the phone against his ear, foot still tapping lightly against the ground.
The phone rings three times before the callee responds to his call.
Peter can hear the person responding to the man’s call, though only faintly due to the distance between himself and the phone.
“S’up man?”
“Kid ain’t ‘ere yet. You sure kid said the alley below Bedell Street?”
“Am I sure- yeah, I’m sure you shithead, boy wrote it down ‘n everythin’ ”
“Aight, but if he ain’t show up in five I’mma leave.”
“Do whatever you wanna do, man, I’m just the messenger.”
“‘Kay, later.”
“Later.”
Then, a beep as he hangs up.
This is my queue , Peter thinks. He lets himself have a moment to reconsider his choices, but knows he’s only stalling in doing so. Peter made his choice the day his uncle died, after all.
Peter often thinks, what would Uncle Ben say about this?
Maybe he’d list all the reasons why Peter shouldn’t do what he’s doing. Maybe he’d tell Peter to be better. Do better. Maybe he’d tell Peter to think about the consequences.
(One thing is certain. He can’t tell Peter anything now. Not when he’s five feet under, rotting, bleeding into the soil in which he lays.)
Peter locks his thoughts away, and breathes in before he jumps from the wall. He lands on his feet silently, right behind the blonde man.
The blonde man doesn’t notice him until Peter clears his throat, making his presence known.
The man jumps, and seems to reach for his pockets, cursing loudly in his thick accent, “Jesus fuck- oh, it’s you! Nearly gave me a heart attack, ‘s what ya did. Peter, was it?”
Peter stays silent. He watches the man intently, watches for any sign of fear. So far, he doesn’t really seem phased by his abrupt appearance. Peter guesses that there are some advantages to being fourteen and baby-faced, after all.
The man takes Peter’s silence as nervousness; or, so it seems, because he says, “First time buyin’, Peter? No need to be nervous, lil’ guy.”
Peter nods as a response to his question, luring him into believing he was in control of the situation. God, what a fool, Peter thinks as he watches the man walk closer to him.
“Are ye nervous ‘bout my nickname, kiddo?”
Peter nods again, this time putting a little more effort into looking nervous.
The man grumbles, “Don’t be fooled by my nickname - a friend o’ mine thought it’d be funny, ‘s all. ‘Spike’ ain’t my real name - ‘s kinda stupid, don't cha think?”
Peter looks down at his feet, and bites his lip slightly. He softly kicks a rock on the ground, and looks up at Spike, his head lowered slightly.
Spike continues with his spiel, and in an attempt to make Peter feel more comfortable with him, he tells Peter his real name, “In fact, call me Dennis. I don’t usually-”
“I know.” he mumbles, brow raised slightly. His blood is pumping, rushing through his veins, even though he’s currently standing still.
“Huh?” Dennis Carradine blinks.
Peter feels a small smile emerge on his own face when he tells him loud and clear, “I said, I know. I already know your name, Dennis Carradine.”
“Ye- what? How do you-” Dennis doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
Peter slams Dennis into the wall behind him. Peter grits his teeth, because he’s struggling to cover his mouth whilst pinning him to the wall. Peter lets the hand that’s on Dennis’ mouth fall, and Dennis opens his mouth to scream. Peter is quicker, though, and webs his mouth shut.
For a moment, it looks like he can’t breathe. Peter watches him struggle slightly, before he sighs and pokes a hole in the webbing to let him breathe.
Peter watches his chest heave slightly, watches as he feels relief from being allowed to breathe.
Too bad that relief is gonna be short-lived, Peter thinks grimly.
(Short-lived, like his uncle.)
“Please!” he begs for mercy, though his words are a mere whisper due to his mouth being mostly webbed up. Tears are streaming down his face, and his trembling is making him appear weaker than before.
Peter doesn’t care, though. Peter takes a step back, only to web Dennis’ entire body onto the wall. He makes sure he won’t be getting anywhere by tugging slightly on the webbing, and then proceeds to place his hands on the wall by the sides of his head.
He tilts his head up so he can look Dennis in the eyes, “Should’ve thought about the consequences before you killed my uncle.”
When Peter snaps his neck, the sickening snap echoes in the alleyway.
Peter doesn’t bother with subtlety when he enters his apartment. He walks in, closes the door, hangs up his jacket and takes off his shoes. He goes on with his evening as if he had just been to the store.
(As if he hadn’t just murdered a man in cold blood.)
He can hear the TV playing from May’s room faintly in the background as he makes his way to the kitchen. His acquired powers didn’t just come with positives, after all. He had to eat much more than the average human, and knew that if he didn’t, he’d probably die.
(Die, just like Dennis. Just like his uncle.)
When he enters the kitchen, he immediately spots the food container on the kitchen counter. He should feel happy when he sees food - instead, he feels his heart sink, thanks to the fact that it’s in a container.
A container on the counter meant that May hadn’t cooked that day. A container on the counter meant that May hadn’t left her room that day. A container on the counter meant that she’d given in to the melancholy taking over her life that day.
“Where have you been?” Peter jumps at her voice, taken by surprise. He turns to look at her, eyes wide, and he finds himself saying nothing for a moment before he shakes the surprise off and he answers her.
“Just out.”
She’s leaning against the door frame, hands crossed across her chest. May looks at him with a worried look in her eyes. It seems like she’s about to confront him about his late charades, that she’s done with his actions the last few months, when she opens her mouth as if to say something.
But, like always, her depression takes over, consumes her whole, and makes her retreat. She sighs heavily, a sad (fake) smile on her face when she says, “Alright. Emily brought us some dinner-”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve seen it.”
May closes her mouth. They seem to have a voiceless conversation, and her eyes speak more to Peter than her words ever could.
He pretends not to notice the streaks of dried tears on her cheeks.
(It’s not as if the streaks weren’t a constant on her face, these days.)
(They were always there, a reminder of what their family had lost.)
She’d never been able to read Peter quite as good as he’d been able to read her. It was both a curse an a blessing. Tonight, it’s a blessing, Peter decides. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t condone murder, after all.
To make her less suspicious of tonight, though, he decides to give her a false explanation. He swallows, and lies through his teeth, “I was just at the library. Read a few books on Arc Reactor technology, thought it’d be interesting.”
His lie is innocent enough, and luckily it does the work, because he sees May’s tense shoulders fall into a more relaxed pose.
“Oh. Good. Good, good, good… reading is good, I’m glad you- you enjoy it enough to go to the library,” she looks at the clock on the wall, and swallows.
Peter knows what’s coming, when she looks at the clock like that.
(He knows what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.)
“I’m gonna head to bed.” she finally says, but all he hears is, I’m gonna head to bed again. And it’s the word again that resonates with him, though the word is never said by May.
(It just hangs there in the air, like a small insect, too small to kill, but too big to ignore.)
(Again. Such an ugly word, Peter thinks. He lost a parent again. He’s gonna lose another parent again if he’s not careful. Again and again, the world takes, but never gives.)
After, when May has gone to bed and has fallen asleep, Peter climbs out of his window, container in his hand, and crawls up to the rooftop. He sits there, some days (most days), thinking about his uncle.
He sits down on the ledge, and places the tupperware next to him. He swings his feet lazily, looking over his neighborhood.
Peter doesn’t even notice the rain that’s pouring down on him before he feels his hair cling to his face. Unbidden, memories of Ben pop into his head, like they often do when he lets himself think for too long.
(“Why the sad mood, Pete?” Ben asks, frowning slightly. Peter snivels, “My team didn’t win today,” tears stream down Peter’s face, “We trained so hard, and we failed… It’s just so… it’s just so unfair!”
“Oh, kiddie.” Ben wraps his arms around Peter, and tells him, “Listen, Petey. Life is like… well, it’s like a very long season; some you win, some you lose… and it’s good to lose. It makes the winning all the sweeter.”
He rubs his back, and continues, “Maybe next time, hm?”
“Y-yeah. Next time,” Peter wipes his tears away with his sleeve, and gives his uncle a wobbly smile.
There’s a soft, fine and melodious tapping against the window that makes Ben turn his head towards the window.
“Huh. Would you look at that. It’s raining!” he exclaims, before chuckling slightly.
“Well, I’ll say. Your mood is affecting the weather again, kiddie. You sure you’re not hiding a superpower from me?”
And as Peter giggles, the dark clouds above seem to lighten, rain softly disappearing along with Peter’s sadness.)
Peter feels water trickling at his eye, and wipes it away.
(It’s not a tear. It’s just the rain, pouring down on his face.)
He wipes at his eyes once more, despite the fact that it’s raining and that he knows it’s for naught.
(No, it’s not a tear. Not at all)
His mind goes through memories of Ben like a movie reel; it goes on and on, and doesn’t seem to stop.
(“Uncle Ben! Uncle Ben! Uncle Ben!” Peter squeals as soon as he enters his home, letter in hand as he runs into his uncles arms. His uncle lets out a small laugh, before saying, “You seem happy. Care to share the happiness?”
Peter grins, lets go of his uncle, and holds up the letter for his uncle to read, “I got in! The scholarship - they accepted me, Midtown High accepted me! And that’s where Ned’s parents are sending him, so I won’t be alone in high school anymore, Uncle Ben!”
Ben’s mouth falls open for a fleeting moment, before he abruptly closes is and coughs, “Oh my- that is- MAY! OUR BOY GOT INTO MIDTOWN ON A SCHOLARSHIP!” he yells, a small laugh escaping his lips.
Peter laughs as well, and soon after, May bursts into the room in her towel, big-eyed and mouth wide open in shock, “You got in?”
“Yeah, our boy got in! Christ, I’m glad you inherited your fathers intelligence - god knows I don’t have it,” Ben jokes, and tosses his arm around Peter, giving him a slight side hug.
The conversation turns into one of celebration when they begin asking him what he wanted as a gift for his achievement.
The sun is shining bright outside, but Ben is too caught up in Peter’s achievement to notice. Peter notices, though, and for a brief moment, he believes his uncle. He believes his mood affects the weather, if only for a second, before he shakes the thought off and goes back to celebrating with his family. )
Peter is shuddering now, the cold wrapping itself around his tired form.
(He’s not shuddering because of his memories. It’s just the cold water, seeping through his clothes.)
Peter’s brain always racks through the nicer memories, before they end on the last one, the last memory Peter had of him. The memory that never seemed to escape him, no matter how hard Peter tried.
(BANG
The world moves slowly when he turns to the source of the sound. He hears a jingle, metal against asphalt, and sees the bullet shells on the street, bouncing, jingling, up, down, slowly losing momentum.
BANG
The sound is explosive, and Peter feels it. He feels the sound, felt it the first time and now feels it the second time when it rings in the air.
BANG
"Oh my god!" The voice of a bystander says, though it feels as though they're talking through water.
They seem distant. Distant, like the thought death at a young age.
"Uncle Ben?" Tears are pooling in the rims of his eyes.
His breath hitches more and more as he walks closer to where his uncle now lays dead on the street.
The closer he gets, the clearer he sees the corpse of his uncle.
His hitches turn into uncontrollable ugly sobs.
"Someone call 911!"
"Oh, dear."
"That poor boy."
"Is he dead?"
The skies above turn dark. When the rain pours, Peter feels nothing. He is numb, and so is his heart.
When he gets home, and the police question him about the blonde man that had killed his uncle, his thoughts turn dark. He thinks of murder; of murdering the blonde man that had taken away his last living blood relative.
The thought seems so sweet to Peter, that he makes himself a promise. A promise to make the man that had taken away his uncle pay for his crime. Peter knew he’d follow through with his self-promise.
Peter always kept his promises, after all. )
Peter looks up at the sky, and thinks of his uncle’s words. You were wrong, Uncle Ben , Peter thinks idly, when he notices that the sky is clear of clouds, only a faint tint of orange and pink painting the sky whilst the sun sets.
(Ben’s statement no longer holds any weight, not when all he is is thunder and storms, reflecting the war he feels inside, and the weather outside is bleak and white.)
When Peter finally decides to go back inside, the clouds turn grey.
Later, when Peter lays in his bed, he thinks about Dennis Carradine. He thinks about how Dennis had begged for mercy, cried in his last moments. He almost feels a little bad about it, until another thought creeps up into his brain, and it grows and grows until he can’t hear anything else.
Yeah, you wanted mercy. But why should I have given you mercy, when you gave my Uncle Ben none?
Peter finds that he feels no regret for taking a life, that night - and that, is perhaps the scariest thought of all.