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Peter honestly didn't understand, at first.
So careful. He was always so careful. He stuffed his bed, usually got back from patrol before 3:30 to get just enough sleep to somewhat function in school, always hid the evidence of his suit and injuries (the day he bought concealer from the drug store a block away was one he'd never forget), and on top of it all, his senses were always dialed way up.
So how the heck did he not notice the presence in his room as soon as his feet touched down on the fire escape outside his window?
Looking back on it, Peter came to the conclusion that it was probably a mixture of the crazy dude throwing bombs all around the streets of his neighborhood, it was honestly pretty disorienting. Senses. Oh, and he was a bit worked up from that conversation with the reporter, replaying the scenario over and over in his mind. Did he sound like a jerk? He was trying to be the nice, local super-hero. Should he have said anything at all? He was just so annoyed.
When it came right down to it, Peter slipped up.
His eventful night had him landing harder than usual, leaning against the brick outside of his room, red and blue suit still on. He slid his window open almost carelessly, hopping through with sluggish movements. Immediately, he set his backpack down near his desk, tugged off his mask, then rolled his shoulders.
That's when he noticed his door was open.
Oh, shit.
Only then did his senses pick up the living, breathing person sitting on his bed.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Peter froze in place, chest rising and falling with increasing speed as his breathing picked up.
Just don't turn around, mask is already off, don't turn around, don't--
May sniffled from his bed.
"Peter?" Her voice sounded raw.
He didn't move. Didn't know if he had the strength for what was about to happen.
"Look at me."
And that was all it took. Really, he thought he'd last longer. The heavy weight he had been carrying for so long began to roll right off. His shoulders slumped, head bowed, and he turned to face the woman who raised him.
It was like she was seeing him for the first time.
"Oh, Peter." She was clearly up all night. "No, no, no no no." Her hands covered her face. Peter saw his first-aid kit open beside her. I was supposed to stock up on supplies--
"Aunt May?" His voice cracked. No answer. Screw it. He started to tip-toe towards her, his shadow stretching across the floor in light streaming in from the hallway. She let out a hoarse sob.
Peter felt like his heart shattered right then. He was ashamed, sorry, relieved, and terrified all at once, yet he couldn't fully process any of it. He slowly sat next to her on his bed, mattress creaking, mask still dangling from his hands.
Neither of them spoke.
They sat, May crying while Peter felt tears of his own begin to streak his cheeks. They were quiet long enough that he began to wonder if she would say anything at all. She did, though.
Sitting up straight beside him, hands finding their place on her knees, she sniffed, then sighed equally as loud.
Her voice came out steadier than she thought it would.
"Why, Peter?" She turned to look at him. "How? You're out there, what, every night?" Amazingly, she kept her voice steady.
And the guilt he always carried set in once again. He looked her in the eyes, owing her that much. That's how she raised him after all.
"Aunt May, I can explain--"
"Yes, please do explain why you are dressed up and risking your life every night! I would love to hear it."
Okay, so maybe she was letting her fear come out as anger.
Peter's eyes flitted towards the door.
"I can explain. Something weird happened to me, and suddenly I had these abilities, and I--"
"Stop." She raised her voice.
And he did. He started crying again, though.
"Peter, I've watched you almost die on our TV. You have sat next to me and watched yourself get... blown up on the news! And thrown through buildings for Christ's sake!"
With each word he seemed to shrink in on himself more and more.
"I couldn't tell you." His voice came out small.
She heaved out a breath, "Why not? Why didn't you tell me?" She was angry, yes, but she was scared.
"Because--"
"Because why?
"Because I knew you'd do this!" He screamed, mask squeezing brutally between his clenched fists. "I knew you'd act like this. When I got these powers, I knew I had to do something with them without you trying to stop me!"
For the first time that night, she let him speak.
His voice quieted. "I have to help people. It's what I'm supposed to do." He looked down at the mask in his hands.
May took sight of the bruises on his face for the first time and something inside her crumbled. This was her boy, her son, beaten and carrying a bigger responsibility than she could ever imagine. He's just a child.
She reached out to run a hand through his sweat-dried hair, then pulled him close. He seemed to melt in her embrace, arms circling around her. Her face contorted in an effort not to cry harder. She breathed him in, city and sweat and something like sulfur. Her kid, a city's savior. A hero.
When she spoke again, it was a whisper.
"I can't lose you. Not you, Peter."
"You won't," His response was immediate. "I promise."
But she did.
Even with all the precautions Tony took to make sure Peter was safe, even with the curfew they both set for him, with her never quite sleeping peacefully until she knew he was home safe, with her and Peter being closer than ever, she lost him.
On what was as normal as a day could get in the city, May watched as a ship descended on Manhattan.
She held her breath as it left the planet.
Amidst the wreckage, she must have called Peter over a hundred times.
And when half of the world suddenly vanished, Peter never came back from his field trip.