Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As the final prayers were read, rain swept across the small cemetery. A grizzly, rotting sort of rain that turned the whole world grey and whose wetness ate away at you. Peter’s jacket had long since soaked through and the black fabric was plastered against him like a second skin, a coat of grief he could never take off he thought ruefully. It was his funeral suit. A little big at Uncle Ben’s, still too long in the sleeve at Mrs Garcia’s, and now sitting snug across his shoulders as Peter mourned the last of his family.

The small congregation muttered their ‘amens’ as Peter slipped his thumb under the saturated sleeve to trace the edge of Ben’s old watch. Holding his breath, Peter pressed into the nicks and scratches, hoping the familiar indentations would ground him, give him something to focus on apart from the uncontrollable trembling of his jaw and the yawning pit of guilt in his stomach. Peter wished he could get a finger underneath, to the engraving, but the watch had been too big so he and May had worked an extra hole into the strap last year. Now it was too tight, pressing in uncomfortably. May had kept saying they would add a middle hole, but they never got round to it. Next weekend she would always say but now it was Sunday, and they would never have another weekend to waste away together. May was dead. May, who had raised him since his parents passed. May, who had held him in the wake of Ben’s murder. May, who always brought him ice-cream, who salvaged computer parts, who performed goofy dances from MTV. May, who had made him smile again when the nights got a little too dark. May, May, May. May, who was lying dead in the casket, whose body had been so wreaked by the crash they wouldn’t show her face, who was his only home in the world.

A gentle nudge brought him back and he turned his tear-stained face to Charles who stood resolutely beside him. With an encouraging hand on his shoulder, Peter stepped forwards and solemnly took the white strap he was offered and sedately lowered the mahogany coffin. He tried not to look, fixing his gaze instead upon the northeast corner where he knew Ben lay under the half-finished headstone. A lifetime was not long enough and an empty space where May’s name should have been carved. Amongst the endless graves, Peter couldn’t quite tell which he was seeking but for each agonizing centimeter of the coffin’s descent he turned to his uncle, sending out a silent apology that he had failed him once again.

The weight settled and Peter forced himself to turn to May’s memorial. Fiancée and carer to all. He had wanted to put ‘aunt’ but Charles had said it wouldn’t fit. It didn’t seem strong enough anyway.

He felt cold. It was worse than the numbness which had followed him for a week and as Peter took a handful of soil, there was a chill running across his senses and an uncanny sense that everything had taken a turn for the worse.

The rest of the funeral past in a blur of faces and crowds of people who were not May and deep breaths that never seemed to get any easier. Suddenly Peter found himself back in their apartment, the door shutting behind him with a sigh. The trance he had felt himself in all afternoon seemed to break and the eerie detachment retreated. Peter’s heightened senses were flooded with the noise of sirens, the squeak of the subway, and the hubbub of life going on without them. Charles let out a deep sigh and all the strength seemed to drain out of him as he sank against the closed door. He had been so solid, taking over all the legal and logistical decisions in the wake of May’s car crash only a week ago. Only a week? It felt like it had been forever and now, back in the apartment, her death felt stranger than ever. As if she wasn’t gone, only absent, as if she might reappear in the room any moment, open the door with an overflowing grocery bag and a sing song greeting.

‘I guess it’s just you and me now, son’, Charles gruff voice broke Peter’s revere. He was sat with his head in his hands, black tie loosened, and the graveyard mud drying on his shoes. Peter shifted uncomfortably. It was hardly the first time his guardian had changed in his short fourteen years but for the first time he was left with someone he didn’t truly consider family. He’d only met Charles three months ago when May had brought her mysterious new boyfriend round for dinner. Ben had been dead for a little over a year when they met but for the first time May was smiling again and so Peter had sat down for dinner and tried to accept that while he could still feel Ben’s heartbeat faltering under his desperate hands, May had grieved, had moved on.

‘I guess so, sir’, Peter replied not know what else to say. Charles had always insisted on formal address but now it just seemed to emphasis the distance between them. He was living with a stranger, a man who had only recently started staying over with them and who was nothing to Peter, except his guardian.

The silence stretched between them.

Peter started to fidget. He’d never like the cold but with the development of his powers he had noticed his temperature tended to plummet fast. Still stood in his soaked through suit, Peter could feel the chill setting in. Not knowing if he should say something to Charles, Peter decided a silent retreat was the best thing; he turned towards his room, shrugging out of the waterlogged jacket. However, he had only taken a couple of steps when his new guardian spoke again.

‘Where are you going?’ Charles asked bluntly.

‘Just to change out of these clothes, sir,’ he explained.

‘Hold on,’ the older man stood, ‘I thought we should have dinner together, in the suits, as an act of respect.’ He made his way towards the kitchen and opened the fridge where several condolence casseroles were waiting. ‘Come on, sit down and I’ll warm something up.’

A little non-plussed Peter made his way to the couch, slinging his jacket across the arm.

‘No,’ Charles called from the kitchen, ‘we’ll sit at the table, like a family. Show some respect Pete and put your jacket back on.’

The last sentence was snapped at him and Peter felt suitably cowed, his cheeks flushing red at Charles’ insinuation. He hadn’t meant any disrespect, but May and he had always eaten on the couch, watching movies, or chatting about their days. It was their place. The rickety little table had hardly ever been used but Peter understood what Charles meant so he stood and picked up the jacket. As he squeezed it small droplets formed around his hand.

‘Um… Charles’ Peter began.

‘Sir,’ he corrected from the kitchen.

‘Right, sir,’ Peter corrected uncertainly, realizing he had never really had occasion to address the man directly. Before he would go through May and, in the five days since the crash, he had asked vague questions to the room at large, but now, as the man maneuvered about the kitchen, the ambiguity of their relationship struck Peter in full force. ‘My jacket is still pretty wet and I’m getting kinda cold so I’ll just grab a sweater.’

‘No,’ Charles declared again. ‘Honestly,’ he started the microwave and moved across the room to take Peter by the shoulder and propel him, sodden jacket in hand, towards the table, ‘all I’m asking is for us to sit together and eat as we grieve, like a family.’ Peter found himself pushed a little forcefully down into a chair and pinned by Charles’ icy blue eyes until he slipped his arms back into the sleeves of his jacket which were practically sealed together in their dampness. There was something strange about his stare. As Peter looked up at the man he felt truly like a child looking at someone far older and bigger than he was. His spidey sense tingled.

But then the microwaved pinged and the moment had passed. His guardian plated up two portions of stew and grabbed a beer, placing it all on the table between them. Peter stood to get himself a glass of water, but Charles placed a hand on his wrist.

‘Just sit still and eat,’ he stated in a tone of voice that left no room for reply.

And so they sat together in silence in the small kitchen decorated by a woman who was never coming back and ate lukewarm casserole in sodden suits as Peter grew colder by the moment.

He picked at his food and tried to ignore the oppressive silence that had settled between them by mentally solving the expulsion issues on the web shooters he was designing; maybe a motorized set of spinners would help stabilize the web flow…

He didn’t feel full but the second he had finished, Peter jumped up, took the dishes and started to wash up, eager to get to his room and implement his new ideas. But mid way through rinsing his plate, Peter was distracted from the dishwater by a small sob. He knew that without his powers he would never have caught the slight catch in Charles breath and, for a moment, he considered ignoring it. But a second sob broke through and Peter felt tears coming to his own eyes. He glared resolutely at the wall trying to ignore the quiver of his own jaw. Another sob sounded and, not knowing what else to do but his heart breaking for the older man, Peter turned and placed his own trembling hand on Charles shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Peter tried to say but it came out more as two great shuddering breaths. To his surprise Charles reached up and placed his own rough hand over Peter’s and squeezed gently.

‘Me too, Pete, me too.’

And without really knowing how it happened Peter found himself wrapped up in a hug. It was a little gruff, and a little awkward, but it was the first time since May’s death that he had been held. So Peter wrapped his arms around his guardian and allowed himself to weep.

‘I miss her so much,’ he said into Charles suited shoulder. He received a comforting rub on the back and then was pushed back to arm’s length so he could meet Charles’ pinched gaze.

‘She wanted us to be a family, Pete, so we’ve got to stick together. Not matter what, right?’ Peter nodded emphatically. ‘We can’t let anyone tear us apart, for May.’

‘For May,’ he repeated solemnly. Charles released Peter and roughly wiped his own eyes.

‘Now, why don’t you grab me another beer and we’ll find some old movie to watch, just like if she was here?’

Charles settled on the couch and flicked through the channels, pausing on a Jurassic Park marathon. Peter fetched the beer, thinking longingly of last weekend (only last weekend?). He and May had thrown pop-corn at each other as 10 Things I Hate About You played in the background, sunlight had flooded through the window and the sound of Mr Garcia's guitar could be heard. Charles hadn’t been there. It was the last time Peter could remember being happy.

One beer morphed into three, then to five. By the time the third film concluded it was nearing midnight and empty bottles littered the small coffee table. Charles was gently snoring, and Peter sat next to him, trapped by the man’s arm round his shoulders. The titles started rolling so Peter switched the screen off, sliding out. He looked down, pondering what to do. Charles' neck was lolling uncomfortably over the back of the couch and he was still in his suit (both having long since dried but remaining stiff and crusty). He couldn’t leave the man there all night.

‘Charles,’ Peter said, surreptitiously shaking his shoulder. No response. ‘Charles,’ he tried a little harder. Still nothing but a slight hitch in the man’s steady breathing. Knowing his strength would easily allow him to transfer the larger man, Peter pulled him forwards by the lapels, kneeling to get his own shoulders underneath, preparing to lift.

The leaning motion, however, seemed to have overcome the stupor and Charles jerked awake, pushing Peter hard. Not expecting this, he fell back, cracking his cheekbone against the side of the table.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Charles challenged loudly, his words slurring together.

‘I was just helping you to bed,’ Peter replied still on the floor. He felt tenderly at his face and was surprised to see his fingers came away red.

‘Sir,’ a stern voice cut across his analysis. Confused, Peter got to his feet.

‘Huh?’

‘I’ve told you before, son. You call me ‘sir’,’ and Peter was surprised to find himself pushed roughly by the shoulders. Startled in the small space, Peter managed to trip over his own feet and went down on the couch. He felt anger bubble up. Why was he being pushed around? He was only trying to help. But looking up once more, Peter could see the confusion on Charles face and, as the older man rubbed his hair and mumbled under his breath, Peter’s heart went out to him. He had woken up a little drunk in an apartment he didn’t really know, to a boy he was now duty bound to raise manhandling him, no wonder he had lashed out.

‘Yes, sir,’ Peter replied meekly. He got up slowly with his hands outstretched. ‘Can I help you to bed, sir?’ He asked gently.

‘I’m not a child!’ Charles snapped, surprising Peter with the vitriol behind his words. ‘Get out of here.’

Peter backed up towards his bedroom, his heart thumping, adrenaline spiking in reaction to the confrontation. Charles was now ignoring him, clumsily trying to clear up the bottles. One fell, smashing on the floor and sending small bits of glass everywhere. All the life seemed to go out of him. Charles sank to the floor, wrenching off his tie, and reaching for the small, framed picture of May that sat on the glass top. His fingers whitened with the tightness of his grip and once more Peter watched the man fall apart. Great, heaving sobs rose from him as Charles mumbled inarticulately from his position hunched over on the floor.

Unable to help himself, Peter stayed; he’d never seen tears like this, never seen such direct suffering from an adult in his life, not even from May. In the weeks after Ben’s death, when sirens threatened to send Peter into a panic attack, May had always managed to give him a façade of stability. She would smile with eyes a little too bright and package the pain away for when she though Peter couldn’t hear her. But as Charles broke apart before him, all Peter wanted to do was to help, to find some way of giving him an outlet for his grief, to make up for the death that was his fault. He took a small step forward.

Charles’ eyes snapped up, red-rimmed and vicious.

Only his precognition gave Peter any warning, but he instinctively stepped to the side as the wooden edge of the frame embedded itself in the wall here his head had just been. The picture of May shattered on impact.

‘I said, get out.’ Charles staggered to his feet, taking up a bottle in his now empty hands. Peter fled.

He locked his door behind him and started pacing, wringing his fingers together as he sought an outlet for his amped up energy. He didn’t mean it, Peter rationalized as his heart pounded against his rib cage. He’s just grieving and needs space, needs space from me. As he spiraled, Peter could hear Charles shifting around the living room. He tried taking some deep breaths, wishing May was there to copy, but she wasn’t, she never would be. Unable to escape the hole of grief, Peter turned to his closet, resolving to try to make amends, to rebalance the world.

He was halfway through pulling up his blue sweatpants when he heard Charles lumbering towards his room. As the door handle rattled, Peter froze, his heart thundering so hard he could hear it in his ears.

‘Peter,’ Charles’ groggy voice called out.

Peter didn’t reply. He could still feel the blood clotting on his cheek.

The door stopped moving but he could still see the looming shadow in the gap. A weighty breath huffed out, but neither boy nor man spoke.

‘I’m sorry Peter,’ this came almost as a whisper that Peter nearly missed thanks to his own racing breath. As quietly as he could, Peter slipped the blue pants up and secured the drawstring before tip toeing towards the door.

‘I just miss her so damn much.’ It felt private, like a confession Peter was never supposed to have heard and, in that whispered confidence, Peter felt all his fear drain away. Charles wasn’t trying to hurt him, he was lashing out at a world that had taken his future away, and (although he didn’t know it) at the boy who had let it happen.

‘It’s okay,’ he breathed back, wiping the blood off his face with his cuff, ‘we’re a family.’

He didn’t know if Charles heard but Peter watched the shadow move off and a second later heard May’s bedroom door close; Charles’ door now he corrected himself.

Peter counted slowly to a hundred then slipped out his window and crept up to the roof. His adrenaline had faded but, in its place, an iron resolution formed. He thought of Ben, bleeding out under his inadequate fingers; he thought of May, mangled in a crash he caused; he thought of Charles, sobbing in his bedroom over a life Peter had shattered. All of them, all of their suffering, your fault. As he pulled down his mask, Ben’s words echoed back to him. He had a duty to protect the people however he could. In that moment, on a drizzly rooftop in Queens in the middle of September, Peter vowed to himself that he would do whatever was within his powers to prevent more suffering. He was responsible for so much pain in the world but no more; from now on, he swore to himself that he would put away Peter Parker, the boy who cost his loved ones everything, put away himself, and become whatever others needed. A helping hand, a savior, a support, and, if that is what was needed of him, an outlet for an indescribable grief. He would give as much as he had taken from the world.

And with that thought he ran off into the night.

Chapter Text

It was nearly three am before Peter crept back through his bedroom window. He listened carefully for the steady snoring before sliding his squeaky window closed. Though his ribs were black and blue, Peter couldn’t help but smile, his heart full with a sense of accomplishment.

After pulling off his uniform and storing it safely in the old shoebox at the back of his closet, Peter took a second to assess the damage. The mirror showed two strips of bruising across his back and a collection of bruises on his side that were distinctly foot shaped. Honestly, not too bad after preventing six violent muggings, two drug deals, and one guy with a knife who Peter was sure had been out to straight up murder the man he’d been following. Peter tried a couple of experimental stretches, twisting his back then probing the marks. A couple of deep breaths completed his self-examination and he decisively concluded that nothing was broken (at least anymore) and was sure that most of the bruising would have faded by school… in just four and a half hours!

He must have lost track of time, Peter berated himself as he flopped into bed. However, despite knowing there was a French quiz he hadn’t studied for, despite the bruises and inevitable fatigue, the young hero grinned to himself as sleep took him. For the first time since the crash, he felt a sense of control.

*******************
As he expected most of the bruising had vanished by the time Peter was dressing the next morning. Tentatively, he ventured out into the living room. It was as if he had time travelled. No sign of last night’s disaster remained; the shattered glass was gone, the half-washed dishes tidied away, even the fallen plasterboard had been swept up. The only sign that the violence of the night before was anything more than a figment of Peter’s imagination was the empty spot of the coffee table where May’s picture used to sit. Peter felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

A scuffle from the room down the hall spurred Peter into action. He scampered across the room, grabbed a banana, and hightailed it out of the apartment.

Arriving at school was strange. It was his first day back since May’s death and normalcy of it all was sickening. Everything seemed dull or muted as Peter wove through the other students and a sense of complete detachment hung over him until he found himself approaching his locker. Ned was waiting. The shorter boy engulfed Peter in a hug the second he was within range, squeezing him as tight as he could.

In spite of the other students, Peter tucked his head against Ned’s shoulder, screwed up his eyes, and took comfort from his best friend. Not a word was said but the physical comfort offered more than any platitude. Their reunion, however, was abruptly ended as they boys found themselves roughly shoulder checked, sending Ned stumbling sideways into the locker.

‘Hey,’ cried Ned indignantly, rubbing at his shoulder. Peter, who had managed to keep his footing, stared resolutely at the floor, knowing what was coming next.

‘What’s up, Penis Parker?’ Flash’s jeering voice came. ‘Killed another one of your guardians?’ he taunted, his mouth twisting into a cruel smirk.

‘Shut up,’ shot back Ned, taking a step forward. His defense was met with Flash’s scornful laughter. Ned shot a glance at Peter, noting his downcast eyes and the way his best friend was pressing his thumbnail into his first finger as if he were actually trying to burrow into himself. Ned’s hands balled into fists.

‘What are you going to do, Leeds? Fight me. You’d be out of breath by the time you lifted your fist,’ Flash glanced at his cronies, basking in their sycophantic guffaws. But this time he’d gone too far, and Flash found his attention immediately snapping back to his victims as Peter got up in his face. He could take Flash belittling him, keeping to his own promise of only using his powers in the defense of others, but the moment he turned his derision against Ned, Peter would put a stop to it.

‘Well look at this, boys,’ Flash mocked, ‘Penis is standing up for his boyfriend.’ As he completed the double entendre, Flash pushed Peter back hard and the young vigilante allowed himself pitch back as if the other teen’s attack had held real strength. ‘Careful Leeds, he’s run out of parents, the next ones dead will be his friends.’

His words hit harder than any of the feeble shoves and Peter felt a physical sickness settling in his stomach. Panicked, he glanced at Ned. Would he be next? Despite Ned’s eyeroll, Peter felt his breath speeding up. Flash was right, everyone close to him died, and they had each been his fault. The lights seem to flare, and Peter’s heightened senses dialed to the max; he could hear each squeak of the shoes against the linoleum as some sped away from the situation, every numbered breath gulped down by the forming crowd, each resounding tick of the clock counting down to Ned’s death. Everything at the utmost volume and Peter felt sure he would vibrate with scale of it all.

A locker slammed across the hallway. It deafened him. Yet the crowd jumped too, many scurrying off as a casual voice called out.

‘Oh Flash,’ it sighed, ‘you should check in with that petri dish from bio, pretty sure it is growing a personality faster than you.’ MJ sauntered across the hall, sketch book open and resting on her arm as she scribbled an outline. ‘I’m thinking of doing a series. ‘Flash in the Pan’, the boy left behind. I’m going to start it with the one I did when you wet yourself in sixth grade.’

Flash looked like he might implode, but MJ's words had broken the spell and the crowd was now chuckling as it dispersed. He had lost the moment. With a vitriolic look back at Peter, Flash headed off down the hall. He was clearly trying to saunter but, in effect, was simply speeding away from the snarky artist. The girl in question crossed over to the two boys who remained silent. Ned from what he liked to tell himself was awe, but he truly knew to be fear; Peter however, was still lost in his senses, struggling to get a reign on a proportional sense of reality. In her cool, appraising way, MJ noted this all.

‘What up dorks?’ she said quietly, gently ruffling Peter’s hair. Ned’s eyes looked ready to bulge out of his skull but, with the contact, Peter finally let out a long steading breath. Grounded by the touch, he found himself able to filter out the extraneous stimuli and focus on the deep chocolate of her eyes and the steady sound of her heartbeat. ‘You two coming to decathlon tonight?’

‘Um, yes?’ Ned stuttered back.

‘Nerds.’ She shot back. ‘Well, I’m off to English. Nothing like Harper Lee to bring despair to the faces of middle America.’ Rocking back on her heels, MJ hesitated, then turned square to Peter. ‘I’m really sorry about your aunt, Peter.’

Her sincerity was slightly shocking, and Peter felt his cheeks flush as she placed her hand on his arm. He looked down and shrugged as if it were no big deal, as if his world hadn’t been tipped off its axis, as if it was this was the first time it had happened. He felt the lump in his throat form again. But then the bell was ringing and Ned tugged his arm, moving the pair down the corridor towards their history class and away from MJ.

The rest of the morning sped by and, as predicted, Peter felt the fatigue catch up to him as he tried to conjugate perdre in the French test. Lunch came, seeing Ned and Peter take their usual table in the corner; MJ was already settled a couple of seats over, book in hand. However, rather than her usual cool indifference, as the boys sat down she slid a piece of paper across to them. Ned eyed it carefully as if it might explode but Peter reached out and flipped it over. It was a quick but detailed sketch of a boy holding a book upside down, scratching his head in confusion, labeled as #3. It was clearly Flash Thompson. Peter gave the artist a small quirk of the lips, as if he had actually been hurt that morning and appreciated reprisal.

‘Dude!’ Ned exclaimed, peaking over Peter’s shoulder. Now he was sure the paper was in no way poisoned, he took the drawing from his friend, chuckling as he examined the details – it really was an uncanny likeness. ‘This is awesome.’

‘You’re a really good artist,’ Peter confirmed. With the appearance of complete ease, MJ took the pencil from behind her ear, tucked it into the book, and slid over so she was directly opposite the boys.

‘That’s what happens when you practice,’ she responded serenely, but both boys could see the smile she was trying to repress. There was a moment of awkward silence before Ned leapt into his predictions for The Last Jedi, Peter smiled indulgently at his best friend’s antics and MJ sporadically pointed out his logical failings. Peter wasn’t happy, but as he tried to sort through the whirling emotions, he concluded that he wasn’t sad.

After lunch all three wandered to Chemistry together and, to both boys’ surprise, MJ took the seat in front of them at the lab, continuing to chat until Mr. Harrington arrived. They were doing spherification and Peter smiled to himself, playing around with pH would give him the perfect chance to experience with some different catalysts for his web-shooters. Last night he had theorized that alpha-helices might increase the tensile strength, but he needed something more acidic. They passed a happy hour. Ned dropping watermelon juice into a number of different solutions, delighted at the gel balls which formed, and Peter siphoning acid off into a small test-tube in the side pocket of his backpack.

The lesson, however, was called to an end ten minutes early. Once they had all cleared away their stations (held up slightly by the gelatinous substance lining the sides of all Charlie Murphy’s equipment), Mr Harrington began his presentation.

‘Well class,’ he started, nearly vibrating with excitement, ‘an incredible opportunity has opened up for students with a passion for science and engineering.’ Half the class already began to switch off. Last time their teacher had been this excited all he had announced was a volunteering scheme with the city’s refuge department, learning about waste disposal. Jennifer Hardesty, in the year above, had signed up and (even a year later) was known around the school as Junky.

‘Now in order to apply,’ he continued undeterred, ‘each student will need to create a proposal to the theme of Exponentiality which will be judged and the ten best candidates will be invited to partake in the internship program which will run several times a week. After six weeks you will be expected to have a working prototype of your design so remember to be realistic in your ambition. I would suggest that there will be an emphasis on sustainability and innovation so bare that in mind,’ Peter underlined the words in his note book but he was one of the few actually paying attention. He met Mr Harrington’s eye and to his surprise his teacher winked. ‘The internship will take place at Stark Industries.’ The change in atmosphere was palpable, it was as if an electric current had run through the room. Glazed eyes did a double take, slumped spines jumped to attention, and slack jaws dropped in awe. Ned nearly toppled off his stool in excitement. ‘And will be supervised by Mr Stark himself.’ Here, Mr Harrington allowed himself a grin, clearly enjoying the reaction of his class.

‘Now,’ he placated, ‘this opportunity is open to any applicant aged between fourteen and twenty so don’t be disappointed if you don’t make the program. The process of application will be incredibly valuable regardless. That being said, there are some brilliant minds in this room and I see no reason that any one of you would not be selected with an inventive and practical proposal.’

MJ looked back at the boys and then shot a pointed look over to Murphy who had bitten his pen in excitement and now was trying to scrape ink off his tongue. She rolled her eyes and both boys smothered laughs.

‘Applications close in two weeks and the forms are on my desk. You are all free to go,’ Mr Harrington concluded his announcement. There was flurry of action as every student seemed to lunge for the desk. Ned was among the fray too, pulling Peter by the arm and reaching into the tussle. He pulled back, two slightly rumpled forms clutched in his fist.

‘How cool is this?!’ he exclaimed, proffering the paper to Peter. ‘Mr Stark,’ he nearly squeaked. ‘Ironman!’ His excitement was infectious, and Peter felt his smile stretch wider across his face.

‘Ironman,’ he agreed heartily, beaming as they left the classroom. ‘Are you going to apply?’ he enquired of MJ.

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I volunteer at this bookshop downtown, wouldn’t have time for it.’ Both boys goggled at her, unable to comprehend how a bookshop could be more appealing that the Stark Internship.

‘But “exponentiality” though, what do you think that means?’ Ned worried.

‘I don’t know, I read this paper that SI put out last month about lasers and antimatter. They’ve created these microstructures that actually allow them to mass produce positrons!’

‘Dude, just think what that would mean for high density science -’

‘I know! Black holes, gamma-ray bursts -’

‘The mechanism of relativistic pair shocks!’ And the pair continued fan-boy all the way to Geography, their final period of the day, as MJ peeled off for Art.

When class let out the two boys picked their discussion up right where they had left off, skipping decathlon to spend several hours coming up with ideas for project pitches and raving about Stark Industries. It was the longest peter had gone without thinking about May since she had died.

*******************
It was after seven when Peter arrived home, still buzzing from his conversation, the application form burning a hole in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to get started. As he slipped his key into the apartment lock, Peter was tossing up a biotech pitch versus a CFC capture project, and didn’t even notice that the door was already unlocked.

Charles was sitting on the small couch. The living room was dark, lit only with the blueish glow emanating from the phone on the tabletop, giving the room an unsettling, alien quality. It was clear he had been waiting for some time. An empty plate and a beer bottle were sitting on the counter but there was something in Charles’ posture that suggested to Peter that this hadn’t been his guardian’s only drink of the evening.

From the moment the door had swung open, Peter had found himself pinned under Charles’ black gaze. He had dark circles under his eyes and his hair was in disarray, as if he had been running his hands through it for several hour. Realizing he was still hovering in the threshold, Peter stepped into the room.

‘Hi, sir,’ he ventured uncertainly, wondering whether he would be able to go straight to his room.

There was a pause. A horrific and stretching pause that gave Peter goosebumps and made it clear that the tension between them hadn’t been cleared away as easily as the glass and plasterboard.

‘Finally decided to come home, did you?’ were Charles’ first, gravelly words. He didn’t move from the couch but the tenor of his voice held Peter in place as surely as if it had been his hands.

‘Uh, well, you see sir, there was this big announcement at school, this STEM internship, that sounds really exciting and then I, well, Ned and I actually, we stayed a little later to talk about projects, because you have to build a prototype, I mean if you get it, you only have to have a pitch for the application, but it’s just so open that we thought...,’ here Peter’s rambling tailed off. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’ He concluded.

Charles stood and, with his enhanced eyesight, Peter could see each speck of dust drifting around him. Unsettled.

‘I called you,’ Charles challenged.

‘I didn’t check my phone, sir,’ Peter said but it felt like a guess, like Charles had already had the conversation before he arrived and they were only now acting it out to arrive at the foregone conclusion.

‘That’s not good enough, boy,’ Charles proceeded through his script. ‘There are rules in this house, you know that, even when May was alive.’ Peter swallowed drily. This was true, May had always insisted he text if he was going to be late but he hadn’t even thought about Charles. In truth, he wasn’t even sure he had the man’s number.

‘I know,’ he said contritely.

‘Rules that need to be enforced,’ the older man continued with no acknowledgement of his admission. ‘Now what are we going to do about you breaking these rules?’ But he offered no answer.

‘I could give you my phone for the night,’ Peter proffered to fill the silence. It was fair he supposed.

‘For a start,’ Charles agreed, ‘but I think you are going to need something more to learn respect. You’re a teenage boy, Peter. I know what that was like, pushing the limits, testing your control.’

‘I didn’t,’ Peter started to protest that he had been trying nothing of the sort, that he had simply lost track of time with his best friend, simply got caught up in the first sensation that wasn’t grief.

‘Don’t argue with me, boy,’ Charles cut across him loudly, taking hold of Peter’s shoulders and shaking violently. He shoved his charge back into the wall, causing Peter to strike his head. Shame my powers don’t stop pain, he thought ruefully as he winced through the stabbing sensation radiating from the back of his skull. Charles threaded his fingers among Peter’s brunette curls almost delicately, but rather than reassuring the boy, Peter felt his spidey sense firing and wished he had a way to duck out of the embrace. Next second, however, Charles had clenched his fist, pulling hard at Peter’s hair, then tossed him to the floor. Peter landed awkwardly on his arm and was half a move away from flipping back to his feet when his own promise came whispering back to him. Whatever he needs, he thought to himself.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he murmured. Charles stood over him, breathing heavily and looking a little manic.

‘Good boy,’ sighed Charles, crouching by his side. ‘You can’t push me, Peter.’ He picked up the boy’s backpack from where it had fallen and handed it over. Peter clutched it to his chest, almost as if it would offer some sort of wall between him and his guardian, a replacement for the powers he had vowed not to use.

‘I'm supposed to take care of you.' He paused to consider his words, continuing quietly, 'I just need to know where you are Peter. You’re all I have left of her.’ Charles stood, turning away from the boy on the floor. ‘You won’t be getting any dinner tonight and you’ll get your phone back in the morning.’ With that he returned to the couch, turning on the TV and watching the rerun of an old football game.

Standing, Peter gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, telling himself that it would be healed within the hour. He thinks he’s helping you, he lost her too, he recited to himself as a mantra, but that didn’t help the resentment he felt rising inside of him. He tightened his grip around his backpack and headed to his room, using all of his will power not to slam the door.

Peter snapped the lock into place, a small act of defiance against the man who was taking over his life, then threw the bag on to his bed with more than human force. Several deep breaths later, he retrieved the internship form and a pen, heading over to his desk.

He smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper and stared down at it. The SI logo stood out in the top right-hand corner and Peter proudly wrote his name, in block capitals, next to APPLICANT NAME. As he made his way through the basic information, Peter felt a rush of sadness that Charles hadn’t even asked him anything about the internship. May would have asked. Stop comparing them, Peter berated himself harshly, May can’t ask because you killed her. Because he had gotten stuck downtown and asked her to pick him up, because he knew May would come and get him whatever the weather, because Peter had asked her to drive in a storm. Because Peter had asked, and May had ended up torn apart on the side of the Long Island Expressway, because of him. And he felt his anger against the man in the next room fade away. Of course he was worried about Peter when he didn’t show up on time, of course he didn’t know how to assert his authority over a boy he had never meant to inherit.

Peter felt drained and unfathomably guilty; slumped at his desk he continued to fill out the form; yet, when he got to his emergency contact, habit had him writing May Parker, and Peter couldn’t bring himself to cross her out.

He didn’t go out as Spiderman that night. He sat in his room, stomach grumbling quietly, staring at May’s name illuminated by the lamplight, wondering how she could possibly have gone from his guardian to a mistake in a week.

Chapter Text

The next school day passed in a similar manner, but everyone was a buzz with the news of the Stark Internship. MJ, who apparently would be a fixture with the boys from now on, told them at lunch that even James Hapgood’s older brother (now in his first year at college) was going to apply. In every lesson, at least one student could be spied sketching out designs for impossible mechanics or implausible formulas.

As the final bell rung, Peter was surprised to see Principle Morita waiting by his locker. In the few weeks he had actually been a high school student, Peter had found the man to be fair and charismatic. He couldn’t, however, help the pit of dread that opened in his stomach at seeing the head of the school clearly waiting for him. While a good student, Peter was hardly without his secrets. Ned gave him a sympathetic glance as he was led away to the principal’s office, hands sweating and feeling more nervous than when he interrupted a gun fight.

‘Take a seat, Mr Parker,’ Morita’s instructed kindly. Peter complied, in his adrenaline skyrocketing, enhanced senses ticking into overdrive; he was hyper aware of the smell of fresh ink and the out of sync ticking of the principal’s watch and office clock.

‘You’ve had a tough start to high school Peter, there’s no two ways about it,’ the man continued in a business-like tone that Peter appreciated. He’d had enough of the soft condolences of virtual strangers. ‘That being said you seem to be doing well academically but I want to bring you in and touch base. How are you?’ He asked the question so emphatically that Peter almost rolled his eyes.

Grieving. ‘I’m fine, sir,’ he responded aloud, with a small shrug.

‘Good lad,’ affirmed the teacher. ‘But I want you to know that no-one expects you to bounce back immediately. We have a school counselor -’

‘I’m really okay, sir, I’m bouncing fine,’ Peter interrupted wryly. He felt a little guilty at his tone but he didn’t need therapy to tell him what was wrong.

‘Well, okay,’ Morita said confidently but Peter could see from the tension in his principle’s shoulders that he wasn’t fully convinced. ‘And how are you doing academically? Signed up for decathlon I see, you might be one for this new Stark Internship.’

Leaping on the chance not to talk about his aunt, and wanting to support the man’s attempts at bonding, Peter jumped in.

‘Yeah, I thought I’d give it a go, I mean I’ll try,’ he caveated, a bit embarrassed.

‘Good for you,’ Principal Morita enthused. ‘Any ideas for your pitch yet?’

Morita kept him talking for around half an hour and, by the time he ushered Peter out, the teen found himself genuinely feeling better. Together they had decided that exponentiality could be related to application, impact, or even implication; as the principal had joked ‘so long as you can defend it, I don’t see why you couldn’t do it.’

However, as Peter made it home he was starting to sweat. Would Charles be there yet? It was only three thirty, surely he would still be at the office? But he had been given compassionate leave and so was working irregular hours... Peter couldn’t really explain the dread he felt upon opening the door, nor the relief that flooded him as he found the interior deserted.

Cheerfully, he slung his bag down by the shoes and headed to the kitchen, air fighting pretend opponents as he crossed the space and humming I’ll Make A Man Out Of You. He sprang up on to the counter, landing crouched on his tiptoes as close to the edge as he could. He ended up in front of the cabinet (by way of the ceiling) and was filling a glass with orange juice when he heard a door open and his heart stop.

Charles shuffled around the corner, clearly still in his pajamas. Peter was thanking his lucky stars that he was safely on the ground and giving all the appearance of being a completely normal, non-superpowered teen.

‘You were late again,’ was the greeting.

‘I know sir, and I’m so sorry but Principal Morita wanted to talk to me. You can call the school and check, sir.’

‘I believe you, Pete,’ he said sincerely, ‘but we talked about the rules yesterday and you didn’t even text.’ The orange juice felt like acid in Peter’s stomach. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t think there was anything he could say, and braced himself for whatever Charles was going to throw at him.

But nothing happened.

‘I’m going to need you to go to your room Pete,’ Charles continued reasonably, ‘and stay there. Like we established yesterday, if you are late home, you don’t get dinner.’ Peter’s body was thrumming for a fight it wasn’t going to get and the teen felt genuinely repentant. How difficult would a text have been?

‘Yes, sir, you’re right,’ he replied, setting the glass of juice back in the fridge.

‘Don’t be silly, Pete, you can take the juice,’ said Charles, crossing the room to hand the glass back. He smoothed Peter’s curls down. ‘Thanks for understanding, it’s easier when we get along.’ Moving past Peter, the older man started rifling through the fridge for ingredients, gently nudging Peter towards his room.

He left without complaint, acknowledging his punishment as fair, and appreciating the calm boundaries being founded between the two of them. Stupid, selfish he scolded, he's trying to take care of you; his hands were clenched so his thumb was pressing into the side of his first finger and, in his frustration at himself, Peter had forgotten to check his strength so small half moons of blood were being brought forth.

With his isolation as a punishment, Peter doubted Charles would be coming to check on him so, he retrieved yesterday’s acid from his backpack, pulled his science equipment from under his bed, and got to work. Within an hour he had confirmed that the more acidic catalyst was helping to form tighter spirals in the peptide chain so loaded his web shooters with the new formula and, with a guilty look back at the door, slipped on to the fire escape in full Spiderman ensemble, setting out for a stint as Queens local vigilante.

The patrol started off quietly, not many criminals at work in broad daylight, but Peter kept busy helping the elderly with their shopping, stopping a few bike thieves, and even preventing what he was sure would have been a fatal cave in at a construction site he happened to be swinging past. Just as it was getting dark, he spotted an old computer in the trash. Fishing it out, he could see that the screen had been smashed beyond repair and the keyboard was practically concave but, prying it apart, the motherboard and the CPU both looked salvageable. He swung up to a local rooftop and webbed it up for retrieval later, planning to use the parts in the construction of a voice modulator. Ever since an old lady had said he sounded young last month, Peter had been accumulating parts for the project and actively trying to make his voice sound gruffier. It may well have been confirmational bias, but Peter was convinced that criminals were following his instructions more since he’d made the change.

He also had plenty of time to experiment with his new webbing and was pleased to see it hold up better for longer swings, noting that it seemed to be more adhesive, even on slippery surfaces. Near midnight Peter was trying out a new swing/shoot combination in the warehouses by the river when his spidey sense went off, letting him know something bad was going down. He set off, letting his precognition guide him. After swinging a few blocks, he pulled up on a roof forming one side of a long, dark alley that connecting to a parking lot.

Peter scanned the surroundings. The smoking area of a nightclub let out at the north end of the alley. Immediately Peter spied a couple of guys on the verge of getting rowdy and a few men skulking in the shadows (definitely selling something stronger than alcohol). It wasn’t exactly the most savory of areas but the bouncer was already separating the would-be fighters and a couple of drug dealers was hardly enough to set off his spidey sense. Confused, Peter moved across to peek over the other side of the roof but the tingle at the back of his head immediately let him know that was the wrong direction. He must have missed something in the alley.

Not knowing what else to do but trusting that his spidey sense had never led him wrong, Peter perched on the edge of the roof. He decided to give it twenty minutes and, if nothing happened, he would then head back out on patrol. However, Peter had barely settled before a guttural rumble alerted him to the arrival of a large, black motorcycle. It was a beast. And clearly had been in a scrap or two judging by the silver lines that marred the fairing. The driver was clad head to toe in black but the visor on his helmet was a deep crimson that reflected sparse lighting, making it look like a pool of blood lay where his face should be.

Cutting the engine, the driver dismounted and as he crunched across the gravel of the parking lot, Peter’s hair stood on end. This is what he had been warned about.

The figure progressed down the alleyway, heading toward the club door and Peter’s ariel post. He seemed to have an aura of dark energy that proceeded him and, as the rider reached the cordoned area, the smokers suddenly all found a reason to head back inside, leaving a collection of cigarette butts still smoking on the alley floor. The dealers all pulled up their hoods and slinked away but one man remained. He too was wearing a motorcycle jacket, though it went over a tattered hoodie and ripped jeans that had clearly seen better days. This man did not approach the rider but when he was only a few yards away he offered a small wave and, by the way his shoulders tensed, instantly looked like he regretted it. The rider remained impassive. Stopping next to the man, who surreptitiously tried to move sideways, the rider unslung his backpack and unzipped it.

From this angle Peter couldn’t see what was inside but the half of the dealer’s face that was illuminated looked awed. He reached into the bag, rifling through the contents, nodding enthusiastically. From this distance Peter couldn’t make out what was being said so crept down the wall headfirst, positioning himself around fifteen feet above them. Clinging to the shadows, he caught the muttering conversation.

‘And you can get more of these? Same price?’ The dealer was asking. The helmeted man nodded once.

‘Tell your boss we are going again,’ the driver spoke, his voice far softer than Peter had expected. It was almost velvety in quality and Peter found himself creeping another few feet down the wall. ‘Three days time. If he wants in, he must tell us by midnight tomorrow and perhaps something bigger this time.’ The dealer was bobbing his head in rapt attention. He reached into the bag again and began to pull out its contents. Peter caught a glimpse of a grip of a handle before the rider violently seized the first man’s wrist.

‘Not here,’ the voice from behind the visor hissed and this time, far from soothing, the voice made Peter feel as if he had fallen in an ice bath. The sudden action had caused the dealer’s hood to fall back, and Peter noted his youthful appearance, sandy blond hair, and the tattoo that stretched across his neck: a pair of skeletal hands closed around his throat, inked in the act of choking him. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself De Marco,’ the voice crooned again.

The dealer, De Marco, swallowed hard, retracting his hand.

‘And, uh, the LC he mentioned there was a second package? Some sort of game changer?’ De Marco looked around, as if he expected the rider to pull a second hold all from inside his leathers. In a way his expectations were met, the helmeted man reached inside his jacket but retrieved only a tiny packet, smaller than half a playing card. Peter could make out five tablets resting within the plastic, a pale green in color.

‘We’re calling it Eden,’ said the rider. De Marco was entranced.

‘And it really – it’s worth -’ but here the felon was cut off for a young woman came stumbling out the back door of the club. She was clearly several drinks past tipsy and eyed the two men before turning away and lighting up a cigarette.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ the rider bargained, ‘I’ll show you just what they’re worth and then you can run along and tell all of you little gangster friends to shut up and do what we say.’ His voice was cutting and De Marco simply nodded, jaw clenched.

Still without removing his blood tinted helmet, the rider sauntered over to the girl smoking. He didn’t need his face to convey his intoxicating charm. Resting against the wall, hands in his pockets, the rider leaned towards the woman. Peter found himself leaning in too, sticking to the wall by the very edges of his fingertips as he tried to observe the interaction.

‘Fancy a trip to Paradise, honey?’ The woman reacted as if his voice had been a caress, leaning close and nodding almost involuntarily. The rider took out the bag and shook a single mint pill into his gloved palm. The girl’s eyes flicked to the visor, unsure, but all she saw was her own reflection mirrored back in its bloody surface. The rider offered his hand to her.

Peter wanted to stop this, to protect the girl from whatever was in that tablet, simply to shoot a web and knock it (and whatever it signified) away, but he hesitated. The rider was clearly part of a bigger operation and, at a guess, De Marco, was a member of one of the new gangs appearing throughout New York. One girl or the whole city? However, the decision was made for him as, in his moment of hesitation, the woman had picked up the pill and slipped it under her tongue.

Both hero and criminals waited with bated breath.

An expression of rapture spread across the girl’s face and all the tension slipped away from her shoulders. Pushing away from the wall, she tipped her head to the sky and let her mouth fall open. Grinning as she seemed to relish in the simple act of taking in the polluted air of New York. And then she was spinning, round and around, arms flying by her sides and as Peter watched he thought to himself that he had never seen anyone look so free.

‘Behold, Eden!’ The rider declared, rejoining De Marco. ‘So the payment?’

‘$50000 for the guns and $3500 for the Eden?’ he confirmed.

‘$2800,’ corrected the rider, ‘I’ll let you have the show for free.’ De Marco pulled rolls of bills out of his pockets and Peter wished he had his phone to record this as some kind of evidence. The girl began to laugh, unadulterated joy, and the two men watched her dance off down the alley a little way, splashing through the grimy puddles but not seeming to notice. De Marco merely chucked, shouldered his new back pack and headed out of the alley, pulling his hood back up.

The rider remained, his sinister visor turned towards the girl, who was still spinning in the disgusting water. Her laugh had taken on a manic quality now. As Peter watched, her movements became jerky, her giggles hitching as she struggled to catch her breath. Then suddenly she wasn’t laughing but screaming, a horrible gurgling scream. She collapsed into the fetid water. The rider turned and silently headed back the way he had come, leaving the young woman writhing behind him.

Spurred into action, Peter leapt down the wall, landing beside the girl, hands flying over her in a panic. She was foaming at the mouth and the spital seemed to be corroding her own skin, burn-like welts opening where the saliva spilled out.

‘Hey, hey!’ Peter called, scared out of his mind. He tried to move her into the recovery position but her fitful convulsions prevented him. Using his enhanced strength, and praying he wasn’t making things worse, Peter held her head and tried to force her mouth open, clearing her airway. Her spasms were becoming more irregular and Peter fought to keep himself present, to prevent his mind from slipping away to a different alley and another life slipping away under his failing hands.

‘I can help her,’ Peter vowed, trying to keep the vision at bay. But he couldn’t; she was already gone. He could do nothing for her, but I can still catch that rider.

As fast and as delicately as he could, Peter pulled the young woman out of the puddle and sat her upright against he wall. He wished he knew her name.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he breathed, sliding her eyelids closed. His heart thudded and for a moment his hands weren’t holding a stranger upright but pressing down against his uncle's chest. No!. Peter focused on the details of the girl, tucking her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear, and straightened her skirt so she was descent. A flash of the EMT’s ripping Ben’s shirt away from his body, gloved hands searching his chest for the bullet. Searching. He was supposed to be going after the rider.

Sprinting to the end of the alley, Peter was just in time to see the taillight of the black bike speeding around the far corner. Gritting his teeth in determination, Peter flung away a web as far as way as he could and pulled, flying off his feet and beginning his pursuit. The bike headed south along the East River, Spiderman in pursuit. And in the rhythmic swinging, with his focus singly on catching that red light, Peter was able to forget that once again he had sat by as someone was murdered in front of him. So much for the little guy.

After ten minutes of weaving through traffic, Peter tailed the bike as it turned into a warehouse under the express way. The rumbling of the traffic prevented Peter’s hearing from pinpointing any action inside, but a reconnaissance trip up the wall, allowed him to peer through a grimy window into a clearly deserted interior. He could see the bike parked up on the east side so crept inside, sticking to the walls as made his way over.

He dropped silently to the ground and, after checking the coast was clear, flipped up the seat to check the bike’s compartment.

The second his fingers touched the leather, a gunshot rang out. Peter span around, ears ringing as the echo reverberated off the metallic roof, trying desperately to locate the source. The rider was standing against the wall, right below the window he had crept in through. Stupid! Peter cursed himself.

‘Spiderman, I wondered if you would follow me home.’

‘Oh hey man, always nice to meet the fans,’ Peter began cheerfully, still keeping his voice deep and frantically trying to work out an escape plan. ‘Sadly, don’t have time for autographs tonight, so -’ He pointed his left wrist at the open window but had to redirect at the last moment, the webbing wrapping around the rider’s hand gun just as the second bullet exploded. ‘Oh, we’re playing this game. Well then,’ he fired two more streams of web but the rider dodged, pulling out a second weapon, sending off three rounds as he advanced on the boy. Only a back bending set of contortions allowed Peter to escape the bullets but then the rider was in his face, bringing the butt of the gun down hard against his head. Peter ducked and drove his own fist into the man’s stomach, sending him lurching backwards. Knowing he would need conserve webbing to escape, Peter pressed into the rider’s space, continuing their hand-to-hand with a series of round house kicks that sent the man to the floor. However, the rider rolled, grabbing hold of Peter’s leg and wrenching it with him. Unable to control his redirected momentum, the boy went sprawling to the ground, finding himself pinned under the visored assailant who delivered a series of brutal blows to his head.

Bucking his hips wildly, Peter managed to escape, flipping himself upright, woozy from the attack. In those moments, his attacker had freed a knife from a holster on his calf and taken up the second gun once more. He smacked the side of it and a green light emanated from the barrel. Knowing he had no choice, Peter shot his webbing at the gun but he missed by a mile, seeing double as a high pitched ringing sounded in his ears.

The man came at him again, slashing with the knife. Peter jumped back, trying to defend himself with his arms but his movements were sluggish and he felt a searing pain across his left forearm. Blindly, he struck out but he was drunken and childlike at best. The man cracked the barrel of his glowing gun against Peter’s already bleeding face, sending him to the floor. He kneeled over the hero, slowly and vindictively pressing the knife into Peter's side.

‘Itsy bitsy spider crept up the waterspout,’ he murmured behind the visor, now splattered with actual blood. ‘Down came the rain and washed the spider out,’ but there was no lyricism to his voice. Each word was intended to intimidate and once the knife was sheathed to the hilt in Peter's flesh, he gave it a brutal twist. ‘This is no game, Spider.’

The knife was withdrawn in one smooth wrench and the man stood.

‘I hope you learnt your lesson,’ and with that he was gone.

Peter lay prone on the dirty warehouse floor, blood streaming from his multiple wounds and a fire in his right side from where he had been stabbed. As the bike’s roar faded away, Peter felt himself returning to his senses. It was as if everything had suddenly reconnected. His fingers wiggled when he told them to and his brain seemed to be put his environment together at a normal pace. The fog that had overtaken him in the fight had gone. Unfortunately, this meant the pain seemed to triple.

As blood filled his mouth, Peter began to realize the severity of his situation. He was still bleeding. Bearing his teeth, he tried to slip off his hoodie, but the stretch along his side was nearly unbearable; he had to pause mid-way though, stuck in his sweater and literally holding his side together. He had never felt more vulnerable, or more stupid. Eventually he got the garment off, folded it into an improvised pad and tied the sleeve around his waist as tight as possible, hoping it would act as a pressure pad. The rough fabric was hell against the exposed nerves and was already showing signs of bleeding through. Peter debated adding his mask but decided anonymity would be more important on his journey home.

Having triaged his side, Peter felt carefully at his face. He could tell already it was a mess. He pressed his nose straight between his two palms, hoping that it would set with out a bump. The rest would be cured by time. After several deep breaths, he made it to his feet and began the arduous, and excruciating, task of swinging home.

Clad only in sweatpants and a balaclava, the young vigilante must have been quiet a sight swinging through the city, growing colder with each passing moment.

Finally, he made it to his own fire-escape and not a moment too soon for Peter felt the last of his strength sapping. Creeping through his window, Peter noted his lock was still slid securely in place. It was almost ludicrous to consider now that Charles posed any real danger to him. Sure, he might push Peter around, might take things a little far in his clumsy attempt to help Peter, but he was Spiderman and he was safe in this apartment.

Removing the book himself, Peter set a steading hand against the wall as he slunk down the hall to the bathroom. May’s medical kit was still there, tucked under the sink, and (as quietly as he could) Peter dug through it to find gauze and tape. Really he knew he needed stitches but the wound would be gone in a few hours so as long as he could keep the skin closed and neat, domestic supplies would do the trick. He had to stop and rest half way through, pressing his head against the cool porcelain and waiting for the black dots dancing around the edge of his vision to pass.

Eventually he felt confident about his sterilization and bandaging, so began to tidy up, shocked at how far the blood seemed to have spread. Once more he had to pause, and Peter noted that he was starting to feel truly famished. His metabolism kept him hungry a lot of the time, but after a full shift spider-manning, and no dinner for two nights now, he must have used up more of his reserves than he realized.

When the room showed no sign of the horror scene it had just been Peter retired to his room, reflecting on the disaster his night had become.

Six green pills loose in the city, and the driver in the wind. He had let that girl die to follow the bike and Peter swore to himself that he wouldn’t it have been in vain. Her burnt face materialized out of the darkness and Peter screwed his eyes shut. He would find out what was happening, protect the city, and avenge the girl, even if it killed him.

*******************
His alarm blared just over two hours later, ripping Peter from his much-needed sleep. He sat up and stretched but gasped sharply at the shooting pain in his side. Inspecting the injury site, Peter was surprised to see the bandage red and, when he peeled it away from his skin, the wound was very much still there. The skin not even knitted together yet.

His anxiety spiked. Why hadn’t he healed yet?! He knew he couldn’t go to the hospital. There would be took many questions and what if they wanted to take his blood or scan his brain? Peter had no idea how his enhancements would show themselves. No, hospitals are out. So it was back to May’s supplies. He did as well as he could to tape the wound up tidily, nipping back to his room to exchange his white what would Einstein do? shirt for a red one that read Never trust an atom - less chance of any bleed through showing. The best thing he could do, he decided, was eat well at lunch, prey the blade hadn’t been poisioned, and reassess the situation when he had more than a couple of minutes to think.

Noting the time, Peter sped out of the apartment, deciding to forgo breakfast in order to make it to school on time. After the truce established between him and his guardian, the last thing Peter wanted was for Charles to get a call saying he’d been tardy.

Chapter Text

Peter made it to lunch before the battle caught up to him. Five blissful hours, marred only by a slight paranoia that his shirt might bleed through and his inability to twist his torso – unremarkable really.

Having jogged from the subway station, Peter arrived just in time for the bell, breathlessly answering roll call as he surreptitiously completed the homework he’d neglected last night. The pain in his side was almost a good distraction as he sped through the history revision, the pulling sensation drawing his mind away from the flashcards May had helped him prepare – the ones that still sat in her purse, waiting for a ‘surprise question time’ that would never come. He shook the thought off and focused on the stark black and white in front of him. He had no time.

By the time he was shuffling forwards in the lunch line, Peter was exhausted. He'd handed in the math sheet, finished the test, and managed to convince Mrs Chattham that he had read the first ten chapters of 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. And all that time his side had been throbbing. In homeroom he had noticed feeling a little flushed, putting it down to his morning rush; however, over the course of his classes, things had grown steadily worse until it felt like his side was on fire. He was sure he had sweated through his shirt, but each time he checked, there was no hint of blood. A victory in his book. Yet as he edged slowly closer to the school’s watery tomato pasta, Peter couldn’t deny that he needed a break, a place to sit down and rest, even only for forty five minutes.

Ned hadn’t re-joined him from Music yet so Peter shuffled forwards alone, trying to fight the feeling that each step might send him face first into the floor. He tried to focus on it. Off-white, scuff marks, peas already smeared across it. Peter detailed the floor, desperate to remind himself why the cafeteria floor was not the place to pass out.

The underwhelming smell of poorly spiced sauce was calling him forwards; if he could just eat maybe the pain in his stomach would fade a little. Ten more steps and he could press his hands against the cool metal tray. That would help. Ten steps. Nine.

'God, he looks like he's going to puke,' a voice called out from the huddle of students.

Peter tightened his hands around the straps of his bag. Not now, he sent up a silent plea. Only eight steps.

'Ten bucks says I can make him spill it.'

Peter didn't need to turn around to know who was speaking, didn't need his spidey sense to warn him, didn’t need the silence that spread over the surround crowd. Still, the shove caught him off guard. Flash's guffaw did not.

Peter’s knuckles whitened around his straps, gritting his teeth; he felt the wound ripping open as he stumbled. Burning pain twisted across his abdomen. Seven steps.

‘Not today, Flash,’ he said tightly. He could feel the sweat breaking out across his face, his breath becoming shorter, the lights overwhelming his senses. Scrunching his eyes closed, Peter took another step. Six.

‘Oh, little Penis Parker doesn’t want to play today boys. Guess he has something better to do?’ Peter found himself ripped backwards as Flash took hold of his rucksack and yanked.

He went cascading to the floor, the old zip on his bag giving out and the contents spilling out. Icey fear rippled through him, far stronger than the pain and fire; Peter twisted on the floor, a little faster than humanly possible, grabbing the top of the bag desperately to stop any more of his stuff spilling. His spidey suit was in there. Bloody and tattered but undeniably recognisable.

‘Get up Parker, come on. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your audience.’

He barely registered the laughing, the anxious looks that some of the students were shooting towards the doors. His suit was safe, and the pain came flooding back. He could feel that the tape had unpeeled in one corner, that blood was now trickling down his side. Bile rose in his throat; he gagged.

‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Flash crowed, moving to stand over Peter, callously standing on his notebooks and crumpling the cover.

Ignoring him, Peter started to collect his stuff, reaching for the fallen pencil case. Flash nudged it further away. The crowd laughed. Peter looked up. His peers seemed to have grown ten feet, towering over him and swaying dizzyingly, all doubled to his fatigued eyes. Clumsily Peter pushed himself to his feet.

Flash must have been playing to the crowd because they kept laughing at something behind him as Peter picked up his stuff. As he reached once more for the pencil case, his spidey sense flared and he felt his right knee knocked out from beneath him.

‘Leave him alone,’ a voice rang out. It was a little shaky, but loud enough to draw attention. Heads swivelled. Peter felt himself prick up. It was Omer Arduk. He was in the year above, small with a quick smile and a talent for acting, Peter was surprised the boy even knew who he was. Or maybe he didn’t, he rationalised, just wants to get his lunch on time.

‘Look Petey, you’re being such a baby someone’s come to take care of you. Careful, Omer, this one tends to kill his parents.’

Bile rose again.

‘Leave him alone,’ Omer repeated, carefully stepping into the circle and offering Peter his hand. Gratefully, he took it, a little embarrassed at how sweaty his must be.

Halfway up, Peter fell on his ass again. Blood hit the linoleum and, to his surprise, it wasn’t his. Flash had punched Omer in the face and a trickle of blood was dripping from his nose.

Adrenaline flooded Peter. This is why he was Spiderman. The weariness that had plagued him all morning suddenly dissipated, and the room slipped into higher focus. The burning in his side, the nausea, all faded to be replaced by his laser determination.

‘Hey, Flash,’ he called out, climbing steadily to his feet, ‘you want to hit someone, try me.’ And he did.

Flash’s fist came whaling into Peter’s face, splitting his lip and sending him reeling back a step. He dodged the next, kicking his still scattered notebook forwards under Flash’s leading foot causing the boy to slide into an undignified set of splits.

‘Didn’t realise you wanted to dance, Flash,’ Peter joked, a few in the crowd laughed. Everyone in the hall was watching now and Flash’s face burned under the scrutiny.

‘You’re dead, Parker,’ he muttered.

Peter gasped, patting himself down before grinning.

‘Don’t seem to be.’

Flash came in with a fast one, two but Peter dodged and swayed. Even though Flash was striking nothing but air, the skirmish was starting to get to Peter.

‘I can do this all day,’ he taunted with a pained grin. But he couldn’t. Each twist was pulling the stab wound wider, undoing any of the repair his healing had managed to do; with every millisecond that passed, he could feel his fatigue growing. With little food or sleep in the last twenty-four hours, he was nearing the end of his strength. The blood was draining from his face, his side cramping; as black dots began circling the edge of his vision he knew it was nearly over.

It was a lucky strike really, Flash had no idea as he lunged forwards but he drove his fist directly into the open wound on Peter’s side. He went down. In his shock, Peter caught hold of Flash’s shirt, desperate for an anchor, to find something grounding as a tsunami of pain rolled through his body. He brought the boy down on top of him, barely registering the impact as he curled around his injured side.

‘Teacher!’ A warning cry echoed through the cafeteria and the students closed ranks.

A couple of Flash’s mates pulled him to his feet behind the wall of bodies as Mr Ramoz entered the room. Peter remained on the floor; his fingers found his fallen water bottle and he clutched the cool plastic like a lifeline, bringing it to his forehead.

The newcomer’s footsteps paused as the teacher eyed the gathered students suspiciously.

‘What’s going on here?’ he questioned, moving through the group. The students parted for him allowing him to discover Peter’s stuff still scattered on the floor. He raised an eyebrow but the crowd only shuffled awkwardly, Flash and his bruising knuckles hidden behind his cronies.

‘Anyone care to explain?’ Mr Ramoz challenged again. But no one was forth coming, and the participants were nowhere to be seen.

As soon as Flash had been pulled off him, Peter realised how much he was shaking, his shirt plastered to him and all he wanted to do was curl up and sleep, waiting for this all to pass. For a moment he had allowed himself to press his feverish face into the linoleum, no longer caring that it was dirty only that it was cool. But as he lay there, he imagined Charles face if he found out he’d been fighting. Imagined the disappointment, the failure that he would feel. He would think that it was his fault that Peter was struggling, that he wasn’t parenting well enough. But that wasn’t true, Peter just hadn’t given him a chance. May wouldn’t want him to let Charles down like this.

So, as he heard the authoritative voice of Mr Ramoz drawing closer, he forced himself up off the floor. Skirting around the crowd, he crept away through the side door, a writhing mass of pain and heat settled in his stomach and his water bottle clutched so tightly it was on the verge of tearing.

The corridor felt strangely distended, either by his desperate desire to reach the bathroom or, more plausibly, because the fever was overtaking him. Peter crashed through the door, locking himself in a stall; he paused only long enough to strip his shirt before he was spitting blood-streaked bile into the toilet. He could feel his pulse in his whole body, his skin on fire; trembling and sweaty, he forced himself upright.

Feeling a little better having thrown up, Peter hunched to examine the wound. The bandage was now flapping uselessly, only clinging on by one corner of the micropore tape. The cut itself was as he expected. Open and bloody. But it was the skin around the puncture that was more concerning. It was puffy and inflamed, an angry red that stood out against the pallor of his side. Turns out a sweaty hoody was not the most sterile bandage – who knew? He hadn’t had an infection since gaining his powers and the sight nearly made him laugh. How many times had May come back from the hospital complaining about sub-par wound care? She would knock him upside the head is she had known about his powers. If she had been alive he corrected himself and all urges to laugh disappeared.

The bell rang for second lunch, reminding Peter that his privacy had a time limit.

Taking the toilet roll, he poured out some water from his mangled bottle, wiping up most of the blood. A little had reached the top of his jeans and had already crusted into the fibers. After a couple of dabs, Peter decided they’d just have to go in the wash with his Spidey suit.

He wetted more tissue and applied the makeshift poultice to his side, praying that it would help draw out the infection. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. Instantly he felt cooler, and despite the pain of pressure, the stabbing sensation seemed to abate.

The door to the bathroom opened. Peter’s heart stopped.

‘Peter? You in here?’ Ned called out.

‘Uh, just a second,’ Peter called back. He re-used his failing bandage to secure the poultice and pulled on his shirt. Now he didn’t feel like his head was about to explode, he was slightly disgusted at the sweaty dampness of his shirt.

‘Theo said there was a fight,’ Ned probed from the other side of the door. Peter gave himself a small shake before unlocking it. He pushed the door open to find Ned waiting, holding his bag and sweater, and looking at Peter as if he had just risen from the grave. ‘Jesus! Are you hurt?’

A little disappointed that his efforts had so clearly been in vain, Peter checked the mirror. He was as pale as the tiling, his cheeks flushed, and his hair was a mess, strand sticking to his forehead, the bloody lip Flash had given him still oozing. Damn it, Peter thought, pulling a face at his reflection. On any other day his healing factor would be taking care of something as minor as this. It would be gone in fifteen minutes max.

‘Rough day,’ he excused as he crossed to the skink, splashing water on his face and neck.

‘Uh huh,’ Ned replied, unconvinced. ‘Theo gave me your stuff, said the fight got rough, said you even took Flash down,’ he tailed off in awe, though still surveying Peter’s face with a concerned eye.

‘It was mostly an accident,’ Peter explained sheepishly, taking his sweater from Ned and pulling it on. Colour matching was great, but if he could hide the blood completely that would be even better. Hidden inside his jumper he debated what to say but Ned pre-empted him.

‘This kinda looks like more than a fight. You look…ill?’ Ned proffered. He reached out a supportive hand but accidently brushed against the recently re-bandaged wound. Peter gasped, convulsively reeling away from Ned before realizing what he had done. He proffered what he hoped was an apologetic smile. By Ned’s reaction, it was more of a grimace. He debated what to say. The truth was a laughable option. Ned was already endangered by being Peter Parker’s friend, let alone Spiderman’s.

‘May and I had tickets to the cinema last night,’ he lied and the confused expression on Ned’s face melted into one of heartfelt sympathy.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Anything you need, dude, I’m your man. Mom sent me in with some kutsinta, it’s in my locker if you want some.’

Taking the distraction, Peter followed Ned out of the bathroom, his injury barely bothering him. Lying about May made him feel sicker than any stab wound. Besides, he was Spiderman for god’s sake, if he could deal with getting the wound, he could deal with healing from it.

*******************
Revived by the cake, Peter made it through the rest of his classes with ease, and, when he did a quick check in the bathroom at the end of the school day, was relieved to see the wound was improving. The puffiness had faded and the edges of the wound were now only a light pink. The sides had clotted together and, all in all, it looked like an injury that was several days old, turns out all he had needed was food. What was a light stabbing really when you’d had some cake?

Leaving the building in a much better mood, Peter swung by a laundromat to clean the bloody items. Luckily, he kept his gym shorts in his locker and so could throw his jeans in at the same time. He knew that Charles was seeing friends so wouldn’t be there to police his arrival.

As the machine whirled, he spun a fifty cents piece over his knuckles. The single coin flashing over his fingers was the last of his pocket money May had every given him. It had been a bit of a joke between them. May hadn’t had the money to spare but insisted on giving him something every month so on the last Saturday he would be presented with a single dollar, and they would go out and find the most ludicrous thing he could buy for it. He had a shoebox full of clockwork toys, sweet wrappers, and second handbooks that had collected thanks to his ritual. For the last few months, they had been saving his dollars in a jar on his windowsill, saving up for a splurge at one of those ridiculous tourism shops. Peter had his eye on an I <3 NY shirt but May had been suggesting a Statue of Liberty hat.

Now his savings had been exchanged for a swirl of soapy water and Peter sat ruefully over the last piece of their tradition.

His brooding was interrupted by a flaring of his spidey sense followed almost immediately by a loud crash. He leapt to his feet as a car came flipping towards the window.

Cursing that his disguise was in the wash, Peter was milliseconds away from throwing his secret identity to the wind and catching the car before it shattered the glass. Any sliver of indecision was cut off by the horrified scream of his fellow customers and Peter leapt forwards, into the path of the car, his hands raised.

All this happened in a heartbeat. Peter barely had time to think of the wound in his side before he was bracing for impact.

But it never came.

Instead, a loud whirring filled the shop and Peter opened his eyes to the gleaming red and gold of Iron Man, floating in front of the shop. His helmet was facing them, the car wrapped around his back.

With a blast of his repulsors, Iron Man shrugged the car off, gave a jaunty salute and zoomed off.

There was a moment of perfect stillness inside, then a collective exhale, some people even cheered. Peter allowed himself a second of relief as he put the pieces together. If Iron Man was out and cars were flipping through the streets, then New York must be under attack.

His mask slapped against the glass window of the machine, suds filling the left eye hole. 00:13 the display read. He couldn’t wait.

Grabbing the web shooters from his bag, Peter nipped out of the shop, leaving the rest of the customers blown away by their encounter with a superhero. Strapping the devices into place, Peter legged it down the street towards the growing noise of battle. A tingle on the back of his neck warned him just in time to skid to a halt as a giant worm crashed into the pavement in front of him. An arrow was sticking out of its eye flooding the creature with electricity.

Scanning the surrounding buildings, Peter spotted Hawkeye perched on a roof top to his right. He was drawing and firing with indescribable grace and speed, arrow after arrow soaring off to the east. Peter followed their path.

A few blocks down the devastation was unmissable and it was clear to Peter that he had arrived as the battle was winding down. Smashed cars and debris littered the street like fallen bowling pins, and he could spot the scared faces of civilians peaking out from the windows. Several gargantuan worm carcasses lay amongst the rubble.

A middle-aged man caught sight of Peter, frantically waving him towards cover. He held up a hand of acknowledgement and moved towards the buildings. But rather than ducking inside, he continued to work his way forwards in the shadows. A stealth operation then, he grinned to himself.

Peter could hear a thundering growing louder. Pressing his hand against his side once to ensure the bandage was still in place, he stuck his head out from behind a car.

Six colossal worms were writhing towards him pursued by none other than Black Widow, Captain America, and the Winter Soldier. They were them driving down the street as Iron Man and the Falcon flew either side, blocking any deviation from the route as the creatures smashed their way towards Hawkeye’s position.

It was a trap, and Peter was stood right in the middle of it.

They were nearly upon him, and he was under no illusion that he would offer much of a fight considering they were each three times as tall as him, not to mention about hundred foot long.

The biggest one plunged left, taking up a car in its giant maw and tossing it in a high arc. I guess that’s how the laundromat nearly got smashed, Peter concluded. The car clipped the Falcon’s wing sending him spiraling left and the creature took its chance, cutting away from the pack and down the now undefended avenue.

Peter raised his wrist, ready to swing into its path and do whatever he could to at least impeded the creature’s process; but Iron Man was already there. Peter couldn’t help a small cheer as the man of red and gold began to drive the worm back.

They were closer now, less than eighty yards and Peter scanned around to see how he could help. His blood ran cold. To his right 51st street stood open, no blockage and now no Iron Man.

He ran, casting around for a plan. Peter could see the sign for a school up a head, could see children’s faces pressed up against the glass, no idea of what was about to happen. His heart thudded in his chest. Not again, not again, not another death.

He went to work, pushing himself harder than ever before, and moments later the worms thundered past, straight into the electric arrows of Hawkeye. The trap had closed.

Unable to help himself, Peter whooped in the street, jumping off the last of the adrenaline. The Avengers had won! He had won. Spiderman hadn’t failed.

The phone in his pocket bleeped, alerting him that his washing would be done any second. With a final air punch, Peter sprinted (at a passably human speed) back towards the laundromat, desperate not to let any one steal his load and thrilled that his side felt perfectly fine.

He made it back just as the door to his machine unlocked. He stuffed the damp clothes into his bag (he would dry them at home), and set off back to the apartment, grinning the entire way. He had helped.

*******************
The sun was setting, casting a golden glow across Peter’s desk and infusing his room with a magic luminance. In the late afternoon light, each floating particle of dust gleamed in the beams and, as Peter made a head start on his homework, he felt insulated from the rest of the world. His suit and jeans were drying on the fire escape and his room smelt of citrus from his after-school snack. He was warm and snug in his sweats, already thinking ahead to his internship application when he heard the front door swing open.

‘Pete?’ a voice called. Charles was home.

‘In my room, sir,’ he called back, finishing writing out the last of the oxidization reactions.

‘I’ve got dinner, come out and help me.’ There was a lightness in his voice that filled Peter’s chest with warmth. They were back on track. Their discussion of the night before had settled something between them. Rules and punishments were fine, he just needed to know.

Capping his pen, Peter stood, slid open the bolt lock on his door, and peaked out. Instantly the familiar aroma of Thai food hit him and something in his chest loosened. For the first time since May had died, the apartment felt like home again.

Charles was moving around the kitchen, getting out plates and putting groceries away. He was whistling as Peter moved forwards to help.

‘Smells great, sir.’ Charles murmured in agreement as he pulled out two glasses. He turned to hand them to Peter and stopped in his track, his face falling. Not noticing, Peter reached out for the glasses, glancing up when Charles pulled them out of reach.

His expression was stormy, and Peter felt the afternoon’s cocoon splitting open.

‘What happened to your face?’ the older man asked. Peter felt a chill race through his veins. He had forgotten his lip. In the excitement of his (unknown) collaboration with the Avengers, the cut on his lip had completely slipped his mind. He’d been so pleased with how his side was healing up that he hadn’t checked his face. Clearly his healing factor was still focused on the major injuries and hadn’t made it to the superficial nicks that Flash had inflicted. Stupid, he cursed himself.

‘I fell over,’ he offered, pulling his sleeves down over his hands, desperate to recapture the feeling of warmth.

Charles put the glasses on the counter, the thud echoing through the apartment. He took hold of Peter’s chin, turning it towards the light. His hands were still cold from the walk home, but Peter knew the goosebumps that broke out along his arms were nothing to do with that.

‘Don’t lie to me, Pete,’ his words were short and clipped, spat out with a staccato aggression. Peter tried to duck his head, but Charles held him steady, fixing him with his piercing blue eyes.

‘Were you fighting?’ The question came much softer. Charles’ eyebrows drew together as he ran his thumb over the small split, feeling the lump. Peter grimaced, trying not to pull away, and nodded.

Charles sighed deeply, tipping his head towards the ceiling before closing his eyes and bringing his forehead tenderly against Peter’s. His hand slipped from the boy’s chin to the back of his neck, gripping tightly.

‘Why would you do that Pete? What would May say?’ Charles spoke the words into the minuscule gap between them and Peter could physically feel them washing over him, drowning him. He swallowed deeply, trying to stop the tears from coming to his eyes. He wanted space, wanted not to screw up for a single day, wanted May.

And he knew what she would say. She would say it was wrong, that he had let her down, that hurting other people was never acceptable, that he had disappointed her.

From the look in Charles eyes, he knew that too.

His guardian drew back and as the space between them grew, so did the steely resolve on Charles’ face.

‘You can’t be keeping secrets from me,’ he stated, his grip on Peter’s neck tightening. ‘You think can solve your issues by lashing out, huh? You’ve let me down, Pete.’ And he had. The twisting sensation in Peter’s stomach grew as he longed to apologize, but it wouldn’t change what he had done, what he now deserved. ‘Think fighting is a solution?’ Charles challenged, driving the truth deeper with every word. ‘Well how does it feel?’

His fist came hard and fast and Peter let it. Let it crash into his face, let it blacken his eye. The impact pushed him sideways but Charles’ hand on the back of his neck held him firm, held him together.

‘You’ll get in trouble, Pete, you’ll force us apart and I’ll have nothing left of her,’ Charles voice was shaky, and Peter couldn’t help the tears that began to run. ‘You know why I’m doing this, Pete?’ he implored, and the teen nodded earnestly.

‘Because I keep screwing up, because I deserve it,’ he gasped out. The older man ruffled the boy’s hair gently, tucking his curls behind his ear.

‘I just need you to think before you act. Now stand up straight.’ He delivered a series of hard blows to Peter’s side, by some unknown grace targeting the uninjured side. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, falling into the pain, anything to drive the image of May’s heartbroken face from his mind. The downward tilt of her bottom lip, the dropped left eyebrow, the wide eyes he had already forced forever closed. She would have hated him fighting at school.

‘You’ve let me down and, worse, you’ve let May down.’ Peter wanted to laugh at himself, how could he ever have thought he had done enough? A crippling blow struck his ribs and Peter tensed waiting for the next. Each slight rustle was a warning, each labored breath a wind up, his mind frantically trying to piece together the information, to warn him what was coming next.

But he kept waiting. Peter opened his eyes slowly, his left only managing halfway. Charles looked like he might cry now and the living mass of guilt grew in Peter’s chest - he kept hurting people.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, hanging his head.

‘I know you are,’ his guardian murmured back. He released the boy and smoothing out the Midtown High sweatshirt. ‘God, Pete, if you would just be…good,’ Charles tailed off, but he didn’t need to say more. Peter knew.

He returned to his room on command. The orange peel, the pen, the suit were all waiting where he’d left them and the sight seemed to snap something inside of him. Suddenly his back was pressed against the door and his knees were giving out on him. He sank to the floor, unable to control strange gasping sound was coming from his chest. It was as if there was a shadow inside of him, growing larger with each desperate breath until it towered over boy, blocking out all light, all joy. A darkness that grew from a piece of himself, taking root in his sorrow as he sat, trembling and alone.

*******************
Back in the Avengers tower, the team was debriefing. Clint holding an icepack to his shoulder from where he’d tripped coming out the elevator and everyone else nursing only minor cuts and dings from the actual battle.

Barton was greatly enjoying reenacting the moment Steve had been bitten by one of the oversized creepy crawlies; he’d been saved only by virtue of it being his shield arm and the fact he had managed to use the multi-million-dollar piece of kit to wedge the maw open and remove his arm. Tony watched Hill try to control the rabble, but they were on a post-mission high. The real mistake she had made was giving them the pizza – but a bet’s a bet and Steve had got his initial report in before they had even returned to the tower.

They had worked through the conflict and Hill was now trying to determine how they had blocked 51st street, growing visibly frustrated by their vague responses. They must have done it earlier, by accident.

But Tony had seen the webs that stuck that pile of cars together, had spotted the note written in dust on the back of a Ford Fiesta’s windscreen.

Sorry for moving your car – please ask the avengers to unstack them. Spiderman

I guess we’re going to have to keep tabs on this one, Tony thought to himself.

He couldn’t know that the hero in question cowered in his room, fists pressed tightly into his eyes, wishing he could do better, wishing he didn’t ruin everything, and wishing, for once, the pain would last because he was starting to believe that he’d earnt it.