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“Tragedy. What else can I call it?”
It’s cold out - unsurprisingly.
“What more need be said?”
It’s not the first time he’s found himself standing in front of one of the big, blinding screens around the heart of NYC.
“The damage. The destruction. You saw it with your own eyes.”
The rain falls hard, hair sticking to his face and suit shiny-slick and chilly. It doesn’t fully register.
“When will people realize that everywhere Spider-Man goes, chaos and calamity ensue.”
It’s just numb, aching and ever-reaching. The warm colours of the Bugle’s broadcast tint his skin, but there’s no emotion there; eyes blank, mind at a stop - the only thing he really focuses on is the solemn voice of J.J. Jameson.
“Everything Spider-Man touches comes to ruin…”
If he weren’t in shock, he thinks the pain of it all would just tear him apart.
“...and we, the innocents, are left to pick up the pieces.”
His voice tunes out, then, and Peter’s listlessly staring at the screen, not fully comprehending what’s there. He feels a stranger in his own body, not fully present, and his limbs are heavy with rain and cold.
He blinks, languid. Exhausted. He’s tired. So, so tired. The rubble that Jameson spoke in front of, May was there. She was in there, he knew, even if logically they’d probably already taken her body away, his muddled mind could only focus on the fact that she was there, she had been there and he had held her. He felt the blood seep out of her torso, heard as her breathing stopped and her heart sputtered out.
“You did the right thing,” She had said. “With great power, there must also come great responsibility.”
This didn’t feel like the right thing. As his chest started constricting, each breath just a bit more ragged, he decidedly thought that this isn’t right.
Because she didn’t deserve to die. Not like this. Not because of him.
His knees hit the roof harshly, knees scraping uncomfortably. Never because of him.
Because she was it. She was his only family. No parents, no siblings, no cousins. Just him and her. The Parkers, against the world. She took care of him and he protected her, that’s how it worked.
His throat closed up, an uncomfortable weight in it. The back of his eyes burned.
It was his fault.
All of it, every single thing - he just had to go and be selfish, he couldn’t just live with the consequences of him being- being so stupid with Beck. It was his fault these deranged strangers were thrown into his world, his fault that he somehow trusted , brought them into his home, let them get in close, let them take away the only family he’s ever had-
He gasped for breath, tears threatening to escape. He can’t- he can’t cry. Not yet. He… he has to send them home. It doesn’t matter what happens to them anymore. He tried, tried to help them, but they turned on him and May so quickly - that was it. It’s not on him anymore. They… killed May.
Norman killed May.
Kind Norman. Patted him on the shoulder and called him remarkable Norman. Had it all been a front? A play so he could get in under the radar? He knows Norman has that other personality, brought on by experimentation and mistakes, but he also doesn’t care, because it was still Norman’s hands that gripped his hair, still Norman’s laugh that echoed out as May was hurt.
He realizes he’s clenching his fists when he feels the skin threatening to break, even through the suit. He forces them open, but the tenseness remains. The rain just pelts harder.
The sounds of New York buzz around him, his head slurring with thoughts of hate and self-loathing, the congestion of forcing down a complete breakdown. The bag of ‘cures’ sits next to his feet with an eerie aura, almost taunting him. Part of him wants to kick it over the side of the building.
The distant thudding is unusual, but at first he thinks nothing of it, subconsciously letting it fade in to the other sounds of the city that are far away and muffled. But it gets louder, heavier, and he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise despite being soaked, and his fists clench again. He doesn’t want visitors. Especially otherworldly ones.
The rooftop seems to shake under the sheer weight of the metal arms slamming into them, a sensation that just reminds Peter of the highway bridge, and anger curls in his gut, festering and ugly. He expects an arm to reach out to him, try to initiate something, and he stands at attention, every part of him tense - but, instead, he just hears the soft whirring of mechanics followed by the soft clicks of shoes on concrete.
“Peter,” Dr. Octavius says, voice quiet and dripping with sympathy. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
He says nothing. Dr. Octavius sighs.
“You’ll get sick-”
“Leave me alone.” Peter hisses out, voice scratchy and broken. The man sighs again.
“I heard about May,” He starts, the sound of fabric rustling, then, “I’m so sorry.”
“You should be.” Peter can hear the strain in the costume as his fists get even tighter, shaking under the force, and the pain in his hands from it keep him grounded. “I should’ve never tried to help you.”
The man is quiet again. Quiet for a long time.
“Peter-”
“Stop it, man, stop it.” Peter looks at him, equally wet and miserable-looking. The actuators lie behind him, heads hanging low and seeming subdued. “You wanna kill me. You hate me. You probably love that your ol’ pal Norman was able to take something away from that infuriating Spider-menace.” Each word is spat out with malice.
He can’t see Octavius’ face, but he can see the frown, how it deepens and wrinkles. Peter glares at him for a while, daring him to say more, before huffing and turning away. His shoulders shake and he hunches over, it’s hard to keep his breathing steady but he’s trying. The anger there, furious and consuming, is tamped down by the absolute grief that balloons in him.
He hears Octavius take a few steps towards him, and each tap of his shoe makes his muscles tense more and more. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
“I truly am sorry,” Octavius rumbles, and he can hear the authenticity to it, that he really does mean it, but he’s far too torn to even begin processing that. “If I had stayed-” He cuts himself off, grips onto the front of his duster and looks at the giant screen illuminating the both of them. It’s running an ad for something he’s never seen.
“You left,” Peter said, voice hollow. “You… left.”
“I had just been shocked by who-knows how many volts of electricity. I had to get somewhere safe and check that I was still…” He tried to figure out how to delicately phrase I wanted to make sure I didn’t want to kill people again . “...aware of myself.”
Peter snorted. It made Otto’s chest hurt. He could only see so much of the boy’s face, with him turned away from the man, and as much as he wanted to look him in the eye again he didn’t want to push Peter’s boundaries.
“It wouldn’t’ve made a difference.” Peter muttered, voice angry. “He still would’ve killed her.”
The fury, the mourning, it twisted Otto’s heart and made him want to shake the boy, made him want to hold him until that shy smile replaced the dark glare that he had shown Octavius.
The memory of Rosie, smiling warm and confident, eyes wide in terror and screaming, body falling limp against the floor as blood splatters around her. Nothing he could do but futilely try and contain the one thing he had worked on- they had worked on, because if he could get it to work, if he could just get it stabilized then she’d be okay, they’d laugh over it years from then, and…
That grief, that anger, that sadness. Ugly and ferocious and disgusting. It twists you up, tears you apart and leaves you a meer husk of who you once were. Octavius knows that feeling too well, too intimately, because he’s still grappling with it - still not over the death of Rosalie Octavius.
He doesn’t want someone like Peter Parker to follow the same path he had.
His hand was warm and heavy on Peter’s shoulder, grounding, and he barely had the energy to tilt his head in the man’s direction. Otto stood next to him now, body turned towards him, rain dripping off his face. “I know how terrible this is for you-”
“Don’t.” Peter spits out, hitting Octavius’s hand off of him. His muscles complain at the sudden violence, but Peter doesn’t care, that same anger rising up again. “Don’t tell me you understand this. You don’t. You can’t. She was taken from me, she- she deserved so much better than this!” He yelled, screamed, whole body rigid as he turned to face Octavius, the man surprised but otherwise unmoving. Peter grabbed onto the front of his sweater, teeth grinding together as tears pooled in his eyes. “She was the only family I had, Octavius, and he fucking murdered her for trying to help him! Because I-” He gasps for air, suddenly finding it hard to breathe, and it took everything in him to not fall apart in front of this- this villain. “Because I was stupid enough to trust someone like that again.”
Otto gently took Peter’s wrist in his hands, eased his grip and held his hand, the metal-fiber suit uncomfortable against his skin, but he’d bear through it. Peter’s shoulders shook violently, and his eyes had fallen to Otto’s chest, right where he had grabbed onto him. Octavius’ voice was soft and quiet, almost inaudible under the rain pittering around them. “Peter.”
He sucked in another breath and hung his head. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s important you know- that I understand as much as someone could, and that I’m here for you, dear boy.” His voice rumbles out, making Peter’s shoulders sag and tension leave his body.
He just felt so empty.
The force of the sob makes him jerk forward slightly, eyes scrunching closed as his tears mix with the blood and rain. It’s heaving and all-consuming, and once he starts he just can’t stop. His lungs rattle, his throat hurts, and he- he just hurts.
Otto reaches up and cups his cheek before gently guiding him into his chest. One hand rests at Peter’s nape while the other wraps around his back, rubbing what he hopes is soothing circles. Two of his actuators curl around Peter’s legs, not quite touching but still staying. Peter’s arms hang limply at his sides as the cries tear out of him, turning into screams and heavy sobbing. Tears soak into the fabric of Otto’s sweater, adding to the wet patch from the storm.
He starts to pet Peter’s hair, fingers easily curling through the dripping strands, carding his fingers as he did with Rosie to comfort her. He shouldn’t think of her right now. As an actuator bumps against Peter’s calf, one of his hands meekly grasps onto Otto’s sweater.
“I’m sorry,” Octavius whispers into the air around them. “May was truly kind. I… enjoyed spending time with her, however brief it was.”
Peter hiccups at that and seems to curry harder for a moment. Guilt twists in Otto’s chest. Was that the wrong thing to say? It’d been a long time since he’d comforted someone, not even considering comforting children. Teenagers.
“W-What am I… gonna do with-hout her?” Peter manages to gasp out between cries, twisting the fabric in his hand. Otto’s hand stutters in the boy's hair before it continues, and the breath that leaves him is staggered. He doesn’t know how to answer.
So he ponders over his words, listening to the slowly-quieting cries of the boy in his arms. The heavy storm clouds look like they’ll be leaving soon. Far away, he can hear sirens, and he wonders what could possibly be happening out in New York, with everything already so ridiculous around them.
“You’ll figure it out,” Otto says eventually. “You have your friends - that wizard too. You don’t have to go about this alone.” His hand on Peter’s back stops its ministrations as he thinks about his Peter, who he so desperately hopes is alright as well - always going out against the evil underbelly of the city by himself, standing up no matter how bloody and battered he may be, gently denying help from others. Always alone, save for maybe his girlfriend.
Then, he thinks about his little friends in this world - the smart but dorky not-Harry, the quick and protective MJ (Not Mary-Jane, Michelle), and he realizes that, maybe… “I don’t think you could if you tried, actually. Your friends, they love you, Peter, and they won’t let you take this upon yourself.”
Peter sniffs, and his cries have finally stopped, leaving him leaning his head against Otto’s chest. Slowly, he wraps his arms around the older man, loose but still there.
“I’m sending you home,” Peter says, resigned. “I can’t- I can’t do this.”
It isn’t a question of if he could do it, physically, but emotionally. Mentally. Morally.
What can he say to that? Yes, you can? Go help the people who hurt you, who killed your mother-figure?
Or say no, you can’t? You can’t do this? You helped me, that’s enough?
He held Peter at arm's length, both hands now firmly on the boy’s shoulders. He can feel the chill from the suit through his gloves, and it sends a parental-like worry through him. “I’ll support whatever decision you make, dear boy,” Otto says, “But think, first. Process, decompress. You’re not in your right mind.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.” And he sucks in a breath, closes his eyes for a moment and steadies himself. “You’re not fine, and that’s okay. I can’t imagine what’s going through your head, but I can understand the guilt and grief. Alright? I know how it hurts.”
Peter shakes his head. “You barely knew her.”
“When I speak of grief, I don’t mean the grief I feel for May. Of course, I will mourn for her, but this- this kind of great loss. I’ve suffered that before, with the woman I loved more than anything.” Her smile warms his heart as much as it hurts it. “So I know.”
Peter looks at him with shiny, red-rimmed eyes, and nods. Different losses, but the same in some ways. He can accept that.
“I need- I need to be alone for a bit.” He croaks out. Ottos’ hands slip from his shoulder, and Peter misses the feel of them. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Octavius gently says. “Let me know where you’re going, alright? And when to meet you again. I… don’t really have any way to contact you.”
Peter huffs out a weak laugh and looks at his feet. The bag of ‘cures’ still sits next to them, wet and sad. “Midtown high, it’s- it’s my high school. I like to sit on one of the roofs.”
He feels a bit embarrassed to admit it, but the warm smile Otto gives him makes it melt away. “Just give me a couple hours, Dr. Octavius.”
“Peter,” Octavius shakes his head with a tired smile. “Just call me Otto. We’ve gone through enough to warrant that informality.”
Peter takes a shaky breath in and leans his head against Otto’s chest again. The man rests an arm around Peter’s shoulders almost reflexively. “Thank you, Otto.”
“Of course, dear boy,” He rumbles out. “Of course.”
As Peter swings away, bag held tightly in his hand, Otto can’t help but use his lower actuators to lift himself up, just so he can see Peter more clearly as he fades into the distance.
He isn’t sure what he’ll do in the meantime, but he’ll figure it out - he always does. As he leaves the roof, clamping onto the walls and bringing himself gently down, he idly notices…
It’s stopped raining.