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Peter was finally starting to find a new normal. It had been a few years since Dr. Strange had cast the forgetting spell wiping everyone’s memory of Peter Parker from their minds. Including the last few people he cared about who cared about him. His 21st birthday had come and gone with no celebration.
Since then, he had been trying to find a new normal, which meant finding an apartment, getting odd jobs to pay for said apartment, making a new Spider-Man suit, and getting his GED. Since he didn’t have a social life to worry about anymore, he spent most of his time Spider-Manning. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was either sleeping or working on upgrades for his suit and, if he had time, he’d volunteer at FEAST.
It was on one of these low-crime days Peter decided to treat himself to some pizza. As he was swinging toward his favorite pizza place, an all too familiar head of white hair caught his eye. Peter misjudged his next swing and nearly pancaked himself against the side of a skyscraper.
Peter quickly swerved and clumsily landed on top of a lamppost. He couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing. There, walking down the street in broad daylight like he owned the place, was a man he had hoped to never see again, Skip Westcott.
Peter felt sick as memories he had almost forgotten came rushing back to him in a nauseating whirlwind of emotions that battered his senses. For a second, he felt like that scared little boy all over again. His grip tightened on the metal beneath him as he squeezed his eyes shut and drew in a stuttering breath. He took a few more deep breaths until the memories faded.
Peter opened his eyes and looked out on the busy street below him. Skip was long gone by now. Maybe it wasn’t him. He hadn’t clearly seen the man’s face, so it's possible… but if it really was Skip, then he needed to know why he was back and make sure that he didn’t rape anyone ever again.
The next few days, Peter was extra vigilant on his patrols, keeping an eye out for Skip. He was beginning to think it really had just been his eyes playing tricks on him when he saw him again, this time leaving a bank. He had a clear view of the man’s face so there was no denying it, Skip Westcott was back.
The sight of him sparked a deep red-hot hatred inside Peter. The kind of hatred he hadn’t felt since the Green Goblin, the kind that made you see red and want to tear the world apart. He shook his head to clear it, he needed to concentrate. If Skip was back then he needed to figure out why and the best way to do that was to keep tabs on him.
Fortunately, he had just finished his own prototype for the Spider-Drone. He had based it off of the one Mr. Stark had built into his suit all those years ago. Since he’d been on his own he used discarded tech he got from dumpster diving to craft the gadgets he needed. It wasn’t as advanced or high-tech as Mr. Starks but it would get the job done. It had a built-in camera, microphone, and tracker so whatever Droney saw it would immediately upload it to his home laptop.
Peter pulled Droney from his suit pocket and activated it before swinging by Westcott and dropping it in his bag as he stooped down to tie his shoe. With luck, which he didn’t have much of, Droney would be able to keep him up-to-date on Westcott’s whereabouts and any suspicious activity.
Peter quickly swung back to his apartment and checked his laptop. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that Droney was online and already uploading information. He sat heavily on his bed, which creaked under his weight, and ran a hand through his hair. It didn’t make sense. Why was Skip back now? After all these years? He wished May was here so he could ask her, he thought and his heart twisted with grief.
Peter had been 8 when he met Skip at the library. At first, he seemed like a great guy. Aunt May and Uncle Ben had thought so too, so much so that they had him babysit Peter when both of them had to work. Then Skip started showing him inappropriate magazines and wanting to recreate what they were doing. Peter, being too young to understand what Skip really wanted at the time, had tried to say no. But Skip wouldn’t have it. Skip raped him. And would continue to until one day he just disappeared, to Peter’s great relief. He had never told Aunt May or Uncle Ben but sometimes Peter wondered if Aunt May knew. She had been pretty vague about why Skip left. When he had asked what happened to Skip she would simply smile, pat his head, and say, “Skip had to go. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
At the time Peter had taken that to mean he had been arrested but what if he had misinterpreted her meaning? His eyes wandered over to the box of items that he had been able to grab from Aunt May’s apartment before their stuff was sold, pressed up against his wall buried under a mountain of laundry. On top of the box was a safe, he had been surprised when he had found it in the back of May’s closet and figured that whatever was in it was important.
Maybe it held the answers Peter was looking for. Or maybe it just had a couple of May’s nicer pieces of jewelry. He chewed on his lip debating on whether or not to open it. His leg bounced with nervous energy until he came to a decision. He got up to retrieve the box, rolling it between his hands a few times while examining it. It was a small, black safe, with a dial combination lock in the middle of the door. He shook it and something in it rattled.
Peter’s hand hovered uncertainly above the door before he stuck his finger to it and easily ripped the small safe door off like it was made of paper. Inside was a thumb drive and an envelope with his name on it in May’s handwriting. With trembling hands, he set the box and door aside, ripped the envelope open, and slid the letter out.
Dear Peter,
If you’re reading this then I’m sorry. I’m sorry that for whatever reason I couldn’t be here to tell you this in person. I’m sorry for a lot of things but mostly I’m sorry for letting Skip near you. You never said anything but I could tell something was going on that you were keeping from us for whatever reason.
You weren’t the same happy kid you were a month ago. I was worried about you so I purchased a nanny cam and put it in your room. What I saw… well I hope it’s enough. At the time we didn’t have the money for a lawyer and I worried that even with this evidence it wouldn’t be enough to put him away so I confronted him instead.
I blackmailed him with the video into leaving New York and told him if he ever came back the video would be given to the police. Fortunately, it worked. It’s been a little over a year now and there hasn’t been hide or hair of him. I haven’t told Ben. It isn’t my secret to tell. I hope someday you feel safe enough to tell us what happened. If Skip should ever come back all the evidence you need is on the thumb drive.
I love you, Peter, with all my heart.
Love,
Aunt May
Peter didn’t realize he was crying until a tear fell onto the paper in his hands. A sucked in a stuttering breath and wiped the tears off his cheeks with a sniff as he tried to sort through the whirlpool of emotions inside him.
Aunt May knew. She had known the whole time and she hadn’t said anything. Peter’s fists tightened on the paper in his hands threatening to rip it in half. Did he want her to have said something? He took and deep breath and then slowly released it as he considered the question. No, probably not. He probably would have reacted badly.
Peter groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. To think, this whole time Skip had been walking around as a free man when the proof that could put him away was locked away collecting dust. Not that it mattered. If he had been arrested he probably would have been released when the forgetting spell was cast. Can’t imprison someone when the person they raped doesn’t exist.
Peter barked out a bitter laugh at the cruel irony of the world. Skip wouldn’t even remember that he had raped Peter while Peter was stuck with those memories forever. A sickening thought struck him, would the evidence still be viable after the spell? What if the thumb drive had been corrupted or damaged? If he wanted to take Skip down then he needed to make sure the evidence was still usable.
Peter swallowed down the bile that had started creeping up his throat as a deep-seated feeling of dread filled him. He set May’s letter aside and picked up the thumb drive. He knew that he needed to check the drive but just the idea of seeing it, reliving it made him feel like clawing his skin off. Actually watching the worst moments of his childhood play out before him… he wasn’t sure he was strong enough for that.
Peter forced himself to walk over to his laptop where Droney was still uploading her whereabouts and plugged in the thumb drive. The thumb drive opened and on it was a single video file labeled Skip Westcott. Heart pounding, he clicked on the video.
The video started in a dark room, from the meager decorations he could make out on the wall it was his childhood bedroom at May and Ben’s old apartment. Suddenly the light turned on illuminating the bedroom. The camera seemed to be on the floor of the wall farthest from his bed. Peter’s blood turned to ice as he heard Skip’s insidious voice call from the doorway, “C’mon Einstein, we don’t have all night. Don’t you want to play that fun game of ours?”
“No Skip! I don’t like that game! Please don’t make me play it!” Peter heard his younger self say. He choked down a sob as he watched Skip nudge young him into the room.
“Don’t be like that, I know you like it. You don’t have to pretend.” Skip was fully in the frame now, young Peter’s back was to the camera but he was clearly shaking. “No Skip, you’re not listening! I don’t want to play!”
Skip's sickly sweet smile turned into a frown, “Fine then, be that way. I like it when you play hard to get.”
Skip pushed young Peter onto his bed. Most of it was out of frame but enough was shown that there would be no way for Skip to weasel his way out of prison. As soon as the video ended Peter yanked the thumb drive out of his laptop and rushed over to his bathroom where he threw up his breakfast.
Once he was done Peter slid down onto the cool tile floor and rested his head against his knees as he tried to not throw up again while he steadied his breathing. Seeing that video made him feel like he was reliving that horrible moment all over again, his skin burned where he remembered Westcott’s touch and it made him want to rip his skin off.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, the dim bathroom light suddenly too bright for him to bear, and wished more than ever he had someone - anyone - he could talk to. At least the evidence was still good. He sat there until he felt well enough to walk back over to his bed and fell onto it face first. Within minutes he was sound asleep.
The next few days were pretty standard. Peter had Droney keep him updated on Westcott's whereabouts. If he wanted to confront Westcott then he needed to find a good place to do that. According to Droney every night Westcott went to the same nightclub and stayed there from 11-1:30 am.
After downloading the schematics for the club and reviewing the data Droney had uploaded Peter decided tonight was the night. Tonight he was finally going to confront Westcott. Tonight he was going to avenge his younger self. Peter's gaze flitted over to the modified pistol that sat on his desk. He had taken it from a gangster earlier that week and had planned to turn the gun over to the police when he had noticed that the barrel of the gun had some unique modifications and symbols etched into it.
Peter had been worried that this could be the start of a new weapons trafficking operation and thought it could be a lead. The pistol had a rotating barrel and a hammer that moved when the trigger was pulled.
It also had two strange markings etched on either side of the barrel of the pistol which he later learned, after some research which required an after-hours trip to the library, where runes that were often used in witchcraft. One rune was for precision and the other for domination. It also didn’t seem to use bullets.
Instead, it was powered by a refined Chitauri energy core and after a brief test run, he discovered it shoots bolts of energy instead of bullets. It reminded him of the tech the Tinkerer would make for the Vulture back in the day.
Peter’s hand hovered over the gun as he debated with himself whether or not it was a good idea to take it with him. On one hand, he’d never used a gun. On the other, if things got hairy he wouldn’t be able to use his full strength against Westcott no matter how much he wanted to without it being suspicious so a gun could come in handy. On the other other hand, it would make him feel better knowing he had something he could use to protect himself.
Peter’s hand pulled away and he shook his head. He really shouldn’t, the gun had already been involved with one crime he shouldn’t implicate himself with it. He stood to leave and almost made it to the window before he turned around and snatched the gun up, tucking it into the back of his pants, his shirt covering it. Just in case, he told himself.
Peter sat at the bar of the nightclub sipping on his Shirley Temple as he scanned the crowd, searching for Westcott. The nightclub’s music was deafeningly loud, mixed with the moshing throng of people it was becoming overwhelming to his heightened senses. A copy of the thumb drive was practically burning a hole in his pocket and the gun was pressing uncomfortably against his tailbone. The movies make it look so easy but from what he was experiencing it was not. A man pushed his way through the crowd to Peter’s side.
“Whiskey, please. The strongest stuff you got!” Peter stiffened at the sound of Westcott’s voice, his eyes stayed trained on his nearly empty cup as the bartender handed Westcott his order. Westcott downed his drink in one swig and slammed the glass down on the bar. Peter flinched, his eyes darting briefly over to Westcott. Their eyes met for just a second but it was enough to make Peter’s blood run cold. Westcott leaned against the bar and licked his lips. Peter could feel the man’s gaze boring into him but he refused to look up from his cup. His fingers trembled slightly so he tightened his grip on the glass to stop them.
“What’s a guy like you doing here all by yourself?” Westcott asked, leaning closer to Peter. Peter pressed his lips tightly together and didn’t reply. Now wasn’t the right time to confront him, too many witnesses. When Peter didn’t reply Westcott grunted, “Playing hard to get? Fine, be that way.”
Westcott ordered another drink and then left. Once he was a good few feet away Peter finally let himself relax. As the night wore on Peter kept an eye on Westcott as he hit on and failed with multiple people. After one of these failures, he chugged his drink, slammed it down on the bar, and made his way towards the back exit.
Peter waited until the door swung shut then followed after him.
According to the schematics Peter had studied beforehand that door should lead to an alley, out of sight of any prying eyes but close enough that the noise from the club should cover up any sounds should a fight break. Perfect place to finally confront Westcott. Just as the schematics had said, the door led into an alley lined with dumpsters overflowing with trash.
Neon lights from the nearby buildings dimly illuminated the otherwise dark alley. The ground was littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts. Muffled music thumped in the alley and Peter could feel the headache he had beginning to disperse. Peter frowned and peered into the shadows, looking for any clue as to where Westcott had gone. He could make out a heartbeat coming from somewhere in front of him just in out of sight.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood up, and his spider senses screamed run seconds before someone slammed him up against the dirty brick wall covered with old chewing gum and peeling posters. Westcott’s arm was pressed against his neck, pinning him to the wall, the smell of alcohol on his breath made Peter’s nose wrinkle.
Westcott licked his lips and leaned toward Peter’s face as he said, “I saw how you were watching me in the club. If you wanted a piece of this, you could’ve just come over. There’s no need to be shy.”
Westcott looked Peter up and down with lust-filled eyes as he released his hold on Peter’s neck and slid his hand down Peter’s chest as he leaned forward and sniffed Peter’s neck. Peter froze at the man’s touch then his lip curled in disgust, and he roughly pushed the man away just before Westcott’s hand could wander any lower.
“So I heard you're back in town and haven't changed a bit, man. You get off talkin' down to the little man. Time you get what you deserve.” Peter took a menacing step closer and jabbed a finger in Westcott’s chest to punctuate his words.
Westcott scoffed and pushed Peter’s hand away, “Right, and you expect me to believe we hooked up and I don’t remember it?” Westcott’s gaze wandered lower, “Because I’m quite certain I’d remember you.”
“You don’t remember what you did to me? All the pain and suffering you put me through?” Peter practically spat. Skip frowned and shrugged nonchalantly, “Should I? I’ve done a lot of things to a lot of people.”
Peter swallowed down his growing rage, “Why are you here? I thought May had scared you off.”
Skip scratched his chin, “May… May… doesn’t ring a bell. You’ll have to be more specific.”
Peter gritted his teeth, he couldn’t let his anger get the better of him yet. Not until he got some answers. “May Parker. Long brown hair, wore glasses.” A smile grew on Skip’s face that made Peter’s skin crawl.
“Ah, that May. How’s she doing? I hope she finally left that sorry excuse of a husband of hers I’d love to show her what a real man is, show her a real good time, if you know what I mean.”
Seething with rage now, Peter stepped menacingly toward Skip, “Say that again, I didn't quite hear you.”
Skip seemed unfazed by Peter’s hostility, he actually seemed to be enjoying it, which only made Peter angrier.
“Did I touch a nerve? What, is she your sugar mama or something?” Skip snorted.
Peter threw his head back and laughed, the sound was hollow and mirthless, “Wow, you're so f—g stupid. Been a while since my head was this polluted. Lucky I know my own worth.”
Peter took a step back and shook his head, his anger slowly draining from him. What had he been thinking? Westcott wasn’t worth the trouble. He should just give the evidence to the police and be rid of Westcott.
Peter raised his hands in surrender, “You know what? Forget about it.”
He turned and started to leave. From behind him, Westcott scoffed and yelled after him, “Don’t you turn your back on me! Who do you think you are?”
Suddenly Peter’s spider senses spiked just before Westcott kicked the back of Peter’s knee. Peter’s leg gave out and he fell to the ground, just barely catching himself on his hands before he could face-plant on the dirty alleyway asphalt. His anger flared back up as he pushed himself to his feet and turned to face Westcott who stood with his fists clenched and a scowl on his face.
“So ya wanna fight me, are you big enough? Kick the back of my knee, are you serious?” Peter’s palms burned from the small scratches they had gotten from the asphalt but he barely felt them, his words echoed through the alley.
Peter had expected to be afraid when he finally faced his rapist but all he felt was rage. Rage for everything this man had done to him, had taken from him. Rage for all the things he could never get back. Rage that Westcott wasn’t tormented by the memories like Peter was. It wasn’t a blinding rage though like with the Green Goblin. In fact, Peter’s sight had never been so clear.
Westcott rushed forward, his fist already swinging towards Peter. Peter knew that all it would take was one punch and Westcott would be out. But where’s the fun in that? So instead he let Westcott land a punch.
Westcott’s fist made contact with Peter’s cheek, splitting his bottom lip. Peter ran his tongue over the cut and grinned at Westcott who was clutching his hand, his scrunched up in pain. He’d probably broken it when he’d punched Peter.
“Is that the best you got?” Peter taunted challengingly. Westcott growled and threw himself at Peter, tackling him to the ground. As they hit the ground the air was knocked out of Peter’s lungs and pain flared from the back of his head where it made contact with the ground.
Before Peter could get his bearings Westcott had pinned his arms above his head with a leg planted on either side of him. A cruel smile split his lips as his eyes roved over Peter’s dazed face.
“I’ll teach you not to walk away from me,” Westcott snarled. “I’ll hold you down while your gate is open, while I get a taste. I’ll hold you down while you share your spoils, I will not let any part got to waste!”
Westcott smashed his lips against Peter’s. Peter stiffened beneath him as memories washed over him. For a moment, he was back in his childhood bedroom as Westcott had his way with him. Peter squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to rid himself of the memory before opening them again. This time Peter could fight back.
Westcott’s slimy tongue slithered across Peter’s lips and Peter replied by biting down as hard as he could, Westcott’s blood flooded into his mouth making him want to gag but he locked his jaw and bit down harder. Westcott howled in pain and tried to pull away.
Peter felt a thrill of satisfaction rush through him before he finally released his hold and roughly pushed Westcott off him. The men both stumbled to their feet, Peter spat on the ground to try and rid himself of some of Westcott’s blood while Westcott had both his hands cupped over his mouth as blood continued to drip down his chin.
“Ew biff!” Westcott spat, his words garbled by his injured tongue, before charging at Peter again. Peter sighed and easily sidestepped the man sending him careening into a pile of garbage bags.
Peter sighed in disappointment, “To think, I used to be scared of you. Fat chance of that now! I’ve seen petty thieves fight better than you.“
Westcott pushed himself back to his feet, his front smeared with blood and garbage, his face contorted with rage. Westcott yelled before starting to swing wildly at Peter, Peter dodged most of the punches but let a few of them land.
“You keep on trying, but I like your blood on my teeth just a little too much,” Peter said with a sneer. Peter went to sidestep another strike when he stumbled on a rotten banana peel, Westcott saw an opening and took it.
Westcott rushed at Peter and flung him against the wall again. Peter’s head struck the wall in the bruised spot that had been it earlier, he was sure he was going to have a massive goose egg now. Westcott leaned toward Peter and growled, “You bite me, I bite back!”
Or at least that’s what Peter thought he said, it was a bit hard to tell since his words were still pretty garbled but any confusion was quickly cleared up when Westcott thrust his face up against the crook of Peter’s neck and bit down. Peter gasped in pain and quickly pushed Westcott off him before his teeth could do more than leave bruises.
“Seriously, dude? What are you, a vampire?” Peter jibed. Westcott slapped Peter across the face. Peter blinked in surprise then stood up a little straighter, he hadn’t noticed before but he was taller than Westcott by a few inches. For the first time, uncertainty flashed in Westcott’s eyes. Westcott took a small step back and tried to swing at Peter again, this time Peter caught his fist in his hand and roughly twisted Westcott’s arm until he heard it break. Westcott screamed in agony as Peter finally let go of his broken arm which fell limply to his side at a very unnatural angle.
Peter strode towards Westcott, and with every step Peter took towards him Westcott would take a stumbling step back.
Years of pent-up rage came spilling out of Peter as he towered over his cowering rapist, “So bite me, slap me ‘round the face. I get stronger every day. That little boy you raped is gone. You’ve messed with the wrong bi- in the wrong era. I have been at work, and I got my badge of honor. Honey, I've changed so much since I last saw you.”
Peter’s chest was heaving after his rant, his eyes slits as he glared at the man with enough hate and disdain to rival that of the sun. Any kernel of pity Peter could have felt for the man burnt up the moment he had shown that he was exactly the same man he had been all those years ago.
Westcott held up his unbroken arm in surrender, “I give up, you win man!”
Peter tsked and shook his head in disgust as the adrenaline started wearing off and exhaustion started tugging at his limbs. “Whatever, just get out of my sight,” Peter grumbled as he turned his back to the man. He’d had his fill of revenge for the night, he’d let Westcott go for now. He’d turn the evidence over to the cops and let them handle it from here.
Peter had barely taken a few steps when Westcott’s hand darted out and grabbed Peter’s hair to yank him back as he snarled viciously, “Think you could beat me that easily? Think again. Never turn your back on your enemy.”
Again, Peter was just guessing at what he was saying since Westcott’s tongue was practically dangling from his mouth.
This guy just doesn’t give up, Peter thought. He reached back and grabbed Westcott’s wrist in a crushing grip as he yelled, “Hands off my hair, how very dare you!”
Westcott tore his wrist from Peter’s grip and shook it. His teeth were stained with blood that continued to drip down his chin. Westcott swung at Peter and Peter dodged the blow. Westcott screamed in frustration as he continued swinging at Peter with his good arm and Peter continued to easily dodge it until he felt his back press up against the cold metal of a dumpster and the cool exterior of the nightclub.
“Got you now, you little punk!” Westcott bragged with a bloody grin. He planted an arm on either side of Peter’s head, caging him in. Peter narrowed his eyes at Westcott, a knowing smile growing on his lips.
Adrenaline pumped through Peter’s body, his thoughts racing a mile a minute as he calculated all of Westcott’s weaknesses, “No, I don’t think so. ‘Cause I pack a punch backed into a corner.”
To emphasize his point Peter sucker-punched the man right on the nose. He let out a yelp of pain and stumbled backward his hands covering his now-broken nose, the blood streaming from his nose mixing with the blood from his tongue. “Come at me; don't tell me I didn't warn ya.”
Westcott had a wild look in his eyes, Peter couldn’t tell if it was fear or bloodlust. He hoped it was fear. Westcott straightened himself and bared his bloody teeth at Peter, Peter responded in kind by baring his own blood-stained teeth. Westcott adjusted his stance uncertainly then once again swung wildly at Peter.
Peter sidestepped the blow and came up behind Westcott where he then placed a well-aimed kick to the back of his knee. Westcott staggered and fell to his knees.
Peter crouched down in front of Westcott, satisfaction rushed through as he saw the fear in Westcott’s eyes. “Did you think I'd be easy? Snap me like bamboo? Mold me into the sole of your jackboot? Well, I guess you thought wrong. Pick your fights better.”
Peter stood and dusted himself off before turning away from the man. Westcott’s hand shot out and grabbed Peter by the ankle. Peter stumbled and scowled down at the man. He easily kicked Westcott’s hand off his leg and turned back to face him.
“I’ve had just about enough of you.” Peter spat out, he reached behind him and pulled out the gun from the waistband of his pants. He pressed the cold metal barrel of the gun against Westcott’s sweaty forehead. The look on Westcott’s face was priceless. All the color drained from his mangled face as he froze, his eyes trained on the gun.
“Wish I could bottle the taste 'cause I'd drink up the look on your face.” Peter’s eyes soaked in the terror on Westcott’s face for one more moment before bringing the butt of the pistol down on Westcott’s head, knocking the man out.
And for good measure, Peter stomped down, hard, on Westcott’s groin before he webbed Westcott up and attached a copy of the evidence to him before climbing up the side of the nightclub. He sat perched on the edge of the roof while he called it into 9-1-1.
It didn’t take long for police to arrive on the scene and as Peter watched them cut Westcott down from the webs and shove him into the back of a cruiser a feeling of immense catharsis washed over him. He’d expected to feel some kind of guilt or remorse over his actions but all he felt was a great sense of relief. For the first time in a long while he knew he’d be able to sleep well that night.