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Ben was completely and totally out of his depth.
May’s death had hit him like a bullet to his own chest. God, if only. The memory of that night makes his stomach churn, his lungs ache, his eyes burn. A man had pointed a gun at his wife and Ben had joked the robber had more money than they did. He had joked. And May had died.
When the police and the ambulance came—far, far too late—Ben was led to the couch by a kindly officer who gripped his shaking hands and told him they would do everything they could to find the man responsible. Peter burst in through the doorway as Ben was struggling through a description of the robber—the assailant, the murderer—and the fear on the boy’s face was enough to break him. Ben couldn’t stop the tears that welled in his eyes. He tried to swallow around the knot in his throat, to give some word of comfort to his nephew—
“I’m so sorry, Peter.”
Peter froze for a moment. The pieces moving around in his head to make one final, horrible picture were almost visible. Peter’s legs carried him to the couch, to his uncle, his shell-shocked expression unchanged. Ben wrapped his arms around Peter’s too-small frame and held tightly. When the kid began to shake, he rubbed circles on his back to quiet his hitched sobs. Tears stained Ben’s shirt and ran down his face.
A burst of static came over one of the officer’s walkies before a message sounded about a foot chase after a man who had tried to rob a fast-food place. One of the cops commented it could be the same man responsible for taking Ben’s May and he felt Peter stiffen. Peter jerked to his feet and ran through the front door before Ben could stop him. He jumped up to follow, but a detective stopped him, suggesting he give Peter some time. Ben bit back the angry response that rose in his chest. But God, did it hurt to see the only family he had left walk out.
Peter eventually came back. He eventually stopped hiding in his room, eventually started meeting his uncle’s eyes, eventually started coming downstairs for meals. Meals were the hardest. Ben was a decent cook, but only when it came to about three dishes. He alternated between spaghetti and meatballs, grilled cheese, and scrambled eggs on toast for nearly two weeks before Mrs. Watson gently reminded him Peter needed better nutrition than that.
The natural course of action was grocery shopping. The Parkers had a standard grocery list they took to the store every time because both Ben and Peter could be a bit forgetful. Ben had fished the list from the drawer near the fridge only to start crying when he saw May’s loopy handwriting. He ended up writing out the items in his own messy scrawl because he couldn’t stand the reminder, not yet. Actually buying the groceries became another issue when he realized his individual income meant there was little left after the month’s mortgage payment and utility bills. Grilled cheese was a staple in the house for a little while longer until Ben found new ways to make money stretch. He pulled out most of his retirement fund (which admittedly wasn’t much) and took more hours at work. He stopped having a cup of coffee in the morning, stopped buying cinnamon rolls at the bakery on Sundays. He got a night job as a janitor at an office building, but he didn’t tell Peter.
Although keeping a roof over their heads, keeping the lights on and the water running, and putting food on the table were arguably the biggest issues Ben faced, they weren’t the ones that hit him the hardest. He had always tried to encourage Peter’s interest in science, knowing it made him feel closer to his father, but he didn’t have the money to provide Peter with materials for his experiments or the time to sit down and listen to his ideas. He couldn’t take Peter to Mets games anymore, and when he tried to get him to watch the game on TV, switching the channel over from some news story about a bank robbery in progress, Peter had offered a hasty excuse and rushed out the door. Ben was terrified he was creating a rift between himself and his nephew and he had no idea how to fix it.
He couldn’t tell if things got better or worse as time went on. Peter seemed happier; he was smiling and cracking jokes like he used to, his grades improved, and he even got himself a girlfriend in that wonderful Mary Jane. But he was also so much more reserved. He spent hours cooped up in the basement doing God knows what, he lied to Ben about where he was and who he was with, and he seemed so stressed all the time. Ben finally snapped one day when Peter attempted to sneak in at three in the morning after being gone the whole night.
“Where in God’s name were you, Peter?!”
“I— I— The Bugle. I was—finishing up some work for Jameson. Lost track of time.” Peter fidgeted with the sleeves of his hoodie. His eyes were cast downward and all Ben could see was guilt radiating off him in waves.
“The Bugle? Was this before or after the library?” Peter startled, his eyes wide.
“The library?”
“Unless Mary Jane was the one lying to my face!” Ben yelled. Pete winced.
“I-I’m sorry, Uncle Ben—“
“I don’t want to hear it.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just— go to your room, Peter. I can’t deal with this right now.” Peter dropped his shoulders and shuffled up the stairs. Ben watched his retreating back and listened for his door to shut before falling into his armchair with a sigh. He scrubbed his face with his hands. He was failing Richard. He was failing May. He was failing Peter. When Peter had come to them after the death of his parents, he was just a child, small and lost and confused. May and Ben had taken him in without hesitation and he had grown into a young man of whom Ben couldn’t be prouder. Ben had seen Peter through all of the difficult phases in his life, but now when it seemed they needed each other more than ever, they just push each other away.
Ben wondered if it was his fault. All his talk of responsibility. How he wished he could take it back now. Peter was still, essentially, just a child; Ben had told him he needed to grow up too soon and now Peter was suffering for it. What he wouldn’t give to erase all of the tragedy Peter had seen and let him be the carefree little boy he remembered. He had too much on his shoulders. Too much for any man to bear and certainly too much for a teenager. Ben flicked on the television and mindlessly watched the news report about that Spider-Man guy fighting some lunatic with metal arms.
——————
Eventually the day came when Ben received the best news he’d heard all year: he was getting a raise. He came home from work to find Peter and MJ sitting at the kitchen table. They had their books out as if they were doing homework, but Ben was a teenager once, and he remembered how difficult it is to focus on history when there’s a pretty girl sitting next to you. A sudden memory popped up of him and May sitting on the grass during their final year of college. What was supposed to be a study session had turned into a tickle fight that had left both of them laughing and gasping for air. He smiled and ruffled Peter’s hair as he walked past the two to the refrigerator. “Hey, Petey.”
“Hi, Uncle Ben,” Peter greeted. Mary Jane waved and Ben grinned at her as he opened the fridge. He pulled out a can of soda and cracked it open.
“How was school?” he asked. Peter shrugged.
“Fine. Gwen nearly got suspended for dumping her tater tots down Flash’s pants.”
“If it means anything,” MJ chimed in, “he deserved it.”
Ben tried to look disapproving, but it didn’t quite work. He was too fond of that Stacy girl. Maybe she was a bit of a bad influence, but he couldn’t deny he had gotten up to his fair share of trouble in his youth. He was also secretly hoping she would rub off on Peter a little, get him to stand up for himself. He came home with bruises that suggested the bullying issue hadn’t gone away and although Ben wanted to protect his boy, he knew that if Peter’s uncle was protecting him, it would only get worse. Then again, Peter had somehow put on a bit of muscle in the past few months. He no longer looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over.
Ben took a sip of his soda before proposing the idea that had been mulling in his mind on the drive home. “What do you think about having a night out? Going to the movies and hitting a burger joint or something,” he asked. Peter looked uncertain for a moment.
“We, uh. We don’t have to go out to have a family night, Uncle Ben. We could watch a movie here. Or play a board game?” Peter pointed to the cabinet where the kept the games, all with missing pieces and ripped boards. Ben felt a pang of guilt; maybe he hadn’t been hiding their financial troubles as well as he had thought.
“No, no,” he insisted, “We haven’t gone out since your aunt— since May died. It’ll be fun, Pete. And MJ, you’re more than welcome to come, as always.” He smiled at her and she beamed back. She nudged Peter with her elbow and a small smile wormed its way onto his face.
“Fine,” he said, “But I’m picking the movie. If we leave it up to you two we’ll end up watching The Notebook or something.”
“He wrote her a letter every day, Petey!” Ben pretended to look scandalized at his nephew’s implication that there was anything wrong with a grown man dragging his kid to a romance movie (if only to embarrass him).
“I don’t see you writing me any letters,” Mary Jane huffed, crossing her arms. Her lips were tight with a suppressed grin. Peter threw his arms in the air.
“I can’t win with you people!”
They ended up going to see some action movie Ben couldn’t remember the name of, but had Peter and MJ excited. Ben watched from the corner of his eye as Peter laughed at the screen while the characters exchanged quips. He muttered something to his girlfriend about his battle banter being way better and MJ smacked him on the arm before stealing his popcorn. Ben couldn’t remember the last time he felt so happy.
Mary Jane’s mom picked her up after the movie, when it was dark out. Peter and Ben walked to a diner just down the block from the theater and ordered burgers and milkshakes (strawberry for Peter, vanilla for Ben) and slid into a booth by the window. Ben was quietly pleased when the teenager sat beside him rather than across the table.
They started with amicable conversation, which led to a heated debate about the best milkshake flavor, which led to a french fry war, which led to Ben apologizing meekly to the waitress staffing their table while Peter hid his laughter with unconvincing coughs. They talked until the all-night diner slowly emptied and there was only one other occupied table.
“Pete,” Ben began after the waitress brought them both their third shake, “I know I’ve been hard on you lately—”
“Uncle Ben, no—” Peter interrupted, but Ben held up a hand to stop him.
“Let me finish, son. I have been hard on you lately, and I know that the last place you need that coming from is me.” Peter looked like he wanted to say something, but Ben pushed forward. “The whole world has been hard on you. You’ve been given way too much for one young man to deal with and I’ve been telling you that you need to shoulder responsibility for your life and your actions. I don’t take that back, that is important, Peter, but I should have told you that you don’t need to handle this responsibility alone. I haven’t been there for you like I should have—” Again Peter went to interrupt but Ben put a hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s true, Petey. You’re going through things that I can’t even imagine and I’ve made you feel like you can’t talk to me about them. And for that I’m sorry, Peter.” Ben’s voice caught at the end. He dropped his gaze to his empty plate. He startled when arms wrapped around his middle in a vice grip.
“I love you, Uncle Ben,” came Peter’s muffled voice. Ben folded his arms around his nephew. “I know I’ve been difficult an-and distant lately, and I’ve made you worry all the time and been a bit of a pain and you’re always working trying to support me and I really, really appreciate it.” Peter paused. “I-I’ve got a lot of stuff going on and I don’t know how to talk about a lot of it, but you’ve gotta know that I love you. No matter what happens.”
Ben felt tiny pricks of tears at the corners of his eyes. He pulled Peter closer to him, one hand on his back, the other in his mess of brown hair. “I love you too, Petey. No matter what happens.”
He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but when they eventually pulled away Peter offered him a warm smile that felt like the world. They went home after that, each falling into their respective beds, and neither had had such a peaceful sleep in ages.
——————
Ben nearly had a heart attack the night Peter came home covered in blood.
He had been watching the news, anxiously listening to the information pouring from the screen about a fight happening near Manhattan involving Spider-Man and someone in a flying metal suit called the Beetle. Spider-Man hadn’t been doing so well the last time the news crew was able to catch sight of him. He knew Peter was in the area and although it wasn’t Peter’s curfew yet, he hadn’t been able to reach him on his cell phone and couldn’t help but fear the worst.
A thump from upstairs put him even more on edge. Ben stood, and listened hard for another noise. There were faint sounds of shuffling, unless his mind was playing tricks on him. Ben crept over to the closet by the stairs and pulled out the aluminum bat he had kept hidden there since May’s death–-just in case. He eased himself up the steps and paused at the top of the landing, waiting. The sounds of movement were coming from Peter’s room.
Ben felt a surge of anger. An intruder had taken his wife, and now one had the audacity to break into his boy’s room? Not on his watch. Muffled sounds floated from the crack in Peter’s door. Ben positioned himself outside, bat raised, and steeled himself. He burst into the room and hit the light.
The intruder fell backward, landing on the floor with a mangled shout, and Ben raised the bat–-
“Peter?” There, with his back pressed up against the bed frame, hand raised in self-defense, was Ben’s fifteen-year-old nephew.
“Uncle- Uncle Ben?” Peter’s voice was raspy, choked, and it gave Ben pause before he began telling Peter off for scaring him like that. It was enough time for Ben to notice the long gash across Peter’s forehead, the blood caked on the side of his face. There was a dark stain seeping through the arm of his favorite sweater, zipped up high even though Peter hated it that way. Two holes in his jeans showed scraped and bloody knees and Pete was holding his side and wincing.
“Jesus Christ, Peter,” Ben breathed, dropping to the floor to look him over better, “What the hell happened to you?”
“Chess club got a little intense,” Peter joked. Ben heard the catch in his throat and knew this was more serious than he could tell.
“We have to get you to a hospital,” he said, moving to stand.
“No!” Peter clutched his sleeve. He turned his doe eyes on his uncle. “I’m fine, Uncle Ben, honestly. It’s just a couple of scrapes.”
Ben disagreed with his definition of “just a couple of scrapes.” Blood from the wound on Peter’s arm was running down his sleeve and dripping on the floor. Peter’s breathing was shallow and controlled; Ben worried about injuries to the boy’s ribs.
“Peter, if you’ve broken a rib it could puncture your lung. At least let me look—“ Ben grabbed the zipper of the hoodie and began tugging it down. Peter’s clumsy and shaking hands tried to stop him.
“No, no, Uncle Ben, stop—“ But the sweater was halfway unzipped. Ben stared in horror at the shredded red and blue suit underneath.
“I-I can explain,” Peter breathed, his eyes wide. Ben shook his head.
“Peter—”
“I know! I know and I’m sorry!” said Peter, his voice almost pleading. “I— I— God, it’s a long, long, story, and I’ve been m-meaning to tell y-you but—“ Peter inhaled sharply, which drew a pained sound from his throat. He winced again. Ben couldn’t speak,
He chose instead to pull Peter into a hug.
Which was immediately aborted when Pete gasped in pain. Ben sat back, an apology ready to fall from his lips when he saw the look on Peter’s face.
“You’re— you’re not mad?” Peter asked. He looked so scared that Ben wanted to hug him again, but he refrained.
“Doesn’t matter if I’m mad right now, son,” Ben said, placing his hand on Peter’s uninjured arm, “You’re hurt. We’ll take care of that first, then we can talk.” He hauled the teenager to his feet and helped him shuffle to the bathroom. Once Peter was seated on the edge of the bathtub, Ben retrieved the first aid kit from the kitchen. He doubted it would be able to help with all of Peter’s injuries, but it would do until he could convince him to go to the hospital.
Ben tried to clean Peter’s cuts himself until the kid proved much more adept at it. Ben handed things to him while Peter patched up his own injuries. He tried not to think about how much practice he must have. Peter insisted he didn’t need anything done for his ribs and Ben had to take a moment to steady himself when he mentioned having a healing factor.
After the bathroom was properly sanitized and Peter was dressed in appropriately comfy clothes, the two sat down on the edge of Peter’s bed. It was Ben who broke the silence.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked. Peter shifted, the sleeves of his sweater pulled down over his hands.
“A few months. I— Remember that field trip to Oscorp when I got bit by that spider?” He waited for Ben to nod. “I got my powers then. The spider injected me with some sort of super soldier serum called Oz. I got really strong, and really fast, and I could stick to things. It took some time to figure out how to use it. I-I messed up a lot in the beginning.”
“And the whole Spider-Man thing?” Ben pressed. “What in the world compelled you to go running around in tights fighting people?”
Peter pulled in on himself. His shoulders drooped and he looked away from Ben, toward the framed picture on his desk of a younger him–-about eight years old-–Ben, and May. Ben had always loved that photo; May was wearing her favorite yellow sundress and those ridiculously huge shades she adored. Her smile was radiant. Peter licked his lips before speaking.
“The night Aunt May was shot, this guy robbed a deli I was walking past. He ran right past me. I would have been so easy to stop him, just trip him or whatever.” Peter bit the edge of his thumb. Ben didn’t try to push him to continue. “…I didn’t. I was just— I don’t know. It seemed like I had enough problems and I didn’t need to go taking any more. So I didn’t stop him.
“I came home that night, when Aunt May— when she died, and then I heard that the guy who had shot her was still out there and I knew that I was powerful enough to go after him. Get justice, or revenge, or something. And then I found him. And it was the same guy from the deli. If I had just— If I hadn’t been so selfish, so stupid, Aunt May would—” Peter stopped. His eyes were wet and he scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands. “I couldn’t let anything like that happen again, not to anyone. It’s my fault, Uncle Ben. I’m so sorry.”
Ben stared, taken aback by what he had heard.
“Peter… Peter, you can’t blame yourself for what happened.” Peter looked up. Ben pushed on. “What happened to your aunt was a choice–-a choice made by someone else. That man made the choice to kill her, Peter. You couldn’t have changed that choice. You couldn’t have known what would happen. It wasn’t your responsibility to stop the man at the deli. It wasn’t your fault.”
Peter looked at his uncle with watery eyes. He sniffled and crashed into his arms.
“Thanks, Uncle Ben.”