Chapter Text
Sunday, January 11-Monday, January 12
He isn't awake the first time it happens.
Instead, Peter snaps into a bleary semblance of awareness, able to make out the shapes before him, but not quite all there yet. Not until he slips on the slick ground below and stumbles into a gritty column of brick. Which is definitely not his bedroom wall. Certainly not anywhere he thinks he should be at this time of the night.
Peter blinks his eyes hard, then harder again, finally chasing away the blurry film partially obscuring his vision.
His eyes sharpen, cataloguing the height of the walls, the large pool of thick water at his feet. A prickling sensation scales the ridges of his spine at the bite of wind skimming his ankles. The freeze hits his arms and neck as well. Thin hairs raise up, skin goose-bumping immediately.
Cold. It's cold outside. Of course, since it's January…January something.
And it's also warm. Quickly cooling on the gravel underfoot, but warmer still.
Peter cocks his head at the shape of an object lying maybe five, six feet away.
He bows his head quickly, blinking hard. And he looks down.
And feels it too.
Liquid seeping into his sweatpants, dyeing his sleep shirt a deep color he doesn't want to consider too much in the moment. Peter flexes his feet. Barren, he realizes belatedly. And his hands, tacky and streaked with the drying flecks of some mystery substance. It's too dark to see much of any shades or hues in the narrow alley, illuminated only by the moon's shying light.
Peter decides he doesn't know what it is. He'll figure it out later. There's time to lay silent under his comforter. To confer with Ned in the morning.
It could be water. Maybe sewage. Yeah, sewage. It's sewage looking, that's for sure. Which is gross, but Peter faces worse going to the bathroom in highschool.
His hair dips with his bobbing head, an unconscious movement of inner agreement. It feels safer to look up now, now that it's sewage. So he does. Look up because it's thick water. It's sewage.
The shape is five feet away.
Peter clenches a hand at his side, the other supporting himself on the wall as he steps. Closer. And closer. And foot after foot. One in front of the other. Marching on gravel, letting it stick there in his feet by shallow indents and thick water. Shuffling towards the soft glow of moonlight brandishing the lump like a ring on a pillow.
Something shining and important.
The almost angelic ring of light beams brighter, pulsating. A thing. Alive.
Impossible.
Hands itching, Peter melts, knees buckling. His shoulder bumps into the wall and he grapples it with both palms now. Retching and gagging now.
It's hot. His hands are burning hot. They fly off the wall, shaking profusely. Peter screws his lips at the twitch of his fingers. It's disgusting. His hands are filthy. His nails are grimy.
Peter inches back further along the wall, further into the shadows. His exhales, quiet, slow, barely there, bloom into plumes of white—visible in the frigid air and dimly lit atmosphere. His hands find the wall again. The wall, the wall, the wall. Creeping further along, back and away.
Don't look at it.
Don't touch it.
Don't think about the peak of its snout, the coarse white-grey fur interrupted only by wide gashes of flesh and the sickly jut of broken bone.
The angles are all wrong. So wrong. Ninety degrees where it should be a smooth curve, more organic. Not…this.
He looks at the river flowing from the shape, as it runs into the still, shallow puddle he'd stood over moments before. It's sewage. All dirt. Thicker water, thicker than water.
Please, be water.
Peter sways, teeth clicking together, eyes transfixed on the object that is driving his pulse into his throat, threading a suffocating, clenching feeling of dread between the spaces of each rib. The shape of it. Is so jarring.
The dog, the dog, the dog.
But it's not. It can't be.
Fur. Paws. Legs.
Move. Something tells him to move. Get out of here, get away from this place and the mess beneath your feet.
It'll be alright if you don't think about it. Don't even give yourself the time or opportunity to consider the happenings of this night. Flee like the petrified, little creature you are. Do not think about this.
Remember the thicker water. The sewage. The arches, smooth and safe. Skin. Just skin.
Good, Peter.
Go home.
Peter scales the wall and goes home.
* * *
Sleep doesn't come for him. It slips by, a fickle thing, and vanishes with the last dregs of inky night giving way to dawn. He loses it in the incessant ringing of his alarm.
Peter rolls out of bed, feet dragging as he drifts to the window. His heartbeat quickens.
It must have been a dream. A nightmare, really. A false reality, concocted by the worst of his worries and darkest fears. Not real.
Hands tugging at the cord, Peter squints against the strips of blue outside, the bright rushing of traffic and city life passing by. Tall buildings, overcrowded sidewalks, and the flutter of pigeon wings over another obnoxiously shiny car. It all seems so normal and cliche. Why wouldn't it be? It's New York. His Queens, gearing up for another day, another go at it all.
He can pick up the yells of 'Taxi! Taxi!' and greetings echoing off pavement and walls. The shuffle of feet and cries of street vendors hawking their wares, and it really feels like last night was nothing. Not anything.
But Peter doesn't know that for sure.
Breathe. You have to look.
And he does. Peter turns away from what he already knows to be a blood-streaked windowsill and cringes at what he sees.
Early morning sunlight filters through the blinds, revealing the blood staining his sheets, the carpet, his hands and feet. A quick glance in the mirror confirms that, yes, his face bears a smear of gore as well.
"Holy shit," he breathes, fingers pausing over the long-dried proof of what he'd done.
Now it is absolute and unmistakable.
But, God, that's just—that's not him. It's not. Spider-man doesn't kill innocent dogs in the unholiest hour of night. Villains do that. Criminals. Bad guys. Not Spider-man, never him.
He's not built for that. Peter has never, not once, killed another living, breathing being. So why would that happen now? What the hell is going on?
And what if it's not true? What if it really wasn’t him?
"What if it wasn't?" Peter watches his reflection's eyes. Brown and stupidly wide.
And now that's something Peter can roll with.
Thirty minutes later, everything is gone. Scrubbed clean or stuffed in the very bottom corner of a dumpster, double wrapped in garbage bags. He buries the guilt under layers of 'what if?' and double wraps that too. Shoves it into the deepest part of his mind.
Good.
"Okay." Peter, skin steaming from the hot shower, stands in the middle of his room. "Okay."
It'll all be okay.
He combs a brush through his hair and gels it down, drowning the curls with product. It's nothing like thick water. Not at all.
His fingers smooth down his shirt he chose for today. A dumb science pun about atoms and liars. The joints of his hand creak as it twitches faintly over the printed letters.
Peter switches it out for a simple white T-shirt under an ironed flannel. He tucks the note May left for him on the kitchen counter into the breast pocket. And then he skips breakfast, hops onto the subway, and walks into Midtown High like he hadn't left a corpse lying in a pool of its own blood and stench of murder.
* * *
"Peter! Wait up!"
It's Ned. He shoulders his way through the throng of students to catch up with Peter, grinning excitedly and way too energetic for seven thirty in the morning, on a Monday of all days. Still, Peter slows down enough for his friend to match his pace.
"So, did you get stuck on the physics homework? Question nine?" Ned bumps his side and Peter's nostrils flare. "Stupid Jared and his collection of balls of varying sizes, amirite?"
"Uh-huh, yeah." Peter grins weakly. "Stupid balls."
"Hey, but MJ's probably got the answers. If you give her your patented puppy-dog eyes, she'll totally—"
"Bathroom. I-I need to go to the…bathroom," Peter says hoarsely. He swallows the bile threatening to tank his social reputation into Puke Parker and barrels left into the boys' bathroom.
There's no one else inside, thank goodness. He bundles himself into the last stall, crouching low.
Puppy-dog eyes.
The dog.
Visions of misshapen limbs swarm his vision. Broken skin, giving way to the beating, breathing life underneath. The sound of dripping blood. Rushing blood. Spilling blood. Onto his hands. His hands, his hands, Peter Parker's hands.
"Shut up," he whimpers into the crook of his elbow. "Stop it."
His brain doesn't stop.
It's a broken dam, water flooding into his senses, overriding what is actually in front of him. Like there isn't solid ground here and walls there and the buzzing fluorescents overhead. Peter's hands scrabble at the tile, catch the grout lines in between. His nails bend, but they don't break.
He zeroes in. There. Right there. Grime. Dirt underneath his nails that he didn't see before.
Get it out. Get it out.
Drums, beating at his temples.
Get it out. Get it out.
Crack!
He isn't a monster. It wasn't him. Spider-man doesn't do those kinds of things.
I didn't do it. It wasn't me.
It had to have been someone else. Anyone else.
The warning bell for first period rings, but Peter doesn't leave the bathroom. Three minutes later, the bell rings again, shriller than the last. The door stays closed.
* * *
"What's going on, man? You skipped first period to go take a dump or something?"
"Yeah, Parker." MJ tucks her bookmark into the pages of her novel and sets it down on the lunch table. She slides it about an inch to the left, practically out of sight and out of mind for her. "What's up with that?"
Ned's mouth is pressed into a thin, anxious line. MJ, in contrast, braces her chin on the palm of her hand, ever so nonchalant.
"Nothing's 'up with that'." Peter shrugs, prodding at the greyish broccoli on his tray. "I just had to go to the bathroom."
His friends' brows raise in unison. Ned glances at the bandaids covering the tips of Peter's fingers. From when his nails had cracked against the rough bathroom grout, worn away by incessant scratching and grinding.
It didn't look so bad. No blood leaking out for now.
"Is it about," Ned whispers conspiratorially, glancing from side-to-side. "Spider-man stuff?"
He wiggles his own fingers at Peter, nodding at the covered wounds.
"Yeah," Peter blurts out, nodding back as relaxed as he can manage. "Just a scratch from patrol."
He throws in a chuckle, just to drive the point home.
"It better not be more than a scratch." MJ takes a bite of her sandwich. Something vegetarian, probably. "You know how Tony is about you getting hurt."
"He's not—it's about the suit, MJ." Peter sighs. "He made it, after all."
Peter had tried to explain this before. Mr. Stark is very concerned with the well-being of the Spider-man suit, and rightfully so. Not that he doesn't worry about Peter too—the man's not a monster—but Peter's pretty sure the suit takes top priority. And rightfully so! Peter can't fault Mr. Stark for wanting his property to be in good condition.
"Right."
"Totally, dude."
His friends share a look that Peter can't and won't decipher.
"I'm serious guys."
"We didn't say anything!" Ned holds his hands up placatingly, trying vainly to stop the grin from overtaking his serious expression.
MJ just snorts, picking up her book. From there, the tense conversation devolves into normalcy, or at least as close a thing as they can get, being involved with Peter and all. And lunch is nice. No dogs, no blood, no gravel underfoot. Everything is shockingly pleasant amidst the din of the cafeteria. No dripping, no wind, no sign of reality being anything more or less than perfectly normal.
Peter doesn't even feel the ache of his skin regrowing and knitting back together, the shards of fingernail warping back into shape. It doesn't sting horribly. Not one bit.
* * *
Getting home proves to be a bit of an ordeal, but Peter truly can't help it. He sees the wagging tails, hears the coos of owners stooping to ruffle their furry friends, and sure enough, his feet book it in the other direction.
But it's not like he's doing it on purpose. Peter loves dogs! They're cute and friendly and don't even have the brain capacity to regard Spider-man as a "havoc-wreacking menace to society." Ergo, dogs are great.
So why is he the one running, tail tucked between his legs?
It wasn't even him last night. He was asleep, first of all. And second, he would never do such a thing, such blatant cruelty.
Peter shudders as he squeezes past other pedestrians, maneuvering the scaffolding ridden and sewer-smelling sidewalks with the ease of a native-born New Yorker. The wind nips at his neck and wrists. His jacket does little to fend from the winter weather, but it's not like he can afford to dish out for another.
Sometimes he wishes he could wear the Spider-man suit at all times. After a prior incident involving a snowstorm and insufficient heating, Mr. Stark had taken it upon himself to design and implement a heater within the functions of the suit. Which was impossibly, unbelievably nice. Shockingly so.
Now, Peter tries to remember the warmth, a feeling that resembled being constantly swaddled in blankets and sunshine. He imagines it spreading to his numbing fingertips, his freezing toes. It works marginally, the memory shielding against the sensation of whipping wind and what inevitably comes after.
He makes it home half an hour later, taking the necessary detours to avoid the adorably floppy ears haunting his thoughts.
"Peter, Mrs. Harding's been trying to hunt you down." May sing-songs from behind the kitchen counter, waving him over. "She told me she's got a faulty printer for you to take a look at."
Peter dumps his bag on the floor and hops up onto a stool across from May, hands hidden in his pockets.
"Uh, tell her I can stop by this Wednesday?" Nose scrunching in consideration, he nods to himself. "Yeah, I've got time Wednesday after school."
May reaches an arm over to smooth down a piece of wayward hair on his head. Peter leans into the touch, the tension sliding off of his shoulders.
"I'll tell her when I see her."
"Oh! And also tell her I really liked the brownies she made for the last neighborhood potluck."
She tweaks his nose with her thumb, eyes alight with amusement. "You little suck-up."
"Exactly. Maybe she'll make some more." Peter shrugs, grinning.
The smile fades as May's eyes soften at the corners. She takes a deep breath and Peter zeroes in on the reluctance in her tone.
"I'm, uh, gonna be taking the night shift more often, probably for the next few weeks. At least until the end of this month." May gnaws on her bottom lip, eyes shining with unvoiced worry. "Will you be okay being by yourself for that long?"
Peter perks up a little, despite May's obvious reservations. He'll be able to sneak in some more time to patrol, maybe take a night shift of his own sometimes.
"Yeah, I'll be alright. We're pretty stocked up on Hot Pockets, I think."
May's brow raises and Peter can already feel the beginning of a sigh about to erupt. It's like the first sighting of grey clouds along the horizon, and he braces himself for what he knows she'll say.
"I don't want you eating only Hot Pockets, Peter. Stay with Tony and Pepper sometimes. They've been telling me you always manage to excuse yourself and I know you're not eating your homework for dinner." Her fingertips are steepled. Peter finds that the buzzing of his own pitches into a throb as he watches her's whiten with how much pressure May is using to press her hands together.
He really hates it when she gets all stressed over food stuff.
"I'm not," he says, a weak attempt at humor. "I've been eating the Hot Pockets."
"That's still not healthy, Peter!" Her hands smooth down the front of her scrubs, brow creasing.
The throbbing does not subside. In fact, it spreads to his temples.
"I need you to be healthy. So, please. Let the damn billionaire feed you." May sighs again, expression nothing short of pleading.
Peter hates that even more. That look on her face, like she has to plead for every little thing, even when it comes to him. His chest squeezes, a pang of something resembling regret and frustration hanging just below his sternum. Of course he'll say yes. It's May. It's never a big deal with May. He refuses to make it into one.
"Okay. The next time Mr. Stark and Miss Potts ask me to stay for dinner, I won't blow them off. I'll eat whatever weird stuff billionaires feed themselves. No complaining."
The worst part is that May looks so very relieved, lips quirking up, hands coming down to smooth his hair again. Peter doesn't know why, but it makes his pride deflate a little.
"Just no more physics for dinner, baby. You've gotta keep your energy up so that your Peter Tingle can work."
"May."
"That's literally what it is."
"May!"
Her laugh is so bright, like sweetly ringing bells, or the call of a ship from far, far away.
"And that's not all. I know you'll stay out as late as you can, but you need sleep."
"I do sleep! Six hours! Every night!"
"Not good enough," she says, punctuating every word by poking at his arm. "You can stay out half an hour later than usual, but that's all."
Peter huffs a dramatic sigh, slumping over the counter. "Okay, yeah. Deal."
"Or else I'll ask Tony to monitor you."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me," she answers, moving away from the table.
He sighs a little as she putters around the apartment, gathering her things. Purse, keys, wallet. Oh wait, this thing. Purse, keys… oh wait, that thing too. It’s strangely endearing. It makes his hands itch. But Peter is careful to keep them stuffed in his pockets when she hugs him, drops a kiss on his forehead, and rushes out the door for her shift at the hospital.
* * *
Eventually, when the bandaids come off, his fingers are practically as good as new, save for the shine of newly white scarring just underneath the crevice of his nails. They aren't even that visible. Not worth agonizing over, in his opinion. Most of Peter's litany of small scars only catch the light at certain angles, camouflaged due to the paleness of his complexion and his ever-present habit of never staying still. Point is, no one is going to notice, and even if they do, no one will care.
Even later, Peter retreats to his room after a productive afternoon patrol, feeling thoroughly drained of his energy. It makes May's point about eating healthy echo in his mind like a smug ghost. He supposes he might actually stay if Mr. Stark and Miss Potts extend an invitation the next time he has a lab day. They probably have some crazy rich-people caviar that boosts your energy and also makes you shit out gold flakes.
It seems like something they might have.
He lets out a sleepy snort at the thought as his eyes blur from the promise of encroaching slumber and a full night's rest.
* * *
Peter wakes up.
Not in his room.
Not in his bed.
Somewhere new. A place he doesn't recognize at first.
And there. Right there. It lies, only lies there, unmoving. He's lying face-down, stomach pressed against the pavement, and can only look at it for a few seconds before his dinner decides to make a reappearance.
He doesn't know how long it takes for him to scrabble to his feet, barren again. Time seems to slow, like a train coming to a long, outstretched stop. Unable to avoid what's on the tracks. But it stops anyway.
Just like the night before.
Peter's hands aren't dry this time, though. It's as if he'd woken up almost immediately after killing the squirrel.
What?
No.
He didn't kill the squirrel. It wasn't possible for him to…
But his hands, his hands, Peter Parker's hands. They are slick with blood and viscera. Shining in the dim light. He turns them over and it's more of the same sight. Back and front, drenched with the blood of an innocent animal.
Peter shudders from the rising urge to vomit, but nothing comes up. It leaves him choking on
He staggers forward, legs halting clumsily in front of the body, in the manner of a newborn fawn. He drops to his knees, joints absorbing the shock of hitting wet pavement. It doesn't register that it should hurt, that it should feed a bone-deep pain into his nerves. But there is none. No organic notification of injury.
His trembling hands gather up the body and cradle it to his chest. It still holds a small shred of warmth. Freshly deceased. A small river of blood spills from the animal as Peter settles it into the crook of his arm.
He looks up at the flickering light overhead, illuminating that one small circle of the parking lot. It's been spray-painted by so many taggers, the original color is anyone's guess. But Peter recognizes it. He knows where he is, even without the smart-interface of Karen informing him.
This was where he'd broken up a fight earlier that day. He can practically see the two unruly men interlocked in a violent brawl, the yelling and pushing apart of bodies. Spider-man, restoring peace among his people.
Peter was here in the back parking lot of a strip-mall only a few hours before, and that revelation is nothing short of jarring.
And he realizes he knows even more, as he turns in a languid circle, the calloused pads of his feet drawing rough lines against the ground. He knows about the small park lying about a block away. He knows the peat is soft and smells like petrichor most days. Peter knows how to scale the gate and land on the other side.
He is so overwhelmed with knowledge.
He knows how to bury things, too. He's done it before, after all.
A time capsule in the second-grade.
The seeds of May's precious petunias.
Ben.
Peter can do it again, for this small, forsaken animal. Because he knows he did it. And that he has to bury it, place it somewhere to rest. Somewhere under the earth, out of sight.
Yes, he can do that. He won't run away again. He'll face it. He knows it was him, his hands that are guilty.
The roll of car tires against pavement startles him into movement, and Peter scurries to press himself into the narrow alclove of the nearest building. He stays there, chest heaving in, then out, in, then out, broken body clutched desperately in hand. It’s soft. And squishy. He hates it.
Peter holds in the welling urge to cry and scream, holding his head low as he walks to the park. He finds a good spot. Trees and frosted-over grass create a small clearing in a secluded enough corner, evidenced by the overgrown shrubbery. He kneels again. Dirt joins the blood encrusted under his fingernails. Once the squirrel is finally laid to rest, returned to the earth, Peter smells the faint scent of petrichor intertwine with the heavy layer of blood. He stumbles back against a leaf-barren tree, body shaking with jumping sobs and shivers.
He isn't sure whether he should pray over the body or not, but he sends one up to whoever is listening. Out of respect, maybe. He doesn't know. This, he doesn't know.
And then he goes back to the apartment.
Peter only takes twenty minutes to clean his room.