Chapter Text
Peter felt absolutely terrible.
This week has been completely hellish, as if his life suddenly went from easy mode to hell mode in the blink of an eye.
He groggily thought back to that disastrous field trip and wanted to groan, if he could, that is.
His fever had thankfully broken, much to his Aunt May’s relief. The continued back-and-forth visits to the hospital had been a heavy burden on his already feverish body and their finances. Even though Aunt May and Uncle Ben assured him multiple times that it was okay, Peter knew better. He had already noticed that Aunt May was working double shifts from the fact that he could only see Uncle Ben during the times when he was lucid.
And while he felt terrible about being a burden to his loved ones, he still couldn't help but feel happy with the love and attention they showed.
But that was all over now. Last time Aunt May checked his temperature, it was down to 37.5 degrees Celsius—still a little high, but already within the normal range.
The torment of the increased temperature and the feeling of his bones trying to physically melt and rearrange themselves inside his skin was finally over.
Only when he became lucid did he notice the terrifying sensory overload that was enough to send him to the unconscious plane.
Suddenly, the ambient hum of the household refrigerator sounded like a jet engine. The scratchy fabric of his favorite T-shirt felt like steel wool against a torso that was somehow simultaneously more sensitive and tougher than steel. And then there were the sticky hands—literally.
Peter was not afraid to admit that he did cry, a lot.
Everything suddenly felt overwhelming. The sunlight was too bright, sounds were too loud, and there was a constant itch under his skin that made him want to claw it out to get relief.
He felt even worse knowing how much he was stressing out both Aunt May and Uncle Ben. No matter how hard they tried to limit what he was seeing, hearing, and feeling, it only helped a little.
It was only through the sheer brute force of will that Peter finally got his senses to be at least bearable enough for him to function. They were still above the normal rate, but enough for him to get by.
They all thought that was the end of it, and Peter was finally looking forward to going back to school after missing a week.
On his first attempt to leave his own room without any help, Peter accidentally ripped the handle clean off his bedroom door because he hadn't realized how hard he was gripping it.
Peter, May, and Ben looked at the broken handle, then at the person holding it.
Peter especially looked at the handle as if it had betrayed him.
“Ha... Haha. Man, that—that handle really needs replacing,” Ben laughed awkwardly, taking the handle from Peter’s hand and pointedly ignoring the little dents that had formed from Peter’s fingers.
May moved to Peter, supported his shoulder, and guided him toward the kitchen. “Yeah, you go and fix Peter’s door, hon. I’ll take him to the kitchen.”
The linoleum floor felt like it was shifting under Peter’s feet. Every step he took required an exhausting act of concentration: heel down, roll, toe off, lest he put too much weight through the floorboards and leave a mark.
May’s hand on his shoulder was light, almost feather-soft, but the phantom weight of it made his skin crawl with a prickly, irritating static.
"Here you go, sweetheart," May said softly, pulling out a chair at the small kitchen table. "Sit down. I’ll pour you some juice."
Peter sank into the wooden chair, his limbs feeling heavy, uncoordinated, and clumsy. His newly heightened senses were a constant roar in the background: the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, the high-pitched electrical whine of the refrigerator across the room, and the steady, rhythmic thump of May’s heartbeat near the counter.
It was too loud. Everything was too loud.
May reached into the cabinet, pulling down a heavy glass tumbler. She poured a generous splash of orange juice from the carton, the liquid gurgling loudly against the glass—a sound that, to Peter, registered like a rushing waterfall.
She turned around, offering the glass to him with a tired, encouraging smile. "Drink up, Peter.”
Peter raised a hand, his fingers trembling slightly. He reached out to take the glass, his mind frantically repeating a single mantra: Gentle. Easy. Don't squeeze. Just touch the glass.
His fingertips brushed the cold surface of the tumbler. And he held on to it. Gently...?
Crack.
The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen.
In a fraction of a second, the heavy tumbler broke under his grip, shattering into a cloud of razor-sharp shards, dust, and wet orange pulp that instantly saturated his palm and splattered across the kitchen table.
Peter froze, his breath catching painfully in his throat.
For a horrifying second, time stopped. He stared down at his hand in disbelief.
"Oh, jeez. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" Peter stammered, his voice pitching high with panic. He jerked his hand back, instinctively pushing away from the table.
His chair caught the edge of the linoleum, and with a sharp, tearing shriek of abused wood and nails, the chair legs buckled, ripping a massive chunk clean out of the kitchen floorboards as he tumbled backward onto the floor.
May gasped, dropping her dish towel. "Peter!"
Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall a second later as Ben rushed into the kitchen, a wrench still gripped in his hand from fixing the bedroom door. "What—what happened? Is someone hurt?"
Ben stopped dead in his tracks.
The kitchen was a disaster zone. A puddle of orange juice and broken glass was soaking into the table and dripping onto the floor. A massive splintered gouge marred the linoleum where Peter's chair had torn through it. And in the middle of it all was thirteen-year-old Peter, pressed flat against the base of the lower cabinets, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around his head.
His whole body was shaking—not from the fever anymore, but from fear, confusion, and terror.
"I didn't mean to," Peter choked out, his voice cracking as hot, frustrated tears spilled over his eyelashes. He stared at his trembling hands, terrified to even look at his aunt and uncle. "I—I tried to be careful. I swear I did. I touched it like... like it was a bubble, and it just... it broke."
May dropped to her knees immediately, ignoring the glass on the floor, her maternal instincts overriding any shock. She reached out, her hands hovering just inches from Peter's shoulders, not daring to touch him too hard.
"Hey, hey, look at me, sweetie," May whispered, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. "You're okay. You're not in trouble. Look at me."
Peter slowly raised his head, his wide, terrified eyes meeting hers. "May, I'm... I'm sorry. I'm breaking everything. I’m scared.”
Ben slowly lowered the wrench, letting it clatter onto the counter. The forced, nervous humor he’d used earlier about the bedroom door completely vanished, replaced by a grim, heavy realization. He walked over, kneeling down beside May.
He looked at the shattered glass, the ruined chair, the torn floor, and finally at Peter’s hyperventilating, trembling frame.
Ben let out a slow, heavy breath, reaching out to place a steady, grounding hand firmly on Peter’s shoulder, pressing just enough to let Peter feel the solid, reassuring weight of him without tightening up.
"Kiddo," Ben said, his voice deep, steady, and achingly gentle. "Look at your uncle for a second."
Peter swallowed hard, focusing on Ben's eyes.
"It’s alright, you’re okay, we’re okay," Ben said firmly, though his jaw was tight with the weight of what this meant for their lives. "And you didn't do this on purpose. We saw what happened. But... yeah. It's pretty clear now that whatever hit you on that field trip didn't just give you a bad flu."
May reached out, carefully taking one of Peter's trembling hands in hers, rubbing her thumb softly over his knuckles. "Your body is changing, Peter. In ways we don't understand yet. But we are in this together. You, me, and your uncle. We are going to figure this out."
Peter let out a ragged, shuddering breath, the crushing weight in his chest easing just a fraction. He leaned into May’s touch, still terrified of his own strength, but for the first time since the fever broke, feeling like he wasn't entirely alone in the dark.
—
The amber light of the kitchen counter lamp cast long, jittery shadows across the wreckage of the table. Shards of glass had been swept into a neat, glittering pile on a piece of newspaper, and the jagged gouge in the linoleum floor had been temporarily covered by a rubber mat so no one would trip.
May descended the stairs quietly, carrying a damp cloth in one hand. She walked straight to the kitchen sink, rinsed the cloth, and wrung it out with a tight, rhythmic motion before turning to face her husband.
Ben was sitting on the edge of a spare kitchen chair, holding the broken wooden leg of the chair Peter had wrecked. He was staring at the fractured grain with a look of heavy contemplation, turning it over and over in his calloused hands.
"He's asleep," May said softly, breaking the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She walked over, leaning her hips against the edge of the counter next to him. "Or as close to it as he can get. The exhaustion finally took over. Poor kid was crying so hard he gave himself a headache."
Ben let out a long sigh, dropping the broken chair leg onto the floor with a dull thud. He rubbed the back of his neck, his face etched deep with fatigue. "I still can't believe it. Did you see the way he snapped that handle this morning? And then the glass... May, he didn't even squeeze it.”
A faint, tired smile touched the corners of May’s mouth as she crossed her arms, looking down at him. "Oh, I saw. I was standing right there, in case you forgot. Though I have to admit, your little comedy routine with the door handle almost made me laugh. 'That handle really needs replacing.' Smooth, Ben. Real smooth."
Ben grinned sheepishly, offering a self-deprecating shrug as he looked up at her. "Hey, what can I say? Years of practice playing the fool for a brilliant nephew. I figured if I acted casual enough, maybe the door handle would just break all on its own because of cheap manufacturing."
May rolled her eyes affectionately, reaching out to swat him playfully on the arm. "You're an idiot," she murmured, though the warmth in her voice completely betrayed the scolding.
Ben chuckled, catching her hand mid-retreat and giving it a gentle squeeze before pulling her closer so she could stand between his knees. The humor faded from his face, replaced by a heavy, sober shadow. He rested his forehead lightly against her waist. "What are we gonna do, May? Thirteen years old. He’s just a kid. He’s supposed to be worrying about algebra tests and whether some girl in his science class thinks he's funny, not whatever just happened."
May rested her hands softly on Ben’s shoulders, her fingers kneading the tense muscles there. Her own eyes swam with unshed tears, but her voice remained steady, laced with a fierce, quiet resolve.
"We’re going to help him," May said firmly. "That's what we're going to do. We take it one day at a time, just like we always do."
"Yeah, but what is he?" Ben asked, pulling back slightly to look up into her eyes. He lowered his voice, as if speaking the word out loud in their own kitchen carried some kind of hidden weight. "You heard about those kids in Manhattan last month, the ones on the news with the police surrounding their house because the boy could project light or something. Do you think... do you think Peter’s a mutant?"
"It makes the most sense," May replied, her expression tightening. "Maybe it was because of a mutant gene activating. The fever, the aches, and now he's stronger, too. He's changing, Ben. Permanently.”
"And that means the world just got a whole lot more dangerous for him," Ben muttered darkly, staring back down at the floor. "People aren't exactly rolling out the red carpet for mutants right now. You see the editorials in the news. Many people treat them like a public health hazard."
"We aren't going to let the news or anyone else decide who our boy is," May said sharply, her tone dropping low and fierce. She stepped back just enough to look down at him with an unyielding glare. "Which means we need to get smarter. Starting tomorrow, I want every piece of information that we can get our hands on regarding mutants. We need to know what we’re dealing with to help him properly.”
Ben offered a tired, grateful smile, standing up to wrap his arms around her waist and bury his face in her shoulder. "You always did have a plan, May Parker."
"Somebody has to," she whispered, resting her chin on his head and looking out toward the dark hallway that led to Peter’s room. "Because right now, our boy is upstairs feeling like a monster in his own skin, and it's our job to remind him that he's still just Peter."