Chapter Text
The kitchen sink had been dripping since Tuesday, a steady, metal-on-metal ping that May said was like a metronome for a headache. Ben sat on the linoleum floor, his legs stretched out under the table, grease on his thumb and a crescent wrench in his hand. He’d replaced the washer, but the threads on the fitting were worn down to nothing.
May sat at the table with her feet pulled up on the rung of the chair. She had worked the six-to-two shift at the hospital, and she hadn’t taken her scrubs off yet, though she had let her hair down from the clip. Her mug of tea had a skin over the top. She hadn’t touched it in twenty minutes.
"He ate six pieces of toast this morning," she said.
Ben grunted, shifting his weight to get a better angle on the pipe under the basin. "Growth spurt, May. I used to clear out the pantry when I was twelve. Half the time I’d eat a second lunch at school."
"He didn't stop at the toast, Ben. I found the empty peanut butter jar in the sink, scraped clean to the glass, and the leftover chicken from Tuesday is gone." May rubbed the bridge of her nose. "And he’s jumpy. I walked into his room yesterday to put his laundry on the bed, and he nearly went through the plaster. He snatched a notebook off his desk like I was trying to read his diary."
"He's twelve going on thirteen," Ben said, his voice muffled by the cupboard doors. "He’s got things he doesn't want his aunt looking at. It’s normal."
"He was shivering, Ben. His skin was soaking wet." May leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Since Monday, when that fever broke."
Ben stopped turning the wrench. The silence under the sink was heavy with the smell of old copper and plumbers' putty. "He’s recovering. A bug like that takes it out of you."
"A fever of a hundred and four doesn't just vanish in three hours," May said. "I had my hand on the phone to dial 911. I had the receiver off the cradle. And then he just... stopped sweating. His skin went cool. His pulse went from a hundred and forty down to sixty-five while I was holding his wrist. I’ve been in the ER for fifteen years, Ben. That isn’t how the flu works."
Ben crawled backward out of the cupboard, wiping his hands on a grey rag that had once been a t-shirt. He sat on the floor with his back against the lower cabinets, looking up at her. His knees made a dry pop as he shifted. "He's back at school. He went to gym. He’s fine."
"He isn't fine. He’s locked in his room after school making these... clicking sounds. Like he’s trying to whistle with his teeth. And his glasses are always in his pocket now. Every time I ask him why he isn't wearing them, he says his head hurts, but he won't let me look at his eyes." May set her foot down on the floor with a sharp click. "I don't know if it’s drugs. I don't know if he’s watching porn, or if someone at school is giving him something, or if he’s having some kind of crisis about his sexuality. I don't know if someone’s hurting him, or if he’s scared of something, or if it’s... something I haven't even thought of."
"Peter?" Ben let out a dry, short laugh. "The kid spends his allowance on solder and copper wire, May. If he’s hiding something, it’s probably a broken radio he took out of someone's garbage."
"Then you talk to him."
"I talk to him every day."
"No," May said, leaning over the table. "Talk to him. Really talk to him. Not about the Mets. Not about how to grease the wheels on his skateboard. Ask him what is going on in his head. And don't do it here."
Ben looked around the kitchen. It was small—ten feet by eight—and if you stood in the middle with your arms out, you could almost touch the fridge and the stove at the same time. The hallway to the bedrooms was narrow enough that any conversation louder than a whisper carried through the hollow-core doors like they were made of paper.
"He'll feel like we're teaming up on him," May said, lowering her voice. "Take him out. Go for a walk. Get some air. Somewhere he can talk without thinking I'm listening from the next room."
Ben sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "And what exactly am I asking him?"
"I don't know. That's why you're taking him for a walk."
"Helpful."
May gave him a look.
A few minutes later, Peter walked through the front door, backpack slung over one shoulder.
Ben glanced at him, then looked again.
No glasses.
May noticed too. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't say anything.
Peter stopped when he found both of them looking at him. His dark eyes moved from Ben to May and back again. He had the wary expression of a stray cat that had heard a food wrapper crinkle—interested, suspicious, and prepared to bolt under the nearest piece of furniture.
"Come on," Ben said. "We're going for a walk."
Peter's suspicion deepened immediately. "Why?"
"Because apparently we need air."
"I have a lot of algebra."
"Your algebra will survive."
Peter looked at May.
She smiled much too innocently.
Peter looked back at Ben.
"Oh, God," he said.
Ben reached for his jacket on the peg by the door. "Just a quick loop around the block."
Peter stood there for three seconds, his jaw working as if he were chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he let his shoulders drop. "Okay."
They walked down the three flights of stairs in silence. Usually, Peter would bounce down the steps, his sneakers squeaking on the green painted wood, talking about some video he’d seen or some article about polymers. Today, he walked behind Ben, his steps heavy, his eyes fixed on the heels of Ben’s work boots.
The afternoon air was warm for May, smelling of diesel exhaust, hot asphalt, and the sweet, heavy scent of the bakeries over on Austin Street. The sun was low, casting long, orange shadows across the pavement.
They crossed the avenue and turned into the small neighborhood park. It wasn't much—a patch of grass, a swing set with two chains missing, and a row of green wooden benches under a few dusty sycamore trees. A couple of kids were throwing a tennis ball against the brick wall of the equipment shed.
Ben led the way to a bench in the corner, away from the path. He sat down with a groan, patting the wood beside him. Peter sat, but he didn't lean back. He sat on the very edge of the slats, his hands gripped between his knees, his eyes tracking a pigeon that was peck-pecking at a torn hot dog wrapper.
"So," Ben said, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Your aunt's worried about you."
Peter’s knuckles turned white. "I'm fine."
"She says you're jumpy."
"I'm just tired."
"She says you cleaned out the refrigerator before school, Peter."
Peter didn't answer. He watched the pigeon. His chest was moving fast, his ribs rising and falling under his t-shirt in a shallow, rapid rhythm.
"Look," Ben said, keeping his voice low and steady. "You're twelve. Well, almost thirteen. Things change. Your body starts doing things... things you don't expect. You get these feelings. You start thinking about things you didn't think about a year ago. It’s normal. Every man goes through it. I went through it, your father went through it."
Peter’s shoulders went rigid.
"It can make you feel like you're losing your mind," Ben continued, staring at his own boots. "Like you're... you know, dirty, or like there's something wrong with you because you're doing things in your room, or because you have these thoughts. Masturbation, Peter. It’s not something to be ashamed of. It’s just—"
"IwasbittenbyaspiderandnowI'msuperstrong."
The words came out in a single, desperate rush, high-pitched and ragged.
"Something is seriously wrong with me."
Ben stopped.
He didn't look at Peter immediately. He let the sentence hang in the warm Queens air, competing with the distant rumble of the E train under the street and the thwap-thwap of the tennis ball against the brick wall.
When he turned his head, Peter was looking at him. The boy’s face was twisted, his eyes swimming with tears that were already spilling over his cheeks. His lower lip was trembling so hard his teeth clicked together.
"What did you say?" Ben asked softly.
Peter reached out and took the edge of the wooden bench slat with his right hand. He didn't look like he was gripping it hard, but Ben heard the dry, splintering groan of the old pine. Peter’s fingers sank into the wood, the ancient green paint flaking away as his fingertips tore through the grain like it was wet cardboard. A piece of the bench three inches long split off in his palm, crumbling into splinters.
Peter let go, his hand shaking, his face white. "I didn't mean to. I can't... I can't stop it. If I touch things too fast, they break. I tried to open my bedroom window yesterday, and the sash came right out of the frame. I had to hold it there for an hour so May wouldn't see."
Ben sat perfectly still.
The letter.
The blue envelope with the safe-deposit box key that he'd kept in his toolbox behind the socket set for eight years. The words Richard had written in that cramped, hurried hand: If Peter's medication begins losing effectiveness, you may see changes... Increased strength... Changes in his vision...
He felt a cold weight settle behind his ribs. It wasn't a surprise; it was the sudden, awful click of a key turning in a lock he’d hoped would stay rusted shut forever.
"Peter," Ben said, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm sorry," Peter sobbed, pressing his palms against his eyes. "I'm sorry, Uncle Ben. I didn't mean to do it. I was in the alley behind our building on Sunday, and this... this spider was on the brick. It was huge. It had these red things on its legs. I went to look at it, and it bit me. Right here." He pulled up his left sleeve, showing a ragged, purplish mark on his forearm, surrounded by yellowing skin. "I was so sick. I thought I was going to die. My head felt like it was going to explode. And then I woke up, and my glasses made everything blurry. I can see the leaves on the trees, Uncle Ben. I can see the individual threads on your jacket from here. And I can... I can hear the refrigerator from my bedroom. I can hear the water in the pipes behind the wall. It’s too loud. Everything is too loud."
He was shaking now, terror so raw it made him look five years younger, like the little boy who had stood in the foyer of this same apartment with a blue suitcase after the troopers told them about the plane in Ohio.
Ben didn't ask how he did it. He didn't ask about the spider, or what kind of wood the bench was made of, or how many pounds he could lift.
He just reached out, took Peter by the shoulders, and pulled him in.
Peter went stiff for a fraction of a second, his hands hovering as if he were afraid he’d crush Ben’s ribs, but then he collapsed against Ben’s chest, burying his face in the rough flannel of Ben’s jacket. He cried with a deep, hacking sound, his small frame shaking against Ben’s bulk.
"It’s okay," Ben said, rubbing the boy's back. "It’s okay, Pete. I’ve got you. I’ve got you."
"I'm a monster," Peter whispered into his shirt.
"No," Ben said, his voice hard, almost angry with how certain he was. "No, you're not. You're Peter. You're the same kid who forgot his lunch on Tuesday and the same kid who spent three hours trying to fix his aunt’s hair dryer. You're Peter Parker. A spider bite doesn't change that. A hundred spider bites wouldn't change that."
"But the wood," Peter snifled, gesturing weakly at the broken slat. "I'm... I'm dangerous."
"You're not dangerous. You're just new to it." Ben pulled back slightly, holding Peter by both shoulders so he had to look him in the eye. "Listen to me. If you have this... this strength, it’s just a tool. Like a hammer. A hammer can build a house or it can break a window. It’s about how you hold it. You understand me?"
Peter nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I don't want to break things."
"Then we'll learn how not to," Ben said. "We'll figure it out. You and me. Your father... your father was a scientist, Pete. He knew about things like this. He always said that when you have an advantage, when you can do things other people can't, you have a responsibility to be careful with it. You have to take care of the people who don't have what you have."
He was using Richard’s words, but he was turning them into something else, something clean. He wasn't going to let Richard's buried secrets define this boy.
"Am I going to stay like this?" Peter asked, his eyes wide and wet.
"Yeah," Ben said. "I think you are. But that’s alright. We can handle it. If you can stick to walls, then we’ll just have to make sure we don't have to paint the ceiling so often."
Peter let out a tiny, hiccuping laugh, his shoulders finally losing some of their rigidity. He wiped his face with both hands, leaving red smudges on his cheeks.
"I love you, kiddo," Ben said.
"I love you too, Uncle Ben."
They sat there on the bench for a long time as the sun dipped below the rooflines of the apartment buildings, turning the brickwork to a dark, bruised purple. The other kids had gone home, leaving only the tennis ball’s ghost in the quiet alley.
Finally, Ben stood up, stretching his back. "Come on. We need to get back. Your aunt’s going to think we got run over by a bus."
They started walking back toward the avenue. Peter stayed close, his shoulder occasionally bumping against Ben’s hip. He looked smaller but lighter, as if he’d left half his weight on that green bench.
"We have to tell May," Ben said as they reached the corner.
Peter stopped. "No. No, we can't."
"Pete—"
"She'll worry, Uncle Ben. You know how she is. She’s a nurse. She’ll want to take me to a hospital, or she’ll think I’m sick, or she’ll... she won't understand. She’ll be scared."
"She loves you," Ben said. "She isn't going to be scared of you."
"She’ll be scared for me," Peter insisted, his voice rising again. "Please. Just... let me figure out how to walk without breaking the floorboards first. Please."
Ben looked at the boy’s face. He knew Peter was right about one thing: May would be terrified. Not of Peter, but of what this meant, of who would come looking for him, of the sheer impossibility of it. And Ben... Ben was still carrying the weight of the mailbox key. He hadn't told May about that either.
"Alright," Ben said. "We'll wait. But not for long, Peter. A family doesn't keep secrets like this. It isn't fair to her, and it isn't healthy for us. We navigate this together, or we don't navigate it at all."
"Okay," Peter said, looking down. "Just a little while."
"I don't keep secrets from your aunt," Ben said, the lie tasting like copper in his mouth. "And I don't like starting now. So we're going to tell her soon. Deal?"
"Deal," Peter said.
They turned onto their street. The evening was settling in, the streetlights flickering on with a faint, amber hum. The deli on the corner was brightly lit, its neon sign buzzing.
"Hey," Ben said, stopping outside the bodega. "Let me grab some water. My throat’s like sandpaper. Stay here and blow your nose. You look like you’ve been through a meat grinder."
"Okay," Peter said.
He stood by the newsstand outside, leaning his back against the brick wall. He pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and wiped his eyes, looking up at the sky. A few stars were starting to show through the orange haze of the city lights. He took a deep breath, and for the first time in five days, his lungs didn't feel like they were full of dust. He could hear the hum of the neon sign, yes, but he could also hear the quiet, steady beat of his own heart. It was slower now. Steady.
Peter's skin prickled.
He straightened, one hand tightening around the tissue in his hand. For one strange second, every nerve in his body seemed to pull taut, a cold crawling sensation running over the back of his neck and across his scalp.
He turned toward the store without knowing why.
Then he heard the shout from inside.
It was short, muffled by the heavy glass door, but it was followed immediately by a sharp, cracking sound that didn't sound like glass breaking.
It sounded like a firecracker.
Through the glass, he saw a man in a grey hoodie scrambling backward, his boot slipping on a spilled carton of milk. The man had something silver in his hand.
Peter didn't think. He didn't feel the weight of his own body. He was just at the door.
He shoved it open. The glass rattled in its metal frame.
The man in the hoodie scrambled past him, his shoulder slamming into Peter’s. To Peter, the impact felt like a gust of wind, but the man recoiled as if he’d hit a steel post, grunting as he lunged out into the street and vanished into the shadows of the subway entrance.
Peter didn't look after him.
Ben was on the linoleum, between the bread rack and the counter. He was lying on his side, his hands clutched against his chest, his fingers already dark with something wet and thick. The deli owner, a man named Sal, was behind the register, his face grey, his hands shaking as he pointed a black telephone receiver at his own ear.
"Uncle Ben," Peter said.
He was on his knees. He didn't remember moving. The floor was cold.
Ben’s eyes were open. They were wide, looking at the ceiling, and then they drifted down to Peter. His mouth opened, but only a small, wet bubble came out.
"Uncle Ben, don't move," Peter said. He reached out, his hands hovering over the dark stain on Ben’s flannel shirt. He wanted to press down, to stop the red from spreading, but his fingers were shaking so hard he was afraid he’d hurt him. "May’s coming. May’s a nurse. She’s... she’s just down the street. I'll get her."
Ben’s hand moved. His fingers, rough and calloused, caught Peter’s wrist. His grip was surprisingly weak, almost light, but Peter felt every individual ridge of his uncle’s skin like it was carved in stone.
"Pete," Ben whispered.
"Don't talk," Peter sobbed, his tears dropping onto Ben’s cheek. "Please don't talk. Sal, call the ambulance! Tell them it’s Ben! Sal!"
Sal was shouting into the phone, his voice cracked and useless.
Ben’s hand tightened on Peter’s wrist, just a fraction. He didn't say anything else. His eyes stayed on Peter’s face, dark and clear, reflecting the buzzing yellow light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead.
Then his fingers went loose.
His head turned slightly to the side, his chin sinking into the collar of his jacket. The rattle in his chest stopped.
"Uncle Ben?" Peter whispered.
The neon sign in the window kept buzzing, a steady, high-pitched hum that filled the store, louder than the siren that was still miles away.