Chapter Text
When May Met Auggie
The old leather-bound photo album sat heavy on Auggie’s lap. He had spent hours turning its thick pages, tracing the edges of worn, glossy prints from a lifetime before he was born.
There were photos of his mother with fiery red hair and bright, glowing smiles, photos of Aunt Yelena looking strangely out of place at a backyard barbecue, and pictures of Uncle Frank standing stiffly by a truck. But nestled deep in the middle pages was a woman who didn't appear in any of the recent pictures. She had kind, crinkling eyes, graying hair pulled back into a soft style, and a laugh that seemed to radiate right off the paper.
Strangely enough, his father still was never in a single photo with her. Whenever seven-year-old Auggie had asked his mother about the pretty woman, Jean would smooth back his hair, offer a sad, tender smile, and gently say, "It's complicated, sweetie. It's not my story to tell. When your dad is ready, he'll show you."
That evening, the apartment was quiet. Rain tapped rhythmically against the living room window while Jean was in the kitchen preparing tea. Peter was sitting on the floor by the coffee table, tinkering with a dismantled web-shooter, his brow furrowed in focus.
Auggie carried the open album over, setting it down softly beside his father’s elbow. He pointed his small finger directly at the photograph of the woman standing in a warm, sunlit kitchen.
"Dad?" Auggie asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Who is she?"
Peter froze. The screwdriver in his hand went entirely still. For a long second, the only sound in the room was the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle patter of rain outside. Peter stared down at the photograph, his hazel eyes softening with a deep, aching tenderness that made Auggie’s own chest feel tight.
"That's Aunt May," Peter said quietly, his voice carrying a raspy edge.
"Why aren't you in any of the pictures with her?" Auggie pressed gently. "Mom said it was complicated."
Peter let out a long, quiet breath, setting his tools down on the table. He turned, pulling his knees up and looking directly into his son's wide, curious hazel eyes. He knew Auggie’s telepathic mind was growing stronger every day, knew his son felt emotions as deeply as his mother did. Words had always felt too small, too clumsy, to explain the woman who had built him into the man he was today. But no matter how powerful he knew his son was, all the abilities granted to him to warp reality as they knew it by the Phoenix Force, he still was or is a child.
Peter reached out, his calloused hand gently cupping the back of Auggie’s neck, bringing their foreheads close together. "Words won't do her justice, buddy," Peter whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "So I’m just gonna open the door. You ready?"
Auggie knew his powers like the back of his hand, his mother had trained him ever since he was conscious enough to fully be aware of them. It was like having an extra appendage that he knew how to control properly.
Auggie nodded softly, closing his eyes as his small hands came up to rest gently on Peter’s forearms. He reached out with his mind, not with force or intrusiveness, but with the delicate, feather-light touch his mother had taught him. He slipped past the protective outer layer of his father’s mind, stepping through the doorway Peter held wide open for him.
Instantly, the quiet apartment and the sound of the rain faded into a surge of warmth.
Auggie didn't just see a memory; he felt it. He was enveloped in the scent of cinnamon, fresh laundry, and cheap pine-scented floor cleaner. He heard the faint hum of a squeaky refrigerator and the distant rumble of the Queens subway line rattling the windowpanes.
Through his father’s eyes, Auggie was standing in a small, cozy kitchen filled with mismatched ceramic plates and sunbeams dancing in the dust motes. And there she was.
Aunt May turned around from the stove, wearing a faded floral apron. Her eyes, a soft, fierce, boundless brown, lit up the second she looked at Peter. Auggie felt the sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion that flooded his father's heart in that memory: safety, profound warmth, and an unconditional love so vast it felt like a shield against the rest of the world.
“You’re late, Peter,” her voice echoed through the memory, gentle and teasing, carrying a light scold that held zero real bite. “I saved you a plate, but if you take another ten minutes, the gravy’s going to turn to ice.”
In the memory, a younger Peter, barely more than a teenager, carrying the heavy, invisible bruises of a double life, slumped into a kitchen chair. May didn't ask questions. She didn't press. She simply walked over, cupped Peter’s face in her warm, flour-dusted hands, and kissed the top of his head. Auggie felt the exact moment the tension left his father’s shoulders, felt how May’s simple touch could piece Peter back together after the world had tried to break him.
Auggie watched through the mental stream as May laughed at Peter’s terrible jokes, as she patched up his torn jackets without asking why the tears looked like claw marks, as she held him tightly on the nights when the weight of being Spider-Man was too heavy for a boy to carry alone. She was the anchor. She was the heart of everything Peter was.
Then, the memory shifted, softening into a quiet mental space, a serene, sunlit garden within Peter’s mind where the past and present met.
Auggie found himself standing on a patch of soft green grass under a clear blue sky. Standing a few feet away, her eyes crinkling with that exact same radiant warmth from the photo, was May. She looked down at the seven-year-old boy, her hands folded over her apron, completely unbothered by the fact that they were standing in a realm of thought.
“Hello, little one,” May said, her voice soft as a breeze.
Auggie’s breath hitched. He stepped forward, his little shoes sinking into the mental grass. "Aunt May?"
“Look at you,” she murmured, kneeling down so she was at eye level with him. She reached out, her hands feeling just as real, just as warm, as they had in Peter’s memories. She gently brushed a lock of reddish-brown hair from his forehead. “You have your father’s eyes. And your mother’s fire. I can feel it.”
He wasn’t sure how, but he was positive that memories were not meant to be aware of who he was.
May smiled softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with an understanding that seemed to span far beyond the boundaries of time and memory.
"When a mind loves as deeply as your father's does, Auggie," May whispered, her voice like the gentle rustle of autumn leaves, "the people he carries don't just stay as fading pictures. He holds us here, complete and whole, so we're never truly gone. And a boy who loves his dad as much as you do can see right through to the heart of it."
She reached out, cupping Auggie’s small face in her warm, flour-dusted hands. The sensation was so vivid, so overwhelmingly real, that Auggie felt a hot tear slip down his cheek, landing silently on the phantom grass beneath them.
"He's been carrying so much for so long," May murmured, looking past Auggie for a brief second to where Peter’s soul rested within the memory space. "He spent so many years thinking he had to protect everyone alone. But look at him now. Look at what he built with your mother. Look at you."
She leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the center of Auggie’s forehead. The gesture carried a surge of emotion so pure it made Auggie’s breath hitch: pride, boundless devotion, and an absolute, unshakeable belief in the boy his nephew had become.
"You tell him..." May whispered, her voice beginning to sound a little lighter, floating like a melody on the wind, "...that his gravy is still getting cold. And tell him I am so, so proud of the father he is and the man that he’s become."
“I will.” He whispered.
“Take care of him for me, okay.”
The sunlit garden inside Peter’s mind slowly began to glow with a soft, golden light, the edges of the mental space fraying like spun silk in a gentle breeze. May smiled one last time, her hands lingering against Auggie’s warm cheeks for a fleeting heartbeat before her presence receded into the deep, comforting sanctuary where Peter kept her memory safe forever.
Auggie blinked, his eyelids fluttering open as the scent of cinnamon and fresh laundry dissolved back into the familiar smell of rain and warm tea. The quiet living room rushed back to meet him.
His hands were still resting on Peter’s forearms. Sitting right in front of him, Peter was staring at his seven-year-old son, his chest heaving with silent, trembling breaths. Unshed tears pooled in Peter's hazel eyes, reflecting the dim light of the lamp, filled with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. He looked like a boy waiting for a verdict, afraid that the ghost of his past was too heavy for his child to bear.
Auggie didn't say anything at first. With the quiet, unshakeable maturity born of two parents who loved with everything they had, the little boy threw his arms tightly around Peter’s neck, burying his face into his father's worn t-shirt.
Peter collapsed into the hug, his broad shoulders shaking as he wrapped his arms around Auggie, pulling him in so close it was impossible to tell where one stopped and the other began. He pressed his face into Auggie’s soft, reddish-brown hair, breathing in the scent of home, holding on like a man saved from a stormy sea.
"She... she was incredible, Dad," Auggie whispered against Peter’s shoulder, his small voice thick with tears. "She felt like sunshine."
Peter let out a wet, breathless laugh, squeezing his son just a little tighter. "Yeah, buddy. She really was."
Auggie pulled back just far enough to look Peter directly in the eyes, cupping his father's jaw with his small, warm hands, copying the exact gesture May had used in the memory.
"She told me to tell you something," Auggie said softly, a tiny, watery smile breaking across his face. "She said your gravy is getting cold. And she said... she's so, so proud of the father you are, and the man you've become."
Peter froze, a fresh tear spilling over his eyelash and tracing down his cheek. The heavy, invisible ghost of guilt he had carried in his heart for years, the quiet ache of wishing she could have lived to see the life he built, seemed to soften, replaced by a deep, profound peace.
From the kitchen doorway, Jean stood quietly in the soft light, holding two warm mugs of tea. She didn't interrupt. She simply leaned against the doorframe, her blue eyes shining with quiet tears of her own, her telepathy catching the serene, beautiful wave of love that filled the living room.
Peter wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, letting out a long, grounded breath before leaning forward to press his forehead against Auggie’s once more.
"Thank you, buddy," Peter rasped, his voice full of a joy that was completely whole. "Thank you for meeting her."