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The kid looked so young.
Far too young to experience the feeling of being trapped in a burning building with no one other than a toy, to have been so close to rescue but ultimately failed by Spider-man.
She probably still viewed superheroes as more than mere humans– he knows he did at that age.
She was crying, begging for help. Snot was dripping down her face, scrunched and flushed from the smoke and crying. Soot was smeared all over her and the blackened bunny rabbit toy clutched tightly in her grasp and for a brief moment when she saw him, hope flooded her features before she was overtaken by another coughing fit. Each cough wracked her small shivering figure and made her seem so impossibly small.
He was so, so close. So close to saving her.
But he failed.
And the kid paid the price.
She held out her hand with the toy towards him, towards Spider-man, fully trusting him to pull her out and–
His spider-sense screamed at him but it wasn’t enough of a warning before the wooden support beam came crashing down on the kid, leaving only her hand visible, reaching out towards him, and the toy, dropped just an inch away.
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“I’m sorry,” he says to the kid’s –Lily's– parents while averting his eyes. He doesn't want to see the heartbreak, the sorrow, the loss on their faces. The grief that he caused.
If only he tried just a little bit harder, was a little bit faster. Their daughter would've been alive.
The parents remain deathly silent, staring at him as if they're waiting for the punchline. For it to be some sick joke. It feels like they're seeing straight through his mask and seeing the guilt on his face. The longer they stare, the more pity leaks into their expressions.
He hates it. He almost wishes they'd blow up and yell at him about how he should've tried harder. Should've saved their daughter. That'd be easier to deal with. They should blame him because it's his fault. So why are they looking at him like that?
He offers them the stuffed rabbit –all he was able to save. A mass-produced toy covered in years of dirt and the remnants of the fire. Not even a body. They merely shake their heads, tearing up again at the sight of it. They don't take it.
The parents walk away, leaving Peter standing alone with the soot-covered stuffed rabbit in his hands.
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Peter sits on his bed, gripping the stuffed bunny so hard his knuckles turn white. His eyes are watery as he stares at the bunny, trying to take in every detail like it’ll come to life and run away from him.
It’s nearly entirely blackened by soot, the white colour underneath barely peeking through. Parts of its fur is melted but proof that it was well loved still remains. Messily stitched up holes leaking stuffing and stains still visible underneath the charring prove it was cared for and cherished. Even before the fire, Peter suspects the white colour was closer to grey from years of being handled. There’s a pink ribbon tied around the neck in what he assumes to be an attempt of a bow but is more a messy knot than anything.
He feels like he’s defiling it with his touch. The touch of the same hands that failed to save the bunny’s owner.
Maybe it was a mistake to take it. To rob her of a clearly treasured possession after her death.
He intended to give it to the parents, but they didn't want to take it so now he has it instead. The bunny deserves to either be loved or reunited with its owner but Peter isn't able to do either. It's too damaged to be donated for another kid, not even worth repairing, and he can't forcibly track down the family.
Peter decides to keep it. As a symbol of his failure, yes– but also to commemorate the death of the little girl who lost her life that day. Lily.
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Years later, the bunny sits at May's grave.