Peter had made a decision—a bold one, admittedly, that felt downright genius at the time. But now? Now it was circling back to bite him in the ass. Hard. He’d decided to become a vigilante. What else was he supposed to do?! One moment he was a regular kid with regular problems, and the next, he gets bitten by a radioactive spider and wakes up with freaky spider powers. Super strength, wall-crawling, insane reflexes—it was like something out of a comic book.
So, really, was it such a leap that he’d throw on a mask and start taking down bad guys? Honestly, what teenager wouldn’t? And don’t even try to act like you wouldn’t. Let’s be real—if you woke up one day with superpowers, you’d absolutely grab the nearest hoodie and start running across rooftops like you were in an action movie. Peter wasn’t that different from anyone else.
But what no one tells you is that being a vigilante isn’t all adrenaline and glory. It’s late nights, bruised ribs, and lying to the people who care about you. And now, as Peter swung through the city, stomach growling from skipped dinners and his backpack filled with unfinished homework, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t thought this all the way through.
All that to say, Peter was now stuck in the aftermath of his not-so-brilliant decision. Sure, it had seemed like a great idea at the time—exciting, even—but now regret was creeping in with every passing day. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. He was way too stubborn to back down, even if part of him wanted to.
Apparently, though, his attempts to hide his growing frustration weren’t working as well as he thought. He’d started acting weird—at least, that’s what Aunt May kept insisting—and it was enough to get her genuinely worried. Worried enough that she decided to call in reinforcements, a move that Peter hadn’t seen coming.
The reinforcements arrived in the form of someone Peter hadn’t thought he’d need: his old babysitter turned surrogate brother. A familiar face, someone who knew him better than most and wasn’t afraid to confront him when he needed it. And if Peter knew anything about his pseudo-big brother, he wasn’t just here for a friendly chat. There was going to be a reckoning—and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.
“You called Percy?!” Peter exclaimed, his voice rising in alarm.
“Yes, Peter, I did,” May replied with a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down her face as though bracing for the inevitable outburst.
“Why?” Peter breathed, horrified. His mind raced with all the ways this could go horribly wrong. The second Percy walked through that door, Peter knew he’d cave—he’d spill everything. And right now, that was the last thing he wanted.
“Because something is clearly bothering you,” May said firmly, her tone equal parts concerned and resolute. “You won’t talk to me about it, and I know you’ll talk to Percy.”
“He’s too good at making me talk,” Peter muttered, his voice trailing into a defeated pout as he crossed his arms.
It was because Peter hated to see that look—the disappointment that lingered in Percy’s eyes whenever Peter bottled things up. Percy didn’t deserve that. At least Percy was a demigod, someone who had lived through an unimaginable amount of weirdness and chaos. He could roll with the punches and didn’t blink twice at things that would have most people running for the hills. Telling Percy was easier in a way—it felt like venting to a brother, someone who could understand the madness without judgment.
But May? Telling May was an entirely different story. Sure, she was used to weird stuff—raising Peter alone had probably given her a crash course in that department. Still, it wasn’t the same.
She wasn’t just any adult; she was May—his rock, his protector, the closest thing he had to a mom. Opening up to her, admitting he’d screwed up or that things were spiraling out of control, felt like revealing all his vulnerabilities to someone who had already sacrificed so much for him. He didn’t want her to worry even more than she already did. And besides, letting her down—even unintentionally—was something Peter just couldn’t stomach.
With Percy, it was different. He could crack a joke, deflect with sarcasm, and Percy would see through it all, stubbornly dragging the truth out of him if necessary. Percy wouldn’t let him hide behind excuses, but he wouldn’t judge him, either. That’s just how Percy was—a whirlwind of chaos wrapped up in unwavering loyalty. And maybe, deep down, Peter trusted Percy to understand him in a way no one else really could.
A knock sounded at the door, and Peter groaned as May rose from her seat.
She shot him an unimpressed look, one that spoke volumes without saying a word. “He’s here.”
“You say that like he’s here to kill me,” Peter grumbled, slumping further into his chair.
“With how dramatic you’re being, you’d think he was,” May countered, her tone sharp but amused.
“May,” Peter whined, dragging out the last syllable like a pouty teenager—which he was—though he begrudgingly stood anyway. “Can you just tell him I’m in my room?”
“I will,” May replied, her tone carrying just the slightest edge of exasperation as she headed toward the door.
Peter heard May’s voice carrying through the house, her tone bright and cheerful as she greeted Percy at the door. The warmth in her voice was unmistakable, and Peter could practically picture her wide smile—the same one she always saved for Percy, who somehow managed to charm everyone without even trying.
With a heavy sigh, Peter slumped into his room, letting the door click shut behind him. He didn’t bother turning on the light; the dim glow from the late afternoon outside was enough to illuminate his path to the bed. He flopped face-first onto the mattress, burying his head in the pillows as if they could shield him from the inevitable conversation. Because, really, that was what it came down to—an inevitability. Percy had a way of drawing the truth out of him, and Peter knew he didn’t stand a chance of keeping things bottled up once Percy started asking questions.
It wasn’t even like Percy forced it out of him; that was the frustrating part. The guy had a presence—calming, steady, and annoyingly trustworthy. It was like the universe had designed Percy to be the ultimate confidant, and Peter couldn’t resist the pull no matter how hard he tried. Gods, he thought, groaning softly into the pillow. Why does he have to be so comforting?
Even now, Peter could hear their voices drifting down the hallway—May laughing at something Percy said, Percy’s voice warm and easy in return. It was only a matter of time before Percy made his way to Peter’s door, knocking lightly and letting himself in like he always did.
Peter shifted slightly, staring at the wall and willing himself to feel anything other than resigned. But deep down, he knew that no matter how much he dreaded spilling his guts, it would feel better once he did. That’s just how Percy was—a whirlwind of chaos with the uncanny ability to make things okay, even when they weren’t.
Percy knocked lightly on Peter’s door before pushing it open, his usual relaxed energy preceding him. “Sup, Pete.”
Peter sprang to his feet with far more force than necessary, his movement so abrupt he nearly collided with Percy.
“Whoa,” the demigod breathed, taking an instinctive step back. A surprised laugh escaped him as he reached out to steady Peter. “Good to see you too. I heard—”
“I don’t care what you heard,” Peter interrupted, his tone sharp and defensive.
“Rude much?” Percy replied, raising an eyebrow in mock offense, completely unbothered.
Peter winced, his earlier tone immediately replaced by sheepish regret. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
Percy shrugged, letting the tension roll off his shoulders as he dropped into Peter’s desk chair with his casual ease. “I figured. But seriously, what’s up with you? You scared May enough to call me, and that’s... slightly worrying.”
Peter took a deep breath, bracing himself, before blurting everything out in one rushed stream. “I got bit by a radioactive spider that made me really, really sick, and then it gave me these freaky superpowers. Now I’ve decided to use them to fight crime as Spider-Man.”
He stared at Percy, his face a mix of frustration and resignation, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Percy, true to form, didn’t disappoint. He blinked at Peter, his expression blank for a moment before snorting loudly. “Well, that’s one way to use superpowers.”
Peter groaned, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “I don’t think you understand how serious this is,” he snapped, his voice sharp with exasperation.
Percy leaned forward slightly, his trademark grin stretching across his face like he’d just been told a particularly hilarious joke. “Oh, I understand perfectly well,” he said, his tone light and teasing.
“Percy!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air in pure frustration. “I break everything I touch now! I don’t know how to deal with this!” His words came out in a rushed yell before he dropped onto his bed, face-planting into his pillow with a muffled groan.
Percy leaned back in Peter’s desk chair, precariously tilting it onto two wheels in a way that seemed far too casual for the conversation at hand. “So, you’re a mutant now. Big deal. You know I’d kill anyone who tried to mess with you because of it.”
Peter rolled his head to the side, his voice muffled by the pillow but still incredulous. “That is not something you should be admitting out loud.”
Percy shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “No jail can hold me.”
“Percy!” Peter’s voice cracked as his chest tightened, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. His breaths grew shallow and frantic, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around his head, as if that could shield him from the spiraling panic.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Percy said quickly, sighing as he leaned forward in his chair. The abrupt movement sent the wheels slamming against the floor, breaking the tension with a sudden thud. “I think the problem isn’t so much that you have superpowers,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “It’s more that, immediately after getting those powers, you decided the best course of action was to become a vigilante.”
“It wasn’t immediately,” Peter mumbled, weakly attempting to defend himself. He turned his face just in time to catch the pointedly unimpressed look Percy shot his way. Peter winced. “Okay, fine. Your point still stands. But what am I supposed to do now?”
Percy shrugged, the gesture as maddeningly casual as his tone. “Live with the consequences.”
Peter let out a muffled groan and buried his face back into his pillow. “They’re going to kill me,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
Percy tilted back in the chair, precariously balancing on two wheels with a nonchalance that seemed out of place given the conversation. “You’ll be fine,” he said with far too much confidence. “You’re Spider-Man, remember? If anyone can handle this, it’s you.”
Peter didn’t respond, just groaned louder into the pillow. Percy smirked slightly. “Besides,” he added, “if things get too bad, I’ve got your back. You know that.”
Peter could hear Percy sigh, the sound soft but weighted, as the chair creaked faintly beneath him. A moment later, there was the shuffle of footsteps, and then the bed dipped slightly by Peter’s waist. He didn’t need to look up to know Percy was there; his presence was steady, grounding, like an anchor amidst the storm of Peter’s thoughts.
An oddly warm hand found its way into Peter’s hair, ruffling it with a gentle, almost absentminded motion. The gesture was so familiar, so effortlessly comforting, that it made Peter’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe. It wasn’t pity—it didn’t feel patronizing or forced. It just felt... safe. Like for a brief moment, he didn’t have to hold everything together on his own.
Percy didn’t say anything right away, which Peter was grateful for. Sometimes, words weren’t what he needed. Instead, Percy just stayed there, his hand moving softly through Peter’s hair, his presence solid and unwavering.
“Pete,” Percy began, his voice soft yet steady, a calming presence amidst the storm in Peter’s mind. “I’ve been teaching you self-defense since you were seven, so I know you can handle yourself. You’re stronger than you think. And if it’s the enhanced strength that’s worrying you, you know I can help with that. I’ve got enhanced strength, too, and I know plenty of others who’ve had to learn to deal with it. I could take you to camp for a few weekends—help you figure it out. Trust me, you’ll be fine. Μικρή μου ιδιοφυΐα.”
Peter blinked, the unfamiliar words washing over him before he slowly pushed himself up. His movements were hesitant, almost reluctant, but he eventually curled into Percy’s side, seeking the warmth and comfort he knew would be there. Percy didn’t hesitate, wrapping an arm securely around Peter’s shoulders, his grip firm and reassuring.
“You’ll be just fine,” Percy murmured, his voice low and soothing.
Peter buried his face against Percy’s shoulder, his muffled reply tinged with a mix of gratitude and vulnerability. “Thanks, Perce.”
“I got you, kid,” Percy replied easily, his fingers brushing over Peter’s hair in a comforting gesture. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—it didn’t need to be. His words were simple, but they carried the weight of an unspoken promise.
After a few moments, Peter shifted slightly, glancing up at Percy from where he rested. “What did you say earlier? That Greek phrase?”
Percy raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. “What?”
“You said something in Greek. I think. What was it?” Peter clarified, his curiosity peeking through his lingering worry.
Percy’s grin widened, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “You’ll have to guess.”
“You’re the worst,” Peter deadpanned, sighing as he flopped back down—this time into Percy’s lap, his exasperation clear.
“Nothing new,” Percy quipped, amused as he let Peter settle. He didn’t mind the theatrics; this was just Peter being Peter.
Peter sighed, his fingers absently tracing over Percy’s hand, finding comfort in the small, grounding movements. Percy’s fingers twitched slightly under the attention, but he didn’t pull away, letting Peter’s idle fidgeting continue. Light pink scars, faint but unmistakable, crisscrossed Percy’s pale palms—battle-worn reminders of a life that had rarely been kind.
Peter’s gaze wandered up the uneven patches of pale skin that stretched toward Percy’s wrist, the vitiligo blending softly into his usual warm tan in unpredictable, splotchy patterns. It almost looked like the ocean’s frothy waves meeting the shoreline, Peter thought absently, the image oddly fitting for a son of Poseidon.
He wasn’t entirely sure when it had started. Percy hadn’t always had it—or maybe Peter just hadn’t noticed. Could you develop vitiligo over time? Peter had no idea, but he figured it was probably a demigod thing. Weird stuff happened to demigods all the time, so what was one more mystery in a long list of them?
Still, Peter couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it. Had it just appeared one day, or was it something Percy had been quietly dealing with for a while? Percy never really talked about stuff like this unless someone directly asked—and even then, he tended to deflect with a joke or a shrug. It was just... Percy.
Peter’s thumb brushed over one of the pale patches, his brow furrowing slightly. He wanted to ask, to get an answer, but the words felt stuck somewhere in his throat. Instead, he just continued to trace over the familiar shapes and lines, finding a strange sense of calm in the imperfections. Percy didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked almost relaxed, his free hand idly tapping his thigh in a quiet rhythm.
For a brief moment, Peter wondered if Percy even realized how much presence he carried, how effortlessly comforting he could be, even in his silence.
“You’re not wearing your gloves,” Peter remarked suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on Percy’s bare hands.
“Nope,” Percy replied with a lazy shrug, his tone utterly unbothered. “Too much effort.”
Peter rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “All you have to do is grab a pair and pull them on. That’s literally it.”
“They weren’t on my way to the door,” Percy countered, the casual logic in his response somehow both infuriating and hilarious.
Peter tilted his head, squinting at Percy’s hands like they held the answer to some great cosmic mystery. “You’re a complete enigma to me sometimes, Percy—and I’ve known you half my life.”
“It’s my charm.”
The room settled into a tranquil silence, the kind that felt weighted yet soothing, like a balm for frayed nerves. Percy’s fingers combed through Peter’s hair in slow, rhythmic motions, their gentle pressure grounding him in a way words couldn’t. Neither of them spoke—not at first. The quiet seemed to stretch endlessly, as though the world beyond them had faded away, leaving only the soft rise and fall of Peter’s breath.
Gradually, Peter’s racing heartbeat began to slow, though he hadn’t even noticed how fast it had been until now. His chest, once tight with tension, loosened with each calming stroke of Percy’s hand, his breathing smoothing into a steady rhythm. It was subtle, but the change made all the difference. The tight coil of anxiety that had wrapped itself around Peter’s chest unraveled bit by bit, replaced by a tentative sense of ease.
Peter let out a long, tired sigh, his arm flopping lazily over the edge of the bed as the last remnants of his restlessness melted away. His fingers dangled loosely, brushing against the cool floor, but he didn’t move. Staying like this—half-draped across the mattress, with Percy’s hand threading comfort through his hair—was exactly what he needed, even if he hadn’t known it before.
“Feeling better?” Percy asked softly, his voice carrying that steady, grounding calm that Peter had come to rely on.
Peter nodded, his gratitude evident in the earnestness of his reply. “Yeah, I am. Thank you—again.”
Percy’s lips curved into a small, reassuring smile as he reached out to ruffle Peter’s hair one last time. “Anytime, Pete. You know I’ve got you.”