Ned Leeds
Ned would like to reiterate that he did not, in fact, find anything about Peter's situation funny. He’s mature enough to admit that, yes, when he first found out about the whole “Peter has cancer” thing—much, much later than every single other person at their school because, apparently, no one trusted him enough not to blab. (Which, honestly, is fair. The first thing he would have done was blab)—he’d found it absolutely hilarious.
When he’d first found out about it. Because they were so wrong. Truly, they couldn’t be more off-base—not even if they’d decided to ditch baseball and play water polo instead. And for, like, the first week he knew, watching people try and care for a Peter who so obviously didn’t want to be cared for was the highlight of his day.
Was this a little assholey of him? Sure. But like he said, he’s not so immature that he can’t admit that.
But that was back when it was harmless. Back when the worst that came out of it was unnecessary pity, a little bit more frustration on Peter’s part, and honestly? A really good cover to keep people from looking his way about Spiderman. Back before Peter’s notoriously awful luck snowballed the whole thing so far out of proportion that Ned wouldn’t have been shocked if it had started the new ice age.
Now, it was nothing but ridiculously sad and also happened to be the exact opposite of a cover for Spiderman.
But, such was the way of Peter’s life, and if Ned knew anything—should have remembered this from the start, really—it was that no matter how often Peter felt he had hit rock bottom, he always had further to fall. That as soon as he actually started achieving something good, something that made him feel better about himself and the world around him, a new crack opened beneath his feet, and it didn’t matter that his toes could stick to walls—he couldn’t stick if there was nothing there to stick to.
It wasn’t funny. It was truly one of the most depressing facts about Peter—Ned by extension—but that didn’t change the other very important fact that as soon as Peter had tried to make a difference in the lives of sick kids down at the hospital, he had basically invited the whole world to believe that Spiderman has cancer, and then, well, snowball.
Ned had seen it coming from miles away. As soon as Peter told him about his plan, he knew that absolutely nothing good was going to come out of it for his friend.
He doesn’t know how Peter didn’t see it coming, but Ned thinks he would have visited those kids even if he had. Because Peter was good, the best person Ned knew, and he almost never cared about the negative consequences his actions held for him. Not if it could help other people.
Which is why when Peter finally passed out, exhausted after hours of crying and begging Ned to make the whole thing go away—which Ned wished with his whole heart was possible for him to do—he held his best friend to his chest and let his laughter burble up from the pit of his stomach until it escaped his mouth in a desperate, hysterical fit of giggles. And he let himself laugh and laugh, feeling crazy and terrible because Peter’s life was terrible, and he was fucking laughing–
Until suddenly he was crying, the same as Peter had been only minutes ago, and clutching Peter tight—his hands still sticking stubbornly to Ned's shirt, unable to relax even after quite literally crying to the point of passing out— rocking the both of them back and forth, back and forth, until Ned finally quieted down, his sobs receding to the occasional hiccup.
I should call May, he thought as his eyelids drooped—not enough to pass out, but enough to tell him he’d be asleep in the next few minutes. I should call May and let her know Peter’s probably spending the night.
He didn’t want her to worry too much. With everything going on already, she had enough on her plate. He didn’t want her to think Peter had been kidnapped on top of it all.
He pawed a little uselessly at his phone—which had been long forgotten amongst his bed sheets until that moment—until he hit the dial button and brought it to his ear, holding Peter just a little bit tighter.
Amadeus Cho
If Amadeus was able to say one thing about his life—with full confidence, as well as trust in the fact that, for once, he was not overselling himself—it was this:
Amadeus Cho was a genius.
This was not an over-exaggeration, nor was it egotistical of him to say. This was simply a fact, grown more widely known with age and becoming truer by the day. Amadeus was fucking smart.
And his acceptance into the Midtown School of Science and Technology should have just been further proof of that. A school meant specifically to cater to and cultivate the best and the brightest minds of New York. It was an honor and a privilege to be accepted into such a school—or it would be, but let's be honest, as soon as Amadeus decided he wanted to go there, there was no way he wouldn’t have gotten in.
The first time Amadeus had stepped through the front doors and breathed in the stale air—a mixture of chemicals, floor wax, and B.O. (reminding him that this was, in fact, still a high school)—he had been ready. Ready to finally be able to go to a school with people as smart as him. To be able to hold a conversation without feeling the need to smack his forehead in frustration. Finally, finally, he was around peers who could keep up.
Except if these kids were the “best and brightest minds” of his generation—if this school picked only from the cream of the crop, the kids who were supposed to be as smart as him, or maybe even smarter? Then Amadeus must actually be fucking stupid because he had yet to have a conversation with someone who wasn’t an idiot.
Sure, okay, he’s exaggerating a little bit. They’re all smart. He can still hold conversations with them pretty decently, and he doesn't have to worry about dumbing himself down. Most people can follow what he's saying in terms of homework and science projects and civilly participate in conversations in a productive manner.
But still, in the month Amadeus has been going Midtown, the need to smack his forehead has not gone away. In actuality, his frustration has increased to the point of actual anger when talking to his peers because they all only want to talk about one thing, and they are all actively wrong about it.
Amadeus is going to say this once, and then he is not going to say it again because fuck that, he should not have to repeat himself on this: Peter Parker does not have fucking cancer.
This should absolutely not be a hot take. But, the current social climate—Amadea’s entire social life—within the halls of his new school has brought him to his fucking knees because every time he goes to talk to someone, Peter seems to worm his way into the conversation—this should be fine, because, as was now common knowledge, Peter Parker is Spiderman (which is so fucking cool, by the way) and talking about Spiderman is not, and will never be boring.
But his classmates don't talk about Spiderman. Actually, they don't really talk about Peter. All they talk about all the time, every day, is the cancer they think he has, and Amadeus is going to strangle the next person who mentions how sad but uplifting it is that even while fighting off his terminal illness, he still finds the time to help other people.
Best and Brightest minds his ass. If these kids were the best his generation had to offer, the world was fucking doomed.
(Amadeus is going to be nice for a moment and clarify that this was not all they talked about. They had lives and interests or whatever. He’s gone whole days without Peter Parker ever coming up in conversation—like, obviously, the whole school didn’t revolve around this kid, but sometimes it really, really felt like it did.)
What really got him was how obvious it was. It's not as if Peter was trying to look like he had cancer—like if this whole thing was some odd, convoluted plan to keep his identity a secret, he could get that. It was a bit of an asshole thing to do, but it was smart, and if that had been Peter’s plan this whole time, he had no doubts he would believe the lie too. But the fact is, Peter was actively trying to convince the whole world that he didn’t have cancer.
And if the people around him took two seconds to actually listen to him, none of this would have ever been a problem in the first place.
And even if Peter wasn’t obviously, adamantly against it, all you had to do was take one look at his bald head, which grew—albeate patchy—stubble every few days, and the eyebrows and eyelashes which were still very much in place and you would know that it was not the result of prolonged chemotherapy.
And if you took another look at him, you would realize how incredibly toned he is. His arms bulged around his old t-shirts, and every time he stretched, his shirt would lift to reveal a well-sculpted six-pack. These were not the traits of someone with late stage cancer. Those were not the traits of normal teenagers, so Amadeus doesn’t know why everyone thought he’d be able to maintain that while in treatment.
And if you looked just one more time, you would recognize that forgetting words and tripping over your own feet is a normal fucking thing to do, and any person who takes the occasional slip up as anything but normal human activity has already convinced themselves of Peter’s imminent death and is not willing to see him as anything other than a sick kid.
Which is why Amadeus had no hope for change when Peter was outed as Spiderman. Because he’s been trying to convince people Peter was fine for ages, and all it had ever gotten him was social disgrace.
Truly, genuinely.
Any time Peter is brought up in conversation, Amadeus has found that expressing his incredibly correct opinions on this topic—opinions so correct, they are actually just facts at this point, and he is only calling them opinions so as not to be further shunned—they other students all get this weird look in their eyes. They get all quiet and shifty. One boy even started very obviously backing away from him mid-conversation, as if he couldn’t see him moving.
It has gotten to the point where Amadeus is not spoken to unless it's for school. Which is—well, not new for him because he is still a nerd, and before this month, he just went to a regular public school and was used only for group projects and tutoring—but it still hurt.
It honestly didn’t matter to him that he was being excluded—he had a very loving family and a sister close in age he could spend time with whenever he needed to socialize.
It was just—These were supposed to be his people. The one smart enough to keep up with him the Best and the Brightest.
And they were all too fucking stupid to get their heads out of their asses and see he was right.
-----------
It is needless to say (though possibly, in this case, actually very needed) that not everyone in the world believed that Peter had cancer.
That’s just how it worked. Take any “fact” on the internet—any fact in the world—and you will always find at least one person who disagrees. When he was justPeter, sure. Why would anybody doubt some kid they’d never heard of was sick? Not everybody was Amadeus. Not everybody cared enough to disagree with what they were told.
But as soon as it was revealed that Peter was Spiderman, that was when people started to take issue. For them, there was no world where that made sense. Didn’t he have a healing factor? Sure, they didn’t know the logistics, but the world had been semi-reliably informed that healing factors fixed things like that (Deadpool’s did anyway, and he was certainly the loudest when it came to talking about healing factors and powers—and also just in general.) You can’t just heal from cancer, others insisted. It doesn’t work like that.
People argued—of course people argued, it was the internet— that there was no evidence to this cancer claim. Only speculation and fan theories that were barely supported by anything in real life.
Any evidence they did have, or so it was claimed, was immediately made irrelevant when it was revealed that Spiderman was only 15 and, therefore, still a kid. His size could easily be explained away. His sluggishness was the result of vigilantism clashing with the homework of an academically gifted kid. His shortened patrols could be because of any little thing going on in his life.
Because he was a person, and people had lives beyond saving people. What about Peter Parker practically admitting it to the world, others reasoned. You can’t want any more proof than that!
Any evidence they had before the reveal was viewed as circumstantial and any evidence that was brought to light afterwards was claimed fake. It was a cover, they asserted. It was an asshole ploy to keep himself safe.
People fought, and argued, and fought some more. Because it was the internet. There was no reasoning with those who believed the cancer was fake, as there was no reasoning with people who disagree just to be contrary.
(Because that's what these people were to the rest of the world. Purposefully incongruous)
Michelle Jones
MJ would never admit it to Peter—seriously, she would never, never admit it — but she actually felt really bad about helping to fan the flames of this whole cancer thing.
In her defense, MJ hadn’t realized it would be stretched out of proportion so badly. At first, it had just been funny. (She knows she and Ned share this opinion, at least after he finally found out, which took forever by the way. But she also knows they approached it in very different ways, and Ned didn't know until after it was too late to change anything.)
In the beginning, when people first approached her with questions, she just kept quiet. It wasn’t really her fault that they took her silence as a confirmation—if anything, it was their fault for not remembering that she kept quiet when anyone asked her questions about anything. Because she didn’t like being asked questions. Or talking to people.
Was she being a little bit selfish in her silence? Sure, but she had been bored that week.
And then once the rumors had started, well, you can't blame her for pulling a face, or two after the questions were asked—so, maybe she was bored that entire month . Or maybe tricking her dumbass classmates was the most fun she had had in years.
Sue her; she was only human—despite what everyone else said.
And because she was human and had human emotions and feelings like guilt and empathy and whatever other terrible things she swore she was going to get rid of one day, she stopped as soon as Peter started pulling his hair out.
Because, like, seeing Peter squirm because he’s uncomfortable or nervous is one thing. Stressing him out to the point of ripping out his own hair was an entirely separate thing, and she now regretted everything she had ever done to help it get to that point.
(She did have a little fun with the memorial. She’ll admit to that. But it was too good not to show him, and it wasn't hurting anyone. In fact, it was a good way to neutralize Peter’s terrible self-image and a good way to show him that, yes, people will miss you when you're gone.)
MJ didn’t like seeing Peter in anguish like this—in anguish, sure, but not like this. She wanted brief moments of despair that she could sketch and poke at him about. But as soon as it started being all the time, it stopped being fun and started being sad.
And anyway, he only had so many “anguished” facial expressions. After the first week she had run out of things to draw.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because she felt bad, and she hated it, and she wanted to make it better— without letting him know she cared enough about him to do so.
Which is why, once a day, on every single social media platform she had—which didn’t used to be a lot but now existed publicly on every single platform she could think of (They had all immediately gained thousands of followers, being one of Spiderman's best friends, which was still wild to her by the way. Being best friends with someone)— she posted in big, bold letters:
PETER PARKER DOES NOT HAVE CANCER
And then just hoped for the best.
(Peter’s platforms had all been meticulously blocked by every single account. He rarely even went online anyway—especially recently. He could never find out.)
Cindy Moon
Cindy stepped onto the subway platform, stumbling and shoving as she tried to get past the flood of people around her. She pushed her way up the stairs, doing her best to weave through the crowd, clutching her shopping bags protectively to her chest and trying to stay on her feet despite the wall of people pressing into her back and threatening to make her topple over with just the slightest mistake.
It was rush hour, and she usually tried to stay out of the streets and off the sidewalks when they were this full, but it couldn’t be avoided today. It was her mother’s birthday, and she was going to bake her this cake if it was the last thing she did—she always made a cake for her mom on her birthday, and maybe she was a little bit late starting it than usual, but who didn’t love a warm cake fresh out of the oven?
She was ashamed to admit that she had forgotten this year—not her mother's birthday, she wasn't a terrible daughter or anything—but she had procrastinated buying cake ingredients to the point where she had actually forgotten she’d never bought them.
And when she came home from AcaDec, she had been ready to bake the cake, and ice it, and decorate it just in time for her mother to get home at 6.
Imagine her surprise when she opened the cabinets and the fridge to find she actually hadn't bought any of the ingredients that, only a few minutes ago, she would have sworn they already had.
(They wouldn’t eat the cake right away or anything, but it was the principle of the matter. Her mother came home on her birthday, and her daughter had enough forethought, loved her enough to have a cake ready and waiting—not having the cake was basically the same as forgetting her mom’s birthday, which actually did make her a terrible daughter.)
Cindy went over her mental checklist of ingredients.
Cream cheese. Check. Powdered sugar. Check. Granulated sugar. Check. Milk, flour, eggs. Check, check, che–
Oh crap. Oh crap, oh shit.
She’d forgotten the eggs. How had she forgotten the eggs?
Cindy closed her eyes for a moment, mentally cursing herself for being so stupid and careless that she had forgotten something as basic as eggs.
She didn’t let herself stew in her failure for long, though. She didn't even give herself time to think about if it was worth it or not to turn around and go back because she’d already made it this far, so obviously, she had to go back. Cindy turned on her heal, ready to face rush hour subway rides once more, in the name of not being a terrible daughter—
And then was immediately plowed over by a stampede of people.
It all happened very quickly after that.
Cindy was thrown backward. Her arms flailed in an attempt to catch herself, and her groceries went flying. She landed hard on her right arm, letting out a screech as she felt it snap. People kept moving around her, stepping over her, stomping her groceries into the ground, and for a few seconds, all she could do was curl protectively around her broken arm.
Then she felt something smack her back, and she was yanked up and out of the crowd. Her back collided with a hard, muscular chest, and two red arms wrapped around her waist, steadying on top of the lamppost she was now standing on.
Her heart was pounding against her chest, her lungs gasping for breath. Her good arm gripped Peter’s wrist, desperate to hold onto something, anything, that would keep her from falling.
“Woah, Cindy! It's ok, it's ok! I've got you!”
Cindy closed her eyes again—absolutely refusing to look down—and pressed herself further into Peter’s chest.
And yet, despite being too high off the ground, perched precariously on top of a light post, Cindy felt her breathing begin to slow—it helped, she thinks, not being run over by people. It also helped that Spiderman was here. That Peter was here.
It was hard not to feel better around their friendly neighborhood vigilante—it was hard not to feel better around one of her teammates.
“Hold on,” Peter said, releasing Cindy's waist with one arm. She clutched harder to his wrist and tried not to scream as he released another web and pulled them both off of the lamppost. They swung through the city towards the nearest ER—Peter idly chattering in her ear about this and that, arm around her waist so strong she doubted she actually had to hold on at all.
He set her down as he came to a gentle stop, and once she had her two feet on even ground, she let go of him and stumbled forward, holding her broken arm to her chest. She looked up at the double doors in front of her, at the glowing sign proudly declaring this building an Emergency Room. And then shook her head, taking a large step back.
“I don’t– I don't have time for this.” she turned her head, pleading eyes reflected in Spiderman’s white lenses. “I have to bake a cake. It's my mom's birthday, and I forgot everything, and it would have been fine, but I forgot the eggs too, and now if I go in there, I can't make it at all, and I’ll be such a terrible daughter–”
“Cindy!” Peter cut off her rambling, grabbing her shoulders. “Cindy, you have to take care of yourself. Your mom will be more mad if you leave your arm like that–” They both looked down at her arm, which admittedly looked terrible. Very obviously deformed, very obviously broken. “Then not getting a cake on her birthday.”
“You don’t know that–”
“Cindy, I’ve met your mom.”
Cindy stared into his lenses for a second longer, and then her shoulders slumped forward. Because he was right. Her mom would kill her if she found out Cindy had even considered baking her cake with a broken arm.
Anyway, Peter probably knows what he’s talking about. Between Spiderman and, you know, the whole cancer thing, he probably has to deal with a stressed-out, worried May on a daily basis.
(Though, really, she doesn’t know what to think about it all anymore. Ned and MJ had been posting rebuttal posts for months, and she couldn’t really believe they would lie about this.
It would be a weird thing to lie about. Especially since there were many more pressing matters to deal with—life, for example, their best friend was actually Spiderman, and now the whole world knew it too. She can't imagine they would put so much emphasis on the cancer unless everyone had really, really fucked up.
But, then again, she had believed it for so long she couldn’t actually change her mind about it. Not completely. Not without hard proof—more proof, anyway, than Ned and MJ’s insistence. And for some reason, that new kid, Amadeus’.)
Cindy took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
“Okay.” she looked back up at Peter. “Thank you for getting me off the sidewalk.”
And then she walked into the Emergency Room.
When she came out three hours later—which was actually a very reasonable amount of time, considering the number of people that had been in there—it was with her mother’s arm slung around her shoulders and a large vanilla Wegmans cake under her good arm—Peter was a dork, and a huge suck up when it came to parents. And apparently, the receptionist owed him a favor.
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Within the city of New York—more specifically, within the borough of Queens (even more specifically within the halls of Midtown High)—it was very well known that Michelle Jones and Ned Leeds were Peter Parker’s best friends.
A month after “The Great Reveal”, it was well known to anyone who cared about Spiderman as more than a passing interest.
Incredible, truly, that it had taken a whole month—for a while, all people focused on was Spiderman, teenager, and cancer, and even in the fast-paced world that is the modern-day internet, all three of those things together was enough to keep even the most attention deficient person occupied.
But eventually, people started looking at Peter and realizing that teenager usually meant social life, and in this case, social life meant Ned and MJ—AcaDec too, but no one was that desperate quite yet.
As soon as people found Ned and MJ online, their Social Media accounts blew up with follows and follow requests.
And that is where all the people yelling and screaming at the tops of their lungs that there was “no way in hell Spiderman has cancer!” found refuge. Because as soon as the follow requests started coming in, Ned and MJ's social media platforms churned out “Peter Parker does not have cancer” content on the daily.
This was somehow not enough to convince the whole world that Peter was not sick—if they were to be convinced, they would have been by now —but the people who already believed were able to point and shout, “Look, look, look! I told you I wasn't crazy!”
And slowly, people started to agree.
Not everyone. That would have been amazing if that's all it took to convince people.
But there were some on the internet who were just not quite willing to believe the “his friends are lying to try and convince the bad guys that—” theories. Or the “they’re lying to themselves because they just can't take it—” theories .
Because those theories were dumb.
By the end of that new month, the entire world was split 50/50 as to whether or not Peter had cancer. And the number of those who believed he didn’t was slowly, slowly growing.
Happy Hogan
Happy breathed out hard through his nose, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. He rolled his neck back, feeling it crack and creak in the same way it had been cracking and creaking since the day he turned forty—he remembers how heartbreaking it had been to realize that the noises were going to stay. That they weren’t just the result of a bad night's sleep.
He took one more second to ensure his tie was straight, then glanced back at Tony.
“You ready?”
Tony rolled his eyes, clapping him solidly on the back. “I’ve been ready, Hap. You’re the one with the long-ass Pre-Press Conference Ritual.”
He, of course, did not give Happy any time to respond, walking through the door into the shouting of journalists and the flashing of cameras. Happy had no choice but to follow.
Generally, Happy was not a fan of press conferences—-generally he absolutely hated them. He hated having to stand behind Tony to make sure he didn’t say anything stupid. He hated having to stand there and watch as Tony said something stupid anyway. (Because he does not and has never really found Happy threatening, and when he wanted to say something, he was going to say it.) He hated having to watch the fallout of Tony saying something stupid, and he hated having to stay behind to clean up his mess.
He hated the cameras and the shouting, and he hated the debrief they all had to participate in after the conference. But this particular press conference, Happy thought, was long overdue.
The room went silent as Tony held up his hands.
“Okay,” Tony started, which was never ever a good way for him to start these things. “Here’s what's going to happen. I’m going to talk, and you’re all going to listen. I am going to answer one question, and if it's a bitch-ass question, I’m going to leave. If it’s good, I will answer another one, and we will keep going until one of you inevitably asks a bitch-ass question. I am not taking arguments on this one because, honestly, this is a discussion we should not even have to have. But because everyone is stupid, we have to have it anyway.”
Tony took a break, pausing for dramatic effect because even though he hated press conferences too, he could never resist the drama.
“Peter Parker, Spiderman, does not have cancer.” The room erupted in chaos. Cameras flashed, people yelled, and Tony held his hands up again, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “No questions until the end, thank you. Now, let me say it again for the people in the back. Peter Parker is not sick; he is not dying, and he never has been. I don’t know how this rumor started, but it has gotten out of hand. It is affecting his personal life, his mental health, and his ability to keep the people of New York safe.
“I know I am not a Beacon of Truth, or whatever, but, on this, I would not lie. Peter had been trying to convince you all of his health for months, stop being dumb and believe him.”
Tony stopped talking, and there was a moment, as there always was, of tense anticipation. A brief, quiet second where no one was quite sure they're allowed to talk.
And then the room exploded with noise, questions were yelled, people stood, trying to get Tony's attention, to get his attention off of everyone else.
Peter Parker, Happy thought, is the single most unlucky kid in the world. He had been watching over him for a while now and, though he would never have guessed when they first met—not with his hyper, happy-go-lucky attitude—Peter’s entire life had been shit. Not totally or completely, but, Jesus Christ, he’d watched the kid take hit after hit of bad news and even worse luck, and from what he’d heard (with the parents, and the uncle, and everything), it had been just as bad before.
And then he’d been hit with the Cancer Rumor—which somehow more effectively tore down Peter’s fragile mental stability than anything else.
Happy watched Tony survey the room, his eyes flickering from person to person as he tried to decide which one looked the least annoying. He settled on a younger-looking man in the front, who was holding his pen up patiently, waiting to be called on like a schoolkid.
Tony pointed to him, and the room quieted again. “You, in the front. You get one chance. Make it good.”
Everyone watched as the man considered his question, each pair of journalist eyes boring into his head, begging him not to be stupid and fuck the whole thing up for the rest of them.
And then he opened his fat mouth and asked, “If Peter Parker doesn’t have cancer, why would he let that belief exist for so long?”
And then Tony turned, and walked out of the room, Happy following merrily behind him. Because this time, he didn’t have to clean up any mess—for once, it wasn't his boss who said something stupid. That poor kid was about to get the press conference blacklist for the rest of his life.
Happy had been watching this rumor grow for a very long time. He had watched it claw and tear at Peter’s life, taking away his privacy, dignity, and a lot of his happiness—it was, frankly, ridiculous that it had gotten this bad. He genuinely couldn’t believe it sometimes.
He had been monitoring Media coverage of his loved ones for close to thirty years now, and he had never quite seen anything like this. Nothing that stuck this quickly and stayed at the forefront this long.
Definitely not something that affected their lives this much—this terribly.
As far as Happy was concerned, that bratty media kid could go suck it.
Jason Ionello
Jason stared down at his dark phone, jaw slack. His reflection flashed across the screen. Seeing his face frozen like this would be comical in any other circumstance, but he couldn't bring himself to find the humor. He couldn't comprehend what he had just watched. He didn’t want to—because what the fuck.
Because according to Tony Stark—a man currently very well known to have taken Spiderman under his wing, to have worked side by side with him for the past year, who would very definitely know what was going on in the personal life of Peter Parker…had just very clearly and directly stated that he did not have cancer—had never had cancer.
Jason squeezed his eyes shut, cutting himself away from his reflection, hoping and praying that this was a dream—that this was all a dream because if he was gonna wish something away, he might as well wish away the cancer he’d indirectly convinced the whole world Peter had.
Jason brought his legs to his chest, pressing his face into his knees. His hand—the one not clutching desperately to his phone—found his hair, fingers twisting, knotting his tight coils.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
Because he had done this, hadn’t he? Not on purpose. Not even by himself—there had been plenty of rumors going around before he’d stuck his nose into everything—but he had been the one to connect the dots. Following the numbers until they had spelled out how horribly, terribly sick Peter was.
Except apparently, he had forgotten his glasses that day—or maybe he’d never really known how to play connect the dots. Or count. Because he was wrong. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Jason pressed his face harder into his knees, sharp bones finding each eye socket with a soothing force. The dawn of a terrible realization had come to him.
Because, god. It was all Spiderman, wasn’t it? The phone calls, the absences, the doctor's note. The stupid hospital visit he had caught him on. It was all Spiderman, or an attempt to hide Spiderman, or whatever. It made sense, it all made sense in the worst possible way, and Jason was left feeling terrible because Jesus fucking C hrist, this was all his fault—
Jason’s spiraling thoughts were interrupted by a soft buzzing against his shin. He pulled away from his knees, blinking dazedly as he brought his phone to his face. A sob caught in his throat as he answered the call with an anguished–
“Sally, it’s all my fault—!”
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Weeks after the announcement—after Sally had called Jason and reassured him that no, it is not all your fault, and there's no way you could have known he was Spiderman, and given the information we had, we all came to the conclusion that made sense, and most convincingly, Spiderman does not explain why he’s bald, or why he got the MRI scan, or that time he ran to the nurse's office puking his guts out. There were a million other factors that had us convinced, Jason— Peter’s life, surprisingly (or possibly unsurprisingly, depending on who you asked) did not get any easier.
Jason watched in morbid curiosity—calmed by the knowledge that the rumors would have spread regardless of his part and that he had just simply sped up the inevitable (Sally was really, very good at making him feel better)—as the whole world immediately and simultaneously freaked out.
The photographers, journalists, and various other citizens with too much free time that had been camping out in front of their school since the reveal and had been slowly, very slowly dwindling over the months, tripled in size. They shouted horrible things at him, accusing him of faking the illness—for attention, or for the sake of identity, or because they thought he was a “sick bastard” or whatever.
Various people started breaking into their school, crashing math class and AcaDec, demanding answers.
And that was only at school. Jason had never been close with Peter—less so since the reveal, when Peter had been keeping more to himself, probably out of fear—so he didn’t know what it was like everywhere else, but he couldn’t imagine it was much better.
It was as if the entire world had gone crazy.
Like, Jason knew that people were insane, especially when it came to celebrities. But they acted as if Peter had planned the whole thing—with incredible, malicious intent.
A few months ago, everyone had been crying because this poor, sick kid had picked a day with Tony Stark, his hero, as his Make-A-Wish. (Which, in hindsight, this tidbit maybe should have been re-thought after the identity reveal. It was stupid to think Peter had asked for a day with a man he was now known to already be very close with. This was stupid. They were stupid.)
And now they all wanted to kill him simply because he’d made them cry.
But it wasn’t like Jason could do anything about it. All he could do was sit back, watch, and try not to fall back into the depths of self-blame.
-----------
The world, as stated, went absolutely wild over what had been unaffectionately labeled “The Uncancer Announcement.” This was a dumb name. Everyone agreed that this was a dumb name. But of course, like stubborn rumors, the worse it is, the harder it is to get rid of.
And now that possibly the longest-lasting, most stubborn rumor to ever exist, ever, had been all but disproved by one of the most influential people in the world—well, people didn’t know what to do with that.
This rumor had been around so long, been backed by so much perceived evidence, that it had been considered fact by a great deal of people—but the world refused to stay confused, and people desperately searched for something, anything to do with this information.
Those who had fought so hard against the rumor cheered in vindication. They celebrated and congratulated each other, conducting themselves with an air of over-superiority, and with such a stick up their ass, people started wishing the rumor had been true—if only because then, they might actually shut up.
Those who believed were left lost and unsure. Some people were happy, glad that their favorite celebrity was not, in fact, dying. Some refused to believe that it wasn't true. They had been living with that truth for so long they didn’t know what to do without it. Or because they couldn’t believe that someone so important to them would lie to them like that—some refused to believe it wasn’t true because some people were a little bit crazy and found Spiderman much more attractive and likable with a deadly illness.
Most everybody, even those who hadn’t really cared one way or the other, were angry.
Even if only a little bit.
Because who did this guy think he was? Faking cancer like that? What an asshole.
It didn’t matter that Peter had never been anything but against the cancer rumor. It didn’t matter because people were confused, and when people got confused, they got angry.
And when angry people got talking, all that came out of it was even more anger, but this time with insults and poor decision-making.
People showed up at Peter’s school. They showed up at his home. They yelled and screamed, pleading for apologies. They threatened his family and his friends—not just the bad guys and villains that were already threatening his friends and family, but regular civilians, too. Normal people. They threw bricks at windows.
It wasn’t as bad as it could have been—wasn’t as bad as it would have been if he’d been accused of, say, terrorism.
But it still wasn’t good.
It was actually very, very not good.
May Parker
“It’s okay, Peter. You’re going to be great. And as soon as it’s done, it will finally be over—”
May pressed Peter’s head gently into her shoulder, murmuring useless encouragement into his ear. He had pushed his face into the crook of her neck, his breathing coming out sharp and jagged, and he tried to impede the oncoming emotions.
No tears fell. This wasn’t that kind of breakdown. But it was heartbreaking to May just the same.
“As soon as this is done, everything will be fine again. I promise, Peter—”
“You can’t promise that, May!”
May was shoved away—not hard, Peter would never hurt her, she knew, so careful of his strength, accidents wouldn’t even be an option—but it was still more aggressive than she was used to from him, and she stumbled back a step, holding her arms out slightly to keep her balance.
There was a crash and then a thud as a cheap waiting room-styled chair was knocked out of the way, and Peter’s fist punched through a partially destroyed wall on the other side of the room—destroyed by Tony's many failed experiments, including multiple variations of the ironman suit flying right through it. Or so she’d been told.
They were in Tony's private labs. She had only found herself here a few times before, for various reasons, all pertaining to Peter, most with her worried out of her mind, yelling at Tony for putting her baby in danger. Again.
(May had never much liked Tony Stark. Even when Peter was young and idolized him only as a scientist—a distant figure to look up to—May had been wary of his influence. She didn’t like the way he presented himself, drinking and partying like he was ready to die tomorrow—She knew now there was a reason for all that, but she had always been worried Peter would try to follow in his footsteps. Now, she only tolerated him because his tech kept Peter much safer than he ever would have been had Tony not stepped in. Would she forever resent him for dragging her kid into fights he never needed to be a part of? Yes. But she knew her nephew well enough to know Peter would never put the mask away. Not while he was still able to help people—following in Tony’s footsteps anyway, but in a way that she never, ever would have expected.)
Tony had asked them both to meet him down there, claiming he was going to help with the mobs of people that had been following Peter around since the Uncancer Announcement. Peter had bounced his way into the room, excited at the prospect of his life going back to normal. May had followed behind him, skeptical of everything Tony has ever done.
She was right to be skeptical. Turns out Tony’s solution was another press conference, but this time, Peter would be the one to talk. And as it turns out, he already had it set up.
To take place one hour from now.
May appreciated him. Really, she did. He had set up the last conference in an attempt to help. Because he saw how Peter was hurting and he wanted to help.
But he had asked about the last conference. He hadn’t followed through until he was sure that they were all okay with it. He had sat down with Peter, discussed everything he was going to say, and didn’t set it up until he knew for sure he was doing it properly.
He didn’t ask this time. Didn’t mention it beforehand. And while May agrees—and she almost never, ever agrees with him—that this is possibly the only way to get the general public to back off, that Peter has to be the one to face it all…
She wishes he had asked. Because Peter is tired. And he’s sick of having to fight against this. And he hasn’t really been able to look this beast in the eye since the Spiderman reveal—and she knows that if he does this, he has to actually accept it all.
Tony should have just asked because maybe if he had, Peter wouldn’t be so angry .
Peter punched the wall again.
Tony, who was standing awkwardly by the partially destroyed wall, wringing an oil-covered rag between his hands—initially attempting to give them some privacy after his press conference had caused Peter to freak out—opened his mouth to speak.
May shot him a glare, daring him to make this worse.
His jaw slammed shut with an audible click of his teeth.
Peter yanked his arm from the wall, and May stayed back, attempting to let Peter get his frustration out. But Peter didn’t punch the wall again. Instead, he dropped to his knees and put his head in his hands. May rushed forward, brushing past Tony—because Jesus Christ, for a world-renowned genius the man could be so dumb in terms of finesse—and falling to the floor next to him. She didn’t reach out until he sagged sideways, his body sinking into hers. She wrapped her arms around him again, hands rubbing slow circles into his arm.
“I shouldn’t have to do this, May.” His voice was thick with emotion, his anger ebbing into defeat. “This whole thing is so fucking stupid.”
“I know, Peter. But you just have to do this thing, just one more thing, and it will all be over.”
May didn’t promise this time because Peter was right. She didn’t know for sure it would all go back to normal. She didn’t know for sure this conference wouldn’t just make this whole thing worse—she was actually actively trying not to think about how likely that was, given Peter's luck.
But, god, how she wished she could.
Instead, she tightened her embrace around his shaking body, closed her eyes, and hoped.
Flash Thompson
When Flash heard about Spiderman’s very important press conference, he didn’t hesitate to drop everything he was doing and log into the live.
He wasn’t doing anything significant, and he for sure would have logged on even if it hadn’t been promoted as important—look, Flash wasn’t stupid. He knew himself well enough to figure out that, before the whole reveal thing, he had had a fat crush on Spiderman.
After the reveal thing, it had mostly shriveled up and died as a result of incredible, incredible guilt—because, holy fuck, he had literally been bullying his hero. Who also had potentially terminal brain cancer. And was also one of the nicest people alive—but old habits die hard, and he could never resist anything that had to do with Spiderman.
Also, it was kind of like a punishment. And to remind himself of how royally fucked up he was.
And to watch the animated graphic of the Stark Industries symbol blink away to reveal Peter—not Spiderman, no red mask, just Peter with his bald head on full display — was like a slap in the face. Because that really was a brutal reminder.
Flash settled in—sinking further into the stiff white couch he wasn’t allowed to sit on in the living room he wasn’t allowed to exist in—and brought his phone closer to his face, listening more than seeing as Peter cleared his throat and all the journalists and Photographers went silent.
“Um.” Peter glanced at someone off-screen and then focused back on the camera. “You all know me. I’m Peter Parker. Uh. Spiderman. And, um, I’m here to talk about the Uncancer Announcement.”
He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.
“So, um, it's true. I don’t have cancer.” A couple of reporters tried to yell out questions, but Peter ignored them, looking down at his hands. “I’ve never had cancer. I don’t really know where the rumors started or how it all got so big, but I never, like, encouraged them.
“Like, people ask me all the time now about why I never told anybody? But I did. I told everybody so many times as soon as I learned it was happening. But literally, no one believed me. And I guess eventually I just gave up.”
He glanced back up at the camera and then back down to his hands.
“To those wondering, the phone calls were from Tony. I have to miss school sometimes because of Spiderman. I stopped participating in gym class because it was deemed too suspicious to continue. I have a supernaturally fast metabolism, so sometimes, I have to take supplements to make sure I don't accidentally die of starvation. I am severely allergic to peppermint after the bi–
“Um. After I got my powers. Not like death allergic, but for sure throwing up allergic. Dr. Cho, my doctor, is not a pediatric oncologist, and my hair loss is from stress.”
Peter looked back up, staring down the camera, and right into Flash’s soul.
“I’m not going to explain anymore because, honestly, I shouldn't have to. You all have been acting crazy since the announcement, and while I have given up trying to get you all to act normal about this for literally just one second, your behavior is putting my friends and family in danger. I did not start the rumor as a cover, and I am frankly disgusted with how you all reacted to this.” Peter was angry now; Flash could tell but couldn't do anything but sit and watch, eyes wide.
He took a deep breath, glancing back at the person off-screen.
“I will now be taking questions—”
Flash stopped paying attention.
Look, Flash wasn’t stupid. He knew by now that Peter didn’t have cancer—if MJ and Ned’s daily posts didn’t do it, the Uncancer Announcement was more than enough to convince him.
But to have Peter say it outright, in such an official, no takesies-backsies manner.
Well, Flash didn’t know what to do with that.
Fuck, they were all fucking idiots, weren’t they.
He flopped back onto the couch, squinting up at the ceiling. How many times had Peter told them he wasn’t dying, and they had brushed him off? How many times had Peter tried to convince them that he was fine, and they had all ignored him, too busy coming up with new reasons to feel sorry for him?
The phone calls didn’t mean anything. The pill didn't mean anything. The hair loss—well, that was maybe a little bit their fault because they were part of the reason he was so stressed, and also, now that he thinks about it, Flash was the reason Peter had been throwing up that one day.
But the hair loss actually didn’t fucking mean anything.
He had been feeling guilty for nothing.
Flash felt a giggle burble out of his throat as a horrible, heavy weight lifted off his shoulders.
-----------
After Spiderman’s “Very Important Press Conference,” the world went silent—actually, completely silent.
For one whole day, the internet basically shut down. No one talked about it. No one even mentioned it—life went on, but social media didn’t. It was like the entire earth was holding its breath.
In the grand scheme of things, one day isn't a very long time. Not even long enough to register as a speck in the vastness that is the universe—but once you get used to the breakneck speed of the internet, one day can feel like an eternity.
No one knew what to do or say. For once, every side of the cancer debate—every argument and sub-argument and non-argument was in the exact same boat.
No one knew how to fucking react.
It's a little odd that this was the thing to stun the world into silence. It had been confirmed numerous times by many of Peter’s loved ones, as well as many reputable sources—like Dr. Cho—and less reputable ones—like Tony Stark—over the course of the last few months. It was something that, deep down, everyone already knew. Even those still in denial, when faced with indisputable fact, were unable to completely convince themselves otherwise—the fact is, absolutely no one was surprised. Not completely, anyway.
So why was this the thing that quite literally broke the internet? No one was totally sure—and for years to come, people would—casually—speculate, but no one would ever know for sure. Because no one can ever really know what made each person hesitate to put their feelings out there.
But it seems, for the first time in the history of social media—modern-day or otherwise—every single person in the world decided to sit and wait.
Wait to see who would make the first move.
Wait, to see what happened when they did.
And as soon as that first person made their move,someone who, in a surprising act of humanity, spoke to defend Spiderman—not to apologize, it was still the internet, and no one on the internet is ever wrong. Until, of course, they are— the floodgates opened.
All of a sudden, the world got very, very loud.
People screamed. They argued. They shouted over top of each other, desperate to be heard. No one wanted to have been wrong, no one wanted to have been right, either—because they had all, in some way, taken part in this whole fiasco. Because they had all messed up by feeding into it. Because they had all, collectively, fucked up.
All of a sudden, it didn’t matter what side of the argument you were on—which side you had been on. Everyone was the enemy.
People were scolded. Those who had shown up to Peter’s school, apartment, internship, were officially frowned upon by the general public. Those who had been so desperate for Peter to be sick were ridiculed and bullied.
Those who had fought against the rumor were met with disapproval—because if they had just shut up, then maybe it would have all died down sooner.
Those who had stayed out of it were blamed because maybe if they had taken sides, the debate would have been settled, and everyone would have been able to move on.
People switched sides, they turned on people they had been fighting alongside, blaming them for taking a stance—wrong or right, it didn’t matter—because it was way fucking better to blame your friends than to blame yourself.
People defended their own arguments, throwing everyone else under the bus as fast as humanly possible because it couldn't be their fault that this had gotten so big. It couldn’t be their fault it had gotten so out of hand.
Anyone who participated in the rumor and anyone who had decided to mind their own business and keep their noses out of it were all put to blame.
(No one actually cared about whether or not their participation had affected Peter. No one cared that they had torn away his social life or any semblance of a safe space. No one cared that their reaction had caused Peter to suffer. They only cared to defend themselves—because people were selfish. Especially if their reputation is on the line)
(And, of course, none of that is completely true either. There were people who took accountability and apologized. There were people who still tried to keep the peace, trying to remind the world that this type of reaction is exactly what caused it all in the first place—but those people were few and far between, and it makes the whole thing sound way less intense and interesting when you include them. So, for the sake of the story, those people will be ignored. They were already being ignored by everyone else, so really, it makes the whole thing more accurate anyway.)
Tony Stark
Tony hummed to himself, mumbling the lyrics of Back in Black under his breath. He carefully twisted two copper wires together, his nimble fingers sure of their job, even as his mind wandered and his eyes slowly drifted—over Dum-E, whose guts littered the floor of his workshop as Tony struggled to find exactly which wire had come loose and caused him to start trying to kill Happy every time he entered the room—to the boy sitting at the other end of the workshop.
Peter had been given his own workstation months ago and—much to Tony’s never-ending happiness—had been putting it to good use ever since.
He knew Peter’s insistence on working in the lab had very little to do with Tony himself and absolutely everything to do with the fact that it was the only place in his life reporters and crazy fans couldn’t get to him.
But he still relished in the fact that this had become Peter’s safe space—he’s a selfish man at heart. He didn’t like to share. He found, however, that he didn’t mind sharing Peter as much anymore. Not when he knew for a fact that Peter would rather be here than quite literally anywhere else in the world—it is much harder for someone to throw a brick and accidentally hit a loved one when you’re 93 stories off the ground.
(Tony is aware that this is an incredibly low bar. He does not give a flying fuck one way or the other)
AC/DC continued to fall from Tony’s lips, slightly out of tune but very enthusiastic, as he zoned out on Peter—wires twisting, screws tightening, still very aware of his project.
The kid was studying for another test. He wasn’t sure which one. History-something, probably. Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t his job to know—he was only supposed to keep an eye on Peter, make sure he was actually doing his work.
Normally, he wouldn’t care about Peter’s schoolwork. In his opinion, school was the biggest waste of time for this kid. He’d long surpassed every person in that school. Staff included. But May told him that Peter had to finish his homework before he got to play with him (her words, not his), and Tony took assignments from May very seriously. If only because she was the one person with the power to take Peter away from him.
He was pretty sure this was a makeup test, though—most everything Peter did nowadays was makeup work. Which he was pretty sure was at least partially his fault.
But he didn’t really care about that either.
Tony’s mind wandered further—away from school, thank god—as Peter reached up and scratched at the back of his head. Then his fingers flattened out, running across the thick fuzz sprouting from his nape. The kid had ditched the Captain America beanie about a week ago—and again, thank god— at the realization that his hair was finally starting to grow back.
If you had told Tony even five years ago that he’d care about some kids' baldness more than his own— imminent, not current. He still had plenty of hair to turn grey—he would have punched you in the face. Because that would be a stupid fucking thing to say.
But here he is now, relieved.
A soft alert from Friday took his attention from Peter. His hands froze in their work and he turned to read the holographic screen she had brought up a little ways to his left.
It was something important, then.
He pulled his hands from Dum-E, wiping them half haphazardly on the old oil rag draped over his shoulder. He wheeled his chair to the holo-screen and motioned for the most recent email to be opened.
It was from Dr. Cho. the most recent—and final, unless Peter for some reason said otherwise— results of their tests.
(May, Tony, and Helen had come to the decision a few months ago that the testing was causing Peter nothing but stress. They hadn’t learned anything new in months at that point and had only been putting more on his plate in hopes of further understanding something that, as far as he was concerned, they understood as well as they were ever going to.
Peter had been completely relieved when he was told this, but it wasn’t until Peter came bouncing in weeks later, his hairless patches finally growing back in, that he realized how much stress they had actually been causing him.
For all the genius inside of Tony, he’d somehow convinced himself that the MRI scans were what had made Peter’s hair fall out. Which was the fucking stupidest thing ever.)
Tony scanned through the email quickly, worried something bad had come up, for Friday to find it so pertinent that he read it right away.
But then he got to the bottom of the email, and a wide smile spread itself across his face.
Not bad. Friday had found it funny.
And she was absolutely right; this was hilarious.
Dr. Cho had finally sent through Peter’s blood test results—he had never really needed to see them before. He was an engineer, not a doctor, so for the most part, knowing the results of Peter’s tests wouldn’t have made practically any difference to him. But now that they were over, he’d wanted the full report. Just to have. Just in case.
And well. Who knew a spider could fuck up someone’s blood so bad.
“Hey, kid!” Tony shouted across the room, barely able to contain his glee. Peter looked up, eyes wide. “Ya’know, it's a really good thing no one ever got their hands on your blood.”
Peter’s brow furrowed. Tony’s grin got even wider.
“That spider fucked you up. The amount of radiation it left behind, fuck, kid, if I didn’t know any better, I would be convinced it was cancer.”
Peter’s mouth hung open for a few seconds, gaping oddly as he processed Tony’s words. Then, with a screech of indignation, in a tumble of flailing limbs, Peter was flying across the room towards him.
“What—You don’t—” His hands swiped uselessly through the back of Tony’s holo screen. “This can never get out, Mr. Stark. They don't know about this. No one can ever know.”
And Tony looked deep into Peter’s panicked, desperate eyes, and he laughed.
He laughed hard.
Peter Parker
“Uh, Peter?”
Peter—who had, up until that moment, been very happily hiding from the entire school in the very back corner of the library—looked up. Jason was standing above him, hands fidgeting with a single piece of paper, his feet shuffling slightly across the puke-colored carpet.
Sally was standing a few feet behind him, arms crossed. She was glaring at Jason's back, but she did take a second to smile in greeting at Peter.
“I, uh,” Peter looked back up at Jason. “I just wanted to apologize. I know it's not, like, completely my fault? But it's a little bit my fault the rumors spread around so fast. You don’t have to forgive me, like at all, but I just needed to say I’m sorry.”
And then he thrust the paper in his hands towards Peter, wagging it slightly for Peter to take.
“Oh.” Peter looked down at the paper, then back up at Jason. “That's, uh. That's okay. You don’t have to apologize. Really.”
He didn’t take the paper.
Jason placed it over the book in his lap and then turned and grabbed Sally by the arm, practically dragging her away.
Peter looked down at the sheet in his lap. It was a printed-out article. At the top of the page, in big, bold letters, the headline read–
OUR PUBLIC APOLOGY TO SPIDERMAN: TEEN SUPERHERO, TOTALLY HEALTHY
The author was Lindsy Ionello.
Peter snorted, but gratitude filled his stomach. He carefully folded the paper and tucked it into his book, closing it and shoving it into his bag. He hauled himself to his feet and wandered slowly out of the library.
He should go see what Ned was up to.
-----------
“Hey Penis!”
Peter turned just in time for his books to get smacked out of his hands.
He felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Something close to relief tugged at his heart.
“Hey, Flash.”
Flash got right up close to his face, finger pointing sternly.
“You’ve been slacking off, Penis. Don’t think I haven't noticed.” a grin spread across his face. “If you’re not careful, I’m gonna take your spot at the top of the class. And then where will you be?”
“Flash, I haven’t been at the top of the class for well over a year.”
“Whatever. I’m still gonna beat you. And then you're gonna have to go crying to Ironman because you're too much of a wimp to handle me yourself.”
And then Flash walked past him without a second look, shoulder-checking him into the lockers as he passed.
Peter couldn’t help it. He threw his head back, and he laughed.
-----------
“And you never thought, even for a second, that it might be a little bit weird?”
Peter paused in the doorway to his history class. A group of girls were in there, sitting neatly in the front row of desks with their lunches out.
Peter checked his phone.
No, he was on time. For once. These girls were just late finishing up.
The history teacher, Mrs. Lukas, shook her head. “Well, I mean, of course we did. But you all had such compelling arguments. I would have believed it much sooner if we didn’t have the physical proof of his internship. Ms. Nuñez, in the front office, she had a real scare when Tony Stark called her up about getting Peter out of school early. It was the talk of the staff for a month!”
“So you knew why he was leaving and getting phone calls and all that. Why didn’t you correct us?” another girl spoke up.
“If we were to intervene with every rumor that went around about a student, we’d never get any work done! This one seemed relatively harmless—and anyway, Peter obviously didn’t want to talk about his internship. By the time we realized maybe we should do something, it was too late.
“And,” Mrs. Lukas added, “if I’m being honest, by that point, most of the staff figured the internship was a hoax. That you were actually right about the cancer thing, and everything else was some elaborate cover-up.”
She shook her head again.
“He was still hiding stuff, you know, with Spiderman, and honestly, it made more sense.”
Peter backed up slowly. Then walked forward and right into the classroom.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lukas!”
He walked to the back of the classroom and settled in the desk in the back corner, pretending not to notice the look of absolute mortification on his teacher's face.
In all honesty, it was nice to finally know.
-----------
Peter swung through the streets, arms stretching wonderfully with each swing down towards the street.
It was a slow crime day. The first day in months that he didn’t have to web anyone to a wall—really, the best he could do was swing through the city, keep his eyes and ears open, and just make sure everyone was ok.
With a sharp thwip, he turned a sharp corner and swung fast past the old library—the one with his face plastered all across the doors.
He was barely on that block for 30 seconds, but he saw what he needed.
The memorial was still growing, candles still glowing, flowers still fresh.
The people of New York hadn’t given up on him yet.
-----------
“Surprise!”
Peter smiled, his grin stretching from ear to ear, and streamers popped, highlighting the big sign hung across the living room wall.
HAPPY 8 MONTHS CANCER-FREE!
Peter felt a hysterical laugh bubble up from the pit of his stomach, and in only minutes, he found himself hunched over, struggling to breathe—his hair, long enough to curl around his ear, flopping uncomfortably in his eyes.
Because he was free.
He was finally fucking free.