Chapter 1
Aunt May was dead.
Aunt May was dead.
Aunt May was dead.
Harry almost couldn't believe it. Hell, he'd known Aunt May almost as long as he'd known Peter-- she was as much Harry's mother as she was Peter's. He remembered the summer of their tenth grade year, the three of them crammed into Peter's bathroom, razors in hand and faces smeared in citron-scented shaving cream. Uncle Ben was doing his best to explain the proper way to shave-- bring the razor this way, move it like that, no, Harry, just a little more the other way-- but it just wasn't working. Harry's fifth attempt left him with nothing but another nick on his chin, a single tear of scarlet blood running down his fingertips. Peter had frowned.
"Oh, you useless old man," Aunt May had chided her husband. "Move over, let me have a shot."
She shoved the plate of cookies (her contribution to the lesson) at Uncle Ben, who took them with a knowing smile and a quick remark on her youth.
"Like this, Harry," instructed Aunt May. She took the razor and pressed it gently to his skin, pulling it gently. "Just like this. See?"
Peter grinned. "How come you're better at this than Uncle Ben?"
She whacked him gently with a dish towel. "Because, Peter. He may be a man, but he doesn't have a mama's intuition."
They hadn't argued with her on that-- the two lanky boys weren't exactly well-off in the mamas department. And Aunt May wasn't a bad substitute.
But she was dead.
He remembered that day vividly, because everything up until that moment had been absolutely perfect. The day had gone by slowly; there were papers to fill out and things to sort for Oscorp, but Harry didn't mind the steady influx of work. It made him feel useful to have so much to do.
He didn't remember any of the work. There was some project, really promising, that he was funding down in Hell's Kitchen (but then again, Dr. Octavius had been promising, too). An issue with supply, maybe. Things he had to sign, papers he barely glanced over. He remembered it because at 5:32, he began to pack up for the day. The sun was following suit-- the light from the sky had been steadily diminishing for a half an hour, fading out in pink and purple hues and washing his office in gold. He loved the view of the city from his office, especially at that hour.
At 5:35 his office doors crashed open, and Peter flew in.
Harry didn't expect it-- almost didn't believe it. Peter had never been in his office, and they weren't exactly on speaking terms right now. His first instinct was to rush to Peter, ask him why his eyes were red, why there was blood running down his arms, why he was still in his stupid Spiderman suit and why, why was he here--
He ignored this instinct.
"I'm so sorry," panted Harry's assistant, rushing in. He skidded as he reached the door. "I called security, but he-- he's fast, I couldn't--"
"It's fine," Harry said sharply. "He can stay. Go home, Fred."
Fred nodded solemnly, as stumbled back into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind him.
And all of a sudden Peter was there, in the middle of the room, looking equal parts desperate and confused. He couldn't believe it either-- just as confused as Harry was how he'd ended up in the posh office of one of the richest men in New York, bleeding onto his polished floors.
Harry cleared his throat. "Peter."
There was a pause. It could only have been seconds, but those seconds somehow seemed so long, like time had skidded to a halt. Peter blinked. He shifted his gaze to Harry and Harry could see his face fall. It was like watching a sad imitation of a magic trick: how he went from looking lost to looking so utterly... hopeless.
"Aunt May is dead," Peter said.
Harry stared at him.
Somehow he was standing. He didn't remember getting up. He didn't remember walking over to Peter, or looking him dead in the eye, opening his mouth to say something, anything. Harry had never been good with feelings. He used to get scolded for being angry, for being restless, for being anxious, and especially for being sad. But in that moment Peter was in his arms, and Harry felt in his best friend the greatest sadness he'd ever witnessed, falling apart under his fingertips.
"I couldn't save her," Peter sobbed.
Harry's mouth felt stuck. He held Peter's cheek, wiping a tear off of his face. "Come on, sit down."
He led Peter gently to the couch, debated pouring him a glass of scotch. No, Peter didn't drink. He poured one for himself. "Tell me what happened."
Peter stumbled over his words. He told the story like a reporter. Too carefully, too clean. Like he hadn't been there to hold her in his arms. There was a man with a gun on Fifth Street. Peter was trying to free the hostages at the bank. There was a truck full of gas crossing the bridge.
The man opened fire.
Peter wasn't sure how it happened. He wouldn't have noticed the fire if the flames weren't already licking at his feet, weaving across the roof of buildings covered in flammable material. He left the hostages where they were and went to help with the fire.
He got fifteen people out before the buildings started to collapse on themselves.
Aunt May was the sixteenth.
"I didn't see her in time," Peter whispered. He stared straight ahead, and Harry swore he saw flames dancing in his eyes as he relived the memory. "And I couldn't get her-- coudln't-- I couldn't get her out in time, Harry."
He buried his face in Harry's shoulder, and Harry could feel him shaking.
"It's okay," Harry heard himself say. "Hey, Pete. It's okay. You can't save everyone."
"No," Peter said. "I can't save anyone. Not anyone that matters. Not your dad, or Uncle Ben, or-- or Aunt May."
Harry tilted up his chin. Peter's eyes really were blue. They practically glittered, and (god, it sounded so cliche) they reminded him of water. Of staring out at the Hudson with Peter on late nights when they both couldn't sleep, and Harry used to sneak out and meet his friend on the roof of Peter's apartment. "Peter," he said. "You can't blame yourself."
Peter laughed bitterly. "Can't I? I mean-- Harry, you're all I've got left."
"That's not true. You've got MJ, haven't you?"
"We broke up."
Harry was less shocked than he should be. "Well, broke up or not, she still cares for you."
"Really? Because last she told me... what was it? Oh, I remember now. Something about ruining her life, and she never wanted to speak to me again, and I should probably just jump off of a bridge and get it over with."
Harry gaped at him. "She didn't." He would need to have a word with her later (see: he was about to fucking ruin her life).
Peter closed his eyes. "It's a long story. I kind of... I kissed somebody else."
"Peter! You? Why?"
"Because!" Peter snapped. "I wanted to see... forget it, it's stupid."
"No, it's not stupid. Tell me why somebody as goody two-shoes as Peter Parker would cheat on his girlfriend that is absolutely smitten with him?"
"It wasn't cheating. I just... I wanted to see if I had feelings for her. The other girl, I mean."
Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Well, sure, but that's not the kind of thing you do when you're already in a relationship, man."
"You don't-- whatever." Peter leaned back on the couch, nearly buried in the cushions. His mousy brown hair was tousled, and Harry noticed that his eyes were darker than usual, like he hadn't slept in a while. And, since when was Peter so skinny? He'd never been fat, but now it looked like he didn't have an ounce of fat on him, skin stretched taut over his muscles in a way that looked almost painful.
"Peter?"
Peter's eyes kept shut. "Mmm?"
"Sleep here tonight. We can talk about your... girlfriend troubles, or whatever, in the morning."
Even half-asleep Peter grimaced. "Whatever," he mumbled.