Great-Grandaddy Issues
Mary Parker was adopted as a baby, and never knew her real parents. That never really bothered her, but the same couldn’t be said for her now orphaned son, Peter. The fourteen year old, super powered spider kid currently had no living family left, and needed a home.
According to CPS, that is. If you asked him, he was doing just fine on his own, and didn’t care to go looking for any family members he didn’t know. Unfortunately children don’t usually get a say in this sort of stuff, and so here he was, waiting on the results of a DNA test in a rainbow room full of stuffed animals and coloring supplies.
How did he get here, you ask? It’s a long story but it boils down to this: his parents died, his Aunt and Uncle took him in, he got bitten by a radioactive spider that gave him superpowers, his Aunt and Uncle died, and since then he’s been doing just fine living on his own, fighting criminals, going to school, and sleeping in the school gym. But then he got found by the janitor, and someone decided to call CPS, and then CPS decided to do a DNA test to find his missing family.
It was all totally unnecessary if you asked him, but no one did, so he was just sitting in this dumb colorful room picking at one of the several stray threads in his jeans, waiting for them to come back and send him to an orphanage, where it’d be even more difficult to sneak out and fight crime.
He sighed, giving up on one thread and moving on to another, avoiding the plastic, soulless eyes of the stuffed animals watching him. He was careful to look away from the unicorn on the table in the corner, his sensitive ears letting him hear the whir of machinery within it - a hidden camera, most likely.
Footsteps outside the door distracted him, and soon enough it opened and a kind looking woman in a suit walked in, followed by a similarly dressed man who was looking at him with a strange expression.
He frowned at the man slightly, before turning his attention to the woman in front of him and softening his expression. After all, these people were just doing their jobs, trying to look out for kids. He couldn’t be upset with them for that.
The woman smiled at him and sat down in front of him, setting a folder on the table in front of her. He noticed the man close the door and stand beside it, and narrowed his eyes slightly - was it normal for a guard to be placed inside a kids room like this? He hadn’t done anything to give away his identity as Spider-Man, so it didn’t make sense.
Unless - he stiffened, eyes widening as he clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. His DNA. His genetically altered, superhuman DNA that he gave to them to test. What if they figured him out? He was drawn out of his head when he heard the woman talking - introducing herself, he realized.
He forced himself to relax. It would do no good to him if he acted suspicious when they didn’t really know about his powers.
“Hello, Peter. My name is Ms. Byers. I know everything has been a little scary up until now, but we’re all just here to help you, okay?” She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear as she talked, and Peter looked back at her before nodding.
She smiled again, but there was something off about it - similar to the guard’s expression. He wondered what that meant for him, and decided to stay on alert, ready to run if necessary.
“Good. Now, we found something a little strange when we ran your DNA, so we had to check it over a couple times more - that’s why it took so long.” His mouth was too dry to respond so he just nodded again. She took it as a sign to continue, that strange expression crossing her face.
“I’m sorry to say that most of your immediate family is deceased - there are no more aunts or uncles, and most of your grandparents have passed on.” Peter nodded - it ached somewhere deep inside to hear it stated so plainly, but it wasn’t anything new.
The last few months of living alone had given him enough time to grieve and sort his feelings in order. In order to avoid being consumed by his emotions, he focused on a part of that sentence that confused him. “Most of my grandparents?”
He winced as his voice came rough, scratchy from disuse. Ms. Byers motioned something to the guard and he left briefly, returning with a bottle of water that Peter accepted gratefully. After a few sips, the woman continued.
“Yes - it was something… rather odd, as you do have one great-grandparent still alive. The problem was, he is a very prominent figure in our world today, and so we had to make sure that the results were indeed correct. I’m not quite sure how to tell you this gently Peter.”
Peter felt his heart rate speed up as the woman figured with the papers in front of her before pulling one out and setting it in front of him. For some reason, he felt reluctant to look at it. He felt that if he did, his life would change again, and he might not be able to pick himself back up from the broken pieces a third time.
His eyes didn’t listen to his instincts, however, and he found himself staring at the paper in front of him. His mouth opened in a quiet gasp, eyes disbelieving what the paper so clearly stated.
“My great-grandfather… my mother’s grandfather… is Captain America…?” His voice shook, and he felt… he didn’t know how he felt. Surprised, certainly. Confused, mostly. But fear, betrayal, hope, and everything in between combined to form an ugly monster of emotion that threatened to take control and destroy him from the inside out.
He flinched away when Ms. Byers reached out as if to comfort him, but he didn’t have it in him to feel bad when she drew back. In all honesty, he was exhausted, mentally, emotionally, and physically. Juggling school, Spider-Man, and trying to survive alone had taken a toll that he wasn’t prepared to face yet. This was just another weight on his shoulders, and one he had no idea how to deal with.
“I understand that this has come as a shock to you. We have attempted to contact him, so that you two might get in contact, but he is a difficult man to reach. We left a message, but until then, you’re free to stay here. If you want, an agent can go with you to collect your things from the school later - it’ll be dinner time in about two hours, so please let us know before then.” Peter nodded, the words sounding distant in his ears.
He felt numb - he’d have to process everything once he was alone, he supposed. Ms. Byers stood, seeming to realize that he didn’t want to talk anymore. “Mr. Krupp will lead you to your room, then. He’ll be outside if you need him, so please feel free to ask for whatever you need.”
He nodded again, standing and following her to the door. She greeted the stiff looking man and waved goodbye to him as she walked away. He followed the man down the hallway, subconsciously trying to memorize the turns they took and which paintings went in which hallway. His brain wasn’t cooperating, and he gave up, numbly walking behind the silent man until they reached a plain brown door much like the one he came from.
He heard the sound of other kids playing and talking in some of the other rooms further down the hallway, and acknowledged that this was probably the part of the building where all the orphaned children lived. He was just another one of them, now.
He went inside the room - plain, just a bed and a desk, all neutral colors and lacking patterns. The door shut behind him and he was alone. Fully. No cameras or microphones here.
He walked over to the bed and sat down, eyes open but not really seeing. All that occupied his mind was the words on the paper, revelation stamped in mechanical lettering.
Steve Rogers, Captain America, the first Avenger. His great-grandfather, apparently. A national hero, an untouchable man at the center of every battle that mattered. Someone he idolized beside Iron Man and the Black Widow.
That figure, that concept, that ideal that everyone in the country, hell, most of the world, looked up to and worshiped, was related to him? Skinny, weak, pathetic Peter Parker? His breathing picked up, and suddenly he couldn’t stop the thoughts that invaded his mind, overwhelming him in both their ferocity and impossibility.
Because Captain America wouldn’t want him. He’s busy with his hero work, he wouldn’t have time for Peter, would rather send him off to some orphanage than have to deal with raising a stupid teenager.
Or maybe he wouldn’t bother sending him to a home, maybe he’d just get dumped on the streets and it’d be that first month all over again, and he’d be starving and cold and scared.
Or it might be that he would take him in, but he’d hate him. Peter knew he would hate him. He’d just be a disappointment all the time, because how could he possibly live up to the legacy of Captain America? He was just a kid from Queens - the only useful thing about him came from a spider bite, and even that was puny compared to all the achievements his great-grandfather had.
He was scared. He was terrified.
He was going to be sick.
He jumped up from the bed and ran to the bathroom, emptying the contents of his stomach in the toilet. Once he finished retching, he flushed the contents away and moved to the sink to wash out his mouth.
His throat felt raw and scratchy, and he dreaded the next time he’d have to speak. He looked at his face in the mirror and cringed away. His reflection emphasized all of his flaws. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy, the eyes themselves red and tired. His face was pale in a sickly color, and his skin clung to his bones in every place that he couldn’t replace with muscle. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, evidence of his poor diet and freaky superhuman body. He looked every bit like a pitiful charity case and nothing like Captain America’s great-grandson should.
He dragged himself back to the bed, the mattress sinking under him as he stared at the wall as if it contained all the answers. He felt something wet slide down the side of his face and didn’t bother to wipe it away. More tears followed, staining his cheeks as a scream threatened to claw its way out of his throat. The walls here were thin, however, and he held in his cries.
He bit on his hand to muffle any sound that might escape, and his body shook with suppressed sobs. He tasted blood on his tongue and swallowed, the liquid feeling thick and dirty as it slid down his throat. He didn’t remove his teeth from his palm, and only bit down harder in his effort to stay silent.
His grief was his own, and even if he were to meet and live with his ancestor it would remain that way. He fell asleep before the tears stopped, curled up on a bed that wasn’t his in a room he didn’t know. The exhaustion of the day dragged him under, clinging to his bones and suffocating his dreams.