Peter is thirteen. Ben is on the ground before him, bleeding.
He won’t stop bleeding.
Peter is thirteen and he’s got a man halfway to death beneath his fists. There’s blood caked on his knuckles, and it’s Peter’s, and this man’s, and Ben’s all at the same time.
“Please,” The man says. He’s got two black eyes, thanks to Peter, and broken ribs, and who knows what else, because Peter is panicked, and hurt, and doesn’t know how to control himself yet. “I’ve got a kid, he’s just a kid- just a kid- I don’t want to leave him- I want to see him again, God, please-”
He lets his fists drop, limp.
"Oh, fuck," The man says. "You're that kid- fuck-" a hand grips Peter's arm.
The mangled face says, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to kill him- your- your uncle, right? I saw the news story. I'm so sorry."
Peter doesn't know if he forgives him or not, but he stops hitting him.
He thinks of how he will never, never, never make anyone else be thirteen, sitting there, with three kinds of blood on their fists.
-
The blood is on the gloves, not his hands or his skin. So why do his hands feel like they’re wet with it?
“She-” Peter chokes. It feels like there is blood in his throat, but, no, it’s just saliva, a thick ball of it and it’s catching in his throat, and he knows it’s saliva, but it feels like blood. “Karen, she- Karen- Why?”
He can't think of another word for throat. Neck? Not quite. That doesn't feel like the right word. There's something stuck in his throat that he can't dislodge.
and his throat feels tight.
Technically, the battle is over. It does not feel like it. His windpipe seizes with the effort to breathe.
-
Peter’s got Friday asking him what floor he wants to go to.
There are questions to be asked. There are lots of questions (Always questions, and Peter is a curious, impulsive person with a terrible filter who can’t seem to ever shut off his brain, shut up and stop asking questions-) But this one is the kind of question that is very hard to ask. For once, it is important, and that makes Peter, who can’t usually stop himself from blurting out every passing thought, struggle to ask it. It is weighty and difficult. It feels like it has fingers, and they’re wrapping around his heart.
So much trouble for one little word:
Why?
Except it’s not a little word. The number of letters does not reflect the true size of it. Sometimes the smallest words are the densest.
(Ben, comes to mind. Three letters. One syllable. Heavy as lead. Three letters can hold a lot inside of them. Words are compact packages. Think, I. A. Go. Do. Gun. Die. Act. Try. Sad. Win. The. And. Kill. Death.- One, two, and five.)
Karen is not the one to ask. She’s just a robot, well, is she a robot? She’s an AI, but, as defined by Merriam-Webster (thanks, google) she is a robot, because she is capable of moving independently. Peter didn't know that when he started calling her an AI- he’d thought she was just a program, one that could not act on her own, without constant questioning, or prompting. She was smart, capable of learning but not acting.
So, finally. Unless every single action, every movement of nanobots across his skin, pulling him in directions he was not planning to go, was all pre-planned, pre-determined by a hand-typed set of commands. Unless every single movement was a pre-determined line of code, and Tony had done it.
And maybe Peter didn't really like Tony right now, but that didn't mean he wanted to believe the man would go that far.
No, she was a robot, adaptable to threatening circumstances. Had to be, because the superhero business is a very complicated thing, and every villain- or, well, foe, because as Peter has learned over time, many people aren’t villains- is different. Peter just hadn’t known she could do it. Well, still do it, he had asked Mr. Stark to take it out-
(”I just don’t operate like that, you know,” Peter had said.
Tony shrugged. “I’ll fix it, then.”)
Peter thought Mr. Stark listened. Well, not really. He never listens. But this was important, and Peter had thought, at his core, that Mr. Stark respected him. At least enough that, even if the kill-switch was there, that Peter would be in charge of it.
And he wants to know why it was there. Still there. Why Tony had called out at that moment-
Why?
He’s putting off asking it. The word circles him like a fly that won’t go away. This is a silly metaphor for him, maybe, because he’s a spider and a fly wouldn’t be a problem for a spider.
He’s distracting himself, again. Well, to be fair, it’s not all on purpose. Adderall doesn’t work like it used to, he can’t afford the amount he needs to take it, and any GP, or psychologist worth going to would never prescribe him the amount he needs with his metabolism. Not that he can afford normal doctor visits, either. May once offered to steal it because he was crying over a homework assignment that was too easy- and Peter had been horrified, yet touched by the thought.
Caffeine doesn’t work as it used to either. Not unless he drinks enough to kill a horse. And coffee is expensive, energy drinks, too, and caffeine pills, too. Everything is expensive, and May has a decent job, but they live in New York, and Peter already spends so much just living. Groceries are more expensive every day, and Peter only seems to get hungrier and hungrier, and May is human- she can only give so much.
Every time he is at Tony Stark’s place he drinks as much coffee as he can get his hands on, and he will take the box of donuts that some intern will bring in and no one will eat, because sugar and caffeine help him focus, but he doesn’t often go to Tony’s place, because the man is still very much an unapproachable, otherworldly thing to him-
Tony Stark.
Fuck- he is distracting himself again. He needs to ask.
Why? Why? Why Why Why? Whywhywhywhy-
“Mr. Parker?” Friday asks. “Are you alright?”
Peter blinks. The elevator comes into view again, though it has been in view this entire time, actually, it just hasn’t been in focus. There are no buttons in this elevator because Friday handles the movement of it, and it is just a blank slate of wall, easy to get lost in because there’s nothing, in particular, to look at.
“I’m fine,” Peter says. Is he lying? Who knows. Peter doesn’t know.
He doesn’t seem to know anything- certainly doesn’t seem to know when he should just walk away before he goes and accuses Tony Stark. Not that he means it (Why?) as an accusation, it’s a question, and Peter just wants an answer, but Peter knows how it will be taken. He knows that Tony Stark is defensive, and he is angry, and he is a little immature. But Peter had thought he was good too, a hero.
Does Peter even know who is good? He has always been that kind of trusting. That is, too trusting. Open, and idealistic. And many people think it is him being stupid, or young, but it isn’t, but it is a choice. He chooses, again, and again, to trust.
It is also his only choice. Peter has a hard time not being open, honest, and straightforward. He also expects this of other people, because he can’t imagine being any other way, even though he knows people aren’t like this-
Peter shakes his head.
“Where’s Mr. Stark?” Peter asks.
“Floor four,” Friday says, polite as ever, because she’s just an AI (or is she? What is she capable of? Should Peter trust that she, too, is harmless? What secret weapons are pointed at his head? Or placed in his hands-) “Should I alert him of your arrival?”
“No!” Peter says, a little too quickly. He clears his throat. “No, Friday, like I said at the door- it’s a surprise.”
“Of course,” Friday says.
The elevator is too high-tech to rumble, but the second and third floor pass with a beep of acknowledgment that feels, somehow, damning.
-
Tony’s in the lab, which is what Peter expected.
“Jesus, kid, you scared me,” Tony says. He looks confused, and a little on guard. Well, he’s always on guard, but lately, he and Peter had reached some level of camaraderie. An odd thing. May thought it was weird. (Peter had insisted she was wrong, and now he doesn’t know if she was.) “It’s real late- a little past visiting hours.”
“That’s what Friday said,” Peter says. “You’re still awake.”
He feels oddly numb, and also over-sensitive, skin itchy, and electric, as he sets his backpack down by the door. He feels like he doesn’t want anything on him, or in his hands. Extra weight, any weight, is an added burden he doesn’t want to carry.
“I don’t sleep well, and the sky is blue,” Tony says flippantly, stressing the next question. “When did you get here?”
“Ten minutes ago,” Peter says.
“How did you even get here?” Tony asks. “Happy didn’t drive you.”
“Greyhound,” Peter says. “To Syracuse.”
Tony’s eyebrows furrow. “And?”
“And?” Peter mimics.
“You what, walked from Syracuse?” He asks, with some amusement. Like he can’t believe it.
Peter shrugs. “Hitched a ride to pretty close. Then I walked.”
Tony’s face twitches. The amusement goes. Well, not, like, the whole thing, but kind of the whole thing. His mouth, his eyes, his nose. “You hitch-hiked? That’s risky business, kiddo.”
Peter feels a swell of anger. It is very unlike him. The hard thing about being a kid, and facing adult situations, is the same thing that is hard about adults facing adult situations, he doesn’t know if he’s right, if he’s justified, what to say-do-think, and how to navigate any of it. It’s just also worse because he has less experience being clueless- it is harder to accept that he will always be a little clueless because he’s young and he has ideals.
“I’m Spider-Man,” Peter says. “I can hitch-hike.”
Tony’s hands finally come up, and they level on the table in front of him. A sleek, modern-looking lab station. He uses it to lift himself. “You’re also a baby-faced sixteen and a prime candidate for creepy guys on the highway to-”
“Don’t,” Peter says, cutting him off. Has he ever cut off Tony Stark before? Maybe, on accident, and then he would apologize, because he doesn’t mean to cut people off, he’s just got the kind of brain that makes him cut people off because thoughts tend to surge up all at once and are all-consuming and he’s not trying to be rude, really, he just needs to get them out.
The holograms in front of Tony are dismissed with a wave. It’s just them, and the otherwise empty lab. The bright, artificial lighting. Tony wonders why he can’t sleep- but he’s got all this blue light all the time, it’s no fucking wonder. Amazingly, he doesn’t need glasses.
“Peter, kid,” Tony says. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Peter shrugs.
Why? Why? Why Why WhyWhy-
“You know why I’m here,” Peter says because he’s kind of a coward. Except he’s not a coward, he’s Spider-Man, and he does a lot of brave things, except… yeah, he’s scared. “I wanted to just- to talk about it-”
Silence.
Tony doesn’t look surprised. He does look guilty, which isn’t as much of a comfort as Peter wants it to be.
“We already talked about it, and I told you it’s part of our job,” Tony says. “Sometimes it’s-”
“But it isn’t!” Peter says.
“But it is,” Tony says. “Kid.”
“Don’t call me a kid,” Peter bites out.
“You’re sixteen-”
“It’s demeaning,” Peter growls. “And it’s different when you say it regularly, and all fondly, and when you say it now because it means you’re not listening to me because you think I’m stupid and young and that you know better than me. So, don’t call me kid.”
Tony sighs, sounding tired. “You’re not stupid, but you are young.”
“So you know better than me?” Peter scoffs.
“Yeah, like I know you shouldn’t have hitchhiked across upstate New York until one in the morning just to rehash this-”
“I did that because of you,” Peter gathers up his courage. It is not much, but what is there is spurred on by anger. “And you know I did that because of you. Because I couldn’t get through to you.”
“This is not my fault,” Tony says. “And taking a greyhound upstate was definitely your little teenage-impulse decision.”
“You haven’t been answering my calls,” Peter says.
“What calls?”
“I know Happy told you,” Peter says. “Happy likes me now, he wouldn’t lie to me.”
Tony looks guilty again. Guilty. He is guilty, isn’t he? So why does Peter feel bad? Maybe because he was the tool Tony used to take that woman’s life- maybe because, even if Peter’s hands moved out of his control, it’s his fault for putting his trust in the wrong people.
Never meet your heroes, they said.
And Mr. Stark isn’t a villain, either. Not really. He’s Iron Man. But he’s not a foe, either, right? Or he shouldn’t be. Except, right now, they’re fighting, which means he is.
But why is that so? Why? Why why-
“Yeah, Peter, you know what? I don’t. Because you keep asking about this-”
“Because it’s important."
"You were going to die. It was protection," Tony says. "Come on, Spidey-"
The nickname doesn't feel nice like it used to. When Tony first showed up, Peter had stars in his eyes at the mere sight of him.
"It wasn't your call to make."
Peter huffs. Can’t stop himself. Can’t ever stop himself normally. He’s always a little loud, jumpy, a lot. He makes a lot of bad decisions, but tried very hard to make the right ones, and to be the hero Ben wanted him to be, and that he wants to be. He can turn those bad decisions to correct action, even if they’re stupid and big, and haphazard.
“I just- I thought you were better than this,” Peter says.
Tony slams his hand on the table, and Peter isn’t scared, not really, not of any physical pain or anything like that. But this is his hero (former hero? He doesn’t know- he doesn’t know-) “Peter,” Tony says. “I’ve killed a lot of people. They were bad people. This is what we do.”
“And I know!” Peter cries, desperately, “I know you kill people, you say that like I’m stupid and that I don’t know. But I haven’t-hadn’t killed anyone” And doesn’t that hurt? That he has killed someone now. There is more than just blood on his hands now, there is an unwashable stain that runs deeper, and darker. “And I never wanted to. I thought you understood that- I thought I told you that. I told you to take her off-”
“Peter,” Tony says, trying for calm. “You know I can’t do that, you’re too important.”
Peter can’t stop thinking. But he can never stop thinking, it’s just that now it’s more of a problem than ever. He’s tired, he’s angry, and he can’t stop thinking about bad, bad things.
He recently read Macbeth in AP Lit, and he can’t stop thinking of that one line. That famous line-
Out, damned spot!
And he can’t stop thinking about the feel of high-powered vibrations on his hands. And blood. And the way death is so absolute.
(”I’ve got a kid-”)
May Parker is a nurse who sees a lot of death and she shares hospital stories. Peter is no stranger to death. Not even gory ones, like hers had been. May works on bullet holes, car crashes, and collapsed scaffolding (the thing meant to keep you safe from other unseen projectiles,). Peter is well-versed in what it means to die, and that it is an inescapable fate.
He also knows there are many ways to die. That most people die old. In a quiet, slow way. It’s not like it’s good. But it’s not a head exploding beneath his palms-
Peter swipes his backpack up off the ground, and, instead of replying, opens it up. Or he tries, but the zipper is getting stuck because this is a shitty backpack- the one he got because he couldn’t afford nice new ones anymore. Now, he got them at the free goodwill bins. Peter nearly cries, and he also nearly tears the zipper off with the force needed to get it free.
It is so awkward and banal and Peter doesn’t want to feel like a kid, but this feels childish. All of this feels childish all of a sudden. Maybe, he thinks, he shouldn’t have come. Maybe Mr. Stark was right, and this was stupid.
Peter is yanking and yanking, and Tony is asking: What?
“Here’s what,” Peter says, the words are weak and uncertain and a high-pitched sort of hurt that is so frustrating. Because it makes it sound like he's indecisive, and he is, and he is hurt, but he doesn’t want to sound like it. Finally getting the zipper free from the fraying thread that had gotten wound around it. He pulls the suit out, and it falls to a pile on the ground. “I’m not you, and you can have this back.”
“Peter-”
“I’m sleeping in your guest bedroom,” Peter says. “And I’m leaving in the morning. Don’t talk to me.”
-
Secretly, he hopes that Tony Stark will barge in, and they will talk.
Peter has a million things he wants to say, points he wants to make. He’d thought them over on the way here a million-billion-trillion fucking times, and of course, lost it all the moment Tony Stark was in front of him.
What if the suit is hacked and it targets innocents?
What if the target, seen as guilty, was framed and is actually innocent and we didn’t know?
What if-
Peter tries not to think about all the things he wanted to say and he didn’t. It’s just hard not to spiral into the thoughts when he can’t even sleep.
Tony doesn’t come.
Peter leaves in the morning without breakfast. Friday tells him there’s a car waiting for him outside, and Peter is unsurprised to see Happy waiting for him. Happy looks confused, but Peter doesn’t feel like explaining.
-
Peter is thirteen, and he is sailing through the air, a spirling, aerial somersault, that he doesn’t know how he knows how to do but that he knows how to do. Two weeks ago, he’d been asthmatic, near-blind, and allergic to a hundred and one things.
In theory, Spring was the best because the weather was nice, and the world opened up and became new. In reality, Spring was always the worst season because Peter couldn’t step outside without sneezing up a lung.
Now it wasn’t. Now, Spring was nice.
It felt like how books described it. Full of possibility. Clear, bright, and fresh. The world bloomed this time of year, and for the first time, that wasn’t a bad thing. All because of superpowers.
Superpowers…
The idea of superheroes flashes across his mind, and it feels like sunlight.
Peter lands on his feet, and whoops. The sound echoes and echoes in the empty warehouse. He is cheerful and alive, and he feels like he can do so much, and even the world is calling back to him with the same vigor.
-
Peter is sixteen.
Natasha’s standing in his doorway.
As in: Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff.
As in: Black Widow. Avenger. SHIELD agent. Russian Spy-Assassin Badass Lady.
“Hi,” Peter says.
She raises a red, trimmed eyebrow. So perfectly trimmed. Everything about her is this manufactured perfection. At least, appearance-wise. Her skin is the clearest Peter has ever seen.
“You want to come in?” He asks.
“Who is it?” May asks, from the kitchen. Peter hears his aunt’s feet depart from the tile, going the small distance through the narrow counters, hitting the carpet, approaching the door.
Peter realizes he hasn’t answered a little too late.
“Uh,” Peter says-
At the same time, his aunt rounds on the door and blinks.
“Another Avenger, in my doorway?” May asks. Her jovialness is kind but misplaced, and Peter doesn’t know how to explain that without admitting that he killed someone- well, he didn’t kill someone. God, but she doesn’t even know that he didn’t kill someone.
May nudges his side.“Come on, let her in, Peter. You’re gaping.”
“Right,” Peter says. “Sorry, Ms. Romanoff.”
“Natasha is fine,” Ms. Romanoff says.
“Of course, Ms.-” Peter clears his throat. “Right.”
Why is she here? Peter can’t help but wonder, and his mind goes in a lot of different, bad directions. Namely, the sound of nanobots formed into fabric dropping to the floor and settling. Or Tony’s silently shocked and angry, and frustrated face as Peter turned away and went to the bedroom.
“Peter,” Aunt May says again, teasing. Her elbow meets his waist again, just a little, soft jab. It doesn’t hurt. May never hurts him. “Come on.”
Shocked back into the moment, Peter steps away from the door a little too quickly. “Come on in,” Peter says.
Natasha does.
“I would like to talk to your nephew alone, Ms. Parker,” Natasha says when the door is shut. “If it’s alright with you.”
May furrows her eyebrows, and her hand lands on Peter’s elbow and squeezes. She doesn’t answer Natasha, she looks to Peter instead and asks, “Is it okay with you, Peter?”
This is what trust looks like, Peter thinks. He’s been trying to figure that out, lately. What trust is, and isn’t. A therapist could probably help with that, and that sounds like something a therapist would want him to do. Too bad he doesn’t have a therapist and so he’s doing it on his own. May can’t afford to get him a therapist. She’d probably say she could, and when Peter was younger, and his parents died he got one. Also when his old babysitter got too handsy, he’d gotten one. But they’d also had Ben’s income at that time.
Peter nods. He raises his hand over hers and squeezes back. “It’s good.”
Natasha’s expression is blank throughout the exchange. It stays blank when May agrees to leave “Hey, but I’m in the other room!” May says, “No funny business, even if it’s Avengers stuff and no more spontaneous trips to Germany. I mean it.”
Peter smiles fondly as May points two fingers at her eyes and then jabs them at Natasha. It’s kind of silly considering that Natasha is capable of killing her six-ways-to-Sunday in less than six seconds, but the thought counts.
May backs out of the room, and, with one last look, turns around to go down the hall to her room.
“Ms. Romanoff…” Peter starts, cautiously.
Natasha’s expression isn’t fond, it barely changes, but it’s not harsh, either. It’s just soft enough that Peter knows she’s not angry. Or, at least, this is what Peter is supposed to think he knows. She can manipulate what he thinks he knows because she’s a super-secret-spy-assassin, and Peter needs to remember that. But, damn, she’s good.
“I promise you really can call me Natasha,” She says. “It is not a trap, Spider-Man.”
“Ah,” He didn’t even realize he hadn’t. “Sorry.”
“Ms. Romanoff is fine too,” She perks the corner of her lip up. “I don’t bite.”
“You don’t?” Peter asks. He flops down onto his couch.“‘Cause I recall Widow Bites kind of being like a famous thing of yours, and it’s got bite in the name.”
Natasha smirks.
“Okay, be terrifying,” Peter says, drawing his knees up to his chest. “You don’t need to answer my questions. That’s okay.”
Natasha lets silence hang between them for an extra long second, but somehow Peter can tell he’s not supposed to be speaking. Though if she’s waiting to see how long it takes him to break or preparing something to say, Peter doesn’t know.
“Your aunt is a good person,” Natasha says, finally. “Good woman.”
Peter blinks.
“She is,” He says.
“You are a good person too, Peter,” She says.
“Um,” Peter digs his fingers further into his knees. “Thanks?”
“It is a compliment,” She confirms. “I don’t think many people are good people. I also think you’re the only hero I know who’s a good person. A truly good one. You’re too good for this career.”
Peter’s eyes jerk over to the hallway May disappeared down. “Should I be worried?” He asks. “Is this an interrogation, or like a dramatic movie buildup to a sneak attack? What’s up?”
“Not a sneak attack,” She says, almost fondly. Kind of sadly. “I just don’t think Tony is ever going to talk to you, and someone needs to.”
Tony-
Who-
(The suit jerked around him, and suddenly Peter’s limbs were not his own. But they were his own, they were just moving without his command, and he was lunging forward-)
Peter frowns. “If you’re here on Tony’s behalf, I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m not,” She says. “Tony would probably hate me for what I’m about to say.”
Peter tilts his head. “Oh,” He says. “Maybe you’re worth listening to, then. ‘Cause Tony can go fuck himself.”
“Does your aunt know what happened?” Natasha asks, changing the subject.
Peter shakes his head.
“Don’t tell her,” Natasha says. “It’s not worth it.”
“What is this?” Peter asks again.
"You are too good for this line of work,” Natasha repeats, from earlier. “Tony is a hero, but he is not a good person. I am not either. That's not what being an Avenger is about. To protect others you often need to make hard decisions."
“Are you…” Peter feels very small. And lost. Like the couch is opening up beneath him, swallowing him whole. No, the floor. No, the building is collapsing, No- there is not an apt metaphor for this sinking feeling. “Telling me to quit?"
“No,” Natasha says, with clarity. No question in her voice like Peter. Peter’s voice is always lilting like that, questions all the time. Inflections thrown around like crazy. “You won’t quit, and telling you to stop would be useless. But you’re too good to work for Tony,” She nods. “I came to tell you- even if my judgment isn’t worth much- that you did the right thing. You’re a good kid, better than us, and I don’t want you to come to our level.”
“Natasha,” Peter says.
“Good,” Natasha says. “You used my name.”
“Uh," Peter squints. "I'm very confused. Is this like a hidden camera situation? Am I being punked?"
Her lips curl in a disapproving frown.
"Okay," Peter says. "No cameras."
She raises an eyebrow. "And you're young," She tacks on.
"This really feels like a telling me to quit moment," Peter points out.
Natasha does not react.
“I am rarely honest," Natasha says. "But you deserve honesty. There were other ways to resolve the situation without murder. They were not solutions I or Tony would've considered. We are different from you, and you don’t deserve red in your ledger. It it is ever there, it should from your decision. Do you understand?”
-
May is waiting for him just behind her bedroom door.
“Well?” May asks. “What was she here for?”
“I don’t know,” Peter says, honestly. “Uh, she told me I was a good person.”
"Um, Peter," May knits her eyebrows together and then shrugs. “You are a good person?”
Peter’s eyes narrow in on his own feet. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.”
“Peter,” May says, in disbelief. “What?”
“What?” He asks.
"Oh-” May clicks her tongue. "Everyone feels that way from time to time."
Peter tilts his head. "What do you mean?"
"Good people question if they're good people," Aunt May says. "That's part of what keeps you good."
Peter felt something kind of twisty in his chest. "But, I uh," He ducks his chin. "Something happened. I don't know."
"Well, then, you should tell me about it. But let me just say, you spend too much time doubting yourself. You’re a good kid, I know you know that. You should trust your judgment more, Peter. At least,” Both her hands land on his arms now, and squeeze. “Trust mine.”
Peter shrugs. “Okay, Aunt May.”
“Now,” Her hands drop and settle on her hips. “I want to know more than that- what did she say? Spill.”
-
Peter is thirteen, and Ben wants his ashes spread at Niagra falls. Grey particles disperse into the air as May dumps the urn over. A man becomes pieces, becomes shreds, becomes fine little bits, like dust. Death is such a final, daunting thing, it is forever, a constant, and always.
The sound of water flowing drowns out their voices, so they stop trying to talk and fulfill the task in a thoughtful silence.
Quietly, but just as assuredly as if he were to say it out loud, Peter promises to the wind carrying his uncle away, to the sound of rushing water, forever carrying on, on the memory of three blood types on his fingers-
(Out, damned spot!)
That he will never, ever kill.