Just in Case

Peter didn’t remember the funeral.

He didn’t know who spoke, what the flower arrangements were, or what song played when they marched the coffin out of the church. 

He was sure that he had set a rose on her coffin, sleek wood polished so brightly that he could almost see his face. He felt Happy’s presence the entire time, standing with the Stark’s and other people who had been deemed close enough to resemble her family.

It hurt almost as much as the hole in his heart, that he couldn’t stand there and tell the world about her. 

That no one would know that she refused to drink orange juice after 10 o’clock, or that she always slept on the side of the bed closest to the door, or that she used to press her fingers into his back like she was tracing figure eights whenever she hugged him. 

No one would know how she always forgot to turn the kitchen light off, or how she would ask him if his socks had any holes in them after she’d already bought him new ones, or how she always kept an extra pair of sunglasses in her car in case she forgot them in the house. 

No one would know how she’d loved him with a frightening assuredness, and how it scared him sometimes because he knew he would make her worry, and he’d upset her, but she still loved him so much.  

He didn’t remember how long he’d stayed after everyone had begun to leave, talking amongst themselves and trying to tell stories of how they would remember May, how beautifully imperfect she was. Peter let the tears fall down his face, and all he could think about was how May had mentioned once that she’d like to be cremated. 

It didn’t rain that day.

It didn’t rain for at least a week after the funeral, and Peter felt himself looking towards the sky every single day when he woke up, hoping that his eyes would be met with a grey world, one to match how lifeless everything had seemed. Peter didn’t see the point of the sunshine or the colors of the leaves, not when life itself seemed to be sucked away into the sharp edges of a wooden coffin.

All of the flowers decorating her grave were dull when he looked at them, and he felt like they lost more and more pigment every time he came back. 

Every night Peter would go to sleep with his eyes sore and his cheeks damp, and he would dream of May walking through the door, combing her hands through his hair, and telling him that everything was going to be okay.

The first night after she was gone, when Peter found a place to rest his head, he woke up wondering where he was and why he hadn’t smelt May burning something in the kitchen.

That morning, he cried so much that his throat was raw and his head pounded as a steady reminder that his heart was still pumping blood, even when it felt completely cold and numb. 

Peter got up everyday, despite it all. He found a job as a dishwasher, and he found an apartment to crash at, filled with the things he had managed to take from May’s storage unit and Happy’s apartment (which he felt incredibly guilty about).

He got up, he worked, and he let himself sink into a person who he couldn’t recognize anymore.

He didn’t smile, he barely spoke, and he didn’t let himself feel anything until he was safely tucked into his bed, hidden from anyone who could possibly stop him from sobbing himself into oblivion. 

Spider-Man didn’t show up for a month and a few days. Peter didn’t want to don the suit that was covered in her blood. He didn’t want to look at the fabric that she had clung to as she fell, the gloves that brushed her hair behind her ears and cradled her chin when she couldn’t hold it up anymore.

He was barely Peter, he couldn’t add Spider-Man to the empty shell that used to have the best intentions.

He couldn’t step into a role of protecting the city when he could barely bring himself to look at it, especially after what had happened within its walls. 

His neighbors were nice, but Peter rarely saw them, and rarely let himself be seen as he moved in and out each day.

The woman directly next to him gave him a casserole and a tub of cookies when he passed her in the hallway that first week, and the look she’d given him when she wished him a good night made him want to vomit.

There was a boy in the stairwell who always greeted him cheerfully, and Peter felt his insides burn with the guilt of his lack of response, aware that he was being incredibly rude, but unable to spare even an ounce of energy to move his lips into a reply. 

He tried to live his life, but he knew that he was failing miserably, unable to escape the feeling that he had left part of himself somewhere in that coffin, and that he would never get it back unless he was six feet under, too.

The first time it rained, Peter decided that he would visit May first thing in the morning, calling in sick to work and making his way, umbrella in hand, to the graveyard. The cold air touched his skin as he walked, and once he’d passed the threshold of the cemetery, he let the rain slide down his face as company. 

He knelt this time, near her headstone, and let the grey world surround him as his tears mixed with the rain.

He wanted to tell her how he’d been managing on his own. Tell her that he was still alive and keeping himself together, even when he had been left with nothing.

He wanted to tell her that wherever she was, she could look down at him and smile, knowing that he would be okay without her. 

He didn’t want to lie, though, not today. “I’m tired, May,” He rasped, bowing his head and digging his fingers into his arms, trying to relish in the chill the rain forced into his bones. “I can barely pay rent, I’m hungry all the time, and I barely feel it,” He sniffled, letting his chest heave with his sob. “I barely feel anything when I’m not missing you,” 

He sat there for what felt like hours, letting his body shiver under the clouds until the rain stopped falling.

He picked himself up, tied his umbrella with the string, and watched as water droplets pooled at the base of the flower petals leaning against her name, gathering enough force behind them to drop to the yellow grass beneath them.

He wiped his face, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and stared at the grave before him. “It’s just me now, May,” He whispered, and his throat burned. “It’s just me,” 

His clothes were just beginning to dry as he stepped into his apartment building. He tried to keep his head down, hoping to make it uneventfully to his floor and into his room so he could let his emotions out in the comfort of a closed door.

As Parker luck had it, though, he ran into another tenant on his way up. It was the same boy who always greeted Peter when he passed, and Peter felt something stir in his stomach when they locked eyes. 

“Hey!” He said, as they made it to the same landing. “Peter, right?”

He nodded, silently, trying to work past the lump in his throat to finally say something back. 

The other boy didn’t look surprised, his smile never faltering as they moved around each other. “I’m Harry, I don’t know if I’ve said before,” He had, multiple times, but Peter’s mouth felt like it was glued shut. “I’m a floor below you. In case you…” He made a vague hand motion, and Peter felt himself nodding politely. “Right! Well, always nice to see you, man. Maybe I’ll catch you later?” He gave Peter a moment to respond before turning away, his mouth starting to pull into a frown.

Peter paused, swaying gently from foot to foot as he watched the other start to make his way down the stairs.

He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, clenching his fists together and then stepping forward.

“Hey,” He said, before he could overthink it. Harry turned, his eyes wide and his foot halfway raised. “I think it’s supposed to rain again. In a few hours,” 

“Oh,” He responded, his tone dripping with surprise. “I didn’t know,” 

Peter pulled out the umbrella, tucked neatly into his jacket pocket, still damp from this morning. He offered it, an arm outstretched over the railing to meet him. He looked at it, then at Peter, his arm reaching to take it. “Just in case,” He added.

Harry held the umbrella between his two hands, fingers delicately cradling it a few centimeters away from his chest.

“Thanks man,” He smiled, then, softly. “Just in case, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Peter felt his own lips twitch upwards, then he was gone, climbing up the rest of the stairs to the landing, the door making a loud creak as it swung open.

He heard Harry continue to stand for a few seconds, then make his way down the stairs, lost to Peter’s senses once he entered the hallway, walking towards his apartment. 

May had given him that umbrella, he realized, much later that night, sitting at the edge of his bed and tuning his police scanner.

He had been with her in the store when she’d picked it out, handing it to him and smoothing his hair back, wet from the rain outside. She’d bought it for him, and then she’d been the one to hold it that day, keeping it high enough to keep her own head dry, an arm curled around his body so that they could both fit.

The thought made him want to cry, but he realized, suddenly, that it was okay.

He was going to miss May, and he was going to miss her in everything he did for the rest of his life.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t lend an umbrella to someone else, when he wasn’t using it. That way, he knew she was still around, helping.

She had helped him grow up; she had taught him everything from tying his shoes to dancing a two-step.

She had helped him live, and helped him love the world around him, even after it had taken everything from the two of them. 

She had helped him, so he would help everyone. That’s what would keep him going. That’s what would keep him alive.