PART 2:

P e t e r

Seven Months Earlier

Peter Parker had never been good in sticky situations (pun intended). He’d saved those for Spider-Man, an outlet for what he couldn’t do in his daily life. He was also not good at confrontations. Meaning that when May had let out a shout behind him whilst he was dressed in his Spider-Man suit, Peter had very nearly collapsed.

His heart had done an odd sort of flop as he spluttered, attempting – rather idiotically – to hide the suit with his hands, as though it would mask any previous memories of it. He found out that hands weren’t very good a hiding full-body outfits, and May had stalked in anyway and pinched the suit with her thumb and index finger.

“What the fuck,” she had repeated, letting go and making Peter wince at the snapback. “What –” she cleared her throat. “What. Is. This?”

“Nightmare before Christmas?” Peter had responded weakly. May had not been amused.

It had taken approximately half an hour for May to vent her feelings, and for Peter to try and explain his, and then explain the real reason that Tony Stark had been in contact. When May had calmed down, she then remembered the entire Vulture debacle on the news and then freaked out again. Peter had become very concerned at this point that May would say she didn’t want him to be Spider-Man anymore, which seemed to be on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she had sworn very loudly and marched into her room, slamming the door behind her.

Later, after Peter had half packed a rucksack just in case she wanted him to leave, May had returned back into his room, eyes red-rimmed.

“Ben would have been so proud of you,” she had said.

Peter then welled up too, and they’d had a grand old time sobbing out words to each other that Peter could never remember afterwards but filled him with a comforted feeling.

What was surprising, after May had found out, was that it turned out to be better. Sure, he had a curfew for Spider-Manning, he had to do all his homework, and get enough sleep, but May was always there to talk about his day, and what he had been up to. It was a lot nicer than talking to a voicemail for someone who didn’t particularly care. They would get food at their favourite places and finally manage to talk freely with each other; to laugh and enjoy each other’s company. Finally, really, as it hadn’t happened since before Ben had died. He also had Ned, who often joined him on his patrols, making sure he was okay. At first, Ned had babbled about how awesome it was that Mr Stark had given him the suit back (Peter hadn’t said about the Avengers offer) and that maybe it meant he would phone and invite Peter to things.

But Mr Stark didn’t phone.

And Peter was okay with that.

As much as the man was his idol, and the fact he’d spent half a year vying desperately for his attention, the whole Vulture debacle was enough for Peter to stop phoning Happy’s voicemail. The last message Peter himself had done was a thank-you for the suit (which had gone unanswered). The actual last message was when May had used Peter’s phone to get into contact with Tony Stark.

This is May Parker. If I don’t get a hold of Tony Stark’s number, I will kick everyone’s ass all the way up his stupid little Tower until I find him.

Peter had been a mixture of embarrassed, impressed, and awed with that, especially when Happy had returned his message with Tony’s number – to which Peter quickly left a voicemail to – before May had got a phone call ten minutes later and spent half an hour berating Mr Stark. Peter had felt, really, a little wrong-footed in the fact that Mr Stark had never, ever phoned him when Peter had wanted him to (he’d just left a voicemail for the man). Even when he really needed him to. All his phone interactions seemed to end in yelling – in fact, all his in-person interactions ended up that way too.

When Mr Stark had invited him to the Compound (before May had found out), Peter did not know what to think. None of them had mentioned the fact that Peter had blown up his plane (and got severely injured) and apprehended a man nobody thought was of any interest. Happy had hesitated very slightly when Peter had entered the car. But before Peter could do anything, he’d shaken his head and driven off. Mr Stark had said something about taking the suit as being the ‘right thing’, which Peter was going to say something about before Mr Stark had then continued his speech and left it at joining the Avengers. Peter had not been quite sure how it had got there but knew that for one thing: Mr Stark had taken his suit, and Peter had almost died. The weirdest part was that Mr Stark had no idea. Happy had no idea. No one knew that Peter had been crushed by a building, clung to a plane, stabbed by Vulture’s wings, and had been in literal fire as he tried to save the Vulture from exploding.

Somehow, Mr Stark thought that Peter had left the fight unscathed, when he’d spent the last three days before that in bed pretending to be sick so that his body could heal itself.

Peter had turned him down, and Mr Stark never phoned him again. But it did mean that he had no point of contact whenever things took a turn for the worse. Because whenever the darkness was too suffocating, he often found himself back under the building, struggling to breathe, to move, and to think. He had never told May about the building; he had only talked about the plane crash, because it was a harder part to avoid. It had been on the headlines for weeks, and Peter just had to tell somebody. Ned had already sent three voice notes explaining how cool it was to know that Peter had been involved, even when he nearly died in the parking lot (“Then I saved you!” said Ned). So Peter hadn’t told Ned, for fear of a freak out, and May was freaking out so much anyway that Peter just sort of missed it out in his panic.

Peter didn’t need Mr Stark, not when May was there to tend to his wounds and berate him for being an idiot. Peter didn’t need Mr Stark, not when Ned was there to help him on calls, making sure he was eating enough so he wouldn’t pass out mid-swing.

May said “Fuck Tony Stark” and Peter agreed.

It was not until later, when he sat in an empty hospital corridor, that Peter had wished any different.

He had been soaking. The rain had started when he’d heard Karen’s reports of a car accident near their apartment, and the subsequent low, hollow feeling that began to descend in his stomach. Heavier and heavier it got as he swung; over buildings, rooftops, lampposts, until he didn’t know whether it was rain on his mask or tears in his eyes.

Landing amongst the rubble, he had seen her immediately. Aunt May was propped up on a piece of rubble, as though she had merely sat down for a rest. Her eyes were slightly open, her face showing slight surprise as blood dribbled excruciatingly slowly down her face.

It had felt as though the entire earth had been torn away from underneath him; allowing him to hurtle down with no end in sight and no way of stopping. There were no webs to help him up, nothing to tether him to the world anymore.

“You’re too late, Spidey,” someone had said.

He had staggered, then, tripping slightly on the debris of the shop him and Aunt May had frequented so often. The shop which held his favourite treat; the treat May had promised him for when he returned from patrol.

Before anyone else could blame him, he’d slipped off and webbed home as quickly as possible, awaiting the dreaded call from the hospital, giving him the news he was already aware of.

“Mr Parker? This is Nurse Warren at Queen’s Memorial Hospital … I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

Parker Luck. Unlucky Parker. The entirety of his life, his whole existence had swirled around his stream of dead relatives. That unlucky Parker boy.

Spider-Man had been an escape from bad luck.

“She died from the wound on the back of her head. It was an immediate impact; she would not have suffered.”

But Spider-Man had not saved Aunt May.

“Mr Parker, was May Parker your sole relative?”

Just like Peter hadn’t saved Uncle Ben.

“Mr Parker, do you have anyone to call?”

Spider-Man could not help Peter when he was alone in the hospital corridor, knowing he had no one to phone but his best friend, who, for the first time, couldn’t help him out.

“Just for the night, perhaps, whilst we get everything sorted? Any friends of the family?”

Mr Stark didn’t give a shit. Why would he care now?

“Hey Peter, what’s up dude?” Ned’s chirpy voice filtered down the line. Peter stared blankly at the wall opposite. It was white, but that slightly off-white that just looked grubby in shadow. “Peter?”

“Hey, Ned,” said Peter, his voice cracking ever so slightly. Ned caught it immediately.

“What’s wrong?” Ned’s voice changed in an instant; his chirpiness was replaced by concern and worry. Peter felt bad, he didn’t like making Ned sad. “Peter? Where are you?”

“Queen’s Hospital Centre.”

“The – the hospital? Are you OK?”

“m’fine,” Peter muttered. His mind was reeling, swirling as the words he needed to say jumbled together into a mass in his brain, refusing to get in order. “May’s not.”

“May? May’s in the hospital – what –”

“S’not really in the hospital,” said Peter, slumping further. “She’s dead.”

There was a heavy silence down the other end of the phone.

“She’s – Peter, she’s – May’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“H-How?”

“Car.”

“C-car crash? But –”

“The car that hit Volpe’s shop.”

“The one on the n-news?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, shit Peter, are you – well, of course you aren’t – but – but – what’s going to happen? Where are you going to go?”

“They’ve got a social worker for me,” said Peter dully. “I guess I’ll go to a foster house.”

“Foster house?” Ned sounded pained. “But – but is there no one else, for sure?”

“No one.”

“You can stay here,” Ned said, the line rustling slightly. “As long as you’re able – I don’t, I’m not sure how it works –”

He could stay at Ned’s house. The social worker said it would only be for night. Could Peter deal with only being in a pretence of normality for an evening, knowing the entire situation would be ripped from underneath his feet the next day? Could he even put Ned in that situation?

Ned, who had helped Peter when Ben had died. Ned, who had been his guy-in-the-chair, supportive of his decisions (and mistakes). He saved his life in the parking lot at Homecoming; he’d been there when Mr Stark wasn’t. Happy, chirpy Ned who always stood by and helped, even when Peter was being dumb. How could he stay at Ned’s house? Ned didn’t deserve Peter’s moping, not for the second time. He’d already done so much the first time.

“Peter? Peter?”

“I’ve got to go, Ned,” said Peter.

“Are you staying with me? Peter – Peter don’t hang up – we’ll come get you!”

“I’ll see you at school.”

Peter hung up the phone blankly.

“Hey, Peter,” said the social worker. Her name was Miss Moore. She was kind looking, but also very tired. Peter had felt bad that she had to come in. “We need to make a move. Do you have a friend to stay with?”

“No,” said Peter. “There’s no one.”

They entered May and Peter’s flat at daybreak. Miss Moore had been on the phone for the car ride over, apparently making hurried plans to house Peter as quickly as possible. She had seemed very sad when Peter had said he had no one to go to, but also had a shiny glint in her eyes which seemed to mean that she had been aware Peter had been talking to someone.

Miss Moore got off the phone when they entered the building; she had an innate understanding that Peter did not want to make any kind of chatter.

“I can just stay here,” said Peter as they walked into the flat. May’s jumper was tossed onto the back of the couch; the dishes he’d meant to do were piled up next to the sink. His homework was still on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” said Miss Moore, but said nothing else. Peter got the message; he was too young. Just like everything in his life, he was too young to do anything. “Do you want any help packing your things? We’re getting some … friends of May’s to – to sort out the flat, so you don’t have to worry about it. As she worked at the hospital, it’s been quite easy –”

Peter stopped listening.

Instead, he walked forwards through the room. It felt as though he was walking in a memory; everything was so normal in consideration to the gravity of the situation. The memory of May and Peter’s life laid out before him: the scuffs on the walls from various incidents, the dent in the floor where May had dropped something heavy. The badly done paint job on a patch of wall that Peter had accidently chipped when he had been practicing flipping. There was Peter’s old pictures on the wall, and May’s, and the pictures of Ben before he died.

Peter swallowed with difficulty; his throat had become rather dry. He marched into his bedroom and slammed the door a little harder than necessary. His ears picked up Miss Moore’s sigh.

His room was as messy as he had left it; he didn’t know why he expected any different. No one had been there to move anything, to put his clothes away. The laundry May had put in his room that morning still sat on his bed. The Spider-Man suit lay in a crumpled heap beside his bed, where he had left it after returning in a turmoil-filled daze.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with it?

He couldn’t take it with him; he was going to a group home. They could go through his stuff.

He could take it to Mr Stark.

But did he really want to draw attention to his situation? Mr Stark would come barging along asking questions that Peter wouldn’t really know how to answer; nor would he want to. There was a slight (deep) prickling of resentment growing when thinking about Mr Stark. It wasn’t really to do with having a friendship – or some sort of mentorship – with the man, anymore. Not even about respecting Peter as a superhero, instead of treating him as a kid. No, the resentment was growing because Peter had done a lot for Mr Stark, and he had never, not once, said thank you. He had dropped everything for Germany without even considering what it was about. And Mr Stark had just … assumed he would.

Peter wasn’t going to take it back to Mr Stark. Instead, when he made sure Miss Moore was on the other side of the flat, he slipped out his bedroom window, crawled carefully onto the roof – he was thankful it was so early in the morning – and webbed the suit next to a ventilator. He’d come back for it, one day. Whenever he was settled, or, more accurately, could face being Spider-Man again, after what he failed to do.

Slipping silently back into his bedroom, Peter packed what he could into a duffel and a rucksack. Apparently, the rest of his stuff was being ‘sorted’. He didn’t know what that meant but decided to take his most precious things in case everything else got thrown away. His rucksack had a pocket at the back, which Peter had sewn (after many attempts) a cover over, meaning he could keep things no one else should see. After finally having a deal where he didn’t lose his rucksack every other week, Peter had made the pocket so that he could take his web fluid from chemistry secretly. It also was a handy place for webshooters, which he placed inside. The suit, he could deal with losing on a rooftop; his webshooters were much more dangerous in the wrong hands. Alongside the webshooters went a picture of himself, May, and Ben, and all of his (limited) savings from scrounging, chores, and odd jobs for neighbours. After living frugally with May, struggling to pay rent at the best of times, Peter had found himself not to be very materialistic at all. Which he found out whilst packing his bedroom up in as a little time as possible.

He did, however, after packing his own things, slip into May’s bedroom and take her necklace, and her favourite jumper. Just for some lasting mementos for when it got that little bit too much.

(Which it already was, but Peter’s shock had not yet worn off. This would come later. Much later.)

“Are you ready to go, Peter?” Miss Moore asked, fifteen minutes later. She had kept to herself as Peter had flitted about around the apartment, touching each wall carefully and analysing everything laying out.

Peter stared at her. Miss Moore looked slightly embarrassed at her question, and seemed to understand that no, Peter was not at all ready. In fact, he was less ready than before they had entered. It was making things real. He wished they had gone straight to the group home.

“The group house is a bit out of Queens, I’m afraid,” said Miss Moore. “It was the only one with a spare bed at short notice.”

Sorry for the inconvenience, Peter thought.

“So we should get there for a nice spot of breakfast,” said Miss Moore brightly.

Oh yes, food. Apparently, he needed it.

“Great,” was all Peter could muster.

“Firstly,” said Miss Moore, sensing Peter’s feeling. “We need to run through some questions. Would you like to do it here?”

Peter didn’t really care where they did it. Perhaps off a cliff.

He shrugged, which Miss Moore took as a good sign.

They sunk on the couches and Peter immediately felt the enveloping warmth of them; it was as though May was giving him a hug, her perfume washing over him. He felt tears prick up in his eyes as his hands began to shake. He couldn’t do this here. Anywhere but here.

“So, Peter, tell me where you go to school.”

“Midtown,” said Peter, focusing hard on a chipped bit of wall.

“Midtown?” Miss Moore seemed impressed. “That’s an impressive school. Do you like it there?”

“Yeah,” said Peter.

“And were you on scholarship?”

Can’t you tell? thought Peter as he looked around the shabby – yet loved – apartment.

“Yeah,” said Peter.

If it weren’t for the fact that Peter had felt this emptiness, this whirlpool of nothingness, a senseless void that overtook his brain, before, he would have been very concerned to look inside himself and feel nothing at all. Everything – like before, when Ben had been shot and Peter had clutched him desperately and hopelessly calling his name – seemed to have leaked out of him. There were no thoughts in his brain; it was not whirring with possibilities of chemistry ideas, adapting the web fluid, thinking of new designs. It was not thinking of the next time he’d hang out with Ned, or what him and May would have for dinner. It was not thinking about Spider-Man, and what he’d do on patrol. His mind was blank, the answers for Miss Moore forming at his mouth without the possibility of flowing through his brain first.

Miss Moore was speaking, but it was muffled, like he had been pushed underwater. That part was weird; with Ben, everything had seemed so loud, so bright, so everything. He’d only just had his powers then. But this time, this time everything was grey. His senses hadn’t been this muted before.

“Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“We can get help for you, through this time,” said Miss Moore. Her face was out of focus as Peter blinked. “I know loss can be hard, especially when –”

“It’s fine, Miss,” said Peter, hastening to respond before she went into anything else. “I’ve gone through it before.” He hadn’t needed therapy then, and he did not need help now.

This didn’t placate Miss Moore, however. In fact, she seemed to look even sadder than before.

“Peter, I would much prefer it if you did seek –”

“I saw the school councillor a few times when,” Peter swallowed. “When Ben died.” He didn’t mention that they’d met once, and Peter had pretended he was seeing a private therapist outside of school. Spider-Man had become his way out, May had thought the councillor had done an excellent job because of Peter’s change in mood, and Peter had never had to say the real reason. It hadn’t come up when May had found out about Spider-Man; Peter doubted it had ever crossed her mind to ask.

“You’re comfortable with them?” asked Miss Moore.

“Yes,” said Peter.

“If you’d prefer someone you’ve already seen, I’m sure we can arrange that,” she said, smiling a sad smile and noting something down. Peter heaved an inward sigh of relief.

“If it’s alright with you, we should get going now, Peter,” said Miss Moore.

Peter’s heart sunk.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. Miss Moore babbled about something like Peter coming back to help May’s friends clean out, but Peter, casting a glance round the apartment that was his home, knew he would never be coming back.

The foster house was bleak.

Then again, that was all Peter could think of at the moment. Bleak, bleak, bleak. The world was bleak, his life was bleak, his prospects were bleak, his family were fucking dead.

“This is your room,” said Miss Turner. She was a harried sort of woman. Apparently, she ran the foster house. She creaked open a door which showed a weirdly clean room behind; it was painted an odd sort of blue, like in a children’s ward at a hospital, and housed a couple of bunkbeds. “You’ll be sharing it, I’m afraid. Three other boys, around your age. They’re at school right now.”

It was Friday. It said so on the wall. Yesterday had been Thursday.

“Is that alright with you, Peter?” asked Miss Moore.

Peter didn’t say anything. It wasn’t as though anything could happen if he wasn’t. He wasn’t allowed to go home; he certainly wouldn’t be allowed his own bedroom. He was suddenly very relieved he had thought to stick his Spider-Man suit on the roof of his old building. (Old building). It meant, however, that there was no privacy for him to break. It meant that whatever Peter wanted to let out must remain inside.

“You can put your things in there,” Miss Turner pointed to a large closet, which probably held everything that could have been scattered on the floor. “Or under the bed. I do not want any clutter anywhere else.”

Peter nodded, in reply to what he did not know. He shoved his duffel and rucksack under the bed that Miss Turner said was his.

After a little while of Miss Moore explaining the situation, pressing a card in his hands, and insisting that she’d sort the counsellor, she let out a soft sigh.

“I’ve got to go, now, Peter,” she said. “I’m very sorry about that. If you need to call, anytime, I can help. For now, Miss Turner will look after you whilst I find a nice family to take you in.”

And so Peter was alone.

Miss Turner did not seem to enjoy Peter’s company. Not that he was in any state to enjoy anything, but Miss Turner had seemed to take this as a personal offence against herself. After a weekend of glaring in the doorway as Peter refused to get out of bed (which was the only time to sleep, when the other boys had left. They were so noisy at night-time.), Miss Turner told him he was returning to school.

“We’re not getting you a therapist in the time you’re off,” said Miss Turner at lunchtime on Sunday. “Moore said you’d had the counsellor before, and you can’t go to them without going to school.”

Miss Moore had made it seem that the therapist would have been free; had Peter mistaken this?

“You’ve got all your school stuff, I presume,” said Miss Turner, shifting through her magazine briskly. The other boys were in the living area. “You can get the subway.”

So there it was that, three days after May had been killed, Peter was on his way back to school. He had had around an hour of sleep the night before and felt as though his skin was dropping off his face. He had made himself a pot of the shitty coffee Miss Turner had for them in the cupboard and had taken a flask of it with him for the journey. It did barely anything, other than making him need to pee, so by the time he had got to Midtown, he was feeling no better than before.

“Peter?”

Peter looked up.

Ned was standing on the steps looking rather horrified at his appearance; Peter didn’t know if it was because of how he looked (like death) or that he was there in the first place.

“Ned,” said Peter.

“Why – I didn’t think – they made you go to school?” Ned’s face was pale.

“Free counselling,” Peter shrugged his shoulders. Ned’s face went a bit paler.

“They – um,” Ned stumbled. “Everyone saw the news article.”

Peter assumed someone would because of his aunt’s name involved, and it would naturally spread round school.

Unlucky Peter Parker.

They all knew he was an orphan already, that his uncle had died. What was one more?

“Figures,” said Peter.

“Are you sure you should be here?” said Ned, looking worriedly at him. Peter wondered why. “We could – I mean, they’d understand – if we ditched.”

“No,” said Peter, thinking about Miss Turner. “What’s the point?”

Ned’s face showed that he did, in fact, have a lot of points, but did not voice them. Instead, he reluctantly followed Peter inside. Not many people saw Peter at first, but halfway down the corridor, a smattering of whispers started to break out about the car accident.

“– didn’t his uncle die last year –”

“– how many is that now? Four?”

Flash Thompson was with a gaggle of friends not far from Peter’s locker. Peter’s shoulders tensed in sad anticipation of what Flash was going to snipe on; he felt his eyes on him as Peter opened his locker door.

After a few seconds of waiting, Peter decided to get things over with, and looked to the side to meet Flash’s eyes. But Flash’s face wasn’t pulled into a jeering sneer; it was actually looking quite … quite sad.

Before Peter could consider what on earth that meant, the bell rung, and Ned – who had been blissfully oblivious to Flash’s expression – hustled him on into English, which they had first period. If his English teacher was surprised to see Peter walking into the classroom, she did well to hide her feelings. All that was of note was her pencil dropping from her fingers as she locked in on him, and the same look on her face that Peter had just seen on Flash’s.

Peter settled in his usual seat, next to Ned, and tried not to think about how normal (minus the pitying expressions) it all seemed to be. The world had continued on, without May Parker disturbing the world’s movements. Why hadn’t it halted, for even a second, on its axis, when it had felt to Peter that the entire world had disappeared from under him? Why hadn’t anyone else felt it stop?

They’d stolen his shoes.

His nice shoes that May had bought him.

It had been two weeks since Peter had arrived at the foster house. Ten of those days had been at school for the most part of the day; he would attend lessons, stare blankly at the wall behind the teacher’s head, and leave. Once a week he had seen the counsellor, as Miss Moore had arranged it with the school. Dr Humphreys had asked Peter questions, about how he was feeling, how he was getting on with the foster house, and if there was anything she could do. As though they could help with Peter’s festering anger, getting stronger with every day that pulled away from May’s death, and the funeral which he had attended the week before. May’s friends had all been kind to him, asking which relative he was staying with now, that they should keep in touch. Peter had said he’d gone to someone on his mother’s side.

“We hadn’t met before,” he had told them, to pitying looks and tuts of sympathy. They all promised to help out.

Dr Humphrey had tried to get him to talk about the funeral. Whether it was what Peter had wanted for May, how it made him feel. Was he supposed to be feeling anything?

“Me and Miss Moore are here to help you, Peter.”

Except they couldn’t help him, not really. Peter knew, now, the little money the entire system seemed to have. The foster home had barely enough food to keep eleven teenage boys happy, one of which with an appetite to rival Captain America (not that he’d eaten much. He hadn’t felt like that.). Dr Humphreys and Miss Moore could also not help with the fact that most of the other boys, especially his roommates, seemed to resent the fact that Peter went to a good school. They were salty over his entire existence, really. How he’d got there from death, not abuse; that he could still go to the school where his friends were. He was, apparently, “lucky”. He was also, apparently, meant to be rich.

One boy in the other room had two sisters; all of which had been split up into three different houses. The youngest, at two, had already been fostered. Julio, the boy, didn’t think he’d ever see them again.

So, Dr Humphreys could not help that the boys had decided to steal his shoes.

In the place where Peter had left them were a pair of scruffy white sneakers that had a certain stench of shit. Behind him, he heard the chortling. Peter couldn’t make out the shoes anymore; they’d all gone fuzzy with the rage he’d been containing for a rather long time now.

He turned very slowly to face the gaggle behind him.

“What’s wrong, Parker?” said the front one – Jace. He was wearing Peter’s shoes.

“You took my shoes,” said Peter.

“Who says?”

“I do,” said Peter.

“What’s the matter?” taunted another one, Tristan. “Why don’t you get some from the fancy school you go to.”

“You don’t get clothes there,” Peter said. “Give them back.”

“Why should we?”

“They’re mine.”

And so it went until Jace’s face started to go fuzzy too, and then there was a lot of screaming as Jace fell down clutching his nose and howling. Peter looked at his clenched hand and realised that he had done it.

He had still managed to pull his punch, though this did not seem to matter to Miss Turner, who screamed at Peter for half an hour before phoning Miss Moore.

Miss Moore didn’t yell at Peter; she asked him why he did it.

Peter had shrugged his shoulders and wiggled slightly in his chair when he tried to get out of explaining. Miss Moore had looked as though she would let it slide by, until she offered a walk outside and realised Peter had no shoes.

The situation wrapped up pretty quickly after that; Miss Turner had to have a chat with all eleven of them to talk about possessions, and Miss Moore – after a very sorrowful look – said she still had to write the incident down. Apparently, Jace had a habit of taking things that weren’t his. No one else had decked him in the nose, though.

Jace moved bedrooms afterwards and didn’t bother with Peter much. Tristan and the other boy, Mason, however, had decided that taking down their ‘friend’ was something they had taken extreme offence to, especially when Jace had received another mark next to his name. Regardless of knowing that Jace’s nose would take six weeks to heal because Peter had damaged it so badly, Tristan and Mason decided upon themselves to try and provoke Peter on several occasions. Unfortunately, due to Peter’s extremely fuzzy mental state, and the constant prying, his temper had reached an all-time low.

It was as though he was in a perpetual state of seething anger, fizzing like a drink that had been shaken before opening. He didn’t lash out again (apart from punching a hole in the closet when he was the only one in the room), but he did not take the prodding lying down, either. Not even Miss Turner was an exception to Peter’s irritated retorts, which did not help their already strained relationship.

Peter’s only recluse was Midtown, with Ned. Ned didn’t prod at him, didn’t ask about what he was doing or how he was feeling. He instead bought extra granola bars and wrote two sets of notes in classes when Peter didn’t bother. The teachers were slightly understanding; they gave him extra time on assignments and didn’t pick on him for answers. There wasn’t much they could do, considering Peter attended every class, and was on time. It was somewhat of an improvement from the three months before, when Peter had regarded school as a hassle; that Spider-Man was the most important thing. School wasn’t important to Peter anymore, but neither was Spider-Man, and only one was required of him. Besides, who said that Spider-Man couldn’t have a holiday?

Though she did not visit for another week and a half, Miss Moore had, apparently, been notified of every lash Peter had made. According to Jace (who had come to appreciate Peter’s anger, as long as it wasn’t directed at him), who had been through five foster houses, it meant Peter would be put down as troubled.

“Means they’ll put you with some hard fosters,” said Jace, one afternoon whilst they were preparing dinner. “Why do you think I went through so many?”

“There are no ‘hard’ fosters,” snapped Miss Turner, who was behind them keeping watch. There was another carer, for some of the younger boys, that didn’t interact much with Peter, sitting next to her.

Jace had given him a look but stayed silent.

“We’ve found you a foster couple,” said Miss Moore. “They’re willing to take you in.”

Peter understood the emphasis on willing.

Willing to take on the problem teenager, though Miss Moore still treated Peter with some semblance of dignity. She knew his school records; his high grades, his part on the Academic Decathlon team, and the unfortunate low attendance for time between Spider-Man’s fight in Germany and Homecoming. She hadn’t pried, which Peter was grateful. His excuse was because he had been ‘going through something’. Compared to this, it sounded like a rather weak excuse.

“See you in three months,” were Jace’s departing words. The rest of the boys said nothing, but Julio had given him a nod. It wasn’t as though Peter’s short time in the foster house held any lasting relationships. Jace was certain he’d be back; but who could tell if Jace would still be there? In the few weeks that Peter had lived there, two boys had left for other group homes.

Peter merely nodded at Miss Turner as he left. He did not look behind him, he did not cast his gaze around and think that he would never return. He felt nothing for the place.

The Davidsons lived on a quiet Brooklyn street, away from anything Peter had ever known. The road was lined with trees, shadowing the terrace houses behind, all of which had tall stone stoops that gave Peter a strange sort of foreboding. With Miss Moore waiting by his side, Peter debated his options. This strange house, or back to the group home? Was the group home even an option? Did he even want to?

No, said a little voice.

Miss Moore led him up the steps and knocked smartly at the door. As if waiting for their arrival, it opened in seconds. The Davidsons stood in the shadow of the doorway.

“Hello, Peter,” said the woman. Her face was hard and unforgiving, eyes glinting in the morning sunshine. The weather contrasted heavily with both Davidsons. They were both burly and tall; Mrs Davidson was taller than Peter and had straight black hair. Mr Davidson was one of the tallest people Peter had met, with glasses and slicked back grey hair, in some sort of attempt to stop showing the balding. He did, in all honestly, look pretty creepy. Especially when his dark eyes flitted on Peter as though he was a nasty bug he’d quite like to squash.

“Hello,” said Peter.

“We’ll take him from here, Miss Moore,” said Mrs Davidson. “No use you coming inside.”

Miss Moore looked rather torn. Peter knew she must be busy; he couldn’t let her waste time on him when there were others to go to.

“It’s OK, Miss Moore,” said Peter. “I’ll be fine.”

“Excellent,” said Mrs Davidson, her face showing the opposite. “Come along, then, Peter.”

“Bye,” said Peter, smiling slightly at Miss Moore.

“I’ll see you soon,” said Miss Moore. “We have visits to see how you’re getting on.”

He entered the shadowy house behind the couple. The corridor was thin, with a few pictures scattering the walls. Entering a small living room, he found Mr and Mrs Davidson waiting for him.

“You may call us Mr and Mrs Davidson,” said Mrs Davidson, without preamble. Her voice had a shrieky edge. “I work from nine until five-thirty, and Paul works from eight until six. We expect you to keep clean, clean the house, and help prepare dinner. Your curfew is at nine o’clock, and we will latch the door. Other than that, we don’t care what you do as long as the police are not called to our house.”

“We prefer for you to be rarely seen, and rarely heard,” said Mr Davidson. “We like peace and quiet, and so do our neighbours.”

Then why are you foster parents?

Peter nodded.

“I’ll show you your bedroom,” said Mrs Davidson.

It wasn’t much smaller than the one Peter had had before; a single bed was in the corner, with a small closet and very small desk on the other side. The window faced a shabby yard that looked disused.

Perfect, said the little voice.

The Davidsons didn’t seem to care about him; as long as he did what they asked, Peter could go back to doing nearly what he wanted. It did not matter that there was a nine o’clock curfew – Peter had a window that looked on to nothing special. It would be much easier to get out as Spider-Man –

Spider-Man.

He hadn’t known where the thought had come from. Did he even want to continue when he couldn’t even save his aunt? Spider-Man had been useless; Peter had been useless. Yet, the festering anger was still bubbling, cooled slightly from the departure of the group home, but he was still painfully of its existence.

He was going to find David Swan, and he was going to kill him.

It was annoying, really, that he needed Spider-Man to do it. He didn’t particularly want to use Spider-Man as a cover, not with his reputation as helping the little guy, and not a murderer.

(You let them die, though.)

Yet, David Swan killed six people over complete carelessness, and was avoiding justice. It wasn’t only Peter who had suffered loss; the others, Volpe’s son, Fiona Osman’s husband, needed justice too.

(You could have saved them).

His anger fizzled in anticipation at the thought. He had found a purpose when the world was lost to him. He didn’t need anyone to help him; he knew what he needed to do.

(They all blame you).

Peter needed to get his suit back.