Chapter 10
Peter wakes up feeling like there's bugs crawling all over his body. He wrestles to pull off his clothes overtop the suit he's always wearing as a second skin and hastily pulls on the mask. To combat the flashes of his nightmare seeping through his mind, he scrambles out of his basement and swings high above the city. The sharp, still air of the late November pre-dawn wakes him up. His stomach swoops low as he swings close to the ground and doesn't shoot another web to pull him back up into the air until the very last second.
The longer he swings, the less foggy and panicked his mind gets. Eventually, the sun starts to rise and he starts to feel the soreness eating away at his muscles.
With the light returning to the sky, the city that never sleeps starts to wake up even more than before. The few dozen cars on the roads multiples into hundreds and then thousands. People, who resemble little ants when Peter swings up high enough, flood the sidewalks.
With the nightmare still fresh in his mind, Peter can't help but feel an invisible force tugging him towards Aunt May's apartment. He remembers being awakened by monsters and terror as a child and not hesitating to knock on Aunt May and Uncle Ben's door, his blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, so he could slip into their bed and sleep soundly between them.
Despite being sixteen, Peter feels like that scared five-year-old again and desperately wants to reach out for a hug to shield him from his demons.
He may not be able to hug Aunt May anymore—not without a black eye and a 911 call about a break-in—but he still finds himself swinging towards her apartment in Queens.
It's early, that much Peter knows, so he perches up on a roof of the building next door that faces the window of Aunt May's living room. The curtains are pulled open like always, but it's dark inside.
Pater only has to wait a few minutes before he narrows-in on the familiar sound of a floorboard creaking—he can picture the exact floorboard, the one by the bathroom door—and the lights flicker on. He can make out Aunt May's sleepy form as she drags her feet into the kitchen, a yawn stretching her jaw.
Peter's heart swings low. He watches his former aunt as she starts to brew a cup of coffee and then turns the stove on. His chest tightens at the sight of her pulling out the ingredients to make pancakes.
What he wouldn't give to run in there and have Aunt May's arms around him, holding him tight, whispering that he's okay and that everything's okay, and then sitting at the table to eat pancakes together. Aunt May's with extra butter, and Peter's with extra syrup.
Instead, Peter's sitting on a roof in the cold morning as he watches Aunt May make pancakes by herself in the warmth of her apartment until a man, whom Peter assumes is her boyfriend, walks into frame and wraps his arms around her from behind. Peter sees her smile up at him and place a hand on his arm, her other hand holding the spatula. Peter sees them kiss, sees them laugh, sees a gold wedding band on the man's ring finger and a beautiful diamond ring on Aunt May's.
Oh.
He doesn't know why that takes him by surprise. He has thought about Aunt May getting married again, sure, but she hadn't even dated since Uncle Ben. She always said she was too busy for a new relationship or that she wasn't ready. But, when Peter's suddenly zapped out of her life for a few months, suddenly she found a boyfriend, and now they're getting married?
Maybe it wasn't that Aunt May wasn't interested in rushing into another relationship, maybe she lied to make Peter feel better. Was he holding her back? It would make sense; not many people would want to date someone with a fifteen-year-old kid. Or, maybe she just didn't because she thought Peter wasn't ready. Part of him would probably be bitter at first because he'd think she would be trying to replace Uncle Ben, but he'd get over it if he made her happy.
Whatever the reason was, it was because of Peter.
He can't help but think that this is just another example of someone's life being better off without him in it.
Blinking away useless tears, Peter turns and leaps off the building.
•
The bright side of wearing the suit at all times: he doesn't get too cold. Even when it's snowing and windy and he's only wearing the suit under his jeans and sweatshirt, he isn't freezing to death. Sure, he still shivers and would love to curl up in a fuzzy blanket next to a warm fire, but he his limbs and extremities aren't going to get frostbit anytime soon.
The downside of wearing the suit at all times: he stinks. He sweats in that suit from patrol, walks around in it, and sleeps in it. The lack of deodorant and soap doesn't help. When he takes showers in that unlocked locker room nearby, he tries to wash out the stench of sweaty teenage boy, but it always returns within the same day.
Maybe it's just because his senses are sensitive, but he can never escape smelling like a high school boy's locker room. Actually, no; those usually smell heavily of Axe body spray. As much as he isn't a fan of those overwhelming fumes, he'd much rather smell like Axe than have to constantly smell his own B.O.
He has just finished up working at Mrs. Carter's bakery and is on his way to the locker rooms to shower and wash out the suit. Normally he wouldn't risk using the facility this late in the day, but Mrs. Carter made a comment earlier.
They were making bread for the bread baskets Mrs. Carter was preparing to hand out to the homeless for Thanksgiving in a few days.
Peter was reaching over for the flour, and Mrs. Carter's nose scrunched. "When's the last time you showered?"
Peter's face went red. He took a half-step away, suddenly self-conscious. "Oh, um, yesterday?"
Mrs. Carter fixed him with a calculating stare. Then, shaking her head and returning her attention to kneading the dough, she said, "If you need a warm shower, just ask. But if not, please take a shower every day. I had a son, and when he got to be around your age, oh boy did he smell some thin' awful." She sprinkled more flour over the dough and began to work that in. "Deodorant, too. I know you teenage boys don't think you need it, but trust me, you do."
Peter would have laughed had he actually had a shower to use everyday, deodorant and soap and shampoo and all. It was also the first time she ever mentioned having a son. And, guessing from her words, he's probably not around anymore.
Peter's mood dropped after that, but then they burned a half-loaf of pumpkin bread, so Mrs. Carter wrapped it up for him to take it home.
He did take it home, if his little closet-sized basement counts. His stomach growled something fierce, but he held back, wanting to make it last as long as possible.
And, he wasn't sure if he started eating it if he could control himself to not eat it all at once. That's actually happened before, once. Mrs. Carter gave him a half dozen muffins she had screwed up. He had every intention of making them last the week, but once he ate one, he blinked and they were all gone, his stomach feeling bloated and stuffed to the brim. Not even two minutes later, he threw it all up.
Peter doesn't want to waste the pumpkin bread like he wasted the muffins. It needs to last him the week; he only has a limited amount of food to satisfy his howling hunger.
That leads him to where he is now, swinging towards the locker rooms for a quick shower with his stomach twisting and begging for food.
One block away from his destination, he's stopped by an explosion of shouts. Redirecting his swing, Peter soars towards a group of eight men in the shade of an overpass. They're dressed in dark, baggy clothes and are caught up in a cluster of fists flying and elbows jutting out.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Peter shouts as he lands in the middle of it all. A man turns to him, eyes furious and nose swollen, and the guy he was tussling with uses the distraction as his chance to land a poorly supported punch to the ear.
The man cries out and whirls back around, pulling back to retaliate, but Peter grabs his arm and pulls him back.
"'Ey, let me go!"
"Chill out, dude," Peter mutters as he lightly tosses him to the ground and webs him there. "Your nose okay? Looks like it's broken. I hope you have health insurance."
"Fuck you! Get outta 'ere!"
Ignoring the man's shouts, Peter turns. The guy who hit his ear pulls a foot back to take advantage of the fact that he's webbed down, but before he can land the strike, Peter pushes him back and webs him against the concrete pillar his back hits.
As the others start to realize Spider-Man's presence, they shift their attention on him.
One fist goes flying, and as Peter's dodging that, two more fly. One hits his cheekbone. Pain explodes from the strike and he jumps up to stick to the overpass above them.
"Pussy!" one guy shouts as another sneers, "Get your spandex ass down here and fight like a man!"
"Thanks, but I'm good." He shoots a web at one guy, tosses him to the side, and webs him up there as he struggles against the strong solution.
As he's webbing him up, his spider-sense flares, and he narrowly dodges a beer bottle being throw at him. It shatters above his shoulder.
"Hey! I'm just breaking up your fight before someone gets seriously hurt!" Peter calls down as he webs up another one of them. He growls and shouts obscenities, and before Peter can web down his other hand, he hurls a second beer bottle. This time, it hits the side of Peter's head.
There's a sharp pain, but the suit takes the brunt of the shattered glass.
Just as he's moving on to the next guy, his spider-sense flares again, but his grip on the ceiling of the overpass starts to slip and he's too distracted by not falling that he can't react in time when he hears a gunshot.
He's just lucky the man's got shit aim.
The bullet ricochets off the concrete and Peter flinches back. There's another shot, and this time, Peter lets himself fall back to the ground to dodge it.
As soon as his feet hit the floor, he's shooting a web at the gun in the man's grip and flings it aside.
"Not cool, dude," Peter quips. "You could have shot me!"
"That's the point, dumbass!" he snarls as Peter webs him up, too.
Peter rolls his eyes. "I was being sarcastic."
There's a tingle at the base of his neck, so he quickly turns back around to face the remaining three men. As he's turning, there's a bang, but this time Peter knows that he's too slow and that he isn't moving fast enough and curse his hunger-induced slowed reflexes.
Peter watches the bullet sail towards him in slow motion. Before it can hit him straight in the chest. there's a flash of red and blue.
Time speeds back up. Head spinning, it takes a moment for Peter to clutch a hand over his chest—which definitely does not have a bullet hole in it—to realize that someone yanked him out of the way. It takes another moment for him to realize that Steve Rogers is standing beside him.
Steve doesn't hesitate to throw a punch at the man holding the gun, then swipes the firearm out of his grip. Peter finally comes back to reality and webs him up, then continues to do so as Steve incapacitates the other two.
With both Steve and Peter working together, the rest of the group is incapacitated and down in a matter of seconds.
Peter turns to Steve. The man's in his civilian clothes—jeans and a grey t-shift—with no shield in sight. When Steve glances over at him, Peter says, "I had that."
Steve nods. "Yeah, but I was in the neighborhood."
Peter nods, too, but his brow is pulled forward and his mind is having a hard time catching up. "I don't mean to be disrespectful, but what are you doing in the Bronx?"
It would have made more sense for Steve to jump in, had the altercation been in Manhattan near the tower. But the Bronx?
Steve considers the question, looks away, then turns back to Peter. "Okay, you got me. I was looking for you."
That throws Peter in for a loophole. "Oh."
Was he there to turn him over to the cops? He distinctly remembers fighting against him over these Accords; granted, they've been reviewed and amended, but it is well-known around the tower that Steve still isn't the biggest supporter of the regulations.
Steve must see where Peter's mind is going because he's quick to assure, "I just wanted to thank you again for your contribution in that fight against the Lizard the other day, and to say that you're doing a good job with your work around town." He pauses, studies Peter's shifting form, and says, "The world could use more heroes like you."
"The world already has the Avengers," Peter points out, crossing his arms. One of the men lying against the ground, webbed-up, adds a muffled, "Yeah."
Steve shrugs. "It's not the same thing. And I think you know that because if you hadn't, I don't think you'd be doing things the way you are, sticking your neck out for the little guy."
Peter recognizes a few words some reporters have used in their articles. So Steve's been reading up on him, huh?
"Where are you from?" Steve asks, head tilted slightly.
Peter lifts his gaze from the ground. After a second of hesitation, he admits, "Queens."
Steve smiles, then motions to his chest. "Brooklyn."
"I know." It slips out before he can stop it. As soon as it's blurted, Peter's face flushes red. "I mean, there's a whole unit about you in history textbooks at school."
Steve nods slowly. "So, you're still in school?"
There's a tingle at the base of Peter's neck. Too personal. Too close.
"You're a kid?" a man webbed to the concrete pillar exclaims.
Peter shoots him a glare. "I'm not a kid." He turns back to Steve and lifts his chin slightly. "Everyone learned about you in school."
Someone to Peter's right murmurs, "True."
No longer wanting to have such a public conversation with Captain America, who seems to be on the hunt for information on him, Peter says, "It was nice of you to stop by, Mr. Rogers—really, I appreciate it—but I've got to get out of here before the cops show up."
Steve frowns but nods. "Right. Just—just don't be a stranger, yeah? You've got potential, son, and heart. If you ever run into trouble, you've got some friends at the Avengers Tower, alright?"
Peter blinks.
He didn't even do much during their run-in with the lizard guy. It's not like he saved anyone, or did anything monumental. So why is Steve being so . . . kind to him?
Who is he kidding, it's Steve Rogers, Captain America. He's kind to everyone. Peter isn't special.
With a short nod, Peter says, "I think I'll be fine on my own, but thanks, Sir."
He smiles, then remembers Steve can't see because of the mask, so he just gives a little awkward wave before turning and shooting a web to pull him up and away.
Gears turning as he looks back on the conversation with Steve, Peter subconsciously starts swinging towards Queens instead of the football locker rooms for a shower. It's fine, he's got all night to wash up. He just . . . He just wants to see Aunt May again. A part of him always does. He wants to hug her and to joke around with her and worry her to no end, but seeing her through the window is good enough.
Well, it's not, but he can pretend it is.
He lands on the roof of the neighboring building around five in the evening and counts the windows until he reaches Aunt May's.
It's dark inside. It makes sense, though, since she's probably at work still. Her hours vary, but the latest she gets back is eight or nine at night.
Peter purses his lips, glances around, and sits down at the edge, waiting. He looks out at the city every now and then, thoughts mainly centered around why Steve Rogers tracked him down just to thank him. It'd make more sense if he needed Spider-Man's help with a mission or something. Or if he was going to turn him in for avoiding the Accords.
It takes four hours of overthinking for Peter to realize that the apartment is still dark.
With a frown, Peter pushes himself up to his feet and hops across the space between the buildings. His fingertips and his feet stick to the brick like glue. Crawling closer to the window, Peter hopes no one is watching Spider-Man basically be a creep.
It isn't until he leans back and glances at his old bedroom window that he spots the note.
It's a faded yellow square of paper stuck to the glass from the inside. Peter creeps closer while tilting his head. As soon as he reads it, ice shoots through his veins.
135 Wilson Ave, Brooklyn
Apt. 203
He reads it over once, twice. The more he reads it, the further his heart sinks.
He tries to slide the window open, and to his fortune, it's unlocked. Slipping inside, Peter quickly makes his way out of his bedroom-turned-home office into the hall.
"May?" Peter calls, throwing any sense to the wind. He rushes into the kitchen and living room, then pokes his head into the empty bathroom and bedroom. Her bed sheets are rumpled, which is odd because Aunt May always makes her bed.
He stops in his tracks at the sight of dark red drops on the floor of the doorway of Aunt May's bedroom. Crouching, Peter runs the pad of his finger over the red droplets.
It's mostly dry, but still smears a little. There's no doubt in his mind that it's blood. His aunt's blood. And, guessing from the note stuck to the window, whoever did this knew that Peter had been watching her.
They hurt her because of him.
He would feel guilty, but the fear and dread rising in his throat choke out any other emotions.
Rushing back into his old bedroom, Peter swipes the note and flings himself out into the open air, swinging towards the address.
His thoughts run wild, but the only one he can make sense of is They've got Aunt May.
Who is they? Not the slightest idea. Why? No clue. All he knows is that they hurt her and he has to get to her now.
He's out of breath by the time he arrives at a worn-down, abandoned apartment complex with shattered windows and overgrown ivy, but he never slows down. He soars through a window and throws open the door of the vacant apartment to march down the hall.
His heart clenches when he stops in front of apartment 203.
"Aunt May!" he shouts, kicking the door down. His hands ball into fists at his sides as he storms through the small apartment. "May!"
His senses are silent. Eerily silent.
"May? You in here?"
He peers down a short hall. A door is cracked open, and he narrows-in on it.
Slowly pushing it open, he pokes his head in first, but as soon as he sees the woman bound to a chair with her back to him, Peter whips the door open and rushes inside. Even without seeing her face, he can tell it's his aunt.
"May! Aunt May, are you—"
His words die in his throat.
Her head is tilted down, her chin to her still chest.
Something in Peter breaks. He collapses to his knees in front of her, ripping his mask off and throwing it aside before reaching up to cup his aunt's face.
He lifts her limp head and makes a choked sound in his throat at the sight of the blood caking a long, deep slit across her throat. The hair on her temple is crusted to her cheek with dried blood. Her eyes closed and her lips parted slightly.
All the air is sucked out of Peter's lungs.
"May?" It comes out a choked whisper.
He knows she won't answer, but the silence that hangs in the stale air after her name is uttered draws Peter to pull his hands away from her face and to suck in a shaky breath.
Red-hot anger floods his emotions. Shooting up to his feet, Peter clenches his shaking fists and shouts, "Who's there?! Show yourself!"
Silence answers him.
Letting out a guttural cry, Peter falls back to his knees and grips his hair in an iron grip.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Aunt May was supposed to get married to her fiancé, she was supposed to live a long, happy life with him and have kids of her own and grow old.
This wasn't supposed to happen, not to her. Anyone but her.
Why didn't they take him instead?
He is nobody, he has nobody—nobody to come home to, nobody to miss him.
Lifting his head, not bothering to wipe away his tears, Peter croaks, "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."
He squeezes his eyes shut.
"It's all my fault."
He blinks, and out of the corner of his eye he spots scraps of metal. There's a screwdriver and a hammer beside some planks of wood. Whatever they're there for, he doesn't know or care.
The overwhelming urge to grab the screwdriver and drive it into his chest pulls him back to his feet. He only manages to take one step towards the tool.
Stop.
Aunt May wouldn't want this. Ned, Tony, the rest of the team—they wouldn't want him to succumb to his grief.
But it's not just grief, it's guilt, it's deep loneliness and no sense of belonging in this world. He's misplaced, not even an extra in everyone's lives. He's just there and nobody even knows it. Nobody would ever know.
The entities would.
They'd have to keep him alive, bring him back for the second time. He can't—he can't stab himself just to be resurrected again.
Everything about Peter Parker is pointless, including his own suicide.
Carefully, he lifts Aunt May’s hand and slips her wedding ring off her finger. He picks his mask off the dusty ground and, tugging it over his damp face, he flees from the room before he can vomit from the stench of his aunt's blood.
He pushes out all thoughts of how long she'd been dead, if he was too late, why this happened as he haphazardly swings back to the Bronx, barely holding himself together the entire way.
He's lightheaded and shaky when he crawls into his basement. Everything—his heart, his legs, his head, his lungs, his stomach—aches.
He curls up into a ball and presses his forehead against the cold concrete floor, eyes shut tight as tears leak down his face. Sobs rack through his body.
Every tear goes unseen, every cry unheard.
He stays like that, sobbing pathetically, until he runs out of tears and his chest is heaving for a breath deeper than the shallow huffs of air he's been taking. His face is tight with dried tears.
Pushing himself up with weak, trembling arms, Peter manages to slip on his ratty sweatshirt and oversized jeans before making his way outside.
He has nobody, but he needs someone. Mrs. Carter is the only one he can go to. He doesn't know what he's going to say—the last of his family is dead? He found his aunt's body with her throat slit? His aunt is dead because of him?
Or maybe he should just come clean about everything, no matter how crazy it'll make him look. His head is about to burst like a balloon from all the pressure and everything he's been keeping to himself.
Somehow, it's already morning. The sun hides behind thin, cotton-like clouds. Peter shoves his hands in his pockets as he makes his way across the street towards the bakery.
Just as he's cross the street, the front door to the bakery opens and a hooded figure—a young woman, if Peter could guess—walks out. Bright orange hair pokes out from underneath her hood. She takes quick strides and glances over her shoulder as she stalks away.
Ice water runs down his spine. Something prickles at the base of his neck, and he finds himself sprinting towards the bakery despite his exhaustion.
"Mrs. Carter?!"
The door slams shut behind him as he takes long strides past the front counter.
His eyes go wide when he steps into the kitchen.
"No," he whispers, because this can't be happening, not again, not to another innocent person.
He slides to his knees beside Mrs. Carter's body on the ground. Her eyes are wide, one limp hand lying against the deep slit in her throat that's gushing blood while her other lies against her stomach.
Peter's shaking hands hover over her body before he realizes that there's absolutely nothing he can do to help her. She's already gone, already lost too much blood.
He slams his closed fists into the tiled floor with a shattering force. Dully, he notices the pain in his hands, but it's nothing compared to the gigantic hole ripping through his heart.
He scrambled back up to his feet and runs out of the kitchen, out of the dining area, out the front door. Looks both ways but sees no one and clutches his head with bleeding hands.
Throwing his arms down, Peter hisses out a choked, "Shit."
Everything's falling apart around him the ceiling's caving, the walls crumbling into rubble, the floor falling from under his feet.
He's falling, falling, falling.
Vaguely, he's aware of his body moving, as if it were on autopilot. He watches himself return to the bakery and pick up the old phone behind the counter. He doesn't remember dialing any number, doesn't remember talking to the dispatcher, doesn't remember leaving before the cops came. The next thing he knows, he's sitting on the edge of a building as he watches paramedics roll Mrs. Carter's body on a stretcher up a ramp and into the back of a wailing ambulance. There's a crumpled paper in his hand. Looking down, he reads the words scrawled over the paper.
This isn't over Peter Parker
If he hadn't just lost two people, Peter would have stuck his nose up at the note and laughed at the cliché supervillain line. But Aunt May and Mrs. Carter are dead, and whoever wrote the note knows him by name.
There's only one person Peter can think of that would want to torture him and still knows his name.
Crumpling the note back up in his fist, Peter drops it onto the street below. It lands in a patch of snow.
He thought he had already lost everything, that he had nothing else to lose, but he was wrong. He was so undeniably wrong.
How much can one person lose before they've got absolutely nothing left, until they themselves are reduced to nothing?