It was strange. Everyone kept telling him they were sorry for his ‘loss’. Rationally he knew what they meant; but emotionally? He kept wanting to tell them that he hadn’t misplaced the man. He hadn’t put him down somewhere and then came back to find him gone. Only… that was almost exactly what had happened. One minute he’d been on Titan in his mentors' arms and the next he’d been crouched in front of the man as he’d died.
It was his fault. Again. Yet again he had lost a parental figure because of his inability to do better. First, it had been his uncle, he’d been bitten by the spider several weeks before, he’d had the ability to act but hadn’t. And now, Mr Stark.
A part of Peter had hoped, somewhat fruitlessly at first, that the man would fill the void left in his life by his uncle. He’d needed someone to look up to, someone to be on his side - on Spiderman’s side. At first, it hadn’t seemed like Mr Stark would provide this and Peter had berated himself for even thinking… no, hoping that it would happen. But then it had happened. After Homecoming Mr Stark had extended the offer of an actual internship and while it had been slightly awkward at first, they’d slowly slipped into a mentoring partnership. It had started with every other Friday spent at the compound but that had evolved into every other weekend. And the gap in his chest had started to close; to heal.
Peter glanced down at the street below, away from the graffiti on the building opposite.
Now the pain was worse than ever. The three-year-old wound ripped open. From what Peter knew of pain from his collection of various injuries over the years; this was worse than any gunshot wound. With physical wounds it was almost easy; he either bled out or he didn’t. Sure, the pain was bad, but if it got too bad he’d just fall unconscious. Grief, however, tore him limb from limb, with no magical off switch to shut the pain off. A constant festering ache.
It shocked him sometimes. How the agony he was in didn’t appear on the surface. He felt it should because how could something so all-encompassing possibly be contained by the walls of his body.
He shifted slightly on his perch, sliding his backpack off his back onto the roof behind him and pulled out a notebook and pen. Tucking one foot beneath the opposite thigh, he scribbled a quick note on the page open in front of him and ripped the page out of the book.
He didn’t know where to go, or who to go to for help. Becks declaration at Times Square an hour ago had thrown him completely. Before Mr Stark had gone, he would have gone to his mentor for help. This was the sort of thing he would’ve been able to help with.
Peter sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He’d never get used to this. To being on his own. To not having help in navigating this world of superheroes. To having the massive responsibility for the safety of what felt like the whole world on his shoulders.
Before, deep down he’d known he was safe; if he’d asked for help (or even when he didn’t) within minutes, Mr Stark would’ve been there and everything would’ve been okay. But now.
He was just a kid from Queens, what did he know about world-threatening events? Or dealing with the press? Or getting everyone to listen to him when he explained that the damning video clip was heavily edited. He looked out for the little guy, helped old ladies with their shopping: that sort of thing. He was not equipped for being out to the general public.
That had been Mr Starks job. Tony’s job.
He studied the words on the paper, steeling himself for what he must do.
It was his job now.
He stuffed his pad of paper and pen back in his backpack and slung it across his back. It was time to sort the mess out. Without standing up, he jumped off the building, leaving the paper to flutter in his wake.
For Tony,
I miss you.
Peter