Holding To The Ground

Peter sat at his desk with tears in his eyes. His pencil hovered over a particularly hard equation, but he could hardly make out the answers. He hadn’t written anything down in half an hour.

Because everything May had said was true. Try as he might to deny it, wasn’t he truly selfish? He flung himself around the city for kicks without giving a passing thought to the people he left alone. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember the last time he hung out with Ned without dragging him into Spider-Man business.

A single tear slipped out and rolled down his face. He had school in three hours and hadn’t finished even half of his homework. His grades were slipping, his aunt was starting to see who he really was, and his Spider-Man work was getting less successful by the day. He was pathetic. A nobody. 

Why had he been given these powers if he was the wrong person to use them? Anyone else, even Cindy from comparative government would be better at all this than him. Why would the universe leave New York City in the hands of a selfish, irresponsible screw up?

Maybe it was all some big joke. Somebody far away was laughing at him. Look at that kid, they thought. No matter what he tries, he still can’t get it right!

Or maybe he was all alone. Maybe everything was chance, and all the die in the universe rolled wrong on that one fateful day.

He hoped that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t sure if he could survive another day if it was.

He set his pen down. Between his tear-blurred eyes and shaking hands, nothing was getting done anyways.

Peter buried his face in his hands. He wanted so desperately to sleep, to go somewhere else entirely for just a few short hours, but his mind wouldn’t let him. Any time he got close to rest, it would project the image of Ben bleeding on the concrete behind his eyelids.

With a sigh, he looked back up. Covering his eyes for too long was bad news. That meant sleep, and sleep meant remembering. He let his gaze slip around the room for something to grasp at, when he saw his suit laying in a haphazard heap on the ground. 

He stood slowly from his chair, careful to avoid the creaking of old wood, and walked over to it. He picked it up, examined the sides. They were reduced to not much more than a loose mesh of thread, scuffed and tangled from his journey only hours before.

Clearly, the fabric couldn’t withstand harsh grazes or sudden stops. And even though Peter could, it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if he was naked and skinless by the time he landed. But what fabric was both strong and flexible, as well as opaque and easy to wash?

Right now? None. But checking he wath, he still had two hours and thirty-six minutes before he needed to get up for school. And if he had any worth at all, that would be enough time to invent one.

Peter sat back down at his desk, clutching the fabric in his hand, and picked up his pen. He flipped his math homework over and began scribbling chemical equations on the other side.

——

Mr. Harsch’s class was hell.

The teacher had stare at him with thinly veiled dissapointment when all he had to turn in were two barely legible equations done on loose leaf, and looked pointedly at Peter with every question he explained on the white board. Peter, though was hardly listening. He was so exhausted his could hardly think through the thick jelly of his brain. Every word from the teacher’s mouth sounded less like English and more like the noises made by the adults on Charlie Brown.

Coupled with Flash throwing torn up scraps of paper at him from the left and Ned whispering about the cake he was plannings on baking from the right, Peter was overloaded on every possible level.

His eyelids grew heavier with every passing second, and every blink was a struggle to keep from falling into sleep’s soft abyss. Because the alluring darkness was nothing more than a beautiful mask for the memories that he shoved deep down, the ones that were only ever let out when he wasn’t in control. 

But Flash was going the extra mile today and Ned just wouldn’t shut up no matter what Mr. Harsch told him and his dreams weren’t always bad, right? Sometimes they were nice, just scenes of him walking through parks or getting married to a person with a neutrally beautiful face. And this nap would probably be too short to let him enter a dream, anyways. What harm could it do.

Slowly, Peter propped his head on his chin and let his eyes droop shut. The second his eyelids made contact, the dark waters swallowed him.

——

Peter was on a rooftop. He stood in full view on New York City, unmasked and smiling. Because they knew his name. They knew the worth of Peter Parker.

He leapt off the edge of the building and fired a web at a nearby lampposts. As he swung by, he heard people calling his name, thanking him for all he had done around the city. The city smelled of flowers rather than smog, and no matter how hard he looked, he saw not a single trace of the color gray. Everybody smiled, no one fought, and the desperate screams he was so used to hearing were silenced.

He saved a kitten from a tree. It’s owner hugged him and thanked him, using his real name. “Thank you, Peter,” she whispered, and something warm bloomed in Peter’s chest. She handed him a wrapped candy from her purse and left. He popped it in his mouth and did the same.

He caught a little boy’s ice cream as he dropped it. He picked flowers too high for an old man. This was his life, now, lovely tasks not tainted with blood and people who sought to give him gifts and love.

Then, he heard a scream. Loud. Strained. Blood curdling.

He hurled himself in the direction of the noise, fading by the second. He pushed himself beyond his usual limits, but the burning of his muscles that he accompanied with such strain never came. 

He landed in front of a convenience store, one blanketed in darkness even though it had been daytime only moments before.

And he saw Ben. Ben, lying on the concrete, his hands slack over an oozing bullet wound, his eyes shut and his face pale. But it wasn’t Ben who had screamed.

It was Peter. Peter from that fateful night kneeled over Ben’s limp form, his shrieks reduced to gentle whimpers and sobs. Peter watched his younger self try in vain to plug up Ben’s bullet hole even though he was long gone by now. It’s useless! He wanted to yell, but he seemed frozen, rooted to the spot.

Sirens that he hadn’t even noticed grew ever closer, and soon the scene was bathed in red and blue light. Policemen and EMT’s swirled around him, not even noticing his presence. Peter’s cheek felt wet. When had he started crying?

And then, suddenly, he was at the police station. He stood in a dark corner, watching the scene before him unfold.

Past Peter sat in a hard plastic chair. He stared blankly ahead, his face slack, oblivious to the blood smeared over his face and hands. He swayed slightly in place, but showed no outward signs that he even knew where he was.

And May was there. May, collapsed on the floor, sobbing so hard her entire body heaved, her wails echoing off of the bright white walls. An officer crouched next to her, whispering soothing words with a detached pity. May didn’t seem to hear them. She just cried and cried and cried.

And then something happened that Peter didn’t remember. Something entirely new, but entirely real.

A man materialized from the shadows. He was short and skinny, but his face was covered by a dark mask. He walked slowly across the tiled floor, every step calculated. The police officers and concerned citizens gave him a wide berth without even truly noticing his presence. He walked up behind May, who still wept on the ground, and pulled something metal from his pocket. A gun.

Peter scrambled to get to her, but his feet were still rooted to the floor. May was about to die, the only person who truly loved him, and he was too useless to even try and save her.

He watched helplessly as the man raised the gun to May’s head, who remained oblivious to the danger she was in. Then, with one hand, he slowly peeled back the mask from his skin.

And underneath it was Peter’s on face, scuffed and smiling. Peter struggles against his invisible bindings, but to no avail. Looking him straight in the eyes, this other Peter turned off the safety with a quiet click.

The gun banged.

The world exploded.

——

Peter shot straight up. “May!” He shouted, his voice tight. He panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He scanned the room with wide eyes, expecting to see splatters of blood and piles of splintered bones. Instead, he saw walls plastered in inspirational posters and rows of desks. The students seated in them stared at him with wide eyes, as did the teacher. His expression seemed to be a battle between annoyance and concern.

Peter’s cheeks burned and he wilted under his classmate’s accusing stares. Ned asked quietly, “Are you okay?”

Peter swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, I just had a bad dream.”

Mr. Harsch clearer his throat to get Peter’s attention. He said, “Peter, would you like to step out and gather yourself?”

Peter cocked his head. He was fine, just a little shaken up. But when he raised a hand to his cheek, it came away wet.

His cheeks burned three shades darker.

”No, I’m alright,” he mumbled.

Mr. Harsch stared at him with a deep breath. “Alright then,” he announced. “Back to the board, everyone.” The students groaned in unison, forcing their attention back to the class subject now that their distraction was gone.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of Peter ducking away from students and sitting as far away from Ned as possible. He ate lunch in the empty band room and sat as far away from Ned and MJ as he possibly could in all his classes. Despite his efforts to disappear, though,  students would turn to stare at him periodically throughout the day. Peter shrunk into himself just as much every time.

And then, before he knew it, he was walking out of his school’s wide glass doors and slipping into a sleek black car waiting for him. Happy didn’t say anything to him as he closed the door, and for once, he was grateful rather than hurt. 

Well, he was still hurt, but at least he didn’t have to recount his day. Peter just plugged in his headphones and stared out the window, letting old eighties songs wash him to a place of static.

He kept his headphones on even as they entered the evelator. Happy shot him a suspicious glance out of the side of his eyes. Peter kept his gaze straight ahead.

“Bye, Happy,” he said as the elevator doors closed behind him. Happy didn’t even get his farewell out before the metal clanged shut.

With a sigh Peter stuffed his headphones in his pocket and punched his personal code in the door’s lock. It opened silently and he stepped through, and the sharp scent of oil and bleach hit his nose instantly. He spotted Tony instantly, huddled in the corner, surrounded by what he recognized as what must have been at least twenty different versions of Rhodey’s prosthetics. He hummed some unidentifiable tune that Peter could just make out over the sound of a drill.

He walked silently to the desk nearby and opened his bag. He placed his notes, a calculator, and his Spider-Man suit on the top and rooted through the cabinet above for the necessary chemicals.

He slowly mixed together the complexly labeled substances with laser focus, heating it until the color changed from a misty yellow to clear. He was in the process of brushing the liquid over every inch of his suit’s fabric when Tony approached him. He didn’t flinch when a hand came down on his shoulder; he had heard the footsteps approaching from the moment he’d stood.

”Hey, kid,” said Tony, “What are you up to on?”

Still focused on his work, Peter said, “Using a compound I found last night to strengthen my suit. It got pretty roughed up last night.”

”...That’s it?”

”Yup.”

Tony clicked his tongue. He watched for a second, then leaned down and grabbed Peter’s scratch equations. Peter let him. He didn’t need them any more, anyways.

Tony whistled as he reviewed the sheet. “Damn. When did you have time to do all this?”

Peter shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep last night. I figured I’d do this instead.”

Tony took a seat in the empty chair next to Peter. “Why not?”

”May yelled at me. I was too upset to sleep, I guess.”

“It was that bad?”

”Mhm.”

A long moment passed. Tony fiddled with a spare pen. “What’d you do?” He asked

"Hm?" Peter hummed, coating his brush in another chemical layer.

"You know, what's you do to make May go all--" Tony rolled his eyes comically.

Peter felt a quick stab of shame at the memory, but he pushed it deep down. “Came in after curfew,” he said.

”Since when do you have a curfew?”

Peter sighed and put down his solution. He knew he’d have to admit it eventually, anyways. “Aunt May found out I’m Spider-Man.”

Tony’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Shit, kid. What’d She say?”

Peter swallowed. It still felt weird taking to Tony like they were friends, even after all this time. “Nothing too bad. She yelled at me about putting myself in danger and stuff.”

Tony laughed, and Peter finally met his eyes. How could he think Peter’s pain was funny? Was Peter that much of a joke to the world?

”Yeah, that’s how it goes sometimes,” Tony said.

”...Really?” Peter asked. Could her harsh words and sudden turn-around be...normal? Tony seemed to think they were, and Tony usually had his best interests in mind.

”Yeah,” Tony said. “She was just worried about you. She’ll calm down soon, she just freaked out, you know?”

Peter’s brow furrowed. He had thought before that something was off with May, but maybe he was just paranoid. Maybe he was the one in the wrong “Um—yeah. Yeah, I know,” he said.

Tony leaned in, his eyes soft with concern. “Hey, you alright?” He asked.

Peter plastered on a shaky smile. He raised his head as met Tony’s eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Tony patter his back. Peter flinched as the motion forced his still-healing hand into the sharp corner of the desk, but kept his small grin.

”Well,” Tony said, crossing the room again. “Get back to it, Pete. Hope your suit keeps you safe.”

Peter looked down into the white eyes embedded in red fabric. If he focused enough, they almost stared back. 

“Me, too,” he whispered, so quiet only he could hear the melancholy echo. “Me, too.”