seventy.
Everyone had their bad days, that much was true. To say that this was one of the easier days would be a lie. There was nothing easy about this day at all. Every shred of happiness Peter'd had just yesterday was gone. It felt like someone cut his veins open in order to rip the happiness from his body. He didn't have the energy to move from his bed.
He was leaned against the headboard, just staring at the wall across from him. Today was definitely going to be difficult. Memories were presenting themselves to him despite a month of peaceful, ignorant bliss. No matter how much he blinked, he couldn't shake the memories he was being presented with and the fact that Wade had left at some point didn't help in the slightest.
They'd started the moment he opened his eyes this morning, and he couldn't avoid them long enough to go back to sleep. He was alone now, and he didn't know how to make it all go away.
Steve was at work, Bucky and Nat were working on something, Wanda was on a date with Vision. Sam wasn't available to babysit today and Tony was supposed to pick him up six hours ago and he was nowhere to be found and wasn't answering his phone. He was meant to call Nat if Tony didn't show, but he couldn't be bothered to bother her if she was busy.
Especially not while he was stuck remembering such difficult things...
Bruised beyond the point of wanting to look at himself in the mirror, Peter laid on his bed with slowly-healing ribs. It was bearable, but breathing hurt like a bitch. He could barely hear his own labored wheezing over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. The bruises on his chest were healing quicker than the ones on his face, but that was okay. As long as they were all gone before May got home he'd be fine.
He wasn't fine. He could hear the front door opening and he couldn't move fast enough to put on a shirt. He didn't even have the energy or the willpower to sit up, to begin with, so he just laid there in hopes that May wouldn't bother with him for a while yet.
His hopes were crushed when a knock came at his door and he couldn't suck air into his lungs fast enough to reply before the door was opening. Her eyes fell on him and he didn't even attempt to reply, he just laid there and held eye contact with her.
She started freaking out and getting ready to take him to the hospital, but he protested as hard as he could for the problems he was having at the moment. She was frantic, waving her hands around as she spoke and demanded to know who'd done this to him.
She kept asking if it was a kid from school or a random fight on the street, and that's when he decided to man up and tell her everything. He told her that on a school field trip, he'd been bitten by a spider, and it changed him genetically. It gave him awesome healing powers and more. He told her that his Stark Internship was really just his excuse to go and be Spider-Man.
She tried to ground him right then and there, but he weakly protested. He pleaded and begged. He helped people and he liked it. He was one of the little guys, and who else would look out for us little guys, Aunt May?
She still wanted to protest, but when she looked down at him the bruise on his face had faded almost to nothing, and she couldn't believe her eyes, despite having already been told the truth just minutes ago. She asked for clarification if that was thanks to his powers, and he said yes.
He blinked, and he was alone. And Aunt May was gone, and she wouldn't be back. She'd never scold him for being reckless again, and it hurt because he wanted her to. He wanted her to sit down across from him and say that being a hero was stupid and that it was going to get him killed... And she was right. It would get him killed... Which is why despite remembering a little about being Spider-Man, he now wanted nothing to do with it.
He blinked again, but there she was, standing in front of him. He jumped, despite knowing that she wasn't real. She was covered in blood and even from here he could see that her heart was nothing more than a large cavity.
"You're not real..."
"You're right, Peter. I'm not real. Not anymore... But whose fault is that?" She laughed.
He didn't want to respond, but the answer was clear, beating itself off of the inside of his skull waiting to be let out like a lion in a cage. "It's mine..."
There was a long moment of silence and when he looked down his hands were covered in blood and he whimpered as he tried to rub it off. He looked back up at her but now she was smiling, except it was an evil smile. It held no kindness. It held something else Peter didn't want to acknowledge... It held hatred.
"You're right, Peter, it is your fault. I mean, if you had just died, they would've let me go... Don't shake your head at me, Peter, you know it's true! You ripped me apart!"
"It wasn't my fault!" He cried. His watch was going crazy and the light bar in his room was flashing like some demonic disco.
She jumped on the bed, just inches from his face and yelled, "You did this to me!"
All he could do was cower, but how far back can you lean from the things that are inside of you? How do you escape? How do you escape your own mind? The twisted May in front of him just laughed.
"Oh, Peter... You know it's not that easy to get away from me... You know there's only one way now."
"No, I don't want to-"
"Oh, but you do, Peter. You know you do, I can feel it. You deserve it for what you've done to me, you know you do."
He shook his head but when he looked down he saw the knife in his hands and he sobbed. He knew it was true, that he deserved it. He deserved to pay for what he'd done. He deserved to die for killing her, to suffer for the way that she suffered at his hands. But killing himself wouldn't bring him any suffrage, he had to make it hurt first. He had to hurt, he had to hurt...
May's laughter was distant now, echoing in his ears as he brought the shaking knife to his wrist. His body wracked with sobs as he slowly, painfully dragged it across the width of his wrist. It stung, but he wanted it, he needed it, he knew he deserved it as payment for his sins...
But then he remembered what the priest had said, about him having no real sins to confess... How someone forced him to kill May and it wasn't his fault... But it was, wasn't it? They were his hands that cut her, hurt her, pulled her apart and then some. How could it not be his fault? How could he not deserve this?
His light bar was flashing a different color now, but through the haze of his own mind he couldn't figure out what it meant for the life of him. He figured it out when the door opened to reveal a panicked looking Tony Stark.
Peter did nothing but watch as the frightened man pulled a towel from his counter and ran over. The towel was pressed to his arm and the knife was knocked to the floor. He could hear Tony distantly, asking him what he'd done. With a hiccup, he replied.
"I did it, Mr. Stark, I deserve it... Should've done it a long time ago then... Maybe everything would be different."
Tony shushed him, firmly telling the boy that none of what happened was his fault in the slightest. He vowed in front of said boy that he'd do whatever it took to make sure that they caught the bastard that really deserved it, and all Peter could do was nod for a moment.
"Are you... Are you mad at me, Mr. Stark?"
Peter's lip was quivering. He was young and fragile, a version of Tony Stark that Tony himself had not been in so many years, and now a carbon copy form of his emotions was laying right here in front of him, vulnerable and almost pleading for love and Tony shook his head.
"I'm not mad at you, Peter. I'm afraid, okay? I'm afraid for you, but I'm not mad. I'm gonna take care of you now, okay? I promise."
Peter nodded, but still looked like he was thinking of something else. "Please don't tell Bucky..."
And Tony almost laughed before he realized that it would be a bad idea. He knew that Bucky would find out one way or another, but he promised the boy that he wouldn't tell Bucky, and so he would leave it to one of the others to pass the news along to him. He was barely winning Peter back, and he wasn't about to ruin that by being a tattle-tale. Especially not to the likes of Bucky Barnes.