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Pĕ̃t̘̬̟̤e̯̲͍r...

E͆̓ͯͭ̓ͪT̂̋̾̄ͤͭ̔-͓̯͖̩̰̖P̼͓̳̪̗̝E͉̠͚ͬ͑̚-ͦ̓̄̊̅E͈̩̝̎̒̂E͓͎͎͌̓̐EE̞͈̯̻̱̱E̿͂́̒̍E̦̦͙̩͉̲ȑ̓̃ͪͫrr̟̯̼̥̜̙ͯ̽̍̽̇̋r̈́͌ͣ̒rr̳̜͙̪̙r̟̗̯̹̝̻͆̌̂̌̊ͣ

 

 

 

P̈́͂̅e͐͑ ̖͎͍͚͈̅͛̐ͭ͂—

 

 

 ̖̙̺̮͈͕͚
P̘e͂ͩ͗t̟̥̋̐ ͓͎̞̣̖͈͛ͧͤ̈́ͥͧ—

 

E̗̹̯̪͈̲͓̯̦̔ͭ͌ͥ̌ͣ̃̅̿T̠̝̱͈̭͖͚̬͐̉̎̎͊́̑̿-̱͓̹̜̗̜̹̮̭͔̲̌̃͛̐ͩ̇̊ͪ̐͋̚P̏͛̊ͧ̈͋̒ͩͩͪͧ̓̎E-̞̰̘̲̮̳̪ͩ͂̆̾̽̒̌E̥̪͔̬ͥ̏̌ͭEͪ̇ͥ̃͂ͫ̓̀̊̒̂ͫ̈̑E̪̹͓̻̟̖̣͉̯̘̱͓ͫ̾̇̓̈ͦ̆̃ͩ̾̓̓E̺̰͙̪̹͙̜͕̳̮E̻͚̖̅̐̇E͔̜ṙ̿̑̒̓̍ͫr̞͚̣̜͉̯̦̜̤̖rr̼̞ͯͨṟ͍̰̻̘̩̤̞̥͍̩̘̞̲̺r̹̤̖̲͔͙̣͕͇͔̪̩̙̾̔ͭ̏ͭͨ̔̔ͭ̋̍ͩ̚r͈͖̭̮͈ͩͪ̅͐̉

 

 

 

Pĕ̃t̘̬̟̤e̯̲͍r…

 

W͗ͤe͕̖͗̏ ̗͋a̜ͤr̜͊e̞͐ her͚̗̭ͯ͌ͩe,̹ Pet̯̦͊ͫe̾̃r…ͧ̉̓

 

̯̙͓͚̫͉̝̭͓͊̃͂ͪͯ͑ͫ̒́
H̞̟̙͈̠͖̗̫ͧͬͯ͌͆͐̑̓E̙̼̠͓̟̊ͣ̒ͣ͒R̩͑Ȅ̜̞̌

 

 

W̬͍͉e’re͔̥̝̜̮͖ ͕̝̥̜̿̑̊ͣw̻͉̜͈̜̻ͭ̊͌ͥ̃͗i͎͍͙̗͈͚th̦͔̤̔̓͛ ͍̹̭̭̩̙͊͑͐̒ͨͨy̬͇̘̺ou̺̤̺ͧͦ̚.͈͍̘̣̮.̮͍̭̘̄̈́̊ͥ.̓ͅ

 

 

̲̮̝̪̺͇
We̫ ͙̜̲͕̙̟̦̈́̏̔̎̉ͣ̈́aṟ̮̩͔͕̖̼̿̒̓́̽̂ͤeͧ ̱̓y̝̥̋̾ô͔͖̺͙̒ͦ̿u…̽̾ͮ͊̉̚

 

 

Aͤͣ͂R͛ͧE̎ͧ̿̑ͥͦͤͤ́͒ ̾͊̒̉̉Y͕͎̗̠̘̣͈͓ͯ͒ͪ̅̔̇ͨ́Oͬ̃̌͐̅̿̓ͫ̀Ȕ͗͆ͨ̉ͯ

 

 

We̥̳̟ͧͯ͑ ̲ͤẅ̭̟́̌i̦͖̇̔l̖ͅl̲͍͆͋ ̮͈̱p̟rȏ̯͔̲̈́̉ṭ̥e̘͓ct̻̰̠ͯ̓̽ ̿̋y̺̩͓ou...͍̈́

 

 

W̆̏͛͛ͯ̾ë͑ͣ ̒ẇͯ̽̊̓͌il̜̖̦̈̓̎l̠ c̻̦̖͈̺̤̱̿̌̽̑̌̒̉o͇̱̤͈̹̬̣̜͍͙̯̮͊̈ͨͤ̂ͮͫͬͪͫ̓̔n̳̖̩͚̲̘̜͎̾ͥͤͫ̋͐̓͋̑ͅṫr͖̠͔̟̼̺̹͙̟̳̙o̘̪̯̮̠͕̩̩̼͕ͫ̂̈̓͛́̽̏̄̇l  y̎o̫͛ű͉͔ͣ

 

 

 

C̘͚͓̯̦̑̄͋̆ͦO̸҉̶̤̱̟͔̙̤̬N̅̀͐ͧͣ͒ͮͬṮ͙̝̗̪̦̮͈͎͕̻̣͙̮̌̑̏̆̓ͭͪ̈́̋͋ͯͩͦͬR̶̛̊̈́̏̑͛͝O̰͍̤͚̣̠̰̬̮̠̼̯͚̓̑̒̾͑̀̔͛̓̋ͩ̋̍̍ͅL͋̓͆̔̂ͣ̊͂ͣ̔̉̽͑̽͂͢

 

 

Cͧͭ̓͟O̥͓̬͓͎̙ͪ̊̾̓̾̚N̠͑ ̟̥̘͓͚͋͗ͭͮ͒—ͤ̿̇͠

 

 

Č́͋̎͒̉̎͢Õ̺͖̪͚̑̔͐Ň ͈͎͝—̡͇͇̬͔͓ ̥̩̤̮̞̣̍̋̏̓̌͑Ṱ̗̬̝̋ͮ̃ͫR —̌̔ͯ̃͋ͭ͝

 

 

C̣͔̮̬͌̍̊ͫO͔̣͎̮̥ͭͭ͛͗̆Ņ̄ͯ̌T̯̣͓̼̩̙̽͐͊͛ͥ̍̚ͅR͢OL̯͚̲̖̼ͭ̅ͣ̃́ Y̳̟̝̰͓̿͊̍̊ͧǪ͙̞͋̂U͙̟̬̼̫̙̠͡

 

 

̣̬̣̞͎̔̔̈ͥ̾͜
CO̧̒ͫ̔̃N͌͆ ̱͔̘̳͑̏ͬ̔—

“Stop!”

Peter clutched his head, palms flat against his ears, squeezing pressure until all he could hear was his pulse racing through his skull. The cry tore through his throat, strangled as it slipped through his lips.

“Go away...go away…” he slurred, his own voice coming out as more of a pathetic whine. “Please be quiet, please…”

The voices didn’t stop.

They hadn’t stopped since —

“No!” Fingernails dug painfully deep into the tuft of his scalp, hair messy and damp with sweat. Thick beads rolled down his forehead, catching in his eyebrows so tightly furrowed together that his skin felt close to ripping apart. “No, you’re not real, you don’t — this isn’t real!"

Peter threw his head back, choking on a sob that left his chest strained. A reverberating CLANG echoed from the dumpster behind him, ringing through the alleyway, startling a rodent who’d been digging for food in a loose trash-bag.

The critter scurried away in a panic.

Briefly opening his eyes, Peter watched as the rat hurried out, its little feet rushing into the streets of Queens. He couldn’t tell where it went past there, losing sight of the rat somewhere between a yellow taxi cab and a bicyclist riding on by.

A mix of sweat and hot tears blurred his vision, the colors of the streets morphing together and swimming in circles. Frequent waves of dizziness doubled what he saw, vertigo so strong he’d fallen to his knees more times than he could count. All in a desperate effort to get home.

Home — his breath caught and shattered in his throat. Peter threw his head back again, and again — the sound his skull made against the hard metal of the dumpster drowning out the whispering voices slithering through his ears. Violating his mind, his conscience.

He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t face May, not after what happened, not after what he did —

“I didn’t —!” Peter clenched his hands into tight fists, his jaw tense with anger. “I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t... do that. I didn’t...mean to…”

 

W͑ͪe ͎̰͓͂ͬ͆p͍̬̻ͤ͌ͩr̩̙̹̍ͥ̚ọ̔te͖̹͎͋̂ͨc͍ͣt̟̲̞e̩͈̲͗ͮ̃d̏̉͋ y͈̮o̰̮̊ͭủ͚̮̙͌̚…̠͇̯̾̐́

 

 

 

We̤̔ ̤̠ͩ͒w͎̱͉͂̊ͩĭ̘lͥ͛̚l̳ ̬̖̃ͪ͊ͅa̙̪ͧ͌lways̯̹͐ͧ ͓̜͈̿́̂ pro̱͓̅̋ṭͧe̤̾c̾̌t̯̤̄ͥͮͅ C̘͚͓̯̦̑̄͋̆ͦO̸҉̶̤̱̟͔̙̤̬N̅̀͐ͧͣ͒ͮͬ Ṯ͙̝̗̪̦̮͈͎͕̻̣͙̮̌̑̏̆̓ͭͪ̈́̋͋ͯͩͦͬ R̶̛̊̈́̏̑͛͝ O̰͍̤͚̣̠̰̬̮̠̼̯͚̓̑̒̾͑̀̔͛̓̋ͩ̋̍̍ͅ L͋̓͆̔̂ͣ̊͂ͣ̔̉̽͑̽͂͢ pͭr͈͉o͙̘t͇̊e̹c͔̓t͒̚ ̥yoṵ…

 

 

 

It wouldn’t stop.

Nothing he did made the voices stop.

Peter rubbed harshly at both his eyes with his hoodie’s sleeves; dirty with street muck, and his own filth.

Was he going crazy? Was he already crazy?

He rubbed until he saw bright specks of white flicker beneath his clenched eyelids, and he didn’t stop there, not until the skin of his eyes felt raw and tender.

It was dark. Judging by the traffic outside the alley, Peter assumed it was somewhere between eight or nine o’clock at night. Possibly later — he had lost all track of time after leaving school. He didn’t dare check his phone; he turned it off a while ago, the flood of text messages and phone calls too much to bear.

No one could know what had happened, or where he was.

He couldn’t deal with that right now.

May would think he was out on patrol, so long as she never saw his spider-suit, still folded neatly and tucked underneath his bed. 

Wait, he never told her that Mr. Stark had given him the suit back last night. She’d catch him red-handed in that lie.

But they talked, right? They told each other everything, things he begged her not to pass on. So she had to know, right?

Peter gulped through a parched mouth. Even so. Even if she didn’t think he had his suit back, he could lie, say he was busy, forgot to check in with her. She didn’t need to know the truth — she couldn’t know the truth.

Not what had happened. No one could know; no one would believe him.

No one believed anything he said.

 

We’l̞̫͓ḷ͍̪ͧͪ̏ ̦̒p̙̊r̜͙̟ͤ̈́̋ö̱́te͂͛cͤͥͦt̾ y̲͈̳͊ͯ̂oͨ̿ű̠…̭͗

 

Peter sniffed, scrubbing down at his face. It’d be okay, he could manage this. Maybe he’d get lucky, maybe May wouldn’t even be home. After all, she had been spending more time out lately; barely ever in apartment these days. He would run inside before she could even ask him any questions.

He could buy some time until he figured out what was going on with him.

What was wrong with him.

A sickening feeling clamped down in his stomach. There was no denying it anymore. Something was seriously wrong with him.

He needed help, he needed a lot of help.

He didn’t want to admit it — Peter didn’t even want to think about how scared he was. But he knew, without ever needing to say it out loud, that he was.

He was terrified.

Maybe if he just turned on his phone real quick, sent a text to Mr. Stark —

 

 

W̵̸̅͟E̴̫͎͎̙̲͕̺͓̦͔͙͝ ̴͔̩͙̱͚͇̠̖̬͔͖̫̺̆ͫ̽̔̄͒͑͆̋ͮ͌ͨ͊̆͞͠ͅ C͑̓̃ͦͮ͌̌̾ͯ̓O̗̬NT̺̯̯̜̤͓̯̝͔̠ͅ R͎͋O̸̢̩̭̯̙̣̘͈̹̣̯̤̭ͭ͗ͦ͛̊̇ͪ̉͗͂̂ͪ͡ Ļ̶̺͖̦̻̮̹̙͙͇̯̤ͧͯͦ͊ͧͨ͊̃̆̿ͪ ̡̠̙͎̻̅ͨͣ̚ Y͍̹̪̲̻̭̜͖͚͕͙͕͙ͅ Ö̿ͦͤ̽ͨ̓̏͐̓̌̽̎҉͞ Ư̷̴̳̪͙!̣̬̪̮̫

 

 

“Ngghhh!” Peter grabbed at his head, cradling it tightly. A hot, burning probe seared through his very bone, shot on fire his every nerve. Nothing could have prepared him for the sensation akin to a hot sword dipped in acid slicing through his brain.

It was torture, agony, debilitating waves of shock coursing through his entire being.

Peter gasped for breath — once, twice, three wracking, pitiful sounds that only succeeded in pushing his panic further away. For the longest moment, he only saw white; bright and blazing across his vision. Unrelenting, caustic against his retinas. A piercing light that stole his breath away.

And then it went black.

 

G͖̝͈͗̽͂o͖͞ ̗͎̟h̎ô̘̲̱ͦ̚m̄̋͆e̕

 

H̵̴̻̘̱͛ͬ̓͢O̵͠ ̨̩͖͖̘̩̗̅̓̉ͣ͊ͭ͟͝— ̼̥̈́ͦ ̶͎͔͈̯̺̮̻̝̘̩̤̺̘̝̪̂̍ͦ͆̓̑͌̊̈́͛ͮͤ̏ͤ̚ M̡͓̘̪͓̋͗͒̓E͡҉ ͣ̓̄͏̨̝͍͔͢— ̣̫̬͂͆͐ ͒ͨͩ̃ͮ̃ͯ̃ͣ̒̂ͣ͂ͤ̚ Ḩ̌ͩǪ͎̠̥̟̤̟̩͇̖̽ͧ̿̄̈́́̆̅̚͞ M̡̜͈͎̗̲̺̘̜ͩ͐̊̇͗͛̓ͯ Ë̟̼̝̤͚̱̜̫̝̼̳͙̱́͗̍ͣ͛̈́ͭͮͮ̔̈̎̚

 

Ĝ͕͠o͎̮̦͡ ͊ͥ̿͏̲͓͉th̨e̛͆ͮr̚e̦̘̰̿͆̚

 

N͐̊ow̜͙̹̉͛ͤ͟

 

Peter didn’t remember leaving the alleyway.

Nor did he remember the walk to his apartment, a full nine blocks away.

By the time he opened the door leading inside, he was too exhausted too care.

“Peter!”

That was, until, he saw who was sitting in the living room waiting for him.

“Thank god! ” May jumped up from the sofa, one hand pressed firmly to her chest, heaving in air like she hadn’t taken a breath all day. “I’ve been worried sick about you! You weren’t picking up your phone and —”

“May, what’s going on?” Peter was quick to ask — too quick — frozen in the threshold of the doorway. His hand still gripped the doorknob, trembling with cold shakes that only intensified by the second.

May seemed to notice. As quickly as she stood up, she rushed around the couch, barely giving their guest a glance on the way to the front door.

“Jesus, Peter, you look terrible,” she kept her voice low, moving to cusp a hand around the back of his neck.

Peter jerked out of the way before she could touch him.

May paused, her hand left lingering in the air.

“Are you okay?” she softly asked, noticing his avoidance of touch, her eyebrows briefly closing in together. “There was an accident at school, no one could get ahold of you, I thought —”

“I’m fine,” Peter forced out. He looked past May, eyes locked on the living room, adrenaline suddenly pumping through every functioning valve of his heart. It felt like a ticking time bomb in his chest, threatening to explode at any second. “My — my phone died. I, uh...I was with Harry. We were studying.”

“Is that an alibi, Mr. Parker?”

The voice, foreign to the apartment walls, had May spinning on the heels of her feet.

“Hey!” She politely, yet firmly, threw back. “He just walked through the door. Give him a minute.”

Peter looked between the two adults, vision blurring at the corners, his knees buckling at the worse time possible. He gripped the doorknob tighter, this time to keep his balance.

“May…” Peter repeated desperately, his voice quivering on her name. “What’s going on?”

There were no words Peter could think of that could describe the look his aunt proceeded to give him. Remorse? Fear? Panic? If it were possible, she looked to be experiencing all those things at once. It was no wonder she seemed so frazzled, worse than the day she discovered him in his spider-suit.

Peter had achieved a new low. He didn’t like how that made him feel.

May stepped behind him, pushing the door closed despite his efforts to keep hold of the handle. Had his hand not been so slick with sweat, maybe he could have stuck himself to it.

Rather, it slipped away, and he pushed himself against the nearest end table to hold his self upright. The four walls of the apartment had suddenly turned into eight, and his stomach wasn’t agreeing with the new additions.

“Captain Stacy’s here to ask you a few questions,” May explained quietly, leading them both into the living room.

Peter nearly stumbled on his feet halfway there. “About what?”

Captain Stacy stood up as they both approached him, holding in both his hands the blue, black, and gold police hat that proudly carried the words ‘NYPD’. The badge on his shoulder shined with reflection of the lamps in the apartment, adding a glisten that wouldn’t normally exist.

Peter swallowed down the thick bile that crept up into his mouth. Even as the two adults returned to their seats on the couch, he chose to stay standing, gripping the back of the love sofa for support.

Captain Stacy gave him a once over before asking, “Are you aware of the event that transpired at your school this afternoon, son?”

“Don’t call me son,” Peter snapped back, the words slipping out like vomit. He hadn’t realized his tone had been so sharp until May shot him a look, flurried panic tinting her skin a blistering pink. He quickly recovered. “I already said I was studying.”

“I heard you.” Stacy held a placating hand in the air, adjusting himself slightly on the couch. “However, you didn’t answer my question. Are you aware of what happened at Midtown School of Science and Technology this afternoon?”

Peter wished he hadn’t looked to May, not even for the slightest second he flitted his gaze in her direction. The plea in her eyes was enough to make him want to come clean about everything, about it all — ignore the voices swarming inside his head and get the help he knew he needed.

“No, sir,” Peter lied.

A low hum sounded. Stacy set his hat to the side, looking less than convinced.

“You said you were studying?” He gave Peter a shifty glance, and only after a hard beat did Peter realize why.

No mirror was needed to know how bad he looked, how awful he smelt — hell, he spent the evening huddled up next to a dumpster in an alleyway. It had taken nearly an hour to stop a nosebleed that probably still stained his skin, and if smears of dried blood weren’t still spread across his face, the crackly red surely overtook the whites of his eyes, bloodshot and dry.

Peter realized with overwhelming anxiety that his case did not look good. At all.

“Don’t you need like, a warrant and probable cause to be here?” Peter opted on saying in lieu of an answer, smothering down his grease, sweat covered hair in hopes that it made him look semi-normal.

Stacy chuckled, looking to May with a toothy grin. “I love when Law and Order has a marathon and every kid on the block thinks they know jurisdiction.”

May’s laugh was much less genuine than Captain Stacy’s, downright tense as it left her mouth.

Peter could feel her anxiety from where he stood; palpable energy that began to crawl underneath his skin. He absolutely hated it when she started to freak out. And he could tell at any minute now she’d be there — freaking out, and then he’d be freaking out alongside her. It was only Captain Stacy’s presence keeping them both calm and collected. If either of the two’s behavior could be called that.

Stacy leaned forward, grabbing what looked to be a piece of bread from the plate sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

“I’m just hear to ask some questions, Mr. Parker,” he kindly insisted, gesturing the food in the air, a few crumbs falling to his lap as he did. “That, and enjoy some of the lovely date-loaf your aunt made. Again, very delicious.”

May forced a smile in his direction, and just as quickly, turned to look at Peter across the way. She pushed her hair back with both her hands, long strands of brown only flopping back into her face without a ponytail to keep it contained.

“Peter, sweetie…” she looked straight at him, a crease forming between her brow. “Where were you after school?”

Peter’s blood turned to ice in his veins, freezing faster than his vocal cords could lock up. He didn’t want to think about school — couldn’t think about it. He could still see MJ’s face, angry and upset, storming away from him before he could get a word out. He could still hear the screams that accompanied breaking glass, and the feel of knives ripping apart every pore in existence on his skin.

He could still see Principal Morita, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor of the hallway.

He had wanted to help.

“I had detention.”

Peter swallowed, hard.

He wished he had helped.

May turned back to Stacy, a tight-lipped grin stretched across her face. “See? Exactly what I told you.”

Stacy took a bite of date-loaf, brushing the crumbs off the crisp, wrinkle-free material of his pants before he looked back up at Peter.

“Detention for what, exactly?”

Peter furrowed his brows, irritated. “Why does that mat—?”

“Your principal was attacked today.” Stacy’s no-sense admittance tore through the room like a bullet; cold and hard, sharp-edged when it hit.

The last tether of denial Peter had been clinging onto was ripped away, hearing aloud what he knew all along. Still, a sense of unreality gripped him, held him hostage.

He should’ve helped.

“Attacked?” Peter’s voice was no more than threadbare, breath lodged in his lungs.

Stacy gave a grim nod. “His body was found by the janitor, around sixteen hundred in the afternoon. He had been thrown into the trophy case on the Lincoln Wing’s first floor, on the south side of the building. Whatever altercation occurred, it appears to have been violent.”

What Stacy said didn’t register in Peter’s ears until a full second after it had been spoken. A ringing weaved through each word, an oily grease that made his ears itch and twitch with repulsion. He could feel his legs quickly turn into jelly, the weight of his body suddenly too much to hold up.

May leveled him a look, as if judging his reaction to the news. He was too busy trying to keep himself upright to notice.

“Is he…” Peter licked his lips, dry and cracked, nearly blistering at the corners. “Is he okay?”

The silence that followed couldn’t have been more than a second, two at the very most. Yet for Peter, it felt like a lifetime. Stretched on longer than the shaky breath he managed to catch.

It was all he could do to keep his eyes open — refusing to blink, knowing what he’d see if he did. Someone innocent, someone who was only trying to help him. Injured, unable to get help. Hurt by the hand’s Peter swore he’d be responsible with, swore he’d only do good with.

‘I didn’t — ’

 

Leͥ͒́t ҉u͐s̤̹ͪͤ ̲͉ḩ͕͖̫ė͉lp̢ͫ ̝̚ C͑̓̃ͦͮ͌̌̾ͯ̓O̗̬NT̺̯̯̜̤͓̯̝͔̠ͅR͎͋O̸̢̩̭̯̙̣̘͈̹̣̯̤̭ͭ͗ͦ͛̊̇ͪ̉͗͂̂ͪ͡Ļ̶̺͖̦̻̮̹̙͙͇̯̤ͧͯͦ͊ͧͨ͊̃̆̿ͪ ̡̠̙͎̻̅ͨͣ̚Y͍̹̪̲̻̭̜͖͚͕͙͕͙ͅ hel̙̪̞̈̍ͬp ̶͔̼̆͆yo͚͕u

 

 

“He’s hospitalized, as expected,” Stacy finally answered. Peter’s entire body grew stiff. “Intensive care, the last that I heard. It seems he’s taken on some head trauma. Unfortunately, we don’t expect him to be available for questioning for some time.”

May was definitely staring at him now, and Peter threw his head towards her, his forehead creasing with unexplainable confusion. Why was she looking at him like that? Did she think he did this? Was she afraid of him?

Did she not trust him?

Should she trust him?

Scorched, razor-sharp pain shot into the back of his skull, the whirlwind of panicked thoughts coming to a screeching halt. Peter shut his eyes, biting his tongue to stay quiet, to keep his pained cries from ever leaving through his clenched teeth. The taste of bitter copper overwhelmed his senses, coating his gums and cheeks.

He realized too late that Captain Stacy was still talking.

“...and despite the advancements made to the security cameras in your school, we’ve been unable to obtain any footage of the last hour leading up to the attack,” he explained. “So we’re doing things the old fashion way. Taking a headcount of the kids who were in the building at the time.”

It took what little energy Peter had in him to focus past the sharp ringing in his ears, desperate to listen to what was being said. He wasn’t sure if his eyes opened anything past half-mast, but he tried anyway.

Stacy was eyeing him down, his eyebrows arched high into his graying hairline.

“You were in detention?” He didn’t phrase it as a question, rather a statement. Awaiting confirmation with a look that neither Peter nor May felt comfortable with.

Peter’s throat quivered, and he swallowed forcefully to push past it.

“Yes, sir.”

Stacy nodded. Hummed. Looked to May briefly before turning back to Peter.

“And you left shortly after?”

Gripping the back of the sofa as tight as he could, Peter nodded. The living room began to sway dangerously fast, lamps and furniture quickly turning topsy-turvy in places they shouldn’t normally be.

A small part of him wanted to be honest, the faintest piece of him that hadn’t been dismantled and torn apart screaming to just put an end to it all. The hole he was digging had gotten too big — he knew it, he could see how deep the chasm went.

And yet with a sickening grasp of what was happening, Peter realized he couldn’t come clean now. Not to the police, of all people. If Mr. Stark didn’t believe he wasn’t in control when attacking Natasha, there would be no way the Captain of the NYPD would believe he didn’t hurt his principal on purpose.

It was far too late now. His lie had become shards too sharp to put back together.

“Yeah,” Peter managed, the word tasting like acid in his mouth. Something churned in his gut, his eyes filling to the brim with tears. He scurried to blink them away before they could fall. “I was in detention. Left, uh...left right after.”

On the couch, Stacy kept his eyes locked on Peter, running his tongue across his upper teeth. It looked like he was studying the boy, examining his every feature, all the way down to his dirty tennis shoes.

“A few hours ago, one of my colleagues spoke with a classmate of yours,” he went on to say. “Michelle Jones. Your friend, yes?”

Something akin to dread crossed over Peter’s face.

They had talked to MJ.

MJ, who had stormed out of the library. Slapped him, yelled at him — she hated him. Wanted nothing to do with him. He had ruined everything with her, any chance, anything they could have had. He screwed up big time —

Peter bit his bottom lip, muffling a cry in his throat. His head was erupting, fire forming inside his skull, spikes slamming through the back of his eyes and into his nose.

He didn’t answer, couldn’t risk a nod. He simply met Stacy’s stare with his own.

“She said the same thing,” Stacy told them, after a short pause. “That you two left long before anything had occurred.”

Peter’s mouth fell open, just for a second. He almost doubted what he’d heard, a rush of dizziness soaring through him at the sheer disbelief of it all.

Stacy narrowed his eyes, suspiciously, stealing the brief moment of relief that Peter felt and replacing it with a spike of panic.

“You see, the problem is...” he started, casually brushing the remaining crumbs of bread off his pants. “I don’t believe it.”

“Now, wait a minute!” May finally had enough, shooting up from the couch as fast as her heels would allow her. “Peter wouldn’t hurt a fly! He’s a good boy, he’s an excellent student, he —”

“Is in detention for the assault of a fellow classmate. Is failing his classes and is at risk of losing his scholarship,” Stacy quickly steamrolled her, calm and professional through it all. “And with all due respect, Ms. Parker, you may want to consider some form of a drug testing while we’re at it. I don’t know if you’ve taken a good, hard look at your nephew as of recently, but I’ve seen the same cold sweats from junkies on the street.”

Peter made a face. “I’m not doing drugs!”

“I’m just saying,” Stacey completely ignored Peter’s protest, directing his attention solely to May. “You wouldn’t be the first guardian I’ve spoken to in denial about —”

“Alright, that’s enough.” May huffed a sigh, noticeably restraining any further outbursts. “I allowed you into my home to question Peter, not point your finger at him with wild accusations.”

Stacy held up both hands, palms forward. “That’s fair. And yes, I do have my assumptions of what possibly took place —”

“Proof?” Peter shakily asked. “Do you have any proof?”

There was a hard beat. Anymore quiet, and Peter would have sworn someone had ripped out his eardrums, the room suddenly lacking any noise that kept the moment alive.

For as professional as he had managed to remain, Captain Stacy showed a break of resilience. Annoyance flashed across the crows-feet of his eyes, digging deep into the stress lines of his face.

“No,” he ground out, noticeably keeping his eyes on Peter as he spoke. “As of this moment, we do not have proof.”

Peter didn’t have time to think about the logistics behind that — how the school’s security footage was missing, or why MJ was covering for him.

May stepped forward before he could even consider the possibilities.

“Then you’ve asked your questions,” she insisted, hugging herself with one arm while the other pointed to the front door. “You wanted to hear directly from Peter where he was tonight, and you heard it for yourself. Now, with all due respect, Captain...please leave.”

The tight-lipped, forced grin that Stacy managed felt as uncomfortable as ever. Peter had seen that type of look before — it wasn’t genuine, it wasn’t real. He was playing a game of formalities, and even as he stood from the couch with his police hat in hand, he still remained unconvinced.

“Of course.” Stacy gave a nod to May, sidestepping Peter on his way to the door. “I appreciate you allowing me the time to —”

“Why’d you come here?” Peter abruptly asked, spinning so fast to look at Stacy that his eyes momentarily couldn’t keep up.

“Peter —!” May gaped, looking as if she had been struck.

Peter ignored her.

“No, like, you,” he clarified, angry, indignation dripping through his tone. “Why you?”

Stacy lifted an eyebrow, stopping short of the front door to turn and face the teenager. He looked him over again, up and down, keeping whatever thoughts he may have had to himself.

Peter didn’t need to hear anything out loud to know what the man was thinking. And deep down inside — past the pain that exploded in his head, and the monster that clawed at his insides, beyond the force that gripped at his lungs and chest — Peter couldn’t blame him.

He was supposed to be the good guy. The hero.

And he wasn’t.

Not anymore.

“I’m not sure if you understand the gravity of this situation, Mr. Parker,” Stacy explained, his voice sharp at the edges. “Your principle was assaulted —”

“So the captain of the NYPD is going door to door to interrogate students?” Peter tossed back, unsure of where the words were even coming from. It felt strange, surreal. And somehow right. “Don’t you have something better to do than bug my aunt about some school principal, or accuse me of doing drugs?”

“Peter!” May stepped forward, eyes wide at his outburst. “Watch what you —!”

“No, he’s right,” Stacy cut in, a ghost of a smile stretching the smoker’s wrinkles on his mouth. “Albeit blunt, but what New Yorker isn’t, am I right?” His chuckle fell quiet, more halfhearted than anything else. He looked to Peter, his head tilting oddly to the side. “You’re a smart kid. No question about that.”

Peter bit his tongue, a grimace tight on his face.

Adjusting his stance, Stacy slowly placed his captain’s hat on his head, fitting it perfectly in place before speaking again.

“This one’s a little personal, Peter,” he admitted, the use of Peter’s name only making his grimace harder, his expression turning more sour. The upturn of Stacy’s lips quickly disappeared into something more serious. The sudden change made Peter’s heart skip a beat, or two or three. “Regardless of my position with the force, I’m sure you can imagine I want no one’s safety put in jeopardy...especially my daughters.”

The silence that followed was longer. Harder.

Peter’s chest constricted, and if it weren’t for his pounding pulse screaming in his ears, he would have sworn his heart had stopped altogether. His skin grew flush, sweat increasing by the tenfold, the look from the Captain sending him spiraling through a vortex too deep to escape from.

Stacy tipped his head forward, the NYPD logo reflecting on his hat in the hallway lights. He looked at Peter — really looked at him — before rocking back on the heels of his feet.

“She attends Midtown, you know. One grade down from you.” A hand reached behind his back, grabbing hold of the knob to the apartment door and twisting it open with ease. “So if there’s any threat lurking around that school, you best bet I’ll be on top of it. I assure you, just as there’s no question about your intelligence...there’s no question about that either.”

The hinges creaked as he pulled the door open, the eerie quiet falling between them transforming an otherwise trivial noise into shattering grenades, busting through Peter’s ears and leaving a sharp ringing in its wake.

This was bad — shit, this was really bad.

Peter lifted his chin high, forcing a sense of composure on himself that he wasn’t sure even crossed along his face. They didn’t have security footage, right? They had no way of proving it was him. Stacy was just trying to get under his skin — he had to be, he couldn’t know anything.

There was still time to fix this.

Something menacing seized his throat, twisting at his lungs until there was no air left in his body. Peter forced himself to swallow, though even that felt like daggers slitting through his windpipe.

He had no idea how to fix this.

Suddenly, the throbbing in his head overpowered the anger he had felt, drowning out the quick burn of fury for a slow, painful build of panic. It felt worse, much worse. Goosebumps coursed along his arms, and he shuddered with a deep cold that singed from within.

Stacy went to leave, pausing at the threshold of the hallway before looking back over his shoulder.

“Ms. Parker. Mr. Parker.” He tilted his head forward, a flash of white teeth baring in a brief smile. “Thank you for your time, and please — stay safe.”

The Captain didn’t give either of the two a chance to respond. The door closed, and the hinges creaked with it.

Peter wasn’t sure why he jumped at the sound, why it startled him so much. A tasteless haze had quickly engulfed his senses, his head swimming in the wake of a fall; a drop so far down from the high he was never aware of it.

He clenched his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands against his face. The anger felt easy. It felt right.

But it wasn’t right — it didn’t make sense.

Footsteps pounded against the carpet floor, breaking through the suffocating fog. May didn’t waste a hairsbreadth of a second, her heels scampering to the front door quicker than Peter’s eyes could keep up with.

He watched her wordlessly, a lump growing large in the front of his throat. Her hands forced the deadbolt into place, trembling slightly as she twisted both locks below it. Baggy sleeves covered most of her hands, her grip clenching the doorknob like it would magically open if she decided to let it go. As if any second, the captain of the police force would come barging through again, dead-set on making her life a living hell.

For a moment that felt all too long, May stood frozen. Her back facing him, Peter could see the hiccups of uneven breathing rattle the over-sized cardigan she wore.

She was freaked.

Just as he expected.

Forcing himself to swallow, Peter opened his mouth to speak. “I know what you’re thinking —”

May spun around, eyes hysterically wide. “Where were you!?”

He gaped, disbelief coming out in a dry huff that nearly wracked his shoulder’s.

“What I told him — detention!” Peter gestured his arm to the door, unintentionally raising his voice. The neighbor’s dog across the hall began to bark at the commotion, loud yips blasting through the thin drywall of their building.

May barely paid it any mind. She shook her head, hard, letting go of the doorknob only to point a finger furiously in his direction.

“No — no! It is nine-thirty at night!” Her tone sent a knot into Peter’s gut, full of more anger than he’d possibly ever heard from her. It was raw, frighteningly coarse. “You don’t text. You don’t call. Your phone is clearly off — what were you doing? Where were you!?”

Peter couldn’t face May as she stared him down, eyes so intently locked on him that they could have drilled a hole right through his core. He looked away, a burning sheen of tears punishing his eyes, moistening already wet eyelashes. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep them away.

“I…” he stammered for a response, words suddenly lost to him. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be a lie, desperation to hide the truth stealing his upmost basic ability to speak, to utter anything besides muted stammers that barely crossed over his lips.

“I just…” Peter struggled through the cotton drying out his mouth, splintering his words apart. “I lost track of time.”

It was rare he’d ever seen his aunt this angry. Freaked, absolutely. Stressed, panicked, anxious — he’d seen that more often than not.

But never angry.

May was past angry. She was seething with rage.

And he was at fault for that.

He was at fault for upsetting MJ.

He had hurt Principal Morita.

“I’m sorry,” Peter choked out.

He wished more than anything that the apology would fix this.

Yet even that felt toxic on his tongue.

May huffed, an exhale so heavy it blew the hair out of her face. She didn’t seem pleased, far from it. Yet her shoulders dropped a tad smidgen, and the blood vessels on her temples began to shrink, the swelling of her anger lessening in the moment.

She shook her head again and brushed past Peter.

“Do you have any idea how enormously freaked I was?” The living room took on the sound of her footsteps, walking with no real destination in mind. “Peter, the captain of the NYPD was just in our apartment. In my living room. Asking questions about you! What do you think my first thought was? What do you think I was thinking!?”

She was rambling; Peter could tell. He turned on his heels to face her.

“I didn’t know what happened!” he tried to calm her down to no avail. “I didn’t...I didn't charge my phone, it died, and-and I —”

“Here he is asking me about you, and — and this assault that had happened, and why you’re not home yet and —” May wrapped her arms tightly around herself, yanking the cardigan until it stretched thin. “I thought he had discovered...you know…god! I thought he’d be taking you away from me!”

Peter frantically shook his head. “May, he doesn’t know anything about Spi—”

“And then he tells me that your principal is in the hospital, and then I couldn’t get a hold of you, and Ned hasn’t heard from you and Michelle wasn’t answering and —” May forced herself to take a deep breath, her shoulders shuddering the entire time she heaved in, practically gulping for air. “I thought — I thought you were hurt, or in danger, or —"

“I’m fine!” Peter took two large steps into the living room, only coming to a halt when his aunt turned to face him, so suddenly it took him off guard. Her cheeks blistered hot with streaks of red, her eyes matching alongside them. He tried again, “May, I’m fine.”

The silence that followed was hollow.

“Peter, you do not look fine.” May’s arms tightened around her chest — so tight now that there had to be a serious risk to her need to keep breathing. She stood still, rooted in place, the quivering on her shoulders making it appear as if she were splitting apart.

There had only been one other time Peter could remember seeing her this freaked. This unnerved. It went all the way back to a night that a robber needed a getaway car, when Peter had left home with his uncle and instead returned to their Queens apartment accompanied by the police.

Vomit began to surge into his throat, coating his esophagus with caustic bile. He couldn’t tell why — if it was from the sheer stress of everything, or something more. But he felt like he was somehow about to throw up, every part of him fighting the urge with weak restraint.

“Talk to me. Please.” May begged, her voice cracking at the edges. “It’s just you and me here, no one else. It stays between us, it...it…”

The words froze Peter for a moment — brain, mouth, all the way down to his fidgeting fingers that locked up, bent at crude angles. His eyes crept over to May, lips still moving, still speaking.

“I need to know, Peter,” she finished with a shaking breath. “I mean it. Just you and me.”

Peter blinked. He stared at May, straight on, his gaze turning cold and steely. A razor-deep spike tore straight into him, without warning, with no caution.

If it was anger he felt, it was incapacitating; crushing any deliberate and clear thought he once had. All consuming, beyond the control of his unsteady, decrepit attempts at suppression.

“If I tell you anything, you’re just going to tell Mr. Stark.” His words sounded painful, and jarring – as he if were forcing them out of a throat that just refused to corporate.

May seemed taken aback. “Peter, I’m not —”

“You’ve been doing it all year!”

The shout tumbled out of his mouth, hitting the walls at full force — and May, who’s eyes had grown wider than the glasses on her face.

“Every time — every time we talk, you go and tell Mr. Stark. Every time!” Peter’s tongue dripped with disdain, his spine taunt with indignance. “I can’t tell him anything myself because you’ve already told him! I get bad grades, he knows. I get in a fight, he knows! I swear if I stay up too late he knows that too! Ever since that stuff happened months ago, it’s like you two don’t trust me to do anything anymore! You two are constantly looking over my shoulder like at any moment I’ll be snatched up, like — like I won’t be able to do anything about it and I can — I can protect myself, I can!”

Peter swallowed thickly, his throat raw, chafed. Feeling as if he had ripped apart his vocal cords with a yell that was foreign to his own ears. The outburst hit like an erupting volcano, destructive, devastating everything in its path.

His heart hammered against his ribs, his chest heaving desperately. Urgently sucking in a breath he’d wasted in a moment that made him dizzy, abruptly too light on his feet.

May stared at him, stunned and stuttering.

“I — I know that sweetie…” she tried, suddenly quiet, timid. “I — we never meant to make you feel like you were —”

“See? It’s we,” Peter croaked, stomping forward, barely noticing May instinctively take a few steps back. “You have to include him in everything, even when he’s not here!”

She shook her head, the crease between her forehead deepening. “Peter, what is your problem with Tony all of a sudden?”

“Nothing!” The crack in his voice did little to help his case. “My problem is you constantly involving him with everything in my life! I don’t need him to know everything, I don’t need him for everything — I did just fine before him!”

May opened her mouth to respond, but faltered. Her lips clamped shut a moment later, her eyes wildly looking Peter up and down, the grip on her cardigan growing so tight that her knuckles were turning pale.

“I thought...we thought you wanted that. I thought —”

“Not like this!” Peter’s shout thundered across the living room, and this time, he did notice May backing away from him. Somehow, it only added to his outrage, fuel to the firing pit of anger that simmered hot in his veins.

May shook her head, viciously, her expression growing stern.

“You can’t just pick the good things for people to hear, Peter,” she insisted. “If you want Tony in your life, he has to hear about the bad stuff too. That’s just how it works.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Peter firmly, coldly, insisted. “Not if you don’t tell him! Not if —”

“That’s not how it works —”

“Will you just let me talk!?”

A breath of air stuttered in Peter’s chest, oxygen suddenly too hard to come by. The feeling seemed to be reciprocal; May stilled, frozen in the wake of his outburst.

Peter swore, just for a moment — a fleeting second that passed by too quickly — that his vision went dark and his ears grew deaf. The brutal rage seeping through his very being coursed on like a rampage, dismantling him in ways that should have otherwise frightened him no different than before.

But the anger felt good. It felt better than the fear, better than the panic. He held onto it, unknowingly, clinging to the renewed energy it provided.

The breath caught in his chest escaped through gritted teeth. Peter set his jaw tight.

“It doesn’t matter.” His voice began to sound rough, abused. It almost didn’t sound like him, laced with so much untapped emotion that he was losing track of what there was to be angry about. “If I tell you, you’ll go running back to tell him. And then he’ll be on my case, and so will you, and no one will actually listen to what I have to say so what’s the point!?”

The only response to his yell was the dog barking across the hall.

Weeks of resentment had snowballed too big, built up a boil that had split over the pot and drenched the floor. Peter couldn’t help raising his voice, he didn’t care that his shouting had disturbed the neighbors and their pet.

It felt good to let it out. Like scratching an itch, like water that was too hot against sore skin.

It felt wrongfully good.

“Peter…” May slowly started, cautious to keep distance between them. “If I tell Tony anything, trust me — it’s for your own good. I swear, sweetie, I…” her voice grew quiet, close to impossible to hear. “I swear on...on Ben’s life. It’s only to help you.”

If the sound of his uncle’s name didn’t break him, the look on May’s face did.

Peter flinched, though he failed to realize it in the moment. He blinked, once and then again, realizing his eyes were suddenly burning with the fire he’d felt surging through his veins.

A chill swept over him.

Suddenly, he was tired.

Really, really tired.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Peter found himself muttering, unable to look anywhere but the top corner of the apartment, far away from his aunt and the tears that glossed over her eyes. Right alongside his own.

He didn’t want to fight anymore.

He didn’t want to have to lie anymore.

He just…

Peter rubbed two tightly closed fists against his eyes, pushing against his face until it hurt. He just wanted to forget any of this happened — go to sleep and figure it out tomorrow.

“Please, Peter…” May breathed deeply, frustrated and yet somehow something more. “Talk to me. Say something, anything — please.”

It was impossible to ignore the wetness that coated May’s plea, the raw sorrow that filled an otherwise cold and tense living room.

Peter scrubbed harder at his face, the fabric of his hoodie scraping into his skin.

He needed help, right?

Could May help?

Or wait, no...someone else was helping him. He didn’t need anyone else’s help.

Right?

He was confused. It was too hard to think, he was suddenly too tired to make sense of it all. Peter couldn’t remember what was what, exhaustion making it impossible to do anything but push his legs forward, his body absentmindedly heading right towards his bedroom.

“I’ve got nothing to tell you,” he mumbled, struggling to keep his knees from buckling as he dragged his feet across the hallway. “I’m fine. Really.”

He barely got halfway there before May spun towards him.

“Hey!” she shouted, sniffing hard past the tears, folding her arms tightly over her chest. “I’m not done talking to you, mister!”

Peter spun around, throwing his arms in the air. “Yeah? Well, I’m done, okay?”

There was no more heat to his voice, no more anger in his tone. The fury that lit him ablaze had quickly been smothered, extinguished to nothing but soot and smog.

Peter turned back around, his hand already on the doorknob to his bedroom when May spoke again.

“Peter!”

He went to respond — he wanted to say something, he really did. A crippling yell was on the tip of his tongue, his throat already constricted with a shout that burned in his belly.

But something clenched deep in his stomach, and his head fell til his chin touched his chest, swaying tremendously with vertigo that threatened his balance. Energy had all been but sucked away from every inch of his body.

Peter stayed quiet, stayed in place. Never once tried to search for his voice, never tried to turn and face his aunt. His back stayed facing her, even as her quiet sniffs made it abundantly clear that she was long past holding in her tears.

“The super came by this morning,” May managed to say, clearing her throat with a wet sound before speaking again. “He fixed that leaking pipe. The one that had been bothering you so much.”

Peter’s grip on the doorknob tightened as his eyes closed, and for a moment that felt like five lifetimes, he didn’t move.

Without warning, a wave of everything came crashing down on him. The guilt was paralyzing, and he let himself feel it — feel everything he was doing wrong, had done wrong — all of it.

It wasn’t right. No matter how right it felt, it wasn’t right.

That needed to change. With or without help.

 

W͍͍̪ͣ̌ͯ͞e҉̜̼ee̬͕̱ę̼̍e̪͢e̮̲̓͌͜ȅ̓̀ ͖͖͔̇̍̈͘w̨̬ͯī̙̺̱̊̂l̿̓ͤ͟l ̡̦h͂̄̾ȅl̷p

 

Peter threw his bedroom door open, desperate to escape the unbearable claws of what would only be more lies stacked upon lies. He couldn’t do that anymore, couldn’t lie anymore — not when he promised his uncle so much better than that.

He had a plan.

He’d make this right.

 

Aͬͥll̢̦̞̎͑ ̻̻͉͆̄ͫis ̡̗̰̽̿ r͓̟ͤ́i̵g̞̰̻g͏̝̥̦h͚̖͓t̫ͣtt̀̾t̺̹̗̋ͦ͐

 

No quicker than he slammed the bedroom door shut, Peter fell to his knees, scrambling for what he knew laid tucked underneath his bottom bunk. His hands reached blindly for it, bumping along empty water bottles and discarded computer parts in a fit of desperation.

He wouldn’t be in this position had he done something sooner.

— get help, talk to someone, do something.

He had hurt someone. His hands, his actions. He swore he’d be responsible and now he almost killed a someone.

— could still die, Principal Morita could still die —

This was his fault. His fault, he was screwing up, screwing up so big.

 

L̲̱̝͒ͨ̊e̬̩̳͋̀̈t̛̰̹̻ ͎͙ͧ̔u͍̥̠̍̈́̌͘s̬͔̰͡ ́ͮ̓h̖̆͡ẽll͒̽͡lp͕̘p̫̙̱ͦ͐ͯp͔̭͆ͭ

 

By the time Peter yanked it out from its hiding spot, he was breathless. Still, he clutched the fabric in his hands, the red and blue so vivid it nearly hurt his eyes to look at. It made his head ache with more pain than what already laced his skull, but he had it — he had his suit.

It would be okay.

Because he had his suit.

Peter Parker was the one screwing things up.

It was time for Spider-Man to make things right.

The pressure in his head increased sharply, as if it were trying to warn him of what was to come, but Peter managed a grin. Hysteric, weak, but there. Just like his suit, clutched in the grip of his hands.

The black spider emblem in center of it all glistened across the lights of his bedroom, shinning with a gloss that otherwise would be muted and matte.

For a brief moment, it spasmed with life.

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

CLICK. CLICK.

 

TAP.

 

The words ‘rewind’ cut to display on the computer monitor.

The sound from his cell phone, loud on speaker, played over the muted video.

“I’m telling you...this isn’t like him.” May’s voice flooded through the otherwise quiet workshop. There was another sniff, a repressed cry barely concealed with a poorly fake cough. It wasn’t her first time during their conversation that she tried to hide it. “He’s acting...weird. Really weird.”

CLICK. CLICK.

TAP.

The words ‘rewind’ cut to display on the computer monitor.

Tony leaned in, shoulders hunched, back tense. So close that his eyes were practically touching the screen, the reflection of its glow highlighting every stress line, every crevasse and wrinkle deepening on his face.

“He’s a sixteen-year-old boy,” Tony dryly responded, index finger tapping on the keyboard below him. “Twenty bucks and a custom styled Lamborghini Aventado says it’s classic hormones combined with ravenous mood swings not even your local fast food joint could quell.”

The footage played again, and again — rewind, play, rewind, play. He never looked away, never gave the slightest bit of his attention to the cell phone sitting next to the keyboard, to anything besides the recorded video playing on repeat.

His eyes were glued to the screen, held captive.

“I don’t think it’s that. I think…” the already quiet, outright close to a whispering voice trailed off into nothing. Tony arched an eyebrow but kept his gaze locked straight ahead. “Somethings not right with him. Something feels...very wrong.”

The security footage played from the start, no different than the mere seconds before. Offering the same scene he’d witnessed countless of times already.

An approach.

An attempted escape.

And then…

Something he couldn’t explain.

Tony ran a single hand down the length of his face, ignoring the slight tremble in his fingers, his nails shaking in his goatee. God’s from another universe, aliens attacking New York, all the way down to his own creation of an artificial intelligence hellbent on destroying humanity — everything that came before this seemed tame. Outright monotonous.

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He paused the footage with a tap of a key. Had he not known better, he’d say the video was doctored — too paranormal to possibly be real. The still images held no more clarity than the moving footage. It didn’t make sense, didn’t seem real; something eerie and sinister crystallizing a horror buried deeply in his bones.

“Chalk it up to teenage angst.”

A string of oozing tendrils dripped like sludge across the school hallway, reflecting from the monitor straight into his pupils, blending into one.

Branches shot forward, limbs that were conscious beyond control launching an attack. Hitting its target dead center.

It was haunting.

“Tony, he...I think he’s sick.”

It all came from Peter.

CLICK. CLICK.

TAP.

“Sick, huh?” He rewound the footage again, freezing the frame at the very moment the blackness appeared.

There was no disputing it, no arguing any different.

It was unequivocally Peter — shooting straight out of him, a foreign substance that hid deeply in his body, lying beneath the surface of his pores. Waiting for the moment to break free.

Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose, finally clenching his eyes shut if only to see something — anything — besides the horrific image that had long since burned into his mind.

It was far too late. The chilling sight had seared itself like a branding, playing on repeat beneath closed eyelids. There was no key he could press to make it stop.

“Tell ya what,” he started, finally directing his attention to the phone sitting nearby. “Keep him out of school tomorrow, let him catch up on some Z’s. I’ll have Happy swing on by to pick him up later on. Bring him back here, get the good ‘ol doc to look him over. Sound good?”

The casual, lighthearted tone flowing from his mouth fought a hard battle with the hammering heart in his chest, a racing pulse that screamed the anxiety he wouldn’t dare show. Not to her, not when the risks were too high.

He needed time right now, all the time his money could possibly buy. If this was real — and it sure as hell was proving itself to be that way, no matter how much denial Tony wanted to feel — then it was vital to eliminate as many people as possible from being involved.

May would give him hell about it later. He’d happily take it, too, so long as it guaranteed her safety.

“I mean, I...yeah, you’re right, he needs to stay home, absolutely. He’s...he’s definitely under the weather with something. He’s — something’s not right, whatever it is. But…” Legs of a wooden chair screeched in the background, easily overlapping her thin, tired voice. “You don’t think it’s suspicious he stays out of school the day after his principal was assaulted?”

There was something unsettling about the way May sounded. Tony couldn’t quite put his finger on it, possibly too distracted, possibly something more.

Still, it gripped him, if only for a passing second.

Was it fear he heard in her voice, or was that a self-projection of his own feelings?

His pulse thumped erratically under his skin, his fingers drumming endlessly on the computer desk below him.

“Listen…” Tony turned back to the monitor, barely paying mind as his neck let out a stressful pop at the movement. “I’ll pay Stacy to stay off your backs for right now. You won’t have to worry about the police digging around. A teenager should be the last suspect on their list, anyhow.”

The glow of the screen made his eyes burn, his expression grim as ever yet failing to match the nonchalance of his voice.

“In the mean time, why don’t you just...let him be. Heed your own advice, ease off the gas pedal a little. Gray area, right?” Silence met his suggestion. Tony noticeably cleared his throat. “He’ll be back to his normal, overly optimistic self this time next week.”

The sigh crackling through his speak-phone said more than words ever could. Tony held back a curse sitting perilously close to the tip of his tongue, his jaw burning with cruel tightness.

“I think Happy has the night off.” Tony clucked his tongue. “Scratch that, Happy now has the night off. You two are going out, courtesy of yours truly. I’ll have reservations made in…done. Nice little place uptown, you’ll love it — just steer clear of the seafood, can be a little iffy depending on the off-seasons. Ask Pepper, she’ll tell you all about —”

“Tony, it’s almost ten o’clock.” May’s words came out in an incredulous breath of air. “On a Monday night. You can’t be serious —”

“May, get out of the apartment.”

The curse finally slipped through his lips, quiet as it may have been. Tony clenched his eyes shut, his anxiety seeping through his tone in a way that sounded far from casual, far from lighthearted.

For a slip second, he sounded as panicked as he felt.

“I mean, you deserve it. A night out, playing hookie from work in the morning.” Quickly, Tony turned to face the phone, as if looking at it directly would sell the act he was desperately putting on. “I’ll look into what’s going on with the kid, you have my word for it. Let me take the wheel on this one, you don’t have to burden yourself with it all anymore. Co-parenting, remember?”

The beat that fell between them stole the next beat of his heart, skipping so forcefully he could feel it.

Tony furrowed his brows, his head beginning to ache with too much caffeine — scratch that, never enough. Hesitatingly, and with a tremble he overlooked, his finger pressed down harshly on the keyboard, watching for the countless time as the footage played from the start.

As something possessive, something dark and menacing arose with vehemence from within the body of a sixteen-year-old-boy.

Tony wished he could feel the same relief that he heard on the other line, the exhale that blew into the speaker phone lessening in the stress he was sure had only been transferred onto his shoulders.

“Alright, that’s...that’s a plan. That sounds good.” Another hard, wet sniff gave May away, and he could hear her footsteps walking aimlessly on the floor of her apartment. “Thanks for taking the call, Tony. And, uhm...keep it between us?”

CLICK. CLICK.

TAP.

There was a heavy silence.

“Cross my heart.”

Silence came through the speaker phone at the exact time Tony ghosted a shaking hand along his face. His muscles were suddenly too heavy to scrub away the exhaustion that made him feel five times heavier, though he managed to wipe away the crust from his eyes if only to better see the paused picture still on display.

An arm reached over next to him, tapping at the touch screen of the phone and officially ending the call that neither of them seemed eager to do.

Tony barely lifted his head, craning his neck oddly to the side.

“We need to act.” His voice was raggedly, strained at release. “And fast.”

Steve frowned, but nodded his head, picking up and handing the phone over to Tony. “Is she safe there? May?”

As weary as Tony looked to take hold of his phone, he managed with a sigh. His fingers darted across the screen, quickly typing a message to someone Steve could just barely make out as ‘Forehead of Security’

“Happy will get there within the hour. Take her somewhere uptown, get her away from Queens for the night,” Tony distantly mentioned. A lax hand waved in the direction of the high tech, two-way radio transceiver that sat next to the computer monitor. “Until then, Hawk’s got a nest outside their apartment. Anything happens, and we’ll know.”

Steve hovered at Tony’s side, folding his arms across his chest. Alarm bells were going off in his head, multiple sirens ringing at once — Tony could tell, and he had barely offered a glance to the soldier since arriving back at the compound.

Yet again, he’d barely done anything but steer off a brewing panic attack since leaving OsCorp.

It had not been a good day. 

“And nobody saw this?” Steve nodded to the screen, indicating to the security footage on pause.

Tony tossed his phone to the side carelessly, pinching dangerously hard at the bridge between his eyes.

“The security officer assigned to rounds at the time admitted he was sneaking a smoke out back,” he mumbled. “FRIDAY deleted the footage from their servers before it could be accessed. No one has seen it besides us.”

Steve arched an otherwise doubtful eyebrow.

“The Captain of the force just dropped by Peter’s place to ask questions, Tony. Surely they’re looking into how the footage was erased.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Tony combed a hand through his hair. He had to admit, that part of the evening was the cherry ontop of his already spoiled sundae. “It’s a good thing I volunteered Stark Industries to solve the problem for them. The IT department has already signed a contract onboard with the NYPD to investigate the case.”

Steve’s gaze grew harder. “And how’s that gonna go down?”

“We’ll tell them the truth,” Tony said without hesitation. The look of surprise that spread across Steve’s face was almost enough to earn a smirk from him. “All unrecoverable data,” he finished.

While even a hint of a smile proved to be too much for Tony, Steve managed a lopsided grin, weak as it may have been. It was something; it was enough. The looming stress of it all had stolen and ripped away their peace of mind — a small victory was one well worth celebrating.

Still, there wasn’t time to waste. As if to prove it, the automatic doors across the workshop whooshed open, adding to the already tight knot in the back of Tony’s neck. Footsteps hit the floor hard and fast, and he restrained the urge to roll his eyes.

“So what’s the plan?” Sam was quick to ask, his bold tone ripping right through the room.

Steve whirled his head around, just as Sam crossed the threshold of the workshop with Natasha closely following at his side. Despite their entrance, Tony didn’t budge an inch. His taps on the keyboard were starting to severely endanger the structural integrity of even his own devices.

“Nothing that requires an overly mechanical Big Bird,” he said without looking away from his screen. “Do us all a favor — go meet up with Elmo back down at Sesame Street.”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. Natasha quickly walked pasted him, never once letting up her pace.

“Excuse me, Tin-Man?” Sam looked to Steve, his face questioning if what he heard was actually — legitimately — what he had heard. The apologetic look Steve offered said enough.

Before Sam could rebut, Natasha held a hand in the air. It was her only free hand, the other tightly clutching a folder by her hip.

“Don’t take it personally,” she pressed, her voice uncharacteristically clipped. “Tony’s pissed at me and has decided to take it out on everyone else instead.”

After a few moments, Sam’s huff of disbelief became the only source of sound in the room — other than Tony’s vicious keystrokes.

“What, because you didn’t want him marching into some high-school and manhandling a student right after he nearly killed the principal?” Sam took the silence as an answer, his eyes somehow widening even further. “C’mon, Stark, no way could you have possibly thought that would’ve ended well!”

Tony rubbed his temples, his stock of patience quickly depleting.

“Up until an hour ago, the damn kid went off the grid,” he said, his attention falling back to his screen. “If Romanoff hadn’t dictated our destination when we clearly should have gone straight to Peter —”

“I talked some sense into you,” Natasha objected. “A superhero billionaire showing up to high-school right after a paranormal assault —”

“He’d be here.” Tony pursed his lips tightly. “Under our watch.”

“And you and him both would be prime suspect number one,” Natasha admonished.

“Yeah, okay, that —” Sam pointed a wagging finger in Natasha’s direction before quickly turning back to Tony, despite the man having his back to them all. “That mostly, but also — how’d he go off the grid if you’ve got a tracker in that panic watch of his?”

A growing headache had definitely bloomed into a full blown migraine, and this time, Tony couldn’t resist the eye roll that followed.

“It’s not a tracker unless he activates it.”

Steve’s response was instant. And firm.

“We know Peter’s home now.” With a deep breath, he adjusted his stance into a parade rest, hands locked tightly and securely behind his back. “We’re getting May Parker somewhere safe — he’ll be alone, we won’t have to worry about anyone else getting hurt. And until we figure out a plan, Clint’s got an eye on him. This is lining up to be in our favor. Like Tony said...we just have to act, and fast.”

The tension in the room didn’t ease. If anything, it grew.

Tony hung his head, rubbing dangerously hard at the knot forming along his neck. Things had gone from zero to sixty in an instant; he swore the tension in his shoulders was from the whiplash of it all. There had to be something he missed, something he failed to notice earlier.

The reflection of the screen could be seen along the glass surface the computer desk. Heavy as it felt, Tony lifted his head. Dread coiled tightly in the pit of his stomach, realizing with a sickening feeling that it simply didn't matter anymore. The how’s or why’s or when’s — the answers would need to come later.

First, he needed to help his kid.

From behind him, Natasha cleared her throat.

Tony craned his neck around, just as Steve broke free of his parade stance.

“Nat?” Steve stepped forward, brows furrowed. “What do you have for us?”

Everyone in the room paused, not even a breath of air taken as Natasha brought the folder to view, a frown pulling down harshly at her lips.

“Nothing good, unfortunately.” she said, noticeably avoiding eye-contact. “I’ve been reviewing the documents we obtained from OsCorp.”

Tony could have very well shot up from the chair he sat in, spinning around so fast it made him dizzy.

“And?” Steve beat him to the punch, clearly finding his voice faster than Tony. The latter began clenching and unclenching his fist so quickly that his fingers began to cramp.

Natasha eyed Tony for a second that felt like eternity, a look washing over her face that he could have sworn looked like pity.

“A lot of the archives are similar to what Tony says he found in the underwater clandestine bunker. Experiments — a lot of them. Would have the Red Room running for their money.” Cautiously, she slipped one single document out from the folder, the gloss laying overtop the photograph so heavy that the overhead lights bounced across it. “Of everything we obtained...I’m pretty sure this is the closest bet to what Peter came in contact with.”

“Let me see that,” Tony insisted, his voice both hard and strangled. He didn’t need to stand from his chair; Natasha was already handing him the photo, and the entire folder, in a seconds time.

While normally never one to put up with the breaths hitting harshly on his back, Tony paid no mind as both Steve and Sam hovered closely behind him, eager to have a look themselves. He was too distracted sorting through the files, staring at the photographs in hand.

They weren’t anything like the ones Peter had taken, far more professional, far less candid. Staged, almost. Planned. The only thing that remained similar was the subject of the photo.

Exactly the same.

“Black gunk kept in cages…” Sam hummed, pursing his lips with an eager nod. “Yeah, I’d say that’s got to be it.”

Tony flipped the photo over, as if looking for more evidence, more proof. When that came up with nothing, he sorted through the documents, spreading them across his keyboard in a fit of desperation, nearly knocking over the two-way radio in the process. His eyes scanned through the reports, embedding each word into his brain.

Unsure of what he was even looking at, Steve craned his neck over to Natasha, his face tight with confusion.

“What the hell is it?” The deep, low rumble in his voice could have shook the floors beneath them. Sam briefly flickered his eyes towards him, an eyebrow arched high, but otherwise kept his thoughts to himself.

Natasha leaned her weight towards one foot, tightly folding both arms across her chest.

“Specifically? It’s the organism they used in clinical trial 10.F—G. However, it’s nearly identical to the twenty-three that came before it.” Natasha ended on a pause, noticeably staring a hole through Tony’s back, watching intently as he studied the documents. “They titled it the Symbiote Project.”

Steve turned to face her, one hand firmly on his hip.

“Symbiote?” Steve asked. “Like...symbiotic?”

“Symbiosis,” Tony corrected, head low, eyes glued to the papers laid out on the keyboard. “The act of two things living together, be it mutualistic, commensalistic…” he craned his head around, just enough to latch eyes onto both Steve and Natasha. “Or parasitic.”

Sam gaped, his index finger pressing down harshly on a stack of papers below him. “We talking parasites now? Like, something that needs a host to survive?”

Natasha barely gave a shake of her head. “Was never their intent. It was created as a cancer treatment. A sentient organism that would cohabit with the subject and become one with its body chemistry.”

Sam frowned, his back noticeably stiffening. “How exactly is that a cancer treatment? Sounds like something out of a...damn horror movie.”

Natasha made a face, non-verbally agreeing with Sam. It took everything Steve had not to make a remark, opting instead to focus his attention to Tony — who he swore looked five seconds away from a stroke.

“According to the reports, the goal was to eliminate the need for radiation and chemotherapy. Give those diagnosed with more fatal cancers a chance at survival.” Natasha squeezed the hold on herself, her hands reaching deep in her armpits. “The ‘organism’...what Peter photographed...what’s on that photo right there...it would become an internal genetic bodysuit. Take hold of the patient’s biology, use their own body chemistry to eliminate malignant cells and tumors. It would play off as an immune system — a better one. A stronger one.”

Turning back around, Steve frowned, facing the computer monitor ahead and the documents laid scattered below it.

“That’s…” he pointed to the still image on the screen, where spirals of thick twine dripped with saturated blackness. “That?”

“That doesn’t seem evil,” Sam mentioned, wagging his finger in Natasha’s direction. No more than a second later and he switched to the computer monitor, fiercely pointing to the screen. “That seems evil.”

“They’ve been failing at it. Countless trials.” Tony finally spoke up, his voice catching them all by surprise. Just as every head in the room turned to look at him, he spun around in his chair, snatching a single file from the desk and discarding the few that fell to the floor below him. “Parker’s photos? All those incubators, all that sludge they were breeding? It was their graveyard of unsuccessful organisms.”

Steve leaned in closer, eyeing the document Tony waved in his hand.

“According to this?” Tony stated, handing the file over to Steve at his request. “They’ve never had a single subject bond with any of their symbiote’s. None of them.”

Steve held the piece of paper in both his hands, his eyebrows tightly furrowed as he read along the report.

“So…” Slowly, Steve looked up, eyes hard as steel as he glared at Tony. “If that’s the case, how are we sure this is what’s infected Peter?”

“What he said,” Sam agreed, nodding in the direction of Steve. “You said everything in those photos were dead. They can’t ‘bond’ to anyone,” he exaggerated the use of quotation marks with his fingers. “If it was all failed experiments, how can we be sure that this is the thing that’s causing Peter to do...that.” Sam threw his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the screen for what felt like the millionth time.

Tony’s mouth formed into a hard pressed line, a twitch in his jaw showing just how tightly he’d been clenching his teeth. “Because the design of the symbiote won’t function without the DNA markers of its original conception.”

Natasha nodded. The look of remorse written across her face was beginning to make a lot more sense to Tony.

“They keep trying to tweak the design — that’s what we saw in Peter’s pictures. Same organisms, different versions.” Her face grew cold, a look glazing over her eyes that Steve had come to recognize as determination. “They’re adding and changing different variations of their formula in hopes it’ll fuse and connect.”

There was something Steve was missing; he could tell, the look both Natasha and Tony shared sending a crippling chill through his spine. He spared them both a glance.

“Do the documents tell what they’re missing?” The question came out bolder than what he ever thought his voice could go. Steve locked his eyes on Tony, knowing best where to get his answer. “What component do they need for this symbiote to bond?”

The silence that grew between them was thick enough to suffocate, not one person in the room spared from its wrath.

Tony ran a hand through his hair, and across his entire face for good measure. As if he could scrub away the stress he was sure the last few hours had etched into him. He wanted nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare that had taken him hostage.

Lifting his head, staring at the file in his hand, he knew he was long past that chance.

With his breath lodged in his throat, Tony wearily looked to Steve.

“Arachnid Number 00.”

The fear that had been steadily building in his chest — fear of failure, of the unknown, of loosing everything he had fought so damn hard to keep a grip on — it finally bubbled over at the mere sight of Steve’s face.

His expression grew as horrified as Tony felt.

There wasn’t a second to dwell on it. Through the two-way radio came a flutter of white noise, followed by,

“Hawk to base.” Clint’s voice came stiffly through the device, hard-pressed even through the static. “Do you come in, base?”

Footsteps storming forward, Natasha curtly took hold of the radio, pressing it closely to her mouth within seconds.

“This is Widow,” Natasha said, fast and sharp. “Go ahead.”

The dead air that followed could have very well given Tony a heart attack.

What followed most certainly did.

“Guys...the kid’s on the move.”

The weight of the news was almost unbearable, settling hard in the chest of everyone who heard it.

With a curse, Tony closed his eyes. Whether he was thinking, panicking, or simply counting to ten — no one could tell.

Natasha gripped the radio in her hand firmly, her nails splitting apart against the harsh plastic of the device.

Steve looked towards Tony with resolute, his eyes deepening, his jaw clenched tight.

It was Sam who spoke up first.

“So…” he looked to the group, eyebrow arched high. “About that plan?”