Chapter Text
The streets were busy today. Well, they were busy every day, but today seemed far more so for some reason. Peter suspected that it had something to do with one of the international film festivals that took place each year, everyone coming from all over and everywhere to see the rich and the famous. They would be scouting the streets of Times Square and Broadway, camping out on the corners of Fifth and Main, and chasing after anyone who happened to look like a star-studded actor or actress – not a thought on their mind for shame or decency.
Which was why he was staying as far away from the streets as possible. He didn’t care one bit to be caught in all that madness, thank you very much.
Peter took a bite from his sandwich as his legs hung over the roof’s edge, watching lazily as pedestrians walked back and forth along the streets and as cars drove down the road, either turning at the lights or carrying on until they were eventually engulfed by the rest of the city.
Turning his gaze he looked out at the expanse of the harbour, its ports and piers stretching out into the sea. He rested his back against a small smokestack, listening to the sounds of the seagulls and engines, as he watched ships and boats of all shapes and sizes sail in and out of the harbour. The smell of salt was so sharp on his nose that he could practically taste it.
He came to the pier every Tuesday, a small dose of routine in otherwise routineless weeks. Every other day held all sorts of possibilities – he could go anywhere he wanted, and do anything he pleased. No one told him what to do or where to go; he was bound by no job and no authority of education. He was the emperor of his empire, the captain of his ship. He did anything that he wanted to do.
Well, anything that didn’t require money, at least.
The wind picked up, ruffling Peter’s hair; he looked down at the docks, watching as a couple of men worked to scrub the deck of a small tanker ship. Taking another bite of his sandwich, Peter listened in as the two spoke, their accents thick and strong.
“D’you know, I reck’n there ‘asn’t been a fight’n in New York for over a year, now. None of ‘em baddies or super-creatures, or wha’ever you call ‘em.”
“Aye, been really quiet, I’d say. Been real nice, actually; almost like it was b’fore all ‘em super-people and wha’ not started poppin’ up.”
“Yeah, f’r once we don’ hafta be cleanin’ up after the mess them makes, whe’ever we come inta port.”
“An’ no one’s gone an’ b’en killed now, neither. At least not aside from th’usual; guns and stabbins and whatnot.”
“Aye, real sad when it’s a good thing thems are th’ only reasons people are dyin’.”
“What’s that Tony Stark doin’ nowadays anyway? Wasn’t he like, all em’s leader or sumthing’? What’s he doin’ now there’s barely any baddies to go after?”
“Well ‘e is in charge of his daddy’s company, now i’nt he? I s’pose ‘e’s actually makin’ it profitable. Hafta keep the money comin’ if ‘e wants’ta be fightin’ baddies. ‘Sides, it’s not like there aint no baddies no more – they just don’t come much ‘round ‘ere.”
“Yeah, well I think –.”
A loud bang was heard as someone dropped a tub of fish on the ship’s deck, and with disgruntled swears the two men dropped their brooms and went off to clean it up.
Peter turned, stretching his limbs as he stepped down from his spot on the edge of the roof, secretly glad that the men had been interrupted. He wasn’t enjoying the topic of conversation much, anyway.
By now it was late in the afternoon, and the wind had picked up into a steady gust. Clouds were rolling in from the east and Peter knew that they were going to be in for some rain; which meant it was time to leave. He had been caught in enough rainstorms recently, he’d rather try and see if he could make it home this time before he got soaked to the skin.
Walking to the most secluded corner of the roof, Peter looked round for any sign that someone was watching. Finding himself at the moment alone, he lifted the hood of his sweater over his head, threw his leg over the side, and quickly began climbing down the brick wall.
Once down, Peter kept close to the edge of the sidewalk, his hood pulled tightly around his head and hunched shoulders, avoiding the other pedestrians as they walked by. Everyone seemed to sense the approaching storm, and were rushing as frantically as they could to reach their destinations. Thankfully for Peter, that meant that no one was paying him much attention.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and drops of rain began to fall. Stopping at a corner, Peter waited for the walking signal to turn on.
Then suddenly, there was a shout.
Peter looked up, his eyes catching sight of two men in masks running out of and away from a small store, their arms filled with bags of cash. One of the store’s staff was standing with his foot out the door and yelling after them, blood running down the front of his white apron, pleading for help from anyone nearby.
“Stop them! Please, somebody stop them! Somebody, please….”
After a moment the man slumped to the ground, his hand pressed against his chest as he panted for breath.
Peter stayed where he was for a brief moment, watching. The white signal turned on. He turned his head. Without a word he stepped forward and continued walking down the street, the cries for help disappearing into the air behind him.
A short while later Peter was finally nearing home.
The storm had settled almost fully over the city and rain was falling steadily to the ground, rivers beginning to run through the streets to the nearest drains they could find. Only a few other people remained, their faces hidden by umbrellas or papers that they held above their heads, in a futile effort to keep themselves dry.
By now it was half past nine and he hoped that by the time he entered the alley near his house, the local restaurant’s kitchen staff would nearly be done cleaning up for the night; he was getting rather hungry.
Just as he was about to turn into the alleyway, Peter noticed a small trash bin chained to the side of the brick building, its lid unusually unhinged, the corners of a newspaper sticking out from underneath.
Peter stopped, looking inside the window of the shop quickly for any signs of life that might yell at him for rummaging through their bin. Finding the inside completely dark, Peter quickly lifted the lid and pulled the newspaper out. He quickly shoved the paper underneath his jacket and disappeared into the alley.
A few minutes later he arrived at the side of the building where a door was propped open, lighting up the alley in a bright glow. Peter could see a man moving some bags from inside, and he quickly picked up his speed.
Hearing his footsteps, the man looked up, his eyes cautious for a moment before recognition set in. Peter could hear the breath and deep sigh he let out.
“Peter…” the man said, shaking his head. His voice was wary, but it was the same hesitation that Peter was met with every time he came here.
“Hey,” Peter said quietly, giving the man a small smile. He didn’t want to alert anyone else inside to his presence.
The man shook his head again. “Peter, you know I’m not supposed to be doing this. Don’t you have anywhere else you can go tonight? The Supreme Leader is working tonight, and if she finds me here she’ll not only kick my ass, but she’ll call the cops on you.”
“Which is why you better just give me something quick, so I can get out of your hair,” Peter replied with a grin.
The man sighed again, but this time he took a quick glance behind him before he started opening one of the bags. He pulled out a small Styrofoam container, which – in Peter’s opinion – looked suspiciously as though it had already been pre-packed.
“Here,” he said, handing the box to Peter. Peter took the food and tucked it underneath his sweater beside the newspaper. The man sighed again. “You’re lucky you’re a kid, else I wouldn’t put my butt on the line for you.”
“Yes you would Julian,” Peter said, unable to stop the smile from pulling at his lips. “You’re a good guy. I know you’ve helped others, too. People talk.”
Julian looked as though he were trying to appear upset, but was failing miserably. “Yeah, well,” he said after a moment, “just make sure you don’t get on the wrong side of the tracks. You start getting into drugs and gangs, and you’re out of here. I’m not letting that kind of stuff come near my restaurant.”
There was a shout inside for everyone to finish cleaning up, and Peter knew it was time to leave.
Putting the container underneath his jacket, Peter tugged his hood forward before stepping back. “Thanks Julian,” he said quietly.
At last, Julian smiled. “You’re welcome, kid. Now go find someplace warm to stay, yeah? You’re gonna get sick if you stay out here.”
With a final wave, Peter turned round and disappeared into the dark.
Ten minutes later Peter had finally made it back home. Thankful that it was not only dark, but also raining, Peter barely had to glance around to make sure no one was watching, before he adjusted the small items he had accrued beneath his jacket. Placing his fingers against the wet brick, Peter quickly began to climb. Reaching the top, he found the small window that sat just beneath the edge of the roof. Pushing it open with a creak, he swiftly crawled inside.
Stepping onto the floor, Peter quietly shut the window behind him and began taking off his jacket, his gaze falling across the room – the one and only place that he could call his own.
It was a long forgotten attic in run-down building that had been deemed unfit for a while now, at least as long as Peter had been here. There was no access to it save for the window, which couldn’t even be seen from the ground, and a small trap door in the corner that looked as though it hadn’t been opened in decades. Peter had found it one day while trying to get away from a pack of street dogs, and he had quickly made it into his hideout – into the one corner of the world that he could call his own. It wasn’t perfect, it was drafty and cold and leaked whenever there was rain, but it was his. And it sure as heck beat sleeping on the street.
A small box lay tucked in the corner of the room and Peter walked over to it. He lifted the lid, rummaging around inside for a few moments before pulling out a small candle and an even smaller box of matches. He rarely used either, considering he only had so much of them, so he only used them for very special occasions. Tonight would be one of them, he decided, since it was so rare that he was able to get any reading material anymore; at least anything worth reading.
Peter struck the match and lit the wick, setting the candle down on an old piece of tinfoil that sat beside his bed. Taking out the now-slightly bent box of food, Peter opened it up – one of his favourites, chicken alfredo pasta – and began to eat, sitting down on his bed.
His bed was nothing more than a ragged old mattress, torn and stained yellow from years of use. But most of the springs were still there and none stabbed him in the back while he slept, so it was good. Not to mention it was comfy and dry, which Peter counted himself very lucky to have.
Leaning his back against the wall, Peter took out the crumpled newspaper and spread it out before him; he smoothed the pages over with his hand, his eyes settling on the newspaper’s headline:
Cold snap looming on the horizon: Temperatures expected to dip as low as -12 degrees.
Peter frowned, looking back at the few blankets on his mattress. He wondered if there would be enough. Last year’s winter had been fairly mild, so he’d managed to get by. This winter, however….
Turning the page, Peter continued to read through the rest of what the Daily Bugle had to offer, reading every paragraph, every sentence, and every single word that was there. He had never been much of a reader before, at least outside of journals and articles on physics and chemistry and every other bit of science that interested him; but after going for so long without even so much a decent magazine, he found that he was starved for literature, no matter what it was on – even if it was over-sensationlised news.
His eyes suddenly caught a small article in the bottom corner, and as he read the title and article beneath, his brows began to furrow.
The Tyden Apartment Complex in Queens on 23rd and fifth remains under security as residents recover from a recent string of burglaries and assaults. Numerous apartments were broken into Thursday night while residents slept. Many items of value were stolen, including televisions, computers, and jewelry. Most residents remained asleep during the intrusions, but some were awoken. One woman awoke to find one of the thieves in her living room. The man proceeded to attack her, and she was left with numerous injuries before the man left, and other residents arrived and called 911. She is currently recovering at home.
Only one thought went through Peter’s mind, reaching his chest and clenching his stomach like a vice.
Aunt May.
That was where Aunt May lived. And they said – they said not one, but many people were burglarized. And the woman who was attacked…. They never said her name, so it was possible – it could have been – it might have been Aunt –
Peter put the paper down and took a deep breath.
No. No, it couldn’t have been Aunt May. Dozens of people lived in that complex, there was no way that out of all of them, it had been Aunt May who was attacked. She – she couldn’t have been. She was fine. She was fine, he was sure of it. May always kept her doors locked, she didn’t even keep a spare key outside in case she got locked out. Those doorknobs were top of the line, they were strong – and there were deadbolts too, so unless the men had managed to not only pick the locks, but the deadbolts as well, then… then….
Peter looked back down at the newspaper.
The article had said the woman was attacked, but hadn’t said how she was attacked. Was she simply hit once, as a warning? Was she pushed? Was she beaten? Or was – was it possible she was ra –
Peter looked up at the window, where he was met with darkness on the other side. It was past nine now, he was sure of it. He should be heading to bed soon, should be getting some sleep. It was cold and pouring outside, not to mention storming. He should remain where he was, in the only warm and dry place he had.
Peter bit his lip, unable to stop the one thought from running over and over again through his mind.
What if?
A few minutes later Peter put on his wet jacket, blew out the candle, and slipped outside into the dark.
By the time he arrived the rain was pelting to the ground like bullets. Peter stood in the alleyway, the barest hint of street light more than enough for his eyes to see by. Looking round, he pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders, searching for any sign of movement or presence. Finding none, Peter took a deep breath and lifted his hands, pressing his fingers against the building’s side.
Bit by bit, Peter slowly but surely made his way up the wall, blanketed in a shield of darkness. After a while he found the edge of an old, broken piece of fire escape near one of the top floor windows. He crouched on its edge, peering through the lit window, eyes searching and searching and searching, and –
There.
A figure walked past the open door that led into the kitchen, her long brown hair billowing out behind her. She crossed back a moment later, a steaming pot held in her gloved hands. Craning his neck, Peter watched as she set the pot on the table, her mouth running a mile a minute, Peter’s ears picking up every word: “I worked my butt off, so if that guy doesn’t enjoy this, I swear – I am kicking him straight in his ass.”
Peter closed his eyes, relief pouring through his body.
She was okay.
Listening to her voice for any sign of pain or anything off, Peter was so happy that he could find none. She sounded exactly like she always did when she was berating him, or pretending to complain about his apparent lack of care for her cooking; which he never did, of course. She was a great cook when she wanted to be; well, most of the time anyways. There was that one time that she burnt the turkey for Christmas dinner, and they and Uncle Ben were forced to go to Denny’s, and –
Peter suddenly heard footsteps in the hallway and he looked up when they stopped outside the door. A second later a key shuffled in a lock, and the knob turned, and –
“May, I’m home!”
The smile that Peter hadn’t known was on his face began to fade.
Oh. Right.
Him.
Peter had forgotten about him. Well, he hadn’t forgotten – how could he? Not when Aunt May got a new boyfriend – or a boyfriend, really. She had never dated anyone after Uncle Ben’s death, as far as he knew. So when she did, it wasn’t something you easily forgot. He couldn’t help the annoyance that twisted in his gut, the twist of anger, the twist of… well, he didn’t even really know what. All he knew was that Aunt May had a boyfriend, a serious boyfriend, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
Which was why, Peter remembered, he so rarely came back here. And why he never should have come here now.
Peter’s fingers gripped the cold, rusted railing, his heart beating quickly in his chest.
He wanted to leave, knew it was for the best, but still, he found… he found he couldn’t. He hadn’t seen Aunt May in so many months, and even if she was with her boyfriend, he just….
He didn’t want to leave, not yet. Just a little longer. Just a little longer more.
Please.
So Peter stayed. He stayed exactly where he was, crouched in the darkness, staring into the window of his old home, listening as the two talked about their day, laughing with each other and teasing each other and worrying over each other. When Peter saw what was for supper, a flood of longing suddenly rushed through him. She had made spaghetti and meatballs, probably his most favourite food ever. He loved it when she made it for him, and since it was so cheap, they had it often. While May got sick of it sometimes, Peter, thankfully, with his metabolism, never did. He could eat and eat and eat, it was just so delicious, and –
“May, this looks delicious!” The man smiled at May, before leaning in and giving her a kiss. “How did you know this was my favourite meal?”
Something twinged inside Peter and he leaned back, the excitement he had felt before at seeing May beginning to fade.
As supper started to wind down, Peter knew it was time to leave. He turned, forcing his fingers to let go of the railing and tearing his eyes away from his aunt. He swallowed, ignoring the lump that was suddenly sitting in his throat.
He leaned off the railing and reached for the wall, his fingertips sticking against the rough brick.
He began crawling across the side, the rain hitting and running down his face in rivulets. He was about to head down when he found himself going across a darkened window. On instinct he looked inside, making sure no one was there, when his movements suddenly came to a halt. Surprised recognition washed over him.
It was his room.
Well, his old room. Back when… back when he had been living here. Back before then.
Unable to stop his curiosity, Peter stayed for a moment, peering inside at every corner of the room. It was empty now, although his bed still sat where it had always been and his dresser remained tucked against the wall. Everything else, though – all his posters, his clothes, his Lego sets, his experiments – they were all gone. Nothing remained.
His gut ached in pain, and suddenly angry, Peter made to turn to and leave. As he did, however, his fingers brushed against the edge of the window, and he realised with a start that it was partially open.
He stared at it for a long moment, his emotions falling over each other as he fought with himself over what to do. He knew he should leave, that he had already stayed too long, but when the window was open, when the opportunity was right there, the ability to be inside his room – the room he had spent so many years growing up in, had spent the first years of his life as Spider-Man in – he couldn’t… he couldn’t…
He couldn’t pass it up.
Just for a little bit, Peter thought, quietly pushing the window pane further open with his foot. I’m just going to stay for a little bit, then I’ll leave. I’ll leave and I’ll never come back – I promise.
Crawling upside down on the ceiling, Peter made his way to the middle of the room, before slowly letting himself down, his feet stepping to the floor without a sound.
Looking round, Peter clenched his teeth, fighting against the overwhelming emotion that was rising in his gut.
God, but he had missed this. He had missed this place so much. Growing up, he had never thought he’d care about this room or apartment as much as he did, but now….
A voice in the back of his mind told him that he should start going, that this was more than dangerous, that he shouldn’t be here, but Peter found himself unable to stop from walking along the edge of the room, looking at every familiar nook and cranny that he could find, every scrape and dent in the wall. Spying a small hole, Peter couldn’t help the slight tug that started to pull at his lips.
He remembered making that hole; he was nine and too hyper for his own good. He had been building one of his Lego sets – one from Indiana Jones, which had occurred before his Star Wars phase – and had started running around, pretending Indiana was being chased by one of the bad guys.
He had been so loud that he knew he must have been driving his aunt and uncle insane, it was a wonder they hadn’t yelled at him to quiet down. The neighbors did, though, as one of them had suddenly banged the side of the wall and gave an angry shout. Startled, Peter had tripped, landing on a piece of Lego which then sent him careening forward and crashing into the wall, where a knee-sized dent was promptly made.
His aunt hadn’t been too happy, staring at him with a deep frown that made Peter sure he was going to get in trouble. But uncle Ben had just laughed, simply remarking that maybe he should be a little quieter next time. He had dried Peter’s frightened tears and with a tussle of his hair, helped him clean everything up.
Peter’s fingers ghosted over the dent, and he fought back the lump that was starting to creep into his throat. Thunder cracked above him and lightning forked through the sky, briefly lighting up the room and casting Peter’s shadow against the wall. Peter blinked. A moment later he let his hand drop and stepped back.
It was time to leave.
Then suddenly, just as he turned round, all of Peter’s senses started going off. In half a second he knew someone was making their way down the hall, heading straight towards the room.
Peter scrambled, nearly falling over his feet as he made a run for the window, but just as he reached the wall the knob was turned and the door was opened, May’s voice filling the room as she flicked the light on. “It’s all right, Andrew, we can do that tomorrow, when –.”
May stopped, her words cutting off as her gaze landed on Peter, whose hand was still gripping the window pane.
The two stared at each other for a brief moment, both their eyes wide, until finally May let out a loud and terrified shriek. Peter winced, his ears ringing. Seconds later there were heavy footsteps running towards them and the next thing Peter knew, all three of them were together in the room.
“May! May, what is it?! What’s wrong?! What’s –.” Andrew stopped as his eyes landed on Peter, and the three stood in silence for a long moment, before Andrew’s face grew cold and he pushed May behind him. “Who are you?!” he asked angrily. “How the hell did you get in here?!”
Peter licked his lips, trying to find his voice. “I – I’m –.”
The man – Andrew – stepped forward, his fists raised and looking as though he were about to grab Peter by the collar. Peter quickly raised his hands and shrunk back, shaking his head and talking as fast as he could.
“P-please! Please, I’m not – I’m not here to cause trouble, I swear! I swear, I – I’m going to leave. I promise, I’m going to leave. I’ll leave right now, I’ll –.”
“Yeah, that’s right you’ll leave,” Andrew growled. “And I’ll throw you out the window myself!”
May’s voice was quiet as she raised her hand and placed it on Andrew’s arm. “Andrew… Andrew, honey, look – he… he’s just a kid....”
The wind in Andrew’s chest seemed to deflate a little as he finally slowed down enough to take in Peter’s appearance. “Great,” Andrew said after a moment, his fists dropping to his side. He shook his head. “Boy, they sure start you guys young these days, don’t they? So what’d you take? Her purse? Money? Jewelry?” He scoffed, turning back to May. “Go call the cops. I’ll stay and watch him.”
May bit her lip, her eyes still shining with fear, but she seemed a bit calmer. Looking at Andrew, she shook her head. “No, why don’t – why don’t you go call them? I’ll stay here and watch him.”
Andrew looked at her incredulously. “No way, May. This kid could have a knife, or even a gun! I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“Andrew,” May said sternly. “This is my apartment. Let me deal with this.” The tone of her voice was one so incredibly familiar, a tone that Peter had heard so many times throughout his life. He had almost thought May had made it just for him.
Andrew and May stared at each other for a moment, engaging in a silent war of wills. It was clear, however, whose was the strongest, as a few seconds later Andrew gave an angry sigh, and with a final warning glare to Peter, he turned and disappeared down the hall.
Now alone, May turned to Peter. “So,” she said lightly, feigning calm. But Peter knew by the wringing of her clammy hands that she was anything but. “What brings you to my apartment this evening? My twentieth-floor, high-rise apartment?”
Peter said nothing.
“Okay then, we’re being silent today. That’s okay, I get it. A new house to hit, so many rooms to rob, and a thunderstorm outside, too. It’s all probably a little overwhelming.”
Peter remained silent.
May huffed. “Look. I don’t want to make this worse than it is, so if you just give me back my things, I promise I won’t press any charges.”
Peter frowned and looked up, staring at May in confusion.
May was standing with one hand wrapped around her middle and the other planted on her hip, looking at Peter with what seemed to be both fear and annoyance. But really, that didn’t surprise him. Aunt May had lived in New York her whole life – she was a New Yorker through and through, and a teenaged thief wasn’t about to rattle her.
May seemed to be waiting for a response, but when she got none she carried on, shaking her head. “How the heck did you get in here, anyways? Were you seriously in here since this morning?” She huffed. “I swear, I leave for twenty minutes to go shopping and that’s when they swoop in.” She made a diving motion with her hand. “Fwoosh! Just like that. Burglarized. There are about a hundred other apartments here, but you just had to choose mine. Of course. Classic Parker luck.”
The lump that had been stuck in his throat before had, if possible, grown, to the point where Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk even if he wanted to.
Because this was May. This was his Aunt May – in every tiny, minuscule, quirky detail. This was the woman who had spent so many years raising him, who had yelled at him, soothed him, comforted him, gave him advice; who had loved him even when he was so far from being lovable. It had been so long, it had been so stupid long since he’d last seen her, since he’d last spoken to her, since they’d last talked, and he – and he didn’t realise just how much he had missed her. God, he couldn’t – he hadn’t thought that he had missed her this much; he had thought he had moved on, that he had gotten over it all, that he –
May’s annoyed face turned into one of slight shock and bewilderment, and Peter swore he could even see a trace of concern. “Wait, why – are you… are you crying?”
Peter blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. Crying? Seriously?
Touching his cheek, Peter cringed as he realised that indeed, he was.
May’s face softened, and she took a step forward. “Look, just – I’m sure if you just talk to the police, they can help you. You can’t be more than – what, fifteen? Sixteen? So – so if you let us, we can help you. Do you have a home? Are you… are you living on the streets?”
“May!” Andrew’s voice called from the kitchen. “May come here, I can’t get this damn phone to open!”
May sighed, shaking her head. “That man – he is so incredibly tech-illiterate, I swear….”
Turning to leave, she looked back at Peter, her eyes staring in a bemused frown. They continued to stare at each other for a moment, neither saying a word until Andrew’s voice called again from the hall. “MAY!”
“All right, all right, I’m coming!” May shouted. She turned back to Peter. “Just stay there,” she said, holding out her hand. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
Peter watched as she left, listening as her footsteps echoed down the hall.
As soon as she was gone, Peter quickly turned and headed to the wall. Within seconds he opened the window and silently stepped out and into the pouring rain. Shutting the pane behind him, Peter quickly crawled around the other side of the building and disappeared into the darkness.
Peter swore.
He had been stupid – he had been so, so stupid he couldn’t – he couldn’t believe that he – and now May had seen him, she had seen him and they had spoken and – and it wasn’t the same as the Avengers, it wasn’t the same as Mister Stark, as Tony but – but it was still…. What was the point? There wasn’t a point, there was absolutely no point in going – in trying to talk, in trying to make friends, in trying to con-convince –
Peter ran through the streets, splashing through puddles of water as rain continued to pour down from above. He eventually turned into one of the alleys, making his way through twists and turns, moving as fast as he could, trying to run, trying to get away before – before anyone followed, before anyone called, before anyone found –
Turning a corner, Peter jumped onto a cement wall, scurrying up the side as fast as he could. He came to the small window that sat on the angled roof of his attic and all but flew inside, falling onto the floor with a thud.
He stayed still for a long moment, catching his breath and trying to force his racing heart to slow. Eventually he crawled back to the window and closed it, blocking out the rain and muting the thunder that continued to crash through the sky.
Peter shirked off his soaked shirt and jeans, the wet clothes slapping to the ground in a heap. He headed directly over to the corner of the attic where his mattress lay, along with a few dirty blankets that Peter had found over the course of many tours diving through dumpsters.
Laying down, Peter buried himself in the blankets and pressed himself against the corner of the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.
He just wanted to forget this day; he just wanted to pretend that this stupid, horrible day had never happened. He had been dumb – and of course he’d been dumb, he was always so, so incredibly dumb – and now he was paying for it. Those wounds had just been starting to scab over, had just started to become manageable, but now he had to go and rip them wide open, and –
Taking a deep breath, Peter tucked his chin into the blankets and sighed, his racing heart finally beginning to slow.
Tomorrow. He’d worry about all of this tomorrow. Because right now, all he needed to do was forget. Just forget, and go to sleep. Just forget any of this had ever happened. Forget Tony Stark and the Avengers, forget Ned, forget… forget Aunt May. Forget.
Just as everyone else had forgotten him.