Chapter Text
In the aftermath of the confrontation, everything comes to a standstill.
Peter floats away, adrift in a vast, endless vacuum. A vacancy bound by nothing—not gravity, not time. There isn’t a single thought or feeling weighing him down. He feels weightless in every sense of the word—hollowed, empty, and utterly blissful. Just a shapeless soul in a borderless body, filled and surrounded by nothingness.
The numbness is liberating. Freeing.
Drifting in nothingness becomes a euphoric experience.
In that cold, dark void, Peter flirts with consciousness and subconsciousness. He dances on the delicate line separating the two—it’s heaven. It’s hell.
Time has no meaning in Peter’s new state of mind. It can’t be measured or tracked. It just loops—constant, directionless, without beginning or end. Infinite. Stretching so far into the darkness, it stops being a construct at all.
Peter doesn’t eat.
He doesn’t sleep.
He exists outside the scope of existence.
Like a particle at absolute zero—still, suspended, frozen in place. Nothing moves. Nothing changes.
He doesn’t know if the silence is peaceful, or just the absence of pain.
He only knows it doesn’t hurt here.
The sun is brutal, even through the gauzy clouds hanging over Midtown High’s football field. The air is thick with humidity, clinging to skin and fabric like wet gauze. Sneakers thud against the rubber track, a percussion line of teenage exertion. Laughter and groans cut through the air like background static—chaotic, messy, real.
Coach Wilson stands near the bleachers, sunglasses on, posture slouched like he’s two seconds away from checking out completely. A whistle hangs from his neck, swaying with every lazy shift of his weight. “Alright, let’s pick it up,” he calls out, monotone. “Two more laps. Channel your inner gazelle. Or don’t. Just move.”
Some kids groan. Others ignore him. Flash mutters something about cardiovascular propaganda. A few students are already slowing down to a walk, barely pretending to jog.
Peter keeps running.
He’s lost count of the laps. His body feels detached, like it's moving on autopilot. Breathing burns now, sharp and thin, like he’s inhaling steam. His legs are heavy. Each step sends a jolt up his spine. His shirt clings to him. His vision is dimming at the edges.
MJ glances sideways as she jogs past, earbuds in but not pressed all the way. She doesn’t say anything—yet—but her gaze lingers.
Ned’s trailing further behind, face flushed, arms pumping like he’s trying to outrun a final exam.
Peter tries to keep pace.
He doesn’t remember the last time he ate something. Breakfast was… nothing. Lunch was a bottle of water and a tight-lipped smile. His stomach cramps—not from hunger anymore, just emptiness—and his vision blurs at the edges.
No one notices when he stumbles the first time. Just a misstep. A skid on the edge of the lane line.
But MJ’s eyes flick toward him.
The second stumble is less subtle—he trips over his own foot, nearly twisting his ankle. He catches himself, barely. His hands tremble.
“Peter?” Ned calls from behind, uncertain.
The field tilts.
The sky seems… loud.
And then he’s not upright anymore.
Peter crumples mid-stride, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings—face first onto the track. He’s unconscious before he makes contact with the ground. Everything cuts to black, like someone unplugged the TV mid-movie. One moment, there were sounds and colors; the next, it’s silent darkness.
Fainting feels a lot like drowning.
Everything is muted, dulled—engulfed in water. His senses are muffled. Sounds jump octaves and warp in volume. Visions lag and blur. Sensations flicker in and out. Somewhere, distantly, he hears his name being said in an echo that loops back on itself—far away, but insistent.
Peter… Peter… Peter…
When his eyes finally blink open, lashes fluttering incessantly, the world is distorted and out of sync. Light stabs at his pupils. The track beneath him feels both hard and grounding, and somehow also jelly-like—liquid and unstable. His breath hiccups. Every inhale tastes like asphalt and iron.
He squints against the sunlight. There is a rhythmic pounding in his skull, like his heartbeat is trying to crack through his temples. Everything aches.
He blinks again, and someone’s shadow moves across his field of vision. A voice—maybe MJ’s?—filters in like radio static.
"Peter?"
He tries to turn in the direction of the voice, and finds the person chanting his name like a prayer. But the slight movement of his head makes his vision swirl again. Dizziness and nausea hit him in a delayed warning. As if his body meant to send him the signal hours ago but his brain couldn’t decipher the message fast enough.
"Peter?" The voice says again and through the haze, Peter recognizes it as Ned. A shadow shifts across his face. Ned’s voice comes into focus. So does MJ’s shape hovering just behind him. “...hey. Peter?”
“Wha—” he mumbles. His tongue is thick, slurred around the word.
“Don’t move,” MJ says firmly, already crouched beside him, peeling his arm off the ground and checking his pulse like it’s not the first time she’s done this for someone. It probably isn’t.
Coach Wilson ambles over with a squint, looking vaguely annoyed.
“What happened now?” he asks, mostly to no one.
“He collapsed,” Ned says, alarm bleeding into every word.
Wilson leans forward, not bending, just peering. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
“Do you—uh—want to get the nurse?” Ned ventures.
“I mean,” Wilson shrugs. “He’s breathing. He’s conscious. He’s fine.”
“Coach,” MJ says flatly.
“Okay, okay,” he sighs. “Fine. Walk him over. But if he pukes, I’m making you clean it up.”
As they help Peter sit up—slowly, carefully—Flash jogs by and tosses over his shoulder, “Someone get that guy a juice box.”
Betty, standing nearby with her phone half out of her pocket, frowns in vague concern. “He used to faint a lot. It’s probably nothing.”
Peter groans softly, letting his head hang as MJ and Ned each take an arm.
“Definitely not nothing,” Ned mutters, tightening his grip.
They lead him toward the building, slow and uneven. Peter’s legs are shaky. His breath comes in shallow draws. But he doesn’t complain.
The world tilts, but he walks anyway.
At home, May hovers—despite not having a reason to.
Well, not entirely. She has a reason. She doesn’t need one to hover, but still, she has one. Whatever it is, though, it isn’t Peter’s fainting spell in gym class. It’s not his skipped meals or the new way his clothes hang too loosely off his frame.
It can’t be—because no one called her.
Asthma attacks, nosebleeds, fainting spells—those were supposed to be a thing of the past. Residue from a childhood spent with inhalers tucked into his backpack and paper towels pressed to his bleeding nose. Before the spider bite rewrote his biology. Before he was supposed to be better. Invincible, even.
But reputation is a stubborn thing.
Peter may be Spider-Man now, but to Midtown High he’ll always be the scrawny, sickly kid who treated the nurse’s cot like a second home. So when he collapsed this morning, no one panicked. No one thought to worry.
No one thought to call her.
And yet—May hovers.
Peter’s sprawled out on the living room couch, hoodie half-zipped and socks mismatched. He hadn’t meant to crash there—but the stairs felt like Everest, and gravity was winning today. His head rests against the armrest, tilted just enough to keep May in his periphery.
She’s doing laps again.
Not frantic ones. She’s May. She doesn’t do frantic. No, this is her special brand of domestic reconnaissance—anxiously straightening things that are already straight, picking up objects only to set them down in the exact same spot. Every few minutes, she clears her throat like she’s about to say something… then doesn’t.
Peter stares at the ceiling fan, watching it spin slow and syrupy. His body feels ten sizes too heavy for his skin.
“Y’know,” May says eventually, arms crossed, tone light, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to merge with that couch.”
Peter doesn’t look at her. “Comfy,” he mutters.
She hums, noncommittal. “You haven’t moved in, like, an hour.”
“Not true,” he mumbles. “I blinked. Twice.”
May snorts, but it’s soft. She’s standing just behind the couch now, eyes scanning him like she’s trying to x-ray through his sarcasm. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“Want me to put something on Netflix?”
“No.”
“Want to talk about whatever’s going on in that overly complicated brain of yours?”
Peter’s silence stretches.
May sighs through her nose. She walks around the couch this time, stands in front of him like she’s waiting for a confession. When he doesn’t give one, she lets her hands fall to her hips and narrows her eyes.
“Okay. Just so I’m clear—you’re not eating, not sleeping, and now you’re impersonating a haunted throw pillow. Should I be worried, or is this just the latest installment in the ‘Peter Parker Has A Weird Week’ series?”
Peter gives a huff of laughter, but it’s weak. His eyes are red-rimmed, his body language brittle.
“I’m fine.”
“Cool. So I should just… ignore the fact that you look like you went twelve rounds with a woodchipper and lost?” she says, cocking her head. “Because that’s definitely how ‘fine’ looks.”
Peter shifts, slowly pushing himself upright. Not all the way—just enough to sit with his back against the cushions and arms limp at his sides. “May,” he starts, voice strained, “I’m tired. Okay? Just… tired.”
She studies him, expression softening.
“Okay,” she says, quieter now. “Then just let me sit with you for a minute.”
She moves beside him, careful not to make a big deal out of it. For a second, Peter looks like he might lean away—but he doesn’t. Not when her arm wraps gently around his shoulders, not when she pulls him into her.
His body tenses.
Just for a second.
Then sinks.
He leans against her, head buried in the slope of her neck. It fits there perfectly, like they’re two pieces of a puzzle that belong together. Nose pressed to her skin, Peter breathes her in, pulls her into his lungs. He holds his breath, savors her warmths, and hopes she can ward off the numbing cold spreading inside him. His arms slither around her smaller frame, holding her tight, as tightly as he can without hurting her.
May reacts instantly. She holds him just as desperately. She pulls and pulls, even when it’s impossible for Peter to get any closer. As if she wants to wrap around him, to open herself up and hide him inside her. So nothing and no one can ever hurt him.
“You don’t have to talk,” she murmurs, her long dainty fingers brushing through his hair. She twirls strands between her fingers and lightly scratches his scalp in the way she knows he likes— finds soothing. “But you don’t have to be alone, either.”
Peter exhales, a fractured, aching sound. His shoulders shake once. Twice. His resolve splinters—fractured, jagged, beyond repair. A sad pitiful noise, between a sob and a gasp, escapes him. He’s crying— the tears come but they don’t stop. Peter is too exhausted to fight it, so he lets it happen, he lets go.
He cries like he’s six, shaped by absence before he even understood loss.
He cries like he’s fourteen, heart racing faster than his uncle’s fading pulse.
He cries like he’s trapped again—bones crushed, breath stolen, hope flickering.
He cries until he dissolves into the silence, small and salt-stained and still here.
A hushed silence falls over the city. A rare sort of stillness—more foreboding than reassuring. There’s something sinister in the way Queens holds its breath, like the whole borough is waiting for something to go wrong.
Above, the moon glows dull and hazy behind a curtain of smog. Down below, the streets simmer in sodium orange and flickering neon. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the pavement, warping under streetlights—twisting like otherworldly things creeping in from somewhere else. A plastic bag skitters down the sidewalk like it’s trying to flee. A cat bolts across an alley, startled by something Peter can’t see.
Around every corner, bad omens loom. Harbingers linger. Every flickering storefront sign is a warning. Every far-off siren or backfiring car sounds like a prelude to something worse.
Danger clings to the air like humidity—thick and metallic on the tongue.
Still, Peter doesn’t turn back.
He swings straight into the night. Lets go. Embraces gravity as it pulls him down to earth’s center like it’s trying to remind him where he belongs. The freefall is exhilarating. In the seconds before he catches himself—when it’s just the scream of wind in his ears and the skyline blurred by motion—the numbness gives way to sensation, and for a moment, Peter feels alive again.
Every cell in his body thrums with energy, every synapse firing like short-circuit sparks behind his eyes.
There’s something to be said here about probabilities and statistics. About odds and expectations. About the likelihood of him ever meaning anything to Mr. Stark.
Peter had known from the very beginning how slim his chances were. He had made peace with the fact that he was merely an afterthought, the end credits to a movie no one stays long enough to see. He had made every attempt to guard himself, to keep his heart safe and protected.
But the stolen moments between obligation and indulgence disarmed him. Where guilt-infused lab sessions blur into something softer—dinner, laughter, comfort. Where Tony Stark folds into just… Tony. These were the moments that gave him a sense of false security— a sense of belonging.
And for a little while, Peter had let himself believe he belonged.
Turns out, the only thing that ever truly claimed him was this city.
It calls him now.
A noise cuts through the quiet—a ripple in the stillness. There is a scuffle, a sharp “Hey!” followed by a female voice barking, “Let go of me!”
Peter’s head snaps up, body tensing. Adrenaline sparks cold in his veins.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He lands silently on a nearby rooftop, crouched low. Below, in the half-lit alleyway, a man in his late 30s—leaning too close, drunk on entitlement—is grabbing at a girl’s wrist. She can’t be more than seventeen, maybe nineteen at most, dressed in a Midtown U hoodie and panic.
Peter’s already moving.
“Now, now,” he calls out, flipping down with practiced flair, landing with a thud between them. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to put your greasy hands on people without asking? Or is that lesson scheduled after ‘basic human decency’?”
The man recoils, startled, but recovers fast. “The hell—what are you, a mascot?”
Peter tilts his head. “Only on weekends and bar mitzvahs.” He points a web-shooter at the guy’s shoes and fires. “Although, fair warning, my balloon animal game is... a little stabby .”
The webbing glues the man’s feet to the pavement. Peter tosses a quick glance at the girl.
“You okay?”
She nods quickly, wide-eyed, backing away. “Y-yeah, I—I think so.”
“Good. Go. Run home. And maybe invest in pepper spray. Or lasers. Lasers are cool.”
She’s already sprinting down the block when the guy lunges.
Peter sighs. “Always gotta do this the hard way.”
The man’s knife glints under the streetlight—Peter flips backward, webbing the blade and yanking it out of his grip before launching it into the nearest wall with a thunk .
“Wow,” Peter says, circling. “A knife? Really? Bit cliché, don’t you think? I mean, come on. At least pretend you’re not from the 1800s.”
The guy growls and charges again. Peter ducks low, sweeps his legs out, and rolls, body moving in practiced, fluid rhythm. His mind clicks into fight mode. He’s on autopilot now—acrobatics, taunts, webshots—classic Spider-Man chaos.
“You should know,” he pants between jabs, “my Yelp reviews are great—four and a half stars for style, five for general annoyance.”
A fist grazes his shoulder, but he counters with a kick to the chest. The guy stumbles, grabs a trash can lid, swings it like a shield. Peter web-zips above him, flipping over and planting a foot squarely in his back. The man crashes to the ground with a groan.
“See?” Peter grins, landing softly. “This is what happens when you mess with science students. We fight dirty and have physics on our side.”
But then—
The world tilts.
Just slightly.
But it’s enough.
Peter’s knees buckle for half a second, a flicker of imbalance that throws his next move off-center. He blinks hard—too hard. The alley sways left, then corrects itself like a camera struggling to refocus.
What…?
The man doesn’t notice the slip—yet.
Peter steadies his stance, faking the bounce in his step as he flips over a row of garbage bins. “Alright, buddy,” he quips, voice tight with effort, “we’re gonna need to work on your people skills. I’m thinking less knife-waving, more therapy.”
But his words feel delayed in his own mouth, like he’s speaking through cotton.
The mugger growls and lunges—shoulder down, blade forward—and Peter sidesteps, one beat too late.
For a split second, he sees the flash of steel, feels it slice past—no pain, just the hiss of air—and then the crack of his fist connecting squarely with the guy’s jaw. The impact knocks the man off balance, the knife clattering to the pavement.
Peter exhales through a grin. “That all you got?”
But something feels off.
Then the guy punches him—square in the gut.
It’s not a hard hit. Normally, Peter would shrug it off.
But this time it lands different. His legs wobble. His stomach lurches. For a second, he thinks it’s just the adrenaline.
Until he feels it.
Warm. Sticky.
Blooming under his ribs like spilled ink.
Peter stumbles back. A cold sweat breaks out along his hairline.
He glances down, expecting to see nothing. Expecting confirmation he deflected the blade, just like he thought.
Instead, he sees the dark stain spreading through the red of his suit. Slow. Seeping.
He lifts a trembling hand and presses it to his side.
Wet.
He pulls it away.
Bloody.
“Oh,” he breathes. A realization, not a reaction. “Oh no.”
“Peter,” Karen says softly in his ear, voice instantly grounded and calm in a way that makes it scarier.
“You’ve been stabbed. You need to sit down.”
“I…” He sways. “I thought—I knocked the knife out of his hand—”
“You did. But not before he got you. Deep laceration. Possibly a kidney. Peter, you need to sit down. You’re going into shock.”
“I can’t—” His breath hitches. “I can’t— Not now. I can patch it. I’ve done worse.”
He pushes himself upright, legs trembling beneath him. The alley blurs. The ground keeps tugging at him.
“Peter,” Karen says gently. “You are not okay. I’m calling Mr. Stark.”
“No.” His voice sharpens, breaking. “Don’t. Karen, don’t.”
“He needs to know.”
“No, he doesn’t. He’s—” Peter grits his teeth, clutching his side. “He’s just gonna come and be mad or—or disappointed or worse, and I can’t do that again tonight.”
“He won’t be mad.” Karen’s voice lowers, full of conviction.
His fingers twitch against the suit’s palm sensors. His tongue feels like it’s made of rubber. His next step lands crooked—like his foot didn’t get the message from his brain. Peter’s vision starts to tunnel. The edges of the world close in, soft and black. He blinks fast, trying to clear it.
But his knees buckle again.
This time, he doesn’t catch himself.
The pavement rushes up to meet him—cold and unforgiving.
“Peter,” Karen says, voice distant now, like she’s calling through water. “Peter, stay with me. Help is on the way.”
He mumbles something—maybe her name, maybe Mr. Stark’s. He can’t tell. The pain finally registers, sharp and deep. His side is on fire.
Then the fire fizzles.
Then nothing at all.