Chapter Text
Peter, and his best friend, Ned, were sitting silently on the frigid bus ride to school. Peter was quiet because he was working on something. Every so often, Ned would glance up at Peter with an eyebrow raised in expectation, only for Peter to roll his eyes and continue.
After his friend glared into the side of his head for the tenth time since he got on the bus, Peter said, "No, Ned, I'm not going to send this to Tony Stark."
Ned threw his hands up in exasperation. "Come on, Peter! This stuff is next level. Look at yourself right now. You're not even 13 yet, and you're writing a program that can tell if a plant is healthy or not just from a few photos."
Peter rolled his eyes. "It's not that impressive… Plus, I only want to help Aunt May with her garden. She's not the best at keeping plants alive, but she still puts seeds down every year. It's not like I'm trying to change the world or anything."
"But you could, if you wanted to."
For some reason, Peter took a second to stop and actually consider the fanciful idea. "You really think so?"
"I know so."
"Hah. You're starting to sound like Uncle Ben."
The bus' old breaks squeaked to a stop in front of the middle school doors, and everyone shuffled through the tight seats and down the stairs. Both of them sighed in relief as soon as they stepped into the air conditioned lobby.
"Okay, Ned, fine. Let's talk hypotheticals," Peter said, stuffing his puffy, winter jacket into the slim locker. "Let's say I send my projects to Tony Stark— billionaire genuis and superhero. If we're being honest here, the best possible outcome is that he steals my ideas. And that's if the email even makes it to his inbox."
Ned looked like he wanted to disagree, but after a few back-and-forths with himself, he eventually sighed in defeat.
"Yeah, you're probably right," Ned said. "Party pooper. But there's got to be a chance, right? Even if it's one in a million!”
Peter smiled at his friend's almost naive confidence. He swung his backpack full of bricks textbooks around his shoulder, only for the weight and momentum to overwhelm his weak legs and terrible balance. Just before Peter fully lost his footing, Ned managed to snag the collar of his shirt. After holding their positions in silent shock for a few seconds, both of them bursted out laughing in the crowded hallway.
"With my Parker Luck," Peter chuckled, "I guess there's always a chance."
Peter Benjamin Parker was just trying to be your average middle schooler. Having just hit 12 years and 9 months, he was dying to get out of junior high.
Because of his high intelligence, Peter was bullied. A lot. You can't just be 'better' than the kids with muscles and money, and then expect no consequences. All he wanted to do was be normal, and make his Aunt and Uncle happy. That would be the life. Instead, he just worried May and Ben with the bruises they somehow managed to notice.
"You can't keep letting them do this to you, Peter," Ben said to him for the third dinner in a row. "You've got to do something about it."
"Ben," Aunt May chastised. "They already blame him for the fights the others start. I don't think risking any more detention hours would be helpful at this point."
Peter just kept his eyes on his plate, silently chewing a piece of broccoli.
"Well if he's gonna get punished anyway, he should at least get a few hits in!" Ben said with a smirk.
"Benjamin!" Aunt May managed to keep a straight face to make her point, but Peter couldn't hide his giggling very well. Ben noticed, but he just kept smiling and didn't say anything more.
The ice Peter held against his face began to burn. Why did ice burn, he wondered? It didn't really make any sense. How could something get so cold, that it felt hot? Peter wondered if it worked the other way around, too. Did really hot things feel cold? What was the threshold? How did—?
A familiar, but unexpected, pattern of soft knocks against his bedroom door woke Peter from the drifting trance he'd begun to sink into. He jumped at the sound, jostling his ice pack. Which reminded him; he was still adding freezer burns on top of his bruise.
"Come in," Peter said, removing the cold gel and rubbing his swollen cheek. Ben walked in.
"Hey, kiddo. How you holdin' up?" he asked, trying to keep the tone light.
"Fine. Aunt May took care of it," Peter replied dryly. He didn't even bother to look up toward the doorframe, but he could still sense his Uncle's eyebrow raise.
"Hmm," was all Ben said. Still not looking up from the melty ice pack in his hand, Peter felt Ben sit down on the bed next to him. "You haven't come downstairs since dinner, Pete. Did that Flash guy say something extra stupid today?"
"He… he just called me some stuff. I've been trying to stay busy, not think about it."
"Ah. How's that working out for you?"
Peter didn't give a response, and just kept squishing the gel pack back-and-forth. Ben nodded knowingly.
"You know, it's easier to get your mind off things when you spend time with others. If… if me bringing stuff up is pushing you away, it's okay to tell me to stop, Peter."
Peter froze his fingers in shock and finally met his uncle's eyes. "You—you wouldn't be mad?"
That got a hearty laugh out of Ben. "No! Of course not. Unless you start yelling at me, there's nothing wrong with asking politely." At Peter's self-conscious, angry blush, he added, "And if you did yell at me, I can't say I wouldn't understand. You've been through a lot, Pete; and… and I can't for the life of me understand how you're still so darn good."
Peter couldn't believe what he was seeing —the Uncle Ben, tough guy and eternal optimist— had glossy tears in his eyes. Over Peter.
"You've always astounded me. The way you think, your intelligence; it's unbelievable for your age. Kids like Flash are using their power to hurt others, while you use yours to help. When you have great power, Peter, there comes a great responsibility with it. Anyone else in your shoes, with your smarts, could easily use that power to hurt people. To take revenge."
Peter had never considered such a thing; just the thought of it made him sick. Even Flash didn't deserve what Flash dished out.
"But I know you never would. Yes, it's why those kids bully you— but it's also why you're more deserving of your abilities than any of them," Ben said, with an ending tone and relieved sigh. He could see a warmer, more hopeful expression on his kid's face.
"So! Let's see what you're doing with that ol' noggin of yours, huh?" Ben said, reaching for the laptop sitting open behind them on the bed.
"No!" Peter gasped, and snatched the computer away. "It's not ready yet. It's a surprise. For… for Mother's Day." This time, it was Ben's turn to look surprised.
It had been almost seven years since his parents died, and in those seven years, Peter had only begun to warm up to Ben and May in the last two. He loved them both, but he couldn’t figure out how to express it. They never expected him to treat them as parents, but… sometimes, he wished he had decided to try earlier.
"I know, I know… it's too soon, right? It was a stupid idea anyway, I'll just—"
"No! No, that's not why I— Pete, that's amazing. She'll be so excited. But, it's only March! What in the world are you working on?" He asked with a chuckle.
Peter couldn't help but let his smile bloom. "It's an app, kind of? It's not gonna look very pretty, but it should help her keep her plants alive this year."
"Haha! Won't that be a miracle!" Ben bellowed. "I'm telling you, she's gonna love it. I suppose I should let you get to work, then." He rustled Peter's hair lovingly and stood to leave, only to stop with his hand on the doorknob.
"You're gonna change the world, Pete," he whispered. "Don't let them tell you any different."
Someone, somewhere, was desperate for cash. Desperate for the liquid adrenaline that cost more than gold.
Someone, somewhere, spotted a nice, two-story, cottage-style house.
Someone, somewhere, gave into the voices in his mind.
It was the middle of chemistry class, and Peter was feeling extra grateful to his computer lab teacher from 7th grade. Even though Mr. Harrison, his chemistry teacher, was being extra attentive to who had their eyes on the board, Peter still managed to stealthily type away at his project.
He wasn't working on May's gift; this was a his own idea. While the class was being introduced to molecules, Peter was writing a research paper on organic substances that were criminally understudied. Currently, he was looking into the bulletproof potential of spider silk.
Of course, people already knew of it's properties and had tried to mass produce it (but Peter knew that if he told Ned he'd discovered it, Ned'd probably believe him. It made him smile, for some, stupid reason). However, it turns out when you try to store hundreds of spiders together in a farm, they all start killing each other before you can anything. Someone was trying to put spider silk genes in a silk worm, but even if that worked, harvesting from silk worms was a slow, laborious process. It would never be able to get in a significant amount of actual bulletproof suits.
The one thing that compelled Peter to write about it was the fact that no one had tried to make a synthetic copy of the spider silk. It seemed like whenever scientists found a new, useful, substance, they wanted to extract it directly from the source. There was nothing wrong with wanting the purest form— but when it came to potentially life saving materials… why would anyone waste time with something so trivial?
He tried to veil his anger at their oversight, but Peter couldn't help but let a little snark leak into his writing. How could he resist emulating his idols, after all?
Tony Stark and Bruce Banner were two of the smartest people on the planet. Sure, he'd follow up on the Avengers whenever something big happened, but he was more interested in their scientific achievements. And boy, what remarkable achievements they were. But these two weren't your typical celebrity geniuses, as Peter discovered.
Just recently, Mr. Stark had released a new kind of sustainable energy— something that apparently, the other researchers in the field had decided to cover up. During the press conference to announce the new idea, Stark held nothing back. Sure, he was a jerk, but at least he didn't discriminate.
Dr. Banner was more subtle about his jabs. Every time someone big would come out with a sketchy pharmaceutical product, Banner would "coincidentally" write a research article that disproved the drug's claims or revealed it as unsafe. He never mentioned the company themselves, but somehow always managed to get them sued.
Whenever Peter (hopefully in time, Dr. Parker, rather) wrote these research papers, he didn't mind letting a little fire seep through. Soon enough, he'd be smart enough to be as bold as Tony Stark— just, without the narcissism.
"I'm asking you, Peter Parker. Answer the question; or were you not listening?"
Only barely managing to hide his startled flinch, Peter looked up nonchalantly. He certainly hadn't heard what the teacher asked; but from Mr. Harrison's indignant look and the equations on the blackboard, he took a wild guess.
"Oh. That's the combustion of sugar, right? Well, the right side should have 12 molecules of carbon dioxide, not 11."
"What? Wait, that's not what I was…" the teacher began, but then he looked back at the board. His face sank. "A-ah. I see. But that was not the question, Peter. We've moved on to the equation below." A few chuckles lapsed thought the class, but were silenced quickly by Mr. Harrison's cold glare. "Now, would you please—"
"That one's wrong, too," Peter stated simply.
This time, the teacher's head whipped back to the board to prove Peter wrong. But he couldn't. Instead, he turned back with an annoyed frown and looked as if he was about to scold his student. But that student just didn't know when to shut his mouth.
"Maybe if you cared about what you were teaching, we'd actually learn something."
Ah.
It'd finally happened.
His snark had finally slipped through.
Detention wasn't really as bad as everyone made it out to be. There usually wasn't that many people in detention anyways. Sure, there were a few thugs sometimes, but today, it was just Peter… and The Artist.
He didn't know her actual name, but she certainly earned the title Peter had secretly bestowed on her. Whenever they encountered each other in detention, she would do a quick sketch; when she finally decided it was ready for him to see, she let him know by throwing whatever she had on hand at the back of his head. Sometimes, the item chosen was heavier than Peter would have liked, but it was always worth being able to see her drawings. Not to mention, it meant he had a reason to stare at her gorgeous face.
The Artist was almost indescribable to Peter. Her perfect, dark skin complimented her blue eyes in a way he'd never seen before. The tight, soft-looking curls that draped in front of her face looked like ribbons of silk. It surprised Peter that she always covered them with a beanie, and annoyed or apathetic face she kept on pretty much 24/7 confused him too. Peter cherished the smirks she gave him when he silently expressed how impressed he was with her art.
He desperately wished he knew The Artist's name. Unfortunately, the only teacher at Midtown High that was dedicated to his job was the one who ran detention. No talking, no leaving, no phones. It would have been bearable if Peter was by himself… but the fact that she was just beyond his reach irked him to no end.
Today, Peter made a decision. He usually had to leave detention as soon as he could to make it to dinner on time; but just this once, he was going to stay a little later. He was sure Aunt May would gladly excuse his tardiness when she found out it was for a girl. As the clock ticked towards the end of his prescribed hour, he rolled his eyes fondly thinking of May's reation. She had been questioning him about any 'special friends' since the day he entered middle school.
"Three, two… one," he whispered, eyes glued to the clock. He gathered his things and made his way out of the classroom as usual, only to stop just around the corner. Peter tapped his finger on the strap of his backpack, making a soft rythym that filled the empty hall.
Peter waited, and waited… and finally, after another half hour, The Artist emerged. She casually glanced in his direction, only for her to have a double take when she noticed him.
"Hey, goody-two-shoes. What are you still doing here?" she asked, a twinkling curiosity in her gaze.
"Waiting for you." he said with a tiny smirk— but he dropped it when her eyebrow shot up. "N-not in a creepy way or anything!" he stammered. "I just… wanted to know your name."
The Artist's face softened at the prospect and stuck out her hand. "I'm MJ. Nice to officially meet you."
After an awkward handshake, he responded, "I'm Peter."
"I know," she said with a grin. "You're the one who got Mr. Harrison's pants in a wad today. Word gets around." Peter had a feeling she knew his name even before the incident, and his cheeks flushed.
"Hah… if you knew about that, why'd you call me goody-two-shoes?"
"Oh," she began. Peter could have sworn her cheeks turned a shade of pink. "Well, that was— you were one before that. Compared to me, anyways," she said. Peter turned to hide his smile at the fact she'd paid as much attention to him as he had to her.
Peter walked home that day with a grin spread wide across his face. He couldn't help but keep staring down at the contact in his phone labeled 'MJ.' Aunt May was going to freak.
Everything seemed so much brighter and prettier while he strolled down the block. The golden hour sunlight glistned through the trees like golden rays, and lit up the leaves like shimmering stained glass. He smiled at the breeze that rustled his hair and cooled his flushed cheeks. It couldn't be better weather for March.
He stopped as he arrived at the house. Gazing upon it in all it's cozy, sunbathed glory, he played memories through his mind of moments with Uncle Ben on the porch, and the sound of Aunt May's seventy's CDs floating through the open windows.
When Peter looked closer, though, his heart dropped. Something was wrong. The front door was slightly ajar, and the glass window in it had been shattered. His legs trembling, he ran up the stairs and pushed open the door. Sharp shards crunched under his feet, and Peter's breath quickened when he heard an unfamiliar voice and a woman's sobs.
"Seriously, stop your wailing. If you'd have just put down the phone, I wouldn't have had to shoot the guy."
Peter stopped. At those words, he knew what was happening. Someone had broken in, tried to rob the place. May was going to call the police, but the man had noticed and shot… someone. He didn't want to say who he knew the intruder was referring to.
He tried to continue forward into the house as quietly as possible, but he couldn't breathe. His vision was spinning at the thoughts he didn't want to think, and the sunlight coming through the windows lost it's luster. All he could see now were the harsh shadows that it made along the floor.
Peter turned the corner of the hall into the living room in what felt like slow motion. Every movement and every breath took tremendous effort. He didn't want to look, he didn't want to see; but he had to. He couldn't leave his family at the mercy of this criminal, even though Peter knew he couldn't do much. He blinked one more time at the wooden floorboards before turning slowly to meet the scene that awaited him.
Red. Pools and pools of red blood covered the gorgeous carpet that Aunt May had picked out herself last Christmas. Lord knew he didn't want to see the source. His morbid curiousity led his gaze up to meet a limp body on the ground, dressed in a plaid button up shirt and khaki pants. The soft flannel was had been ripped by the bullet and stained with drying blood. Cradling the body were a pair of arms, freckled with age spots. He could see a faint glimmer of a ring on one of the fingers; a familiar wedding ring. Peter blinked again, and forced himself to see their faces.
Ben's face was blank. A small trail of tred trickled out from the corner of his mouth, and Peter noticed the hint of a smile on his face. He had probably tried to comfort May in his last moments. When Peter saw the stillness in his eyes, he knew Ben was gone. Tears burned his eyes and nostrils. They flowed down his face when he saw how sad and resigned May looked. Her expression suddenly turned terrified when her eyes met Peter's, and Peter couldn't figure out why until he looked towards the intruder.
The man shouted something towards him, but Peter couldn't be bothered to listen. The robber was now pointing the gun at Peter; he must have been startled by Peter's quiet arrival, and was coming closer with an angry and anxious look on his face. For some reason, the gun in his face didn't scare Peter. He hardly even noticed the man's finger pressing on the trigger.
A loud bang sounded— and Peter's body flinched in response. In the split second he had closed his eyes, May jumped up and pushed the intruder to the ground. Peter's face twisted in agony when he saw another stain of red on the back of May's blouse. She flopped to the floor, face down and eerily still.
The man scrambled back to his feet, panicking and letting out a string of curses at the realization that he'd commited two murders along with robbery. As fast as the robber ran out the door, he still couldn't escape the police arriving at the scene. His terrified shouts as he was tackled by the officers almost sparked a tinge of pity in Peter. Almost.
"We got two down in here! One possibly injured! Are you hurt anywhere, son?"
By the time Peter realized he was on his knees, sobbing and shaking May's limp body, there were strong arms trying to tear him away. He didn't let go; and he probably couldn't even if he wanted to. The grip he had on May was vice-like.
"You've gotta move, she's bleeding out! Get him out of here!"
Just before his hands just started to slip, Peter heard a whisper.
Felt a breath.
Saw a twitch.
May wasn't gone yet.
"May!!" Peter called out, childlike and terrified for his mother's aunt's life. He scrambled closer, leaning in to speak. "May, it's okay. The police are here, they got him."
"Oh Peter," she whispered, "thank God he didn't hurt you." The gentleness and genuine love in her voice made Peter's throat tighten so much that it hurt. May's eyes were barely open, and they seemed to be searching for Peter from her angle against the floor.
"May, why would you do that?" Peter asked, tears pushing their way through his composure once again. "Why would you do that?!"
"Whaddya mean why," she mumbled. "I can't just sit back and watch you get hurt. You're my kid." Her eyes were closed now, but he could see her chest moving ever so slightly; slower, slower still.
"Forget the kid, just do what you can; we're losing her!"
"Jeez, May…" he choked out. He hadn't realized until that very moment how much he had craved being someone's anything.
"Peter… Peter, listen to me," May continued, while the EMTs tried to work around Peter's unwavering determination to stay. She finally met Peter's eyes. He covered his mouth in awe at how lovingly she was gazing at him. May gripped his hand with the last of her strength.
"I need you to know that I love you, okay? I love… I…"
The declaration had hardly left her lips before the light left her eyes.
"I'm calling it. She's gone."
"Grab the body bags and get this kid somewhere safe."
"I love you too… Mom."