Chapter Text
The door clicked shut, and Peter sighed deeply. Finally. He was alone.
He relaxed his slightly hostile body language and flopped down on the couch, hearing the springs groan with his weight. He placed a hand over his eyes, slightly amazed at how tired he was.
It was Friday, November 23rd, which also happened to be the day after Thanksgiving. He was on break from school, crime was low, and there was little to do besides watching TV and occasionally tinkering with the stuff he had in his room.
Yet exhaustion pulled at him, making him want to do nothing more than take a nap.
Maybe it was the fight with his aunt that drove so much out of him.
I just wish sometimes she would back off. She’s suffocating me. Peter thought, shutting his eyes.
Indignation swelled within him. I should be able to go out as Spider-Man as much as I want, when I want. I have a power. I should be able to use it.
Protests filled his head as he lay down, his eyes still closed. May wouldn’t be back with dinner for a while, so maybe he’d just take a little nap…
--
His ringtone woke him.
He vocalized his annoyance and tried to block out the noise, mentally cursing himself for picking a ringtone that was so irritating. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into unconsciousness, where everything was nice and quiet. Thankfully, after several minutes, the ringtone eventually faded into silence, the loud yodels that it produced echoing off the walls for seconds after.
It was quiet for about thirty seconds before his phone went off again.
Peter groaned loudly. Whoever was calling was persistent, and he grumbled as he sat up. He rubbed his eyes and picked up his phone, not even bothering to look at the Caller ID.
“Hello,” Peter mumbled, stifling a yawn.
“Am I speaking to Peter Parker?” The voice was sharp, but not unkind. More urgent than anything.
Peter blinked, suddenly more awake. “Uh, yes.”
“Peter, this is Doctor Lane. You need to come to the Hospital Center in Queens right now.”
Peter felt like he had been doused in ice water. “What? Why?”
“Your aunt has been in a car accident. I’m sorry, but we cannot provide any more details over the phone.”
Peter was wide awake now. His hands shook as he spoke, “I-I’ll be right there.”
The call ended, and Peter stood, his legs shaking.
An accident?
He swallowed hard, nausea sweeping over him and pushing bile into his throat. He took a deep breath through his nose, calming himself.
She's fine, Peter told himself as he rushed to his bedroom and searched for his old web shooters, knowing that he couldn't show up clad in his Spider-Man suit. She's probably just a little banged up. They always take you to the hospital after car accidents, right?
Dammit. Where did he put his shooters?
He pretty much tore up his room before he found them, beneath his bed, under all kinds of stuff he had previously deemed useless.
He hooked them on his wrists quickly, pushed open the window, and threw himself out of it.
--
The hospital halls were sterile, bright, and smelled strongly of rubbing alcohol.
Peter’s overly-sensitive nose burned every time he inhaled, and his legs shook with every step. The lady at the counter told him that his Aunt was in room 324, and he had sprinted down the hallway in the direction of the stairs. He took the steps two at a time up until the third floor, when the apprehension slowed him down.
He counted the door numbers as he walked, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
320, 321, 322, 323…
There was a doctor standing outside of room 324.
She looked up as he approached.
“You must be Peter,” She said, a note of sadness in her voice.
“Where is my Aunt?” Peter spoke, surprised that the voice he heard was his own.
The doctor’s gaze turned pitiful. “I’m sorry.”
Peter felt the world collapse around him. He barely heard the words that followed the doctor’s admission. “Her car collided with a semi-truck on 164th street. Her injuries sustained from the crash were too severe. She had lost too much blood. We couldn’t save her.”
There was a sudden sharp ringing in Peter’s ears. Everything seemed too loud. The lights were too bright. All he could smell was isopropyl.
“Peter?” He blinked up at her, his vision blurry with tears.
“Where is she?” Peter whispered. “C-can… can I see her?”
The doctor nodded solemnly and opened the door. Peter forced his shaky legs to move.
The room was dark, with only one light on, and Peter almost cried with the relief from the brightness. The alcohol smell was stronger, almost sickening, but he suddenly didn’t care.
His aunt was laying on the cot in the middle of the room.
He walked over to her, feeling floaty.
She was pale. Lifeless. Cold.
The tears slid down his cheeks.
“May…” Peter whispered, his hand reaching out and touching her face. There was a cut on her cheek. It made Peter cry harder.
He fell into the chair that was placed next to her bed. His throat felt tight and his chest hurt as sobs ripped from his throat. His eyes burned with tears, and his breathing grew labored. He found his Aunt’s hand and gripped it, hating how cold it was. He hated everything then. He hated how his heart beat in his chest while hers didn’t, how his lungs inhaled and hers never would again.
His mind raced as he sat there, bouncing frantically from one thought to another, neurons firing so fast that he couldn't concentrate on one thing for longer than a second. Aunt May did always joke that he had trouble staying focused, but his mind was going so fast that it was making him panicky and shaky, making him feel like everything was spiraling out of control faster than it already was.
Oh god, what was he going to do? He was alone, truly and completely, for the first time since childhood. Where would he go? He didn't have any money saved up, nor did he have a method of income. He needed that for emancipation, right? He need a steady income to emancipate himself, or else he was going into the system, and oh god, he didn't want to go into the system—
He pressed his fist to his mouth and let out a muffled scream, unable to do anything but let his thoughts swirl into a tornado, wrecking havoc inside his mind and leaving disaster in its wake.
Calm down, he told himself, noticing that he was unconsciously rocking back and forth. He forced himself to still, swallowing. Think for a second. You need a plan.
With shaking fingers, he took out his phone and unlocked it without thinking. Maybe he’d stay at Ned’s house tonight. Or maybe he’d just go home.
The thought of being alone in the apartment made him nauseous.
His fingers found the calling app on his phone. His thumb hovered over Ned’s number.
I can’t.
He had to act like he was okay in front of Ned, and the mere thought of having to put on a smile was enough to make him scroll past the number. He felt tears enter his eyes again.
Through blurry vision, he saw Happy’s number. Maybe he’ll give me a ride somewhere. I have enough saved up for a hotel room. He tapped the screen and held the phone up to his ear.
One ring. Two. Three. Four.
Voicemail.
“This is Happy’s phone. Leave a message.”
Peter shut his phone off, his heart sinking. Just when he was about to pocket it, it rang.
It was Happy.
Peter accepted the call.
“H-hello?” Peter whispered.
“Hey kid. What’s up?”
A sob escaped Peter’s lips. He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to smother it. “I, uh… I’m in a bit of… a s-situation?”
There was a beat of silence. “Are you alright?”
Peter had no strength left to lie. “N-no. I… I need you to pick me up.”
“Hold on,” Happy said, concern rising in his tone. “What’s going on? Where are you?”
Peter tilted his head up, wanting the tears to recede back into his eyes. “Queen’s Hospital Center.”
“You’re at the hospital? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Peter didn’t want to say it, but he couldn’t avoid it any longer. “Aunt May is dead.”
Silence. Tears rolled down Peter’s face again. His hands shook.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry Peter.” Happy sounded sad. It didn’t make Peter feel any better.
“C-can you pick me up? P-please…” Peter trailed off, a sob punctured his sentence.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Hang tight kid.”
The line went dead.
And Peter sobbed.