Chapter Text
Peter weaved his way through people leaving the subway station and headed to his apartment building. He let out a long, satisfied sigh. Another successful patrol over.
Being Spider-Man had its ups and downs, but Peter loved it nonetheless. There were shouts of cheers and praises, and some occasional churro or hotdog; although there were also those who didn't wish him well and cussed him out. It was mostly criminals that fell into the latter group. Well, and Jameson, but Peter seriously had no idea what the guy's problem was.
However big or small the thing was, Spider-Man always helped. Getting cats from trees, helping with homework, giving directions to tourists - you name it. Aside from that one time he saved Mr. Stark's plane, Peter kept to the neighborhood.
Sure, it would've been nice to be acknowledged by his childhood idol, but on second thought, it was probably for the best. After all, Peter did crash the plane.
The apartment building came in view, prompting Peter to add some spring into his steps despite how tired he was. He bypassed the broken elevator and took two steps at the time until he made it to their hallway.
Usually, he was careful and planned his patrols around May's schedule as to not tip her off about his activities, but Mr. Harrington had to attend to something urgent, which led to the acadec being cancelled, leaving Peter with several hours to spare before he was expected home. It was too good of an opportunity to pass.
"Hey, May!" he called out as he shut the door. A pleasant smell wafted through the air, leading Peter to the kitchen.
"Hey." She planted a quick kiss on his forehead before he rested his chin on her shoulder, looking into the simmering pots on the stove. "How was the practice?"
"The usual. Oh, this smells so good," he moaned, his stomach rumbling in agreement. Looks like the cooking classes finally started to pay off. Home cooked meals became a rarity after...
After Ben's death.
Even with everyone assuring Peter it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have prevented it, Peter knew better. It was his fault. He could have prevented it.
In a fit of rage, he donned his homemade suit and set off to search for the murderer. And when he couldn't be physically out hunting the man down, he put all his effort into searching online - either by watching traffic cameras or listening to police channels for any clue or suspect. All at the expense of his schoolwork and sleep.
Both the teachers and May noticed right away. Their concerned words only fanned the burning fury, so, as a response, Peter pushed himself even harder.
At some point, he even stopped pulling his punches.
In the end, it wasn't even Peter who brought the murderer in. It was way past his curfew as he laid under his blanket, listening to the police radio, when a report came that the suspect was apprehended. The next day, he got pulled out of school to identify the murderer.
"It's him," he said immediately after he laid his eyes on the man.
"Are you sure?" the police officer asked. "There's no rush, you can take your time."
"I'm sure," Peter replied resolutely. There was no way he would forget that face. And by the expression on the man's face, it was mutual. "It's him."
"Uh, very well then. Thank you for coming. We'll handle it from here."
Peter glared until he felt May's hand gently land on his shoulder and began to guide him out of the room. Once outside, her arms wrapped around him. "It's okay now," she whispered into his hair. "It's okay. He will get justice."
And Peter... Peter felt some crushing weight fall off his chest. Closing his eyes, he returned the embrace and buried his face into May's shirt to hide the tears.
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
Those were the words that echoed in Peter's head ever since that fateful day. Shamefully realizing that Ben wouldn't have wanted his last words bastardized like that, wouldn't have wanted for Peter to get swallowed by bitterness and anger, Peter did a complete one-eighty. He apologized and did his best to help May, who was also trying her best.
It wasn't easy for her either. With no family of her own, Peter was now all she had left.
And how did I thank her? he thought bitterly.
"I love you so much, you know?" Peter said as he closed his eyes to soak in the peace and calmness the smell of his aunt's shampoo and the sound of the wooden spoon gliding across the pan's bottom created.
May chucked. "What brought this on?"
Peter shrugged. "Just felt like telling you." He could stay like this forever. Just him and his aunt, and not a single worry in the world.
"Aww," she cooed and leaned her head against Peter's, "I know, sweetheart. I love you more."
"How adorable."
The unfamiliar voice made Peter snap his eyes open, his body going rigid along with May's. He spun around, only to be met with a gun aimed at them.
No, not at them. At May.
Behind the gun stood a man in dark clothes. There was something predatory lurking underneath that lopsided smile on his face, but what stood out the most about him was the scar on his forehead.
"So very, utterly, adorable," the man repeated, putting emphasis on each accent-stained word.
Peter’s spidey sense screamed.
How come he didn't sense the man approach? There was no way that a guy with a gun and an accent cornering them in their own kitchen was up to any good.
Who was it? A regular burglar? Someone related to Ben's murdered? Or was... was the man here for him?
For Spider-Man?
Before Peter could take a full step to shield May with his own body - because damn it, he won't freeze this time - an arm over his torso stopped him. May was a step ahead of him, one hand still clutching the pan handle, the other one holding the wooden spoon that was now dripping sauce on the tiles. Peter tried again, only to be nudged back. May shot him a quick glance, the expression on her face conveying to stay put.
"I must say," the man spoke in a relaxed manner, "you are a very hard person to find, Miss Peretti. Or should I say Mrs. Parker?"
Wait. What?
"It's been what... 15 years since the last time we saw each other?"
If it wasn't for Peter's enhanced hearing, he would've missed the way his aunt's next inhale shuddered. Her arm further pressed into his torso, but Peter refused to move; or was unable to move. He couldn't tell the difference.
May lifted her chin, meeting the man's gaze. "And I hoped it would stay that way," she said, all traces of fear gone. "I thought that crash had killed you, but I guess cockroaches really do survive anything."
The man ran his thumb over the whole length of the scar and chuckled. "As much as I'd like to stay and catch up, that's not the purpose of my visit." The friendly demeanor dropped all of a sudden. "Hand over the research."
"There is no research."
Suddenly, the safety clicked and the gun shifted from May to Peter. "Do you want to try again, or will a hole in our young friend here help to jog your memory?" His finger toyed with the safety as the casual tone returned. "Who's he is anyway? Yours? Or Fitzpatrick's and you got stuck with him?"
Fitzpatrick.
His mom's name helped to pull Peter from the confusing whirlpool this whole situation thrown him into. Still, more and more questions popped up, and no answers.
"I’m telling the truth," May replied, pointedly avoiding the second part of the question, "it's gone. I destroyed it. Years ago."
The man licked his lips and shifted on his feet. Peter wasn't sure if him getting agitated was a good sign or not. The safety was off, but his finger wasn't on the trigger, so if worst came to worst, he could act.
He wouldn't freeze.
He wouldn't freeze.
May nodded towards the window above the sink without breaking eye contact. "If you don't believe me, you can see the proof right outside that window."
"Do you take me for an idiot, Peretti?!" the man growled.
The atmosphere in their small apartment became so thick you could barely breathe. May was quiet, leveling the intruder with a look Peter couldn't read. The man in turn grew more restless and twitchy, his finger sliding too close to the trigger for Peter's comfort.
Ever so carefully, Peter’s gaze shifted from the gun to the window. There was nothing resembling any research, not even a flowerpot to hide something in it. There was only the old bird reflector May made from broken CDs to prevent the pigeons from colliding with the glass-
Oh.
Peter's eyes widened with realization.
The sauce began to burn.
The man looked as well and the instant his eyes were off of them, all hell broke loose.
May lunged, the pan still in her hand, and swung at the man, whose surprise and shock caused his finger to miss the trigger, giving May enough time to close the distance between them. The resounding clang of the pan against a discharging gun and the bullet shattering the cheap vase hurt Peter's ears.
Gunshot-Ben-blood-I'msorry-somuchblood-
Don't freeze!
Peter didn't think as he sprung forward. Some deep instinct took over his body, tuning out everything around him in favor of the scene a few steps ahead.
One moment he watched his aunt whack the man across the head, the next she was sweeping the legs from underneath Peter, not letting go of his hand to guide his fall, and by the time Peter regained his bearings, May was back on the man, bashing his head against the floor. The man went still.
For a moment, only their heavy breathing could be heard in their suddenly quiet apartment.
Peter's head was reeling. What just happened? There was no way May learned to fight like that - like a professional - in those evening self-defense classes.
Thousand questions burned at the tip of his tongue. Their eyes met and Peter blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Too bad about the sauce."
May glanced at the pan on the ground and shrugged. "It was burnt anyway," she said before springing to her feet and helped Peter up. "Are you hurt?"
"I.... May, what's going on? Who is that guy, why did he call you Peretti and what research?"
In response, May put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a once-over. "Later. I promise I'll tell you later, but we have to go now. If there's one, there's more." She turned off the stove, then marched into her room before emerging back ten seconds later, a bag in her hand. "Do you have anything in your room that could link you to Spider-Man?"
"I- no, the suit is in my backpack along with the spare cartridges and-" For a second time in about five minutes, Peter turned into a statue.
Oh god. She knew.
His aunt knew!
"Peter."
For how long did she know? And how did she figure it out?
"Peter!"
The hands returned to his shoulder, grounding him from spiraling further. "How?" he choked out on the verge of tears, because what the hell was happening here?!
"Later," May replied gently and passed Peter his backpack. "So everything is here?"
"Y-yeah," he nodded.
"Good." While Peter put on his backpack, May bent down to pick up the gun and rummaged in her own bag until she pulled out something that looked like a gray tennis ball. "Let's go."
After May made sure the hallway was clear, she threw the ball right into the hole of the elevator door that was left there by their evicted neighbor. Said neighbor was also the reason why the elevator was out of commission. The ball hit the bottom of the shaft, soon followed by a cloud of white smoke pouring out of the hole.
The fire alarm blared throughout the whole building. The sound of the door opening and closing from the floors above and below mixed with shuffling feet as people headed towards the exit. Ever since the fire that broke out top floor, everyone took the alarm seriously.
May's free hand wrapped itself around Peter's wrist and tugged him towards the sea of people streaming down the stairs.
Peter allowed himself to be guided wherever his aunt saw fit. It was so strange. Absolutely surreal. The woman he knew all his life, who was basically a mother to him, who randomly broke into dancing when some cheesy song came on radio and pulled him along until they were both doubling over with laughter... All of that was replaced by steely, focused and calculating look of determination.
"This way," she whispered, loud enough only for Peter to hear.
They broke off from the crowd without anyone noticing and headed to the garage, and after scanning the car with some gadget, they pulled into New York traffic.
With every red light that hit them at the intersection, May's hold on the steering wheel grew into a white-knuckled grip. Her eyes never stopped jumping from mirrors to streets to cars around them. The radio began to play some fake-cheery dime-a-dozen pop song. It grated at Peter's ears, but he was too busy clutching his backpack to his chest to do anything about it. Thankfully, his aunt got fed up with the song soon after and turned off the radio.
"May?" Peter asked softly.
It was like a wave washed over her, taking away the tension from her jaw and shoulders. Her grip on the steering wheel relaxed. "I'm sorry," she exhaled and briefly closed her eyes. "Just wait a little bit longer with your questions, okay?"
Peter felt sick. "Okay," he swallowed around the world.
But it wasn't okay. Peter was a curious creature by nature, so not knowing stuff made him restless. And add some secrets that were potentially life-threatening? The obliviousness along with the silence was making him feel like he was about to vomit, despite his empty stomach. And the buzzing. God, the buzzing was so unbearable, if only he could make it stop-
Peter sucked in a sharp breath, his back straightening like someone shoved a metal rod into his spine. "May?"
"What's wrong?" May asked, voice full of alert.
Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. But what? "May?"
His spidey sense screeched.
"May, watch out!"
Peter's left hand shot out towards his aunt's head and pushed her down. A bullet whizzed by, missing her by an inch. A hole surrounded by a spiderweb in the windshield remained in its stead.
"Shit!" May cursed.
One moment Peter was leaning forward, and the next one he was thrown into the back of his seat as May floored it, swerving between countless cars.
Since when could their car go that fast?
More cracks ripped through the air, bleeding into a cacophony of screeching tires and angry honks. Several more holes now accompanied the first one. Peter hunched down in his seat, spotting a black car following them in the rearview mirror before it was blown away as well.
There were times when criminals pulled out a gun at Spider-Man, even shot at him. But never like this. Out there he could move around, jump out of the way... and here? All he could do here was to hope that whoever was after them wouldn't get lucky. Don't take him wrong, May's driving was extraordinary, but one shot was all it took and it would be over.
Peter fumbled with the zip of his bag with one hand and reached for the window lever with the other one. If only he didn't take off his web shooters before he got home! "Got it," he mumbled under his breath once his fingers closed around the sleek metal.
"Don't even think about it!" May barked out as another bullet pierced the trunk. "You stay put, you hear me?"
May never yelled at him. Raised her voice, sure, but never outright yelled.
"But I can help!" Peter pressed.
"Peter, I said no!"
"What do you want to do then?" he asked, his voice slowly rising. "We can't shake them off like this."
May stayed silent for a moment, her eyes narrowing at something ahead. "Yes," she said, softer this time, "we can."
Brows pulled together, Peter followed his aunt's gaze, his own eyes widening. There was a turn ahead leading to a single-lane side road. It would be great to shake their pursuers off for a while if it wasn't for the truck barreling down the road opposite of them.
Peter shook his head in disbelief. "W-we can't make it."
Instead of replying, May pushed the car faster.
"What? May, no, that's dangerous! There has to be some other way. May?" They were close now. The truck was too. "May?!"
"Trust me."
May swerved across the lanes. The truck’s horn blared and the brakes squealed, drowning out Peter's screams.
That was it. This was how they were going to die. Not shot by some mysterious people his aunt knew, but being flattened into a pancake by a several-ton truck.
Parker luck.
But May had no Parker blood. Just when it looked like they were about to be sent flying, the truck was replaced by a sight of wall.
Yeah, did Peter mention he was glad there was nothing in his stomach?
The truck, now fully stopped, blocked the entrance. And if the driver was as shaken as Peter was, he won't be moving any time soon.
It took about another five-minute drive in silence broken by Peter's shaky breathing until they reached half-empty underground garage. May pulled into the H section and the engine sputtered out. She allowed herself a grand total of five seconds to let out a calming breath before she left the car. But Peter wasn't following.
Halfway to a grey car with tinted windows, the lack of a second pair of footsteps had to become noticeable, because the door on his side opened and two warm hands enveloped his right.
"Come on, Peter," May said softly, "we can't stay here."
Peter closed his eyes. That gentle touch, that gentle voice; those belonged to a woman he knew all his life, not to the one kneeling in front of him. "Who are you?"
The hands moved from his hand to his face. "It's still me. Despite everything, it's still me." Gentle. Loving. Affectionate. Just like he knew her.
"Okay," Peter whispered.
May gave him a soft smile before turning around and walking towards the other car. This time, Peter followed. He didn't question how she knew the keys were hidden under the chassis. Inside, she reached into the glove box, pulled out a phone and began to type something on it. While she was distracted, Peter shifted his backpack on his lap to look at his left forearm.
The blood stain on the sleeve was slowly growing.