Chapter 1: “They taught me love”
Notes:
Hi everyone, and welcome!
This is my very first fanfiction – or rather, my first full story in about 8 to 10 years. I’ve always wanted to write something, especially about Spider-Man, because Peter Parker is my all-time favorite character. He’s my hero, and I love him with all my heart.I’m a huge Marvel fan and plan to write mostly Marvel-related fanfics – especially about Peter Parker and Tony Stark (Iron Dad), but possibly also Spideypool (Deadpool x Spider-Man). We’ll see what the future brings.
Today I finally told myself: no more waiting, let’s begin.
I hope you enjoy this story. I’m still figuring out my writing rhythm, so I can’t promise regular updates yet. But I’m trying this out with all the love I’ve got.
Feel free to leave kudos or comment below – especially if you have ideas, feedback, or constructive criticism. I’d really appreciate it.
🕷❤️
(❗At the bottom of this chapter, you’ll find detailed content warnings.
They’re placed there to avoid spoilers, but if you’re sensitive to certain topics, please scroll down before reading. Your wellbeing matters most.❗)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Before It Fell Apart.
Peter Parker had lost more than most people twice his age.
He was five when his parents died in a plane crash.
Back then, he didn’t really understand.
And if he was being honest - sometimes, he still didn’t.
One day, he was sitting at Aunt May’s kitchen table, chocolate smeared across his cheek. The next day, he was still sitting there. And he stayed.
He loved Aunt May and Uncle Ben with all his heart - he really did.
But they weren’t his parents.
And even if he was too young to remember all the details, he remembered the things that mattered.
His mother’s perfume.
Her laugh that warmed the air like cinnamon.
His father’s voice reading bedtime stories - soft, steady, full of wonder and light.
The quiet hum his mom made when she baked - always apples, always something with apples. And the sound of his dad’s pen scratching across paper, the scent of old books and ink in his study.
He had now lived with May and Ben longer than he ever had with his parents.
But that didn’t mean he missed them any less.
He missed them every day.
Some days more than others.
Some days, happiness felt like betrayal.
Especially when he saw other kids with both their parents.
Especially when he remembered he used to have that too.
But he was lucky.
He had May. He had Ben.
They loved him. They tried. They gave him everything.
But sometimes, everything wasn’t enough.
He visited their graves with Uncle Ben. Not often. But often enough.
Sometimes, Uncle Ben would whisper something to his brother - Richard - because pretending helped.
Pretending made the pain feel lighter.
They say time heals all wounds.
It doesn’t.
But it does teach you how to breathe beside them.
Peter thought maybe - just maybe - he felt truly happy again for the first time when he was seven. A warm afternoon. A checkered blanket. Peanut butter sandwiches. And the people who stayed.
The sun was gentle that day.
Not too warm, not too bright - just enough to make the grass smell like summer and the sky hum in blue.
May had braided her hair and wore her favorite dress, the one with little sunflowers on it. Peter liked that dress. He said it made her look like the garden they had passed on the way there. She had laughed - loud and joyful and squeezed his hand.
Ben had packed the old picnic blanket, two cans of lemonade, a half-crushed bag of chips, and an unbelievable amount of homemade sandwiches that Peter had helped make.
Mostly peanut butter and jelly - his favorite. He had closed each sandwich carefully and cut them into triangles, very seriously.
"Triangles taste better," he’d explained.
Ben had saluted him. "Yes, sir."
There was a cake, too. A little lopsided, slightly burnt. Peter had helped with that as well.
And somehow, everything tasted perfect.
They sat on the blanket together, shoes off, crumbs everywhere. A bright red balloon floated beside Peter’s elbow, tied loosely to his wrist with a bit of string. It danced every time he moved - like a quiet little celebration hovering behind his shoulder.
They were laughing at something. May had frosting on her nose. Ben teased her. Peter giggled until he fell over.
Then came the question. Ben’s voice was calm and quiet, like he was talking to the sky instead of the boy in front of him.
"Hey, Peter," he said softly. "Are you happy?"
Peter paused. He blinked. The laughter still bubbled warm in his chest, but the question stirred it. He looked at Ben, then at May. She was smiling. Waiting.
Peter swallowed - softly, honestly.
"I...I don’t know," he said. "I think… sometimes?"
No one corrected him. No one made that face adults sometimes make - the one full of pity.
May reached for his hand. Ben nodded, like Peter had said something important.
"That’s okay," Ben said gently.
"You don’t have to know. You don’t always have to be happy."
May squeezed his fingers.
"We love you, Peter," she said.
"Exactly as you are. Even when it’s hard."
And maybe - just maybe - something in Peter’s chest loosened. Just a little.
He didn’t reply. But he smiled. Small. Real.
Ben grinned back - then suddenly lunged and scooped Peter up, making the boy shriek with laughter.
"You’ve had too much cake," Ben declared. "Time to run it off!"
Peter squirmed in his arms, giggling like sunshine, while May laughed behind the camera she’d pulled from her bag. The balloon bounced wildly as Ben chased him through the field, letting Peter "almost" get away before tackling him in a dramatic, harmless tumble.
Somewhere in the middle of it all- Grass-stained, cheeks flushed, breathless from running- Peter laughed again.
Not the careful kind.
Not the polite kind.
But loud, messy, and true.
He still didn’t know if he was happy.
But this moment?
This felt like joy.
Peter sat cross - legged on the floor.
His Iron Man mask sat crooked on his head. The matching rubber gloves dangled uselessly from his wrists. In his lap lay a glossy biography, open wide: Tony Stark: Genius. Billionaire. Philanthropist.
"Aunt May?" he called toward the kitchen, his voice light.
"Can you read the part where he escapes the cave again?"
There was a pause.
Then May’s voice came - not unkind, but distant, like her thoughts were somewhere else.
"Later, sweetheart."
Peter didn’t notice the quiet that followed, or the subtle tension building in the kitchen behind him.
"I just don’t know, Ben," May said quietly, moving her hands in slow circles as she wiped the counter.
"It doesn’t sit right with me."
"What doesn’t?" Ben’s voice was steady, as always.
"Him. Stark. That Peter looks up to him so much."
There was the sharp sound of ceramic hitting the counter - Ben had set his mug down.
"Because of the weapons?"
"Because of everything," she said.
"Because he spent years building war machines and selling them to the highest bidder. And now he’s suddenly a hero?"
Ben didn’t answer at first.
He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, like the question needed space to breathe.
"I get it," he said at last.
"I’ve got coworkers who’d agree with you."
"You do?"
Ben nodded slowly. "Sometimes.
But... sometimes I think... people change."
May turned toward him, dish towel in hand.
"Do they really, Ben? Or do they just switch the mask they’re wearing?"
He let out a dry laugh.
"You should hear how often I get that one at work."
He took a deep breath.
"But he was kidnapped, May. Tortured. Nearly killed. He came back different. He shut down his weapons division with his own hands. No one forced him to. And now he’s funding clean energy projects, supporting shelters, sending aid to war zones. That’s not nothing."
"He’s still a billionaire playing hero," she said.
"He still builds weapons. He just... wears them now."
Ben nodded.
"Sure. He’s flashy. Arrogant. He’ll probably always be. But he stopped selling death. He gave that up willingly. You don’t walk away from that kind of money unless something inside you truly changes."
May glanced down the hall, where Peter had started mimicking Iron Man’s repulsor-blast poses. He giggled as he fought an imaginary drone, blissfully unaware of the gray edges of the world.
"He thinks Stark is saving the world," she whispered.
"Peter thinks he’s a real hero."
"Maybe he is," Ben said.
"Maybe that’s exactly what Peter needs- A hero who used to be someone else. Someone who made mistakes. And stopped."
May’s voice was soft.
"Do you really believe he’s changed?"
"I do," Ben said.
"And even if he’s still arrogant... even if he hasn’t got it all figured out yet... He’s trying. That matters. God knows, not all of us get it right the first time."
Then, after a pause, he added, "Trust me, May. I come home with a weapon on my hip every night."
"That’s different," she said.
Ben raised an eyebrow.
"Is it?"
She didn’t answer. Instead, she dried her hands and turned toward the hallway - toward the boy in the crooked mask,
the one who wanted to save the world.
The Stark Expo was everything Peter had dreamed of and somehow even more.
He had talked about it for weeks after Uncle Ben and Aunt May surprised him with the tickets for his birthday. Even now, walking between the towering exhibits and glowing display cases, Peter kept reaching for the red-and-gold mask tied to his backpack - just to make sure it was all really happening.
He proudly wore his Iron Man gloves, moving his hands now and then with a soft “Pew! Pew!” His special edition Iron Man book was safely locked in the car. Too valuable to risk. Besides, he needed both hands to explore.
Before they entered the grounds, Ben and May had been clear:
“Stay close. If you want to go see something, just let us know first. It’s going to be crowded, and we don’t want to lose you, okay?”
Peter had nodded seriously. “I promise.”
Now he held Aunt May’s hand tightly as they passed exhibit after exhibit - showcases on clean energy innovations built on Stark’s arc reactor tech, new housing programs for homeless families, global humanitarian efforts: solar panels for war zones, food delivery drones, mobile shelters. One display showed how Stark Industries had shifted from weapon manufacturing to rebuilding. May had smiled quietly when Peter pointed it out. Eventually, they reached a small holographic memorial: a life-sized projection of Howard and Maria Stark. Next to it was a shimmering image of Captain America - young, iconic, eternal.
Peter stopped.
“Those are Tony Stark’s parents,” he whispered to Ben.
“Yeah,” Ben nodded. “Howard worked with Cap a long time ago.”
Peter only lingered a moment before his attention shifted - across the plaza stood a massive climbing structure shaped like Iron Man mid-flight. At its base, a stand sold all kinds of Iron Man merchandise: masks, gloves, keychains, even a mini arc reactor that lit up blue when you tapped it.
But what caught Peter’s eye was the action figure. Not the one he already had at home. This one was bigger, with foldable wings, glowing hands, and a voice chip that said “I am Iron Man” when you pressed its chest. Peter’s eyes lit up.
He tugged at Ben’s sleeve. “Can I get it? Please? I’ll keep it forever, I promise. Look - it has repulsors!”
Ben chuckled. “If May says yes.”
May smiled. “Just one. And this time, keep it.”
Peter beamed. “Thank you!”
Minutes later, he clutched the figure to his chest and ran off to the play area—a miniature Avengers training zone, with climbing walls and pretend launch pads. He spotted another kid wearing an Iron Man mask just like his, and without needing any words, the two launched into a wild imaginary battle.
Repulsors fired.
Villains fell.
The city was saved - again and again.
Eventually, they collapsed, flushed and breathless, beneath the shade of a nearby building. The other boy lifted his mask and grinned. “Iron Man’s the coolest.”
Peter nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Because he can fly,” the kid added. “And he has lasers in his hands. And he’s rich. Gold’s my favorite color.”
Peter tilted his head. “That’s it?”
The boy blinked. “Yeah. Why else?”
Peter sat up straighter, gripping his action figure. His voice took on that excited, breathless tone he always had when he started talking about the real reasons.
“Yeah, the lasers are cool,” he said. “But that’s not why he’s my favorite. He’s my favorite because he’s smart. Like, really smart. Did you know he built his first Iron Man suit in a cave? Out of scrap? All by himself! He figured out how to escape without any help. It’s in Chapter Four of the Stark biography. Page thirty-seven.”
The kid blinked again.
“And he made a completely new element when his arc reactor failed. No one’s ever done that! He used to make weapons, but he stopped. He said no. Now he builds shelters, energy tech, clean water systems. My uncle says he even helps people in war zones. And I read he opened shelters for homeless people in New York. That’s why he’s cool.”
The other kid went quiet.
Peter’s voice softened. “He changed. He didn’t have to. But he chose to be better. And that means anyone can. You can always be a hero. No matter how old you are. No matter who you were before.”
The boy stared at him, wide-eyed. “...Whoa.”
Peter grinned - shy, but proud. “Wanna play again?”
The kid nodded instantly, and together they took off again, arms stretched like wings, action figures held high.
But the moment didn’t last.
A sudden boom echoed through the expo - followed by a scream. Then two. Then many. People started running. Somewhere above, metal clanged, something buzzed, and a robotic voice rang out, cold and unfamiliar.
The Hammer drones had arrived.
Peter froze for a second. Then panic kicked in.
“May? Ben?!”
He turned around, searching but the crowd was getting thicker. He lost sight of them immediately. A wave of people rushed past, nearly knocking him over. Someone screamed. Peter stumbled, caught himself, his heart hammering. He clutched his Iron Man figure and tried to run but he was too small, too slow. His chest tightened.
Then - an idea. He dove beneath a low metal bench near a statue, curled up tight, arms wrapped around his knees, Iron Man mask pulled over his face like a shield. It was loud. So loud. He stayed there until the noise faded. When he finally peeked out, the plaza was nearly empty. Smoke drifted across the stage. The people were gone.
“…Ben?” he whispered. “May?”
No answer.
Then-
A heavy thud shook the ground. A drone landed just ten feets away. Huge. Metallic. Terrifying. Peter couldn’t breathe.
But then-
Another, heavier impact. From above.
A sonic boom.
Iron Man.
He hit the ground like a meteor, blasting the drone backward in a shower of sparks. Peter gasped. His mask slid upward, and his wide brown eyes locked onto the red-and-gold figure standing just ahead.
His hero.
Tony Stark turned—just for a second and looked right at him. And through the glowing blue eyes of the Iron Man helmet, Peter felt it: A perfect, impossible connection.
“Good work, kid,” Stark said.
Then he was gone. Shooting into the sky, chasing more drones. Peter didn’t move. His legs felt frozen, but his hands were trembling - not with fear. With awe.
“Tony Stark just saved me,” he whispered.
Then arms wrapped around him. Aunt May was crying. Uncle Ben pulled them both into a tight embrace.
“Oh my God - Peter! You’re okay, you’re okay - thank God.”
Peter leaned into them, still clutching the action figure. He barely heard the crowd or the sirens. He just kept looking down at the gloves on his hands.
“I met Iron Man,” he whispered again, dazed. “He stood right in front of me.”
And this time, no one told him he was dreaming.
Snow had fallen overnight, frosting the city in soft white silence. By morning, the world outside their apartment was a sparkling playground. Peter had been watching the flakes since dawn, nose pressed against the window, practically vibrating with excitement.
He loved snow. Sure, it meant freezing fingers, slippery sidewalks, and socks that somehow always got wet. But to him, snow was magic - falling like stardust, blanketing the world in something soft and new.
Bundled up in too many layers, Peter grinned up at Ben and May as they arrived at the park, pulling an old red sled behind them. The hill wasn’t huge, but it didn’t need to be. To Peter, it looked like a mountain of fun.
First, he sled with Ben, clinging to his uncle’s coat as they rushed downhill with a joyful scream. Then it was May’s turn - she laughed the whole way down, hair whipping in the wind, cheeks pink from the cold. Ben took a photo of them at the bottom, Peter beaming in her lap, arms thrown around her like she was the whole world.
Later, Peter asked to go down alone. He wobbled a little, nearly tipped, but he made it- grinning ear to ear. May clapped, and Ben cheered. Peter jumped up, threw his arms in the air, and shouted, “Best run yet!”
There was a snowball fight next - no sides, no rules, just chaos. Peter squealed as May and Ben both pelted him with snow, then chased them down in revenge. At one point, Ben slipped and landed flat on his back with an exaggerated “OOF!” May tried to help him up but slipped too, landing on top of him. Peter laughed so hard his knees gave out, and he collapsed into the snow beside them, clutching his stomach.
They didn’t need a camera to remember that moment but Peter took pictures anyway. Of May’s crinkled eyes as she laughed. Of Ben’s red nose and lopsided grin. Of their footprints all over the hill.
As the sun dipped lower, they found a frozen pond nearby - full of other families skating. They didn’t have skates, but it didn’t matter. Carefully, Peter stepped out on the ice in his boots, arms flailing as he tried to balance.
Ben stayed off to the side, but May joined Peter on the ice. She held his hands and glided with surprising grace. At one point, she let go and twirled slowly, like she’d done it a hundred times before.
Peter clapped. “Ten out of ten, May! I give it a perfect score!”
“You’re just saying that ’cause I didn’t fall,” she grinned.
He tried to spin too and promptly landed on his back. They both laughed so hard their laughter echoed across the pond.
Eventually, they ended up on a bench with warm cocoa in their hands. Peter had a full-on chocolate mustache and didn’t care in the slightest. They watched other kids play - some skating, some building snowmen, some making snow angels in the untouched white. For a while, none of them said anything. Just watched. Just existed. Then Peter shifted a little closer, his boots swinging off the edge of the bench.
“You know…” he said softly, eyes still on the snow. “I think… when things get hard someday, I’ll remember this.”
May turned her head, curious. “Remember what, sweetie?”
“This,” Peter repeated. “All of this. The snow. The cocoa. Laughing with you. How the cold makes everything feel real, and the quiet makes everything feel safe.”
Ben gave a small, fond chuckle. “Poetic today, aren’t we?”
“No,” Peter said with a little shrug, “I just… I think it’s important. To hold onto days like this. So when the bad ones come… I’m not scared.”
He paused, then turned his face toward them, cheeks pink from the cold and cocoa, eyes wide and earnest.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Always,” May said.
Peter hesitated, then said, “I know I talk about Iron Man all the time. And the Avengers and stuff. But… if anyone ever asks me who my real heroes are… I’ll say you.”
Ben blinked. May blinked harder.
“Because you’re kind. And strong. And you don’t need a suit or a shield to make someone feel safe. That’s why you’re my heroes.”
May reached out and gently tucked his hat more snugly over his ears. Ben smiled. Neither of them said anything, but they didn’t need to. Peter looked up at them again, eyes sparkling with happiness, and said, with all the certainty of someone who meant it with his whole heart:
“This is the best day of my life. I love you guys. So, so much.”
Ben ruffled his hat. May kissed his forehead.
And for just that moment, everything was perfect.
Peter had known something was wrong for a while.
May and Ben had been quieter lately. Whispering more. Smiling less. He’d even heard one of them crying at night - once May, once Ben. He hadn’t said anything. But it stuck in his chest like something sharp and cold. So when he came home from school that day - backpack slung over one shoulder, shoes muddy from the snow and found them sitting together at the table, not talking, not moving, just sitting… he knew.
“Hi,” he said quietly. They both looked up. Ben tried to smile. May reached for his hand.
“Peter, sweetheart,” she said softly, “can you come sit with us for a moment? We need to talk.”
His stomach dropped. He didn’t know why. He just knew he was scared.
“O-okay,” he said, sliding into the seat across from them. There was a pause. May looked at Ben. Ben gave the tiniest nod.
“I’m sick,” May said gently. “Really sick.”
Peter stared at her. “What… what kind of sick?”
“I have something called cancer,” she said. “It means some parts of my body aren’t working the way they should. And to try and help, I’m going to start something called chemotherapy. It’s a treatment that’s supposed to fight the sickness, but… it also makes people feel very weak.”
Peter’s mouth felt dry. His fingers curled into fists in his lap.
“You’re gonna get better though, right?” he asked, voice too small.
“I’m going to do everything I can,” she said. “But it’s going to be tough. I’ll be tired a lot. I might not be able to pick you up from school anymore. Or go on as many walks. I’ll probably need to sleep more. And… one of the side effects of the medicine is that I might lose my hair.”
The room went quiet again. Peter didn’t know what to say. Ben didn’t speak either. He looked like he was trying not to fall apart.
Then, suddenly, May gave a little shrug.
“But hey,” she said, forcing a smile, “that just means we get to go wig shopping. Maybe I’ll get one in bright green. Or, better yet, maybe I’ll just steal your Iron Man helmet. Problem solved. No hair to get stuck under the mask!”
She tilted her head.
“Honestly, I’ve always wondered how Tony Stark keeps his hair from getting tangled in that thing. It’s basically magic.”
Peter blinked. He didn’t laugh - not quite but something in his chest eased, just a little. May leaned over and pulled him into her arms. Held him close.
“We’re gonna get through this together, kiddo,” she whispered. “You and me and Ben. No matter what.”
Peter didn’t say much. He couldn’t. But he didn’t pull away either. And May just kept holding him, like that was all she needed.
The months that followed weren’t easy. But they weren’t as hard as Peter had imagined, either.
May had started her treatment. Chemotherapy, she explained gently, was like sending little warriors into her body to fight the sickness — but those warriors made her tired. Sometimes so tired, she couldn’t get out of bed until afternoon. Her hair began to fall out, slowly at first, then in clumps, until one day she shaved the rest off with Ben standing beside her. Peter had cried a little. But not in front of her.
They made the best of it. They really did.
They went wig shopping just like she’d promised. She let Peter pick one that made her look like a rockstar from the ‘80s. She still wore the Iron Man helmet sometimes around the house - said it gave her a “superhero head start.” And Peter didn’t mind doing more things on his own. He even started helping more - with dinner, with cleaning, with the little things that used to just happen in the background. Some days May was too weak to do much more than sleep. On others, she was herself again - laughing, teasing Ben, ruffling Peter’s hair and asking about his day like nothing had changed.
Peter held onto those days.
One night, eleven months after her diagnosis, they were home alone. Ben was working late, and Peter was curled up on the couch beside her, math homework half-finished on the coffee table. The radio played softly in the background, and then, as if the air itself remembered, one of May’s favorite songs began to play.
She smiled.
Without saying a word, May began to sing along. Her voice was a little scratchy, a little tired - but still beautiful. Peter looked up and grinned. A second later, he joined in. They sang the whole chorus together, their voices filling the small living room like sunlight through the windows. At some point, May reached for his hands and pulled him to his feet. They swayed gently together in the middle of the room, more like hugging with music than actual dancing. When the song ended, May pressed a kiss to his temple.
“I think,” she said with a glint in her eye, “it’s time for a midnight snack.”
Peter giggled. “Cookies?”
“Obviously.”
They snuck into the kitchen like they were getting away with something. They always did this when Ben worked late - made cookies they weren’t supposed to, used half the flour, and laughed at how messy the counters got. Peter helped with everything. He knew the recipe by heart now - May had taught him herself. He even lifted the heavier things off the high shelf so she didn’t have to.
But as they worked, May reached for a canister of sugar and - suddenly - dropped it. It clattered to the floor and rolled under the table.
Peter looked up quickly and saw her hands shaking. Not a lot, but enough to freeze her in place. Without a word, he stepped toward her, picked up the sugar, and gently took her hands in his.
“It’s okay, May,” he said softly. “You’ve helped me my whole life. Now it’s my turn. We’ll do this together. Like always.”
Her eyes filled with tears. But she didn’t cry. She just smiled, that warm, proud smile of hers, and nodded. They finished baking together. Then curled up on the couch, waiting for the cookies to finish. The house was quiet, except for the low hum of the oven and the occasional flicker from the TV screen. Peter leaned against her shoulder.
“May?” he asked, after a while.
“Hm?”
“When I grow up…” he paused, unsure how to say it. “I wanna be like you.”
She blinked. The TV light reflected in her eyes. “What do you mean, baby?”
He shrugged, just a little. “I mean… kind. Brave. Like a real superhero. But without a cape. You help people every day, May. You’re a nurse. You save lives. You saved mine, too - you and Ben. I would’ve been so alone without you.”
May looked at him for a long moment. Then reached out and laid a hand gently over her heart.
“You’re already more of a hero than you think,” she whispered.
Peter smiled, and then as if he wanted to seal the moment in time - said, “I don’t ever want to forget that.”
Ding.
The oven chimed.
They got up together, took the cookies out, and curled back up under a blanket on the couch, eating warm chocolate chips and watching a silly movie. And for a little while, Peter let himself believe that things could stay like this forever.
That moments like this - soft, glowing, quiet - might never end.
But, of course, they always do.
The next time Peter saw May… was at her grave.
The breeze was cool, brushing Peter’s cheeks as if the air itself remembered her. He stood still at the grave, shoulders stiff, eyes locked on the carved name:
May Parker.
Below: When you help someone, you help everyone.
Ben’s hand rested gently on Peter’s shoulder - silent, steady.
And suddenly, he wasn’t here. Not in the cemetery. Not even in this year.
He was nine again. In his room, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the ceiling - unable to sleep. The Iron Man nightlight hummed quietly from the corner, casting a faint red glow. The door creaked open, and May stepped inside. Her smile was soft. Tired, maybe. But warm like a hug.
“Still awake?” she whispered.
Peter nodded wordlessly. She sat beside him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, then adjusted the blanket around his shoulders with practiced care. Her fingers paused at the Iron Man lamp - gently turning it away from his eyes. And then, her voice rose - soft and low, the kind of singing only meant for one person.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…You make me happy when skies are gray… You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you… Please don’t take my sunshine away…”
Peter’s lashes fluttered. His breath slowed.
“The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping… I dreamed I held you in my arms…”
His eyes closed.
“When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken… So I hung my head and cried…”
She leaned in, kissed his forehead. Her whisper barely made it past her lips, but he heard it or maybe he dreamed it.
“You’ll always be my sunshine, Peter. Always. Even if I’m just in your heart.”
Now, back at the grave, Peter’s lips trembled. The memory pressed against his chest like a warm weight - unbearable and precious.
A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. Ben didn’t speak - just watched him, his eyes heavy with his own grief. Peter turned to him. Threw his arms around his waist and buried his face into his coat. Ben’s hand came up to cradle Peter’s head, holding him close.
After a long moment, Ben knelt. Reached into his coat pocket. And gently laid a single daisy - May’s favorite - onto the cold stone.
They didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Not for minutes. Maybe hours.
The sun dipped lower. The wind grew colder. But neither of them was ready to leave. Eventually, Ben stood.
Wordless.
He lifted Peter into his arms, who didn’t protest, and carried him down the path - toward the home that felt so much emptier now. The street was quiet. The world went on. But behind them, under the gray sky, May’s grave sat still - surrounded by flowers, love, and memory.
And somewhere deep inside him, Peter held onto that song.
Held onto her.
Weeks had passed.
And still, May was everywhere.
In the quiet clink of two mugs in the morning - one always untouched, her favorite still hanging on its hook. In the lavender scent that lingered on the blanket she used when she watched late-night TV. In the way the floor creaked near the bathroom door. In the worn spot on the couch cushion where she always curled up. In the slightly stained corner of the carpet from when she spilled tea and couldn’t get it out. In the bright yellow pillow she insisted on buying even though it didn’t match anything. In her sunhat still hanging by the door, like she might grab it any second. In the kitchen where she used to hum while baking cookies. In the radio that still crackled out old Queen songs she couldn’t help but sing along to.
She lingered in the spaces between - in the air, in the light, in the quiet.
Peter and Ben managed, somehow.
They cried - a lot, together and alone. But they also went on. Because life didn’t stop. Not really.
Peter went to school. Ben went to work.
They cooked. Ate dinner. Laughed sometimes. Sometimes even without guilt.
But everything felt different.
Even laughter felt quieter now.
They visited the grave every day for the first two weeks. Then every other day. And sometimes, they didn’t go — but lit a candle at home instead. That was okay too.
On one evening, Peter and Ben sat at the table after dinner - plates half-empty, the room lit by the warm glow of the kitchen lamp. They hadn’t said much. Just being together was enough tonight. Then suddenly, Peter pushed back his chair.
“Wait,” he said. “I have something.”
He disappeared down the hall and returned a minute later with a crumpled piece of paper in his hands.
“We had to draw our heroes today,” he explained as he sat back down. “Or our happiest memory. I don’t know, maybe it was both.”
He laid the drawing on the table.
Three figures, dancing.
One tall man with a graying beard. One woman with a yellow cardigan. And one kid - smile way too big for his face. Peter traced the crayon line of the woman.
“At first I thought about drawing Iron Man,” he said. “You know… ’cause of the suit. And the lasers. And the cool helmet.”
Ben smiled softly.
“But then I thought… I already told you. You and May… you’re my real heroes.”
Peter swallowed.
“And it felt kinda wrong to draw just you, even though she’s gone. ’Cause she’s still here. Not like… here here. But here.”
He tapped his own chest.
“She’s still my hero. Even if she’s just… in my heart now.”
Ben reached out and ran a hand through Peter’s hair. His fingers were trembling just a little.
“She would’ve loved this,” Ben said softly.
“Us dancing. Laughing. Holding on to each other. That’s what she wanted for us.”
Peter nodded.
“That’s why I drew it. Because even when everything was really hard… we always made it through together.”
Ben stood and walked to the fridge. He found a magnet - the one with the cartoon octopus holding spaghetti and pinned the picture right in the center. Peter stepped beside him. They stared at it for a long moment.
“She’s gone. And that makes me sad. But she’s always in our hearts. And she’ll never leave us completely. She’s still watching,” Peter whispered. Ben’s hand landed on his shoulder.
“And still proud.”
They didn’t say anything else. They just stood there - two people holding on to love, memory, and each other - while the kitchen light hummed gently above.
The alarm went off.
Peter didn’t move.
The sun was already creeping past the blinds, warming the room in golden hues, brushing over the posters on the wall, the little lamp shaped like Iron Man’s helmet, and the untouched homework on his desk. But Peter lay still - eyes half open, heart half shut.
It was supposed to be a normal school day. He was supposed to get up, brush his teeth, pack his bag, pretend like the world was still whole.
But he couldn’t.
His chest felt like it was buried under a thousand invisible stones. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt. The idea of getting out of bed, putting on a smile, and acting like May’s favorite mug in the kitchen didn’t make his throat tighten - it was unbearable.
The door creaked softly.
“Pete?” came Ben’s voice, gentle but curious. “You up, buddy? Gotta get ready soon.”
Peter blinked once. Then again.
And then he cried.
It wasn’t loud. Just a sudden release - tears slipping down his cheeks before he could stop them, his fingers clutching the blanket like a lifeline. Ben didn’t ask anything else. He just walked in, sat on the edge of the bed, and placed a warm, solid hand on Peter’s back.
“It’s okay,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s stay home today, huh? Just the two of us. We’ll get through this one together.”
He ruffled Peter’s curls gently before getting up to call the school, then his job. When he came back, he had toast and cocoa, just in case Peter got hungry. He didn’t force anything. He just sat, talking about little things, nonsense almost - the news, how the cat next door had once again climbed their car, and how he still couldn’t find the matching sock to the green one.
Eventually, Ben pulled out an old book - the one Peter loved. The one about Tony Stark.
He opened to a familiar page and started reading:
“He was alone in the cave. A car battery hooked to his chest. Surrounded by armed men. But he looked around, took what he had - wires, scrap metal, hope and made something impossible.”
Peter didn’t answer, but his hand reached up to wipe his eyes. Slowly, he pushed off the covers and slid down to the floor, resting beside Ben, shoulder to shoulder.
“You know what we haven’t done in a while?” Ben said, smiling softly. “Cookies.”
Peter sniffled. “…Medieval ones?”
Ben grinned. “Of course. What else?”
They moved to the kitchen together. There was flour in the air, sugar on the counter, and for a moment — just a moment - Peter could almost hear May’s laugh echoing from the walls. She used to hum while baking, twirl like a dork in her socks, press a kiss to Peter’s temple and whisper:
“Sweetheart, the world can be a mess. But we still get to make cookies. That’s a win.”
Later, they curled up on the couch, sharing their slightly lopsided but perfect cookies, silence stretching between them like a soft blanket.
And then Ben spoke.
“I have days too, you know. Days where I wake up and the bed feels too big. Too cold. Where I stare at her chair and think, ‘What’s the point?’”
Peter looked up at him, eyes wide and wet.
“But we can’t stay in bed forever,” Ben continued. “It’s okay to have days like this. It’s human. But eventually, we have to get up. We have to try again.”
He paused, fingers tightening gently on Peter’s hand.
“There are people who count on me at work. People who count on you at school. Your friends. Your teachers. Even if it’s hard and it will be - we have a responsibility to show up. To live.”
Peter was silent. Ben leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment.
“You know, Tony Stark was alone in a cave. No help. No team. And somehow, he built a way out of that place. With fire in his chest and metal in his hands. You think he wasn’t scared? You think he didn’t want to give up?”
He looked at Peter then. Really looked.
“If he could build a suit and escape a cave, then I believe Peter Parker can get out of bed. Not for school. Not for chores. But for May. For me. For himself.”
Peter didn’t smile. But he nodded.
Just once.
And that was enough.
It started with a sting.
Just a stupid sting.
Barely a second-
But a second changed everything.
It wasn’t Stark Industries.
But it was still cool.
Oscorp towered above them, sharp glass reflecting the sun like teeth. Inside, the hallways buzzed with white lights and white coats. Gene editing, experimental therapies, animal mutations - none of it made much sense, but it felt important. Even just walking there with Ned and MJ, Peter’s heart thumped with quiet awe.
Spiders.
A display cage. Genetically modified arachnids, engineered to survive in new climates, adapt their silk, maybe even heal. They leaned in close.
And that’s when it happened. A flash of red. A prick.
“Ah-” Peter flinched, slapping at his neck.
“You okay?” Ned whispered, leaning in. Peter rubbed the spot. “Yeah. Probably just static or something. Let’s go.”
He didn’t tell anyone. Of course he didn’t.
Later that night, it started. At first, just a headache. A dizzy kind of pressure, like the ground didn’t want to stay still. But by midnight, he was burning up. Skin on fire. Muscles twitching. Nausea rolled through him like a wave, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time before throwing up. He called out-
“Ben—!”
Footsteps. The light flicked on. Ben was suddenly there, kneeling, pale with worry. Peter barely registered the cold cloth on his forehead, the bucket next to his bed, Ben’s voice telling him to breathe, that it was okay, that he was here. But it wasn’t okay. Everything hurt. Especially the back of his neck.
The bite.
It pulsed - sharp, hot, unbearable. And then came the rest. He could hear everything. The traffic outside. Sirens blocks away. Ben’s heart. His own pulse, loud like a drum. He could feel the texture of the blanket scratching his skin. His T-shirt clung like sandpaper. Even blinking made his eyes throb.
The world became static. Noise. Pressure. Light.
Peter shut his eyes tight. Everything was noise. Everything was pain.
And then - quiet.
A hand on his cheek. Gentle. Cool fingers brushing a sweaty curl from his forehead. A voice. Soft. Familiar. Safe.
“It’s okay, Peter. I’m here. We’re going to get through this.”
He breathed - just once, shaky. It was her. It was her.
“Just sleep, baby. You’re safe.”
Then she started to hum. Quietly. Barely above a whisper.
“You are my sunshine… My only sunshine…”
The melody curled around his heartbeat like a lullaby remembered from another lifetime. His breathing slowed. His eyes fluttered. Her hand stayed in his hair.
“You make me happy… When skies are gray…”
He didn’t hear the rest.
He was already drifting. But then he woke again. His throat was raw. His cheeks wet.
“May?” he gasped. “May- I saw her - Ben, I saw her, I-”
Ben was already beside him, holding his hand, voice low.
“I know, buddy. I miss her too. But I’m here. You’re okay. Stay with me.”
The night stretched endlessly. Fever. Tears. Hallucinations. But by dawn, the fever broke. Peter blinked against the soft morning light. The room looked the same but felt sharper. Too sharp.
He sat up.
Ben was asleep on the floor beside the bed, wrapped in a blanket, glasses skewed on his nose. Peter looked around.
He could see the text on a cereal box in the kitchen - from here. He could hear the neighbor’s dog bark three floors down. A fly buzzed behind the curtain. The sheets scratched at his fingers. His T-shirt felt wrong. Everything was loud - too loud - too much.
And then…
Silence.
It all clicked into place. Not off. Not gone. Controlled. Peter sat very still. Breathing.
The world had changed. He had changed.
A Few Months Later
He wasn’t wearing a real suit. Not yet.
Just a red hoodie with a spider scrawled across the chest in Sharpie. A matching ski mask with goggles. Blue sweats. Beat-up sneakers. Makeshift web-shooters strapped to his wrists. A backpack.
But he was flying.
Swinging across New York, wind in his ears, air rushing over his skin like freedom.
Peter loved the falling. The trust. The moment between letting go and catching himself again. He hadn’t told anyone yet - not Ben, not Ned. But every night, he went back out. And every night, it felt right.
He wasn’t stopping world-ending invasions.
But he’d stopped a bike thief. Saved a kid from getting hit by a car. Helped an old woman cross traffic. Rescued a dog stuck in a storm drain. Once, he even stopped a runaway bus - with his bare hands.
He wasn’t an Avenger.
But he was helping. Like May would’ve. Like Ben does. Like Tony did.
Maybe I can be a hero, too. For the little guys.
He perched on the edge of a rooftop, watching the city blaze orange beneath him. Traffic hummed like veins. Life moved on. And somewhere down there, someone might need help.
He grinned under his mask.
“I’m the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”
And he leapt into the sunset.
It started like any other evening.
Swinging between rooftops, wind slicing through his hoodie, the sun dipping low behind the skyline. Peter wasn’t saving the world. Just… keeping an eye out. Being there.
Friendly. Neighborhood. You know.
Then he heard it. High-pitched. Desperate.
“MOM!”
A kid’s voice.
Small. Cracked. Scared.
Peter stopped mid-swing, turned. A sea of people on the plaza below – families leaving a food truck festival, couples, strollers, tourists. Way too many feet. Way too many sounds.
And one little boy. No older than five.
Alone.
Crying.
He was standing still, shoulders trembling, brown curls stuck to his sweaty forehead, tears running down chubby cheeks.
Peter dropped quietly behind him, soft thud on the pavement. No panic. No sirens. Just presence.
“Hey, buddy,” he said gently. “You okay?”
The boy flinched, looked up, eyes going wide behind the tears.
“Y-you’re Spider-Man.”
Peter smiled softly, crouching low so their eyes met.
“Yup. That’s me. Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”
The little voice broke again.
“I - I lost my mom.”
That was all it took. Peter offered his hand, calm and warm.
“We’ll find her together, okay? Promise.”
The kid nodded slowly, fingers wrapping around Peter’s gloved hand.
They moved carefully through the crowd. People stared. Some smiled. Some whispered. One took a photo. Peter didn’t care. He crouched again.
“Hey, think you’d see better from up here?”
He gently lifted the boy onto his shoulders.
“Okay, let’s go hero-mode.”
And then-
“There! I see her! That’s her!”
Peter stepped aside, lowered the boy, and there she was - a woman pushing through the crowd, breathless, panic written across her face. When she saw her son, she gasped so hard she almost collapsed.
“Oh my God - thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
She scooped her boy into her arms, sobbing into his curls. Her hands shook as she clutched him.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispered over and over.
“I love you. So much. Please don’t ever let go again…”
Peter watched, quiet. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.
“It’s alright,” he said, voice gentle. “You’re safe now.”
The woman looked up at him.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done-”
Peter held up a hand, stepping back.
“No need. It’s just what I do.”
He turned to go, then paused. Stepped back to the boy one more time.
“Hey, next time? Hold your mom’s hand tight, yeah? She loves you a lot.”
The boy nodded fast.
“Bye, Spider-Man!”
Peter waved.
Then disappeared into the sky.
That night, he didn’t go home right away.
He sat on a rooftop, knees pulled close, hoodie bunched around his neck. The stars blinked overhead like quiet reminders. Below, the city roared on.
But in his chest - it was quiet. And aching.
He thought about May.
How she always held his hand in crowds. How she’d brush his hair out of his eyes. How she whispered, “Don’t let go, Petey.”
How she never did. He closed his eyes and whispered back:
“I miss you. Every second.”
The wind carried no answer. But he stayed there anyway.
Because sometimes, sitting still hurt less than flying.
They baked.
Cookies. Too many cookies.
The kind May used to make - with chocolate chunks, sea salt, and a recipe scribbled in half-faded ink. Ben had found it in the drawer last week and said, “We should keep her traditions going, right?”
Peter had rolled his eyes and said he was thirteen now. But he’d smiled anyway.
Flour ended up everywhere. In Peter’s hair. In Ben’s beard.
Ben made a mess flipping the tray, and Peter called him a disaster, and Ben grinned like that was the best thing he’d heard all week.
They danced, too.
Just in the kitchen, to the radio May used to sing with. Something old and silly. Ben grabbed Peter’s hands and spun him once, twice, until Peter burst out laughing and said, “You’re gonna break your back, old man!”
“Worth it,” Ben huffed, hands on his hips.
Then Peter grabbed his Iron Man mask. Ben found the plastic police badge May used to tease him about.
And they played.
Superheroes and sidekicks.
Villains and victories.
Laughter and light.
Peter said again that he was getting too old for this.
Ben said, “Too old to smile? Never.”
Later, they watched a movie.
The old couch sagged beneath their weight. Peter curled under the blanket with a cookie still in his hand. Ben’s arm rested across the back, fingers absently tapping to the rhythm of the end credits.
“You still remember every line,” Ben said softly.
Peter shrugged.
“May used to quote it all the time.”
Ben smiled. A quiet, long kind of smile. The kind that looked like memory. The room settled into silence.
Then, out of nowhere:
“Peter… are you happy?”
Peter blinked.
He thought for a second. Then another.
“Not all the time,” he admitted. “But right now… with you… I think I’m okay. I think I’m happy.”
Ben exhaled slowly. Nodded once.
“That’s good. You don’t have to be happy all the time. You don’t have to be happy to do something meaningful. And you don’t have to be happy… to be loved.”
Peter’s throat tightened.
Ben looked at him - not just looked, but saw him. Really saw him. Everything.
“You carry so much, kiddo. More than anyone your age should. But you keep going. You show up. You try. And that means something.”
Peter looked away, blinking too fast. He stared at his lap, at the crumpled cookie napkin in his hands.
“Do you miss her every day?”
Ben didn’t hesitate.
“Every second. But I see her in you. In your kindness. Your fire. The way you love people.”
Peter sniffed.
“Even when I mess up?”
Ben leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to Peter’s temple.
“Especially then. Love doesn’t keep score, kid. It just stays.”
Then, in a voice that wrapped around Peter like a second blanket:
“I will love you. No matter what.”
The rain whispered against the window. The TV flickered through the credits. The cookies were almost gone. The tea had gone cold. But they stayed like that.
Safe.
Warm.
Together.
The last good day.
“But of course… Parker luck never lasts.”
Peter didn’t mean to run. He really didn’t. But after the argument with Ben - sharp words, louder voices, and a door that felt too final when it shut - he had bolted into the night. The air outside was cold and wet, and his heart was still pounding.
He knew Ben would follow. He always did.
So he hid. He ducked into the alley by the laundromat, watching as Ben’s silhouette walked past the corner. He called Peter’s name. Once. Twice. Then kept walking. Peter stayed crouched, arms around his knees.
He didn’t want to talk. Not yet. He was too angry. Too hurt. Too fourteen.
Ben disappeared down the street.
Peter waited. One minute. Two.
And then-
Bang.
A single gunshot. Sharp. Hollow. Close.
Peter’s head snapped up. His stomach dropped. Then came the screaming. The crowd. The sirens.
No. No. No no no no no-
His legs moved before his brain did.
He ran.
Heart in his throat. Lungs burning. Eyes wide and unfocused.
Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s someone else. It doesn’t have to be Ben. It can’t be Ben. Please, not Ben. Please…
And for the tiniest moment - he hoped it was someone else.
And immediately hated himself for it.
The crowd thickened. People shouted. A woman was crying. Flashing lights bounced off wet pavement. He pushed forward. Elbowed past a man. Slipped on a flyer.
Then - he heard it.
The sound of someone breathing.
No - struggling to breathe.
A wet, shaky, half-choked inhale. The faint scrape of fingers against the asphalt. The subtle thud of a body twitching, barely alive. The metallic scent of blood.
Peter’s hands were shaking as he shoved two people aside. His eyes locked onto the figure on the ground.
Red flannel. Blue jeans. Grey at the temples.
Ben.
His knees hit the ground hard. He couldn’t breathe.
No. No. No. Please, no.
His hands went to Ben’s shoulder, then his face. Cold sweat. Pale lips. A wound blooming dark across his chest, soaking through the fabric. So much blood.
Peter tried to speak but his throat closed. He swallowed. Tried again.
“Uncle Ben? …Ben?”
Ben groaned softly, head rolling toward the sound. Peter grabbed his hand - tight and pressed the other one to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Just like May had taught him once. Pressure. Keep pressure.
“I’m here. I’m here, I’ve got you, please - look at me.”
Ben’s eyes fluttered. Unfocused at first. Then clearer. Recognition. Pain.
“P—Peter…” he breathed, voice shaking. “You’re… safe…”
“I’m fine, you’re the one - Ben, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said earlier, I swear - please, just stay awake, okay? Just stay.”
Ben tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. His eyes welled with tears.
“I’m sorry too, kiddo. We were both… upset. It doesn’t matter now.”
“You’re gonna be okay,” Peter choked out. “You have to be. Please, stay. I need you, okay? I-”
His voice cracked. “I can’t lose you too.”
Ben’s breath hitched again. His fingers tightened around Peter’s. He lifted his hand - shaking and placed it over Peter’s heart.
“I’m right here,” he whispered. “Always will be. You’re not alone, Peter. Even when you feel like you are.”
Peter sobbed, pressing his forehead against Ben’s.
“You’re strong,” Ben continued, slower now. “You care. That’s your greatest power. Never forget that.”
“You taught me that,” Peter whispered. “You and May.”
Ben nodded slightly. “And you’ll carry us both. Because you have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen.”
His hand trembled again. He tapped twice against Peter’s chest - soft, like a knock.
“Right here. That’s where I’ll be.”
Peter couldn’t stop crying. “Please don’t go. Please, please, please don’t go.”
Ben coughed, a wet sound that shook his whole chest.
“With great power…” he began.
“…comes great responsibility,” Peter finished, almost a whisper.
“You’re going to do amazing things,” Ben murmured. “Even if you can’t see it yet. And hey…”
His voice was fading. His eyes were slipping.
“You don’t… have to be happy… to be loved.”
Peter let out a sob. “I love you.”
Ben smiled faintly. “I love you more.”
And then-
His hand loosened. His chest stopped rising. His lips parted one last time.
And didn’t move again.
Peter felt it all.
The pulse under his fingers… gone. The hand in his grip… still. The breath… stopped.
But the world didn’t. The sirens grew louder. The voices returned.
Peter didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He stared at the lifeless body of the man who had raised him. The man who had taught him to ride a bike. To laugh. To cook. To live.
And now he was gone.
His heart was breaking. Not shattering - splitting. Quiet. Slow. Deep. He wanted to scream but couldn’t find the air.
“Not you,” he whispered. “Not you too…”
The next morning, the city moved on. Peter Parker did not.
He had lost more people than most twice his age. The last thing he remembered from his uncle was a question:
“Are you happy?”
Two days ago, he could have answered.
Now?
He wasn’t sure he ever would again.
Notes:
This chapter contains signs of PTSD and trauma.
It also contains thematic mentions of illness (specifically cancer) and character death (Aunt May & Uncle Ben), emotionally grief and the loss of parental figures are explored in-depth.
Please read with care and take care of yourself. 💛
Chapter 2: “This isn‘t home“
Summary:
This fanfiction is based on the MCU universe – especially on the dynamic between Tony Stark and a young Peter Parker (inspired by Tom Holland’s portrayal).
However, this story follows its own timeline and world-building, meaning:
• Civil War never happened. Tony and Steve talked it out like adults, found Bucky, helped him heal, and they’re all on good terms. No Sokovia Accords. No broken Avengers.
• Infinity War and Endgame haven’t occurred (and may never will).
• Tony is still Iron Man, still a genius billionaire – but also someone who cares deeply about people, runs homeless shelters, supports war victims, and creates safe spaces for orphaned children.
• In this world, orphaned kids have their belongings stored in protected storage until they’re 18.
• This is not canon-compliant. This is my version of the world. And here, Tony Stark gets to care. Fully. Freely. And first.—
🤎 Please enjoy the story with this setting in mind. If you’re looking for strict canon, this probably isn’t it – but if you love heartfelt moments, found family, and a Peter who breaks your heart a little… then you’re right where you need to be.
Notes:
Feel free to leave kudos or comment below – especially if you have ideas, feedback, or constructive criticism. I’d really appreciate it.
🕷❤️
(❗At the bottom of this chapter, you’ll find detailed content warnings.
They’re placed there to avoid spoilers, but if you’re sensitive to certain topics, please scroll down before reading. Your wellbeing matters most.❗)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Before I Stopped Hoping.
The world was white.
Not the good kind of white - not snow, or clouds, or blank pages waiting to be drawn on.
This was hospital white. Cold. Humming. Unforgiving. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like static in his skull. Somewhere down the hallway, someone screamed. A tray crashed. Shoes squeaked against linoleum. Nurses spoke in hurried tones - sharp, tired, distant.
Peter didn’t move.
His eyes were open, but everything inside him was frozen in place. Like his brain hadn’t caught up. Or maybe it had and didn’t want to.
Everything sounded muffled, like he was underwater. Even his own breath felt far away. And the weight in his chest was so heavy, it could’ve pulled the whole world under with him.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
A hospital room. Bleached walls. Plastic chair. Cold air.
And his hands-
Red.
Sticky.
Dried.
Ben’s blood.
Still there. Still in the cracks of his palms, beneath his fingernails, clinging to his skin. Like memory. Like guilt.
He stared at them. Couldn't look away. Someone was speaking. A woman. Her voice was kind, but practiced. A softness worn down by repetition. It didn’t reach him.
“…Peter? Can you hear me, sweetheart?”
He didn’t answer. She knelt beside him, careful not to touch, not to startle. “You’ve been through something very hard. I know this doesn’t make sense right now, but I’m here to help, okay?”
Peter blinked again. His lips moved, but nothing came out.
The woman - social worker, probably - followed his gaze and paused when she saw the blood. Just for a second. Then she shifted, her tone grounding. Professional.
“Let’s wash up, alright? Come on, we’ll feel better after.”
Peter followed. Wordless.
The water ran warm. But he didn’t feel it. He scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. But the red didn’t go away. Not really. It clung like it belonged there. He scraped at his skin until it turned raw. Under the nails, in the folds of his fingers - still there. Even when it wasn’t.
Even when the towel was white again. He stared at the sink. It still looked red.
The woman led him back to the chair. Sat him down. Her voice came back, soft but steady.
“There’s a place your things will be kept. A secure storage unit. You’ll be able to access it when you’re eighteen.”
Words. Just words. They floated around him like paper in a storm.
She kept talking. “You’ll come with me in a little while, back to your apartment. You can take what you need for the next days. The rest will be packed and kept safe.”
Her voice was soft, but the words didn’t land. He heard them. But they passed through him. Echoed off the inside of his skull like empty footsteps. Peter blinked slowly.
“There’s a temporary home you’ll go to tonight. It’s safe. Other kids your age. It’s not forever - just until we find a foster family, okay?”
He nodded. Automatically. Numbly. Nothing landed.
“We’ve also been in contact with the city. Your uncle… wanted to be buried next to your aunt. It’ll be taken care of. You won’t have to go alone.”
A pause.
Peter still didn’t speak. He could still hear it - the shot. Still feel Ben’s chest under his hands. The weight of his own heartbeat against silence. The last breath. The last blink. The last everything.
It played on loop. Again. And again. And again.
The woman’s voice faded into the background, no more than static behind glass. Peter sat still. His fists closed slowly in his lap. The skin was clean, but he could still see the blood.
He couldn’t remember how to breathe without it hurting.
The drive passed like a blur.
Peter wasn’t sure if he’d looked out the window or just stared at the back of the passenger seat the whole way. His body was upright, seatbelt across his chest, hands limp in his lap but he wasn’t really there. Not in the way that counted.
The social worker - Miss Ramsey, she’d said - parked on the curb and didn’t push him to move. She just turned in her seat, voice low.
“I’ll wait out here. Take your time. One backpack only, okay?”
Peter didn’t nod. He didn’t say thank you. He just stepped out of the car like a shadow wearing his shape.
The building looked the same. Same chipped bricks, same busted light in the hallway, same sticky door that always needed a hard shove.
Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet.
He pushed the door open. The creak echoed like a shout.
The air smelled like home.
Dust and books and old coffee. A faint trace of May’s hand lotion. The ghost of Ben’s aftershave. The scent wrapped around his ribs like a hug or a noose.
Peter stood in the doorway. Still. Listening.
Waiting.
Any second now, Ben would come out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. Or maybe from the hallway, calling, “Hey, kiddo.” Maybe May’s voice would float from the bedroom, asking if he wanted tea. Maybe they’d both appear, laughing about something mundane.
But no footsteps came.
No voices.
No light flicked on.
Only silence.
Heavy. Final.
Peter stepped inside.
Each movement felt wrong - like trespassing in his own life. He drifted through the rooms slowly, touching nothing. Eyes barely focused. Half-expecting to bump into someone who wasn’t there.
When he reached May and Ben’s bedroom, his breath caught.
The bed was made. Of course it was. The pillow still had an indent.
Ben’s jacket hung over the back of the chair - the same one Peter had borrowed a dozen times when his own was too small or still drying or just didn’t feel right.
He reached for it with shaking hands. Fingers brushed the fabric. It was warm. Or maybe that was his imagination. Peter pressed the jacket to his chest and just… stood there. No tears. Not yet. Just that endless, hollow ringing inside him - like a building after the explosion, walls intact, but the foundation gone.
He moved next to his own room. Familiar chaos. Posters. Books. His tiny desk.
And on the shelf: the photos. He took down two.
One of May, Ben and him, bundled in scarves, laughing with their cheeks pink from cold, holding mugs of cocoa in front of the apartment steps. The other - older, more faded - of his parents. Faces he barely remembered, but still looked for in the mirror sometimes.
He slid both into the front of his bag.
His fingers hesitated, then reached for the small drawer under his bed - the one with the false bottom. The moment he touched it, his breath hitched.
Inside was the suit. His suit.
Not a toy. Not a game. Not a costume.
Spider-Man.
Carefully, Peter pulled it out - along with the web-shooters, the formula, spare cartridges, all tucked and organized like a soldier’s kit. It wasn’t just gear. It was purpose. It was his last promise to Ben. It was his escape, his armor, his one act of control in a world that had just ripped everything else away.
Spider-Man was all he had left that still felt like him.
Because being Spider-Man had come from them - from May’s quiet strength, from Ben’s moral compass, from all the lessons they’d never called lessons but had lived in front of him every day. He tucked the gear beneath a hoodie and folded another sweater on top. Two pairs of jeans. Socks. Underwear. Robotically, like he was watching someone else do it.
Then he paused.
His eyes fell on Tony Stark’s tech notebook - the one he’d flipped through so often, the pages half memorized. Next to it, an Iron Man mask - just a replica, a silly gift once. But suddenly, Peter wanted it. Needed it. He added both to the bag. Last minute. Without thinking.
A notebook. A mask. Two photos. One life, folded and zipped into a single backpack.
He turned around one last time.
The apartment hadn’t changed.
But he had.
Or maybe he was just broken.
He stood in the center of the room, jacket still gripped in one hand, and for a moment, something like laughter caught in his throat. Ugly, wet, and bitter.
It didn’t come out.
He just swallowed it.
Then he left.
Miss Ramsey was leaning against the car when he returned. She opened the trunk without a word.
“You sure that’s everything?” she asked gently.
Peter didn’t answer.
She looked at him for a beat longer, then nodded. “Okay. It might be hard to come back, so… just checking.”
Peter got in the car.
The door shut behind him with a final click.
And the apartment - his home, his memories, his everything - stayed behind.
The ride was quiet. Not in volume - no, there was plenty of sound. The car engine. A creaky tire. Someone honking three streets down. But in Peter’s head, it was quiet. Not empty - focused.
He counted turns. Right. Right again. A blinking streetlamp. A pharmacy on the corner. The one with the baby poster still taped to the window. He didn’t know the neighborhood, but he’d remember. He always did.
Five left turns. Three rights. A gas station with a white cat curled on the roof. A crooked traffic sign. A cracked blue mailbox, spray-painted with something he didn’t quite catch. His senses latched onto anything steady - anything he could map. Survival mode.
It wasn’t his first time being taken somewhere new. But it was the first time without them.
The building came into view like a ghost. A square, worn-down place at the edge of Queens. Not bad, just tired. A youth shelter, temporary housing, too small to be called a real home. Peter registered the dim light from the windows, the chipping paint, the slight clang of something metal hitting pavement before the car even fully stopped.
Then came the yelling.
The second he stepped out, he heard it - someone inside shouting something loud and slurred. The kind of voice that didn’t care who was listening. A younger voice shrieked back. A door slammed somewhere.
Peter flinched.
Two small kids clung to each other near the entrance, wide-eyed. Maybe five and six. Their names would turn out to be Aris and Lea, but Peter didn’t know that yet. All he saw were their fingers gripping each other’s sleeves like life rafts. Behind them, a teenage girl stood against the wall, arms crossed, chin high, eyes hollow. “Piss off, Max!” she shouted down the hallway. Her voice cracked a little, but not from fear. Just exhaustion.
That was Stella.
The one she yelled at - a boy, seventeen, maybe eighteen soon - stomped out past Peter with fire in his eyes. He didn’t even glance at him.
Peter blinked. The air smelled like cheap detergent and something sharp, like metal or anger. He heard a door slam again. Then silence. A woman stepped out from the main hallway. Younger than he expected. Hair tied back in a loose bun. Still kind eyes, despite the chaos.
“You must be Peter,” she said gently. “I’m Mrs. Stevens. Don’t worry - things were just… a little loud. That happens. Some days are hard for everyone.”
He didn’t answer. Just nodded.
She gave him a soft look and motioned him inside. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
The kids watched him as he entered.
The little ones peeked and immediately looked away. Aris held Lea’s hand tighter. The teenager - Stella - glanced at him, then went back to her phone. The nonverbal boy near the couch - Noah - stared longer. Quiet. Curious. His eyes didn’t judge.
Peter nodded once at Mrs. Stevens and then again at Noah. No one spoke. It wasn’t unfriendly. Just… muted. Like everyone was too tired for anything more. The room was a patchwork of chaos and routine. A couch with a rip in the corner. Walls covered in paper stars and a faded “Welcome” sign. Crumbs on the floor. Someone’s hoodie left on a chair.
“This’ll be your bed,” Mrs. Stevens said after a short walk upstairs. “You’re rooming with Noah. He doesn’t talk, but he’s a good kid.”
Peter just nodded again. His voice had slipped away somewhere between the car and the shouting. Maybe it would come back later.
Mrs. Stevens didn’t push. She smiled. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
Before she left, the caseworker - Miss Ramsey - appeared briefly at the door. “Peter, I’ll check in tomorrow morning, okay? We’ll go over some things, see how you’re settling in.”
He nodded. Quiet. “Thanks,” he muttered, almost surprised at the sound of his own voice. It was the first thing he’d said in hours.
Then he was alone.
He didn’t change. Didn’t unpack. Just sat on the edge of the thin mattress for a moment, his backpack still clutched to his chest. Then he lay down. Slowly. Carefully. Like the bed might collapse under the weight of it all. He curled around the bag like a shield. His fingers dug into the soft lining of Ben’s jacket. The photos pressed against his ribs. He stared at the ceiling.
And then it hit him.
May was gone. Ben was gone. He had always been a foster kid, in a way. Drifting from one version of normal to the next. But now he was something else entirely.
Now, he was alone.
Truly alone.
He didn’t cry at first. He didn’t move. Just lay there. The sounds of the shelter blurred together - someone brushing teeth, the click of a hallway light, distant voices but none of it reached him.
Then something sharp twisted in his chest.
The recipe.
He hadn’t packed May’s cookie recipe.
He had forgotten it.
His breath stuttered.
How could he forget that? It was her thing. Their thing.
A tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. He bit his lip, hard. Turned his face to the wall. But the tears kept coming.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just quiet.
Like they were afraid to be seen.
And Peter Parker - fourteen, grieving, and invisible - began to cry.
At first, there was only sound.
Muted, distant - like underwater echoes drifting toward the surface. A faint sizzle. A drawer opening. Footsteps creaking over an uneven floor. A voice, muffled and warm, but too blurry to place.
Was that… Ben?
The scent came next - fried bacon, sharp and greasy, clinging to the air like a memory. He stayed still. Eyes closed. Muscles loose but tense under the surface. The blanket bunched in his fists felt wrong. Too thin. Too unfamiliar. It didn’t smell like home. It didn’t smell like May’s detergent.
Outside the window, the world was already awake.
A car horn. A bike bell. Trash cans rattling as a garbage truck rolled past. Distant shouting. Barking. The flutter of pigeon wings. A cat yowled from rooftop to rooftop. Somewhere further away, a baby cried. A woman murmured something soft and soothing in response.
But it wasn’t any of those things that made his chest tighten.
It was the heartbeats.
Too many. Back then, there had only ever been one.
Ben’s.
Steady, strong, grounding.
Now there were six - maybe more - throbbing against his ears like an earthquake he couldn’t stop. Two nearby. Four across the room. One pacing. One snoring. One skipping.
Peter opened his eyes.
“Ben?” he whispered. Barely audible.
He blinked, the world blurring into view - unfamiliar shapes, washed-out colors, metal bedframes and pale gray walls. His breath caught.
And then it hit him.
Everything.
The kitchen argument.
The slammed door.
The gunshot.
Ben’s last breath.
His own scream.
The blood.
The hospital.
The cold white basin where he scrubbed and scrubbed, but the red wouldn’t fade from under his nails.
The voice of the social worker - Miss Ramsey - saying words he didn’t hear. Saying placement, and temporary, and safe.
He remembered grabbing his bag. The photos. Ben’s jacket.
He remembered forgetting May’s cookie recipe.
And then-
This place. This room.
This version of being alive.
He sat up slowly, his fingers still clinging to the jacket.
Outside the door, someone laughed. Someone else coughed. The hallway creaked.
Peter didn’t move. Not yet. He just blinked. Once. Twice.
And held on.
The room slowly settled into focus.
Faint light seeped through cream-colored curtains, casting a pale glow across the wooden floor. Everything was… too quiet. Too clean. The air carried no scent of toast or burnt coffee. No distant hum of a radio in the kitchen. No low laughter or footsteps.
Peter didn’t move. Not yet.
His eyes traveled slowly over the unfamiliar room. Two twin beds, both neatly made. Blue comforters. White pillows. A small, shared desk between them, half-covered in scattered pencils and an unopened sketchbook. On the far side, a khaki-colored backpack slouched near the bedframe - unzipped, a few frayed school notebooks peeking out. From its half-open zipper, a singed teddy bear’s head protruded, blackened in patches, one eye missing. Peter didn’t need to touch it to know - it had once smelled like fire.
He swallowed hard. The back of his throat burned.
This wasn’t home. Ben wasn’t in the kitchen, humming off-key. May wasn’t in the hallway, calling him to wake up with a smile and a plate of way-too-buttery toast.
They were gone. Both of them.
And he was here.
He finally sat up - slowly, like his limbs had to remember how to move and reached for the only things that still felt real:
Ben’s old denim jacket.
A faded photo - the three of them on the porch, smiling in thick winter coats, mugs of cocoa in their hands.
He turned the photo face-down and laid it gently on the pillow. Then he pushed his backpack beneath the bed. Not out of sight - just out of reach. Out of risk. It still held his suit. His last secret. His only secret.
He stood, quietly opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. It smelled like detergent and something faintly sweet - maybe vanilla air freshener. There were colorful name tags taped onto every door in smudged marker: Stella, Max, Aris & Lea, and finally, Noah + Peter.
He kept moving.
A door with a stick-figure drawing and “Bathroom” scrawled beneath it. He stepped inside and turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. It jolted him a little but not enough. Not really. His reflection looked pale, dull. Like someone who hadn’t slept in years. He dried his face on the hem of his shirt and exhaled slowly.
He could hear them now. Footsteps. Scraping chairs. Plates clinking. The soft, maternal tone of Mrs. Stevens floating down the hall.
“Do you want jam or just butter, sweetheart?”
“Aris, honey, use both hands when you spread it.”
“Noah, would you pass me the knife?”
Six heartbeats. Five kids, one adult. That’s what he counted. He paused outside the kitchen door, his hand hovering near the handle. He knew what would happen - the same thing that always happened. The moment he walked in, silence. The kind that pressed on your skin. Still, he reached out. Knocked once, out of habit more than need. Then he opened the door and stepped inside.
Every gaze turned. Six pairs of eyes. Peter’s shoulders stiffened. He held onto the hem of his hoodie like it might anchor him.
“M-morning,” he said quietly, eyes dropping to the floor.
Mrs. Stevens stood up from her seat at the end of the table and smiled at him - warm, soft, like May used to. “Good morning, Peter. I hope you slept alright.”
She gestured to the empty seat. “You can sit here, sweetheart. Next to Noah.”
Peter obeyed. He sat down between a dark-haired boy with headphones around his neck and a girl with sharp eyes and an untouched plate of fruit. Across from him, a boy - Max - leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. On the table: bowls of cereal, a plate of toast, apple slices, a jug of orange juice, and water. The scent of coffee clung near Mrs. Stevens. Peter reached for a slice of apple, just to do something with his hands. He wasn’t hungry. But he chewed anyway.
Mrs. Stevens smiled again, brushing her bangs from her eyes. “Everyone, I know yesterday was a little loud and confusing - sorry about that, Peter so let’s start fresh. This is Peter Parker. He’ll be with us for a little while.”
She went around the table. “That’s Aris and Lea, over there. Max is across from you. Stella’s here. And next to you is Noah.”
A small wave from Noah. A glance from Stella. Max didn’t move. Aris and Lea shrink a little bit in their chairs.
“We all know how things work here,” she continued gently, “and Peter, I’ll go over everything with you again later. But just the basics for now - we clean up after ourselves, we respect each other, no shouting, no violence. And if you ever need space, just say so, alright?”
Peter nodded once. Tight. Mrs. Stevens smiled again and sat down. Peter took another bite of apple, but his fingers were tight on the edge of the table. The wood creaked slightly under his grip.
Careful.
He loosened his hands. Inhaled.
1, 2, 3… hold. 4… 5… 6… release.
Don’t break anything. Don’t react. Keep it together.
He focused on numbers. Counted the forks. The chairs. The windows. Twelve tiles on the backsplash. Four chairs with scratches. Two fruit bowls. Three bulbs overhead - warm light, not LED. A formula echoed in his mind, soft and distant.
dE/dt = ∇ × B - μ₀J
He didn’t finish it.
“Hey,” someone said - sharp, sudden.
Peter flinched slightly.
Max.
“So… what are you doing here, Parker?” Max asked, voice casual but with a bite. “What happened? Parents junkies? Ditched you like the rest of us?”
The table froze.
Peter stared down at his apple slice, fingers tightening. He didn’t answer at first.
Then, quietly: “He was shot.”
A beat.
And then-
“Maybe you could shut the fuck up for once,” Stella muttered, pushing her chair back with a screech and storming out.
“Max,” Mrs. Stevens said sharply. “That’s enough.”
He rolled his eyes. “I was just asking.”
“And you know we don’t ask those questions here.”
Max shoved his chair back and left without another word.
Mrs. Stevens turned to Peter. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Do you want a minute?”
“I’m fine,” Peter mumbled. He stood and left too - not fast, but without waiting for permission. He walked back down the hallway and into his room. Closed the door behind him. He grabbed the photo from the pillow and sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers traced the outline of Ben’s smile. He pulled on the denim jacket - still too big, still too warm and curled up, back against the wall.
But his mind didn’t go quiet. Not this time. Peter closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly, counting seconds between inhales - a trick that usually helped when the grief pressed too loud against his ribs. But the silence was too loud now. Too unfamiliar.
So instead, he started cataloging. Observing. Surviving. Like he always did.
Noah - the boy with the headphones and the burned teddy bear — didn’t speak. His eyes had been wide the entire breakfast, never meeting anyone’s, but darting to movement like prey. The bear had smelled faintly of smoke. Peter didn’t need to ask.
Aris and Lea, the twins - tiny, hunched shoulders, flinching at raised voices. Even when no one had shouted, they’d held each other’s sleeves like lifelines. Peter had seen that before. Too many times. In shelters. In alleys. As Spider-man.
Stella - oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over bitten nails. She hadn’t eaten more than a slice of apple. Peter remembered the way her plate still smelled faintly like soap - untouched. Her eyes were heavy, red-rimmed, but furious. Not loud-furious. Burned-out-furious. The kind of rage that doesn’t rise anymore. It just simmers. And she had still defended him.
Max - sharp-tongued, mean on instinct. Peter didn’t know his story, not really. But he’d seen boys like him before: ones who used anger as armor. The kind of kids who were probably abandoned. Maybe by someone high. Maybe by someone who never came back.
And then there was Mrs. Stevens. She reminded Peter of May in the tiniest ways - not in voice or face, but in warmth. In how her words held no expectations, only space. She had looked at him like he wasn’t broken. Like she still saw something worth welcoming.
He held onto that thought a little longer than he meant to. Somewhere in the middle of all that mental sorting - all that trying not to fall apart - Peter found a strange sort of focus. Like his brain was trying to build a map.
A plan.
Observe everything.
Remember names.
Learn where things are.
Know who’s safe. Who’s not.
Count exits. Count rooms. Count rules.
He wasn’t here to heal. He didn’t believe that anymore. He was here to survive.
That had always been enough - hadn’t it?
But even as he made that list, even as he tried to pull himself out of the heaviness, his limbs wouldn’t move. Not yet. He just stayed curled, back to the wall, jacket pulled tight, eyes open but not seeing.
He stayed that way.
Hours passed.
Mrs. Stevens knocked once around noon.
“Peter?” she called softly. “I’ll leave you some lunch on the counter, okay?”
He didn’t answer.
The light shifted. The hallway grew quiet. At some point, the low murmur of voices returned. He heard Mrs. Stevens talking to someone - a woman’s voice. Familiar.
Miss Ramsey.
Peter didn’t focus enough to listen. He could have - if he’d wanted. Could’ve heard every word through the wall. But the effort felt too heavy. Too far away.
A door opened. Closed. An engine started.
Peter didn’t move.
Not for the rest of the day.
Ben had been dead for 40 hours and 36 minutes.
Peter knew, because he’d been counting.
Not in grief. Not even consciously. His brain simply clung to numbers - to structure - as if measuring time could somehow stop it from collapsing in on itself. The hallway was dim when he stepped out.
He didn’t remember deciding to move. But suddenly, he was there - standing in socks on cold linoleum, squinting at pale orange light filtering through the frosted glass above the stairwell. It lay in broken squares across the dusty floor, like someone had tried to piece together sunlight and failed.
The air smelled like floor cleaner and reheated soup. A siren whined outside in the distance, weaving through the city like a thread through cloth. It rose, dipped, faded and didn’t care that his world had stopped.
Inside, it had.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed in long, droning hums, just above human hearing but not above his.
And Peter heard everything.
Footsteps on carpet. A cough two rooms down. The metallic clang of the radiator. The soft flutter of wings — a fly circling the ceiling, lazy and aimless. Somewhere, a fork scraped against a plate. And still, the clock ticked.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He didn’t want food. Not really. But his body ached with stillness. Muscles twitched for something to do. Spider-Man, even broken, couldn’t sit still forever.
His limbs didn’t hurt the way most people’s did. His pain was quieter - deeper - coiled somewhere between sinew and memory. A tension that buzzed under the skin, that said move, move, move before the rest of him was ready to follow.
It had been 40 hours and 37 minutes since Ben had died.
And Peter had counted every one of them.
Every minute.
Every second.
Every breath.
Outside the hallway, footsteps echoed faintly - some rushed, some dragging. He could hear a chair scraping across the kitchen tiles. A muffled laugh. A door creaking open. A distant clatter.
Then a crash. Sharp. Splintering.
Glass.
Peter flinched. He was already halfway to the hallway before he realized he’d moved. The common room was just to the left, kitchen connected directly. He didn’t look inside - didn’t need to. A voice shouted. Not loud, but sharp.
Mrs. Stevens.
Then came the heavy, unmistakable stomp of someone storming off. Max. Peter turned the corner just as Max barreled into the hallway, shoulders squared, storm in his eyes. The second Max saw him—slim frame, unmoving, still wrapped in grief - something in his gaze ignited.
Peter didn’t move. Too late. A shoulder slammed into him.
He stumbled sideways, back hitting the edge of a hallway cabinet. The corner dug into his side - just under his ribs and air caught briefly in his throat.
Max didn’t stop. “Watch it,” Max muttered. “Standing around like some kinda ghost.” he snapped, like it was Peter’s fault for existing in the same space.
And then his door slammed shut.
Mrs. Stevens was already at the hallway entrance, eyes sharp. “Max! That’s enough!”
No answer. Just another slam from inside the room. She turned to Peter immediately, her voice shifting. Softer. “Are you okay?”
Peter blinked. Then nodded once. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. But it didn’t matter.
Mrs. Stevens hesitated, clearly wanting to check on him, but Peter gave a small, quick shake of his head. Not now. Her eyes flickered down the hall, then to the broken cup and the dark splash of coffee near the kitchen tiles. He followed her gaze to the shattered mug, then - without being asked - stepped into the storage nook, took out a dustpan and broom, and knelt beside her.
“You really don’t have to help,” she said gently.
Peter shrugged. “I want to.”
There was quiet again. Not uncomfortable. Just still. Mrs. Stevens watched him a moment longer, then offered a small smile. “Thank you.”
Peter didn’t respond. But his movements were careful, steady, practiced. The dust was gone. The coffee too. But the quiet had stayed.
Peter sat stiffly at the far end of the common table, the soup in front of him untouched. The chair under him creaked softly every time he shifted, but otherwise, the space was still - except for the relentless ticking of the kitchen clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
A fly buzzed faintly by the window. Something scratched faintly under the linoleum floor. Pipes? A loose board? He didn’t know, didn’t care. The clock ticked too loudly. He could hear his own heartbeat. Her heartbeat. The hum of electricity in the lights above.
He felt like he was drowning in sound.
He felt Mrs. Stevens’ presence before he saw her. She moved slowly - deliberately - not to startle him. She placed a new mug of warm tea on the table, not too close, not too far. Then sat down across from him, hands folded gently. Neither spoke for a while.
Then:
“Do you want to talk?”
Peter’s eyes didn’t move. He stared at the wall beyond her, lips parted but silent.
“Not about what happened,” she added gently. “Just… talk. About anything.”
A beat.
Peter swallowed. “Can I ask you something?”
Mrs. Stevens nodded.
“Do you live here?”
She smiled faintly. “No. Just work here. But I spend most of my time around anyway.”
Peter’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. His voice remained soft, fragile.
“Do you… have someone?”
Mrs. Stevens tilted her head slightly, considering the question.
“I do,” she said. “A partner. He’s home most evenings. And two cats, which technically makes him outnumbered.”
Peter’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but something.
“Do you like it here?”
She looked around. At the walls. At the scuffed floor. At the chipped paint on the baseboards.
“I like the kids,” she said honestly. “That’s why I’m here. I had the chance to move up - some office work. Safer. Cleaner. But I want to be where I can do something. Here, with people. With you.”
Peter’s hands stilled.
“Do you have a hobby?”
“I cook,” she said with a chuckle. “Not well, but I try. I like making food that smells like childhood. Something warm.”
Peter looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Barely at first. Then visibly. Mrs. Stevens noticed.
“I used to cook a lot too,” he said.
She looked at him gently. “With your family?”
He nodded. His shoulders tensed.
“My aunt…” His voice cracked halfway through. He blinked rapidly. “She used to write down recipes with me. We always did it together.”
He paused. His throat burned. Then:
“My-”
His voice caught completely. Fingers clenched. Nails pressing deep into his palms.
Just one sentence. Just one sentence.
“My… uncle…”
It came out barely louder than a whisper. Croaked. Torn from his ribs like it hurt.
“He used to burn everything,” Peter whispered. “But… we figured it out. We had to.”
He didn’t say Ben’s name.
Couldn’t.
But it echoed in the silence anyway.
Mrs. Stevens didn’t press. She simply nodded once, eyes warm.
“If you ever want to cook with me,” she said softly, “I’d love to have you.”
Peter exhaled slowly. Then nodded.
“Maybe.”
He turned slightly, shoulders folding inward again, reaching for the spoon beside the now-lukewarm soup. He didn’t feel hungry. But he moved anyway. Because he had to.
Because he was still here.
Still moving.
Still counting.
40 hours. 49 minutes.
The shelter kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and instant coffee.
Peter sat quietly at the long, battered table, picking at the crust of his bread, counting the number of jam stains left on the surface. Four. No - five. His mind kept drifting like that lately. Back and forth between what was real and what was too quiet to say out loud.
It was morning again.
Aris and Lea had already gone - off to some activity with the volunteers. Max had stomped off earlier, slamming his door so hard the window panes had shaken. Mrs. Stevens was upstairs, on a call.
That left only three people in the room.
Peter.
Stella.
And Noah - curled up in his usual chair, arms crossed, a worn drawing pad resting on his knees. Peter glanced across the table. Stella was staring at her toast, unmoving. Her hoodie swallowed most of her frame, and her fingers tapped at the table - tap-tap-tap - in a rhythm too anxious to be casual.
He hesitated. Then asked, gently:
“Are you… okay? I mean. You haven’t really eaten.”
Her eyes snapped up.
For a moment, Peter braced himself - for a glare, for sarcasm, for that brittle teenage armor he’d seen before.
But then something shifted. She looked at him - really looked and must’ve seen it wasn’t judgment in his voice. Just curiosity. Maybe even concern.
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
“Sometimes…” eyes drifting back to her plate, „… it’s not that simple,” she muttered after a moment. “Not everyone eats just because they’re hungry.”
Peter didn’t answer. He just nodded.
Stella stood. Her chair scraped sharply as it moved back. As she turned, the oversized sleeve of her hoodie slipped - just a little and Peter saw it.
Faint lines. Pale and quiet. Scars.
She pulled the fabric back down without a word.
And left.
Peter didn’t follow. But something heavy stayed behind with him.
He found Noah minutes later, sitting quietly in the hallway just outside the room.
The boy had been tense all morning - fidgeting with his clothes, switching through two or three sweaters before settling on one that didn’t seem to bother him. He’d flinched every time someone dropped a spoon or raised their voice.
And now, after Max’s muffled shouting from upstairs, the crash of something being thrown…
Noah was sitting frozen on the floor, hands clamped tightly over his ears, eyes shut so hard it must’ve hurt.
His whole body trembled.
Peter didn’t speak.
Instead, he stepped softly back into the bedroom, scanned the mess of belongings, and spotted the noise-cancelling headphones - tangled in a hoodie, half-fallen from the bed.
He grabbed them. And the teddy bear, too. The one with the burned ear.
Noah didn’t look up as Peter knelt beside him. Quietly, he helped him slip on the headphones. Noah didn’t resist. As soon as they were in place, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Then Peter offered the bear - cautiously.
Noah blinked, stared at it.
But instead of pulling away, he reached out - took it and hugged it so tightly that his fingers went white. Like he was afraid it might disappear. Peter stayed there, sitting beside him. Just breathing. Just being.
Then, after a minute, he said, “I noticed the ear’s a little burnt. I guess… something happened. I’m sorry if you lost someone.”
He paused. His voice grew smaller.
“I… lost someone too,” Peter continued. “My last relative. He… he was shot. Right in front of me.”
His voice didn’t shake, but it dropped a little.
The hallway was silent except for the faint hum of electricity in the walls. Peter continued, his words not forced - just honest.
“I don’t think the pain really goes away. Maybe it never will. But sometimes… when someone’s near… it gets a little less loud.”
Noah didn’t speak. But he turned slightly toward him.
Peter added softly, “You don’t have to talk. Or even listen. But if you ever want to draw together… or just play cards. Or sit. That’s okay, too.”
There was a pause.
Then Noah nodded. Just once. And stood.
They went back to the room together. Inside, Noah pulled out his sketchpad again. Inside were dozens of drawings - animals, mostly. Some from books, some imagined. A lamp. A window Peter recognized from the shelter hallway. Peter noticed that a few of the portraits - all drawn with charcoal and gentle shadows had their eyes crossed out - others unfinished. At the very back, half-hidden behind others, there were drawings with flame-like patterns, jagged and dark.
Peter didn’t ask. Instead, he knelt down beside the bed and unzipped his backpack.
“This is my kind of drawing,” he said, holding up a beat-up StarkTech manual. The corners were dog-eared, and sketches lined the margins - blueprints, equations, the arc reactor broken down into parts.
“I like knowing how things work,” he said. “Helps me make sense of stuff. Even when everything else doesn’t.”
Noah leaned closer.
Peter turned a page. “This one’s a version of the Mark IV suit. Not perfect, but… close.”
Noah smiled - the tiniest twitch at the edge of his mouth.
They didn’t need words after that.
Just time.
They pointed. Mimed. Shared. And later, they played UNO on the floor.
No one counted wins.
No one needed to.
When the sun had moved far enough across the window to cast gold light on the floor, Peter leaned back.
He was tired. Still hurting.
But something about today felt quieter. Softer. Helping Noah didn’t fix anything.
But maybe… maybe it reminded him that he didn’t have to be Spider-Man to make a difference.
Maybe Peter Parker could help people, too. And maybe - just maybe - that was enough for now.
Peter sat in the common room, curled up in the armchair closest to the wall, one leg tucked beneath him, a worn StarkTech manual balanced on his knee. He wasn’t really absorbing the words, but he needed something to do - something that didn’t involve talking, crying, or thinking too much. Something that felt… safe.
That’s when Aris and Lea came in.
They paused near the door when they noticed him. Their steps faltered. For a second, Peter thought they’d leave again. But instead, they moved to the far end of the room - really far. They settled on the floor beside a basket of toys and started silently playing, barely making a sound. Not even laughter. Not even whispers.
Peter tried to focus on the diagrams in his book, flipping a page.
Both their heads turned sharply.
He blinked. Okay.
He adjusted in his seat.
Again - eyes on him. Shoulders stiff. Lea gripped her shirt tighter, and Aris subtly angled his body in front of her. Peter watched for a few moments. He didn’t mean to stare, but… it was impossible to ignore. How they tensed every time he moved. How their hands hovered protectively around each other. How they never really relaxed.
He noticed it right away.
The stiffness in their shoulders. How Lea’s hand kept gripping her sleeve, twisting it until the seam turned inside out. How Aris kept glancing at the door. How every time Peter turned a page or adjusted his leg, both their heads snapped toward him like prey reacting to a predator.
He didn’t know this kind of fear - at least not from his own life. May and Ben had always been kind, soft, steady. He never had to flinch from them. Never had to wonder whether a raised voice meant danger.
But as Spider-Man… he’d seen it.
Once, in Brooklyn, he’d pulled a boy and his little sister out of an apartment with shattered glass and blood on the floor. Another time, he’d sat with a kid in an alley until the cops came, the boy too scared to speak. He remembered the way they’d looked at him - frozen, suspicious, waiting for the next hit.
It wasn’t familiarity that made his chest tighten.
It was recognition. He’d seen this before, just not this close.
And suddenly… just reading felt wrong.
Peter closed his book and stood. Slowly.
Immediately, both kids tensed. Aris reached out, tugging Lea closer. She leaned into him without hesitation. Peter said nothing. He just walked toward the storage closet he’d seen Mrs. Stevens organize the other day. Inside, he found what he was looking for - blankets. Lots of them. Thick ones, soft ones. Four or five, maybe six. He stacked them in his arms, then returned to the open space near the kids - not too close.
Aris and Lea watched, frozen. Peter didn’t look at them. He just grabbed two chairs and a low table, dragging them together. Then he draped the blankets over the top, layering and adjusting them until it resembled something dome-shaped. He weighed the corners down with books and couch cushions. It took ten minutes. Maybe more. He didn’t rush.
Then he added things - small things. A few picture books. A flashlight. A pillow. One of the foam mats from the side wall. A battery lamp. When it was finished, he crouched down and peeked inside.
Not bad.
He stood and turned to the kids, who hadn’t moved from their corner.
“I used to make these,” he said softly. “Back when I stayed with some other kids. Sometimes, we’d pretend it was a spaceship. Or a secret lab.”
They didn’t respond.
Peter smiled faintly. “You can use it if you want. Or just… look at it. I’ll be over there.”
He returned to his armchair, picked up his book, and resumed reading. Or at least pretending to.
Minutes passed.
He didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He heard the soft patter of feet.
They moved slowly - cautiously. At first, they only sat near the edge of the fort. Then a little closer. Eventually, Peter glanced up and saw them just outside the entrance, whispering.
Lea crawled inside first.
Then Aris followed.
They didn’t speak to Peter, but they didn’t run away either. That was enough. Peter exhaled, almost silently.
Another few minutes passed. He flipped to a section with diagrams, one of Tony’s early suit models. He didn’t notice that Lea was looking until Aris nudged her and she pointed, wide-eyed.
Iron Man.
Peter smiled.
“You like him?” he asked, still quiet.
Lea hesitated, then nodded. Just once.
Aris tilted his head. “Is that real?”
Peter nodded. “Yes. He built it all from scratch.”
Lea leaned closer. “Do you know him?”
Peter blinked. Then said softly, “Sort of.”
There was a long pause. Then Lea stepped forward, just a little, still cautious.
"You like that stuff?" she asked.
Peter tilted the book toward them. "Yeah. A lot. It helps me think. Makes me feel like... stuff can be fixed. Even when it looks impossible."
That silence again. Not uncomfortable this time-just... weighing.
Then Aris mumbled, barely audible, "I like fixing stuff too."
Peter smiled.
"I believe you."
There was another pause. Then Peter glanced down at the book still resting in his hands. “If you want… I could read to you. This one, or something else.”
The moment the words left his mouth, both children stiffened.
He quickly added, “Only if you want. I’ll stay right here.”
Lea and Aris exchanged a look. Nervous. Uncertain. Then Lea gave the smallest nod.
Peter stayed where he was but shifted slightly, tilting the book so they could see. His voice was soft, careful - not dramatic, not childish, just gentle. He read the opening paragraph of the chapter, adding only a few quiet explanations. When a funny line came up, he shifted his tone just enough to make it land. When the characters argued, he changed pitch slightly. When a gadget was mentioned, he paused to add a fun fact or a comment like, “That actually exists. Sort of.”
They listened. Not just politely - really listened.
Little by little, they crept closer.
First a foot or two.
Then within reach.
Then - unexpectedly - he felt something small and warm against his arm.
Lea’s hand.
She wasn’t gripping him. Just resting it there. Not even fully touching. Just… existing beside him.
Peter didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. He simply kept reading. When the chapter ended, he closed the book slowly and looked at them.
“You got any favorites?”
They hesitated only a moment.
Then two pairs of hands reached for the pile of books beside the blanket fort and shoved three, four, five? - into his arms.
Peter chuckled. “Okay. Let’s take turns. We’ve got time.”
He opened the first one - Lea’s and began again.
And just like that… they stayed.
They laughed a little at the jokes. They asked questions. Aris even corrected Peter once when he skipped a sentence. Peter let them try reading a few words out loud. He helped with letters, sounds, explained meanings. Gently. Patiently. The way Ben used to.
From that day on, something shifted.
Peter wasn’t just the quiet kid in the corner anymore.
He was their quiet kid in the corner.
You rarely saw Aris or Lea without him. Sometimes Noah joined, sitting close but still silent. But mostly it was just the three of them - curled up with books, playing cards, working through homework, whispering jokes under blankets.
Peter read to them almost every day. He helped with spelling, handwriting, fractions.
Once, when Aris had a nightmare and couldn’t sleep, Peter had been the one to sit beside him, whispering quiet words until he calmed down. Another night, Lea had quietly crawled into the reading fort and cried without saying why and Peter had just stayed, offering a blanket and letting her rest.
They were healing. Slowly. Quietly. Together.
Mrs. Stevens noticed.
She would peek into the room sometimes, a tray in her hands or papers tucked under her arm and stop in the doorway, watching with soft eyes as Lea giggled at a sentence, or Aris tried sounding out a new word, or Peter gently encouraged them both.
And sometimes, late at night, Peter would lie awake and wonder:
Was it selfish? Was he just using them - Aris and Lea - as anchors to keep himself from falling apart?
Because the truth was: helping them helped him. Focusing on their needs gave his grief less space to grow. It wasn’t that the sadness disappeared.
It just… stepped aside.
For a while.
When he saw them smile, or heard them laugh, or watched them read a whole page without help, it felt like something in him healed too. Something he couldn’t quite name. It still hurt. All of it. Ben. May. The silence at night. The way the city kept moving, like it hadn’t noticed two lives had ended.
But with Aris and Lea, there was purpose.
Responsibility.
Hope.
They needed someone. And he needed to be needed. Maybe that wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And for now, it was enough.
The air at breakfast felt unusually still.
Aris and Lea sat close together, their cereal untouched. Sunlight traced lazy lines across the table, yet their eyes were dim with something else - conflict. Hope. Fear. Mrs. Stevens had just told them the news:
They had been chosen.
A couple. A family.
Peter watched them carefully. He could almost feel their hearts racing - two tiny bodies caught between longing and panic. Lea’s hand gripped Aris’s shirt sleeve. Aris didn’t move. He just stared at the table. Mrs. Stevens noticed too.
She crouched gently beside them, voice low and warm. “It’s okay to feel both things, you know? Excited and scared. Really. It’s normal.”
She smiled at them both. “We’ll come with you on the first day - me and Miss Ramsey. You know her already. We’ll stay with you those first few hours, check in all the time. If anything doesn’t feel right - anything - you tell us, and we’ll be there. You’re not alone in this, okay?”
Lea’s fingers loosened just a little. Aris nodded without looking up. Peter said nothing. Not yet.
Later that day, all three of them retreated to their small world. The blanket fort. The secret space that was theirs alone. Inside the quiet, Peter finally asked:
“…How do you feel about it?”
A long pause.
Then Aris whispered, “I think we’re supposed to be happy.”
Lea nodded. “We are. I mean… we waited so long for a family. That’s why we’re here, right? So someone picks us. Loves us.”
She bit her lip. Her voice dropped to a fragile echo.
“But what if they don’t? What if we do everything right, and it still isn’t enough? Like before?”
Peter’s chest ached.
They were five and six years old. Too small to carry that kind of memory.
“I get it,” he said quietly. “You’re scared. You don’t know what’s waiting. And maybe that’s the hardest part. But I believe-”
He paused.
“I believe good things can happen. Even after everything. Even when you’ve been hurt. And you deserve good things.”
Lea looked up. “But… what if they don’t like us?”
Peter didn’t even blink.
“Then they’re wrong. And we’ll figure something out.”
He reached out, slowly brushing her hair back, his voice like the soft edges of a promise.
“But maybe… maybe they are the ones who will love you the way you’ve always deserved.”
Silence.
Then both of them leaned into him - one small hand at his chest, one cheek against his shoulder.
“You deserve love,” he whispered. “You deserve a home. You deserve to feel safe. That’s not a question. That’s a fact.”
They sat that way for a long time. And when they pulled away, he smiled.
“It’s okay to be scared of the unknown. But sometimes… the unknown holds exactly what we need. You don’t have to figure it out alone. Not now. Not ever. But to know if this is your family - you have to try. That’s what a leap of faith is.”
Peter helped them pack. Hours passed. Tiny sweaters folded. Drawings tucked into plastic bags. Two backpacks zipped with care.
At the front door, Anne and Mark waited. They smiled softly. Respectfully. Not reaching. Not assuming.
Mrs. Stevens stood beside them.
Peter knelt one last time. Aris wrapped his arms around him first, face pressed to his shoulder.
“It’s gonna be okay, buddy,” Peter whispered. “You’ll see.”
Then Lea stepped forward. She didn’t say anything. Just leaned in, hugged him tightly.
He held her a little longer.
“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, brushing her hair back. “And I’m proud of you.”
She pulled back, slipping a crayon drawing into his hand. Hearts. Rainbows. All three of them. Together. Peter blinked, swallowed. “Thank you,” he said.
Lea’s voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“I hope you find your family too. You deserve to be loved, Peter.”
He froze for half a second. Then pulled both of them into one final hug. Fierce. Whole.
“I’m so proud of you. So, so proud.”
The door opened. The family walked out with Mrs. Stevens.
Peter stood alone.
The click of the door felt too loud in the stillness. He stayed there, motionless, for a long time.
He came every night.
As Spider-Man.
He didn’t knock. Didn’t get close. Just perched across the street, on a rooftop, and watched.
At first, Aris and Lea sat curled together in bed, eyes wide, barely moving. Anne and Mark gave them space. No forced hugs. No expectations. Just warmth.
Weeks passed.
One night, Peter saw Aris laugh. Another night, he saw Lea reading aloud from a picture book, while Anne brushed her hair.
By the sixth week, Aris had run across the room and tackled Mark with a playful growl and Mark caught him, laughing. Lea had been lifted playfully from behind and instead of flinching, she giggled.
By the eighth week, Peter saw them dancing in the living room - Anne twirling Lea with a scarf, Mark laughing with Aris on his shoulders.
One evening, Peter watched them fall asleep under the same blanket. Anne kissed both their foreheads. Mark tucked them in.
Peter let out a slow breath.
They don’t need me anymore.
They’re safe. They’re loved. They’re home
He sat on the edge of that rooftop and whispered into the dark: “Goodbye, heroes.”
He didn’t cry.
But his heart did something quieter. Something deeper.
Not every goodbye is a loss. Some are proof that something worked. That something healed. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
(Two days after Aris and Lea left)
The room felt quieter than usual.
Peter sat on his bed, legs drawn up, fingers tracing the stitched edges of Ben’s denim jacket. The blankets were still messy from the night before, but he hadn’t moved much. Mrs. Stevens knocked gently, then stepped inside. She looked around once, as if expecting Noah to be there. But Peter was alone.
She smiled softly and crouched down beside the bed. “I wanted to tell you something,” she said. “The foster placement went through. They found a family.”
Peter didn’t react. Not really.
“They live a few neighborhoods over. Mrs. Ramsey will take you there. I’ll be visiting too, just like with Aris and Lea. You’re not alone in this.”
Peter nodded. But his thoughts had drifted somewhere far from her words.
A family.
For him.
It didn’t quite feel real.
Later that day, the hallway felt too long. Too quiet. Stella didn’t say anything - just nodded as he passed by. Max wasn’t there. Noah stood by the doorway, holding something folded in his hands.
A drawing.
He held it out to Peter wordlessly. It was Iron Man - flying above the skyline, arms outstretched. Bold, messy lines. Flame-colored background. The helmet carefully colored in red and gold.
Peter blinked, smiled softly, and took it. He folded it once, twice, and tucked it carefully between the pages of his StarkTech notebook.
Noah lifted his hand in a small wave. Peter returned it. At the front door, Mrs. Stevens stood waiting. Her eyes were warm and full of something she couldn’t quite say.
“Can I…?” she asked gently, one arm half-raised.
Peter hesitated for just a second, then nodded. She pulled him into a careful, quiet hug. The kind that said everything without needing words.
“You are stronger than you know, Peter,” she whispered into his hair.
When she let go, she smiled again. “Mrs. Ramsey will take you. I’ll come by in a few days, okay? But I want you to remember something.”
He looked at her, eyes guarded but listening.
“You deserve this,” she said. “Not because you were brave. Or quiet. Or helpful. You deserve to be safe and loved simply because you’re you.”
Peter didn’t answer. But something in his chest felt both heavier and lighter at once.
The car ride was silent.
Peter didn’t ask where they were going. He didn’t count the turns. He didn’t trace the route in his head like he usually did.
He just stared out the window, his bag still in his hands. Eventually, Mrs. Ramsey parked.
“We’re here,” she said softly.
Peter stepped out.
A quiet street. A modest house. A front porch with a plant hanging crookedly from the roof. Windows slightly fogged from the inside.
Peter looked up.
He wasn’t sure what waited on the other side of the door. But for the first time in weeks…it didn’t feel like running.
He reached for the handle.
And in that moment, he remembered Lea’s voice:
“I hope you find your family too. You deserve to be loved, Peter.”
Peter didn’t know if he would. But for the first time…he hoped it too.
“Peter didn’t know if this would be a beginning or another ending. He only knew he was still here. Not every next chapter begins with light. Some begin with a deep breath.”
Notes:
This chapter contains themes of grief, foster care, trauma, depression, eating-disorder and PTSD symptoms.
It includes:
• Depictions of a child being placed into a temporary group home after the loss of a guardian.
• Emotional detachment, isolation, and scenes of dissociation.
• Descriptions of minor injuries and moments of fear or panic.
• Mentions of trauma flashbacks and emotional triggers related to lost loved ones.
Please take care while reading.
If any of these topics are personally difficult or triggering, feel free to skip or read with caution.
Your well-being matters 💛
Amelia~Joseph (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Sep 2025 09:47PM UTC
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Helianthus02 on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Sep 2025 07:52PM UTC
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Ash_yall_are_amazing on Chapter 2 Mon 08 Sep 2025 11:03PM UTC
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Helianthus02 on Chapter 2 Tue 09 Sep 2025 10:36AM UTC
Last Edited Tue 09 Sep 2025 02:40PM UTC
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