Chapter Text
On Wednesday, the Parkers shared a frozen pizza.
On Thursdays, they usually had soup or leftovers. Peter rarely loved the midweek soup dinner, finding that the light meals usually left something to be desired for his raging metabolism, but on this particular Thursday, May had the evening off work, so she made a clam chowder, which they both enjoyed with buttered toast.
On Friday night, Peter ate the couch.
Not that he could remember doing so, details of the night were lost to him almost as soon as he woke up on Saturday morning, or more accurately, was woken up.
The alarm was shrill and oppressive and was followed by a rapid string of curses. The smoke detector was unbearably loud, wailing as if it were being pressed right up against his ears. As Peter stirred, memories from the previous night faded like they always did, as if the whole thing had been nothing but a strange dream.
It wasn’t a dream, though. He couldn’t be so lucky.
Peter groaned, flipping the pillow over his head, though the gesture did nothing to deafen the alarm. Thankfully, his suffering was short-lived because after a few eternal seconds, the noise stopped.
Through his ringing ears, Peter heard a “Sorry!” call up from downstairs. He blinked heavily. Any hopes of falling back to sleep died as he squinted against the light that spilled into his bedroom. To anyone else in that moment, the room might’ve looked dim, but to Peter, the brightness was overwhelming. He’d been conscious all of thirty seconds, and already a headache began to form.
He lay still for a moment, absently wondering how long he had before his body woke up, then he’d really start to feel it.
He always hated this part.
Grimacing, he swung his legs over the side of his bed, taking his time to wake up while the stiffness ebbed from his bones. He took his time and waited for the pain to greet him, but unusually, it didn’t.
As soon as he’d allowed himself enough time to grow coherent, he started his mental checklist.
He wiggled his fingers, then his toes. All twenty accounted for. He flexed his shoulders and started running through his breathing exercise as he became aware of his arms and hands. He rolled his wrists, then his ankles.
In two, three.
His joints popped, and despite the ache, they were working fine.
Four, five, six, seven.
He pictured his lungs filling with air as he focused on his torso. No bruised ribs. Not even the familiar sting of a scratch.
Out two, three, four.
Blinking away sleep, his vision cleared. White September light filtered through his drawn curtains. He could hear the bustle of the street outside, smell the fumes from the cabs drifting up through the window.
Five, six, seven, eight.
And smoke.
Nine, ten, eleven.
He ran his tongue over his teeth and frowned. His mouth felt tacky and dry. He smacked his lips as he pulled himself from his bed and slowly descended the stairs.
Thirsty.
Before he entered the kitchen, Peter stopped to lean against the doorway; chipped paint flaked away under his unsteady grip. May had her back to him; she was fussing away with the stove.
It looked like a bomb had gone off. Piles of baked goods filled the gaps between empty packets and mixing bowls that cluttered the counters. Between the dishes and ingredients, there wasn’t a speck of surface to be seen, and a bag of flour might’ve exploded because how else would the stuff have got on the ceiling? Someone had been busy.
Peter watched May move about the chaos. The loose gray nest of hair atop her head bobbed up and down as she buzzed about the counters. Despite the light outside telling Peter it was at least midday, she was still in pajamas, Ben’s old dressing gown wrapped tightly around her waist.
Peter frowned. Had she slept at all?
She chittered quietly to herself as she alternated between tasks, trying not to overfill a hot water bottle and scraping unidentifiable charred clumps out of the frying pan.
Peter watched the kitchen whirlwind for a little longer, then cleared his throat.
May spun, gasping. She was at his side before the pan had time to fall into the sink. A spray of suds went up the wall.
“Peter! You shouldn’t be up, it’s too early! Shoot– was it the smoke alarm? I’m sorry, I might’ve overdone the Oatcakes... Here, let me see you—” Her words tumbled out, and she pulled him out of the doorway into the light of the kitchen, circling him, inspecting, and prodding before he could get a word in.
“How are you feeling? You look pale. Any discomfort? Do you want some Tylenol?” She asked as she scanned him, lifting his arm and then dropping it, then doing the same with the opposite arm. She was in front of him in an instant, tilting his face left and then right.
“Any marks you’re not showing me? How are your teeth?”
Peter gently pulled her hands away from his face before she could start poking about in his mouth. She always got like this the morning after wolf nights.
“Good morning to you, too.” He rasped, the croak in his voice surprising them both. He cleared his throat. “I’m alright, May. Really.”
May tutted. “Sit down. Let me get you some water.”
She handed him a glass and watched as Peter gulped it down. He felt as though he'd been chewing on cotton wool.
Once he’d finished, May refilled the glass and ushered him to sit down. Food was already laid out for him—a questionable stack of oatcakes doused in syrup, probably to hide the edges, which were slightly charred.
That explains the smoke, Peter thought.
May brought over a tray heaped with muffins and plopped down in the chair opposite him. Following his questioning look, she spoke.
“I wasn't sure what you'd like the most. I know the banana chip muffins are your favorite so I made those, but then I remembered that one time they made you sick after a moon so I thought I’ll do cheese twists just in case you didn’t fancy them but then I realized you’d probably want something breakfast-y so I thought, well oatcakes you can’t really go wrong, can you—”
Peter put his hand up before she explained herself into next week and pulled the stack of muffins towards him. Surprisingly, he really wasn't hungry, but it’d make his aunt happy, so he took a generous bite and chewed.
“They’re great, May, thank you.” He replied, muffled by the mouthful. He swallowed thickly. “You really don’t need to do all this. I’m alright to do this by myself now, you know?”
May pressed her lips and gave him a doubtful look. She took a muffin for herself, considering her words before speaking. “I know. But as long as I’m here, I want to help, okay?”
Peter nodded slowly. They’d been over this countless times. Both of them knew it wasn’t ‘helping’, not really. They could pretend it was, though. May could take the day off work so that they could play house and bake food, pretend to have a nice, normal breakfast even though it was well past morning. Until the clock reset and the routine would repeat itself the following month.
All the muffins in the world wouldn’t change that.
And though Peter was touched that May did this all for him– which really he was, he loved her with all of his heart– he sometimes couldn’t stand it. He hated the fact that it was his condition holding her back; he hated being such a burden on her. Often, he wondered what her life would be like if she hadn’t ended up dumped with him. She wouldn’t have had to move so much; she’d probably be able to live in a much nicer house. She’d have been able to keep her old job. And Ben—
And Ben.
Peter knew May did it because she wanted to. Or maybe she did it because she had to—so that she could feel like she had some sense of control in their situation. He understood that; he really did. But the guilt that came with her putting all of this effort into their routine devoured him.
May’s chair scraped against the floor as she pulled herself closer to the table. She had gone uncharacteristically quiet and was waiting for him to say something. Peter looked up at her; she looked like she might burst.
May only spoke when she realized that he wasn’t going to speak first.
"So…” She started, carefully controlling her words. “Do you remember anything from last night?"
Peter chased syrup around his plate with a fork.
"No, not really. I really do feel better than usual, though."
May watched him push his food around. She hummed in thought, then nudged him. “Is something wrong with my cooking?"
Peter's hands flew up in a placating gesture. "Not at all! You know I love your famous oatcakes." His eyes flicked to the lumpy, brown disk. Well, it was the thought that counted, wasn't it?
"I guess I'm just not that hungry." He said before taking another swig of water. Man, his mouth was really dry.
"Well, I can't say I'm all that surprised...”
Peter looked at her questioningly. She wasn’t telling him something.
“... Why’s that?” He ventured, unsure if he even wanted to know.
“You—ah. The wolf,” she corrected, “ate the couch.”
The glass slipped from Peter’s hand, clattering onto the table. It didn't break, but water pooled over his lap. May was up in an instant.
"Whoa—steady! You okay, hon?" She hurried over with a tea towel as Peter tried to wriggle out of her fussing, dumbfounded.
"It ate the What?!" He choked.
"You remember the one we picked up near Bayside? I was going to upcycle it. I guess I forgot I'd left it down there—everything's just been so hectic these last few weeks, you know—" May was waffling, trying to downplay it for his sake.
Peter remembered. A few weeks prior, when they'd moved from the Bronx to Queens, they'd driven past it. The couch was left on the side of the road—free for the taking, and May had insisted that they stop by and grab it, since they had the means to bring it along thanks to the rental van.
"Never look a gift couch in the mouth." Is what she had said. She always loved a project, and she was getting pretty good at upcycling; she definitely had an eye for that sort of thing. Plus, a hobby that put a little extra cash in the Parker’s back pocket definitely wasn't something to scoff at.
So it was piled in with the rest of their stuff, 'temporarily' stored in the basement, and promptly forgotten.
Peter stood, despite his protesting body, and made his way towards the basement—he didn't really want to see the damage, but he felt he ought to. He didn't get far, though, as May gently pushed him back into his seat.
"Ah—sit." She commanded.
"But—"
"No. You're supposed to be resting, not torturing yourself with damage control."
Peter pouted. "Is it salvageable?" He asked, though he had a feeling he knew the answer.
May sighed, shaking her head. "I'm good, but I'm not that good. He didn't get the whole thing—but he certainly had most of it. I'm not in a rush to spend my weekend assembling a 1000-piece couch without instructions." She chuckled, taking his untouched plate over to the sink.
"This is good though,” she continued, “just look—there's not a single mark on you, no scratches, no nothing. I think the wolf was so busy with the couch that he didn't have time to tear himself up. It was a good distraction—this is progress!" May said with false cheer.
Peter was half-listening. Guilt gnawed at him.
"It, not 'he'." He replied automatically.
May's momentum came to a stop, and she sighed through her nose.
“Peter…” She started in a tone that indicated a lecture. They both knew where the other’s stance was on how they treated the wolf. May didn’t like it, but at the end of the day, it was Peter’s decision.
Peter dragged a hand through his hair, trying to ward off his headache. He felt terrible. He should've remembered that the couch was down there—he knew how much May had been looking forward to that project. His vision blurred, and he blinked back tears, thankful that May had her back to him as she washed the dishes.
"I'm-" He started in a small voice, then cleared his throat. "I'm really sorry, May." He said, biting his lip. She'd already given up so much for him, and now his stupid condition was interfering with things as menial as hobbies—how were they supposed to be normal if he kept messing up even the simplest of things?
The faucet squeaked off, and May appeared next to him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Her expression softened when she saw his distress.
"We've talked about this," she said sincerely. "It's not you, hon. You can't hold yourself responsible for things that happen outside your control—"
"But everything's outside my control. It's not fair."
"Hey, come on. Things will be different now; we're making progress with the wolf—finding ways to deal with this without you getting hurt will always be a priority, not some junk couch—okay?"
Peter picked at a groove in the table.
May tilted her head, trying to catch his eye.
"I'd sacrifice a thousand couches if it made these nights any easier for you. You know that, right?"
"I don't think anyone's used those words in that order before," Peter said.
May smiled.
"Look, I know our lives are chaos—but we're still here, right? Plus, it’s not all bad. We've got an entire weekend to do absolutely nothing, and I just so happened to record last night's Bake Off so you wouldn't miss it. I have a great excuse not to work this weekend, and we have the most gorgeous rustic new place—"
She stood, giving a flourish to the grimy kitchen walls.
"Rustic is one word for it," Peter replied, eyeing the abstract watery stains on the ceiling.
"Hey—shabby chic is all the rage. And you know the best thing?"
"What?"
The sudden sincerity in May's tone was almost disarming.
"We're not in Jersey."
Spider-Man flew through the air, skidding across the rooftops to race the leaves, then dived back down to swing between the tightly packed buildings of New York.
He’d had a nice lazy weekend, spending Saturday recovering from Friday’s moon and watching brain-numbing British reality TV with May, then when she had to leave for work on Sunday, he could sneak off to his room to tinker with his web fluid formula—he was close to a perfect consistency, he knew it.
The following morning, May had left early for work, leaving Peter the keys to lock up when he left to take the bus to school.
Peter did not take the bus to school.
He slipped on the mask and took to the skies of New York. He’d decided months ago, not long after he’d first gotten his powers, that May didn’t need to know that he was Spider-Man. She had a plate full of worries without throwing webs into the mix. This was a secret that Peter was going to keep all to himself.
He whooped as he shot above the yellow cabs beeping impatiently on the roads below.
Golly, I sure am bummed to be missing the bus right now…
He loved soaring above it all, but preferred to be closer to the action where he could watch the locals on their commutes and feel smug about not having to be a part of the riffraff. Oh—and so he could keep an eye out for purse snatchers and shoplifters. Evil doers beware.
He shot out a web line, confidence growing.
Thwip!
Since he’d started swinging to school in the mornings, he’d gotten a lot better with his webs. Something he couldn’t fault Queens for was its abundance of buildings. The place had very Spider-Man-friendly ergonomics, 10/10 would web-swing again.
Thwip! Thwip! He chased his reflection across an office block, vaulting away before catching himself on the next building.
Peter’s commute to Midtown High had quickly become one of his favorite parts of the day. Actually, any commute had become his favorite part of the day– because he got to be Spider-Man.
Thwip!
When he put on the mask, he became someone who wasn’t tied down with all the baggage that came with being Peter Parker. The mask did that. He could be anything he wanted to be—he could practically do anything. He could swing anywhere as long as his webs would take him.
Click.
At the peak of his swing, Spider-Man's webs jammed. He lost his rhythm; the unexpected drop sent his momentum into a wide, sideways arch, and hurtled him towards floor to ceiling windows with alarming speed.
“No, no no no no!! Come on, come, come on comeon!” He tapped desperately on his wrists, web shooters protesting with a Click! Click! Click!
His body tensed in anticipation of the hit when—
Thwip!
A web shot out, wrenching him away and putting enough distance between himself and the glass.
On shaking legs, Spider-Man came to a rather ungraceful landing on a nearby roof, only stumbling a little. He yanked the lower half of his mask up to suck in a gulp of air like it was the first breath he’d ever taken.
“Ho-lee shit!” he exclaimed to the small flock of pigeons that were milling about on the roof. He braced his hands on his knees and took a few more breaths, waiting for the adrenaline to leave his system. That was alarmingly close.
“That would’ve been an embarrassingly swift end to my superheroing career. Still—I had a better run than Green Lantern, eh?”
Steve (which he’d named Pigeon No.3) fled the scene. “You’re right. Cheap shot.” He flopped down, swinging his legs over the side of the building whilst he inspected his web shooters. “What gives?”
He hummed, noticing the two big globs of web covering each shooter, web-jam.
Spidey frowned. He’d scratch his head if his palms weren’t covered in exploded webs. He thought he had perfected his formula, but the web fluid must’ve still been too thick. Ah, well, he could make tweaks if it meant avoiding becoming the Spectacular Spider-Splat.
Peter did the Spidey equivalent of switching off the radio and driving in silence after a near miss with oncoming traffic, and walked himself down the side of the building.
Web-swinging to school was off the cards, so he resolved to get on the ground, duck into an unsuspecting alley, have a wardrobe change, and then triumphantly get the subway at the earliest possible convenience.
Spidey didn’t manage to get that far, though, because as soon as his feet touched concrete (and no, not a single New Yorker batted an eye at the spandex-clad spectacle stepping off the side of a building– gotta love NYC), a frantic man slammed into him.
“Uuf–!!” A strangled yelp escaped the little man as he scattered onto the ground, spilling papers and a silvery metal briefcase onto the sidewalk.
“Shoot! My bad, are you okay?” Spidey replied automatically, bending down to help the man gather his things. The impact had barely nudged him, but it had sent the poor guy sprawling sideways.
The little man showed no sign that he’d heard what Spidey had said. With shaking hands, he gathered what he could, mumbling fervently as he stood with an armful of paper.
“It’s not ready– I told him it’s not ready! It’s not safe! It’s–”
“Whoa, whoa, buddy– take it easy,” Spider-Man interjected as he stood with the briefcase, trying to calm him.
This guy was clearly not well. His small eyes were bulging behind his glasses, darting every which way, and he was puffing and sweating like a pig at a pot roast. His lab coat had been disheveled in the fall—or maybe it was like that before.
Spider-Man held out his free hand placatingly, trying to decipher what the bespectacled man was babbling about. “Hey, take a breath. Wanna run it by me from the top?”
“Stop!! Police!!” Spidey and Specs both whipped around to see two NYPD officers turn the corner, making a beeline for the shorter man.
“Gah!!” Specs shoved past Spider-Man, trailing papers, his briefcase forgotten.
“Hey– wait!” Spidey reached out to shoot a web after him and—
Click!
Oh, Right.
He looked down at his glob-covered wrist the way an Italian might regard Chicago-style pizza. Right now, his web-shooters were totally useless.
“Stop him!” One of the officers dove past Spidey, charging after Specs. The other—
Spider sense!
—Aimed a tackle at the sidewalk where Spidey had been standing a moment prior. Spider-Man ran a few paces up the wall, just out of reach of Officer Grabby.
“Hey now! I thought we were on the same team here, sheriff!” He huffed in mock offence.
“Yeah? Then why‘you carryin’ stolen property?!” the officer remarked back, brushing off his uniform as he pulled himself from the concrete.
Spidey looked sheepishly at the briefcase. “Ah– fair point.” He replied.
He reached down to pass the officer the briefcase, not willing to throw it on the off chance that the very jumpy little man was lugging around some kind of bomb.
The officer reached up and started to pull at the metallic case. “Are you– hhrk—gonna– let go, then?” He grunted as he tried to wrestle the briefcase out of Spider-Man’s grip.
“I’m trying!” Spider-Man said.
His stupid fingers wouldn’t unstick! He thought he had a handle on this whole ‘spider-powers’ thing, but maybe—
Oh.
Oh no.
“Sticky fingers,” Spider-Man said to himself.
“What?”
“Hey. So I know this is going to look really bad, but I promise I’m not stealing this,” Spider-Man said.
The officer’s partner chose that moment to reemerge from the crowd. “Lost ‘im, in the crowd. I swear, for someone so short, he sure do move like a– Carter!” She exclaimed, pointing up the wall where Spider-Man was running. Officer Carter spun around to see Spider-Man slowly becoming a red and blue speck, briefcase still in hand.
“Sorrygottarunpleasedon’thatemeIswearI’llreturnthiswhenthewebsdisolveBYYYYEEEEE!!!” His voice echoed down to them.