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Peter had fallen asleep studying again. After peeling a page on metamorphic rocks and crystalline structures off of his cheek, he wiped where his drool covered another page on subterranean magma chambers. His eyes were heavy as they adjusted to the light from his desk lamp, and from what he could tell, the rest of the room was still dark. It took a few moments before he could finally make out the shapes on his alarm clock. The time read 7:21.
He sat back and let out a sigh of relief.
But as soon as the relief came, it quickly faded. He had gotten home late after patrolling—around midnight to be exact, if he remembered correctly. There were vague memories of sneaking around the kitchen before plopping down at his desk to study for a test he would never be prepared for. He was still in his suit when he woke up.
Peter shot up from the desk and drew his window curtains back. The sun had already risen outside. Shit. Not only was he running late, but he was definitely going to be grounded.
He fumbled around for his phone, sticking it on a charger while he tried to get ready as fast as possible. Meanwhile, he remained stealthily quiet in case May had a late start as well. He was still disoriented from sleep, and the settling panic didn’t help.
With a toothbrush in his mouth, he hopped around his room to put on a pair of jeans. His phone buzzed once he managed to get a t-shirt stuck over his toothbrush. And then his phone buzzed again. And again. And again. Peter picked up his phone as it lit up with a few dozen texts from Ned.
Dude dude DUDE!!!!! Please tell me you’re okay!!!
We literally just talked LAST NIGHT !!! This can’t be real. Dude answer ur PHONE
Peter
Peter
PETER!!
U better be at school in 20 min or I’LL DIE
dude seriously please answer
Tell me ur not dead
Peter’s brows knitted together while he read through each text. He suddenly wasn’t too worried about getting to school on time, not when his best friend was off-the-walls erratic and begging for a text back. Dead? Peter wasn’t dead. How could he be dead?
Peter typed out, what the hell are you talking about?
And Ned replied faster than he ever had before.
OH THANK GOD!!!!! I KNEW YOU WEREN’T DEAD!!!! Daily Bugle seriously needs to fact check their sources
Along with Ned’s frantic text, he attached a link to an article. The headline: “Spider-Man is Dead”. It was published an hour ago.
Peter didn’t bother reading it before he called up Ned.
“What the hell, Peter?” Ned asked, and he sounded just as frantic as his texts did. “You can’t just not answer my texts when the whole world thinks you’re dead. My mom had to drive me to school today because I’ve been freaking out for like, thirty minutes, dude.”
Peter pushed back his hair—his slightly unkempt and in-desperate-need-of-a-wash hair, but he didn’t have enough time to shower after last night. “I’m sorry, Ned, I didn’t know,” he said. “I swear. What’s the article even say? Does it—it doesn’t mention my name, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Ned replied, “but it’s trending everywhere. It’s in Times Square, Peter. Times frickin’ Square. Am I the only one that has told you about this?”
Peter continued to get ready for school as he nestled his phone between his ear and his shoulder. “I mean, I think,” he told his friend, stuffing his backpack full of the textbooks he fell asleep on. “I haven’t really looked. Listen, I’m running late for school, okay? Can you please tell Mister O’Neil that I’m just at a doctor’s appointment or something? I feel like everyone’s already watching me because of the Washington thing, and I don’t want them thinking that cos’ Spider-Man is dead, then I might be dead. Wait—what am I saying? Spider-Man isn’t dead. Why do they think I’m dead?”
“Dunno, dude,” Ned said. “Seems sketchy to me. They said his body was found in Astoria earlier this morning. That’s all they’ve released.”
“Huh. Weird.” Peter slings his backpack over his shoulder and steps into his shoes. “Maybe someone was just dressed up like me? I fell asleep in my suit last night, so no one could’ve stolen it from me.”
“Oh, my God, you have a copycat, Peter!”
“Ned, no—”
“You know what they say, imitation is the sincerest form of—”
“Ned.” Peter’s bedroom door shut loudly behind him, and he winced—if May was still sleeping, then he was going to be grounded for sure. “I don’t have a copycat; okay? And if I did, then—well, sadly, they probably just found him in Astoria. Look, I gotta go. I’m really late, but please, try to calm people down if you can and just—just cover for me, all right? I’ll be there soon.”
He took a banana on his way out of the apartment, nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces in the process before taking off toward the elevator. There was an ‘out of order’ sign on the door. Peter groaned, taking in his unfortunate fate, and started down the seven flights of steps.
“Not a problem,” Ned answered. His voice was too cheery for Peter having woken up only less than ten minutes prior. “Besides, it’s the Daily Bugle anyway. Their stuff is never real. Plus, they hate you.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Thanks. That’s real comforting.”
“Anytime. See you soon?”
“Yeah.” He was out of breath as he spoke. “See you soon.”
On his way to school, Peter could only think about the article. Not even the smell of hot-buttered bagels from local shops could distract him as he walked toward the train station. He sat on the train for six stops with his shoulders squished between strangers, gazing around the car for sad, watery eyes. Maybe they all knew. If everyone already thought he was dead, then he would seriously have to work on his public speaking skills. It was too much to think about at 7:45 in the morning.
Peter slammed through the front doors of the school once the second bell rang. Only a few students were left shuffling into their classrooms; meanwhile, he was recalling the last time he ran through those halls. He couldn’t afford to get into trouble again.
All eyes were on him as he stumbled into his first-period classroom. Ned grimaced in the back, and MJ lifted her head from her arms with a raised brow.
“Peter,” his teacher said. “What could possibly be more fun than biochemistry at eight in the morning? Certainly not tardiness. Take a seat.”
Peter pressed his lips into a thin smile and found his desk behind Ned. “That was so close, man,” he whispered. “Anything new?”
Ned twisted around. “Not yet. I’m following all of the hashtags. You’ve got a lot of people grieving for you, dude.”
“Really?”
“Mister Parker and Mister Leeds—whatever it is, it cannot possibly be more important than nucleotide metabolism,” announced the teacher. “Nothing is more important than nucleotide metabolism. Unless you’re me and you’re fifty, and your body doesn’t really remember what metabolism even is anymore.”
A few students stifled their dry laughter. Meanwhile, Ned turned back toward the front as Peter sank into his seat. A few moments later, he leaned forward again.
“How many people?” Peter asked. “Like, thousands, or—”
“Mister Parker.”
“Sorry.”
There weren’t any updates by lunchtime. For the past few hours, Peter had been texting with May nonstop. She threatened to pull him out of school just so she could make sure he was alive, but then he assured her that he was okay with a selfie. His hands were trembling by fifth period—he didn’t know why the situation made him so anxious. A few seniors had taken over their usual table at lunch, so Ned and Peter stuck themselves on a bench with their trays perched on their laps. Every single one of Peter’s fries had a green stain on them, and his milk carton was frozen solid.
Everything was quiet between them for a while, and then Ned let out a gasp. The entire atmosphere of the cafeteria seemed to change after that.
“What?” Peter asked, setting his tray aside. “What is it? Is there an update?”
Ned nodded. “Yeah. It’s—it’s really sad. ‘Randall Stewart, only fifteen-years-old, was found in Astoria around five this morning with multiple stab wounds. A witness claims that they saw Randall in a red-and-blue suit, jumping from rooftops before later interfering with a mugging off of 28th street. Police were called to the scene of the crime immediately.’ Holy shit, Peter.”
Peter stared down at the tiled floor. The guy was only fifteen—Peter was fifteen. A kid had pretended to be Spider-Man, and he paid with his life because of it. Peter’s stomach tied in knots. “A-anything else?”
“Not really,” said Ned. “He went to Forest Hills High. There’s gonna be a private memorial service on Friday. The family hasn’t decided on a date for a public service yet. They didn’t even know he was Spider-Man.”
“He isn’t Spider-Man.”
“Oh, true.”
Peter leaned over his knees and stuffed his face in his hands. “Oh, my God, this is so bad. This is so, so bad. It’s—it’s my fault. This kid wanted to be like me, a-and—it’s my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” Ned said. “Dude, how could it be your fault? You didn’t know him.”
“Yeah, but the reason he’s dead is because of me, Ned,” Peter whispered sharply. “He’s dead because he wanted to be like me. Shit. What do I do?”
Ned couldn’t quite get a read on the situation—it was clear. He stared at Peter with as much confusion as worry. “You’ve gotta tell everyone you’re not dead.”
“And I’m gonna do that how?” Peter asked, slapping his hands down against his thighs. “Web up the Brooklyn Bridge? Spell out ‘don’t worry, I’m alive’ on the side? It’s disrespectful. A kid is dead. I gotta do better than that.”
As he spoke, a pair of weathered Doc Martens approached them from over by the cafeteria tables. The person held a small book tightly in their hand. “Sup nerds,” MJ said. She eyed Peter. “Did you—um, did you hear the news?”
Peter and Ned glanced at each other.
“W-what news?” Ned asked with a nervous chuckle. “Is there news? I don’t know—I don’t know of any news.”
MJ kept her gaze narrowed on Peter as she pressed her lips together. “Spider-Man is dead, I guess. The whole school’s talking about it. Flash has been crying for like, four straight hours.”
“Flash is crying?”
“Wow, that’s—wow,” Peter mumbled. He couldn’t keep his fingers from fidgeting. “Are they sure that it really was Spider-Man?”
Tears pricked at his eyes the more he thought about it. A kid his age, cold on the street because he wanted to be like the beloved Queens hero, and Peter didn’t even know him. Even if it wasn’t inherently Peter’s fault, it was still his fault. The kid was dead. Peter felt his lungs tighten as his anxiety began to spike. His knee bounced while MJ continued.
“Yeah,” she said, shrugging. “I don’t really believe it though.”
“Y-you don’t?”
She shook her head. “Do you?”
The noises of students around him reverberated off of the walls, and laughter from six rooms away felt like firecrackers in his ear. Peter couldn’t sit still. While he wasn’t crying yet, he was about to be. Sounds, colors, and shapes were closing in around him, and he felt numb. Completely numb. He didn’t realize he couldn’t control his breathing until Ned laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Dude,” he said.
Even MJ spoke up. “You okay there, Peter?”
Peter stood up abruptly, waiting for his vision to unwarp while he avoided eye contact with his friends. He took a short breath a moment later and sped off toward the nearest bathroom. If he didn’t sit back down soon, he wasn’t sure he was conscious enough to stay standing for much longer.
After locking himself in a bathroom stall, Peter fell back against the metal and remained there while fifth period faded into sixth. The white noise around him dwindled, and eventually, he was able to keep his eyes open for longer than ten seconds at a time. His breathing was a little calmer.
He sat on the bathroom floor for another hour or so, scrolling through countless articles about Spider-Man and the fifteen-year-old honor roll kid named Randall Stewart. No one bothered Peter and no one came to find him. After sending a few worried texts, Ned understood that his friend needed some time alone. But Peter couldn’t wrap his head around it—the sudden outbreak of mourning revolving his alter-ego and a kid who probably wanted to be just like his hero. He knew a little bit about what that was like. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that everyone was grieving for Spider-Man, not Randall. Peter could only think about Randall.
At 1:55, Peter faced his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands. He had a responsibility, no matter how many times Ned assured him otherwise—Peter had to do something.
He splashed his face with cold water and gave himself a small smile. It was meaningless and pained, but it told him to push forward and think ahead. Spider-Man had been his reality for well over a year now. His job was to save people, to give them another chance. He had never wanted to be the reason that someone lost that chance. He knew he couldn’t save everyone, but he didn’t think it would happen like this.
Peter was about to head to the last period of the day when his phone rang. It could have been anyone—May, Ned, MJ, or Happy, but he hadn’t expected to find Tony’s caller ID pop up. Peter sighed; he wasn’t going to catch a break.
“Hey, Mister Stark,” he said, ducking back into the bathroom. “What’s up?”
“What’s up?” Tony repeated. “What’s up?”
Yeah, Peter thought, I’m dead.
“Would you like to enlighten me, then?” asked his mentor. “Care to tell me what is up? Because, as far as I know, you’re supposed to be dead. As far as I know, the entire city has stopped functioning because you literally died.”
Peter grimaced and leaned his head back against the wall. “Uh—surprise?”
Tony chuckled dryly. “Jesus Christ, kid. You didn’t even think to tell me that you weren’t dead, huh? I’m just supposed to find out about this from the fucking Daily Bugle? I’ve had reporters up my ass since nine in the morning. Start talking.”
“It’s not me, Mister Stark.”
“Obviously.”
“Okay, you know what I mean,” Peter said. “I’ve been freaking out about this all day. They found this kid who was dressed up like me—like Spider-Man—and h-he was stabbed to death. Now everyone thinks that Spider-Man is dead. And I don’t know what to do.”
He could hear Tony sigh on the other end. “Yeah, this isn’t the most ideal situation. I’ve certainly had my share of a few knock-off Iron Mans in the past.”
Peter closed his eyes as he felt his panic slowly begin to return.
“Well, tell ya what, Pete,” Tony continued, “we’ll figure this out. I’ll set up a press conference or two to sort things through. Spider-Man will be alive in no time.”
“It’s not just that,” Peter said, voice lowering into a hushed whisper. “It’s—someone is dead, Mister Stark. A kid, just like me. He was my age. He’s dead and it’s because of me.”
Tony stayed quiet for a few seconds. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know, I know,” Peter nearly cried out, and a few tears slipped down his cheeks. “I know it’s not my fault directly, but—but it is. This guy—this kid—was in a suit just like mine, helping a stranger because that’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what I do. If it weren’t for me, he’d be alive. People keep dying, and it’s all my fault. I-I can’t—I can’t keep—”
“Pete, slow down,” Tony instructed. His tone was calm. “You gotta breathe. ‘Kay? We’ll figure it out. It’s gonna be okay. You’ve got friends. You’ve got May. You’ve got me and Happy. All right? We’re here for ya. Like I said, we’ll hold a press conference, and then we can go from there. One step at a time, bud.”
Peter nodded to himself. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Press conference is fine. It’s—that’s fine. Tonight?”
“Sooner the better.”
“Okay.” His heart felt heavy in his chest; he just wanted the day to be over. “I should probably get back to class. But—um, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’ll be there,” Tony said. “Make good grades. See ya, kid.”
Peter didn’t leave the bathroom again until the last bell rang.
“Karen, you there?”
“I’m always here for you, Peter.”
Peter hadn’t spoken to anyone since the school day ended. Once the students filed out of classrooms to catch their buses or trains, he made a b-line toward the nearest alleyway he could find. He suited up as fast as possible as his heart thumped in his ears. While he could think coherent thoughts, the numbness never truly went away. He felt light. He felt dizzy. He felt wrong.
As he overlooked the neighborhood of Jamaica from a rooftop five stories above, Peter thought about how different his life would be without Spider-Man. He would have been like Randall, still looking up to heroes while secretly wishing he could be one. Peter was lucky his powers could prevent him from succumbing to wounds. He could have ended up like the kid otherwise—lost on a street with no one there to save him. Peter could have been there to save him.
“I wanna find an address,” Peter said to his AI. “Can you do that for me?”
“Sure,” she told him. “Just give me a name and I’ll see what I can find.”
“Randall Stewart. He’s my age.” Peter closed his eyes and exhaled. “I-I mean, he was.”
A few schematics filtered through his heads-up, and a small map rerouted away from his last tracking location.
“It’s not too far from you,” Karen said. “Randall’s mother resides at 10744 120th Street in Jamaica. It should only take you about six minutes to swing there.”
“Thank you, Karen, I really appreciate it,” Peter said. He really did appreciate her. Her voice was the only one—of anyone he had spoken to that day—that could make him feel a little bit better. The rise and fall of Tony’s echoed with spikes in Peter’s heart rate. “Just—don’t tell Tony, all right?”
“You recently reimplemented the tracker back into your suit—he will only know your whereabouts if he needs to.”
Peter sighed and stood high on the rooftop’s ledge. Heights never scared him anymore, not like they used to. He still remembered the first time he truly understood his powers. It took a few panic attacks to get the hang of it. Now, he never thought about the fall, only what was ahead.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll just—I’ll go there, and then I’ll be back in time for the press conference. He won’t even notice.”
Peter didn’t know that, in a matter of minutes, he would swallow those words. The narrow house reminded him of the one he used to live in with his parents, but he only remembered it in photographs. His life turned from apartment to apartment after that. The small home before him had nothing to do with his childhood, but it had everything to do with a person who lost their life because of him. A kid his age had grown up in there, yet he wouldn’t grow up anymore.
It took him a few moments to build enough courage to ring the doorbell. He stood there awkwardly, clad in red and blue spandex that Randall’s family likely dreaded to see. But Peter couldn’t do it any other way. He didn’t know if he should be there in the first place. Maybe it was too soon.
He took a step back. It was too soon. Randall had only died that morning. Peter was fooling himself to believe anyone would even be home. But then a woman’s face appeared from behind a screen door, and Peter’s heart sank down into his gut. She didn’t open the door. Instead, she watched him with horror in her eyes.
“If this is some fucked-up prank,” she began, ice in her words, “then you better get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”
“N-no, ma’am,” Peter said, “it isn’t.” He could tell she had been crying all day. Her eyes were stained red, cheeks flushed and exhausted, and her wrinkles were prominent. He knew what grief looked like—he knew it too well. “I’m—I’m Spider-Man. The real Spider-Man.”
She shook her head, and from what he could see through the screen, a few tears slipped down her cheeks. “I don’t even know what to say to you. I have to bury my son because—because of this stupid gimmick. Now the entire city is grieving someone they didn’t even know.”
“I know,” Peter told her, breathing out slowly. He felt for her. “It’s—it’s weird. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The muscles in her cheeks were tight. She stared at Peter—really stared at him, but he couldn’t read what she was feeling. Either she loathed him or she believed him. Or she wished it was him instead of her son. He didn’t blame her.
“My son wasn’t Spider-Man,” she told him.
Peter nodded. “I know.”
Her lip trembled as she spoke. “H-he just wasn’t. He was asthmatic. He was deathly afraid of heights. He finally beat cancer last year. He just—he wasn’t Spider-Man.”
Peter wanted to cry with her.
“But how the hell am I supposed to believe that you are?”
He hung his head down low, eyes meeting his feet while his display swirled with bright colors around him. She could never see what he saw. He could show her every trick and gadget he had to offer, but it would never bring her the satisfaction she deserved. It only told her that her son risked his life because he wasn’t the hero he wanted to be.
Peter shook his head as he thought about it. He didn’t have the truth she needed. He only had himself. So, he glanced back up at her, and without a second of hesitation, he took off his mask. The woman didn’t even blink.
She stared at him for a while, not saying anything yet hardly emoting. He could hear her heart beating slow and heavy.
“How old are you?” she asked. Her eyes glassed over, and he knew that if she cried again, then he would, too.
“Fifteen, ma’am.”
Her nostrils flared, and she took a step back. “Did you—did you know him? Did you know my son?”
Peter shook his head. “No.”
Things were silent again. He couldn’t tell where they would end up or what she would do. By that point, he didn’t care. This wasn’t about him anymore. It was about her son—Randall—who would never get to finish school because he had acted upon a whim of a good deed, one he knew he couldn’t handle. Somedays, Peter didn’t know if he could handle Spider-Man either. But Randall hadn’t deserved to suffer the consequences.
The woman sniffed and took another step back, but instead of closing Peter out, she opened the screen door for him.
Peter tried his best to smile. “Thank you,” he told her and followed her inside.
It was a quaint home, a small home, one with crooked furniture and photographs on every wall. A distinct scent of onions and chili wafted from the kitchen. The place was well-loved and well-lived, it seemed. There were still remnants of Randall from small trophies on the mantel to strewn hoodies over dining room chairs. Peter felt out of place.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” the woman asked, voice exasperated and exhausted, and he didn’t blame her. She shouldn’t have invited him in. Peter was a reminder of what she had lost only hours prior.
Peter was reluctant to answer, let alone sit at the very couch that Randall once had. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He should have known better.
“No, thank you,” Peter finally said.
She didn’t answer. She stayed in the kitchen while he was out in the living room. He stared at the photos of a child he could have been friends with if he had only known him. Smiles stared back at Peter, and all he wanted to do was cry.
Randall’s mother returned a few minutes later with two cups of tea. Despite having told her no, Peter took the cup and smiled, but he knew she could see through it. She shouldn’t have let him in. He shouldn’t be there.
She couldn’t stop looking at Peter, and he didn’t care to know why. If he reminded her of her son, then she deserved to look as much as she wanted. “Why did you come here?” she eventually asked him. “Why? If—if you are who you say you are, why would you think that I’d want to see you?”
Peter bit his cheek at the words. “I figured that coming here would mean more than me publicly stating that your son wasn’t Spider-Man—cos’ the city never knew Randall, but they knew me. They knew Spider-Man. They don’t know what you lost.”
“Randy.”
“Huh?”
She glanced down at her teacup; her fingers trembled around it. “He liked to go by Randy.”
Peter nodded.
“And he pretty much idolized you.” She began to cry again.
Peter’s expression tightened at her words. They were inevitable—he knew it was most likely the case, but the pain stung like no other. He stared at his hands that were joined together on his lap. “He—he did?”
“So much,” she said with a small laugh. That glimmer of light quickly faded. “So much. I never thought he’d—I didn’t know he would do something—” She sighed and closed her eyes. “I want to be mad at you.”
“You have every right to be.”
She shook her head. And then she crumbled. Her soft sobs echoed around the small home, and Peter didn’t know what to do. She fell forward on her knees, grabbing fistfuls of hair while Peter reached a hand out toward her shoulder. She stiffened at the touch, but she didn’t force him away.
“I-I just can’t believe it,” she cried. “He’s never been confident in himself. After his dad left, he’s just—he’s been quiet. He always sits at the back of the class. He never raises his hand. H-he never tells me anything he’s feeling. Y’know, it took him three years t’tell me that he hated squash. And then he just doesn’t come home one night. Last night. All b-because he wants to be like you, and it—it just doesn’t make sense.”
Peter’s heart physically hurt in his chest. He wished he had known Randall. He wished he could have talked him out of it for his mother’s sake.
After a while, her cries calmed down, and her breaths evened out. She sat up straight and wiped at her red nose with the back of her sleeve. Her bottom lip still trembled.
“He saved someone,” she said. “That’s—that’s what they told me. And I don’t know how to feel about it. Randy couldn’t stand up to his own bullies, but he saved someone. And—” He could hear the strain in her throat as her eyes watered again.
“When I first got these powers,” Peter began softly, “I wasn’t ready for them. I was fourteen, asthmatic—like Randy, and I’m pretty sure I could’ve been considered legally blind. I had one friend. Now I have two. But I was just Peter, a kid who liked to hide his face when called on and had all of the Star Wars movies memorized. And I’m still that kid, but I found the confidence that Randy might’ve been looking for, too. I wanted to be better than the world around me. It’s a responsibility that I’m still learning. I’m still figuring it out.”
Randall’s mother listened intently. A few moments of silence passed, and then she asked, “your name is Peter?”
Peter nodded. “Parker.”
“You’re really Spider-Man?”
He nodded again.
She couldn’t look him in the eye. “I wish he was here to meet you,” she said, referring to her son as she bit her lip. Wrinkles sewed themselves into her forehead. “He would’ve been freaking out.”
“I wish I could’ve met him, too.”
She smiled weakly. It finally occurred to Peter that she reminded him of May.
“I’m sorry for coming here so suddenly,” he told the woman. “I’m just—I’m so sorry. About everything.”
“You’re just like him,” she said, and her smile was a little bigger. “I want to be mad at you, but I can’t because you’re just like him. And he wouldn’t blame you. He wouldn’t want me to blame you. Thank you for showing me the person my son looked up to.”
Peter held his mask tightly in his hands and smiled. Only so many people in the world knew his identity. A single mother in Jamaica, New York who had lost her son that same day was now one of them.
Peter didn’t know what time it was.
He had finished his tea a while ago. Now, he was caught up in a lengthy conversation about Randall’s childhood with his mother—who he finally learned went by Marisa. She was too nice to him, but he was glad he made the decision to visit. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he hadn’t. Marisa lost so much, and she had no one to talk to.
She smiled more. They were sad smiles, and Peter’s were, too. But when her eyes watered in conversation, the tears no longer fell. She was tired of crying. She was tired of mourning, and Peter understood.
“I have to ask,” Marisa said suddenly, “because Randy always wanted to know—your webbing; does it come out of you?”
Peter cracked a small grin and shook his head, holding out his wrist. “No, no, see—I have these web-shooters,” he explained. He opened one up to reveal the inner mechanics. “See, that’s the vial right there. And I make the webbing myself. At school. I should probably invest in a personal chem lab or something. It’s kinda unsafe.”
“Wow.”
Marisa seemed honestly impressed, and a rush of relief spread through Peter’s shoulders. He couldn’t keep her from continuing to grieve, but he still hoped his presence meant something to her.
“Now does this—”
The doorbell rang before she could finish her thought. Her eyebrows furrowed as she stood, and Peter remained at his spot on the couch, collecting his thoughts while she opened the door. He twisted around at the sound of her small gasp.
“You’re Tony Stark,” she said.
Peter’s eyes went wide. Shit. The press conference. There was no telling what time it was, but he knew it was late. Through the screen door, Tony’s gaze met his.
“Hi, Miss Stewart?”
“Marisa.”
“Hi, Marisa,” Tony said with a smile. “I seem to have lost my arachnid.”
She looked over her shoulder at Peter, and he smiled, waving awkwardly. “I seem to have found your arachnid,” she told Tony as she turned back around.
Peter stood slowly, gripping his mask a little tighter at the thought of the heavy reprimand that was about to come down. He took each step carefully.
“Also—” Tony began, holding his hand up to reveal a bouquet of lilies. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
Marisa seemed uncomfortable by the sentiment, but she opened the screen door and accepted the flowers nevertheless. “Thank you. Your—um, arachnid has been keeping me company.”
“I see he’s also graced you with his dorky smile,” Tony said, and once Peter neared, he added, “hey, kid.”
Peter nodded. “Hey, Mister Stark.”
Marisa turned to Peter with a small smile. Within the next moment, she pulled him into a hug, and he gladly held her back. “Thank you, Peter,” she whispered to him. “You’re a sweet boy. Randy would’ve loved you.”
Peter pulled away, smile trembling as he tried not to cry. He didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing he could say that would replace what she felt. So, he stepped toward Tony, waving one last goodbye at Marisa before following his mentor down the porch.
They were quiet until they reached Tony’s car. Once the engine ignited, Peter couldn’t hold back.
“I’m so sorry,” Peter wept, bending over his knees as he held his hands over his eyes. Every emotion that had been building all night released. “I’m so sorry, Mister Stark. I-I didn’t mean to miss the press conference. I’m really sorry. I just—I knew I had to—”
“Whoa there, Pete, I’m not mad,” Tony assured, raising a brow. He set a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “At least, I’m not mad about the press conference thing. ‘Kay? The reporters will always be there no matter what.”
Peter sniffed and nodded.
“But we are gonna talk about this—” Tony pointed at the mask in Peter’s hands. “Care to explain?”
“What else was I gonna do?” Peter asked, wiping at his eyes. “She lost her son, Mister Stark. A son that was like me, that was my age. I couldn’t give her anything. I couldn’t give her her son back. I just had me.”
“So, you figured that revealing your identity would make her feel better?”
Peter shrugged. “I couldn’t do anything else.”
Tony nodded, humming as he drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Makes sense.”
“I just wanted her to know that she could trust me,” Peter explained, “cos’ her son—he died because of me.”
“You can’t keep saying that, Pete—”
“But it’s true!”
Tony sighed.
“You know it’s true,” Peter said. His hands were balled into fists on his knees, and his heart strained in his chest. He wanted the day to be over. “I-I’m the reason that he—that Randy—is dead. Because of Spider-Man. And I don’t have any other choice but to live with that. The least I can do is make sure his mom knows how sorry I am. I just—I don’t want people to die, Mister Stark. My job is to save people. They’re not supposed to die.” He was crying again, but he didn’t care.
Tony frowned; his heartbeat was unsteady in Peter’s ears. “His choices aren’t your responsibility.”
“He idolized me.”
“Yeah, well—” Tony’s lips twisted, and he turned his shoulder to fully face Peter. “I know one person in particular who idolized me when he was younger. Now look where he is.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
“Just sayin’, kid,” Tony said, “it’s not on your hands. I know it’s easy to say it could have been prevented, but you said it yourself—he idolized you. You inspired him. And now, his mother can lay him to rest knowing how much the real Spider-Man truly does care. You didn’t give her some sob story about how you weren’t to blame. You said, sorry for your loss. I wish I had known your son. By the way, I’m Peter. You gave her something no one else had. Honest sincerity. She doesn’t blame you.”
Peter sniffed and nodded along to Tony’s words. “She said that she wanted to be mad at me, but she couldn’t. For Randy’s sake. He wouldn’t have wanted it.”
“She got to meet her son’s hero,” Tony replied. “Her son’s hero showed her how much he cares. It means more to her than you realize, Pete.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
“I know I am.”
Peter huffed, lips quirking up into a weak smile.
Tony patted his shoulder again. “You’re a good kid,” he said as he pulled out onto the street. “Maybe too good to be around me. No, that’s true. You’re definitely too good to be around me. I’m nothing but a bad influence.”
“True,” Peter mumbled.
“You can’t admit it—only I’m allowed to say it.”
His smile slowly faded while he stared out the window. Streetlamps flickered in the night. “She invited me to the memorial service,” Peter said.
Tony glanced over at him briefly. “Yeah? You gonna go?”
Peter shrugged. “I might.”
“You should.”
“You think?”
Tony nodded. “As Peter,” he suggested. “Not Spider-Man.”
Peter traced the lenses on his mask as he lost himself in his thoughts. He didn’t know how he could be Spider-Man after this. But he belonged to the city. He belonged to everyone who saw him as a hero. He was their hero—Randy’s hero. And he always would be, even if he didn’t feel like he was. Even if it would always be too surreal to believe.
“I haven’t eaten since lunch,” Peter said after a few minutes of silence.
“Are you gonna make me stop to get you food?”
Peter didn’t say anything as he smiled over at Tony.
Tony sighed. “Pete, every time we get those goddamn burritos, I feel like I’ve gotta rent out their bathroom or something. You can’t keep doing this to me.”
“But they’re so good, Mister Stark! You know you like them.”
“The things I do for you, kiddo. Fine.”