The asylum's exactly what Peter had expected, dull and full of eyes – all staring at him. There's pity sometimes but mostly the gazes are accusatory – like he'd just stole someone's pudding "or," he thinks shamefully to himself, "Like he'd just murdered someone's father."

It was a miracle in itself that he'd had lawyers to begin with but even with the voluntary work of Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock, he'd known somewhere deep inside that he'd be going to jail for this and he almost had.

But then he'd been offered the insanity plea like a fucking blessing and he'd taken it regardless of the ridiculously hot blind lawyer telling him not to.

"Maybe I am insane," he whispers as the eyes glare at him from all directions. "I'm insane," he mutters but it's a lie; he knew exactly what he was doing when he'd killed that man – sure he hadn't thought of the consequences but he'd planned it all. He should've thought about the possibility of a little girl and a wife but he hadn't, too caught up in thoughts of revenge. "He killed them!" "Killed them both!" "I'm alone because of him!"

He'd been so angry but now he thinks of Uncle Ben and Aunt May and he knows they'd hate him for this – hate him for ruining his life over an accident that he couldn't let go.

His hands curl into fists and he considers starting a fight right there in the asylum cafeteria – maybe they'd kill him, maybe he wouldn't feel so empty inside.

Before he even lifts his hand though, he feels someone else's hand… on his arse!

He swivels in his spot and finds himself face to face with a smirk.

"What's your problem?" he spits out and the smirk becomes something far more serious.

"You know, that's a good question. We don't know, neither me or all of the six therapists here," he answers and Peter glares at him.

"You know that's not what I meant," he hisses and the guy shrugs.

"You've got a nice butt. Would look great in spandex, all I'm saying."

Peter stares him down until the guy sighs, "you mental guys are no fun. I know a lot of things," he begins, "like: you have a great ass, your room number is somewhere in the 60s, you were gonna start a fight and the guys here carry Tasers."

The guy raises an eyebrow at him, "true or false?" he asks.

"True," Peter replies, "how'd you-"

"I always know," the guy interrupts then holds out a hand, "I'm Tony. Great to have such a phenomenal backside around."

Then he leaves without waiting for them to actually shake hands.

"He didn't seem all that crazy," Peter thinks as he watches him go, "Maybe it wont be so bad."

It turns out to be way worse then bad. While being led to his room, a pale, sickly looking girl grasps his arm and points to the door beside his with her free hand.

"Always closed." She tells him as though it'll make some sort of sense to him.

"Great," he nods and she nods back as if in agreement. He goes to leave and she pulls him back and points again,

"Too much pain," she whispers and he tries to pull his hand from her grip but it's useless and she grabs his wrist tight and starts crying hard, "too much death," she screams and lets go, collapsing to the ground.

He knows he should call for help but he feels too shaken up to even talk and stumbles back into his own room, slamming his door to the eyes that watch him go.

That night he gets no sleep, through no fault of his own. He tries and tries and normally Peter can get to sleep anywhere – familiar or not but all throughout the night he hears chattering from through the right wall, crashing, curse words hurled with so much sting he feels hurt by them even though they couldn't possibly be meant for him and it's loud and it's driving him insane until one moment there's yelling and the next there's dead silence.

Peter watches the wall, deciding it won't last long but it does and he smiles to himself as he buries his head into the pillow he brought from home.

"Fucking finally. Maybe the guy killed himself," he thinks happily as he drifts of to sleep.

The next morning, hush and sedation pushes through the hallway. Even the perpetually closed door beside his emits no sound – no struggle, no stilted conversation. Peter wants to be happy about it, none of the ever-constant words that have been pounding against his walls like a trapped spirit but he can't help but feel uneasy.

It's almost like everyone is scared, shocked into comatose.

There's no feeling of invisible eyes as he walks down the long corridor.

'Even the ghosts are scared,' he decides halfway. Immediately after, he wants to laugh at his own ridiculousness but he doesn't. Whether it's because he can't disrupt the unpleasant silence or because part of him actually believes it, he doesn't know.

He can't help but think that maybe being here has made him worse then he was before; at least before he didn't believe in ghosts.

"What's happened?" he whispers to Tony as he sits down across from him in the cafeteria.

"Wade hung himself," Tony answered, far louder and unconcerned then Peter would've expected.

"Who's Wade? And why do you look so fine when everyone else is freaking out?" he questions, still whispering – hissing out the words in quick succession.

"He's the guy in the room beside yours – 68 right?" Tony clarifies and then continues without confirmation because he already knows; he knows everything after all, "yeah. That guy knows how to bring out the drama. You should've seen the fuss he kicked up to actually get room 69."

"What?" Peter asks, more and more lost with every word past 'yeah' but he can't help but think back to last night, the moment where the talking had just stopped. The moment the guy must've hung himself. He felt sick suddenly at how relieved he'd felt.

"Right?" Tony laughs as though Peter just agreed with him (which he didn't), "Who actually tries to kill themselves for a room. Ridiculous. Gotta hurt too.

Peter tries really hard the wrap his head around what Tony's saying and can't. Instead he focuses on a little bit of it because maybe if he can understand that, then everything else will clear itself up, "how many times has he tried to kill himself?"

Tony tilts his head in thought and pokes at his fingers in a way that Peter suspects is more for show then anything else.

Finally Tony looks back at him and smiles charmingly, "342 attempts," he begins and Peter gapes at him about to interject with something – probably something eloquent like 'holy shit' but Tony continues on with, "only 295 have actually worked though."

If possible, Peter gapes more and starts to resemble a blown puffer fish.

"Worked!?" he squeaks and Tony shrugs, pocketing the lid of his green jelly and pulling a spoon out of his sleeve.

"Well," Peter thinks glumly as Tony spills jelly on himself, "I guess that proves that Tony's crazy then."

Late in the night as Peter attempts to sleep, he hears the same voice like the night before.

"Do you think they'll take the taco business seriously now?"

Then a pause.

"Okay… you're both insane. It's a great idea – moneymaker for the whole place and we'd get tacos... Wonderful tacos…"

As Peter stares at his ceiling he contemplates the existence of ghosts. If they did exist anywhere he has no doubt this would be the place after all. He also contemplates tacos. Lord, that'd be nice.