Okay, so I decided to write a whole other story instead of continuing from that one-shot I did. I thought it would be easier since I didn't really know how to continue on from that point. There are a few notes and personal touches to this story's plot besides the plot itself, and I will be having a few other people from the Marvel Superhero world come into play. I'm not positive if they are in the same universe, but I will just write them in anyway.

First note: setting takes place after movie. It is in the Amazing Spider-Man universe, so keep that in mind. I'm guessing that the movie took place around September – October, so I'm going to say this story starts end of October, around the 20th.

Second note: Gwen is a little darker. I didn't really like how her character was so openly-scholarly and nice. I wanted her to be more distant and rough. I'll say that she changed after her father died. Her grades stayed the same although she quit the debate team and she's quieter in class than usual. She makes snappy remarks to kids, and she gets a sarcastic tongue, too. She's really sweet to her family, although she doesn't hang out with them for very long, usually going to her room around 7 and not coming out for the rest of the night. You'll find out why.

Third note: when Peter turns eighteen, he'll receive everything his parents had, including their summer house, and a large sum of money. (His dad was a scientist. Scientists earn a lot of money)

Sorry for my rambling, I just had to put it in. Third person POV. Post-movie. AU, I guess.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to The Amazing Spider-Man.

Superstitions are pieces of work. Some are too ridiculous to take seriously, while others make you watch your back every minute of your life. Peter Parker hates superstitions. He hates how they can make you feel dumb, or vulnerable, even in your best hour, and right now, he is feeling both of those things.

It was a simple thought he had as he sat on the ledge of some building's roof. Nothing, not even the scenery just begging to be captured with a camera, or the interesting sights down below him, could take his mind away from the one thing – or one person – that he had been trying so hard not to think of. Exhaling heavily, he crossed his legs and just sat and watched for any sign of something violent, something bad, something out of the ordinary.

Nothing like that came.

So with a bitter voice in his head, he wished for some action. Even a simple car robbery on the other side of town would help divert his mind from that blonde hair that grew so long, now, or how she wore those skin-tight jeans…The wind in his face, even if it was diffused somewhat by his mask, would help him clear his head and focus on the objective.

Not a second later, his phone started talking. Police scanner radio chat blasted quietly through the small speaker, and he hurried to withdraw it from his belt to hear what it was saying.

'We've got an armed street brawl in an alley off of 22nd Avenue and West.' a woman's voice said.

A moment later, a man's rough voice joined in. 'Alright, we'll dispatch a squad.'

A street brawl? That's the kind of thing he liked. There wasn't a moment for stopping and thinking about someone you had to sit behind in classes every day; there was only punch after kick after punch you had to dodge. Your mind had to be quick and analyze your opponents' moves; your mind had to be in the zone. So he stuffed his cell phone back into his belt and backed up a few paces to get a running start. He lunged out into the night sky and flicked his wrist, grabbing hold of the steel-like thread that appeared suddenly from right below his hand. The other end of the thread clung to the building diagonal from the original building he sat at, allowing him to swing around the corner of it and fly off in the right direction of 22nd Avenue.

It was a rhythmic routine: flick his wrist and the next thread would come out, allowing him to swing from that one until it couldn't get him any farther. It's like he was Tarzan swinging through the jungle using his vines, except he was Spider-Man, swinging through New York City using webs that he shot out from the webbing device he made.

Luckily, 22nd Avenue wasn't far. He landed on top of a run-down apartment building, over-looking the alley the police scanner woman had been talking about. But there was no fight. No sort of disturbance tainted the dark alley; no object was out of place, the victim of being tossed to the side in a wild fight. Nothing. Cautiously, he had scaled down the side of the building, thanks to his gloves that allowed his 'spider-finger' stickiness access to things around him. He landed on the gravel silently, looking around to see if there were any hidden eyes blinking out at him, any knives protruding from around trash cans, but like before, there was nothing.

Suddenly, he was blinded; a bright fluorescent light came out of nowhere, causing him to cry out and shield his eyes. Inside his mask, he blinked as fast as he could, trying to get the weird, stinging sensation dulled down enough so he could get out of this alley. Then his sixth sense went off. Yeah, that's right; sixth sense. He got it, thanks to that one spider that crawled down his shirt. The sense was like a warning trigger, telling him something was wrong, or off. And something felt off, alright.

It was a set up. Someone had planned for him to come there. They must've known he was listening to the radio chatter, and created a fake fight to lure him to the alley. And he had a pretty good idea as to who organized it all.

He barely dodged the first dart, quickly moving his shoulder to get out of the way. His eye-sight was only partially with him, and he couldn't rely on his sixth sense fully. He used his ears to help hear from which direction the darts were coming from, but even that wasn't as reliable as his eyes. He spun around to dodge two coming from his right, and he jumped over another one he felt coming from behind him.

Finally, he could see enough to make out the forms of ten men surrounding the alley, all with dart guns angled straight at him. Oh, great. Not these guys again. Why couldn't the police just get it straight that he was trying to help them? Without thinking, he leaped from the ground to the wall of the apartment building. He climbed as fast as he could, but it wasn't enough. The police had shot at him, some darts sticking in the cracks and crevices of the old building, others falling to the ground after colliding with the bricks. But all it took was one good aim for him to get hit.

So here he is now, a dart in his leg and nowhere to go, police officers moving stealthily for him. His head still rang from the big hit he took after falling from the fourth floor. Things were swimming in and out of focus as the dart's toxin and his minor concussion took over his mind and body. He feels trapped, dumb, and vulnerable with the dark sticking out from behind his left leg. He had to get out of here…he had to get out of here.

But the only way out was…up. Using whatever strength he has left, he flicks both wrists, quickly grabbing onto both threads before using them as a slingshot to get him out of this mess. He flies through the air almost clumsily, his arms and legs moving like windmills. He can feel his eyes drooping as he slings through the expansive city of New York, but he can't stop and rest. He needs to get home; Aunt May needs him there in the morning so she won't have to worry and think that the other most important person in her life is gone.

And he can't do that to Aunt May. Not now, not ever.

By the time he stumbles up the front porch stairs, dressed in his street clothes, dart no longer in his leg, things are changing colors and moving through the air. He dodges a flower pot, then does a 180 turn to avoid someone's front door from crashing into him. He wrenches open his own door and flies through the hallway, bounding up the stairs as quick as his legs would take him. He didn't make it very far since the feeling in his legs was slowly vanishing. At the top of the stairs, he collapses, a large fit of laughter shaking his form. He tries to crawl, but he's laughing too hard to even move.

What was in that dart? the coherent Peter thinks. The incoherent one can't give him an answer; he can't say anything due to the fact that all he sees is a kaleidoscope world…a very interesting kaleidoscope world.

"Peter?" someone calls out from down the hall. He wants to respond but he can't, he's too busy trying to catch the flies in front of him.

"Oh, Peter!" the voice says, sounding as if they were right by his ear. Hey, he knows that voice.

"Hey, Aunt May," he slurs, eyes going cross-eyed as he zones in on the weird red, yellow, and orange bugs swarming around his head.

"Peter, are you drunk?"

"No," he hiccups.

Aunt May sighs. He hears her bend down beside him, hands fluttering over his body, unsure of where to grab.

"I can't pick you up; you're going to have to get to your bed on your own, alright? Can you do that for me, Peter?"

"Anything, Aunt May." He lets his eyes wander from the flies and sees her concerned face hovering above his. He groans and sits up, using one hand on the stairs' railing to help get him in a standing position. He giggles as he leans over the railing, looking down at the main floor's hallway.

"Oh no, you don't, Peter," his aunt says, taking him gently away from the railing and guiding him down the hall and into his bedroom. He feels funny. He feels as if all of the stress and pain he's ever felt has been lifted off of his shoulders and he's a free man, now. He doesn't even care if Aunt May knows he's Spider-Man.

"Hey, Aunt May…I have to tell you something…" he whispers as she helps him take off his jacket.

"What is it?" she says softly, humoring him.

"I'm…I'm the amazing Spider-Man." He laughs again and falls on top of his bed, head landing where his feet usually went. He feels his aunt taking off his sneakers, then his watch. He doesn't bother arguing with her, the sudden feeling of the warmth his blankets hold and how his pillow nurses the tender spot on his head taking over his usual wary mind when it came to someone else dealing with his webbing devices.

"That's nice, dear," she murmurs, tucking in the blankets around him. She looks down at him one last time before she leaves. His eyes are already closed, and his breathing has slowed down. Soon the pretty shapes and colors in his head all fades to black.

~ sm ~ sm ~ sm ~ sm ~

The sudden pounding in his head is what wakes him up. It's a massive, butt-kicking, throbbing pain just above his left eyebrow. He clamps a hand to it and massages furiously, trying fruitlessly to at least take the pain down a notch. He opens his eyes hesitantly, only to squeeze them shut as the bright light of the sun streaming in from his window invades the dark brown orbs. The sudden blinding reminds him of something. Something that happened last night…

And it all comes back to him. The police had set up a fake fight so they could catch and arrest him. He barely got out of it, but not without getting hit by…some sort of toxin. His first thought is that it's nitrous oxide. The funny feeling he had was similar to when he had to go to the dentist when he was ten and get three teeth pulled, but not before he had been exposed to what the dentists called 'laughing gas'. But there was something about the way he saw things differently, and his vision loss, that made him doubt his first theory.

Another theory came to mind, but it was ridiculous…or was it? Were the police capable of using neurotoxic darts? Maybe. And if they did, that means they had no problems with killing him. He shivers and pulls his blankets tighter around him. He knows enough science to remember that neurotoxins can cause permanent brain damage, along with the other side-effects he experienced such as the hallucinating and numbness in the arms and legs.

He knows now that he's not exactly peachy with the NYPD, even if their old boss had finally come around with him before. Instantly, he regrets thinking that. Just the very mention of the late Chief of Police, George Stacy, got his stomach churning and small tears burning his eyes. Within two months, he had experienced so many deaths, one even of his own uncle. George Stacy had been the death that pushed him over the edge, causing him to dream nearly every night about the lives he never saved or couldn't have saved.

Before, that kind of stuff didn't bother him, but after two weeks following Stacy's death, his nights have been filled with vivid dreams of people collapsing besides him left, right, and center. Including her. Including Stacy's daughter, Gwen. The dark side of him blamed it on Stacy, who had, as his last request, asked Peter to leave Gwen out of everything Peter would go through as result for taking up the title of 'Spider-Man'. The respectful part of him blamed it on himself for not obeying Chief Stacy's orders. He still made small-talk with Gwen, when necessary. She was nice enough to catch on that she knew he couldn't break her father's promise. So she stayed distant with him like he was with her.

God, he loved her. But he couldn't have her.

And the fact that he still acknowledges her makes him feel guilty, causing that respectful side of him to cower and whimper at the prospect of him disobeying the Chief's law. He hates that respectful side, but in a way, it's more of his conscious, so he needs it. Unfortunately.

After lying in his bed for who knows how long, he groans as he rolls out of it, and starts for the stairs. His head feels heavy, and every time his pants rake against the back of his leg, he winces. He can hear his aunt moving around in the kitchen, but she stops suddenly as he takes his first step on the old, rickety stairs. Did he mention he always found those creaky steps annoying? He closes his eyes, imagining all the possible things he might have said to Aunt May last night, since those details weren't coming to him just yet.

She must have thought he had been high or something. Great…just great.

He jumps the last two stairs, landing a little heavier than he normally would have landed after turning into a half-human, half-spider. He stumbles, then rights himself quickly, ambling off into the direction of the smell of soy sauce. It smells so good-

"Morning," he says quietly, moving to the cupboard to grab himself a glass. His Aunt doesn't say anything; instead she shifts something around in a large pan on top of the stove. He moves to the fridge as silently as possible, wishing with all his might that last night had just been a bad dream, a very bad dream.

"Morning?" she finally snorts, but the sound is far from comical. It's sarcastic, something he doesn't hear of often from the woman he feels is more of a mom to him than anyone else. He stiffens, and lifts his head up quickly, only to have his head hit the inside ceiling of the fridge. Rubbing his aching skull, he backs out of the refrigerator slowly, taking his time to stand up and turn to face his aunt.

Her face is a mask of slight annoyance and disappointment. He can feel his neck bending like it always did when Aunt May and Uncle Ben were upset with him. It was an instinct thing to do for him: bow your head in shame.

"It's almost five thirty at night, Peter. I would say it's hardly morning."

He nods slightly, keeping his eyes on the ground. There's a short stretch of silence before Aunt May sighs.

"Just...just go wash your hands. Dinner will be ready in a minute."

He lifts his head only high enough to let her hear his soft, "Yes, Aunt May," before setting down his empty glass on the dining room table and shuffling to the bathroom quietly. He runs his hands under the warm water for three minutes straight, just staring at the stream jetting out of the faucet. He has made her so upset, that's he's even more upset with himself.

He can hear her calling his name, and he swallows a large lump in his throat, avoiding eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. He sits down at the table next to her and waits for her to serve him like she usually does. She gives him his helpings with pursed lips, only relaxing after he bows his head again and thanks her graciously for the meal.

"You're welcome," she says gently.

It's very quiet for the first couple minutes of the meal. He finishes everything on his plate, then goes for more, although he doesn't really favor this meal completely. He just wants Aunt May to be happy, and eating all of her food was something that always made her day brighter.

When he's finished with his third helpings, she has noticeably cheered up. They still don't say anything to each other; at least not until he does the dishes. She sits at the small, one-seater kitchen table, newspaper flat on top of it. Her lips are pursed again as she reads, and from his quick, coveted glances at the headline, he can make a pretty good guess why.

"Can you believe this Spider-Man?" she mumbles, one hand beneath her chin. He drops the plate he was scrubbing and freezes as it makes a sharp clang when it hits the metal of the sink. His aunt doesn't seem to notice his change of behavior, but goes on.

"He's very foolish, especially since the police are always after him…I wonder who he really is. And if his family knows. It says here that the police set up a fake crime to lure Spider-Man to the sight where they had professional S.W.A.T.s located. Apparently they were trying to 'capture the alleged vigilante, so as to keep him off of the streets to prevent him from getting in the way of the NYPD'. I guess he escaped, though…He's not very smart to be out doing those things with the police on his tail, but he is brave. We can't forget that he basically saved this whole town from that horrid scientist."

He feels as if he's supposed to speak, so he says the only thing that comes to his mind.

"Yeah," he croaks out, slowly picking up the plate and resuming cleaning it.

"He's a lot like you, Peter."

Oh, no. This was it. She knew. She knew.

"Except," she continues, "you've been a lot more foolish recently than you normally were. Hell, you weren't even foolish before, but now...now you're just out of control."

Peter turns around sharply at his aunt's heated words. He was so busted.

"Really, Peter…when did all of this start?"

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He's trapped, caught, confused, ashamed. There was no way out of it. This was a situation where the amazing Spider-Man couldn't get out of it.

"Where did you even get the…?" She trails off uncertainly, standing up to come near him and stare him down.

His mouth stays open and he croaks once before snapping it shut. Peter shrugs instinctively.

"You don't know?" Aunt May whispers. He tears his tear-filled eyes away from her tear-filled eyes, taking a sudden interest in the color of the wall.

"Can you at least tell me when all of the…drinking – er, started?"

His mouth falls open again as he fumbles for the correct words. Okay, so maybe he wasn't busted. To a degree.

"D-drinking?" he stutters.

"Yes, drinking," she says, crossing her arms uncomfortably.

"Aunt May, I'm not drinking. At all."

"Then what are you doing, Peter? You come home with bruises on your arms and cuts on your face; you're tired and worn out and last night…last night you were acting as if you were drunk, or intoxicated. So what was I supposed to think you've been doing? You come home at un-godly hours, all beaten up although you try and act like you're okay, which only screams at me that you are in fact drunk!"

"Aunt May, please don't be mad-"

"Don't be mad? Don't be mad? How can I not be mad, Peter? You're the only thing I have left; I don't want to lose you to drunk-driving or some fight with a switchblade!" She gives a shuddering breath before losing it. The tears come fast down her worn and creased face, dropping onto the floor one after the other. They stand a few feet apart from each other, tears flowing thickly from her eyes, tears lingering within his own. She sobs loudly before he takes her into his arms, muffling the sounds of her heavy breathing and cries.

They hug each other closely, heads resting on each other's shoulders. It takes a while for her to calm down, but when she does, she takes a step back from him.

"I just want you to make the right decisions so you can be safe and come home to me every night. That's all I ask. Promise me, Peter Parker." She holds his face between her hands to get him to look her in the eyes. He can't avoid her smothering gaze, and it pains him to see how red and wet they are.

"I know…I promise," he whispers. She pats his face clumsily before heading up the stairs, sniffling loudly. He understands that she wants to be alone, but he also understands that she needs him here – at least for tonight. So he doesn't pack up his bag for the night when he gets to his room; he doesn't slip on his suit under his street clothes. Instead, he flops down onto his bed, head in his hands, knowing that Aunt May would come later to check up on him. All thoughts of the neurotoxin out of his mind. All thoughts of Chief Stacy out of his mind. He can never really get her out of his mind, but for the moment, he can.

Like every night, a sack-full of people will need him, but for tonight, only one will be saved.

How'd you guys like it? Took a long time, let me tell you that. More to come soon, so don't worry. Please tell me what you thought of it. It means so much to me.

TeamSwiss737