AN: I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what's wrong with me. No, retract that. That's a lie. I do know. I am projecting my own emotions again. Sorry, not sorry. Poor Peter. I'm mean.

Obsidian

Peter didn't need a calendar to remind of the date, a reminder of when it happened. The simple smell of autumn and the falling of leaves was enough. It twisted his insides. Most of the year he functioned fine, but it was just these few weeks that he struggled to keep the memories at bay.

May knew the truth about what had happened; she was the only one left in his life who did. Ben was gone. She knew the face of the demon itself. She had found the bloodied underwear Peter had tried to hide in the bathroom trash that night. She had found a crying Peter in his room, unwilling to answer her questions with more than a nod. He remembered how May pressed a kiss to his forehead and tucked a blanket around him, telling him that it was all going to be okay, that no one would ever hurt him like that again. It just made him cry harder as he thought back to how he didn't fight, how he just let it happen.

He'd wished he could block out his own mind that night, but he couldn't. The only thing he could do was listen to Ben and May's whispered voices arguing in the kitchen. There was something to the way his uncle's voice shook that sent a chill down his spine.

You can't stop me … Out of the way, May!

Then the door slammed, and he heard the soft cries of May. Tears slipped down Peter's cheeks as he curled into himself, trying to bury himself in the blankets. He never did fall asleep that night.

It wasn't until the sunlight began to creep through the yellowed curtains that he heard his uncle return. Peter slipped from his bed, padding over to the door, peering through the crack. What he saw he would never forget and would forever change how he saw his uncle. The man's knuckles were bloodied, and his shirt was stained in splatters of red. He knew something terrible had happened that night, but part of him was thankful, he knew he would never see his attacker again.

Peter had been thirteen before that day, but he would never be again. He'd lost his childhood even before becoming Spider-Man.

A Cool breeze blew past, making him shiver. He drew a breath, looking out over the city. It was that time of year again, and he was worried. The memories were sharp, emotions stirring in him. It had been two years. He was fifteen now—a superhero by some definitions. He wondered when he would begin to be able to handle it, to put it to rest. It made him feel weak that the past dictated his future.

May was already giving him the sympathetic looks, the unspoken exchanges. He knew she didn't need to hear the details. There was nothing to talk about. It had happened. He was handling it. He was fine.

"Peter, your heartrate is elevated. Are you in distress?" Karen's calm voice broke through his thoughts.

He nearly slipped from the edge of the building, startled. He had forgotten about the AI, forgotten where he was.

"What? No," Peter said trying to keep the tremble from his voice. "I'm fine."

"Your level of distress appears to be increasing, Peter. I've scanned the area. You appear safe. The next step in my protocol would be to place a call. Who would you like me to speak to for reassurance?"

"Karen, I'm really good. I don't need to talk to anyone, especially about this. Just ... Can you just … I don't know, drop it?" Peter asked, half pleading, half demanding.

There was a beat of silence and Peter could feel his palms getting sweaty. The chill of the air seemed even more bitter than it was before. He needed to get home and away from the suit. Don't get him wrong. Karen was a great, but he didn't need help with this. He didn't need to be monitored through his breakdowns, and he didn't need to draw Mr. Stark's attention.

His heart hammered in his chest. He swallowed thickly.

"I'm fine, Karen," he said, grabbing the mask and ripping it off, gulping the cool, fresh air. He immediately felt better disconnected from Karen's intrusive voice.

"Breathe, Parker," he coached himself. "You got this."

He didn't have this though, honestly. Things weren't going well at all, but he couldn't break. He had to hold it together. His chest started to burn. It was then that he realized he was holding his breath. He let the achy breath out, wiping a hand over his face.

"You're fine," Peter whispered to himself. "It's over. He's gone. It wasn't you're fault. He can't hurt you anymore. Breathe, dammit."

It was like the logical part of his brain knew all the right things to say but it didn't connect to his emotional side. His emotions still cut him like shards of glass. He sat there doing his best to talk himself down when his senses tingled.

He looked up just in time to see Iron Man's suit approaching. It was there in seconds, a blur in the night sky. Peter stood and waited for the suit to touchdown. He didn't really expect Mr. Stark to have flown out here in the wee hours of the morning, so he was shocked when the suit opened, and a pajama clad Tony Stark stepped out. His expression wasn't annoyed or angry. He looked concerned and pained, and Peter didn't like the way the expression rested on him.

The mask was still fisted in his hands as he stood and stared at his mentor.

"Peter," he said cautiously.

"Hey," Peter breathed, meeting Tony's gaze for a moment and regretting it.

"Karen called me."

"I told her not to," Peter said. "I had it handled."

Tony nodded and walked over to the ledge, taking a seat. He fiddled with his hands, finally looking up at Peter. "Karen played back the audio. She kept recording even after you took the mask off. I didn't mean to intrude. I just needed to know you were safe."

Peter felt the air suck from his lungs like he fell in a vacuum.

"I gotta go," Peter said sharply, turning to step away.

"Peter, wait," Tony said, standing, causing Peter to step back further. "Tell me you're at least okay?"

This was exactly what he wanted to avoid.

He pulled his mask on. "I got it handled."

And before Tony could get out another word, Peter ran and leapt from the building, swinging and diving, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and that rooftop.


Note: Good, bad, or horrible and I should give up writing forever? That last one might be a but over the top but come on and feed me some feedback, so I know if I should keep going down this road. ugh... Why is writing so hard? Okay, be nice, but honest... snarks