Peter Parker had, arguably, made his fair share of mistakes by the age of 16. No one was perfect, and though he was still working on forgiving himself his... human flaws, that applied to super-human freak-oid teenagers as well. He always tried to do better, be better - which was why he was so pissed off with himself when he heard about the pile-up on the bridge.
He should've been on patrol, he should've spotted and webbed the three men that chased and kidnapped a driver, eventually crashing their van and causing estimated 30-vehicle collision 50 feet above a river.
He should've been there - and he would've been, if Tony hadn't dropped by and taken his suit to work on some upgrades overnight.
'Thanks a lot, Mr Stark.' Peter muttered, pacing distractedly around his room, knowing perfectly well that the only person he was angry with was himself. He should have never agreed with Tony in the first place, but he did, and now people were hurt.
That was on him.
Flushed with guilt and shame, Peter had to stop himself from literally climbing the walls. He couldn't stand it. He was going mad - and that, he supposed was why it happened. Where it all began.
He was crazed with guilt, so even though it was 3AM and May would freak out, and Mr Stark would be furious if they ever found out, he dug out his first suit, the makeshift disguise he'd worked on within a week of Bens death, and headed out.
That was the worst mistake he ever made.
Even as he slipped through his window and worked his way towards the bridge, Peter marvelled that he was ever able to work like this. Nothing fit right, and though he'd denied it when Tony questioned him, he really couldn't see at all.
But he was still Spider-Man, and he still made it to the bridge where authorities were beginning to arrive on the scene. He still beat them to the smouldering van, and had fought and restrained the three criminals before anyone else could make it through the wreckage.
That should've been that, all in a night's work - except for the bright, neat gash on the inside of his left wrist. Sometime during the fight, his suit had torn, the cheap fabric quickly exposing his skin to injury. It wouldn't have happened if he'd been wearing the suit Tony had made him, and it wasn't even that big a deal really. He spun a bandage around his arm (he'd long ago learnt that webs were better than gauze for closing and healing wounds) and it had healed by the end of the week.
It was just...
He couldn't stop thinking about it.
The tear in his pale skin, gaping, gushing. The slow, sticky, flow of blood, surprisingly dark except where it stained his fingertips with screaming scarlet. The throbbing pain, the warm and sickly dizziness that made his stomach squirm, not unpleasantly.
He couldn't stop thinking about how much he'd liked it.
And it didn't bother him a bit - because here was the other thing about Peter, the thing he'd never admit to; he desperately wanted to die. For almost as long as he could remember, he'd felt the need like an ache in his bones, a demanding, hungry instinct that told him he wasn't meant to be. Over the last few years, it had only gotten stronger, and the only constant in his life had been his plans to end it. His notes, written and rewritten and discarded, inadequate. The daydreams he could never stop, where each question was helpfully ticked off before he even had to think: when? While May's out. How? Pills. A blade. A rope. An 'accident'. Why? Well. Where to begin?
It was a reflex, like breathing - except easier. More natural. The only reason he was still here was because he wasn't sure exactly how far he'd have to go to outpace his own body, the advanced healing, the strength, the instinct that screamed danger.
Until now.
He'd felt it, how easy it would have been to extend the wound, or leave it open. It would have worked. The amount of blood he'd lost in seconds, the wooziness... Even the pain had seemed natural, welcome.
The thought sent a thrill through his veins and he knew he was well and truly screwed.
In just a few days, he'd set his date, brought a pack of straight blades (cash, baseball cap; no trace), and Peter felt a delicious calm spread into every corner of his life. He was so happy, so content - and the funniest thing was, no one knew why. It was his secret, and he couldn't help feeling pleased with himself for keeping it.
Finally, everything made sense.
He said his goodbyes, visited the people he wanted to, and made sure he gave his first Spider-Man mask to Ned, who was too excited to even think of questioning why... it was all going perfectly.
On his last day (still not a word from anyone), Peter came home from school with flowers for May. He cooked her dinner and sat down to watch a few hours of trashy TV with her before she headed out to work. He made sure to give her a hug, and told her he loved her, as he usually would. As soon as she was gone, he scribbled a quick note, left it on his pillow, and worked his way to his chosen spot.
He knew it was cliché, but Peter's favourite place in the city was a skyscraper overlooking the harbour. He remembered climbing it the first day he'd fully explored his powers, dancing across the rooftop, yelling up at a cloudless blue sky as the wind tore at his hair.
It was as good a place as any to go, he thought - and he was so focused on getting there that it wasn't until he'd arrived that he remembered something. One final loose end to tie.
Mr Stark.
He'd meant to visit Tony, maybe spend an afternoon in his workshop, chatting tech and Avengers and anything so that the 'goodbye, Mr Stark; thank you for everything' was wrapped in a comforting package of snark and ease. Not noticeable right away (no need to ring alarm bells now), but there if and when it was needed.
He'd just never got around to it - and now he didn't know what to do. He wasn't about to rearrange everything, delay further, but he couldn't go ahead and leave things like this. Tony had done too much for him; he deserved a goodbye at least.
Trying to ignore his sudden queasiness, Pete picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Tony's number. He paused a final second before dialling, loathe for anything to go wrong now. To his relief, there was no answer.
'Hi, you've reached Tony Stank's phone,' it was Rhodey's voice; Peter almost laughed in spite of himself. 'He can't come to the phone right now, but Mr Stank will get back to you as soon as he can. Please leave a message for Tony Stank after the beep.'
A quick, metallic screech.
Peter took a breath to steady himself.
'Hey Mr Stark, it's Peter. Parker. I just wanted to call and say... well. Thank you for everything. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I hope I made you proud. Or at least... I don't know. I'm sorry. May will explain everything I guess. Um. I can't think of anything else to say Okay. Bye, Mr Stark.'
And just like that, the last string tying him to this world was cut. Peter felt a lazy smile creep across his face as he reached in his pocket for a blade and carefully aligned it with a pulse point just below the base of his thumb.
Not so far away, there was a horrific crash in Tony Stark's workshop as he sent a toolbox flying. He'd been busy with the kids suit, having kept it longer than necessary for his own peace of mind, so he screened the call. Just once, he thought, he would allow himself to call the kid back in a minute or two; there was no way Peter would be on duty without a disguise - he'd be fine. Except that wasn't the case. He'd heard every word Peter said, and he knew exactly what was about to happen.
The only question was, could he find him in time?