It was inevitable that Peter would snap.
He didn't understand what set him off; the day was like any other day, with Flash and his buddies cornering him at his locker and tearing him apart verbally. He could only sit there and take it, his head pounding terribly and papers scattered across the floor.
As Peter's headache grew worse, their voices started to blend and blur, making it impossible to define where one word ended and the other began. Their faces lost their features, morphing into skin-coloured blobs.
"You're pathetic without your little bitch Gwen!"
Shut up. Don't talk about her.
"Probably the only reason she stays with him is 'cause he has a big dick."
Shut up. It's not like that.
A large hand shoved his shoulder into the locker, creating a loud bang. There were titters from the bystanders that tickled the back of his skull, wriggling like worms under his skin. Where were the teachers? Shouldn't they notice all these people loitering around in the hallways, shouting profanities?
"Shut up," Peter whispered before he knew what he was doing.
"What was that, fag?" Flash yelled, cupping his ear mockingly and shoving it in his face. "What are you bitching about now?"
"I said shut up," he said at the same volume, a tremor running through the last word.
"Ooo, is Puny Parker trying to stand up for himself?" someone gasped mockingly., and immediately the semicircle of people around him burst into jeers.
"Are you, Parker? Huh?" Another shove into the lockers. Peter bit his tongue until his mouth filled with the tangy taste of blood, taking rapid breaths.
"Look, he's getting all mad!" someone crowed. "See his hands?"
"I think he wants to punch you, Flash," a person closer said in false wonder.
"Is that what you wanna do?" Flash said, mood suddenly going from playful to serious. He wrapped his hand around Peter's throat and slammed him back, head knocking against the metal harshly. Flash brought their faces so close that Peter could smell his minty breath.
"Get away from me," Peter managed to spit out, clawing at Flash's hand.
"Do you really think I'd let you punch me, Peter?" Flash growled, gripping tighter. "Do you really think you have the balls to actually do it? You're pathetic, Parker. You know it, I know it, everyone around here knows it. Stop trying to pretend like you're not."
"Get out of my face, Flash," Peter said, voice raising.
"Or what, Parker?" Flash roared in his face. "What the fuck are you gonna do?"
"Take a swing at him, Puny Parker!" a boy taunted him, making the others roar in approval.
"Do it!"
"He doesn't have the guts!"
"Break his nose!"
"Do it, Parker!" Flash snarled. "Just like I told you, you—"
The last of Peter's self control fell to pieces. He stopped pulling at the hand around his neck and shoved Flash away with his inhuman strength. The bigger boy went flying into the lockers on the other side of the hallway, sending other teenagers stumbling backwards.
Peter was on him in seconds, one hand holding his tormentor in place and the other repeatedly pounding into Flash's face. He felt his nose give way under his fist, blood pouring out. He didn't stop, losing count of how many times his fist came down over and over and over until he was hauled off of the nearly unconscious boy by the school's police officer and a teacher.
The trip down the hall to the principal's office passed in a blur for Peter until he found himself shoved in a rickety chair, waiting for someone to come and tell him what his punishment was, with the mandatory lecture to go along with it.
The principal came in a few minutes later, in a rage. He stalked from side to side, ranting and screaming about how he was furious at Peter, that the teenager was lucky he wasn't going to be expelled or thrown into jail. Even if he had supposedly been 'bullied' (here, the principal used air quotes and an eye roll), that didn't give Peter an excuse to break someone's nose.
It nearly gave Peter hope when the police officer came in and talked to him. His gaze was also harsh, but it was still softer than the principal's. Understanding. He actually took time to look at the bruises on Peter's arms and his neck. He took pictures of them for references, and told the principal that Peter was, in fact, telling the truth.
Peter was still suspended from school for a week and a half, Flash for only half a week. It sent ice down into his stomach, knowing that he would have to hide for the time that Flash was out of school, because the jock would sure as hell be out for Peter's blood.
Aunt May was called, and ten minutes later she came in with a stony expression and hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She wouldn't look at her nephew as she sat down, silently listening to the principal tell the biased story of what happened. When she had apologized profusely to the principal, saying that Peter would be punished accordingly, she had left the school with him trailing morosely behind her.
After driving in silence for a few minutes, Peter tried to break the silence in his hoarse voice. "Aunt May…"
"Don't, Peter," she said. He blanched at the bitterness he heard. "Just don't."
They didn't speak again until they were inside the house, Aunt May setting the car keys silently on the table and Peter was standing hunched in the kitchen.
Aunt May sighed heavily, shoulders and head drooping. She didn't turn around to face Peter. "Why are you doing this to me, Peter?" she asked softly. "Why are you putting me through all this so soon after—after Ben?"
They both flinched at their loved one's name. That wound was too open to be talked about. And it would still be too open in the next ten years, and the next twenty…
"Aunt May—" Peter tried to whisper.
"No, Peter," she held up her hand for him to stop, trembling. "I've heard your excused for the past year, and I'm not going to stand for them any longer. You've—you've been out for nights on end, not even calling, coming home with bruises, somehow getting your hands on prescription painkillers, always hanging around that Tony Stark…I've seen the news, I know what he's like. And he's influencing you to follow in his footsteps."
"No, it's not—"
"I have tried," she emphasized with a barely concealed sob. "God knows I've tried to help you, Peter, but I don't think I can. You—you need to learn responsibility, and you can't do that when you have me to lead on. You earn enough money, if you don't spend it on illegal drugs."
Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Aunt May," he faltered. "You can't mean it…"
Aunt May finally met his gaze, her eyes red and puffy from holding back her tears. She sniffed and held a hand over her mouth. "I want you and your things out of my house by the end of the week," she said in a tone that brooked no argument.
She left the room.
Peter stood in the kitchen for what felt like ever, staring at the spot his Aunt had been leaning over the kitchen table. He kept on replaying the scenario again and again in his, unable to escape it. The weight on his chest was now practically unbearable, making his breathing harsh and uneven. Blood was trickling down his hand from where his nails and pierced the palm of his hand, splashing onto the white tiled ground. In the other room, he could hear Aunt May sobbing brokenly into her pillow.
Peter dropped to his knees and mechanically wiped away the blood drops with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, making sure to clean it before it left stains. Aunt May didn't need any reminders of Peter when he was gone. It wouldn't be fair on her.
He dragged himself to his bedroom, where he could hear the crying get louder. He closed his door with a barely audible click and sat on the edge of his bed, listening to his aunt cry for what felt like hours. He didn't move and stared at the blank wall until she finally quieted and left the house, slamming the front door behind her.
His phone had buzzed, and he unlocked it to see he had texts from his team. The first one was from Agent Coulson, telling him that Peter was suspended from the team until he was able to 'clear his head' and 'clean up his act.' There were a few texts from Steve and Tony, both of them expressing their disappointment at his lack of control and saying that it would be best if he didn't contact them until he was back on the team. There was a worried text from Gwen, and only a 'Hey.' from Bruce.
Peter was tempted to throw his phone against the wall. Watch the screen shatter and rain down small shards of glass, so he could just have a few blissful moments away from his life. But as he raised his hand to throw it, he slowly let it drop to the floor, screen down.
Peter laid his aching body down onto the top of his blankets, shifting so he was comfortable. His arms fell limply at his sides, and he watched as the sun began to set outside. He didn't cry. He couldn't cry. It frightened him to think about how everything would change if he let it all go.
Fingertips brushed against the side of his pillow, reaching underneath it for the bottle of pills from SHIELD and the pocketknife he had nicked from a robber. He pulled the bottle out first, shaking out three pills and swallowing them dry. The orange container was pushed back into its rightful spot, the knife taking its place in Peter's hand.
Peter toyed with the familiar weapon, pricking his finger on the sharp edge. Gruesome curiosity held his attention to the drop of blood as he welled up in the cut, winding down to his wrist.
Peter slowly rolled up his sleeves to reveal his black and blue arms. He didn't care if he got blood on his shirt—there were already splatters on it from Flash, what harm would more blood do? He took in the sight, searching for a spot that wasn't injured. He chose the inside of his upper arm. It was going to be the first time he had cut higher than his hips, because of how hard it was to hide. During Shield's medical exams, they only ever told him to take off his shirt, never his pants, making it easy to keep his cuts secret.
The slices of the knife weren't especially deep this time around, just far enough into his skin to get the desired effect. One cut, then a pause to let the pain sink in. Then another. And another. A final one, before he pressed his shirt down on them to stop the blood from getting on the sheets that were no longer his.
His rapid healing made the wounds clot over minutes later, stopping the bleeding. Another few later, they were scabbed over enough that he wouldn't need to bandage or put band-aids on them.
He took off his shirt and shoved it under his bed, mustering up enough energy to pull on a clean, long-sleeved shirt. He curled up into a loose ball on his bed, the pain pills dragging him into a half asleep state.
Time passed, and there was the sound of a door slamming into a wall. Fighting back his sleepiness, He struggled into a sitting position, looking up at the imposing figure of Gwen in his doorway.
"Come on," she said, pulling out a bag from his closet and stuffing clothes into it. "We're going on vacation."
Peter blinked. "To where?" he managed to slur.
She was in front of him in a second, staring into his eyes. "Did you take something?" she asked, using her pointer finger and thumb to pull his eye wider open.
"Some painkillers," Peter responded truthfully.
"How many?" she pressed suspiciously, straightening up and putting her hands on her hips.
"Three."
She let out a short breath, returning back to packing Peter's things. His drugged brain noticed that she had filled his suitcase and was now putting the rest of his things into moving boxes that seemed to have come out of nowhere. Gwen must have talked to Aunt May and found out, he realized. She had his aunt's number, and when he hadn't picked up, she had called him.
"Is this everything?" Gwen asked as the last box was taped shut, two others already sealed next to her.
"I think so," he said, ignoring the blood rushing to his head when he stood up.
He was about to pick up a box, but stopped and straightened back up. Peter flopped onto the edge of his bed weakly, looking around the room he had called home for most of his life. It was so much emptier and barer than he had ever seen it. The mess of clothes that constantly littered his floor was gone, the various books that were on his shelves were gone, the dozens of notebooks filled with schoolwork were gone. All of what had made the room Peter's was gone. Erased in a little under half an hour.
"Do you need some privacy?" Gwen brought him back to the present, her hand sneaking into his. "I can leave and come back later…"
"No," he said in no more than a whisper. "I'm okay." She gave him a pitying, small smile that said she had seen through his lie.
Peter took the gym bag, waiting for Gwen to go out the door first. Before he left, Peter snatched the knife from under his pillow and tucked it securely into one of the side pockets of the bag, praying desperately that Gwen wouldn't find it.
"I'll have to get the furniture out when I find a place to live," Peter said, mind going through the numbers about how much this whole thing was going to cost. "Do you know any good moving companies? Or someone with a truck?"
Gwen gave him an odd look as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "You don't need to move it," she said. "My place already has a bed and everything else. Peter? Are you okay?"
Peter dropped the box-luckily, it wasn't anything breakable-and hugged her tightly from behind, burying his face in her neck. Gwen put the boxes on the table next her, and wriggled around to return the hug.
"Did you think I was just going to just leave you out on the streets?" she breathed a laugh, running her fingers through his messy hair. "Come on, Petey, you know me better than that."
"I just thought you wouldn't want me to live with you," he mumbled, heart swelling at being able to touch someone without it being a defensive move or to push them away. When was the last time he'd just…hugged someone? He honestly couldn't remember.
She swatted him lightly on his arm, pulling away. "Oh ye of little faith," she said, picking up the boxes again. "Come on, I wanna get coffee and get to the lake house before the morning."