Chapter Summary: The return of a monster long lost but never once forgotten.

The sun wilts flowers and dusts weeds

It crumbles the ground to ash beneath our feet

The closer the star, the harsher the heat

Peter Parker was having a great day.

Flash was sick, classes were good, Spider-Man just had a breakthrough on a serial killer and he'd webbed up the culprit the previous night. And, to top it all off, he had made it to Decathlon practice that day with 30 seconds to spare (which was, quite frankly, very impressive for him).

It was suspicious, to say the least, but he shrugged it off. It was no use looking a gift horse in the mouth (though he still had no idea what that phrase even meant). He knew by now that good times were hard to come by and especially ones so long-lasting. Times like these were usually followed by a catastrophe in the Parker household.

God knows how happy they had been before the spider bite.

So, when he arrived at his apartment after school to a tingling spider-sense and a flash of familiar silver hair, he thought it was entirely rational that his first thought was 'yep, that makes sense.'

Because if there was ever any good "Parker Luck" the bad luck always came back a thousand times worse and with a vengeance to rival Inigo Montoya.

Oh, and his next thought: 'God no, I'd rather die.'

Skip – his fucking childhood rapist – smiled at him wolfishly from the couch. He stood up and made his way to Peter with that same infuriating confidence and a self-smugness so thick he could practically taste it from his place at the door.

The door.

The door to his apartment; the door to his home; the door to his home with his Aunt nowhere in sight.

He may or may not have been close to tears.

But, you know him, he's handling it. He's Spider-Man, he could just web him up and call the police and get this freaking pedophile out of his goddamn apartm– but he wasn't Spider-Man right then.

(And yes, Ned, there was a difference between Spider-Man and Peter Parker – the main one being that Peter Parker was a scrawny teenage nerd and Spider-Man was a super-hero. So no, Ned, he did not have identity issues.)

He wasn't Spider-Man, he was Peter Parker and he's nine years old and he feels trapped and helpless and oh so scared – and the walls are closing in, and Skip's getting closer and everything's too close, and his hand lands on his shoulder and it burns and everything is too close, too close, too close –

But he's definitely handling it. Because he has to; he has to be handling it.

(He ran away in a blind panic and didn't stop until he was four blocks away and puking his guts out behind a dumpster).

He was handling the fuck out of this.

(He was so, so fucking scared and hurt because why would his Aunt bring him here? why would she do this to him? Was this a punishment? Was she finally realizing just how much of a screw up he was? Did she finally realize he killed Uncle Ben, that he let her husband die?

Was he going to die or would he just fade away under the heavy weight of Skip Westcott and his influence?)

The logical part of his mind knew that this had nothing to do with Aunt May and everything to do with his incessant need to repress this specific trauma in every way he could. He knew she didn't know what had happened.

He knew she didn't know.

He knew that out of all the blame that could be tossed around in this, this one was definitely on him.

(But it still felt like a punishment.)

And, in typical Peter Parker fashion, he put on his suit and avoided the issue as much as possible.

His Aunt texted him an hour later saying she was at home waiting with a surprise and that he should finish up patrol. He got Karen to text her a lame excuse of a meet up with Double D and that he wouldn't be home until later and refused to respond to anything else.

He didn't think he could come home that night.

(He didn't feel like it could ever be his home with him in it. He didn't think he could survive it this time.

He didn't think he could live any longer with the guilt of knowing Skip could be hurting anyone else while he stood by in silence – complacent.)

He didn't think he could tell.

But he didn't think he couldn't either.

It was a strange thing because sometimes… sometimes it was all he ever wanted to do.

(Oh god, sometimes he wished he could scream 'I survived!' at the top of his lungs for the whole world to hear. Sometimes, the urge to rant to his Aunt May about the misconceptions of sexual assault and victim-blaming without her becoming suspicious got so strong he felt he had to physically shut his mouth. Sometimes, he just wanted to rant about it in general – once he started, the words would flow like a waterfall, unimpeded and drowning out any protests.

Sometimes, he imagined Skip's face behind bars and smiled. Sometimes, he wanted to cry and yell and hit and punch like a wild animal, wishing that his face was the pillow he was attacking with a violent fervor.

But, at the same time, he was terrified and he didn't want to tell anyone – ever. And he didn't ever want to acknowledge that it happened and bringing that out with words felt like a finality he couldn't accept yet.

Most of the time, he didn't know what he wanted. But, he was sure that his mouth couldn't move to say the words even if he wanted to.)

So he stopped a few muggings, prevented a pile-up, and walked a girl home all to avoid thinking about Skip. He stayed out till four a.m. uncaring of the consequences and hoping beyond hope that his Aunt was asleep.

(She was.)

He climbed into his bedroom already having changed on the roof and slunk into his bed slowly.

He fell asleep within minutes.

It's at breakfast the next day – Saturday – that he had to face him. Though he had to face an angry Aunt May first.

He knew Skip didn't tell her he ran out on him (because that would draw suspicion not only to him but to Skip as well) but apparently, she stayed up 'till two waiting for him. Which, on weekends, two a.m. is allowed – but not encouraged – if, and only if, he checks in with her every hour after midnight. He didn't check in with her for ten hours, which breaks every Spider-Man and Peter Parker rule in the house.

So, she came in at seven a.m., entirely unapologetic regarding his lack of sleep, and ripped him a new one. As a newly grounded Spider-nephew, he knew the consequences would extend beyond his patrol times. And then, the worst of all his possible punishments: she forced him to have breakfast with their 'surprise'.

He could hardly stomach looking at the man, much less breakfast. But he walked into the kitchen anyways, with the air of a man resigned to his death. Which, now that he thought about it, he might have been; if one considered one's soul slowly fading to be death, then a dying Peter Parker he was.

Just the flash of silver hair made his stomach turn and he forced down bile as he gave a shaky smile to the man – surer than ever that he looked sicker than a dog.

The man – his childhood rapist – smiled back brightly; as charming as ever, Peter noted dully.

May gave him a disapproving look at his silence so he forced himself to talk, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans nervously before opening his mouth… except – he couldn't talk. He couldn't even make a noise. His mouth flopped uselessly and he turned his head away, frowning.

Skip stepped in, his voice cheerful and bright, "Einstein! It's been too long! How are you doing, kiddo?"

Peter flinched at the moniker before looking back up and holding his hand out for a greeting handshake, "Yeah, it's been a while. It's, uh, nice to see you, s-sir."

"Now none of that 'sir' stuff, Pete. It makes me feel old," he said, pleasantly pulling him in for a hug that Peter couldn't help but stiffen from. Yeah, you are old, Peter thought scathingly. Too damn old for kids, you creep. Too damn old to be alive.

Why wasn't Skip dead yet? Why couldn't he just die from the weight of his sins?

(Spider-man doesn't kill. Spider-man can't kill, but he wishes death upon this man.

Sometimes, he wonders if something in him snapped and twisted from all of this, corrupting his soul – he wonders if Skip damaged him beyond repair.)

Aunt May gave him a frown for his behavior, obviously noticing he was being strangely quiet and possibly thinking he was being rude.

(He didn't know, he wasn't a psychic.)

"Okay," she said, clasping her hands together and flicking her eyes between the two of them, "I bet you guys are hungry, so let's dig in! I made pancakes!"

With that, she turned on her heel to pad into the kitchen on light feet. Peter followed behind her in a rush, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and Skip with the excuse of helping with food. She glanced back at him and gave him a disapproving glare – she was clearly still angry with him.

He raised his hands in supplication and widened his eyes, innocently, "What? I'm just coming to help."

"Honey, no, but thank you," she said as her eyes softened and her tense form relaxed a fraction, "Go catch up with Skip. He's our guest and it's been a while since you've seen him."

He sighed, clenching his eyes shut tightly and tapping his fist against his thigh anxiously before opening them back up and giving her a tight smile.

"Of course, Aunt May. I love you."

She rushed off in a flurry of activity, throwing an 'I love you too!' over her shoulder that made Peter smile despite the situation he found himself in.

Rotating slowly on his heel, he released a pained breath, choking down a sob as he strode stiffly back to join Skip at the table.

"Sooo, Einstein," Skip said as Peter sat tensely on the edge of his seat. Skip's eyes lit up with a sort of manic glee at Peter's flinch that made a shiver go down his spine, "what'd you and your Aunt talk about without me?"

Peter didn't respond. Instead, he sent Skip a scathing glare.

"Why are you here?" he spat.

See, Peter was scared – terrified, even – but he was a boy who fought grown men every night and won. He was a scrabbling, posturing mess.

So, Peter was scared, but he was not willing to show it. He never saw fear as a weakness and anger as a strength except for when it came to himself.

Self-hatred is funny like that – so irrational and unfounded. He had a mask for a reason, he supposed, and he was just sliding it on right now – a mask of anger and aggression.

But, Skip took one look at Peter's face and laughed in amusement and Peter's face faltered and filled with a burning blush. He looked down to his lap and clenched his eyes shut tightly as he fiddled with his fingers.

"What do you want?" he croaked softly, noticing to his mounting horror that a tear had slipped out of his eye which he swiped away quickly. He bit his lip in an attempt to ground himself and avoided even opening his eyes, though he could feel Skip's stare boring into him anyways.

"You know exactly what I want," he said before he leaned across the table and whispered, voice sickly sweet, into Peter's ear, "you're even prettier all grown up."

A full-body shudder went through Peter's body as he hiccuped around a mixture of a gag and a horrified moan. He swiped his face fiercely, listening to Aunt May's clattering dishes and focusing on ignoring Skip as much as he could. It wasn't too hard as when Skip saw his growing tears he seemed to decide it wasn't worth the risk to provoke him anymore lest he went into a panic attack or something that would have been equally hard to explain to his Aunt.

The echo of Aunt May's footsteps grew closer and, with a quickness that would have made Peter jump had his enhanced hearing not picked up on her approaching, she sat a platter of both chocolate chip and plain pancakes on the table. The smell of burning dough filled his nostrils but he was too nauseous to care about the state of the pancakes he knew he wouldn't be eating. Reaching across the table, he grabbed one pancake and began to pick at it half-heartedly.

"Thanks, May," he mumbled into the table and tried to ignore the frown she had etched on her face as she welcomed him.

"So, Skip, how's college?" she asked, obviously trying to diffuse the awkward tension that had settled over the silent table.

"Oh, it's great Ms. Parker. I've settled in really well there."

"That's fantastic, but please, call me May! Ms. Parker makes me feel so old and you're all grown up now, however hard that is to believe. When I last saw you, you were only a few years older than Peter," she smiled warmly at him.

"Of course, Ms. Parker," he joked, winking at her and letting out a soft laugh as May faked a frown before smiling as well.

Peter curled into himself as if a smaller body mass could protect him from the playful banter of his Aunt and his rapist. Sadly, Aunt May didn't notice both his lack of appetite or his uncanny silence as she was so engrossed with her and Skip's conversation that when he left the table, she only paused to ask him to wash the dishes.

He had never been so glad for chores in his life, he thought, as he walked away from the uncannily cheerful chatter of his aunt and a pedophile.

It took him longer than usual to do the dishes as it felt like he had to balance each plate precariously in his hand, focusing harder than normal to not drop or break them – super strength could be infuriating to keep a handle on.

The sound of footsteps returning had him tense. His hands shook as his neck tingled 'danger'. He set the bowl he was holding on the drying rack and tried to reach for a new dish when the looming presence of a masculine figure swooped behind his back and reached over him. Grabbing the mug from his hand, Skip leaned his chest into Peter's back and made sure his arm brushed over Peter's wrist. The actions made Peter shudder and grip onto the counter tightly in his all-consuming fear.

His spider-sense was screaming 'run' at him and it amplified his anxiety so much that Peter had to bow his head and breathe deeply to keep his nausea down.

"I've got this for you," Skip said, slipping away and beginning to scrub the cutlery with a practiced hand, "You go on and relax, watch some T.V., Petey-Pie."

Skip hadn't looked at him when he said it, but Skip smiled to himself all the same, causing Peter to cringe slightly at the hollow feeling of uncomfortable terror in his stomach. He took the out, though and twirled away on quick feet.

When he reached the sofa, he hesitated. His aunt was bustling about and getting ready for her Saturday morning shift and he didn't want to be left in the open when she left. But, she would also reprimand him for leaving their guest for holing up in his room and try to drag him out anyways. It was better to just take a seat and retreat to his room as soon as the door closed on her way out.

Nodding to himself in a quick and nervous gesture, Peter sat down and flicked on the T.V., pulling his legs underneath him and leaning as comfortably as he could on the armrest. He was mindless as he watched the T.V., drifting between thoughts and ideas and 'what if's. It wasn't until a breaking news report came in that Peter even realized what, exactly, he was watching.

He needed to be more aware, he thought as he tried to focus his mind into the moment.

It was only a few minutes into watching the television before Skip came to join him. He could hear Aunt May drying her hair and knew that he had about ten minutes left before she went to work.

Skip flopped down onto the couch beside him, throwing a jaunty wave his way and Peter felt his stomach lurch at the action. He sat tightly and clutched the armrest with an iron grip as he tried not to break the couch underneath his hands. Skip turned to the T.V., his white hair flickering in the light as he ignored Peter.

Peter wouldn't lie and say he was entirely pleased with that. Oh, sure, it was nice not to feel those arctic blue eyes tracking his form, but Skip ignoring him brought out a primal wariness in him that he couldn't pin down. His spider-sense screamed at him and he knew the danger – saw it right there – and yet, the danger stayed still. It was akin to the prey sitting comfortably next to the predator.

It was wrong and left him on edge, waiting for a trick and watching Skip out of the corner of his eyes.

Aunt May rushed in in a flurry of movement, passing Peter and pecking him with a quick kiss on the top of his head.

"Bye, sweetie! Love you!" she called as she rushed out the door.

He responded in turn and watched the lock with fidgeting hands until it clicked closed. He hopped to his feet at the sound and stumbled towards his bedroom door, disoriented and panicked as he collapsed onto his bed in a ball. His hands pulled fiercely at his hair as he rocked back and forth from anxiety.

How could Skip play pretend so well?

Peter shoved a fist in his mouth and bit down hard, muffling a scream as tears began to stream down his face.

How did this even happen?

He whimpered around his hand, squeezing his eyes shut harshly.

(When Peter had only just turned 16, he cried.)