Peter had stood silently at Uncle Ben's funeral. May had sobbed beside him, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything more than shock. May blamed Spider-man for not stopping the gun. Peter blamed himself for not being there.
He stared at the photo of them on the mantle from the Stark Expo- the day that 'Peter' had died. May placed the take out down on the table. She smiled sadly, her exhausted face drowned in grief.
"Do you want to hear about your parents?" He remembered them sometimes. His dreams were of a young girl, who he called Abby and chased around a farm. May talked about how they always lived in the city, and how his parents wished that they could have another kid. She showed him a photo of a young couple in their late twenties with a baby, pointing out a nose that she swore looked like his own. He couldn't see the resemblance. That was strike one.
He swallowed down the Thai food on the table, staring down at the worn wood. The way she talked about Peter sounded like she was talking about another life, another boy. It seemed as if she was trying to convince him that he was Peter. He wasn't so sure. That was strike two.
May continued to chat, perhaps trying to pretend that everything was ok.
Peter laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling oddly dysphoric. He hadn't bothered to change the room, so the Tony Stark posters remained on the walls, joined by scattered crayon drawings of robots and Iron Man. It didn't feel like his place to finally erase the boy who had lived there as a ghost for so long.
What was before like? He wasn't sure he wanted to remember. Had he been with a different family under a false name if he really was Peter Parker? Or was he someone else's son, someone else's brother? He would never quite fit in this puzzle, like a mismatched piece that was almost right, but didn't exactly fill all the gaps. Was he part of another puzzle instead?
Peter opened his mouth and tried to speak, to say his name aloud, but it came out a jumbled mess. He closed it in shame, wondering what was wrong with him. He could still use his vocal words, but he could no longer enunciate the words. It seemed to him that the people who had taken him were still trying to silence him. He wondered the reason behind it.
He and Ned had taken to learning Sign, but it was a slow process. He had no muscle memory for it, so his fingers jumbled up. Strangely, Peter somehow already knew Morse code, though he couldn't pinpoint where from.
He got up and looked out the window, relishing the feeling of the cold air in his face. The smell of the city wasn't something he was used to, even after 4 months. Peter supposed that it would take a lifetime. There was this crazy car parked down outside the apartment building, and he could see some passersby admiring it.
A knock sounded at the front door of the apartment, and he heard the floor squeaking as May made her way to it. There were murmured voices, so he sat up, straining to hear what they were speaking about. Only snippets were caught by his ear, but he recognized his name and the voice. It was Natasha, the woman who had found him in the woods and become friends with May while he was in the hospital. There was a man there too. He didn't recognise the voice, but his curiosity got the best of him.
Peter shook himself away, standing up shakily and wincing slightly. His hand darted to his side as the scars burned from the movement of his skin. Hissing in pain, Peter put his internal crisis at hold for some good old fashion eavesdropping.
"We've discovered something," Natasha was saying. He leaned in closer to the door, trying to hear better. Something wasn't right. He'd known that he was wrong from the minute he woke up in that hospital room and felt that indescribable loss in his chest. A part of him was missing, so he'd tried his best to find that piece for the past few months as people tried to tell him what it was.
May seemed to want to pretend that the past ten years without her nephew never happened. The Peter she remembered was a noisy six year old, full of dreams of reaching for the stars and making friends- both robotic and real. She tried to act like he was the same little boy. He wasn't even sure he was that little boy. Instead of that, May was saddled with a traumatized teenage amnesiac who couldn't speak up. Maybe that's what she wanted.
Ben had been different. He had explained to Peter that while they had never planned for children back when his parents had died, they welcomed him into their home. They'd chuckled together over stories that almost felt like a different person. He'd treated Peter as an equal, almost.
Peter glanced over to his desk, contemplating if he should work on his science due tomorrow. Almost immediately, the guilt over listening into a conversation slipped into his brain, and he grimaced. He stepped away from the door, intent on getting back into bed when he slipped on a dirty sock. Arms flailing, Peter fell down with a grunt, cringing at the pain from hitting the floor and the loud noise.
"Peter?" Aunt May's voice called, and he screwed up his eyes. "Can you come out here, please?"
Standing up with the help from his bedposts, Peter threw the offending piece of clothing into his closet with a wrinkled nose. He once again made his way to the door, wondering how tired he was going to be in the morning after being roped into a conversation with guests that he obviously couldn't partake in.
With a groan, Peter pushed the door open with his left hand and pushed his hair out of his eyes with the right. It'd gotten too long for his comfort. He'd have to ask May to cut it- she was always making jokes about how he didn't have the "Parker Curls" that Ben and his dad did. The light offended his eyes that had adjusted to the dark of his room. He looked up and waved to the guests sitting on the old couch.
It was Natasha, alright. The man next to her sent a pang of recognition through him that he didn't have when he had seen May and Ben. He knew this man, knew him as more than what the tabloids and media portrayed him as. The man didn't look up from May's face, engaging her in conversation as Peter stared in astounded silence. Why did he feel like he knew Tony Stark?
"Peter!" Natasha greeted him warmly. There was something dangerous in her gaze, and it made his stomach swirl. He didn't look away from Tony, standing by his bedroom door, tense and feeling like a child. Both May and Tony turned their attention to him, but their reactions were different.
May seemed almost concerned, a touch of anxiety in her normally jovial gaze. There were lines on the sides of her eyes that gave her appearance nearly ten years. The blood had absconded from her face, leaving her nearly ashen as she looked at him. The worry didn't seem to be directed towards him, so it wasn't something that he'd done.
Tony gaped at him, standing up and reaching forward with an outstretched hand. Peter was across the room, but he instinctively flinched. They couldn't seem to break eye contact, and the seconds felt like minutes. Finally, Tony spoke, his voice rusty and full of emotion.
"Harley?"