Aunt May is dead.

That's the thought racing through Peter's head as he tore down the street. Aunt May is dead. Aunt May is dead. Was it a villain? Had someone figured out his secret identity? Was this an act of revenge? Or was it like last time? Just a robber and a gun?

He didn't know which was worse.

He nearly tore the door clean off its hinges as he burst into the house, yelling desperately, "Aunt May? Aunt May?"

The house was neat and clean, as it was supposed to be. There were no signs of a struggle. No blood staining the floor, or body bag being carried out. But that doesn't mean everything's okay. It doesn't mean a damn thing because Aunt May could be injured, or unconscious, or worse.

"In here, dear," her voice is a balm to the panic. Soothing it with fast acting relief that he followed to the living room.

Aunt May is sitting in her arm chair with one hand placed gingerly over her chest, as if she'd been spooked. But she's alive. Peter thought he might cry out of sheer relief as he skittered to his knees next to her, grabbing her free hand and taking comfort in it's warmth. He barely noticed the two police officers standing nearby as he engulfed her in a hug.

"Are you okay? I - I saw the police cars, I thought-"

"I'm okay," she said, patting him softly on the back. "It's okay, Peter," the softness in her voice speaks a thousand words that she doesn't need to say. She understood his panic. She knew what was going through his head. "Really. I'm not hurt in the slightest, I promise."

Peter let go of her to check himself. Not so much as a hair out of place. That was good. So he turned his attention to the room to scope out signs of hostility. Nothing out of the ordinary there, either. The room was spick and span, the basket of magazines kept by her armchair neatly stacked next to her yarn, the TV accounted for, the doilies on the coffee table not even an inch out of place. Everything was just the way he remembered it from his last visit. He took her hands in his own again.

"What happened?"

"Honestly Peter, calm down," her voice was still gentle and she squeezed his hand, "I'm alright, I promise. I just came home and the door was unlocked. I thought I heard someone inside and called the police. I didn't even go in, I waited at Anna's house."

Just hearing those words caused Peter's shoulders to drop as a heavy weight was lifted. On one hand, it was good that she was unharmed. But on the other hand, he frowned, going over her words. "You heard someone? Was someone here?" He looked between her and the cops, "Did you find anything?"

Aunt May hesitated, for a split second, and unease engraved itself in her expression. He didn't like that look, not one bit. He saw that expression every time there was something she didn't want to tell him. It had to be something she thought would upset him, which was already upsetting because that meant something happened, and if something happened, that meant everything wasn't okay. He could already feel Spider-Man rising to the surface, eager to get his mitts on the scumbag that scared her.

Thankfully, Aunt May doesn't even have to explain. The officers take over for her.

"Uh, actually, some items were taken," the man standing behind the couch said.

Peter's eyes widened, "Did they take your money stash?" he asked Aunt May, but she shook her head, still looking upset.

"No, they...they took...pictures."

Peter blinked, "What?"

"Our pictures," Aunt May repeated nervously, clasping her hands in her lap, "Some of the ones hanging on the wall and all the ones on the fireplace," she pointed to said fireplace, and she was right. In his haste, he'd overlooked the empty spots on the mantel. Where normally there would be a display of memories set out in cheap frames, it was now empty save for small imprints in the dust to show that something had been there at all. Same as the walls. He could see bleached spaces on the wallpaper, stained from picture frames that hadn't been moved in years.

"They...stole our pictures?"

Aunt May wrung her hands together, looking more unsettled now that the words were out in the open. "Yes, they did."

Peter looked at the cops, "Did you find anything? Did you see who it was?"

The cop nearest to him crossed her arms, "No, the house was empty when we got here. The backdoor was ajar, so we suspect they left that way. We combed the house, but so far, it seems the only belongings taken were the photos. We can't be sure with every room though. Nothing looked disturbed, according to Ms. Parker," she nodded respectfully toward Aunt May.

"We could do another sweep of the house though," her partner piped up, and gestured to Peter, "With a fresh pair of eyes, we can make sure nothing was missed."

The woman shot her partner a sharp glance as Peter rose to his feet, "I'd be glad to help. I grew up in this house, so I know it pretty well."

"I'm sorry, but civilians shouldn't be involved," the woman said, holding a hand out to stop the conversation in its tracks, "If there is anything else, we can't tamper with potential evidence."

"I won't touch anything, I promise," Peter said, "And I'll stay with you two in each room. I'll just look." He held up his hands to say 'See? No touchy. Just looky.' She stared at him hard and glanced back at her partner, who looked sheepish for suggesting it in the first place and was rubbing the back of his neck. She sighed.

"Fine, we'll do another sweep of the house. No touching anything. I already have a few more officers en route who can dust for fingerprints, but we could use a list of stolen items."

They started on the first floor, scouring every inch of the place and touching nothing. As deduced, the only things taken were the pictures. Then they headed upstairs, searching the rest of the rooms and closets, taking extra precautions not to disturb or move anything.

It seemed as though nothing else was stolen. That is, until they made it to Peter's old room. It was still cluttered with junk he didn't take with him when he moved out, and looked as though he never left. The bed was still covered with old Star Wars sheets and the posters on the walls were of famous scientists and astronomers. The desk was overflowing with books, and the broken microscope on his dresser had collected a fine layer of dust.

To be frank, Peter wanted to skip his room. He didn't like the idea of someone - even these officers - rifling through his old things. Aunt May claimed she wanted to turn it into a guest room, but she hadn't gotten around to it. Well, she probably couldn't until she cornered Peter into helping her sort through the mess.

But as he made to shoo them out, his eyes landed on the dresser and his heart plummeted.

"Wait...," he said, and carefully checked around the dresser to make sure it hadn't fallen. The imprint in the dust was there, hardly disturbed, but it was gone, "There was another picture here. One of me, my aunt, and my uncle. It's not here."

"Another photo," the woman repeated, lips tightening into a thin line. "What kind of sicko steals someone's photos?"

Peter shrugged, but his stomach rolled in agreement. Money, the TV, jewelry, he understood all that. Those were valuable. Those could be sold. But pictures?

His eyes sifted along the ground, looking for clues. They found the closet and with the toe of his shoe, he nudged it open. "I think they took my jacket too," he added after surveying the inventory inside, "And some of my shirts?...I think. It's been a while since I've opened this, but I'm pretty sure it's emptier than before."

He didn't like this. Robberies happened to other people. Not to him. Not to Aunt May. It was unsettling, the idea that someone had been in this house, his childhood home, and stolen from it. A stranger who had no place in the house that protected him, saw him throughout his childhood, and kept his closest family safe.

Peter was wrong in thinking they hadn't taken anything valuable. They'd taken the most valuable things in the house. Pictures couldn't be replaced. They were memories frozen in time, framed and set out to be remembered. If it were money, or the fancy silverware they used for holiday parties, he wouldn't be so upset. But it wasn't. He felt violated. Vulnerable. And he hated it.

MJ was right, heroism had made him compliant. He'd gone arrogant, thinking things like this couldn't happen to him.

Peter almost sat on the bed, before remembering his promise, and stood stiffly with his arms crossed instead. His eyes kept going back to the dresser, staring at the empty spot. That picture frame had sat there for years and seeing it empty put an ache in his chest.

The picture had been very dear to him. Something he'd kept close all throughout High School. The picture he stared at on those rough nights when he was ready to throw in the towel and give up being Spider-Man.

He remembered the day it was taken so clearly.

It was the day of the 2nd grade science fair. Even as a wide-eyed 6 year old, Peter was an egghead, so of course his experiment won. The picture was of him in his too-round glasses, smiling with his two front teeth missing, with Aunt May and Uncle Ben standing on either side, next to the potato battery that won him 1st place. But the ribbon in his hand wasn't what made that day so special.

It also happened to be around the time his parents died, and things hadn't been the best for young Peter. He'd won the fair, but Uncle Ben knew he wasn't feeling great. As they were leaving, Peter clutching the ribbon in his little fist with his eyes on his feet, Uncle Ben stopped them and asked what was wrong. He put down the box holding Peter's project, and there on the steps, with his new-found guardian's, Peter burst into tears. The reality that his parents weren't coming home finally settled, and for the first time since hearing the news, he cried.

Aunt May and Uncle Ben had been there. They held him, soothed him, let him cry into their shoulders as they promised to keep him safe.

Permanently moving into their house hadn't been easy, but Peter could still recall the love he'd felt in their arms. He believed every promise they said, and they'd held to each one.

That picture kept him going. Held his love for his Aunt and Uncle in its 8"x10" plastic frame. Inspired him to keep getting up and become a pillar of safety for anyone else who needed it, just as he once did.

And now it's gone. His anchor, in the hands of some grubby thief with family issues.

The male officer must've sensed his mood as he inched closer, expression gentle, "Don't worry, we'll find who did this."

Peter tried for a smile, but it was hard, "Thanks," his eyes went back to the dresser, and the officer's followed.

"It meant a lot to you, huh?"

"Yeah," Peter stared down at his crossed arms, "That picture, it...it helped me get through a lot...so it's...it's hard to see it gone."

But with this ache there was something else. Anger. Whoever did this wasn't going to answer to him, they were going to answer Spider-Man. This creep wasn't going to break into his childhood home, his Aunt May's house, and take the memories made within its walls. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He had no clue who it was or where to start looking, but he'd find them.

His scheming was interrupted by the officer as he put a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder, "You'll get it back," he said, and it surprised Peter how confident he sounded, "If it means that much to you, you'll get it back."

Peter smiled and nodded. He thought that was all, but the man's hand lingered on his shoulder. Peter waited for him to add on, but when he didn't, he awkwardly shrugged it off.

"Uh...thanks," he said, trying to go for a genuine smile. The man smiled back, squeezed his shoulder once, and left to talk with his partner. Peter went downstairs to console Aunt May, and the heat of the officers hand followed him every step of the way.

The walk home was tedious. Peter felt too high-strung. It's been hours since he arrived at Aunt May's house, and he felt so whittled down he could almost feel pieces of himself leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in his wake.

After checking the house, he'd gone with Aunt May to the precinct to file a report and help answer any questions the officer's might've had. Once they got back home, he waited with her until she hung up with the insurance company, and settled down in bed to rest from the day's excitement. He didn't want to leave her, but Aunt May insisted he go home.

"I'll be alright," she assured him with a smile, "I may be old, but I've still got some fire in me."

Peter agreed, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to worry. Worrying was in his blood. He worried about her, worried about the city, worried about the family of pigeons nested on the roof of his apartment complex. And yes, he was worried about the scumbag that had robbed her. So, to placate him more than anything, she called Anna Watson over to stay the night.

It wasn't much, but Peter took it. But that didn't stop him from stewing in worry and anger.

Judging by what little evidence was left behind, Peter doubted the police could actually do anything. There was nothing to go on. No fingerprints, no witnesses, and no clues pointing them in any direction. In and out - was it a pro hit? As Spider-Man, he's come across his fair share of professional thieves - Black Cat and the Prowler, to name a few - so he knew they existed. What didn't make sense was why someone of that caliber would rob an 80 year old woman who lived alone.

He didn't know the answer and that made him anxious. That anxiety followed him like an invisible man breathing down his neck, and Peter had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder. It's been years since someone who wasn't a supervillain made him feel like this. So small and useless. What a terrible feeling.

Peter scowled at the cracks in the sidewalk. There was something else bothering him too.

What were the odds that both he and Aunt May would be robbed? Especially if it was days apart from one another. It didn't help that both of their stolen items were random, seemingly invaluable objects. His bed, the photos from Aunt May's house, those weren't your common targets.

Was it all just a coincidence? Or was it something else?

Stop it, he snapped. You're being ridiculous. You're overthinking it.

People were robbed all the time. It was unfortunate and you couldn't always find who did it, and that was life. This wasn't something he needed to blow out of proportion. As long as Aunt May was unharmed, then nothing else mattered. She was the most important thing here.

Still, it left him with a cold chill that wasn't a product of the weather. Disquietude spread over his skin like a too-tight shirt, making him feel stiff and inflexible. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting someone to be there. But like everyone else on the street, no one was paying attention to him or anyone else. He was as alone as someone could get in New York City.

Still, he was happy to make it home. Paranoia was a parrot on his shoulder, squawking Check the house. Check the house. Check the house, which he did. The apartment was the same as he'd left it. There weren't a lot of pictures on the walls, but the ones he did have were untouched, thank goodness. His apartment hadn't been robbed in his absence, again.

The relief was a welcome one, and Peter sighed, staring at the picture frame by the night stand. It was of him and Wade at Coney Island, their first official date outside of their costumes. Peter won him a large fluffy panda from the ring-toss booth, and Wade won him a tasteful pink teddy bear from one of the many water-gun games. There had been a woman offering tourists overpriced pictures of themselves and managed to leeway him and Wade. Even though Peter could've easily taken the picture himself, free of charge, Wade happily paid the $30 and swung his arms around Peter. He was wearing a hoodie, even though the weather had been hot, and a pair of large sunglasses that covered a good portion of his face, but his smile was wide and genuine. Surprisingly, Peter loved it, and for their 1 year anniversary, he had it framed as a gift to Wade.

Wade, being the romantic sap he was, cried and hugged Peter, and kept it on his side of the bed at all times.

Peter's heart swelled at the memory.

It had taken longer than he thought to check Aunt May's house and file that report, and the afternoon chill was creeping into evening cold. If he put some time in as Spider-Man tonight, he could get home early. It was getting colder the more they journeyed into December, which meant crime was a fast dropping statistic. One of the few things Peter could look forward to in the winter season. As much as he loved wearing beanies and gilet coats over his costume, they really didn't do much to combat the cold from so high up.

Tonight's temperature was supposed to be dropping the lowest it's been all week, so if the streets were quiet it would probably carry into the night. Bad guys or not, no one wanted to be out in the cold.

Satisfied with his plan, Peter stripped off his clothes to the suit underneath. Being so close to cops with his Spider-Man costume just a shirt-tug away had been nerve-racking. His relationship with the NYPD had definitely improved since he first put on the vigilante tights, and quite a lot of them liked having him around now. He thinks. He hopes. But there's too much history between them to be comfortable, even after all these years. Too many bullet wounds and taser burns.

Peter scarfed down a small bag of cheetos as a pre-dinner snack, tugged his mask on, and found the Venom beanie Wade dared him to buy once - why did his villains get better merchandise then him? Most of the Spider-Man beanies looked like sad reprints of Deadpool.

He eyed the Doctor Octopus ankle socks (Wade's idea of a good joke) but decided against it. There were entire blogs dedicated to superheros and their costumes, and there was a lovely niche that loved analyzing and teasing Spider-Man for the clothes he wore over his suit. He was already wearing a Venom beanie, it wasn't cold enough to lose his dignity to Doctor Octopus too. So the ankle socks would stay. But he did grab the gilet coat.

Armed to combat the cold and with fists itching to punch some bad guys, he returned to the city as Spider-Man.

As suspected, crime was low. Nothing serious happened, not even an assault. Which meant he could retire earlier. Peter shouldn't be as giddy as he was to stumble back into his apartment at 12:00 in the morning instead of 3:00.

His nose and the tips of his fingers were numb, so he cupped them over his mouth and breathed warm air, trying to coax life back into them as he stumbled through the window. He tossed the mask and gloves off, followed quickly by the boots, and snatched the blanket off the bed. His hands tingled as feeling returned, and in a spur of genius intellect that got him his college degree, he decided ramen sounded especially yum-yum, and would be even more yum-yum in his tum-tum. Not much of a dinner, but as long as it sated the growling beast in his stomach, he didn't care. Aunt May would be smacking him over the head with a rolled up newspaper if she saw him eating like this, but his eating habits would be a secret he took to the grave.

The noodles were gone as quickly as they were cooked, but Peter was feeling reckless tonight and considered cooking a second one. He juggled the thought in his head, weighing the pros of eating versus a pantry that needed restocking. Oh, how he missed Wade and his home-cooked meals, and having a fridge that actually housed food and not just a single bottle of hot sauce.

In the end, exhaustion won the battle. He was already in bed and he was not getting back would be the one smacking him with a rolled up newspaper if he knew Peter wasn't eating to his full potential ("Your gonna be skin and bones, Petey. A spandex sack of skin and bones and sadness. Is that what you want?), but that was another thing Peter would keep to himself.

As he tucked himself in, his heart broke for the warmth of the downey sheets and silky blankets he used to have and half-heartedly cursed the bed thief again. Couldn't they have just taken his shoes? Or his old ipod. Did it have to be the bed? Yeah, the current blanket was fine, but it didn't hold a candle to the old ones.

"I really am spoiled," he snorted, closing his eyes.

It was ridiculous how quickly he could fall asleep, and it was something Wade liked teasing him about. There were too many nights of Peter falling asleep during movie marathons, or nodding off in the middle of a conversation, to not warrant it. But Peter couldn't help it. Once he stopped moving for more than 10 minutes, his body took that as its cue to shut down. The spider bite didn't just rewrite his blood apparently, it biologically reprogrammed his brain with a sleep timer. Although, that might've been a result of his crime fighting activities and lack of a sleep schedule, than anything else.

That being said, it wasn't an easy feat to wake him up. According to Wade, he could sleep through an alien invasion if it suited him. The only thing that penetrated REM sleep was his alarm clock, which was hell in as of itself. Years of waking up for school to a buzzing ring couldn't be fixed, he supposed.

Peter didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but it wasn't his alarm clock that woke him. It was a creak from his window and a sudden flash. He blinked, groaning into the mattress, as another white burst of light appeared inside the room. That was what fully woke him and within seconds, he was bolting upright. His eyes were still adjusting to the dark, and this time when the flash came, he was looking directly at it.

"AH!" he cried, rubbing his eyes, "What the hell?"

CLANG! The sound of feet on metal. Peter rapidly blinked the spots out of his eyes and barely made out the dark shape outside his window. He was bolting to his feet in the next second, eyesight be damned. The window was unlocked and half opened when he stopped in front of it. Outside, the night air was frigid and his breaths came out in hard white puffs. Down below, someone was scaling the fire escape, dark clothes mingling easily with the shadows.

"Hey!" Peter shouted, and climbed after them.

They were nimble, moving through the bars and ladders with a practiced ease that was almost impressive. It didn't help that they had a head start, so even with his spider agility in play, by the time Peter was landing on the concrete, the person was already racing between the alley of the two buildings. Peter followed, but wasn't fast enough. They turned the corner and disappeared into the crowds beyond. Peter turned the alley corner too, but the slap of his bare feet came to a slow stop.

The crowds were thin this late at night, and undisturbed. There was no fleeing figure, and no signs that someone had come through here. No one looked as though they'd seen a sprinting person come out of the alley, other than Peter himself.

"What the hell," he said, taking a step back and looking the street up and down. He stayed put for a few minutes out of confusion, helplessly shuddering in the cold, before slowly turning away with a final uneasy glance. His feet were freezing, and his body shivered bitterly in response to the drop in temperature. He walked a few feet back toward the firescape when his eyes landed on something sitting on the closed lid of a dumpster. Peter froze, blood running cold.

"No way," he approached it slowly, heart racing faster with each step. He slowly picked up the picture frame, where it was perched innocently on the dumpster, as if it had every right to be there.

It was a picture of him, Uncle Ben, and Aunt May, and they were standing in front of a potato battery.

Dun Dun DUN!