Warmth. A bundle of soft covers and comfort. That was what Peter awoke to when he blearily came alive. At first, he noticed nothing. Just the minor aches from growth spurt, but with a little bit of stretching, they aches faded away. He blinked a few times, his vision coming together and things began to take shape.

Ahead of him was a poster of Albert Einstein. The same one he had in his old bedroom. Below it was a hamper, followed by a small bookcase stuffed with textbooks, and science fiction and fantasy books. A picture frame on top, a photograph of his dead parents.

Wait.

Peter propped himself on his elbows, studying the objects around the room with familiarity. It was his bedroom! The one in Queens.

He shot up, blanket falling right off him and to the floor. He gaped, spying every corner of the room and recognizing it all belonging to him. His retro tech that cluttered his desk remained untouched and his clothes were hung on the closet rod, neat and in order.

Peter's eyes widened at it all. How did he get there? Wasn't he... did that mean...

Then he remembered. Before everything wiped away from him, he remembered. He saw his Uncle Ben. He was right in front of him when he spiraled into mania.

Did that mean...

Peter scrambled to the door. He probably should have taken it easy, but his conscious demanded answers. The door nearly broke off his hinges from Peter's yanking. It groaned in protest as it opened on command, leading Peter to the corridor. The sound of silence enveloped him. His spidey-sense didn't alert him to anything. He looked down the hall to living room, where he knew his aunt and uncle would be. Barefoot against the uneven wooden floors, Peter inched his way to the opening, heart drumming in both uncertainty and hope.

The narrow corridor came to an end, opening up to a small space Peter recognized as his old living room. The blue couch centered the room with two lofty armchairs on either side, a coffee table in between, holding day old newspapers and an empty ceramic bowl. A television set sat on a wooden TV stand, pressed against the beige wall. Next to that was another dark cherry bookcase that had Aunt May's Tiffany lamp that she loved so much. The room was filled with memorabilia, but it lacked life. It was empty. The cushions untouched. The newspapers folded. And there were no mugs of steaming coffee. No one was there.

"You're awake."

Peter freaked. He whirled on his heels, eyes wide on the person standing in the kitchen. "W-Wh... what?"

There stood Uncle Ben, mug in hand and a folded newspaper on the counter by his elbow. The man smiled, the laugh wrinkles etched deep in the corners of his lips. Kind eyes softening on Peter's quizzical face.

"Earlier than expected," Uncle Ben commented. "Thought I had another hour or so, since you tend to oversleep. Especially on Saturdays."

The man chuckled to himself, but Peter remained paralyzed, unable to believe. "You're dead."

Uncle Ben's chuckles softened to a quiet, morose sigh. Peter struggled to breathe. "You died," he muttered, his mind feeling like a tornado wreaking havoc all everything he ever knew. "I saw... I was there! Y-You died!"

His uncle only looked at him with sympathy.

"We had a funeral for you," Peter said, a little louder. Emotions freeing him from paralysis. "We buried you!"

"I know."

"May... she cried for months!"

"I know that too."

Peter scrunched up his brows, completely befuddled. "I don't understand," he muttered, reality hanging by a thread. "What—what's happening? H-How... how are you here?"

Uncle Ben gestured Peter to sit on the couch. Peter was hesitant at first. The man standing a mere foot away from him was dead, and yet, he stood, talked, and moved like a person filled with life. Eventually, he lowered himself in the middle of the couch, and his Uncle Ben sat next to him.

Peter craned his head over his Uncle Ben's shoulder, back toward the kitchen. Was Aunt May in there too? Attempting to make homemade, whole wheat pancakes from scratch again?

"She's not here."

Peter looked back to his uncle. "She's not?"

Uncle Ben shook her head. "She won't be here for a very long time."

What did that mean?

"Don't worry," Uncle Ben said with a soft kindness to calm him his rising anxiety. "She's all right."

"I don't..." Peter stopped and searched his surroundings again. Everything seemed to be in a lighter color. Same blue walls, but lighter. Same cabinet, but lighter. Same uneven floor, but leveled. "... understand."

Uncle Ben adjusted his seat, leaning his head down to capture Peter's attention. "You're right, Peter. I am dead by one means, but very much alive in other ways."

Peter's face crumbled. "Huh?"

Ben let out a light chuckle. "Such a bright mind, but too young to fully understand all that life is," he said, but not in a patronizing way. In Uncle Ben's way. A way that never made Peter feel small or stupid or insignificant. "I'm here because you are here."

O-kay… that didn't explain very much at all. "Where are we exactly?" questioned Peter.

"Oh... I would say the apartment," Uncle Ben studied the area around them. "… circa 2012, I believe."

Peter double-checked. His uncle was right. May hadn't replaced the chair coverings yet. It really was 2012. "No—I meant... is this the afterlife? Am I dead?"

"You're not dead," Uncle Ben promised. "Which means this is not the afterlife."

"Then where—"

"We're in your mind," Uncle Ben clarified, gesturing wildly around the living room. "All of this is in your mind."

Peter's brows bunched together, puzzled. "So... none of this real? You're not real?"

"Well, of course I'm real!" Uncle Ben expressed merrily, not at all offended. "The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living." He endearingly took Peter's shoulder, holding him. "I'm alive through you, kiddo."

Peter looked at the hand then back to Ben's face. It looked like his uncle. The kind face. The brown hair similar to his own, not as unruly. Always combed. His hazel eyes, filled with wisdom and love, looked on in patience.

Peter's bottom lip quivered as he took in everything. "It's really you?"

Uncle Ben smiled. "Hi, Petey."

Tears burst out of his eyes. He launched into Uncle Ben, slamming himself against the man. Arms flung over the man's neck, Peter pressed close to the uncle's chest. He breathed in his uncle, smelling the same, cheap aftershave Ben wore after he shaved his face. It smelled like him. Just like him.

A comforting pat padded on his back. "Miss you too, kiddo," he said, ruffling the boy's hair. "It's been a long time."

Uncle Ben had no idea. Days without him felt like years for Peter. He missed him too much. Too often. And a whole lot more each morning he woke up to. There were no more days. No more moments. Everything about his uncle was no more than a memory. Every happy memory of his uncle made him smile and weep. It startled him how much his love for his uncle brought so much despair.

They held onto each other for another minute before his uncle signaled it was time to let go. Peter reluctantly pulled away. His eyes shined with brightness. Two years. Too long to be gone forever. He had so much he wanted to say. So much to apologize for.

"Uncle Ben… I'm so sor—"

"Tell me what's been happening," Uncle Ben ignored his words. "What's been going on with your life?"

Peter divulged his life story since he last saw his uncle. He spoke of Aunt May and her bravery during the loss. That made the light in Uncle Ben's eyes dim a bit. Saddened but the hurt his true love endured. Peter quickly changed the topic, telling Uncle Ben of school, Ned and of course, his new alias—Spider-man.

It was hard to tell his uncle about Spider-man. Especially since it was Spider-man that cut Uncle Ben's life short.

But Uncle Ben was far more interested in that aspect of Peter's life. Especially when Peter got around to the Compound and Mr. Stark. "Is he treating you well?" Uncle Ben questioned.

Peter remembered his uncle's disdain for the famed billionaire/superhero. "Um… actually, yeah. Yeah, he's been good to me. Helping me out and everything," he said. "Well, not recently. That's my fault though. I messed up. I tried to be something I wasn't ready for. I guess… I don't know. I thought I was, but…"

He looked back up to his uncle. The man's was full of life. Not death. Remember it like this. "I guess I'm not."

Uncle Ben smiled gently and put an arm around Peter's shoulders. "There will be a time, as always, when one is ready," he said. "And there will be a time when one is not ready, but must be. Whenever time comes, you must be brave."

Peter's eyes stung again, thinking back to that time. The time the world changed for them. "Were you?"

"Yes."

Peter sucked in a deep breath, chest hurt like his bones cracked. Something heavy pushed against him. "I wasn't," he confessed, closing his eyes to shut away the painful memories. "I was a coward."

"You're not a coward, Peter."

"Yeah, I am. I-I… didn't do anything."

"Didn't do anything?" Uncle Ben exclaimed in complete disbelief, "Petey, you go up against bullies, rapists and thieves every day! You stand up for the little guys. Even when it puts you in danger. You save lives every day, kiddo."

"But I didn't sav—"

"Nor could you," Uncle Ben stated and Peter trembled, eyes strained and blotchy. "What happened to me wasn't your fault."

"I could have stop—"

Uncle Ben shook his head. "No, you couldn't," he said gently, but firm. "I made a choice. As did the other guy. The outcome wasn't on you."

Didn't feel like it, Peter solemnly thought. If he stopped the robber the first time, then the robber would never had the chance to hurt his uncle. He wouldn't have to listen to Aunt May sob in the bathroom late in the evenings when she thought he was asleep. She slept on the couch those first two months after they buried him. Too lonely and too hurt to sleep alone in the bed she shared with her husband.

All because Peter let that robber go. He didn't do the right thing at the right time.

A heavy sigh fell from his uncle. "It's okay, Peter," he said. "Come here."

They hugged again. Uncle Ben holding Peter tighter than before, hand on the back of his head, gently ruffling the back of Peter's head like he used to when Peter had nightmares as a kid. Peter leaned into the hug, breathing deep and feeling more relaxed than he had in ages. Uncle Ben always felt so warm.

"I could not be more proud of you," Uncle Ben murmured to him. "You will go on to do amazing things. I know you will."

Peter needed to hear that. Needed the fatherly approval that he desperately craved. He wanted to do right for his uncle. Ever since that wretched night, Peter only ever wanted Uncle Ben to be proud of him.

Something shifted. Peter didn't know what, but he sensed it. His Uncle Ben broke away and looked at the watch that Peter now owned back in reality.

"Time has come," Uncle Ben said, getting up from the couch. "Got to get going."

Peter jumped to his feet at once. "I don't want you to go."

It sounded childish. Petulant. Selfish too, but Peter missed Uncle Ben. He didn't want his uncle to leave him again.

Uncle Ben cupped the side of Peter's face. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, his thumb gently wiping away a runaway tear. "You are though. Time for you to go home."

"I don't want to go. I want to stay. With you."

"You're wanted back home. With people who love you and miss you," Uncle Ben said. "The living awaits you, Petey."

"Can't it wait a little longer?" Peter wanted more time with his uncle. After all, the dead don't get to talk as much as the living.

"It cannot," Uncle Ben apologetically answered. "It needs you. There are people out there who need you. You're going to change the world. And you can't do that being stuck here."

Peter shook his head. "I-I don't want to change the world," he claimed, frustrated. "I just want you. And Aunt May. I want home."

He wanted to go back to the way things were. Living in Queens. With his aunt and uncle. Going to school. Hanging-out with Ned. Doing things only teenagers would ever do.

Things he could never do anymore.

Uncle Ben's face looked down upon him, full of compassion. "You'll always have us, Peter," he reminded him. "In times of trouble, I'll always come back for you."

Peter blinked back a tear. It wasn't fair. Any of it.

His uncle headed to the front door and opened it. Peter couldn't see what was on the other side. It was pitch black. Nothingness.

Then, his uncle pulled Peter into another hug, hand cradling the back of Peter's head. "Be brave, Peter," Peter heard his uncle say. "Fear does not stop death. Only life. Remember that, Petey. Remember."

It was an odd thing to say, but nonetheless true. Peter squeezed his uncle tighter, almost hoping he could latch onto him. Never let go.

"I'll never leave you," Uncle Ben murmured in his ear, his fingers carding the back of Peter's hair. "I love you so much."

Then he broke away, stepping aside to place Peter right in front of the nothingness. It drew to Peter, and he felt something pulling on his bellybutton, luring him into the pitch darkness.

Peter weighted his foot down, but it was pointless. He kept moving to it.

He gave one last look to his uncle. His uncle gave him a small smile. "Remember, Peter," he uncle called out. "With great power, comes great responsibility."

And with that last reminder, the darkness took him. The door shut and Peter saw his uncle waving him goodbye, like he used to do when Peter ran to catch the subway.

All of it dissipated, shooting him upward like a rocket launcher. Up to a clearing. Up and away from all the darkness. Up and up and up until…

White.

White ceilings. White walls. White fan, spinning around and around, forever and onward.

Peter didn't recall opening his eyes. One moment it was black. Next, white.

His uncle was gone. So was the apartment. All replaced with white walls, white ceiling and the smell of disinfection that stung his nostrils. He opened his mouth to breathe, to avoid the chemical gag, but he found that it hurt. His throat strained and dry. Almost like it was a desert inside him.

He moved his hand toward his face, but found his limbs heavy and the bones ached. He lifted his head, looking down. A nice blanket covered over him, but that wasn't what caught his eye. Down at the other end, on the counter, was an array of flowers, gift baskets and even an overly large teddy bear. Balloons were tied to knobs, wishing him well and to get better. They were all clustered together, the presents all shoving to get a seat at the table.

Peter was flabbergasted. Were all those for him?

Neck too weak to stay in position, Peter let his head fall back against the pillow. Why was he so weak? Did Powers take away his gifts? Was there something in the gas that made him... human?

Peter turned his head to the side. His heart received another shock. Scrunched and slumped in an armchair was Tony Stark. Head in his palm, eyes closed, but mouth sealed, like he was in the midst of drifting toward slumber. The man forgo the suit again. Dressed in jeans, a band shirt and a zipped jacket, Mr. Stark didn't look his best. Severe bags hung underneath his eyes. Hair tousled to the point it was unstylish rather than cool. And even his famous facial hair started to grow fuller.

Peter called to him. "Mr. Stark?"

His voice croaked, the dryness scratching his words to bits. Too soft to be heard over the light, wisp of tired breaths. He needed to be louder.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter croaked a little louder. The loudest he could do in his exhaustion.

It was enough. Mr. Stark's eyes fluttered awake. Confusion muddled in his irises until they found Peter's own eyes looking back at him. The man shot up, launching himself nearly forward to Peter's bed.

"You're up!" he announced, sounding shocked and relieved. "How long have you been up? Did the doctors come around?"

"I—" Peter's words got cut off by a violent hack. His lungs burned for a quick second before it freed him to breathe easier.

Mr. Stark sprung from his seat. "You're fine. You're fine," he repeatedly told Peter. "Do you want me to get you some water? Do you want water?"

Peter nodded. Water sounded good.

Mr. Stark rushed to the counter, pushing the balloons out of his way as he filled a plastic cup with water from the sink. He returned, setting it aside. "Let me help you up..."

Peter let Mr. Stark get him to sit in an upright position. He kept asking Peter if he was good or if anything hurt. Only minor aches, but they subsided once situated. Mr. Stark handed him the water. "Don't guzzle it down. You'll choke."

The water felt so good! The cool liquid doused the flames and saved his throat from the dry spell. He drank it all and Mr. Stark filled up again, holding it up as Peter chugged. After drinking three cups of water, Peter's throat felt normal again.

"Thank you," he said, voice still a bit rough. "What's in the water here? Tastes so good."

The corner of Mr. Stark's lips upturned a bit. "Thought the same thing when I came back from Afghanistan." He returned to his seat, bringing the chair close to the bed. "Seriously, kid. How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Nausea? Any soreness?"

It was hard to follow the man's words. Peter's mind remained a bit sluggish. "I'm… so tired," he muttered, nestling his head against the fluffiest pillow he ever rested on. "What happened? I… I don't remember."

Mr. Stark rolled in his lips, hands fumbling against each other. He was thinking. Thinking hard. Finally, Mr. Stark took a breath. "Powers drugged you," he clasped his hands in front of him. "He gassed you up with some kind of concoction he created. A hallucinogenic. Supposed to make you see crazy sh—stuff. Affect your senses. Hype them up. Basically a fear drug."

"Like in the Batman comics," Peter murmured, thinking of Scarecrow and his fear toxins.

"Sure," Mr. Struck brushed aside, seemingly not appreciating the pop-culture reference at the moment. "But, in your case, with your already dialed-up senses, it ultimately overwhelmed them. It was too much."

Peter pinched his brows forward. "You mean… like an overdose?"

"Yeah... like an overdose," Mr. Stark said with a heavy, drawn sigh. "Powers poisoned you. The minute he hit you with it, you were… gone." He raked his hands through his hair, looking even more exhausted than ever. "The showers helped. That was quick thinking by the way. Probably saved your life. Or at least, gave us a chance to save your life."

"I remembered it from chemistry."

That got him an attempted smile from Mr. Stark. "School is good. Teaches you all good things," he nervously quipped, trying to bring some humor to balance the stressful tension brewing in the room. "Still scared us half to death. You were out for over a week, kid. Dr. Cho kept having to redraw your blood and stabilize you. God—it was a mess. None of us wanted to leave your side. Did rotations so that one of us was always here with you. Mostly me, but… yeah, you got us all scared out of our minds."

"Us?"

"Me, Pep, Rhodey, Vision… Happy came by too. Bought you that huge bear," Mr. Stark pointed to the horde of gifts. "I never saw him so pale. Well, except that time he was in the hospital. He took your attack pretty hard. Blamed himself because he thought if he only took you driving, then it wouldn't have happened."

"It would have happened anyway," Peter thought how Powers must have been planning his own surprise attack since he got strapped to a wall by the webs. He stayed patient and waited until he faced Peter again. "If not then, another time."

"That's what I told him."

Peter gave him a small nod of approval before he looked around the room again. "Was there anyone else?"

"Like who?"

Peter knew it was stupid to hope that maybe it wasn't just all in his head. "Oh, um, no one. I was just—"

"Ben wasn't here."

Peter shut his mouth, eyes enlarged at Mr. Stark. "H-How did you—"

"You said his name a lot," Mr. Stark answered. "You even mistaken me as him a few times. You called out for him during your stupor. Kept apologizing too. Said something about being at fault or another."

Peter sunk into his bed, completely mortified. He had whined like a baby, calling out for dead people in front of Mr. Stark and others. They would never look at him like an adult anymore. No one would ever take him seriously or look at him like anything more than a broken child, crying out for the dead.

And if Mr. Stark kept staring at him like he was some injured bird, fluttering and flapping on the ground, he was going to throw the blanket over his head.

Mr. Stark swallowed, fingers tapping against his knees as he hummed for a second. "So—you want to talk about it?"

Peter immediately shook his head. No. He did not want to talk about it with Mr. Stark. Iron Man had more important things to do than listened to a sad tale.

Mr. Stark heaved a deep, remorseful sigh. "I know I haven't been very open with you. It's just how I was raised," he illuminated for Peter. "Emotions were never a strong suit in my family. Never show your feelings. That sort of old-fashion parenting. But, kid—I'm not leaving here, okay? Not after spending days watching you scream and cry and convulse in agony."

He scooted his chair closer, keeping his attention right on Peter. "I don't know what you saw, but I know it was something traumatizing. And I know it had to do with whatever happened to your uncle," he said. "So—whenever you're ready to talk, I'll be right here."

The man dramatically planted himself right on the chair, gripping the armrests and acting like he was getting comfortable for the long haul.

Funny enough, it convinced Peter to truly believe Mr. Stark's promised vigil. The man may never leave him until he talked about all the horror that Peter bundled inside himself. Peter tried burying it. Tried to move on. Tried to remind himself it wasn't his fault. But, all the scars he carried in his heart kept being reopened and bled into his soul.

His uncle's death was like lights going out, leaving Peter stranded in the dark for years. It was so hard, walking around with that cloud over his head. Always wondering if it would ever lift. If he would ever find a way to overcome the tragedy inflicted upon him.

Mr. Stark offered him a path. Offered a light to guide him out. After all, if anyone who understood the loss of a parent, it would be Mr. Stark. It was no secret that the man lost both his parents in one night at a young age. The man knew of loss. It must be like an old friend. It felt like that for Peter anyway. Pain and death were Peter's oldest friends. They never left him, following him out of his childhood years and into his adolescence. Never failing to remind him that they exist.

Peter licked his dry, crusted lips. He took a deep breath, glancing briefly upward, hoping his uncle approved. Hoping that Mr. Stark may be able to help him. There was no reason to hide it from him. His delirious state betrayed his secret to Mr. Stark. It might be good to talk to someone who could relate. Someone who wasn't a shrink, writing away on a notepad and handing him pills to dull the ache in his chest.

"I lived a normal life, Mr. Stark," Peter started, garnering Mr. Stark's full attention as the man leaned in his seat, elbows on knees. "Not, well, normal for me anyway. My parents died long ago, so my aunt and uncle raised me. They became my parents. When I think of mom or dad, I picture them.

"They're the best people out there in the world. Everyone who's ever met them says so," Peter carried on, thinking of his aunt and uncle. The smiles. The laughter. How they drew people to them so easily. Always talkative. Always friendly. Not like Peter, who was too awkward and socially inept to even say hi to a pretty girl. "We were a good, normal family. I love them. They're all I have in the world.

"Then, I got the spider bite and things... well, it changed. I changed. And not for the better. Not at first anyway." Peter stopped, wondering if Mr. Stark really wanted him to ramble on about his low-life problems. But Mr. Stark nodded his head along, signaling him to keep talking. To not be afraid. "It started when Flash had gotten a gold pair of Beats and he was showing them off to everyone, talking it up like it was something every normal kid had.

"Naturally, that meant pointing me out on how I can barely keep my cheap Skullcandy headphones from breaking apart," Peter looked to Mr. Stark to check if the man was following along. "They're just these simple headphones that don't honestly last—

"I get it, Pete."

"Oh... okay. So, um, anyway… Flash mocked me and everyone, well, you know… kids can be mean. Anyway, I just got tired of being called a loser. I just… I didn't want to be Peter Parker anymore. I didn't want to be poor. Or awkward. Or gawky. Or… I didn't want to be a loser. You get it?"

Mr. Stark nodded, but Peter doubted the man fully comprehended everything Peter experienced. The man was born rich. Was a social butterfly. And everyone adored him. But… whatever.

"So I thought if I got a pair—of the Beats headphones, that is—then, Flash wouldn't laugh at me. I would fit in with everyone else at the school. I'll be cool. Just like the rest of them. I know it's stupid to think that would work, but… I thought it would. I asked my aunt and uncle if they could buy me a pair, but they said no. It was too expensive for something that wasn't really a necessity. I tried to argue that it was, but my uncle told me that materials doesn't make a man. So—I was stuck with my cheap headphones and mockery.

"Then I overheard about this underground fight matches. About boxers and others meeting up at local gymnasiums for tournaments. Cash prize. Five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars, Mr. Stark! It's a lot of money to a guy like me and I could buy my own Beats with that money. So, I signed up. I didn't want people to know I was a kid though, so I wore a mask to hide my face and soon, I had my first match. Won it. Easy.

"I won every match. It felt great to be a winner and not a loser. People were cheering me on. Rooting for me. And I won the cash! It was… it was a good feeling, Mr. Stark. Kind of made me a bit cocky. Thought I was invincible," Peter admitted, ashamed of himself to ever believing no harm could ever come to him. "But, all the late nights and bruises from the matches got my uncle's attention. He started asking me questions about where I was going. Who I was seeing. What I was doing. He started to not trust me, which hurt. I didn't want to lose his trust, but if I told him what I was doing—"

"He would have stopped it," Mr. Stark finished, "like any sane parent would do."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, so I just kept lying to him. Kept telling him things like I was going to Ned's house or I just ran into a door. Just lies, you know. I didn't want him to worry. They worried enough as it is with all the bills and work. I wasn't in any danger. I healed fast and I could handle myself against those big guys.

"But when I came back home one night, way past my curfew, I found my uncle waiting for me. He was mad. Maybe not mad. He never really got angry. He was more the disappointed parent," Peter explained. "He confronted me in the living room. Confronted me on the lies. Told me he called Ned's house and that I was never there. Then he searched my room. Found the cash—

"He asked if I was in a gang. Was I doing drugs or selling them. I said no, but he didn't believe me. He said that Aunt May was on her way home with a drug test and that I was going to take it. I was hurt and upset that he wasn't listening to me and I…" Peter shut his eyes for a moment, remembering their fight vividly. Horrible regret crawled up inside, making him feel rotten for all the scathing words being shouted at the man he admired most in the world. "Things escalated. I said some things I didn't mean and… I got so tired of him not believing me that I just ran. Right out the door."

The worst mistake I ever made, Peter thought. He replayed that night so many times in the days afterwards, thinking of different scenarios. Doing different actions or saying different words. Concluding with different, but happier endings.

"Didn't go anywhere particular. Just walked around until I got hungry again," Peter restarted after that moment of silence. "I stopped at a bodega to get something, but I only had a buck and a few cents on me. I wanted to buy a candy bar. That's it. Just a stupid candy bar. The cashier said no. No money. No food. Even though I was only five cents short. He didn't give a damn. He kicked me out.

"And that's… that's when it happened," Peter's heart tensed up. Each heartbeat painful, pounding ruthlessly against him. "Another man came in. He… he had a gun. He demanded all the money. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but the guy with the gun got all the money and fled. The cashier yelled at me to stop him, but… I-I didn't.

"I should have. I mean… I had the power to do so. Easily. Could have overpowered him with a simple hit. But… I didn't. I should have. But I didn't," Peter said, feeling his throat constricting. His words tightening as he continued. "Instead, I watched the thief get away and the cashier shouting for someone to do something. And that's when I saw him. My uncle.

"He was supposed to be home. Waiting for Aunt May to come back from work. He… he was supposed to be home. Being mad and… thinking of ways to ground me and not… not out looking for me. He was searching the neighborhood and… he was w-walking straight to the thief. The thief was running at him and… the cashier still shouting and Uncle Ben… he just… he… he, um, he…"

The memory of that night rose up like bile. A dark curtain drew back, revealing the horrible truth that crushed Peter's heart. It sent him into a tidal wave, crashing into him, spinning him around and around in storm of confusion, helplessness and sorrow. He pictured his uncle again like he was watching a film—his uncle walking down the street, head swiveling right and left, checking each face that passed, searching for him. His uncle was looking for him. Not the thief barreling right at him.

And not death that claimed him.

"I yelled and I-I ran… ran really fast. Fastest I have ever run down the street, trying to get to my uncle. "He was… h-he um, he... he was Ben Parker. Always doing the right thing. No matter what. That's who he was."

He recalled Uncle Ben slowing his walk, legs braced for impact against the running thief. Peter heard his own screams in his head, shouting at his uncle. Begging.

"I don't… remember much. Just pieces. I-I… Ben fell. I remember that. There was… no gunshot though. No… I didn't hear the bullet. I have super-hearing, but I don't remember hearing the gun go off. I j-just saw my uncle fall and… I was still running. Not even close enough to catch him.

"There was blood. All over his shirt. I-I couldn't even find the wound. There was… so much blood, Mr. Stark. Blood was everywhere. A-And… my uncle was struggling and trying and I was… I-I was… I can't remember. I can't…"

Peter's voice cracked, words sounding brittle. Something wet hit his cheek, trailing down to his chin. He pressed his lips tight, hardening his words as best he could. He couldn't break. Not in front of Mr. Stark. "I-I… he was saying… h-he wanted to-to…"

The room faded before him, replaced with a grim setting. Faint wheezes of breaths rang loud in Peter's ears. Blood seeping through thick wool and a hand—a bloody hand reaching up to Peter's face. "Peter… P-Peter? You're okay."

His vision blurred, watered down. He blinked to clear it up, but it only got worse. His eyes were getting puffy, and cheeks shined and polished by the few tears that dripped off his eyelashes. Peter turned his head, doing his best to focus on the plain white ceiling. Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

But the water drowned him. The suffocation began and Peter heard the screams getting louder and louder in his ears. Peter wrapped his fingers into fists around his blankets, clutching them as an anchor. But, even an anchor doesn't hold against a storm.

Peter heard a soft squeak and the side of his bed dipped. Someone was grabbing him, pulling him up. He realized it was Mr. Stark.

"No—no. I'm fine. I'm okay," Peter blubbered shaking his head. He pulled away, trying to get himself back to the bed, but Mr. Stark held a strong grip.

Mr. Stark hugged Peter close, bringing Peter's face to his chest. He had one arm looped behind the boy's back and the other arm over the shoulder, hand cradling the back of Peter's head. Just like Uncle Ben always did.

"Mr. Stark, I'm okay—"

The man shushed him. "I know," he said, his words soothing Peter's fragile heart. "Cry, kid."

The single command acted like the final key. It broke him and Peter slumped against the man, his tears no longer silent nor pooled. The waterworks sprouted from his eyes and nose alike. His mouth dropped and let out a horrible sound. The sound that echoed across Peter's tragedy. The sound of loss. Grief. Despair. Helplessness. It all came in an ugly wad of shudders and tears.

Peter let go of the blanket and wrapped his arms around Mr. Stark. He grasped onto him, burying his face into Mr. Stark's shirt. The cloth got wetter and wetter, and Peter's breathing hitched into a choked sob.

Mr. Stark didn't break away from him. Kept hold and steadfast, letting Peter weep against him for as long as he needed to.