AN: Sorry about the month-long break between chapters. I was neck deep in final papers and exam prep, but now that I have free time again, you can expect weekly updates for the remaining chapters. This chapter was interesting to write. Writing about touch sensory overload triggered all sorts of psychosomatic itchiness for me. I don't think I have ever been this physically uncomfortable while writing before. Oh, and if anyone is wondering, according to the Marvel time line on Wikia, Peter decides to become Spider-man on December 10, 2015. I'm not picking dates at random.

Touch

A thousand fire ants were crawling on Peter's skin. Well, that's how it felt anyway. Rationally, Peter knew his body wasn't being devoured by fire ants. He knew that he was sitting on the couch, watching 'A Christmas Story' on TV, while May attempted to make breakfast behind him. He also knew that he couldn't give into his desire to rip off all his skin with his finger nails. May was already walking on eggshells around him, and that might just raise a couple of red flags. So instead he sat, as stiff as a block of wood, and tried to concentrate on the movie rather than his crawling skin.

It didn't help matters that the traditional 'Parker Christmas sweater' was pressing obtrusively on to his skin. With every breathe he took, the fibres of the wool would scrap against his skin like cheese graters. Peter curled his fingers against the edge of the couch cushion in an attempt to busy his hands. He knew if he started to scratch his skin, he wouldn't be able to stop. Despite his extreme discomfort, he kept the sweater on. Because, well, it was their tradition. His and Ben's.

Every Christmas that Peter had spent with his Aunt and Uncle, he had received a Christmas sweater as a gift from Santa. Even though he didn't believe in Santa anymore, and hadn't in years, there was still a lumpy package under the tree with the words: To Peter, From Santa, written in his uncle's handwriting every year.

He could remember all the way back to his first Christmas with May and Ben when he was five years old. He and Ben were watching 'A Christmas Story', just as he was now. He sat close to Ben's side and felt the grounding warmth and weight of Ben's arm around his small shoulders. Ben's was laughing his deep booming laugh at the TV, while Ralphie, dressed in a fluffy bunny suit, stared dejectedly at them through the TV screen.

"Ahhh," Ben sighed through his laugh, "that was me and your dad back in the day". Peter sat up a little straighter, eager to hear about his dad when he was young.

"You had an Aunt that would make you wear bunny PJs?"

"Well, it wasn't our Aunt, it was our Mom. And she made us wear Christmas sweaters, not bunny PJs." He replied while giving Peter's sweater a playful tug on the collar. "But your Dad hated it and would sulk, just like Ralphie." Peter's gaze returned to the movie as he watched Ralphie race upstairs, eager to get out of the pajamas.

"Did you hate it too?"

"Yeah…." Ben trailed off and when Peter turned to look at him, he noticed that his eyes were misty. He didn't seem to be looking at the movie any more, but looking past it to something Peter couldn't see. Peter felt his own throat constrict and his eyes grew hot. He leaned his head onto Ben's chest and listened to his heartbeat and breath. In response Ben tightened his arm slightly on Peter's shoulders and gave him a slight smile. He blinked his eyes a few times to dispel the tears and looked down to Peter.

"Do you know what a tradition is, Pete?"

The question caught him off guard and his eyebrows knitted together as he thought.

"Uhhh, it's something you do every year?"

"Yeah, that's about right." Ben replied, while his free hand reached up to scratch at his stubbled cheek. "But more importantly, it's something that is passed down from older people to kids like you, so that you always got a piece of that person with you."

Peter's nose scrunched up at that. He tilted his head up so he could look at Ben's face.

"You're not old though!" He exclaimed. "Old people are wrinkly and got white hair." Peter could feel Ben's sudden laugh rumble under his head.

"You got that right, Buddy."

Peter's thoughts were brought back to the present as he smelled the breakfast burn and his Aunt curse under her breath. He sat up and looked behind the couch, towards the kitchen. May had her back to him, as she ran the faucet and doused the pan and ruined eggs in water. Her shoulders were tight, and Peter could hear her sobbing despite it being muted by the sound of running water. In an instant, he sprung over the back of the couch, and crossed the room to the kitchen. He ignored the feeling of barbed wire scrapping over his arms and torso, and wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her from behind. His chest pressed to her back and his face pressed into her shoulder blade.

These days, Peter was constantly aware of how much stronger he was than everyone else. He had to always be cautious so as to never hurt someone or give away his secret. When he was a child and had nightmares of his parents death, he could hug May and Ben with all of his strength, hoping that if he held them as tight as possible they would never disappear. Now, he held May with a gentle hug and hoped that she could feel the same urgency in his hug as she could back then. He knew it was a childish. Hugs would not protect May from muggers, just as they had not protected Ben. Nor would they protect her from diseases, freak accidents, or any other horrible thing. But Peter hugged her anyway and felt for a moment that it might be enough to hold them both together.

The loss of a parent was something that Peter had known before. He remembered when his parents had died, he had felt lost. He had missed them, but eventually he had started to forget them. If he was honest with himself, he rarely thought of them anymore. Though he felt a bit guilty about forgetting them, he supposed it couldn't be helped. He had only had a few years with them in the beginning of his life.

Losing Ben hurt so much worse. His absence lingered in their daily lives. Though May had made a valiant effort to make this Christmas day the same as all the others they had celebrated together, it was an impossible endeavor. All day, Peter could hear Ben's voice. He heard it when he was watching the movie, booming laughter ringing silently in his ears. He heard it when he unwrapped his sweater and pulled it on over his head. "Lookin' good, Pete!", his uncle's cheery voice called to him. Even now, as he peered over May's shoulder to look at the soggy, blackened eggs he could hear Ben's joking voice say "Mmmmm, eggs en flambé! Just the way I like 'em!". Suddenly, Peter could hear his Aunt's sobs turn in to wet chuckles. Maybe she could hear him too.

"I really have no business cooking, do I?" she asked while wiping her eyes with one hand.

"There is no right answer to that. I plead the fifth." Peter responded, while a small smile spread across his face.

"All these years, we didn't go hungry because Ben always cooked." May's joking tone suddenly disappeared. "What are we going to do now?" she asked, he voice choking with tears.

The smile fell off of Peter's face, and tears stung at his eyes as well. Guilt twisted like knives in the pit of his stomach, and his itching skin increased tenfold. Ben was dead, but he shouldn't be. Peter could have saved him. He could have stopped that thief before he became a mugger and then a murderer. But he didn't. At the time he was still adjusting to his new powers, and he was trying to reconcile the difference between his two lives. His life before the spider bite and his life after. Peter Parker before the spider bite could not have stopped a convenience store robbery even if he wanted to. Peter Parker after the spider bite could have stopped the robber but he was still too afraid. He just froze and let the man walk past him with a couple hundred bucks from the cash register. Later that night, that man had tried to mug Ben. When Ben had refused to hand over his wallet, he had shot him and taken it anyway. When Peter was returning home, he found Ben surrounded by police tape, cops, and frightened spectators. He was alive, but not for much longer. Peter had frozen, and it cost Ben his life. Peter had frozen and it cost May her husband. He had no idea how he could ever atone for that. Since that day, he had created a persona for himself. Spider-man. He spent his free time swinging around the city, with webs he created, and fighting crime. Every time he saved someone, or prevented an accident, he relished the feeling of relief. He may have saved someone's Ben. He was more than happy to be that protector for other people. But for himself, for May, the damage was done. Things would never be the same.

May took a deep, steadying breath and pulled away from Peter's grasp. Wiping her eyes with the collar of her shirt, she turned to Peter and raised her hands to wipe the tears from his cheeks as well. Peter jerked his head away and took a step back on reflex. He immediately regretted it when he saw the hurt in her eyes, but he also couldn't stand to be touched right now. He didn't deserve her comforting touch. Didn't deserve her worrying glances. He was the reason she was a widow. Ben was gone, and it was his fault. All of the sudden the itching was unbearable. A thousand red hot needles were simultaneously piercing his skin. His hands flew up to scratch at his neck and chest, and Mays eyebrows rose with surprise at his sudden movement. Peter's eyes dropped. He couldn't meet her gaze. Couldn't stand to see her concern and anguish swimming in her misty eyes. The kitchen was too small. Peter found that his breath was coming out in short gasps. His legs started to move without him fully realizing it. Seconds later he found himself at the front door.

"Peter!" May's call was muffled by the door. Without stopping, Peter ran to the end of the hall and down the stairs. They lived on the fifth floor, but Peter was too impatient to wait for the elevator. He had to run. Somewhere. Anywhere. Just for a little while until his head cleared and his goddamn skin stopped hurting so much. He pushed open the lobby door and a gust of frosty wind hit him. He continued to run down the street, weaving through people, without a destination in mind. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, making his feet run quicker than a normal person's should. A few people turned to stare at him, but Peter whipped past them too quickly for him to pay them much mind. After a while, Peter found that his adrenaline was waning. Exhaustion seeped in to his bones as his pace slowed. He could think a little clearer now, and for the first time he noticed that he was near a park.

He knew this park. When he was little, he, Ben and May would come here to fly kites in the field or eat lunch on the grass. He wandered over to one of the benches near the little concrete tables with built in chess boards. With a sigh, he sat down heavily on the bench, the cold metal chilling his legs and back. This morning, not many people were at the park. A couple of old men sat at one of the chess tables, but they were completely absorbed in their game and paid him no mind. A woman sat at the bench which was opposite to his, but was separated by the distance of the field. She had a couple of shopping bags with her and was checking her watch every few seconds. She was probably waiting for someone. Her husband maybe? A friend? The thought made Peter a little sad, though he couldn't explain why. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands.

What was he doing here? Why did he bolt? Why did he not stop to at least put on his jacket and shoes? Ruefully, he glanced down at his filthy sock clad feet. A sharp gust of wind ripped through his sweater, making his body shiver and his teeth start to chatter. He wrapped his arms around his torso, putting his hands in his armpits, and leaned back on the bench. He heaved a sigh, watched his breath turn in to condensation, and then closed his eyes. He tried to put aside his emotions for a moment and think rationally. He had to go home. It's not like he was going to sit out here all day and freeze to death. But what would he say to May? How could he explain himself? Her hurt expression from that morning appeared before him, and his stomach clenched with guilt. His skin was prickling again. He had to make this right again, but how -?

Tap, tap.

Clink.

Tap, Tap.

Clink.

Tap, tap.

Clink, clink.

Peter's eyes flew open and instantly welled with tears. An iron fist clenched his throat and one of Peter's hands flew to his mouth to suppress the broken sob which tore from this throat. Ben was drumming a little tune on his legs, playing with whatever coins or keys were in his pockets to get different sounds. But no… Peter glanced to the old guys playing chess. One of them was drumming on his legs while he waited for the other guy to make his move. Peter squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to keep the tears at bay. How many times had he heard his uncle drumming on his legs? He could remember all the times Ben would pace near the front door, hands tapping, coins clinking, waiting for May who needed 'just five more minutes' until she was ready. Sometime Peter would recognize the tune from a song, sometimes it would sound like a jumble of noise. He heaved a frustrated sigh through his nose and angrily wiped his eyes. Was this just how life was now? Every little thing reminding him of Ben? Crying at the drop of a hat?

He could hear the sound of feet walking through wet grass, coming closer to his bench. Opening his eyes, he saw the woman from across the field walk towards him. Her strides were hesitant and her expression was concerned but also a little weary. She didn't sit with him, but rather stood about three feet in front of him. The way she approached him, and the way she held herself reminded Peter a bit of how one might approach a feral cat.

"Are you alright?" The woman asked while her eyes wandered over his form. Her question burst Peter's little bubble of solitude. Though he had felt alone, he was suddenly reminded that he was in fact sitting in a public place, open to the world and its scrutiny. Peter was suddenly very conscious of his appearance.

"Uhhh, yeah. I'm fine." He stated. dropping his gaze. He could feel an embarrassed flush heat up his cheeks. In that moment he cursed his stupidity. Why the hell did he bolt? He looked terrible, of course people would stare at him.

"Are you sure you don't need…help?" The implication of her words rattled around in Peter's mind for a moment before he looked up at her, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"Help?"

"Yes, help." She confirmed, her eyes softening a little more. "Are you running away from something dangerous? From someone dangerous? There are places that can help you-"

Oh.

Oh!

"No!" Peter blurted out, and sprung up to his feet, as her words finally made sense. "No, no, no, I don't need anything like that. I got a home. I got a family, and we're just fine!" He knew his anger was misplaced. This lady was just trying to help a lost looking kid, but he couldn't help but feel a little insulted. She didn't know him, or May. They were just fine… they would be fine. Peter would make sure of it. The lady looked a little shocked by his reaction, and took a few steps back from him. Hmmm, maybe he wasn't so different from a feral cat after all. She opened her mouth to respond, but Peter had already turned to walk away.

"Wait!" She called after him, but Peter quickened his steps and left the same way he came. She didn't attempt to follow him.

Dew soaked his socks and frosty wind chilled him, but he relished the feeling. He felt alive. Ben was gone, and he would carry that burden for the rest of his life. But May was alive and safe. Peter would do everything in his power to keep her that way. A purpose filled him, making his chest feel lighter than he had felt in a while. The walk home took much longer than his run to the park, and Peter was terribly aware of all the stares he was getting. After about an hour, he found himself in the warm hallway of his apartment building, staring at his front door. Taking a reassuring breath, he turned the nob and was relieved to find it wasn't locked. He didn't have his keys on him and the idea of knocking on his own front door, like a stranger, left a bad taste in his mouth.

May was waiting for him at the kitchen table. She sat rigidly on one of the chairs, her phone on the table in front of her. Her eyes met his and she sprung out of the chair and crossed the distance to him. Her arms wrapped around him and held his shivering body tightly.

"I'm sorry." Peter murmured in to her shoulder as he held her just as tightly. There was more he had to say. So much more to apologize for, but Peter didn't have the courage to say it. Not now. He felt her run her hand over the back of his head and through his hair.

"It's okay sweetheart." May murmured, though Peter noted that her voice sounded deeply relieved. Did she not think that he would come back? May pulled away from the hug and her eyes ran over his body in assessment. She hesitantly placed a hand on his cheek and felt his skin, which was cold to the touch. "Your freezing," worry crept in to her voice. Her eyes strayed to his ruined socks. "and filthy".

"Yeah…" Peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He didn't know what else to say. The silence hung between them for a moment. May opened her mouth to say something, before closing it again. She seemed to be gathering her resolve.

"Why did you run from me?" May's voice was hesitant, as though she feared the answer. A terrible weight settled in Peter's stomach, and in that moment, he felt deeply ashamed.

"I wasn't running from you," A lie, he had been running from her. Admitting that, even to just himself made him cringe. "I just… I don't know. I can't explain it. I freaked out, I guess. I'm so sorry, May." May's face softened and she nodded in understanding.

"Peter," She began, but then hesitated, as if she was unsure of how to phrase her question. "You've been acting kinda… strange. And it's been going on for about a month. Like all of this scratching at your skin. I need you to be honest with me." Suddenly her words died in her throat. Peter could see in her face, the moment she lost confidence in whatever she had been about to say. Instead, she rubbed her eyes tiredly and asked, "What's going on with you?".

Peter had been expecting this. Many times over the past month he had found himself giving lame excuses to Ben and May to explain why he was acting so twitchy. His new powers and heightened senses were incredibly difficult to adjust to. More often than not, he found himself in awkward situations because of them. He could tell that neither Ben nor May really believed his excuses, but telling them the truth about what had happened to him never seemed like a real option.

"I just have a rash." Peter stated weakly. Although, now that he thought about it, he realized that his skin felt fine. He wasn't sure when the crawling sensation had stopped, or if it would come back. But for now, he felt… okay. Yeah, he was alright. A smile crept on to his face, which seemed to confuse May a bit. Just like always, May looked unconvinced by his excuse. But she seemed to be too tired from the stress of the day to pursue a real answer.

"Okay," May replied, though she seemed to be mostly talking to herself. She turned on her heel and walked in to the kitchen. Retrieving the garbage can from under the sink, she returned to Peter and placed the can in front of him. "Throw those socks away. Those things aren't salvageable." She ordered while her nose crinkled in disgust. Peter took off his socks, and they saw that his feet were equally as dirty. "Then go wash your feet in the bathtub and clean up these dirty foot prints" May added. Peter looked behind him to find that the floor did in fact have a trail of footprints leading to where he was standing. He flushed and muttered an apology and May smiled a genuine smile at his antics.

Minutes later, Peter was wiping the floor with a rag and a bucket of soapy water. He could hear May in the kitchen using the blender and wanted crack a joke about her lackluster cooking skills. He knew the joke would not be well received after all had put her through today, so he kept his mouth shut and kept cleaning. Moments later, he could hear the bath tub being scrubbed, rinsed, and then filled with water. His curiosity got the better of him, and he halted his cleaning for a moment.

"May, are you taking a bath?"

"No, you are." Her voice called from down the hall. "I'm making an oatmeal bath. It helps sooth irritated skin."

"Oh, okay." Peter was a little confused by the notion of an oatmeal bath. His mind supplied an image of a bathtub filled with oatmeal. He wasn't sure how that was supposed to help clear up rashes. He was a little nervous to see what exactly May was doing.

He finished cleaning the floor, dumped the bucket of dirty water in the kitchen sink, and put away the cleaning supplies. When he turned to walk to the bathroom, he found May standing there holding a fresh towel for him.

"I read online that a couple of oatmeal bathes is great for eczema and rashes, and stuff like that" Her voice sounded uncertain, as though she wasn't entirely sure how this was supposed to help either. A smile spread over Peter's face as he took the towel from her. Even though May had no clear idea of what the problem was, she was here giving any kind of solution she could. Trying her best to help him. In that moment, Peter had never loved her more.

"Thanks, May". He strode past her and entered the bathroom. Huh. Not a bathtub full of oatmeal. Just slimy looking water. Expectations verses reality. To be fair, the slimy water did feel kind of nice on his skin. Maybe there was some legit science behind this hippie home remedy.

'Slice up a banana in there, it's breakfast for a growing boy'.

Ben's awful dad joke rang in his head. Rather than make him sad, much to Peter's surprise, he found himself laughing. His laugh echoed loudly in the little room.

"What's so funny?" May's voice asked from the kitchen. She sounded surprised but also pleased to hear Peter laughing again.

"Nothing." He replied, resting his head back on the tiled wall. "Nothing at all".