A/N: So, English isn't my native tongue and this is my first fic. I'm inexperienced and I appreciate flames but keep them moderate, okay? I've always been interested in the psychology involving Peter as he bonded with Venom. How it affected him, his family etc. So this is mainly a fic about that. Also, Theresa Parker is canon. Anyways, enjoy. R & R.

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Mickey Mouse does.

Chapter Two: Missing

Tony

Tony stirred his coffee. Three cubes of sugar was enough, he decided. Pepper would be horrified, but she was in California right now and couldn't parent him. So he could have as many sugar cubes as he damn well pleased. Avoiding as much eye contact as possible with the board members, he sipped the too sweet drink. The coffee scorched his tongue but he swallowed anyway. SI was doing great, breaking boundaries. He however, was not. If someone looked closely enough, they would see the bags under his eyes, the deepened wrinkle lines creasing on his forehead.

He wished nothing else but to return to his lab and whatever he was doing, but hey, products don't sell themselves. Pepper worked double time, but Tony was still the Chairman of a billion dollar conglomerate. And he hated it. Hated the fact that he was here having a chitchat with people he could care less about outside the boundaries of his profession, when his son is still missing. Hates the sight of the ginger snaps on the long mahogany table, because they remind him too much of how the kid used to eat them excessively.

When he's done with the meeting, he finds that he can't go back to the penthouse. Can't stand the sight of the colorful throw pillows Peter had chosen for Pepper's birthday, the black and white pictures hanging on the wall, the ones he'd taken for his photography class. Tony can't sleep in his bedroom because he'd have to pass Peter's and resist taking a peek in the dust filled room, wondering when he'd come back. He can't look at the windows without remembering how his son had tried to sneak in with a poorly hidden stab wound.

Can't stand in the kitchen without recalling how he'd yelled at him for being so irresponsible, even when the kid had apologized profusely. How he'd told him sorry didn't cut it. That had been the last time he'd seen him. He can't look at the garage the same way either, the Harley-Davidson is there. Happy had brought it in, wordlessly. The sweet sixteen birthday present given too late now just stood there, gathering dust.

The silence is unnerving, he thinks. No amount of tinkering rids him of his guilt, no amount of work banishes his pain. No amount of resources helps him in the search for Peter. Even Romanoff, with all her guile and wiles, ends up with a dead end. The same goes for Barnes, and Maria Hill, and even the revived Coulson. Peter has vanished off the face of the earth.

Some nights, Tony drinks, shamefully, because his kids would be so disappointed. Sometimes he sneaks in the boy's room, hoping all this is a bad dream and he'll catch a glimpse of curly brown hair beneath the Hawkeye comforters. But he finds nothing but desolation, and he curls himself on the bed, sobbing.

He realizes how much of a screw up dad he is when he can't find words to comfort Theresa, tell her that her big brother will come back eventually. Guilt threatens to consume him when he wakes up with a hangover, when she gives him a look that says she knows he's been drinking. Theresa is ten, not stupid. He ignores the fact that all she watches on TV now are shows involving human trafficking and crime. Or the most watched series on her YouTube account is Buzzfeed Unsolved. He ignores the fact that she quit ballet.

Dinner is quiet nowadays; Peter's nonstop chatter is absent. His seat remains vacant. Theresa's halfhearted answers about her day and Pepper's slow narrative about her meetings are the only conversations the three manage. Tony barely speaks, nodding at the right times and letting out barely audible sounds of agreement where necessary.

He knows how much of a crappy father he's being to Tessa, but he's afraid he'll fuck up, make promises he couldn't keep just as he did to Peter, promising to protect her when his own heart is of glass and is breaking. He still reads her The Hobbit, but with less enthusiasm. He still plays chess, but with less determination. He still cracks jokes, but barely smiles.

Tony decides he doesn't like lasagna anymore. He doesn't like pad Thai either, or Mario Kart. He doesn't like anything anymore, because a part of him, no; half of his universe, is missing.

May

May calls seven police stations. She plans on hugging Peter tightly when he gets back, then grounding him till eighty.

No ma'am, the police say. Someone has to be missing for at least 72 hours for us to send a search team. She throws her phone against the wall. His suit's still in his room. None of his friends had seen him save for Gwen, who assures her that Peter had been gone from her place for quite a while.

The sun rises. He doesn't show up. She gets a call. His bike is still at Gwen's sister's. No signs of struggle. A broken phone by the Harley. A possible kidnapping. There are no witnesses. The police aren't that cooperative until Tony shows up, demanding where his son is.

The FBI are notified — a prominent member of New York's elite has lost his son.

Days pass. Peter is still gone. Denial dies out and May finds herself wailing for her baby, because she's got nobody else. Mary's rolling in her grave, she thinks. She only had one job. Get joint custody to ensure Peter lives a normal job. She feels lonely, like a ghost in a shell of a body. A part of her has been ripped out. Pain has become a constant now. The house feels empty. Too quiet. Sometimes, she opens his closet and hugs his clothes, searching for familiarity.

She cries for Peter, for Ben, for Mary and for little Theresa.

Firm resolution and sheer fucking will are all she has, and she holds on to them, tight.

She won't rest until he's found. So she gets to work. Her boy isn't dead. He's strong, and she'll bring him home, hell or high water.

Gwen

Gwen cries on the end of the first week. Heavy, raw sobs. She clings to the jacket Peter had lent her when she got cold. It smells of mint and oil and hair shampoo and a pleasant cologne. She knows kids who've been missing more than five days have less chances of being found alive. She clings to the memory of them together, leaning against the railings, watching the New York skyline fade out from a lovely sunset to a bright night. She clings to their kiss, to his laugh, and everything in between.

She fares better in the second week, arming herself with determination and hope. She brings out her all in the search for him, raining down hard on facts she knew, endless possibilities and things she might have overlooked. The third weeks goes by, then the fourth, then the fifth. Hope has bled out. Sheer will was now a single flame in endless darkness. Bile is all she can taste now. Emptiness is all she can feel. Six dates, she counts. Six dates and three months of friendship, a spark of what was once a crush coming to fruition; all lost.

So Gwen cries again, for him, for her and what could've been.

Gwen decides she hates latte the moment her dad hands her one during a family outing. She drinks it anyway, a voice telling her that had been the last thing Peter had before vanishing. She hates pepperoni pizza too, flinching at the memory of him joking it was his parents' ship name.

Her wounds aren't healing, the pain remains and comes out time and time again. Her friend is missing. And there's nothing she can do to bring him back.

Ned

Ned doesn't play with Legos anymore. His Elder Scrolls gameplay lays intact. One day. He'd skipped school one day. He finds out Peter's right. He has the devil's bad luck imprinted upon him from birth. Nobody goes through so much trouble and lives to tell about it. Except this time, maybe Peter wouldn't narrate anything, because dead boys tell no tales.

The thought keeps him up at night, imagining his best buddy's body lying in an unmarked grave. Ned cries himself to sleep. He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. The mantra is all that keeps him from falling apart. He goes to school, attends decathlon practice, goes home, again and again. He doesn't get used to that routine. He doesn't think he ever will. Peter's absence leaves a hole in his heart. He doesn't think it can be repaired.

Tony has no news. The police and FBI are clueless. The Avengers are stumped. Everyday, Ned goes home with a heavier heart, an empty feeling in his chest and hopelessness he has never felt before, even when he was seated for the dreaded regional tests.

So Ned learns that hoping is stupid. Peter might never come back. Spiderman is gone. But more importantly, his best friend's missing.

Flash

Flash isn't heartless. He's a dick but not a total asshole. He doesn't hate Peter. Hate is a strong word. When Ned calls him if he's seen the guy, he scoffs. Yeah, Ned. He totally hangs out with me. Then Gwen calls. MJ calls. Cindy. Abe. Jason. The entire decathlon team. Tony fucking Stark. He gets worried. He calls Peter but no, he is currently unavailable, the operator says.

By the third day, he realises this is no game. Peter's gone. Denial becomes shock. Shock becomes guilt. He starts reevaluating all of his past choices. He realizes the only reason he dislikes Peter is because of pettiness. Because Peter misses so many classes and never drops out of honor roll. Because he makes so many excuses for so many mistakes, but gets a slight slap to the wrist when all is done for.

And then he finds out, Peter might be close to being a dropout, but isn't a jerk like him. He makes excuses, but works the hardest. He gets by easily, but has a seriously crippling guilt complex and zero preservation skills. Like that time he'd bought roses for each girl who hadn't gotten one during the past year's Valentine Day. Like when he stood up for Ned in fourth grade when an older boy had spilled his lunch.

He starts a blog. He volunteers. He tries to keep the team's hopes up. He throws himself into whatever has Peter's name on it. His guilt thickens as days go by, every mean word he'd said to the boy keeping him up at night. He still has that stupid teddy bear Peter gave him in second grade when his had been stolen. He later finds out it had been Peter's mom last gift to him before she died. Flash takes the stuffed toy from wherever he puts it and repairs the holes. Peter might be missing, yet it doesn't mean relics of his memories of him have to be put away.

It sits on his bedside desk, waiting for its owner to take it home.

New York

The city seems silent now. No webslinger to crawl along walls, or swing around buildings. No Spidey to help little old ladies across the street. No defender to stand up for the little guy. Nobody to talk to hopeless men and women out of suicide. New York wonders where its greatest hero is. Why does nobody see him stop robberies, catch muggers and guide lost children to the loving arms of their parents. The city remains unaware that Spiderman is but a child himself, a child in desperate need of saving.

New York mourned for Spiderman.

A father mourned for his son.

One was a hero. Another was a child among hundreds of children who had disappeared without a trace.

Both were missing