I suck so bad guys. I know. Leaving you all like that for so long was just a jerk move, and I am sorry...forgive me?

If it's any consolation this chapter is almost two thousand more words than the other two were...

Warning; For Panic Attacks.


There's a faint beeping sound. But it's hard to hear over what feels like cotton in Peter's ears, it sounds almost familiar, but the teen's mind is too foggy to place a guess on what it is. Peter's body is pressed to something soft, his fingers twitch over what he thinks is a scratchy blanket. The hum of machinery is light almost nonexistent in the background of the room.

At first, it's only those few things that register in Peter's mind. But then other realizations start to shape in the murkiness that is the boy's slippery thoughts.

His whole body his thrumming with pain, his chest feeling too heavy to lift, and his head pounding with a dull ache. But there is also that slight tingly feeling that leaves a person's body numb still lingering in Peter's limbs, it's the same feeling Peter gets when he has been drugged with something.

But what really catches Peter off guard is the feeling of something large and hard lodged in his throat. The object forcing air into his aching lungs and choking him.

Peter's body gives a jolt of a spasms as he comes to his senses. The teen makes a distressed noise from the back of his throat as he turns his head to the side, trying to grab at the thing lodged in his mouth with his too clumsy fingers.

The beeping in the background has grown more rapid the sound hurting Peter's ears. His head hurts, and he can't seem to get this darn thing out of his mouth. He doesn't know why, but that fact makes him feel even more panicked.

And then warm hands are grabbing at Peter's shaking ones and pulling them away, the teen tries to pull back from the other person, but his whole body is weak and shaking. Cold fear slowly spills into Peter's chest and he tries to open his eyes but too bright, white, light, seem to blind him as he struggles to get his arms back.

He snaps his eyes back shut a moment later, his chest hitching before his ears finally make out frantic words being said from over the top of him-

"-wasn't supposed to wake up-"

"-hurt self-"

"-remove tube-"

And then someone was talking to Peter. "Spidey," They said in a hushed tone, and the man also sounded familiar, the teen stopped his struggling at that, it wasn't like it was getting him anywhere, he was too tired to properly fight as it was.

"I'm going to take the tube out of your mouth now." The soft voice told the teenager, and then the plastic object in his sore throat was being moved, and Peter was gagging.

What was going on?!

Peter spluttered trying to sit up, his chest and throat burning the man that had taken out the stupid-tube-thingy seemed to know that this was going to happen because a moment later a plastic cup of tepid water was being pushed to one of the teenager's shaky hands.

Peter pressed the straw to his mouth and sucked some of the water down, it helped his throat feel less raw, made the burning ease. Peter squinted his eyes open against the too-bright light. Someone murmured words too low for Peter to hear, but a moment later the lights dimmed a bit so he was guessing that whoever had said something had noticed his discomfort. He felt like he should thank that person, but he could do that later.

The teenager blinked a few times to get the dots out of his vision and when he did he felt a sense of dread wash over him. Two very familiar faces stared back at him. Clint Barton, and Bruce Banner.

Peter took the straw away, biting his lip as he brought a hand to his face. He knew what he would find there, but feeling his fingers brush against the naked skin of his cheek cemented it.

He was maskless.

And the Avengers have seen his face.

Peter felt his chest hitch. The movement hurt, that burning coming back into his chest and making his lungs feel heavy but he ignored the pain. The teenager let his hand fall from his cheek and onto his lap, his wrist was bandaged tightly. The events of last night (was it even last night?) coming back to him in a wave, as the panic about his identity coming out crashed down on him.

They must have found him while Osborn was beating him nearly to death. They had rescued Peter and in the process seen him without his mask. Did that mean that SHEILD knew too? Oh god, they probably all knew every detail about Peter and his life by now. Where was Osborn? Peter hoped he was locked away. He never wanted to see that Monster again. What were the Avengers going to do with him now that they knew he was just some kid?

Peter couldn't breathe. It was like last night all over again. That horrible fear and panic racing through his veins making his body shudder and his eyes burn. What was he going to do? He had tried so hard to keep his identity a secret and in one night it had gotten out. Would SHEILD or the Avengers make him stop being Spiderman? Would they tell Aunt May? Oh god, what if they put him in jail?!

Sure, Spidey had helped the Avengers out a few times, but he was still nothing more than a vigilant, the police had a warrant out for his arrest, and there were many very incriminating accusations against Spiderman. And now they knew his name, they knew where he lived, and they knew that he was nothing more than a fifteen-year-old boy.

Peter hunched over on himself, pressing his uninjured hand to his quivering lips as he squeezed his burning eyes shut. He couldn't do this. No one was supposed to know. He felt sick and dizzy and he just wanted to be at home with his Aunt May. A wheezed-out whimper passed through Peter's lips and the teenager couldn't help the feelings of shame that coursed through him. He was with two of the Avengers and on the verge of tears, how delightful.

A warm hand pressed to Peter's back and started to rub at his shoulders. The teenager curled further up on himself, pressing his unhurt hand to his whole face, trying to shield himself from prying eyes. He felt skinned-raw, the feelings of helplessness from last night rising anew. Peter bit his lip trying to keep any sound in, as his chest hitched once again.

"You're alright," Bruce said in that same soft voice that Peter couldn't recall hearing before, still rubbing at Peter's back. "You're safe." He assured.

Peter's eyes burned. He didn't feel safe, he felt exposed and vulnerable in a way he hadn't felt in a long time. His hands were shaking and his whole body began to tremble as he sucked in a ragged and hitched breath. He felt like his world was unraveling before him, all the secrets he had worked so hard to keep ripped away from him so abruptly it hurt.

Suddenly Peter couldn't breathe again, and it was just like how it had been last night. When the Monster had been beating him, when Osborn had had Peter pinned down beneath him his large bulbous body pressing onto Peter, crushing him and roaring that awful scream down at the teenager. Peter could smell the rancid breath, could feel the burning flames and remember the tearing claws.

Distantly Peter could make out the beeping increasing, could hear the alarms overhead blaring with his internal panic. His chest was too tight and Peter couldn't escape the overwhelming feelings of being trapped trapped trapped!

The hospital bed dipped to the side and Peter gave a startled wheezed out yelp as someone grabbed his wrist and began pulling his hand from his face. He had to untangle his trembling fingers from his hair so he wouldn't rip it out. The teenager turned startled red-rimmed eyes to the person that was pulling his hand away.

Clint.

Peter had always gotten along fairly well with the Archer. They joked back and forth and the teenager never felt pressure or a need to be more than he was with Hawkeye, out of all the Avengers Clint was probably the most human, the most real. Or at least that was what Peter thought.

"Hey, you need to calm down," Clint said, his voice was calm and controlled, but Peter thought he might have heard an underlying worry there. Peter knew that his face portrayed every emotion he felt, it was why he wore a full-faced mask. Without it, his enemies would know what he was thinking, they would see when he was afraid, Aunt May had always said Peter was an open book. And Clint was taught to read people, so he must be getting one heck of a story right now.

Peter gave the Archer a disbelieving watery huff; he made it sound like this was easy as if Peter could control the wild panic that was running through his every cell. His chest clamped down tighter, and Peter had to swallow hard to get past the ever growing lump in his throat. His eyes were blurry and his cheeks damp.

He could still hear Norman's screams of rage, could feel the prickly flesh of his large fists. What if Osborn came to Peter's house? Oh god, what if he went after Aunt May?! Was Aunt May okay?! Where was she right now?!

"Peter," Clint called, snapping fingers in front of Peter's face. "hey, none of that." He said stern.

And oh god, Clint just said his name. They did know, that meant they knew everything. Where he lived, where he went to school. If SHEILD was involved that probably would mean that the organization knew more about Peter than Peter knew about himself. Oh god, oh god, oh god-

"Hey. Stop." Clint gave Peter's wrist a hard squeeze, trying to bring the teenager back to the present. "I know your name you know my name, we're even now alright? Nothing to worry about." He said it so plainly. Peter could do nothing more than blink at the man, he still couldn't breathe it seemed, and his whole body was a trembling wheezing mess. But Clint's gaze didn't waver.

"I need you to focus on me." The blond said. "Just me alright, nothing else. You can breathe it's just a bit hard, you had a punctured lung. But it's mostly healed by now, so I want you to listen to me."

Peter gave the barest hint of nod; Clint still saw it, though. Peter felt dizzy and jittery, but Clint was using an even tone and calm voice and for some reason, Peter could hold onto that. His heart hammering in his chest and his breathing still wheezy, but his eyes on the man in front of him.

"Okay, breathe with me," Clint took Peter's hand that he was already holding and brought it to his own broad chest, "in for three seconds, hold for five, and let out for three." He instructed.

Peter nodded, blinking a few times and sending more hot tears down his cheeks. He began breathing with Clint; it hurt, his chest burning and too tight, but after a few minutes his breathing began to sync with the Archer's.

"Now wiggle your toes," Clint said, still holding Peter's hand to his chest and breathing in that same calming rhythm. "Now your fingers," Peter listened, doing as Clint asked until his nerves didn't feel like they were on fire inside of him anymore.

Even when his breathing wasn't as erratic and the tears had stopped Clint didn't make to move off the bed. The blond did begin to let Peter's hand drop from his chest, however, but when Peter accidentally made weak protesting sound in the back of his throat Clint instead threaded their fingers together and laid their intertwined hands down on the white sheets.

The room was silent for a few more minutes, save for the ever-present beeping of the machines in the background and Bruce shuffling behind Peter. The teenager could feel the warmth coming off of both the men, it was a comfort and a reminder. A reminder that this was real, a reminder that he wasn't alone, a reminder that they knew who he was, a reminder that this (whatever 'this' was) was far from over.

"Are you alright, Peter?" Bruce asked, that same warm hand coming down to rub soothing circles at Peter's back again. Hearing them call him by name felt wrong, almost like a violation. Peter didn't know what to do with all of these emotions.

Peter hummed a noncommunicative sound in reply, not sure if he was 'alright' or not. Not sure about too much at the moment really, other than the fact that he was hungry, tired, and overwhelmed beyond all belief, Peter couldn't pick one emotion or feeling from the other.

Clint gave the teenager's fingers a firm squeeze, causing Peter's brown eyes to snap to his gray-blue ones. "You're going to be okay, Peter." He said, making the statement sound like a fact.

Peter wanted to believe the man, he tried to make himself believe it. Unable to think of anything else to say, "Okay." He whispered back, his voice choked and not sounding like his own.


Peter had never been to the Avengers Tower before.

Too afraid of being outed as nothing more than a high schooler or being taken into SHEILD he had avoided the place at all costs. But now here Peter was, sitting in the corner of a too large couch, wrapped in an extremely fuzzy blanket, surrounded by the Avengers. He wasn't sure whether to pee his pants or to fan boy. But seeing as he was too tired for either, he picked a middle and stayed quiet.

It was dark out, the city's lights shining in through the large floor to ceiling windows. Bruce had said that Peter was out for almost a full day. So it was somewhere around 3:00am, but the whole group of heroes were present even at this time of night. (Peter shouldn't be surprised) They had ordered Chinese food (Tony's idea) so now the large Livingroom was littered with different food cartons and overly stuffed Avengers sprawled out on the carpet, all put there in a self-induced food coma.

The hum of the Tower was almost enough to put Peter to sleep. He might have given into his tiredness if he didn't feel so on edge. But even if no one had said anything about his identity as of yet, he knew that that discussion was inevitable. All the Avengers addressed him by his name, it was no secret that they all knew.

The reveal left Peter feeling itchy in his own skin, leaving him to feel anxious and awkward as he ate dinner with the group of adults (and Clint). Peter shifted on the couch, his eyes drooping as he picked at one of his egg rolls. The food made him feel warm, even if it had been a bit hard to eat at first. His body was healing, leaving him drained and sleepy, Bruce said that Peter was heavily drugged and that only added to the tingly numbness that was coming over Peter's body and drawing him into a slumber.

But he didn't feel comfortable sleeping here. He knew that was dumb. He knew that the Avengers wouldn't let anything happen. But there was that underlying fear that they would dump him off at SHEILD if he slept. He also knew that that was unrealistic if they were planning on giving him to SHEILD they would have already, right? But nonetheless, Peter still felt too jittery to sleep in the Tower surrounded by the Avengers.

There was also the guilt building up in his gut. Aunt May would be worrying about him, she didn't know where Peter was, and he had been gone a full day know. She probably had gone to the police. What did she think had happened?

Peter felt his eyes sting as he thought about her. He could only imagine the things going through her head, it had only been a few months' sense they had lost Ben. What if she thought she had lost Peter too? She almost had, Peter reminded himself.

The teenager sniffed, burrowing further down into the blanket he was provided with, as images from last night invaded his mind, mixing with memories of what Aunt May had been like in those weeks following her husband's death, a dull glimmer of the warm light she used to be. She was just now getting her full shining light back if she lost Peter he was sure that wonderful light of her's would be fully extinguished. He couldn't let that happen.

He wanted his Aunt. He wanted to hug her and be able to touch her, reassure her that he was okay, and cling to her for the comfort he so desperately needed right now. He didn't want to be in this unfamiliar place with people he barely knew. Peter wanted to go home.

"When can I leave?" He asked, Peter's voice didn't sound like his own. His lungs and throat were still healing, making his voice raspy; the anxiety and dread in his gut making him sound small. The combination of the two made him sound like a weak child, and the comparison made Peter grimace.

The Avengers all exchanged looks, the sleepy atmosphere abruptly being replaced by a more hesitant one. Steve shifted, his blue eyes locking onto Peter, "That is something that we need to discuss." He informed.

Peter bit his lip, rubbing at his injured wrist. "I can't stay here," he tried to make his voice firm but failed miserably. "I have people worrying about me."

"You are still hurt Peter," Bruce said, his glasses askew as he looked up at Peter from the floor. "We can't just let you leave."

Peter felt his chest tighten in apprehension, "So, you're keeping me here?" He asked, if the Avengers wanted to keep someone in their place, then they would, there would be nothing Peter could do about it.

"It's not like that kid," Tony chirped, a mug of what Peter was guessing was coffee in the billionaire's hand splashed a bit to the floor, but Tony didn't seem to notice. "We know about your aunt, and we'll-"

Peter couldn't help but interrupt, his insides twisting with nausea. "You guys can't keep me from her, she-she must be worried sick about me, I have-"

"We aren't keeping you from anybody Peter, we didn't cause this, we didn't do this," Natasha spoke up, Peter hadn't heard the redhead say anything in at least an hour, but her voice was sharp and easy to hear now. "We saved you and brought you back here because if we didn't you would have died, this isn't us trapping you, this is us protecting you."

Peter felt his cheeks heat up, in embarrassment or anger he wasn't sure. He would have liked to deny that he needed their protection, but with the events of yesterday so prevalent in his mind, he knew it wasn't true. "I know that." He spat, "And thank you all for saving my-my sorry butt, I do appreciate it, I really-really do, but I'm a lot better now and I think it's time that I-I went home,"

"And once we let you go home, what will you do next time this happens?" Steve asked. The question caught Peter off guard, but he didn't get a chance to answer before Steve was talking again. "Next time you can't handle one of your rogues, what if no one is there to save you?" Steve's eyes were piercing even in the near dark. "You are a minor Peter, a teenager, not even of legal driving age yet, we can't allow you to risk your life like this."

Peter shot up from the couch, stumbling a bit on his casted foot. His eyes were burning and so was his chest, a fire of pain and anger shooting through him. "You c-can't take Spiderman away from me!" He shouted, denial and fear evident in his voice. "You have no right, I am Spiderman, you-you can't just-you can't just-"

"Spidey, cool it," Clint said from the floor, he was propped up on his elbows his feet under the coffee table. "We aren't taking Spiderman away from you." He said. Peter felt confusion cloud his mind at that statement.

Peter's tongue felt too big for his mouth as he tried to form an appropriate response to what the Archer just said. "Why?"

"Because," Tony said from his relaxed place on the couch, "you do a lot of good for this city, and you are a good hero. Plus, the only way to keep you from being Spiderman is to lock you up, and that's just too much of a hassle." Peter knew Tony was just trying for a joke, but the possibility still made the teenager's gut squirm.

Steve sighed, "Even so, we are not happy with a child going out and risking their life,"

"I am not a child," Peter snapped.

Steve shot him a glare, and Peter plopped back down on the couch due to its weight, making his ribs jolt with pain. "In the eyes of the law, you are. And we aren't going to forget about that fact. We cannot allow you to continue like you are,"

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he felt a coldness sweep through his body. His arms brushed over his borrowed shirt, it was Iron Man themed, and Peter was pretty sure it belonged to Tony's too. (Peter swore Tony was nothing more than a big dork in disguise)

Steve sat up straighter, never breaking eye contact with the teenager sitting before him. Peter knew that he was small for his age, but sitting across from this man made him feel incredibly tiny. "You will come to the Tower for training every other day, and you will wear a comm while out on your patrols." Peter shifted but didn't say anything as Steve spoke. "You will abide by our rules, and you will follow direction. Once weekly medical checks are mandatory, and when facing the bigger baddies, you will call for back up."

Peter thought about it, his insides burning with a defiance he knew he should squash down. He didn't. "And if I don't?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Then we turn to SHEILD, and see if they are as giving to you as we are," Steve answered, matching Peter's tone.

Peter bit his lip, "Fine. I'll do it." He agreed, this whole discussion was making him feel tired and shifty. The room was filled with an awkwardness so dense someone might choke on it. Peter thought maybe he was.

"Good. But there is one more thing you need to do."


Peter Parker did not belong on the inside of a limo.

Maybe perched on the top, or cleaning the large slim vehicle for some quick cash, maybe even driving fancy-pants people around New York for a job; but Peter himself definitely did not belong on the inside, sitting in the back being driven around like he was anything special. Or at least that's what Peter thought.

The inside of the limo was nice. Like really nice. Nauseatingly nice. The seats were a black leather and it smelt of cinnamon in here, there were snacks and a mini bar and everything. The driver's name was Happy, Peter distinctly remembered, because that was such an odd name for a limo driver. Though, Peter really didn't have any frame of reference, so maybe not.

Tony sat across from the teenager, sipping at a drink and gazing out the black tinted windows to the morning bustle of busy people headed off to work. Peter sat jittery in a corner, his fingers twisting nervously in his lap. He didn't want to do this, but it wasn't his choice, so there was no fighting it really.

Steve was sitting two seats down from Peter, he looked like he also felt out of place, but he was better at hiding it than Peter. Though, maybe Peter just really sucked at hiding his emotions because his nerves were shot to hell!

It was early in the day; maybe 7:00am or so. Peter still felt incredibly tired, but after Steve had stated his last requirement, Peter had barely been able to sleep at all. Bruce insisted that he needed to get as much rest as possible, and Peter knew that he was right, his body was sore and exhausted, but the thought of what he was being forced to do made the teen want to curl up in a ball and hide for a while. Maybe forever.

He was still in his borrowed clothes, the Iron Man shirt and a pair of too-long sweat pants that had been rolled up multiple times. One hand and one foot still casted in white, a bandage over the bridge of his nose to keep it in place, and his hair a big puffy mess of grime. He didn't know what had happened to his suit, but he didn't really want that one back anyway. Not after Norman had touched it.

So Peter looked about as good as he felt. Which wasn't good. He felt sick with worry and apprehension, his gut wiggling inside of him and his heart trying to claw its way out of Peter's mouth. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, and for some stupid reason, Peter really wished that Clint was here instead of the two men he was with. Which was childish, but it was still what Peter wanted.

"It'll be fine Peter," Steve reassured the teenager for the umpteenth time. He kept shooting Peter sympathetic looks and small smiles, which Peter wasn't really sure what to do with, seeing as Steve was the one making him do this in the first place.

Peter could do nothing more than nod. His eyes glancing out the windows to find that the streets they were driving down were very, very, familiar. A coldness started to slowly fill Peter's limbs and seep into his core. They were almost to his house, almost to Aunt May.

The boy bit his lip, he could feel where it had been split open the night before. It was still healing, his body favoring the bigger and more life-threatening injuries before it fixed little things like a split lip or a broken nose. Peter began bouncing his leg, feeling that hyper nervous energy start to fill him as they neared his neighborhood.

Oh god, he didn't want to do this. Not now. Not with Iron Man and Captain America accompanying him. Not when he was hurt and his Aunt must be filled with worry. There was a reason he kept all of this a secret. Already too many people knew, he didn't want to add one more, didn't want anyone else to have to shoulder his burden. Least of all his Aunt May.

"Don't think I've ever heard you be quiet for this long Spidey," Tony broke the silence a moment later, his brown eyes on Peter.

Peter resisted the urge to gnaw on his fingernails. He turned to Tony, giving the man a huff, "Yeah well…it's been a long day." He answered, not knowing what else to say.

Tony's eyes softened ever so slightly, but Peter still caught it. "She'll understand kid." He said, talking as if he knew May Parker. But he didn't. He didn't know that May had heart problems, he didn't know that she was just picking the pieces of herself up after she had shattered with the loss of her husband. He didn't know that she had to take on a second job, or that she was losing sleep because of it. He didn't know the burdens and large loads May Parker already had to carry.

But Peter knew, and Peter didn't want to add to her worry. He didn't want her to lose more sleep over him or for her health to get worse because of his secrets. That wasn't fair to her, none of this was fair.

Peter looked away from Tony, nodding again because there was nothing else to do.

Too quickly did they pull up in front of Peter's childhood home. The white peeling paint on the trim showing the wood underneath, the over flowing rainbow of flowers coming out the tops of their vases and making the house look colorful. The green grass needing a trim, and the tree that leads up to Peter's bedroom window still holding a lopsided bird house that he had made in the fourth grade.

Peter's chest tightened, and he had to look away. He couldn't do this, couldn't disrupted May's life like this. It would be selfish. Even if a part of Peter had always wanted to tell her; had always wanted to share with her how his day had really been; to be able to stop lying to her.

It didn't matter what Peter wanted, though, because all of those things were selfish reasons to tell her for. That's why he had kept his mouth shut, that's why he has to lie to May. Because Peter was protecting her. Protecting May from all of the evil he had brought into their lives.

Now, though, it wasn't a choice. It wasn't about want or need, it wasn't about being selfish or selfless, because this was no longer Peter's choice, this was not his decision to make any more. And Peter, in all honesty, wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or terrified at that fact.

"Up and at'em," Tony clapped his hands, snapping Peter out of his down word spiral. The billionaire opened his door a second later, before waving a hand for Peter to follow him.

The teenager hesitated for a moment, looking over to find Steve staring at him with those intense blue eyes. "You can do this." He said, his voice soft, but firm.

Peter sucked in a deep breath and forced his body to crawled out of the car. The air was cold and bit at his naked arms, but it was fine it gave Peter something to focus on, something to keep him in reality. Peter blinked a few times at his house, feeling a tight ball form in the center of his chest, it's weight threatening to suffocate him.

Before Peter could lose his nerve, he walked forward, making his wobbly legs move as he wrapped his arms around himself and walked through the dew-covered grass and up the old creaky stairs that he and Ben had been meaning to fix before he had died. The inside of the house was quiet, and the teenager couldn't make out any movement from the other side of the walls; Peter's heart ached at the reason why.

He didn't have his key he realized. (He didn't take it on patrols, he just crawled through his window, so there was no need for it) Peter lifted a shaking hand to the door, knocking lightly with his uninjured arm, the noise seemed to echo in his ears as he waited for a response.

He could feel the other two men behind him. Tony on his right and Steve on his left, the two almost seeming to be guarding his small frame, from the outside world, Peter wasn't sure how he felt about that, but their presents was helping to keep him grounded to the here, to the now.

A moment later there was a shuffle from the inside of the house, and the door creaked open. Peter got the soft whiff of lavender perfume a moment before he saw her. Aunt May looked a mess. Her hair falling out of a loose braid and her eyes red-rimmed.

Peter felt an immense guilt settle into his being at the sight of her. He had done that. He had caused this. Aunt May should never look like that. She should be singing in the kitchen as she baked, flour in her hair and a smile on her face. She should always be happy, always be singing. Not portraying this sorrow, never feeling pain.

"Peter?" She croaked disbelieving, as her eyes laid on the boy in front of her. Before Peter could register what was happening he was being pulled into a hug, enveloped in the sweet lavender of Aunt May's perfume, his face pressed to the soft fabric of her favorite sweater.

It only took Peter's foggy brain a moment to return the embrace. Wrapping his trembling arms around May, feeling tears prickle at the edges of his eyes as he did so. He had missed her so much. Last night when he thought he would never see her again- when he thought about her being alone- when he thought about unwillingly abandoning her-

Peter gave a wet sob into May's shoulder, clutching at her as she clutched at him. His fingers twisted into her knitted sweater, his hair mixing with her's, their erratic breathing misting the cold morning air. Peter didn't know what he would do without May. He loved her so much, she was his everything. He hoped that she knew that.

May hesitantly pulled away a moment later, her eyes watery and her forehead wrinkled in worry. "Peter, what happened to you?" She asked in a near whisper, her voice wet with emotion. Her hands going up to hold Peter's face, her right thumb stroking over the bandage on Peter's nose.

Peter forced himself to pull away, taking a step back, swiping at his eyes before he glanced at the two men behind him. May's eyes kept traveling to them, her gaze questioning and confused.

Peter's heart was thumping hard in his chest, his breath hard to come by. He felt dizzy and sick with worry, and he had to push past the lump in his throat in order to speak. "Aunt May, there's something I need to tell you."


That is it for this one boys and girls!

Tell me what you thought, I'm going to bed now, Fernandidilly-yo out!