Lying Heart
Peter is somewhat awake by the time the car is a few blocks from his address in Queens, and alert enough to remember that he is still in his Spiderman suit. He blearily looks around the car, not actually expecting to see his backpack in the seat next to him, but once he does he pulls the clothes out and slips on jeans and zips up his hoodie and shoves his mask into his pack.
He isn't sure whether or not to thank the driver; he can't see whoever is at the wheel through the divider, and Peter doesn't want to go out of his way to show whoever it is his face. So he gets out of the car, dragging his unbelievably heavy limbs toward the door, and doesn't say a word as the black car drives away.
Aunt May meets him halfway up the walk and it's clear she has been waiting at the door. She doesn't say a word, just puts an arm around his shoulder and helps him up the stairs and into the house. She carefully directs him toward the couch.
"I'm bleeding," he protests, but she sets him down anyway, ignoring him. He settles into the cushions, trying not to groan.
Aunt May sits beside him, looking him up and down, a hand covering her mouth. "Peter," she says, and in that one loaded word he hears all of the worry, the exasperation, the frustration he has put her through in the last few months. He shuts his eyes in an attempt not to look at her. He hates to think he put that weariness in her voice, hates to think that he is the cause of all the extra wrinkles he can see on her forehead and the dark spots under her eyes.
"You said you were going for a walk," she finally says, knowing full well that Peter is still conscious.
He wracks his brain for some kind of excuse. "I should have … I should have called …"
"You went into the city, I figured as much after the first hour," Aunt May says, shaking her head, her face crumpling, "and then—I turned on the news, and you weren't picking up your phone, I had no idea if—eighteen people died in that attack today, and I had no idea if you were one of them," she says. "You can't just—Peter, I know it's difficult, but you can't just—"
"I'm sorry," he says, and he thinks of all the terrible, stupid things he has done in the past year, the guilt for this outdoes every one. It is only worse because he knows it's going to happen again and again.
"I know you are. I know. Peter," she says, leaning forward to stroke his hair, then looking stricken when her hand comes back red. "Why do you do this? Why do you always come home like this?"
Peter looks down at the floor.
"I don't want to lose you—"
Peter tries to shake his head. "Aunt May, no, you're not going to—"
"I already am," she says over him, "don't you see? You're disappearing, Peter, this is just the beginning, and one of these days—one of these days …" She lets the words sink into the air, unfinished, unthinkable. She holds her head down for a moment, collecting herself, and when her eyes snap up they are still red and puffy but dry. "Let's … let's fix you up."
She reaches out to help Peter up, to pull down the zipper to his hoodie, but he jerks away. "No, no, it's fine," he says, the effort of jerking out of her grasp making his head spin.
"Don't be ridiculous, Peter, look at you—"
"Don't," he says, his hands clutching to the hoodie. She reels back, stunned and hurt. He tries to sound reasonable, but the words come out sounding desperate and weak. "Please, don't, Aunt May. It's fine."
"Peter," she says, as if she is talking to some sort of wounded animal, "it's just me."
Their eyes lock. It's the closest they've ever come to acknowledging the dangerous truth. He searches her gaze, wondering if she'll say anything, praying to God that she won't—but if she already knows, then the damage is already done. He swallows and says, "I can't, Aunt May, it's—it's fine, I'm fine."
"Peter," she says, "I've known you since the day you were born. Even if you think you can hide something from the rest of the world, you will never—mark my words—ever be able to hide it from me."
The blood drains out of his face. "What … are you … I just, I don't know what you're talking about," he insists.
"Oh, Peter," she says, and it seems so out of place for her to smile with such sad eyes. "I buy all your clothes. I recognized that jacket the instant I saw it on the evening news, just after Uncle Ben died."
Peter kneads his forehead with his fingers wearily. He thinks of those initial first few days, of the unspeakable exhilaration and insurmountable stupidity of soaring through Manhattan wearing nothing but a mesh mask and his street clothes. He can't decide what to feel. Humiliated that he even tried to hide it from her in the first place, furious with himself that she has had the burden of his secret from the very first day, relieved that he doesn't have to lie to her anymore.
"You dropped this."
"Hm?"
She's holding up a piece of paper she plucked from the floor. Peter honestly can't remember what it is while she's unfolding it, so he doesn't try to stop her, but when her whole face pales as if she has seen a ghost he wishes he had.
"Where did you get this?"
"What is it?"
"You tell me," Aunt May says, her hand almost shaking as she thrusts it toward him.
It's a note from the man, asking him to meet him at an address in the city at a specified time in three days. "Oh," says Peter. "It's … I haven't been alone, trying to stop the robots," he stammers, because he doesn't want to tell her anything more than she needs to know, just in case.
"Where did you get this?" she repeats, and Peter is surprised to see that her expression, her whole posture, is undeniably alarmed. She snatches the note back from him and reads it again, but Peter gets the sense that she's not really reading it so much as staring. "When did you get this?"
"Just now," says Peter uncomfortably, holding his hand back out for her to return it. He has a feeling that whatever has distressed her has little to do with the content. "Why, why do you ask?"
She stares at the note for a long time before she answers, and then with a tiny, disbelieving shake of her head, she hands it back to him. "Nothing," she says. Her hand lingers on his before she pulls away, and she waits until he is looking straight at her to say, "Be careful."
"I am. I'm careful."
Her eyebrows shoot up so fast it's almost comical.
"I'll be careful," Peter mumbles. Then they fall silent because they both know that Peter is no good at lying to her.
He might have slept straight through the night for once, if it wasn't for the call from Gwen that comes in around two in the morning. By some miracle he manages to lift his arm up, hit the "accept call" button and hold the phone up to his ear.
"Peter? Did you just pick up?" he hears her asking before he can even clear his throat.
"Mmff," he answers.
"You're alive. Okay. Okay. Are you okay? What happened? Peter, are you there?"
"Yeah." He squints, trying to adjust to the darkness in his room. "What—where are you?" he asks stupidly.
"Still upstate," she says. "That's why I didn't hear about the attack until now. I mean, for God's sake—another robot, a bunch of missiles, it's like, I can't even—I don't want to—you can't keep putting yourself in situations like this."
"I know. My new suit is wrecked."
"That's not funny," she says, "stop trying to be funny about it."
"Fine," he says shortly, because he is fully awake now and it has all come rushing back. He can't help the lingering bitterness toward watching her kiss Richard on Christmas Eve. Why does she even bother to call when she has so clearly moved on?
"You didn't answer any of my questions."
He sighs. "I'm fine," he says, "A little banged up but just … really tired."
"Sorry if I woke you," she says, not sounding very sorry about it at all.
"No, no," he says, "I mean, it's uh, nice to hear from you."
"What happened?"
He tries to stretch and thinks the better of it when his muscles grind in protest. "There's just … a lot of stuff I honestly don't know. And a lot of stuff that I do." He has already said too much—now even if he wants to withhold all of the details from her, she'll know that there's something he isn't saying and she will badger him to no end until he tells her. He really needs to stop doing this, needs to stop unloading on Gwen in some combination of wanting her input and wanting her sympathetic ear.
"Well, let's start with what you do know."
"What day are you coming back?"
"Tomorrow, but Peter—"
"I don't really want to talk about it on the phone," he says, which is the truth, even if he has some ulterior motives of wanting to see her in person.
"Oh. Well. Tomorrow I'm … kind of busy."
Neither of them speaks for a moment.
"That's fine," Peter says eventually. "That's great."
"Maybe some other time?"
"Yeah, maybe," he says, noncommittally. He doesn't want to sound at all like he is emotionally invested in meeting with her, doesn't want to betray the fact that he is so disappointed and embarrassed by her blatant rejection that it feels like an elephant just sat on his chest. "Anyway, I'm really tired, so."
"Oh, oh, yeah, I'm sure. Get some sleep. I'll see you around, okay?"
"Yeah," says Peter quietly. He stays on the phone, wondering if she'll say anything else, but then the line goes dead and the phone goes black and he knows she has hung up.