A/N: Have you heard the new title for the next Spider-Man film yet? I must say I teared up a little upon seeing it; I can't wait. Thank you to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed! Your support truly means the world to me. Though I won't reveal any details here, this chapter does contain minor language and heavy themes, so please proceed at your own discretion.

Chapter Two: Out of Sight, Out of Mind

"Hello? Hellooo? Hello…hah! Just kidding, I'm not actually here right now. Leave a message after the beep, and I may or may not get back to you!"

"Flash, Flash, I can explain—"

"I'd like to see you try," the kid smirked, leaning on the door frame as if he were about to observe a chicken run around with his head severed off. "What the hell are you doing, Parker? Last time I checked, they only made those for children."

Peter froze, looking down at his Spider-Man suit in dubiety. Did Flash see him as so small, that the mere concept of him being a real superhero was but a bad joke? He should be grateful, he supposed, that his pitiful reputation at school had saved him.

"You're…exactly right!" Peter exclaimed, clutching at the suit with enthusiasm. "I had this—this costume custom made for me. Yeah, I'm a huge Spider-Man fan, and I thought it'd be pretty funny if I wore it just to prank everybody."

"Well, you're not gonna fool anyone wearing that thing. It looks cheap," Flash scoffed. "I'm just shocked you thought you could pull a stunt like this in the first place. Like anyone would believe you're the real Spider-Man."

"Yeah, right," Peter laughed, more relieved than offended. "I-It was a pretty stupid idea."

"Stupid ideas belong to stupid people," he said with a shrug, glad they could agree on something. "Well, I won't waste any more of my time interrogating you, so if you could hurry this up—?"

"Would you like to activate interrogation mode, Peter?"

Flash's eyes narrowed to slits, whilst Peter's went wide as Karen's robotic voice rebounded off of the walls. The suit wasn't even on yet and she was already speaking, anticipating Peter's every need like an Internet search engine. Or Aunt May. Peter must have pressed something by accident.

"What was that?" Flash asked, his voice devoid of its dripping sarcasm.

"I don't know. The intercom, maybe?" Peter replied, an octave higher than usual. Slinking into the corner, he wanted nothing more but to disappear, but slipped on a piece of fallen notebook paper instead. It was ten times more difficult to maneuver around with his feet still stuck in each pant-leg of the suit.

"You seem to be having some difficulty walking," Karen observed. "Would you like me to increase the adhesion of your setules?"

For someone who was supposed to be helpful in difficult situations, she was certainly being the opposite in this one, Peter thought to himself as he grumbled, "Karen, deactivate speaker mode. Now, please."

"Certainly, sir."

"Who the hell is Karen?" Flash demanded, coming fully into the restroom. "What kind of a sick joke is this?"

It wasn't until his eyes caught hold of the embossed emblem on Peter's suit, and the mask sprawled out among the gum wrappers and homework assignments, when things finally began to click in his brain. His jaw fell, as did the rest of his cocky expression.

"Flash…" Peter began, suddenly forgetting that he was still in his boxer shorts. "Whatever you're thinking, I swear it's not true—"

"Oh my god," he murmured, brown eyes locking onto his in horror. "You're him. You're actually him."

"I'm really not!"

"You even have some sort of Siri built into your suit to help you out!"

"No, you have it all wrong! S-She's just a part of my phone—"

"She called you sir!" Flash was unraveling now, pacing around the boy's restroom in a frenzy. It was clear that the gears inside his head were now turning at an unstoppable speed. "It all makes sense now! The Stark internship, you ditching on us at decathlon. You were the one who crashed my dad's car—!"

"You have to be quiet!" Peter hissed, shoving his arms into the suit and letting it hang limp around his limbs. "Look, believe in whatever you want, but you can't tell anyone about this, okay?"

"Or what?" Flash straightened, regaining some of his composure. "What's to say I just walk out of here and tell everyone your little secret, huh? You've been lying to us this entire time, Parker. You're bound to face the consequences sooner or later."

Peter faltered under his classmate's smug stare. It was bad enough knowing that Aunt May was worried sick about him every time he walked out the door. He didn't know if he could handle another hundred stunned reactions towards his secret identity. His reputation at school would change, for sure. But the thought of a hundred pairs of eyes trailing him through the hallways was enough to make his blood pressure spike.

"You don't want to tell anyone, because…because everyone will want to talk about it, which is the last thing you want. I'm just the lame, unpopular Peter Parker, remember? Shouldn't it just stay that way?"

Flash gave him a sidelong glance. He had a point. No one would believe him if he compared the dweeb to a national hero. He didn't even know if he was the real deal or not.

"It should stay that way," Flash agreed after a while. "But I'm still not entirely sold on keeping quiet about this. What's in it for me?"

Peter pictured Betty Brant reporting the school news his first day of junior year. "Peter Parker was caught trying on a Spider-Man costume in the boy's restroom over summer vacation. Someone's ready to trick-or-treat! Now to Nurse Connolly on peanut allergy awareness…"

He suppressed a frustrated groan, for he hated having to make bargains with people he didn't trust. It all felt too permanent, too risky. But he needed to ensure Flash's silence at whatever cost.

"You can have my spot on the decathlon team," Peter said, knowing how important it was to his classmate. "I can move down to first-alternate."

Flash crossed his arms across his chest, considering the offer. With the amount of events he missed, Peter didn't even deserve to be recognized on the decathlon team.

"Deal," he spat, shaking hands with Peter. The feeling of the suit lingered on his palm a moment longer than he'd have liked. Suppressing a shudder, he said, "Now get out. I still need to take a piss, and I don't need you standing out here like some sort of insectile freak."

Peter grew quiet for a moment. His suit drooped around him like a parachute.

"Spiders aren't insects, though. They're arachnids."

"Out!"

Peter hastily gathered his belongings strewn onto the floor and stuffed them into his backpack, including his card for Mr. Stark. He was just glad Flash hadn't noticed it during their confrontation.

"How sweet is this?" Flash cooed inside his head. "What's next—are you gonna start calling Black Widow your mommy now?"

Pushing himself out of the restroom, Peter tried to levy the consequences of having Flash discover his secret identity. He certainly hadn't meant for it to happen. In fact, Flash was the last person he wanted finding out about this. Of all the people who could've walked through that door, why did it have to be him—?

The bell rang. Cursing under his breath, Peter whipped his head around in hopes of finding some sort of escape route. He really wasn't on top of his game today. Pressing his hand to the emblem affixed over his chest, he felt his Spider-Man suit fully activate, the material constricting around his limbs in under a second.

He aimed his web-shooters at an overhead ventilator shaft, dislodged the medal graft with a swift tug, and leapt into its open mouth without a sound. Chattering students flooded the hallway below like an undercurrent, unbeknownst to the escape that had played out just seconds before. Peter grinned to himself from beneath the shadows. Out of sight, out of mind.

And he wanted to keep it that way.

When he arrived at the New York Public Library, he understood the intent behind the distress signal. A crowd of people had already gathered on the sidewalk, craning their necks towards the blinding afternoon sun. Except they weren't admiring the library, or the blue sky that stood behind it like a school picture backdrop.

Instead, all eyes were affixed on the teenage girl about to jump off the edge of the building. And everyone was screaming at her to stop.

Peter bound animatedly from rooftop to rooftop, but froze in his tracks once he beheld the spectacle playing out before him. He was accustomed to people inflicting pain onto others, their expressions cold and menacing. This girl's was anything but. In fact, as Peter squinted at her from across the street, he could see nothing but fear splayed out on her face. He'd encountered all types of people before, but never one who wanted to inflict pain onto themselves. It suddenly grew difficult to swallow.

"ALIYAH!" someone shrieked at her from below. A friend, most likely. Peter asked Karen to activate enhanced reconnaissance mode so he could better hear her through the orchestrations of city traffic. He immediately wished he hadn't.

"Aliyah, please get down from there. Don't do this, please, don't do this. Oh, god—"

Switching it off, Peter bolted from the rooftop, and leapt off the edge without a second thought. Wind roared in his ears as the sounds of oncoming taxi cabs and hollering pedestrians dissolved into white noise. Colliding into the top of a trailer-truck (he could never quite stick the landing), he quickly regained his footing, and took another leap towards the library, where his face struck the concrete of the building with a smack. Figures swam behind his eyelids as he groaned.

That's gonna leave a bruise.

Shoving the searing pain into the back of his mind, Peter clung to the surface of the New York Public Library and began climbing. Intrigued murmurs emerged from the crowd as he scaled the walls with unfathomable ease.

"Isn't that the kid from the news?" one asked, shielding their eyes from the sun. "The one who saved the elevator full of students in Washington?"

"How the hell is he doing that?"

Peter heard none of this from up above, his focus only on the pair of worn sneakers that teetered dangerously atop the ledge of the building. The girl's pale blonde hair traveled in wisps around her hollowed face, her plaid button-up and jacket flapping like sails around her frail figure. He was afraid that the wind alone would be the cause of her downfall.

"I'm guessing you're Aliyah?" he asked her once he reached the top. It took a minute for her to acknowledge him, which was understandable. It wasn't often a boy with spider-like abilities suddenly approached you, lest of all atop a five-story building.

Her lips drawn into a thin line, the girl tilted her chin downwards in a nod. Peter took that as a sign to go ahead and introduce himself.

"I'm Spider-Man, nice to meet you," he greeted, waving at her from where he balanced a few feet away. She shook her head in disapproval.

"What are you doing here?"

Her voice was barely audible through the gusts of wind and the distant shouting. When she finally met his eye, Peter analyzed her stare through his mask and saw a culmination of stony indifference and undeniable dread. As if clambering all the way up here would do nothing to change her mind. As if someone had already made the decision for her.

"You seemed to have gathered quite an audience," he murmured instead, squatting down on the ledge. He dropped his gaze several feet below and instantly felt his stomach recoil. Swallowing, he stammered out, "I-I'm actually not that great with heights. Does the air feel thinner up here? It feels thinner—"

"Stop it," Aliyah ground out between her teeth, her hands curling into fists. "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not gonna work."

"No seriously, I'm afraid of heights," Peter told her, suddenly lightheaded. Aliyah let out an exasperated sigh, and he realized that stalling probably wasn't the best way to approach the situation. His expression grew solemn.

"Aliyah—can I call you that? Please, think about what you're doing," he pleaded, trying not to let the panic seep into his voice. "Let me help you."

"What, do you have a therapist you'd like to refer me to? A support group?" she snapped back, though it sounded wobbly. "I've already made my decision."

"It doesn't mean you have to follow through with it. There's a whole bunch of people down there who need you, who want you to be safe—"

"And what about what I want?" she demanded, flicking her hair away from her face so she could glare at him. "How dare you come up here and tell me what's best for me? You don't even know me! You don't…you don't understand," she said, exasperated. "You don't get it."

Peter grew silent. He never considered what she might have experienced prior to this moment, and felt incredibly stupid for not even bothering to ask. What had convinced her that life wasn't worth living anymore? Why—despite the sea of concerned faces below—did she speak as if she couldn't be helped?

He tried to put himself in her shoes, and figured that if several people were screaming at him, he'd be vexed, too. All of those comments and outside opinions had to have been more overwhelming than helpful. Taking a deep breath, he took a small step forwards, and tried again.

"Okay, well maybe you can try explaining it to me? So I can understand, at least a little bit?"

Aliyah scoffed, craning her neck towards the sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight.

"We're standing on the edge of a five-story building, and you want to make small-talk?"

Peter shrugged. "It's because you're right, I have no idea what you're going through."

Her eyes widened. It had been so long since she heard those words being spoken to her. You're right. All this time it had been the exact opposite. You're wrong for wanting this. You're wrong for refusing help. You're wrong, wrong, wrong.

"And for what it's worth," he added sheepishly. "I'd be pretty bothered too if some weirdo in a spandex suit just came up to me and started talking."

Aliyah let out an unexpected laugh, her eyes lighting up for a split-second before clouding over again. Peter held onto that look for as long as he possibly could.

"My dad died in a car accident," she told him, her gaze trained on the window right across from her. The blinds were drawn shut, and if she squinted hard enough, she could make out her own reflection. It was barely recognizable. Had she really become that thin?

"Oh," Peter replied, not knowing what else to say. She nodded, feeling that familiar upsurge of tears working its way up her body.

"Yeah."

"How long ago?"

"Four months," she answered, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "People told me it would get better, that whatever I was feeling would eventually come to pass. They talked about me like I was going through some kind of phase, and that I had to get over it as soon as possible."

The anger in her voice was evident now. Peter watched as she let out a frustrated cry, as if she wanted nothing more but to expel the grief from her body so she wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. Tears rolled down her cheeks; she made no move to wipe them away.

"And what's even more infuriating i-is that no one even bothers to act like they miss him. As if just because he's dead he suddenly never existed."

"…I'm sorry," he replied, knowing his words weren't much help, but saying them anyways. "What kind of things do you miss about him?"

Aliyah looked to him in surprise, shocked he even bothered to ask. Most people just offered their condolences and left it at that, as if asking questions about her father was like navigating a minefield. She was tired of people treating her like she was some sort of fragile thing. She was broken, and could come to terms with that. But she didn't need her ears covered whenever anything remotely upsetting was said. Even as a child, she'd hated that.

"I miss…debating with him," she sniffled, pieces of him resurfacing one-by-one. "He taught me how to win an argument by reasoning my way out. I miss listening to his old CDs on the way to school, and eating breakfast with him every Sunday."

For a moment she appeared lost in thought. Peter wondered how long she'd kept those memories of her father bottled-up, the pressure within her building up until it eventually led to here, to this very rooftop.

"These past four months have been the shittiest four months of my entire life. And I am so sick of people telling me that they shouldn't be," she choked out, shoulders shuddering with a sob. "I just want my dad. I just want to see my dad again. Please, I-I can't take this anymore…"

Aliyah was swaying now, the remainder of her strength losing against the wind. Any second now and she would be tumbling through it towards the ground. Peter was running out of time. Heart hammering in his chest, he said the first thing that came to mind.

"I-I don't know if this will help," he began, holding his hands out as if that would be enough to keep her there. "But I've had to grow up without my parents, too. And it's not easy, I get that. No one understands that more than I do."

A surge of triumph shot through him when she met his eyes. They were red-rimmed and puffy. A warm shade of blue. He licked his lips and continued.

"Sometimes, I feel like I never even knew them," he admitted. "I know what they look like, and what their names are. How they made me feel. But that's about it."

Careful Spider-Man, your Peter Parker is showing, he thought to himself. But perhaps what she needed right now wasn't a superhero, but a regular kid. Who had more or less of an idea what she was going through.

"Those memories you have of your dad? They matter. And you need to be alive so that others can remember him like you do."

Aliyah's gaze returned to her shoes. The crowd of faces beneath them.

"If I step down from here…" she started, her jaw tightening with indignation. "It's going to be so much harder. I have to…face things without him. And that scares me."

Peter rubbed his hands together. He didn't want to tell her that everything was going to be okay, because she was right. It was going to be difficult living without her dad. And that was a pain he couldn't alleviate, no matter how much he wanted to.

"I-I had this fortune cookie one time," he said instead. "It said something along the lines of, 'We are made to persist.' And I don't know why I thought that'd be inspirational; I'm literally giving you advice from a baked good—"

He was cut off by her laugh. This time, she didn't try to push it down. It filled her face and brightened her eyes, and Peter didn't think he could ever be more relieved that someone found him funny.

"I'll remember that," she told him after a while. "Thanks."

"…so does that mean you'll step down?"

The determination in her blue eyes faltered as she beheld the bustling vein that was Fifth Avenue. She truly believed it was the last thing she'd ever see when she woke up that morning. But when she looked to this stranger in the mask, who couldn't have been much older than her, she realized that maybe she didn't want the responsibility of deciding where life ended and another began. That there were far better things to be responsible for.

His outstretched hand was an invitation to live another day. And maybe another after that. There mere idea of navigating it without her father to hold her hand was enough to make her stomach twist. But at least she now knew, or rather understood, that she wasn't entirely alone. The boy standing next to her was a testament to that.

Aliyah took a shaky breath as she edged towards him, her extended hands a mere few inches away from his. You're almost there, she told herself, blood pounding in her ears. Just one more step—

Her foot slipped.

Peter didn't know what hit him first—the gut-wrenching surprise on her face, or her piercing scream, but he immediately sprang into action. Firing his web-shooter, he secured himself to the roof, and dove after her. Within seconds, he caught her in a crushing embrace, holding on to her frail body with all the strength he could muster as they dangled in mid-air, suspended hundreds of feet above the ground. Aliyah was shaking.

"It's okay, you're okay. I gotcha," he reassured her, though his calm disposition was in no way a reflection of what he actually felt. "Why couldn't we have just used the stairs?"

"How are you doing that?" she asked between breaths, her eyes widening at the synthetic material stretching from his web-shooter. Peter met the direction of her stare and shrugged.

"It was a science experiment."

"But that's impossible," she said, astonished as he clung to the wall with nothing but his bare hands. "Gravity doesn't work like this. It doesn't just exempt certain people."

"Wanna bet?" he asked, flashing her an impish grin she couldn't see. "Watch this."

Detaching his webs from the roof, Peter had her climb onto his back before scaling down the building, picking up speed as they descended. He really should've been more careful, as Aliyah's grip had gone from tight to vicious, but he didn't stop until he felt the concrete beneath his feet again. When they reached the ground, she felt faint, her heart hammering beneath her shirt.

She was immediately swept up into a series of arms, sounds of relief coming from the crowd that had appeared so tiny to them just seconds before. A police car blared somewhere in the distance.

"Thank you," a girl said as she sobbed into Aliyah's shoulder. Peter realized it was the girl who had screamed her name beforehand. Her voice was hoarse now as she cried, "Oh god, never do that again! You scared the shit out of me!"

"I'm sorry," Aliyah said, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I promise, it won't happen again."

Peter shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he watched the exchange unfold before him. Anticipated looks came from the other spectators, as if expecting him to say something or take the credit for saving Aliyah's life. But attention was never his intention behind doing these things in the first place. He was just glad she was okay.

The girl turned from her friend to look him in the eye. Was it possible to understand the person beneath the mask without seeing their face? He froze beneath her red-rimmed stare as she approached.

"Who are you?"

Peter was silent for a moment, seeing the opportunity. He knew he wouldn't take it.

"Like I said, I'm just your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man."

"Right," Aliyah said, letting out a huff of amusement. "Okay—who are you really?"

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he imagined what it would be like if he just removed the mask and introduced himself. Peter Parker and Spider-Man would suddenly become the same person. Was he prepared for that kind of attention? He didn't have many choices as a teenager, but this was one of them. Sometimes, facing that choice day after day felt like more than he could handle.

"I'm sorry," he said after a while. "I can't say."

Aliyah grew quiet, trying to come to terms with his response. It was difficult being indebted to someone whose name you didn't even know. Nevertheless, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and nodded.

"Well, it was worth a shot," she replied dryly, hands retreating to her pockets. There were faces all around them, awaiting. For what, she didn't have a clue. Lowering her voice, she asked him, "Do you really think I can do it?"

"I know you can," he reassured her, directing his web-shooter at an adjacent scaffolding. If he was careful enough, he could make his exit without breaking it. "Be brave, Aliyah. I mean, I think you already are, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded every now and then."

"And will I be seeing you again?"

"I dunno, maybe. I'm always out and about," he said, shooting his synthetic webbing towards the iron-wrought framework. It caught hold without fail. "Don't worry too much about me, though! You've got your whole life ahead of you."

Maybe it was the mask that gave him a sense of authority, or a safe place for him to be vulnerable without necessarily being identified, but he found talking to be whole a lot easier as Spider-Man than as his usual, unglorified self. In fact, he had been wondering for months now if he was enough. If Peter Parker could live up to the hype of who Spider-Man really was. What if he showed his face, only for others to be disappointed in what they saw?

He wasn't exactly the epitome of heroism. In real life, he fumbled over his words and still had trouble discerning left from right. What began as a need to keep himself hidden from Aunt May was now an issue of whether or not people would accept him for who he really was. Peter never doubted his reputation would change if he revealed his identity. It was in what way that scared him the most.

That fear remained with him long after he disappeared into the jungle of skyscrapers and billboards.