After he emails Ned, Peter falls asleep again. It's a long sleep, but restless, and when Peter blinks back to consciousness sometime in the late afternoon, it takes him a second to orient himself. He stares at the ceiling for a full thirty seconds, expecting the white paint to turn into the broken slat of Felipe's bunk at any moment.
But the white remains. So the next thing Peter does is check his phone.
He expects to see a reply from Ned. He does not expect to see seventeen replies, the first of which is OH MY GOD!, several of which are just completely incoherent, and the last of which says, I am outside.
Outside? Peter stares at the word for a long time, wondering if it's some sort of typo. Outside of what?
This is when he realizes there are voices coming from the living room.
Peter looks up. The bedroom door is half-open, allowing the voices to drift through. One of them, though muffled, he recognizes as Skip's. And the other...
Peter practically trips over himself in his haste to get out of bed.
In the living room, two figures are sitting on the couch, facing away from the hallway. Even sitting down, Skip towers over the second figure, which has black hair and round shoulders and is bouncing slightly as it says something to Skip that Peter can't quite hear.
"Ned?"
Ned and Skip turn to face him.
Peter feels a surge of happiness, elation, disbelief—that's Ned, his Ned, sitting in the living room of the apartment Peter now calls home when just hours ago Peter was certain he would never see him again. Peter starts forward as Ned leaps to his feet, then—
Freezes. Just as suddenly as the happiness rose, it sloughs away in a cold front of dread, so powerful it takes Peter a disorienting moment to understand it, and even then he's not sure he does understand—isn't he supposed to be happy to see his best friend?
But he's not. He's… the only word for what he's feeling is terrified. Peter is a curse, a taboo, and while he can accept that for himself, can even live with it, especially when he can use it to help the people around him, he never, never, never wants Ned to get caught up in the terrible whirlwind of bad fortune that is his life.
Ned, catching Peter's expression, halts midway across the distance between them.
"What are you doing here?" says Peter.
Ned's face falls. Peter has never seen anyone look so disappointed, but he can't move, can't summon anything other than an almost irrepressible desire to make Ned leave. It's irrational, inexplicable: Skip has been nothing but nice to him since he arrived. But the animal part of Peter is screaming at him to get Ned out, get him away, the same way it screamed at him to take the food and run this morning.
Skip gets to his feet slowly.
"It's okay, Peter," he says. "Ned and I were just getting acquainted."
Swallowing, Peter turns to Skip.
"I didn't give him your address," he says. "I don't even know your address."
"I found it myself," says Ned. "I basically just Googled all the Westcotts in Midtown, it wasn't even like, hard. Peter, I thought—"
"It's not Ned's fault," says Peter. "I just—I was telling him I had a new—a new place to stay, I didn't think he would actually show up, I know I'm not supposed to—please don't blame him. It's my bad."
"Woah, woah, woah," says Skip, holding up his hands, frowning. "Peter, you're not in trouble. You're allowed to have friends over."
The worry doesn't disappear, but it does go stagnant.
"I am?"
Skip laughs. It's a little awkward, but not unkind.
"Yeah. I told you this morning, I want you to feel at home here. Granted, I'd normally appreciate some warning" —he glances at Ned, and once again something foreign and absurd flares in the back of Peter's mind: the instinct to jump in front of his friend— "but Ned here seems like an okay cookie. And I can understand why he's eager, it sounds like you two haven't seen each other in a while."
Peter swallows and nods.
"Come sit down," Skip says. "Ned was just about to tell me some exciting news."
Dumbly, Peter follows Ned back to the couch. Sits beside him and can hardly believe he's real, even when their sides are pressed together.
While Skip takes the armchair across from them, Ned mouths, Holy shit, dude, and gestures at the apartment, wide-eyed.
I know, Peter mouths back.
Skip waits until he has their attention to speak.
"So," he says, "Ned was just telling me you used to go to Midtown. That's very impressive, Peter. It's not in the file they gave me."
Peter gulps, shrugs. The edge hasn't quite faded—he still feels tense, like he's waiting for a blow to fall. But Skip is still smiling, so he says,
"Yeah, um. I only did seventh grade though, before—before I moved."
"Peter was the smartest kid there," says Ned. "He had a scholarship and everything."
"Ned, you don't have to—"
"And I know he missed eighth grade," Ned plows on, "but the new semester just started a week ago and I talked to Principal Morita today and he said that if Peter can still test into all the grade-level classes he'd be willing to consider letting him do late registration because of the circumstances and whatever, and Peter can definitely test into all the classes because, like I said, he was the smartest kid in school. And no offense, Mr. Westcott, but I think it would be super uncool of you if you didn't at least, like, consider it. Because really, is there anything worse than um, unrecognized potential? And I know it's kind of expensive, but I can get Peter a transit pass and if he signs up for the same classes as me we can share books, and—"
"Ned, it's okay, I don't—Mr. Westcott, school is really expensive and—"
"But school is important," says Ned pointedly, in a way that makes Peter think he rehearsed this argument many times on his way over. "It's an investment in our futures. In Peter's future. And I just really, really, really think you should consider it, Mr. Westcott, because no matter what they said about Peter in his—his file or whatever, he's the best person I've ever known. He deserves this."
Ned goes red as he says it, and his hands are clenched on his knees like he is desperately holding on to every ounce of courage available, but he doesn't break eye contact with Mr. Westcott, and when he finishes speaking he clenches his jaw and continues to hold it.
Peter, though, has to look away. His eyes are prickling.
Skip looks between the pair of them, still smiling mildly.
"Well, Ned, you've certainly convinced me."
Both boys let out identical breaths. Peter hadn't even realized he was holding his.
"I—I have?" says Ned.
"Yes, though to be fair, I'm probably not the holdout you were expecting," says Skip. "Education is the main focus in all of the work I do with my boys. I had planned to look into schools for you today as it was, Peter. I had no idea you were so gifted, or Midtown would have been top of the list anyway. But it's still lucky you're here, Ned, because I have a feeling Peter isn't one to toot his own horn about these things."
Skip winks at Peter, whose mouth is hanging open. To Ned, he says,
"Give me Principal Morita's number. I'll call him first thing in the morning. Now, do you boys want something to eat while you catch up? I have pizza rolls."
Ned immediately springs into action, fumbling in a backpack at his feet that Peter hadn't noticed until now and jumping to his feet to give Skip the little slip of paper he pulls out of it.
Peter, on the other hand, is too stunned to move. He can't remember the last time anything was this easy. Even when he was living with Uncle Ben, good things didn't just happen , at least not without some sort of emotional or financial tug-of-war. School, in particular, had always been a source of tension: even though Ben never, ever complained, Peter knew his tuition had been a burden, even with his scholarship. Knew Ben had taken extra shifts and spent long nights poring over receipts, trying to make up for the deficit.
But Skip didn't even blink.
(What could that mean, Peter? Because you know it's not you. Good things don't happen to Peter Parker, so think, stupid. What does it mean?)
"Do you want to show Ned your room?"
Peter jolts and gets to his feet.
"Yeah. Sorry, I—"
"Actually," says Ned, "I have to go. I'm—my mom—but—thank you for um, having me and—"
"Anytime, Ned. A friend of Peter's is a friend of mine. Why don't you walk your friend out, Pete?"
Numbly, Peter gets to his feet and follows Skip to the front door, Ned trailing in his wake. Skip waves them out, silently pressing a key into Peter's palm as he passes and winking again. He closes the door after them.
Ned and Peter are silent as they walk down the hall and into the elevator. But as soon as the doors close over them, Ned tackles him.
"Oh my god," he says, "oh my god, oh my god, you're alive dude. You're alive and you have all your limbs and you don't have a bunch of prison tattoos on your face and you're here. I can't believe it. This is the best day of my life."
At last, a smile works its way onto Peter's face as he staggers under the weight of his friend's hug, and reaches up awkwardly with his uninjured hand to return it.
"Wow, you must have a pretty low bar, Ned. I'm actually a little insulted. What about Comic-Con twenty thirteen? Did I get you those tickets for nothing?"
Ned disentangles himself and punches Peter lightly on the arm.
"Oh my God, you're not seriously being a smartass right now, Parker."
Peter continues to grin until Ned steps back, and Peter sees there are tears in his eyes. Ned wipes them quickly, but not quickly enough. Peter's grin fades.
"Oh, man, Ned, I'm—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean… I'm okay, man. Look, I'm right here."
"I can't believe it happened twice, dude. You just freaking… disappeared. Again. "
The elevator dings. The boys step absently into the reception area, and Peter only vaguely recognizes that there is a front desk and a doorman—meaning Skip must have even more money than he originally guessed—while Ned leads him across the entranceway and onto the sidewalk just outside.
"I'm sorry," says Peter. "I wanted to call you, Ned. I wanted to call you so bad, but I couldn't."
"Were you really in prison?"
"What? No! Of course I wasn't—who said I was in prison?"
"Flash, mostly. But it was like, the rumor of the century last semester. Everyone said you went nuts and tried to kill your foster family. It was insane, dude, but I couldn't get a hold of you and the teachers wouldn't say anything about what actually did happen so—"
Peter groans and puts his face in his hands, then removes them immediately when his injured palm gives a painful throb.
"Woah, Peter, what happened to your hand?"
Peter shakes his head. "It's nothing. It's complicated. I'll tell you I just—Ned, I can't believe you're here. I can't believe you got me back into school. How—how did you do it so fast?"
Ned wipes his eyes on the back of his wrist again, but the tears aren't coming as freely anymore. He sniffs.
"Uh, more like how could I be so slow. I went straight to Morita as soon as you emailed this morning. I skipped first period. I would have skipped the rest of the day, but then they would have called my mom and, well, you know. Ugh, speaking of—"
Ned looks at his watch, then over his shoulder at the beginnings of the rush hour traffic in the street beyond. He gives Peter a strained look.
"It's fine," says Peter. "You've already—I don't even know how to thank you."
Ned reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out—a flip phone. It's tiny and so outmoded Peter almost doesn't recognize it as a phone until Ned presses it into his hands.
"You can thank me," he says, "by using that."
"Uh, thanks Ned, but Skip actually got me a phone. A freaking StarkPhone , and—"
"Okay, that is insanely cool and we will be talking about all of this as soon as I get home, but right now just shut up for a second. That's a burner phone."
Peter raises an eyebrow.
"This is very Q of you, Ned."
"Yes, it is, and also don't make fun of me, because you know this is a good idea. I got it at the bodega at lunch. I only prepaid twenty bucks, so you should only use it for emergencies, but it's small and it's worth pretty much nothing, so if you're ever—if you ever need to, you can hide it. And you can use it to call me. And—"
Ned snatches the phone back, flips it open, and points to the number one, which he has colored in with a red Sharpie.
"Panic button," he says. "I did it during study hall. There's a tiny tracker inside—you remember the robotics camp I did two summers ago? I made a bunch of them for my drones—so if you press it, your location gets sent straight to my phone. That way if you ever can't call me—I'll still know where you are."
It's Peter's turn: tears well up in his eyes before he can help himself.
"This is—" Peter swallows. "I've really missed you, Ned."
Ned hugs him again. It's briefer than the one in the elevator, but just as good.
"I will see you," says Ned, "at school. Which is just—" He pulls away and makes the universal sign for mind-blowing. He looks up at the building they've just left. "Skip is actually pretty cool, isn't he?"
A small shiver runs up the length of Peter's spine, just like when Skip took his hand last night.
(Irrational.)
(Isn't it?)
"Yeah," says Peter, "I guess he is."
Ned immediately resumes his barrage of text messages and email the second Peter is back in the apartment, and since Skip is in the kitchen, Peter retreats to his room to slowly fill Ned in on the events of the last few months. Ned's righteous indignation on his behalf is a panacea for his throbbing hand and the lingering disbelief about the halfway house—disbelief that it happened at all, as well as disbelief that he is actually out—but somehow doesn't soothe the buzz in the back of his skull, nor the chittering little ghoul on his shoulder. Peter knows he is supposed to feel safe now, but somehow he feels even more on edge than he did at the halfway house. He keeps expecting his social worker to pop up and tell him there's been an enormous mistake.
Which is why when Skip actually does pop into his room about thirty minutes after Ned leaves, Peter jumps so hard he almost falls off the bed. He scrambles to his feet, stuffing the StarkPhone into his back pocket alongside the burner phone, heat rising on the back of his neck.
Skip doesn't laugh, though. He looks Peter up and down, the way he did last night, and says, "Come into the living room for a minute. I want you to meet the girls."
Peter follows him back to the living area, where the babysitter from last night, Bea, is helping the girls out of their backpacks and rain boots. The twins are perfectly identical, down to their matching outfits—dresses slathered in pictures of horses over pink leggings—but Peter knows which one is Lily right away, because as soon as she sees him she gasps, flails out of her jacket, and wraps her arms around his knees.
"You aren't sleeping so I'm allowed to do this now," she informs him. "Emma. Emma, look. New brother, Emma!"
"Hey, Lily." Peter puts a hand on her head and feels, for the first time since she sneaked into his room that morning, calm. Kids, at least, he can handle. Kids don't drink and carry around rolled-up magazines in case they want to swat you like you're a poisonous insect. Kids don't put locks on the front door and the refrigerator and sneer at you like they wish you were dead every time they're in the same room. Kids are safe. "Is this your sister?"
"Uh-huh. Emma, come say hi. Come on!"
But where her sister is all enthusiasm, Emma shrinks behind Bea the moment Peter looks at her. Despite all Lily's bright-eyed babbling and easy trust, it appears Emma does not feel the same way about Peter as Peter does about her. She peers at him with a dark, cautious expression, her hands wrapped in Bea's coat until the babysitter gently untangles them.
"Sorry, Em," says Bea. "And sorry, Mr. Westcott. I have homework."
"It's fine, Bea. Thanks for hanging with them while I sorted Peter out, there'll be a little extra in your next check."
Skip steps forward, takes Emma's hand, and guides her out from behind Bea, who smiles at Peter as she takes her leave (he feels himself blush furiously, but he can't do anything about it, as he's currently chained to his spot by Lily). Emma follows Skip without objection, but as soon as the barrier between her and Peter is gone she sticks her thumb in her mouth, making her look much younger than seven. She doesn't take her eyes off Peter as Skip leads her to the living room, where he sits her on the couch and hands her a tablet. Only when it's on her lap and playing some garishly bright cartoon does Emma look away, though Peter notices her eyes flicker onto him occasionally even as she becomes absorbed in the show.
"Don't feel bad," says Lily, "she's always like that. I wanna show you my room, come on."
Lily unravels her arms from around Peter's knees and takes his hand.
"Um," says Peter, "is it okay with your dad?"
"He's your dad too, silly."
Peter's flush deepens, but this time it has nothing to do with Bea.
Skip, who is already making his way back to the kitchen, says, "I'm Peter's foster father, Lily, but I'm not his dad. He'll call me Skip, like DeMarcus did. And to answer your next question, yes, you may show Peter your room. Dinner's on in twenty."
Lily redoubles her grip on Peter's hand and pulls him down the hall.
"You and me," she says, "are gonna be best friends."
Peter glances over his shoulder just before Lily drags him around the corner. Emma watches them go.
The rest of the evening passes in a surreal blur. Lily shows him the room she shares with Emma. She introduces him to each of her toys individually, and talks so steadily that there is virtually no pressure on Peter to respond, which he finds is a welcome relief. Despite having slept the night and most of the day, he feels fatigued almost to the point of disconnectedness—like he's in a waking dream.
The feeling intensifies at dinner. Skip has made pasta and chicken; Peter notices Skip gives him the most generous portion. Peter is grateful at first, then confused: the moment he begins to eat his mouth goes dry.
He thinks of Felipe and Arnold and his stomach flips.
Peter only manages to finish his plate because he can see Skip checking up on him out of the corner of his eye, and then the pasta sits like cement in his belly. It's a relief when Skip excuses them, and not just because of the weirdness with his food: Emma still hasn't said a word, though she did stare at him throughout the meal with watchful, distrustful eyes.
When Peter gets back to his room, he is surprised when he looks down and sees he has a dinner roll clutched in one hand. He doesn't remember taking it. But rather than bring it back to the kitchen, he finds a plastic bag in one of his desk drawers and zips the roll inside. He sticks it on the highest shelf in his closet, behind a stack of t-shirts Skip left there for him, and then scrambles into bed and pulls the covers to his chin.
"What's wrong with me?" he whispers.
For once, the darkness does not reply.
As he hands Peter the stack of tests, Principal Morita says, "I'm glad to give you this opportunity, Peter, but I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Mr. Westcott when he called me: there aren't going to be second chances here. Midtown takes academia seriously, but beyond grades, we also expect a level of behavior that reflects the values and ethics of our school. Understand?"
Peter understands very clearly: Principal Morita has read his file.
I'm the infamous Peter Parker, he thinks as he nods.
He gets it. He'd probably be wary around himself, too, if he believed some of the stuff Principal Morita has read about him. But still, Peter can't help the flush of satisfaction that rises when Principal Morita returns with a stack of graded scantrons, wearing a faintly-concealed expression of disbelief.
"This probably goes without saying, Mr. Parker," says Morita, "but welcome to Midtown."
After they have him sit for his tests, it takes the school another week to set Peter up to actually attend. It takes Peter longer than that to get used to the fact that he can go outside whenever he wants. Every time he approaches Skip to ask if he can walk around the neighborhood or go to the library or meet Ned after school he feels nauseated with worry, and every time Skip says yes it's like someone has pulled a ripcord on muscles he didn't even realize he was holding taut, allowing him to loosen up and breathe. Noticing he does this doesn't get rid of it, though it does add a healthy dose of shame to the confusing cocktail of his emotions.
The shame isn't aided by the growing pile of food in Peter's closet. After that first night he discovered an attic hatch in the ceiling, and the little crawl space contained therein has become the hiding space for his stash. Peter quickly becomes strategic about what he takes: it's mostly sealed food now, cans of soup and bags of chips or cookies, things that will last and are small enough Skip won't notice they're missing—even though Peter knows Skip would probably just give them to him if he asked.
He doesn't know why he does this, either. He only knows the little ghoul on his shoulder purrs every time he adds to his pile.
Lately, it's the only time it's quiet.
Yet for all the tension, things are, for the first time in almost as long as Peter can remember, good. He has a room all to himself. He and Ned talk constantly when they aren't meeting up after school, planning all of the things they're going to do when Peter starts his classes. When Peter gets home in the afternoons he reads on his phone and watches TV in the living room and plays with Lily when she gets home from one of the many after-school programs she and Emma are enrolled in. Lily adores him, and Peter adores her back—she's bright and precocious, and she is the only person in his life who not only knows nothing about his past, but doesn't care even one bit. She's a relief he didn't know he needed, but now that he has it, he wouldn't give it up for the world.
Emma, on the other hand, still won't have anything to do with him. Skip assures him it's normal. "Don't take it personally," he says. "She's been like this ever since they came to live here. We're working on it, but it's not yours to worry about, okay?"
Peter does worry. The look in Emma's eyes when she's watching him reminds him of the look in Felipe's the night he told Peter about Mariña and the stolen laundry detergent. But Skip's right: there's nothing he can do to convince her he isn't a threat except to not be one. So Peter smiles and keeps his distance whenever they're in the same room, and for now it seems like it's enough. At the very least she no longer hides whenever she sees him.
As for Skip...
Skip is great. From the first he has made it clear that he's available should Peter ever want to talk, but he hasn't once been overbearing. Since he doesn't work, he spends most mornings volunteering with the foster program, and his afternoons are for the girls and their piano lessons and gymnastics and soccer teams. At first Peter is amazed that Skip leaves him all alone in the airy apartment, surrounded by expensive things. But when he voices these concerns Skip just says, "You've been very trustworthy so far, Peter. I'd prefer to bet on your goodness and be disappointed than set an unfair precedent of strictness. You won't disappoint me, will you?"
Peter won't. The more he realizes that his freedom is real, the more desperate he is to keep it. The more approval Skip gives him, the more he craves.
It's why he doesn't tell Skip about the little voice, or about the stash of food.
Besides, the voices are wrong. Whatever is making him add to the stash is wrong. And maybe, just maybe, Felipe was wrong too. Maybe things can turn out okay. Maybe Peter doesn't have to constantly wonder about how this recent streak of good luck will unravel, and maybe the hint of a shudder Peter still feels when he catches Skip looking at him when he thinks Peter isn't paying attention is just another manifestation of the same irrationality—not evidence of something bad, just evidence that Peter himself is a little bit broken. And if that's the case, he's not going to risk this sudden, inexplicable fortune by admitting it. Because even if Felipe was wrong, and even if good things do happen, he was right about one thing: Peter can take care of himself.
The night before school starts, Peter receives a surprise.
Having spent the day at the library, feeding an irrational worry that, despite his test scores, he will be behind everyone who had the benefit of an eighth grade education that took place in an actual school, Peter arrives at the apartment that evening to find Skip, the girls, and Ned, gathered around a birthday cake.
"Surprise!" they all shout.
And so Peter, flushing, sits down to his first birthday celebration since Ben died.
"Did we surprise you?" Lily asks, crawling into Peter's lap after he blows out the candles. "Daddy didn't tell me either because he said I'd ruin it."
"Your dad's pretty wise," says Peter. "And yeah, considering my birthday was two months ago, I'd say I'm very surprised."
"It was Ned's idea," says Skip. He's leaning back in his chair, sipping a beer and watching Peter with a lopsided grin. "He told me you hadn't had a proper party. He set this all up, I'm just the money man."
"Happy birthday," says Ned. "And before you get all, Oh, Ned, you're too nice, you do too much, yes I am and yes I do. You can repay me by throwing me an awesome surprise party on my birthday. The new Star Wars comes out right around then, hint, hint."
"Happy fourteenth, Peter," says Skip.
It is, by far, the best night Peter has had since Ben died. They eat cake play charades, exchange stories, make popcorn. Even Emma joins in for a round of Candyland, though she lets a more-than-willing Lily take charge of drawing her cards and moving her piece. After the girls go to sleep, Peter and Ned stay up playing video games and losing track of the time, until finally Ned's mom calls, and he bids Peter farewell.
"See you at school dude," Ned says as he leaves. He makes the mind blown sign again.
Peter's mind is blown. He's full of cake and snacks. He's sleepy and happy, and tomorrow he's going to a real school, where he will attend real classes with his best friend. Peter grins as he closes the door behind Ned, turns around and—
Skip is standing right behind him. Peter jumps, grin sliding off, and takes a step back before he can help himself. Skip is much closer than he usually is, and now that he's nearby Peter can smell the beer on his breath. Skip's had one in his hand all night, but Peter didn't even think about it until now; the smell of bitter yeast makes Peter's head spin with memories of Mrs. Arlington.
He gulps and forces himself to smile. This isn't the Arlingtons. Plenty of adults drink. Peter has seen Skip have a drink with dinner on more than one occasion, though, granted, not usually more than one. Now Skip is clearly a little drunk: his eyes are just slightly out of focus as he smiles down at Peter.
"Thanks for the party," Peter says. "It was really great."
He's hoping Skip will step aside, let him go to bed. Instead, he steps closer.
"You deserve it, you know."
The ghoul is hissing in his ear—Skip is too close, (too close)—but Peter forces himself to smile wider, to silence it.
"Thanks Skip. Um, I should get ready for bed, it's—"
"I see you, you know." Skip presses on, his voice slurring just slightly. "You keep your chin up, Peter, but I see how hard this is for you, all this newness. I just think you should know, you're a really remarkable kid. Just really remarkable. After all you've been through… and you're so intelligent, so good with the girls… you should be so proud of yourself. I know I am."
"Um, thank you, I—"
But before Peter can try to slip around him, Skip leans forward and pulls Peter into a hug.
It's not like Ben's hugs. It's not a quick, affectionate squeeze or a reassuring touch. Skip presses his whole body against Peter's, and since Skip is so much bigger, so much taller, Peter is completely enveloped by it, his arms pinned to his sides. And Skip doesn't let go right away. He hangs on, increasing the pressure and running one hand up and down the length of Peter's back.
Every muscle in Peter's body goes rigid. He can't move—he can't even draw a breath.
(Too close, too close, too close!)
Just when Peter thinks he might snap, Skip inhales deeply, sighs, and releases him.
"Go to bed, Peter," he says. "You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow."
Does Peter imagine it, or does Skip sound faintly disappointed?
He doesn't pause long enough to think about it. Heart pounding, still holding his breath, Peter practically runs for his room, where he shuts his door behind him before he allows himself to draw a gulp of air.
For the first time, Peter notices there isn't a lock on his door.
"Get a hold of yourself, Parker," he murmurs. "Come on, you're being irrational."
(Aren't I?)
He is. He's being irrational. This is like the food—he's reacting to something that isn't there. There is plenty of food in the house and hugs are normal, a normal way to show affection. He is the one who isn't normal, and if he doesn't clamp down on of this he's going to lose everything right when things are finally starting to look up.
"You're being crazy," he says to himself.
(Good things don't happen to Peter Parker)
Peter puts his pajamas on quickly and climbs into bed, drawing his blankets up to his chin. He doesn't fall asleep for a long time.
He wakes again less than hour later. Down the hall, someone is screaming.