"Hey Penis, you're blocking the aisle."
Peter jolts awake, and for a moment he has no idea where he is or what has woken him: he has no memory of having fallen asleep—only the slightly disorienting sense that comes with waking up from a vivid dream. The details flee as soon as he opens his eyes, but even so Peter clings to it desperately, just for a second. He has a feeling it was about Ben.
It's no use. The dream is already gone.
Peter looks up. Flash is standing over him, wearing an expression that is one part incredulity, one part disgust. Peter has fallen asleep with his legs sticking into the bus aisle. Peter registers this right away, and yet for a full fifteen seconds he does nothing: just stares at his own legs like he can't remember why they're attached to his body, let alone what they're doing blocking Flash's path off the bus.
He feels… off.
"Yo, Penis. Move."
And without waiting for Peter to reply, Flash kicks Peter's legs out of the way and shoulders off the bus.
Peter waits until the last of the other freshmen are gone before he gets to his feet, and even then he does so slowly. His ankle is tingling where Flash kicked him. When he stands, his vision swims. Everything swims, in fact: there is a steady, all-over pressure on his skin, his eyes, in his ears, a pressure that Peter associates with being underwater.
Something is wrong.
"Last call, kid."
Peter jumps. The bus driver is staring at him with a look of exasperation to rival Flash's. He realizes he is standing in the center of the bus, staring at his own hands, and he hurries to exit, tripping over his own feet in his haste.
He has to go home. Yes. He definitely has to go home. Peter's feet hit the asphalt and he pulls out his phone, wondering if Ben is working, if he'll be able to pick Peter up or maybe let him take a cab, because Peter feels clammy and nauseous now that he is awake and moving around, and he thinks he might throw up if he has to walk all the way to the subway station.
Then Peter unlocks his phone and sees his background: a photo of him and Lily and Emma, making pancakes on a Saturday morning. The photo was taken months ago. When he first went to live with Skip. He remembers: he lives with Skip now. He lives there because Ben is dead. And if Ben is dead he can't go home because he is supposed to go to the library for tutoring, tutoring which he needs if he wants to avoid getting kicked out of school. Because if he gets kicked out of school he will have to be home all the time, and that's not possible because home is where bad things happen, terrible things—
Peter sways. He closes his eyes against the tilting world, and when he opens them he is sitting at a table in the library.
He blinks rapidly. He can't remember how he got there. He shakes his head, trying to remember, but before he can someone slams a book down in front of him, making him jump.
"Hey, loser," says Michelle, dropping into the seat next to him. "Ready to study some literature?"
She opens the heavy book with a thunk.
"Um," says Peter, "sorry, what?"
"Points for politeness," says Michelle. "Zero for reading the context clues. I'm your tutor, Parker. We're here to learn."
It takes Peter far too long to realize that she is pointedly raising her eyebrows at the corner of the room, another to work out the movements necessary to look. Every hair on his body feels like it is standing on end, making his skin almost painfully sensitive; he winces as he turns. After blinking a few more times, Peter sees a teacher standing by the science section, pretending to read his book but really watching Peter over the top of it.
His head throbs. He turns back to Michelle, who leans toward him.
"He's here to make sure you don't go full Girl, Interrupted on me like you did to Leeds in the cafeteria," she whispers. "Just play along for a minute." She leans back, clears her throat, and starts to read from the book in an overly-loud voice, "When considering the use of multiple points of view in a narrative, it's important to ask yourself…"
Michelle's voice warps and fades as Peter starts to shiver. He's too cold, then too hot. Cold and hot and cold and hot and back again. He thinks he might be sick. He needs to go home. Ben is going to be worried if he doesn't—
The sound of the book shutting jolts Peter back to the present. When he looks around again, the teacher is gone. When he turns back, Michelle's face is very close to his.
"Alright," she says, "let's cut the crap. We both know you know this stuff at least as well as I do, if not better, so why did Principal Morita pull me aside yesterday and ask me to do him the 'huge favor' of 'trying to bring you up to speed' in a few classes? A few ? Liz told me you tested high enough on your standardized round to move up a grade in every subject last semester, and the only reason you didn't is because they didn't want to stunt your emotional growth or whatever. So do you want to tell me what the hell we're doing here?"
Peter opens his mouth to reply—or, he tries. Even his jaw feels heavy, his mouth tacky and dry. Nothing comes out.
But Michelle plows on before he can try again.
"For that matter, what is with the administration treating you like you're two seconds away from firing shots from the bell tower? We all know Flash's rumors are crap. The worst thing I've ever seen you do is throw a hot dog at Ned, and before that all you did was geek out about Star Wars and Legos when you thought no one was listening. You're like, the dorkiest kid at this school. At this school. So what's your deal, Peter? What are you hiding?"
Once again Peter tries to answer her. This time he manages a sort of dry croak, but he has the feeling he doesn't get his point across, because the next second he is pitching forward in his chair, the ground rising up to meet him.
"Woah!" Michelle catches him across the chest before he can fall, pushes him back into his seat. "Are you okay? What are you—? Woah."
In the course of steadying him, Michelle presses a hand to Peter's forehead. It's cool and soft, the first touch in ages and ages that Peter doesn't flinch away from, and he wishes she would just leave it there forever, but the next minute she pulls away to get a better look at his face.
"Why didn't you say you had a fever, doofus?" Her voice has no real bite to it. Peter thinks she might sound scared, but it's a vague notion. Everything is vague—his thoughts distant, his skin tingly. "Come on, you need to go home."
At last his voice comes unstuck from the back of his throat.
"I'm okay," he says. "Let's just talk about, um, characterization."
"Yeah, no. You need to go lay down. I'll get Principal Morita—"
She starts to rise, but Peter grabs her sleeve.
"No," he rasps. "Please. He'll think I'm ditching. I can't—it has to look like I'm trying."
"You are trying," says Michelle, but she lowers herself into her chair all the same. "Trying to act like a crazy person, apparently. You feel like a furnace, Peter."
He releases her arm.
"They'll kick me out."
Michelle's expression softens. She glances over her shoulder.
"Okay," she says. "Okay, I'll cover for you. If anyone asks I'll tell them I was frog-marching you through the city to a poetic beat, a-la Dead Poets' Society, okay? Just let me take you home."
Peter doesn't remember agreeing. He doesn't remember leaving the school, or giving Michelle his address. But the next thing he knows he is in the back of a car, a cab or an Uber, maybe, with his head resting on someone's shoulder. A second after that he is standing outside Skip's apartment.
Michelle is standing next to him. She has one hand on his elbow, steadying him, and she raises the other to knock on the door, watching him out of the corner of his eye with an unmistakable expression of worry.
Peter can't think of anything to say to reassure her. His skin feels like it's on fire. The edges of his vision are going black.
Suddenly, Skip is in front of him.
Peter takes a step back before he can think not to. He glances at Michelle in time to see her frown at Skip, but Skip hasn't noticed her yet. He scowls at Peter.
"I thought you were staying late at school," he says. "Did you forget your key?"
Michelle clears her throat.
Peter is barely conscious at this point, but even he can't miss the dramatic change in Skip's demeanor as soon as he sees that he and Peter are not alone. The scowl melts from his face, replaced by the mild, polite, parentish expression he used to use with Peter, but now reserves exclusively for company.
"Oh," he says. "You didn't tell me you were having a friend over, Pete."
"I'm just bringing him home," says Michelle. "Peter's sick."
Skip looks at Peter sharply. He presses his hand to Peter's forehead, like Michelle did in the library, but this time Peter doesn't lean into it. It takes all of his effort not to stagger back. After what feels like a very long time, Skip removes it.
"Well, I'll be," he says. "Come on in, son. Let's get you to bed."
He steps aside. Peter can't think clearly, but he has an animal instinct at the sight of the apartment beyond the threshold—to run, far and fast.
He fights it. Steps inside.
Skip doesn't invite Michelle in.
"Thanks, uh…?"
"Michelle. I think—"
"Thanks Michelle, but I can take it from here."
He starts to close the door, but Michelle sticks an arm out, holds it open.
"I think he needs to go to the hospital," she says. "He seemed really out of it on the way over, I don't think he's okay."
Skip glances at Michelle's outstretched arm, then back at Peter, who is standing just beyond the entrance, dumbly watching their small confrontation unfold.
When Skip turns back to Michelle, his smile looks pasted on.
"I'm sure I've got it covered, sweetheart. Looks like a nasty case of the flu to me, and that usually passes in a few days. Peter will see you at school."
Reluctantly, it seems, Michelle lowers her arm. She looks at Peter, her expression concerned but with a touch of something that looks, for just a second, like revelation. And then Skip closes the door over her.
"What did I tell you about warning me before you had people over?" he snaps as soon as he locks it. "Ugh. You do look terrible. Go to bed. I'll bring you something to drink, but you should stay there until your fever breaks, I don't want you getting the girls sick too."
Peter doesn't object. He doesn't think he could stay upright another minute even if Skip hadn't dismissed him. He stumbles off down the hall, collapses into his bed, and lets unconsciousness take him completely.
He sleeps and wakes in intermittent bursts. Waking is painful—all-over pain, pain too big to begin to approach, much less describe—but this has been true for a long time. The difference, tonight, is that he lets the dark take him as it will.
Peter dreams.
"Are you happy, Peter?"
Ben is sitting across from him in a black place, on a dark plane where nothing is solid, not even Peter. He's wearing his work boots and brown jacket. It's the outfit he died in.
He looks like he's been crying.
Peter sits across from him, and a few feet away.
"Hi Ben," he says softly. "I've really, really missed you."
"I'm sorry," says Ben. "I wish I had never left."
"It wasn't your fault."
"It wasn't yours either, buddy."
Peter sighs. He closes his eyes.
"I know. Everyone keeps saying that. Well—Ned keeps saying it." He laughs. It's a wavering, small sound. "But you know you wouldn't have been out that night if I hadn't left. It might not have been my fault, but I did cause it. If I had been better, you'd still be here."
He opens his eyes. Ben's are shining. He watches Peter with his mouth half-open, but he doesn't speak.
"It's okay," says Peter. "I'm not saying it to make you sad. It's better, actually, if I caused it."
"How's that?"
"Because… because if it was something I did… well, that's the only way any of this makes sense. It's the only way anything makes sense. If I'm being punished, I mean. Just… yeah. If I'm being punished."
Tears spill out of Ben's eyes. They run down his cheeks, splash onto his jacket, darkening the leather.
"Honey," he says. "Oh, Peter. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I wish—"
Ben dissolves.
Peter wakes to the sound of the door creaking open. He hears footsteps on the carpet, smells hops and bitter breath on the air. He wants to move, even though he can't remember why. He wants to run, but he can't. His body has turned to lead, his skin to ice.
He closes his eyes. When a hand pulls the covers back, he doesn't stir.
"Roll over," says the voice above him.
When Peter does not oblige, the hand grabs his shoulder. Starts to move him. Freezes.
"Peter?" says the voice. "Peter, wake up. Peter."
Time blurs out, disappears.
When it starts up again, Peter is in the bath. He's wearing his clothes, and they are heavy with frigid water. Above him, someone is saying his name over and over.
Peter drifts.
Maybe time passes or maybe none at all, and then he is dry again, and dressed in warm clothes, and that someone is lifting him back into his bed with shaking hands, mumbling something distant and unintelligible while they pull the covers back over him.
Peter hears the footsteps again, but this time they are leaving. He hears them disappear down the hall, hears their owner get unsteadily into his own bed. He wonders, briefly, why he can hear this so clearly, and then he is out once again.
He wakes slowly at first, and then all at once.
He's lying on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, which is bleached with late-morning light. He's surrounded by a salt-circle of dried sweat, and someone has put him in his pajamas, even though he's pretty sure he fell asleep in his clothes.
There is a sharp clarity this morning that was absent last night. Peter does what he should have done the moment he started feeling sick: he raises his hand to the back of his neck and finds—
Nothing. No welt, no lump, not even a scab to indicate the spot where the spider bit him.
Peter gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom, and automatically jumps over a puddle of stagnant water before he can slip, kicks a towel out of the way without thinking. The bathroom wasn't this messy last night: this must have happened while he was unconscious. But he files that away for now. Peter he cranes to look at his neck in the mirror, certain there must be a red spot or maybe even a scar—because surely something that could have caused whatever happened to him last night would leave some sort of mark?
But Peter doesn't see a mark. He sees the small hairs on the back of his neck, each of them stark against his skin—his skin, which is also dotted with pores the size of needle-tips, and a thin layer of shining sweat, all of these things as clear as if he were viewing them from under a microscope. His skin, which feels… different, under his probing fingers. Smoother, but tougher at the same time.
There are footsteps in the hall.
Just as last night, Peter can hear them long before they are upon him, heavy and shuffling in a manner that means they can only belong to Skip. His heart starts to pound, and he can hear that too, but more than that he can feel it, the tha-thump of his anxiety radiating out from his chest to his arms and the back of his neck, making the hair there stand on end.
Something is wrong. Something is wrong with him.
It's like the fever stripped away an outer layer of skin he didn't know he had, leaving every part of him sensitive in a way he didn't know was possible… and yet, it's not painful. Compared to the fever of last night—hell, compared to the last ten months—Peter actually feels… strong.
Almost powerful.
"Peter."
Peter looks up as Skip fills the bathroom doorway, but doesn't startle. He knew he was there. He could hear him. He could feel him. And as much as he hates being cornered—the bathroom being a particularly small space for Skip to trap him in—for once, he is too preoccupied to feel particularly scared.
Skip, on the other hand, looks terrible. He is still in his pajamas, still smells like last night's alcohol, so strongly Peter has to suppress a gag. Skip's eyes are red-rimmed, like he hasn't slept, and there is a layer of hair on his usually clean-shaven chin. He stares down at Peter from the doorway, shoulders back, and Peter tenses, but the next second Skip sags.
"Oh, my God," he says. "Oh, thank God. You're alright."
He holds his arms out, like he means to embrace Peter, but, somehow, Peter is already out of his reach. He sidesteps the hug, slides around Skip, and steps into his bedroom, all in one fluid movement, so quickly Skip staggers when he realizes the air in front of him is empty.
When he turns around, he looks as confused as Peter feels.
Skip blinks, but recovers quickly.
"Are you… feeling okay?" he asks.
"I feel fine," says Peter.
"You seemed… you were really sick last night. Your fever was…" He rubs a nervous hand across his mouth, and even from a distance Peter can see that it's shaking. "I put you in the bath. I got your temperature down eventually, but I thought… God, Peter, I'm just so glad you're okay."
He starts forward again, but once more Peter steps out of reach before he can get close.
"Why didn't you take me to the hospital?" he says.
(Because he doesn't care if you live or die.)
Skip freezes. The relief and concern painted across his face are invaded by a twitch, so small Peter can't believe he caught it, but which he nevertheless immediately recognizes as anger.
Then it's gone.
"You know why I couldn't."
Peter's hand automatically leaps to his wrist, which has played host to a ring of dull bruises almost constantly for the last few months. But when he grabs it there is no tenderness. When he glances down at it, there are no bruises. Even stranger—the scar from Felipe's knife is gone.
Peter's entire body starts to tingle.
"I have to go to school," he says.
"What? No, you're staying home today. Do you have any idea what I went through last night? You're—"
"I want to go," Peter says, yanking the sleeve of his pajama shirt down over his hand as he looks up. "It was probably just a—a twenty-four hour flu. I should go to school. I need to keep my grades up."
Skip is staring at Peter like he's some sort of hallucination. Peter knows why: he's never defied Skip before.
Peter wavers, but instead of acquiescing, like instinct instructs, he doubles down.
"School," he says. "I should definitely go to school. It's fine, and besides, Principal Morita is going to be suspicious if I miss any more. I'm okay, really. I should just go."
Peter thinks its the bit about Principal Morita that does it. Skip still looks doubtful, and a little suspicious, but after a moment he nods.
"Bea took the girls already. I'll drive you."
Skip watches Peter out of the corner of his eye as he walks out of the room.
As soon as he is gone, Peter leaps for his closet. He grabs the first clothes he can find, and runs to the bathroom to change, moving so fast as he discards his pajamas and yanks on his jeans he almost doesn't catch sight of his own reflection—and wouldn't, if it weren't for the fact that his shirt becomes tangled as he pulls it over his head, forcing him to look up to try to find the sleeves in the mirrors.
Peter's stomach drops. If he doubted any of the other signs that something majorly strange is happening, there's no denying this one: somehow, overnight, Peter has grown a thick layer of muscle all over his torso and arms. He even has abs.
Abs. He has abs.
Peter could easily spend the next lifetime marvelling at whatever the hell happened to give him a six pack overnight, but in the other room he can hear Skip putting his pants on, fumbling around for his shoes. Peter shakes himself. He finishes dressing, sneaks into the hall, and pauses just long enough on the threshold to grab his backpack before slipping out the front door.
He makes it six blocks before he realizes he left without putting on his glasses. He was too distracted by the sounds of the city, which stretch on for miles and miles, out past the harbor and the Hudson, each one as clear and as comprehensible as if they were being piped directly into his ears. Once he notices the missing spectacles, he also notices that he no longer needs them. He can see the dirt under strangers' nails from a block away. He can see the crystals in his breath as it turns to ice on the frigid air.
Still he walks on, briskly and without pause, until he is inside the school's front doors. He's a few hours late; the rest of the students are in fourth period, so he has the hallway to himself. Only then does Peter pause long enough to stare down at his hands, at the spot where his scar used to be, at the places where his wrists were, last night, peppered with bruises—these places that are now pale and smooth and thrumming with muscle that was not there a day ago.
"What's happening to me?" he whispers.
For once, nothing replies.
Peter makes it through one class—English—listening to every breath, every gurgle of his classmates' stomachs, the sniffle of every running nose, turning his head every time someone shifts in the corner of his vision, wincing every time the teacher drags the marker across the whiteboard, and then he decides it's time to get out. He's starting to panic, needs to think, and he's not going to be able to do that with this many people around.
He should just go—leap over the fence like he had planned the day of the hot-dog blowout—but he wants to grab his genetics book from his locker, nd the pit stop ends up costing him. When he slams the locker door behind him after snatching the book, he turns around to find himself face-to-face with a scowling Michelle Jones.
"Hi," she says. "And also, what the hell?"
Her voice is mild. Her grip, when she takes him by the wrist and drags him into the drinking fountain nook by the girls' restroom, is not.
"What the hell?" she says again when she has him cornered. "What happened to you last night? I thought you were dead when you didn't show up for class this morning, Ned said he didn't know where you were—how did you go from looking like an extra in a bad zombie flick to walking around here all rosy-cheeked and doe-eyed less than eighteen hours later? Are you even human, Parker?"
"I'm… actually not sure."
The truth tastes foreign on Peter's tongue. He looks over Michelle's shoulder and see that Ned is standing still amongst the crowd, watching them, but Ned drops his gaze and hurries away as soon as Peter spots him. Peter's stomach drops: if there was one person he might talk to about whatever the hell is going on, it would be Ned. But since Ned clearly still isn't speaking to him, he needs to get out of here.
He returns his focus to Michelle.
"Um," he says. "I'm really sorry I worried you last night, I must have eaten something bad at lunch. I'm all better now, so—"
He tries to move around her. Michelle is quicker than Skip. She steps in his path.
"That was not food poisoning," she says. "You felt like you were having a reactor meltdown, I thought you were going to burst into flames. And what was up with your stepdad? I thought it wasn't possible for you to look any worse, but that was before I saw the look on your face when he opened the door."
Peter's mouth goes dry. His focus snaps inward. He's suddenly aware of how close Michelle is standing.
"Skip's not my stepdad," he says. "He's my foster parent."
Michelle's scowl falters. He's said the wrong thing, revealed more in the evasion than he would have with a flat-out lie. He backtracks.
"I have to go," he says. "I'm gonna be late—"
"Don't BS me, Parker, I know when something is up. So why don't you—"
Inside Peter's chest, something breaks. It's like there has been a tiny gate within him, and that gate has been holding back a wild, flailing animal—the ghoul—which has been flinging itself against the hinges in a desperate attempt to escape. It came close with Ned—but now it is fully free.
The ghoul rears its head at Michelle. When it speaks, it speaks with Peter's voice.
"Why is it any of your business?" he snaps. "I'm sorry, but didn't you just introduce yourself to me, like, yesterday? So why do you care so much all of a sudden? And why are you following me around like you're obsessed with me?"
Michelle steps back, hurt clearly written across her face even as she tries to fight it back, to keep her careful, neutral expression.
"I'm not obsessed with you," she says. "I'm just very observant."
Underneath, Peter can already feel shame beginning to bubble. But the ghoul is still in control, because Michelle hasn't given him enough space. She still has him cornered.
"Well, go observe someone else," he says. "I told you I'm fine, so leave me alone."
Finally, Michelle makes enough room for Peter to hurtle past her.
This time, Peter makes it to the fence. Climbing it takes no effort at all—in fact, he nearly floats to the other side.
When he lands on the other side—gracefully, lightly, like he weighs nothing at all—Peter finally allows himself to think the word that has been clamoring for space in his mind since he woke up this morning, but which he has been too scared, up until then, to allow:
Superpowers.
Heart hammering, mind racing, Peter casts one last glance at the school.
And he disappears into the city.