Despite the fact that it takes him the better part of the night to fall asleep, Peter wakes early the next morning—a few minutes before the first hint of sunrise makes its way through the open window of the foreman's office.
Peter doesn't move right away. There is an achey, deadened feeling in his limbs, like they are slowly turning gangrenous. It's been there since last night.
"Peter? It's five thirty am. Are you sure you don't want to try to sleep some more?"
That's Karen. Peter fell asleep with the suit on. Her voice is soft, but Peter almost wishes it wasn't. Everything would make so much more sense if it was just one way or another—hard or soft, warm or cold. Good or bad.
But things aren't that way, and they don't make sense. He's hungry, but he can barely eat. He's tired, but the thought of falling asleep makes his stomach turn. He desperately wants someone to just be nice to him, but the thought of hearing another kind word come out of Karen's system makes him want to tear his own hair out.
Mr. Stark found out who Peter is. He found out who he was , anyway, and all he saw was what everyone else saw. It's all anyone has seen since Uncle Ben died.
He doesn't think Peter is worth it.
Maybe he's not.
"Peter?"
Peter rolls over, away from the window.
"Did I ever tell you how my uncle died?" he says.
"You've never mentioned it. Are you okay, Peter?"
"It was my fault," says Peter. "I was mad at him. I don't even know why I was mad at him anymore, I just was, and I wanted to leave, so I did. I just walked out of the house like it didn't mean anything. And when he came to get me, he got mugged. Some guy shot him. The police said it was because he wanted his wallet, but really it was because of me. Because I wasn't grateful. And I was angry."
"Peter," says Karen softly, "that doesn't sound like it was your fault to me."
"Maybe everyone is right, Karen."
Can AIs hesitate? Peter doesn't know why they would, but Karen seems to.
"What do you mean?"
"You heard what Mr. Stark said last night."
"He didn't have the whole story. If you told him what you've told me—"
"Maybe he didn't have all the facts," says Peter, "but maybe that doesn't matter. I was that kid the night Ben died. I was angry and mean and I didn't think of anyone except myself, and that's why my uncle died. And everything else that's happened was because of that. That's what May thought. And that's what everyone else thinks, too. So maybe Mr. Stark is right. Maybe I'm not worth it."
"Peter." There is something new in Karen's voice, some faint edge that Peter has never heard there before. It sounds almost like fear. "All you have to do is tell me to disable the protocol that stops my outgoing transmissions. I could help you talk to Mr. Stark."
Peter laughs ruefully and sits up, crawls out from underneath the desk.
"He told me not to associate with Peter Parker, K. What do you think he'd do if he knew I was Peter Parker?"
"I could—"
"I haven't even done any of the things I said I was gonna do," he says. "I was supposed to help people—people like me, and all I've done is—is waste money and try to get Mr. Stark's attention. I thought… I thought I could be better. I thought Spider-Man would make me better. But I just let everyone down. Ned… I just… I need…"
Peter bites his own tongue, because whatever is rising inside of him is massive, and he knows he won't be able to hold onto it if it starts pouring out. He won't be able to hold onto himself. There is a feeling in his stomach like the ground is crumbling out from under him. It feels like the moment after the winged guy let him go last night. Like he's just started a long, long fall.
"Please, Peter. Let me—"
Peter pulls the mask off. He puts his street clothes on over the suit, but keeps it on. He tucks the mask in his back pocket.
He might be falling, but he can't let go just yet.
Spider-Man was always supposed to be a chance to make things better. But Peter has been trying to make things better for the wrong person. He's been trying to help himself but (when you stick up for yourself things always get worse) he should have been looking out for the people he promised he'd look out for when he first got his powers.
He can't fix himself. He can't fix Peter Parker. But as Spider-Man he can be better. He has to.
(I always told you you were nothing, Peter.)
He knows where he's going, but Peter is still surprised to find himself there. He remembers almost nothing of the walk, has no idea how he knew the way when he was so far outside of himself he wasn't even thinking, and yet here he is. Standing in front of the halfway house.
It's surreal, seeing it from the outside, even after more than a year has passed. It feels like looking at a picture of a thing instead of the thing itself: there's something two-dimensional about the flaking paint, the sagging chain-link fence. Like it's been painted there, rather than built out of stone and wood.
The windows are all dark, but it's still early. It's good; the providers are probably still asleep. They must still keep the kids on the upper floor. Peter can sneak around the back, climb in through the attic. Locked doors might keep the kids in, but they can't keep him out.
It's what he should have done ages ago. The moment he got his powers. The very fact that he didn't makes him understand, more and more, why Mr. Stark could have looked at that file and seen nothing but a troubled kid, not worth saving. He saw Peter Parker, and Peter Parker was the one who didn't want to come back here. Who thought about it, those first weeks and months, who even came close once or twice, but turned away each time, chest heaving, stomach cramping with phantom emptiness. Peter Parker had broken the promise he'd made—to use his powers to be the kind of superhero who saved kids like Arnold and Felipe.
But he isn't here as Peter now. He's here as Spider-Man.
Peter takes a deep breath, and grips the fence.
"Hey, asshole."
Peter whips around. There is a woman standing across the street from him, short and stout and middle-aged, carrying a heavy tote bag. He'd thought he was alone—it's barely past six—but from the scowl on her face, she sees exactly what Peter's about to do.
"You wanna go to jail for nothing, be my fucking guest," she says. "Vultures like you have already picked that place over though, fair warning."
"Sorry," says Peter, blushing furiously. "I wasn't—what do you mean?"
She jerks her head at the gate. Peter hadn't even looked at it; he wasn't planning on going through it. Now he sees there is a laminated sheet of paper tied to it with zip ties, and he edges closer to read it.
CLOSED
By Order of the State
NO TRESPASSING
When he looks back up at the house, he sees there is a heavy metal chain on the front door. And the windows aren't just dark—the ones on the lower level have been boarded up.
It's gone.
Peter turns again, shouts after the woman, who has already started to walk away.
"Wait!" he says. "Wait, do you know what happened?"
She looks disgruntled at the holdup, but she stops nonetheless.
"They were starving their kids. You must not be from around here, it was hot-shit news for about a minute last year. Big scandal, money going to all the wrong places, blah, blah, blah. If you ask me the real scandal was that anyone was fucking surprised. I live around the corner, I saw how those boys looked. Anything for a buck, right?" She squints at him. "But what's it to you? Besides the fact you're a shitty thief, I mean."
Peter shakes his head vigorously.
"No, I wasn't trying to—I just knew someone who—how did they find out? About the—about the food?"
She shrugs. "Some kid ratted them out, I think."
"Do you know who it was?"
"What do I look like, the fucking phone book?"
She turns away, muttering to herself.
Peter waits until the woman rounds the corner. He takes one last look at the hollowed-out windows of the halfway house, and then he takes off.
Peter ends up sitting outside the Queens No. 3 library for nearly an hour before it opens, but when it does he's the first one inside. He scrambles to claim one of the ancient, blocky computers, then drums his fingers so hard on the tabletop he nearly dents it waiting for the thing to boot up.
The second it does, he Googles the halfway house.
The very first article that pops up gives him what he's looking for:
Investigation of Local Boys' Home Concludes
Former residents claimed abuse, starvation, neglect
It's not the headline that has Peter's heart beating out of his chest, however. It's the picture that goes along with it. The picture of a tall, handsome boy in a suit, standing on the steps of some unknown courthouse, next to a woman who looks thin and tired but formidable nonetheless: she is holding the boy's arm and staring into the camera with an expression that is simultaneously bereaved and defiantly proud.
The caption reads, "Felipe Cerna, 15, who brought the charges against the boys' home, exits the courthouse with his mother after settlement was reached."
"He did it," Peter whispers.
He did it. Felipe did it. He did what Peter couldn't do—he got the place shut down. And he's not in jail. He's with his mom. Maybe even with his sister.
He didn't need a superhero. He did it all himself.
Peter starts to laugh. It begins small, just a chuckle, but soon it swells, until he has to bury his face in his hands to prevent the gales of laughter threatening to burst out of him.
He did it, he did it, he did it. And he didn't do it because he had superpowers, or because he wanted to get some billionaire's attention. Felipe did it because it was the right thing. Felipe did it because he is a hero, all on his own.
When Peter finally gets a hold of his hysterics and pulls his hands away from his face, his palms are wet, and so is his face. He was crying without realizing it.
It doesn't matter. He's so proud he could cry in front of his entire class at school and he wouldn't care for a second. Not even if Flash was there.
"Thank you, Felipe," he says.
He prints the article.
(You gotta take care of yourself, Pedro.)
The article is still in his back pocket two hours later when, trembling, Peter heaves himself onto the ledge of Ned's bedroom window and taps on the glass.
It's Saturday again. Peter can't believe it's only been a week since he revealed himself to Ned and spent the night here. But he's glad. Because that means Ned is right where Peter hopes he will be: in his bed, snoring softly.
He sits up, though, when he hears Peter.
There's a moment of disorientation, then Ned spots him. His brow furrows, but he gets out of bed and opens the window, steps aside so Peter can crawl through.
"It's early, Peter."
It's ten am. Peter has been awake for almost five hours—which is more than he slept.
Rather than point out the time, Peter says, "Ned, I'm sorry. Please, please don't hate me. Please."
Ned looks skeptical, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, but when Peter pulls his mask off the skepticism falls away, replaced by concern.
"Woah," he says, "are you okay? You don't look so good, Peter."
Peter's face is still swollen from crying. He puts a hand to his cheek and—whoops. He's still crying. He hadn't even noticed.
"I'm fine," he says. "I'm okay. I'm just—Ned, I can't stop thinking about last night and I had to come tell you I was sorry. I messed up. I really messed up, I made you this promise and I didn't follow through and it made me realize that I've done that a lot, that thing where I say I'm gonna be better and then I'm just not , but I want to be. I really do, and I want to make it up to you, but I know you have to give me a second chance before I can do that, and I know it's not a second chance, it's like, my eighty-seventh chance, and I know I don't deserve it, I know that, but if you'll just hear me out—"
"Peter," says Ned. "Slow down, dude. I'm not mad at you, okay? Just breathe."
Peter cuts himself off, mouth hanging slightly open.
"You're not mad at me?"
He sways. The room is spinning. Another whoops—he didn't eat before he left the warehouse this morning. But Ned grabs his arm, guides him firmly but gently toward the bed. Peter sits.
"Wait here," says Ned.
Ned disappears into the hall and Peter, whose heart is still beating frantically, takes the article out of his pocket and stares at it until he returns, carrying a glass of water and a cereal bar.
"You're acting super weird," says Ned, pressing both items into Peter's hands. "You're acting like my mom when she gets in one of her phases. You need to calm down."
Peter knows this. Though Karen remained silent—at his request—throughout the trip over here, the heart rate monitor has been blaring red in the corner of his vision the entire time. He takes the water, drinks it all, chases it with the cereal bar and for the first time in forever barely thinks about it as he does.
Finally, his heart starts to slow. He takes a deep breath. The tears are slowing down now, too. He waits until they stop to speak.
"Sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have just burst in here like that."
Beside him on the bed, Ned looks more serious, and more frightened, than Peter can ever remember seeing him.
"I'm sorry," he says in a small voice. "I wouldn't have hung up on you last night if I knew it was gonna freak you out this bad. My dad really was listening. I didn't mean to make you think—"
Peter shakes his head. "It's okay," he says, "it's okay. It was my fault. I should have shown up, Ned. I should've."
"You… said something happened?"
So Peter tells him about the winged guy. Partly to explain, yes, but mostly because he can't stand the expression on Ned's face for another second. Pity and fear and worry. An expression that says he's about fifteen seconds from seeing behind the front Peter has presented since he revealed himself last week.
It works, too. By the time Peter is finished, Ned's fear has receded, replaced by an open-mouthed look of awe.
He groans. "I can't believe I was worried about a stupid party when a badass bird-themed villain was kicking your ass six blocks away."
Relief. Ned hasn't disowned him. (Not yet.) He still has a chance to make things better. Like Felipe did.
"Hey," he says weakly, "I got my licks in, too."
"I thought you said he dropped you in a lake."
"Almost dropped me in a lake. I parachuted onto the ground."
"You used the chute? Oh my god, I can't believe it. I ran for it like an idiot because Betty Brant said she liked my hat, and I could have been watching you parachute away from supervillain. My life is the lamest."
Peter smiles, tentative. "It's a cool hat, dude. And why were you hiding if she said she liked it?"
"Because I didn't know if she meant it like, Cool hat, Ned, or Cool hat , Ned, you know? And don't change the subject. This is awesome. Alien tech? In Queens? Did you tell Mr. Stark? What did he say?"
Peter's smile disappears.
"I um… I actually thought I would try this one on my own," he says.
"You don't think he'll help you? It seems like kind of a big deal. And I thought you were trying to impress him. You know, show him you aren't a kid."
"I'm not a kid," says Peter firmly. "And it's not about that anymore. These weapons are out there, dude, and nobody's gonna stop them if I don't."
There must be some particular hardness in Peter's voice, because Ned's smile fades too.
"Are you sure you're alright, Peter?"
Peter shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says. "But… I could use your help, Ned. I have the core, but I don't know where to go from here. I know I still owe you big time, but—"
"Uh, hold on. You want me to help you with finding the guy who is selling alien weapons to criminals and you think you need to do me a favor first? That is the favor. I'm one thousand percent in. Tell me what you need."
Peter really wants to hug him. His head does, anyway. His body, however, balks at the idea. So instead he says, "You're a really good friend, Ned."
"So are you, Peter. You know that, right?"
Peter doesn't know that. He really doesn't think it's true. But he's going to be better. He will be.
"Thanks, Ned."
"So what do we need to do?"
"I have an idea," says Peter, "but I don't know how to follow through. How much did you figure out about my suit?"
Since Peter woke Ned up so "early," they have some time before his parents get suspicious. They sit together on his bed, therefore, while Ned walks Peter through his suit's functions—one of which, it turns out, is that it records absolutely everything. A boon for both of them: Ned gets to watch Peter parachute away from a supervillain after all.
And Peter gets to go after him.
Because, as it turns out, Karen can also connect to the internet. This is one of the features that was turned off by the Training Wheels Protocol, which is only confusing for a second (He didn't think I could handle browsing Buzzfeed? Peter thinks), since they quickly discover it's not just the internet. Karen can also hack criminal databases—which she promptly does, as soon as Peter asks her to run facial recognition on the three guys from last night.
Only one comes back with a match: its Less-Seedy Guy, the one Peter jumped on to stop him from getting shot. His real name is Aaron Morales, and he's out on parole for a series of misdemeanors.
"Is there any way I can, I don't know, track him?" Peter asks. "Or is that creepy?"
"I can scan available security cameras," replies Karen, who has kept her tone carefully professional since this morning. "It might take a few days to get a match."
"Do it," says Peter. "And, um. Thanks Karen."
He's thinking of the real Karen, now—the one for whom his AI is named. She was just as kind as the fake one. He hopes she's okay now. He hopes they didn't ruin her life when they got her fired. Maybe what Felipe did fixed things. Maybe he saved her too.
AI-Karen's voice softens.
"That's what I'm here for, guys."
Peter pulls off the mask and looks at Ned, who has been following along on his computer, to which the suit's USB is attached.
"So what're you gonna do now?" he says. "Do you have any other leads?"
"I guess I just have to wait. Can you meet me again tomorrow?"
"Aw, shoot, I forgot to tell you, I'm going out of town tomorrow. I won't be back until Wednesday."
"For what?"
"Decathlon. It's the big one. Everyone's been freaking out about it all week. Liz even mentioned you, she said she wished you were still around. Flash was pissed. I think Michelle might have been too. She looked like she'd swallowed a worm, anyway."
Peter's stomach squirms. In a different life maybe he would have been going out of town tomorrow too. It's been so long since he's been out of the city he can't even picture it. He doesn't know if the squirming is because he's jealous or just resigned. He guesses it doesn't matter. Neither one feels great.
"What about next weekend?"
"Um… next weekend's Homecoming. I was kind of thinking I might try to go even though I'm a humongous loser cuz, you know, what's the point if you're not putting yourself out there? But I can totally cancel if anything comes up with the alien weapons. Like, for sure."
Peter can tell Ned is trying to cover his disappointment. He knows why: Peter enrolled too late to go to his freshman homecoming, but he heard the stories from his classmates and from Ned, apparently it's a total blast.
This, more than the decathlon trip, should probably disappoint Peter, remind him of how much of an outsider he's become. But it has the opposite effect.
"Dude," he says, "that's perfect."
"Perfect—for what?"
"For making it up to you," says Peter, excited now that he has an opportunity to actually do something nice for Ned, to be a better friend, a better person. "I can come to homecoming."
"You know I'm a super modern dude and whatever, and I'm all for taking you as my date, don't get me wrong," says Ned, "but don't you think people will be a little suspicious if I show up with you on my arm?"
Peter punches him lightly on the shoulder.
"Not as your date," he says, while Ned, grinning, rubs his arm. "As Spider-Man."
Ned's face goes slack.
"You would do that for me?"
Peter nods.
"In front of the whole school?"
Peter nods again.
Ned pulls him into the biggest hug Peter has had in recent memory. He resists the urge to pull away, ignores the nerves that flutter in his stomach at the thought of what he just promised to do. Eventually, tentatively, he even hugs Ned back.
(Responsibility is not a choice.)
It turns out not to matter that Ned is going out of town: though Peter checks diligently throughout the next three days, there is no sign of Aaron Morales anywhere in the city. Karen thinks he is probably laying low in the wake of what happened in the suburbs, and Peter agrees, though it's disappointing. He could really use the distraction.
He's stopped looking for a job. As long as the whole world looks at him like he's a criminal, it's too big a risk; eventually someone is bound to call the cops on him, or worse—CPS. So Peter makes a new plan. He will eat through his stash of food. Very, very slowly. And very carefully. He will save all of his money—every last cent. And maybe by the time the food is gone, Mr. Delmar's will be fixed. He can see if he can get his job back then, and if not—
Peter doesn't want to think about if not.
So, without any leads on the alien weapons, he throws himself into learning how to use his suit. Karen is still being careful with him—he has the sense she realizes she freaked him out the other day by trying to get him to talk to Mr. Stark—but she remains as helpful as ever when it comes to his Spider-Man activities. She walks him through each new function, until, by Wednesday evening, Peter can select his web functions, and use the infrared setting, and even knows how to operate the gliders—because if nothing else, Mr. Stark lives up to his reputation for overkill. And when he's not doing that, he returns to what he's good at: fighting crime. Helping moms with their groceries.
Being Spider-Man.
(He visits the girls once, too, but not on his normal night—not at night at all. He doesn't want Mr. Stark to catch him, so he goes during the day, and he doesn't speak to either of them. Just peers through the window from the fire escape on the adjacent building and hopes they know how much he loves them, even if he can't tell them.)
Peter's exhausted. The two-items-per-day rule he has concerning the pile of food doesn't really do anything to keep up with his activities, and he still has to convince himself to eat every time, has to scream down the ghoul, who is growing louder every time the pile shrinks. But he can't stop, because if he stops there will be nothing but the ghoul.
He knows what he's doing now. He just has to keep doing it.
On Wednesday night, while he is lying under the desk in the foreman's office, preparing for sleep, he gets a text message. He's been good about it, this time: he hasn't called Happy or Mr. Stark once since last week. There's plenty of minutes left on his phone. Now, he reserves them for Ned.
Ned: I know ur phone doesn't get pictures but imagine me holding a first place trophy and looking like a total badass
Peter: You guys won?
Ned: Don't tell me u ever doubted me.
Peter: Never. Congrats, dude.
He sets the phone aside, grinning, almost as proud of Ned as he was of Felipe the other day.
A thought strikes, intrusive:
They didn't need me.
The ghoul responds:
(They never did.)
Peter closes his eyes, squeezes them until the ghoul stops cackling.
"You're okay," he tells himself. "You've got this, Spider-Man."
This time, no one replies.
He finds Aaron Morales on Thursday.
Aaron isn't a bad guy, it turns out. As soon as Peter gets Karen's alert he tracks him to the parking garage where he was spotted, rearing for a fight, but Aaron doesn't give him one. He doesn't even struggle when Peter webs his hand to the trunk of his car. He does mock Peter's voice—which, to be fair, Interrogation Mode might not totally suit him—but when Peter reverts to his normal one and asks about the weapons, Aaron just says,
"I can't tell you where the weapons are, but I can tell you where the guy selling them is gonna be."
Peter, who was readying himself to get persuasive—AKA, beg—nearly trips over himself in surprise.
"You—you can?"
Aaron squints at him for a second.
"You haven't done this before, have you?"
"Oh man," Peter groans. "Not you too. Look, I'm just trying to—"
"You mean I'm not the only one giving you crap about the fact you're clearly a thirteen-year-old girl?"
Under the mask, Peter turns the same shade as his suit.
"I told you, I'm a boy—a man! I'm Spider-Man, man, it's in the name!"
Aaron is unfazed.
"You are young though," he says. "Whatever. It doesn't matter to me. I already said I was gonna help you, didn't I?"
Peter falters.
"You are? But—that easy?"
"That easy."
"Um… why?"
Aaron shrugs. "You coulda been shot," he says, "but you jumped on top of me anyway. Why'd you do that?"
"I guess I just thought… you didn't wanna get shot. Did you… wanna get shot?"
"Nah. But I'm guessing you didn't either. And you jumped anyway."
Peter doesn't know what to say to this.
Aaron sighs. "Look," he says, "I got a nephew in this neighborhood. I don't want those weapons out there either."
And he gives Peter a time and place where the deal is gonna go down.
It's happening today.
It's easy. It's so much easier than Peter was anticipating that he almost lets Aaron go.
Almost.
"That'll dissolve in a couple hours," he says, already turning to leave. "You're a criminal, you deserve that."
Who lets too many people go now, Daily Bugle?
"Wait!" Aaron shouts after him. "I got sandwiches in the car!"
"Sandwich isn't gonna go bad in two hours, man, I promise you'll get your hoagie."
"Nah, I'm saying you should take one."
Peter turns back. Aaron's face isn't particularly expressive, but he doesn't seem to be joking. He shrugs.
"You're too skinny for a superhero," he says. "And besides, they're from Sub Haven. Best sandwich in Queens."
Peter might take issue with this last statement, but that doesn't stop him from taking the sandwich.
And in the end, he does let Aaron go.
By the time he approaches the Staten Island Ferry, Peter is feeling better than he has in days. He's had a full meal, he knows exactly what he's doing, his head is clear and he feels focused for the first time since—well, probably since the fiasco at the bank. He doesn't just want to help people this time—he actually knows how.
Just before he's about to take his leap, his cell phone rings.
Peter hesitates. He glances at the caller ID. It's the same number that texted him to meet on the rooftop on Friday.
It's Mr. Stark.
He silences it, and tucks it back into his boot.
Let Mr. Stark think what he wants. Peter has his own plan now.
Peter should probably expect it by now. In retrospect, he can't believe that he didn't.
The ferry falls apart.
Everything else does too.
(Bad things just happen.)
"Previously, on Spider-Man Screws the Pooch" —the Iron Man suit comes up from behind him, but Peter, sitting listlessly on the edge of the building where the garbage boat dumped him after carrying him away from the wrecked ferry, doesn't look up— "I tell you to stay away from this, and instead you hack a multi-million dollar suit to stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
Peter, who is staring out over the water, says, "Is everyone okay?"
"No thanks to you."
Peter wasn't rearing for a fight this time. What happened out there, on the water—it was affirmation of everything Mr. Stark has ever said. Affirmation of everything Peter is. All the thoughts he had—of doing good for its own sake, of living up to being Spider-Man instead of just Peter Parker—disappeared the moment that ferry split in half.
But at this, something else breaks. Something in him. It's that same little barrier that snapped in the lunchroom with Ned, and again with Michelle by the water fountain. That almost broke that night on the rooftop with Mr. Stark.
Now it gives way, and the flood rushes forth.
"No thanks to me?" Peter swings his legs over the wall, gets to his feet, doesn't care that he's so shaky he can barely stand. He approaches the suit. "I told you those weapons were out there. I told you! And you didn't listen! None of this would have happened if you would just listen to me! Nobody ever listens! Nobody cares! You all act like you do but you don't and you never have!"
He's aware of the hysteric note in his voice, aware that tears are rising in his throat, but for once he doesn't care, and he can't stop them. He doesn't control the flood anymore—the flood controls him.
Peter plows on.
"Everything I've ever asked you to do you just ignore it!" he says, just barely managing to keep his voice from sounding like a sob. "You shouldn't have tracked me! You shouldn't have looked at Peter Parker when I asked you not to! And now you're going to lecture me about what's my fault? It's not fair!"
"Not fair?" Mr. Stark spits. "When in the hell was any of this ever supposed to be fair? You wanna talk about fair, Spider-Man, let's talk about how fair it is that I've offered you help every step of the way and you've shot me down at every turn, huh? Let's talk about the fact that you act like you keep that face covered because you're protecting something, but actually it's so you get to run around doing whatever you want without any oversight, because nobody can catch you when no one knows your face, right? Why would you give that up when you can just live your superpowered life, carefree? Tell me, Spidey, didn't I just fight a goddamn war with my friends to make sure none of them could do that? So why the hell have I been letting you get away with it for so long?"
"You tell me," Peter shoots back. "You tell me, because you clearly don't give a shit about me. You're just like the rest of them, you don't care. If you cared at all you'd actually be here."
The suit bursts open, and Tony Stark steps out.
Peter stumbles back. His anger drains in a staggering rush, and in the absence of it something happens to his vision: suddenly he doesn't know where he is anymore. He's not on top of a building, being shouted at by Tony Stark. He's in the hallway outside his bedroom, just trying to get inside before Skip can accost him. But it's too late. He's bearing down, reaching for him—
Peter snaps back to himself just as Mr. Stark starts to yell.
"I don't care, huh?" he says, taking another step toward Peter. Peter takes a stumbling step backward, heart hammering, still blinking rapidly and trying to orient himself. "Who do you think called the FBI?"
Get it together, Parker!
Peter shakes his head. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but at least he manages to say something.
What he says is this:
"Why didn't you just tell me that?"
Mr. Stark's face has remained almost calm despite the anger in his voice, but at this it twists, becomes ugly with anger.
"How about this? I don't answer to you, Spider-Man. And you? Apparently you don't answer to anyone. Do you know everyone else thought I was crazy to recruit some unknown nobody off the street without even learning his name? And guess what? I defended you, but now I'm starting to think that was a mistake. You hacked my suit, ignored every olive branch I've extended—did you even consider what I told you on the rooftop? I'm guessing not, since you went back to check up on Westcott. Only because you thought I wasn't looking, huh? Is that right? Do I about have the gist of it, Spidey? And now this. What if someone had died today, huh? That's on you, kid, did you ever think of that?"
"I don't—"
"And if you had died?" Mr. Stark throws his hands up. "I think that's on me. And just because I don't know the first thing about you—stupid on my part, I get it—I don't think I want that one on my conscience."
Something is starting to make sense in the back of Peter's mind, but he can't quite access it yet. It's too terrible. He just knows if he looks at it, he won't be able to handle it. He won't survive.
"I'm sorry," he croaks. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to help. I just—I just wanted to be like you."
I wanted to save the ones that no one else was saving.
"And I wanted you to be better."
Peter closes his mouth.
Mr. Stark lowers his hands, grips his left wrist in his right hand. He sniffs, looks out toward the water, where the sun is beginning to set.
"Okay," he says, "it's not working out. I'm gonna need the suit back."
It's as though the whole world has narrowed to the width of a pinhead in the space of a second. Peter can't see beyond the fury in Mr. Stark's expression, can't hear beyond the whine in the back of his head and the scream of the ghoul, who, at this, has started a furious, manic chant: (You're nothing, Peter Parker! You're nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!)
"Please." Peter hears his own voice, coming out of his mouth, but he doesn't control it. "Please, Mr. Stark. I'm nothing without this suit."
"If you're nothing without this suit," says Mr. Stark, "then you shouldn't have it."
The ground crumbles away.
This isn't the start of the fall anymore. This is the moment he hits terminal velocity. The moment it's too late to pull the chute. There's nothing left to do but hit bottom.
When Peter doesn't reply, Mr. Stark says, "You can give it to me, kid, or I can take it from you. I'm fine either way."
Peter's throat works. His breath catches. He says, "I don't have my other mask."
There's a flash of something hot and dangerous in Mr. Stark's eyes. Disbelief. Anger.
"Are we really still playing that game? Really? Right now? After that?"
"You promised," Peter says.
Mr. Stark tightens his grip on his wrist, looks away again. He's clearly battling to keep his anger below the surface, and it's only barely working.
"Fine," he says. "I'll leave the coordinates in your suit, you can drop it at the dot in an hour. But if it's not there, that's your funeral, kid."
When Mr. Stark gets back into his suit and flies away, it seems to happen in slow motion.
It takes a long time for Peter to realize Karen is talking to him.
"Peter? Peter? Peter, answer me."
"I'm here," Peter says.
Is he though? He's not sure. Everything feels fuzzy and distant. He doesn't feel real.
He's taking the suit.
"Peter, please let me talk to Mr. Stark."
There is a blinking red dot at the center of Peter's visual display. It's projected over a map of the city—the dot shows the same sandwich shop where he and Mr. Stark first talked.
Peter might not be real, but this is.
"Peter?"
"I have to go, Karen," says Peter numbly. "I'm sorry."
He has to go. So he does.
(I always told you you were nothing, Peter.)