Chapter Text
Peter always knew he was a naive boy. It didn't take much for his Mom to lecture him about how he shouldn't trust people he doesn't know, or how his Dad scolded him for believing that superheroes were real. But of course, superheroes were real. If not, who was Captain America? The spangled striped man in blue and red with the iconic American dream and pride.
He never stopped believing them even after Richard and Mary Parker were found dead in the unfortunate plane crash far away from Peter. He would never forget that they had gotten into an argument a few weeks before the accident, telling him he was too gullible - believed too much.
But how could he have known, when his 'friends' had seemed so desperate and hungry for food. How convenient it was that he had just taken his lunchbox out of his bag and was met with boys taller and bulkier than him begging for a taste. A taste being them taking away his sandwich and juice box, even worse, eating it all in front of him while giggling at his stupid puny face.
Though, it was alright, Peter didn't mind too much anyway. It's not like he was hungry, just the thought of being able to help was enough comfort for him.
Later that day, he would take out his stash of comic books from his cupboard and admire how beautiful the superhero was able to take down the villain so effortlessly, how the fictional characters praised and flushed the man in a mask with songs and hymns of gratefulness. Like that, he thought, that was what he wanted to be when growing up. To help and protect people, to save the city of New York from evil creatures and to be thanked for his actions and not scolded for.
His Mom and Dad would disapprove of those very thoughts, they would discourage his ridiculous dreams any second they could, telling him how it's stupid and only a rehearsed act made from behind the glorious story of heroes.
His Dad would say it was a waste of his head, his prodigious talent for literature, mathematics and science were stashed behind by his ignorance and instead covered up with a veil of delusion. Peter's refusal for reading books too advanced for his age were met with annoyance from the man claiming to love him, irritated he had spent money on books which were left unattended and replaced with silly fiction.
His Mom, however, would discreetly encourage other activities to engage his interest in other things instead of comics.
He was forced to take up piano, but he claimed it was too 'girlish', always messing up basic rhythms and theory, failing to do a simple Grade 1 duet with his disappointed Mother. Drawing and sewing were one of the skills he had actually taken up from this, he wasn't particularly good per se, but it had made him feel good.
He drew in his little sketchbook once in a while. The delicate outlines of his feathering and chicken scratching to form a silhouette of pictures like marine animals, safari creatures and arachnids. He had tried to draw his Mother, but it really looked more like a bundle of lines and scribbles instead of a human, but he was proud.
Sewing on a machine was easier however. The stitching was simpler to learn, only needing to change the pattern, move the fabric left and right and it would look somewhat like a sweater. It was a set of instructions from a book that he only has to copy from, first instruction, second step and so on.
It was tricky when he sat in front of the machine for the first time, the settings were difficult to adjust and it was hard to thread everything through the needle. His creations were always a bit off, too loose that way and too tight the other, he vowed to improve on them.
Gardening was mediocre, he was not particularly gifted in the creation of plant life or to care for them every day for the rest of the 2 weeks he had done it. Once or twice too many times he had intentionally killed off a tulip or lily, not wanting the constant nagging of his Mother to water precisely or to keep them in direct sunlight.
They were very pretty, those flowers, but Peter had to consider the greater good, some measly flowers were not enough for him to stay out in the garden everyday to care for things that didn't matter to him. Captain America wouldn't have been proud of him, he thought, when he sat down on his bed that night. Peter didn't do it again.
This of course, didn't mean that they did not love him. His parents were annoyed and disappointed sometimes from his behaviour, but they took care of him. They were often absent from home, always occupied by their work filled with science he had tried to decipher with little to no luck.
But when they were home, his Mom would brush through his hair every night before bed, whispering sweet things in his ear and taught him to braid her hair with his still chubby fingers. "Darling" and "Sweetheart" were the common ones he was told, he felt safe encompassed in his Mother's warm arms while she sang lullabies and muttered poetry with meanings and words he didn't understand, but he was content so long as he got to be loved.
His Dad would teach him how to do flips and jumps on their trampoline in the garden, always cushioning his fall if it seemed he was going to land on his face. When the adrenaline coursed through his small body and caused him to do wide flips, he would feel like a superhero saving the day like how he dreamt to be every night before bed and sometimes slipping into his dreams.
He never told his Dad though, afraid he would stop their routine when he found out he was pretending to fly through the city like the comics he bought him. His Father was too old to jump with him but he was happy so long as he got to laugh and be content with him.
Peter's aunt and uncle - May and Ben Parker - from his Dad's side of the family took him in after his parent's death. They were devastated with the news, not the news of taking in Peter even though they had never wanted kids, no, they had set up their small spare room in their apartment for him while they filled in the documents and paperwork. Officially claiming him as their legal child and effectively making them his guardians.
He had watched this happen from the small key hole of the door, his small size helping him peek through just enough to see the tears fall from his Aunt May's face and the fierce sculpture-like features of his Uncle set in stone.
Peter didn't want to believe it at first, he was transported from his room down to the car with his parents driving through the splashes of rain dripping down the windshield and the occasional thrum of thunder through the sky. He got a hasty goodbye from both his parents and a quick peck on the forehead from his Mom before they disappeared again through the front door in their car.
He had believed, once again, that they would come back, that his Mom would kiss him goodnight and his Dad would play with him outside in their garden. He knew deep down though, somewhere hidden in the labyrinth maze of his brain, lost behind delusions and fear, that his parents are pronounced dead.
He may be naive and trusting but he was not stupid, the evidence had added up once he collected everything he needed to know. The days when his parents would leave him at home by himself, sometimes with a caretaker was always for only a few hours long, 3 days were the longest before he was scooped up by his Mother and taken to bed once again. So yes Peter knew, but he had also believed.
Until the spell was broken, shatter down by the news of his parents's death, his barriers were cracked the second he saw his Aunt and Uncle telling him to sit beside them in the living room, hug him dearly and explained to him the horrible concept of passing. Peter was terrified and outrageous.
Terrified would be an understatement, his feelings were a blur during the five days he was kept in isolation from barely any interaction or knowledge. A thick long blur of heightened emotions that he couldn't remember but of being scared.
Peter's head was a fuzzy haze of fog, trying to sort his brain into sections that he could control easily, but the walls just kept on breaking and falling apart back into shambles. His memories and feelings were lost during those few days, but being terrified was not.
Anger wasn’t an emotion he felt often, but he was angry that they treated him like a baby, like a wounded animal waiting to be treated after and cared for, like a scared child that could not phantom the idea of death. But he knew death, he’s smart, he has an intellect that surpassed his classmates by a milestone. It was neither a foreign or close subject to him, but he knew death after the fifth day had passed and still no sign of Richard or Mary Parker.
-
Peter's Uncle -Ben- was everything he wanted to be. Fierce, intelligent, strong and kind. He was so different yet so similar to his Dad, with the same dark brown hair he had inherited from him, the same facial structure created to look as if it was sculpted from the renaissance. Peter couldn’t help but notice the bushy brows of his Uncle, the short thick eyelashes covering his eyes or the same way he moves and acts, just like his Dad.
Peter had a sharp eye, it’s ironic though, speaking as he has huge frames that too often drops down from his nose and falls from his face. It was a habit he had developed even when he was not wearing his glasses, pushing up his glasses back up his nose was more of a nervous uncontrollable reaction than to actually put it back in place.
But he notices the little things, how his Dad and Uncle would scrunch their noses up ever so slightly whenever a minor inconvenience occurs or how his Mother had a habit of twirling a strand of her hair around her fingers into a coil.
Uncle Ben was similar to his Dad in so many ways Peter would sometimes catch himself saying ‘Dad’ too often for it to be a silly mistake. Luckily, he would stop the word from rolling off his tongue before blurting it out in humiliation. Not that he did not think his Uncle worthy of being his father figure, just that he was… not ready yet.
It was an odd thing to adjust from living with his parents to his relatives, he would wake up in his new room everyday and wonder why his Captain America figure wasn’t directly in front of him before realising it was hidden behind a small drawer beside his bed.
In so many ways is his Uncle similar to his Dad, yet they were different as well. So different to each other that Peter would wonder how they could possibly be brothers. His Dad was strict, orderly and stuck to the rules. Him and Mother were a perfect couple from outside the family eye, they were the resemblance of a domestic, traditional family with his Dad being the one working a 9-5 job while the wife would cook warm meals for the Dad and son.
Obviously, that was not the case at all from inside the others perspective, but them being perfect from their neighbours or family friends view was all that really mattered.
However his Uncle did not seem to stick with the tradition, him and Aunt May did not want a kid no matter how many times people would ask and ponder why, his Aunt would work with patients and the elderly in the hospital openly to the public and his Uncle would fix broken pipes and drains in their little Apartment while cooking meals for him and Aunt May. No one judged or whispered behind their back, after all it was the modern times, things changed for the better and some for the worse.
He hears their neighbours whispering about him, hushing on and questioning exactly who was the boy that magically appeared in the apartment next to theirs? So fragile and hurt, so sweet and kind was the boy that hides behind his Uncle and clutches his Aunt’s hand with sweaty palms.
Peter would have nightmares sometimes, he would dream of his Mother - her horrified screams falling and falling down towards the ground, her usually beautiful face would be replaced with ugly agony and pain, her face would be contorted into fear that ages her too many years. When will it end, when will it end? Was the question his Mother would whisper out, or was it Peter the one that whispers it?
His Dad was no different, he would clutch Mother close he thinks, maybe mutter incoherent assurances into her ear, saying it would end soon. So soon she won’t even feel it, won’t feel any pain when they fall to the ground hugging each other tight. They would die a quick and peaceful death, their pain would be transferred to Peter instead, they will feel no pain but he will each and every night when he dreams of them, watching from the sidelines.
Peter Parker was no normal child.
-
Peter knows death, he had experienced it when he was just a kid, barely out of his toddler years turning into a small child. He also encounters it again, when he’s 13 years old. He hears sirens maybe, a faint wooing from the back of his head. There probably is though, considering the too neon red and blue lights blaring into his eyes. He wants to push it away, shout and scream, resist the inaudible pats coming from… the police?
Rain is the next thing he feels, it drips from his hair, down to his eyes, to his chin then falls on the concrete. He feels several more raindrops, it covers him, he feels that it hides him away from reality and moulds him into water - it comforts him, it’s an anchor he can hold onto, pull himself back to the present when he’s so near to unconsciousness. Though maybe- maybe he does want to be lured to sleep, he hasn't had nightmares for a while but he wants to see his parents. More than anything right now.
But no… not his parents, not Richard and Mary Parker, he wants Ben - he wants to see and hold and nurture his Uncle, he wants to provide and welcome and give; so where is he then? Where is his Uncle is the question he asks himself. He snakes his sweaty palms along the floor, dragging it across the rough surface until they come in contact with a cold, wet body.
Ah… yes, how silly of him, his Uncle is right in front of him, he’s lying on the concrete ground motionless and sick. But he was only sleeping, just like how Peter wants to sleep too, wants to lay down next to him and maybe they can both see his parents together… But no, they can’t rest any longer when Aunt May must be worried sick, they had promised to get back as soon as possible to make dinner all together, a tradition they had brought up to make meals on every Saturdays as a family.
“Come on, come on Ben. We have- we need to go, come on… Aunt May is waiting for us. We’re going to make lasagna for dinner, remember? You can’t rest yet, not here, not now, please Ben.”
“Kid? Is this your Dad, Uncle? A relative? Kid, please, he- Ben needs medical attention right away and we can’t-“
Someone pushed past him, like he wasn’t there at all, he might not be. Peter doesn’t feel like he’s all there yet, his body is, yes, but his mind was somewhere else. It still seemed like it's trying to catch up to everything that’s going on, it’s still stuck on him running away because of him letting his stupid emotions get past him, then Ben following him, then… then him running to stop a mugger…
Then Ben getting shot.
“He- he isn’t breathing, I can’t feel him moving. I think- maybe he got shot in a fatal area, nonetheless we have to get him to the nearest hospital, we… might still save him if we’re quick enough.”
No… no. They’re wrong, he’s wrong. Ben didn’t get shot, he’s just pranking him just like every other time he jokes around with Peter. He’s going to spring back up in a second, he knows it, just when they’re carrying him into the ambulance he’s going to jump up and say ‘Got you! Should’ve seen the look on your face, Pete!’. Yes, he refuses to believe in such nonsense, Ben couldn’t have possibly gotten shot, he’s fierce and strong and he won’t leave Peter. Peter won’t let him leave.
Once again, he had let delusion overcome and drown him in fake hope, he had let his craving for contentment consume himself into a naive child.
‘Peter, you’re too trusting. Don’t give away your lunch just because the older boys told you to. Mother and Father work really hard to pay for food, you know that. Don’t be so naive.’ Naive. His trust in Uncle Ben had led him into a state of denial that, no, he wasn’t really gone; believing and holding out to the deluded anchor that Ben’s going to come back.
Peter gazed at the back of the vehicle moving hurriedly across the once busy roads, now with cars and vans moving alongside the edges of the streets, giving way for the ambulance. Once again, he was helpless throughout everything.
Unmoving and useless.