spiderson oneshots

Last Breath

It was only a matter of time before he breathed his last breath.

The taunting hour had been slowly creeping up on his family for months, sending them into spirals of sadness, anger, and tears. He was only eighteen, why him?

The hospital room was disgustingly white, with sanitized everything down to the damn cardboard tissue box on the small metal cart next to the bed. In said bed laid Peter Parker, unofficially adopted son of Tony Stark and biological nephew of May Parker. His skin was pale and clammy, and his once chocolate colored eyes were dull with pain.

The Spider-Man themed beanie sat snugly on his head, covering his bare scalp from the chilliness of the room. It had been four months since his hair had fully fallen out, and he was used to the smooth surface now. The only thing he hated was how his eyebrows had disappeared, having been shaved off out of convenience once they began to thin out. He didn't care so much about his eyelashes- they were short anyways.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor drilled into his ears, and Peter was about done with it. Seven months. For seven excruciating months he had to listen to that damned sound every second of the day. The IV's stuck into his veiny arms were barely any better, having restricted his movement to limited tosses of his arms away from the bed.

Peter remembered every single word from the day he found out.

"Mr. Parker," the doctor began, looking down at his clipboard. He appeared to be visibly shaken, with wide eyes and flared nostrils.

"Y-Yeah?" Peter said. He just wanted to get this over with. He knew what he was going to say before

"I'm sorry to inform you, but... You have leukemia."

Peter's heart nearly stopped.

"I-I what?" he asked incredulously, his own eyes widening like saucers. He had cancer? "H-How... wha-"

"I'm so sorry, sir. Your aunt and I will fill out some paperwork so you can just stay in here."

Peter still didn't understand how he could have cancer. Shouldn't his advanced healing fix it? Make it go away? Why wasn't he getting better?

Why was this happening to him?

But like all good things in life, they must come to an end.

Peter was one of those good things.

He saved people every single day, putting his own life on the line. He risked his safety, only wanting to bring the good back into Queens, New York, and make the city wholesome again. He took punches, knifes to his abdomen and gunshots to his chest every night, just to give civilians a fighting chance at life.

He could feel his health diminishing quickly as days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Three seasons had passed since he was emitted to the hospital, having experienced the dead of winter and the heat of summer all from the small window. He could feel his heart slowing, the thumping in his chest becoming infrequent as hours dragged on.

At 01:17, Peter Parker took his last breath, his eyes rolling back into his head. His body evened out, resting limp under the white sheets that covered the bed. He died alone, exposed to the dark elements of death.

Minutes later May walked into the room, thinking her nephew was simply sleeping, something he had been doing constantly for the past few weeks. He was physically and emotionally drained from his illness; his need for rest was understandable. But when she slipped her hand into his and felt his freezing cold fingertips, her heart dropped to her stomach.

Her little boy was dead.

His high school found out two days later, holding a memorial for their lost friend and student. Everyone, even the ones who bullied him, mourned for him.

They never got to say sorry.

Three days after that, Tony Stark came out at a press conference and announced the death of their beloved Spider-Man, revealing the boy's identity. They were shocked that a kid was patrolling their streets and saving them each night, but that shock soon turned into grief.

They never got to say 'thank you.'

And now, Peter was gone. Heaven or hell, no one will ever know.