Alone: A Spider-Man Story

Chapter One

Peter's foot tapped impatiently as he checked his watch. The bus was late. Again. "It would've been easier just to swing," he muttered to himself, then quickly turned around to check if anyone had heard. Letting out a sigh of relief, he finally heard the bus pull up. Hopping on, he sat down and put his earbuds in, putting on his favorite playlist. Slipping his phone back into his winter coat, he settled into the cold plastic seat and held his backpack close as he nodded to the beat. He pulled his hood up, and sank into the warm embrace of his jacket, a sharp contrast from the barely-heated bus.

His aunt May already knew where he was, but he pulled his phone out again to remind her, just in case. Running his fingers over the smashed screen, he felt his phone hum to life, warming up his slightly frostbitten fingers. He clicked on the contact he had for May (May <3) and composed a quick text, complete with a little heart at the end. He turned off his phone and listened to his music serenely, the rustling of people around him drowned out by the soft rock and pop he blasted into his ears.

Inch by inch, the bus crept forwards through the traffic, Peter feeling every single bump and imperfection in the road, until finally, finally, he was at the tower. If he was on any other route, he would've had to brace himself for each little jostle that only he felt, would've had to ignore the constant buzzing at the base of his neck telling him to run far far away, because stupid spidey-sense didn't recognize a non-lethal threat (in this case a bus) from something actually grave or deadly, but because he knew this bus route so well (from days before the spider bite when he would want to ride by the Avengers Tower to maybe catch a glimpse of his favorite heroes) he knew every little bump, he had them memorized by heart, and he braced himself accordingly.

As the bus pulled in front of the tower, he stood up quickly, careful as to not knock his busted up phone out of his pocket again. It wouldn't be able to handle another fall, and the screen was already falling off in places. The touch ID had stopped working long ago, and parts of the phone's innards could be seen through the screen. He and May couldn't afford to buy a new one, but knowing May she'd take on extra shifts to buy him one, so he just hid it, preferring to let May sleep instead of having a new phone. Closing his hand around the sorry excuse for a phone in his right pocket, he grabbed onto the handle and shoved himself forwards, past throngs of people yearning to escape the crowds, until he reached the door, where he hopped out and over the muddy puddle on the cracked cement.

Stepping forwards at a relatively hurried pace compared to his usual sluggish tread, he moved forwards towards the Avengers Tower, its grand architecture looming over him. A cool gust practically blew Peter away, and day-old leaves from the bare trees swirled around him. He shivered as he pulled the door open, and a blast of warm air hit him. The grand lobby never failed to amaze him, with the plush, overstuffed, regal couches with soft, sink-your-feet-in rugs, or the laptops that one could borrow for those who didn't have, or the designated sleeping spaces set up in the winter for the homeless who Tony didn't want to freeze to death on the streets.

His senses focused in, and he drank in every last bit of the lobby, from the snowflakes melting on newcomers coats to the frayed threads on the bottom of someone's chunky sweater, the worn-down grooves in someone's watch to the wood flaking off in the lower corners of the lobby's floor. He heard each squeak of shoes as they moved, each computer whirring on, and each heartbeat rhythmically thumping. the sounds grated against his head, and he focused on pulling off his jacket, lest he have a sensory overload right there in the lobby and give his identity away. Pulling open his thick jacket, his fingers caught in a new tear at the hem, each frayed thread grating against the overly sensitive pads of his fingers. Sighing, he made a mental reminder to pick up some thread from the thrift store later that day, because he didn't want to trouble Aunt May and ask for a new jacket. He already asked for enough new backpacks and school supplies that May had a separate bank account for the school expenses. He slipped off of the jacket and it nearly fell to the ground, but he caught it by the edge of the sleeve before it hit the immaculate floor. Grabbing it and hoisting it over his shoulder, he strode forwards and dug his ID out of his pocket, walking through the scanner and flashing his ID.

Before he walked into the elevator, he took one last look at the grand lobby, his sense focusing, and before he registered anything, he turned on his heel and practically bounced away, excited to see Mr. Stark, and excited to use his lab. Heading into the private elevator, he pushed the button for the penthouse, hearing the audible click and soft whirrs that the machine made as it glided upwards. He leaned against the wall, the individual threads of his sweater pressing against his skin, as he waited, when finally the doors slid open. He stepped out of the elevator and pulled his just-a-little-too-tight shoes off so he wouldn't track melted snow and mud across the floor, and smiled as he heard the screams of Clint and Steve as they frantically battled in MarioKart.

He leapt onto the ceiling and climbed towards their voices, a growing smile on his face. Above them in the messy living room with blankets strewn all about from the last movie night and upside-down empty popcorn bowls, he flipped forwards and landed in front of the TV, blocking it from Clint and Steve's view. It took them a moment to register, and they shouted raucously at Peter to get out of the way. He giggled audibly and dug a third controller out from underneath several upended couch cushions piled on the floor, and joined them once that game was done, utterly and completely crushing them.

He jolted awake, his sweat-soaked covers rustling around him. Why am I dreaming about them again? He asked himself, visibly shaking. He pulled off the blankets, his relief was evident on his face as the cool breeze from the open window soothed his burning limbs. Peering out into the dark sky peppered with stars, he closed his eyes and just was. It was something he had learned from one of his old boyfriends, a sweet one who brought him flowers every day and insisted on paying for dates. He used the trick whenever he had a particularly bad nightmare, one of the rattle-your-core, shake-your-bones kind. He let the wind rustle through his tousled hair, he let the cool moonlight shine on his smooth face, he let the soft carpet hug his rough feet. Despite this, his thoughts trickled through his mental dam, unleashing the floodgate of memories. No, no, no! I can't, I can't, I can't! Just relax, Peter. No panic attacks today, Peter. Just breathe. In and out, Peter. Just be. Just breathe. Stop thinking. Think about something else. Not them, just not them, just don't think about them.

He closed the shutters of his quaint house and breathed a sigh of relief for the momentary distraction from what could've been a disastrous panic attack. He practically ran downstairs, desperate for the cool respite of the grass underfoot and the stars above him. He opened the slightly squeaky screen door and stepped outside into the front yard. Biting his lip, he ran his fingers through his hair as he uttered a single syllable: "No." I won't let them take over my thoughts again. I won't let them hurt me. They've already hurt me enough.

Turning on his heel, he padded sluggishly towards the front door as the blades of grass tickled the soles of his feet. Inside, he checked the time on the vintage clock in the living room. 3:00 AM. Might as well make coffee.