Chapter Text
Stark Industries had launched a new nonprofit initiative the previous September: the MayFlower Foundation for Breast Cancer Awareness.
In the span of just eleven months and twenty-seven days, the organization had raised $180 million.
It came as no surprise that Tony Stark took a deeply hands-on role in overseeing the foundation. Over the past decade, Stark Industries had turned away from weapons development in a dedicated pursuit of advancements in public health, safety, and security.
There was, however, some speculation surrounding the foundation’s name.
A friend. A family member. A lover.
Many assumed that “MayFlower” referred to a real person, perhaps hidden behind a false name intended to conceal their true identity.
Yet few disputed that the name carried some type of significance.
A few months earlier, The Washington Post had published a thoughtful article on the subject. Uniquely, the piece argued that “MayFlower” was not a person at all, but rather an allusion to new beginnings—the Mayflower ship that carried the Pilgrims across the Atlantic.
The article was not particularly popular. Few people read it.
Pepper Potts’s donation to the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe Education Department later that month went largely unnoticed.
Potts’s own involvement in the foundation had been scrutinized, albeit to a lesser extent, but early findings uncovered no meaningful personal connection that might explain her role in its establishment. Still, some speculation persisted. Some wondered whether she, too, had a history with breast cancer.
Journalists investigated her family extensively. According to a story later published by The Wall Street Journal, a great-aunt on her mother’s side had died at the age of seventy-eight from glaucoma, but otherwise neither her immediate nor extended family had been significantly affected by cancer.
Potts herself seemed an unlikely candidate. Her participation in the New York City Marathon that November—the same month the foundation launched—did much to dispel any lingering rumors regarding her health.
In the absence of a more satisfying explanation, a simple consensus gradually emerged over the course of the year: breast cancer was simply a cause that mattered to Stark Industries.
When asked about the foundation’s creation during an interview the previous week, Tony Stark offered the polished response he had been rehearsing since its inception.
“Breast cancer is an incredibly important cause, and the MayFlower Foundation is here to help. At Stark Industries, we work every day to ensure a better future through innovation in public health.”
“Has Stark Industries made any headway in developing new treatments?” one reporter asked, rising slightly from her seat. Her left hand remained raised, elbow crooked, while her other hand pinched the sleeve of her burgundy suit jacket.
Tony paused.
Seizing the momentary silence, the same reporter pressed on.
“MFF directs most of its funding toward affected families, as well as integrative and palliative care. What about developing a cure?”
The pause stretched a moment longer than was comfortable.
Then one of Stark’s public relations directors stepped forward before he could respond.
“That’s all the time we have today,” she announced, her hands moving in an apologetic yet definitive gesture.
Happy Hogan was already guiding Tony away from the podium and toward the exit.
There were no further questions.
***
~14 months ago~
“Peter Parker?”
The nurse, dressed in dim gray scrubs, meandered through the emergency room. She dipped her head toward each row of crowded seats, scanning the faces of the sick, the elderly, and the worried. A few children lingered among them—small, restless things clinging to their mothers' legs and drumming impatient hands against their fathers' backs.
Peter stilled.
The nurse wore her hair in a bun, the way May used to during most of her night shifts. Loose strands escaped around her ears. A weary frown sat on her face, and a clipboard thick with papers rested in her arms, a sheet marked with a bold red note sitting on top. Behind her stood a man in a loose dress shirt and slacks.
Peter had seen enough death. He had sat through enough counseling sessions.
May was dead.
They would not be taking him back to her room—the room where, only an hour earlier, he had sat beside her bed, holding her hand and whispering apologies. Words of forgiveness. Promises he should have made before she got sick.
May's eyes had filled with tears as she spoke of her regrets. Peter had listened dutifully.
Around nine o'clock, when she finally stopped, he left her room and retreated to the waiting area. He could not sit beside her any longer. Could not endure the silence.
Peter remained there for sixteen minutes.
One foot hovered beside the exit while his neck twisted the other way, his gaze fixed on the front desk. He had intended to leave sooner.
But he stayed.
Sixteen minutes did not feel official. Peter wasn't sure how much time it would take for death to feel real, but he knew sixteen minutes was not enough.
So he stayed.
He stayed by the exit until two women in business-casual attire entered through the sliding doors. Their expressions were calm, professional, and very cold. They walked past him and met the nurse and the man in the center of the room. The four exchanged a few quiet words and glances.
Peter stayed until the nurse returned to scanning the waiting room. Until he caught sight of the red note resting atop the clipboard.
DECEASED.
Written plainly. Paired with a simple checkmark.
Peter Parker had spent his life being told difficult things by strangers. Police officers. Doctors. Counselors.
But Peter Parker was Spider-Man.
He was not a child.
He was not going to sit in a small room while someone spoke slowly and a pastor tried to convince him of Heaven.
He already knew everything that needed to be said.
Peter Parker was alone.
And Peter Parker was Spider-Man.
He went home.
***
It took Peter twenty-eight minutes to leave Queens Emergency Health Care Department and arrive at the apartment. A little less than the half hour that had passed between leaving the Thai restaurant together and climbing into the back of an ambulance.
Over the past week, Peter had found himself thinking a lot about time.
The time it took to travel from one place to another. The time between the earth and the sky. The time it took to die.
May had been dying for eight months.
It took Peter twenty-eight minutes to leave her body behind, travel eighty-six blocks, and arrive at the foot of his bed.
For some reason, he found that unfair.
Very unfair.
After twenty-nine minutes, he realized that his feet ached. They were usually covered by a pair of battered black Converse, the left shoe held together with pink duct tape courtesy of MJ.
Now they were bare.
Or almost.
A pair of gray socks, the same tone as the nurse's scrubs, covered his feet, the fabric worn thin and ripped at the seams.
Peter had not realized for four hours—since climbing into that ambulance with May—that he was not wearing shoes.
His gaze traveled from his feet to his aching knees, and finally to his reflection in the mirror above the bed.
He had been crying.
Sobbing, really.
Sweat clung to his skin, rolling down his forehead to mix with the salt on his cheeks.
A dull ache had settled deep within his chest, breaking apart his breath and pulling at something deeper than his lungs.
***
Peter couldn't remember much of what happened during those twenty-eight minutes.
He couldn't remember much of the past eight months.
The tunnel vision that had possessed him for so long finally began to fade.
His surroundings came back into focus.
His room.
His life.
The Lego Death Star still sat on the shelf beside the mirror. After May's diagnosis, Ned had ceremoniously handed over guardianship of it, insisting its magnificence would bring them luck.
Ned was wrong.
Peter couldn't see it from where he stood, but he knew a book rested beneath his pillow, underneath his green-and-yellow quilt.
Explorations in Palliative Care and Alternatives to Hospice Treatment.
Peter was only halfway through it.
May was dead.
There were dozens of books like it scattered throughout the apartment.
May had owned a lot of books about death. Even before her diagnosis, she kept a collection of studies on mortality. In the few years she spent working in Jamaica Hospital's hospice ward, she read a lot of those books to cope with losing her patients.
May did not want Peter reading her books.
She knew that, at fifteen, he was not ready to accept her reality. She worried that obsessing over the studies and articles would only make things worse.
May knew about the books Peter would hide under his pillow.
Last month, she had caught him in the living room, reading about a new experimental trial.
"Stop."
That was all she said.
Stop reading about treatments.
Stop reading about death.
May wanted Peter to read other things.
Bruce Banner's theories on molecular processes, for one. Papers on evolutionary mechanics. Science journals. Physics textbooks.
Anything Peter used to be interested in.
Anything else.
The moment May sat him down eight months ago and explained that her latest breast cancer screening had gone poorly—the appointment she had postponed by a month because she did not want to miss Midtown's annual science fair—Peter changed.
When a doctor used the word terminal during a follow-up appointment the next day—one that May had reluctantly allowed him to attend—he became someone else entirely.
Peter used to be inquisitive, passionate, and excited.
So excited about the world.
He stopped raising his hand in Probability.
Stopped asking Mr. Hampshire questions after class.
Stopped looking over MJ's shoulder to see what she was drawing.
Stopped accepting Ned's invitations to spend weekends building Lego sets at his Lola's house.
Peter Parker became a machine.
For eight months, he cooked meals.
Scheduled appointments.
Argued with insurance companies.
Learned the counterintuitive names of chemotherapy drugs and experimental treatments.
For eight months, Peter measured his life through hospital schedules, medication charts, appointments, and prescription refills.
And for eight months, Peter Parker was not Spider-Man.
The suit still hung inside the ceiling vent above his bed, gathering dust.
While New York moved on without him, Peter stood in the kitchen meal-prepping oatmeal and walking Katy, their home health aide, through changes to May's medications.
Spider-Man was still alive.
He still lived somewhere deep within Peter's chest.
But a version of Spider-Man had died long before May Parker did.
That version faded a little more each time Peter secretly copied down the title of one of May's books and ordered it from the Brooklyn Public Library.
Whenever he brought one home, another was already waiting on hold.
Karen, his favorite librarian, always called as soon as a copy arrived.
Peter liked Karen.
She was kind, occasionally hysterically funny.
Every other Monday afternoon, she dressed up as a witch and read storybooks to children in the reading corner.
Peter realized he had to call Karen.
He had to call the hospital.
The insurance company.
May's friends.
Former coworkers.
He had to call so many people about May.
Peter did not know who he could call about himself.
***
The apartment was quiet.
Silent, really.
No sound could be heard except Peter's slow breathing. Not the soft, rhythmic beeps of May's oxygen machine that usually rested beside the couch in the living room. Not the television that so often played old musicals and cheerful Christmas movies. Not even the hum of the refrigerator.
Peter had unplugged it earlier that morning when May developed a headache. He had planned to plug it back in that night, when she felt better.
There was a faint buzz from the overhead light fixture, but Peter had yet to decide whether that sound counted. Whether it could be pulled apart and examined. Whether it carried any significance at all.
Peter remained standing in the middle of his room, staring into the mirror mounted on the wall.
Examining his reflection.
Questioning the idea of sound.
Of reason.
At the moment, he could not conclude anything except that no sound had ever mattered more than May's breathing.
But he couldn't remember it.
Couldn't remember how it sounded.
Because he was too busy being consumed by his own panic. Too busy beginning to hyperventilate.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A new noise.
Peter straightened and quickly wiped at his eyes with the heels of his palms.
He had given Katy the night off.
Hadn't he?
He was almost certain.
He had sent her a short message while they sat together at the Thai restaurant. May's mouth had been full of pad thai noodles and she had been smiling softly at him. Peter had told Katy he wasn't going to school next week and that he could manage everything himself.
That he wanted to manage everything himself.
Granted, he hadn't checked for a response.
"Dude, are you there?"
A voice carried from the front door all the way to Peter's bedroom.
Ah.
Not Katy.
Peter immediately recognized the familiar rushed cadence and squeak of Ned's voice.
"Give me a second," Peter called back.
The words came out quieter than intended.
He turned on his heel and dragged himself from the room.
At the front door, resting beside the entrance sat Peter's Converse, abandoned beside May's pink plastic shoe rack.
There hadn't been enough time between returning from the restaurant and calling the ambulance for him to put his shoes back on.
Maybe he could have done it while one of the EMTs gathered May's medication bottles.
But he couldn't let go of her hand.
Ned's voice continued, louder now.
"Peter, I'm so, so sorry, man. I... I don't even know what to—"
Peter reached for the handle and pulled it open.
The same way he had opened it for the EMTs.
"I'm here."
She's over there.
Ned's face immediately crumpled.
"Come in."
Hurry.
***
Ned stepped into the apartment.
Peter turned away.
"Come on."
The walk to the kitchen table was short. The apartment was tiny. The five steps separating Peter's bedroom—a space that resembled a closet more than a room—from the living area reflected that.
But Peter moved slowly, and Ned followed slowly behind him.
The apartment felt wrong.
Peter reached the kitchen table and pulled out a chair.
"You can sit," Peter said, looking away from Ned's mournful gaze.
He remained standing.
Ned looked at the chair, then at Peter.
Before Peter could say anything else, Ned walked forward and wrapped both arms around him.
Peter stiffened.
Then his fingers closed weakly around the back of Ned's blue periodic table sweatshirt.
"I'm so sorry, Peter."
Ned's voice cracked.
"I'm so, so sorry."
Peter shut his eyes and drew in a shaky breath, clutching the back of Ned's hoodie tighter.
"It's going to be okay," Ned whispered.
Did he know that?
No.
Of course not.
But Ned believed it anyway.
He believed in Peter.
Believed Peter would survive this, at least.
What Ned didn't know was how much Peter would change.
He had already changed so much, so, so much, but Ned knew there were more changes to come.
He also knew that surviving and living were two very different things.
May had survived for eight months.
She had lived for far less.
The hug lingered.
Ned spoke again.
"Have you..." He swallowed. "Have you thought about it at all?"
Peter froze.
"Thought about what?"
"The plan."
The plan.
The rest of his life.
Yes.
Peter answered after a moment.
"Yes."
His voice was hoarse, but certain.
May had died only three hours ago.
But he was Spider-Man.
Heroes always knew the right answer.
Heroes were supposed to do the right thing.
***
The right thing would be to disappear—to shove Ned off, grab his suit from the vent, and jump out the nearest window.
But Peter did not want to do the right thing.
In that moment, he wanted to cry on Ned’s shoulder and pretend May was just asleep in her bedroom.
“Have you… have you decided about D.C.?” Ned asked, his voice slightly raised.
Peter pulled back an inch.
“I can’t go to D.C.”
Ned sighed.
“Can’t, or don’t want to?”
Peter noticed how Ned attempted to mask his frustration, though it seeped through anyway.
“If I do, I won’t be Spider-Man anymore.”
Ned tried not to roll his eyes.
“It’s not all about Spider-Man, Peter.”
Peter fully let go of him, stepping back.
“I have to do the right thing.”
Ned scoffed, then choked slightly as he started to cry.
“Peter, I—I love you, man. I’m so freaking worried about you right now, but—” he paused, wiping his face. “You need to know...”
He steadied his breath.
“May would just want you to be happy.”
Peter looked away.
“May didn’t know. I never told her about me.”
Ned nodded slowly. He had figured.
“I know,” he said gently.
Peter looked down.
“Spider-Man is all I have now.”
Ned shook his head.
“That’s not true. That’s not true at all. You have me. You always have me.”
His voice wavered.
“I still remember the first day we met. First grade, recess—we found each other at the swings and became friends.”
Peter raised his head.
“I’ve been by your side since then,” Ned said, more urgently now. “And I’m not leaving you.”
He swallowed hard.
“Whatever you decide, I’m sticking by you. And if you have to hide out in my attic for three years, I don't think Lola would even notice.”
Something small and fleeting tugged at the corners of Peter’s mouth.
“But you can’t just give your life away. You can’t just be Spider-Man.”
Ned spoke more calmly now.
“May wouldn’t want that.”
Peter’s faint smile fell.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked, folding his arms.
If Peter went into custody—if he followed May’s will and allowed the state to transfer guardianship to her cousin Carol and her husband Hank—he was finished.
Peter would have to give up Spider-Man.
He couldn’t be Spider-Man in D.C. Not when the New York police would notice a sudden disappearance coinciding with the arrival of a fifteen-year-old boy with matching anomalies.
A recent law in New York, the Druine Safety Bill, required all minors entering the system to undergo mandatory medical screening within forty-eight hours. It was passed after Nancy Greeves, a twelve-year-old girl, killed her foster mother in an accidental display of superhuman strength.
It would only take a simple blood test, a standard screening by the Administration for Children’s Services, to reveal what he was.
Enhanced.
Within a day or two, the truth would come out.
Carol and Hank might still take him in. May grew up with Carol, her favorite cousin. Carol called every week. He had spent summers with them on their farm in Virginia, long before everything changed. They were kind. They were safe.
But once the police had his blood…
Peter was impulsive, but he was not reckless.
He knew it would only be a matter of time before they figured it out.
And then there would be no going back.
***
Peter stepped back another foot, then another, until his lower back hit the kitchen cabinet behind him. He braced both hands against it, then collapsed in on himself, sliding down into a seated position. His back pressed against the solid wood as he pulled his knees up to his chest.
“I don’t know what to do,” Peter admitted.
Ned looked like his heart hurt.
“Peter…” Ned tried to find an answer. “We should call Mr. Stark.”
Peter Parker was Spider-Man.
Peter was an orphan with thirty dollars to his name and a dusty suit in a vent.
Peter pulled his phone from his back pocket and handed it over to Ned.