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It was a slow day down at F.E.A.S.T., and Peter mostly filled the time by making sure all the supplies were fully stocked. It was nice to be sure they had extra hygiene products—toothpaste, deodorant, hand sanitizer—just in case anybody needed them. He opened boxes, put items away in drawers, cut up the cardboard, and threw the boxes away. There was nothing to it, just doing something small to help others.
May came by again to check on him, and he smiled at her. Since moving out, he saw her less—so he valued time with her all the more.
"Working hard?" May asked. Her voice was tender. She always radiated a welcoming feeling.
"You know it," Peter laughed. "Oh, earlier, I was throwing some boxes away in the dumpster out back, and I swear I saw a rat this big," he said, holding out his hands for effect.
"That's New York for you," she replied.
"A lot of people get scared of rats, but I've never been bothered by them," Peter shrugged. "Well, as long as they keep their distance," he added anxiously.
May smiled warmly at him, like she was lost in nostalgia. A familiar, yet unknown expression appeared on her face—kind of like she was lost in thought. Peter couldn't read her emotions.
"You remind me of your uncle sometimes," she admitted after a pause. "You know, with your jokes and all."
Peter meant to reply to her, but said nothing. By no means was he angry—he had no idea how he felt. He had no idea how he was meant to feel, for that matter.
He didn't necessarily avoid thinking about Uncle Ben, but sometimes he preferred not to. He was no longer bogged down by grief or guilt, but occasionally—
Occasionally, he had thoughts. Thoughts that he'd rather not share. He believed he was over it, he wanted to be over it.
He recalled what Aunt May told him a few months after Uncle Ben died: 'Grief has no timeline.'
It's a nice adage, but he really wished it had one, just so he could see if he was anywhere close to being 'over it.'
He stumbled into May's office, careful not to move his injured shoulder too much. He struggled through a fight with some Demons in the Financial District. He safely defeated them, but earned a few bruises as a souvenir—and ended up hurting his left shoulder. Nothing he couldn't sleep off.
He longed to crawl into his own bed, but through a series of misfortunes, he no longer had a place to stay. Just the Parker luck, he figured. Nothing was going right for him.
Sometimes, it feels like things aren't meant to go right for him. And when something does work out, it's undeserved, and should be taken away—
He can't continue that line of thinking. Things'll turn out again. They have to. They have to.
He rested his head on the couch in May's office, and before long, he was knocked out.
"—Peter?"
As soon as the name hit his ears, he jumped up. He braced for some sort of impact, but he realized it was only his aunt. He peered out the window—enough time had passed for the sun to set.
"Gosh, Peter, you startled me."
"Sorry, Aunt May," he said groggily. He sat up and caught his breath.
"You sure look tired," she hummed.
"Yeah, had a fight with Demons last night," Peter said automatically. In his exhausted state, he forwent any sort of secret-guarding.
"Demons?"
"Inner demons," Peter hastily replied. "A—Anxiety, I mean. But I'm fine now. Don't worry."
"Oh, Peter… I know this has been a hard week for you. You're always welcome down here at F.E.A.S.T."
"Thank you," he responded earnestly. "I think I'm gonna try to fall back asleep. I could use it."
"You know, this reminds me of when your uncle would work late and I would find him sleeping on the couch because he didn't want to wake me up. He was a very kind man—like you, Peter."
Peter simply nodded silently. He pretended he was too tired to reply to her, but that anecdote got to him. He hated the reminder—well, he didn't hate it, but it drew such a visceral reaction from him.
He had no idea why.
That night, he dreamt of Uncle Ben's ghostly face once more.
Images of Ben Parker's grave struck him. He tried so hard to forget the funeral when he was younger. He couldn't explain why, but at the time, it felt like the only way to push through his complex emotions.
He remembered it had rained that day. Not very much, just a drizzle. The biting wind rustled against his hair, gently blowing away his tears.
He wore a blue jacket that day—he threw it away a week later.
Without meaning to, the dream took up his entire mental capacity. He was so lost in his mind, in fact, he barely bothered with quips during a regular infiltration at a Fisk-run construction site. All he could think of was Ben.
He perched atop a crane, waiting for one of the men to isolate themselves. He missed several chances for a stealth takedown already, due to his own addled mind.
Finally, he struck. He knocked out a few men quietly before finally deciding to switch to melee combat. He took down the men swiftly, without commentary. His mind was too occupied for that.
He was pretty sure he heard one of Fisk's men say, "That ain't Spider-Man."
Once finished, he dialed Yuri Wantanabe to inform her of the good news. He was relieved to hear her voice again.
"Done with the Fisk base. Uh, the one in Upper East Side," he spoke into his mask. His voice was hushed. He longed to rest but not sleep—sleep felt too dangerous. Sleep could lead to dreams, dreams meant—
"Good. One less building perpetually under construction," Yuri said, interrupting his thought process.
"Right," he sighed. He stretched his arms as he always did after a fight, trying to wind down from the adrenaline.
"No jokes this time? Who is this, and what have you done with Spider-Man?" she joked.
"Nothing!" he replied. "I mean, I am Spider-Man. I mean—you know what I mean!"
"Are you alright? You sound…tired. Different."
"What do you mean? I'm fine," he said instantly. Then, with hesitation, he added, "I mean, I think I'm fine."
"Just… take it easy, Spider-Man."
"I'll try. Thanks, Captain."
The glittering view of city lights in Peter's peripheral vision did nothing to negate the effects of the malaise that swarmed him.
MJ's apartment offered a sense of safety, but Peter felt something looming in the distance. It wasn't akin to his Spidey senses—this was different, like impending doom.
He turned away and redirected his focus to MJ. She sat on the couch, pristine. The yellow light of the living room mixed with her red hair—Peter thought she looked like a work of art. She was the most beautiful thing he ever had the privilege of gazing at. And, much like a work of art, he was scared of ruining her, so he admired her from behind the velvet rope.
He felt sick.
"Hey, MJ," he started suddenly, because if he didn't say it soon, he never would.
"Do you think I've seemed off lately?"
She sighed, but not out of annoyance. It was like she had been holding this in for too long.
"To be honest, yeah. That's why I invited you over. You seemed down, so I wanted to do something nice with you," she explained.
She stood up to see him eye-to-eye, taking in all the little details on his face. A few scratches and marks were strewn along his jaw, likely from some earlier fight. Something existed in his eyes, she could tell, some tragedy that he refused to acknowledge.
"You seemed like you needed some cheering up," she smiled.
Peter hummed in response. In the back of his mind, a vision of a blue jacket lingered. He ignored it.
"Is something wrong?"
"Earlier, when I was infiltrating that Fisk base, Yuri told me I seemed different. Believe me, I honestly had no idea what she was talking about."
"Lately, you seemed tired. I know you, I can tell when something's up. No doubt, your line of work is stressful. Are you burnt out?"
"It's hard work, but I love it. It can be challenging sometimes, but I have a responsibility, and—"
"Alright, spare me the lecture," MJ laughed lightheartedly. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked so happy—supportive. He hated to burden her with this.
"So, it's something else, then?" she asked.
"Well, there was this one thing," Peter conceded. He hated to label it, to admit that a nightmare—he hated to even call it that—caused him genuine distress.
"It's not something I like to talk about."
The memory of that fateful rainy day struck him again.
Silver clouds covered the skies. Peter stared at them, pretending he was somewhere else. Hushed voices behind him crept into his mind, overwhelming him with the sudden desire to disappear. May attempted to take his hand in hers, but he pulled away.
He shook his head slightly, bringing himself to the present again.
"I had a nightmare about Uncle Ben," he spat out.
MJ nodded slowly, coaxing Peter to elaborate. They had known each other long enough and well enough to have that intimate, silent conversation.
"…and the thing is, I haven't had one about him in a while. Years, actually."
"Oh, Peter," MJ whispered. He could see the pity forming in his eyes, and guilt built up in his chest. He hated to make her feel bad.
"I know, I know," he said frantically, waving his hands. "It's just—I don't know how I feel about it. I'm not sad, I guess. I mean, I'm not not sad. Does that make sense?"
"If that's how you feel, it doesn't need to make sense," MJ consoled.
"Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. What you said makes sense, I mean—now I'm not making sense," Peter rambled.
"Maybe you're just in a slump. I'm sure you'll get out of it."
"I'm worried. I haven't been myself, and it's affecting my—my work," he stammered. He crossed his arms against his chest. "It's hard."
"You can do hard things, Spider-Man." She adopted a solemn, yet consoling tone that made Peter dizzy. "You took down Fisk, you're figuring out all that stuff with the Demons, even with Sable against you—"
"I can take down all those guys, but I can't get over one bad dream!" Peter stormed.
"You'll—"
"I know, I know, I shouldn't be so negative. I'm supposed to be happy—or hopeful, or whatever. I'm Spider-Man, I'm not allowed to be like this!"
"Peter, listen to me," MJ insisted. "You're allowed to have emotions. You're allowed to feel however you feel, even if it doesn't make sense."
"You can feel upset by this and still be strong. This doesn't change anything about you."
Peter's heart felt like it was going to burst. He exhaled a shaky breath, desperate to calm himself.
"I'll get through this," he sputtered.
"We'll get through this," she corrected.