a/n: Spooktober? More like Peter getting into trouble on a daily basis. More like bore ragnarok. I don't edit my chapters please h-

Spooktober 14: Sliced

May Parker was practiced in the art of recreating the meaning of home. When a little kid sat on her husband's couch, chestnut curls ruffled around his head and big brown eyes, chubby cheeks that were wet with tears as he heard the dreadful news—She did her best.

She didn't know what they would do, the three of them. But Ben took her by the arm and gave her that look that he always used to give, the one that she envied for its comfort, the one she dreamt of on weary nights when she was stressed. A look that said; "This will be difficult. But we can get through it, and we will get through it, and it will all be okay."

He gave her that look, and said, "Trust me." So she did.

May and Ben took in the (newly orphaned) Peter Parker and set him up in the guest room. Ben slept on the floor, woke up with a sore back, and continued to do it for the next two weeks afterwards. In the mornings, May made the only thing she knew how to make, a wheatcakes recipe that was also Ben's favourite, and the two of them made a home for the little boy who had lost everything he had.

The boy grew up in their nurturing arms, and May had taken to raising him as if he were her own. Her and Ben wore smiles of pride every time Peter would come home with his report card, or rattle off some new science thing he learned online that May knew only her brother-in-law would have understood.

One time, he walked in holding an armful of dirty old radio parts and set them on the table, and May was about to scold him until she saw the brightness in his eyes. He sat down at the table with such joy before he started fiddling, tinkering, doing whatever Peter did, and May just watched on in awe until Ben had come home with dinner.

She never planned to have kids, and sometimes she would have doubts, thoughts of worry that she wasn't doing enough. On nights such as that, where Peter would pout and storm off into his room, where every bone in her body was tired and she would look at Ben helplessly, and Ben would squeeze her hand.

"You're doing good," Ben would say, giving her the signature look. Kind eyes, smile lines. Patience, because he was always patient beyond any other being May had ever met. "We're doing our best. Peter can see it, too."

Peter was thirteen, when May had to recreate their home together for the second time, and not the last. Peter had stormed off, he had been acting strange all week and both of them were so worried for their boy. The door slammed behind him, the old thing splintered off its hinges. Ben and May exchanged a worried look.

"I'll go check on him," Ben promised.

May nodded. "I'll wait up for you too. It's late, Peter shouldn't be out in the dark."

Ben disappeared out of the doorway. He never stepped back into their quaint little apartment. In his place, Peter stumbled in with police officers, and blood-stained hands, and an expression that she hadn't seen since he first arrived. Something was so lost in his eyes, as if innocence had been ripped away and crushed in his view, and as the innocence fell to pieces and crumbled to nothing, the light in his eyes faded with it.

That night, May slept on the couch. When she woke up, she had found that a blanket had been pulled over her and Peter was making wheatcakes at the stove. Half of them were burnt and half of them were undercooked, but they sat at the table together and like a forest regrowing from ashes, they began again.

With every passing week, they healed. Every quiet dinner, every tearful night, every night they stayed up talking about him, his absence, their grief, their loss. Every 'How was your day?', 'I made you lunch, be safe', and 'Why don't we go out for dinner? I heard there's a new Thai place down the street' healed them a little more, bit by bit.

She watched Peter blossom into someone she could meet all over again every single day. Peter was fifteen now, and everytime she saw him it was a swell of fear and pride.

Pride, because her boy was smart as a whip, just like his parents and maybe even more so. He was kind, like Ben. Humility had learned to run its course on Peter's one-track mind and split it into several paths. He wasn't all that patient, he never was, but he seemed excited again (especially with his new Stark Internship) and May couldn't be more pleased to see her kid smile again. It seemed like it had been so long since the last genuine grin.

She also had a healthy dose of fear, because although the positives, the poor kid seemed stressed all the time. She had seen him cover his eyebags, she had heard him sneaking back in at night.

Sometimes she swore she thought that Peter was listening to a million different things all at once. She wanted to know what was in his head, sometimes. She wanted to know why Peter was so thoughtful, and why it could so easily look like paranoia on his face. She prayed to Ben some nights that Peter would feel comfortable telling her if something was wrong. She couldn't take it if she got another midnight call or knocked on the door by a police officer.

It didn't make full sense until she walked into Peter's room that one day. She knew that she should knock, that's what all of the parenting blogs say, but Peter had called her name asking about dinner. She only wanted to talk to him further about the discussion, maybe tell him: "No. I haven't made dinner yet. It's been a while since we cooked together, though. What if we retried that turkey meatloaf together and instead you read the directions?"

Instead, what came out of her mouth, at the sight of her nephew in the suit of the famous vigilante, was—

"What the fu—"

Home was created once again, after that particular incident.

The sneaking around finally stopped, but May couldn't feel relieved, now that she knew that at any given moment, on basically any night, Peter could be dead in an alleyway or on a street or in a fire or—

So, just like that night approximately three years ago, everytime Peter calls out that he's going on patrol, May stays awake until he comes back. Yes, she has lost countless hours of sleep. Yes, she will lose countless more.

On nights like these, May has all the more reason to never change this part of their new routine.

It's eleven at night. The tea in May's hands is steaming into her glasses and making it hard to see the movie she is halfway through watching.

Peter had left for patrol four hours ago, directly after eating dinner, finishing his homework, and kissing May goodbye on the cheek, in that specific order. He usually came back near twelve, or one if it's a weekend. That's why May is so surprised to hear his bedroom window slide open.

Then she hears a loud thud.

May quickly sets the mug of tea on the table and stands up from the couch. She walks into Peter's room and flicks on the light, and gasps tightly at the sight she's greeted with.

Peter, her boy, her kid, sitting beside the window and leaning against the bed frame, a giant bloodied slice stretching from his left side to his mid-ribs. His sweaty hair is nearly falling into his eyes, but it doesn't hide the obvious black eye. His mask is bunched up in his hand, and he gives May a grimacing smile.

"Hey, May," he says jokingly. "How was your evening?"

What is May supposed to do in these situations? Call 911, right? Right. She immediately turns on her heel and goes for her phone.

"Wait!"

May looks back at him, wide eyes and raised eyebrows that dare Peter to argue.

"You can't call the hospital, May." Peter grimaces and sits up. He presses the button on the suit's chest so it bundles off him and sits around his waist. "Secret identity."

"You're going to kill me!" May says with exasperation. "God, Peter! You're sitting on your bedroom floor half-dead, and I'm expected not to call an ambulance? What the hell am I supposed to do? It's my job to keep you safe, this is the exact opposite of that!"

Peter bites back his pained wince and looks up at May, and the strangest expression crosses his face. Strange, because it's a ghost's expression. May has only ever seen that look on Ben. It makes her stop in her tracks and forces a deep breath into her lungs.

"I'll be okay," Peter promises softly. "The cut isn't that deep. I've had worse. I do need to clean it up, though. Can you get me the first aid kit?"

May scrubs a hand under her glasses, rubbing wearily arm her eyes. She nods quickly and marches to the bathroom. Bringing it back to Peter, she sits beside him and watches with worry.

It's haunting to watch her kid take care of such a gruesome wound. He's had worse, he said, which really doesn't make May feel any better. The way Peter stuffs a towel in his mouth when he sanitizes the wound, effectively muffling his cries—It breaks May's heart. How many nights had Peter stitched his own skin back together in brutal silence while she slept peacefully down the hallway?

She's supposed to protect him. She can't help but feel useless now, knowing that her kid needed her and she wasn't able to carry him to safety with her own super strength.

Peter doesn't take the towel out of his mouth until he finishes the last stitch. His face is pale and sweaty. May wipes away the sweat with the sleeve of her sweater, and something must show her pain in her pinched expression, because Peter frowns up at her.

"'M sorry," Peter murmurs, looking back down at the floor. He turns the mask over in his hands. "I usually... I try not to let you see that stuff. I know it worries you."

"Worrying is my job," May says, her voice wavering. She runs a hand through Peter's matted hair. "I wish you would come to me more often. Teach me what to do next time so I don't have a heart attack, though."

Peter smiles weakly. "Yeah..."

May lets out a sigh. "Why do you do this, Peter?"

"Hm?"

"You go out every night and risk your life to save everyone else. I'm so proud of you for that, every day, but you're only fifteen," May scolds lightly. "You have so much ahead of you. You're so smart. One wrong hit out there and..."

May's voice breaks and she takes a moment to regain control of her emotions, letting out only a sniff. "I just worry about you, Peter. Especially when I see you like this. It's admirable, but I don't think I could ever comprehend how you do it."

Peter is quiet for a long time. May almost thinks that he's fallen asleep, and pulls her hand back from his hair, and that's when Peter speaks up.

"You know what Ben always said?" Peter's voice was quiet. Timid. Tired. "About responsibility?"

"...Oh," May says softly. "The night that he..."

"Yeah." Peter looks up at her. "I just... if I can help people with these powers, then— Y'know. I have to do it, even if I get hurt. A little scrape on my stomach isn't close to the pain a family feels after they find out their loved one died in a mugging, or something. That's... That's why I do it."

The tears that began to flow down May's face were uncontrollable. In mere seconds, she was a blubbering mess. She pulls her glasses off her face and cries silently into her hands. It was cathartic, in a way, a full-circle moment she couldn't explain. The pride overflowing in her heart for Peter's selflessness, for his kindness, for everything that made him Peter Parker, everything that made May eternally grateful to have seen him grow up.

"May?" Peter's hand is on her shoulder, and his tone was nothing but concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"I am so proud of you," May repeats through her messy tears. She shakes her head. "You have no idea. Come here."

She opens her arms for Peter to (gently) fall into. Peter relaxes easily, like he's done so many times before.

"Thank you," Peter murmurs.

May Parker is practiced in the art of recreating the meaning of home. She stays up all night for when her teenager decides to collapse next to his window, bleeding and shivering and shaking with all his heroic might—and she does her best to help him.

She recreates a home in her arms.

She holds him, and tells her how proud she is.

Together, they heal.