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liz-allyn · 2 years

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inner demons - pt 6 - finale [tasm!peter x f!reader]

another side of the devil you know

Chapter Summary: After a horrible lapse in judgment, he’s faced with a choice.

Words: 7.3 k

Warnings: SERIOUS GRAPHIC CONTENT WARNINGS APPLY. 18+ ONLY. Dark! Themes TW including: dubcon touching, description of past SA/abuse of a minor, self harm, safeword used, knives and knife play, non graphic smut, PTSD, traumatic flashbacks, panic attacks, blood, vomit, reference to domestic abuse, children, child harm

This may not be the story for you, regardless of age. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four. Part Five. Part Six.

Dr. V jostled the keys in her hand as she unlocked the deadbolt of her office door. Sticky, humid air drenched in morning sunlight hit her suddenly. It took a moment to clear her eyes before she noticed things were out of place. For one, her office window was open. And the other—a stranger sitting on her sofa.

Her muscles tensed as she gazed at the man suspiciously, attempting to conceal her alarm. This was a face she didn’t recognize as one of her patients, and even if it were, she’d been in enough crises to sense when something bad was about to happen.

The man’s eyes were dark with rings and fine lines that marked his age and exhaustion. Messy, brown locks lay wildly across his head. His hair had seen water recently, but not a comb. His clothes were clean, but wrinkled.

He was handsome, with an elegant bone structure and one of those forever-youthful, kind faces. His complexion was ghostly pale, save for a spackling of freckles, as if he’d kept himself in the dark or in a constant fight with illness. The greenish-brown bruises staining his skin stood out the most. They looked weeks old, with corresponding scrapes and cuts that were almost healed. The sourness on his face suggested that the beating had been much more recent. Maybe even last night.

His eyes were pretty. And heavy. Soft. Dull. Full of sorrow. He stared at a blank place in the middle of her office, looking into a tiny, floating universe that she could not see. Looking into a past life, perhaps. Or an existence that never was. The doctor had seen that look before, but not from these eyes. And yet, he was somehow so familiar.

Maybe it was the slump in his shoulders holding up the weight of the world. The way his neck craned, his head lolled to the side beneath a crown of thorns.

Dr. V’s dark lips parted at the realization, a faint gasp caught in her throat. It was him.

After five years of late-night sessions, she finally could look him in the eyes. And heartbreakingly—there was nothing there.

He made no move to greet her, nor look at her.

“I feel overdressed,” Dr. V remarked finally, taking full stock of her patient who was conspicuously out of costume. She glanced at the open window, then back to the broken form on her tweed couch. She closed the door behind her. “It’s early for you,” she declared, easing the tension. “Or... late, maybe.”

“You know who I am?” he murmured, barely above a pained whisper.

She wasn’t really sure if he was addressing her, at first, until his charcoal eyes landed on her. She stilled, watching him closely. The tension was eerie, not far off from their first meeting. She observed him with the peculiar feeling of watching an animal for signs of rabies. Subconsciously, she was expecting a snap.

Her head tilted as she continued to read him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, no doubt from the heat wave, but also from something else. Maybe he was sick. She noted a subtle flush of red on his cheeks and neck. She even took note of the smell of him—alcohol? Dr. V thought she’d seen her patient in all states of being, but never quite like this. Never this rough. Nor this raw.

“I believe I do,” Dr. V replied.

He stared at her for ages, and said with the finality of heartbreaking despair, “No. You don’t.” His words carried a bitter slight that she felt wasn’t meant for her. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he struggled to find his voice. His reddened eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“My name is Peter Parker,” he declared, (re)introducing himself. “And I’ve done something bad.”

BEFORE

Only minutes had passed since the incident in the grocery store when you finally reemerged. You held Ben’s hand tightly in yours. You’d abandoned the majority of your items inside. There wouldn’t be any celebrations to be had that day anyway.

Peter was nowhere to be found. Instead, he sent you a text message:

see you at home

You sighed as you read it and shoved your phone back in your pocket. Hearing the distant echoes of emergency sirens, you could put two and two together. You looked frustrated, probably angry. Rightfully so, as you took your little boy by the hand and walked several blocks home.

From high above on the rooftops, Peter watched you every step of the way. His webbed mask tightly concealed the shame on his face.

He watched hawkishly until he spotted you and Ben through the windows of your apartment, safe behind a dead-bolted door. Then, urgently, he turned. Ripped the mask away. And emptied his stomach onto the sweltering, tar-covered roof.

Hours passed. You sent a text to May, apologizing, explaining that Ben must have caught a stomach bug at daycare and the cookout would have to wait. You were good at covering up things like that. Always were.

The sun set. Ben picked at some of his macaroni, but he was off. You both were. But he was tired, too, exhausted from the heat and emotional turmoil of the day. He passed out on the couch watching “his dinosaurs” on your kid-proof tablet, and remained blessedly asleep as you carried him—god, there’s no way this kid only weighs 30 pounds—to his toddler bed. It was so much easier when Peter was home to tuck him in, super strength and all.

Peter wasn’t home, and now it was dark. He wasn’t answering his phone, but at least he diligently rejected the incoming calls instead of turning his phone off or letting it go to voicemail. That was an agreement you’d made after Ben was born.

Every time Peter silenced the call, it let you know that he was still alive—still conscious enough to work the buttons on his phone. Three rings means he’s busy with his hands. Two rings means he’s busy running his mouth. One ring means he needs the silence.

You called again shortly after midnight. The call cut off and went to voicemail before the end of the first ring. There wasn’t really a code for that, but your heart ached as much as your anger burned.

Overcome with your own exhaustion, you placed a wine-stained glass in the sink and turned out the kitchen lights.

You grabbed the cumbersome screen of the baby monitor Peter had tinkered with, his alterations providing an unhackable, private-relay feed to the monitor and to a separate, password-protected device with a 45-mile range on a cloudy day. It was technology you told him he should patent and sell to a telecom company. He shrugged off the idea. This would remain at home; another secret he’d keep to protect his family.

You peered at the gentle rise and fall of the child’s chest through the silver glow of the night vision-enhanced image. Once you were satisfied that he was sleeping soundly, you turned the screen off and carried it with you. You felt the sway of your buzz with each footstep as you padded to your bedroom.

You contemplated taking a shower this late at night, as you pushed the door closed behind you and flicked a switch on. Nothing. You curiously looked over at your bedside lamp, trying the wall switch again. You reached for the knob on the lamp, twisting it. Darkness.

The ghost of white drapes caught your eye, and you snapped your attention to the open window. Sheer curtains billowed in the warm evening breeze, illuminated by the streetlamps outside. Your muscles froze as you spotted a figure seated at the end of your bed. The red and blue of his suit was barely visible, shrouded in shadow.

Déjà vu struck you, but there was an equally unsettling nature about it. You recognized the shape of your husband along with the mop of messy, sweat-dampened hair. The curve of his shoulders and craning of his neck was as unmistakable as the reflective, crimson spider emblem on his back. His mask was off. He stared down at it, cradling it in his hands.

“Peter?” you whispered. It was a silly response. Of course it was Peter. The profile was a dead giveaway. But there was something odd about the stillness of his body. About the way he didn’t react to the sound of your voice.

Your mind went to the horror movies you’d seen; he looked like the shell of a man left behind post-demonic possession. Some otherworldly entity had ripped his tormented soul from his body. He carried the weight of a phantom leeching onto his back. Your anger dissipated once you began to survey how truly broken he was.

Despite the heat wave outside, you shivered. Gooseflesh broke out across your skin as you trepidatiously stepped towards your bed. You softened your voice. “Talk to me, Bug Boy,” you warmly cooed with a half smile.

Peter’s head tilted a fraction. The levity of your affectionate moniker didn’t quite reach the rest of him, but it let you know that there was a heart still beating beneath the suit. What you weren’t prepared for was the anguish piercing his mutilated voice.

“I... I’m... I’m late. I’m sorry.” You felt a chill on your skin while your heart broke open. He wasn’t a man possessed. He was a boy haunted. Sulking in front of you, but sounded far away. He swallowed deeply, “There was a disturbance.”

You warred with yourself on whether or not you should take another step towards him. He made the choice for you, abruptly coming to a stand.

He faced you fully, his pensive features dimly lit by the pale moon. His flesh bore a similar milkiness; the color had drained from his face except for puffy eyes and a splattering of cherry and blackberry welts. Cuts and abrasions peppered his skin, jagged crimson cracks in his statuesque form.

Your eyes traveled south and over the curves of his torso. They grew wide at the sight of blood, the air being dragged out from your lungs. Blood stained his suit, seeping out through fresh lacerations on his ribs and thigh.

To your knowledge, the city had not been attacked by a scientist-turned-cheetah, or an unlucky, low-level criminal with chainsaws for arms. As you tried to add up what exterior force could’ve mangled him so violently, the more the equation gutted you.

He’d been through the ringer, alright: He’d put himself there.

“It’s mine... the blood,” he affirmed, as if he was reassuring you that there was nothing to worry about. You glanced up at him with a cross expression, confused as to why he’d think that would make you feel better.

You looked back down as Peter reached out his arm, hand shaking. He unfurled his fingers, opening his palm, and revealed the blood-stained, silver glint of an open switchblade.

Your eyes went cold as you glanced up at him, uncertain.

“Don’t worry,” he remarked with a tone of cruel irony, as if there was some kind of joke that you didn’t understand. “This is for you.”

For you? You pondered over his meaning, staring down at the knife warily, despite everything logical reminding you that Peter was not a threat. Peter was your husband and he would never hurt you. Not even if you asked him to. Not like this.

“I’m not putting a knife to you. Ever.”

You remembered his voice clearly from the day you sealed the contract of what your play would and wouldn’t be. That was the agreement. For all of his bold banter, Spider-Man really hated when the bad guys pulled knives. The agreement was supposed to be law, as solid as stone.

You caught sight of his eyes again. He frowned, like a bad taste formed in the back of his mouth. Like he could read your mind and see you weighing the possibility that he would break your rules and actually harm you.

He half-smiled, bitter. “No, baby. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Before you could speak for yourself, he took your hand in his. You watched, perplexed, as he opened your palm as delicately as handling a flower. His strength easily overpowered the stiffness of your arm, and forced it to be an unwilling participant. With blood-tainted hands, he placed the hilt of the knife in yours.

With the blade now pointing at him, you met his dark eyes. They were fixed on you expectantly, swirling with worrisome emotions. Grief. Resentment. Disillusionment.

Resolve.

“It’s okay,” he nodded, cold tears brimming at his waterline. He positioned your hand pointing the blade at his chest. “It’s what I want.”

Your fingers twitched and you tried to wrench your hand away. His grip had you cemented in place.

“Pete… what’re you—?”

“It’s what I need.” He gazed down at you. His tone was as firm as his grip.

You shook your head vigorously, horrified at the image being projected in your mind.

“Please,” he said urgently, voice shattered. “Play with me.”

He lowered himself down to his knees in front of you, his hand still clamped around your wrist. You watched him edge the knife dangerously close to his neck, the tip grazing his skin.

“Punish me.”

You squeezed your eyes tightly and let your hands go limp in his, afraid that if you tried to jerk away again you could stab him accidentally. Afraid that’s what he wanted. Your heart ached at the thought.

You watched his face in disbelief, the agony there so blindingly bright. “Peter, no.”

He didn’t let go. “Yes…” he whispered grimly. “Yes. This is what I want. Just this one time, I want you to do this for me. Take control—”

He looked so lost. You felt the burn of tears prick your eyes. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

You watched a bead of blood spring at the tip of the knife. A heavy sickness sank into your stomach.

“I’ve been good to you,” he swallowed painfully. You met his eyes, shocked that he would go there. “I give you what you want, always. Just… please.”

There was no lust in his voice. Any passion there had been perverted, twisted into something horrific. You pulled your hands back desperately.

This wasn’t your game. This wasn’t the sanctuary you’d visit to engage in the fantasy of violent sin, only to be freed by the words “It’s time to wake up now.” This was no dream. This was a nightmare.

“Let me go,” you warned. “Please, I don’t—Pete, I can’t—”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears. Peter seemed to look right through you, his hands and arms on autopilot as he lifted his free hand and let it trail up your inner thigh.

“I-I want you to use me like this, please.” You felt him pawing at you, drawing you closer. His voice was strained, broken. “It’s just like another dream, okay? We can pretend that-that you had to. That I made you. That you had no choice.”

“Stop.”

“Please, I want you to hurt me, just give me this, give me what I deserve—”

“Red!”

It was instinctual. He froze at your feet—your voice cracking like a whip. He slammed his eyes closed, flinching. Pained. Defeated.

Your strangled tone might have cut deeper than the blade. Every breath was shallow. Peter pried his fingers open, releasing you and allowing you to wrench away from his hold. The knife clamored to the floor and stained the carpet. You reached down and picked the cursed object up, hurriedly throwing it out of sight. Like it burned you.

Peter’s chin dropped to his chest, as tears gushed freely down his face. Your chest heaved, heart aching at the sight, while a fury burned your stomach. “Get up,” you demanded in a whisper. A pause. Then. Hesitantly, slowly, he did. His gaze was glued to the floor. “Look at me,” you ordered. Painfully, he did.

Your feelings were boiling over, simmering in sadness and anger.

“What we do together... is special,” you said, voice breaking. You sounded so giant and yet so small. “It was never about hurting each other.”

He blinked tears out of his eyes, glancing back at the window.

“Look at me!” you implored. The anguish in your voice—the betrayal, snapped him back to attention. You declared vehemently and emphatically, punctuating each word with a teardrop. “You do not have my permission to get hurt. Or to hurt yourself. Do you understand?”

His lashes were jagged with tears as he silently nodded.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you sniffed, lip quivering, “please…”

Peter stared at you, unblinking, until his eyes burned. You quickly snatched him into your arms, pulling him close to you, and you felt his body weight give way to your hold. On his knees, he wrapped his hands around your waist and buried his shamed face into your clothed stomach.

“I-’m s-sorry...‘m so so-sorry...”

You let him sob as you threaded your fingers through the thickness of his hair. His body shook as he clutched you close, holding on to you like a buoy in a storm-ravaged sea. The desperation of his grip ripped your soul apart. You lowered yourself to meet him, cocooning him in your arms.

“Shhh, it’s okay....” You lied. No matter how much you wished it to be true.

“no-no, no, no it’s not, it’s not okay... i hurt him, i didn’t mean to...”

Your grip tightened, finding a foothold of truth to cling to. “You weren’t you, baby.”

“no... this is what i am, this is exactly what i am...all i do is hurt people—”

“Pete, no, that’s not true. Listen to me. Please, look at me.” You took his chin in your palm and pulled his gaze to meet yours. Despite the raw chaos of the moment, this much you were certain of. “You weren’t there. You were somewhere else.” You swallowed hard as a tear rolled down your cheek. Your voice tightened, pulled taut with a dreadful understanding, “You were with him again, weren’t you? In his room?”

You felt the muscles of his upper half tense up. He didn’t answer, but the darkness in his eyes was all the confirmation you needed. If you stared hard enough into his pupils, you were sure to find the sharpened image of his abuser reflected within.

“You were having a flashback, baby,” you warmly responded, the touch of your fingertips keeping him grounded. “I’m so sorry. That must have been really scary.” Your hands went up to caress his cheeks, as he leaned into your touch. “You remember what happened with me? That day after my father’s funeral?” you supplied. “It was the same for me then. They can be bad sometimes. It just happens.”

He clenched his jaw and looked like he wanted to protest. You leveled your gaze, softly silencing him. “It might get even worse,” you added, giving him pause, “with Ben. The older he gets—the closer he gets in age to when you...” You swallowed hard, and steeled yourself to the cold harshness of reality. “To when that monster abused you.”

He closed his mouth, staring into the space between you, breathing slowly through his nose. He considered the information, feeling a sense of grief. The mourning of the boy he used to be, and how similar that boy was to his son.

“Did Dr. V tell you that could happen?” you asked gently. Peter freezed at the sound of the doctor’s name, glancing up at you with alarm. He’d tried to avoid secrets, but this was one he felt he needed to keep. He’d worried how you would react to him seeing the same therapist as you—albeit, you saw her less frequently nowadays.

He was careful. How did you know? Unless...

“No, Peter,” you shook your head with a soft smirk, as if you could read his mind. “She didn’t tell me. I figured it out myself.” Your eyes sparkled; a blessed levity in your tone. “Nobody uses the phrase 'cognitive restructuring’ in real life.”

Despite relaxing at your admission, he felt his face heat up, his cheeks and ears turning red. Once again, you were right there with him, a step before him. “Don’t be ashamed,” you urged as fervently as any of your other orders. “Don’t ever feel ashamed.”

He found himself unable to meet your eyes, the earnesty being too much for his soul to bear. He dipped his head forward, leaning his forehead on yours.

“You’ve been pushing yourself so hard,” you breathed. “Especially with Lyman out there; you’re exhausted.” His brow furrowed, his eyes stinging again. You explained with an angelic level of grace and compassion, “When Ben ran off, you assumed the worst and you panicked—what parent wouldn’t? You made a mistake, Peter, and you’re allowed that—”

“I can’t,” was his first reply. He looked up at you, his dark eyes swollen with tears. “I can’t make a mistake. Not me. Not Spider-Man.”

You shook your head. “Spider-Man is an idea, not a man. He isn’t Ben’s dad.” You ran your fingers across the nape of his neck, gazing at him with constellations in your eyes. “He can’t sing all those awful songs to him.” Peter exhaled with a pained laugh, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. “He can’t carry him to bed and tuck him in at night.” Then, more seriously, you added, “And he can’t leave him like he did today, not knowing that what happened wasn’t his fault.”

That was the deepest cut. The sin Peter grappled the hardest with. His body tensed with shame as he hid his face in your shoulder. You warmly whispered into his ear, “Because Ben has a good heart, and he feels and loves so… generously. Just like his father.”

His father is a disaster, Peter thought.

But he relished in the peaceful silence. You stayed together like that, cradling his weight in your arms, as he leaned on your shoulder. You felt the warm puffs of air on your skin, and eventually the tears stopped.

Everything was foggy from that point on. You couldn’t recall who initiated the kiss, but soon you found yourself desperately reaching for one another. A tangle of teeth, tongues and touch. You fought for each other, as if you were battling a wildfire. The blaze consumed everything: clothes, tears, heartache, pretense and play. Nothing remained but bare flesh writhing on the floor.

Peter couldn’t look away from you, like breaking eye contact would break his soul. He leaned back against the side of your shared bed, gripping your hips firmly as you circled, slid, and clenched your muscles around him. He observed you like watching stars shoot across the galaxy, through gasps and groans. There was a reverence in his gaze, and determination to keep his eyes open for as long as he could stand it. You clutched his chest as you chased your ecstasy, fingertips digging into skin. Your touch crawled at an agonizing pace to the spot on his throat that made him fall apart under your grip.

He wanted to paint this moment in his mind forever. A mind that was lost in the feeling of you. He let you take as much as you needed, selflessly giving you dominance, although you were anything but selfish in return. Every bit of energy you put into fucking him, you put into making love to him. You bathed him in desperate pleas—god please you feel so good, so tight, cock so big, so wet baby, always so perfect for me—as if you were cleansing his conscience.

As he simultaneously plotted in shame.

Your husband was a disaster, he thought. Not a monster. But a wreck. And a fraud.

Every kiss was a promise, a bittersweet word of affirmation. Every touch was another line of a love letter he needed to write. He wanted to say I love you, you’re beautiful, I’m so lucky I found you, you’re the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me, I worship you, I want to make you feel good, I want you to feel like a goddess, I want to protect you and keep you safe and full and warm and make you feel so, so, so good.

I love you forever.

I want to say goodbye.

THE NEXT MORNING

“I’m not sure I understand what’s happening here,” Dr. V said cautiously, slowly approaching her desk. She finally had the chance to set her briefcase down on the ground. Peter’s eyes followed her the whole way.

“My name is Peter Parker,” he repeated, his tone darker. “I live in Forest Hills on 108th Street—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Dr. V quickly cut him off with an urgent tone. She had worked years on a puzzle without all the pieces. Now faced with their discovery, she didn’t want the responsibility of hiding them.

He seemed calm, eerily so. He spoke with a deep voice in measured tones. “I need you to go down to the precinct,” he said, blowing right past her discomfort. “Talk to Chief Watanabe. Tell them everything you know.”

“What-what do you mean by that?”

“Tell them that I’m the vigilante known as Spider-Man,” he replied, as serious as a heart attack, “and I’m a danger to the public.” Her eyes widened at the suggestion as he continued to dictate his will. “Tell them I’ve hurt people,” he swallowed shamefully. “I’ve... killed… some of them.” He glanced down into that empty space again, pushing a wave of nausea back down. “Tell them... I have a wife and I have a son and you’re afraid for their safety.”

She gazed down at him, slack-jawed. “Why would I say that?”

“You’re a mandatory reporter,” he calmly explained, matter-of-factly. “And you have reason to believe that there is a child in danger.” She took a step back, breathless from his insinuation. The hue of his pale complexion had changed to a greenish tint. He was either holding his breath or his bile, or both.

Dr. V’s mind wandered ahead down the path he was proposing; the consequences weren’t just going to be severe. They were likely going to be fatal, especially if someone with enough money could tip the scales into sending Peter to Ryker’s. Or someplace worse. She shuddered to think of a prison filled with inmates that were put there by you. She was horrified.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he sat with the weight of his decision. He nodded. Resolute. “You tell them who I am and what I’ve done, and they’ll come for me,” he declared. “Give them my address. It’s 15-62 108th—”

“Stop! I don’t want to hear it!” Her voice rang out, urgently. He blinked at her, incredulity giving way to disappointment.

“Are you kidding me?” he angrily snapped. "This is your job!”

“Don’t,” she glowered. “Ever... Preach to me... About my job.” The sting in her voice was devastating, as if he’d attacked her with a machete and she returned the act. Icicles skewered him from her dark eyes. It was enough to stun him, slowing his derailment for a moment to recognize that she was offended. Unintentional as it was.

“Do you think it’s hard to be a public servant?” she sneered, the rawness of festering wounds in her tone. “You think the system’s rigged against you? You know how many courtrooms I’ve had to go in with children in them? How many death threats I’ve gotten? You don’t have a good goddamn clue how hard it is to do the things I do—to witness the type of injustice I’ve seen—without your powers.”

Peter sealed his lips closed, observing the short, sporadic motion of her chest. She ripped her eyes away from him. She glared down at the surface of her desk, her eyes scorching the veneer, and took a steadying breath. Moments passed, but her emotions were in check. She lifted her chin. “I do not have a reasonable suspicion that there is a child in danger. Asking me to file a false report is an insult.”

His eyes were softer, but no less certain in his shame. “It’s not false, it's the truth.”

She shot back, flippantly, “Do you really believe that or is this more superhero martyrdom bullshit?”

“Wow,” Peter scoffed. “Is this how you talk to all of your patients now?” She would have found his teasing arrogance amusing under a different circumstance.

“You are not my patient,” she declared scoldingly, pointing the end of her finger at him. “My patient wears a mask to protect his identity. To protect his family.” He dropped his gaze. “You’re just some guy that walked in here willing to throw that all away.”

His eyes studied the geometric beige rug beneath his feet, reflecting on the years of stains trodden into the pile. How could something with so much dirt from so many walks not be blackened beyond recognition?

“I’ve tried to protect them,” he contended. “I am trying. But I can’t protect them from me.” He chewed on the inside of his mouth, lost in thought. “I spend half my life with crooks and monsters. Criminals in masks. Freaks in costume. How do I know I’m not one of them? My hands...” He took a breath, gazing down his calloused palms. “They’ve seen just as much violence as any of the people I’ve put away.”

Dr. V stood still from behind her desk as she listened, her fingers and her will both providing balance. She remained quiet through his penance.

“Yesterday,” he began, a tremor returning to his voice, “I... I thought somebody stole Ben.” He took a deep breath. “I freaked out. I lost my temper. Lost control.” He paused, feeling a hot sting return to his eyes. Despite all the tears he’d cried, he still had more to spare. “I, uh... Maybe I never had it in the first place,” he admitted in disgrace, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. “And when I grabbed him... I-I—” His lips curved downwards, guilt weighing his features. “I scared him, V. I hurt him.”

Her stone calm had returned. “Sounds like an accident.”

“I looked into my son’s eyes,” Peter breathed, “and he was afraid. Of me.” He fought to keep his eyes open, to keep his jaw set, to keep his composure. At the same time the pressure of his anguish threatened to crush him. One crack in the facade and Peter thought he’d disappear beneath the rubble. “I can’t look at him and see that look—that fear on his face,” he slowly shook his head, closing his eyes in an attempt to hold back the flood. “I can’t— Ever. Never again.”

Dr. V squinted her eyes as she tried to organize his thoughts. “And your plan for that is to get your son removed from your custody?” she questioned. “Because that’s what’s at stake. They’ll take him from you. You will never see him again outside of a prison visiting room.”

“I’m the one they’ll take,” he shook his head fervently. “Not him.”

“And how is this going to impact your wife? She’ll be seen as an accomplice.”

“They can’t prove that she knew about any of this. I’ve moved everything to a lab underground. I know a good lawyer, he’ll take care of her. He’ll make them understand. Ben needs his mom.”

“He needs his father,” she implored. He blinked tears away, wiping them from his face as if he could hide his distress. “You really think they’ll be safer without you, once the world finds out who you are?”

He flinched at the thought. Another weight added to the mass. “This is how I can protect him.”

“No, you can’t,” Dr. V declared. “It’s not your job. You can’t protect him from the whole world. You’re supposed to show it to him. Show him what it is, and what it can be. That’s what your uncle meant all along. That’s the challenge he wanted you to rise to.”

That was it. The mention of his uncle buckled his strength. His emotions went cascading down like toppling dominoes. Peter’s face finally crumpled, and he hid himself behind his palms. He didn’t know it was possible to feel that much pain, as if he grieved every tragedy in his life at once. His parents. His uncle. His girlfriend. Every poor soul he failed to save. His innocence. He was standing at a mass grave filled with all those losses.

Dr. V eased her shoulders and silenced herself, letting the pain take hold of him. He cried freely. He sobbed. It was grief, and anger, and fear. He faced a Legion of enemies; the armies of inner demons battling for his soul. And when the sounds of the fray had finally started to settle, his tears slowed and his breathing steadied, Dr. V dared to ask:

“So who was it that stole Ben? In your mind?”

He shut his eyes tight, but not for the reason Dr. V would’ve expected. It wasn’t the pain of the memory stirred to life. He was simply stunned. Because as he stood at the edge of that mass grave, peering down into its depths, he was reminded of what they were buried beneath.

Decades of lies and secrets and half-truths had concealed them. The weight of those lies pushed them down deep beneath the surface. He considered all of the secrets he had to keep. Told lies in every shade of black, white and gray. Each new one divided him, another identity he had to protect. Another crack in the glass of his reflection.

For years, he’d played the part. All of them.

Quiet kid. Nerd. Einstein. Smart-ass. Spazz. Superhero.

Vigilante. Outlaw. Orphan. Friend. Freak. Failure.

Scientist. Lover. Survivor. Powerful. Passionate. Unreliable.

Teacher. Tutor. Mentor. Master. Renegade. Romeo.

The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. Nephew and Son. Father. Husband.

He was all of these things and none of these things. And as he considered all the names he’s been called, Peter recognized the one he’d never said to Dr. V aloud.

“His name was Steven Westcott,” he explained quietly, clearing his throat. “Everyone called him ‘Skip.’ I knew him when I was little. He was older than me.” The muscles in his throat threatened to close around his words, but he forced them along. “I... uh... I really liked him, I think. I thought it was because he was like a brother, and... I never had any brothers, and, um...” He breathed through his nose. “Maybe it was more than that? I was just a kid, like, way too young to understand what a-a-a crush feels like.”

A hand came up to rub his face before settling over his mouth. He studied the way the hot air of his lungs felt on his fingers. “I was too young to understand,” he repeated. He sat with the phrase in his mind, leaving a pause behind. “That... um... he was using me. That it was abuse.”

Peter felt another hot wave of tears building up in his eyes. He made no attempt to conceal them. “That the way I saw him, and the way he saw me, was different.” His voice was filled with grit, as if his throat was lined with sandpaper. “He needed me to feel like I was special. It made things easy for him, to-to get away with it. Because what he wanted from me was wrong.” He huffed, bitter. “But I started to figure I wasn’t ever really special. Hell, I wasn’t even the only one.” His voice cracked on the last word. He wiped his tears, sniffing to steady his voice. “When I wanted to stop, he, uh... He made me feel... shame. And... um, he-he said... if-if I ever said anything to anyone, he said he’d tell Uncle Ben how much I liked it.”

Dr. V let her eyes fall closed for a moment. Behind the lids, his pain was reflected. Sometimes it was worse to have all the pieces.

His voice was strained, but strong. He looked up at her through wet lashes. “He was wrong to do that to me.” Slowly, gently, she nodded in reply. But Peter needed no affirmation. His mind had already come to a conclusion, after so many years of avoiding the equation at hand.

“And I didn’t deserve it.”

That night, Peter came home. It was hard for you to not show him how furious you were for having disappeared without saying anything. Especially after everything he’d told you last night. Your worry won out over your anger, and when he did come home to you he seemed different.

He sat you down and told you everything that had happened since the grocery store incident. Even the messy parts. Even the parts that broke your heart.

When he was finished, there was a lightness in his posture and a sense of serenity in his demeanor. Like he’d found some missing sense of enlightenment.

“Good,” you’d told him, tears rolling down your cheeks. “You’re going to need that comfort sleeping on the couch for almost breaking up our family by getting yourself thrown in jail.” You glared daggers at him, assuring him that despite your relief this conversation was not over.

He slowly nodded, doe eyes filled with love and understanding. You hated him for it. You adored him for it. You’d give up anything for it, including your anger. With time.

Later, Peter sat reverently in the peaceful darkness of Ben’s room, peering down at the sleeping boy. A soft candle-like glow reflected from a stegosaurus nightlight, spilling across the Smoky Blue tint of the accent wall behind Ben’s toddler bed. Peter was elevated and humbled as he watched the gentle rise and fall of his son’s chest. He listened to his youthful heartbeat like the symphonic harmonizing of a choir.

There was a melancholy hovering in the sanctuary of his mind. You were right. He’d almost lost his family today. The one thing he fought hardest to protect. He didn’t have much to say for himself, except that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

He let out a slight laugh under his breath, despite himself. He was going to have to do better than that. Peter was prepared to sit there and do just that. He was determined to sit there next to his son’s bed all night, where he’d listen to that melodious heartbeat, and keep an eye out for any monsters, and work out a proper apology. One that would explain that his father’s outburst and absence wasn’t the boy’s fault. That Daddy made a mistake, one that hurt him and Mommy, and he was very sorry. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

He was going to do better.

His father is a wreck, Peter thought. And probably crazy.

“It doesn’t really matter what labels you call yourself, Spider-Man,” Dr. V had mentioned earlier that day. “All that matters is who you are.”

“And what’s that, huh?” he’d scoffed.

“That part,” she explained wisely, as she always seemed to do, “is up to you to decide.”

It was a slightly chillier day, but a beautiful one, nonetheless. The sun hung high in the cloudless sapphire sky. Peter wore an old army green anorak jacket over a flannel button-up, his red beanie tucked inside its pocket. His left hand firmly held yours, the titanium of his wedding band cool against your fingers, while his right held a picnic basket. In your free arm, you carried a blanket and two bouquets of roses—one deep red, and one pristine white. Ben’s legs were draped on his father’s shoulders, as he held onto him like an awkward hat. The three of you hiked up the grassy hill littered with tombstones and mausoleums, some crisply cut and polished to a mirror-shine, and others weathered and illegible with centuries of wear.

You came to a stop at a modest granite slab, and Peter set down the picnic basket and Ben on his feet. He whispered in the child’s ear, pointing down at the grave marker, while placing a smooth river stone in his small hands. Ben respectfully did as he was told, placing the stone on the marker of the man whose namesake he carried. He glanced back for his parents’ approval, and Peter replied with a warm smile and a nod.

The three of you were spread out on the quilted picnic blanket in front of Ben Parker’s grave, the red roses placed beside the stone. You glanced over at your husband as he leaned on his side on the blanket chewing a mouthful of pastrami and rye. Ben was more interested in his baked Goldfish crackers than finishing his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, much to your dismay. The baby carrots, despite your best efforts to make them look enticing, were a lost cause today.

Saturday Picnics with Uncle Ben had become a monthly ritual. You’d spend an hour with Peter and his stories about his uncle, until you’d pack up and visit Gwen’s grave to deliver white roses and your gratitude. That her short time on Earth wasn’t in vain. That the past she was a part of helped lay the foundation of your future. Her loss and your salvation were unbreakably bound.

Picnics were something that Peter now had time for. Along with movie nights, and chaperoning Ben’s play dates, and robust lesson planning, and tutoring at the Y. That’s where he met Miles, and that connection gave you both the valuable resource of a babysitter at least two weekend nights out of the month, so you could be a couple every once in a while. Ben had also gotten used to sleepovers at May’s house occasionally, which allowed you two to be… whatever else you wanted to be.

“You’ll always be My Romeo,” you would flirtatiously whisper between kisses, on days of blessed privacy where you had nothing but passion and bedsheets between you.

Peter bit his lip, his stomach fluttering at the sparkle in your eyes. “And you’ll always be My Juliet.”

You appreciated the extra time and energy Peter had for you and Ben. More importantly, you were grateful for the reassurance of his safety. Peter wore a lot of hats now. And he was only able to do so because he’d given up the mask.

For now.

It was a decision he came to on his own, shortly after that fateful day at the grocery store. You were shocked, and to be honest—skeptical. You questioned how he was going to let go of such a big part of himself.

“I can be more than that,” Peter explained to you. “More than just Spider-Man.”

He was right.

He wasn’t just the savior of New York. He was a family man too. He was a protector and provider. And the more you thought about it, perhaps putting aside the title of “defender” would make it easier to keep the demons at bay. In time, you both knew the suit was something he would return to, hopefully with better angels in mind.

Peter watched his son play with your hair while telling you about the adventure he and Daddy were planning in Central Park to hunt for triceratops crowns and pterodactyl feathers. He peeled his warm gaze away from you to turn towards his uncle’s tombstone.

Silently, he thanked his uncle for giving him the tools needed to choose who he wanted to be.

More than a hero.

A good man.

A/N: It’s finished. Thank you for reading my little story! And thank you to each one of you that sent me a message, or reblogged, or commented on this work (and TDYK). Or liked it at all! I’m moved by your kindness, and I hope this story has been as healing for you as it was for me. Thank you Spidey Simps, y’all are the greatest.

Did you like this story? tell me what you thought and THANK YOU for supporting fandom writers.

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