"I don't know what you're talking about." Tony snapped, looking down too-fast to be convincing. He stared intently at his hands that twisted furiously under the table.

"Oh, I think you do." Was all Ross said in reply, and Tony knew he'd already lost.

"How do you know?" He asked immediately, eyes dark.

Ross smiled slightly, nodding his head in understanding. "The same way you found out." He said simply. Tony frowned.

"And how was that?"

"Resources." Ross snarled.

"Peter didn't kill his uncle. He-he loved his uncle. I know Peter." Tony stumbled over his words, the fury attempting to squirm its way out of his mouth becoming overwhelming.

"There's a lot of things the kid never told you—"

"Don't call him that—"

"—so how can you ever be sure? I'm just telling you the facts that have put many other men in prison." Ross growled.

Tony couldn't find the words to reply. So much confusion about everything and grief about Peter and anger about Ross and everything about everything, swirled around his head relentlessly, not allowing any one thought to exist without the other.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, this is my home and you're not welcome here." Ross stated, glaring with dead eyes at Tony, who matched the man's intensity with his own cold eyes.

"I have tabs on you, Thaddeus. You can't hide things from me." Tony spat, before slamming his beer onto the polished table. He stood up so fast that the chair was knocked out from under him.

And he left. Without another word.

If he'd stayed, listening at the door, he would've heard Ross mutter sadistically to himself;

"You have no idea what I'm hiding."

If, if, if, if only.

...

May Parker couldn't remember the last time she'd picked up a bottle.

Actually, she could've remembered, if she weren't so drunk. The last time she'd picked up a bottle was after Ben's death.

So, it was only fitting that she started drinking again after her son's – after Peter's – death. Fitting, it was only fitting. Ironic, really. Sort of funny. Sort of. Maybe not – she couldn't tell.

Her phone had rung multiple times. Before she'd become completely wasted, she'd read the messages from Stark and she'd seen the missed calls from Mrs Leeds and Michelle herself. But now, her screen is just a weird, fuzzy blur. Sometimes she forgot why she was even drinking.

She sat on the couch, spreadeagled, eyes trained on the TV and her fourth beer in a shaking hand. There were no lights on, just the bright glow of the tele – the screen of which had been tuned to a dead channel and made a scratchy, staticky noise that didn't quite reach her ears. She didn't understand.

She didn't understand what she'd done wrong. Why God decided to punish her for taking her dead brother and sister's child under her wing and raise him as her own. Why Ben had to leave her. Why Peter had to be Spider-Man. Why Peter had to die. She just didn't understand. She'd always told Peter that everything bad was just Parker Luck – one of her favourite sayings. But now? There was no luck involved.

They were cursed. All of them.

It was only a matter of time before she died too. Sooner or later, it would happen. The scary part was that she knew she would welcome it. She'd lost everyone and would give anything to see them again.

Just come back, just come back—

"He's dead," May slurred to herself as firmly as any drunk could. "They're all dead and you're all alone, May Parker. You're all alone now." Her head lulled slightly, as a wave of fatigue coursed through her. The constant ringing of her phone was really beginning to bother her, now, but she didn't want to pick it up. She knew it would be that Stark, accusing her for not going to Peter's funeral.

She didn't want to see her nephew being lowered into a grave, under the dirt. She didn't want to lay flowers on an empty coffin, because his body was so destroyed there was none to put in a coffin. She didn't want to pray to a God that had abandoned them, asking Him to save Peter's could – take him to Heaven. Cursed people didn't go to heaven. Their place was hell. They would meet there.

She didn't want to give a speech, telling everyone how much she loved her dead nephew, because she would break down. She would fall apart, and she had a reputation, not meant to be broken.

She didn't want to look Stark in the eyes, because she would kill him for not protecting her kid.

Reasonably, there wasn't much he could do. But how come he chose to save those people on the Staten Island Ferry, but let the people in that gas explosion die? How come he got to choose to save all those people on the plane with the president that one time, but not the people killed when that witch threw a suicide bomber into a building packed with people? How come Stark got to pick and chose his fights? And how come he didn't choose Peter?

And God, she wanted ice cream.

She wanted a double cheese Pizza with macaroni and basil sprinkled on top. She wanted a nice warm cup of coffee, hot enough to burn her throat. And she wanted beer.

Goddamn it, she wanted she wanted to taste something other than bile in her mouth. She wanted to have something take away the numbness. She hated the numbness more than she hated the pain – she hated the shock more than she hated the grief. She wanted to feel something else, something different. She didn't want to stay here in the wallowing pit of self-pity, but the bottle in her hands told her otherwise. She wanted to drink her problems away? No. Maybe?

She just wanted something to save her, like Spider-Man saved people from burning buildings or muggings or bank robberies.

She wanted to be saved by Spider-Man.

But Spider-Man was no longer in service.

...

HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA. Of course it was HYDRA. It had always been Hydra, from the very beginning. Since Cap's golden days, to now, at this very moment.

Hydra would kill him. Hydra would be his downfall. They would kill him from the inside out. They would kill Tony, too – two for the price of one. Less effort on their part, more on Peter's.

He would resist with all he's got. He won't let them do anything to him, not even when thee glint of the knife at the end of his bed looked all-too inviting. He's not gonna become a Winter Soldier 2.0. That didn't work out too good for Bucky, though he did get to live a lot longer than he expected to.

So, Hydra would kill him, but if he took Hydra down along with him, it would be okay. Not great, but not a waste of time.

He would not go down without a fight.

If he thought about it, he could lift Thor's hammer. He could swing from building to building on nothing but a web (of which he created). He could lift tonnes and tonnes of brick off of himself, despite being injured. He could keep a huge ferry from splitting in half. So what's to say he couldn't take on Ross and his posse?

If it weren't for those damn vibranium chains, he would already have their necks under a guillotine. Damn chains.

But say, if lifting Thor's hammer was a show of strength, then he could do anything. Though, to be able to lift Thor's hammer, you have to be worthy – strength of mind, so to say. So, Peter was worthy, which meant his mind was a damn powerful thing. If someone tried to turn him into a Winter Soldier re-run, he would be able to fight it. Because had a strong mind.

But do strong-minded people have anxiety?

Everyone does. Everyone deals with bad situations differently – Peter just so happened to get overly anxious. Apparently, it happened a lot among young, smart kids. Peter was smart, he thought. That's what google told him at least – he was never one for self-diagnosis, but it seemed like a trustable website and—

Anyway. He believed he could be strong-minded and anxious. He just wasn't sure whether that made him insane or resilient. Maybe both.

"Hey, what do you reckon the chances are that Ross-o will come back with some ice-cream?" Peter called out to the two guards that stood in place on either side of the cell door. He saw one of their shoulder's slump and a slight sigh from the other. He grinned thickly. "I've been craving it ever since I got here. I'm pretty sure Google told me that craving ice-cream means you need more calcium in your diet. Got any spinach? Kale? Some green leaves even?"

"Can you shut up?" Mr Guard on the right (who he thinks he'll name Elvis, because he looked old enough to be a dinosaur) said in annoyance. Which, of course, only made Peter's smirk to widen – not that he was actually happy, not at all – because he'd been doing it all day. All day long, those poor, poor guards have had to listen to him harp on about everything ranging from AP Chem to the Buzzfeed quiz he took about what Star Wars character he would be based off his Hogwarts house. It was great fun.

"I dunno, before I turned thirteen, I always thought that 'shut up' was a swear word. So, it's not really that firmly established into my vocabulary, because I really hate swearing." Peter drawled, picking at his fingernails as best he could with his shackles.

There were a few moments of silence. Peter hated silence with a passion. So those 'few moments' were really only about ten seconds. Then Peter opened his mouth again (he had a sore throat from talking non-stop today).

"So, no to the ice-cream, huh? How about meat-lovers pizza? I dunno what you guys dig, but you can't go wrong with a meaty pizza." Peter continued, shrugging. Elvis sent him a dirty look.

"I'm vegetarian." Said the other guard, who he called Madonna. Not that the guard was female, but his voice was definitely falsetto. Like, triple falsetto. Highest key on the piano.

"Yeah, tough life. So, I take it Elvis isn't a pineapple person?"

Both guards were silent, apart from huff every few seconds. Both were probably fuming, waiting with baited breath for their shift to end. Peter doesn't blame them.

"Oh, c'mon. The biggest question on the internet today; are you a pineapple person or not?" Peter pressed, bouncing on his horrible bed, making it creak.

"Are you out of your mind?" Madonna asked Peter, not wanting an answer. Peter, though, would answer. May always said it was polite.

"Yeah, probably. Though, it's sorta hard to judge when you're the one going crazy. In my head, I'm perfectly fine." Peter mumbled, and despite his annoying and sarcastic tone, there was an essence of truth to the words he uttered. Was he going crazy? Was he already crazy?

"He is. He's insane." Elvis told Madonna, knowing Peter could hear, but not meant to be addressing the teen.

The goddamn teenager—

There was a rumbling as a chopper landed on the base down the other end of the Raft. It sent shivers down his spine, for two reasons:

1) It was probably Ross. Ross, coming to torture him some more. Ross, coming to tell him that his aunt is dead. Or Tony, or Michelle, Ned, any of the Avengers. Ross, coming for him like hell itself.

2) It was Tony. Tony, coming to save him. Which sent false hope through him. Hope that wouldn't be fulfilled, because Tony thought he was dead. And no one was coming for him, no matter how much hope Peter had.

Sometimes Peter had to physically shake himself and tell himself that he was sixteen. Sixteen, sixteen, sixteen. Most sixteen-year-olds biggest problems were not being invited to that cool party just down the street or getting more than two questions for homework because they have a pop-quiz coming up that they somehow all knew about.

His problems? He didn't even want to start. Let's just leave it at the fact that he was 'dead'. That was enough, wasn't it?

Everyone thought he was dead, body and mind. Peter knew he wasn't dead. At least, his body wasn't dead. His body was still alive, his heart beating, lungs breathing, organs working, blood circulating.

But nothing could be said for his head. Yeah, his brain worked. It spun, it clicked, the gears churned. But inside his brain?

Yeah, he was dead as dead could be.

--

woooo, I'm back, kiddos!

well, that was a very very very very very (you get my gist) long wait for y'all, and i want to apologise so much. here's the thing: i've been feeling really good lately, which is unusual, which then meant I had less to vent, ya know? so there was the worst writer's block you could ever imagine (worst thing in the entire world).

I still feel really good, so i can't promise that I will be able to update regularly, but I can promise that this story will be promised (just can't say when). i really hope you understand, and once again, I'm truly sorry.

but for now; have fun reading this (slightly short) chapter, which is sort of a lead-in to the next. (ok, ok but grasp the fact that peTER PARKER IS A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD KID, WHO HAS BARELY ANY FAMILY AND THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD ON HIS SHOULDERS. IMAGINE YOU BEING IN THAT SITUATION, OR SOMEONE YOU LOVE. LIKE, C'MON MARVEL, YOU SUCK, BUT I WILL FOREVER BE GRATEFUL FOR THE LIT CHARACTER YOU CREATED--alright I'm done.)

buh bye for now, loviessss :)) hopefully see y'all soon!

LuvForStydia xx