Chapter Text
Peter stares at the email in his inbox for nearly fifteen uninterrupted minutes. The subject line, "Brilliant Young Minds of the Future application outcome" stares back at him placidly, like it couldn't care less about the genuine turmoil it's causing him. This internship could be his ticket out. Out out. Out from under Aunt May's thumb, out from their near-constant poverty, out from under the crushing knowledge that he's probably going to live and die surrounded by these same four walls.
Aunt May used to be… fine. When it was her, Peter and Uncle Ben, things were even good for a while. Well… as good as things can get when you've just been freshly orphaned. Uncle Ben used to take Peter fishing, Aunt May used to teach him how to bake, they used to have regular movie nights watching super old films that Ben liked. Personally, Peter loved Casa Blanca and Sunset Boulevard. But that all changed the night Uncle Ben… passed. Peter doesn't like to dwell on that time, because that's when it felt like a switch flipped in May. She went from being soft, warm and nurturing to this horrible, angry version of herself that she couldn't control. She'd lash out. She'd hit him. She'd lock all the cabinets so that he couldn't eat. She'd even steal the meagre amounts of money he earned working at the bodega at the bottom of their apartment building unloading boxes to cover their rent—and, lately, her liquor.
Peter needs this way out. He needs it.
He takes a deep breath. Then another. Then another. He focuses on the feeling of his lungs inflating, his breath hitting his top lip, the coldness of his hands, the swimming in his head, and he realises with barely a second to spare that he's about to work himself up into a panic attack.
'It's just an email, for God's sake!' he thinks to himself angrily. 'Just open it, you big cry-baby!'
So he does just that. He slams his finger onto the track pad open the email and quickly skims through it, looking for the word 'unfortunately' that will all but seal his fate.
"Dear applicant,
Thank you for your interest in the Brilliant Young Minds of the Future internship program with Stark Industries. We review every candidate and their research proposal thoroughly while comparing it to the ethos of the company, which is a long and strenuous process as only eight applicants will be successful out of the hundreds that apply.
At Stark Industries, we aim to cultivate an environment that pushes humanity forward and betters the world for the young and brilliant minds to come. Your research proposal outlining the utilisation of cell cloning to aid in reconstructive surgeries caught the attention of many of the biologists here at SI, and it is therefore my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into the Brilliant Young Minds of the Future Internship Program. You, along with three other applicants, have been assigned to work under our head biologist and chemical engineer Dr Bruce Banner beginning on Monday 3rd of October at 8am.
Please arrive at Columbus Circle, Midtown Manhattan with your ID to receive your clearance and your identification badge that you will use for the duration of your internship with us. The internship will last one full year; any materials you may need to aid in your research for the duration of the Program must be discussed with your assigned mentor prior to being reimbursed.
Once again, congratulations. We look forward to working with you.
Best,
Pepper Potts
CEO, Stark Industries"
Peter, who was just moments from a full meltdown, is now slack-jawed as he stares at the screen.
"…you have been accepted…"
His eyes keep drifting over that line, over and over again, like he's convinced he's not reading it right. But it doesn't change, no matter how many times he rubs his eyes, smacks himself in the cheeks or takes a lap around his bedroom.
He got in. He did it.
'Yes!" he whisper-shouts, spinning around and punching the air. "Yes, yes, yes, yes!"
"Peter! Shut up!" Aunt May yells from her bedroom. Peter cringes. He often forgets that they share a wall and that he has to be double extra careful about controlling his volume. That means he's either going to have to wait until she falls asleep to call his friends and tell them the news, or just text them. He's disappointed when he chooses the latter, but he feels like if he keeps this to himself for more than a few seconds longer he's going to burst.
p.parker:
NED
NED
NED
PICK UP
U WONT BELIEVE THIS
DUDE
DUDE
leedsindeed:
WHAT
WHAT
R U OKAY
p.parker:
remember the internship?????
the stark one????????
leedsindeed:
NOOOO
DUDE
R U SERIOUS
DID U GET IT?????
p.parker:
DUDE I GOT IT
I GOT IN
I'M GONNA BE WORKING WITH DR BANNER
I LOVE DR BANNER
leedsindeed:
DUUUUDE
p.parker:
DUUUUDE
leedsindeed:
i'm so happy for u bro!!!
never doubted u for a second
Peter sits on the edge of his bed, grinning down at his phone. It's rare for him to feel anything other than numb, so the sheer elation coursing through his genetically mutated veins is both weirdly unsettling and a delightful change of pace. He's grateful to have at least one person to share this happy news with. That happiness isn't even dimmed by the grief of not being able to tell May.
Oh… what is he going to tell May?
Peter had dropped out of regular school when Ben died, citing the grief being too bad for him to even get out of bed some days, so he's been doing online school. The issue of attendance wouldn't be an issue.
Would she appreciate him being out of the house so much? Maybe she'd be happy that she doesn't have to see him anymore. His happiness dims a few more notches as the grief of emotionally losing his aunt pushes its way back to the front of his mind. He resolves to do something nice before he tells her. Maybe he'll make her breakfast tomorrow. Yeah, that's a good idea. He could make those blueberry pancakes she mentioned always making for Ben on their anniversary, he had the recipe memorised. 'This will work,' Peter thinks to himself as he settles down into his lumpy mattress and closes his eyes, 'she'll be fine. She'll let me go.'
"No."
"But-"
"No, Peter. That's final."
Peter had woken up at five o'clock this morning to prep the sparse ingredients in the kitchen for breakfast. He'd cooked some bacon until it just about shattered, exactly the way May liked it. He'd washed two punnets of strawberries and blueberries to mix into the pancake batter he made himself, and he cooked them nice and slow so they'd still be a little raw in the centre. Also just how May liked them. The thought of eating raw pancake batter made him feel a little queasy, but If May likes it...
He even ran to the store, had waited until they opened and bought a bag of oranges to squeeze some fresh juice for her. He strained all the pulp and the seeds and presented it in the fanciest jug they owned (which, the more Peter looks at, looks more like a vase than a jug), and he set their tiny dining table as nicely as he could with the nice china May kept in her little display cupboard.
Hearing May just… refuse, after barely getting one sentence through his explanation… well, it sucks. It sucks!
"May, please, this is such a good opportunity, I'm gonna be working with an Avenger, how many people get to say that they work with an Avenger?" Peter pleads, sitting down across from her as she picks at the bacon he cooked so carefully.
"You know," May muses, staring at her plate, "I would've added some brown sugar to the bacon. Makes it crispier."
She's not even listening. And worse, she's just criticising him in that plausibly deniable way. She's not outright telling him that his food sucks, but Peter knows to look for the subtext, to read between her lines. She does this all the damn time, picking apart something tiny and then blowing up on Peter for getting upset.
Grief wells up in Peter's chest like a geyser. In this moment he realises how much he misses the old May, the version of her that didn't care about her smile lines or wrinkles in her clothes. He missed the way her long hair was always piled up on top of her head in a perfect messy bun and the silly designs she always got on her nails. He misses how she used to paint, or bake, or crochet, or do anything other than drink and yell at him. She's so thin now. She's going grey. Peter is terrified that he won't make things right in time before she passes on, as well.
"May, please-"
"And what the hell did you buy so many oranges for?" She continues like she can't hear him and flicks her short hair over her shoulder. Her greys are starting to come through again, she mustn't be able to afford her hair dye anymore. That particular shade of brown didn't suit her anyway, it was too dark and ashy. He liked it better when she let her natural dirty blonde grow out. He misses how long it used to be. It was so May.
He can hear her starting to get worked up, and that familiar urge to just hunch his shoulders and hide is beginning to creep up his spine. "That's just such a waste of money. And, actually, why the hell am I eating off of my china? This was your mother's china, I'd like to keep it nice." Peter grits his teeth. He knows this is about to get long.
"I know you don't care about your mom, I never hear you bring her up, but I'd like her things to be kept nice if that's okay with you." She huffs angrily, swallowing a bite of her pancakes before making a face and cutting into the middle of her stack.
When she sees the raw batter leaking out onto her plate, the expression on her borderline-gaunt face twists into disproportionate anger. Peter doesn't even have time to process the anger and hatred that burns in him at her off-handed comment about his mom before May slams her cutlery down and leans across the table to get in his face. Peter feels himself physically shrink as she towers over him.
"Are you serious? You served me raw food and expected me to give you what you want!? Are you kidding me, Peter!? You take my food and my china from my apartment after your parents just fucking dumped you on Ben and I, and you just expect everyone to drop everything for you!? So you can get everything that you want!?"
This happens pretty much every time Peter tries to talk to May these days. He does one tiny thing wrong, one thing that he can't possibly predict will set her off, and she loses her entire mind at him. Sometimes he gets lucky and just gets verbally torn to shreds. Other times, not so much.
"You just don't care about everything I do for you, do you?" she yells at him, pointing her finger in his face across the table. "You ruined my life, Peter! You ruined it!"
He hears that one a lot. He really thought that by now, hearing it wouldn't feel like a dagger slicing through his chest.
"May, no… I do, I-"
May picks up her cutlery just to throw it back onto her plate, then stands abruptly, sending her chair skidding backwards and tipping over the lip of the linoleum divider into their kitchen. The sound makes Peter flinch a little more than he thinks is strictly necessary, but he barely has time to dwell on that as she slams her hands on the table to start yelling in earnest.
He's not even really listening now. He found a little while ago that it's just easier to disappear into his mind, to let the fog overtake his brain and to escape his body while May berates him. He looked it up once, the first time May hit him. Dissociation. Not 'disassociation', which is a different thing. Dissociation, no 'a'. He learned that it's a pretty common trauma response for abuse victims like him. Not that he really thought he was being abused.
May does make some pretty fair points when she goes off on him like this, like how he took away all her independence, all her money, all her time, ruined her dating life, and so on and so on. He's used to all of this. He's used to it hurting. He's come to terms with the fact that he probably won't ever get old May back, the May he knew as a little boy. The hitting… well, Peter can understand being stressed and needing an outlet, and he is kind of a giant burden to her, so he's okay with being her outlet. Anything to make her feel a little better.
He's so deep into his dissociation and trying to flee his body to disappear into his mind while May yells at him that he fails to notice May accidentally knocking over the jug (vase?) of orange juice. He definitely does notice her slapping him across the face afterwards, though.
"Look what you made me do!" she yells at him as she towers over his small, trembling form. "That was your mother's! And you made me break it!"
He looks forlornly at the shattered pieces of crystal on the floor and the huge puddle of juice surrounding it. He had always loved that jug-vase-vessel-thing and knew May did, too. He loved to look at it, to run his fingers over the intricate surface, over all the leaves and flowers delicately carved into the outside of it. It always reminded him of the Christmas his grandma gave it to his mom as a gift.
"I'm s- I'm so…rry, May," He stutters, his voice choked. He can feel himself losing his words, even as his trembling hand reaches up to cup his burning, reddening cheek. He looks up at May's furious face, barely recognising the woman in front of him. 'This isn't my aunt,' he thinks to himself, 'This is a grief-riddled woman. She's just hurting.'
"Oh, don't you go silent on me, Peter!" she yells. She knows that he has the tendency to go non-verbal when he gets really stressed, though he tries to push through it to keep her from getting too angry. Not that it does him any good. "I am so sick of you! I hate you!"
She shoves him out of his seat by his shoulders and yells something he doesn't quite make out through the haze of terror currently paralysing him. He forces himself to retreat into his own mind, only half-comprehending the sound of her keys jingling and the door slamming as she storms out of the apartment. She's probably on her way to work. He mindlessly picks up each shard of broken crystal, not being too careful about cutting his hands as he goes, and uses one of their threadbare tea towels to mop the juice up off of the linoleum. He doesn't even realise that he's hyperventilating until his head starts hurting enough to bring him crashing back to the present.