"For how long?"

"Forever."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter almost felt like laughing. It had been days since the incident on the ferry, but it just kept playing in his mind over and over again. No matter how hard he tried to focus on other things, he couldn't forget the disappointment in Tony's voice, or the anger that had rolled off him in waves when he stepped out of the suit that day. But no matter what he did, he couldn't shake it. The moment Mr. Stark had said that word, a cold and empty pit settled into Peter's stomach. He was starting to wonder if it would ever go away.

How could one word hurt that much? So much for being a superhero. So much for being strong.

He hated himself for being so weak. He couldn't help the tears that escaped as he told May about losing the "Stark internship," as he had dubbed it. She had tried to comfort him, wrapping her arms around him, her hand running through his hair. She had wanted to ask him more, but she could tell how upset he already was. She knew how much he had idolized Tony Stark – how much Peter had wanted the man to approve of him. So she didn't dare ask more about what had happened. He was already in enough pain.

She thought that in the next few days, he would eventually tell her the whole story. But it never came. Peter never said another word about Tony Stark, or the Avengers, or anything remotely related to them for almost a week now. He hardly ever said anything at all. Saying she was worried would be an understatement. But it wasn't just his quietness that bothered her. She could tell he was keeping something from her. If he were just sad, that, she would understand. But no, this was different. He was home less often, for starters. May would come back from work only to find an empty house. Peter would sometimes come back during dinner time, sometimes he wouldn't come back until almost eight. He knew she hated when he stayed out past dark – with the city they lived in, she was always worried about what could happen. Especially after Ben's death. The first two nights, he had told her that he was at Ned's house doing schoolwork, but when she had called Ned's mother on the third day to speak to Peter, she was shocked to learn that he wasn't there. If Peter's phone hadn't died, she never would have known that he was lying to her. He didn't come back until 8:30 that night, and she was completely frantic.

As soon as he had walked through the door, she had stopped pacing around the living room, whipping her head in his direction. She had demanded to know where he had been, and so he tried to come up with something at least half-truthful. So he tried telling her that they had an extra-long decathlon meeting, team dinner after, and then that he simply went for a walk and lost track of time.

"I'm sorry!" he offered, not sure what else he could say. It wasn't as though he could tell her the truth. Not all of it, at least. The Decathlon meeting had let out at 4:30, and after that, he had started his walk home. But on the way, he spotted a mugging and dodged into an alley to change into his old suit and help the woman whose purse was getting dragged away.

That itself hadn't taken much time, maybe five or ten minutes, tops. But after he had put his suit on, the pit in his stomach seemed to throb somehow, and he found himself sitting on a nearby rooftop for a long time, just staring out at the city and sky. Putting on this suit gave him so many mixed feelings. It hurt to see this one, a pitiful reminder of what he had squandered away in a childish attempt to be a hero. The brightly colored cheap fabric almost seemed to mock him, as if it were saying to him, "You're just a little kid playing dress-up, now." He wanted so badly to be able to believe the voice inside him that said, "No, you're Spider-Man with or without a suit." After all, he had acted as Spider-Man before Tony met him. But once he had gotten the suit Tony built for him, he understood how much of an amateur he really was. He had such a wider range of how to use his skills; it actually could have helped him to be a hero. Because it was made by one – it had been made by someone who understood all the things he stupidly thought he already knew.

He was vaguely reminded of a conversation he'd had with Michelle one day about her art underneath their favorite tree outside during lunch.

She had pulled out a drawing from many years ago, and was discontentedly comparing it one she had drawn just two weeks before. You could tell she had drawn the same thing both times, but the second was clearly more polished. The lines were more fluid, the shading more gradual, and the proportions much better. And while he would never have called the first one bad, it was almost like comparing a stick figure drawn with crayon to a Monet painting.

He understood how she felt now, looking at this suit instead of the other. It was almost embarrassing. But people needed him, so he couldn't just throw it away and pretend that Spider-Man had never existed. He still felt the responsibility to help others that he had explained to Tony the day he had arrived at his apartment to take him to Germany. Sitting around and doing nothing while having the power to do something was just…wrong.

But doing the right thing wasn't always easy. It wasn't easy to put on the old suit and be reminded of his failure, to be reminded of his own inadequacy. But he also felt that he couldn't just tuck it away, never to be used again. His mind never seemed to settle on the matter. By the time he had realized he had been sitting there for nearly an hour and a half, he had continued making his way back to his apartment from the rooftop. But along the way, he encountered a few more incidents, and stopped to help. Nothing out of the usual. A lost child, a flat tire, a petty drug deal. After that, he was so wound up and stressed that he just swung around the buildings for a while, and lost track of time. By the time he realized he needed to head home, it was already late at night. He hadn't realized how quickly the sun would set. He went out of his way to swing back by Delmar's to try and get a sandwich, but they had closed. That had cost him even more time.

"Sorry's not enough, Peter!" She bit out, her hands resting on her hips.

"Sorry doesn't cut it." He flinched at the memory, almost as clear as the day he'd heard it.

"Peter…" she sighed, softening. "I know you're upset about losing the Stark Internship - "

"I really don't want to talk about that right now, Aunt May." He interrupted, closing his eyes momentarily.

"Okay, you don't have to, but you can't keep acting like this!" She let out a harsh sigh, at a loss for how to reach him. "Whatever is on your mind, you can't keep doing this. I need to know where you are after school! I'm worried about you!"

The look on her face made him feel terrible. He had been so caught up in his own pain that he hadn't been thinking about May, the only family he had left…

"I'm sorry, I won't stay out anymore. It won't happen again." He mumbled, not brave enough to look her in the eye. For a while, neither of them said anything.

"I know you don't want to talk," she held up a hand as he opened his mouth to say something. "Let me finish. I know you said you don't want to talk right now, and I won't make you. But I'm here if you want to, okay? About anything."

He nodded, not sure what to say in response. She turned into the kitchen, tidying up what was left from dinner. Seeing as how he hadn't actually eaten dinner, he knew he should be hungry. But he couldn't stomach the thought of eating right now.

"I'm just gonna put this in the fridge, and you can have it later if you want since you already ate." She didn't look up as she spoke, stretching cling wrap over a container and placing dishes in the sink.

"'Kay. Guess I better go do my homework." He made his way down the hall and into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. With a heavy sigh, he sunk to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees. His head made a small thunk as it tipped towards the door behind him.

"I'm such a screw-up…"

Peter woke with a harsh gasp, springing up from his tangled bedsheets. Shaking, he frantically looked about as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. Right, of course. He was in his room. Not on the ferry. He let out a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and glanced at the clock. 3:24 a.m.

He flopped back into his pillows, knowing he probably wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. Sitting up again, he shook his head, trying to stop the scene from replaying in his head again. The sound of the water rushing in. The screaming. The smell of burning metal. The panic that rose up within him as he tried in vain to keep the boat from splitting apart. The feeling that his arms were going to ripped out of socket at any moment but knowing he just couldn't let go.

"This is stupid," he thought to himself. "It's over. It's just a dream now."

So why couldn't he go back to sleep?

Outside, the city was lit up with an amber glow, despite how late it was. But hardly any people were out. Acting on impulse, he climbed out of bed and changed into his suit. As quiet as he could manage, he slid his window open. The night air had always helped clear his mind.

He had only planned to sit for a while, but of course, he spotted an attempted car theft a few blocks away thanks to his enhanced eyesight. "Duty calls," he thought as he webbed his way towards the man with the crowbar. At least someone would benefit from his nightmares.

The thief had been stopped fairly quickly. As soon as Spider-Man had arrived, the man hastily tried to run away. But with a flick of his wrist, Peter was able to paralyze the man by webbing him to the pavement. Per usual, he called the police to pick the criminal up and left before they even arrived, watching the aftermath from his rooftop.

It wasn't anything particularly harrowing, so he had hoped that maybe it would have tired him out. But if anything, it made him even more awake. It was 4:30 now, and the sky was beginning to lighten ever so slightly. He definitely wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight. Maybe he could go over his homework again. Taking one final glance around the area, he climbed back down into his room, careful not to make any sound. He let out a breath of relief once his suit was tucked away and grabbed his backpack.

Spanish class was becoming a bit of a hassle lately. His mind didn't seem to want to pay attention lately, so he sometimes spaced out in class. Being unfamiliar with a language made it a lot easier to ignore what was being said. His other classes weren't as much of a struggle. If he spaced out in them, he could always learn whatever he needed from the textbooks and the internet. So while his grades were fine, he wasn't as engaged as he used to be. It seemed that his teachers were starting to notice this, but none of them said anything yet. As long as he kept his grades up, they couldn't really complain very well, could they? Maybe he'd have a better time if he read ahead for his classes. He certainly had the time, now. Being alone with his thoughts in the quiet was actually that uncomfortable.

May had thought that their conversation last night had gone well. So why did her nephew look so haggard? He shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast, eyes unfocused with dark circles beneath them. His face was slightly pale. He stood in front of the toaster for a few moments before even seeming to realize there was nothing in it.

"Do you want me to make some eggs?" She didn't have to leave for work for 20 minutes, and she had hoped she could do something to help him out. "You look like you could use some energy."

"I guess. Thanks," he said.

Breakfast had been silent, Peter hardly looking up from the blank spot on the table he was staring at. At least he had eaten all his food, she had thought with some satisfaction.

"Are you feeling okay, Peter?" she asked with some hesitancy.

"Hmm?" He seemed to snap out of his trance for a moment. "Yeah, just kind of tired." He pulled out his phone, looking at the screen. "Oh shoot, I gotta go." He slung his backpack over his shoulder and placed his plate in the sink. "Bye!" he called out as he walked out the front door.

"Peter, wait!" She followed him to the doorway, where he turned back to face her.

"Why don't we do something fun this afternoon? Something we haven't done in a while, like maybe have a board game night or something?" She asked with a tentative smile. She couldn't remember the last time she saw him happy.

"Yeah, that'd be great." He tried to ease her mind with a smile of his own, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. She leaned forward, closing the space between them and hugged him briefly.

"Bye-bye, sweetie, have a good day at school!" She seemed to have been cheered up by his effort, smiling more brightly herself. He said goodbye again as he shut the door behind him, heading towards Midtown.

Peter had been about to leave for the day when Mr. Cobbwell asked him to stay behind. He had tried talking to Peter about his recent lack of focus, but Peter politely brushed it off.

After the boy had left, Mr. Cobbwell saw Mrs. Gomez, the Spanish teacher, walking by from the opposite direction. She tried to grab Peter's attention, but he had left before she called out to him. She poked her head into his classroom, inquiring about the boy that just left. They only talked briefly, but she confessed that she had also been worried about Peter. Perhaps it was only nothing, but…

"Mrs. Parker? Hi, this is Mrs. Gomez, one of Peter's teachers…"

Great, now a teacher was on his case, too. "Nice going, Parker." He sighed.

The clouds covering the sky only made his mood that much bleaker. He had tried, really tried, not to make a big deal out of the whole ferry fiasco. After all, how could he explain it to anyone? He couldn't let anyone know who Spider-Man was. So he was trying to act his best as though it had never happened.

But the empty pit in his stomach still wouldn't go away. It was all he could think about. Sometimes he wasn't even really thinking of anything, he was just blank. But there it was, in the back of his mind, never letting up. He balled his fists, shoving them in his jacket pockets as the autumn wind blew around him. It had almost been a week! He had admitted his mistake, knew he couldn't do anything to fix it. He gave the suit back and…

And nothing. Any contact between him and Tony Stark was nonexistent now. Was that it? Did he miss Mr. Stark that much? Or was it that he was embarrassed to have failed his idol so supremely? Was it guilt that people could have been hurt? Was it disappointment in himself?

Did it really matter what the feeling was? He didn't think there was any way he could make it go away. But that just made it hurt all the worse.

Time was moving on, but he felt stuck. What was Mr. Stark thinking now? Did he even think of Peter at all anymore? If he did, it probably wasn't about anything good.

He exhaled deeply through his nostrils, trying to ignore the lump in his throat and the pressure building behind his eyes. Because there was no one to blame for what had happened except himself. So, he didn't really have any right to cry, did he?