ok so i should be updating my other marvel fic but i'm stuck on the editing of the most recent chapter sooooooo have this instead while i deal with that haha, also this is kindaaa short but it's a set-up chapter thing so the next chapters will definitely be longer

cross-posted to archive of our own under the same title

It doesn't happen quickly. She chokes on the blood in her mouth and moans in pain while Peter holds her limp body on the grey asphalt, screaming for someone, anyone, to help. He clutches her body close to his. Her blood soaks his t-shirt, the Star Wars one that Uncle Ben bought him for his fourteenth birthday; two sizes too big so he wouldn't grow out of it during his growth spurt.

He gags. He's never going to wear it again.

He can see the pain in May's eyes through his tears, her forehead is creased, her breaths splutter, she gasps for air. Peter helps her turn to her side; the blood runs from her mouth. May's too weak to spit it out.

It reminds him of Uncle Ben. How he held him as he died, how he screamed until his throat was raw, begging for somebody to help. He had blood under his fingernails for days afterwards.

The memories blur into reality, into what's happening underneath his pressing hands.

It's part of the Universe's horrible plan. Part of the good old Peter Parker Luck that has him in this situation once again; crying over his dying family member's blood-soaked body with no help around. He can imagine Ben next to his Aunt, pale and bloody, his body devoid of life.

Peter glances around him but still, no-one's around. It's quiet. No-one answers his desperate shouts; they're too far from humanity to be heard. May tries speaking but she can't breathe properly. (It must have got her lung, Peter thinks detachedly.) She raises a shaky hand and grabs Peter's own. He wants to hold it back, his body yearning for it, but he's pressing on her wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

It's useless; ultimately it's not achieving anything. There's too much. There's too much, too fast. May's teeth are patchy with red, her eyes losing their light, her cheeks near to translucent. The streetlight above them casts a dull, dirty glow on her face. Her chest, torn open with a stab wound, bleeds beneath his fingers.

When they took the shortcut, Peter had known it was coming, had sensed it a mile away. Yet when the mugger approached them, so did May. Peter wasn't quick enough to push May out the way when she jumped in front of him, wasn't quick enough to foresee the glinting metal blade piercing right through her chest, handbag ripped from her arm with any hope of communication to the emergency services gone.

He'll never forgive himself. Not for Ben and not for May.

May looks into Peter's eyes. Peter looks back with watery vision. He begs her to stay, begs her to hold on because help is coming. Help has to be coming. His voice cracks. Help always comes, he tells her. Help has to come. It has to. It has to.

She tries to talk again, tries to get words through her-

Her eyes slip closed and no sound comes out. Peter feels her chest underneath his hands; it stops moving, shudders to a halt. Her blood is pooled on her chest. He leans over her body, grabs at her clothes. He's never letting go. Not this time.

Somebody stumbles across Peter and his Aunt eventually. It could have been minutes later. It could have been hours. Peter doesn't know, he doesn't know time or cold or pain. His throat is raw, torn apart with the force of his screams and sobs. He doesn't stop sobbing.

The stranger wastes no time. Peter can hear her on the phone to the ambulance, trying to get them to come quickly because somebody is dying. There's a boy and a woman and there's blood, there's a lot of blood and help because someone is dying.

But Peter knows it's late. It's far, far too late.

May is already dead.