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MTA Chapter 2 (Edit, +1k Words.) - Peter Parker
🕑 Added 2025-12-07 02:41:36 +0000 UTCA/N: Finished Edit of the chapter—added around 1k words.
More Than Amazing
Chapter 2 - Peter Parker
Peter didn’t remember waking.
One moment he was drowning in visions of death and monsters and a universe of eaten corpses—and the next, warm arms wrapped around him, pulling him tight.
Ben’s voice cracked as he held him.
“Peter… how did you know? About your parents… did you overhear us?”
What?
“What?”
His breath hitched. His mind was still screaming, still burning, still trying to separate what he saw—what he was—from who he actually was.
The warmth anchored him, reminding him that he wasn’t some zombie! He wasn’t some tragic superhero!
He was just a kid!
He wanted to tell them, to cry his heart out in their arms as he babbled about the unfairness of it all. He wanted someone to take this weight off his shoulders before he collapsed completely.
…But then the flashes of a dying man on the floor, a snapped spine, and a flatlining heart monitor came to mind—and with vomit still on his lips… all that came out was a small, strangled, sad, “…Yeah. I think… I heard you talking.”
He had to be strong.
May’s face fell as Ben’s grip tightened, pulling him closer as he whispered into his ear, “I’m so sorry, son.”
He could hear May’s sniffles as she spoke, “It’s going to be okay. We’re here… we’ll always be here.”
Right… his parents were dead too.
Of course they were.
Finally, Peter Parker broke down and cried his heart out in their arms.
They held him, whispering soft words he barely heard through the static of a dozen tragic lives, until exhaustion eventually dragged him under.
They thought he was just grieving… he only wished he were that lucky.
——————
The night his parents died was the worst day of his life. The sudden heartbreak, compounded by a multiversal trauma dump, made it nearly rather difficult for him to confide in his Aunt and Uncle.
He constantly dreamed at night, of an untold amount of scenes and events. Many times they were rather terrible samples of immense physical and emotional suffering.
Of his immense suffering.
It… was not fun.
But, not all of them were tragic. Even with the overwhelming trend of soul-crushing regret or terror, there was always some light in the tunnel.
A beautiful, loving smile.
A hopeful, triumphant victory.
But the dreams were mostly just flashes—little jagged pieces from lives that weren’t truly his, arriving without context. Barely enough to understand, but more than enough to scar a small boy trying to make sense of why his world had fallen apart.
He knew more than he could ever want, or wish to.
But one thing never changed, they were his—or they could be. That was the worst part… how they bled into him.
How they changed him.
How he would struggle to open a door because he subconsciously used barely any strength, how he had started drawing schematics in his notebook without realizing it, and how he’d have a sudden urge to check his wallet… only to remember he didn’t have one.
It was only during his second hospital visit—hearing the vague voices of the doctor and his family from behind the door—that he realized he had to do something. Anything.
“…I… don’t know… to say… he won’t eat…”
“…It… seems… to be… purely… psychological…”
He was sick, starving to death.
He struggled to eat, puking every time he tried to take a bite. Just the motion of his jaw would drag his mind into that memory, not to mention when he would try to eat meat.
The subconscious craving for flesh horrified him too much to properly describe. It destroyed any possible appetite.
He was slowly killing himself, and he struggled to come up with reasons to fight against it.
“…the ….bills….… can’t…. afford…...” He could hear the muffled voice of his uncle speak with a heavy sigh, before finishing in a determined tone, “…we ….can …...a… loan…”
He couldn’t live like this. They couldn’t live like this.
The whole cause of it was just from the stress of his visions, and he didn’t want to burden them even more.
He had to be strong, “…I can’t give up.”
…Then, the years flew by.
.
.
.
.
.
“Peter, these are the years a man changes into the man he is going to become for the rest of his life… just be careful who you change into.”
…
“No. You did the right thing. They would have been killed, you did the right thing.”
“It's not my responsibility, May.”
“Oh. What Norman said? My moral mission?”
“No—“
“—No, no, Peter. You listen—you listen to me. You have a gift. You have power… and with great power, there must also come great…”
…
“Listen to me, son!”
“You’re a lot like your father. You really are Peter—and that’s a good thing! But your father lived by a philosophy, a principle really. He believed that if you could do good things, you had a moral obligation to do those things!”
“That’s what’s at stake here!” Ben spoke to him firmly, pointing a finger at him, “Not choice… responsibility.”
.
.
Peter woke up slowly, a relieved expression on his face as he rose. “Thankfully, no nightmares this time.”
Dust slipping through metal hands.
A demon whispering schemes against his love.
A universe emptied by monstrous cravings.
Those were the first—the worst, and they never really stopped.
Over the years, more came in fits and starts. Some months were quiet. Some weeks were a horror show every time he closed his eyes. It didn’t help how the dreams never arrived in order, and didn’t always make sense.
Sometimes he saw a moment once and never again.
Sometimes a memory revisited him years later, and suddenly the moment was clearer than ever.
They were out of context, out of time or space—of different universes, different realities.
It was too much for him.
So, he bottled them up in himself, no matter how many times he suddenly woke up at night in a cold sweat, or cried himself back to sleep.
He had to be strong—like them. Like him.
But, even if others couldn’t support him much about his visions while awake, they still did while he slept—through those same visions.
Those other Uncle Bens and Aunt Mays, and the countless people who supported and encouraged those other hims. Who made his other selves into people so admirable, and brought light into their overly tragic lives.
…But, he didn’t know if he could be like them. He was just a kid, and he could only stand so much. He was already grieving, did he really have to deal with all this too?
He wasn’t some superhero—he wasn’t Spider-Man, he didn’t even have superpowers… he was just plain old Peter Parker.
————
“Hey, Michelangelo! Finally up?” Uncle Ben’s voice drifted from the kitchen. Peter shuffled in to see him at the table with a newspaper, while May fluttered around with breakfast.
“Yeah… morning, Uncle Ben,” Peter replied weakly as he sat down, his plate already set for him.
Although he’d slept better than usual, he had still stayed up late—restless from the nightmares he might have.
“Morning, sweetheart.” May placed a plate and a glass of orange juice in front of him. She paused when she got a good look at the bags always under his eyes, “…Peter. You really need to sleep better.”
“I’m trying May… it’s just hard.” Peter replied tersely as he slowly picked at his food.
She simply reached over and rubbed his hand gently. “You don’t have to tell us everything, but… we’re here, okay? Always.”
Ben lowered his newspaper, gaze kind and tired. The kind of look that came from bills and overtime work, along with a nephew who woke up shaking too many nights.
Peter couldn’t help but glance away in shame.
They always did so much for him, and he… wasn’t worthy of it.
“I… know. Thank you,” He almost rasped out.
Breakfast didn’t last long. It rarely did, when all three of them were trying not to worry the others. Peter stood up and took his plate, then—against their protests—grabbed theirs as well.
“Peter, honey, you don’t have to do that,” May said, half-rising, while Ben looked at him sadly.
“No. I do.”
They gave him the same look every time—a mix of pride and pain that made him want to crawl out of his skin.
Ben and May were too kind to him. They had already done so much—taken him in, worked themselves sick to keep him fed, clothed, alive.
He… he had to help, some way.
Even if it just made him feel more guilty.
The least he could do was the dishes.
The rest? The dreams, the weight, the futures?
Those were his responsibility.
.
.
The bus hissed to a stop outside his street. Peter adjusted his glasses and squinted at the blurred letters of ‘Midtown Middle School.’
He held back a sigh as he adjusted his thick glasses. “Great. My prescription’s only getting worse.”
He headed toward the back, near the rowdiest and most popular kids. The rest of the seats were already taken. As he walked over, they all exchanged glances with each other and then shook their heads.
Eventually, one of the girls moved her bag from the window seat. “Here, Pete. You can sit with me today.”
Peter glanced at her gratefully. “Thanks, Sally.”
She just hummed, making room for him as he squeezed in beside her.
“C’mon, Sally,” one of the boys complained from the row ahead. “Why are you always so soft on Parker?”
Sally merely glanced at the boy before responding, “Just look at him, bullying him is like kicking a sad puppy.”
Peter’s brow furrowed at her words, before he shook his head and looked out the window, ignoring the rest of their conversation.
He wasn't a sad puppy… He was a brooding, burdened young man haunted by tortured visions of pain and destiny.
Totally different.
“Look! He’s getting that kicked-puppy face anyway!”
“…”
——————
It was testing day.
Peter had finished early—again—and was stuck waiting for everyone else to catch up. He doodled at the corner of his scrap paper, the pencil scribbling on its own.
He absentmindedly drew a spider web as he thought of his possible future—of that heroic figure always at the edge of his thoughts.
The Amazing Spider-Man.
Sometimes the visions showed him clearly—swinging, laughing, quipping in the face of monsters and villains like it was just another Tuesday.
Other times he only got fragments—a torn mask, a hand reaching through rubble, and most of all, a voice refusing to give up.
Just thinking of it made his nerves tense with a mix of emotions—fear, wonder, admiration, pride. There weren’t words to describe how he felt.
Peter admired that man more than anyone, but… he also secretly hated him a little.
Because he was supposed to be him… and he wasn’t sure he ever could.
The awe towards the possibility of him being such a great person, was only equaled by the fear of what he had to face.
It was terrifying.
He wasn’t Spider-Man. He didn’t have powers, didn’t have a costume, didn’t have an overwhelming responsibility towards a city counting on him. He was just Peter Parker—a traumatized kid with too much in his head and not enough in his wallet.
A kid who’d seen how no good deed goes unpunished.
…Yet even still, part of him wanted to be like that.
To be a hero, like him.
To help people.
Knowing that there was someone so good in the world—and that he, could be that good… made those horrible nightmares so full of evil a little more bearable.
He knew that when—if—he did become Spider-Man, he’d suffer twice over for every person he saved. That the sort of kindness his other selves showed wasn’t born without heavy cost.
He was angry about that. At the world, at fate, at whatever boardroom writers or—or, cosmic joke thought this was fair. Why did he have to suffer for trying to do the right thing?
Eventually, the bell rang, yanking him out of his spiral. He handed in his test, grabbed his stuff, and darted toward the cafeteria.
He ate alone at a corner table, his tray half-forgotten as he hunched over a doctorate-level biology book for comfort.
He didn’t dare to make friends, who knew if they suddenly got into a freak accident and turned into some mutant school shooter?
His awkward self wouldn’t even know how to make friends. He knew that both first and second hand. He chuckled dryly to himself at the thought and turned the page.
His dreams made him take his studies more seriously. He had long since surpassed his peers in study, it was difficult not to—it was basically all he did.
His level of studies was something he could personally take pride in. His other selves may have been super geniuses in their own right, but they were always too busy to have a chance to sit down and just learn.
He liked to think that, at this age, he was outdoing all of them.
Education was their hobby and passion; science fascinated Peter Parker as much as any web-swinging or wall-crawling. .
He was glad he could enjoy it in peace.
Maybe he could even try to catch up with Reed!
…Probably not, but he wasn’t going to obsess over it crazily like Doom. He could still make an attempt, and this wasn’t even his first, or second biology book alone!
Peter glanced around the cafeteria as he finished his page, and caught a flash of blonde hair, before momentarily locking gazes with pretty blue eyes.
In the split second their eyes met, her expression twisted—confusion, hurt, something else—and he looked away first, heart aching.
He buried his face back in his textbook with a sigh.
He couldn’t bear to look at her.
She was much better off without him.
.
.
Lunch ended. He packed up his heavy book and left among the last stragglers. On his way out, he ran into a commotion in the hallway.
“What, you think ’cause daddy buys you expensive tutors you get to mock me?” a familiar voice snapped.
Peter followed the sound to a horde of kids blocking the hall.
There he found Flash Thompson, holding up a ginger boy by his shirt—the kid was shorter, nervous, and dressed far too nicely for this kind of public school.
“T-that wasn’t what I meant!” the ginger stammered meekly.
“Not everyone can buy their way through school!” Flash sneered. “I’m sure you didn’t mean anything, right? Else you’d be in some nice private academy—oh wait, maybe that’s why you’re here. Too dumb even for that.”
The students watching all hissed at his words, giggling at the humiliated frustration expressed on the ginger’s face.
Peter recognized him, the very expensive clothing was a dead giveaway—Harry Osborn.
His future sometimes best friend… and sometimes worst enemy. Peter had mixed feelings as he looked at Harry, he could really never predict how their relationship would turn out.
This was the person who, in one world, murdered the love of his life… and yet in another, trained relentlessly in the military and S.H.I.E.L.D. for years to avenge his death.
…It was morbidly funny how both versions ironically wanted to kill the same person.
He honestly didn’t know how he should treat Harry. He usually believed that involving himself with anyone cursed them to a miserable time… but he couldn’t say the same for a few people.
Harry was one of them. His life was a mess even without Peter’s passive debuff, afterall… with a father like Norman Osborn, was there any hope of a healthy, normal life?
Peter swallowed.
He could walk away. He’d done that before, in other lives. Let things go because ‘he missed the part where it was his problem.’
But, he knew the consequences of that choice more than he could ever wish to.
“Not choice… responsibility,” Peter muttered to himself as he stepped forward.
—————
Flash suddenly felt a grip on his shoulder and spun around, ready to tell off whoever it was.
Peter Parker.
His old preschool playmate. He was dressed in a cheap collared shirt, with mismatched resewn buttons. His scratched up glasses probably couldn’t even let him see properly by the look of his baggy, squinted eyes.
They’d known each other practically forever.
Well… as much as someone could know Peter Parker. The guy never let anyone close. Too busy being sad, distant, or buried in some book.
Well—there was someone.
Once.
“Stop it, Flash. Let him go.” Peter spoke, with tired but determined eyes.
Flash scoffed at the sight of his scrawny form. “What, Parker? Finally looking to suck up to some rich kid? Probably for the best—might finally buy you a new shirt, something not straight out of Goodwill’s 90s wholesale.”
Peter’s eyes flickered with irritation, about to react—do anything, but then he stopped, blinked his eyes and sighed, “No, I don’t care about any of that.”
Flash folded his arms and scoffed, heat in his voice. “Wow. Parker doesn’t care about money. Must be nice. Your Aunt and Uncle work themselves half to death for you, and you walk around pretending you’re above it. They must struggle with an ungrateful brat like you.”
That one hit. Flash knew it hit, and yet—damnit, he didn’t even react the way someone would expect.
He just looked at Flash with those same damn eyes. This was why he hated talking to Peter Parker.
Anger, Rage, Frustration? No—just empathetic kindness.
Fuck, He couldn’t stand it! This was why he couldn’t even hate Parker, he was too nice. Oh, he got angry… but, it was like he could read minds!
Like he knew Flash was just trying to vent.
“I know you’re better than this.”
Flash wanted to scream—to knock that gentle, infuriating expression off his face and shove the self-righteous fucker who always acted like he was better than everyone—!
—But Parker kept talking.
“I remember when I lost my parents—you looked out for me. You even tried to get me to join you at lunch, and you even got your mom to call my aunt.” Peter looked at him, smiling softly. “I never said it then, but it meant a lot to me.”
Flash was speechless. He remembered, he just hadn’t thought Peter did… this was ages ago.
“You're not some bully Flash.” Peter stated as if it was some foregone conclusion, “Is this who you want to become? the man you want to be? You’re better than this.”
“…”
“I know you are.”
Flash’s fingers unclenched, and Harry fell to the floor as he stormed off, pushing through the stunned crowd.
He glared at a sad blonde girl he brushed past, muttering to himself on the way out, “…Like Parker can talk. Hypocrite.”
Peter, on the other hand, helped Harry off the ground, “You alright?”
“Y-yeah, thanks,” Harry replied gratefully.
But before he could say more, Peter nodded and patted him on the shoulder before walking out after Flash. “No problem, Har.”
“Har? W-wait—” He tried to catch up, but someone else interrupted him first.
“Don’t bother,” He heard a voice beside him say.
Harry turned to see a pretty blonde girl with a black headband and sharp eyes. She was scowling in annoyance, but underneath it, there was something like… hurt.
“He does that,” she muttered. “Swoops in, does the right thing, then vanishes like some tragic weirdo.”
“Uh… why?” Harry asked.
She crossed her arms, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know. Peter doesn’t really… let people close. Not anymore. He acts like he’s too good for us plebeians,” She finished with bite, her voice filled with resentment.
Harry felt awkward. He scratched his neck nervously. “So… is he like your ex or something?”
“W-what?! No!” She sputtered in response, cheeks gaining heat. “I used to be his friend… his best friend, then he shut me out completely.”
Harry felt even more awkward.
She loosened slightly, realizing how bitter she sounded, and coughed in embarrassment. “Never mind that. I’m, um—Gwen. Gwen Stacy.”
“Oh, I'm Harry. Nice to meet you, I guess…”
Meanwhile, Peter caught up to Flash outside on the recess field. He was kicking at the dirt angrily, like it had personally offended him.
“…What now, Parker?” Flash glared as he spotted Peter walking over.
Peter walked over and crouched beside him, smoothing the dirt absentmindedly. “You alright?”
“What are you, my therapist now?” He groaned in frustration.
Peter just waited for him to speak.
Flash eventually sighed and dropped onto the grass, arms resting over his knees as he looked away. “…It’s just—my grades are failing. And they might kick me off the team.”
“Oh, that’s it?” Peter joked as he plopped down beside him.
Flash whipped toward him. “That’s it?! If I get kicked off, I gotta go home early and deal with my—!” He stopped abruptly, “—Nevermind.”
“…Did your dad start drinking again?” Peter asked softly, cutting straight to the heart of it.
“…How’d you—” Flash stiffened, then sighed, resigned. “He is. And it sucks. I can’t fix it, a-and I don’t want to deal with it. Not everyone’s smart like you, okay? I try, but…”
Peter didn’t bring up his dad again, which Flash appreciated.
But what he wasn’t grateful for were Peter’s next words, “That’s just the thing—I, the smartest guy in school, don’t even struggle one bit.”
Flash glared at him, before yelling out in anger, “This is serious Parker! Don’t rub it in you smug prick—!”
“—Which makes me the perfect person to help tutor you.”
“Huh?” Flash blinked, then sputtered, “You? You, who talk to no one—who interact with nobody, would do that for me?”
“Crazy, right? But I think you could use it. Not to mention, I’m grateful, remember.” Peter snarked back. “But I’m not doing it for free. You gotta pay up.”
“Tch.” Flash replied, softer this time—caught between irritation and gratitude. “This for what I said about you suckin’ up for cash? Figures.”
“Heh, maybe a bit—but I don’t want money. Don’t care about it. I said so, didn’t I?”
“Then what do you want?”
“Apologize to him,” Peter said, twisting the self-righteous knife right into Flash’s heart.
“What? No way, he was talking mad—!” Flash stopped when he saw Peter’s expression. “…Fine.”
He knew Peter was just trying to help—he was thankful… but he’d never say it.
But he could throw it right back at him. “…Then you have to do the same for ‘Gwendy.’”
“…” Peter cleared his throat, “So, anyways—“
“Heh.”
“—You know, my Aunt once gave me some advice…”
Flash rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now. Just barely—but it was there.
And Peter couldn’t help smiling back. He was glad—truly glad—to have a heart-to-heart with Flash. He knew how much the boy tormented his other selves.
His perpetual high school bully.
But then he changed. He went to war, became a hero, lost his legs… and regretted who he had been.
He was more than his abusive father, or as just some malicious bully. He became someone who Peter admired greatly—someone he was proud to call a friend.
Flash Thompson always liked to brag about being Spider-Man’s #1 fan. But what he didn’t know… was that Spider-Man was also his #1 fan.
—————
Later that night, Peter went out to take the trash, lugging the heavy bag across the yard and plopping it into the bin.
Then—as when he turned around, he saw her.
There, on the steps of the neighboring house, sat a girl with wine-red hair. Her head was tucked down against her knees, shoulders trembling as if she were trying to make herself invisible.
Probably hoping no one would notice her.
But too bad for her, Peter would’ve recognized her anywhere. He would always recognize her, in any lifetime.
There wasn’t a day he didn’t think of her.
Mary Jane Watson.
He had never spoken to her. Never even been close to her. In his world, this was the first time he’d ever seen her up close. But in his dreams—in those strange, scattered visions he’d gotten since childhood…
She was the furthest thing from a stranger.
His feet moved before his brain caught up. He didn’t feel that familiar social anxiety when it came to her; he was so caught up in the moment he forgot such a thing existed.
One second he was by the trash bin, the next he was in front of her, and finally he noticed her state—she was crying.
His heart fell into a pit, he hated it. He had to fix it.
She didn’t notice him until he spoke.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You alright?”
She startled hard, jerking her head up. Her eyes were red and watery, panic flickering through them as he could see the insecurity radiating off her form.
“S-sorry!” she blurted. “I—I was just—!”
Peter crouched to meet her eyes, unmoving and gentle. “It’s okay,” he said. “Really.”
They stared at each other for a beat.
Mary Jane wanted to run away, escape upstairs and away from the boy who came out of nowhere. But then she saw his eyes, and they made her flinch with quiet understanding.
Because they were the same kind of eyes she saw in the mirror when she practiced how to smile.
Sad eyes.
“You know…” Peter said quietly, the words forming naturally as he recalled his earlier conversation with Flash. “Whenever I feel really awful, I think about something my Aunt told me.”
She didn’t know how to react, she could only watch him speak.
“That there’s a hero in all of us,” Peter said, settling onto the step beside her. “Someone we picture when we need strength. Someone we’d stand in the rain for hours just to catch a glimpse of. Someone whose strength we… borrow. Just to hold on a minute longer.”
Her breathing steadied, just a little. Mary Jane thought his words sounded nice, “…Who do you think of?”
Peter hesitated, then smiled faintly.
“I think of who I want to be,” he said. “My future self. The guy who doesn’t let all this stuff crush him. The one who keeps going even when he’s scared—even when he wishes he could give up.”
She sniffled, but a hint of curiosity slipped through. “Oh, and what does your future self do?”
Peter gave a small laugh with his response, “He’s a big-time superhero. Bright spandex costume and all—even saved the world. Multiple times at that. All the ladies love him.”
She couldn’t help giggling at his absurdity, feeling a bit more confident thanks to his lighthearted words. “…And who do you think my future self would be?”
He stared at her softly, visions of a dozen different red-haired figures overlaying themselves onto her. “Probably a strong woman—somebody who makes her own choices. Someone who doesn’t let anyone tell her what she’s worth…”
Her breath hitched a bit, but then he kept talking…
“…and well, maybe she admires bright and tight spandex suits—well, p-probably even a supermodel…” He tried to finish jokingly, but started blushing a bit as he lost confidence towards the end.
“—Okay, okay, stop!” Mary Jane broke out into laughter at his sudden shy compliment and expression, “You’re ridiculous! Haha!”
She wiped her eyes before looking at him with a smile, “I think I’ll borrow your hero,” she said, looking at him with bright eyes now instead of sad ones. “He sounds… kind of cool.”
“Well, he did save the world a couple times…” He groaned happily, breaking free from his blush.
“Don’t forget that all the ladies love him!” She chirped back sarcastically.
They sat there, giggling like idiots on the front steps… and she never even realized that her tears had dried.
“What’s your name?” She asked after a moment.
“Peter,” He replied, “You?”
“I’m Mary Jane,” She said with a budding smile. “But you can call me MJ.”
Peter felt something warm spread in his chest. He didn’t even remember a time he felt so carefree.
He didn’t feel like some traumatized, overburdened figure—but instead, just a kid from Queens.
Maybe that was all he needed to be.
.
.
When Peter slipped back inside, he nearly collided with May standing right by the door, arms crossed.
“Whoa, May! What are you doing?”
May just raised her brow and eyed him with a subtle smirk, “Hmm, I don’t remember saying anything like that…”
Peter froze, “O-oh, what?”
“What was it you said? ‘There’s a hero in all of us?’ The line you fed that poor girl.” May grinned, far too pleased. “You really cheered her up, huh?”
Oh, she couldn’t wait to tell Ben—and Anna! Her niece was so pretty, even Peter was smitten!
May softened. She really looked at him then—the smile, the relaxed shoulders, even the bags under his eyes seeming to recede from his joy.
She hadn’t seen him this happy in years.
“I don’t know… it just sounded like something you would say,” Peter replied cheekily, a glint in his eye.
“Well,” she said, ruffling his hair, “Maybe I should’ve said it.”
Author’s Notes
Probably my most confident chapter ever. Added a better starting transition, and fleshed out the interactions a bit to feel more natural.
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Comments
SupremeRuler17
I. WANT. MORE!
