Chapter Text
May Parker had always worn the "strong woman" title like armor. She wore it proudly, knowing it was forged through the fires of countless trials. Nursing had sharpened her—taught her to face the bodies, the blood, the sorrow, with an unshakable resolve. She had become a fortress, tasked with holding together lives, patching up the broken, and giving news no one ever wanted to hear. It was in her nature to endure. To survive.
She’d known loss, of course—had faced it head-on. She had buried her husband, never expecting the weight of grief to be so endless, and yet she carried it. She'd taken in Peter, a boy who wasn't even hers by birth, but a son she loved with every part of herself. They hadn't planned for this, for parenthood. But she never regretted it, not for a single heartbeat. She had fought for him, worked for him—taking extra shifts, pushing past exhaustion, building a life for them both, just the two of them. Her and Peter.
She had weathered so much. But none of that could prepare her for the moment the phone rang.
The voice on the other end was strained, a shadow of its usual confidence. Tony Stark—Peter's mentor, Peter's pseudo-father—sounded like a man who had aged ten years in a single breath.
"It’s been bad, May," he said. And May's world began to tremble.
In those rare moments when the chaos of life paused, when the hospital went silent and the weight of the world lifted for just a second, May’s thoughts would turn to Peter. Her sweet boy, her sunshine. What if something happened to him? What if—God forbid—he was hurt? Every day, she carried the fear, tucked it away behind the veneer of strength, but it was always there, lurking. And still, nothing could have prepared her for the words that Tony spoke next.
"May, I need you to calm down, please. I can practically hear you panicking through the phone, and it's only making me panic too."
"Don’t you dare, Tony. What happened? What the hell is going on? How is he? Tell me—please." Her voice cracked, a raw desperation beneath her words.
She was a nurse, a woman who had seen death, had faced it in its many forms, but this... This was different. The fear clawed at her insides, wrapping her in cold hands. A sinking feeling twisted her stomach.
Another sigh echoed through the line. It was not just weariness; it was a breath, heavy with grief and uncertainty. May wanted to scream, to throw the phone down, to demand he stop talking, stop saying anything until she could breathe again.
But then, Tony’s voice came again, quieter now, as though he was wrestling with the words. "Peter... killed someone. He’s in a SHIELD facility. They’re holding him."
And just like that, the world went still. The air left her lungs, and her mind went blank. The beeping machines outside the storage room suddenly became unbearably loud. Her head spun, and she couldn’t hear anything but the thumping of her heart, the sound of her disbelief, no. Not Peter. Not her boy.
"Peter killed someone? Peter Parker?" She didn’t even recognize the voice coming from her mouth. "No. No way. That’s not possible. Not Peter. Tony, stop it. This isn’t funny."
The silence on the other end was deafening. May’s hand trembled as she clutched the phone, her grip slipping as she tried to make sense of the words she was hearing. Peter killed someone?
She wanted to scream, to cry, to demand this nightmare end. Peter, the kid who helped old women across the street, who brought cats down from trees, who—God—who wore those ridiculous pun shirts and had a heart bigger than anyone she knew. Her Peter. Her baby.
But Tony’s voice, thick with pain and frustration, cut through her haze. "May, listen. SHIELD’s investigating. We know it’s not in Peter’s nature, but we saw him. We caught him in the act."
May’s mind reeled, her thoughts spinning too fast for her to hold onto any one thread. She had trusted Tony, they had co-parented Peter with the same goal—to keep him safe, to protect him. But now... everything was breaking.
Tony’s voice cracked through the phone again, and May heard something in it—it-something she had never expected. "May... SHIELD wants you to come in for questioning. I volunteered to call you before they sent agents to your door."
The words blurred together. Questioning. Her throat closed around the word, choking her, suffocating her. She felt her world crumble into dust, and the walls around her, the sterile, white walls of the hospital, seemed to collapse in, squeezing the air from her lungs. Her mind couldn’t grasp the enormity of it all.
"Mrs. Parker, for your safety and Peter's sake, come by the Tower tomorrow. I’ve arranged for Happy to pick you up. SHIELD and the Avengers will be there."
"Tony..." The word was barely a whisper, her voice breaking as if it couldn’t carry the weight of her fear.
Another sigh, heavier than before. And then—quietly, softly, with an emotion that had no place in the harsh world of superheroes—Tony Stark spoke.
"I know, May. I know. I want to get to the bottom of this, too. For him."
For Peter. For her sweet, beautiful boy. And suddenly, May didn’t know if she could breathe at all.
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"Auntie May, look! A frog!"
The voice of Peter Parker, her sweet, innocent nephew, rang through the park like the bell of a distant memory she never wanted to forget. May Parker, the awesomest aunt in all of Queens (according to Peter, of course), couldn’t help herself. A startled shriek tore from her chest as Peter, wide-eyed and full of earnest pride, thrust the limp, cold frog into her hands.
The creature was as still as a stone, its small body unnaturally rigid. May’s heart skipped a beat as she tried to mask the disgust that twisted inside her. How did Peter manage to catch it? It looked like it had been dead for hours. She blinked, forcing a smile onto her face as Peter gazed up at her with those big, pleading eyes, his hope written across his freckled face like a book.
“Please, Auntie, look what I caught!” he begged, his tiny hands trembling with excitement. May couldn’t bear to disappoint him, so she stretched her palms out and let him place the cold, lifeless frog there, as if it were still jumping around. She shuddered, but forced herself to breathe through it.
Peter, undeterred, gently patted the frog’s lifeless head, completely unaware of the weight of what he was doing. His smile was pure, his eyes shining with a joy only a child could know. And May, in that moment, realized something that made her heart ache: Her precious boy, her Peter, was still learning the hardest lessons life had to offer, one innocent moment at a time.
"Peter, sweetheart," May's voice was soft, laced with concern, as she crouched down to his level, gently placing the frog in the dirt. “Where did you get this frog?”
Peter’s grin stretched wider. He pointed enthusiastically toward a nearby puddle, its surface still glistening from the earlier rain, the remnants of a storm that had swept through their little world. It was a perfect park day now—quiet, cool, and calm—and Peter had pulled her from their apartment for one simple reason: to jump in puddles. May smiled faintly, watching him with affection. He wore a green jacket, matching hers, a silly little thing they had picked out together. A small, happy echo of the normal life they tried so hard to hold onto.
May’s stomach clenched as she realized what this meant.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “This little guy is already dead.”
Peter’s face faltered. His bright eyes dimmed just a touch as the reality of death, that cold, cruel thing, began to wrap itself around his heart. The words echoed in the silence between them, and May could see his mind working, struggling to understand. Dead. His four-year-old mind was still so innocent, but it was already grappling with a truth that would haunt him for the rest of his life. That some things, once gone, never return.
"Dead like Mama and Papa?" Peter’s voice was quiet, small, fragile in a way that made May’s heart shatter.
May swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the question like a stone in her chest. She couldn’t hold back the sadness that clung to her words. "Yes, baby. The frog won’t come back. He's on his way to froggie heaven now."
She glanced around, her hands trembling, before finding a small patch of earth where she could bury the little creature. The spade had been left behind by some child building a sandcastle, but it would serve. The frog, this small, simple life, deserved more than to just be tossed away. With a steadying breath, she carefully buried it in the soft, wet soil, the rain's remnants still clinging to the air.
Peter’s expression had fallen. His tiny face was full of confusion and guilt, his brow furrowed as if he was already blaming himself. May gently rose to her feet, her legs aching as she squatted to his level, brushing the curls from his forehead and planting a soft kiss there. She held him close, pulling him into her arms, knowing that this, this moment, would stay with him.
“Auntie May...?” Peter’s voice cracked, the sadness creeping in.
“Shh,” May whispered, her hands threading through his curls as she hugged him tighter. Her own heart was breaking at the thought of the pain he was beginning to understand, but she held him anyway, held him like she would hold him forever. "Yes, baby?"
“Did I kill the frog?” His words were so small, so full of worry. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t want to kill it, Aunt May! I thought it looked cute, I just wanted to show you…” His voice dissolved into a sob, and May’s heart fractured a little more.
"Shh, sweet boy," she murmured, her hand caressing the back of his little body, the one that had already carried so much for such a small soul. "You didn’t kill it, Peter. It was already dead when you found it. You didn’t hurt it, baby. Don’t worry."
But Peter still cried, his little hiccups trembled through him as he clung to her. May didn’t know how to fix this for him—this pain, this confusion, this terrible, aching realization. He loved his aunt and uncle, but the gaping hole left by the loss of his parents was still there, silent but present. Death had stolen them away, and now it had stolen the frog, too.
"Auntie May?" His voice came again, softer now, his sobs turning into gentle sniffles. They stayed like that, locked in each other’s embrace. May held him like the fragile thing he was, as if she could shield him from the pain forever.
"Yes, Peter?"
“I don’t think I like death, and I don’t think I like killing, Aunt May,” he whispered, his voice small and filled with the weight of a world too heavy for his tiny shoulders.
May’s hand brushed his back, the gesture simple but full of love. She kissed his head again, her voice full of warmth and sorrow. "I don’t think I like it either, baby. Not at all."
They stayed there, in the quiet of the park, the world spinning on despite the stillness between them, holding on to each other with all the strength they had left.
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The city buzzed around them—New York, ever alive, ever restless—its cacophony of horns, chatter, and footsteps clashing with the steady hum of the car’s engine as May and Happy navigated the maze of morning traffic. May hadn’t slept much; her body had been too filled with nerves, with dread, to rest properly. The quiet, anxious hours before dawn had been spent pacing her small apartment, brushing off thoughts of what if as if they were cobwebs trying to cling to her mind. But she couldn’t ignore them—couldn’t shut them out.
She showered, dressed in comfortable clothes, yet her hands found their way to the hidden jacket tucked into the corner of her closet, the one she kept for moments like this. Her fingers traced the fabric, her mind wandering back to the man who once wore it—Ben. She slipped into it, his warmth wrapping around her like a ghost she could never quite shake. She inhaled deeply, finding solace in the familiar scent that lingered there, even as the anxiety tightened in her chest.
It was 9:48 a.m. when the knock came—quick and purposeful, yet carrying with it an undeniable weight. The door swung open, and Happy’s grim face filled the doorway. The tension in his expression, the deep lines in his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes—all told her everything she needed to know. Neither of them had been able to sleep.
“Hello,” he said, his voice low, but there was no need for more words. They didn’t need to say anything else, not when the reality of the situation spoke louder than either of them could.
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable; it wasn’t the kind of quiet that came from being in the company of someone you trusted. It was a silence filled with worry, with shared fear, both of them bound by the same terrible question: What had happened to Peter?
The drive was a blur. May couldn’t tear her eyes away from the window, her fingers biting at her lips in quiet desperation. The rain had returned, gentle and soft, decorating the world outside with droplets that seemed to shimmer against the glowing lights of the city. She was lost in her thoughts, caught between the familiar rhythm of the city and the churn of her anxiety.
A throat clearing broke her from her reverie. She turned her gaze to Happy, his eyes focused on the road ahead, his jaw tight.
"You're worried," he said, the words simple, yet laden with so much more.
May scoffed, the sound bitter in her throat. "How could I not be?" she spat, her voice tinged with anger she hadn’t realized was there. "Yesterday, I got a call that my nephew’s locked up in a jail—accused of killing someone. How am I supposed to not worry about that?"
Happy sighed, the weight of their shared concern settling between them. "I know," he said quietly, his voice full of understanding. "Peter doesn’t seem like the type to kill anyone."
May waited. There was something else, something unsaid that hung in the air like a storm cloud, and she could feel it pressing on her chest, tightening her breath. Happy’s eyes flickered to hers for a moment, the words building inside him, then he spoke, the silence breaking.
"But I handled the cleanup of the guy’s body."
The words hit May like a punch to the gut. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, and she swallowed thickly, feeling the lump in her throat. No. No way. Not Peter. She refused to believe it. Her hands trembled slightly as she tried to steady herself, but she could barely catch her breath.
Happy cut the engine, the car rolling to a stop in the underground parking lot designated for Tony and the other Avengers. The world outside seemed too distant, too surreal, as if she were suspended in a moment that had no real place in time. He turned to her, his face unreadable, but the worry—always the worry—lingered in his eyes.
"I want to believe he’s innocent too, May," Happy said, his voice rough, like it was being dragged through gravel. "I know Peter... He couldn’t do something like that, not in his conscience. But the evidence... It’s not looking good."
May couldn’t breathe. Every inch of her screamed no, but the weight of Happy’s words pressed her into silence. The door slammed, but May couldn’t move. It took a moment before the sound of Happy rounding the car and opening her door reached her.
"You just need to cooperate, May," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "That’s all they need from you. That’s all they’re asking."
May’s world felt smaller in that moment. She stared at him, the words so simple, but their weight so heavy. Cooperate. Could she? Could she stand there, next to her nephew’s tormentors, and still believe in the boy she raised, the boy she loved? Could she trust anyone, anything, when the world was suddenly so broken?
All she could do was nod, her throat too tight to speak. She climbed out of the car, her feet moving on their own, her thoughts trailing behind her like a distant memory she couldn’t quite reach. As she walked toward the entrance of the tower, she felt the presence of her husband’s jacket, the warmth of Ben still wrapping around her shoulders, as if he were beside her, guiding her through the dark.