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***
[4 hours later]
After spending months riding home on top of the train — the wind hitting his face, the night sky stretching endlessly above him, the Queens skyline gradually drawing closer — being squeezed inside a subway car now felt almost like a punishment.
The dirty window glass couldn't compare to the vastness of the open sky, and the metallic sway over the tracks had nothing of the freedom he had learned to associate with those clandestine trips on the roof. In here, surrounded by tired people, fluorescent lights, and the mixed smell of sweat and cheap perfume, Peter felt… small. Contained. As if he had been put back inside a box after experiencing the world without limits.
Thankfully, that would end soon.
His new suit was almost finished, lacking only the completion of the mask. The fight with the Green Goblin had been so violent that the previous costume simply couldn't be repaired — irreparable tears, burns from explosions, bloodstains that not even the best wash would remove. Peter had been forced to start from scratch, sewing every detail with a precision that would make any professional stylist blush with shame.
That had also taken his entire Bugle salary, something that would probably cause Jameson to have a heart attack if he found out what his money was being used for.
In any case, his injuries were almost healed and his suit nearly ready. It was only a matter of time before Spider-Man returned to action.
The loudspeakers announced the next station with a distorted robotic voice — that artificial intonation that seemed to exist in every train in the world since the invention of the subway. Peter stood up from the seat, balancing effortlessly with the natural grace his powers granted him, and walked toward the doors. When they opened with a pneumatic hiss, he stepped out onto the nearly deserted platform.
The sky was completely overcast now, covered by dark, heavy clouds that promised to turn the threat of rain into reality at any moment. The wind blew stronger than before, carrying that characteristic scent that precedes storms.
Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his pace toward his house, not at all excited about the idea of getting soaked.
The streets were quiet at that hour — a few cars passing occasionally, one or two people walking quickly, probably trying to get home before the sky gave way. The streetlights cast long shadows on the asphalt, creating a play of light and darkness that Peter followed with a distracted gaze.
That was when a newspaper, carried by a gust of wind, flew off the sidewalk and collided with his chest.
Peter grabbed the paper automatically and pulled it away from his body, ready to crumple it up and toss it into the nearest trash can. It wasn't uncommon to find old newspapers flying through the streets of New York; the city seemed like an inexhaustible source of that kind of trash.
But then he saw the headline.
"Spider-Man: Judge, Jury and Executioner"
The Daily Bugle logo stamped across the top. Signed by J. Jonah Jameson, of course.
Peter grimaced, his lips pressing into a thin line. His eyes quickly scanned the first lines of the article, which obviously described the recent events once again in the accusatory and inflammatory tone that was Jameson's specialty. The piece suggested, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, that the masked vigilante was now someone who decided on his own who deserved to live or die — a punisher, an executioner disguised as a hero.
Judge, jury and executioner.
The words echoed in Peter's mind, finding an uncomfortable home in the darkest corners of his consciousness.
Despite the many mistakes he had made as Spider-Man over the past months, nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the impact his fight with the Green Goblin had on his image.
The revelation that Norman Osborn was the Green Goblin had been a shock to the country. The respected CEO, the man who appeared on television talking about innovation and the future… was in fact the masked psychopath who had terrorized New York. But the following news — that Spider-Man was directly involved in Norman's death, that he had essentially executed the villain — that story spread faster than wildfire.
It didn't take twenty-four hours for every news channel, every newspaper, every even remotely relevant website to be discussing the case. Ethics experts were called in to debate whether a vigilante had the right to kill. Lawyers appeared on morning shows to explain the legal implications. People on the streets were interviewed, with opinions revolving mainly around the idea that Spider-Man was now a criminal as well.
Added to that the extensive damage the city suffered because of the pumpkin bomb explosions — damaged buildings, destroyed cars, injured civilians — it was no surprise that his image had gone down the drain within hours.
And of course Jameson was the one who enjoyed it the most. At eight in the morning the day after the fight, he had already launched the first bomb: "Spider-Man: The Killer!" printed on the front page, with a grainy photo of Spider-Man that seemed to have been chosen specifically to make him look threatening.
The next day: "Spider-Man, Unrepentant Killer Still at Large!"
Now this. Judge, Jury and Executioner.
Peter had no illusion whatsoever that this would end anytime soon. Jameson had found the perfect fuel for his campaign against Spider-Man, and he wasn't going to let go of the bone until he saw him behind bars.
But the real problem wasn't that. It was that before, when the Daily Bugle or any other newspaper published headlines like those, defamatory and exaggerated about Spider-Man, readers hardly believed them. To them, it was just another attempt to sell papers with cheap controversy. After all, Peter, or rather Spider-Man, had proven more than once, through concrete actions, how some of the articles about him were completely wrong.
However, now, with so many having directly witnessed his fight against the Green Goblin, especially how it ended, people had started to look at those headlines with new eyes.
Maybe the Daily Bugle had been right all along. Maybe Spider-Man had always been a threat. Maybe he had never truly been a hero, just someone with enough power to impose his own version of justice. Maybe it had all been a farce that had finally been exposed.
'Well... they're not completely wrong. I'm a murderer now.' Peter crumpled the newspaper and threw it into a trash can, resuming his walk toward home. 'It's only a matter of time before the police give in to public pressure and issue an arrest warrant.'
But there was something very wrong with all of this.
Not in the obvious sense — of course everything was wrong, his life was a walking disaster — but in a more specific way. There was something strange about how the media coverage was unfolding.
This flood of articles, his name practically never disappearing from the news and radio for more than a few hours. It was almost as if someone was paying to make sure the narratives against Spider-Man never stopped.
Peter had even seen flyers. Flyers! With Spider-Man's face printed on them circulating around the city, pasted on poles and walls, handed out at busy corners. "VIGILANTE OR MURDERER?" — "HE DECIDES WHO LIVES" — "PROTECT YOUR FAMILY, REPORT SPIDER-MAN."
And it hadn't even been three days since Norman's death!
That was... very strange, wasn't it?
***
After a few more minutes of walking beneath the sky's growing threat, Peter finally arrived home. The timing could not have been more precise, because at the exact moment his feet touched the front step, the first heavy drops began to fall. He hurriedly pulled his keys from his pocket and slipped inside before the rain poured down.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, he was greeted by something that stood in complete contrast to the cold night outside: the soft hum of a record player in the living room and, drifting from the kitchen, May's voice following the melody, off-key in a few places, yet full of life.
His aunt stood in front of the stove, completely unaware of his arrival. He remained still in the hallway for a few seconds, watching her without her noticing. May stirred something in the pot, her body swaying lightly to the rhythm of the music.
A small smile appeared on Peter's lips. After learning about the cardiac arrest and seeing her in a hospital bed hooked up to machines that wouldn't stop beeping for a single second, along with the feeling that he could lose her at any moment… seeing her there now, singing carefree while she cooked was like... Peter didn't even know how to put it into words.
"I'm home, May!" he announced.
"Peter!" The reaction was immediate. May turned quickly, her face lighting up with a warm smile as she wiped her hands on a dish towel hanging near the stove. In a few steps, she crossed the small kitchen and went to him.
"I'm so glad you're here. I was worried you'd get caught in the rain." Before he could answer, she wrapped him in a tight embrace, the kind that truly squeezes, as if she needed to confirm with her own touch that he was whole.
"Whoa—" Peter exclaimed,surprised by the intensity of her embrace, but he quickly returned it, pulling her closer. "I got lucky. It's just starting to rain."
May pulled back slightly but kept her hands on his shoulders, her eyes scanning his face carefully. "I told you to take an umbrella before you left," she said with a light tone of reprimand.
"I'll listen to you next time," he promised with a half smile.
May shook her head with a smile on her lips, then looked him over again — but not in the usual casual way. It was a different look, deeper and more attentive. She observed him from head to toe, checking every inch of him for... Peter didn't know exactly what.
But he noticed. And he also noticed that this behavior had started after that night. Come to think of it, the following morning had unfolded very differently from what he had expected, to say the least.
By a stroke of luck, or survival instinct, he had woken before May went to his room to check whether he had returned the night before. And even still dazed, with his body protesting at every movement, he managed to remove what was left of his suit and clean most of the injuries across his body. After that, Peter put on his usual clothes and left through the window.
Since his face had already fully healed thanks to his powers, the plan was simple: wait outside for a few minutes until the time May usually woke up, then "come home" as if he had spent the night out because of the chaos involving Spider-Man and the Green Goblin. Peter would say he got stuck in the middle of it all, could not catch the train, and had to sleep at a friend's house.
It was not perfect, but It would ease his aunt's worry—and maybe her anger. At least that was what Peter thought.
So imagine his surprise when he "arrived" home that morning, with his excuses rehearsed on the tip of his tongue, ready to face an interrogation or at least a look of disapproval... and all he received from May was a hug.
A tight, lingering hug that lasted several minutes. And a single question: "Are you okay, sweetheart?"
She did not ask where he had been. She did not want to know why he had not called. She demanded no explanations and did not raise her voice. She simply held him as if she needed to confirm he was real, that he was there, whole.
Since then, May had been treating him as if he were made of glass, something that could shatter at any moment. She asked how he was several times a day, watched him while he ate, and always, always, when he came home, there was that evaluating look.
Peter chalked it up to fear. May must have been terrified when she saw the Green Goblin's attack on television, imagining he was in the middle of it all. It made sense, after all, everyone believed he was always on the spider's trail trying to get pictures. May must have realized, for the first time, just how close to danger he lived.
It was entirely understandable for May to become more protective after that.
"Are you okay? How was the funeral?" May asked now, bringing him back to the present.
"Yeah. Just tired." The answer came automatically. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to appear casual. "About the funeral… well. It was awful. Harry is suffering a lot."
May sighed, placing a hand over her chest for a moment. "Poor boy. Losing his father that way…" She shook her head. "I can't imagine."
Peter swallowed hard. He could.
"Did you stay with him after the ceremony?" May asked, looking at him again. "Harry needs friends right now."
"I stayed for a while. But… Gwen is with him."
"Oh, Peter." May hugged him again. "You… her?..."
He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the knot in his throat tighten. "I don't want to talk about it, May."
"Right, right, right." She nodded immediately, respecting the boundary without insisting. "Come on, dinner's ready."
She guided him to the table with a light touch on his back, just as she used to when he was a child. Peter settled into the chair, watching as she served the plates. The rain poured heavily outside now, and occasional gusts of wind made it lash against the windows.
"Any plans for next week?" May asked suddenly, referring to the Midwinter Recess, which would begin next Monday. "Or are you just going to rest a little? You deserve it."
Peter stared at his hands for a moment before answering. "Yes, I have some plans," he finally said, lifting his gaze.
"Oh? Something fun, I hope."
"Yeah… very fun."
***
The next day, Peter woke up with the same weight on his chest and the wide eyes of someone who had spent the night trapped in one nightmare after another. He ate breakfast in silence, answered May's questions with monosyllables, and when she asked if he was okay — for the third time — he lied. For the third time.
A few hours later, his feet carried him back to that church. He walked in, sat on the same pew, and stayed there, staring at nothing for hours.
The following day, the same thing happened. And the next day as well.
Sister Anne — who had introduced herself on the second day — would always appear at some point. She never asked why he was there, demanded explanations, or tried to make conversation. She would simply sit beside him discreetly and keep him company in silence until the moment he stood up and left.
Peter didn't know exactly why he kept coming back. Maybe it was because it was the only place where no one expected anything from him. Where he didn't have to be Peter Parker, or Spider-Man, but just a boy sitting on a pew in a church.
However, as much as he found a truce there during the day, at night the nightmares showed no mercy. On the contrary, each night was worse than the one before.
Most of them were still about the Green Goblin. But other kinds of nightmares began to surface, as if his mind, once it had found a crack, was determined to explore every possible variation of his greatest fears.
In some, he saw himself transformed into a cold-blooded killer, someone who didn't care about taking lives — who even enjoyed it. In others, he ended up alone. Completely alone. With everyone abandoning him after discovering he was Spider-Man.
And there were those in which his identity was exposed. Old villains returned, not to fight him, but to get revenge by killing the people he loved. May in a dark alley. Gwen in a laboratory. Harry at school. Liz in the middle of the street. And Peter just watched, powerless, never able to save them.
Letting out a long sigh, Peter ran a hand over his face, only now noticing that Sister Anne had once again sat down beside him without him realizing. He said nothing, remaining silent, and she did the same.
Time passed.
The world outside continued on its indifferent course, the stained-glass windows gradually losing their vibrant colors as the sun set, shades of blue, red, and gold fading into grays and purples.
Unlike the other days, however, the church did not remain silent.
"I feel lost." Peter's voice broke the silence so suddenly that even he seemed surprised to hear it.
"And why is that?" Sister Anne turned her face toward him, unhurried. Her movement was calm, deliberate, as if she had all the time in the world and he were the only person who mattered in that moment.
Peter let out a small laugh. "There are so many reasons, Sister. So many." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture both nervous and tired at the same time. "If I tried to list them all, we'd be here for days."
"Then tell me about the one that's hurting you the most right now." Sister Anne was no stranger to the art of listening. She knew that sometimes the whole is too vast to grasp, but a single piece can be enough to change everything.
Peter took a deep breath, taking a few seconds to choose words that wouldn't reveal too much and, at the same time, wouldn't be completely empty. "I… there's something I have to do. Something I will always have to do. It's not a choice, it's a… responsibility. Something I took on and can't abandon." His fingers laced together tightly. "But it makes me fail and often disappoint the people close to me. God knows I try to do my best to balance that… duty with the rest of my life, but I never manage. I always end up upsetting someone. I always lose something important."
"And you can't stand disappointing them anymore?" she asked softly.
"Yes." He ran a hand over his face again, exhausted. "It's like… I'm at the bottom of a hole. And no matter how hard I try to balance things and start digging my way up, I never reach the surface. On the contrary — the more I try, the deeper it feels like I get." Peter hesitated for a moment, suddenly aware of how dramatic it sounded. "Does that analogy make any sense? Or am I just rambling?"
"Oh, it makes perfect sense. More than you imagine." The reply came quickly, emphatically, without hesitation. Sister Anne turned her face forward, her faded blue eyes shining with an understanding that seemed to go beyond words. "Would you like some advice, or do you want me to just listen?"
Peter thought for a moment. "Advice would be good, I guess. If that's not asking too much," he murmured.
"It's never asking too much." Sister Anne adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose, an automatic gesture she must have repeated countless times. "So here is my advice, based on many years of life and many conversations like this: you need to 'stop digging.'"
Peter frowned, confused. "Stop digging?" he repeated, turning to look at her.
"Exactly." Sister Anne confirmed with a small nod. "You need to stop digging." Seeing the expression of complete incomprehension on the young face before her, she elaborated, her voice taking on a didactic tone without ever losing its gentleness. "Let me explain it better. When we find ourselves in difficult situations, and we feel like we're in that hole you described, it is extremely easy to fall into a cycle of actions that, in our minds, should help us, but actually only make things worse."
"Fear, anxiety, lack of clarity, the desperation to fix everything as quickly as possible. All of that can push us to keep digging, thinking we're making progress, doing something, when in reality, we're burying ourselves even deeper."
Sister Anne paused, taking a deep breath. "You said you try to balance this duty with the rest of your life, but you always end up upsetting someone. That means that instead of climbing up, you keep digging downward. You keep doing more of the same, hoping that magically one day it will work. And that, my son, will get you nowhere."
Peter did not reply, but something on his face changed — a crack of understanding beginning to open.
"The key to getting out of this destructive cycle, Peter, is self-awareness." Sister Anne continued. "The ability to stop, breathe, and ask yourself: is what I'm doing right now leading me out of this hole? Or am I just digging deeper out of desperation and not knowing what to do?"
"Recognizing that you're digging deeper is the first step toward change. And that recognition hurts, because it means admitting you were wrong, that what you've been doing doesn't work. But it's necessary. It's the only way."
"Stopping digging doesn't mean you're giving up — understand that. It's not giving up. It is, in fact, the opposite. It is being wise enough to realize that the current approach doesn't work and needs to be replaced. It's the necessary pause to assess the situation, understand what isn't working, and only then start digging again, this time in a solid way out."
Peter's eyes gradually widened.
"You, my boy, need to stop what you're doing," Sister Anne said, her voice now more incisive. "You need to stop running, stop trying to fix everything on your own, stop tearing yourself apart trying to be everything for everyone. And you need to completely change the way you think about this… duty you mentioned."
"If you have a duty so important that you cannot ignore it — something that, from what I understand, is essential — then perhaps your peace lies in accepting it fully. Not halfway, or trying to fit it in between commitments and expectations that only drag you further down. Perhaps your 'stop digging' means, precisely, stopping trying to sustain two versions of yourself."
Two versions of himself.
The words repeated in Peter's mind.
"When someone tries to live divided, there will always be frustration and guilt. But when you choose, when you finally decide with clarity what your main mission is, what your true calling is… the pain lessens. It doesn't disappear, but it lessens. Because the decision has been made. Because you know what the path is."
"But…" Peter interrupted her, "I can't just abandon a part of my life."
"I am not telling you to abandon anything." Sister Anne explained. "I am saying that you need to accept that you cannot be everything to everyone. That this need to balance, to please, and to never disappoint is too heavy a burden for any human being to carry. And from what I see in you, my son, that burden is already breaking you."
She made a dismissive gesture with her right hand. "Let go of that need. That idea that you have to be perfect for everyone at the same time. Embrace who you are — what you truly need to be. The world needs the real you, not this diluted version that tries to please everyone and ends up pleasing no one."
***
Disclaimer: This story and its characters belong to Sony Pictures and Marvel Comics (Disney). This is merely a fanfiction written by a fan, with no intention of infringement.