Chapter Text
There are thousands of interpretations of what power lies above the world. Who or what possesses the power to manipulate every situation, ensuring that the pieces fall exactly as they desire. Peter Parker has never been one to believe in what he couldn’t see right in front of him. A habit he could only have learned from his father. The boys of the Parker family would spend hours breaking down the world around them so they could have the slightest insight. The knowledge that countless cultures and religions were created to understand.
When Mary watched her boys trying to crack the secrets of the world. she had no doubt that a higher being existed. A being gracious enough to not only grant her the ability to feel unconditional love, but to be allowed to use it all on the beautiful minds by her side. One that granted her a reality where she could wake up beside the man who completed her like a perfect puzzle piece. Where she could hug her lovely Peter with the fierceness only a mother could manage. She couldn’t even imagine a life in which those weren't the most miraculous gift to have.
From an outsider's perspective, the Parker household appeared far from conventional. Some saw two working parents with risky jobs, numerous babysitters, and a life where hugs were as rare as midnight suns. They watched the young Peter and could only assume his intelligence stemmed from hours spent studying out of sheer boredom. Richard was a cold, unforgiving man in their assumptions and Mary too lost in her own mind to be a helpful mother. There was always an unspoken agreement among their friends and acquaintances that the family was one to be pitied.
But, again, the family wasn't keen on believing what wasn't right in front of them. And before them was every dream they could manage.
As Peter grew up, he sought his own answers to the world beyond. Although he still couldn't perceive a gigantic man in the sky smiting people with lightning bolts (who suspiciously resembled Santa Claus), he witnessed men in iron suits soaring through the Malibu skyline as if it were an ordinary occurrence. Gods of Thunder and Mischief were undeniably real, but they didn't govern Earth and its inhabitants.
One day in fourth grade, Flash Thompson, the only kid at school who spoke to Peter, proposed an intriguing theory.
“I think it may genuinely be supernatural at this point.” Ten-year-old Flash had snorted, and four other kids crowded around him like they were his disciples. They had the younger Peter pressed into the corner of the elementary library, his cheeks burning. His shirt was still wet from where the water fountain’s nozzle had broken, assaulting him with the liquid.
“It was an accident,” Peter mumbled, trying to keep the tears from his eyes. They weren’t the sad, frosty tears that he got when he read something with a bad ending. They were the hot, sticky ones that welled when he was angry. The worst kind. Because Flash, no matter which tears they were, would use them. It was the exact type of ammunition he lived for.
“How many accidents can you have, Penis Parker?” Flash demanded. “You’ve broken two sets of beakers in Ms. Mendez’s class. At last week's cross-country meet you tripped, at the finish line. Now this?”
His fan club cackled as if this were the most clever thing a kid had ever said. A table across the room glanced up, worried. One even looked over at the librarian (though she stayed effectively asleep behind the counter). None of them dared to actually intervene. Going against Flash's will was signing a death warrant in many ways.
“I’m nervous just standing near you,” The smaller girl in Flash's entourage chimed in, her green eyes seeking his approval. When she was met with indifference, she added, “Maybe the Parker Luck is contagious.”
Her words pleased Flash. He crossed his arms, smiling again. “Yeah, I wouldn't want to catch any Parker Luck.”
When Peter arrived home, his mind was consumed by the concept of Parker Luck. Could it truly exist, like some kind of universal law that followed him around? People were still trying to prove Murphy's law. In the hours before his parents returned from work, Peter began to work on this hypothesis. He created an itemized list of every mishap he could remember from recent history. Then, he meticulously categorized them into three levels: Unlucky, Misfortune, and Catastrophic. Despite sifting through numerous events, he couldn't find any correlation.
Skip Westcott was watching Peter that day. He watched Peter a lot. He was Mary's closest and longest friend. Peter liked Skip. He was a lot like his mom, always lost in their own ideas. Skip liked spiders the way Peter liked superheroes. Skip would bring him gifts from his job at Stark Industries, sometimes. He didn't really come in contact with anybody important on the Biology floor. But, he had access to the gift shop.
“Oh, hey, I got you something, Einstein!” Skip called out suddenly, diverting Peter's attention from his project. Skip was studying toxic waste that day.
Peter looked up from the carpet, his hand freezing over the calculator. He was figuring out the probability of his accidents at points in the day. He watched with anticipation as Skip pulled something out of his messenger bag—a box adorned with Iron Man's face, glinting in the sunlight.
“No way!” Peter tripped over himself as he got up, fighting against his own limbs to get to the kitchen as fast as possible. His hands reached toward the box which, by the looks of it, could only contain the limited-edition Iron Man face mask and matching Repulsors. Before they caught the cardboard, Skip caught Peter’s wrist.
“Slow down, Pete.” He laughed lightly, sliding his magnifying glasses up his nose. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Peter hadn’t forgotten; he was hoping. It was the same routine whenever Skip got him a present. Which, lately, had been happening more and more.
“Um, thank you?” Peter smiled up at Skip, hoping that maybe his mom’s friend was the one who had forgotten.
“Nice try,” Skip let go of Peter’s wrist, stooping down so they were at eye level. “Don’t I earn a hug for something like this?”
Without waiting, Skip pulled Peter into an embrace. It wasn’t a torturous activity by any means. Peter knew this was a simple thing, people did it all the time. Skip said so, too. It wasn’t dramatic, just a hug. But still, Peter always felt like he had eaten too much when Skip hugged him. He squeezed too tight and his hands always messed up Peter’s curly, brown hair. Maybe it was because his dad wasn’t much of a hugger. The only time he really hugged people, aside from Skip, was his mother. Her hugs were gentle, as soft as she was, always carrying the scent of cinnamon. In contrast, Skip's hugs were strong and firm, his towering height and solid arms resembling iron bars. He carried the lingering aroma of formaldehyde from his lab days. Maybe Mom’s hugs are just different, Peter thoughts as he waited for Skip to let him go.
“Go on, go play.” Skip ruffled Peter’s hair, letting him grab the box.
Birthdays held a special place in the Parker family. It was the only day of the year where, no matter what projects or assignments the family had going on, they all took a break. They would have presents – that weren’t traded for hugs – and treats and fun.
It was Peter’s birthday, this time. He had long ago given up his quest to figure out what was wrong with him. The first time he would accept something he couldn’t describe. Good things didn’t just happen in his life. He had to go out and grab anything he wanted. Where other kids would have felt bitter, and given up, Peter just kept reaching. If anything, the sour luck made him appreciate his life even more.
By the time he was turning fourteen, he only had one friend. But Ned was the best guy Peter had ever met. He didn’t have any uncles or grandparents, but he had his parents and Skip. Three people who loved him enough to make up for any distant family. And, yes, the tickets he got on his ninth birthday to StarkExpo’s grand reappearance landed him in the crosshairs of million-dollar war weapons and superheroes. But, Tony freaking Stark helped him blast one of the Hammer Droids away and called him brave. Peter still counted it as his best birthday.
For weeks leading up to the day, Peter brimmed with excitement. Three different paper chains adorned the house, each counting down to the day, while another two hung in his locker at Midtown Middle. The morning of, Mary set up camp in the kitchen. She had been trying to cook eggs and bacon, her mind quickly became consumed trying to find the exact time it took to cook a slice of bacon. By the time Peter woke up, the eggs were far beyond salvageable, but they had nearly three packs of bacon laid out on the counter.
The small family spent the morning feasting on bacon as Peter began an argument about time travel and the Grandfather Paradox. Richard believed in a single timeline, suggesting that if anyone traveled back in time, it had already happened, and they were already living the consequences. Peter argued that there was a multiverse beyond their own reality. So if one were to time travel, they were simply shifting between the timelines.
Around one o'clock, Skip arrived. He was an hour late, having gotten caught up in one of his experiments. He was “so close this time”, he promised. This time, his project focused on transferring spider DNA into humans. It was his dream to be able to give himself arachnid-based instincts. They had this extraordinary ability to cheat death. He yearned to tap into that power.
The family set up shop in their living room, passing presents around. Skip had two tags with his name on them and shiny Avenger-themed wrapping. The first was a Walkman. Richard snorted, slightly offended when Peter called it ‘vintage’. Mary grinned, taking pictures with her phone. The second present was a mixtape, its tracks listed in delicate notes on the cassette case. The title read "Mary's Mix." Skip explained that it was the same tape Mary had lost back in college, where they first met. He had kept it all these years, planning to embarrass her future friends with her musical taste. They all laughed, examining the unexpected song choices—female screamo, punk-rock, and even electronic tunes.
“Junior year of college was hard!” She argued, not quite able to rub the grin off her face.
Richard and Mary gave Peter a box wrapped in silver paper. Inside, the box wasn’t decorated or trademarked. It was simple, with ‘E.A.S.T. Prototype’ scrawled onto the top with Sharpie. One of their friends at S.H.E.I.L.D made it for Peter, as a thank-you for an unmentioned favor Richard did for them. E.A.S.T. stood for “Emotionally-Advanced Safety Technology”. A small, white robot designed to both watch over Peter and keep him company. ts display screen sported a lively, almost cartoonish face.
E.A.S.T. did exactly what it was designed to do.
It was Peter’s idea to get ice cream. Summer in New York was muggy, even if you had the money to offset it. The Parker household struggled to cope with the additional body heat, causing their air conditioning to work harder than usual. Peter said that such a nice day deserved ice cream. Mary said that was a lovely idea. Since there weren't enough seats in Richard's car for all four of them, they decided to take two separate cars. Richard drove his car while Skip took the wheel of his own vehicle.
“Peter,” E.A.S.T. had chirped. Peter broke off his babbling, looking up at the small bot that was still on the carpet. “I would advise that you drive with Mr. Westcott rather than your father.”
“Why?” Peter whispered back as if this were some birthday surprise.
“Mr. Parker has received an influx of notifications on his cellphone throughout the day.” E.A.S.T.’s face lit up with a few statistics. “Studies show that cellular devices are the leading cause of distracted driving.”
Peter glanced at his father. As if to prove the robot’s point, he was typing quickly on his work phone. It wasn’t uncommon for Richard to do the same thing while he was driving. But he did it so often, Peter had just assumed it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
So, Peter rode with Skip. Skip was happy to have company on the drive. He kept reaching over and ruffling Peter’s hair in excitement. It was only a five-minute drive, a straight shot into town. Even with a huge head start (Skip forgot his wallet at home, so they turned around about two minutes in), the two got to the ice cream parlor first.
They went inside and ordered. Peter knew exactly what his dad and mom would choose—the classic banana split for his dad and a strawberry cheesecake sundae for his mom. Still no sign. Skip and Peter got their orders. Richard and Mary weren’t responding to Peter’s texts. Peter began to lick the sides of his cone to catch the slowly melting sorbet. Skip texted Mary again. It took half an hour for the ice creams to melt fully, not once touched by the two. That’s when Skip got the call.
The ambulance didn’t even take them to the hospital. The car had been smoking and folded crisply around a tree for ten minutes before the police were called. The EMTs told Peter that the force had eliminated their brain waves on impact. He had meant to assure Peter, so he knew that they didn’t suffer. But it didn’t. Peter couldn’t imagine his parent’s brains simply going quiet. They were always running at top volume. The noise couldn’t just disappear. Could it?
Peter wanted to see them. He asked everybody who would look at him to just see them, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. They kept him at the ice cream parlor with one of the EMTs. She had red hair and freckles. They let Skip go to the scene, to identify the bodies. Peter was their only living family, but nobody would let him see. The nice lady behind the counter kept bringing Peter new cones. He didn’t touch any of it. Still, every time the cone melted onto the counter, she would silently wipe the mess away and leave a fresh cone in its place. Once, she even slid the glasses off of Peter’s face and wiped away the tear-induced fog. That’s why everything was so blurry.
Two long hours ticked by before Skip returned. He seemed hollow like somebody scooped the pleasant spirit right out of him. The lady behind the counter looked up at his face, at his red-rimmed eyes as if they held the secrets of the universe. Skip looked up for a second, then shook his head. His face crumpled as if he were to cry, but there were no tears left.
Instead, he knelt in front of Peter.
“I want to see them,” Peter whispered again.
“They’re gone, kiddo.”
“But we were supposed to have ice cream.”
Skip pressed his forehead into Peter’s, gripping his hands. “I know.”
“But it’s my birthday.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
They sat like that more a long time. Eventually, the nice lady told Skip that they had to head out. The shop closed half an hour ago. Skip said sorry. He slipped a twenty into the tip jar and said thank you.
Peter didn’t want to leave. His parents were supposed to come. They were supposed to have ice cream.
“Let’s go home,” Skip said.
Peter didn’t bother asking why Skip was driving toward the suburbs rather than the city. All he could think about was how this would fall under “Catastrophic” on his Parker Luck scale.