Spiderson oneshots

Never Getting Better 2/4ish(05-30-21)

TW. Reference to suicide
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"It's not like you tried anyways."

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Walking into his almost empty room, Peter wanted to scream when he saw the unopened phone box on his bed. He wanted to break something, he wanted to slam his fists into the wall until his knuckles shattered and it hurt to breathe. Grabbing the nearest breakable thing in his room, Peter hurled it at the ground without a second thought.

He wanted to burn from the inside out.

He threw his jacket onto his bed, and jumped into the mattress. But then he started to hear the soft click of Natasha's deadly heels, and suddenly a deadly paranoia took over his irrational thoughts.

The click started to take away his lungs functionality, then another pair of footsteps started to accompany Natasha's. This pair was easily recognizable as Clint. As they neared Peters door, he almost stopped breathing entirely.

Then they passed his door.

No word from the people who should be concerned about him.

Nothing.

And a sort of hatred grew from that. An unbelievable amount of anger encased Peter's mind. And he acted on it, taking the bookshelf near him, Peter slammed it to the ground, and started to tear down everything around him. Tears of pure hate for what he has become flowed as his knees weakened and he feel to the ground.

Peter laid there for hours.

No soft knock on his door, and an ask to come in. No one angrily slamming his door open to ask what the hell is wrong with him. And in the silence of his room, Peter couldn't think. He glanced at all the undamaged things around his room and stood up, a sort of resolve in his heart. He slowly left his room, face emotionless as he made his way to the kitchen. The sound of clinking forks and small murmurs could be heard, but when he passed the dining room, it was dead silent. Peter's face turned into a scowl. Peter grabbed a roll of trash bags and made the long walk back to his room.

Slowly Peter started to get rid of all of his damaged things, and put them outside his room. Then he put all his undamaged belongings into another bag to donate, and last he piled all his normal clothes into a donation bag too.

With a soft sort of care, Peter grabbed his suit from his closet. 

Patrol. I forgot.

And so Peter put on his Spiderman suit, his sign of freedom that he never truly possessed, then opened his window. Feeling the wind rush past did nothing to sooth Peter like it had before. And as Peter swung, he heard a faint cry, almost impossible to hear past the busy streets of New York.

Peter huffed as his made his way to the faint cry. And what he found didn't phase him at all. A young girl, maybe 13 at most, stood on the edge of a bridge that was often deserted. The water under was now nonexistent though, and a painful death would await if she followed through. Peter landed beside her, webbing her to the side of the abandoned bridge. She yelped, having been startled by his presence.

"Hey." Peter said simply, observing the girl for any injuries that may be important to attend to, finding none, he focused back on just being there for the next 3 hours while the webs disintegrated.

"Spiderman?" The girl asked, eyes wide, and disappointment clear on her features.

"Man I hope so.... What happened?"

The girl was obviously was confused, her eyebrows scrunched as she swiveled his head and gave around.

'Isn't it obvious what happened? I gave up'