Spider-Man Oneshots

Asking The Hard Questions

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Ben vividly remembered the first time it happened.

It was a sunny day in August, the heat of the garage, permeating every inch of his skin and dragging out sweat as he huddled over the bench in the corner, where a car should have gone.

They'd had a car once, years before, a red beetle with a broken taillight. It groaned when you started the engine and spluttered and wheezed when you went above 45, but it got Ben where he needed to be.

They'd sold it when Peter had gotten sick. Pneumonia. Richard and Mary had insisted they could take care of the bills themselves, but Ben had seen the haggard, exhausted look on his brother's face when he came to visit Peter in the hospital that weekend.

The car hadn't sold for much, only worth the ability to drag Ben to Coney Island every weekday and the memories it cradled in its worn leather seats, but Ben had sold it with a grin on his face.

It was worth it to help keep his family afloat. Ben and May hadn't wanted a child, not interested in the stress of having something completely dependent on the two of them, but they loved their nephew dearly. Ben would've sold this whole house if that was what it took to keep Peter safe.

Peter had always been a sickly child, small and light for his age. His frail build was something he frequently used to his advantage, the Parker's found out the second Peter could walk on his own, and the ability to slip soundlessly through any house left a slew of baffled adults in his wake, always turning the room upside down looking for the boy. He liked to hide behind the couch or climb into the cabinets.

Or sometimes, he liked to sneak into the garage, so Ben couldn't be surprised to see a mop of brown curls peeking at him from the doorway, a book clutched in his right hand.

"Hi, Peter." Peter padded toward the bench where his uncle was working and stretched an arm above his head, glaring at the tabletop towering above his fingers. Grinning, Ben scooped the boy up, resting him on the workbench. "Careful up there. If you hurt yourself, May'll have a conniption."

Peter nodded, flipping his book open and poring through the contents as if they contained the secrets of the universe. Something about spiders.

"Did you go to the library?" Peter glanced at him, eyebrow raised, and returned to his book with fervent focus. To think, most boys Peter's age didn't even know how to read. It seemed bizarre to Ben, but Peter had always been an odd kid.

Turning his attention away from his nephew with a chuckle, Ben plucked a screwdriver off the table, glancing at the splintered wood. May had dropped a picture frame and asked Ben to fix it. He'd thought it'd been beyond saving, but a pleading glance from May had sent him to the workbench. The thing looked almost new now. A coat of paint and the cracks would barely be visible against the dark stain.

"Uncle Ben?" Peter whispered.

"What's up, kiddo?"

"What does it mean when someone dies?" The screwdriver clattered against the stone and reverberated through the garage when it slipped out of Ben's hand. Peter stared at Ben expectantly, round eyes shining with seemingly hereditary inquisition. Ben had seen that look on his dad thousands of times growing up, and the familiar sight made his throat tighten.

Ben took a deep breath. Now wasn't the time to get upset. Peter had seen enough of that in the month since he'd moved in here, and while Ben was a firm believer in expressing your emotions, he couldn't break down every time Peter did something that reminded him of his brother, or he'd never stop crying.

"That's kind of a loaded question," Ben starts, planting his feet on the ground. "What exactly do you want to know about it?"

"Everything." Leave it to Peter to be thorough. No stone left unturned.