Give him back to me, or so help me god

Chapter 3: The Talk

Peter spooned a clump of cereal out of his bowl, contemplating it sombrely before tipping it back into the grey mess below.

Two hands appeared on either side of Peter's cereal. Or what was left of his cereal. "You do know it's not actually going to dissolve no matter how much you play with it." Peter glanced up from the sopping mess to find May leaning across the kitchen counter, staring at his with a raised brow. Peter ducked his head back down to his bowl – but he was already too late. "What's up?" May asked, leaning down on her elbows and actively searching for Peter's eyes.

Peter swallowed the lingering anxiety that had been eating at him since last night – the fight, the call and the bleeding Avenger that had slipped out of his window without a trace despite Peter spending the rest of the night (and morning) searching for her. He plastered a smile on his face and prayed it didn't look as painful as it felt. "Nothing." He said, widening his eyes innocently – oh god. He hoped she couldn't see how red they were. He was exhausted. Beyond exhausted –"Really – it's just-" Peter shrugged. "Been a long week."

May shot him an odd look. "It's Wednesday, Pete." She said. Peter groaned, and flopped his head down onto the bench. May chuckled, running her fingers through his hair. It felt nice. The tension that seemed to have cemented in his shoulders eased – just slightly. "Does this have anything to do with the hole in my bathroom wall?"

And just like that the tension was back – with a vengeance.

"I'll fix that!" Peter blurted out his head snapping up. "I swear – don't even worry about it. I'll go by the hardware shop on my way home and-"

"Hey – hey," May shushed him. "It's fine. Accidents happen. Don't worry about it, we can fix it up on the weekend – a little bit of plaster and paint and it'll be good as new."

Peter nodded slowly, his head sinking back down onto the bench.

"You're sure it's nothing?" May asked, her hand sinking back into his hair. Peter nodded into the bench, doing his best to stay awake and quickly failing. "You know you can come to me, right – no more secrets." May's hand paused in his hair.

Peter looked up, forcing a smile back to his lips.

"Yeah – I know."

May ran a hand through his one hair more time. "Okay." She nodded, clearly not convinced, but letting it go regardless. God, Peter loved her. She gave his head a couple of quick pats like he was golden retriever, pulling a sad chuckle from Peter's lips, before leaning her elbows against the bench and resting her chin on her entwined hands. "You should get moving, don't you have decathlon practise before class?"

Peter glanced over at the microwave behind her head – and the red time stamp blaring on the screen.

"Oh shit." He muttered, throwing his spoon down and snatching up his backpack from the floor. He launched over the couch and towards the front door.

"Have fun – don't study too hard." May called as he stumbled into the hall.

Shit. Shit. Shit. The word echoed in his head as he flew down the stairs – not willing to even spare the seconds it would take for the elevator to reach their floor.

MJ was going to murder him.

Peter busted through the building's front door and took off in the direction of the subway – slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he went. He tore across the road to a symphony of honking horns and through a nearby alley – scaling a wire fence and skipping over the dumpster below. He darted back out onto the street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist, before breaking into a sprint again. Okay. Practise was in twenty minutes. If he caught the train scheduled to leave in two, he'd be there in thirty minutes. Twenty-five if he pushed it – or less even if he ducked over the music building. The school would be empty, no one would see –