For those of you who are new, just know that I like to take other people's characters and play with them in my own little doll house. In other words, I ignore MCU canon. So that bad thing that happened? It didn't happen here.

"I think I'm losing my mind."

"You are."

"I don't know what's real anymore."

"Who's to say any of it is?"

It started like this.

Peter was minding his own business, everyone else was minding his. He was trying not to be annoyed.

"Mr. Parker? You still paying attention?"

"Yes, sir." Peter ran a hand through his hair, tugged a few curls, and forced himself to look at the notes his teacher was writing on the board.

"You used to be better at this," MJ whispered. She was staring at the teacher, looking every bit the attentive if slightly bored student, dutifully taking notes.

"Better at what?"

"The whole not paying attention without getting caught thing." She grabbed a highlighter and traced over a few lines of notes. "Pretty sure Mr. Thompson never looked twice when you were whipping up that web mess during lab last year."

Peter glanced around, but no one was listening. "You noticed," he pointed out.

"I'm observant," she reminded him. "Now start doodling or something, at least make it look like you're trying to take notes or he's gonna make you stay after class again."

Peter quirked an eyebrow.

"Not that I care or anything," she added, eyes still on the teacher.

Peter grabbed his pencil, propped his chin on his fist and started drawing webs in the margin of his notebook.

"Subtle."

"Shut up, MJ."

"Parker," his teacher called. Peter looked up to see a dry-erase marker pointed at him angrily. "Stay after class."

Peter groaned.

By the time school ended Peter was ready to be done. Like done done. He didn't want to go on patrol, and he definitely didn't want to listen to his friends tell him that he had to start trying harder. He was already getting that from his teachers.

He was trying as hard as he could.

He just wanted to go home, strip down to his underwear, and sleep until Sunday.

"At least you didn't get detention again," Ned pointed out, and yeah, that was good. Ned found a silver lining, look at that. "I mean, I'm pretty sure you're like one tardy away from suspension anyway."

Bye-bye silver lining.

"I'm pretty sure they don't suspend you for being late," Peter countered.

"They do," MJ corrected. She pulled on a pair of sun glasses and zipped her backpack. "It's called in-school suspension and it sucks ass."

Ned frowned. "How would you know?"

"You sit at a desk all day and stare at a wall," MJ said with an unimpressed glare. "Doesn't take a genius to figure out it wouldn't be fun."

And that was that. Peter listened to Ned and MJ argue as they made their way to the bus stop. They only had a few weeks left in school, and Peter was determined to make it to the end without getting in trouble.

He did his homework, he made good grades, and he tried his best to make it to class on time. All in all, he thought he was doing pretty well.

His English Lit. teacher thought otherwise.

"So, what do you think, Peter?"

Peter looked up and blinked. "What?"

"Dude, this is why Mr. Reinke keeps busting your balls, you keep spacing out on people."

"Sorry," Peter mumbled. And he was. He just had a lot on his mind.

The bus was crowded, but honestly, Peter couldn't remember a time when it wasn't. He climbed on behind MJ, pushed his way to the center, and grabbed on to the overhead bar before pushing his nose against his bicep.

Spider senses turned things to eleven, and public transportation didn't need mutated senses to offend. There was sweat, perfumes, stale coffee, cheap soap, and an unnecessarily strong presence of urine. Always.

Given the choice, Peter would rather smell his own arm pit over someone else's pissy pants.

The ride was smooth, as smooth as a bus ride through Midtown could be. Peter held on as the bus swayed and bounced, one hand reaching out occasionally to help steady MJ or Ned, once the old lady standing next to him who, instead of a thank you, young man gave him a warning sneer and clutched her purse closer to her chest.

Yeah, you're welcome. No one wanted your peppermints or coupons anyway.

Peter closed his eyes and let his head hang down, feet parted for balance as his body swayed with the rhythm of the road.

But then that all familiar tingle began to buzz at the back of his head, the little hairs on his arm stood at attention, and something bitter began to tickle at his nose.

"D'you smell that?" he asked, eyes popping open to scan around the bus.

"Trying not to smell anything, to be honest," MJ said.

Peter ignored her and continued to look around. That bitter scent was turning sickly sweet as it strengthened, reminding Peter of stagnant fruit and floor cleaner.

"What is that?" he asked, worry building as the warning buzz in his head continued to grow.

Ned was frowning again. "What is what?"

"We need to get off this bus."

"What?"

"Peter, where are—what are you doing?"

There wasn't time to answer. Something was about to happen.

Peter tried to push his way to the front of the bus, people cursing and pushing him back as he went.

But then the cursing stopped, the pushing shifted, turning to a desperate pull as they tried to grab on to something before they fell.

And they all fell. One at a time. Slumping and crumbling to the ground, against the windows, against each other.

Against the steering wheel.

Peter saw the driver slump forward, felt a bump and sway as the bus began to veer to the right. Peter had to get to him, he had to stop this. Peter had to help him.

But Peter needed help.

The smell was everywhere now, in his nose, in his mouth. Peter felt the ground shift beneath him, whether it was him or the bus was anyone's guess. He stumbled, tripped over someone's arm, and landed hard on his knees.

He fought the urge to throw up, forced his eyes to focus on the watch Tony had given him months before, and pressed his thumb to the edge, activating the panic button.

It was a just in case kind of thing, a worst case scenario inclusion.

Peter's head hit the floor of the bus, his eyes a few inches from the sole of someone's boot.

The buzzing in his head grew.

His watch flashed once, twice.

And the bus crashed.

Peter woke up alone.

His right cheek was pressed to the floor and he could hear the engine rumbling against his ear. He blinked, winced at the pain in his head, and blinked again.

"Ned?" he mumbled. His dry tongue stuck uncomfortably against the roof of his mouth making him want to gag. "MJ?"

Peter pushed himself up, his arms shaking as he tried to climb up to his hands and knees.

The bus was empty.

There was no Ned or MJ, no untrusting old lady with an oversized purse, no driver.

No nothing.

He looked down to his wrist. His watch was gone.

"Hello?" he called as he pulled himself to his feet. "Anyone?" He closed his eyes when a wave of dizziness threatened to put him back on his ass.

"What the hell?" he muttered, blinking slowly as he reached out for something to hold on to. "Hello?!" he called again. When he opened his eyes and looked out the window, he realized no one was going to answer.

There weren't any cars. No other buses, no taxis, no bikes or skateboards.

But there were people.

Each of them on the ground. No one was moving.

When Peter was little, his dad had bought him a bag of little green Army men. There were over a hundred and he used to line them up all over his floor, their little green bayonets and rifles all sticking up like blades of grass.

He'd get them where he wanted them and then he'd wreak havoc. Whether it was with a baseball or a plastic dump truck or a pair of pounding light-up sneakers, the soldiers would fall, each one toppling over to lay on the ground, plastic on plastic. It was a sea of fallen green.

Peter was looking at sea of fallen bodies.

It looked as though they had all just fallen where they'd been standing, their arms and legs overlapping, clothes rumpled.

The first few steps were staggered, Peter's knees wobbling as he made his way to the front of the bus. It took him a few moments to figure out how to get the door open.

His hands were shaking, his heart was racing, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. Were they alive? Where they all dead? Where were Ned and MJ? What happened?

He stumbled on the stairs. His knees giving out before they slammed into the sidewalk, the skin of his palms scraping as he tried to catch himself.

He landed next to an old man with a goatee like Tony's. Next to him was a woman in a pair of scrubs. A man with dreadlocks. Another who was bald. A girl. A boy. One right after another.

A jumbled pile of little green Army men.

Peter reached forward and pressed his fingers into the man's neck. Nothing. He moved them an inch, felt again. Again and again before he crawled forward and laid his head on the man's chest.

There was no heartbeat, no breathing.

None of them were breathing.

Peter felt snot pooling on his upper lip as tears started to fall down his face.

He didn't know what to do. They were dead, they were all dead. MJ was gone, he couldn't find Ned. He was alone.

But then he heard a sound. It was soft, familiar, and steady. Peter stood and started to follow it, mindful of the people around him. He stepped over them, feet landing on the little bits of pavement between their arms and legs, next to their heads.

Fluh-flop. Fluh-flop.

He knew that sound, heard it every time May went down to check the mail or when it was her turn to take out the garbage, her sandals flapping up and down the hall.

She was at the end of the street, her hair pulled back in a braid as she walked through the sea of bodies. Occasionally, she would stop and bend down next to one, her hand grabbing something from the ground and putting it next to her ear before letting it fall back to the pavement.

"May?" Peter called. His voice echoed off the buildings, the overwhelming quiet of the city feeling both oppressive and cavernous all at once, like screaming in an empty stadium. "May, are you okay?"

She didn't answer. She simply continued on, bending down and grabbing something, a phone maybe? Maybe she was trying to call for help. Peter felt his pockets. His own phone was gone.

He kept walking towards her, cringing when he stepped on someone's finger. "Sorry," he whispered, as if they could hear him.

"May?"

He watched her pick up another phone and put it to her ear. But before she dropped it, Peter heard a quiet but distinctive click.

A sea of little plastic men. Their bayonets and rifles all pointed to the sky like blades of plastic grass.

She wasn't picking up their phones. Soldiers wouldn't have a phone.

She was picking up their guns. One right after the other, a pistol to the head.

Click.

Click.

Empty chambers.

Go to the next.

"Aunt May?"

Click.

She dropped the gun, stepped over a man's legs, and picked up another.

"What are you doing?"

She put the gun to her head, but didn't pull the trigger. She looked at him, the little wrinkle between her eyebrows deepening. "They're dead, Peter."

"I know," he said, arms stretched out, palms up, pleading. "I know they are, but- but what are you doing?"

"We're all dead, Peter. Even you."

And then she pulled the trigger.

There wasn't a click.

Peter screamed.

He felt the scream before he heard it, a deep, scratchy burn in the back of his throat just before the sound reached his ears as an echo, bouncing off tiled walls and laminate floors. And suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore.

His knee hit the floor hard, a sharp pinch pulled at the inside of his elbow as a strong arm wrapped around his chest.

"Peter…"

He jumped at the sound of her voice, the image of her blowing her brains out still vividly fresh. He jerked his head up, trying to find her, but all he accomplished was a massive round of vertigo, the arm wrapped around his chest was the only thing keeping him from kissing the floor.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, not too concerned when it came to rest against someone's shoulder. But then her hands were there, ice cold against his skin, one hand on his cheek, the other on his neck, fingertips pressed against his carotid.

"Peter, look at me," she ordered, and he obeyed.

He squinted his eyes open, fighting against the instinct to close them in the too bright fluorescent lights. May's face was inches from his own, her knees knocking against his as she knelt down in front of him.

"Why'd you do that?" he asked, the sound coming out as a dry whisper. He studied her temple, not really recognizing the absence of a bullet hole. He did recognize the confusion on her face though, worry making the dark circles beneath her eyes stand out.

"Why'd I do what, sweetie?" She rubbed her thumb along his cheek bone. Her voice was soft, gentle like she was afraid she might frighten him, her eyes occasionally darted over his shoulder to whoever was holding him in place. That was when Peter realized that he wasn't on the street anymore, that May had never walked amongst a sea of bodies.

Peter glanced to his right, eyes locking on a concerned looking Tony Stark. He was tense, his fingers twitching as he studied Peter, like he wanted to do something but didn't know what.

Peter blinked a few times, the feel of grit and something like sand making his eyes burn. He tried to move, to reach up and rub the grit away, but that same someone still had their arm in the way, the pinch and pull stinging the bend of his elbow.

He let his eyes wander to the source of the pinch, frowning when he saw an IV trying to rip out of his arm. There was a small trickle of blood, a few more sores suggesting this wasn't the first IV he'd managed to dislodge. "What happened?"

"Are you asking about how you ended up on the floor, or how you ended up in the infirmary?" asked a familiar voice right behind Peter's ear. Peter knew that voice, he'd heard it filtered through a TV every school year since sixth grade. He was still getting used to the whole hearing it in person thing.

Peter tensed, but otherwise managed to remain still, not wanting to risk another round of vertigo or another pull on the IV. He tried to turn his head, to look at the Captain and ask why he had Peter in a bear hug, but May's hands were still on his face, still holding him in place. "Both," he answered, his sore throat making speaking difficult.

"You hit your panic button," Tony explained, he still looked tense, his fingers still twitching at his side, but he looked more at ease now that Peter was talking. "Found you and about twenty others passed out on the bus. Managed to sneak you here before the CDC got ahold of you."

"CDC?"

Tony walked forward and knelt down beside May. "Someone released an unknown gas onto a public bus in the middle of Midtown," Tony said, speaking slowly like Peter wouldn't understand otherwise. "Homeland Security and CDC are on speed dial for things like that."

"Oh," was all Peter could think to say. At least until he remembered that he hadn't been alone on that bus. "What about MJ and Ned? Are they okay? Are they here?"

"They're fine," May assured him. She ran her hands through his hair, her nails scraping soothingly against his scalp. "They're at the hospital, but they're fine. Everyone's fine."

Peter frowned, searched her face for any sign that she was lying and looked to Tony for confirmation. "They're gonna be the CDC's new pin cushions," Tony said, "but yeah, they're fine."

Peter closed his eyes and remembered the smell of something sweet and bitter, remembered that heavy feeling and the way his arms didn't want to move. He remembered waking up on an empty bus. "Who did it?" he asked. "Who released the gas?"

"They're still working on that," Steve explained.

May removed her hands from Peter's face, prompting him to open his eyes, bringing his attention back to the cold exam room. He looked down, eyes landing on the well-muscled arm lying across his chest. He frowned when he noticed the pale blue exam gown, felt the coolness of the tiled floor seeping through the fabric of his boxers. He was about to ask where his clothes were when a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

He turned his head, the vertigo tagging along as he tried to see over the gurney beside him. But all he saw was a tangle of sheets and a stretched out IV line. No shadow, no blur.

"Peter?"

May's cold fingers found their way back to Peter's face, forcing him to look at her. He tried to swallow, the dryness on his tongue making it difficult, making the inside of his mouth feel sticky, tacky. "What?" he asked, realizing the others had been talking and he hadn't heard a word.

Before anyone could answer, another blur darted through the room, this time closer to the door. He tried to follow it with his eyes, his head unable to turn thanks to May's worried grip.

"Peter, what do you hear?" Tony asked, shifting forward a bit. Peter looked at him and frowned in confusion at the weird question.

"What?" Peter asked again, using the only word his scrambled mind could come up with. But then the blur was back, stopping just behind Tony and looking a lot less blurry and a lot more like a little boy with a hole in his head right between his eyes.

"Hey!" Peter yelled, whether at the boy or at the people ignoring the boy, he wasn't sure, but the one un-trapped arm flew out, the IV finally coming loose as he tried to reach past Tony.

"Damn it, he's not hearing anything, I think he's seeing it!" Steve yelled, tightening his hold on Peter, trying to keep him down. Tony grabbed the free arm, his fingers smearing the line of blood that was leaking from Peter's elbow as May leaned closer, her nose practically touching Peter's, her fingers digging into his cheeks.

"Peter! Baby, listen. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real! Do you hear me?" She sounded desperate and her nails were hurting his skin and all he could do was look into her eyes, alternating between the left and the right. "Do you hear me?" she asked again, leaning back a few inches so she could take in his whole face.

Peter glanced to Tony, eyes straining to see the now absent Blur Boy. He nodded as he felt May's fingers dig deeper. "It's not real," he said, both to show he heard her and to assure himself. He closed his eyes, not really wanting to see the boy again.

Slowly, more slowly than he'd like, things started to smooth out in his mind. Someone had released a gas on his bus, a hallucinogen apparently. Ned and MJ were fine, they were at the hospital.

And he was at the tower.

"Why am I here?" he asked. When May and Tony frowned and shared a worried look, Peter figured he should probably clarify. "I mean, why here at the tower? Why not the hospital with the others?"

Tony's frown morphed, but it didn't really disappear. "Unless you want tomorrow's headline to be about Spider-Man's true identity, we thought it best to keep you away from the CDC."

And okay, yeah, that made sense.

Steve shifted behind Peter, his hold on his chest loosening. "What do you say we get off the floor?"

Without another word, everyone began to move in sync. May stepped out of the way as Tony and Steve picked Peter up beneath his arms and knees, easily lifting him off the floor and placing him back on the gurney.

The whole act was smooth and seemed so choreographed that Peter wondered if it was the first time they'd done it. Looking at the torn skin from the past IVs, he guessed not.

Peter tried to relax as Tony tried to reinsert the IV and May worried with the lines connecting to the heart monitor. He took a deep breath and frowned.

"What smells funny?"

"That would be you," Tony said with a distracted smile, his eyes narrowed as he tried to line the needle up with a vein. "Exposure to an unknown chemical agent calls for a head to toe scrub down with a special soap."

Peter decided he didn't want to know who had scrubbed him down. "Was it poisonous? The gas?" he asked instead.

"That's what Bruce is trying to figure out as we speak," Tony answered. He gave a pleased smile as he successfully inserted the needle in Peter's arm. "But from what we can tell so far, the answer's 'no'."

And that was good. Other than a few bumps and bruises and one case of a badly sprained wrist, all the passengers on the bus would get to walk out of the hospital with nothing more than a headache and one hell of a story to tell.

And some extra voices in their heads, because apparently the gas caused auditory hallucinations.

Except for Peter. He was seeing dead little boys.

"Think of it like a really bad acid trip, kid," was Tony's advice. Peter didn't exactly know what an acid trip felt like, but he was working his way towards the hangover phase pretty quick.

His head was pounding, his throat was dry, and every muscle in his body from his calves to his freaking eyeballs was sore.

But he was alive, his friends were alive. They were all going to be okay. That was the important thing.

"What I want to know," Steve said interrupting Peter's attempts at falling back asleep, "Is was that bus targeted randomly, or were they after someone specific?"

"You mean Peter?" May asked, sounding half accusing, half worried.

"I mean Spider-Man."

Okay, that seemed important, too.

Three days later and the gas attack was still the top story in the news, if for no other reason than people liked drama. It had trended on Twitter for a day and sparked a new debate in the political arena that every daytime talk show host felt the need to offer an opinion on.

Officially, Peter wasn't listed among the victims. SHIELD had stepped in the second Tony phoned Nick Fury and said that Spider-Man may have been on the bus. They weren't necessarily taking the lead, couldn't without going on record to say that an "advanced individual" was involved (which kind of defeated the point), but they were in the mix.

The first concern had been the bus's CCTV footage.

But that wasn't a concern for long.

Whoever had released the gas had also disconnected the cameras.

"Is that good or bad?" Peter asked. It was somewhat intimidating looking at Nick Fury's perpetual scowl, even if it was directed towards a screen of static and not Peter.

"A little of both I think," Bruce answered. He was still shifting through Peter's blood samples and comparing them to the records he'd gotten from the CDC. "We might not get to see who released the gas, but we don't have to worry about the media getting a video of Iron Man swooping in to snatch up an unconscious and unnamed kid off the floor of a crime scene and passing him off to Captain America."

"It also means that your true identity is still a secret," Fury added distractedly. He continued to frown as he shifted through reports and photos. "This would be a lot less of a headache if you weren't still a minor."

"Uh…sorry?" Peter said, drawing Fury's glare away from the computer screen and towards Peter. Peter had been a bit distracted at the time, but he still remembered the now infamous "he's a fucking kid" conversation that had echoed through the tower the day Nick Fury learned Spider-Man's true identity.

Fury's disbelief and ire had died down a little since then, not much, but some. Sort of.

It was a work in progress.

They were getting there.

"So good news," Bruce interjected, "I've finished analyzing all of the samples you've provided and I can't find any anomalies. I think you're officially in the clear." It was suspiciously perfect timing, probably meant more to distract from the cloud of discomfort that had taken over the room than to really inform, and while Peter appreciated Bruce's effort, it didn't really work.

Only because it reminded Peter of the incredibly awkward life experience that involved the Hulk's alter-ego requesting a stool sample, not once, but twice, because yeah, it's every nerd boy's dream to have Dr. Bruce Banner dissect their poop.

Peter was still coming to terms with that.

Another work in progress.

"So I can go home?"

He could go home, but only because there was no evidence that Spider-Man/Peter Parker had been the target of the gas attack.

"It's just bad luck, kid. Better than having someone trying to kill you."

That was the official line, the one said in front of May to help calm her nerves as she drove Peter home, but Peter knew better. Tony liked coincidences about as much as he liked reporters and kale, and if Peter had learned anything in the last two years, it was that Tony wasn't going to let this go.

"You sure you're feeling better?"

"May, I'm fine. Dr. Banner gave me a clean bill of health, relax."

May's forehead wrinkled as she studied him. "And you're sure you're ready to go back to school?"

If it meant getting away from needles and tests and overly concerned parental figures, then yes. He was so ready.

Besides, Ned and MJ were going back.

"So, they really don't have any idea who's behind it?"

"No, Ned."

"Not even a guess? I mean, what are the odds that some random psycho just happens to attack the one bus that Spider-Man just happens to be on?"

Peter didn't have to tell Ned to shut up. MJ did it for him. Or sort of. She drove her elbow into his ribcage, but it had the same effect.

"Besides," Peter whispered, "Spider-Man wasn't on the bus. Peter Parker was."

But not officially, which was why no one was really interested in Peter Parker. They were more interested in Ned and MJ. People they had never even met before would walk up to them in the halls, push Peter aside and ask Ned and MJ questions about the attack. Teachers would start class by welcoming them back, letting them know they were missed.

It was weird, but Peter was fine with it. Ned seemed confused and smiled awkwardly, like he didn't know what to do when the attention was on him.

MJ just glared. At everyone.

Even the teachers.

But with everyone's attention focused elsewhere, no one was actually looking when Peter passed out.

One minute he was standing at his locker, listening as Ned told a group of freshmen all about the crash, the next Mrs. O' Bryan was standing over him, her knuckle pressing way too hard on his sternum.

"Peter, can you hear me?"

Peter pushed her hand away and frowned. He was lying on the floor, his binder spilled out beside him, and everyone was staring.

Peter wanted to tell them to mind their own business.

He leaned to the side and puked instead.

"I knew something was wrong," May all but hissed. She was shaking her head, glaring at the cars in front of them.

Peter closed his eyes and leaned the passenger seat back. "All the tests came back fine, May. It's probably just…"

"Just what?" she asked, and yeah, he could tell she was scared, but there really wasn't anything to worry about. Bruce had said nausea was to be expected.

"Just a lingering side effect," he finished lamely.

Bruce agreed, but he still took more blood, made Peter pee in a cup, and ordered another brain scan.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Bruce assured them. "But it's better to be safe than sorry."

May made it clear that they weren't leaving without a more definitive confirmation than "I'm sure it's nothing" and Tony agreed.

So much so that they ended up spending the night in the tower. Peter would have enjoyed this if he hadn't been treated like a science experiment.

"You act like they're torturing you."

"May, I have been poked and prodded everywhere. This is overkill."

"It's being thorough, baby. Now quit moving, you're messing up the monitor."

Peter groaned, allowed May to adjust the wires connecting him to a machine, and tried to go to sleep.

Apparently, he succeeded, because when he woke up the next morning he felt better than he had in days. The small headache that had been a constant since the bus crash was gone. He was no longer dizzy, no uneasiness in his stomach.

"So you think you're good to go?" Tony asked.

And Peter was.

May drove him home, he took the day off from school, promised to let them know if he started feeling sick again, and life went on as usual.

Up until a week later when Peter woke up to find Uncle Ben sitting on the couch.

To be continued...