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Peter Parker is only eight when he wakes up one morning, boney wings jutting out of his shoulders. There's an unnatural click-click-click ringing in his ears, the clack of popping pressure, and the moment he sits up there's a mirror glaring back at him. He's falling out of bed, scrambling for the door before the image even properly registers, screaming for his uncle because nononono--
Ben opens the door, hair tousled and windswept, then he just. Looks.
He looks horrified.
His uncle blinks and suddenly, he's diving towards him, herding Peter close and tucking him into his chest. "It's okay," Ben lies, rocking him gently. "It's okay, Peter, they're beautiful, it's alright. Breathe."
"It's n-not--" Peter whispers breathlessly, arms limp and hanging. "T-they're n-not right, u-uncle. T-they're not--!"
"Shh," Ben pulls him in close, chin resting on his head. "Shhh, it's okay. You're okay. You're okay, Pete."
The terror in his chest feels like a cloud of smoke, filling up his lungs and choking his throat. Ben's bright gold wings surround him, tucking him close and soothingly running down his spine. There's a moment of silence when Peter looks up and meets May's eyes over his uncle's shoulder.
Her face is wiped smooth, a wrinkle forming between her brows. May's shoulders shudder and, at long last, enormous wings unfurl from her back and wrap around them. They encompass him in a layer of warmth, the smooth leather gliding against his skin and rubbing down his back-- Ben's feathers disappear beneath the sheer volume; lost under a never-ending layer of sunset-orange membrane, velvet-soft ridges, and the cinnamon-scent of home.
"It's okay, Pete," May's voice is a steady hum in his ears, fingers smoothing down his hair. "Everything is going to be okay."
And, for just a moment, Peter can bring himself to believe her.
It never lasts long.
••
He goes to a playground not long after his ninth birthday. Ben woke him up with a plate of waffles just shy of burnt, drowning in maple syrup, and with May's sheepish grin hovering over his shoulder. They all spend the morning together, huddled close on the couch and with the curtains pulled shut. His aunt's wings wrap around them like a blanket, soft as clouds and smelling the familiar sunshine-brightness of Ben.
They take him outside, wings pulled in tight against their backs, and heading to the museum with the sort of exuberant anticipation that made Peter bounce on the balls of his feet. He gets them lost in the World War II exhibit, May keeps touching things she shouldn't be touching, and Ben's left sighing and swatting at their straying hands.
It's one of the best days of his life. So, of course, something had to go wrong.
It's near the evening when they wander into a park. Peter, high on emotions, forgets about the click-click-clicking of his wings and their hideous expanse of inky blackness and, like an idiot , stretches them in front of a nearly empty park. They're stiff and straining, the thick skin eclipsing the lingering rays of light and drowning him in shadow.
He's alone. He's alone, and he's young, and he's stupid. His wings are big. Too big. They slip out with a loud hiss of displaced air, and everyone in the park turns to stare.
There's a moment of silence. It's long and fragile and thread-bare. It's as if the whole world stops to stare at him, to judge him, and it makes his heart pound in his tiny chest.
Then, a girl screams.
The quiet shatters.
People start running, dialing 911 and heading for the hills. There are gasps and yells, with adults pointing fingers and children running away and tiny babies crying in their strollers and he can't breathe and his wings won't go back in and he can't breathe and his wings won't go back in and he can't find his aunt and his wings won't go back in, they won't go back in, they won't go back iN--
May is busy getting hot-dogs for dinner. Ben is sprinting from a nearby parlor, ice cream lost and forgotten on the sidewalk.
There's a rush of motion, the angry stomp of footsteps and suddenly there's a man in his face, hissing and spitting and growling and-- "what kind of fucking monster are you- who even let you in this park?! God, you were playing with my daughter, I'll kill you if you did anything to her you freak--!"
His memory blacks out after that. All he knows is that, when his brain clicks on, he's surrounded by the smell of cinnamon and blinding golden feathers. He's warm and safe, tucked away in a tiny apartment in Queens, and Peter--
Peter tries not to cry.
Police show up at their door an hour later. They take one glance at Ben's golden wings, held high and shimmering in the sparse sunlight that filters through the counter, and...
They walk away.
Ever since then, Peter never was quite brave enough to make friends.
••
He's ten when they finally approach the topic of wings in school. His wings writhe uncomfortably underneath his skin, pressing insistently against his flesh and bones.
"Doves are the purest wings," Miss Warren is saying, tapping at the blackboard with her trusty Stick of Doom. "They're the rarest, right next to Crows and Ravens. As you all know by now, wings are the unadulterated manifestation of a person's soul; everyone has wings, and their colors represent their key traits. See, white represents innocence and purity. It's why early-birds tend to have white wings and then adopt a color over time. Personality and experiences have a key role in the coloring factor of one's wings, as recent studies show."
Another student's hand pops up, shyly tucking her black wings close to her back. "Miss Warren?"
"What is it, Gwen?"
"W-what about Crows and Ravens?" She shuffles in her chair, feathers all a-flutter and flustered as they ruffle down her back. "They don't mean anything bad... do they?"
Miss Warren leans against her desk, letting the tip of her ruby-red wings brush against the linoleum floor. "Good question, and that's a no. Back in the old 'yeehaw' days, there were devout religious cults that were convinced that Black wings were synonymous with the Devil and corruption- and, yes , Flash, it's all a load of rubbish, now put that spit-ball down! Black is the color of protectors and innovation, some of the greatest minds in the world are Ravens-- Bruce Banner, for example! Black Widow has Crow wings, powerful woman that she is. So you don't have a thing to worry about, Miss Stacy. Your wings promise great things for yourself and for the world."
Gwen's wings smooth out, growing lax and hovering eagerly over her shoulders. Peter writhes anxiously in his seat, tapping his desk, before shooting his hand up.
"Miss Warren!"
The teacher turns to him, giving a polite incline of her head. "Yes, Mister Parker?"
"W-what about other wings?" He manages to stutter out, shrinking back into his seat with a red flush. "L-like, are there people with wings like a butterfly, or a wasp--" Or a monster?
"Excellent question, Peter!" Miss Warren beams at him, and it's blinding enough that Peter really just wants to crawl into a hole and wither . "The short answer is, yes! However, we'll be getting into it more in the latter part of the year as we make a paper on Tyrants and Dictators, along with the earliest documentation of Soul-Representation . I'm giving Mister Parker ten points to his research group for in-depth thinking. Moving on--"
Peter's smile feels strained. The wings under his skin shudder, twitch, then curl up against his spine.
No one has to know.
••
When he's eleven, his class is told to write an essay on the topics that they've covered this year. Specifically, soul representation and the on-going study towards understanding their basic foundations. Why they exist, how their existence has affected history, public figures with similar wing-types and how they've impacted the world as a whole.
Peter writes an essay about bony wings, wrapped in leather and fire and ash, and writes about how warm and soft they are. He writes that they feel safe, that it feels like strength and home and May and Ben and that they're not monsters--
That essay is the first and only time he gets an F.
••
"Over time," Miss Warren says to her motley band of students, "You'll start to develop more characteristics of your Flight. For example! One of the traits that pass down to Eagles is their talons, another is that Owls will have some of the best nocturnal vision in human society. Changes could be physical or physiological, so don't worry too much if you're not similar to your parents! Most traits have already been documented by doctors and offered up for public viewing, so if you're curious, don't hesitate to ask!"
Peter's fingers twitch anxiously. Sharp bones press against the thin veneer of skin on his finger-tips, and it takes everything he has not to scream.
"Miss Warren? Is it possible for some people to hide it? I know that Tony Stark doesn't have any."
The teacher's face scrunches up in thought. "Not that I know of, Peter. From what he's told the public, most of his developments were physiological, which were deadened once his arc reactor was... 'installed', for lack of a better word. Anyone else?"
"Do we grow beaks--"
"-Oh, what about tails!"
"Nuh-uh, that's stupid-"
There's a weight pressing down on his chest, heavy and suffocating. His fingers ache and bleed under his jersey, and he's helpless to do anything but hold in his screams when the skin on his palms flakes away.
By the time he's home, they're covered in shiny black scales. May holds his hand in her own, running gentle fingers over the itchy scales dotting Peter's skin. She holds him close, presses a kiss to the side of his head, and passes him a pair of thick black gloves.
He goes to school the next day, the leather stretched up to his wrists, and tries to remember how to breathe.
••
It's only a couple weeks later that he gathers the courage to stay after class. He waits until the very last student has left, shifting nervously in front of Miss Warren's desk, before bracing himself.
"Has there ever been someone with... with, um, demon wings, Miss Warren?"
The teacher shoots him a warning stare, arms crossed over her chest, and a pointed look in her eyes. "Mister Parker, you already know the answer to that. Do I, or do I not need to remind you of that ridiculous report you handed in earlier this year? You took all of the source material and disregarded it completely! I understand the need for questionability, but to the extent of an entire essay, built on guesses with no references, no examples? It relied entirely on personal opinion and, even though your writing was succinct and to the point, it was almost entirely fictional. If I wasn't supervising the paper, I would've been certain it was someone else's!"
Peter looks down at his shoes, scuffing at the floor of the empty classroom. The afternoon light filtered through the room's blinders, the rumbling of his stomach reminding him of the lunch he missed out on. Money has been rough lately.
"I-I know, Miss Warren," he mumbles halfheartedly, plucking at the cuffs of his gloves anxiously. "B-but they couldn't all have been bad, could they? There's good in everyone!"
Miss Warren's shoulders drop, her red wings ruffling and smoothing down behind her. Her hand drops onto his shoulder, a grim curl to her lips and a solemn shadow sharpening her brow.
"You're a good student, Peter," she says quietly. "But history is written in blood. And, when it came down to it, Stalin had wings like a devil, Genghis Khan had claws like a demon, and--"
His fingers twitch, ebony claws straining against rough leather, and Peter hunches his shoulder in on himself.
"-Hitler had both," he finishes hoarsely.
There's a moment of silence that stretches between them. Miss Warren squeezes his shoulders, carefully tugging his gloves higher up his wrist, smiling gently when he tries to flinch away.
"Historians say history is doomed to repeat," she says casually. "That humanity has no choice but to suffer through its mistakes, again and again, until the world ends and humans drop off the face of the earth. And you know what I think about that?"
Peter can't bring himself to look up at her. He stares down at his hands, at the skinny wrists and the purple veins, and can't help but wish for a different body. For a different life entirely. For a world where he wasn't doomed from the start.
He swallows, hard, and rasps out a quiet, "What's that, Miss Warren?"
"For one, I think that historians are stuffy old coots that need to learn how to use smartphones," Miss Warren snarks breezily, smiling when Peter jolts up to stare at her in shock. She squeezes his shoulder again and slowly straightens back up. "And, when it comes down to it, we are the masters of our own narrative Mister Parker. Become the change that you want to see in the world, and others will follow suit. If anyone can change the minds of a couple know-it-all coots, it's you."
He hiccups, pausing halfway through rubbing the moisture off his cheeks. "Y-you really think so?"
"Of course I do," She smiles and fondly rolls her eyes, hobbling back into her seat with a relieved sigh and a click of her knees. "I'm your science teacher, I get paid to believe in you. Now, go off on your way home, shoo! I have papers to mark, and you have another paper to prepare for. Off you hop!"
Perking up with a weak smile, Peter throws his bag back over his shoulder and heads towards the door. Miss Warren watches for a moment, before quickly calling out. "And Peter?"
He freezes, looking back with lopsided glasses and a wrinkle between his brows. "Yes?"
"Joan of Arc and Queen Elizabeth the First. Look into them and maybe I'll let you rewrite you paper from last year. Get that perfect GPA back, hm?"
Huh.
Peter blinks, then smiles.
Maybe she's not as bad as he thought she was.
••
Elizabeth the First. Motherless, masterless, and forged through steel and lightning. Wings ripped from her shoulders, cut to ribbons and left to rot, and the first wingless to rule over an entire nation. Ruby red scales dotted her skin, subtle speckles of molten fire, and nails hooked like an owl's. Flames curled around her like an old friend, soft and warm and all-encompassing, like the burning locks of ginger that tumbled down her scarred back.
Joan of Arc. Noted by a present poet in the fifteenth century, participating in the liberation of Orleans. Armor glinting black and promising, banner a white and golden streak across a blood-soaked sky. Her wings, barbed and razor-sharp, tipped with pearlescent white and lava-streaked membrane, stretched high enough to scrape the high heavens.
For the first time in years, he lets his wings unfurl. They stretch over his room in a symphony of clicks and cracks, an endless sea of obsidian and coal, and he pretends not to see May stand in his doorway and cry silently in pride.
He rewrites his failed essay. He writes about intellect, endurance and faith. He writes about standing stalwart against all odds, unfaltering and unstoppable, and about being a force of nature that crashes against history itself.
May orders pizza and declares it a lazy day.
He hands in the essay and, a day later, Miss Warren gives him an A.
••
Things are good for a while. Sometimes, he can bear to look at his wings for short periods of time. Sometimes, he'll even let himself stand on the roof, wings spread, just to feel the wind.
It doesn't last.
Peter thought that his flight adaptations started and stopped at the claws and scales. They weren't meant to continue, he wasn't meant to be able to stand harmlessly in fire, and he certainly wasn't meant to get instincts.
There's a hazy madness in his mind, something that makes him look at shiny things and want to take, something that makes him want to fly, an emerging instinct manifesting in his chest as a burning flame of need it need it neED IT WE NEED IT TAKE IT--
It's winter when he tries to cut his wings off.
The bloody pliers are shaky in his pale hands, the hand-saw making his vision go hazy and black. His wings flutter uselessly behind him, the pulses of pain shooting down his spine fading into a mindless ache.
May walks in. She walks in, and she stares.
The tools are dropping from his hand, clattering against the bathtub and cracking the porcelain. There's a bright, vibrant red staining the water and curtain, splashing over the edge and hitting the floor. Peter freezes, breath coming in hard and fast, the pain in his shoulders flaring back into a relentless upbeat tempo, and he's so dizzy--
Something keeps pushing against his chest, clawing at his organs and tearing into his insides. There's a primal instinct lodged deep in his stomach, echoing in the gap between his ears and hissing, take it possess it keep it ours ours ours everything beneath us is oURS--
Peter slaps his hands over his ears and screams out a sob. He falls out of the tub and into his aunt's shaky hold. Her knees collide painfully with the tiled floor when she drops down in front of him, holding him close and enveloped in leather and orange and home .
"Sorry," Peter manages to croak out, cradled in May's arms as she rocks them back in forth. "'m sorry May, I-I c-can't--"
"You're okay," May presses a kiss to his forehead, pulling away with red-stained lips and blood on her cheek.
"Everything's going to be okay."
Peter's not sure if he believed her in the first place.
••
He turns thirteen and immediately gets bit by a genetically-altered spider. There's a brief glimmer of hope, that maybe, just maybe, he's lucky enough that his wings--
Peter runs into the bathroom and, for the first time in a year, lets them unfurl.
There's a beat of silence.
He screams.
Ben nearly breaks the door down in his haste to get into the tiny room, chest heaving and wings flared out in a threatening display of glittering gold. There's a moment of wide-eyed mania, then a breathless, "Peter," scrapes painfully against his ears.
Peter snaps his wings back under his skin and tries to ignore his shaking hands. The bones crack unnaturally, vibrant blue veins and the memory of those violent swirls of crimson making him shudder.
"C-can we get some chocolate, Uncle Ben? I-I... I don't feel too good."
"Pete..."
"Please, Ben," he whispers, "Can we just. Get some chocolate."
His uncle hesitates for a moment before finally backing out of the doorway. His beautiful wings tuck back into his skin, and Peter tries his best to ignore the jealousy crawling up his throat. "Of course Peter, just let me get the keys."
Everything's fine for a while. He eats chocolate in Ben's car- enough to feed a small nation- and manages to forget why he was upset in the first place. His uncle drives him to the nearest GameStop, spoils him rotten with tiny Minecraft and Zelda knick-knacks, and the night is set to end on a high note. They stop at a corner-store, and Peter runs in to buy some milk for Aunt May's macaroni monstrosity.
It was meant to be quick; it was meant to be normal.
All he wanted was some milk.
Then there's a mugger. There's a mugger running out of the store and it's the store that fired his Uncle Ben a couple nights ago, and Peter's a spiteful brat when he wants to be and just watches. T hen all he hears is his uncle shouting, a window-smashing, and Peter's running and he's not fast enough and--
He can't help but feel like he's just made the biggest mistake of his life.
There's a bullet slowly slipping out of the barrel of the gun, smoke spitting from the rim of the pistol. Peter watches everything unfold, heart beating in his chest like a war-drum and stuck in this horrible, horrible limbo of not moving fast enough and knowing he can't move any faster.
If you could fly, a cruel piece of him hisses, you could be fast enough.
His wings twitch.
The bullet's moving so slowly, it's almost as if he can see the fabric of his uncle's favorite green shirt tear apart thread-by-thread, the polyester super-heating and melting together into stinging points. Peter's wings push against his skin, and he can feel them rising up from his spine, and he could get there, he could--
There's a splurt of blood that arcs through the air and, suddenly, Ben's falling. Peter's wings stutter to a halt. No. No, no no no no no nononono--
Red's all over his fingers, staining his skin and seeping through the thin layer of his jeans. It's on his face and legs, warm and vibrant, and the smell of iron wafts up his nostrils, and he's screaming--
Please, Peter begs. Please.
Anyone but you.
Please.
••
Ben Parker dies in his nephew's arms and bleeds out moments before the ambulance arrives. His golden feathers drop off, one by one, and dissolve into ashes.
Peter Parker sobs into his corpse, the feathers crumbling apart in his palms, and he promises to be better. To be good. To be everything that Ben knew he could be. He'll change the world, just you wait. Just wait for me, uncle, please wait.
A couple blocks over, May Parker holds a hand to her chest. It feels as if a piece of her soul has just died, and it takes everything she has not to crumble to her knees. Ben's gone, dead and lost forever, and the mere thought has a mournful wail tearing its way out of her throat.
And, just like that, they're reduced to two.
••
Peter falls, and it's his aunt that picks him up again.
She grabs him by the shoulders, wings stretched from spine to tip, and tells him to, "Stand. Up."
It's moments like this, moments where the world is breaking apart around him and cracking like mirror-glass, that Peter remembers how strong his aunt is. She's an earthquake and a volcano, the heated fury to Ben's ocean symphony. She's the woman who dares the universe to beat her, and always beats it back.
"Stand up," She says, narrow-eyed and sharp-tongued. "Stand up, because I can't do it for you."
May Parker holds herself like a giant among mortals, her heart wrapped in a layer of molten steel and a glint in her eyes that reminds him of laughing hyenas. Her fingers are hooked into loose claws at her sides, greying hair bunched up into a tight bun at the top of her head, and she looks down at the world with a challenge.
Try me, she always seems to say, try me and see.
Ben taught him how to be fair and May teaches him how to stay strong. Peter holds both close to his chest and, with shaky legs, stands up.
He teaches himself how to be good.
Spider-Man rises from the dust, all careful precision and single-minded persistence. His webs criss-cross throughout the city, a mockery of the falling feathers he'll never have.
Peter, behind the cheap hand-sewn mask and the worn cloth, lets himself imagine what could've been. He imagines a world where he was fast enough to stop the bullet, where he had beautiful wings of gold like his uncle, and an abundance of friends at every corner.
He lets himself imagine what it's like to be normal.
Then, a scream punctures through the dream and he's dragged back into reality. His senses scream danger and, somewhere in the burning pyre that makes up his soul, an ancient instinct hisses protect.
And so, that's exactly what he does.
