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Peter placed a hand on the casket and tried to think. His brain was uncharacteristically blank, and for once he had nothing to say.
May had raised him for the vast majority of his life, and he had nothing but fond memories for her. He felt almost ashamed to not be able to bring himself to tears, but he couldn’t have hoped for a better way for this to happen. She’d passed away peacefully, sitting in her loveseat with a finished crochet and needles in hand. The cooking channel had been on, leftovers from dinner put away, everything in the house was in its place. He’d even actually been in bed, instead of running all over town in his reds and blues.
The funeral was lovely, with a surprising number of people turning up for an old lady. Anna Watson and Mary Jane, other neighbors, Martin Li and staff from F.E.A.S.T., the Stacys, and even some of her old coworkers. Some of the Bugle staff were there, like Robbie and Betty Grant. J.J. made it too, leading to a rare heartfelt and warm conversation with his boss. Peter knew the old sourpuss had to have a heart of gold, even under his fire breathing news-persona and work ethic.
Others were less welcome, but tolerated for the sake of civility. Norman and Harry were there, for what purpose Peter had no idea. He said nothing to them except for a passing “thanks for being here.” Harry and Peter had stopped getting along a while back, during Harry’s downward spiral with drug addiction. Eddie Brock appeared to offer condolences for a brief moment, then disappeared. Peter didn’t know what to think of Eddie at the moment. He’d come to Peter, homeless and claiming he’d abandoned the alien and was suffering from cancer. May had helped him get his life together at F.E.A.S.T., so he could understand wanting to pay respects.
Peter went through the motions as expected of May’s next of kin. He socialized, read off his eulogy, so on and so forth. He ignored Tony Stark and someone who looked suspiciously like Nick Fury lurking near a black car. The last thing he wanted was to deal with secret agents at the moment. Spider-Man merited some kind of intrusion, he supposed. The neighbors made it clear they’d help him with whatever he needed, Captain Stacy put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a fatherly pep-talk, all the boxes were checked. May never even had to endure the shock of learning her twenty-five year old nephew had been a vigilante since he was a sophomore in high school.
Probably. Every once in a while she gave a remark that made him pause.
As perfect a send off to a wonderful woman as Peter could have imagined.
Now he sat alone in the living room, his living room now. He had no idea what to do.
He’d have to sell the place, logically speaking. Or get a better job to afford it. Or both. There was no way he could make the payments he needed to without May’s help, not as a Bugle photographer. He should have been sentimental and tried to hold on to the place. That seemed like the classic approach. But something inside him wanted to move on, to have a fresh start on Peter Parker’s terms.
Peter mused in the dark as the sun went down. He could look for a roommate. He’d gotten along with Randy pretty well back in the day, before he’d moved back in with May. Or maybe Flash would be open to the idea, he’d grown up considerably after high school. But that wasn’t the new chapter he wanted. That was revisiting an old chapter. He’d done the roommate routine before.
What he needed was a career, a job to settle into. As much as he liked his gig at the Daily Bugle, it was probably time to move on from there as well. But where would he go? He wanted nothing to do with S.H.I.E.L.D. He had no desire to be that kind of Spider-Man.
The Baxter Building was always looking for scientists. Certainly something to consider. Though it felt a bit like abusing his friendship with Johnny, especially since he had no real credentials besides his diploma and degree. Peter knew that line of thinking was unreasonable, but that didn’t limit the guilt he knew he’d feel. Guilt was probably his real superpower. He always knew how something could be his fault.
His head was stuck, and he needed to shake things loose. On autopilot, he climbed the stairs, grabbed a backpack, and donned his alter ego. He left through the window the way he’d done to avoid May’s vigilance for the past ten years, and swung out into the night.