Chapter Text
- - -
“Rent is due at the first of the month,”
...
Peter’s grip on the small cardboard box seems to tighten on its own accord, his short nails surely denting the soft material.
He swallows forcefully, his throat oddly tight, and pushes open the aging door he finds in front of him.
It creeks in protest, just once, and then swings inward as his top teeth pull forward his bottom lip. He resists biting down, adding any sort of pressure, and instead inhales deeply.
It’s a sad attempt to calm his frayed nerves.
He takes in the new space the door just revealed and finds himself blinking in quick succession. A small upturn to his now separated lips and a hitch of his brow were his only movements.
The sun from the two small windows on the far back wall cast light onto the dancing specs of dust floating amongst the vacant space.
There's a creek somewhere to his left, as the loan figure in the hall calls out, “Don’t be late,” and then once again...Peter is alone.
...
He swallows and blinks once more, silence falling after the retreating steps of his new landlord.
It nearly drowns out the muffled ambiance of New York, the sound of car horns just barely slipping through. The noise is oddly comforting…familiar.
He then flips the switch found immediately to his left beside the entry.
A light clicks on, dead center of the room, and Peter takes a single step into the threshold. He takes a moment to nod, one short quick movement, and silently thinks to himself that the overhead light is pointless…it’s not putting out nearly enough light.
He debates flicking the light right off again if only to make a point. But deciding against this, he instead lets out a quick huff of air and takes just two more steps to his left before reaching the counter of what will pass as his kitchen.
He places the first box down and then finds himself immediately turning away.
Pivoting on the spot, his arms come up, hands crossed, He rests his folded arms on his head, before abruptly reaching for his hair. He allows one sharp pull at the root, sharper than he intended, before dropping his arms to his side in a huff of frustrated energy.
Under his breath, as if a secret that must be kept, he mumbles, “…Expect disappointment,” then clenches his lips in a tight line, only a ghost of a smile, before immediately hanging his head in defeat.
He allows one moment, his eyes closed and his nerves on edge, before he squares his shoulders and about-faces towards the door again.
He takes all but three full steps before he is exiting his new apartment. He has more boxes to retrieve, and he doubts the cabbie he begged to hang around, has the time and patience it would take for Peter to have a full-blown Parker Pity Party.
- - -
A thin cloud of dust grows from the weight of the last box being dropped, a rather sad stack of them now piled in the lone right corner by the open door.
Peter watches in somewhat detached fascination as the light catches these particles too, as they slowly float toward the remaining light from the closed, frosty windows. The sun has now nearly set and a chill is settling in.
Peter doesn’t allow himself to notice his breath visibly misting in front of him.
A loud ‘thump’ catches his attention, his eyes shifting upwards towards the abrupt sound immediately. His sensitive ears pick up a muffled cadence from what must be his upstairs neighbors.
He chooses to ignore this, leaving his new neighbors to their privacy, and instead turns and reaches to swing close his door.
The creaking of the hinges and the resulting ‘bang’ of the door closing, the latch catching, is too loud. He pauses then and the silence returns, drowning out the city from eleven floors below. He moves forward and flicks the lock closed.
It feels final somehow.
In what quickly seems in becoming a habit, a sad one at that, Peter loudly lets loose a sigh, followed by a dull ‘thud’ of his head hitting the now closed door. He has time now, no angry cab driver waiting, for his Parker Pity Party to take full effect.
“Expect it.”
It's said clearly, not mumbled at all this time, as Peter keeps his head bowed, resting on the splintered wood of his door as he reflects over the last handful of days, weeks, … months?
“Expect it, expect it, expect it.”
He wouldn’t say he was so dramatic as to hit his head in time with his chant, but then he would be lying and he’s trying not to do that with himself so much anymore.
He’s all he has left.
He feels his brows scrunch up, and his face pull into a grimace as he, rather pitifully, rolls his head back and forth across the rough surface below it.
He’s almost afraid, which seems rather ridiculous, all things considered, to reopen his eyes and be forced to turn around and face his new life.
It's almost as if, by keeping his eyes closed, and his back turned, none of this is real. That these last several weeks were all just a horrible nightmare that can simply be ignored. That he is still safely inside his childhood bedroom, in the house shared with Aunt May for so many years. To a time and place where his only worry was as trivial as how to talk to girls and which Lego set to build next.
With his head still supported by the door in front of him, his eyes downcast closed tight and a suspicious sting threatening behind his lids, Peter allows himself to think back through the events that lead him to this very moment.
It wasn’t but a mere handful of months ago that Peter had been revealed to the world as the man behind the Spider-Man mask. It was as if a curtain had been lifted, or rather torn forcefully, and he was laid bare for the world to see and pass their judgment. The world seemed to think that he was to be either praised or prosecuted, for the deeds and service that he had so willingly and with gusto, offered to them.
Then it was nothing but a whirlwind of bad decisions, selfish whims, and chaos that lead him to where he is today.
It takes all of Peter’s willpower to not let escape a bitter laugh when presented with the raw and painful evidence of how so very quickly one moment can drastically change one's future. Or rather, nonexistence. For that was what Peter Parker’s future was. . . nothing.
If this whole mess had taught him anything, it was that the world can not live without Spider-Man, but it could live without Peter Parker.
It was time to grow up and stop being so delusional and follow Dr. Strange’s advice, advice he should have taken seriously before. It was time he stopped trying to live two lives. It was too dangerous and too many people he loved had had to suffer through his poor decisions.
It had taken him a bit of time, and one too many pity parties before he had come to the conclusion that he could still help people and serve his community, as only his powers could. He could still help people as Spider-Man, but he no longer would be bringing countless others into a life of deceit, danger, or misery by knowing him as Peter Parker as well.
Through the past several weeks, since the spell had taken full effect and the name Peter Parker was dead to the world, Peter had to remind himself that he was not running away.
He had not made this decision to escape the consequences of his mistakes, but to save, not only the universe, cause wow, but also the lives of those around him that had been destroyed by simply being associated with his dual personas.
If Peter hadn’t been so young, dumb, and entirely too selfish, then everything would now be different; better. If he hadn’t been so self-absorbed and simply allowed Dr. Strange to perform the initial spell, hadn’t childishly tried to bend it to his liking and will, then none of this would have happened.
True, Peter Parker would still be nothing but a nobody… but he wouldn’t have been a ghost to this world.
Surely then the freaking Multiverse wouldn’t have been broken, something Peter still hasn’t fully processed, and at least Aunt May would still be alive. Peter’s choices killed her, and living with that guilt and the burden of that knowledge, well, Peter hasn’t fully processed that either.
He probably never will.
He allows one last fall of his forehead to the door in front of him, before opening his eyes and letting slip one single tear.
He then turns and faces his new life, laid bare and encased in the single room he now rents on the eleventh floor of the rundown walk-up in a barely less than ‘shady’ part of Manhattan.
Pushing off from the frame of the door, Peter takes a tentative step inside the studio apartment and for the first time, truly looks at the space and takes it all in.
It could be worse, he supposes. He does have four walls and a roof over his head. A feat that for a moment seemed nearly impossible, as he searched for a place that he could both afford and that would rent to someone so young and so drastically under-qualified.
He’s still not sure how he managed to pull it off and is smart enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
His new space is small, miniature even, not even 200 square feet if his memory of his lease is correct, but it did come with a bed, and other basic furnishings, and for that Peter is grateful. He has a place to rest his head, a table to both eat and study at and though small, a kitchen to store take-out containers in. It will do.
It has to do.
Overhead, another loud ‘thump’ reaches the floor below, followed by a sort of shuffle, before the sound of running water is heard.
Peter’s upstairs neighbors must be taking a shower, or maybe washing dishes.
As much as he’s sure he’s meant to be annoyed by the thin walls, Peter takes an odd sense of kinship in being able to hear the others around him. It makes him feel, maybe just, a little bit less alone.
As the gush of white noise continues above him, Peter turns back towards his sad stack of boxes and begins the tedious process of unpacking his new life.
- - -
“This is Peter Parker… This is Peter Parker…”
It's dark, and Peter’s vision is in a haze. He can taste the tang of metal in his mouth like he’s licking clean an open wound.
From his peripheral, he can make out a swirl of coppery orange. The color is vibrant and almost…magical, against the dark haze. It looks beautiful. Familiar…
A portal.
“This is Spider-Man…”
Something seems to explode, but Peter hears nothing, and can only see the surrounding haze shutter and then splinter into shards.
The portal, too, is fragmented and specs of orange rain against the black background of his surroundings.
He can just make out a distant scream before a low cackle of laughter starts to grow.
“This is Spider-Man…”
The laughter becomes louder, and Peter can feel his face scrunch up in discomfort. His hands come up to cover his ears before suddenly, the orange-flecked haze begins to shift away.
“They are here to help…”
A metallic orchestra has joined in on the laughter. The sounds of metal hitting metal and the resulting ring are nearly too much, and Peter can feel a splintering grind begin in his teeth. A tick in his jaw as well.
The ringing overpowers all, the manic cackle having died down, before all at once; everything clears.
It's dead silent and the haze has fully dispersed to lift the curtain to the scene in front of Peter.
He finds himself balanced on metal scaffolding, the metallic red and blue sheen of Captain America’s shield flooding his vision.
He lifts his head to meet the gaze of Lady Liberty.
“Can the Spider-Man come out to play?”
Suddenly the shield in front of Peter collapses and the sound of the world returns. It's all too loud.
It's all too…too much.
His sight burns white, his eyes scrunch tight and then the distant scream from before is right beside him.
Peter jumps, and will do everything to follow the passing scream as it becomes too close, then further and further away.
He wills his eyes to snap open and when his vision focuses, MJ is falling. Too fast…and he is not fast enough.
Too far away.
The world is silent again, all except a piercing ringing in his ears, as Peter falls, his arm outstretched.
He wills himself to get there…to reach her…save her. He has to be there for her! If he’s not, she’ll be gone, and she’ll hate him.
Then the laughter is back and MJ is too far away and only getting further from his extended hand.
Thinking fast, Peter presses down onto his web-shooters, and a milky string races towards the falling figure of his girlfriend.
He knows, can see, that it is too slow. She’s going to die, and it will be all his fault.
Suddenly, there's a crushing pressure crashing into him from his right. The web string falls, never taking purchase.
He’s failed.
He wasn’t…can’t…he can’t be there for her anymore.
Green streaks into his sight and the buzzing whirl of the Green Goblin’s glider is overpowering the ring of white noise.
With force, Peter turns his head, his eyes searching, to finally land on MJ’s gaze.
Their eyes meet, as Peter is pulled further away. All sounds clear once more, and in the silence, Peter hears MJ let loose one breathy gasp.
Peter can do nothing but watch in frozen panic, as the flailing figure of his friend, finally meets the solid pavement below.
Bang!
Peter shoots up out of his bed, his body now prone and sticking to the ceiling above.
His breathing is shallow, his body dripping in sweat, and his heart somewhere lost in his throat.
He blinks around owlishly, his heart doing its best to beat right out of his chest. He can feel the blood pounding in his ears, and he resists the urge to scream out loud in frustration.
Still stuck to the ceiling, Peter takes a moment to breathe in deeply through his nose instead and after a moment, he releases, his breath coming out shakily from his open mouth.
He pulls slightly, a sad attempt to unstick his fingers from the ceiling, before realizing he’s stuck…literally.
With a sad shake of his head, Peter berates himself for letting a dream affect him so much.
When was the last time he lost such control of his powers? Surely a while ago…
Now, like a sad naive idiot, he’s stuck on his stupid gross ceiling, only his still pounding heartbeat for company.
His eyes shift left to an old, dried water stain and he wonders if he can calculate the circumference while he waits for his body to calm down.
After another five minutes or so, Peter’s best guess is that it’s 12.56 inches around.
He knows math, it’s familiar and calming and it seems to work because now his heart is somewhat content to remain in his chest.
With one more deep calming breath, and maybe a slight roll of his eyes, Peter attempts to pull his fingers once more from the ceiling.
With only a little bit of paint coming along with them, they finally release.
With his right hand still hanging on, Peter drops the rest of his body, his toes just barely grazing the bed below.
He allows himself to dangle from his fingertips for just a moment, before fully dropping the rest of the way down.
He’s not going to bother to worry if his neighbors were disturbed by the loud crashing squeak of his bed as his back hits the mattress…or the thud of his body as it had hit the ceiling earlier.
Now lying out flat on his back, his feet now facing his pillow and his head closer to the frosted windows, Peter turns his head to gaze out at the night sky.
He sucks in his bottom lip, finds it raw and chapped from weeks of abuse, and blinks three times.
No longer able to resist, he allows the pressure behind his eyes to let loose the tears that were threatening to fall.
Aunt May used to encourage crying, she said it let free any pain and stress that someone may be holding.
That it was healthy...
Well, Peter did not feel healthy. He felt like a mess, a mentally fudged-up mess, crying alone in his bed in the dead of night.
He misses her hard then, and wishes, not for the first time, that he had her back and could go to her for some long-needed comfort.
Speaking to himself, but addressing the window and what lay beyond it, Peter choked back a hiccuping sob,
“Did I do the right thing? Will this ever get any easier?" Peter closes his eyes then raises his brows imploringly,
"Anyone? Any easier? Ever?"
He doesn’t expect an answer, nor does he receive one, and with his head still turned towards the sky outside, Peter reaches forward with his web-shooters to snag something off the desk just under the windows.
The used coffee cup from weeks ago settles into his palm. Peter reopens his eyes and twists the cup around until faced with the typeface.
“We are happy to serve you.”
He holds it aloft, his eyes now staring at the words he had read aloud,
"You're happy to serve me, hm?" He addresses the cup now and feels slightly insane in doing so,
"You don't even know me. No one knows Peter Parker,”
His arm sags down, his elbow now supported by the mattress, but keeps the cup lofted in the air,
"But I know you, and I will be happy to continue serving you as Spider-Man."
Peter lets his arm fully drop and the cup now hangs, still in his hand, off the side of the bed.
"Eventually."
...
He has yet to don the suit. Hasn't since...well the last time.
He has thought about it though. He does nearly every day, every night especially.
He has an inkling, however, that it may not be as simple as putting the suit back on and just, going about as if nothing has changed.
Everything has changed and if his theory holds true, well, his current Spider-Man suit may not even be an option anymore.
He is not ready to even think about that possibility yet. That his suit, the suit he had created from Tony’s machine, that he made for himself in the wake of the Beck fiasco…that it may not even work any longer…Peter can’t fathom being stable enough to even go back to his regular patrols as Spider-Man in his familiar suit, let alone anything different.
He will overcome that hurdle when needed, but not yet.
With practiced ease that does not portray his still frazzled state, Peter flips up the cup in his hand and hears it land solidly, on its base, back onto the desk to his left.
Then, after one more deep breath, Peter sits up and turns to lie back in the bed properly. He reaches under his pillow to retrieve his phone and clicks it awake to check the time.
It’s just barely four in the morning.
He has to be up and out in just under two hours, his newly acquired position at the grocery mart just down his street starts at six o’clock sharp.
Great.
He debates for a moment the pros and cons of trying to get back to sleep, but every time he attempts to do so, his eyes just barely begin to close, and he sees MJ falling down towards the ground.
He recalls the loud very finite BANG of her body meeting the pavement in his dream.
...
That sound, the bang that had awoken him. . . It had been real.
A sound not only in his subconscious.
Peter looks up to where he can vaguely recall hearing the wakening noise. Had that been a gunshot?! Surely not…right?
He turns his head on his pillow and looks back towards the chilled windows, feeling defeated once more.
A spattering of icy rain begins to beat down on the frosted-over panes and his body gives in to a full-body shiver; a combined result of the freezing temperatures and residual anxiousness.
Spider-Man living in a shady part of town in a tiny rundown Manhattan apartment? A crappy mediocre job and all alone?
A clap of thunder sounds and Peter’s body shutters once more under his thin blanket.
“Yup, that seems about right.”
- - -
END CHAPTER 1