Chapter Text
Once his vision cleared, it felt like he’d been doused in cold water. He woke up as if his brain had just registered a car hurdling towards him, or like he’d been jolted awake at the crux of a nightmare. The scene he was met with was plain. Monotonous. And very, very familiar. A dumpster, a little graffiti, and some faint chemical smell beneath the usual notes of concrete, rain, and wet garbage. Probably a drug, he assumed, heaving himself off the wall he was leaning against.
Wait.
Wall? That all seems off. He feels like this is far from where he left off. He looked around, spider-sense buzzing alarmedly. His spider senses! They had been going the whole time he’d been conscious, but he hadn’t noticed it. It was like his brain had gotten used to it, dulled its effect on him. That never happens. None of his senses just dull, he remembered hearing the cacophony of aunt may’s ancient refrigerator and the A/C driving him insane every single night since he’d gotten his powers. Wait, conscious. He’s conscious, how long has he been conscious?
Brain still straggling, he pulled upon his memory, trying to sift through foggy recollections of stumbling, leaping, fighting through the city. It all felt like a dream, until he remembered something sharply distinct. Space, the feeling of vanishing. Watching his body crumble in Mr. Stark’s grasp even though he could still feel it. Attached to his head. Bleeding, aching, burning, wounds squeezed under Tony’s painful grip.
God, Tony. His gut wrenched violently, a sharp throbbing pounding in his head. His vision blurred with tears as the jolt of pain brought adrenaline to his body. Aunt May, MJ, Ned, Happy– Thanos. New York, the world. When did he get back to New York? Someone probably did something magical. How’s he going to get back to space? S.H.I.E.L.D. They gotta help. Forget space, how’s he gonna get back to the fight? He doesn’t know where the hell he was. How do you know where you are in space? He ran a hand over his face. Alien. He needs to find an alien. S.H.I.E.L.D has a Gherkin, (Flerkin? he's not sure.) maybe they’re in touch with a more sentient extraterrestrial. It hits him. Captain Marvel. Find her. She’ll get him to where he needs to be.
“Got it. Cool. Just don’t get overwhelmed. Don’t think now. Just get to S.H.I.E.L.D. Don’t think. Swing. That’s easy, Peter. You can swing.” he mumbles, blearily shaking out his muscles and shifting his weight between his feet. With a roll of the shoulders, he summoned energy and bound forwards through the alley, fingers reaching to press his web-shooters as his arms aimed at a nearby building. His deft fingers only found the ragged hem of the sweatshirt he was wearing.
He breached the sidewalk much less airborne than he’d hoped, crashing into an elderly woman who was toting a bag of groceries under a poncho. Having completely bowled her over, he began to clumsily reel backwards. Before he could get out half a ‘ma’am, I'm so sorry!’, she shrieked, jabbing a taser right under his rib. With speed he’d never have expected of a feeble old woman, she then uncorked a bottle of pepper spray and emptied a very, very good seasoning all over his face.
He coughed, recoiling and falling off of her, back to the ground. “Jesus Christ!” he yelped, cradling his eyes and the place where she’d shocked him. What the fuck is going on? Where are his reflexes? Where are his web-shooters, the suit? Why does he feel like he just got hit by a semi? On the ground, his brain buffers slowly, spider senses still alight within every nerve. The few brave pedestrians of the area made a small, loose crowd around him, ushering the old woman away before quickly dispersing. Not without comment.
“You’re fuckin’ pathetic, fucking with an old lady. You’re everything wrong with this city.” a gruff voice spat before kicking him swiftly in the spine. Even though he hadn't put a ton of muscle into it, the kick hurt, it felt like his spine was on fire. The weird thing about it is that it was hesitant, almost afraid, and the guy completely booked it after. Peter could feel the vibration of his swift, heavy footfalls for a block or two before they blended in with the buzzing of the whole city.
Or maybe that was just his senses, still fried.
“Yeah, that’s my bad. Sorry, uh… gang.” he grunts to nobody, words clipped from the coughing. He cringes, wiping his eyes as he sits up. Blinking rapidly to expel the mace, he hauls himself to his feet. He stumbles back into the alley and tentatively, Peter begins to crawl up the rain-slick walls. He sighs in relief as he finds himself able to stick, having briefly feared he’d lost all his powers. He scrambles up onto a roof, turning the man’s words over in his mind.
He pauses. “Guy had a Jersey accent. I better not be in Jersey." he mutters to himself, perching on the edge, trying not to let his brain slip away from him. Also to not focus on how awful he felt for crushing that lady.
Mr. Stark taught him that whenever you’re in a situation that’s really dire, you need to learn how to be selfish. Not selfish selfish, but to not let every single person you see bulldoze your brain. Peter was pretty sure that was one of the lessons that’s supposed to get a part two, which explains that that lesson was actually only meant for who you used to be, and now you need a whole new one to balance the new you out. Either way, it didn’t feel natural. He decided he himself would choose what to do here, as though he respected Tony more than almost anyone, he didn’t really agree with all of his advice. Especially because half the time his advice was relative to who the receiver is, not based on some big moral codex.
And when Peter was the receiver, every single lesson was ‘don’t do that, you’re not ready’. Peter thought that his ethical monolith was working just fine, thank you. He tried not to let the thought of Tony pitch a hole in his chest, looking wearily out towards the city skyline. It was not working.
The more he rubbed his eyes, the more his gloomy surroundings became semi-apparent. He groaned, looking up at the surprisingly cohesive mixture of imposing gothic spires and more modern skyscrapers whose windows flashed neon colors in the distance. In an instant, the clouds are illuminated with a searchlight.
He squints to get a better look at the blob in the middle before a faraway green explosion brightens the silhouette of an amusement park. “Urban burning man? I’m totally in Jersey.” he sighs, kicking an empty can of spray paint in a lethargic expression of exasperation.
After half an hour of jumping from rooftop to rooftop in what should have been light work, he had to stop. Breathing was coming in ragged gasps and his chest felt tight. He had doubled over, squatting down with one arm extended overhead to steady himself on a pipe. Suddenly, he retched. Nothing came out. It hadn’t occurred to him that his brain fog and the pain in his, well… everywhere, might not be solely from stress or the old lady beatdown. He was hungry. Starving, even.
As he held his abdomen, he felt something poking his hand in his sweatshirt pocket. A lens. Reaching in, he felt the familiar feeling of his mask. He tugged it out, woozily standing. So he wasn’t empty-handed after all. Maybe the fine citizens of Grungeville, NJ would give their ‘Friendly Neighborhood-Across-The-Way Spider-Man’ a burger, or something! He hated to mooch off other people, but he really was running on empty. He’d pay them back after he saved the universe. Slipping the mask on, he listened for Karen.
“Karen? You there?” he called out hopefully.
Silence.
That’s not good. Could be that one of his lenses was completely busted, and the other one cracked a little. Karen should still be auditorily active, though. It set him on edge. Or rather, it reminded him that he was on edge.
He heaved a big breath. One problem at a time. Food before New York, Karen after he gets to S.H.I.E.L.D. Then, everything else. Piece of cake. He can do it. Peter Parker can take a greyhound without exploding before New York. In the back of his mind, where his weary senses buzz in warning, he can feel that that’s not true. Grungeville has an aura of danger, he supposes. His gut churns. That, or something really bad is going down. Has been going down. He needs to speed this up.
Spotting a warmly lit diner down the block, he navigates to the edge of the roof and leaps off. He lands in a heap, knees buckling. A jolt of pain runs up his spine, and he cringes, before straightening as best he could and walking towards the diner. As he enters, a bell jingles and a couple people within lazily look up, before stiffening. The little feeling in the back of his mind that everything is off? It’s now all over his body, dousing him in a cold wash of unease. He can tell that everyone in the place is alert. Peter watches the cashier slowly reach under the counter. Still, he approaches.
“Hey– guys, It’s me.” he says, looking around with his arms up in exasperation? Surrender? Even he can’t really tell. His voice unintentionally carries a more weary, annoyed edge than normal. He stops, regulating his nerves. “I know I'm supposed to be in space, but I'm not. So I just… really need a burger.” he says with a strained laugh that was supposed to show them that he’s super calm and collected right now. Nobody moves. He can hear the click of a button being pressed under the counter. That’s not good.
He notices the cashier looks to be his same age. Okay, he can work with this. He’s not the supposedly intimidating Spider-Man, he’s a guy. So’s this guy! Let’s all bro down and order a super, super chill burger. He steps forward, reading the specials menu. “Gimme a uh, Bacon Bat-Blaster meal?” Yeah, that sounds like a week’s worth of calories. He just hopes they don’t actually fry up a bat. The picture looked normal, but he doesn’t intimately know the tastes of the people of Jersey.
The cashier looks petrified. “...Blud?” he adds, crossing his arms like he used that word often. He looks around to try and seem nonchalant, taking in the decor of… Batburger, he reads on the neon sign above the ordering kiosk. Maybe he was too quick to judge. This might be Gothville instead. Why would Strange (or whoever) dump him in America's Transylvania? He looks back up.
“I’ll make it myself, if you want.” He offers when nobody moves or takes their eyes off him. Sure, he’s doing this to save the world, but he knows that he can’t expect to get something from them for nothing. As he steps forward again, intending to make good on his deal, they all step back, and the manager finally spurs into action. He whispers lowly to his employees as two women and the young guy rush to the back. Cool, burger time. He is not gonna worry about anything else in this sketchy ass scene, because he can’t. If he does, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna black out and die.
Although he pokes fun at Jersey, he had been sure that the people were generally pretty friendly. Now, however, he was starting to suspect that his home had spoiled him for any other place. Is he out of touch now? He’d say he’s pretty ground level, but who knows how the wonders of space exploration can change a guy. Tinnitus rang through his ears as he stood dumbly where he ‘ordered’. As the ringing grew increasingly piercing, he rubbed his temples. It took him a while to notice an odd aura in the air, looking up to see that his burger was being held by one of the workers. She stared, frozen. Embarrassment flooded through him as he smiled awkwardly under the mask, reaching for the bag. She flinched, and he decided that he really has to ask Ned if he’s actually this scary.
He took the bag and turned around to leave. “I’ll pay you guys back, I swear.” He pauses, turning to the space behind him. That was usually the part where they reply, either quippy, or angry, or excited. He was met with silence from the whole diner.
He turns back around, walking outside. The door shuts with a jingle. “Yeah, don’t everybody thank me at once.” He mutters, ravenously unwrapping the burger. “Just, y’know, on my way to save your life.” He pulls his mask over his nose and bites. It’s a really greasy, objectively kinda awful burger. However, grease is calories, and calories is energy. Energy is what he needs to make it to New York. Stuffing the burger in his mouth, he scales a nearby building.
❦
Later, he would find out that the button the cashier pressed was not a threat. That just notified the police and locked the register. The threat came from the calls the patrons made to the GCPD’s meta tip line after he left, the building growing rowdy with panic, confusion, and conversation. Because unbeknownst to Peter, his ‘awakening’ in the alley wasn’t really his debut into ‘Gothville’. He’s been here for a little longer than he’s thought, and his unconscious body’s spider senses have been playing him like a hyper-reactive puppet. To top it all off, somewhere in a cave, someone rewatching his bodycam footage (and fiddling with some very expensive Stark Industries web-shooters) was about to get an urgent call from the chief of police regarding his search for Gotham's latest rogue, who had been on the loose for at least two days.