Chapter Text
Peter Parker is nothing. He used to be something, mean something, and then he fucked up. He had everything, the whole world; two best friends, his Aunt May, and even a new budding father-like figure in Tony Stark. Now, though? He had nothing.
No more late night lab visits with Mr. Stark, hacking into government websites and building new stupid nanotech bots that vacuum the floor only if you beg it and sound like a certain Captain, or robots that twisted in all angles like infinity cubes to play ultimate twister with. No more study sessions with MJ, listening to old punk rock bands and doodling in the margins. No more lego building with Ned, building and taking apart and building that Lego Death Star dozens of times in his bedroom.
And, worst of all, no Aunt May to wake him up on his bad days with a worried frown on her lips and a fresh hot chocolate in her hands to warm him. No Aunt May to put his latest fiasco on the TV, arms crossed and eyes scanning for injuries. No more Aunt May to eat dinner with, play family friday games with.
No. There was no more of that. There was no more Aunt May. No more Mr. Stark. Ned and MJ, Spider-man turned, didn’t look like Ned and MJ from here. Even with his super vision, from the tip of the skyscraper they looked like ants.
Ned and MJ, soon, wouldn’t remember any of this. Well… he winced, maybe from the bloody gash on his shoulder, or from the emotional ache of what knowing your about to die feels like. They’d remember this, the sky scraper, the burning buildings crashing into the Earth. They’d remember Dr. Strange, remember Spider-man.
They wouldn’t remember Peter Parker. Wouldn’t remember the laughs, the discoveries, the memories.
Peter Parker had nothing. He clung onto what he could see, through his ashened goggles. Ned and MJ, holding onto each other, brows furrowed, lips turned downwards. “Peter?” He hears MJ mumble under her breath, then louder “Peter! What are you doing!”
The screeching of a distant tower burns his ears. Memories, of just earlier that day, earlier that week, before he became the biggest fuck up of the whole entire world came to.
Aunt May, dead. Bloody. Pierced by metal, eyes open, reassurance dying on her lips.
He’s a danger. Spider-man is danger.
Spider-man, he thinks, turning back to Dr. Strange who floats in the air, expression pinched in… concern, remorse, regret, is the reason Peter Parker has Nothing.
Spider-man is brave. A hero, though now the word feels empty. Lacks meaning. Lacks truth. Perhaps, with this act, he could attempt to repent. Aunt May would approve of this.
[Don't do it, Peter.] Karen, even Karen was static. The chip that connected her voice to his ears was damaged in the fight. [There are other ways.]
Spider-man is brave. He swings across a city of crime, a city of love, a city of passion. “There’s no time,” he says, voice cold. Detached. Speaking to Karen, speaking to himself, speaking to the Wizard, speaking to everyone at once.
“Erase me. It’s the only way.” Spider-man, well, he smiles. It’s fake. Unnatural. The suit only mirrors his eyes, which fizzle and pop with electricity. Something malfunctioned, while on the tower. While saving the other Peter’s. When MJ dropped. Died, almost.
Dr. Strange doesn’t wear a mask, but usually that isn’t a big deal. Usually, he’s composed. Now, he just looks sad. Serious. “Are you sure?”
“Please,” Spider-man nearly begs, "Don't make me say it twice.” It’s supposed to be funny. A half witted joke.
“Do you want me to… tell them anything about tonight? They won’t remember you, but they’ll remember this.” The man starts to move his hands, green, green oozing through the motions. A hazing green.
“Tell them…” goodbye? Too sad, MJ never wanted to say goodbye. Only see you time, alligator. I’ll miss you? Ned will try and dig, why would a hero, or, super… morally gray guy miss him?
Peter Parker takes a choked breath. “Tell them thank you.”
Dr. Strange looks like he wants to ask. His hands are moving, and then he abruptly stops. The color in his hand transforms, a deeply neon green. For a second, he looked concerned.
The spell is just meant to make Peter Parker nothing. No one will know him. He’ll have no ID, no birth certificate, no friends or family. He’ll be Spider-man, protecting the city. It’ll be like the hands of the creator of the universe snipped whoever Peter Parker was from existence. It’s his own fault. It’s all his own fault, for being too trusting. Too stupid and naive. It’s his fault the universe is tearing itself apart, his fault MJ almost died, his fault Aunt May—
Peter Parker wanted to just die. To throw himself off that tower. He almost did, just for a moment, when the world crashed down.
That would be too unfair. While Peter Parker deserved to die, the state of New York needed someone. And without Iron Man, with the avengers still healing, he will live his life a slave to the city. A protector with no name.
Dr. Strange suddenly shouted, but Spider-man didn’t listen. He knew what was coming.
“Peter, move! It’s—“
The neon, radioactive green blasted into his chest and it hurt. He screamed, muffled, biting his lip and drawing blood. He felt his healing factor turn on, stitching the hole from the blast together, but it just kept coming. It hurt. It felt like. It felt like dying.
[PETER!] Karen sounded more human than ever. [Blood pressure dropping… 15%…. 20%….]
When Spider-man looked up, vision blurry, Dr. Strange had a look of horror on his face. He was stuck, yelling something, but the neon beam kept coming, like a never ending searing pain.
[Warning! Mayday. Mayday. Extreme drop of Oxygen. Blood pressure dropped by over 50%]
He felt his chest burn open, like a giant hot bullet pressed to his skin. He felt his skin painfully pull itself tight, stitching itself, before being blasted back open, and then repeating. Blood. All he could taste was blood. All he could smell is blood.
[…od le…ls…. dropping…. negative….]
Oh, Spider-man thought. The spell. Something went wrong.
Faintly, he hears Ned and MJ scream his name. This time, they don’t say Peter. His ears stay ringing, louder and louder.
Well… it looks like Peter's wish of death was coming. Instead of fear, which he knew he was supposed to feel, he felt relieved. This is… what he wanted. And when he closed his eyes, knees trembling and his body crumpling off the tower he stood on, he can’t even feel guilty at the panic looked in Dr. Strange's eyes. This is what he wanted. Not what he deserved, no, he deserved a fate worse than death, but maybe this is worse than death. Everyone forgetting him, and then he dies.
[…yday…. P….]
As Peter Parker dropped, body feeling impossibly heavy, like he was compacting into himself even when falling, he took a deep breath. He let it out.
His body smacked onto the pavement hard, bones shattering, reverberating and shaking against themselves. He screamed into his mangled arm, bloody, bloody, all too aware of the black black pavement.
Like a fizzing light, he felt himself drift out of consciousness. Suit buzzing, blood drenching his hair, the ground, the trash.
Peter Parker took one last breath before he slipped into the unconscious freedom that was death.
[…p…ter…. P…eter…]
Something fizzled and popped, clicking like a jammed speaker.
[…ak… P…ter…]
Everything was… he was so… dimly aware. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t smell.
Sirens were frequent in the distance. Common. It felt like every blink, every breath, there was a new one. Farther, closer, farther again and more. None for a blink. Police cars the next, loud horns, sirens again.
The fizzling of a gadget in water.
[…ake… wake……. P-et…]
Two blocks down, a father yelled at his wife and children. A dog yelps even further. Something sliced in the air.
It was too loud. Too metallic, the taste in his mouth. His eyes slid shut.
Sirens. Ten. Twenty of them. Faster and faster, converging to a single stop buildings away, across a street.
There’s crackling, quiet but there.
[…Peter…]
Karen…? He thinks, or well, observes. He is not thinking. Just… aware. Aware that he is hearing someone say his name. Someone familiar. Something he knows by Karen.
[…wake up now… Peter…]
He breathes in sharply, a thought almost forming. Karen? Pavement? Sirens? Green? Before his eyes roll up again, and he convulses on the floor.
The next time his chest pumps, the next time he breathes, Peter Parker feels the buzzing down his spine and the deep ache in his bones and the pin prickling feeling of numbness. The sharp, sharp pain in his chest when he takes in the tiny breath.
His whole body is shaking, trembling. It’s not cold, the sun is blazing as it has been all summer.
He tries to push himself up, but trembles and falls under his own weight, not fully in his body yet. He breathed deeply, taking in as much as he could, in and out, in and out.
Peter opened his mouth, lips trembling, coughing up blood. “K…k…” he takes a deep breath, whispering as loudly as he could, “Karen?”
Nothing at first. A faint fizzle, from tiny earbuds in his ears, lodged in as if they’d fall out. “Kar…Karen?” He tried again.
A crackle. [Emergency Power Down Mode. Critical Battery.] The voice crinkled more than usual, more robotic. A prerecorded message.
Peter Parker, after what could have been hours, managed to push himself onto his ass. He’s panting, shaking, bloody. He’s in civilian gear, black on black, barely hiding the color of blood let alone the stench. His suit is in his earbuds, nanobots fluttering together under his neck like hives.
The realization wasn’t sudden, or quick. It was slow. Slow as the rats in the alley, walking around him like he was the monster.
Spider-man… should be… dead. Peter should be dead. And yet—
Well. He did die, he knew that. Felt it happen, felt the same soul-leaving feeling as when he was snapped. Felt the tingle of nerves relighting when life was renewed.
Peter Parker died. Again. And he came back. Again.
In the empty alley, bloody and rising from the dead, Peter Parker sat and stared ahead at the brick wall in front of him.
Staring at nothing. Then noticing something. Fuck Gotham was written graffiti, red and green. A neon bat smacking down the word, bloody and purple colors. The green was so green.
…where exactly did he fall?
It takes hours for him to feel his toes, his feet, his legs. It takes even longer for him to move his arms. Another few hours until he could walk again.
Peter Parker stumbled more than walked out of the alley. The sound hit him like a tidal wave, and he leaned heavily on the brick wall next to him. It was dawn, the sun rising above a tall, dark city. The roads were empty, besides the random drunk he could see a few roads down, and the sounds of glasses clinging and sirens shrilling.
Okay, he takes a deep breath. Everything will be okay now. The world can’t be hurt by him anymore, no one remembers him. He ignores the pain in his chest he feels from that. He pushes out the faces of Ned and MJ calling out for Spider-man as he fell. Maybe the spell did not go wrong, maybe Doctor Strange did not know how painful it was. Maybe he felt guilty.
Peter heaved a breath, sob nearly ripping out of his chest before he slaps his face. “Stop it,” he yells at himself, face stinging, “This will bring nothing good.” I did what was right, goes unsaid, he would never be able to spit out the words. But he knew. Knew in his chest. In his soul.
Step one, get to a map. Some sort of landmark.
Karen's system made a weird crackling noise. Okay, scratch that. Step one, get to a place with stable power and outlets to charge up his emergency powerbank so Karen can start repairing herself. Step two, find out where he is while he does that, or wait for Karen. His stomach growled, and get some food on the way.
Beaten and bloody, wounds scabbed over and barely healing, but healing, Peter Parker couldn’t really care any less. If Karen was here, she’d lecture him on his calory deficit, so he pretended to listen to her. Yes, he needed to eat, so his healing factor would work better.
He wipes the blood off himself using his sweater, lighting a flame and burning it in a dumpster before leaving.
Overhead, streets down, he swears he hears something akin to that of a grappling hook. He doesn’t look back.
Walking in the shadows, avoiding any and all security cameras–and there was so many it was nearly startling–Peter came to a stark realization. While he wasn’t bloody anymore, he definitely did not look… normal. He looked injured, his short sleeves showing more wounds than he’d like. His shirt was a little bloody, too.
Peter needed to shower, wash the blood off him, get some clothes (or a disguise, he thinks, in case the spell did not work; though, the sinking feeling in his gut, the Spider-man his heart ached… he knew it worked, but he had some sort of sick hope lingering, hope he did not deserve) and eat some food. Force his healing factor to work, and then charge up Karen. If he went into anywhere right now, they’d surely kick him out, thinking he was some sort of teenage hooligan. And after hearing all these sirens, hes a little worried someone may call him in, too.
He followed his gut, or his peter-tingle to lead him somewhere… anywhere that would help. And avoid cameras. Just in case.
Nobody can find out who he is anymore. No hints, no trails.
He slunk down alleyways, behind buildings, until he found a backdoor wide open. He closed his eyes, hitching a breath… one second, two… No one was inside. There was like a pull, a knowingness no one was inside and it was safe.
Weird situations call for bad measures, like breaking in and entering. Even if he was only entering.
With a deep breath, he walked inside. It was dark, and he felt no power surges of cameras or any other tech. His eyes adjusted, and he looked down to see… a barbel? And then another. And a workout bench, and lines of many, many treadmills. A gym. Perfect. An abandoned gym, even better.
Quickly, Peter found the bathroom, stripped the clothes off himself, and hopped in the shower. It was the coldest, most miserable shower of his life, but he did not care. He just scrubbed and scrubbed, red flowing out the drain. It was a miracle this place even had water.
Everytime his thoughts drifted Ned, MJ, Tony, Aunt May— he slapped himself on the face, hard, not now. Not now, not while he was somewhere strange and trying to find his way home. Home. Without Aunt May, and not in his room in the avengers tower—he grabbed at his hair, pulling, scrubbing his scalp harder with some shampoo someone left behind. No. Not now. Not until he had his own two feet under him, and even then, even then. He did not have time for this.
Not yet. Not ever, he thinks, with a pinch in his heart and metal beams, red in his vision that slowly faded to green.
He stayed in the shower for a while, but not too long, getting out and opening up lockers by using his sense to turn the locks left then right then to number 42 or 13. Until he found a locker with clothes in it, metal rusty from disuse.
The gym was weird, but perfect for now. It was clearly rundown, abandoned for who knows why. Whoever left their clothes here, their soaps here, wouldn’t be coming back for them.
The clothes fit. The jeans were baggy, but fit well. Black, stained, almost cute if he wasn’t stealing them. There were two shirts in the locker, he grabbed both, a black undershirt wifebeater, and a white T-shirt. Both fit, if a little tight.
He looked down at his arms. His arms… were a bit mangled. He kept looking, going through more lockers until he found a long sleeved black T-shirt. He put it on under. Did he look a bit ridiculous, wearing three layers of shirts? Yes. He did, a lot. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that noticeable. The black sleeves coming out the arms of the white T-shirt made him look unbelievably emo, with his eye bags and red stained eyes—when did he even cry?—and he took it as a sign to keep looking.
He went into the girls locker room next. Locker combination after locker combination. He ends up finding what he needed in one of the few lockers without a lock on it. There, behind a large spiderweb, made of beautiful silk and clearly well cared for, was a backpack. Awesome.
It was a plain, beige bag, but large. Like a school bag, but a bit less bulky. Enough room for his suite if it wasn’t in earbud form, enough room to store food and extra clothes.
He went to reach forward, pausing when he met eyes with a little spider. Cute. A jumping spider was laying on its web, lousing on the silk, staring up at him with wonder.
It was nearly enough to make him smile. Something familiar, at least.
“Hello, little guy.” Peter says, smiling, or trying to. Gently, he turned his hand palm up. “I’m friendly, I swear.”
The spider raised its two front legs, but it was almost like a greeting, not a threat. It patted a pattern on its web. He understood it as some sort of greeting.
Slowly, as Peter neared his palm, the spider raised its legs and then jumped right into his palm. It jumped again in place, tapping his palm. “Yeah, I bet you can smell me,” Peter laughed a bit under his breath. It’s not uncommon this happens, when a spider tries to communicate, recognizing him; but this spider definitely was more friendly. “What are you doing here all alone?”
He couldn’t help but notice the lack of pray in the web. Not even a carcass. “Hungry?” He said out loud, and it tapped again. One, two, then three before a little jump. Excited.
He glanced back at the nest, the web, the home. Lonely.
“Not much food here?” He tried to tap a similar pattern on his arm, so the spider would feel the vibrations. It looked at his fingers, then up at him as if disbelief. “Want to come with me?”
The spider jumped, happy. Yes please it tapped, and Peter knew what he meant. “Can I grab the bag? It might hurt your web, little guy.”
The spider signaled what Peter knows is yes again, before crawling up his arm and onto his shoulder.
Carefully, Peter reached under the web and laid the bag as flat as he could, before sliding it out from under the web. It damaged it a little, but it still pained him. “Sorry,” he whispered, the spider tapped again. Something he didn’t know just yet.
If only Karen was awake, she could help with the whole speech pattern thing, Peter thought. The radiation from the spider changed his DNA to be a lot more spider-like, but that didn’t help a whole lot with spider-translation. A little bit, like being able to understand basic body gestures and somethings that were almost instinct. It just wasn’t perfect.
Carefully, Peter opened the bag. It was mostly empty, it did have some gauze, likely for body building based on the brand, he recognized it from Captain America—he winced, shaking himself, stop it.
He placed the black undershirt in the bag, as well as the soaps he nicked, placing them in a different pocket. He’d need them for the time being until he made it back home. Judging on his condition and Karen, it might take a bit until he can swing on home.
“Are you ready, buddy?” Peter asked, mostly rhetorically as he carefully placed the bag over his shoulders. The little spider jumped onto the bag strapped and made a waving motion with both hands. Excitement. He could recognize that much.
Peter almost laughed. “Let’s get you some food.” And him, but this poor spider was worrying him. He could wait a second, now that his wounds were mostly covered and any passerby’s might not call the cops.
Quietly, they left the same way he came in. Karen was still in earbud form, stringy earbuds in his ears. Usually they would be on a sort of do not disturb mode, where the world would be muted just a bit to help with his whole super hearing. With Karen currently in disrepair, there wasn’t much he could do to stop the blaring sounds of so many sirens.
Jeez, is it always like this here? What part of New York is this? Clearly, he’d have to make some rounds here. Maybe it would help. Be a good distraction.
Slowly, as not to disturb the spider, he walked down alleyways and backroads, listening to his inner sense to stay safe and unseen. Even if the spell worked, he was petrified of being recognized, at someone else yelling Peter Parker with such malice.
He shook his head. Not now Peter, not now. His cheek still stung from how hard he slapped himself. He forgets, super strength and all.
It takes little time for the little spider on his shoulder to jump once on his hand, and then jump onto a nearby wall and sink his teeth into some sort of bug there. Yuck.
He leaned against the wall for a while, shutting his eyes. Everything was so overwhelming, and despite feeling clean and rinsing his mouth with shower water, he could still taste the metallic cling of blood.
Eventually, when the soft weight of the jumping spider jumped onto his hand again, and crawled up his arm to sit on the bags strap, he kept going forward. To food, hopefully, and with the sun rising, a library or a subway. Somewhere with a map, whatever he found first.
Karen sizzled a bit more than he’d like. She’s waterproof, but the suit must of torn open in a weird way, and if enough water came in to the exposed nano membrane she is probably in some sort of self turn off mode, where she’ll need power to start healing herself and stitching the suit.
Weird, actually. Now that he thinks about it, how did he end up here in a city? He could of sworn the fight was above water, an ocean right by the rising towers—stop. He took a deep breath and held it, heart already pumping way too fast and vision buzzing. Going into a panic right now wouldn’t do anything good. Not with the buzzing, pain in his chest that made him want to hurl. Not with his vision swaying and entire body aching. He can’t let himself think of it, remember it, remember any of it; Aunt May, the Green Goblin, the fall…He pinched his wrist. Stop.
It took only a little while of walking to stumble upon the classic neon signage of an Open 24/7 in a glass window and the smell of cigarette smoke.
Peter didn’t have any cash on him, but he’s called sneaky for a reason. It didn’t take much, walking into the store, right past the food aisle and into some weird alcohol section and then to the counter—“Do you guys not sell the Bahama Mama flavor in Guis brand? My moms looking for more.”—with an excuse and then walking out, suspicion free.
The man at the counter did raise an eyebrow, but Peter kept his eyes open wide and smile bright, like a nice young son helping his mother out. Oddly enough, if anything, that made the man balk more. His hand had barely inched down to what Peter knew, instinctively, was a gun before he ran out.
Outside, a few blocks down, he scarfed down a few of the granola bars he grabbed and a poptart. Not enough calories, if Karen was here, for his enhanced metabolism. Enough for now. It all tasted sour, he didn’t like stealing, and he would come back later to make a donation, it’s not like it’s not his first time, he’s had to before—missions gone wrong, bleeding out in alleyways, needing food to heal up. But that’s when people were kind to him.
Wherever he was… someone walked passed him, shoulder checking him even though he was all the way on his side of the sidewalk… was oozing with a feeling of unkind.
The man at the store, with his face hard and set as stone with a gun. That, maybe, was excusable. Not really the fact that as he walked down the street, more and more pedestrians coming out, his spider sense screamed. Every time he glanced at someone, they glared. His eyes kept locking onto gun imprints, or seeing the glimmer of a knife in a purse.
It filled Peter with unease. Wherever he was, it was dangerous. It made his hairs prick up on end and huddle into himself, trying to be ignored. He just wanted to be home. He wanted everything to be normal.
It’s hard to, when his instincts are singing danger. It’s also hard to when everything smells… different. It’s a slow realization. Everyone kind of… smells. Some good, others terrible. Nothing that strong, but stronger than usual. Maybe, after the fall, fresh from death, his spider senses dialed up.
He tried to sniff himself, but he didn’t smell like anything at all. Nothing.
Something about that… felt wrong. Peter couldn’t pin why, so he just kept walking. It just smells. Maybe this city has a really good perfume market.
A man walks past him, smelling like bugs and alcohol. Maybe people here didn’t shower. He chose to ignore it.
He kept walking, and Peter did his best not to even think. He didn’t want to think of his slowly, too slowly healing wounds, or of what had just happened yesterday (was it even yesterday?). He tried not to think of the looks everyone gave him, staring at his hair and his eyes like he was some monster. He’d been crying, and his hair wet from a shower, he just looked… out of place. Odd. The people here were hostile.
Ever since Peter was young, he knew something was wrong with him. When everyone his age grew, he was the only one who stayed behind. Scrawny, small. Other things, too.
He remembers his father, vaguely, in a room he can barely even picture. His shoes don’t even reach the floor when Peter sits on the couch, younger than five, his father tying his shoes up. “It’ll be a special day, Peter. You’ll wake up with a glimmering picture somewhere on you,” his fathers voice was hazy in these memories.
“You promise I’ll have somebody special?” Peter asked in his boyish voice, giggling and waving his hands.
“Yes, baby. One day you’ll have someone special,” His mom entered from another room. “They’ll love you, and you’ll love them.”
And they’d all hold hands walking down the street to the park, talking about what his soulmark might be and who it would be or what color it would shine.
His parents died, a year or two after that. He did, eventually, very late—like everything in his life—get a soulmark. It was blurry and dark like charcoal. A little spider. Ironic. It’s on his upper right hip. Nothing about a soulmate, only him.
Uncolored soul marks… are a bit taboo. It usually signals something like… death. Incomplete marks, someone who was meant to be, not there. Gone. Dead, like everyone else in his life.
He shook himself. Stop. He can’t break down right now. He can’t. Not when he’s away from home—does he have one of those anymore?—away from New York. With no Karen, a damaged super suit, and damaged body.
Though, gently, he felt his hand drift to the patch over his mark. His wrap was in the way, hiding the mark he never looked at anymore. He noticed, though, he didn’t see many soulmate wraps here. In fact, he saw a few people walking around with colorful fireworks and flowers crawling up their arms. Not abnormal, but just a lot of it. Usually, only people who found their soulmates did that. A sort of confirmation that no one could lie their way into your life and get a fake tattoo or something like that. Historically, that was a large issue of the past. Now with authenticators, it could always be checked, but asking for it was more often offensive than not.
For a place so hostile, many must have their soulmates. Lucky.
He sees something that lets him drop the chain of thought immediately.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots it, large bold lettering on top of a gothic building with a few too many steps against the main street: GATHAM PUBLIC LIBRARY.
Perfect. Outlets to charge Karen, computers to google where am I? and what subway route takes me back to Queens?
He walked up the cobble steps, a bit more haste in his steps than earlier. Here, he noticed, the hairs on the back of his neck stood down. A first, for whatever city he was in. Here felt… safer. His hand dragged along the cool metal railing, rust crumbling beneath his fingers.
The spider on his bag jumped up on his neck, crawling under his earlobe. A safe place, away from civilians who might kill him. Poor spiders, always scared of being hurt.
He grabbed the golden doorknob, turned it, and walked steadfast into the library.
First, he noticed how warm it was. Seriously, compared to outside, this place was warm with multiple heaters running. There is a cardboard box by the door with a clean, sharpie sign Free Stuff! full of gloves and scarfs. Is it almost winter time? The ground is a green carpet, with some wooded areas, and a winding staircase to a second story. The lights were mellow, and for a moment, Peter’s headache dulled. Here was warm. Here was safe. It smelled like warmth, too, like summer days at the beach until dark; before he knew what the cold felt like.
Peter took a deep breath and kept walking, eyes trailing on deep wooden bookcases smushed against each other to form aisles. The walls were kept clear with movie posters and CDs, large windows showing the city lights.
“Hello!” He jumps like a scared dog, tail between his legs. There’s a woman behind the desk, looking back at him with a shocked expression before smiling. “Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you there!”
She sat behind a large desk, a plaque with Barbara plastered on it, a large smile and deeply red hair. She was… friendly. Nothing that would of scared him, if he wasn’t so focused. His senses honed in. The library smelt so warm because of her. She smelt like summer nights, the calming glow of a fading sun on the ocean.
Friend friend friend! It was a weird feeling, but his spider-senses… liked her. Like she was a warm hug, a nice breath of fresh air, reddish brown hair looking like a painting on her green sweater.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Peter smiled. A nice person, for once! Maybe he really did look crazy, all bloody and beaten earlier. At least now he looked less bloody and more like he got into a school fight. Cheek a little bruised from his own doing.
Peter turns all the way, and then he felt his tingle change. Wary… confused… nervous. Huh. Her eyes lock up at his hair, eyes widening to a comical degree before flickering to his eyes. Searching for something. “Uhm… No, I’m okay, Ms. Barbara. Are the computers free to look at?” His hair must really be a mess, Aunt May would be so embarrassed right now.
And mad. Mad that you killed her. Gently, he pinched his arm.
The warmth smell, he noticed in the back of his head, behind his anxieties, turned almost inside out with worry. Did concern have a smell? He dropped the thought and observation in a breath. He’s all wired up from… everything.
The librarian stayed quiet for a moment as if stunned. Damn… did he look that ugly? Like a wet rat, maybe? Then, “Sweetheart… are you okay?”
Hm. “Yes, sorry, just a little… fight earlier. Some guy tried to mug me,” he lied on the spot, looking down, “I promise that I’m not trouble.”
“That’s not…” she stumbles off, before making eye contact with him again. “Sorry. The computers are free. It’s limited access for guests for about an hour, if you need more than that you can always make a library card with me.”
An offering, and she clicked something on her computer. “No worries, Ma’am! I should be done before that, hopefully.”
With a nervous pitter in his steps, Peter walks over to the wall of computers a bit ways away. Pausing.
These were… ancient, to say the least. Maybe they didn’t get many… donations?
“Okay then…,” the librarian paused waiting for a name, but he simply got right to work, picking a computer pointed away from her.
He watched her take her phone out, tapping away, before he got comfortable. It was empty in the library. He looked down at the hefty extension cord, finding a simple USB-C charger, “It’s universal!” Mr. Stark said, “You’ll find it anywhere in a pinch.” Thank god for his mentor's foresight.
He took his headphones off, placing them gently on the table, before plugging them in. A little screen, hidden on the side of the cord under the right earbud, blinked to life: Time Remaining [3 Hours].
Peter got to work, logging into the computer. He’d be able to partially charge Karen, steal the USB-C, and find someplace else to finish the charge. He doesn’t want to be in one place too long. Even if this place felt like a haven compared to the rest of this city, relaxing his nerves, he had to get back to Queens. And this lady looked at him as if he was some sort of police case.
Subconsciously, Peter raised a hand into his hair and felt how damp it still was. In the blue loading screen, he looked normal. He couldn’t discern much, apart from overall shadow and look, but he looked normal. Maybe a bit exhausted. His face looked extra… soft, if that made sense. Maybe puffy from the tears. Did he look like he had some sort of disease?
The computer made a little tune, turning on fully, and Peter tapped on the ring on his middle finger. Bulky, silver, like twine. Wanda had made it, working with Tony one day. Quietly, a USB port came out. It was small, miniature, an A engraved on it.
He put it in the machine, launching the built in software. A different browser popped up, this one would never be able to be backtracked.
Easy. Too easy, but what’s suspicious of a teenager in a library?
Where am I? Location: GOTHAM, NJ.
New Jersey?! He wanted to scream, pulling at his hair. How did he get all the way over here? From falling? And, New Jersey? Seriously?
He’s eyes drifted to ‘Gotham’. Huh. Never heard of that one before. Peter thought he knew of all the cities in the East Coast. Important to know as a Hero.
Well, he needed to get to Queens. Maybe the Avengers Tower—not that he’d ever be able to go back… no one will remember you, Spider-man, are you sure you want that?—but he had some stuff he’d need to collect in the area. Maybe steal some things from Mr. Starks lab to keep Karen up to date.
Directions to Avengers Tower? The screen blanked. No results.
No… results? His heart dropped.
Avengers tower, his fingers glided across the keyboard, no results.
Avengers? His face went numb. Avenge: To Avenge, to take action against a wrong for justice.
Peter felt dead. His face was numb, cheeks tingling, heart dropped all the way to his feet. He could barely feel his heart beating. It was like nothing. Numbness.
Tony Stark. No Results.
Iron Man? He typed quicker. No results. Did you mean: The Iron Giant (1999)?
No. No, this… wasn’t possible.
Doctor Strange. The man who did this, who helped him fix his mistakes, the one who… who was just supposed to erase him… No results. Here are Doctors in your Area.
“Peter! …Move!…” the hazing, green green too green light. The panic in his eyes, wide, too wide. More emotive than his normal, stoic self. The panic. The wrongness.
Oh. It hits him small, at first. A small realization, and then it crashes. Like the biggest wave in the sea, crashing right on his head and pulling him in. Oh.
May Parker, he is typing as fast as he can, No Results.
Homeless Shelter for the Needy, Lead Volunteer May Parker, silence as he waited, heart beating out of his chest. Was she… was she— no results.
And it’s then, right then, when Peter Parker breaks.
The wrongness, Doctor Strange's plea, no Acengers, no… no Aunt May.
A thought lingers for a long time. Aunt May, who wasn’t… wasn’t alive, anyways, because of him. His Aunt May who died a terrible death because of him. And now. Now, he was, his breath hitches, a tear falling down his face, in a different world. One that never even had her in it. His chest burned. A different dimension.
One without his family. Not that they’d… remember him or know him. He had to make them forget, to save them all, but at least he could see them. Bury them. Visit their graves.
He heaves forward, body trembling, balling into himself. Oh god. He’d never be able to visit Aunt Mays grave. He’d never see her again. He’d never be able to beg for forgiveness and hope she hears. He… would never be able to attend her funeral.
Oh, god. Who would attend Aunt Mays funeral? No one would remember him. Maybe her coworkers, at the homeless shelter, but she never did hang out with them out of work. Tony would have, if he didn’t die because of me.
Peter looks up, typing again. Desperation clawing into his heart. Wrong wrong wrong, something sang in his chest. Please. Someone.
Instagram, a link loads, and he clicks it ready to type in MJs and Ned’s usernames when the appearance of the icon… makes him pause. This is… an older Instagram icon, from a few years ago.
His heart races again, and his face is so numb and so on fire and his emotions are racing and he doesn’t know what to do. Other than pull the bandaid off. Click on the bottom corner of the computer, read the date. 2018.
Oh no.
So. Okay. Different universe. Different time. Not under funded library. Behind in technology universe, back about five years. Like the blip never happened.
There’s a little movement behind his ear, hard. He remembers the spider he’s only called buddy, prodding him with his teeth. He’s… he needs to be alone, now. He is going to cry, break down, do something stupid probably and he just can’t be here right now.
Peter unplugs the USBC from the source, hiding it in his bag. Everything under the desk, never to be detected from cameras. How he’d been trained too, and he remembers Natasha so clearly it’s like she’s in front of him, holding his shoulders in the training room.
“Try again,” she had said, not lecturing, but a soft presence, “Remember, cameras can be big or small, video or sound, you never can be too careful.”
He grabs his small USB stick as sneakily as he can, using his sleeve. It’s a little wet from wiping his face. Huh. He didn’t even realize he started crying, but when he felt his face again it was less wet. He knew he didn’t look like he’d been crying.
A sort of fake calm before the storm. To be normal. To leave.
To where? He thinks, dully. No home in Queens. No Aunt May. No friends. No Avengers.
Nothing he’d have anyways. Both realities are hitting at once. One where he’d never be at home again, one where his home was already removed.
Queens. What used to be home. Would the Queens here even be… like his Queens?
The same buildings? Would it even resemble home?
Even if Queens did look the same, it wouldn’t be. Even if he wasn’t here. Queens wouldn’t be home again. Would never be home again.
He needs to leave, Peter grabbed his bag. Now.
With everything in his bag, the USB and charger, he leaves quicker than he came in. Thankfully, the librarian seemed to have gone to the back, given her faint heartbeat a door down, her scent a bit less strong, however deeply imprinted into the building.
He hears her door open the same time the door is shutting behind him. She says something, a goodbye, come again probably. Customer service, and all that. Peter didn’t even try to hear her, not with his ears ringing and eyes burning and heart stuttering and slowing as if to stop.
“Where do I even go?” Peter whispers, rain dripping on him. He hears the rolling of thunder miles away, coming closer. The spider under his ear moves, jumping, as if telling him to hurry.
Hurry from the rain and thunder. Hurry from the shudders and cries already racking his body. Peter doesn’t know. He just goes.
He walks fast, running through some areas, others pressing his back against walls in a desperate effort to not be seen; only when he had the mental clarity to do so, suddenly back in the present, further into the city than he last remembered. Running and working on instinct, trusting his spider sense.
He finds an abandoned apartment building, multiple blocks away, in an area that stinks of crime so bad his whole body feels on fire with all the things he hears and sees. A gunshot goes off a few streets away, someone is screaming, but Peter’s suit is too low and he’s getting cold. So cold he can’t think, can’t do anything. Can only cry, and cry, and whimper in the rain.
Peter crawls up the wall, knowing he is safe from eyes, following his spider instincts to be safe while the world crumbles down around him. He finds an unlocked window, shoves it open using his elbow, his hand trembling too much to even move. He crumples into the safe indoors, falling on his side.
He’s in an abandoned apartment, on one of the highest floors, in a dirty, glass and needle filled kitchen. Rain is pushed into the apartment from the open window, right onto his frame.
Peter is so cold. Peter is so alone.
He lays there, drenched in evercoming tears and rain, alone for hours until he fades from consciousness.
Petunias were her favorite. Did anyone else know that?
His last thought, as he sinks into forced slumber, is a grave, run down with no flowers.