Cold.
Everything since that day has been excruciatingly cold. The winter air, the water from the barely working tap in the sink, the floor he was currently sprawled out on— but, he was thankful that he can still feel anything at this point. It had been months since… that.
It could be worse.
He could be out in the streets living off of the trash people threw away on the daily. It probably wouldn’t be nearly enough to sate his inhuman metabolism, not that his current situation ever left him feeling full after eating anyway.
He really should find a solution for that.
Cringing, he dragged a hand across his face and let out a long tired sigh; the kind you’d only hear from old hardened war veterans who’ve seen shit that no human deserved to see.
Granted, being there, witnessing—fighting in—the war against Thanos—twice and God help him—
He’d be damned if that didn’t immediately count him as an old hardened war veteran.
Well, maybe not old. He was barely 19, no matter how hard Peter found it was to believe.
He was only a teen.
A damn child.
He was a damned child.
It could be worse.
The cardboard boxes discarded by grocery store staff could very well have been the bed he’d needed to sleep on for the night. Peter was lucky he had a bed at all. Granted, it wasn’t as nice as the bed he grew up with, not by a long shot. He missed that bed. It was the bed he'd spend countless nights building lego sets on with Ned.
They never did finish setting up the new lego death star they got. The thing was so expensive that it took 2 months worth of their allowances combined.
It was the bed he’d lay on every time he called with MJ just to talk about whatever he did while on patrol: the criminals he webbed up and left in a dark alley, the people he saved, and the grandmas that gave him churros after he carried their groceries for them.
He chuckled, Peter could still remember the stories they told him about their grandchildren and, oh how they wish they’d grow up like him.
He’d never wish that on anyone. Not even the worst of the worst.
It was the bed Aunt May would drag him off of when he overslept so that he didn’t end up with another detention.
Boy, he'd kill for that normalcy right now.
But that's just the thing, isn't it?
He can't kill.
That's what got him in this mess. He was too fucking cowardly to pull the trigger-
As he tried to shake off these thoughts because nope he’d started thinking about May and that never leads to anything good, a voice, a quiet, almost pathetic, voice reminded him that—
That bed was also the bed Tony sat on when he first showed up in his house to tell him that Iron fucking Man knew about Peter Parker being Spider-man.
“Are you the Spiderling?”
“Spider-MAN.”
He could almost hear it. Tony’s voice as he seemed genuinely impressed when he saw his abilities and the video that showed him stopping and lifting a speeding bus.
“He did it for you, you know.”
“What?” Peter looked up from the tombstone of the man that could’ve very well been, if he wasn’t already, the one of the only father figures he’s ever had in his life.
“He didn’t want to risk anything at first, said he had too much to lose. Took him only a few hours to remember that he lost so much on Titan too.”
No. Nope, that is dangerous territory and he would very much appreciate it if his brain doesn't take him there today. Thank you very much.
It could be worse.
Peter could have been jobless; left to fend for himself all alone in a world he belonged—but didn’t exist—in, yet he wasn’t.
Wasn't jobless, that was.
He had Peters 2 and 3’s stories to thank for that as he decided to take a page out of their books.
Speaking of… he was late. He was late to the one thing that gave him any sort of income. It was small, barely livable, but it was enough for him to afford this shabby one bedroom apartment and a single meal a day in fucking New York City Where Everything is Worth Your Kidney™.
The harsh winter air entered his apartment from the open window. The biting cold made contact with his skin and he fought to suppress a shiver. He really should get up from the floor, however, he found that he didn't particularly have the energy to.
He checks his clock.
He notices he's late.
He sighs.
He decides that he wants—does he really?— to get up.
He doesn't.
He doesn't move an inch.
Peter wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth (and the job he landed was indeed a gift sent from above), his aunt taught him better than that, but sometimes he just could not find it in himself to continue on.
There wasn’t a point. He had nothing to live for except Spider-man, (which played a huge part in what even got him in this situation) and nowadays he barely had the energy or drive to even get up from bed with the meals he got, let alone swing across the city in cheap spandex.
So yeah, he only survived lived for Spider-man.
But what about Peter Parker?
Plain old Peter Parker, who wasn't Spider-man?
Besides, all he really needed to be was Spider-man.
All he really needed to be was a hero.
Why wasn't Spider-Man able to be Peter Parker's hero?
A sharp ringing cut through his thoughts and he sat up with a groan. His limbs felt sore and numb after staying in the position he was in for hours. His throat was parched, but he honestly didn't even want to try and drink the tap water from his apartment. He could handle hunger and thirst, if it meant that he wouldn't need to taste whatever was in his building's water supply.
Peter cracked his neck and searched for the God awful ringing of his cheap flip phone.
Maneuvring through his worn-down apartment proved to be a tedious task as Peter hopped and stepped over multiple piles of unwashed laundry. Making a mental note to get that sorted, he checked every flat surface for his phone and found it on his dresser.
Sighing in relief, he finally put an end to the godawful ringing (it was loud by his standards, sometimes his super hearing really was a curse) by answering the call, only to be met with something even louder (it probably would’ve been even louder if he actually ate as much as his body needed and had his body at full strength but beggars can’t be choosers).
“Johnson! Where the hell are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago!” Came the very angry and very obnoxious voice of Jonah Jameson, his boss, who also happened to be Spider-man’s #1 hater.
Debatable. Peter believed he himself held that first spot.
He swallowed another sigh and instead grabbed the jacket he left draped on the couch a few days ago. Skipping his usual routine, he went and brushed his teeth while avoiding looking at the mirror.
He doesn't even glance at the mirror because what stared back was not him. The pale face of a thin white boy was not him. The stranger had long hair that was not his, eye bags that he never got even after studying endlessly for decathlon, and a tiredness in his eyes that he shouldn’t have.
Except, he did.
Because no matter how much he denied it, the thing that stared back was Peter Parker.
Or better yet, it was Clive Johnson.
Crazy how he was a stranger to literally everyone in the world now, including himself.
“JOHNSON?!”
Peter rinsed his mouth and grabbed his camera bag. He put the phone up to his ear, took a deep breath and channeled all of the patience the world was willing to give.
“Sorry boss, got stuck in traffic, nearly there.”
Peter Parker doesn't exist—he never will, not again— but Clive Johnson, does.
“THEN HURRY YOUR ASS UP.”
He could work with this, he needed to work with this.
Because if even Clive Johnson ceased, then who did he have left? Who will he be?—
“Yes boss.”
—No one.
So Clive went and left Peter Parker in the run down apartment, where he belonged, where he will stay.
Where he will be buried in.
It could be worse— but thank God it wasn’t since he didn’t think he could handle much more.