Chapter 1
Death.
It’s hard to…
Understand.
Or there is nothing to understand.
Death.
It’s permanent.
Eternal.
It’s lonely .
Peter sets the letters on his desk.
One for Mr. Stark.
One for the McMillians.
One for Ned.
One for… MJ.
And lastly, an explanation, an excuse.
He doesn’t have anyone else who needs a letter. Not that he finds that surprising.
And he has copies of each that he’s taking with him. Folded up neatly in the ID slot on his hiking pack…just in case someone finds his….
Peter takes one last look at his desk and swallows the lump in his throat.
He would say that he was going to cry, but…he hasn’t been able to do that in a long time.
With nothing else to do or say, he grabs his hiking pack and leaves.
He doesn’t take a phone. Or his Stark watch, or anything.
Peter knows he won’t be needing those soon enough, and besides… They could be used to track him and would be, as soon as they found his letters. Peter briefly wonders how long it will take them to go through the stages of grief.
He swallows guiltily at the thought. He knows he’s being selfish. Selfish in a lot of ways. But Peter knows he’d be better off, and in the end, so would they. Just this once, Peter can be weak…and selfish.
And he’ll never need to be strong again.
‘You were supposed to be better.’
What would May and Ben think?
It’s hard to think when they’re dead.
Peter locks the door to the apartment behind him and makes his way out to the streets of New York. His hood is up, covering his face.
Queens…would be fine without him.
They hadn’t seen Spider-Man in a while anyway.
It’s always healthy to take a break.
The hoodie is hot.
It’s summer.
Not that it matters.
No one gives him a second glance. It’s New York. There are weirder things to see than someone wearing a hoodie in the heat of summer.
He needs to hide his face; it’ll make it harder for Mr. Stark to find him.
Peter makes his way over to the bus depot on foot, savoring his last views of New York. The McMillians are gone till tomorrow afternoon. He’s got plenty of time until they come looking for him, and by then… It will be pointless to search.
Perhaps they can forgive Peter—Spider-Man someday, for what will happen.
Once Peter arrives at the depot, he quickly purchases his ticket in cash; it would be harder to track that way. The bus leaves in 3 minutes, and Peter gets on just as it arrives. People start piling on, some packing hiking gear like he is, others just outdoors wear.
The bus is taking them to Harriman-Bear Mountain, the start of the Appalachian Trail.
Peter plans to hike it.
He’s packed four days’ worth of supplies. And once he’s done…
He’ll decide when it is time.
How he goes.
He wants to starve to death. Knowing his metabolism, it shouldn’t take too long at all.
Especially not with how poorly you’ve been eating lately.
Peter is thankful no one sits next to him.
He stares out the window, fading as the bus ride goes. The city streets blur into suburbia, then country—and then, at last, forest .
The ride seemed a lot shorter than it was.
Peter’s the last to get off the bus. Walking towards the trail, he ignores all the cars and people out for a fun family hike or camping trip and starts immediately on the trail. The further in he gets, the fewer people there will be. Hopefully.
Who knew two days could pass so… solemnly .
They would’ve found the letters now. They’d know he is missing—that he might already be gone.
Gone.
The sun glares down on him, and Peter is forced to squint his eyes. He looks down at the rocky hillside. He’d gone off the trail at dawn this morning. Carefully, Peter starts to go down the shale, careful not to slip, his body slightly weak from not eating as much as he typically does.
He breathes a sigh of relief as he reaches the bottom, looking at a large creek that now separates him from his…eventual rest.
Peter sighs and takes his boots and socks off, rolling up his jeans before he starts to cross.
He may be a fuck up, but he’s certainly not fucked up enough to hike in soggy boots and wet socks.
Peter stuffs the socks into the boots and ties them to his pack as he journeys across the stones.
It isn’t very deep, but it’s wet and slippery, his feet not sticking well to wet smooth river stones.
He hadn’t eaten since he’d left.
Peter is almost to the other side when he loses his footing—he cries out as he’s falling, and then—
Nothing.
For Mr. and Mrs. McMillian
Before I write anything, I want to say sorry.
There’s nothing else to say, really.
I hope you have a brighter future, and I hope you love your future kid as much as you’ve loved and cared for me. I’m just not meant to have that. I don’t want or deserve it either. I’d only make it worse.
It’s not your fault. It never was.
It’s mine.
Don’t bother looking for me.
I made sure I wouldn’t be found.
I love you.
Even if I’m being selfish like this. Just this once. One last time.
For Tony
Tony. It feels odd to write that.
No’ Mr. Stark’.
It feels wrong, but I think you’d like it. I mean, I can do it for you. Just this once.
Don’t blame yourself. I know you will. And I doubt you’ll listen to me telling you not to. But if it helps, I didn’t want you to know. Not because I didn’t trust you enough to tell you but because I didn’t want to.
It may come as a shock, but…I want to die.
I don’t want you or anyone else to stop me because I know you will try. I know you love me. It’s not a question of that. It never was, is, or will be.
And I love you too.
I’m sorry.
I know I’m being selfish. It’s fucked up of me, right? To want this?
To even write a letter like this.
I really am sorry.
You couldn’t have stopped this.
I’ve been tired for so long. I’ve earned my rest. It was too hard. Pathetic, I know.
I miss them.
Ben and May.
Though, you’ve only met Mrs. McMillian.
Ben and May are my real family.
My Parents, too.
I don’t want to be the last Parker anymore.
I’m sorry. I love you. And I think you loved me too.
Please don’t be too hard on yourself, Tony. I want this.
For Ned
I know you’ll hate me. I would too if you did what I have done.
And that’s okay.
It is okay to be upset.
I care about you a lot; you’re like a brother to me. But I’m sorry. I just can’t.
I hope you can forgive me for being so selfish.
Don’t be stuck on me forever. I know other people at school like Legos and Star Wars and every little thing we’d talk about for hours.
Be there for MJ. I’m sure she’ll be there for you.
It wasn’t your fault.
Please don’t think it was.
I made so many amazing memories with you, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. You were one of the highlights of my life, especially after May and Ben.
You helped me survive this long. I hope you can move on from me. I know it won’t be easy. Easy for any of you. But just let me be selfish one last time.
For MJ
I never really understood you.
I’m sorry.
I’m not even sure what to say here, but I care a lot about you. A lot.
And that I’m sorry.
I hope this doesn’t upset you.
You’ve got so much ahead of you, MJ.
I know you’ll be great someday.
Just please don’t blame yourself or anything like that. It wasn’t your fault. My decision was my own.
I love you.
For anyone and everyone, I guess.
You want to know why. Anyone would. So here it is.
Spider-Man.
I am Spider-Man. Shocker, I know. That’s the only good thing I’ve ever done.
May and Ben, and my parents
I remember them well. I always had a good memory like that. I never told May and Ben as it was going to be a surprise. My little sibling was on that plane, too. My mom was expecting. I think that hurts more than anything. Most kids don’t look forward to a sibling, but I did. I was looking forward to meeting them. I guess there are some things I was never meant to have, the first being a family.
It’s my fault that May and Ben both died due to a stupid argument.
You’d have thought I learned my lesson with Ben.
Every day, it’s harder and harder to do what I need to do.
You’ve all mentioned it. Asked me if I was okay. And I said fine, of course. Because really, I never wanted help. I’m sorry for that.
It can’t be fixed now.
Don’t blame yourself for my choice.
I love you all.
He blinks.
He feels like he’s forgotten how.
His eyelids are heavy and like sandpaper, but his mouth somehow manages to be dryer. His eyes slide around the room. It’s a cabin. Old and made of logs—the walls are always. It seems rather run down and old…
“You awake, kid?”
It takes a moment for Peter to respond, his head pounding.
“Y-yeah.”
A tan man with wild gray hair walks towards him and hands him a glass of water, “Drink up. How are you feeling?”
“Headache.”
His whole body throbs with each beat of his heart.
“Here, take this,” The man hands him some pills, and he takes them without question. As soon as he gets more water in his system, he looks at the man…
“Do…I know you?”
“I don’t know, do you?” The man stares at him with sharp green eyes for a long time.
And the longer the man stares, the more the realization dawns on him.
“I…I don’t know— ” He blinks at the man, searching his memories for anything.
Anything.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“I don’t…know.”
The reality finally hits him harshly.
He doesn’t…remember anything .
It’s just blank.
He doesn’t even know his own name .
What he looks like, where he is—
“Well, kid…” The man sighs, “My name is Brett Warner. I’m a homesteader. You were on my land. From the looks of it, you hit your head pretty hard, kid.”
“Well…that would explain it. That’s… that’s my luck for you.” He grimaces at the words, the saying seemingly missing something, but he can’t tell what.
He’s missing a lot more than just some stupid saying.
“No kidding. Well, I think God had mercy on you; after all, I found you instead of wolves,” Brett laughs, “Since y’don’t have a name, I think I will give you one. How does…Jason sound?”
“Hmm…I like it, I guess.”
“Well, Jason. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like.” The man smiles at him softly, green eyes twinkling like emeralds, “Now, how about we go eat breakfast?”
“I’d love to, Mr. Warner!”
“Oh, no need to be so polite, Jason. Brett is fine.”
Brett is a good and honest man, and Jason soon finds out.
He tries to live off the land as much as possible but makes and sells hand-carved wood figurines, even growing most of the wood himself.
And when Jason needs to eat four times what he does, the man shakes it off.
He has more than enough money from his retirement to support a growing boy.
Or so he says.
Jason has chores, too. Mr. Warner has chickens!
He even let him name the new chicks.
They fall into a steady routine based on each other. It’s nice, and he loves the simplicity. The cabin had four rooms, and Jason’s room was more of a closet than a room, big enough for a bed, and that was it.
So he found himself out and about, hovering around Brett rather than in his room.
The days blend and blur past Jason, and he can seem to remember why he cared.
“Well, Jason,” Brett asks, whittling an eagle figurine, “You’ve been here for about three weeks. How are you feeling?”
Jason gently closes the door to the wood shop behind him and removes his work boots. They were a size too big, having had socks stuffed in the toes. They did well enough. Having just finished cleaning the chicken coop, he didn’t want to wear them inside, “Fine, Mr. Warner. Do you have other things that need to be done around here?”
“No, son.” The man looks up from his work; he’d long since given up on being called Brett, “How about I show you to carve? Careful, the knife is sharp.”
Jason walks over and sits next to Brett at the kitchen counter, “I still can’t imagine how you even begin to make something like that! It’s just so cool—”
“well…You start with a block of wood and a knife,” Brett says humorously, to which Jason rolls his eyes, “What? It’s true, kid!”
“Well, yeah. ” Jason laughs, “Obviously! But I was talking more about the actual carving part.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Brett hums, reaching over to grab a spare knife from his tool bag, “And when I said it was sharp, I mean it, careful.”
Jason rolls his eyes but carefully takes Brett’s knife, “Well, Mr. Warner, what’s the first step?”
“I like to draw what I want to make,” he smiles, handing the kid a pencil, “I’ll help you make whatever you draw on the wood.”
He nods and takes the pencil, pausing for a moment.
“Does it have to be an animal or something like that?”
“Just do whatever comes to mind first, Jason.”
Jason takes the block of soft pinewood and turns it around in his hand before drawing.
Some wooden gears could make a spider move back and forth…
“Uh, do you have some paper so I can work out my design first?” The man nods before getting up and going to the office, returning with printer paper and an eraser.
“Here you go.” Jason takes them and begins to draw schematics.
The time flows past, and he takes the knife and slowly starts to carve the spider out first with Brett’s help. It’s a little lopsided, but you can at least tell it’s a spider. The legs are slightly shorter and crooked on the left half.
Jason thinks it’s coming along perfectly.
That has to mean something.
“Now for the next part—” Jason smiles and shows Brett the other blueprints, “What’d you think?”
Brett didn’t respond; instead took the papers and looked them up and down.
“You made these, kid?”
“Yeah…” Jason feels his heart pang, “Did I, uh, do something wrong, sir?”
“No, no!” Brett waved his hands, “This…this is amazing. How would you feel about helping me with some of my old projects? I used to want to make moving works of art, but I could never figure out the mechanical side of things—You have a real knack for it, kid.”
Brett leads Jason to his workshop, pulling out his old projects, each coated in a thick layer of dust.
“You seem pretty good with tools to start with, too. Maybe you used to do this before—”
“Before…” Jason says, “I don’t think there was before, sir. It’s just…I feel like it’s always been the way things are right now, right?”
Brett looks down at the kid, setting his own work at the table next to Jason, “Yeah…but you can’t ignore the fact that you had a life before you lost your memories.”
Jason wrinkles his nose at that, “Well, maybe it’s a good thing I don’t remember it. Honestly, it might as well have never happened.”
Brett drops the topic with a sigh.
“Peter,” he turns his head at his name being called—
“Mr. Stark?”
“We’ve been over this. Mr. Stark makes me feel old—“
“Alright, Dr. Tony, Mr. Stark, sir, ma’am.”
“Ma’am!” Tony scoffs, “Now that is overkill, kid.”
“Alrighty, Dr. Stark.”
Tony rolls his eyes, “It’s Tony, kid. Now, what sounds good for dinner? Do you like Thai?”
Peter frowns, “no…I — just no . How does Chinese sound?”
“Fine, but I’m getting Thai for myself. You ask for Chinese every time you come over.”
Jason sits up with a start—
“Tony—“
The name gives him anxiety.
Peter.
Peter, Peter, Peter.
His name is Peter.
“Peter. I’m Peter .”
And he’s consumed by dread.
He can sense Brett’s eyes on his back.
“You feeling okay, kid?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
It had been two days since…the dream.
Peter… Peter continues to scrub the pan that Brett used to cook them breakfast.
He is so focused on his work that he jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder—
“You’re as sure as hell not fine, kid. I’m not taking no for an answer on this. Do you want to talk?”
Peter looks up at Brett’s shoulders, sagging.
“You’re…right.” Peter looks back down at the pan, “I just…I remember some things.”
Peter can hear the man’s heart race, but he still stays calm on the outside, “Like what.”
“Tony… A guy named Tony Stark, we used to work in a lab…I think. And then get dinner together. But…” Peter’s heart aches, “He wasn’t always there…I know he tried, but…”
“Are you sure they were Tony Stark?” Brett asks softly, “Do you remember anything else?”
“I’m positive it was him? And well, I think my name is Peter.”
“Peter…” Brett hums, “Suites you much better than Jason does, I think!”
Peter smiles at him, laughing, “ Jason , at least the first name you gave me wasn’t Parker or something!”
“Parker is a fine name!” Brett smiles with relief, “Hey, do you think you’re up to going hunting with me today? When I went out yesterday, I bought more tags.”
Peter smiles, “That sounds…fun.”
He hated the idea of hunting at first. But death is part of life—and you have to respect it and respect the animal for giving its life to you. Plants do the same, too, when you eat them.
That is how nature is. It’s the way of life.
It doesn’t mean they make the animal suffer—that makes the meat taste terrible anyway.
They head out shortly after, and Peter watches the mountainside grow a little closer, the trees tall and shady.
It’s getting colder, and winter will be here soon.
The mountains lying along the horizon eternally standing tall, cradling the cabin.
The clouds, fluffy and full, the air clean and fresh, you can see for miles and miles in any direction—
Even gentle sounds of life, the fast heartbeats of the birds, and the slow hum of the bugs and the tree…
For a moment…he doesn’t need to think about anything else.
Brett’s the one to shoot the deer.
Peter helps him take it back and prepare it. He’s a lot stronger than Brett is.
They leave nothing to waste.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain, pain, pain.
He’s going to die—
Underneath the weight of the concrete and steel—.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”
Peter sobs, trying in vain to lift the weight off him.
“I’m not better .”
Peter cries as he pushes against the weight on him. He can’t die—
Not yet!
He has to stop Toomes—
With one last push, the rubble is off him.
Everything blurs—
There’s a plane—
Peter’s fighting-
Then there’s fire and metal scraps everywhere, sand and the crashing of the ocean, silenced by the near-deafening noise around him—
I could’ve been better.
If only he’d burned up with the flames.
Peter angrily whittles away at the wood, hissing as the knife slices across his finger and blood pools up—
At an alarming rate—
“Brett!” Peter shouts, taking his shop apron and applying pressure to the wound, attempting to ignore the blood rapidly seeping through the cloth—he heals fast. It’ll go away soon—
“Peter!” The man comes rushing in— “Is something wrong—” The man sees the blood pouring out the wound and pales, “Let’s patch you up—”
Peter can hear the man’s heart pounding erratically, “Thank you, sir.”
Brett keeps a first aid kit in the shop for things like this.
The wound is a lot smaller by the time he bandages it.
He heals a lot faster than Brett.
Peter’s thankful he hurt his left hand instead of his right one.
Honestly, he shouldn’t have gone and nearly chopped off any of his fingers. Useless. Even at the things he’s good at .
“Peter?”
Peter looks up, “Yes, sir?”
“You’re staring at your mashed potatoes like they’ve got the meaning of life,” The man leans close to him and whispers, “Just tell me what they’re saying. I promise I’ll keep it a secret.”
Peter leans in, “They’re telling me to eat more vegetables.”
Brett snorts, “Do they not realize that they are vegetables?”
“They have a superiority complex—after all, they can be made into French fries,” Peter says weakly, trailing off, scooping up a big spoonful of the mash, shoving it all into his mouth, swallowing quickly
At times, he feels like a kid again.
It’s not too bad.
Peter is outside the workshop, sulking under the night sky.
It’s strange.
He never knew the night sky could have so many stars; he could see the Milky Way.
But he’s unsure…why he feels like the sky should have no stars.
He knows how to build things he shouldn’t.
How to swing from tree to tree...
That people aren’t as strong as he is and that he needs to hide .
He knows what it’s like to lift buildings—
Pain.
Pain.
Pain, pain, pain.
I’m dying.
“Pete?” Brett calls from the cabin, “You out there, kid?”
“Yeah. I am.”
“It’s cold, why don’t you come inside? You’ve never done well in the cold, you know that.”
Peter stays silent for a long time, not sure what to say.
Or if there is anything to say to begin with.
He can hear the door to the cabin close and Brett walking over to him, the ground crunching with his footsteps.
“You’ve been off all day. What’s wrong?” He stands next to him, putting a blanket over Peter’s shoulds—
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to… But you’ve got to talk to me, Peter.”
Peter stares at the ground, “It’s…not…nothing.”
“Ahh, so what is this ‘not nothing’? Because even if you don’t say ‘it’s fine’ and that ‘it’s nothing,’ you’re still avoiding the question. It still doesn’t count as talking, Pete.” Brett says softly, “I’d like to hear about whatever it is, big or small.”
Peter tightly wraps the blanket around himself, “It’s…I…remember something painful that happened in the past. It’s upsetting to not remember why or what happened. Just the pain and weight.”
Brett pats Peter’s back, “I can’t imagine how frustrating it is…to go through what you’re going through.”
Peter looks at the man and steps away, “Please… don’t pat my back.”
“I won’t, Peter.” The man sighs, and Peter can hear his heart beating achingly, his green eyes sad, “Let’s go inside.”
Peter hesitates, “I… I’m sorry. I don’t, don’t understand why you patting my back is just— I don’t remember—”
“You’ve got nothing to say sorry for, but I’ll accept your apology anyway. Now…I don’t usually bust it out, but how does some hot cocoa sound?”
Peter gives him a half smile as they start returning to the cabin, “It sounds great, Mr. Warner.”
“A baby?”
Peter asks to clarify.
“Yes, Peter! You’re going to have a little brother or sister—we want to keep the gender secret till we have them—” Ashley hums, “What do you say we go out to eat? We need to celebrate! I’m craving Italian!”
“Sounds great!” Peter forces himself to smile, heart pounding.
You’re not meant to have a family, Peter.
“And, Peter, I hope you know this doesn’t change how much we love you. You’re as much our kid as this one will be.”
Peter nods at Ryan’s words.
“I get it, Mr. McMillian… Just… You don’t plan on going onto any planes, right?” Peter laughs dryly, “Those tend to be bad luck when I’m around.”
“No, of course not,” The man says, confused, “Why are they bad luck?”
Peter just shrugs, “We better go get some food before the cravings get worse.”
—
May.
Ben.
Mom and Dad.
Your little sibling.
You never even got to meet them.
“Brett?”
The man turns around and looks at Peter, “You don’t use Brett… What’s wrong?”
“Maybe…maybe I don’t want to remember.” Peter looks at his half-formed woodworking project.
The man is silent for a long time.
“Why do you say that, Peter?”
“All I remember are bad things! What if there’s nothing good to remember—what if that’s why I lost my memories—I didn’t want them— ”
“Whoa, there, slow down, Peter!” Brett interjects, “Even if all of that is true…you want to know something?”
Peter blinks back tears that he doesn’t understand why they’re forming, “What?”
“I’m here…and the memories of here…those are going to stay, kid. Right?” The man gives him a soft smile, “And each day, we make more good ones. At this rate, we’ll be able to outnumber the bad ones in no time!”
Peter gives a choked laugh, “Sure. If you say so…”
But you can’t ignore what’s beneath the surface. It’ll come bubbling up sooner or later, Peter.
“Do you disagree, Pete?”
“Well…” Peter struggles to swallow the lump forming in his throat, “The good memories… don’t erase the bad ones. I still……remember.”
“Well, that’s when we talk about them. When they seem too much, come to me. I’m always going to listen.” Brett walks away while talking, entering the closet where he keeps his old projects. He quickly returns and walks towards Peter, handing him a wooden box with a rose, an elk, and engraved vines, “I made this for my wife.”
Peter blinks and looks up at the man, “Your wife?”
“She passed away a year after we got married,” Brett gives him a sad smile, his eyes misty, “It’s hard…to live with what I’ve lost. But I try to remember the good things. Because the good things make the bad worth it.”
“But what if there’s more bad things than the good’s worth?” Peter mumbles under his breath, but Brett hears him.
“Well, you find something you’re willing to fight for, or you talk to someone about it. You let them help you figure out what you want to fight for, how to survive the bad so you can enjoy the good.” The man takes Peter’s hand, placing the box in his palm, and says, “Take it. I’ve held onto it for 30-some years now.”
Peter holds the box in his hands. It’s small… But ornate.
A masterpiece of art.
“I—I can’t take this, it’s your wife’s—”
“I never got the chance to give it to her, actually. And what use do I have for a box like that? I could make a hundred more if I wanted.” Brett flashes him a smile, “We always wanted kids. I’m sure she’d love to know you have it.”
Peter feels tears bubbling up in his eyes.
How can you take something so important? You’re not worth half as much as this box.
But he takes it anyway. And later that day, when they head back to the cabin, Peter puts it on his nightstand.
Perhaps he’s not worthy of the gift… But Mr. Warner gave it to him, and that must mean something .
Peter tosses out the grains for the chickens haphazardly. It’s strange to see how the chicks he saw hatch have turned into chickens themselves.
He’d been here for three months, almost four.
Peter sucks in a deep breath, emptying their water basin and rinsing it out before he fills it back up again.
Three months, and you still can’t remember .
It’s so… frustrating .
And when he does—it’s only bad memories.
Was nothing in his previous life good?
“Is something upsetting you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Remember the one rule I have?”
Peter stabs his knife into the work table, “It’s not ‘nothing,’ it’s something. And I should talk about it, blah, blah. What about it?”
Peter cringes as his Queens accent comes through thick.
His Queens accent.
He’s from Queens, Peter realizes.
“Now I’m positive it’s not nothing. What did that table ever do to you?” The man admonishes and looks up at him over his reading glasses, “Please don’t do that with your tools or my table, Pete.”
“Sorry,” Peter grumbles, pulling the knife out of the table and running his finger across the hole he left.
Some scars run deep .
“You still have to talk about it, kid.”
Peter runs his thumb across the edge of the knife, wincing as he draws blood, “I…guess I just, you know, want to remember my life. That would be great, thanks.”
“Well, it’s a process, is it not? You’re remembering a little more each day.” Brett says, still seated at his workbench, craving a wooden moose, “You’ll probably hate this, but ‘Rome was not built in a day.’”
“You’re right. I do hate it,” Peter rolls his eyes, “It may not happen all at once, but I would like it to.”
“Things have a way of working out just how they need to, Pete—”
“Do they, now? Is that God’s mercy ? You said God showed me mercy when I first came here,” Peter’s voice wobbles, “Well, God, perhaps you should show me some more? It would be really nice if you gave me my memories back—what, do I need to sacrifice something? I’ll do it—”
“Peter.” Brett says cooly, “I understand that you’re upset. But you need to stop how you’re acting.”
Peter glances at the man and quickly looks away.
He is acting like a dick.
“I think… I’m going to go pet the chickens.”
He doesn’t bother waiting for Brett to respond. Instead, he sits his knife down and bolts out of the workshop.
Peter runs his hand across Ned’s head.
He has a chicken he named after a friend he didn’t remember having at the time.
He bets that Ned would love to meet Ned.
Ned, the chicken.
Peter gives a watery smile at the chicken.
“Well… you’re hard to compare to the real deal, Chicken-Ned.” Peter scratches the chicken’s favorite spot, “And I think you’d be terrible with legos. All talons, no thumbs…and bird brains, no offense.”
Peter remembers Spider-Man.
He remembers that he is Spider-Man.
You should be back in New York, protecting Queens. Yet, no, you are here, in the middle of nowhere, because of a stupid decision.
Peter’s sitting on the cabin’s porch, watching the sunrise.
It’s cold. Fall is here, and soon winter and its snow.
He hears the door open behind him and hot air rush out—
“Peter? You’re not usually up this early?”
He doesn’t respond.
What is there to say?
He remembers what he came here for.
“Do you want some hot cocoa?”
Peter shrugs.
Do you still want to…?
Peter swallows.
“Brett.”
“Peter?”
“When…When you found me, I had a hiking pack with me, right?”
“Yes, yes you did…”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in my office. If you come inside and sit by the fire, I’ll bring it to you.” Brett states, opening the door and letting Peter in first, “I’ll be right back.”
Peter watches the flames.
He wonders how…everyone is.
You can’t go back.
Good thing he doesn’t even want to.
He…likes it here. It’s quiet, and he has Chicken Ned.
Brett walks back into the living room with his pack and sits it next to Peter, who takes it and looks at the ID slot—
“There…were letters…” Peter stares at Brett, who gives him a solemn look, “There were letters, right? You didn’t—you didn’t read them, did you?”
“Peter…”
“You did.”
Peter starts to sob.
“I’m sorry, there wasn’t an ID, and I need to know who you were—”
“No, no—” Peter gets up and runs to the door, grabbing his coat and wool hat, “You, you had no right to read those!”
“Peter! Don’t you dare go through that door!”
Peter runs out, past the trees, and towards the creek where Brett found him. If you followed it to the north, past the shale slopes, you’d find a cave.
It was up a sheer rock face and hard to get to for an ordinary man.
It could be done, but the climb, although short, would be challenging.
But Peter isn’t an ordinary person, is he?
He crawls into the cave, small and tight towards the back, forcing Peter to stay near the mouth, only visible from the forest from the right position, pointing away from the cabin.
Brett wouldn’t be able to spot him until he returned from the opposite direction of the cabin.
Peter just…needs to be alone.
He wonders how everyone is doing without him.
Ned…MJ.
Mr. Stark and May…
He hopes they’re okay.
Brett runs after Peter, fearing for the worst. He searches, but there’s any number of places he could’ve run off to—
He could be trying to—
No.
It’s bad to assume the worst.
Hours passed, and it started to rain.
The heavy sheets of rain made it hard for Peter to hear anything other than its crashing against the forest.
It’s cold.
And as the hours trudge on, it’s only getting colder. He can’t stay out here like this, and if Brett is still looking in this weather…
Peter pushes back the guilt that bubbles up in his chest and hops down from his cave, nearly slipping on the way down.
Peter quickly makes his way back to the cabin, careful to listen for any signs of Brett.
And there—
He can hear it—
Peter runs towards Brett and manages to find him after a few minutes of searching.
“Peter!” The man calls out desperately, his clothes soaked through—
“Mr. Warren!” Peter calls out, running towards him, “Let’s get you inside—”
“Get me inside, boy ? I’ve been trying to get you inside!” The man snaps, causing Peter to flinch and Brett to calm down, “You had me worried, Peter. Now, we’ll catch our death if we stay out here much longer…”
Peter sits next to Brett, both with a mug of hot cocoa as they warm themselves by the fire.
“Sorry.”
“Peter…”
“Sorry for…everything.” Peter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “Especially forcing you to be out in that rain.”
“And I’m sorry for reading th—” The man coughs wetly, “Sorry for violating your privacy…Letters like that are…deeply personal.”
“Yeah, they are.” Peter stares down at the floor blankly.
“Do you…want to talk?”
“Not really…but… I like it here. I won’t… leave .”
“Good. You’ll let me know if that ever changes?”
Peter nods, “It’s hard. It was hard before I even had my memories back. I just, I don’t want to drag you down like I have been—”
“You’ve been dragging me down, Pete?” The man smiles, red-faced, “Well, that’s news to me.”
Peter looks up at him, giving a sad smile, “Yeah…I just… I’m not even sure I can go back— It’s been a little less than… half a year —God, they all must think I’m dead and, and what I put them through, I just— I can’t imagine how much May is worrying— ”
Brett looks startled by what Peter says, but it’s as soon as the emotions there are washed away.
“I’m sure they would love to have you back, kid…and you should go back. But I won’t force you. And, remember, you’ll always have a place in this cabin.”
Peter smiles slightly, "I’ll think about going back. I guess.”
“Wouldn’t ask for more—" The man coughs again before sipping his cocoa, "I think I did end up catching a cold."
Brett only seems to get sicker and sicker with each day.
“Peter…I think we need to go into town. I need to visit the doctor." Brett coughs again, a deep rattling noise.
"—we can go, Mr. Warner! Just eat breakfast, and I’ll get you in the car…" Peter watches the man eat guiltily. After all, it’s his fault Brett is sick.
"Kid. I know you’re blaming yourself. Stop. I chose to run around in the rain."
"But—"
"Peter, did you intend to get me sick? Did you want me to be sick?" Brett says hoarsely, and the boy shakes his head, "You did not ask for this."
Peter sighs, munching on a piece of bacon, "You’re right, I guess. But I’m still going to feel guilty."
"Well…there’s no reason to. I’ll be fine, probably could go without a visit to the doctor…but I’m getting on in years, should go in for a check-up anyhow." Brett finishes the last of the food on his plate, "Now, are you ready?"
"Yeah."
Brett had to have Peter drive them.
Which was nerve-wracking in and of itself. The roads were steep and unmaintained, but at least they weren’t icy yet, this time of year.
It took them a lot longer to get to the town that they’d hoped for, and they arrived a little after 2, having left at 11.
Peter pulls into the town’s urgent care clinic. He quickly helps Brett walk in and get checked in.
It seemed to be a relatively quiet night, and they helped Brett shortly after they arrived, giving him a room and some medicine.
He’s got pneumonia.
The doctor said it was good that they brought him in when they did. Otherwise, things would have started to go very wrong.
Peter spends the rest of the day sitting next to Brett’s bed, reading the worn-out copy of the Lord of the Rings they had lying around. He’s very thankful the nurse gave it to him. Otherwise, he’d have to sit around and think…
Not that Peter isn’t doing that with the book…
"Peter."
"Yes, sir?" He looks up from the book,
"Take my wallet. Go get yourself a room at the motel and a meal at the dinner," He starts to cough again, "If you don’t, I will get the nurses to yell at you. They won’t let you sleep here, you know."
"But, the money—"
"I have enough money. Just do it, Peter. We’re not going to argue over it."
Peter sighs but relents, getting up and grabbing the man’s wallet, "Okay…and again, I'm sorry about all this—"
"Okay, and again… It’s not your fault," The man’s voice softens, "Now go to Soffie’s dinner—they don’t take cards; she’s old-fashioned like that. Cash only, you’ll have to get some money from the ATM, it’s just across the street… The town’s small enough that you shouldn’t have trouble finding your way around, okay? Just go get something to eat and rest at the motel."
Peter nods, "Thank you, you don't have to do this."
Brett disagrees with Peter as he leaves the room, making his way to the lobby before leaving to find the motel and dinner.