Every clock's a different time
He reached the city the next morning, having found a truck to stick to the top of, laying flat with his hands and feet keeping him stuck. He hopped off when they reached the Brooklyn Bridge, and he climbed the nearest building as stealthily as he could manage. From there, he ran across rooftops, trying to get as far into the city as he could manage.
It was almost dark when he found a clothesline, tucking his gloves away and pulling a sweatshirt over his head. It had the name of a small scale electric company along the back, but it covered the red and blue of his suit, so he wasn’t picky. Somewhere in the back of his mind he convinced himself that he would return it, eventually, but beyond the surface he knew it was a petty lie to make himself feel better.
The bottom half of his suit was bright, and he was half grateful that he had been in the middle of taking it off, the red and black boots replaced with his beat up sneakers. It was one comfort he had from home, knowing that wherever he was now was different. It looked like he was wearing the boldest statement pants, but it was New York, so he didn’t think it would go too far in making him stand out.
He tried to think of a plan, once he knew he wouldn’t be noticed as soon as he jumped down to street level. The most logical solution would be to go back to his apartment, pass out, and then try to figure out how he’d gotten to the middle of Catskill. There was something else, though, something that kept him glued to the rooftop, sitting against a generator. Something was different, he could feel it in his bones.
The building parallel to him, one that he’d swung past a million times before, had a mural painted along the bricks. It had been for Iron Man, bright oranges and blues depicting the arc reactor. Now, though, there was the visage of his own mask in front of him. It made his stomach churn.
The smartest plan of action was going to be gathering information. He needed to find the nearest library, or someplace he could access a computer and some wifi. His eyes were getting heavy, and the sun had already gone down, so he only had so much time before most places would be closed. He sighed, trying to place himself mentally, figuring out where the nearest public library would be. All he had to do was start walking.
There was a younger girl with blonde hair sitting at the front desk, a book open in front of her, wearing one earbud. He approached cautiously, becoming increasingly aware of how empty it was in there.
“Excuse me,” He said, clearing his throat when it came out raspy. “I’m so sorry, I don’t want to bother you,”
She looked up, briefly, sighing through her nose and tapping the edge of the table. “Almost closing,” She chirped, and the sign clearly read the hours, 9 am to 8 pm. He really needed to get a watch, he was sure it was barely seven.
“Right,” He closed his eyes, knowing that most libraries ran on the same schedules. He could always try and sneak into Midtown Tech, he’d done it tons of times before to make more web fluid, but that would mean racing halfway across the city. His legs felt sore just thinking about it, and he still hadn’t gotten any sleep.
He was about to mutter his thanks when the girl shifted, the sound of a book closing jolting him to open his eyes. “Hey,” She began, kindly, a certain look of empathy crossing her features. “What are you here for? I’m the only one here to close up so…I think I can spare you an hour…” She bit her lip, glancing sideways at the entrance then back towards him.
Peter felt his mood shift, ever so slightly, surprised at the gesture. “Yeah?” She nodded, and he let out a breathy sort of laugh. “Oh my God, you’d actually be saving my life. I was just going to use a computer, give me thirty minutes tops, I swear you are literally the best,”
“Dude,” She stopped him before he could spout more of his gratitude, laughing a little. “Don’t even worry about it. I’m just going to go over and lock the doors, keep any more strays out, y’know?” They shared a smile, and he shuffled from foot to foot, trying to hold in a yawn as she walked over to lock up.
Gwen, it said on the nameplate at the table, laminated but not stuck, so workers could slip their own names in and out. He figured it would be awkward if he used her name, though, so he kept quiet, almost physically deflating at his stroke of luck.
“Computers this way,” She declared, swinging the keys from her fingertips as she made her way back to him. He tried not to cry tears of joy as he was led further inside, keeping his hands in his pockets, making sure his gloves didn’t fall out. “This might be super weird,” Gwen started saying conversationally as she pointed him to a console. “But you look familiar. You aren’t, like, secretly famous or something, are you?”
He blinked, keeping his smile in place besides the flash of memories. He knew all too well what it was like to be famous, especially in New York. “Um, not that I know of?” She gave him a shrug, striding over to a keyboard and typing quickly to open the internet browser. “Thank you, seriously,” He added, when he settled into the seat.
She gave him a grimace of understanding. “Don’t mention it. I’ve procrastinated papers before in my life, I know how it is,”
“Yeah,” He forced a laugh, and she excused herself to go back to her book.
He melted into the seat, exhaling deeply before turning to the keyboard, resting his fingers lightly on the letters and thinking desperately of what to search for. After a moment, he began to move, slowly, looking up the Blip. He clicked on the first article he saw, published by some news editorial.
So Thanos invaded here, too, in 2018, and there was still the loss of five years for all those decimated. He clicked out, hovering the mouse over the page, scrolling down tentatively. There was news about Stark Industries, the post-snap housing crisis, something vague about Captain America and another about Asgard.
Nothing about Tony Stark’s death. He skimmed cheesy clickbait titles, reading through anything relevant to the present, and anything to give him more context.
Something caught his eye, after a few moments, and he felt his stomach lurch. His breath caught in his throat, and he clicked another article:
The World Mourns Spider-Man
The Times
New York’s very own wall crawler has made the ultimate sacrifice, and it will be a long time before anyone forgets. Recent developments suggest that the savior of the universe was none other than Midtown Tech’s sophomore, Peter Benjamin Parker. His remaining family, May Parker, and Tony Stark invite the nation, the globe, to join in the memorial.
There was a picture, one taken from the school's yearbook, and then another he knew must’ve been from Ned’s camera roll. In the first one he looked awkward, bright-eyed and young, his smile too tight and his posture directed by whatever school-funded photographer had been there that day. The second photo was more casual, with his thumbs up and a stupid smile on his face. He continued to read, fervently, feeling an intense feeling of cold settle over his bones. Goosebumps erupted along his arms, and he stared at the computer, his eyes glued to the last sentence.
I think I speak for the world when I say thank you, Peter Parker, your bravery will never be forgotten.
He felt like he was watching all of this happen from somewhere deep inside himself, dissociative and numb as his hands clenched against the sides of the chair. He was dead. He had been dead here for over three years. He had died in the fight against Thanos. He had died instead of Tony.
Something burned in the back of his throat. Was that always an option? Dr. Strange had told them that there was only one timeline where they’d won, and that was a world where Thanos snapped, the Avengers brought all of them back, and Tony Stark sacrificed himself to defeat the alien army. But…it could have been him?
He felt like he was going to be sick, swallowing thickly and closing his eyes tight. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe he had misread something. Maybe this was all an elaborate trick, and Beck was back, and he was stuck in one giant illusion.
He needed to see it for himself.
He kicked the chair back, shooting to his feet and hastily closing tabs. He managed another thank you as he rushed past Gwen, who waved him goodbye, looking concerned in a way only strangers could. He knew he must’ve looked awful, his head spinning and his hands clammy. He didn’t feel tired anymore, he only felt nauseous.
There was a cemetery in the middle of Harlem, one that Peter knew like the back of his hand at this point in his life. His strides were quick, stopping only when he had to catch his breath after running through Brooklyn. He almost heaved, finally running out of steam. The gate was closed, time passing around him seamlessly, and he knew it was past midnight. His forehead was beaded in sweat, and he was starving.
“What am I doing?” He said to himself, hunched over in the dark on an empty street. “I won’t even be able to see anything, it’s too dark,” He sighed, pressing his palms into his eyelids and thinking, his mind fighting itself to stop panicking. He didn’t have his phone on him, and he only had an emergency twenty dollar bill stuffed into a sewn pocket on his suit. He needed water and a dozen sandwiches, but most of all he needed sleep.
He began to survey his surroundings wearily, standing to his full height and darting his gaze around. The streetlight ahead of him was flickering. There was a man smoking at the end of the street across from him. There was a slow breeze that blew through the branches of a tree, hanging halfway over the sidewalk from the wall dividing the cemetery. He eyed it more carefully, glancing at the lone figure flicking his lighter on and off before approaching the brick wall.
He checked over both of his shoulders, just to make sure, and then hopped up, hoisting himself up and over the gate. Now that he had officially broken in, he made a beeline to another tree, minding the headstones and flowers. He found one nearly halfway across the grounds, wiping his nose and thinking back to the last time he had slept in a tree. This wouldn’t be his weirdest night by far. He rubbed at his eyes, tried to quell the dread pooling in his stomach, and climbed.
Back when Strange had first cast his spell, there were many nights where Peter didn’t have a place to stay. It took him a few days to access his bank account and some of May’s stuff, so he’d slept on benches, in trees, sometimes at the top of a skyscraper if he could get away with it, and if the weather was nice enough. He was no stranger to being homeless, except at that point he’d at least had a change of clothes and a toothbrush, even if it was used in public bathrooms.
Now, all he had to look forward to was a graveyard and the potential of being hunted down by a dead Iron Man.
He woke up to his stomach grumbling. He shifted his head, feeling somehow more exhausted than when he’d fallen asleep, his neck stiff and legs sore. He sat up quickly, bumping his head with a stray bundle of leaves, nearly falling to the ground with the disorientation.
He clung with his sticky fingers, watching the few people trailing around, mourning and paying respects. He swallowed, his throat dry, wiping the sleep from his eyes and trying to straighten his clothes. He didn’t sleep very well, so it couldn’t have been later than eight or nine.
He was surprised no one had noticed him, but he had a feeling if anyone did, they just let him be. He personally wouldn’t disturb a stranger in a tree at a cemetery.
It took him a few minutes before it was clear to climb down. No one seemed to pay any attention to him, and he wandered away from the tree, towards the path he knew by heart to his parents graves. The closer he got, the heavier he felt, his stomach clenched and his chest tight. He didn’t want to think about what he would find there, and it had only just occurred to him that it could be exactly the same.
Maybe it was all a horrible dream and he had been transported right into that tree, not the middle of the woods. He pushed his hair back on his head, hyper aware of how long it had been getting, at how the tree bark had felt against his skin, about how empty his stomach felt.
He stopped, facing the headstones he was familiar with, however sad it was. In a row, it read out his mother, his father, and Ben. Loving mother, father, husband, uncle. He paused, his eyes locked onto the grave of his Uncle, his heart rate spiking. There was another space, to its right, one that for almost a year had belonged to May Parker. There were fresh flowers—he could smell them. There were lots of them, he noticed, willing himself to turn, to face the stone.
HERE LIES PETER B. PARKER
BELOVED NEPHEW AND FRIEND
THERE IS ONLY WHAT YOU TAKE WITH YOU
2001-2023
Someone had left a card, recently, with red and blue crayon on the front, messy in its strokes, an attempt at outlining the colors of his suit. The flowers were in various stages of wilting, some of them having fallen over, mixing into one another however the wind had arranged them. There was a small stuffed animal, something you could buy from any corner shop or hospital, a bear holding a heart. It was lopsided.
Peter kneeled down, turned over, and dry heaved onto the grass. Bile rose in his throat, and his eyes burned at the sting in the back of his tongue. His head was pounding. He didn’t understand. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
There were footsteps approaching, slowly, the sound softened by the grass. He covered his mouth, sure that there was nothing in his stomach to vomit up. Pulling himself to his feet, he tried to grasp at any sense of composure, looking immediately to the sound closest to him. There, holding a box of legos and a bundle of flowers, was his best friend. Nothing was said for a moment, and Peter felt light headed. Ned opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
Peter pointed to the box under one of his arms, attempting to act nonchalant. “Is that the millennium falcon? Isn’t it, like, 8,000 pieces?”
“7,500,” He answered, automatically, then he dropped the box. “You’re—you’re supposed to be dead,” If it weren’t for the tremble in his voice, Peter would almost be offended at the statement.
To be completely honest, he was trying to focus on anything other than the tiny crease in Ned’s forehead, because he knew that indent and exactly what kind of grief brought it out, and if he truly thought about it for a moment longer, he would break down in tears. He’d been trying so hard not to cry over the past 24 hours.
“I’m sorry,” He said, instead of the explanation he was hoping would come out. He shifted, a little awkwardly, scratching his arm. He felt self-consious, like it suddenly mattered that he’d stolen a sweatshirt and slept in a tree. “If it means anything, I kinda wish I was dead. Not like, uh, not in a bad way! Just…I mean, like, it just seems like it would be easier. At the moment,”
Ned stared at him for a long time, a couple different emotions crossing his face, pinching all of the lines around his mouth and furrowing his brows. Peter shifted again, under the scrutiny, and wondered if it would be considered weird to scratch his arm in the same spot again. “God, I missed you,” And then they were hugging.
Ned fit against him exactly as he had that night on the Statue of Liberty, even if Peter was a little taller, a little thinner. His arms were tight against his back, and his body was warm, and Peter was leaning heavy into him, even when he tried to stop himself.
“How are you here?” Ned spoke into his shoulder, and his breath tickled his spine.
“I don’t know,” He answered truthfully, letting some of his worry slip into his tone, and Ned began to loosen his hold, stepping away and looking at him critically.
He wiped at his eyes, looking him over from head to toe. “You’re not a zombie, are you?”
“No,” Peter said, smiling tiredly, the amusement coming to him easily for the first time in a long time. “At least, I don’t think so. Because I haven’t died,”
Ned furrowed his brow, and he offered his hand, leading him to the nearest bench, launching into an explanation. He didn’t have much to explain, just that he was from a different world where the fight against Thanos went different—where he survived—that it had been a few years and he was just getting back from patrol when he was in the middle of the woods. He paused, slowing down when he got to the interaction with his former mentor, wetting his lips and trying not to dwell on it too much. Ned listened intently, something Peter had missed about him, and nodded when he was finished.
“I know it sounds crazy,” He said, after he had caught his breath. Ned shook his head, and Peter couldn’t help himself, clinging onto hopefulness. “You believe me?”
Ned looked at him, hard, and Peter felt seen. “Of course I do,” He answered, as if he was being an idiot for thinking anything else. “What are you going to do now?”
“I need to speak with Dr. Strange,” He stated, having run over the closest thing to a plan while he was explaining.
Ned looked at him sideways. He had been looking at him for some time, just drinking in his features, and Peter was curious as to how much he had changed. He had to look at himself as he grew, so he was completely desensitized towards his own features, besides the fact that he had sprouted a few inches. He would be lying if he wasn’t also memorizing every difference in his friend, either, consuming the new lines around his cheeks and the length of his hair and the weight on his shoulders. They had both lost each other, in a way, but Ned had been given more time to grieve him. He wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse, yet.
“But first,” He swung his legs out in front of him, trying to keep his face serious, professional. “Can I borrow some pants?”
Both of their gazes, almost in unison, skittered down to the bright blue fabric of his suit, glinting against the summer sun and scuffed at the knees. Ned exhaled quickly through his nose, a mannerism Peter knew meant that he was trying really hard not to laugh.
“Pants,” He managed, his face flickering with amusement, and Peter covered his mouth with a hand, knowing the smile that lay under it. “I think we can get some pants,”
God, he’d missed him, too.