Apples, Doctors, something something
Sizzling filled the air as the smell of buttermilk wafted over Peter. Humming drifted over the pops of bacon frying, just slightly out of key. His comforter curled around him in an embrace made of clouds. He was warm, and everything felt right in that hazy, dream-like way that comes with first waking up.
"Come help with breakfast, kiddo. Goodness knows we can't eat all this alone." Ben's voice filtered in from his bedside, deep and soothing with that slight rasp like a memory from before May forced him to quit. Peter cracked one sleep-crusted eye open with a bleary kind of effort. The light sent pain like red-hot embers directly into his nerves but his eyes refused to close again, forced Peter to fight through the dizziness to look at Ben. Through tired eyes and his slowly clearing vision, Peter saw Uncle Ben’s crow’s feet pulled taught, his eyes like crescents above an adoring, teasing smile.
Peter felt more than heard himself mumble “Wha’s on th' menu?” and while he was stuck wondering why he couldn't move, why he felt like someone left him on autopilot, Ben replies.
“Wheatcakes, of course. Never get sick of ‘em.” In a far too loud stage whisper, he added, “Don’t tell your aunt, but every time I have to travel I can’t tell which I miss more — her or those wheatcakes.” Ben’s hearty chuckle is cut off by an indignant squawk. At the sound, he jumped and patted Peter repeatedly on the shoulder before pulling him from under the covers to stand.
“Benjamin! Well, if that’s how you feel you can come down here and make the things yourselves!” The anger in her voice was ruined by the laughter that followed. As Ben snickered into a drowsy Peter’s shoulder, Aunt May joins them at the bottom of the stairs. She pulled Peter from Ben’s arms, kissing him on the forehead and then his cheek. “Peter, always remember that no matter what I’ll always prefer you to your horrible uncle.” At Uncle Ben’s theatrical gasp and kicked puppy expression she rounded on him and pulls him into her hug alongside Peter. “Oh, dear, you’re not horrible. At least, you won’t be anymore once you set the table.”
At this Peter truly chuckled, his small voice laughing out a “Chop-chop” to his uncle through a childish grin.
They sat in their little kitchen; the one Ben had painted over three different times, the one May insisted wasn't big enough to feed a growing boy like Peter every time Ben told her to stop buying mugs as if those two things correlate, the one where Peter made his first baking soda volcano. Morning light hid the window in a blinding glare, blocking May's gardenia bush that he knew had been overtaking the view through the glass.
His plate sat empty in front of him, scraps and remnants of May's cooking as the only evidence he ate. While Ben and May picked their way through their own breakfast, May piped up to ask, "So Pete, how’s that chemistry project coming? Need more stuff from the store?” Oh, Peter remembered this. It wasn’t even a week after he got his powers and he was still working on developing his webs. This was less than a week before Uncle Ben died.
“What d’you mean, kiddo? I’m not going anywhere, promise.” Ben grinned at him from over a pile of bacon that wouldn’t shrink in size no matter how much was pulled from it, that reflected too much of the light in its grease. Uncle Ben stared at him for just long enough to be unsettling before he turned to May, placing a hand over hers holding the table knife.
“Now, Benjamin, you know better than to make promises.” She giggled softly as if she had told a joke, her expression the picture of amusement. “Promises don’t mean much from dead men, and especially not to someone like Petey.” Uncle Ben joined her in booming guffaws, while May continued to speak, eyes whipping back to Peter with her teeth still bared in a teasing grin. “After all, you remember what he promised.” Ben’s head started to drip blood from his hairline, a hole from the bullet forming in his hand over top of May’s. “That was a laugh, honest, a riot. And, oh, poor MJ and Ned have no idea he even broke their promise.” Under Ben’s hand, Aunt May’s own looked exactly like the Guardians did back on Titan, like how Peter knows he must have looked when he... “Really, ignorance is bliss for that sweet girl.” He watched her dust. Why was she dusting? She shouldn’t be dusting, it didn’t make sense.
Peter wanted to scream. He wanted to scream at the world for what's happening to them. He wanted to scream about how sorry he was. About how May would never say these things, how he already knew, how he doesn’t want to see her dust — to die again. About how he’s sorry to Uncle Ben, MJ, and Ned. Because Peter didn’t couldn’t save them from his mistakes, couldn’t make it up to them. More than anything, he wanted to scream because Aunt May and Uncle Ben are dying in front of him again. May, who already died twice and never deserved it once, and Ben, who has died over and over in his nightmares for years.
He watched as May’s skull cracked before parts of her slowly fluttered off and disappeared. Peter heard her lungs fill with blood that distorted her mantra, a now garbled repetition of, “Won’t you make me a promise, Petey?”
He watched as Ben’s eye turned red from blood dripping in, slowly dulling under the too-bright kitchen lights. His chest bloomed in crimson patterns over his heart and hip, both agonizingly devoured in red. He spoke through a smear of blood over his lips, a gruesome and hollow reminder of “You promised us.”
It’s red everywhere. It’s red on the table, on his hands, all over all three of them, over the window he could slowly begin to see through May’s disappearing torso. The glass had a metallic sheen, and it seemed to shake as the voices chorused in distorted sounds that couldn’t even be considered words anymore; it was MJ, then Ned, then some horrifically distorted voice like a mechanical tumbling of rocks. Each voice repeated some garbled curse or broken phrase as he tried to will his hands to grab onto the two of them, to move, to do anything to help them because everything was wrong. It’s all so wrong, he knows it’s wrong that this isn’t how any of this happened so why does it hurt anyway and it feels like he’s dusting all over again right alongside May but they both look so betrayed and somehow, somehow, that hurts so, so much more and it’s so wrong, wrong, wrong —
In a flash of pain, his right arm jolts and the world oscillates between blurry reds and that blinding white. He’s thrown from the chair and yanked up from the ground all at once and–
His chest aches, a rattling breath pulling in with the force of a punch to the ribs, and some barely conscious part of him knows that it will ache even more later. His skin crawls up and down his neck while the hair on his arm stands on end as his senses screech at him. Something vibrates across his whole skull, behind his eyes, under his skin. When he sinks back into his body there’s a noticeable weight on his right arm and he yanks away, away from whatever was touching him and making his skin burn. The movement hurts more than it ever should but Peter fights through the shock to avoid whatever it was that had a grip on him and boiled his skin.
Through the pain, there’s a voice that trickles in. May, he thinks, trying to tell him something. But it’s warbled, fuzzy from the rush of blood in his head. There’s no way he can go to school today, not when he feels like he got thrown off another plane. He just doesn’t have the energy for a media nightmare today.
“... be careful… could be torn.” Peter groans as May keeps talking. He knows he really needs to get up, should really listen to her and make sure everything is okay, but everything hurts and it doesn’t seem like it’s worth trying to make it to first period even if it is Chemistry.
The touch is suddenly back, grazing the skin on his right ankle where it feels like it’s on fire. His whole joint is stiff, swollen and Peter tries to kick away the hand gently but the pang in his knee makes him flinch, kicking harder than he meant to. Concerned for her, Peter wrenches his weighted eyelids open, but, of course, it isn’t May’s hand he kicked. Next to him is an older woman he doesn’t recognize, and she’s glaring at his right foot with an exasperated look in her eye. His vision is still adjusting, bleary and tired eyes struggling to focus under fluorescent lights but he doesn’t think he’d recognize her even under better circumstances.
In a rush, Peter apologizes, saying, “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” but his voice sounds swallowed and raspy, to the point even he can barely understand what he says. He goes to clear his throat and instead ends up hacking down into his own chest. His own chest, which on inspection is very much not covered in his Spider-Man suit. Instead, he’s in a hospital gown and covered by a light blanket. He was definitely in his suit. He definitely just actually lived through whatever the hell just happened to the universe because he’s Spider-Man. So he definitely should still be in his suit. The same Spider-Man suit that he’s definitely not wearing.
The woman lowers her hands to her hips, bunching up her baby-blue scrubs. "Relax, don't push yourself just yet. Even someone like you will need time to recover from all this." Her look turns scathing. "And excuse me, 'Ma'am'?"
When did he get out of his suit? He remembers the fight with Norman, then the spell, and… and then he was somewhere and now he's here. Did he blackout and somehow make it to… wherever here is? No, with the way his leg is now, it would've been too bad to get just about anywhere even a half hour ago and he certainly feels like he slept longer than that. Someone else got him here and out of his suit. Meaning they have his suit.
Peter feels his heart rate spike, he hears the monitor jump. He’s fully aware he’s panicking but there’s not really any way to stop it. Someone knows he’s Spider-Man. Again. He screwed up. Again. Already.
He frantically looks around for his suit, taking in the sterile white room filled with more medical equipment than he can name. The doctor distantly tries to tell him to relax again as Peter shifts this way and that on the table but doesn’t stop him as he peers around her. Desks, cabinets, sinks, refrigerators, trash, tables. So much in the room that isn’t what he’s looking for. He can’t see it. His suit isn’t there.
The hospital gown is unnaturally constricting — claustrophobic even. Cords and cables from the monitor act like vines curling around his torso. He pulls at the blue and white spotted fabric with his right arm where he had been clutching it against his chest, tweaking his already throbbing shoulder even further while sending a chilling pain down his spine that forces a grimace he can't stifle. Clawing at the gown doesn’t ease the burning feeling of his skin. It’s like poison ivy crawling across his skin and creeping into every cell while his heart stutters and creaks under the weight of what should be nothing but flimsy fabric. The spotted pattern dances in his vision, switching from blue to black, yellow flashes, black to blue, over and over.
A voice eases into his head through the throbbing of his pulse and the buzzing panic. The woman’s face is in front of him, a gentle and concerned look creases her already weathered skin further. “It’s alright, it’s alright." Her hand hovers over his own on his chest, like she wants to pull him off of himself but is scared to startle him as if she were approaching a wild animal. "If the gown bothers you, we have plenty of comfortable clothing you can pick from.” She pauses as Peter stalls, glancing at where he fists the neck of the gown. “Can I grab you something? There’s a really cozy sweatshirt I think you’d like.” Peter feels himself unthinkingly nod his head as best he can, but it feels more like he finally succumbs to how heavy his head is. His fingers are cold and his whole body is sore, his drifting mind just acting like the cherry on top of a crumbling cake.
Peter’s not sure how long he stares at his tingling fingers before the doctor comes back, placing a bundle of clothes next to him on the bed. “My name is Doctor Thompkins and this is my private clinic. You're in Park Row, okay? What’s your name?” Folded on top of the pile is his suit. She had his suit. That makes an alarming amount of sense and only sends Peter back into a more immediate panic, shooing away the placating numbness that had washed over him.
He has to leave as soon as physically possible. What if her knowing he’s Spider-Man breaks the spell? What if the spell was already kind of broken and she recognized him? What if all the other universes come crashing together again? Doctor Stephen won’t even be able to help him this time considering Strange maybe probably doesn’t even remember anything. What if the same villains come back from that same moment in time and they’re just as mad and confused and all the cures are gone? He’s not even the one who made all of them — well, he is but not him him. The other Peters did so much and he would've been so screwed without them. Probably is currently screwed without them.
He yanks the fluid IV out of his left arm, both arms jointly protesting the move but he's already turned his focus to the sticky electrode pads stuck all over him and the various wires grouped and ready to be pulled away. Would the other Peter's be panicking this much? The oxygen monitor on his finger gets flung off then lightly placed on the bed. Peter Two always seemed so put together, so ready. He can't ruin the doctor's things, calm down Peter, calm. Both of the other Peters jumped into his craziness without a single ounce of hesitation. They were so ready for anything a completely different world threw at them.
The doctor tries to move toward him again after having backed off a little and obviously regretting it. She can't get close enough before he throws the blanket off. She’s just behind him as Peter snatches the pile she delivered all while he mumbles a haggard chorus filled with variations of 'thank you' and 'so sorry'. He slips off the side of the bed and lands too hard on his right foot, sending nerve-scorching pain up his shin from his ankle. Peter knows he won't make it far on it but he needs to get away before things can get worse, before the universe notices his newest colossal mistake.
He darts around the bed and away from the doctor–lady with his head bowed low. The IV stand gets knocked over in his haste and the clatter sends him skittering to the large door on the side of the room opposite to where the doctor had come from. It's heavy with chipping white paint that sticks to his shoulder as he forces the steel handle and shoves. As soon as it's open enough, Peter is through it with as little grace as possible, his suit on the top of the bundle in his arms catching on the latch in the door frame for just a moment before it's pulled free.
Tripping down the little doorstep, he bursts into a dark alleyway and crashes straight into the opposite wall. Pushing off, he turns to sprint down the narrow alley and out onto the main road. Blue light from the early morning twilight barely guides his way as he stumbles and trips across the asphalt while the chilled breeze hits his bare back under the hospital gown. The smells of blood and vomit that are soaked into the concrete pierce his nose, almost distracting him from the trembling and shooting pain of his leg. Almost. His ribs pinch his lungs, refusing to let them expand enough for a solid breath. Peter pushes on with one foot in front of the other, clothes under his arm and feet barely under him at all. He’s already slowing in his pace but he can’t let himself stop yet. Around him he can hear people in the background of the city din, never too close but every snippet of a conversation or movement he catches spurs him faster and further. He mindlessly follows the cracks in the pavement from one block to the next, the shift from concrete to asphalt and back the only thing telling him how far he’s made it. His head is low, watching the ground shift under him to mildly cleaner streets before he chances to look up.
The building he came from is long behind when he finally turns down another empty alley just as narrow as the last. It reeks of old booze and gunpowder, but, like the rest of the streets have been, it's blessedly devoid of other life. He lets himself collapse, bracing against the filthy brick wall. The air is too cold and his bare feet are raw from the pavement under him, likely covered in grime and scratches in uncountable measure. Frozen brick scratches against his shoulder through the flimsy gown, an extra reminder telling him to put on the clothing he stole from the nice doctor he ran away from. He’d love the comfort of his suit, but he knows it’s shredded and that, as things are, he’d be risking too much if he were to be Spider-Man. In the pile, under the suit, lies a giant blue sweatshirt folded around a loose black t-shirt with a red ‘S’ logo he doesn’t recognize. He never was a big sports person but it looks like something that would be on a jersey. Mr. Stark laughed at him and tried to take him to a basketball game which he politely declined out of pure fear. He really wishes he had gone, even if he had no clue what anything meant.
Shucking the gown, suddenly and awkwardly grateful for his boxers to a newfound and ridiculous degree, he pulls on the tee and sweatshirt. Peter pulls the contrasting red hood over his head, hiding his ears from the frigid air while also managing to at least block some of the sounds from the stirring city. He nests the over-sized sweatpants over-top of the athletic shorts at the bottom of the pile. Noticing a bump, Peter finds fluffy hospital socks bundled in the sweatshirt pocket and rolls them over the raw soles of his feet as gently as possible before outright crumpling to the ground.
The freezing gravel digs into his shins and knees through the fleece of his new pants. Peter’s senses cringes at every sensation, sound, and smell that washes over him. In the shadow of the alley he hides from even the bare beginnings of morning light. Curling in on himself, he holds his suit to his chest as he braces against the alley wall, forcing himself to breathe as he feels the adrenaline fade and his wounds close slowly but surely. Bones creak, his head spins, but Peter tries to relax for the first time since his whole universe collapsed.