I.
They shot him. One moment she was in the store with the milk carton in her hand and the next minute she was remembering three years ago, she was eighteen again, being followed by some creep as she frantically tried to shake him off. Eighteen was old enough to have been cat-called, old enough to have walked home with her keys in her fist and old enough to have heard about all the dangers of the big city, but Arianna had never felt so scared as the man in the black puffer jacket threatened closer and closer.
That was, until a spray of webbing stuck the man’s feet to the ground and a familiar red and blue suit dropped from the skyscraper next to her. Spider-Man’s mask looked decidedly unimpressed with the man’s actions, and he launched right into berating him for his poor choices before webbing him to a lamppost and writing a hasty note with paper he procured from somewhere.
The vigilante had walked Arianna home, chatting cheerfully with her, and attempted to explain just what happened to her dads, who were freaking out at the sight of their daughter being escorted home by Spider-Man. Ever since, Arianna had smiled when she saw the superhero in the skies, and felt the loss of him - and the Avengers - oddly sharply after the Blip. But this… this was different.
They’d shot him dead, and New York would never see anything like him again. He was still Spider-Man to her, still the superhero that was as much as home as the corner deli was, but he was also Peter Parker. He was a high school student. He was only fourteen when he’d saved her, an almost-child behind the confident mask. He was heartbreakingly naive. He was young, he was seventeen, he was… he was dead.
All the noise in the store had stopped as the crackly TV reported that ‘Spider-Man - or Spider-Menace - has been reportedly shot and killed at the site of a fight with another masked villain, but slain by the bullets of the New York City Police Department. Reports from the area state that a seventeen-year-old white male, believed to be Peter Parker whilst appearing as Spider-Man has been killed. The cause of death will later be determined by autopsy, but the Daily Bugle believes that Spider-Man has been killed. Also amongst the casualties are a wh-.’
Arianna’s hands were shaking and she knew that she probably looked awful, but the other people in the store looked equally as shocked. Perhaps they’d had their own experiences with Spider-Man. Perhaps he’d saved them. And perhaps he meant nothing to them at all, but the idea of a child, of a seventeen year old who was still in high school being killed… that meant something to everyone. It could’ve been the elderly woman’s son. It could’ve been the husband of the girl twisting her wedding ring around her finger nervously. It could have been anyone, except it was Peter Parker. And he was dead.
II.
Carrington was six and a half - or seven - or eight - or he couldn’t really remember - drinks into the night when Robb slapped him across the face and gestured towards the television.
“That’s your boy, ain’t it? Spider-Man? The one that got you after that fire?” he asked.
Carrington nodded wordlessly. Even with the weight of the alcohol on his mind, he would never forget the raging fire that had burnt his apartment building until he was standing on the roof holding his daughter in his arms and wondering if they’d die quicker if they jumped.
He was going to jump with her, and Colette would never be older than four years old, and his wife would come home and Amalie would realise what had happened and- and- and Carrington felt horribly sober as he watched the news. The petty drama of whatever had happened at the office faded away, as did the stinging from Robb’s slap, until all that he saw was the rectangular screen of the television.
Spider-Man was only a kid, he knew that. The entire office building had stopped all work as the fish-bowl-headed man, Mysterious or something, revealed that Spider-Man was Peter Parker. Carrington had met his older coworker Adam’s eyes and realised that Adam had a son who was seventeen. It could’ve been Adam’s boy that was swinging around the city. It could’ve been Adam’s boy that was Blipped, that fought the purple alien in space… it could’ve been Adam’s boy that had his identity revealed to all of New York.
And Colette - Carrington saw Peter’s brown hair and thought of his own daughter. The vigilante’s curls and envisaged his girl, sitting at home with his wife. And the brown eyes were achingly familiar and he had to clutch the corner of the office desk with a sudden wave of nausea. He could’ve walked past Peter Parker on the street without realising who he was. Without knowing what he did.
The drink lay forgotten on the bar counter as the blood drained from Carrington’s face. He felt sick. It was sick. All the magic and all the superpowers in the world couldn’t have saved Peter Parker, and now he was dead. Spider-Man was dead. The 6”4 man who had excelled at college rugby put his head in his hands on the bar and cried. Shaking sobs wracked his shoulders for the child, for the boy, for the superhero, for Spider-Man, but most of all for Peter Parker.
Carrington was forty. He’d lived a relatively long life already - he’d graduated college with a solid degree, he’d met his girl, he’d gotten married and travelled the world and had a child before settling down in the place that felt like home to him, but Peter would never get to do any of that. Peter would never go to college. Peter would never get married, never know the feeling of holding his child in his arms, fuck, Peter wouldn’t even make eighteen. Spider-Man was seventeen and dead.
III.
Jay was so-so about superheroes. Sure, there was that tin one that was good for a while, in his fancy suit that saved the people off the plane, and one of ‘em out of the ice did a half-decent job with an oversized frisbee, but he didn’t follow them eagerly like his son did. Jay’s son Julian was much more of an avid fan of the Revengers? Avengers? that floated loosely around New York. He had posters of the green angry one and the redhead that was dangerous, and the one that was quite literally a god.
He didn’t mind. Julian was a good kid, which is why the expletive falling out of his mouth at the dinner table, no less, were out of the blue.
“Julian!” Jay said sharply, but then followed his son’s pointing gaze of the television. There was the news on, like it always was, but this time the reporter looked deeply saddened and there was an unmistakable melancholy air of the broadcast.
“He’s dead, Dad.” Julian sounded hollow. “They just said it- they killed him. Spider-Man’s dead.”
It took a moment for Jay to sort through the countless overpowered people in the area, but when his mind landed correctly on the superhero his heart sunk. That one, that one was the kid. The Peter fella that had been outed to the whole bloody city by the bald Jameson, Peter was Spider-Man.
Jay knew it. Jay swore from the moment the arachnid-boy stopped him from crossing the road before a truck hurtled through the crossing that he was only a kid. Only a kid could look that co-ordinated and gangly at the same time, he’d argue with his wife. Diana would say no, no, there couldn’t possibly be a child fighting inside that suit, but something inside Jay knew that the kid from Queens was just that - a kid. Spider-Man was a child.
Julian had gone hopping mad when the news had broke about Peter Parker being Spider-Man, claiming that the boy went to the same high school as his cousin, the Midtown place, and Jay did a little research before finding out it was true. He was truly young. And yet Julian… Julian had just said they’d killed him.
“Turn it up, Jules,” Jay said quietly. His son nodded and the staticky sound of a woman’s voice filled the room.
“Fighting what appeared to be a flying green goblin, the well-known New York vigilante was stopped by the death of a female citizen, believed to be May Parker, the aunt of the superhero. Mourning the loss of his last remaining family member, Spider-Man had no chance to see the bullets coming. Declared as Spider-Menace to most of the nation, police were on a fire-first, apprehend-later approach, with fatal consequences. The death of Peter Parker, aged seventeen, makes us face a harsh reality - we condemned a boy based on the word of another. Are the statements raised by Mysterio around the Londo-”
Jay couldn’t hear any longer. Julian was looking green and Diana looked shaken, but Jay felt sick to his stomach. “Turn it off, Dee,” he said, and Diana took the remote from Julian’s limp grasp and turned the television off.
There was silence in the apartment. “They killed that boy,” Jay said finally. “He was a boy.”
“God have grace,” Diana prayed softly. “His aunt, too. Both gone.”
Jay looked at Julian, watching the expression turn to anger on Julian’s face. “That’s fucking sick,” he swore, and Jay didn’t have the energy to tell him off. “They publicly blasted his face all over the news after he’s fought everyone’s battles for years, and then in the space of days the whole fucking city hates him. Mysterio was wrong. Spider-Man’s not the bad guy. Spider-Man deserved better than this.”
He had to agree. Spider-Man deserved better than this. The superhero had fought for other people’s lives, for other people’s justice, but when the time came he hadn’t been given his own life neither fair treatment. Something had to change, Jay thought, and perhaps paying a visit to an old friend in Hell’s Kitchen could change some of those police laws.
IIII.
She was dead asleep, the cool breeze from her open window blowing through the room and prickling goose bumps on her bare arms. And then she wasn’t asleep, and she was sprinting for the bathroom because she felt ill, she felt so physically sick she barely made it to the toilet before she was throwing up all she’d eaten for dinner in a fit of nausea. There was no reason for her to feel off, but deep down she knew. She’d known since the moment she’d fallen asleep that it was the last time she’d sleep whilst Peter Parker was still alive.
Now, Michelle Jones Watson was no idiot. She was no fool. The thought of him dying had always been in her mind ever since she’d found out he was Spider-Man, but now that it was her reality she wasn’t ready. She’d never be ready. Her thousand overthinking plans paled in comparison to the way the knock on her door sounded, and she fought to control her shaking hands.
“I know, Mom,” were the first words out of her mouth as she opened the door. “He’s dead.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Marie wrapped MJ up in her arms and it took all the strength she had not to cry, because it still hadn’t hit her yet that this was it. He wasn’t coming back.
“I need to go, I need to go to Ned’s. He’ll want to know, if he doesn’t already.”
Marie didn’t bother arguing, knowing that Ned would need all the support he could get because-
MJ felt sick the entire way to Ned’s as she stared at the lights of the city. There was the bookstore that always gave her a discount, the pizza place that Peter hated because they didn’t put enough cheese, and the deli that made some of the best club sandwiches she’d ever had in her life. It was all the little things that hurt her the most because Peter would never see them again. Her hands fiddled with a strand of her hair that she wound into nervous curls, before realising that Peter- Peter would usually take her hand and fold out her fingers one by one until her palm was flat, and then slip his hand into hers.
Peter would know what to do. He’d have a much better plan than she did. The stairs to Ned’s apartment seemed hauntingly long, and she dreaded the way she’d have to look him in the eye and realise what they both already knew.
He looked as bad as she felt. Mrs Leeds took one look at MJ before deciding that hot chocolate - as if a hot drink could somehow patch the gunshot holes in Peter’s body - was in order, and the other Mrs Leeds led her and Ned through to his room. The wide-open window was the first thing she noticed, blowing a brisk breeze into the room with the faint wailing of sirens.
They sat in silence. “Ned, I-” MJ began, trying to find the right words that could convey what she was feeling, what she knew he was feeling.
“Don’t. I know you get it,” Ned said back to her, before scooching over on his bed and patting the spot besides him. It broke MJ’s fucking heart. She’d watched Ned do that every single lunch break with Peter, saving a space for his best friend even when he wasn’t going to take it.
MJ sat besides him anyways before wrapping her arms tightly around him. Ned gripped her forearms tightly, but she didn’t mind. It was reassuring, the pressure, the knowledge that she still had Ned, that he was still there, that he wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t going to- to die.
Ned’s television still bore the frozen reporter’s face in front of the wreckage of the apartment building, obviously paused when Ned found out. MJ found herself scanning every single item in Ned’s room, remembering the way Peter would build the Star Wars lego and Peter would always forget his jumper on the chair and Peter would perch on the ceiling and Peter, and Peter, and Peter, and there was Peter Parker everywhere in every place MJ knew and would ever know, and he would never leave.
No matter if she changed her name and moved states, hell, moved countries to a place where no one cared about Spider-Man, she would still see Peter in every fragment of the world. It hurt even worse at home, in New York, because it was Peter’s city. Peter had cared about the city so much he risked his life night after night to fight crime, to save other people, but it was Peter’s city that failed him. Spider-Man and the heart of New York was practically interchangeable, but there wasn’t a Spider-Man now. There’d never be a Spider-Man again.
A little part of MJ broke as she realised that this was it. She’d go to the funeral and she’d take weeks off school but life would move on, time would march like the best person she’d ever known hadn’t died, and MJ would have to move with it. And one day, she knew, she would be twenty-seven and see Delmar’s or she’d walk through the doors of MIT and it would hurt all over again, because Peter would never be twenty-seven. Peter wasn’t even eighteen.
Ned and MJ held each other long, long after Mrs Leeds had brought the hot chocolate and even longer after it cooled forgotten on Ned’s desk. Through the sunrise over the city of New York the closest people to Spider-Man mourned the loss of the superhero, yes, but the loss of the boy he was. Spider-Man was a public figure, he’d saved hundreds of people over years, but Peter Parker had saved two people on two different occasions, and they both sat in a little apartment in Queens, New York, realising that he had yet again saved everyone he ever loved.
Michelle Jones Watson was no idiot. She was no fool. She knew that Peter’s job came with risks, and she’d thought through plan after plan after plan about what if, but when faced with the reality those plans paled in comparison. Because he was dead. Because he wasn’t coming back now. Because no matter was anyone said or did or tried to do, Spider-Man was dead. Peter Parker was dead.
V.
The sun rose in yet another day and all was well, in the worlds of people that didn’t know Spider-Man. But in New York City, the world had stopped still. All the televisions and all the radios played the same fragmented piece of news that everyone already knew - Spider-Man was dead. Shot dead. By his own police, by the forces he fought alongside, by the people he helped stop criminals and helped save lives with.
Arianna had never known such quiet in the city. Her walk back from the store felt dazed, like somebody had punched her in the face, and the quiet shock she felt was reflected in the faces of every person she saw on the frozen sidewalks. Surely it wasn’t true. Surely it was a hoax, to throw the reporters off the scent, but deep down she knew it wasn’t.
Carrington walked through the door of his apartment and wrapped his wife and daughter up into the tightest hug he’d ever given them. He had never been more grateful for his family, for the ones that loved him, because it was only with the loss of Spider-Man that he realised all that Peter Parker had given to him. Peter, as Spider-Man, had saved his life. He’d given his daughter a future. He’d saved his wife’s family. He’d saved Carrington’s life, but no one saved Peter’s in return.
Jay watched Julian sit on the fire escape as the sun set the first day after Peter’s death. His son stared into the sky with a piece of paper clutched in his hand, and Jay didn’t have to look to know that it was the drawing Julian had done of Spider-Man the first time he’d ever met him. It had been in Central Park, and the superhero had complimented Julian’s cap. Jay realised that Spider-Man was a good kid. He was a good kid with what could have been a good future, except that would never happen.
MJ sat on the top of Midtown’s building and cried by herself, Peter’s jumper wrapped around herself and the black dahlia necklace resting just above her heart. Because this was what she had left, this was all she would ever have, the last pieces of Peter Parker in her life. She’d never watch the way his eyes would light up at the sight of her or Ned, never hear the stupid but funny puns he’d make in the lab, and never see Spider-Man swinging through the streets of New York. She’d never see the person she loved best again, and that was the hardest though of all.
And all through New York as the sun set, people stared to the skies. Between the crimson of the fading sun and the cloudless night, countless eyes searched for a web, for a shout of joy, for a familiar red-and-blue figure leaping from the buildings, but one never came. Spider-Man would never swing through New York again, and the people mourned. With the loss of Spider-Man came the loss of something bigger, something greater, something to do with justice and life.
Because Spider-Man was seventeen, because he was only a child yet he’d saved them all, because the people of New York realised that they could never repay him, never thank him, never do anything to show him the way that he had given so much to them. A week would pass. And another. And another and another until it was a month down the track and people were moving on, but sometimes there’d be a poster of Spider-Man on the subway and they would remember all over again.
Peter Parker was dead. Spider-Man was dead. And something in New York had died, too.
IV.
SPIDER-MAN
When you had lost everything you’d ever known, it wasn’t hard to lose another thing. Peter knew that lesson well enough. When you’re fighting for someone and they die, do you keep fighting? Do you fight for what they fought for, for what they stood for, or do you give up and say you’ll live to fight another day? Peter kept fighting.
Tony was dead. Natasha was dead. Steve was dead. Uncle Ben was dead. Everyone he’d ever known well, everyone he’d loved and been loved by had died, and yet he was still living. And now May… May was dead. And Peter had nothing left. In the wreckage left by the Green Goblin, Peter slumped over the body of the last person who had ever given him the world and realised that perhaps this was it. Perhaps he could let go.
So when the bullets came, and Peter could’ve turned and ran, he didn’t. He let his arms drop to his sides and the metal puncture his lungs, his throat, his chest until he knew there were rivulets of blood running out of his suit that he’d never be able to staunch. Taking off his mask, he watched the lights of New York swim in front of his eyes.
Ned would move on. MJ would move on. The people he knew that were still alive would move on, eventually. But Peter Parker cried, because he would never move on. He’d still be seventeen, he’d forever be remembered as a child, but this was all he had left. This was his fate. In all the universes, somebody died in one of these fights. Norman had said it himself. Spider-Man would die.
The darkness came suddenly for Peter, and he dropped like a stone to the ground. When the urge to close his eyes became too much and when he knew it was easier to stop breathing, he did. When you had lost everything you’d ever known, it wasn’t hard to lose something more. It was just that the last thing Peter had to lose was his life, and so he lost.