Chapter 7
Peter was convinced that the air smelled different. His heightened senses had always helped with picking up that special something that made the cesspool-like quality of the city a bit more noticeable, but today? Maybe the ever growing piles of garbage had sat a little longer? Or maybe the despair was thicker? Who knew? Peter sure didn’t-- Heck, he couldn’t even figure out where he was supposed to go. All he knew for sure was that Grand Central Station was about as cliché for an orphaned runaway as it could get and Peter wasn’t having any of it.
And it wasn’t like he had any money anyways.
He turned right once he hit East 42nd Street, managing to make his way across the street before the light turned, allowing him to keep on the move. In his previous life, he’d have just walked home. Yes, it took a couple of hours, but back then it was nice have the chance to be helpful to those around him as Peter Parker; carrying groceries, opening doors for people as he passed by. In the now, a cold blast of wind caught him off guard and Peter couldn’t help but shiver. He knew that he’d been right to leave. He couldn’t imagine what sort of chaos his existence would cause for Mr. and Mrs. Stark and he was so tired of—well, everything. He just wished he’d thought to grab a jacket, not that he could change it now. He needed to find somewhere to go, fast.
He’d moved exactly four steps when his determination fizzled and the reality of his situation hit him. What was he supposed to do? He honestly had nowhere to go.
Peter truly was alone.
Mr. Stark had told him that the apartment was gone. He still had no phone to call May. Five years ago, he’d have just dialled up his Guy in the Chair and he’d have been set. But now? “Pull it together, Parker.” He grumbled to himself, trying to keep from panicking. “Be smart. What would Ned do?” And then the memory sparked. Ned had been snapped, too! And Mr. Stark had said he was safe at home!
Without another thought, Peter’s arm was up and waving frantically. He was trying with everything in him to hail a cab, but some things never changed. Another gust of cold air buffeted around him. He couldn’t help but curl an arm around himself as he shivered again, trying to keep warmer than his stupid thermoregulation would ever allow. He just needed to get to Ned’s apartment and he’d be set! Ned always had a plan—and he’d be able to pay for Peter’s cab fare—another cab blew by him—IF a stupid cab would stop to pick him up!
It was after the sixth cab passed him by that Peter dropped his arm in defeat. Standing in the gloomy fall weather was getting him nowhere, literally. He gave one last look down the street, hoping for one more chance when an old, dinged up, red Honda Civic came screeching to a halt in front of him.
The passenger side window rolled down and a voice called out from the driver’s seat, “Hey, kid- you lookin’ for a ride?”
Peter stared blankly, “Uh...”
The driver, a man who embodied every middle-aged New Yorker stereotype- right down to the greasy comb-over and toothpick hanging out of his mouth, leaned over and glared at him, “Look, kid. Are you lookin’ for a ride or not?”
Every warning about getting into cars with strangers given by every adult ever responsible for Peter’s wellbeing jumbled through his head. He took a step back from the curb. “I, uh, don’t...”
A look of recognition flashed across his face. “You’re one of the ‘blipped,’ aren’t ya?”
Peter could only nod dumbly.
The man snickered and shook his head. “I figured as much. You’ve missed a bunch—like the fact that this here beauty is 100% registered with the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission, thank you very much.” He patted the fur covered steering wheel as a horn blared behind him. The driver threw up his hand in reply... well, a finger, “Yeah, same to you, asshole!” He hollered, then turned back to Peter. “So you wanna lift or not?”
The wind seemed to cut through to the bone this time. All Peter could think of in that moment was getting out of the cold.
“Last call, kid. I don’t got all day!” the man called out, and without another thought, Peter opened the back door to the car and jumped in.
“’Bout freakin’ time. Geez. Where you wanna go, kid?”
Peter ignored the rude snap (it was New York City, after all) and rattled off Ned’s address in a rush of breath. He sat back in the oddly smelling seat, allowing himself to relax a bit while the rest of the world moved past him. The driver must have sensed Peter’s need for quiet and said nothing while he wove up and down the streets and avenues that Peter knew like the back of his hand. There were some differences from five years ago, that was for sure, but if he closed his eyes and just savoured the grind and hum of the car’s engine as it twisted and turned...
It felt almost normal.
He really missed normal.
The cab slowed down after a while, which didn’t surprise Peter, so he opened his eyes, though it was a bit of a fight. He’d figured they’d get to Ned’s soon anyways and it was better that he catch himself before he actually dozed.
So Peter started watching.
The street leading to Ned’s place was coming up soon. It was just a block down from the park they were now passing and if a driver wasn’t careful, they’d drive right past the apartment while dodging all of the pedestrians that normally flocked to the urban green space. Peter frowned as he noted that the park didn’t look very inviting.
“Ah, shit!” The driver muttered, forcing Peter to look away from the bleak landscape.
He looked out to the car’s front window, expecting to see the apartment building he’d walked, swung, limped or cabbed to a million times over the course of his teenage years. Instead, all he could see was— Peter gasped in horror.
“This is why I hate drivin’ blippers,” he growled and he pulled over to park in front of the burned out shell of a caution tape covered building where Peter had tried and loved pancit for the first time—where Ned’s mom had to cut a wad of bubble gum out of his hair because Peter and Ned were sure it would flatten his curls if they just stretched it thin enough—where they’d built lego sets over and over and over again—where his best friend in the whole entire world was supposed to be safe with his family.
“But he said...” He finally managed to croak out, as the shock of it all wore off. “Where’d it go?”
“Damned if I know, kid, but you owe me forty-five bucks whether the building’s here or not, so fork it over.” The man glared at him in his rearview mirror. “I don’t got all day.”
Peter’s stomach dropped. “Um, about that,” he started to explain. “I was going to borrow money from my friend who lives...” He choked up a little. “I mean lived here.” Peter waved out toward the ruined remains. “I, um...” He tried to come up with another plan, but with no phone and no cash, he had no choice. His chin quivered as he realized he’d need to go back. “Crap.” He cleared his throat. “Can you just take me back to Avengers Tower, please?”
The driver was having none of it. He turned himself around in his seat and pointed an accusing finger at the distraught boy. “Look here, you little piss. I don’t know what game you’re playin’, but I sure as hell don’t gotta drive you nowhere. You owe me my money, so you got exactly thirty seconds to come up with it or I’m callin’ the cops.”
“Sir, um, if you could maybe borrow your phone I could see if I can call someone to help!” Peter squeaked out. His defeat was becoming more and more humiliating. “I can call my—“ He’d almost said ‘aunt,’ but the words caught. “I can call my boss and he’ll be able to—“
Peter’s spidey-senses flared.
“Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna give you my phone and have you run off with it on top of this shit.” The man straightened back into his seat, slammed his hands against the steering wheel, then threw open his car door. A decision had been made. Peter could hear the profanity laced tirade, was barely processing it all for his panic when the driver threw open Peter’s door and grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt. “You. Get the fuck outta my car.” He gave Peter a yank, dragging him out of the cab and tossing the boy onto the sidewalk. “Five years we’ve been trying to make a living, and you shits come back and think you can keep pulling a scam like this!?”
“I’m... I’m not pulling a...” Peter tried to explain from his place on the ground.
“I don’t wanna hear your garbage! You’re the fifth person this week who’s tried to pull this! You think I don’t have bills to pay, too?!” The man spit out in rage.
Peter threw his hands up in defence and supplication. “But if I could just call Mr. Stark, he’ll come and he could give you—“
People rushed by, intentionally looking away as the scene playing out before them.
“HA! Like someone like Tony Stark would give two shits about some brat like you! Stop tellin’ stories,” the man seethed. “You owe me forty-five bucks! Give me my fuckin’ money or I’ll take it outta your hide.”
“I’m not ly—“
The kicks to the ribs came from nowhere. “Hide.” -kick- “it.” -kick- “is.” The man grunted with each and every kick.
Peter curled into the first kick, trying to cover his head and face with his arms for those that followed, but instead made those a target, too. “Please, stop it!” Peter cried out, trying to make the man listen. “I swear, I can pay!”
The driver didn’t listen, just kicked and raged until he ran out of steam—or breath, Peter didn’t care which. The man’s strength had been spent. Peter was grateful for it if only because it meant the man had stopped.
“Dumb brat.” The man panted as he bent over, hands on his knees and struggling to control his breathing. “Think you can all come back—“ he gasped, “And take whatever you want—“
Peter took advantage of the man’s difficulty and dragged himself out of reach. His own breath caught at the pain in his ribs.
The man seemed to notice Peter’s movement. “I... don’t... think so...” he huffed, and straightened himself up as much as he could. He started patting down his pockets, looking for what Peter guessed was his phone. A quiet “Dammit,” had the man lumbering back around the front of the car and throwing open his driver’s side door.
Peter could hear him digging around between the seats and console and having no luck. With less grace than one would expect from a superhero, Peter pulled himself up using the side of the car and staggered away from the scene. He could barely steady himself, dizzy from his blow to the head, but the he kept moving, grateful for the absolute disinterest from everyone around him.
“HEY! Get back here!” The driver screamed, but Peter simply sped up as much as he could while trying to ignore the blood he thought might be trickling through his hair.
An alley on the other side of Ned’s—crap!
An alley on the other side of the burned out apartment caught Peter’s eye and he ducked into it. More of the caution tape was littered about here; people deciding that a short cut was worth more than the risk of falling brick and debris. Peter didn’t care either way. He could make it work. In fact, as soon as he entered the darkened lane, he saw the brick wall still standing several stories high, even if the building was half gone and nothing but a hollowed out husk. Ignoring the pain, he climbed and was over the top of the wall before the cab driver could reach the mouth of the alleyway.
“I’m comin’ for ya’, ya’ piece a’ trash!” The man screamed as he entered the alley, extending what sounded like a collapsible nightstick, then leaned against the undamaged building next door. He took a couple of deep breaths then headed in, kicking at bags of trash as he went.
Peter didn’t need his enhanced hearing to get the gist of what the man was muttering as he watched from his precarious perch on the crumbling outer wall. He followed the man’s trajectory as he hunted behind overfilled bins and barrelled through more garbage. It took a few minutes, Peter holding his breath for every second of it—until the man gave up with a flurry of obscenities that made even teenager Peter blush. Torn bags and loose trash covered every bit of concrete for the entire stretch of alley. A final whack at one of the bins signaled the man’s defeat and he limped back to his vehicle, slammed its door shut and tore off down the street, leaving tread marks on the road.
Peter sagged in relief, then immediately regretted it as it jostled his definitely broken ribs. He needed to get off that wall and get the pressure off of everything. His head was throbbing, a deep breath felt impossible, and he could feel the bruises forming on his arms. He shifted as carefully as he could to take a closer look at the building’s interior and could have wept in relief for what he saw. While the caution tape definitely hadn’t been for show, there were still large stretches of floor, skeletons of previous apartments on this side of the building where someone like, say... Spider-Man could rest for a little while without messing with the obvious lack of structural integrity. He ignored the angry scorch marks and holes that marred the flooring and walls opposite him.
He dropped, landing lightly on his feet then straightened as much as he comfortably could so he could take a look around while assessing his current predicament.
Things were looking pretty bleak.
The floor was soft to step on, the elements having done a real number on the remnants of what Peter guessed must have been a pretty significant fire. He took in the water damaged and mouldy plaster, exposed pipes and support beams. while taking note of the empty space where the main staircase Peter and Ned would climb to get to his apartment had once existed. He hadn’t paid much attention when he’d been skittering up the outside wall, but now he wondered.
He was pretty sure he was on the fourth floor, if it could even count as that when he looked up at the still overcast sky. The Leeds’ apartment was only two floors down. He didn’t have anywhere else to go, and yeah, he hurt, but there was enough of the structure remaining that he could make his way further in and hopefully get out of the wind before he froze to death.
Peter approached the edge of the makeshift shaft, creeping closer to the hole proper and trying sense just how much farther he could go before something bad would happen. He could feel the floor start to creak and slope about four feet away, so he stopped in his tracks. He needed to play it smart if he was going to avoid getting hurt anymore than he already was. He flashed on a youtube video he and Ned had watched about what to do if you were on ice and it started to crack- if it could work for that, then maybe? He dropped slowly to the grimy floor, trying to move in such a way that he didn’t cry or vomit from the pain, and then redistributed his weight. He waited for the cracking to stop.
And waited—
Until finally, Peter felt secure enough to move.
When Peter was in his spidey-zone, he could defy nature, and within moments of assuming his position, Peter was confident as he slid toward the hole and, in a blink, clung to its underside. He risked a glance at the floor below him. It looked alright, or at least no worse than the floor he’d left behind. His senses weren’t buzzing so he released from the ceiling, did an aerial twist, and landed gracefully on the lower floor.
Or not—“URgH!” He cried out in pain and crumbled to the floor in a very un-Spider-Man like fashion. He clutched at his ribs, hoping a counter pressure would bring relief, but no. Peter could only stay still and try to catch his breath.
And try to keep from breaking down completely.
Even one level down, the sounds of the city diminished enough to allow Peter the time to think on his situation, even if it broke his heart.
May was gone. He knew it in his heart. The emptiness he’d been trying to fend off since that morning had to have been the universe preparing him to be alone. He knew it. He’d felt it when his parents had died in the plane crash, and then again when Ben had bled out in his arms. They’d tried to put a name on it, tried to tell him it was “complicated grief,” but Peter understood. With each death, he understood.
Ned was gone. Peter knew that Mr. Stark had said he was alive and safe, but he wasn’t there and a phoneless Peter meant that he’d never find him unless he went back to the tower. And Peter knew how that would play out if he made his way back after all of this.
Peter was an idiot. Back in the city and after half a day, here he was.
He banged his bruised head against the floor, reigniting the pain, and then growled out in frustration.
His spider senses flared.
“WHO’S UP THERE!?” A gravelly voice shouted out from one of the lower floors.
He couldn’t reply—couldn’t find the oxygen he needed to answer back, even as he struggled to sit up.
“I SAID, WHO’S THERE!?”
Peter could hear the person shuffling about below, probably trying to get a better look at what was causing the clatter above them. “I don’t know how you got in here, but you’d better leave now if you know what’s good for you!”
And suddenly that was the only thing Peter wanted to do in the whole entire world. He wanted to stand up, leave this place, and go home to his and May’s little apartment where he had filthy laundry all over his bedroom floor and a half built robot guard dog for May for those nights he was out late doing patrol spread out across his desk. He wanted to be warming up leftover Thai food for lunch and have the latest Binge Mode podcast playing while he wrote up the essay he’d put off for The Crucible until the last minute.
Peter Parker hated his life.
No. Life hated him.
“Dammit,” he whispered and he banged his head against the floor again. What did it matter now?
Footsteps and some whispering caught his attention, and then the snick of a gun cocking below him.
“I will say this one last time. Get the hell outta of here before we take you out, do you hear me!?”
Peter wondered if he should bother answering or just run. He needed a few more seconds to pull himself together and then—
The blast came out of nowhere. Shards of wood and concrete flew through the air. He tried to curl in and protect himself again the pain slowed his reflexes and nothing could keep the debris from raining down on him. He cried out as it struck him.
“We mean it, asshole! Get out! We got this place fair and square and no one is taking it from us!”
Peter wanted to explain that he just needed a place to hide, that it was maybe for a couple of hours while he figured things out, but a second bullet fired up through the floor and Peter was up and running for a broken window. He knew he’d be a prime target if he went back the way he came, ribs and all be damned. He needed to be gone before whoever was shooting at him got lucky and managed to make a hit. And knowing his luck...
His spidey-sense blazed and Peter panicked. With less caution than he should have, Peter pulled himself through the broken glass, ignoring everything but his escape as he made his way down the apartment wall.
And giving no thought to witnesses...
Or the now freely bleeding gash in his thigh.
He reached bottom of the wall, dropping the last couple of feet. “UnGh!” He cried out as the wound stretched with the press of his leg to the ground. “Shit!” He caught himself on the wall with one sticky hand and balanced on his one good leg, keeping himself from falling to the ground completely.
Peter gritted his teeth and tried shifting away from the wall but searing pain stopped him in his tracks. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit...” he muttered over and over to himself as he tried to quell the nausea that the pain had brought on. Yup. It was decided. It was going to be his new mantra. “Shit.”
Another blast of wind, even colder than before, blew through the dim alley. He adjusted himself so he could lean against the brick then tried to warm up with the friction on one hand on his bare skin. It was useless, and so, with nothing else to do, Peter laughed. He hunched over, gasping as he tried to get the laughter under control, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Nothing was under control and Peter was expected to roll with punch after punch after punch...
And he couldn’t anymore, and then Peter wasn’t laughing.
He couldn’t deal with the hits anymore—first his parents and everything that came after that, then Uncle Ben, having to move from Forest Hills, Flash and the bullying, the spider-bite—Peter choked down a sob as his mind flashed on that particular trial. What good was any of it if he couldn’t do what he needed to do? Uncle Ben. Dead. Thanos and Titan? That had been an epic example of Parker Luck... and now? Now May was gone and he was stuck in this stupid alley freezing his ass off because he would never ever be enough.
He didn’t think his tears would ever stop. Peter collapsed to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut, ignoring the sharp edges stabbing at him from the garbage bags he’d fallen amongst as his face pressed against the cold concrete and filth. He deserved it. He ignored the wetness seeping into his jeans, not caring if it was blood or seepage from the fetid waste he was now seated in. He deserved it. He ignored the cold. He ignored the pain in his ribs and arms and leg. He deserved it. He deserved every single thing the universe threw at him.
Because Peter had never been enough and he knew he never would be.
Thunder rumbled overhead and because there was something absolutely poetic about it, the dark skies opened up and water like ice poured over Peter like a twisted baptism.
He didn’t move.
He was done.
His last great effort had been Titan and had ended with dust and failure and desolation. Here and now, all he wanted was something—anything that felt like home, but all that was for naught. If he’d learned anything in this life...or he guessed the life before, it was that home was not place. How had May said it when they’d left behind the second home Peter had known? “Home isn’t a place, Peter,” she’d said. “It’s wherever you are.” The hug she gave him after saying that was one of the best he’d ever gotten. He’d felt so warm and safe... loved. There’d been too many times in his life when he’d had to struggle to believe he deserved that. May had changed that.
It was all gone.
Who would love him now?
Lightning flashed, illuminating the alleyway and setting off a sensory overload the likes of which Peter had never experienced. The thunder cracked seconds later and he clamped his hands over his ears as he tried to burrow away from the noise. That it was into a bag of trash leaned against the wall meant nothing to him. He could barely breathe anyways. And It was darker and that was all that mattered.
Lightning and then thunder again with no time between had Peter losing his mind. The rain was heavier and the pelting of drops against his bare arms and the exposed small of his back had him writhing like he’d been burned with acid. He couldn’t get away from it. He gasped in agony, then gagged as the scent of rotting food from the Chinese restaurant next door and the human and animal waste deposited along the ground he was crawling upon punched him in the olfactory sense. Hands left his ears and hit the ground as he scrambled away from the bags, only to cry out and fall forward as his ribs protested the abrupt movement and the sharp pull of cut flesh flared like liquid fire.
Lightning and then thunder again.
Peter couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t move, every cord, and sinew on fire and frozen at once as his body tried to process all of the chaos. The rain still pelted his weakened body, the last flash of lightning seemed to permanently imprint on his retinas, his eyes watered from the revolting odours all around him, the bustle of a broken city being pummelled by the storm bored through his brain as he rode the waves of pain. He struggled to make his lungs work, to breathe, to scream, to anything.
But nothing worked.
In the haze of panic, he had a thought.
Maybe he’d drown?
And then he stopped fighting.
Anything had to be better than dust, after all.