Chapter 8
It could have been minutes... maybe even hours that Peter lay there, paralyzed in the rain. He couldn’t tell for the lack of natural light. The only thing he was sure of was that the sensory overload had gone on forever and fate had determined he’d stay awake for every. single. second. of it. The rain still fell, the thunder still thundered, and that was all Peter knew.
He wished that he could will himself to disappear, especially as two sets of footsteps entered the alley, coming closer to him, and pulling him back into his pained reality.
One lighter set, however, came to a complete stop right beside him.
“Holy crap!” A young voice suddenly called out. “Hey, Owen! You gotta come over here! I think I found a body!”
Peter’s grunt of pain at the added pitch and volume reverberating off the brick walls surrounding them was drowned out by the sound of the storm.
“What are you goin’ on about?” A second, older voice—Owen called back from somewhere nearer to the mouth of the alley. “We don’t got time for your stupid make believe! We got work to do!”
“I swear on the dust of my mother, Owen! Come on!” The hint of whine pierced into Peter’s brain. “He must’a bled to death or somethin’ ‘cuz there’s a huge gash in his leg! Come and see!” The excitement was evident in his voice.
The approach of more footsteps through ever-deepening puddles brought tears to Peter’s eyes. How much longer would he be able to endure before the agony stopped?
It didn’t matter.
“Holy shit! You’re right!” The one called Owen exclaimed. The shift and rustling of soggy fabric ground through Peter’s brain and he could feel a presence nearer to him. “Quick! Help me check his pockets!”
“What?” The young voice stepped away from him. “But shouldn’t we call the cops?” The voice was hesitant. “I mean, it’s...”
“Look, I’m hungry. You’re hungry. Right?”
A meek, “Yeah,” replied.
“So do you want to eat trash or do you want to find some cash and get us some real food tonight? ‘Cuz I sure as hell know what I’m pickin’ if I get to choose!” Owen snapped out.
An awkward pause and then, “Okay, fine,” was all the warning Peter got.
A quick yank at Peter’s belt loops as his pockets were turned out set off his pain receptors in a way that the rain had barely touched. He prayed for it to end. It was too much, too much—more than too much.
They were mercifully quick, he thought, but he was shocked at being shoved away so harshly when the two were done. His breath caught, and still they didn’t hear him make a sound.
The young voice called out over the rain, “It’s a dud! There’s nothing here! We should just—”
“Shut up, Riley!” Owen cut him off, “Did you check his other back pocket? Is there a jacket around here somewhere?” He was sounding pretty frustrated. “There’s gotta be something?!”
“Of course I checked his back pocket! I’m not an idiot!” The voice now known as Riley responded petulantly. “He was probably dumped here after someone else got to him.”
“Dammit!” Owen shouted out and he stood up. Peter could hear his knees popping. Owen lashed out with a vicious kick to a bag of trash precariously close to Peter’s head.
Even in his current state, Peter’s spidey sense kicked in, and he flinched more than dodged the strike. There was no mistaking the movement.
“Oh, crap! Did you see that? I think it moved!” Riley announced, panic lacing his voice.
“Stop being a pussy.” Peter heard the younger Riley stumble, probably pushed. “If you don’t have the balls to do the work, I won’t bring you out the next time.” Owen jibed as he toed at what he still assumed was a corpse. He gave Peter’s broken ribs a rough nudge to prove it.
This time, Peter couldn’t help the more vocal grunt of pain as Owen’s sneaker made contact, nor could he help the weak kicks of protest at his mistreatment.
Oh, gosh, he hurt so bad.
Owen jumped back in shock. “What the—?” Peter heard him take a few more steps back. “Dammit!” Owen fumed as he started to pace. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?!”
Even in his muddled state, Peter knew that in HIS reality the next logical step would be to call for help... and yeah, he figured that Owen and Riley couldn’t exactly stick around for the police. He’d been in the same predicament as his masked vigilante counterpart too many times, so he got it.
But again and again, it all came down to the fact that five years had passed and Peter had already seen how the world had changed—all of the pain, desperation, and grief culminating into a misadventure like no other.
Peter understood all of it—for all of the loss he’d already experienced. But for him, especially after Ben—he’d been grateful that he’d at least had Spider-Man to channel his deep-rooted need to atone for his lack; something Peter would never fully be able to do.
The thought stirred up panic.
He still hadn’t done enough. Not for Ben, not for half a universe because he hadn’t been enough—that stupid glove. And May—if he’d only been around, he could have... he could have...
He had to do more.
The need for someone to come and help him struck Peter with an unexpected overriding hope and he knew he needed to get back to the tower. The two strangers would call 9-1-1. They’d talked about it, right? And then he could call Mr. Stark. He just needed to get them to—
“Help me,” he managed to croak out a quiet plea.
He’d anticipated some sort of response now that he was in the moment, but there was nothing but whispered bickering between the two about needing to mind their own business and other alleys with better restaurant scraps that didn’t have the issue of a dying man getting in the way.
Maybe he needed to prove he was worth saving?
He pressed up and forced himself to roll over face down onto the filthy concrete, panting and dizzy from the exertion. Shit. How much blood had he lost? He just needed to get up off the ground—needed to push himself up. “Please help me,” he forced out, louder as he straightened and strained his arms.
The unexpected motion frightened the two men still standing over him. Or were they boys? Peter couldn’t be sure as he fought to keep from collapsing back down to the ground. All he was sure of was that any hope of aid left him when the one called Owen spoke one last time.
“Fuck this! Let’s get out of here before someone shows up and thinks we did this.”
Peter wouldn’t have needed his enhanced hearing to follow the sound of frantic footsteps splashing through puddles as they got further and further away before disappearing completely into the chaos of the city streets.
The part of Peter Parker that lived for politeness and apologies wanted to scream out to the two that he hadn’t meant to scare them, that he was sorry, and to please come back, but they were long gone and the idea of getting up to follow them was more than impossible.
He tried to shift.
ow.
Peter clutched at his aching ribs.
He had wanted so badly to be gone and now all he wanted more than anything was to be snuggled up with May on the couch back at their old apartment watching Netflix on Peter’s laptop while popcorn popped in the microwave.
Then he wondered, oddly, what had happened to the Queer Eye guys while he’d been gone and if Mr. Stark would watch it with him if he asked—
That was his last truly coherent thought as weakness washed over him and he closed his eyes... he just to rest for a moment. It was all the time he could afford to take. He had to—he had to—he...
Peter’s arms couldn’t hold him and he dropped back to the ground.
And Peter knew no more.
* * * * * *
Peter woke with a gasp, unintentionally inhaling water from a puddle that had pooled around him, causing him to choke.
Pain wrapped around him, making each hack unbearable, but an inherent need to survive had set in and he pushed himself to move without a second thought. He made his way up out of the still deepening puddle and onto his tender forearms, ignoring the rain dripping from his nose and hair in favour of the pulsing in his head and ribs. Head hanging low and eyes closed, he took a minute to catch his breath... and tried to tamp down the unmistakeable need to vomit.
It took a few moments, the feeling passing for the moment, but spots of light danced at the edges of Peter’s vision even with his eyes closed and confusion overwhelmed him.
Had he hit his head?
The thought of it didn’t make sense to him, but then nothing did just then.
He tried to think.
Okay. He was at the tower, and then... and then...
Lightning flashed bright, even through his eyelids and the nerves running through his body protested. His stomach lurched and he tried to breathe through the newest wave of nausea. His arms shook from the invisible current running through the air.
And then he remembered the storm.
It was clearer than anything else in that moment, not that it helped him.
He coughed again, not so hard as the last time, swallowing down the mouthful of hot saliva that came with the ‘maybe-not-as-loud-as-it-had-been-before’ thunder.
He needed it to be over.
He recognized the familiar symptoms of the overload, realized that it was a part of his current predicament.
But the rest of the pain didn’t make any sense.
Come on, Peter. Think!
Oh, gosh, he couldn’t think.
Okay, he’d been at the tower, he was sure of that.
And then he left.
But why?
Frustration overwhelmed him as much as the cold wind that tunnelled through the alley. He looked down at his bare arms as they trembled from the chill and strain of holding his weight, then saw the fresh bruises.
“Wha’ the—?”
He pushed himself up further. The brick and concrete swirled around him as vertigo kicked in and threatened to bring him back down into the water as he shifted back. If he could just get away from the shadows, he could see the damage—his arms, his ribs.
“AARggh!” Pain lanced through his leg as he put weight on it. Peter collapsed back down into the puddle with a splash as he reached back to clutch at his thigh. The rush of adrenaline brought Peter clarity—May, the tower, looking for Ned, and then—all of it came rushing back to him in a montage of unimaginable despair and pain. His world was spinning off its axis and he was here; beaten, bruised, bleeding, and most likely concussed.
And he wanted to go home.
Mr. Stark came into his mind. Oh, how Peter wished he was here with him. He’d been so desperate to get away, and now? Well, now he was well and truly screwed. No phone, no suit, no trackers. Mr. Stark was never going to find him. And any dreams of finding redemption were over. Yes, he remembered that, too. It didn’t matter what he wanted or that he’d changed his mind. The universe had made it pretty clear that it didn’t want him to stay.
Peter Benjamin, last of the Parkers, dead in an alley at the age of sixteen ‘cuz he pissed off a cab driver—It seemed especially poetic after managing to survive a battle with a literal Titan. How was that for luck?
He couldn’t contain the snort of laughter. How had that song that Ben used to sing go? If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all?
... and the fight left him. Why bother?
Where before, he’d been so determined to find a way into the light, now all he could focus on was dragging himself further into the grimy gap between some overfilled trashcans. The rain, still falling heavily, washed away the blood sluggishly oozing from his leg. He faintly wondered why it hadn’t stopped bleeding yet, not that it was important. There’d be no trace of it by the time anybody found him.
The lightning flashed, and it didn’t bother him so much this time.
He managed to twist, crawl, and drag himself to sitting, leaning against the brick once again. The change in position, pain, and dizziness were too much though. The urge to vomit was immediate and irrepressible. Peter could barely tilt his head to the left before he gagged and a rush of bile forced its way up his throat. The pain in his ribs and head sparked with each weak heave and by the time he’d finished, he could barely catch his breath.
Peter closed his eyes. The lightning and thunder seemed to be moving on and all Peter could hear was the traffic in the distance and the rain pelting against the cement and black plastic surrounding him. It reminded him of the white noise machine Mr. Stark had gotten for him for when the apartment in Queens got too loud. It was almost soothing except for the smell of vomit, trash, and imminent death.
His breath hitched at the inevitable. He was going to die alone in the alley beside the burnt out husk of his best friend’s former home. His chin quivered as he fought back tears.
He could be brave, accept his fate.
It was like his acceptance was all his body needed, and he slumped further against the wall he’d pressed up against.
He could be with his parents, and Ben and May...
His eyes started to slip closed, he figured for the last time, when a single set of steps running toward him caught his attention.
A different kind of instinct kicked in, and as the dark figure came closer, he had a thought, “...When you can do the things that I can, but you don't...”
The tears he’d fought back before came freely now. He understood. He was getting one last chance to make a difference before...
“I’m sorry, Uncle Ben,” he whispered. “I’ll try my hardest this last time.”
Using the last of his strength, Peter pulled himself up and leaned heavily against the wall. He ignored the new, sharp pain in his chest that the action brought. He ignored the fire in his leg. He ignored the greying vision. There’d be no hiding in trash for Spider-Man’s last stand, whether whoever was approaching knew it was him or not.
“For you, Ben,” he panted as he balled up his fist to battle this one last foe. “See you soon.”