Chapter 7
Like Death said, Eternity and Infinity pay Peter a visit. Infinity talks to him when he's showering a few mornings later. It scares the daylights out of him—to be fair, though, he doesn't expect to be spoken to while naked in an empty locker room. At first he thinks it's security or a coach catching him red-handed, but then he recognizes the honey-like feminine voice and his shoulders drop.
"Peter Benjamin Parker, do not be alarmed."
Peter wipes the water from his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Hey. Infinity, right?"
"Indeed. I am surprised you remember my voice."
"It's kinda hard to forget. Can I help you, Ms. Infinity?"
"No, you have done more than enough, there is nothing I have to ask of you. I have merely come to you to apologize for my absence since your reentrance into existence, I imagine it has been difficult."
Peter shuts the water off and reaches for his towel, feeling awkward talking to her while completely naked. After wrapping it around his waist, he says, "I mean, it hasn't been easy, but it's fine. Don't worry about it, anyways; I'm sure you've been busy with watching over, like, life and stuff." To be honest, he isn't really sure what she does.
"It is no excuse for neglecting to make sure you were adjusting."
Peter shrugs. Obviously it sucked, being all alone in the world and everything he has faced these past few months, but it could have been worse. He shouldn't complain, especially not after the entities worked together to bring him back into existence. They don't owe him anything.
Infinity goes on to thank Peter for his sacrifice, which he awkwardly responds that it was no big deal. (It was a big deal, obviously.) Then, like a phone, they disconnected and Peter went back to finish his shower.
Eternity couldn't pick a worse time to talk to him out of nowhere. It's another two days later on a Sunday evening, and he's literally in the middle of a car chase after some creep swiped a kid and stuffed him in the back of his van. Peter's mid-swing when Eternity's deep voice bellows in his ear.
"Peter Parker."
Peter's caught off guard and nearly smacks straight into a lamp post. He manages to leap off of it and shoot a web to swing towards the van with more momentum before muttering, "You cosmic entities sure do like your surprise visits."
Maybe that was a little snappy—especially since he's talking to Eternity of all people—but he nearly made him miss the van harboring a kidnapped kid. And there's no way Peter's letting the kid go.
Keeping his eyes narrowed-in on the van, Peter distractedly says, "So, what's up?"
Tires screech as the van runs a red light. Peter sighs and jumps down to the road, catching a bus load of elementary kids on a field trip from t-boning the van.
"I wanted to apologize—"
"For not checking up on me in the past few months? It's fine, no hard feelings," Peter assures as he swings back into chasing the van.
"Oh. Alright."
Breath labored, Peter asks, "So, is there anything else, or . . .?"
"Right. I also wanted to express my thanks for—"
"Jumping in front of you during that confusing battle with your brother?" Peter guesses. Biting down on his lip, he shoots a web at a woman pushing a stroller and tugs her back away from the road seconds before she and her baby become roadkill. "Glad to have helped, and I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm kinda busy here. I don't really know how this communicating stuff works—if you can even see me—but I'm trying to catch this van and he's got this kid, so."
"You seem to be multitasking quite well."
"So you can see me?" That's awkward, especially since Infinity visited him while he was showering. He pushes the thought away. The van, yes, right. Focus on that.
Instead of answering his question, Eternity says, "We'll keep in touch. Next time, I'll try to communicate when you are not so preoccupied."
"Okay, sounds g—oof." He swings too low and smacks into the back of the van. Before he can slide off and get run over by traffic, he presses his palms against the smooth surface of the van and sticks to it. "Ah ha ha! Got you now!"
The van swerves violently, but Peter doesn't slip. He pulls himself up to stand on the roof and bends over to peer into the driver's window. He taps on the glass.
"Excuse me, sir? Please pull over so you don't cause any more—"
The man's wild eyes latch onto the upside-down Spider-Man mask and he yanks the steering wheel to the left. The van barrels over a hot dog stand.
"—damage," Peter finishes with a sigh. Without another word, he punches through the glass and webs the man's hand to the center console when he goes to grab a gun from his waistline. His other hand goes to grab it, but Peter webs that one down, too.
With no hands on the steering wheel and the man's foot still pressing on the gas, Peter reaches in and steers them away from the sidewalk and does his best to avoid a collision.
The kid in the backseat's screams pierce his eardrums.
"Hey, hey, you're gonna be alright! Everything's fine!" Peter shouts back at him. The van hurdles over a speed-bump. Peter hits his head against the ceiling and turns to the kidnapper, saying, "Could you lay off the gas pedal for a second, dude?"
He goes to head-butt Peter, but his spider-senses alert him of the movement and he dodges the strike.
"Fine," he says, then climbs in through the window and pulls the guy's kicking legs away from the pedals, all while keeping one hand on the steering wheel.
He spots a knife in the cup holder uses it to cut through the webbing on his hands, only to web them back together like handcuffs and shifts the struggling guy so that he's sitting shotgun and Peter's in the driver's seat.
With no more hiccups, Peter is able to press on the breaks and guide the speeding van to a stop.
The man beside him is spewing out obscenities, so Peter webs his mouth shut—careful to keep his nostrils clear—then jumps out of the car to hurry to the kid's door. Wrenching it open, Peter pulls the hog-tied kid out and effortlessly rips the binding rope.
There's a moment where neither Peter nor the kid speak, both of them sitting in the middle of the road next to the damaged van, the only sounds being the sirens crying in the background and the sound of their heavy breathing. Peter gives the kid a quick once-over for any injuries. Only tear-stained cheeks and wide eyes.
Before he can push himself up from his knee and to his feet, the kid rushes forward and wrestles Peter into a tight hug. His fists grab ahold of the suit as he shakes against his chest.
Peter—touch-starved—doesn't even hesitate for a split second to wrap his arms around the kid and lean his cheek against his head of dark hair.
"Thank you," the kid's whispering, holding onto him tighter. "Thank you."
"Hey, it's my job," Peter says. He doesn't pull back until the kid does. "You alright? Do you need a hospital?"
"No, I'm okay, thanks to you." He wipes his runny nose with the back of his hand. "Who are you? Are you an Avenger?"
Not anymore. "Spider-Man. And, no, I'm not—I'm not an Avenger." The words taste like ash on his tongue. Blinking away the emotion rising in his chest, he looks down at the kid and asks, "What about you? What's your name?"
"Leeroy."
The siren wails get louder. Suddenly, Peter's all too aware of the red and blue flashing against the reflective surface of the van.
"I've got to go," Peter says, glancing at the cop cars screeching to a stop in a circle around them. "Stay safe and stay away from creepy vans, alright?"
"Okay."
"Good." He stands and offers his fist, and Leroy gives him a fist-bump. "There we go. See you around, Leroy!"
With that, Peter extends his arm upwards and fires a web, kicking off the ground and flying away from the scene before a cop can even turn a gun on him.
He looks back in time to see a frantic mother running up to Leroy before falling to her knees to scoop him up in her tight embrace. Warmth spreads through his chest, and he returns his full attention back to swinging out of the area.
Before Spider-Man was more associated with Iron Man and the Avengers—before Peter died and then didn't exist for a few months, of course—law enforcement didn't know what to think of the young vigilante. On one hand, Spider-Man was obviously enhanced, and since no one knew his identity or M.O., he was a potential threat. The police would aim their weapons at him when they arrived on a scene. Thankfully they never shot, but it's the thought that counts, and it always hurt Peter deep in his gut when he was staring down the barrel of the police's gun.
On the other hand, there was no doubt—and not even the Daily Bugle could say otherwise—that crime rates in Queens and surrounding boroughs decreased immensely after Spider-Man showed up. He wasn't killing anyone—still isn't—and he wasn't causing too much damage. So, really, the police didn't have too much to worry about when it came to him; yet, they still had a knack for turning their guns at him even when the obvious crook is right beside him.
He doesn't have a lot of experience with the police force nowadays, but he doesn't want to risk getting shot at by the people who are supposed to be the good guys. For now, he plans on keeping his relationship with the police a long-distance one.
Peter manages to stop a bike thief later that night, and then decides to head back to his basement and call it a day when the moon hangs high in the sky. It lights his path back to Van Nest Ave.
Halfway there, swinging somewhere in northern Manhattan, two echoing pops followed by a scream yank Peter's attention from the placidity of the Christmas lights and warm sweatshirt. His head snaps to the right and he redirects his path.
As Peter lands on a roof and creeps over to the edge to peer down into the soupy darkness, he suddenly wishes Karen was still around. She always made missions more fun by keeping his company, but more importantly, she had a lot of protocols and features that helped Peter in his spider shenanigans. Like night vision mode, for example. He could really use that right about now.
He squints against the darkness. His eyes land on a lone form crumpled beside a dumpster.
Without hesitation, Peter leaps down from the tall building and lands on silent feet in the alley below. He straightens, looks over his shoulder, then starts towards the form with urgent steps.
"Hey, were you the one who screamed? Are you okay?"
No answer.
Fear spikes through his chest and he rushes to the man's side. He's got a scraggly gray beard and ragged clothing. On one knee, Peter uses one hand to tap the guy's ashen face and uses two fingers of his other to press against his neck while his eyes search his form for a gunshot wound.
Weak pulse. But, it's there.
"Sir?" Peter tries, eyes wide. He turns the man's head—his neck limp—and freezes when his eyes land on a blood-spurting mess of blown tissue. Bile rises in his throat, but then relief washes over him when he realizes it's a graze.
Okay, he needs to get pressure on this wound now.
He doesn't hesitate to press his hands against the unresponsive man's neck. The warm, slick blood spills between his gloved fingers while he frantically glances around. There's an open backpack leaning against the dumpster and a blanket laid out on the ground. Peter peers into the backpack only to find a baggy of white powder and some syringes.
Okay, blanket it is. He reaches back to grab the blanket, one hand staying on the wound, and then presses the right material against his neck. He feels bad for getting the guy's blanket all bloody—Peter knows firsthand that they're hard to come by—but the man wouldn't even be able to be mad if he bled out.
In these types of situations Peter would normally ask Karen to call 911 for him, but now he has to do it on his own. And he doesn't have a phone. He doesn't even have any change on him to pay for a pay phone.
"Someone help!" he shouts, focused on keeping pressure on his neck. "Call 911! Help!"
The soft thuds of footsteps approaching the alley snaps Peter's eyes to a man with a wool scarf and round glasses walking by. He glances down the alley as he continues walking, flashing Peter a judgmental look.
The blood won't stop. "Sir, call 911! Please, it's—it's this guy, I found him and he's—I think he's dying, he needs help, please!"
The man looks Peter up and down before turning forward with a scoff. "Damn Avenger wanna-be."
Ouch. If it weren't for the dire situation, Peter would've been offended at the remark. Instead, he lets out a growl of frustration and looks back down at the man he's helping. "Hey, I got you, so stay alive, okay?"
Still no response.
Just to make sure he's still alive, Peter places two bloody finger against his neck and checks for a pulse again.
His heart drops into his stomach.
"No." His voice pushes through his throat in a barely audible breath. Then, louder, "No, no, no. Hey, can you hear me?"
He taps the guy's face.
Ice runs through his veins as he ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut.
Nononono—
His ears perk at the sound of tires rolling over pavement. Snapping his head up towards the road, his teary eyes land on a police cruiser.
Heart jumping to his throat, Peter waves his arms and shouts, "Hey, over here! I need some help!"
The cruiser rolls to a stop by the sidewalk. The driver, a woman with her blonde hair pulled back in a low bun, and her partner, a short man with a bushy mustache, climb out with wary looks. Peter notices how they slowly pull out their guns from their belts but ignores it.
"Bullet grazed his neck, I-I can't find a pulse," Peter rushes out. "I found him like this but he had a pulse but it's gone and—and I didn't see who did it, but he's got no pulse or anything. I don't—I didn't know what to do, I can't, I can't help him, not when he's dead and the bad guy is gone—"
He cuts himself off when the officers tuck their guns back into their belts and hurry to the dead man's form. The female officer kneels on the other side and checks his pulse while scanning him for injuries as the male officer stands by Peter.
"I couldn't find any injuries other than the one on his neck," Peter jumps in, tongue loose.
The man crouches beside Peter as he continues applying pressure to the man's bleeding neck.
"You see what happened?"
Peter shakes his head. "No, sir, I found him alone like this. I swung over as fast as I could as soon as I heard the shots. There were t-two, two shots, but I couldn't find another entry wound." He bites down hard on his bottom lip. "I should've swung faster or, or checked around the area, or—"
"Hey, hey," the male officer interrupts, holding his hands up. "It's okay, you did the right thing."
"I can't find any other injuries, either," the woman pipes up from where she's kneeling. "I called it in, an ambulance should get here soon." Her blue eyes flash to Peter's. "I found a pulse. It's weak, but it's there."
Peter releases a breath and turns away. He can't make himself look at the limp figure on the ground, even if he is supposedly still alive.
"Hey," she says, bringing his eyes to dart to her as she stands. "My partner's right, you did what you should've. There's nothing else you could have done. You did a good job keeping pressure on his neck."
Peter makes a jerky nod.
Something close to sympathy flashes in the woman's eyes. Standing, she steps around the man to the side Peter's on, and takes a knee by his head. "Here, let me take over. You've done enough tonight, Spidey."
Tony's voice from a year ago wafts through his mind. "You've done enough."
He was scolding him, making sure Peter knew he wasn't a real superhero yet, not like the Avengers, and then he took his suit.
Although this officer's voice isn't condemning and her eyes hold nothing but understanding and empathy, the words still feel like a punch to the gut.
You weren't enough.
He lets her replace his hands on the ruined blanket keeping the blood from gushing from the man's neck and stands. Stumbling back, the male officer reaches out for him with a cautious hand, but Peter turns away and gasps for breath.
"Hey, man, are you okay?"
"Fine," Peter forces out, clenching his fists. "Just—I'm sorry I couldn't stop the bad guy or, or keep him safe."
I'll do better.
He takes another shaky breath. Then, without another word, he's swinging away with a flick of a wrist.
When Peter returns to the pub basement, stomach growling and head spinning from both the hunger and the events of the night, he rips his mask off. He paces the small square floor while wringing his hands together.
His fingers slip and he looks down. Bile rises in his throat at the sight of the blood coating his gloves.
Despite needing the suit for warmth, Peter peels it off of him and lets it fall into a heap on the floor. Goosebumps immediately arise over his bare arms and legs, the brisk air nipping at his chest.
He doesn't know how the clean the blood from the suit, he's never had to clean it before. Sure, blood and other stains are pretty common, but he's always had Tony to get it out. Or, he was just lucky the blood stained the red part of his suit. Although his gloves are red, the amount of blood on them is beyond ignoring.
He has to get it out.
Shivering, Peter pulls on his low-hanging jeans and Hostos Community College sweatshirt. He still doesn't have socks, but that doesn't stop him from shoving his feet into the ratty shoes and lacing the dirty laces up.
His whole body aches with hunger pains and exhaustion, but he forces himself to make the trek to the nearby high school's locker rooms to wash out the suit.
Peter doesn't leave until the water runs clear instead of pink.
He isn't surprised to be riddled with nightmares that night as he tries to sleep. When morning finally comes, he hopes to see some sort of report in a newspaper or something to give him a clue to what had happened to the man after he left, but there's nothing.
Peter goes throughout the rest of the week driving himself mad wondering if the man survived as he carries boxes for Mrs. Carter, chats with Mr. Bastidas, and patrols.
It isn't until he's sat in front of one of the library's computers after searching for ten minutes that he comes across an official report of the attack.
He wishes he hadn't searched it at all.
Mrs. Charleston casts Peter's pale complexion a suspicious gaze as he walks past her desk towards the exit. He doesn't give her his usual cheerful, "See ya later, Mrs. Charleston!" He just leaves.
Down in his basement, Peter scribbles a name down on a piece of lined paper and tapes it up on the wall.
Peter clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. Under his breath, he repeats the name of the man he couldn't save. Giovanni Ricci.
Conviction squeezing his heart, he swears that he won't be forgotten. And even though the rest of New York doesn't seem to care that he's gone, he feels the loss settle over him like a heavy, dark cloud.
His eyes flicker to the paper taped up on the wall beside the lined paper. It's a crayon portrait of Spider-Man with a lopsided figure and one arm that's way too short, but it was gifted to him by a little girl a few days after he pulled her and her family out of a house fire, so he hung it up on his wall like it was a Monet.
The juxtaposition between the two pieces of paper cuts Peter deep in the gut when he sits back. On the left is a drawing from a girl he saved, and the right, someone he didn't save. A life preserved, a life lost.
There, in that cold, abandoned pub basement, Peter makes the impossible promise to make sure that list doesn't grow.