Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There was nothing worse than being alone…especially in a crowded room.

Peter was back in school on Monday. He was sore, and some of his deeper lacerations were still healing. When he saw himself in the mirror, he realized that he looked like he’d been hit by a train. I should know.

The apartment was so quiet. He didn’t stay there any longer than he had to, just slept and cleaned himself up. Memories of May were everywhere. It was too painful.

Midtown Science was worse. Peter never would have expected that. He moved through the halls like a ghost, invisible, unnoticed, unknown. Those who made eye contact showed no familiarity, their gaze just slipped over his bruised face with idle curiosity.

“What happened to you?”

Peter looked up into the concerned visage of Betty Brant. He blinked for a moment…was that recognition? No. Her eyes were compassionate, but devoid of friendship. Shrugging slightly, he offered her a wan smile. “It’s nothing, I…got beat up. It’s fine. Barely hurts, anymore.”

“If someone’s bullying you, you should report it to the office,” Betty offered.

Nodding, Peter finished getting his books from his locker. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

Sitting in class was worse still. He sat next to M.J. and Ned, as always…and watched them converse quietly between themselves. They didn’t notice his presence. He considered interrupting them, introducing himself, starting the conversation he knew he had to have with his two closest friends.

Class began before he could summon the strength for the attempt. The bells rang at the end, and M.J. and Ned were out the door before Peter gathered his belongings. It made sense. There was no reason for them to wait for him.

The Band-Aid on M.J.’s forehead brought it all back, and brought Peter to a crashing mental halt. Wherever Spider-Man goes, chaos follows…. Death and destruction.

In that moment he understood. He would be M.J.’s doom. And Ned’s. Just like he’d been May’s. His best friend and the girl he loved more than anything would suffer and most likely die. Spider-Man was a hero. Peter Parker was a curse. His parents, his uncle Ben, Tony Stark, Aunt May….

He slid the paper holding his long-rehearsed speech into his pocket. It was better this way. No, not better, safer. He had to protect his friends—the only family he had left, even if they didn’t remember it—from himself. That other Peter, the taller, lankier one who’d lost his Gwen, had been right. A normal life just wasn’t in the cards for people like them. Peter could never have what he wanted.

“It was nice to meet you,” Peter said softly. He retreated from the coffee shop. He felt her eyes on him as he left, but he didn’t dare look back.

The new reality he found himself in landed hard, and he wasn’t prepared. The rent on May’s apartment was due, as was the tuition for his second—and last—semester as a senior at Midtown Science. There were no groceries left. The electric bill arrived the next day. Then the cable bill.

Peter was good at math. He had no money. Much of May’s remaining bank balance had already been earmarked for her burial. Those funds were untouchable.

He needed a job. A quick search of what was available for someone with his qualifications and total lack of a support structure offered little hope. That pesky math struck once more. He could scrape together enough to pay the next month’s rent, or pay his school tuition. Not both. Then, the utility bills would take the rest.

Peter’s foolishness, his failures exacted a steep price indeed.

The assistant in the school office looked surprised when he went to see her the next day. Not because he was dropping out, but because she could not recall him ever being enrolled. A check of his academic records settled that. She shook her head, baffled. She claimed that she’d never forgotten a student before.

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter assured her. “Thank you for everything.”

That was that.

The Iron Spider suit was damaged beyond repair. The black and red suit he’d built in Europe aboard Stark’s jet was fine, just offline. The interface with E.D.I.T.H. and Stark Industries was dead, and since Pepper and Happy didn’t know who he was, it was unlikely that he’d ever get those resources back.

If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it. Tony’s words meant more now than ever.

Spider-Man patrolled the neighborhood. Swinging around the city allowed Peter to forget the real world, at least for a few hours. He got more cheers than jeers as he moved about. The Friendly Neighborhood hero stirred debate, but more people believed in him than doubted him. He took solace in that. He’d win the world back, eventually.

He secretly escorted M.J. home from the coffee shop every night. She didn’t know he was there. A single mugger had approached her one cold evening, but had ended up webbed and suspended from a streetlight for his trouble. A note and a bag of stolen goods awaited the NYPD officers who hauled him down the next morning.

The thermal systems in the suit were offline, too. Winter in New York was cold, and Peter spent more than one night shivering in the tight costume.

He’d have to do something about that.

“I’m not sure you’d fit in here,” Mr. Hoffman said, adjusting his glasses and shaking his head.

The offices of the Daily Bugle were surprisingly Spartan, considering how much money they were raking in by slandering Spider-Man every day. Peter kept his attention on the older man.

“I’m a very hard worker, sir…and I really need this job.”

“Look, kid, I just don’t think—”

“Hoffman!”

Peter recognized the voice immediately. He turned as J. Jonah Jameson himself stormed into the office, breathing proverbial fire as usual. Hoffman leapt to his feet. “Yes, sir?”

“Have you hired that new photographer yet?”

“Well, um, no sir, we haven’t been able to—“

“What’s this?” Jameson said, snatching Peter’s phone off the arm of the chair. He was glaring at the photo of Spider-Man that Peter was using as his background. It was a pose. He’d been goofing off downtown waiting for M.J. one afternoon, just a few days after returning from Europe. He’d placed his phone on a ledge and got a nice shot of himself swinging.

It felt like years ago. Before everything fell apart.

Jameson didn’t know any of that backstory. “How in blazes did you get this close to that terrorist?”

“I…I guess he didn’t consider me a threat. Sir.” Peter stammered. He was acting, mostly. Jameson was gruff and loud, but Peter had trouble seeing through all the grief the man had caused him. He longed to punch the obnoxious pundit in the mouth, but he needed a decent paying job more than he needed to assuage his lingering resentment towards one of the people who’d caused many of his problems.

“I’ve had guys on the streets for months and they can’t get anything close to a photo this good,” Jameson grumbled. He shifted his glare to Peter. “You think you can get more like this?”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly. “Um…yes. I do.”

“Fine! You’re hired. Hoffman get him a press pass.” Jameson practically tossed Peter’s phone back to him and stalked from the room, leaving Mr. Hoffman agape.

“But, Mister Jame—.” He stopped and sighed, staring at the empty doorway. He looked down at Peter and put on a very forced smile. “Welcome to the Daily Bugle, I guess. Congratulations.”

The math still wasn’t adding up. New York was an expensive city, and May’s apartment was too big, too much.

He spent a few more nights in that empty—far too quiet—monument to his lost family, then he started packing boxes. He was 18 and legally an adult…though chronologically he was actually 23, just one of the many shared, bizarre facts of life of someone who’d blipped.

Sorting through old paperwork revealed a savings account and an old college fund set up by his uncle that Peter hadn’t known about. He had a small amount of money that would help get him settled in a new, cheaper place to live. He found a ramshackle studio apartment in a quiet corner of Queens and called the owner.

Three weeks later he was living on his own, studying for a GED under the watchful gaze of Ned’s Lego Emperor Palpatine.

Utilizing his old, pre-Stark dumpster diving skills, Peter cobbled together a police scanner for himself, and with some judicious spending, managed to assemble a new, comfortably insulated spider suit to replace the mostly useless black and red suit he’d built in Europe. He kept that one in storage, however, as it was always wise to have a spare. The new suit performed well, and he swung around the city in a full-fledged snowstorm just before Christmas, remaining quite warm.

Winter turned to spring. Spring turned to summer. Peter got his GED in record time. By day he arranged photo-ops to send in to the Bugle, getting paid for the best ones; by night he patrolled the city.

He watched over MJ and Ned, secretly, discreetly, while they went about their lives. He watched them, from a distance, as they celebrated graduation together. Then, he retreated to his apartment and barely got out of bed for three days. Only when the feelings of disgust and self-reproach outweighed his feelings of grief and self-pity did he drag himself out and go back on patrol. Spider-Man couldn’t afford to be so weak. He threw himself into his life as the neighborhood hero with renewed zeal. A majority of people seemed to believe in him again, if Jameson’s daily rants about declining subscriptions was any indication.

Then, one day in early August, he watched MJ load her belongings onto a moving van.

Ned loaded a similar van the next day. Peter watched as the box containing the Lego Death Star joined the others in the vehicle, and Ned paused, studying the contents carefully. He pondered idly if Ned was wondering about the missing piece.

With the vans safely en route to Boston, Peter went back to work.

The one year anniversary of May’s death passed uneventfully, for the most part. Peter encountered Happy again at the cemetery. They exchanged a few words, and each placed their flowers in front of the headstone.

Feeling hollowed out all over again, Peter soldiered on.

One night he found himself perched on a building in Greenwich Village, and only when the portal opened behind him did he notice that he was across the street from the Sanctum Sanctorum. Stephen Strange stepped through the sparking vortex, moving to stand behind him on the roof.

“Good evening,” Strange said cordially.

Peter struggled to keep his voice steady and nonchalant. “What’s up, Doc?”

Strange frowned slightly, but it soon turned to a smirk. “You know, we saved half the universe together, Spider-Man. One would think we’d be on a first name basis by now.”

Peter smiled sadly beneath his mask, but kept his gaze studiously on the neighborhood around them. “One of the downsides of a secret identity, I guess. You can’t let anyone know who you are. Even a friend.”

“Seems like a lonely way to live,” Strange observed.

Peter detected a note of…something in the sorcerer’s voice, but couldn’t categorize it. Strange had said the spell would affect him, too, but…who knew? Deciding not to pursue that line of thought, Peter simply shrugged. “Yeah. It’s a good way for no one to die, though.”

He dared a glance back at his fellow hero, who appeared troubled by his response, and quickly ended the encounter. “Good to see ya again, Doc. Gotta swing!”

Peter picked up a stalker the week before Christmas. The person was masked, and often in a car, which was easy enough to evade by swinging down alleys that were too narrow to drive through. He often varied his route back to his apartment anyway, rarely following the same path two days in a row. Still, his shadow persisted. It was probably one of Jameson’s paparazzi out for an incriminating photo. Peter kept an eye out, but sensed no immediate danger from whomever it was.

He asked around at work, discreetly, but no one knew anything about it. Even Jameson had been heard lamenting that his sources were too incompetent to find Spider-Man, even in broad daylight. Curious.

After a particularly busy night, Peter settled down at his desk. He was starving, so he ordered a pizza, then concentrated on filling out the application to Columbia University and the associated scholarship paperwork. It was time to get his life back on track.

A knock on the door heralded dinner, and Peter hurried over, pulling a sweater on to conceal the upper half of his Spider-Man costume. He opened the door, and froze.

MJ was standing there, looking nervous.

Mouth working soundlessly, Peter tried to process what he was seeing, and failed. He managed to clear his throat long enough to choke out a few actual words. “May I…help you?”

“May I come in?” She asked. Peter stared hard, but saw no recognition in her eyes, just challenge.

“Who…who are you?” Peter asked hesitantly. He was astonished at how painful those words felt when they were spoken.

“My name is Michelle,” she said cautiously. “We really need to talk.”

On his guard, Peter slowly stepped aside, letting her through the door. His brain was going into overdrive. What is this? Whatisthiswhatisthiswhatisthis….

She walked slowly inside, taking stock of his apartment. He recognized her expression. She was searching for clues. He closed the door and slid as casually as possible to a position in front of his shelving unit, to block view of the framed photo of himself, Ned and MJ, taken a few weeks before their trip to Europe.

For his part, he noted the chain of her black dahlia necklace, and wondered why she still wore it. He also noted the new cell phone and the MIT lanyard dangling from her pocket.

“I know who you are,” she blurted.

Peter blinked, but otherwise kept his expression bland as he bluffed. “Well, that makes one of us.”

She cast an accusing glance at him. “So, you deny it?”

He frowned. “I don’t know what I’m denying.”

MJ frowned back. “You’re going to deny that you’re Spider-Man?”

Peter’s mouth dropped open. It all fell into place. His stalker. Her appearance at his door. The reason his Spidey-sense hadn’t detected a threat.

“That’s…that’s crazy,” he stammered. “What makes you think I’m Spider-Man?”

She held up her phone, showing a map with multiple flagged points. “I’ve been tracking sightings, following possible routes. They all lead to this building.”

Peter shook his head. He should have known. “So, I share a building with Spider-Man. That’s cool, but that doesn’t mean—”

“This is the only floor where you’d be able to swing out the window safely, and I talked to everyone else already. Old man down the hall. Lady with small kids. Crazy cat woman. Russian supe. Newlywed couple next door. That leaves you. Process of elimination.”

There really was no way to counter that. Peter opened his mouth, but then closed it, simply looking at her for a moment before dropping his gaze to the floor. He’d missed her so much. All the pain, guilt and loneliness of the past year bubbled back to the surface and he felt as though he was drowning.

“Hey, I’m not going to tell anyone, or anything,” MJ said quickly, misinterpreting his reaction. “I just…I just needed to solve the mystery. I really admire you for what you do.”

Peter didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

“I—I didn’t mean to upset you,” MJ said, sounding slightly disappointed and perhaps embarrassed. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

She headed toward the door, pausing to give him one last look before opening it and stepping through.

“I love you, MJ.” He muttered.

He didn’t mean to say it out loud. He didn’t even realize he’d spoken until she froze in the doorway. He looked up, suddenly as paralyzed as she seemed to be. He said nothing else.

Slowly, MJ swiveled, her eyes glistening as her fingers traced the edges of the black dahlia necklace. She lifted her head, lip trembling as she turned to face him with an expression of shock. Her next word was spoken softly, like a prayer.

“Peter?”