Chapter Text
There’s tears in his eyes, the weight of everything the last several months have brought him crushing him into a black hole of constant bereavement. One need not look back months to understand it, though. A week ago, he had a loving aunt – the most incredible woman in the world who, he would have done anything for. Twenty four hours ago he had two best friends – the smartest and kindest people he’s ever met. Ten minutes ago he had himself – rage-filled and broken but solidly him. Peter Benjamin Parker.
Wind cuts him, only drawing more moisture from his eyes. It’s easy to blame the wind as he whips around the torch of the Statue of Liberty on his webs. It’s easy to think of nothing but the wind when he spreads his gliding surfaces and careens toward shore. He might make it; he might not. If he has to swim, so be it. His goal right now is distance. He has to be as far away from them when it happens. Michelle and Ned will be confused, no doubt, but it’s out of his hands now. He has to trust Steven to handle things. He has to. He has to.
An updraft buoys him from a patch of warmer water below, giving him a few more seconds of hang time. He can see the lights of the ferry dock illuminating a cadre of night workers lined up on the shore and looking curiously toward the island. His limbs adjust instinctually, sending him to the left a few degrees. There’s a storm drain outflow there, hidden in the shadows of a pier. A bit of super strength, a bit of destruction of public property, and he can make his way further inland without risking the streets. He focuses on that plan as he crosses the midway point, now officially closer to shore than to his friends.
He’s nearly there, face stinging with cold and muscles aching, when it hits him. A green wave of magical energy erupts from the base of the statue and moves rapidly away, washing over Peter, the people on shore, and eventually everyone across the whole world – no, the whole multiverse. It stuns him, knocking every thought from his mind including the ones commanding the careful positioning of his arms. He instinctively curls into a protective ball and plummets to the icy water below. It envelopes him in a chill embrace and he lets it. A void-like nothingness on the outside to match the emptiness on the inside. Search lights from fire department boats pierce the murky water and dance across his skin like stars.
Michelle rolls her eyes when she hears the snk of a knife being opened behind her. She’s not going to psychoanalyze her would-be mugger but the fellow following seven paces back is clearly willing to jeopardize his goal for a couple style points. It works out in her favor and yet she can’t stop herself from judging him for it. She dips into the next alley to find another mugger, as expected. This one has no weapons out – his mistake – so Michelle smoothly walks up to him and jabs the taser she had hidden in her purse into the skin under his jaw just as he goes to grab at her.
She turns on the spot, prepared to handle the other idiot and go on with her day, when he catches a fist to the cheekbone. The owner of said fist catches the mugger with one hand gripping the front of his shirt before he can collapse to the ground. With an almost casual flick of the wrist, the failed assailant sails to land unceremoniously atop his unconscious cohort.
Michelle crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes at her “rescuer”. He’s wearing a shabby coat despite the temperate weather and has a half-burnt cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes a drag, letting it out through his nose. He hasn’t looked at her once during or since the little tussle and even looks like he’s about to walk off, job done, damsel no longer in distress.
“I didn’t need your help,” Michelle blurts, tucking her taser away.
“Oh I’m sure. I just really wanted to punch someone. Nothing personal.” His tone is deadpan despite the jokey wording which only incenses Michelle further. She can’t decide if she’s annoyed he helped or annoyed he’s treating the situation so nonchalantly. She watches as he plucks his stubby cigarette from his lips and rolls the remaining tobacco out, extinguishing it in the process. The butt disappears into his coat pocket.
“Welp, it was nice of you to lure an idiot into punching range for me but I have to go haunt a different corner now.”
“Wait,” Michelle nearly shouts, taking a step forward before he’s even moved. “Why did you really help me?”
“I told you–”
“I’m serious.”
The man takes a deep breath and pats his breast pocket, frowning at what he does or doesn’t find. He turns partially toward her and she gets her first look at his face as more than a fleeting profile. A scraggly beard, badly lacking in proper care, hides the lower part of his face. Above that, brown eyes peer out from world-worn skin that might have been pale before the sun baked it. One of his eyebrows has a subtle cowlick to it, almost unseen beneath the messy, unkempt brown curls cascading to almost chin length.
“I’d hate to let someone die to a mugging when I could have stopped it,” he answers quietly. She takes another step closer to hear him better – and to get a better look at his face. “Those two have been playing their little game for a week or so and I was waiting for them to do it again to teach them a lesson. They just happened to pick you.”
His words echo in her head, tugging at memories nearly a decade old at this point. She can feel something there, something profound, and it’s not until he turns to look at her properly after her lack of response that it clicks.
“Peter?”
Her voice is a whisper with a thousand shared moments and a dozen heartbreaks behind it. When he replies, true confusion on his face, she makes it a dozen and one.
“Who the fuck is Peter?”