Chapter Text
Peter finally breaks down on Christmas Eve.
Ever since the spell, Peter's been living life in a haze. He's developed a sort of messed-up routine, one that allows him to operate almost robotically.
Every day: morning patrol, study for the GRE, deliver pizzas, nightly patrol, and, when he can, sleep and eat. Saturdays: make an hour to visit Aunt May. Sundays: torture himself by going to the cafe for half an hour, sitting in the back and listening, just to make sure Ned and MJ are still okay. Tuesdays: go to the Daily Bugle after work and sell his pictures of Spider-Man.
It makes Peter want to throw up, selling pictures to the very man who exposed him in the first place. But Joe’s Pizza pays him under the minimum wage, and he can’t do anything about it because they were already kind enough to hire him despite his lack of documentation. And with the amount of food he needs to eat, and the price of rent in NYC (even for a tiny, tiny apartment in Hell's Kitchen), any extra bit of money helps.
Even with that, he’s still a little behind on his rent.
Keeping a busy schedule is the only thing that stops Peter from completely falling apart. If he’s constantly moving, constantly working, constantly trying to focus on the basic needs for survival, then he can’t take too long to think about his situation, and all of the things that he’s lost.
And if he takes a few too many hits on patrol, or maybe lets a mugger slice him a little with a knife, it’s okay. The pain reminds him that he is still alive, and he still has a purpose: to help others. No matter what. That’s what May always said, at least.
“That’s what we do. We help people .”
He does his best to live by those words every day. He knows, from May, that he’s supposed to believe people can change. But seeing all the crime on the street, sometimes it feels impossible. Like it would be better for him to just stop them, once and for all. Peter tries to ignore the fact that this feeling grows stronger and stronger every day.
Focus on the routine. Patrol. Study. Work. Eat. Patrol. Sleep. Eat. No time for thoughts, no time for doubts. Get out of bed, get back up, and do it again. Patrol. Study. Work.
It doesn’t always work.
Because on Christmas Eve, Peter delivers a pizza in 31 minutes. His third infraction of the “30 minute guarantee.” Joe looks at him with pity, and Peter begs, he promises to do better, but Joe rips the sticker from his helmet, and that’s that.
Peter runs out of Joe’s, probably faster than a normal seventeen year old should be able to, but he doesn’t care. One foot in front of the other, pounding the pavement. Peter can’t hear anything but a rushing in his ears, he’s on complete autopilot, and he’s honestly surprised when he finds himself at the door to his apartment building in what seems like mere minutes.
Robotically, he grabs the door handle, walks up four flights of stairs, and down the little hallway to his apartment door.
Where he’s met with eviction notice, giving him only a week to rectify the issue.
On Christmas Eve. Peter doesn’t even celebrate Christmas, but he knows Mr. Ditkovich does, so he has to know just how cruel this is. Maybe he did it to let Peter know he’s serious about this, or because he wants to break Peter’s spirit, or maybe just because he really wants his money and couldn’t be bothered to wait until after the holidays.
Whatever the reason, Peter doesn’t have a steady job now. So there’s no way he’s going to be able to make up the rent.
Peter opens the door and stumbles inside, reeling. All of a sudden, the world seems to come crashing in on him.
The lights in his apartment become so, so bright. His window is cracked open, and through it, the sounds and smells and tastes of New York begin to assault him. A car slams on its brakes, and it sounds like a scream. Honking, yelling, car exhaust, the sewer smell, the chaos, the lights, it all comes rushing at Peter faster than he can process.
The new Spider-Man suit he keeps on under his clothes at all times, made out of the cheapest Spandex he could find, suddenly feels like a million razor blades scratching against his skin.
Staggering over to his bed, Peter gasps for air. Throwing off his coat, then his shirt, he claws at the spandex, needing it off but also not wanting to rip it.
In his panic, he gets tangled up in the suit, but finally, he manages to get it off, sliding down to the floor.
The focus on escaping the suit had taken up enough of his thoughts that the sounds and smells and light are a little less intense now. His heart is still pounding, and he’s still breathing fast, but air seems to be actually entering his lungs now.
Which leaves Peter sitting on the floor in the corner of his apartment, in his underwear, next to a pile of gifts.
Gifts that he’d bought long before the spell, that he’d managed to recover from Happy’s apartment along with the rest of his sparse belongings. Eight Hanukkah gifts for May. All little, but so carefully chosen. And gifts for Ned and MJ, for Christmas. Peter would always spend Christmas at Ned’s, since he and May didn’t celebrate.
In the cruelest twist of fate yet, not only is tomorrow Christmas, it is also the first night of Hanukkah. Not only would he have to spend Christmas without his friends, he’d have to light the menorah without May.
It’s too much.
Getting fired, the eviction, the holidays. Everything is falling apart all at one time, and all Peter wants is to ask May for help, but she’s not here. And that’s his fault. He dragged her into this. But now, he can’t even help himself.
Before he can swallow it down, a sob erupts from Peter’s throat. A gut-wrenching noise he didn’t even know he was capable of making.
Then the tears start falling. Peter grabs the picture frame off of his desk. The one photo he’d managed to save: a picture of an eight-year-old Peter and May, standing in front of the tree at Rockefeller Plaza. Somehow, it hadn’t been erased from existence.
Peter clutches the photo to his chest, wracked with sobs he can no longer contain. The sound of his crying is almost inhuman, emotions that he’s been trying to keep bottled up for over a month all spilling out at once.
He’d tried to avoid crying, to avoid thinking, because he was afraid that would make it real. And it does, but it also feels like a twenty ton weight has been lifted off of his chest.
It is real. It’s all real. No one is coming to comfort him right now.
May is gone. Ned and MJ and Doctor Strange and the whole world have forgotten who Peter Parker is.
Maybe Peter Parker should be gone. Maybe it’s for the best that his friends don’t know who he is. Peter Parker messes things up, drags his friends and family into dangerous situations that he can’t get them out of.
Spider-Man helps people.
Huddled on the floor, in the corner of his tiny apartment, in his underwear, Peter is a pitiful sight, and he knows it. But with a new resolve, he rubs his bloodshot eyes, stands up, and pulls the suit back on.
Maybe he’s not sad any more. Maybe he’s angry. Angry at the world, angry at the people who endangered his friends and family, and angry at himself for not being able to put a stop to any of it.
And he’s so, so, so tired. Tired of everything going wrong, tired of getting close to people, only for them to get hurt. Tired of stopping bad guys only for them to get back up when the webs dissolve and get right back to hurting people.
But he’s not going to sit back any more. It’s clear that this is something he has to do alone. It’s time for Spider-Man to start really helping people. And maybe he’s going to stop pulling some of his punches.
He is going to have to figure out what to do about that eviction notice, though.
***
Peter decides to start his patrol around Rockefeller Center, for old time’s sake.
He and May would always take the train over on Christmas Eve, and they’d walk around Midtown a little, looking at the storefront decorations. They’d end at Rockefeller Plaza, May would pick him up and put him on her shoulders, and he’d crane his neck, looking up at the giant tree, trying to count the ornaments.
Peter gets closer, looking for a rooftop to perch on, figuring he’ll take a minute to look at the tree, watch the families doing what he and May used to do. Maybe it’ll remind him a little of what he’s fighting for. Why he has to do this alone.
When he arrives, though, Peter doesn’t see beautiful decorations, or happy families. He sees the tree toppled over, and a bunch of dudes in red – are those tracksuits? – fighting two people with bows and arrows. Creeping closer, he can see it’s Hawkeye, and some girl in purple who he’s never seen before, but who seems to be just as good with her bow as Clint.
It’s selfish, but Peter really doesn’t want to interact with Hawkeye, even though he knows he should go down there and help. Despite the fact that he’s sure he has to go this alone, Peter doesn’t need to be reminded of all that he’s lost.
And knowing that Hawkeye has forgotten who he is would only remind him that all the Avengers have forgotten.
Peter’s about to turn and go in a different direction when he sees one of the dudes in a red tracksuit running away from the scene. Maybe he knows something, maybe Peter could use him to get some information on who these guys are. Peter decides to follow him.
Jumping silently between rooftops and buildings, Peter follows the tracksuit guy three blocks west. Finally, the guy veers off into a smaller alley, away from civilians. Peter drops down from the roof and lands right behind him.
“Hey! What’s with the tracksuit? I’m pretty sure that hasn’t been in fashion since, well, ever?” Peter calls, pulling a gun from the guy’s hand with a web
Tracksuit dude whips around with a yell, throwing a clumsy punch that Peter easily dodges. The guy is big, but he’s not very fast, and he’s alone. In no time, Peter has his hands webbed to the wall and his feet webbed in place.
“Now, do you want to tell me who you work for, and why you were fighting Hawkeye? Or do I have to make you tell me?” Peter asks, tone still light but with an edge to his voice now.
He’s not used to saying stuff like that, and it feels kind of wrong, but he tries to shake it off. He’s doing it to help people.
“I’m not scared of you, bro. Everyone knows you’re just the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man ,” the guy snarls, spitting on the ground. “Get back to Queens and mind your own business.”
“Unfortunately for you, this is my new neighborhood,” Peter replies, and before the man can insult him again, Peter punches him square in the face.
Blood covers Peter’s knuckles, soaking through his thin suit. It’s streaming down the guy’s face, and it’s pretty obvious that his nose is broken.
The feeling that this is wrong won’t go away. But it’s not like he didn’t give the guy a chance to talk first, and he needs to know what’s going on if he wants to be able to help people. Plus, he’s seen the videos of Daredevil on YouTube – what that guy does is a million times worse, and the people of Hell’s Kitchen still seem to love him, for the most part. Peter shoves the feeling further down, and pulls his fist back again, opening his mouth to continue interrogating this criminal.
Before he can get a word out, though, some kind of stick hits him hard in the hand, and when Peter turns to look where it came from, a body slams into him from the other side, pushing him away.
Speak of the Devil. Or rather, think of the Devil.
Because standing in front of him is none other than the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself.
“Hey, what’s this about, Hornhead?” Peter asks. “I had him!”
“You’ve done enough,” Daredevil growls. “He’s mine. Why don’t you go back to Queens?”
“I’m just trying to help!” Peter practically pouts. Then, realizing he should probably try to sound a little less like an actual child, he tries to lower his voice. “He was about to tell me who he works for.”
Daredevil cocks his head when Peter changes his voice, but Peter has no idea what that means.
“This is my fight,” Daredevil growls again. “I don’t need anyone else getting involved. You have no idea what you’re getting into, kid. It would be best for everyone, including yourself, if you stay out of it.”
“I’m not a kid!” Peter yells, even though it makes him sound even more like he is, in fact, a kid. “But I know where I’m not wanted. You can have this one, dude. But I’m going to figure out what’s going on.”
Peter doesn’t wait for a reaction from the other vigilante; he jumps up onto a fire escape and swings away, back to his apartment. The confrontation with the tracksuit guy had taken longer than he’d thought, and after getting rejected by Daredevil, Peter doesn’t have it in him to do more patrolling tonight. Plus, it’s after midnight now. It’s Christmas. Almost Hanukkah.
Crawling through the window, Peter sheds the suit, and goes over to the sink. It squeaks and sputters a little as he turns the water on. He sticks his right hand under the stream of lukewarm water, watching as red streaks roll down his hand and into the sink basin. His knuckles, which he’s sure got bruised by the punch, have already healed. With a little bit of soap, it’s as if nothing ever happened.
Peter crawls into bed and lays there, staring up at his ceiling, the events of the day all flooding his mind. The things he’d just done. His confrontation with Daredevil. Getting fired from his job.
Shit, and the eviction notice.
There has to be something he can do about that. Maybe there’s something he can do to appeal it? Maybe he can beg Mr. Ditkovich to come to his senses? There’s no way he can afford a lawyer–
Wait. A lawyer. A really good lawyer . Peter knows of a really good lawyer who does pro-bono work.
Jumping up, Peter rifles through one of the boxes he has stored under his bed until he finds what he’s looking for: a business card. For Nelson, Murdock, and Page, attorneys at law.
Christmas is tomorrow, but on Thursday, he’ll have to pay them a visit. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.
With that little bit of hope, Peter crawls back into bed.