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…and then there he was.
No more weird shields for good ol’ lady Liberty, no more shimmering rings of light in the sky. No more Peter Parkers. Just him, and his old life.
Peter shrugged to himself and let his head bend down and swing a little. But then again, he was a grown boy in spandex, a bruise getting bigger on the side of his face, and his Liberty Island was still very much open for business. So, big breath, mask back in place, and there he went swinging and waving hello to the latest mob of tourists armed with phones and some good old-fashioned cameras.
Peter shoved his suit over the bed and fished for the first change he could find.
He wanted to get out of that flat as soon as he could.
The old suit charger courtesy of Stark Industries was staring at him with its inviting empty tray, and he forcefully ignored it.
Everything was dark, everything was silent. Everything was different from the place he wanted to remember his home to have been. This was just an empty shell of a memory.
May’s scent was still in the air.
He stumbled and fell and got on his knee with a groan.
He was in so much pain right now, his back was killing him for good this time.
He was getting too old for this.
With a weary sigh he put his mask back on, sorely regretting the regular clothes he’d left behind in that other universe. He would have to swing his way back now. Or he could grab a coat and some trousers from some stands or windows and just walk from there on.
Decent people don’t steal, Peter.
With a sigh, Peter forced himself up on his feet. He waited for his head to stop spinning and just looked up. Precise calculations ran in the back of his mind without him even paying attention. Then he aimed for the right angle and there he was, on his trajectory up slumping down onto the nearest ferry headed for the city.
On his way back, NYC welcomed him home.
As he swinged by between friendly cranes and mirrored skyscrapers, he wondered how the other Peters were doing. Would they be back to their MJs? Would the little one be alone in a graveyard, the name of aunt May staring back at him from its silent grey stone?
Peter felt his stomach turn a little.
He missed them. But he had places he needed to go, now.
He gave himself the time of a full swing, waited for the feeling of void to grab him mid-air and on the next step he found his wrist heading right. It was decided. He needed a good shower, a decent change of clothes, and all in time for Aunt May’s dinner. Sure. But there was a place he needed to go first.
He didn’t know where he was going.
He was pacing, though, pacing fast, as New Yorkers do, one more pedestrian in the crowd.
Nobody turned to point at him. Strange’s magic had done the trick, this time.
An odd shiver ran down his spine, colder than his ‘tingle’ had ever been, as his pace jerked into a halt. ‘Tingle’, May used to call it like that.
His feet had brought him by MJ’s café.
He could see someone moving beyond the glass door.
He’d made a promise.
He just needed to find the right words.
The first snow was melting into a puddle, and the white flowers he’d left had fallen on the side.
<< There you are… >> he said fretting the stems back into the little vase next to her picture.
Her fixed gaze caught his and he stared back for a second before he let his eyes slide away, restlessly.
<< You’ll never believe who I’ve just met. >>
It was getting cold. A light snowy breeze grazed his back still half covered in sweat. He huddled down next to the stone as he colourfully told the tale of three Peters and of how they saved the day.
<< …you would have liked them. >> he said in the end. << I know they would have liked you. I know I do. >>
His fingers tapped gently on the side of the stone.
<< You know, I’ve met one their “Gwens” too, the younger one. She’s good. I think she’s running for the MIT or something like that. She’s smart, you two would have got along together. The first time she saw me, she threw bread at me. >> he chuckled. << Her name was MJ. Is- Her name is MJ. >>
The breeze made the flowers dwindle in their vase.
<< I saved her, Gwen. >>
His fingers stopped tapping.
<< I caught her this time. >>
<< Anybody home? >>
Peter glanced from the hallway, just in case.
He never knew when MJ would show up.
The flat looked blessedly bare. No flowers on the table, no tea mugs resting all over the place, no magazines left open on the couch.
He gratefully dove into the shower and got back into his skin: the blessed anonymity of a white shirt with a colourful tight suit underneath.
As he moved stiffly into his own familiar territory in search of a pain killer of some kind, his eye caught the note left pinned on the fridge.
‘7.30 tonight, don’t forget’
The door slammed shut behind his back, just a little louder than intended.
The Halloween lights had gone, the Christmas ones were just starting to make their appearance over the counter long overdue. Peter’s eyes lingered just a bit longer on the trail of lights, trying to figure out his first words, only to snap out of their trance at the sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen.
<< Can I help you? >>
Peter stared, his mouth gaped.
She was looking at him, waiting. No jokes about him standing there like a dork.
<< A coffee to go, please. >>
A paper cup found its way to the coffee machine.
<< Anything else? >>
The little bell above the door chimed in response.
All buttoned up, Peter hurried to the stall just in time to get his single ticket.
The darkness of the theatre embraced him softly as he made his way to his seat, right in the middle of a very crowded row of people he repeatedly apologised to as he tried not to stomp on their feet.
The curtain opened, the audience mumbling faded, the stage lit up.
Peter stared, his mouth slightly ajar in the privacy of the darkness.
As the beautiful Lady Bracknell walked in, his lips couldn’t help tugging upwards.
The rain started falling gently.
<< I have to go now… >>
May always worried when he was late, and maybe something could still be done with that bruise on his face. At least he had to try.
Pacing and rummaging in his pockets, Peter managed to get his hands of a piece of scrap paper and an extremely small and worn-out pencil.
‘Hi, my name is Peter Parker and I am your…’ – no, that sounded imposing.
‘Hi, I am Peter, Peter Parker, and you don’t remember me but we…’
As the curtain fell, Peter sprang on his feet whooping.
<< Peter… >> she murmured as soon as she opened the door and saw him.
He gave her his best smile, and that stung a little.
<< Are you okay? What happened? >>
<< I’m fine, May. I’m – really, I am fine. >>
Hi, my name is Peter Parker. You don’t know me, but I…