Work Text:
Peter Parker lay on his bed, alcohol at his side and his suit bunched up on the floor with his gun on top of the pile. His coat covered his body like a quilt, needing comfort.
It was the anniversary of Aunt May’s death. The first anniversary killed him, he had collapsed into Matt’s arms and cried the entire day. They ordered Chinese food and watched Star Trek. Each year it go easier and easier.
But this year… this year was tough.
See, the multiverse is large, vast, and quite a few Peter’s out there still had their Aunt May’s. Which is great, yay for them… but then they talk about their Aunt May’s, it it sucks.
Now the thing about most of these Peter’s is that, well, their moral compass is still white. White like clouds and doves, white like daisies and snow. White and pure. Pure and white.
No doubt their Aunt May’s would be proud, he knows Two’s Aunt was proud before she passed.
It got Peter thinking about his Aunt May. What would she think of him?
Peter’s moral compass was grey… he didn’t like to admit it, and god he tried to not think about it and avoided the outcome, but he would kill if he had to. He was nice to people and animals, and to first time thieves he was gentler. Heck thieves in general, he was nicer to. They still got a beating, but not nearly as bad as a murderer. If you’re a rapist, you end up in the hospital with broken bones. If you do anything involving kids, well… you end up in a coma. For fuck sake, he carries a gun and katana around with him!
Aunt May would be so disappointed if she knew what he turned into. He was mean, nasty, sometimes borderline cruel. But, only to the ones who deserve it!
He quickly went from “ha, Tony Stark’s Protege” to “oh shit, Daredevil’s Protege” then finally to “fuck it’s Spider-Man”.
Ugh, he couldn’t think of May without Stark. When he was fifteen, he was friendly with Stark and eager to please, worshipped the guy and the ground he walked on, everything was going his way back then. Well, kind of, enough to be happy. He thought he would go to M.I.T., he thought he would work in Stark Industries, and be an Avenger. He never thought he would be here. Drinking, blood stained teeth and constantly broken skin around his knuckles, community college and a few glorified selfies to the Daily Bugle.
On one hand, his Aunt May would be disappointed; he’s drinking, his arms are covered in tattoos, he’s constantly fighting and angry, with a gun strapped to his hip and a katana at his side, the true image of a vigilante.
The amount of people he’s put into a coma would have her rolling in her grave, the colourful swear words would have made her ears bleed. If she head him talk, she would cover her ears.
Gone were the days of excited enthusiasm, of his squeaky, high pitched voice and clear delight. Now all that there was, was a dark grumble, which sounded like he swallowed glass and gargled rocks, tough, rough, mean. Angry.
Matt always said Peter was an honorary Murdock, and “my gran would always say, “look out for them Murdock boy’s, they got the devil in ‘em”. Peter was inclined to agree… he had a devil in him.
It didn’t help that nobody had ever seen him… let loose. Get angry. Neither had Peter, besides once. But… that was before his training. Now, if what happened with The Green Goblin happened now… Peter doesn’t know what would happen. Death? Absolutely. But… that was only a few minutes… know what he knows now… would Peter even kill him? Would he… ruin his life first and hurt him? Who knows…
It doesn’t help that Peter One went to Noir’s Dimension a while ago, only… he didn’t come at a good time. He kinda flopped into the dimension and landed in the middle of Noir’s living room which seemed to be holding a vigilante convention of some kind.
Noir Murdock had stared at One with amazement and physically recoiled after a second, hiding behind Frankie Jr.
Peter One had raised his hands and moved to Noir’s side in confusion and about had questioned Noir Murdock about his reaction and explained that One was just Noir… just with colour.
Noir Matt had choked out between tears and amazement; “You’re impossibly quiet. A heartbeat, a strong one. I can almost hear your muscles tighten, coiled with incredible strength and control. You’re pure power, and you don’t even know it. The best of us.” He had swallowed, “and you’re here. Right in front of me.”
At first it sounded like an extract from Twilight, but then he continued and it had freaked Peter out. He’s been trained for years now and apparently he still didn’t know his powers and abilities.
It scared him more than he liked to admit.
If his Aunt May knew even half of what Peter was now capable of… he doesn’t doubt she’d lock him in The Raft herself.
(“Being dramatic again Petey!” Came a mini Wade in the back of his mind that he chose to ignore.)
But, on the other; his Aunt May would be happy and proud of him, after all he is happy with his life finally.
So why wouldn’t she be happy too? After all, he has new friends and he’s made a new family, befriended his old friends, he has two paying jobs, and is in college on top of that with good grades. He’s healthy (food wise and working out wide) and no longer living in just takeout, and knows how to adult… kind of. He’s got a kid now, one he trains and loves like his own.
Not to mention he can fight better then ever, he’s not longer get injured from stupid shit like a stray bullet or a stab wound, and nobody’s second guessing him now!
He’s got a seat at the “Big Boy Table” and the “Little Kid Table” is destroyed for him and his kid will never have to look at it if hr gets a say.
So, she’d be proud… right?
With a sip of his alcohol, the warm burn tickling down his throat, he stood up and and grabbed his coat and hat, pulling them on. He grabbed his boots and pulled them on, lacing them up. Blue laces. He took a page out of Hobie’s book, sue him. Cops are dicks, only one he trusted and that’s Jeff.
“Going out Dad,” Peter said as he walked to the door, grabbing his keys and shoving his phone in his pocket.
Matt hummed from his room. “You okay?”
Peter smiled, “yeah. Just gonna see my Aunt… the grave that is, not her.” He clarified, quickly. He still made jokes but not nearly as much, he doesn’t want to die anymore.
“Okay, be safe.” Called Matt, softly.
“You too,” said Peter, despite the fact Matt wasn’t leaving until later.
They didn’t really say “I love you”. Very rare that happened. Instead they said “stay safe”, they made sure the other was okay after a bad night, they sent Wade after child rapists and made sure the apparent was accessible.
They were father and son, and they loved each other.
Peter sighed as he stood at the edge of Aunt May’s grave, flowers in his hand.
“Hey Aunt May… I’m back…” He swallowed, “sorry if I smell of alcohol. You know I drink these days…”
He knelt down and set the flowers down. “I miss you everyday. I wish you was here, you’d love Miles.” He grinned softly, “I wonder all the time if that spell affected ghosts… or if ghosts even exist.”
He sighed and stopped smiling, lowering his head. “I hope your proud of me… and not angry…”
He hesitated and brought out a lighter. It was improper what he was doing, but ultimately it would be okay. He carried a lighter for anyone who might need it… so he lit his lighter.
“Peaceful remedies gone and destroyed, how I wonder If I could reverse the clock back to the start. Where thunders will knock, I ask for forgiveness. From a friend or a foe I have proved myself worthy. So let them know.” He looked to his Aunts grave and blew out the light, before standing up and pocketing the lighter.
He perked up hearing footsteps and relaxed.
“Hey Mr. Hogan,” Peter called softly as he looked over. Happy would come the grave regularly. He was older now, hair more grey, lines in his face. Smile likes.
“Oh, hey Murdock,” nodded Happy.
Peter Murdock… Peter had to give Happy a name, and he couldn’t use Parker for obvious reasons, so he became a Murdock.
“How’ve you been Mr. Hogan?” Peter asked, “how’s the Morgan?”
They had bonded around May’s grave, and shared stories about the kids they were taking care of.
“She’s good,” smirked Happy. “Gonna be just like her Dad.”
Peter held back a grimace, that’s not something to be proud about. “Good…”
“And Milo? How’s he?” Asked Happy.
Milo is the fake name Peter gave Happy. The kid has a secret identity and equally, he didn’t need Happy finding this Miles, who’s just started Visions. “Good. He’s been skipping Spanish though, so we’ve had a talk.”
“Teenagers. Dreading Morgan’s teen years — ”
Suddenly, Happy’s phone rang and he fumbled with said phone, bringing it out and answering. “Hello?”
Peter tilted his head and his stomach dropped hearing Pepper Potts. He had only talked to her a handful of times, not enough of an impact but enough to remember a taste of the past.
Does he miss that life? He’s never really asked himself that. Does he miss who he was before that spell? Does he miss being The Friendly Neighbourhood Spider, dressed in bright Cookie Monster blue and fire engine red? Does he miss when multiple people knew his name, Peter Parker, knew he was the nerd in Decathlon, with buckets of social anxiety? Does he miss the days he worshipped the Avengers and admired Tony Stark, as if they were The Gods themselves?
“You need to come back home, Morgan and Harley have invited you on the family day, which I’m in agreement with. They thought it could cheer you up.”
“I’ll be there soon,” smiled Happy.
Peter frowned and looked down as if he wasn’t listening. Does he miss the days when he couldn’t hear heartbeats and phone conversations? When he didn’t taste the rusty metal and chemicals on food? When he didn’t feel the fibres and scratchy material on cloth? When he didn’t see tiny scares on faces or have a Sixth Sense?
“I gotta go Murdock, it was good seeing you.”
“Yeah, you too Mr. Hogan.” Peter pulled out his alcohol and took a gulp, and just kept gulping. He chugged his drink, in one fluid motion. The burn was amazing.
“You sometimes remind me of Tony…” Happy said suddenly, making Peter stop drinking in confusion.
The younger sloshed the drink around.
“He used to drink all the time, said it helped with his problems,” sighed Happy with a sad smile. “See ya kid.” He turned and walked away head down.
Peter looked down at his drink and frowned, “bye Aunt May. He turned from the grave and began his walk home.
“Hey kid, you okay?” Asked Matt, as he made pasted in the kitchen.
Peter had only just walked in and he was tired. His thoughts swimming.
“Peter?” Matt asked, more concerned.
“I’m good…” Peter said, as he hung up his coat and pulled out his flask. “Meatballs?”
Matt smiled softly, “yeah.” He began to frown, gentle and tiny. “Peter — ”
Peter shook his head, “I don’t miss before…” He said, suddenly. He decided he liked how his life turned out, he liked what happened in his life. “I like what happened before I met you, I love how it got here… but I don’t miss before, I don’t miss the time before I met you guys…”
Matt stayed silent and let him talk, though thoroughly confused.
Peter moved to the skin and lowered his head, and got a glass. He turned the water on. “I’ll never miss who I was before. I was naive, stupid!”
“Peter, you’re angry… I don’t think it’s because of how you was.” Matt said, gently.
Peter rinsed the glass and filled it with water, turning the sink off. He was angry, he was pissed off.
“Kid what happened?” Matt asked.
As Peter sipped his water, he no longer wondered how Matt knew when something was wrong, it was a mentor thing. But, he did wonder why he was angry.
He’s been upset in his Aunt’s Death Anniversary. He’s questioned a few times if he missed his life before, especially in the early days with The Vigilantes. It’s just this time, after about four years, he finally had an answer.
He’s happy with the life he has now. Hr doesn’t miss before at all.
He set his glass down, and sighed. “Nothing happened…”
“Peter — ”
Peter scowled, nothings changed! He’s mourned his Aunts death, asked for forgiveness, gone to her grave, spoke to Happy Hogan, and drank, like usual —
Wait…
“You sometimes remind me of Tony… he used to drink all the time, said it helped with his problems.”
Peter looked down to his flask, smelling the paint thinner, remembering the taste of warm, burning, bitter liquid of brown alcohol.
“Peter?”
Peter looked up at a concerned Matt. “I’m not Tony Stark. I refuse to be like Stark… I’m not… I’ll never be like him…”
He opened the flask.
“I detest Stark. I will not turn into Stark…”
And with that, he poured the alcohol down the drain of the kitchen sink. Gone.