Chapter Text
With bleary eyes and unfocused vision, Peter stared up at the blurry gray mass that loomed above his head. His brain jumped through hoops in a (piss poor) attempt to figure out what the hell he was looking at.
Concrete, perhaps? His chest tightened at the notion. Suddenly, his vision clearing into something at least marginally decipherable was no longer a leisure but a necessity and—!
—and there was too much of a breeze for him to be indoors. To be underground. To be buried underneath something. As Peter’s vision finally (finally!!!) focused, it became startlingly clear that the bleakness above him was, in fact, the sky.
So… not concrete.
A half-hearted “huh” was all Peter could manage at the realization. It was only the slightest exhale of a sound, but even that minute movement sent his ribs screaming. It probably said something unpleasant about Peter’s mental state that it took pain for him to snap him out of his hazy daze.
Not the unfamiliar sky or the strange and foreign smell in the air (like metal and ash and cigarettes and the circus?? somehow?). Nor was it because of the fact that his senses were blaring (they always were, nowadays), but that he was waking up with a new type of pain.
New, of course, being the most important part of that sentence.
After all, Peter could admit, if only to himself, that he might not have been holding it together very well.
(And on that point, what was “it”? His life? His mental state? His hopes? How about checking all of the above.)
But! At the very least (the very-bare-fucking-minimum), Peter could control his pain.
Or, rather, if he didn’t know anything else (such as: where his next meal was coming from, if anyone would ever remember him again (Don’t go there, Parker! Grab a hold of yourself!), if Jameson would buy his photos that week…blah, blah, trauma, blah, blah, ectara and so on), then Peter could at least know where every single one of his injuries came from.
For practical purposes, of course.
Definitely not because everything else in his life felt so far out of his control that his physical body was the last thing Peter could reliably-ish rely on.
Certainly not.
Point being, Peter’s ribs were not a sneeze away from broken when he went to bed in his own apartment last night, so the fact that they were now raised some harrowing concerns.
Although his sixth sense was going off, it wasn’t any more urgent than usual. So, in a rare showing of self-care, Peter let himself sink down into his bones and attempted to figure out what the hell had happened to him.
Or, at the very least, why his ribs hurt.
Wiggling his fingers and toes, Peter took stock of his body. He was no more tired and hungry than he had been before going to bed. Most of the aches were his own, except for the pain in his ribs that was growing increasingly more tolerable (as long as he took shallow breaths), and a headache with a bitterly numbing edge to it that most likely meant a concussion.
Which, Peter thought to himself, would probably explain the blurry vision.
Moving slowly, Peter moved his head from side to side, testing the state of his neck. No additional pain flared, just a vague rush of nausea that practically confirmed his concussion theory.
His neck thankfully un-broken, Peter let his head turn fully to the side, resting it against the ground. The cold, rough texture that scraped against his temple had Peter realizing two things.
One: that while there was no concrete above him, there was some below. The coolness of the ground was soothing against his aching head, but as much as Peter relished the feeling, the momentary relief was overtaken by a rush of pure fear.
Because two: where the fuck was his mask?
Sitting up far too quickly, Peter forced himself to finally take stock of the situation around him while he checked what items he had on him.
The findings on both were far from reassuring.
Peter was on top of a building—maybe six stories high—which overlooked a city that was most definitely not Queens. Even at its worst, Queens could never touch the level of disrepair and doom and gloom that this place oozed with a nauseating ease. The city (or cesspit? that might be a more accurate analysis) looked like nothing Peter had ever seen before.
His findings on what items he actually had with him were hardly better.
That being said, at least that meant he could at least recognize what he’d fallen asleep in, even if it wasn’t particularly useful.
Peter had gone straight back to his apartment (not home—never home) after another joyous day of feeling miserable for himself, enjoying the library's free computers to apply for jobs he probably wouldn’t get, and haggling Jameson on the price of his Spider-Man photos. After getting home, he had thrown himself onto his bed, not even bothering to change, since he’d planned on heading out on patrol after a few hours of shut-eye.
How plans could change! Turns out he’d gone on patrol while getting a few hours of shut-eye. Or something.
Thankfully, his flip phone was in the back pocket of his jeans, but perhaps the best news (and thank Thor for paranoia!) was that Peter still had his web shooters, which were masquerading as a pair of funky bracelets. Peter also had shoes (yay!) and a sweater that he was growing to appreciate with increasing fondness, considering the sharp chill in the air.
The overall takeaways were as such: Peter was never going to fall asleep without his wallet on him again. Even though it had been uncomfortable to lay on, causing him to throw it carelessly to the side in the aftermath of his disgruntled face plant…
Well. This was not a situation that Peter wanted to risk repeating. His phone had survived the unfortunate purging, being safely in his back pocket, while his other pockets revealed a gum wrapper, fifteen cents, and dryer lint.
Wonderful.
Peter shoved all of the trinkets back into his pockets, partially because he felt bad about littering and partially because a horribly possessive part of him urged Peter to gather anything and everything and stockpile it ‘just in case.’ To be entirely fair to that part of him, Peter was regretting not doing that prior to now. He’d kill for a granola bar.
His phone was an out-of-date flip phone, but its unobtrusive size had saved it, so Peter decided the phone was now his most cherished possession. Aside, of course, from his web-shooters, shoes, sweater, and pants. Always good to have pants.
He flipped it open and—
Peter stalled, like an engine running out of steam.
What was he going to do with a phone, after all?
His contacts included: The Bugle, the elderly neighbor that lived in the apartment next door to Peter, whose groceries he helped with occasionally, and… that was it.
This is not to say that Peter hadn’t memorized countless other phone numbers. He knows May’s like he knows pi up to six-hundred digits, most notably, but also MJ’s, Ned’s, and Happy’s. He would have really appreciated a private-jet-pickup from Happy right about now. That guy had already crossed the world for Peter once, after all. That kind of loyalty tends to stick with people.
And, in turn, their phone numbers tend to stick with people.
But, considering none of them knew him anymore (or were dead), calling them would be quite pointless.
Unless…
Unless this wasn’t a Peter Parker issue.
After all, being transported by someone (something?) in his sleep and ending up on the roof of a six-story building in the middle of who-knows-where sounded like quite a ‘Spider-Man’ style of conundrum. Which meant that Peter calling him would be totally warranted!
Peter typed the number, held his breath… and then felt like crying when the call got picked up.
Before the other person could hang up, Peter let everything out in one big rush.
He (the caller) had a tendency to do that (aka: hang up) whenever Peter—or, more accurately, whenever Spider-Man—called and didn’t get to the point fast enough. This is probably because he could tell that ‘Spider-Man’ knew more than he was letting on (say, his secret identity, for example) and that made the guy uneasy.
Fair enough—Peter also got quite uneasy about people knowing his secret identity (mostly because the first time ended up going so badly).
“Hey, so. Haha. Hypothetically, what would you do if you woke up somewhere strange. Like, say, on top of a building in a city you didn’t recognize at all. That kind of strange. But also, the last thing you remember is falling asleep in your bed,” Peter paused. Added, maybe unnecessarily, “In your civilian ID. Because you didn’t fall asleep in your suit. In this hypothetical. Not that you don’t sometimes do that.”
Peter stood up. He walked to the edge of the roof and peaked over the side. “And the only way you see to get down or up is to either one) fly or two) jump, but it's also six stories high and now that I’m saying all this out loud, how the hell did someone get me up here!?” Peter’s voice rose along with his distress and confusion.
He fought to lower it, lest he give off the vibe that he’s just a terrified nineteen-year-old whose been alone for way too long and not the Totally Well Adjusted twenty-some person Daredevil (His lawyer, from Before, Matt Murdock!!) totally thought Spider-Man was.
Daredevil (who hadn’t hung up! Peter could hear him breathing!!!) was taking his sweet time replying, which. Fair. Peter had just dumped a very large hypothetical on him, which Daredevil definitely knew wasn’t actually a hypothetical. Even so, Peter needed that little bit of forged distance from reality at the moment.
Finally, Daredevil responded: “What the fuck?”
Alarmed, Peter pulled the phone away from his ear. He checked the number once, twice, then a solid three times with the one from his foggy, mildly concussed memory: a number Daredevil had rattled off to him six-ish months ago.
It had been after Peter (Spider-Man!) casually mentioned in a conversation that he would just fix up his bullet wound at his apartment because, “No, seriously, it’s fine, DD. I splurged on this nice little first aid kit recently! I can’t wait to test it out!”
Whether or not the first aid kit actually existed was neither here nor there, just like how the creaking of Daredevil’s fists as he forced himself to be calm definitely didn’t mean anything either.
But Peter’s rapid heartbeat and pained breathing must have been what gave him away, because surely his response was Not-At-All-Worrying and Totally Reassuring. Daredevil had patched Peter up himself (it was too reminiscent of Happy. who knew it was possible to miss someone stitching him up?) and then given him the burner phone’s number.
A number that Peter had definitely used it before.
So why, pray tell, was that not Daredevil’s voice?
“Whoops,” Peter laughed awkwardly, its pitching rising sharply as his anxiety spiked. “Uh… Any chance this isn’t actually your phone and you just happened to pick it up for a friend? A friend that is maybe nearby so I don’t have to repeat my totally hypothetical situation again, because I dunno if I have that sort of emotional willpower right now?”
Sue him. Peter rambles when he’s nervous.
“Fucking hell! This is my phone,” Not-Daredevil snarled, “and I want to know how the hell you got ahold of—!”
Peter hung up on him.
So Daredevil wasn’t an option. Great.
“What’s the saying?” Peter mumbled to himself in a chattery attempt at self-assurance. “‘If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again…’ Am I right, or what?”
Daredevil didn’t pick up (and maybe got his burner phone stolen, which is alarming in far way too many ways to count) but Peter knows other people.
Totally! Johnny Storm, for example. Maybe Johnny wouldn’t know how exactly to help, but at least he would be a familiar voice?
Right?
And if anything, Johnny knew a bunch of geniuses who were probably smart enough to figure out where the hell Peter was off of a few landmarks.
Johnny was technically a friend of Spider-Man’s (because no one was friends with Peter Parker. not anymore), but Peter hadn’t saved his phone number anywhere other than the old memory-bank. The one his head.
If that wasn’t clear.
…
Anyway, Peter hadn’t saved the number because in the off chance someone got ahold of his phone, Peter did not want to have to explain why he had the Human Torch’s contact information.
Johnny had given Peter his main line (and was also freakily possessive about ‘his’ things, sometimes), which meant there was no chance that Johnny would have impulsively changed his phone number, lost his phone, or done anything that would result in the same mess that happened with Daredevil’s number.
(“I don’t do burners, Spidey. I’m the one that burns.” Johnny had delivered the horrible two-liner with a straight face, aside from an exaggerated wink that made it look like he had an eyelash in his eye. But in all honesty, Peter could really use that type of humor right now.)
As he typed in Johnny’s number, Peter firmly declined three different calls from Not-Daredevil’s number. Weirdo. Who calls back a wrong number?
When the call to Johnny finally went through, Peter made sure to not start spilling his guts about all of his hypothetical issues right off the bat. Just, y’know. To be cautious.
“Heyy, Johnny,” Peter drawled. “So, funny story, heard it from a friend, wanted to ask for your thoughts on the matter. Now, how alarmed would you be about waking up in a totally different place than where you fell asleep in?”
There. Friend of a friend, totally unsuspicious. Also: not all of Peter’s issues. Just some!
“How different are we talking?”
Johnny’s voice sounded off, but Peter’s senses weren’t tingling any more than they had been this entire time, so maybe Peter had woken the guy up?
He answered, “Well, I mean, I’m—uhhh. I mean, they were on top of a six-story high building with no roof access in an area… they’ve never been to before. So. Yeah. Y’know, casual New Yorker moment, am I right? Finding new burrows all the time? Think they could’ve jumped? Or sleep-walked?” Peter laughed so that he didn’t cry instead.
“Jumped!? The hell? Who are you? Some kid from Tim's schoo—”
Peter bristled, instinctively tuning the person out. He hadn’t been a kid in a long time, and certainly not one that deserved that type of dismissive tone. However, his frustration quickly fizzled out at the realization that Johnny would never call him that. He quickly tuned back into what the stranger was saying, limbs sticky with a slowly dawning horror.
“—what type of prank this is, but first, joking about jumping off of buildings isn’t funny. And two, at least get your states right. This is New Jersey.”
“The hell?” Peter snapped. “First off, if you are going to be delivering your points in one-two format, don’t mix ‘first’ with ‘two.’ That’s fucking dumb. Second, I never said anything about jumping off a building. I’m trying to figure out how the fuck someone gets up a building without a clearly delineated way to do so!”
Wait—was he?
No, he wasn’t! He wanted to know how alarmed Johnny would have been about waking up in a new location! How had the conversation turned into this?
Peter kept snarking back in a wild attempt to hide his complete and total despair, “Third—and not three, dumb-butt—I hope you never become a first responder or some shit because your ability to listen is really bad. You brought me so far off topic!”
“Hey!” Rude-Not-Johnny exclaimed. “I—!”
Peter didn’t let him finish. “And I’m not the idiot here: check the area code, jerkwad.”
Before Peter could hang up, the stranger (who had Johnny’s phone number, who wasn’t Johnny, who should be Johnny, why the hell isn’t he Johnny?) responded back quickly in a tone that edged a bit too far into genuine concern for Peter to feel comfortable with.
“The number you’re calling from has a Gotham area code. Kid, where are you? You said there was no roof access?”
“Haha, just kidding, you caught me. Wow,” Peter deadpanned, then hung up.
“So that was a total failure.”
At least saying it out loud helped because those phone calls sure didn’t. In fact, they confirmed the worst sort of panic-stricken ideas that had been looming in a space of Peter’s mind he called “The Irrational Panic Zone.”
The Irrational Panic Zone (Peter almost wanted to trademark it) included thoughts such as: “Everyone actually remembers me but pretends that they don’t because they hate me,” and “I killed my aunt,” and “Your neighbor is actually a spy for Nick Fury because he knows everything and is a horrible, horrible person,” and “It’s your fault Thanos won the first time,” and, most recently, “This is not your universe.”
Y’know. Thoughts that would send him into a totally rational panic at any given moment, making it therefore irrational to think about them. It all works out. The “IPZ” also sounds like a really cool organization.
(Mr. Stark would have made the acronym a name. But Peter doesn’t want to add salt to his numerous wounds, especially when he thinks about panicking, so he pointedly hadn’t made it a name…
… But maybe he would have liked “Irrational Aversion Neighborhood.” IAN. A simple name, but Mr. Stark probably would have still liked it, if Peter came up with it.
Don’t think about that, don’t think about him, don’t—)
Peter picked himself up off the ground. Can’t remember how he got there.
He then picked up his phone. His phone with a ‘Gotham’ area code, whatever that meant.
The newly dubbed “Caller Number One” had been calling him quite frequently (as had the second, but “Kid” still rankled him in a way that Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to verbalize) and Peter really doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts right now.
They’re calling now.
“Yellow,” Peter greeted, as though he hadn’t just had a panic attack on a roof. “How may I help you?”
“How the hell did you get this number?”
“May I remind you that you called me?” Peter said with faux lightness, just to be a little shit.
He brushed off his jeans. It was going to be morning soon and it would probably be in his best interest to be on the ground in a strange city before the sun rose and highlighted his precarious location to passersby.
The voice on the other side of the line was not amused. “This is a private phone. You shouldn’t have this number,” it practically growled out through grinding teeth.
“Well, Caller Number One—”
As it turned out, Peter’s boldness extended beyond his life beneath the mask. Apparently, all he needed was for his face to be hidden.
(Does that make him one of those online bullies Captain America would joltingly reprimand, mouth slipping weirdly around the syllables, unused to words like “cyberbullying” and “online chat rooms”? The ones who only grow the balls to say shit when their real identity isn’t out there?)
“—you kinda screwed yourself over here, because for all I could have known, I might have typed the wrong number.”
It’s unlikely that he would have typed in the wrong number. Impossible, actually. Even Peter’s foggy memory is better than the average person’s.
“Or I might have thought it was a burner phone and never called again.”
More likely.
“Or at the very least,” Peter said sagely, nodding even though Caller Number One cannot see him, “I wouldn’t have known how important this phone number is to you.”
(Sounding vaguely like a villain threatening a loved one there now, Parker. Might be your cue to tone it back a little.)
“Anywho,” Peter continues, “I won’t call you back after this and can block the number. Or you could grow some balls and block me. Either works.”
Peter sandwiched the flip phone between his head and his shoulder, shaking out his hands and flexing his fingers. Since he wasn’t sure where he was (aside from Gotham, New Jersey, apparently, but what universe Gotham, New Jersey is in was slightly questionable), Peter wanted to avoid leaving anything traceable back to him. Including, but was not limited to, the gum wrapper in his pocket, his lint, and his webs.
Sadly, leaving fingerprints was unavoidable, but considering Peter may not even have an identity here (or anywhere, really, but that’s neither here nor there), that was not one of his primary concerns. Plus, the building was made of concrete and stone, which wouldn’t show obvious fingerprints like glass would.
“Ass,” Caller Number One grouched. “What do you want?”
Peter raised his eyebrows, although Caller Number One couldn’t see them.
“I don’t want anything,” he said simply. “At least, not from you. I could probably go for a hamburger or even, like, a granola bar, but I’m not bargaining with you for your privacy. I said I would block you.”
Peter slowly lowered himself over the side of the building, supported only by his arms. His head craned at an awkward angle, making sure the phone stayed snug and safe. Perhaps foolishly, he had decided to keep his shoes on rather than use his feet to stick.
Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue. However, this time, Peter winced as he felt the strain on his (Oh right!) ribs. But it was manageable, so Peter kept going. The person on the other side of the line kept oddly quiet. Which, while helpful for the dull headache and his concentration, was not helpful for keeping Peter from spiraling.
“So….” Peter drew out the word. He was level with the fourth story now. “Are you gonna… hang up? Or block me? Or something? ‘Cause you’re sending off a lot of mixed signals right now.”
“Why is your voice muffled?”
Eh? Oh. His sweater must be muffling the phone’s audio intake.
“Oh, sorry,” Peter apologized. “I’m climbing down the building right now, so the phone is wedged on my shoulder weirdly. My clothes must be—”
“You’re what?!” Caller Number One yelped. His voice was two octaves too-high, and he forcefully wrestles it back into it’s deep grumble. “What the hell do you mean you’re climbing down the building?”
“I may have been exaggerating about how hypothetical my situation was earlier?” Peter offered, completely unrepentant. “I mean if you’re surprised it’s totally your own fault. You totally knew I was lying. It was super obvious. And I already said that the only two ways down were flying or jumping. So. Yeah. As it was kinda implied earlier by my surprise, I can’t fly. And jumping down six stories would suck ass. So: climbing.”
“I— but you have a phone??” Caller Number One said incredulously. “Why wouldn’t you call 911?”
“How the hell was I supposed to explain how I got up there? Huh?” Peter retorted. “Did you want me to go: ‘Hey Ms. Policewoman and/or Firefighter! I was on top of a building I shouldn’t have been able to get on top of. Please don’t press charges or ask why I was there?’ Like c’mon, dude, cut me some slack here.”
There was a muffled grunt of laughter on the other end of the line.
At least, Peter thinks there was a muffled grunt of laughter. His shoulder had gotten too relaxed while bantering, causing his phone to start slipping, which took all of Peter’s attention off of the maybe-laugh. With a yelp, Peter thanked his quick reflexes as an arm shot out to grab his phone before it broke on the ground.
Although, to be fair, flip phones were nearly indestructible, and he was only two stories up now. Speaking of…
With a quick hop and a softly pained exhale at the landing, Peter put the phone back up to his ear as he began looking around the dank (and dark! and very, very spooky!) alleyway.
“—lo? Hello? Fuck. Fuck! Hello???”
“Oh, hi!” Peter greeted cheekily.
He was met with a heavy exhale of relief, although the stranger quickly snapped, “What the Penguin’s balls was that?”
That’s a new one. Penguin’s balls? For his own sanity, Peter elected to ignore the odd phrase.
“I almost dropped my phone. Well. I did drop it, actually. But don’t worry! I caught it!” Peter reassured sunnily.
He made the decision that, at least in this city, he would wait on checking the scary and dark alleyways. Something (that ‘thing’ being both his sixth sense and his common sense) told him that this was not the time for an adventure. Peter exited the alleyway.
“And then I jumped the rest of the way down,” Peter explained. “It wasn’t that far. I just think my ribs are maybe-almost-broken, so it hurt more than I was expecting. Sorry for worrying you, weird stranger.”
The slew of cursing and swearing and yelling that suddenly barraged its way through the phone had Peter’s concussed brain fighting between the sentiments of get rid of the awful sound! and don’t be alone with you own thoughts!
In the end, Peter’s hatred for being yelled at took the reins and made the decision for him. Holding the phone an arm’s length away, Peter made sure to speak loudly and, with a deceptive amount of sweetness, not-so-politely informed Caller Number One of something very important.
“I’m not going to stand here and be yelled at. Call again when you feel less angry. Toodles!”
And with that, there was blessed silence (aside from the sounds of the city, but this strange place is almost eerily quiet compared to New York). Peter meandered his way down the sidewalk, making a point to look at the buildings that surround him and take note of where he was going. There were a few things of note.
Even though it was still in the morning, Peter hadn’t expected the sidewalks to be so… desolate. There was hardly anyone walking around for such a large city. It was strange.
Then, there were also the strange shadows that lurked within the alleyways. Their presence sent the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck standing straight up, even as he couldn’t sense a specific malicious intent.
The last major thing Peter noticed was that even as the morning crept in, beating back the dawn, the sky hardly became any lighter. It was like a concrete slab waiting over them all, just waiting to crush the ant-like people which scurried below.
As was always best in unknown circumstances (especially when one is potentially in a murder-city), Peter kept his head low.
He kept an eye out for a library or some type of shelter…
And was that somebody with a grappling hook swinging between those buildings??? What the hell was this place?
Peter shook his head, an attempt to shake away any external stimuli that didn’t immediately lead to food and shelter. He immediately regretted the movement as nausea welled up in his gut. Thankfully, Peter is used to concussions, and it only takes a few seconds of deep breathing to beat the sensation back.
(Well, Parker, you’re in for it this time.)
Lips pressed firmly together, keeping his face carefully blank, Peter attempted to skirt on edges of passersby’s attention. While he had more than enough questions to kill a small horse, even looking in their direction sent all sorts of alarm bells screeching through Peter's mind.
He’s desperate: not stupid.
…
Whenever this all inevitably blows up in his face, he might just have to rename the IPZ to the IPR: the Irrational Panic Region. After all, zoning laws dictate he can’t keep more than ten world-ending conclusions and possible theories about the multiverse in one location.
Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, feeling the gum wrapper crinkle beneath his fingers and the smooth surface of his flip phone. If this is all he has left… Peter hastened his walking speed. A library would be very nice, right about now.