Chapter Text
He has nothing.
Except for Spider-Man.
But who is Peter Parker anymore?
Look, Peter has never claimed to be smart. He was a kid with so much on his shoulders and all he wanted was to make Tony Stark and May Parker proud. He uses their full names since they're still real people to the world.
But that doesn't matter anymore. They're dead.
Peter isn’t a stranger to watching people die. You would think by now he wouldn’t be such a bad hero that he lets another person die on his watch. Well guess the joke is on him.
Because here he is once again. God knows what time it is right now. Not that time really matters anymore.
The alley is dark. Just like Peter’s life has been since May died on November 13.
Two hundred and seventy days.
Six thousand five hundred and eighty hours.
Three hundred eighty eight thousand and eight hundred minutes.
Twenty three seconds. Make that twenty four now.
Not that Peter has been counting.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the rats running around the dumpster. It smells. Not that Peter should be focusing on that right now.
If anything, he should focus on the dead body in his arms. The blood he’s gonna have to wash out of his suit. Did he mention he’s out of bleach? Well Peter, go buy more! HA yeah sure, with who’s money? Maybe if he can sell a few more photos at the expense of exploiting himself for people who only care about Spider-Man. But once again, does it matter? Because all Peter is now is a product and a service. He’s not a person anymore. He’s not Peter. That’s really doing wonders for his self esteem. Not that it was great to begin with.
He feels the laugh bubbling out of his mouth more than he hears it. It starts somewhere in his chest and crawls its way out until he’s doubled over, shoulders shaking. Usually he would be crying and freaking out right now.
But God, Peter is tired, okay?
So yeah, he's laughing and once he starts he can’t stop. Eventually, he isn't sure if he’s laughing or hyperventilating anymore. But all's well that ends well, right?
The girl in his arms is pretty. Too pretty. For one impossible second, she looks like MJ.
Peter’s stomach drops.
She doesn't.
Not really.
But he hasn't been to the donut shop in a month because seeing MJ across the counter hurts in ways getting stabbed never has.
She doesn’t look a day over 20. Could she even legally drink? Peter can’t legally drink and never really saw the point in it. He could really go for a drink right now though. She’s shaking or maybe Peter is shaking her with his trembling. But Peter’s favorite mantra right now is it doesn't matter. So yeah, he’s fine. Fine.
All he has to do is just put down the body-
Peter gags.
She had a name, didn't she?
Peter keeps referring to her as ‘the body’.
Peter had a name once too. But he’s just a body in a suit now. A service. A product.
Oh.
He’s laughing again.
And crying.
Okay Peter get a hold of yourself. You know what to do. You know how to handle this. You’re literally a legal adult now. Just not a real legal person. Just a symbol. A product. A joke. Nothing without the suit. Hey, Mr. Stark, do I deserve the suit now?
Focus Peter.
Then you can go back to your apartment. Take a shower (if his water is even running), maybe eat a bowl of ramen (if there is a God out there please tell him he still has the chicken flavor), and try to sleep. Oh and uh hopefully the landlord is still out of town because Peter is kind of late on rent and he was already given an extension.
Peter wonders what she must’ve been thinking in her last moments. Did she have a family? Friends? A partner?
At least she’ll be remembered by someone.
The thought tastes bitter. Peter can’t remember the last time anyone looked at him and saw Peter Parker before Spider-Man.
Peter can't even keep one person alive.
Hell of an Avenger he is.
Hope you’re real proud, Mr. Stark.
May would’ve known what to say.
But all Peter can do is lean over the body and laugh hysterically.
“Happy eighteenth birthday, Spider-man.” he whispers to the rats in the dark.