Chapter Text
Peter is in the Aldi on 168th, getting groceries. “Pantry staples,” according to Google. The belt is full. He makes eye contact with the cashier.
“Hey, man, that’s a lot of food there. You preparing for the apocalypse or something?”
Peter blankly stares at the cashier. The apocalypse? Is that something that can happen? Didn’t it already happen?
Silence stretches. The cashier clears their throat.
“Anywho, that will be $105.86. Cash or card?”
Later, as Peter is walking home laden by several bags on each arm, he wonders. Was ten cans of beans too many? How much rice does a normal person eat in a week? Will the cashier forever remember him as Bean Guy?
Whatever, Peter thinks eventually. That’s life.
+++
In some electric moment halfway through December, exactly one month after being semi-erased from existence, Peter decides that he will Not Be Sad. It is moderately successful.
At first, it’s hard. No shit, for months, it’s hard.
Reminders of what his life used to be are simply everywhere. That bench by Meadow Lake where he and MJ almost held hands one time. The bus stop on Sutphin where he and Ned used to dare each other to cut across traffic to grab dumplings from the nearby shop before their bus came. May’s and his old apartment. There’s only so much Peter can do to avoid these places, seeing as nearly every block holds something.
The holiday season is particularly difficult—with nobody to spend time with except for himself, watching family and friends reunite left and right as people return to the city for the holidays is nothing short of agonizing. The holidays only serve to drive one fact further and further into Peter’s very being: that he is alone. That he may as well be a ghost, and worse, a ghost that nobody remembers. Like that one Disney movie, except without a plucky child protagonist to save the day.
For some days into the new year, Peter considers packing up what little he’s salvaged and moving to a new city, a new state, taking the Greyhound and getting out, going somewhere. New year, new him, right? However, this is scrapped for several reasons.
The first reason is obvious: Spider-Man works in New York. And so, Peter Parker must live in New York. Spider-Man…wouldn’t really work anywhere else. There’s something magical about New York that lets its people take brightly colored vigilantes into stride, without a) calling the cops, b) threats of extreme bodily harm, or c) some combination of the above (all of this still does happen in New York, but somehow the vigilante ecosystem persists).
The second reason why Peter can’t leave New York is the food. Nothing beats Queens in that respect, and food makes Peter very happy. This is essential towards his goal of being Not Sad. The third reason is the MTA.
Peter’s so incredibly lucky, he realizes, to live in a city where he doesn’t need a car to get around, where the trains run (almost) on time and bus coverage is frequent and wide. To put aside the fact that he cannot afford a car, he doesn’t actually know how to drive. Well, he can drive. Just not well.
All this to say that in those first few frantic weeks as Peter feverishly searched for a stable internet signal, job, and apartment (in that order), the public transportation system was crucial to getting anywhere (excuse the pun). It’s not like he can swing from place to place as Spider-Man in broad daylight (although he had considered it for some moments waiting for a delayed bus in the frigid January air).
…Well, he definitely could, but he’s trying to fly under the radar after the last hilariously catastrophic incident involving his identity. People also tend to notice when you show up places windswept and breathless. And then they ask questions. And Peter, as he discovers, is not very good at answering questions in a way that doesn’t make people start asking more questions in increasingly worried tones. Maybe it’s something about his delivery? He should work on that.
After everything calms down a bit, Peter’s got a job (freelance photography for a local newspaper), an apartment (a studio in Jamaica whose rent is positively EATING Peter’s income), and most importantly, a secondhand laptop and a more-or-less stable internet connection (who knew internet bills were so expensive?).
The job was the easiest to get. All Peter had to do was walk into a local newspaper’s office, confirm he already had a camera, agree to a 2-week trial period, and boom, he’s the new freelance photojournalist at the Weekly Herald and Culture Chronicle (WHACC, for short). Print may not be dead just yet, but it sure is desperate.
Peter’s laptop, affectionately named “Haps,” not for May’s Mr. Stark’s that guy but more as a half-hearted joke at his own hapless state, was rescued from a shadowy grave behind a tech recycling shop and rehabilitated in one sleepless night. It is immensely helpful and only leaks viscous fluid on alternating Tuesdays. With it, Peter carefully re-forges his identity, made easier by the previous existence of his social security number. And, well, a lot of other things, too.
It turns out the only thing of him that had been erased electronically was his name—all the records and files about Peter Parker still existed, just curiously blank. After some quick editing, Peter Parker is now a 22-year-old orphan (those extra years made getting a job and an apartment so much easier) with no less than $3,000 dollars to his name. And wasn’t that a relief—his savings account, bolstered by the post-Blip stimulus check, remained open though nameless.
Peter’s apartment was by far the hardest--and most expensive--to obtain. His lack of credit history (not that he had any before…), lack of viable roommate candidates (you really have to know a guy, and unfortunately nobody knows Peter anymore), and lack of cosigner led to him coughing up nearly all of his savings for a deposit and month’s worth of rent. That being said, he still knows he got lucky. His landlord didn’t ask too many questions once he sent in the deposit, and although his apartment is small and a bit shitty, that’s just a part of the New York City Experience (patent pending). He still pays over half his monthly income in rent, though. Urgh.
Peter eventually figures out how to do things alone. It takes a lot of trying. He misses his friends like an open wound, no matter how cliche that sounds. Nearly every day, every hour, he pulls out his cracked-to-hell phone to text Ned or MJ to ask to hang out, or to ask May a question, or to send Happy an update, before realizing again that no, he’s not on some weird solo vacation, they don’t remember him. And maybe, he thinks daily, that is for the better.
Thinking too much about his life before does not do great things for Peter’s stated goal of Not Being Sad, so he summarily decides that the Path of Chill is the way to go. This means that Peter aims to take everything into stride. To let the waves roll over him, to be serene and unbothered by everything, all the time. Something small inside him says that avoiding the problem is not going to make it go away, but Peter categorically decides to ignore this small part of himself. It doesn’t sound helpful.
Keeping a full schedule is the easiest way to access the Path of Chill, Peter finds. If he is so busy that he can’t think of anything aside from what is directly in front of him, he has no time to be Sad. This is somewhat antithetical to the Path of Chill, but whatever. It works. However, it is hard to fill your schedule with things other than work when you are broke, and also have no friends (or family) (or…anyone).
Luckily, Peter’s freelancing schedule is relatively flexible (read: nothing for days and then an influx of requests for photos spanning two boroughs at the minimum as the weekly deadline approaches—here the MTA is again invaluable), so Peter gets another job in mid-February. And then another job in March.
By spring, he’s working morning shifts as a receptionist at a coworking space in Briarwood, working late evenings as a cashier in a convenience store down the street from his apartment, and spending his days running around the city trying to get photos for the newspaper, and studying for his GED as time allows.
Time does not allow very much here, unfortunately. But that is okay, Peter thinks. Studying for the GED always reminds him of the fact that he’s not in school, and that makes him Sad. Which is Not The Goal.
Peter spends his nights, predictably, running around the city trying to help people however he can. It all works, somehow. Peter’s frequently incredibly tired, has random bouts of the worst memory loss he’s ever experienced, but he can honestly say that he is Not Sad, most of the time. That, in itself, is awesome.
Peter’s many jobs don’t leave him with much free time by design, but they do get him a comfortable amount of money. Peter eats comfortably for the first time in several weeks, and then keeps up the trend. This is good. He also looks around for furniture.
At the start, his apartment had only held a sleeping bag and two folding chairs that the previous tenant had left behind in the closet. It was desolate and bare, like his social life. Now, Peter is the proud owner of a solid oak table (that only leans to the left a little), a real bedframe (bought from a lady moving, on Facebook marketplace), and possibly the ugliest couch known to man (named Stofan, partially out of spite).
Peter, despite the sleep deprivation and lack of human connection, has hope. Things are working out.