Chapter Text
It took eight months before Peter let himself pause and process what became of his life. He had submerged himself so deeply into Spider-Man, the more you work the less you think, right? So maybe everybody forgot about him and he had to pay for a shitty studio apartment by selling photos of himself, he was helping people! But, Peter knew he only had four months before he had to place a stone on Aunt May’s grave, he might be alone, but he couldn’t let that happen to her too. Four months. Should be enough to process the fact that Ned and MJ are galivanting around MIT and that people only appreciate him for what he can do for them, how he can save them, how they can rely on him. Four months. He’ll be fine by then.
Once he started thinking about it, it took another month before Peter noticed things… slipping. At first they were justifiable, what shirt his father wore the day before the plane crash, his childhood address, the bedtime story May would recite every night for years. Sometimes he would feel an itching under his scalp, or the nape of his neck, or an inch behind his nose, and he would recall what color flowers Uncle Ben would get for May’s birthday every year. At ten months, Peter nearly threw out an old Lego figurine on his desk before the itching shot through his spine. Ned gave that to him minutes before Doctor Strange finalized his spell. Shit. Something was wrong.
After a year Peter had to stalk through the cemetery row by row to find Aunt May’s grave. It was right next to Ben’s. Peter had gone there for years. Peter knew where that grave was. He knew.
Peter Parker did not exist, he had no identification, no papers, no documentation or traceability. Selling photos of Spider-Man hardly made enough money to pay his rent, much less afford to feed his enhanced metabolism. His healing factor slowed, now only about twice as fast as a non-enhanced human, and the itching underneath his scalp crawled to a stop.
At fourteen months, Peter was tired and lonely but he didn’t know why. He followed strangers on Instagram and religiously stalked their accounts and could not figure out why he cared. He was Spider-Man, Spider-Man can’t leave Queens to do something as selfish as go to MIT.
“Come on man, the email says that I get free sandwiches during my birth month! I read the fine print - obviously you guys haven’t - and there is no limit.” Sue him, Peter was hungry all the time, he would take advantage of a loophole or two. He didn’t like being an asshole to tired, greasy looking sandwich shop workers who were probably underpaid, but give him a break, he’s pretty sure Spider-Man saved this dude from being mugged like, a week and a half ago.
“You’ve gotta know that doesn’t mean every day”
“Doesn’t say so on the e-doc.” A glance down, “Graham, man, look, it’s just a sandwich. You know, my -” What? “My-” the pause was slightly too long.
“Your?”
“My, my Aunt. My Aunt.” Graham had finally looked up from the register, his eyebrow raising in concern. “Shit, Forget about the sandwich, I have to go, I have to go visit her.” The cashier probably looked at Peter like he was having a mental breakdown, which Peter wasn’t certain was untrue, but he rushed out too quickly to hear his response.
The plan to visit… Whoever he was seeing was interrupted as soon as Peter realized he had no idea where she was buried. He felt like he should know, but he felt like he should know a lot of things that he didn’t recently. He did, however, still know who he could blame.
Let it be known that Peter Parker is not a stupid man. He is a neglectful one - towards himself at least - he knew things were slipping, but he could still save people as Spider-Man and he had to pay rent and he had to eat. He was nearly homeless in winter when the heating bill doubled the utilities, he didn’t have time to realize he couldn’t remember what perfume he bought for… somebody the year before. So, on the way to the Sanctum Sanctorum on Blecker Street, Peter finally took the time to think. He was… pretty sure some sort of spell had been cast, something that had erased him from memory and permanently separated Peter Parker’s identity from Spider-Man. It was important for nobody to know he was the spider vigilante for… for some reason. But, if - and he’s pretty sure this is true - the multiverse exists, then each universe would have their own identity, some sort of cosmic radiation that distinguishes each realm from the other. If two things can be distinguished, without sight and only by observing their byproducts, then the universes must have some sort of internal memory, just like every digital photo of Peter had been corrupted, what if the inherent data of Peter Parker in this universe had also been corrupted? What if when the universe forgets you, when no evidence of you exists, it rejects you like a foreign object in the body. What if the universe is making Peter forget himself. What if his home, what if everything he knows, is trying to delete his very existence? How the hell do you even go about fixing that? Peter has a responsibility to the people of Queens and he cannot be deleted away from it.
The air felt strange as he darted towards the Sanctum Sanctorum. It did not hold the stagnant weight of a decision to be made, or the lightness of a decision made for you. The air vibrated, shaking in microscopic spirals unnoticeable to anybody and only slightly felt by Peter as it buzzed up against his body hair. Any other day Peter would have felt the air, would have felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he would have listened to the soft voice in his hind brain turn back leave danger. He would have found another way. But today Peter forgot his Aunt’s name. Today, Peter forgot where his Uncle was buried. Today Peter knocks on the door.
Nobody answered the door after a solid fifteen seconds of pounding. Peter is panicking by now, what has he forgotten? He only has photos of himself from after… whatever happened, all of his digital accounts, photos, and documents were immediately corrupted - after two months he got himself a film camera so he could actually sell pictures of Spider-Man to Jameson. He even unfollowed those strange Instagram accounts a couple of days ago. This was an emergency and nobody was answering the god damned door. He decided to do three more solid knocks before knocking the door down, no matter who saw.
Bang
Bang
There was a moment of relief as his fist found no purchase on the door, followed by a slight concern about accidentally punching whoever had just opened it. Then, there was confusion and a sudden awareness of his spidey sense blaring at him louder than it has in over a year. Peter Parker, of all people, lost his balance and fell forwards. Spider-Man kept falling, plummeting into blackness, feeling a strangely familiar pain of his body, his very cells, tearing themselves apart and reforming. He could feel his body trying to put itself back together every time it was torn apart, losing mass every iteration, trying to emulate a form that the spider within him was most familiar with. Peter fell and Peter forgot but this time it was rapid. He lost May, he lost Ben and MJ and Tony and Happy and Pepper and Karen, Peter felt them ripped away as his healing factor prioritized keeping fingers on his god damn hands over the childhood he cherished. Peter lost New York just as Queens forgot him. And Spider-Man landed.
~~~~
“Total power loss near Burnley, Hood is already on the way, Nightwing, can you join? No visuals on any rogues, but blackouts are never a good sign in this city.”
“On it, O”