Chapter Text
Peter had to hand it to Dr. Strange; his spell had worked perfectly.
Just. Maybe a little too perfectly.
Sure, nobody knew Peter Parker was Spider-Man. But that was because Peter Parker and Spider-Man didn’t exist.
Upon first discovering this, Peter was torn between an entirely stereotypical existential crisis and panicking that everyone he’d saved as Spider-Man had died.
One frantic Google search on a library’s computer about Tony Stark told him that at least some of what he’d done as Spider-Man had survived the spell. But if nobody remembered Peter or he didn’t exist, he really had to wonder how Tony was still alive. But it wasn’t like Peter could call up Tony and ask him.
Well. Technically he could.
Anyway!
A more detailed search told Peter that while he’d apparently been wiped from existence, none of his actions had. Everything from Decathlon events to Avenger battles, all reports just held a vague mention of some unnamed person or hero, and Peter had somehow been wiped from all pictures. He was officially a cryptid.
Maybe someday he’d be able to laugh about it.
The one thing that had changed in history was the most important one. With no Peter Parker, there was no reason for all the Peter Parkers and their assorted villains and associates being yanked into his dimension. So that hadn’t happened, and one totally-not-stalking-stakeout later, Peter was able to confirm that May was still alive.
Now that Peter knew May and his entire dimension in general was safe from his mistake, he could move onto the next step: how he was supposed to live when he didn’t exist!
A few quick searches -and a few hacks into government websites- later, Peter had confirmed that, as of Dr. Strange’s spell, nothing that was Peter Parker existed. Namely, birth certificates or Social Security numbers. Things he kind of needed to get a job so he could eat and get a place to live.
Peter found himself wishing he’d been erased from existence closer to being brought back from the Blip. Because for the first couple months, there had been a lot of confused and homeless people needing help, and Peter remembered there had even been a few instances of particularly traumatized people forgetting their entire identity. Granted that wouldn’t have helped the fact that his face and fingerprints wouldn’t show up on any records. Maybe if he’d just looked genuinely confused the entire time, some nice people would’ve helped him make himself a new identity.
But that was a what-if scenario Peter would never get to solve, because everyone had come back from being dusted a year ago.
Maybe if he wandered into a police station and looked confused enough and pretended the last year hadn’t happened, he could still try it.
…no, that would only lead everyone to wondering if anyone else hadn’t made it back until that day. And given Peter’s Parker Luck, his situation would draw the attention of the Avengers, which he very much didn’t want.
Maybe he was afraid that if people remembered him, his mistake would still happen and May would die again. Maybe he was too ashamed that the people he loved would remember what he’d done. Maybe he was just terrified of looking into Tony Stark’s eyes and not seeing a hint of recognition.
To be honest, it was probably all three, but Peter wasn’t a therapist and he didn’t have a dime to his name to pay for a therapist.
So, survival.
And getting Spider-Man back into action.
Maybe going back to being Spider-Man was a little stupid because it might trigger people’s memories or something, but at the same time, Peter couldn’t just not go back to being Spider-Man. Not when his current sorta-home was a stack of crates on the edge of a small tent city that’s half full of young families who’d slipped through the cracks.
It was easier than it should’ve been. Peter even had a suit on day one!
It had been Nat’s idea, having a stash. Nothing fancy, just a suit, some of his special energy bars that were only a little stale, one of his first pairs of web shooters, extra web fluid, and a burner phone, all stuffed into a backpack with a twenty-dollar bill that Peter wished was a hundred. The suit itself is also very basic, just kevlar and leather, with absolutely no technology that could be tracked in any way.
Honestly, Peter was surprised the backpack was still shoved in a crack in the underside of a decrepit bridge. But given the fact that his Iron Spider suit had vanished at the time of Dr. Strange’s spell, he was also very grateful. He’d worked hard on the outfit in Tony’s lab and had been over-the-moon proud of himself for having the back-up suit and supplies. The backpack had then sat there, mostly forgotten, for about two years before Peter pulled it out of its hiding spot and put on the suit.
Then he sat down and let himself cry for everything he’d lost.
Six months later…
“Owww,” Peter muttered to himself as he dropped gingerly into an alley.
After checking that nobody was nearby, Peter pulled off his mask, tucking it into the back of his belt, which held a half-dozen utility pouches, most of which were currently empty. He unzipped the kevlar shirt long enough to check his side, grimacing at the colorful bruise spreading across his ribs.
Returning to being the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man was supposed to be simple. He didn’t want to draw the attention of the Avengers or even let his enhanced abilities become known. He walked kids home after dark and helped old ladies with their groceries and stopped the occasional robbery. He’d kept using his Spider-Man moniker and the sight of the black-painted spider on his red-and-blue suit was enough to deter most trouble.
Inevitably, things had escalated. Gangs prowling the streets that Peter stopped time and again, oftentimes putting an end to their trouble by dropping anonymous tips to the police department. There was the occasional Avengers-level battle in New York, but Peter had been very careful to stay on the sidelines, helping people evacuate or digging through rubble to free people trapped. As far as Peter knew, he wasn’t even on the Avengers’ radar, and he planned to keep it that way.
Some issues, however, landed solidly in the middle. Gangs too slippery and complex for the police to catch anything more than small fries with no real info, yet they hadn’t caused enough trouble for the Avengers to get involved.
Take the Rattlers for example. While Peter might’ve initially rolled his eyes when he’d first heard of them a month prior, they were spreading fast and had been evading the police and Spider-Man at every turn. They mainly dealt in drugs and some weapons -nothing unusual or strange enough to call on the Avengers. Their numbers were growing, though, and they had no conscience about who they sold their drugs to, nor any qualms of beating up customers that didn’t pay their bills.
Peter had been trying to trace their work back to the leader of the Rattlers, but he wasn’t having any luck. And as the days passed and the number of victims grew, Peter spent more and more time focusing on them. It meant less time to do odd jobs as Peter Parker, which meant less money, which meant less food, which meant his latest injury was going to take its sweet time healing up.
In the last twenty-four hours, Peter had only had a churro to eat, so his reaction time had been dramatically slower when he’d run across a low-level Rattler threatening someone who owed money. Peter didn’t know who had been more surprised when the blow actually landed: himself or the Rattler. Peter had webbed the guy up, called the police to pick him up, then crawled off to nurse his wounds as well as he could when he was out of disposable ice packs again.
“Stupid tire iron,” Peter muttered as he tried to zip the suit back up.
Peter glared at the zipper as though it had personally offended him, though it was his fingers that wouldn’t cooperate. Grumbling, Peter used his left hand to pull off his right glove.
Under the glove, Peter’s skin had the warped and uneven texture of burn scars that looked ten years old instead of one. His enhanced healing and the expert medical team at the Avengers Tower had ensured Peter retained the use of his hand, but sometimes when he was really tired, it was hard to get his damaged muscles to cooperate.
“Is your hand acting up again, Peter?” asked a voice through Peter’s earbuds.
“It’s nothing, MITCH,” Peter said with a sigh, using his left hand to zip the suit back up.
“Peter, hasn’t it been a week since you did your exercises?”
“I’ve been busy,” Peter said, definitely not whining. “Stop bugging me about it.”
“Peter, you’re the one who installed the Finger Guns Protocol,” MITCH said, sounding very smug.
Peter opened the one utility belt that held anything so he could take out the cobbled-together phone that housed MITCH and properly glare at him.
“It’s time to do your exercises,” MITCH said, as though he couldn’t currently see the glare.
Peter, lonely but afraid of getting close to anyone, had taken a page from Tony’s book and built himself a companion AI. MITCH wasn’t nearly as complex as Karen had been, but given the fact that Peter had built him from scraps scavenged from a dumpster, Peter let himself be proud of MITCH. He’d also installed some sensors inside his suit so MITCH could monitor his basic vitals at all times.
Absently massaging his sore hand, Peter said, “MITCH, make a note that the next time we’re at the library, we need to download some more PT guides.”
“Done,” MITCH said.
MITCH also wasn’t connected to the internet, as Peter was afraid FRIDAY might detect him, so all of MITCH’s knowledge came from Peter himself and whatever Peter thought to download during trips to a public library. As such, MITCH could tell Peter ten ways to stitch up a stab wound, but he couldn’t tell Peter how to get to the nearest pizza place.
MITCH also just had a terrible sense of direction in general. Peter wasn’t sure if it was an issue in his coding or the GPS of the phone, but the quirk was kind of funny, so he hadn’t really gotten around to trying to fix it.
“Okay, now what, MITCH?” Peter asked as he pulled his glove back on.
“Might I suggest finding some food?” MITCH asked.
“Great idea, MITCH, what would I do without you?” Peter asked as he put his mask on.
“By my calculations, you’d be talking to yourself in an empty alley.”
“Ouch, pull your punches a little next time, would you?” Peter snorted.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” MITCH said, genuinely distressed. The AI hadn’t quite gotten the hang of joking around yet.
“It’s fine, MITCH. It’s the truth, after all,” Peter said with a sigh. “Let’s go. There’s no sense in crying over spilled milk.”
“When did you spill milk?”
Peter smiled despite himself. “Add an idiom to your vocabulary, MITCH. ‘Crying over spilled milk’ means to be upset over something that’s already happened and can’t be changed.”
Returning the phone to its pouch, Peter scaled the wall. Upon reaching the roof, he glanced around, then turned north and jumped from building to building, wincing each time he landed a little too hard.
Traveling via web was much faster and gentler, but Peter had to be careful when he used his webs. He didn’t have ready access to a fully-stocked lab, after all. He had to buy his own chemicals, though he’d lucked out with lab tools while digging through a dumpster behind a school one day.
Still, it wasn’t long before Peter reached his destination. The street was currently on the edge of the Rattlers’ ever-expanding territory, but it had a bread store that was always throwing out pastries, bagels, and various breads. Peter sometimes wondered why they made so much bread all the time, but he wasn’t going to question his good luck. There was almost always something to eat, and this time was no exception.
“Score!” Peter cheered quietly as he scooped up several bagels and a bag with half a loaf of bread that looked only slightly moldy.
Once he’d grabbed what he could, Peter scurried up to the roof. As far as he knew, nobody knew about Spider-Man dumpster diving for food, and Peter wanted to keep it that way. What would he even say if someone saw? “Don’t mind me, just grabbing some leftovers.”
Peter snorted at the thought, but it was hard keeping himself properly fed. Sometimes he went to soup kitchens or shelters for a meal, but a regular-sized meal could only do so much. It used to be that some of the street vendors would give Peter hot dogs or churros as thanks for stopping a robbery or helping with clean-up after a fight, but after catching a Rattler beating up a vendor for feeding him, Peter had warned the other vendors what had happened. They had argued that they gave him the food because they had no other way to thank him, but Peter had insisted that he didn’t need thanks, he just wanted to help. The vendors had reluctantly agreed, with most of them insisting that it was only going to be temporary. Others had started to just be sneakier in giving Peter food.
It all just made Peter that much more impatient to take the Rattlers down.
Peter mused over what he knew about the Rattlers’ operation while he crossed the rooftops. Mainly how little he knew. He couldn’t keep just flushing out the small fries. Peter knew where a few of their offices were, but trying to sneak into them over the past week had been fruitless. The offices were more secure than Fort Knox, with no way to get inside without fighting past about a dozen guards. Peter was good at what he did, but he couldn’t tackle such a large force alone.
Sighing, Peter pulled out the phone. “MITCH?”
“Yes, Peter?”
Peter was silent for a moment, ensuring that nobody was nearby. His spider sense was dimly going off, but he didn’t see or hear anyone. Maybe it was just because he was hurt.
“Is something wrong, Peter?” MITCH asked.
“No, everything’s fine,” Peter said as he scaled the side of the abandoned warehouse that had become his home for the last few weeks. “You’ve got the addresses for the Rattlers’ dens, right?”
“Of course… you don’t need directions to them, do you?” MITCH asked.
“No, no,” Peter chuckled. “I’m just thinking I might need to get the Avengers involved. This is too big for me to deal with, and I don’t think the police realize how many Rattlers there are on the streets.”
“You’re going to call the Avengers?” MITCH asked, sounding eager.
“You just want to talk to FRIDAY,” Peter said, pushing open a window and peering into the dim office space beyond.
“No, I don’t,” MITCH said quickly.
“Sure, buddy,” Peter chuckled, slipping inside and closing the window behind him.
The room was dim, but Peter’s eyesight was sharper than any normal human’s. He navigated around the broken furniture and down the hall to a big, empty room that Peter guessed had once been a storeroom. The high rafters gave Peter a decent place to store his stuff and sleep, and the long, narrow windows gave him a view of the area.
Still feeling his spider sense warning him, Peter checked the entire room thoroughly. There was no signs that anyone had disturbed his space and his backpack -which currently only held his supplies to make some more web fluid and a bottle of water- was still webbed securely on the topside of one of the rafters.
Peter frowned in confusion, but his grumbling stomach distracted him. Forgetting about his spider sense for the moment, Peter pulled off his mask and gloves, then sat on the rickety chair he’d salvaged from one of the offices. He set the phone and bread on an equally rickety table.
Peter wolfed down a bagel, barely tasting it. He groaned in relief at having something in his stomach again and started on the second bagel, getting halfway through it before something crumbled unpleasantly between his teeth, flooding Peter’s mouth with a terribly bitter, oddly nutty taste.
“Pah!” Peter spit. “What was on that bagel, rancid peanut butter?!”
Peter spit again and again, trying and failing to get the awful taste out of his mouth. He climbed to his feet, intending to grab his water bottle from where he’d absently left it near the door. He flinched when his elbow clumsily knocked his phone to the floor, then turned toward the door.
“Peter, look down,” MITCH said from the floor.
“Why?” Peter lowered his gaze, grimacing at the half-chewed bagel at his feet. “Gross, MITCH, why-”
“Peter, there’s something in that bagel,” MITCH said. “How much did you swallow?”
“Uhhh…”
Something caught in Peter’s throat and he choked. Bile rose in his throat, and Peter had to grab the wall as he threw up. His legs shook, then folded. Peter slid down the wall, coughing violently in between bouts of dry heaving. His throat seemed to be closing and his lungs felt like he had iron bands on them.
“Peter, your pulse is dropping!”
“MITCH,” Peter gasped, collapsing onto his side. “I can’t- I can’t-”
No matter how much he tried, Peter couldn’t get enough air. He choked again and coughed into his hand. He blinked hard, willing his vision to focus because… because there was blood on his hand now.
“MITCH,” Peter mumbled.
“Hang on, Peter,” MITCH said. “Your body is purging the poison, just breathe.”
Peter sucked in a ragged breath. Let it out in a near choke. He tried to shift, find a less twisted position, but his legs wouldn’t move.
“Breathe in, Peter.”
MITCH’s nervous voice prompted a shaky gasp. Peter clenched his eyes and threw up more bile.
Whimpering at the taste of coppery blood in his mouth, Peter opened his eyes. He pushed one elbow against the floor, edging his head and shoulders off the floor.
“Peter, lay still,” MITCH urged. “You need to save your strength. Your pulse, it’s-”
“Shhh, s’kay,” Peter mumbled, grabbing the phone.
“Peter, your pulse and temperature are dropping,” MITCH said. “I’m going to call 911.”
“No,” Peter mumbled, bloody spittle spraying through his lips. “They can’t… help en… enhanced.”
His body seemed to move on its own, prompting Peter to drag himself up the wall. Arms shaking, Peter hauled himself to the nearest corner of the ceiling, then sprayed a few awkward strands of webs. He crawled into the messy web hammock, his pulse sounding loud and slow in his ears.
“Peter?”
Peter felt warmth on his upper lip. He touched it and, when he pulled his hand away, his fingers were bloody.
“Peter, tell me what to do. I don’t know how to help you,” MITCH said desperately.
Peter gently shushed him again, pulling the phone tight against his chest. “You’re… good.. friend.”
“Peter, what do I do?” MITCH pleaded.
“S’kay,” Peter whispered, eyes fluttering shut. His fingers went slack around the phone.
“Peter? Peter, look at me! Don’t make me leave you, Peter!” MITCH yelled, though his voice quickly grew dimmer and dimmer.
Peter’s next breath hitched and seemed to get stuck in his throat. He writhed weakly, exactly once, before his body fell limp and he sank into painless silence.