Chapter Text
There was something about being completely alone that was so different from anything else Peter Parker had ever experienced in his entire life.
He’d been lonely before, sure. Growing up, he didn’t have any friends until he’d met Ned at a park in first grade. And even then, Ned had gone to a different elementary school, meaning that it was up to their respective guardians to decide when they got the chance to see each other.
Middle school was a little easier. After Ben had died when Peter was 13, there were times when Peter was lonely. Sometimes being home alone while May picked up a double shift at the hospital, and refusing to leave the apartment just in case the woman got home and worried about where he was.
Still, nothing compared to this.
He felt as if he was dead. Or rather, Peter Parker was dead. Spider-Man was the same as ever, doing the same duties that he had before, just more often and at a higher level without any more training.
The version of Peter Parker who overshared, spoke excitedly to strangers, and was more than eager to get involved with his neighbors and peers, had been lost to time. The new Peter was heavy, weighed down by the evils of life and shattered by the disaster that was the battle at the Statue of Liberty. Left alone to pick up the pieces and figure it out.
There were times where he debated letting it all go. Days where he’d let himself drop from buildings, seeing how close to the ground he could get before shooting a web out to catch himself.
But he couldn’t. New York needed Spider-Man, and Spider-Man needed Peter Parker.
So, despite how much he struggled to do so, he picked up the pieces.
He hadn’t bothered attempting to return to Midtown to finish out his senior year, instead busying himself with getting his GED and finding himself work to try and create a false life that was suitable enough to keep him fed.
Empire State University had opened a few years ago, something May had been excited about when considering whether or not she wanted to leave nursing to try and be an instructor for young individuals who were coming into the field.
“I’m just saying. I can only do so much running around hospitals in my old age.” She had said, a teasing glint in her expression as she reached to cover Peter with the blanket they were sharing. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the movie playing on the tv. “I always dreamed of teaching when I was younger. It’d be a cool way to incorporate both my dreams into one.”
It was a good school, sure. Peter was sure that May would’ve made a wonderful addition to their program if she ever had the chance to do so. There were plenty of respected people that had taken up positions as the school only grew.
Peter was lucky that he got accepted without giving a single test score, and even luckier that he’d been accepted for financial aid so he could lessen the burden of chasing higher education.
MIT had been a dream, but it was unachievable. He was happy enough that Ned and MJ had gotten to attend that he couldn’t bring himself to be too disappointed about the way that things had worked out. No matter how badly he wished he could be alongside them.
Out of any job Peter pictured himself having when he grew up, the last place he'd expected to find himself collecting paychecks was from the Daily Bugle. Especially not with the constant smear campaigns made by the company in regards to Spider-Man.
It wasn't as if he had much of a choice. He was in desperate need of some cash, and he happened to have the perfect way to get photographs of Spider-Man that Jameson seemed to require for his weekly drag of the vigilante's name through the mud. It felt almost conceited to sell pictures of himself, but technically nobody knew it was him. Plus, he couldn't imagine someone who would pass up this opportunity no matter how humiliating it was in hindsight.
He dropped off the pictures to Jameson every Tuesday and Thursday, always having the physical copies since Jameson seemed to be a stickler for that kind of thing. Most people called the man old school, but he usually just called himself practical. Peter didn't mind much anyways. The older man had carved out an extra chunk of money that was added on to whatever the price was when he dropped the photos off to "cover the cost of having them developed".
Thing was, Peter didn't actually pay anything to have the images printed and developed. Not that he'd ever let Jameson know that.
Martin Li, the man who had taken over FEAST following May's death, happened to have a wife who was super into photography and everything surrounding it. Peter spent most of his free time volunteering, and Martin had offered the option to have his wife develop photos for him just to ease the weight he was lugging around. Despite being hesitant at first to accept, he eventually had no choice but to take him up on the offer.
Plus, Jameson was oddly nice to Peter. Whether because he genuinely cared, or he just wanted to keep the flow of Spider-Man pictures going, Peter never questioned it. He simply let the man slip him extra cash every time he dropped off photos. At times, that extra payment was the difference from being late on rent, or paying it on time and having food for dinner.
It wasn't ideal, but it was enough. His schedule was fairly loose, meaning he spent plenty of time out and about in the city. That, balanced with his classes and his volunteering, felt like more than enough in the grand scheme of things. Especially for a guy with enhanced metabolism who couldn't even afford a full meal most days of the week, and who had stopped getting full nights of sleep nearly two years prior.
This week had been especially hectic for the Bugle, with the elections for the New York mayor being a topic of heavy debate. Peter didn't pay much attention to it, simply dropping his pictures off just as he always had, and retreating to the reception area to collect his pay. Jameson was preoccupied, having simply waved Peter off to get him to go grab his check from the front.
Felicia was a nice girl, at least to people she didn't really know. With her bright, platinum blonde hair, she was kind of hard to miss. Peter made conversation with her sometimes, but they weren't necessarily friends or anything. Peter just knew that she had taken the position after moving from the Bronx earlier that year. She was a friendly face in the chaos of the building, much to Peter's pleasure.
"Rough day?" Felicia asked, her eyes darting from the stack of manila folders on her desk to the dark circles under Peter’s eyes. She tapped a red manicured fingernail against the counter, her expression softening in a way that felt almost pitying. "Jameson’s been on a warpath since six this morning. I think the coffee machine finally gave up on him."
Peter let out a breath he didn't realize he’d been holding, the sound hitching slightly in his throat. He shifted his weight, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor of the lobby. "Something like that. Midterms are coming up and—well, you know. The city doesn't exactly take a break because I have an organic chemistry final."
Felicia chuckled, a dry, melodic sound. "You're a masochist, Parker. Engineering and the freelance life? I don’t know how you’re still standing." She slid a small, white envelope across the desk toward him. "Here. The old man said to add a bonus for the rooftop shots you got of the incident on 42nd. Said they were almost enough to make him consider a front-page spread. High praise, coming from him."
"Right," Peter muttered, tucking the envelope into his worn-out backpack without checking the contents. He knew exactly what was inside: enough to cover his internet bill and maybe a carton of eggs. "Tell him I’ll try to get him something even more incriminating next week."
He turned to leave, his movements heavy and precise. His mind was already drifting, tracing the physical geometry of the city. He needed to get to the library, finish his report on polymer degradation, and then hit the rooftops before the sun went down. There was a weird tremor in the frequency of the police scanners lately, a subtle shift in the way the low-level dealers in Hell’s Kitchen were operating. They were nervous, organized, and moving with a discipline that didn't fit the usual street-level crimes.
As he pushed through the heavy glass doors of the Bugle and out onto the sidewalk, the city hit him like a physical blow. The humidity, the noise, the sheer, suffocating density of millions of people all living lives that didn't include him. He pulled his hood up, his eyes scanning the rooftops above.
The transition from the bustling Bugle office to his apartment was always the hardest part of the day. Stepping out of the elevator and into the dimly lit hallway of his building felt like stepping into an aquarium. With the muffled sounds of the city outside being dulled by the thick walls, leaving him with only the ringing in his ears and the slow, rhythmic thud of his own heart.
He fumbled with his keys, his fingers stiff from a scuffle he’d had earlier that morning with some street-level thugs trying to move something heavy out of a warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen. He hadn’t really won, he’d just chased them off long enough for the cops to arrive.
He nudged the door open with his shoulder, the hinges letting out a tired whine he’d been meaning to grease for months.
"Parker."
The voice came from the shadows of the stairwell, and Peter didn't flinch. He just slowed his breathing, leaning his forehead against the doorframe for a second before turning. Mr. Henderson was standing there, a clipboard tucked under his arm and a look on his face that was somewhere between annoyed and resigned.
"Mr. Henderson," Peter said, his voice raspy from disuse. "I know. Rent's due on the first, I—"
"I’m not here about the rent, kid," Henderson grunted, stepping into the light of the hallway. He looked at Peter, taking in the slight slump of his shoulders and the way Peter was favoring his left side. "You look like you fell off a building. Again."
Peter offered a weak, tight lipped smile. "Just a long day."
"Right." Henderson sighed, shaking his head. He held his hand out that was holding a nearly full grocery bag, holding it out. "Your neighbor in 4B moved out. Left a bunch of canned goods and some extra cleaning supplies. I thought you might want them before I tossed the rest of the unit."
Peter hesitated. The pride that kept him afloat usually made accepting charity feel like a failure, but his stomach gave a treacherous, hollow twist at the thought of the empty cupboards waiting inside. He reached out, his hand steadying as he took the weight of the bag. It was heavy. Real food.
"Thank you, Mr. Henderson. Truly."
"Don't thank me," the man muttered, already turning to head back to the stairs. He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "And for what it's worth, I know you’re working to pay for that degree. I’ll keep the late fee off your account for another week. Just... try to sleep, Parker. You look like a ghost."
Peter watched him go until the heavy door clicked shut, leaving him in the silence of his own apartment.
He didn't turn on the lights. He just walked over to the kitchen counter and set the bag down, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet. He didn't spend much time in the apartment anyways. It wasn't home, not really. It was simply a place for him to sleep and keep his stuff when he needed to be out and about in the city. A place where a roof was over his head, but didn't hold any of the sentimental value that other places had.
Home had stopped existing when the world had forgotten Peter Parker.
The grocery bag of food was abandoned for the time being as Peter made his way into his small, yet secluded, bedroom. There was enough room for a bed and his desk, not that it made any difference to him. His laptop that he'd fixed up using scraps was sitting idly on his desk, waiting for him to pick it up and get back to any work that would keep his mind effectively occupied.
With a swift movement, he opens the laptop and makes himself comfortable on his bed. He opens the police database, one that Ned had taught him how to get into one day afterschool, as he searches up the names of the guys he'd fought off that morning. A daily ritual that had Weasley its way into his life when he had lost access to the Stark tech that simplified checking whether or not a criminal had been arrested.
Oddly enough, the police report was wiped clean. Showing that the cops had arrived at the scene, and had disregarded the report Peter himself had made.
That was... weird. Peter had waited on a nearby rooftop to ensure the guys were still there for the cops, and had left only when the officers had gotten out of their vehicles. He knew that they were there, and knew better than anyone that there should've been a series of charges attached to their names. If anything, a whole document should've been written defining what the scene had looked like upon arrival. Instead, there was nothing.
It wasn't that Peter was a huge supporter of the NYPD or anything. MJ had ensured Peter had understood every issue with the police and the idea of officers as a whole. He knew what their reputation was, yet there was only so much he could do in terms of getting the bad guys behind bars. Up until now, this method had never seemed to fail him. Suddenly, though, it felt as if everything involving that morning had been essentially scrubbed clean.
He tries not to let it bother him, wanting to believe that they just hadn't uploaded the file to the database. However, he had a gut feeling that wasn't the case. Still, he had bigger things to fret over than one singular case, telling himself that he'd check again the moment that he got home from patrol.
He closed the laptop with a snap, the sharp sound cutting through the stale air of the bedroom. The silence that followed was heavy, pressing against his eardrums like deep-sea pressure. He needed to move. He needed to be out there, where the air was at least moving, where the problems had physical forms he could punch or web away.
He reached for the suit, his movements practiced and devoid of any wasted energy. He stripped off the clothes he’d worn to the Bugle and pulled on the mask. For a second, his reflection in the mirror was blurred, a trick of the fading light, but he didn't stop to look closer. He didn't want to see the eyes behind the lenses.
The city was a sprawling circuit board, and as soon as he swung out of his window, he felt the familiar rush of kinetic energy. The physics of it were the only thing that made sense anymore: F=ma. Force equaled mass times acceleration. The force he exerted on the skyline, the velocity he achieved in the dive—it was a clean, predictable equation.
But the city felt wrong tonight.
After swinging for awhile, he landed on a gargoyle overlooking a junction in Hell’s Kitchen. His senses dialed up to a painful degree. Usually, the city hummed with the ambient noise of a million people; arguments, car horns, the distant thrum of the subway. Tonight, it felt muted, as if the pulse of the streets had been slowed down artificially.
He crouched low, his head tilting as he listened for the static on the police bands, but the chatter was suspiciously sparse. No minor calls, no domestic disturbances, not even the usual reports of petty theft. It was as if the criminals had all received a memo to take the night off.
Peter launched himself into the dark, his web-line snapping taut as he vaulted over a skyscraper. He needed a lead. He needed to find the thread that connected those street-level goons he’d fought this morning to this sudden, unsettling silence.
As he swung, he saw it. A black sedan idling in an alleyway three blocks over, far from any main road. It wasn't the kind of car that belonged in the bowels of Hell’s Kitchen. It was polished, sleek, and entirely too expensive for the neighborhood.
Peter adjusted his trajectory, his muscles coiled and ready. He felt the familiar, sharp prickle of his Spider-Sense at the back of his neck—not a warning of immediate danger, but a low-level hum of wrongness.
He landed silently on a fire escape above the alley. Below, two men in sharp suits were talking to one of the low-level thugs from that morning. The same guy he’d left webbed up to a crate. The thug looked terrified, his hands trembling as he gestured toward the police precinct.
Peter leaned in, his ears straining. He gripped the railing, his knuckles white against the dark metal of the suit. He had forgotten to eat. He had forgotten to sleep. But as he watched the men in suits hand something to the thug he knew it was unlikely that he'd be able to do any of that. It didn't make sense to him, and with all the overwhelming noises of the city, he had barely been able to pick up what had been said.
By the time that Peter had finally called it quits for the night, he'd stopped one purse burglary and had spoken with a young girl who needed company while walking herself home from work. Something that he would've considered an eventful patrol when he was fifteen, but was now scarily uneventful. Crime supposedly never slept, a sentiment that kept him going on patrols even when exhausted. Yet today, there seemed to be a crime-free holiday that he wasn't informed of.
He was, selfishly enough, kind of bummed that he had nothing to keep him occupied. There were nights where he'd patrol until he'd quite literally pass out in a random alleyway from pure exhaustion just to keep a single thought from crossing his mind. Was it unhealthy? Probably. But Peter had also become a pro at stitching up bullet wounds with dental floss. He didn't necessarily care for what was healthy and what wasn't.
The nights had become a recursive loop, a cycle of patrolling streets that felt like they were shrinking around him, and returning to a desk that served as the only altar to his obsession. He didn't sleep so much as he simply ceased moving, lying in the dark while his mind continued to churn through the mechanics of the city’s underbelly. He had become an expert at the art of self-preservation, patching up his own skin with nothing more than dental floss and a stubborn refusal to stop, viewing his own body as just another piece of machinery that needed occasional, makeshift maintenance.
He had spent so long looking for a sign of recognition in the eyes of the people he saved that he’d stopped looking for it altogether. The world had moved on, scrubbing his existence from its memory, and he had learned to embrace the invisibility, turning his isolation into a weapon of sorts. He looked at the wall, at the map of strings and clippings that had become his only mirror, and realized that he had stopped being a part of the city he defended. He was merely the shadow that paced its edges, the unseen friction against the rot that was beginning to fester in the dark.
He knew that eventually, the pressure of the silence would be too much, that the weight of the secrets would force a crack in the foundation he’d built for himself. But for now, he simply sat in the dark, an anchor tethered to nothing, waiting for the night to demand the only thing he had left to give: the wreckage of what he used to be.