Chapter Text
Sometimes people grow tired. Trauma blends into desensitisation until bone deep weariness is all that a person has left. It isn't anything they do, there's nothing that can be said. The time for help and fixing passes and all that's left is a shell of a person, trying to rest after they've long since forgotten how. Even the brightest stars burn out.
Superheroes are only super because someone decided that they can do something impossible. Superheroes are only heroes because someone decided that they helped. Superheroes are only superheroes when the public loves them; otherwise, they are dangers, threats and menaces. Superheroes are an amalgamation of double standards and unreachable expectations. Superheroes fall and fail like any other person, yet when they do they're not treated like people at all.
There were, and still are, debates and public forums over the accomplishments and failings of the Avengers. Nobody paused to let their families and friends mourn. Nobody thinks of how much the surviving heroes must have had to deal with. But now that they're gone, everyone is so quick to sing their praises, or point fingers for what made them disappear.
Over the past couple of years fewer and fewer superheroes have been seen. Yet that hasn't stopped the villains they would once fight from causing pain and terror. The heroes were unwanted, yet now they are begged for. Do we even deserve them?
Today New York City mourns the loss of Spider-Man. No body was found but, after silence for over six months, it has been determined that Spider-Man is gone. Nobody knows whether this is due to death, injury or retirement, but a memorial is to be held in Central Park on November 19th, at 3pm.
We pushed our heroes until we lost them. Super or not, everyone has their breaking point. There is no telling whether the world will ever get more.
So, in memorial of Spider-Man, we remind our readers what he stood for: neighbourliness. It doesn't take superpowers to do a good turn, all it takes is the kindness of one stranger to another. As a world we have failed to be kind, but, we hope, it is never too late to start.
-The Rise and Fall of Heroes by K. Page and C. J. Ford, The New York Bulletin
“I'm not really into the news, thanks though.” Peter Parker nudges the newspaper back across the counter. He's standing behind the counter of a small hole in the wall café. He has a lilac apron over his clothes, the pocket filled with spare pens. The café is a cosy place, with worn squishy couches and lilac wooden chairs. It's small, but busy, nearly always filled with college students and stressed businessmen. Peter could almost imagine himself amongst the students one day. Absently, Peter wonders whether his college application has been registered yet. “What would you like to order?” Peter looks Nick Fury dead in the eye, his most perfect, practised customer service smile painted across his face. He refuses to let a glimmer of recognition show. Peter Parker is not a superhero, he is a barista. What barista knows a superspy?
Fury, for his part, does not seem impressed. They've been doing this dance for at least ten minutes before he'd pulled out the guilt trip paper. Unfortunately for him, Peter had already seen the paper earlier that morning, and has since come to terms with the knowledge of Spider-Man’s funeral. Fury gives Peter a hard, deadpan stare. His gaze is so heavy that Peter wonders whether he's trying to force the weight of the world onto Peter’s shoulders through a look alone. Fury’s grave tone definitely implies it, "Your help is needed.”
What an odd way to ask for help. Peter mentally rolls his eyes. It doesn't particularly sway Peter at all. In fact his demand avoidance is making him want to dig his heels in further. He's done with Fury telling him what to do, has been for years. He smiles chirpily, “Sure, may I suggest our chocolate caramel latte, or-”
“Not that kinda help, Parker.” Fury growls, annoyed at Peter's feigned ignorance. Personally, Peter's quite proud of how much he's managing to get under Fury’s skin. It's actually quite fun.
“I'm sorry, sir, have we met?” Peter tilts his head, looking at Fury in confusion. It's what MJ used to call his ‘confused golden retriever look’. He's quite nearly perfected it.
“Now's not the time for games, Parker.” Peter can almost see Fury losing his grip on his temper. What a shame. You'd think someone of his spy experience would be able to handle this better.
“I'm sorry," Peter is the picture of innocence as he studies Fury with false confusion. "If we haven't met then how do you know my surname? Perhaps I should call my manager?”
"Parker!" Fury barks, gaining looks from the café's patrons. The café is fairly full. The New York City weather is particularly bitter, a type of cold that sinks and seeps into your bones, and the café heating is on full blast, offering a warm place to shelter. Despite the amount of people, Fury's voice echoes through the small space.
“I take it that's a no to my manager?” Peter comments mildly. He ignores the curious onlookers and the less than subtly drawn phones. People love recording rude customers, this is hardly new.
"No I don't want your goddamn manager!" Fury glares around the café until people stop staring as openly. At this point there's a small, impatient queue waiting behind him, and Peter knows that he should probably hurry this along.
"Is there a problem here?" A polite but stern voice cuts into the conversation. Peter glances at Elis, a five foot, blue haired woman in her early twenties. She's usually mild mannered and bored, rolling with the punches with an unwavering patience. Despite that, she always has the baristas’ backs. She's undoubtedly the best manager Peter has ever had.
"He hasn't ordered but wants help with something?” Peter offers, as if genuinely bemused. His eyes scream exasperation as he shares a look with Elis. The joys of working in hospitality.
Elis looks at Fury with a bored, unamused expression as she steps in front of Peter, nudging him behind her slightly. She really is an incredible manager. Elis does not so much as bat an eye at Fury being a foot taller and over double her muscle mass. She's dealt with more volatile customers and has yet to be intimidated. She doesn't plan on starting today. "Sir, if you're not going to order them I'm going to have to ask you to leave.” She drawls, not leaving room for argument. Peter spots her phone in her hand under the counter, Elis’ thumb hovering over the button to dial emergency services.
Fury's eye narrows but he doesn't argue any further- he's caused enough of a scene and he knows it, "We'll speak later, Parker."
Peter mentally scoffs. They won't if he has anything to say about it. Peter refuses to reply, instead he just stares at Fury trying to get across just how unimpressed he is at that statement. Fury turns on his heel and stalks out of the cafe, whispers and looks following him out.
“Next customer please.” Elis calls, getting things back on track. She and Peter work like a well oiled team, getting the backlog of customers served in record time.
Once the queue disperses, Elis turns to face Peter. She runs her sharp eyes over Peter, analysing him in a way that reminds him of MJ. MJ, May and Elis- smartest women Peter has ever met. "Want me to call the police?” Elis interrupts Peter's thoughts.
"No, that's okay.” Peter shakes his head. Nothing good would come of it. If anything, SHIELD would probably show up in place of the police. No, thank you. “I might take a break if you're good handling out here?”
"Course." Elis shrugs. It's quiet now, so Peter doesn't feel as bad at leaving her alone for a bit. "See you in fifteen.”
"Thanks, El" Peter half smiles before ducking out and into the backroom.
The minute he's out of sight, Peter lifts his left hand up and stares at his palm. There'd been a sharp pinch, almost like a bee sting when he'd pushed the paper back to Fury earlier. It was a stupid thing to do, he should have known Fury would try something.
There's an unnatural glint on the top of Peter's index finger, surrounded by a tiny puncture point. Peter pulls a miniscule bug off and crushes the metal between his fingers. Normal baristas are not bugged by superspies. Also, SHIELD has never had any sense of privacy, and Peter doesn't want them to come crashing into his life. Again. Spider-Man is dead, only Peter Parker exists anymore.
The rest of his shift passes in a monotonous blur. There's no sign of secret agents, spies or assassins watching him. Even as the sun sets and the tables begin to empty, no unexpected guests appear. Peter walks Elis to her building, just like he always does after dark.
His spider sense begins to hum once he starts the rest of his journey alone. It's not new. As the night settles in and Queens fills with more crime, his spider sense always tries to draw his attention. He ignores it with practised ease. He's not Spider-Man anymore.
Ducking into his tiny apartment, Peter quickly scans the place for bugs. Predictably he finds a handful, crushing them into metal dust. Peter shoves his phone on to charge before he collapses onto his bed, barely bothering to kick his shoes off. Exhaustion, that hasn't seemed to leave him in years, quickly drags him to sleep.
–
Why?
Why? That's the first thing Peter thinks as he drags his eyes open. Cold metal leaches through his thin clothes, making Peter shudder. This is hardly the first time Peter's woken up on a trashcan, but it is the first time since he retired Spider-Man. Sitting up on the trashcan’s lid, Peter takes stock of himself.
No phone, no wallet, no keys. He's wearing the same jeans, t-shirt and hoodie as when he fell asleep in his own bed. Socks, but no shoes. Peter sighs, great.
He's in an alley. Not one he recognises, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's not dark anymore. Well, it's not nighttime. The thick grey clouds and black smog aren't letting a lot of sunlight through despite the fact it's definitely daytime. Silently, Peter hops up, landing on the alleyway concrete without so much as a thud.
Peter cringes as rainwater seeps into his socks. He needs to find shoes. Nothing good would come from getting ill. He heads out on the street, looking for the nearest chain store. Peter is someone that strongly believes that stealing from large corporations isn't really stealing. Oh no, he's going to take some billionaire's twelve dollars. That's less than chump change to them.
Now Peter is a pretty smart guy. Academics has never been a struggle for him so long as someone is willing to teach him the basics. He's a quick study and all his teachers knew it. But he's also street smart. After years of being Spider-Man and a year or so of being homeless after the world forgot that he existed, Peter knows how to navigate the world. It's just, well, this clearly isn't his world.
There aren't any faded displacement posters, or pealing blip therapy brochures stuck to buildings. Instead there's wanted posters of criminals that rival the ones Spider-Man would fight (in terms of themes and odd looking identities). There are no graffitied Iron Man memorials, but there are old, sun dyed ones of someone named Robin. All the shops are familiar but wrong. As if someone took everything from Peter’s world and smashed them together: Waltarget, Nadidas, Burger Queen. There's not a single piece of branding for Stark Enterprise or Oscorp. Instead the Wayne Foundation dominates with small ads for Lexcorp peeking through.
Peter ducks into Waltarget, acting as if there's nothing strange going on. It's surprising what people will ignore if someone looks confident enough. A twenty-two year old stealing a pair of new socks and cheap sneakers included.
Peter strolls out of the shop without a single alarm going off, and continues on his journey.
He's not in New York, that much he's certain of. Newspaper stands pronounce Gotham as the dreary city’s name. Peter could almost laugh at the accurate description. The city's buildings look like a mix match of modern and Victorian Gothic. Nearly all of them are crumbling, under construction or defaced. There's a sense of severeness around the place. The city practically screams of gloom, and hopelessness, and desperation.
Peter supposes he should look for a way home. It's the logical thing to do. He doesn't belong in this world, and reinventing himself all over again is going to be annoying. The thing is, that sounds an awful lot like a superhero thing to do, and Peter is not a superhero. He is plain old civilian Peter Parker. It's not his responsibility to find a way to cross the multiverse. It's not like he has much of a home to go back to anyway.
With that in mind, Peter makes a mental list of everything he needs to set up a new identity for himself. Birth certificate, social security number, qualifications. Then find a job. There's got to be a restaurant or café somewhere around here hiring. Preferably a café that would accept Peter's limited clothing option. He'd probably have to live on the streets for a while, but that's not new either. He could handle it. If he's careful and the rents here aren't too high, he could probably afford rent for an apartment within the year. Quicker if he can find one someone was killed in.
Finally, Peter enters a part of the city with scorched signs that indicate the way to the library. It still takes a while to walk there but eventually Peter comes face to face with a large gothic building that reminds him more of a cathedral than a library.
“I finally get why Matt likes religion.” Peter mumbles to himself as he takes in the architecture. Gargoyles perch in archways, like guardians of knowledge. Pillars reach to the rafters as if mimicking coliseums.
The library is thankfully warm, a nice dissonance to the chill outside. It doesn't take Peter too long to find a corner full of clunky computers that look like they belong in the 90s. The problem with library computers is that most will have some form of history tracking on them, or a block on websites that are against its terms of use. That means Peter has to spend an hour sneakily hacking into the computer he's claimed to make sure nothing he does can be traced back to him.
By the time the library is preparing to close, Peter Parker officially exists. Peter prints off his newly made CV, hacking the system into thinking he's paid. He doesn't overly like stealing from libraries, but it's one sheet of paper and Peter needs it to live, so he finds the will to forgive himself.
Peter smiles to himself as he walks out of the library. Things could be worse. At least SHIELD can't bug him now.
–
A month in Gotham teaches Peter a lot. For one, the streets are somehow harsher than New York. A new gang exists around every corner, soup kitchens are regularly poisoned, and most shelters are a cover for human trafficking. It's not all bad though. The Wayne Foundation shelters are generally pretty safe. Against every fibre of his eat the rich heart, Peter actually has a lot of respect for Bruce Wayne and his family. The man is practically trying to give his money away with how much he funds. Charities, scholarships, programs for reformed criminals. Even Peter can't do the maths to work out how Wayne is still a billionaire.
Another thing Peter learnt (quite quickly at that), is that gas masks are not a suggestion in Gotham, they're a necessity. The city is practically a playground for chemical warfare. It makes Peter's scientist heart weep and his lungs creek. In antithesis to that, the early warning alarm system is a suggestion. Alright, maybe it isn't, but the alarms going off are usually the best time to steal food, and Peter hasn't died yet.
Gotham has a whole contingency of vigilantes that Peter has successfully avoided so far. The amount of them looking over the city is almost enough to wipe away the guilt Peter feels for not helping. It's definitely enough for Peter to push the feeling down and ignore it.
Acclimatising to Gotham wasn't actually very difficult. Once Peter figured out he should treat everyone as if they're war veterans or retired heroes, it became quite easy to blend in. Gothamites are nothing if not self reliant, trauma ignoring, survivors.
It's just over a month into Gotham when Peter's normal is interrupted. He's walking to work, a nice (if not slightly dangerous) little twenty-four hour coffee shop in the Bowery, when he first sees Robin.
Robin, from what Peter has learnt, is not the same Robin as the memorials are for. This Robin dresses in muted greys and deep blood reds.
He's also swinging a katana at a man’s neck. That's probably not good.
Peter could just walk away. It's not as if he's never seen a vigilante kill before. Mr Castle and Wade did so regularly. In fact the kid kind of reminds Peter of a mini Wade, what with the reds and the katana. And the underlying thrum of anger is there too. As controlled and restrained as the anger is, Robin isn't hiding it behind fake apathy and humour like Wade used to. Peter doubts the man is anyone good; from what he's gathered the bats and birds don't usually kill. Robin looks young, younger than Peter expected. Is that how Peter looked when he first became Spider-Man? “Fuck.” Peter mutters under his breath. Despite everything he's done to retire from vigilantism, Peter can't quite bring himself to stand back and watch a child kill.
Peter intercepts the blade's arch as Robin swings down, catching it in his left hand. He holds it firmly despite the pain of the katana cutting into him. Peter barely registers the blood that drips down his arm. He studies the smaller vigilante in front of him with a cool gaze. Robin’s cloak hood has fallen revealing sweaty rumpled hair. His eyes are hidden behind a domino mask, but the small mask can't hide the ways his face creases. There's not just anger there, there's pain too.
"That's enough." Peter's voice is quiet but firm. It edges with understanding and floods with softness that Peter is slightly surprised he still has. He thought he was too jaded for the gentle empathy he's feeling now. The rage is something Peter is intimately familiar with. He wonders if this is what the other Peter saw when he stopped Peter from killing Green Goblin.
Robin's breathing is laboured; fury and smoke cloud his vision. Peter isn't sure whether the other boy is actually seeing him, or just looking through him.
"Remove yourself, this is your only warning.” Peter isn't sure what he expected. Maybe one of the Gotham accents he's heard? Instead Robin’s voice is a rich blend of something somewhat South Asian (although not a country or region that Peter can pinpoint) and an almost transatlantic accent. He sounds fancy, more so than Mr Stark or Harry ever did. Is he one of Gotham’s elite? Peter pushes the thought away. He doesn't need to know the identity of any of Gotham's vigilantes.
“No.” He's a barista, he's not a hero, Peter should just walk away. But is it really being a hero to stop a kid from doing something that could destroy part of them? No. That's just being a decent person. It's neighbourly, if anything. "He's already down. You've caught him. That's enough.”
Robin tries to pull back his katana but Peter holds firmly. No matter how skilled Robin is, Peter has more strength by far. The katana digs further into Peter's hand, but he doesn't flinch.
Robin is calculating, Peter will give the kid that. Despite his anger Robin doesn't rush his movements, he's critical, analysing. In one swift move Robin releases his katana, draws a dagger into each hand and is flying at Peter.
Peter sighs quietly and drops the katana. The clang echoes down the empty street. Peter steps to the side using the vigilante's momentum to spin him away. As he does, Peter moves his hands in a complicated motion, twisting one of the daggers out of Robin’s grip. "Are you done?” Peter raises an eyebrow. He's too tired for this. He's supposed to be retired, and at this rate he's going to be late for his shift.
Robin’s lip curls with disdainful anger. He doesn't hesitate, but he does pause long enough to plan before he moves. He's a good fighter, excellent even, but Peter's fairly sure he's been doing this almost as long as the kid's been alive. Peter studies Robin, trying to figure out what he needs. Containment or a fight? Containment would stop this quicker, but if it doesn't calm Robin down then Peter will be stuck babysitting a criminal and a murderous vigilante until another bat or bird shows up. Peter dodges back as the second dagger slices through the air, where his eye had been seconds before. Robin’s muscles are coiled beneath the kevlar of his suit. His stance is well practised, and his steps light. He almost thrums with energy. A fight then.
Peter extends his movements, drawing out the fight. Robin is tenacious, unyielding and fierce. But Peter has more experience and plenty of stubbornness of his own. The fight is brutal, a dance of swirling limbs and unrestrained punches. Peter twists and turns, disarms and dodges. He never once attacks back, just focuses on keeping Robin moving. Eventually (after far too long of fighting for Peter's liking) Robin's energy starts to waver. Peter pulls him close, trapping his arms. He gives Robin no room to escape, even as he thrashes. "Enough.” Peter commands, a tone he hasn't used since he was Spider-Man.
"Unhand me." Robin demands. There's no command in the order. Robin isn't a practised leader, but there is an odd combination of security and insecurity. As if Robin is both used to getting his way and used to getting nothing at all. Maybe Peter should look into- No. It's not his business. If something's wrong then the other vigilantes ought to figure it out. Peter has coffee to make and food to serve. "I shall enact justice”
"You already have.” Peter soothes, unwavering in his grip. Robin elbows and pinches and kicks every piece of Peter he can reach, even going so far as attempting to bite him. Rude. Biting is for affection not for vigilantism. “There's no honour in quickly ending an already down opponent." The concept of honour isn't something Peter overly cares about. He's seen it used too many times as a scapegoat for treating others poorly. But Robin seems like the type to put importance into something like that (or maybe Peter is just stereotyping posh people). "I'll release you when I know you won't kill him.”
"You speak of honour yet you defend that abuser." He doesn't shout. Robin’s anger is rarely loud, even if his opinions usually are. His anger is ice, and taunts, and rage barely restrained under his skin. It's revenge waiting to happen or a hunter stalking prey.
"It's not him I'm defending." Peter says gently. He shifts his grip so that it's more like a hug than the uncomfortable hold he had Robin in before, "He isn't worth it.”
Robin stills. "His victims are.” There's damnation in his quiet voice. It's like a judge handing a decree to an executioner.
"They are." Peter agrees. He doesn't know what the man did, but he has always been on the victim's side. Anyway, it would be hypocritical to condemn someone else for killing. He was friends with Wade before- "But he shouldn't get to die quickly. He should have to live with what he's done, without his freedom. He belongs in prison.”
Slowly some of the tension bleeds out of Robin’s muscles. "Very well." The man might deserve to suffer, but prison will have to do. That or Robin can find someone else to kill him later. Whichever.
Peter's spider sense doesn't alert him to anything suspicious so he slowly releases Robin. When he doesn't try and attack again, Peter nods, "Right. Well, see you.”
"Where are you going?" Robin demands, stepping in Peter's path.
Peter looks at his cracked watch and sighs, "Work. I'm going to be late now.”
"And what is your work?" Robin presses. His eyes narrow in suspicion, "Heroism? Villainy? Assassination? Crime?”
Peter raises an eyebrow. How, just how, did Robin reach those conclusions? "Coffee.”
"What?” Robin startles. You'd think Peter had just told him that the sky is green and the sea is made of cotton candy.
"Coffee.” Peter repeats, the ‘duh’ implied. “You drink it." Peter quickly dodges Robin and jogs away, knowing Robin can't follow him and deal with the criminal at the same time. "See you.” He waves sarcastically over his shoulder.
Peter can feel Robin’s gaze on his back right up until he turns the corner of the street. Peter picks up his pace to a run as he heads towards the coffee shop. He's so late.
Stupid vigilantism.