Chapter Text
The world was moving too fast. Sirens could be heard, exceedingly shouting, loud and rushed steps, car wheels skidding on the wet streets, the rain falling over the sidewalk and people’s heads, muffled crying.
The metallic, salty scent of blood, the rain, the coffee that had been spilled all over the floor not so long ago, the trash can from the other side of the street and mixed colognes from the paramedics could be easily smelled.
A bitter taste could be found under the tongue and it wouldn’t go away. A repulsive flavor could be felt making its way to outside of the body, all of the dinner going along with it.
It was all a blur. Shadows of people, police cars and ambulances, red and blue lights seemed to corrode the eyes, too bright to be ignored, and a specific silhouette almost blocking the view of everything else.
But nothing could be felt. It was like there was no skin to begin with, no body, no physical embodiment or appearance to sense the world. It felt like floating, watching from a distant point of view, far away from the reality and its endless life and death cycle.
It was confusing. What was happening couldn’t be understood for the fact that it didn’t feel real whatsoever. It felt like a dream, where the rest of the world moved around and everything happened way too fast to be processed and all that could be done was observing.
Time wasn’t a thing taken into consideration; it felt too false to even wonder about. According to Carlo Rovelli, time was an illusion and reality was just a complex network of events onto which there’s the projection of sequences of past, present and future; but what was being experienced felt like a combination— or lack— of the three. Did that mean it wasn’t reality? Perhaps it was indeed a dream, a false experience, a mind trick.
Nonetheless, it didn’t end. It was exhausting and depleting whereas it was nothing.
It could be concluded, thereupon, that nothingness was the worst torture to be endured. Nothing could be understood, nothing could be felt, time and space were long gone among the almost forgotten memories of what were emotions and the brain proceeded to confuse itself with the absence of information.
It was wondered if there was even anything or anyone there, at nothing, before all else. How could nothingness be felt, if there was nothing to feel and nothing to be felt with?
There was Nothing and Nothing only.
Until, there wasn’t.
There was a light, very far away and very dull, but there.
If any effort was done so the light came closer, it couldn’t be known, but it started to approximate itself. Approximate itself to… to what?
It had been wondered at some point if there was anything there, but the faint memory of something started to come to mind. Something had been forgotten, something important, what was there?
A person, one of the humankind, who was it? Who were they, a man, a woman, both, neither, who were they? Anxious. They didn’t know who they were but they felt anxious, because they didn’t know where they were or for how long they had been there; were they somewhere else before? Was there a life to return to?
The light was closer and he felt uneasy. Was he really a “he”? For all the confusion and nonsense he had experienced to this moment, he couldn’t be sure. It felt right, however, so he opted on focusing on more relevant things.
He had to remember what he’d forgotten, because he knew it was important. Was it really significant if it could be so easily dismissed from his mind, after all? He couldn’t know; confusion was still so present on his mind it had started to annoy him.
Pain. He could recall pain and it was such a strong feeling, it made him reconsider if remembering was still a good idea. He couldn’t help it though, glimpses and random information made their way through his brain; it started slowly, but they were getting overwhelming.
Peter Benjamin Parker. Oh, he could then remember, he lived in Queens with his aunt—
The light hit him.
Peter gasped. He was in a bed; a soft and expensive looking bed, where was he? What happened, had it been a dream, where was Aunt May?
Oh. Dead. Yes, he remembered it all then…
Aunt May was taking too long to come back home that day, it usually only took her thirty minutes to walk to the pharmacy and walk back. So, Peter decided to go after her, it had been more than one hour and a half.
His Spider-sense didn’t warn him. He saw her talking to the owner and smiled, relaxing immediately, and slowed down.
It happened too fast. A car at full speed showed up followed by three police cars. There was a shooting. Peter dodged the bullets that came to his direction barely processing what was happening. Aunt May didn’t.
He didn’t know what happened next, he didn’t remember. Maybe it had really been all a dream, for all he knew he was at a stranger’s house and could’ve been drugged. No one drugged Spider-Man that easily, though.
He didn’t like thinking about it.
All his questions were answered when the door opened. Mr. Stark.
“Hey, kid,” he said slowly, seemingly carefully picking his few words.
Peter looked around one more time. He needed answers. “What happened?”
Mr. Stark’s eyes went wide to his voice, and that made Peter wonder even more. Mr. Stark getting surprised at something, him specifically, wasn’t a common occurrence at all, Peter could count the times he had seen him with wide eyes on his fingers. And most of them happened while in battle.
The billionaire made his way to sit down on the bed, beside Peter. “You went through some heavy dissociation, Pete.”
Peter figured that. He could see the man hesitating and sighed tiredly. “You know that’s not what I’m asking.”
“There was a robbery—”
Peter threw his hands up exasperatedly. “Mr. Stark!” His voice noticeably broke through the outburst and he had to hold in some tears that insisted in coming out. “Please,” he asked.
Mr. Stark took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “May’s dead.”
Peter sometimes had nightmares about this day. May would get shot just like Uncle Ben, be killed by an enemy who discovered his secret identity, die from an illness she hadn’t told him about. He always told himself this moment wouldn’t happen so soon, that they still had a lifetime to enjoy.
Shock, he knew he was probably in shock. The tears that threatened to fall had made their way back in and his eyes got dry. He kept repeating the fact over and over on his head, expecting his brain to process it so he could cry.
He was so tired of hiding, lying and making excuses, but he did it all for May. She deserved the best, she deserved to live. She was dead then. There was no reason to stay in Queens, no reason to hide Spider-Man, no reason to anything. No reason to live.
No, he couldn’t do anything. He quickly promised himself he would never reach to suicide or self-harm, Aunt May would be so sad. Ned probably would, too. Peter was so glad to have Ned.
Peter kept staring at the floor. He was so tired of mourning, of grief. He couldn’t help but feel drained; his shoulders were heavy and his legs wouldn’t move an inch.
Mr. Stark was quiet.
“For how long was I… out?”
He wondered if Mr. Stark was surprised again, maybe he was expecting him to cry his eyes out, hell, Peter had been expecting that. He resisted the urge to smile; he had been able to surprise Mr. Stark twice in less than thirty minutes. That would be morbid though.
“Almost two weeks,” the older man answered and shifted on his place. “Look, Peter, you’re probably in shock and—”
“I want to move to Massachusetts.”
Peter was accepted in MIT. He had been so happy and so excited to tell Aunt May and Ned, he was preparing a dinner to celebrate. Aunt May never received the news. She would want him to follow his dreams, though, wouldn’t she?
He would move, then, and study a great deal. He would get a PhD in biochemistry and a master’s degree in biophysics, but he wouldn’t ever stop studying, just like he promised her. He would make Aunt May proud.
“Peter, what?” Mr. Stark sounded so confused. That was the first time Peter could read him so easily, he was never this expressive.
Peter smiled melancholically. “I was accepted in MIT. I know she’d be proud, want me to move. She’d cry, too, because she’s— was…” He took a deep breath. “She was so affective. She’d give me a hug every morning, did you know that? Every single morning, and tell me she loved me.”
Mr. Stark looked lost, he kept looking him in the eyes and squinting his own, probably wondering if Peter was sleep-talking or something.
“I just want to leave New York,” he said, and his voice sounded so broken he wanted to punch himself.
His chest hurt a lot. He couldn’t cry, but he felt so hurt, like he’s just lost a part of himself. Which he’s pretty sure he, in fact, did. May was everything to him; she was his happiness, his safe space, his home. Then that she was gone? Peter knew he didn’t have a place, a thing, anymore.
Ned was a saint, his best friend, someone who probably knew him better than himself, someone to trust and love, but he couldn’t replace Aunt May. No one ever could.
Mr. Stark never really mentored him. Peter could see that his ego was too big to even admit he was wrong sometimes. That didn’t change much of how Peter saw him, he was still a hero, a genius, a man to admire; but never home.
So what would it hurt to move? Queens could find a new superhero; half of it never really seemed to truly appreciate him at all. They would be fine without him. Ned would understand.
Mr. Stark hesitated a lot, looked around, glanced at Peter and even played with his hands before saying, “Okay.”
Peter smiled at him; no word was necessary, he knew his look was enough to understand what he was trying to say. He hugged him then.
He knew Mr. Stark was never a huggable person, but sometimes Peter could see how touch starved he got— subtly approximating himself to people, the way he fell asleep and always hugged something, how he sometimes glanced way too many times at Peter’s fluffy and messy hair.
Mr. Stark hugged back. His tension all went away, Peter noticed, and he kissed Peter’s head. “Just stay safe, okay? I can help pay your tuition and other things. We’ll find you a nice, sophisticated apartment next to campus so you don’t have any issues with that.” He released the younger hero and looked him in the eyes. “And you’ll call me, alright? Just like you did back in high school, hit me with full patrol reports, kid.”
Peter smiled shyly and nodded. He wouldn’t do that; he knew it, but Mr. Stark looked genuinely worried and even sad, his brows frowned and a soft look in his eyes. It made his chest ache a little more.
“Now, do you want to get your things now or would you rather cool down for some time?” He asked.
“I’d rather do it now, if it’s not a bother.”
Mr. Stark snorted, walking him to the door and out. “A bother, of course it’s not a bother, Pete, I’m a billionaire, I have people do those things for me.”
Peter smiled and followed him to wherever he was going. He spaced out of whatever the man was saying about one minute in. Mr. Stark didn’t seem to notice or care, so Peter just kept focusing on the quiet his mind provided him with.
The moment Peter blinked he was in a car, stopped right in front of his then old apartment. Mr. Stark looked concerned, but Peter brushed it off with a smile. He got out of it and stared at the door for a moment before stepping in.
It didn’t feel like two weeks have been gone through. Well, he did dissociate for those, but it still didn’t feel right. The place was the same, of course it was, no damage, no bullet holes, after all the shooting had took place on the corner. It didn’t feel right.
Peter walked up to their— his apartment and hesitated to open the door. It smelled like home, faint sweet perfume and burned food.
He opened it.
Peter didn’t know what he expected, but not seeing half of the furniture there made him even more uncomfortable. It was so unsettling, so wrong and so weird, it didn’t look like home. It smelled the same, however, and that only added more confusion to his senses.
“Peter?”
Oh right, Mr. Stark was with him. Peter ignored completely his name being called and entered his bedroom. It was the same. No furniture missing, no painted walls, nothing was out of place.
He felt like throwing himself on the bed, hugging his blanket as hard as he could and crying until he fell asleep; hopefully to wake up and find out it was all a terrible dream.
Peter didn’t do that, however. He picked up one of his bags and threw inside the clothes he had hanging around. There weren’t much, considering May didn’t have the money to buy him new ones, and what he owned was either one size smaller or Ben’s. He didn’t pack the smaller pieces.
Ben’s clothes didn’t smell like him anymore, though, and when Peter found out, he cried a bit over them.
Getting up from his spot, he headed to May’s bedroom. Missing furniture, cleaned window and different carpet. It made him want to cry. He didn’t know if Mr. Stark asked them to clean it or if the owner of the building already had someone on the waiting list to live there.
He opened her closet and there were a few things left behind. A pair of brown work boots, really old and worn out— Peter packed it. A floral, yellow sundress, it smelled like May’s perfume, the one she’d wear when she went out on a date or meeting— Peter packed it.
He opened the door to her bathroom, and as expected, nothing. He needed it, though, so he looked through the cabinets. There, on the very back of the last cabinet, was Aunt May’s date perfume— he packed it without thinking twice.
It felt inappropriate to go through her things like that and take them without even asking. To Peter, it’d barely been a day since he last saw her, and then he was packing her things. How weird, wasn’t it.
Before stepping out of it, he looked at the bedroom one more time. He felt an urge to stay, an urge to scream bloody murder and beg for May’s life back, but Peter wasn’t a lunatic. He still felt like doing it, so maybe he was starting to get crazy after all he’s been through.
Peter walked past Mr. Stark, who didn’t even look offended, and stepped back into the car.
“We’re… not having a late funeral, right?” he asked so quietly. “I don’t… There aren’t many people that’d show up and I don’t think—” He stopped, thinking of a way to say it without sounding rude. “They’d just be there out of sympathy and pity, not for her.”
Mr. Stark nodded slowly. He was uncharacteristically quiet and understanding, but Peter knew well why. It made things slightly more awkward, nevertheless.
He still couldn’t get out of his mind that he was in shock, that maybe he’d even regret those decisions once some sense was slapped into his face.
The next stop they made was to the cemetery. Peter was glad that even though he didn’t say anything, Mr. Stark knew what he was thinking. He didn’t leave the car’s side this time, and Peter nodded him a “Thank you”.
May’s grave was right beside Ben’s. That, Peter knew was Mr. Stark’s doing and he couldn’t be more thankful for it.
As melancholic and disturbing it may have sounded, he thought it was beautiful, their graves side by side, the colorful flowers. Peter believed they were happy, especially then that they were back together.
He looked at them both, then at his feet. “I’ll miss you so much,” he whispered. “I’ll miss your daily hugs and praises. Your badly cooked lasagna, your cherry pies, our takeout Fridays. Your crazy nurse stories, the way you talked about Ben and I. Your hugs, your cuddles and forehead kisses.”
Peter felt tears falling over the floor. “I’ll miss you so much, May. You’re so important to me; I don’t think you ever realized how— how much you mean. You’re my world. I guess I never told you that. I’m so sorry, ‘I love you’ and ‘I larb you’ weren’t ever enough to describe how I feel about you.
“I never once called you ‘Mom’. Did you wish I’d do that? I really wanted to, sometimes. You’re my best friend, May, you can’t just— you can’t leave me like this. You can’t.”
Peter took a moment to calm himself down, taking deep breaths. “I took your boots, your floral dress and your perfume. You know, the one you only use—d when you thought the occasion was important. I love the smell of it.”
Rubbing his nose with the end of his sleeve, he sniffed. “Do you think I can pull off a dress? It’d be a way to enter MIT, don’t you think?” He smiled sadly. “I never showed you the letter. I am so sorry.
“I should’ve— you know, I should have saved you back then. I’m sure I could’ve, if I’d tried a bit harder. But I was so goddamn selfish, wasn’t I? I just— I just dodged those and didn’t even think about you.” Peter pulled his hair. “Just like Ben. I am so sorry, May, so, so sorry—”
“Peter,” someone from behind said and touched his shoulder.
His immediate response was to grab the arm and bring the person down. It was Mr. Stark.
Peter immediately let go of him, apologizing endlessly as he tried to clear the billionaire’s then dirty suit. “I am so incredibly sorry, Mr. Stark, I don’t know what I was thinking—”
The older man scoffed. “I shouldn’t have surprised you like that, Underoos, this is on me.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence; Peter managed to calm himself down while Mr. Stark worriedly looked at him.
“Ready to go?”
No, he wasn’t. He didn’t think he would ever be ready to leave May behind like this; he was barely able to forget Ben’s death and not let it affect his daily life. He felt like doing many things, crying, screaming, punching, pulling all of his hair out.
Instead, he nodded.
The apartment Mr. Stark got Peter was two blocks away from campus. It was nice to say at least. Peter didn’t want it to be enormous and fancy— like everything the philanthropist owned— so it was kind of small. There was already furniture, but space enough to settle down his things; it was very minimalistic and modern, so much different from Aunt May’s apartment.
Cambridge was a nice place. It was way smaller than New York, so quieter and less crowded. As much as Peter would miss Queens, he could live a happy life in a small city. He knew it was expensive, especially when he was so close to a university, so he thanked Mr. Stark multiple times.
He still had a few days before the academic year started, using that time to get used to living by himself and the new place. He went to a walk to get to know the neighborhood, spotting a lot of coffee shops.
Ned had only called once within the four days he had been there, which was really saddening, because he couldn’t meet him before he moved. Peter didn’t say anything however; he didn’t want to make his friend feel bad for something he couldn’t control.
He met up with MJ on the day of the move, and he couldn’t say it was pleasing. A lot of the things she said made him think and almost reconsider most of the choices he’d made. “You’re leaving, Peter, do you know what that truly means? You’ll be alone. You always save everyone, but who’s going to save you then?” she asked. Peter didn’t answer.
Mr. Stark said a limited amount of words to him the whole process, which consisted of ten. Peter didn’t know if he didn’t know what to say, if he was angry at him for something, or if it was something else. He didn’t say anything however; he knew Mr. Stark would pretend he wasn’t avoiding a real conversation.
There was a lot going on with Peter’s life, and he wasn’t sure how to feel. The night he moved and he lied down, noticing how the place smelled like paint, floor soap and coffee from the shop down the street, he cried.
Peter cried for a lot of things, for how he already missed his old home, how Ned and Mr. Stark were most probably avoiding him in general, how lonely he felt, but mainly for May. He finally broke from the shock and cried for hours until he fell asleep on his wet pillow.
The next day, Peter took May’s perfume and went to the nearest perfumery, asking for the same product. The employees were incredibly sweet to him, though Peter dared guess it was because he looked like a mess and about to burst into tears— which, to be honest, he was.
He immediately applied it when he got to his place. He hugged himself as he sat down on the sofa, in front of the turned off TV, and mourned silently. While he stared off into nothing, Peter thought of ways to reduce the loneliness feeling, he was starting to feel annoyed at himself already.
He didn’t move until the next morning, nevertheless. He slept on the sofa because he couldn’t bring himself to move an inch, barely even moving his head; he could only be glad for Mr. Stark for the comfortable surfaces.
Peter wasn’t even sure at what time he woke up. The sun was already in the middle of the sky, though, so he could deduce it was past the time he usually got up, way past from it.
Peter needed to get groceries; he hadn’t eaten for a day. He knew it was unhealthy and concerning, but was too scared he would reach for more drastic coping mechanisms, so he let it slide.
He got up and breathed. He looked at himself and sighed, what he saw was the exact opposite of what May would’ve wanted of him. He ignored any intrusive thoughts as he put on May’s boots and got out of his apartment.
Peter felt weak and exhausted, even though he had only made his way down the stairs. He dragged himself to the closest market and bought a few vegetables and nutritive food, because what he least needed at the moment was to fill himself with junk and gross stuff.
He had a bit of a complex, even if he’d never admit it. Peter hated to look himself in the mirror or be shirtless after eating, he felt too self-conscious of his stomach; he knew that that was normal, but he couldn’t help but feel bad.
He had joined a bit of a diet then, eating as healthy as May’s bank account would allow, and it wasn’t then, because he was grieving, that he would break his own rules and eat greasy and oily food.
Peter ignored the concerned look the cashier sent him, grabbed his bags and headed back to the apartment. On the way back, though, he saw a showcase full of stuffed toys and pillows. He stopped in front of the store, looked at his reflection and took a deep breath. He entered the shop.
Peter wandered around, grabbing at least five different stuffed animals and a body pillow. The cashier didn’t send him any worried looks, they look tired too, and as selfish as it felt, Peter was glad he wasn’t being pitied at once.
The moment he got inside, he put down the bags in the kitchen counter and threw himself and the pillows on the bed, ignoring how it was difficult to breathe when laying down on his face.
The feeling of being surrounded by soft, cute little animals relaxed him greatly. He also felt less lonely and he may have quietly cried for some time before falling asleep again on wet sheets.
Peter woke up not even remembering when he fell asleep. He knew it had been a few hours and that on the next day; he’d have to wake up, get ready and go to college. The thought only was already tiring, but Peter knew that if he wanted to be someone, he’d have to give his best.
He got a glimpse of his open closet and saw his suit. Spider-Man had been missing for at least three weeks; he had to come back at some point, even if in another town. Peter sighed, looking outside, the moon was up and lighting the streets.
The feeling of spandex sticking to his skin gave him chills; it felt like it had been a really long time since he’d done this. He greeted Karen, who commented on his absence and how she missed him, and immediately overrode a few protocols so he could deactivate Baby Monitor Protocol and permanently delete Training Wheels protocol.
Peter also managed to give himself more authority over the A.I.; he was 18 then after all. She didn’t argue to his surprise, and he could finally hang up on Mr. Stark’s face and decide whether or not to call for help.
He sat on the top of the tallest building he found, the breeze calming him down, the moon bright up in the sky and the uncountable stars, which could be easily seen, then, far from the town lights, were beautifully spread. He didn’t regret going out as he thought he would, releasing bottled up anger he didn’t even knew he had on his way there, webbing up a two or three muggers.
He didn’t know for how long he sat there, observing the city from afar, and that was upsetting, because lately he really couldn’t keep up with time whatsoever. Peter wished the feelings of grief and mourn would be gone soon, he hated the depressive mood he constantly found himself in the past days.
It wasn’t going to get better before it got worse; he knew that, because he had just gone out as Spider-Man and did absolutely nothing whatsoever. He hoped no one had seen him, for they’d go around saying the hero didn’t help anyone despite being able to.
He went back a bit before the sun rose and set an alarm for an hour before class started. Peter took a deep breath as he undressed and took a bath, cleaning himself from the cold sweat the suit gave him and automatically relaxing as his body entered the water slowly.
Peter closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, held in and released for a few seconds. He repeated that exercise for some time before submerging completely. He was sad. Peter hated that feeling, he hated it so much. He emerged and tilted his head to the size, leaning into the tub; he would just relax for a second.
Peter woke up with a start. It was the first time he got up that day, but he felt like the only thing he had been doing was sleeping. He wasn’t wrong and he knew that, yet it still felt distressing and made him feel a little useless.
He sat up, looking for his phone that rested not quietly on the sink. He fell asleep on the tub. Peter tried not to think about how pathetic that sounded as he reached for the ringing phone and turned off the alarm.
Dragging himself out of the water and drying himself, Peter stared at May’s dress on the closet for a moment, sighed, picked his then only hoodie and sweatpants and put on the boots. Self-conscious of the drug dealer look, but not enough to change, Peter got his keys, bag and left.
As soon as he left, Peter stopped. The rushed steps, the cars, the people walking around and pushing him, the smell of coffee and trash—
“Hey, you okay, man?” a voice interrupted.
Peter nodded immediately and started to walk, muttering, “Yeah, thanks.”
He cursed at himself, he couldn’t repeat that, couldn’t keep remembering it every time he walked outside, he couldn’t let it be like Ben’s death all over again. Peter craved his nails into his palm and forced in deep breaths as he entered the coffee shop down the street.
Coffee wasn’t actually good. Peter didn’t like it, if he was to be honest. It was extremely bitter and sugar didn’t really help as he’d expect it to. Coffee was an addiction; he drank it not for the taste, but for the need of the caffeine in his life.
Peter walked up to the barista and asked for black coffee with two extra shots. They didn’t look very amused, and he could guess a lot of students asked for the same and probably even worse.
As Peter drank from his cup and left, he noticed how empty his stomach felt. He hadn’t eaten for three days then; he bought food but forgot to eat. That surely explained his exhaustion and extra sad mood. Promising himself to buy something in campus, he walked to MIT.
Peter left his first period and instantly felt bad. He couldn’t pay attention, he hadn’t taken any notes, he wasn’t even sure if he was conscious during the lecture. He felt bad for wasting Mr. Stark’s money like that, even though he did feel rather relieved he already knew most of the class.
It was all the same. Peter would walk in the class, sit down in the back, put his things down, even start writing some notes before he would zone out. He simply couldn’t focus on what the professors were saying and his muscles were starting to hurt.
In the end, Peter didn’t get anything to eat whatsoever. Everything was either expensive (for what he had with him) or way too caloric— and yes, he knew he needed it, but just the thought of eating such greasy food made him feel sick.
Peter tried his best to survive his walk back and to cook something with the things he had. He searched a few vegetarian recipes before picking one and poorly recreating it. It had to do, though, because he had no energy left to try and cook anything else.
After cleaning the kitchen, Peter opened his school bag and his notes. Unfinished was not enough, they were barely started. He quickly pulled a pen and searched the classes’ topics up, writing down what he knew and some information from the internet, hoping they had at least something to do with what the professors had been talking about.
He wrote down and solved exercises so he wouldn’t feel as guilty as he did after leaving classes, finally closing and putting away his things about two hours later. Repeating to himself he would pay attention to class the next day, Peter got up and headed to his bedroom.
This time without hesitating, Peter put the suit on and swung out of his apartment. He felt relaxed as soon as the wind went against his skin; it almost felt like flying, like freedom.
People were nice to him, way nicer than New Yorkers, and Peter couldn’t be gladder. The media had been treating him well for his first day so far, local newspapers welcoming him wholeheartedly. Those who he helped in the streets were always kind and sometimes even asked for an autograph, which Peter was always glad to give.
While swinging after stopping a mugger, his spider-sense spiked. He mentally groaned, he had been about to go back, but realized it wasn’t a simple robber again. He led himself to a bank. Stopping and watching from afar to get more disclosure of what was happening, Peter saw three corpses on the ground, surrounded by blood, and two black vans.
The criminals were obviously still inside, but Peter couldn’t make it why the bodies seemed to be one of theirs— they wore black and masks— and why he heard screaming. They were fighting each other. No one else would be crazy enough to be outside at that hour, much less walk in a bank, would they?
As Peter silently entered the place, he heard more gunshots and music. He had thought it was coming from somewhere else, but no, someone inside was singing. The worst, Peter guessed, was that he knew the song very well; it was “People” by The 1975.
“We are appalling and we need to stop just watching shit in bed,” the person sang. “And I know it sounds boring and we like things that are funny…”
When Peter could finally see who was shooting, instead of jumping in, he stopped in his tracks. It was Deadpool.
“But we need to get this in our fucking heads,” the mercenary sang and shot another criminal in the head.
Peter needed to do something and fast. He couldn’t let Deapool kill them all, even if they were bad people. He decided to act like the man wasn’t there for the meantime and deal with him later.
“The economy's a goner, republic's a banana, ignore it if you wanna,” he continued to sing as Peter webbed a criminal to the wall and jumped at another. “Fuck it, I'm just gonna get girls, food, gear.”
As Peter fought one of the guys, Deadpool had another on his grip while he danced around. He was crazy, there couldn’t be any other explanation, just, what was he doing?
“I don't like going outside, so bring me everything here.” The mercenary threw the guy at a wall, but before he could shoot him again, Peter caught him with a web and brought him close, knocking him out instead.
“Yeah, woo, yeah,” Deadpool sang and threw his hands up. “Yeah, baby, we make a great team! I mean, if you would stop preventing me from killing these bad boys, we’d make an even greater team!”
Peter was panting heavily. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t scared, because he realized he was slightly shaking. “Sorry,” he muttered.
He didn’t know much about Deadpool, and that was the problem. Everyone knew he was Wade Wilson, he didn’t really hide his identity; Peter had found out in deeper research that he wore a mask because of his scars.
The mercenary’s powers were a result of an experiment, which was supposedly one to cure his cancer. He was already a mercenary before gaining super-human abilities.
That’s it. That’s all Peter had on Deadpool, no fighting styles, no weaknesses, no specific powers, no explanation on how he brought himself back after dying. He only knew the man always carried two katanas and multiple guns around.
Peter didn’t know if he would die on his hands or if the mercenary was genuine about them making a good team. Deadpool was unpredictable, and Peter hated that.
“That’s fine, Spidey-boo, I’ll let it slide, because holy crap I finally got to meet you!” he squeaked and got closer.
Avoiding brusque movements, Peter crossed his arms and tried to act as relaxed and unimpressed as possible.
“I mean, I was going to stay in Queens for a while, but you disappeared! Then you came back, and here I am! I’ve been dreaming of this day for so long, you wouldn’t believe me.” Deadpool stopped in front of him and offered his hand. “Hi, I’m your favorite not-friendly neighborhood Deadpool!”
Silence filled the room for some seconds, as Peter didn’t know if the man was serious or not. He looked the man in front of him where he supposed were his eyes before asking, “What?”
“Well, that was awkward,” Deadpool said quietly and pulled his hands back. “I’m saying I’m your biggest fan, Spidey! You should see— no, wait, you shouldn’t, but I have a giant collection of Spider-Man merch. Really. My favorite is this very cute, small, soft plushy of you.” He motioned squishing something small with his hands, looking at it while he talked.
Peter couldn’t hold back. He furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “I have plushies?”
It was visible how Deadpool relaxed when he said that. Peter could swear he saw the man smile, but what he said made him want to question how later. “I think we should discuss people making money out of you without your consent on another place, Spidey, soon the police will be here.”
Peter nodded, averting his eyes from the dead corpses on their way out.
They walked— climbed— for a while and stopped on the top of a building. Peter sat on the edge, looking up and asking himself why he was doing that to himself. Something in the back of his mind thought that maybe Deadpool wasn’t that bad, but he had to be ready for the worst.
“So, do you know the absolute masterpiece I was singing back there? Because I’ll tell you what, I love that band. I’d say it’s my favorite, but literally nothing overcomes Queen. And, I mean, the Spice Girls are awesome too. Ugh, I just can’t choose, man.”
Peter ignored the change of subject; he could look for plushies of himself later, and smiled. “Yeah, I think that’s my favorite song from them. I like the lyrics.”
Deadpool nodded rapidly. “Yeah, old arrogant people just suck sometimes. I’m a Gen X, isn’t that so ironic?” He giggles. “Wait, you didn’t get it. Of course you didn’t get it, you didn’t unlock my tragic background story yet, we just met!”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”
“Y’know, we could change that. If you wanna. ‘Cause I mean, consent’s really sexy; I don’t do nothin’ without it.”
Peter smiled softly. “That’s really thoughtful of you. You don’t need to be nervous, by the way, you’re slurring your words.”
Deadpool stayed silent for a second before laughing. “You already know me so well, Spidey! Was that a yes?”
“To being your friend?” Peter asked. “Sure, I could use some company. We can patrol together, I guess.”
He really didn’t know what he was doing. Agreeing to be friends with a deadly mercenary, a possibly crazy man, someone Peter knew close to nothing about. But he was lonely. He couldn’t allow himself to sink more than he already had; what would he do if he got worse? There was no way he would talk to Mr. Stark about it, they barely talked anymore. Ned, well, Peter hadn’t heard from Ned in a while too.
There were two outcomes to his response: one that was really good, resulting in him going back to his usual optimistic, nerdy and happy self; other that was really bad, resulting in him getting brutally tortured and murdered by the man that sat by his side.
Praying for gods he didn’t even believe in, Peter hoped Deadpool was a good person. Or as good as someone like him could be, he guessed. He’d also have to be extra careful about his secret identity; he never worked with other people regularly before.
“Oh sweet baby Jesus, this is the best day of my life!” Deadpool said, getting up and looking at him. “Can I hug you? I mean, it’s kinda weird, but can I hug you?”
Peter grimaced, apologetically saying, “Sorry, you aren’t high enough level to unlock that action yet.”
It’s not that Peter didn’t like physical affection, on the contrary, he craved it; but he had just met the man. He would get to his apartment and sleep hugging a bunch of stuffed animals, surrounded by pillows, but he couldn’t hug Deadpool. As much as he prayed the man to be good, he didn’t trust him yet.
Deadpool chuckled, sitting down by his side again. “Eh, that’s fine. Wait a minute. You ain’t jailbait, are you? ‘Cause I mean, you’re so small, and you have these strict morals of not even cursing in battle, and no offense, but your voice is kinda—”
“Wow, okay, will you stop comparing me to a kid already? I’m not underage, Deadpool, I won’t tell you my age, but I know for sure I’m not jaibait,” Peter said in a jokingly angry tone.
Deadpool seemed to examine his posture, squinting his eyes at him. “Yeah, okay, I’ll only believe you because there’s no way in hell your parents would let you out in that tight suit to fight baddies.”
Peter snorted dryly. “Yeah, no way.”
The man didn’t seem to get the reason behind his laugh, but that was good, because it was better if he didn’t know that he was an orphan.
They sat in silence, a comfortable one, appreciating the starry sky for a while. It was nice, feeling someone else’s presence there with him was way more reassuring he thought it’d be. It was somewhat weird too, because from what he’d gathered, Deadpool was known as The Merc With a Mouth.
The man was lying down with his hands under his head. He startled Peter as he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Y’know, for accepting being ma friend. Offering to patrol together. You don’t need to do those out of pity, really, I’d understand if you just said no.” Deadpool sounded so quiet it scared him a bit.
It scared him because the man he was talking to was not even anything near the man he had studied so briefly. He was clearly insecure; it probably had to do with his scars and other heroes not wanting to be around him, and a funny guy from what he’d seen.
Peter sat up, trying to look as serious as possible. “I wasn’t saying it out of pity. I genuinely invited you to patrol with me, because I always work alone, and we all need to try something new every now and then, right?”
He knew Deadpool could probably notice his lies. He knew how obviously lonely he was, it was noticeable from the way he acted, even talked sometimes. But if he noticed anything, the mercenary didn’t say anything.
“Aight then, just wanted to clarify that,” Deadpool said and sat up in front of him.
Peter smiled. “I better get going now, see you tomorrow?”
Deadpool nodded repeatedly. “Same place, same time!”
Sending him a thumb up as Peter swung away, he smiled at himself. He wasn’t proud of himself, not at all; just a little happy he managed to get himself a friend. He couldn’t let himself get too close to him though, he didn’t want to end up revealing his identity to someone he couldn’t trust.
Well, maybe Deadpool would end up changing his mind; maybe he would prove himself to be one of the best friends Peter’d have. Or maybe Peter was just upset with Ned and having high expectations on something impossible.
Either way, Peter would still have to go back to his expensive looking, but, oh, so lonely apartment and fall asleep in his own tears and wet pillows every day. The memories of May’s death wouldn’t go away just because Deadpool entered his life.
They would get better with time, though; Peter just had to be patient. He had gone through the same thing with Ben; the only difference was that, back then, he didn’t have anyone by his side.
So maybe having Deadpool in his life wouldn’t be so bad after all.