Peter makes a new suit. It's scratchy and easily torn and only a few steps up from his old sweatpants and hoodie, but it's all he deserves.
The old ones are reminders of everything he lost. The vigilante he is now is not the hero he used to be. He is the defender of Queens—the swinging shadow that stops robbers, rapists, and even some low-level mobsters. He is not the bright, quipping youngster who yearned to be an Avenger once, thought himself wise when he turned it down, and then fought space aliens beside them anyways. What made him think he should be fighting aliens? The other Peters had been rightly skeptical.
He doesn't deserve to wear anything Tony made. Stark Industries is in a lot of trouble because of him, with the EDITH debacle. With all his legal issues it came out that Tony Stark made his suits, and of course Beck had told the world Peter Parker wanted to be the next Iron Man—which hurt most because that had been true once, but never like this. Of course never like this.
Long story short, Peter needs to keep Mister Stark out of this. He'd been in the coma so long, when he finally woke up he just wanted some peace with Pepper and Morgan. It had been easier to continue the ruse that Tony was dead than face the media. (Peter hadn't really understood then, but god did he understand now). Peter had seen him once, right before Europe, but the world had been watching him after he came back, and there was no way to sneak out to the cabin. Pepper had insisted it was better he stayed away. Mister Stark had paid for his lawyer, and Peter was fairly certain he was the only reason he wasn't rotting away on the Raft—which would have been better honestly, because then May would still be alive. But aside from a few video chats, Tony had been basically gone before Peter thought he could fix his life but blew it up instead.
But after his first month, he's just so damned lonely. He'd finally worked up the courage to go see MJ and Ned. There they'd been, talking about MIT as if it were a sure thing, not the dream that he'd destroyed for them for months. They had a normal, uncomplicated, safe life now. And MJ had looked at him, confused yet heartaching beautiful without a spark of recognition in her eyes, and Peter had known he couldn't tell them. He had to let them go.
He didn't know how he managed to hold it together in that diner, but by the time he made it back to his apartment he collapsed, his tears drowning out that tiny spark of hope he'd held on to by putting off that meeting. He'd tell them when he was ready, he'd thought, and as long as he wasn't ready yet it was still a carrot leading him forward. But he needs to stop telling himself that now.
They are never going to know him.
No one is ever going to know him.
He deserves this. He knows that. But it's crippling all the same. And he needs to keep going. He promised May. With great power comes great responsibility. That's all he is now. Great power. Great responsibility. Spider-Man without the Peter Parker. He couldn't save May. Couldn't save Tony. Couldn't save Ben. But he'll save Ned and MJ by leaving them out of this. And he'll save however many others he can. Nameless strangers. If he can make their lives just a little better instead of a little worse, that's a win. That would make May proud.
He is weak. He is shattered. He is broken like MJ's necklace – and why is she still wearing that oh my gosh where does she thinks it comes from.
It doesn't matter.
He cries until he can't anymore, till his chest hurts and his voice is hoarse and his body hurts from sitting on the floor.
And then he puts on his mask.
Not his new mask.
One of the old ones. Not Iron Spider. Not the one he'd made on Happy's plane. The original one, because it had been a gift, the coolest most insane gift from the man he'd idolized most in the world. He'd made mistakes in that mask, but not life altering – life ending – life deleting ones. He'd been a dumb kid, in over his head, but so earnest. So thrilled with his powers and excited by life.
He'd never be a kid again. No parents. No guardians. Not even a high school diploma. Just a shitty apartment and a shade of a life.
He was a symbol. A responsibility. But not a person. Not anymore.
"Hello, Peter."
He jumps back at the sound of the voice, sticking to the wall without meaning to and scrambling upwards in panic.
It's so … familiar. The inflection—soft yet kind. Helpful. Even a bit teasing.
"I'm having trouble reading your vitals because I can't connect to the rest of your suit, but you appear to be in distress. Should I alert—"
"No!" he shouts, and then he takes a few deep breaths and tries to calm down, because great as Karen is he knows she doesn't always listen. Mister Stark programmed her like that. She needs to think he's fine, fast.
Not that anyone will care if he's not.
"I'm fine. Karen. I'm fine. No alerts. We're all good. Okey-dokey. Honky-dory."
"I would feel more comfortable if I could read your vitals."
He huffs out a choked sob that was meant to be a laugh. "I'm not on patrol. I don't need my suit. Just in my apartment. Just hanging out."
"I do not recognize this place."
"Karen." It's the first time he's addressed anyone by name in so long. It hurts. But he thinks he could get addicted to it.
What a drug of choice.
Gawd he's a mess.
"Yes, Peter."
There it is again, his name, and that's even more miraculous than hers. The hope will kill him, smother him dead, but he asks the question anyway. "Do you remember me?"
She pauses, and he freefalls, and he doesn't know if he has any web fluid. Will he catch himself? Does he want to?
"I'm not sure I understand the question. I am an AI, Peter. You are in my data banks. They were programmed to recognize your voice and respond to your commands. I have a record of all our time together. I suppose you might call that remembering, though scientifically it is storage."
He laughs, high pitched and hysterical – a proper villain laugh, honestly, if the villain has spent time in an insane asylum – because what a loophole.
AIs can't forget.
And Karen's not a person so – she can't be killed. And even if she's lost, destroyed somehow, that'll only hurt Peter.
So this is okay, he decides. She knows him, and he can talk to her, and there's no consequences here, except maybe he gets a little extra push to get up in the morning.
Someone knows Peter Parker exists.
Someone remembers.
He's totally okay with a loose definition of "someone."
He's got this.
He still uses the new suit most of the time.
It's not because he doesn't think he deserves to be bulletproof.
It's not because Karen would help him avoid the punches, and the swinging knifes. It's not like getting hurt reminds him that he's alive. That he feels like he deserves the pain.
May crushed. Exploded. Bleeding.
What are a few broken ribs, honestly? He's had worse.
It's just better to parcel out their conversations. Once a week is enough, honestly. He doesn't want to get comfortable. It feels wrong to slip into banter. But when he wears the old suit he feels just a bit like his old self. He makes a joke and—that's just not who he is now.
He sticks to the new suit for two weeks after that.
And then another two weeks.
And another.
He really should have worn a better suit when he tries to take on the enhanced dude at the construction site though. The guy's got a suit of his own—something massive and made of metal—and one of the other Spidermen had mentioned something about a Rhino and maybe it was this guy? Peter's distracted by the possibilities—why are the multiverses so different, how could two worlds have this guy but not the Avengers? He's distracted in general nowadays. He just barely paid his rent again but there's not enough money for heat. Barely any money for groceries. He's getting used to his stomach's protests but his head hurts all the time now. So annoying. The Rhino slams him with a massive hand, and Peter takes the hit, flying backwards. After a few dazed seconds he remembers to shoot a web to catch himself, but he clicks his wrist and nothing happens. Out of fluid again.
Maybe it would be better if it came out of him?
No. Gross.
He falls, down, down, down into a pile of rubble with so much force that a metal bar goes right through his leg.
He screams as white hot agony shoots all the way through him. He is pinned like a bug on display, and every movement just makes it worse.
Up above Rhino peers down at him, and Peter thinks this is it. He has some sort of laser gun—alien tech probably, and doesn't that sting, guess he didn't clean that mess up enough after all—and Peter won't be able to dodge. In just seconds he'll be a fireball, and then ash again. Would it have been better, maybe, if he hadn't ever been reformed?
For May, yes.
So yeah. It would.
But the man—monster—lunatic—just laughs. "Goodnight, Spider," he calls. "Nice knowin' ya."
And then he leaves, as if Spider-Man is already dead. No longer a threat. Finished.
He's almost finished. The post—bar—whatever it is, is about a rusty inch in diameter and has gone clean through his thigh. He doesn't think it's nicked his artery, but it isn't going to be pretty when he pulls it out.
He almost doesn't want to. He's so damn tired. This is a pretty shady place to go, but hasn't he done enough for this city which still mostly hates him? Surely May would understand. He tried. He failed. That's basically the story of his life.
Except.
Man, that guy was such an ass. Didn't even finish him off because he thought he was too pathetic to outlive a tiny piece of metal. He's really too insulted to just give up now.
And so.
How to survive this, Parker?
He's got to keep the post in his leg until he can get someplace sanitary to look at the wound, or he really may bleed out.
Maybe he could pull the post out of the ground? Except what if he pulled too hard and it came out of his leg? Then lights out Spider-Man. Game over. Win to the Rhino.
Better to break it.
But first he has to wrench himself upwards. He can feel the flesh tear. He's gotten used to emotional pain but for an awful minute the physical pain hurts worse. The post scrapes against his bone and he flinches at the appalling sound.
"Come on, Spider-Man."
He'd pushed a collapsed building off himself once.
Walked away after getting hit by a train.
He'd had something to live for then.
He'd wanted to live.
Now he just has to.
He pushes himself up again. Pain. Scraping. Tearing. Horror.
This wound is going to be so infected.
Man, this day sucks.
Finally, finally, he's nearly a foot off the ground.
The suit is ruined and every inch of him is drenched in sweat. He knows what he needs to do.
He reaches down, grabs the base of the pole, and snatches the metal like it's a pretzel.
"Omph," he says when his back hits the ground, but he's free.
He doesn't let himself rest long. He's a couple miles from his apartment, and if he doesn't get this wound taken care of fast, his body's going to try to heal around it. He's not sure why of everything that's happened that's worst case scenario, but revulsion shudders through him, settling in his stomach.
Luckily he does have some more web fluid in his pocket. After one bracing breath he shoot up towards the ledge where the Rhino disappeared and begins making his way home.
Home.
The fact he calls that overpriced closet home is the saddest part of his whole night.
He tries to google "how to apply a tourniquet" on his phone, but his fingers don't hit the right letters and leave the screen smeared with blood.
Six months ago there would have been someone to help him.
Sometimes, when he wasn't hurt too badly but he just needed a hug he'd go home to May. He'd try to wash most of the blood off first, downplay whatever had happened. He didn't like to worry her. But she had a soft touch, and she'd kiss his forehead and run her hand through his hair, and distract him with bad jokes. Afterwards she'd wrap him in a fluffy blanket and then cuddle close, and he'd fall asleep with his head on her shoulder.
This was far beyond May's expertise, but what Peter wouldn't give for just one soft touch.
Happy was good at patching up wounds, with an understandably steady hand and a surprisingly neat stitch. Maybe he should have gone to the cemetery, hoped Happy was there.
Died curled up on his aunt's grave.
She didn't want that for him.
He couldn't go to a hospital. He had no way to pay for it. And if they drew his blood or realized how he could heal…
Not being a lab rat was about the only thing he had going for him right now. He couldn't risk it.
As Mister Stark got more involved in his life he'd freaked out every time Peter got hurt, and insisted they keep what Peter called "a secret medical lair" about a block from his old apartment, with a trauma doctor with an ironclad NDA on call on the Stark payroll just in case things went south. What Peter wouldn't give for someone to be there now. But they wouldn't remember him, and he couldn't explain.
He's on his own.
Just like new times.
He pulls the first aid kit from under his bed and strips off his sheet—his only sheet, bye bye luxury.
And then he pulls on his old mask.
"Hey Karen, I need you to tell me how to apply a tourniquet."
"Peter, do you require medical assistance?"
"No." He's glad he doesn't have on the rest of her suit, so she can't tell how much he really, really does. "This is more of a philosophical question. Just curious. But if you could answer, like really fast that would be appreciated. Thanks."
"Where is the wound?"
"Upper thigh."
Karen walks him through it, with diagrams and helpful tips all in her soothing voice, and Peter thinks that maybe he can do this. Until afterwards Karen says, in that very same tone, "The word tourniquet triggered the Nice Try, Kid Protocol. I have informed Mr. Stark of your potential injury."
"What? No!" Suddenly all the breath is gone from his lungs. He preferred being impaled. "Take it back Karen. Undo it. I'm fine, and Mr. Stark doesn't care anyway. He won't come. He doesn't know me."
He won't come. No one will come.
"I do not understand. Mr. Stark is extremely concerned with your welfare. That is why I exist. He has written all these protocols for your protection. I am sure that he is on his way. He has never failed you before."
Peter rips the mask off, because everything she said is exactly what he wants to hear. But she is wrong, and it is his fault, and he cannot explain that. Not when everything is already getting fuzzy around the edges.
No one is coming.
He's not sure he can do this. He should have watched the video again before he freaked out, but he can't put the mask on again.
But he has to get the pole OUT. If he thinks about it he can feel the germs multiplying inside his leg, getting ready to eat him from the inside out as the flesh heals around the metal, making it a part of him forever. It's going to hurt like hell. He knows this. The healing's started. He can't let it finish.
With a deep breath, he grips the pole and pulls it out.
It's only after he hears a neighbor bag on the wall and shout "Knock it off," that he realizes he's been screaming. Blood pours from the wound like a river. He reaches for the sheet but his arm is too light. He misjudges the distance, dragging his knuckles uselessly against the crusty carpet. He'll never get his deposit back now.
He won't need it if he's gone, anyway.
Maybe it's better if he's gone.
He wishes he'd kept the mask on. Heard Karen say his name just one more time.
Peter Parker was here.
Peter Parker was gone.
As his mind drifts away, the last thing he hears is repulsor blasts.