Author's Note: Hi reader! It's been a long time since I've written anything, but I found this in my drafts and wanted it to have a home here. Title is from "The Archer" by Taylor Swift. I'm an amateur writer, but I hope you still enjoy. :)
I've got a hundred thrown out speeches I almost said to you
Peter walks down the street hurriedly, and it's a toss up as to whether it's the cold December air or the anxiety lacing his steps that make him walk so quickly, but either way, the folded-up papers are burning a hole in his pocket.
How do you tell someone how much they mean to you when they don't even know who you are?
It's a question he'd been grappling with during the last several days. While setting up his small, modest apartment – the first time he'd lived on his own – Peter had practiced what he would say to Ned and MJ when they met. He tried writing things down over and over, discarding them because each one was too emotional, or too wordy, or too confusing – just not right. He'd rehearsed in the mirror, taking deep breaths, changing his tone of voice, his hand gestures, the way he stood. Peter had always agonized over details like this. It made him miss May all the more. She always knew the right thing to do, his biggest fan and most supportive critic.
He tries to push back tears at the thought of his aunt as he rounds the corner, taking a moment to mentally prepare. He feels ready. He enters.
Peter is greeted with the sound of the shop bell tinkling cheerily over the door. There are a few Christmas decorations scattered around the otherwise empty shop, the smell of baked goods wafting through the small space. It's starting to feel like home again. The familiarity helps set the scene, so maybe this will even be easy. But that's when Peter sees MJ, and immediately it all falls to the wayside.
Peter's voice catches in his throat. He's speechless, because even though he's practiced his speech a million times to the point where it's muscle memory and he felt more than ready to do it, and even though he's faced intergalactic aliens and villains that chilled him to the bone, and stared straight down the face of all his greatest fears and somehow came out the other side, his heart races and he's speechless because she's here and she's real and somehow even more beautiful than the last time he saw her. For him it was just a few days ago; for her there was never a first time. But he doesn't think about that as she turns and flashes that same happy smile he'd grown so accustomed to seeing, waving in genuine recognition and for a moment it feels like old times. But Peter realizes MJ is greeting a customer behind him instead. The bell above the door alerts him as Ned enters, and Peter watches his best friend walk right past.
Like Peter had never even existed.
MJ moves to the cash register and directs her focus back to Peter. "Hi, what can I get you?"
As he stares back into her polite but otherwise vacant "customer service" expression, he feels like he's been punched in the stomach. Somehow, not a word of the perfectly eloquent speech he wrote comes to mind. He fumbles, "Uh, I'm Peter Parker," as he shoves the wrinkled paper back into his pocket.
A beat of awkward silence passes. "OK, Peter Parker, what can I get for you?" She tries to hide an amused smirk.
Peter's mind is blank. He doesn't even realize he orders a coffee until MJ repeats it, then she goes off to meet Ned.
"Did you get in?" He asks.
MJ nods, clearly excited and relieved as they high five. "MIT bound!" She exclaims.
Peter feels his racing heart soften. They got in. Seeing them happy made him happy. He could feel his chest swelling with pride for his friends. This is it, he thinks, the moment they'd all been looking forward to.
And it only happened when he didn't exist.
The realization hits like a ton of bricks – nothing he hadn't felt before – but he doesn't have time to process it before MJ returns. "Peter Parker," he hears, and Peter quickly snaps back to reality. "Coffee for Peter Parker," she repeats, gently sliding the cup across the counter. He doesn't even know what to say, because it's her, and all those bubbling words on the tip of his tongue fall flat.
Instead, all he musters up is, "Oh, are you OK?" He gestures to the bandage above her right eyebrow, a scar from the final fight not too long ago. But she doesn't know that.
"Oh yeah, I'm fine. It's doesn't hurt anymore."
"Good," he nods.
He doesn't think about the pain, about what it means, about how to go forward. Peter remembers to pay, shuffling a few dollars from his front pocket while ignoring the papers in his back pocket. It must have been speech version 3000 at that point, and the wasted pages, pen ink, and hand cramps didn't matter now. Because here they were, and they were happy. He glances over at Ned one final time, who is contentedly enjoying a donut and scrolling on his phone, and Peter wonders if they'll replace him with someone else. If they already have. If they're better off without him. Peter doesn't know, and he doesn't think he should find out. Not yet. He's not ready, as a wise man once told him.
"Thanks." He grabs the coffee cup and leaves. The cold morning air is a stark contrast to the warm drink in his hand. He doesn't look back, as much he wants to. He doesn't decide to keep the papers in his pocket, or to turn around and spill his heart and soul out to his friends, or anything really. He does decide to go to the cemetery, because that's where May is now and she always knew what to do. So he'll go there.
As Peter lingers at May's grave, a part of him wishes there had been some other way to stop all of this. Maybe if he'd never met Quentin Beck, or joined the Avengers, or been bitten by the spider. He doesn't know. He sees a man in a suit approaching and he recognizes it's Happy. They exchange a few words about how they knew May, and Peter can feel the pain start to take over. For a second, he thinks maybe he should tell Happy. Instead, he leaves.
Peter was Spider-Man. He'd known the power, and now the responsibility was weighing on him more than ever.
He goes back to the cemetery on a different day. Peter's written another letter, and this time he reads it. Out loud, like he'd practiced. He knows May is listening with an extra keen ear. He tells her that he's sorry, and that he's grateful, and he loves and misses her much more than he could ever express. The page starts to look a little blurry and his voice is stifled from tears, but it's worth it, he thinks. Peter folds the letter up small and leaves it with some flowers at the grave.
He walks away that time a little stronger, even though he doesn't feel it yet, especially since he doesn't know what to do with his life. He's living on his own without any connections, resources, or direction. He's lost his family, friends, identity, and his home. He doesn't know what to do about Happy, or MJ, or Ned. But what he does know is that he made the best choice he could, and the people in this universe are happy, and that's all he could've asked for. As he passes by the coffee shop on his way home, he sees MJ and Ned in MIT sweatshirts, and he smiles. They're at home, right where they should be. When he gets back to his apartment, the crumpled up papers lie alone in the waste paper basket. He pulls them out and places them in a drawer.
Someday, Peter decides, he'll be home too.