Peter slumped against the brick wall of the alleyway he woke up in, holding his head in his hands. He needed a plan, yet his brain refused to work. It was freezing. A hint of snow topped the trees while the rest fell to the floor, melting and making it damp everywhere.
He should be thankful though, it seemed whatever had sent him here had the decency to put him in real clothes instead of his paper thin pyjamas.
He was dressed in navy jeans, his converse (which he had had for years and were in no good condition), his periodic table shirt and a black hoodie. Not enough to keep him warm, but enough to keep him from freezing to death.
Peter's hands shook from the cold, the tips of his fingers were starting to turn blue as he shoved them into his pockets. He didn't have time to think about how, or why, he was here. He was, and now he had to deal with it.
He carefully stood up, leaning on the wall for support before pulling his hoodie over his head, and walked out of the alley way.
Looking up, Peter could see the sun was only just rising. It was early morning, most likely explaining why it was so cold, so the city would wake up soon. For now, he needed a plan.
Peter began to walk away from his alleyway, in no particular direction, he had nowhere to go after all. Until he walked past a street vendor, who was setting up for the day and had a newspaper sitting on their counter. He approached and careful asked:
"Do you mind if I take a look?" Gesturing to the newspaper.
The man shrugged and passed it over. Peter thanked the man and began to skim over the paper. None of the news articles grabbed his attention, something about a political scandal and a fire downtown, but other than that it seemed to be pretty boring. Until he looked at the date in the top corner of the paper.
Sunday, 5th of November, 2015
Shit.
Panic rose in Peter's throat, he promptly thanked the man again and gave the newspaper back before quickly walking down the street.
Peter knew it wasn't 2024 anymore, the tower had shown him that, but 9 years into the past? He wouldn't even have been Spiderman yet. The whole Civil War fiasco hadn't even happened yet. Ben would still be alive.
Soon the panic rising in his chest melted away and replaced itself with hope. Ben and May. They would be in Queens right now. It was Sunday, the day that used to be spent together when Ben was alive. Both Ben and May didn't work on Sundays in 2015, so they would both be in the apartment. Suddenly, Peter had a plan.
If Peter had his webs, it would realistically take him 2 hours to swing to his apartment from where he was. But Peter didn't have them, he was alone. And without money he couldn't take the subway. He had no choice but to walk.
Thus Peter started the long, 4 hour walk to his apartment.
It will all be worth it when I see them, Peter thought, tugging his hoodie around his head even tighter in attempts to keep the cold at bay. He had long lost feeling in his fingertips, and his ears were beginning to hurt.
Peter tried to ignore it, but with every step his feet hurt more. His empty stomach growled at him, but he had nothing to eat. He just had to get to his home.
He just had to get home.
He just had to get home.
He just had to get home-
The time blended together as he walked. Passing families on their way to school, people on their way to work, the sound of street vendors yelling overlapped and drowned out the sound of his beating heart.
Slowly, Peter made his way through Queens passing sights he knew; Delmars, the shop the lady bought him churros from. Sounds and smells of home.
Finally, Peter knew where he was going. Following the familiar paths he knew by heart, he arrived at the door to his apartment. The door to his home. Floor 3, apartment 9.
He heard voices talking from the other side of the door. Listening carefully he could hear a voice he had not heard in years. Ben.
Tears threatened to stream down his face at the sound of his uncle. He was here, he was fine, everything was fine.
Gathering the courage, Peter knocked on the door. He heard the sound of footsteps approaching, unlocking a latch and finally, the door opened.
May stood in front of him, leaning against the doorway with one hand on her hip.
"Hello? Can I help you?" She asked, confusion lacing her words.
She didn't recognise him. Which made sense, he did look 4 years older than what she was used to, and yet he had hoped she would look in his eyes and just… know. It suddenly struck Peter, how was he going to explain everything?
Hi, I'm your nephew from the future. I don't know how I got here and I can't prove anything yet, but please let me in.
Somehow, Peter didn't think that would work, but he had to start somewhere.
"Is there a Peter here?" He stammered out, scratching the back of his neck.
"No, there isn't…" May replied, confused, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Oh…" That was… unexpected, then again she could be lying, but Peter knew she wasn't. When May lied she always fidgeted, it was a habit she could never stop and Peter often wondered if she realised she was doing it. But, she didn't fidget. She didn't know a Peter, she didn't know him.
"I think you have the wrong apartment…" She added, turning to Ben, who was standing at the kitchen bench, she asked, "Sweetie, is there a Peter in the building?"
Ben came forward to the door, wrapping his arm around May and thought for a moment before replying.
"I think there is a Peter McAllen at Floor 6, apartment 9, why?"
Looking back at Peter, May said, "That must be the Peter you're looking for, you must just have the wrong floor."
Peter didn't know a "Peter McAllen". But, it was clear he couldn't do anything here. They didn't know him, there was nothing he could do about it.
Faking a smile, Peter responded, "That's him, sorry I'm bad at details, must have mixed up the floors. Have a nice day!" Before walking away from the place he once called home.
A place that no longer knew him. And out into a world he thought he could hide away from.
As the hours passed, Peter found his feet walking again. He didn't know where he was going, but he was going. He walked for hours. One foot in front of the other. Until, slowly, he had made his way back to the Avengers tower.
A solemn reminder of how different this word was from the one he was in just last night. And yet Peter had no time to sulk. It was getting late, he needed to find a place to stay. His only family didn't know him, so he couldn't stay there.
He could try homeless shelters, but once they found out he was under 18 they would call CPS. He couldn't risk it. Staying on the street at night would be dangerous, Peter knew from personal experience the kind of people that walked around the city at night.
He wished he had stayed in Queens, where he knew the streets better, maybe then he could find a safer place to spend the night. Instead he was lost in Manhattan with the sun setting, great.
He needed to find an abandoned building, or anything with shelter. And so, Peter once again began to walk. His feet had long since stopped hurting, and his grumbling stomach became a dull pain he learned to ignore hours ago. He didn't have money for food anyway.
Peter made his way down to some of the poorer areas of the city—they were more likely to have abandoned buildings he could crash in. With the piercing cold starting to return, he needed to act fast.
As he walked through the neighbourhoods, he noticed people were sending him odd looks. It took a while before he realised what it was. Pity. Peter hated pity.
Pity had never helped anyone. If people really cared they would help him. But no one ever did. People pretend like their thoughts and prayers were going to save anyone, but it never did, it just makes you feel worse.
Avoiding the pitying looks of others, Peter kept his eyes out for someone willing to help, to offer him somewhere to stay. There were mostly apartment blocks and small stores. He had passed on an abandoned building, but it looked ready to collapse. He wasn't so desperate just yet.
Eventually, Peter stumbled across an old abandoned fire station—three stories tall, made of red brick and concrete.
Perfect.
The front door was padlocked shut, but that didn't matter. Checking no one was watching him, Peter moved to the side of the building where there was an alleyway.
Pressing his hands against the cold plastic of a dumpster, he pushed it against the wall and climbed on top. Reaching up, Peter grabbed a hold of a fire escape ladder and pulled it down. He shook it a little to make sure it could hold his weight, before carefully climbing up through a cracked window into the second floor of the abandoned building.
It was huge. On the outside it looked like it was only a small station, though from the inside Peter could see how big it really was.
Some of the windows were cracked, it was dusty, and spiderwebs covered most of the corners. But it would keep him dry and out of harm's way, so it worked.
The best part was the random furniture that had been left behind in the building, perhaps this would work out to be more than just a one night's stay after all.
In what appeared to be a kitchen, Peter found abandoned pieces of kitchen utensils: knives, forks, an electric kettle and some plates. As an added bonus, although electricity didn't seem to run to the building anymore, the water still worked.
Turning the tap in the kitchen, Peter was relieved to see what appeared to be clean water stream out. Good, that was one less thing he needed to find. While searching the building, Peter also found a fire blanket, an old couch with a broken leg and a coffee table. As well as a few empty beer bottles in a corner.
I can make this work
Taking the cushions from the couch, Peter pushed them against a wall. He then took the fire blanket and placed it over the cushions like a blanket.
Ok, Peter thought, Shelter, check. Water, check. Food, pending. Money, still working on it. Warmth, better than 3 hours ago.
He glanced over to the broken heater on the wall. Maybe if he rummaged around a bit and found some pieces, he could fix it? Then he could tick warmth off his "to-find" list.
Peter plopped down onto the cushions, leaning his head against the wall. He was suddenly reminded of the hunger eating away at his stomach. He needed food, but for that he needed money.
Who would hire him? He didn't exist in this world, nobody in their right mind would hire someone without authentication.
Or would they?
Peter's mind flicked over a memory, words he had heard on the streets of a bar, only known to mercenaries and crooks that were off the books. Maybe he could swindle the owner into giving him a job cleaning dishes or something.
It wouldn't be moral, but then again nothing is moral in a fight for survival.
But that was tomorrow's problem. For now, he needed sleep.
Falling onto his side, Peter pulled the fire blanket over him and shut his eyes. He prayed the nightmares would be kept at bay tonight, just enough for him to sleep a few hours. He would need them.
Tomorrow would be harder than today.
What did the voice want him to do? If he could barely survive by himself how was he supposed to fix things? To save everyone?
Whatever the voice was, it was powerful enough to send Peter back in time and erase his existence—surely they would have had enough power to fix things themselves.
Why was it always him? Did everyone just blissfully forget he was just a kid.
Sometimes it felt like when they didn't want him, his age was the problem. But as soon as he was useful, his age didn't matter. No one ever really cared about him, everyone only ever wanted something out of him. Even Ned seemed to enjoy talking more about Spider-man than about Peter Parker.
As he finally drifted off to sleep, Peter thought:
What's the point of saving a world that never really cared about me?