timeflysbye

by Lazydaily

marvel peter gotham

1. Chapter 1

With bleary eyes and unfocused vision, Peter stared up at the solid gray mass looming above his head, his brain practically jumping through hoops in an attempt to figure out what the hell he was looking at.

(Concrete? His chest tightened at the very idea, and suddenly his vision clearing was no longer a leisure but a necessity and-

-And there was too much of a breeze for him to be indoors, and as Peter's vision finally (Finally!) focused, it became startlingly clear that the bleakness looming above him was, in fact, the sky .

So… not concrete.)

"Huh," was all Peter could manage, only the slightest exhale of a sound, but even that minute movement sent his ribs screaming , and it probably said something about Peter's mental state that it took pain to snap him out of his daze. Not the unfamiliar sky, or the strange and foreign smell in the air (like metal and ash and cigarettes and the circus? somehow? ), or the fact that his senses were blaring (they always were, nowadays), but that he's waking up with a new type of pain.

Peter could admit to himself that he might not have been holding it together very well (And what was it? His life? His mental state? His hopes? How about checking all of the above.), but at the very least (the very minimum), he could control his pain. Or rather, if he didn't know anything else (where his next meal was coming from, if anyone would ever remember him again ( Don't go there, Parker! Get a hold of yourself!) , if Jameson would buy his photos that week… then Peter could at least know where every single one of his injuries came from .

For practical purposes, of course.

Not because everything else felt so out of his control that his body was the last thing he felt like he could rely on.

Certainly not.

Point being, Peter's ribs were not a sneeze away from broken when he went to bed in his own apartment last night, so the fact that they were now raised some harrowing concerns. Although his sixth sense was going off, it wasn't any more urgent than usual, so in a rare showing of self care, Peter let himself sink down into his bones and attempted to figure out what the hell had happened.

Or, at the very least, why his ribs hurt.

Wiggling his fingers and toes, Peter took stock of his body. He was no more tired and hungry than he had been before going to bed, and most of the aches were his own, except for the pain in his ribs that was growing increasingly more tolerable (as long as he took shallow breaths) and a headache with a bitterly sharp edge that most likely meant a concussion, which, Peter conceded to his inner-self, would explain the blurry vision.

Moving slowly, Peter moved his head from side to side, testing the state of his neck. No pain flared, just a vague rush of nausea at the movement that practically confirmed the concussion. The texture of the ground that met his temple on the final turn had Peter realizing that while there was no concrete above him, there was some below . The coolness of the ground was soothing against his head, and as much as Peter relished the feeling, it was overtaken by a rush of pure fear .

(Where's my mask, where's my mask, where is it!)

Sitting up much too quickly, Peter forced himself to finally take stock of the situation around him as he patted himself down. His findings on both were far from reassuring.

Peter was on top of a building, maybe six stories high, overlooking a city that was most definitely not Queens. Even at its worst, Queens wouldn't be able to touch the level of disrepair and doom and gloom that this place seemed to just ooze with a ten-foot-pole. The city (or cesspit? that might be a more accurate analysis) looked like nowhere Peter had ever been before, and wasn't that just great. His findings about what items he actually had on his person were hardly better… which meant that he at least recognized what he'd fallen asleep in. Peter had gone straight back to his apartment (not home… never home ) after another joyous day of feeling miserable for himself, enjoying the library's free computer usage as he applied for jobs he probably wouldn't get, and haggling Jameson on the price of his Spider-Man photos. He had practically thrown himself into bed, not bothering to change, since he'd planned on heading out on patrol after a few hours of shut-eye.

How plans had changed.

His phone was in one of the back pockets of his jeans, but perhaps the best news (and Thank Thor for paranoia! ) was that Peter had his web shooters on, masquerading as a pair of funky bracelets. Peter also had shoes ( Yay!) and a sweater that he was growing to appreciate with increasing fondness, considering the chill in the air.

The overall takeaways were as such: Peter was never going to fall asleep without his wallet on him again. Even though it had been uncomfortable to lay on, causing him to throw it carelessly to the side in his disgruntled face plant… this was not a situation that Peter wanted to risk repeating. His phone had survived the unfortunate purging, being safely in his back pocket, while his other pockets revealed a gum wrapper, fifteen cents, and dryer lint.

Wonderful.

Peter kept all of the trinkets, partially because he felt bad about littering and partially because a horribly possessive part of him urged Peter to gather anything and everything and stockpile it. To be entirely fair to that part of him, Peter was regretting not doing that now. He'd kill for a granola bar.

His phone was an out of date flip phone, but its unobtrusive size had saved it, so Peter decided the phone was now his most cherished possession. He flipped it open and-

Peter stalled.

What was he going to do with a phone, after all? His contacts included The Bugle, his elderly neighbor that lived in the apartment next door to Peter, whose groceries he helped with occasionally, and… that was it.

Not to say that Peter hadn't memorized countless other phone numbers (May, most notably, but also MJ, Ned, and Happy. He would have really appreciated a pickup from Happy right about now… the man crossed the world for Peter on a private jet before, after all. That kind of loyalty tends to stick with people.) but considering none of them knew him anymore, calling them would be quite pointless.

Unless… This wasn't a Peter Parker issue. No, no, no… after all, being transported by someone (some thing?) in his sleep and ending up on the roof of a six story building in the middle of who knows where sounded like quite a Spider-Man type of issue to happen. Which meant that Peter calling him would be totally warranted!

Peter typed the number, held his breath… and then felt like crying when the call got picked up. Before the other person could hang up (he had a tendency to do that whenever Peter - Spider-Man - called and didn't get to the point fast enough, probably because he could tell that Peter knew more than he was letting on (say, his secret identity! for example) and that made the guy uneasy. Fair enough - Peter also got uneasy about people knowing his secret ID (mostly because the first time ended up going so badly)), Peter let everything out in one big rush, "Hey so, haha, hypothetically what would you do if you woke up somewhere strange, like, say, on top of a building in a city you didn't recognize at all. That kind of strange. But also the last thing you remember is falling asleep in your bed, but you're in your civilian ID right now and the only way you see to get down or up is to one) fly or two) jump, but it's also six stories and now that I'm saying this all out loud, how the hell did someone get me up here?" Peter's voice rose along with his distress, and he fought to lower it, lest he give off the vibe that he's just a terrified nineteen year old whose been alone for way too long and not the Totally Well Adjusted twenty-some person Daredevil (His lawyer, from Before, Matt Murdock!) totally thought Spider-Man was.

Daredevil (who hadn't hung up! Peter could hear him breathing!) was taking his sweet time replying, which, fair , Peter had just dumped a very large hypothetical on him, which Daredevil definitely knew wasn't actually a hypothetical, but Peter needed that little bit of forged distance from reality at the moment.

Finally, Daredevil responded: "What the fuck?"

Alarmed, Peter pulled back the phone, checked the number once, twice, then a solid three times with the one from his memory, of the number Daredevil had rattled off to him one day six-ish months ago when Peter ( Spider-Man!) had casually dropped in conversation that he would just fix up his bullet wound at his apartment because, "No, seriously, it's fine, DD. I splurged on this nice little first aid kit recently! I can't wait to test it out!" Peter's rapid heartbeat and pained breathing must have been what gave him away, because surely his response was Not-At-All-Worrying. Daredevil had patched Peter up himself (it was too reminiscent of Happy. who knew it was possible to miss someone stitching him up?), and then gave him a burner phone number, and Peter had definitely used it before , so why , pray tell, was that not Daredevil's voice?

"Haha," Peter laughed awkwardly, its pitching rising sharply as his anxiety spiked, "Uh… Any chance this isn't actually your phone and you just happened to pick it up for a friend? A friend that maybe is nearby so I don't have to repeat my totally hypothetical situation again, because I dunno if I have that sort of emotional willpower right now?"

Sue him. Peter rambles when he's nervous.

"Fucking hell - this is my phone, and I want to know how the hell you got ahold of-"

Peter hung up on him.

So Daredevil wasn't an option. Great. "If at first you don't succeed, try and try again…' am I right, or what?" Peter mumbled to himself in a chattery attempt at self assurance. Daredevil didn't pick up, but Peter knew other people. Totally! Johnny Storm, for example. Maybe Johnny wouldn't know how exactly to help, but at least he would be a familiar voice? And if anything, Johnny knew a bunch of geniuses who were probably smart enough to figure out where the hell Peter was off of a few landmarks.

Johnny was technically a friend of Spider-Man's (because no one was friends with Peter Parker. Not anymore) so Peter hadn't saved his phone number to this phone, because in the off chance someone got ahold of it, Peter did not want to explain why he had the Human Torch's contact information. Still, Johnny had given Peter his main line (" I don't do burners, Spidey. I'm the one that burns." The line had been horrible, especially paired with an exaggerated wink, but honestly, Peter could really use that type of humor right now.) so there was no chance that Johnny would have a different phone number, or lost his phone, or would have done anything that would result in the same mess that happened with Daredevil's number.

As he typed in Johnny's number, Peter firmly declined three different calls from Fake-DD's number, and when the call to Johnny went through, Peter made sure to not start spilling his guts about his hypothetical issues. Just, y'know. To be cautious.

"Heyy, Johnny. So, funny story, heard it from a friend, wanted to ask for your thoughts on the matter: now, how alarmed would you be about waking up in a totally different place than where you fell asleep in?"

There. Friend of a friend, totally unsuspicious.

"How different are we talking?"

The voice sounded off , but Peter's senses weren't tingling any more than they had been this entire time, and maybe Peter had woken the guy up? so he answered, "Well, I mean, I'm - uhhh, I mean they were on top of a six story high building with no roof access in a city… they've never been to before. So. Yeah. Y'know, casual New Yorker moment, am I right? Finding new burrows all the time?" Peter laughed so that he didn't cry instead.

"Okay, what? Kid-" Peter bristled. He hadn't been a kid in a long time, and certainly not one that deserved that type of dismissive tone, but his frustration fizzled out at the realization that Johnny would never call him that, and quickly tuned back into what the stranger was saying at that horribly chilling realization.

"-what type of prank this is, but first off, joking about that kind of shit isn't funny, and two, at least get your states right. This is New Jersey."

"The hell? First off, I hope you never become a therapist or, I dunno, a first responder or some shit because your ability to tell when someone's panic is real is really, really bad," Peter snarked in a blind attempt to hide his complete and total despair, "And I'm not the idiot here: check the area code, jerkwad."

Before Peter could hang up, the stranger ( who had Johnny's phone number, who isn't Johnny, who should be Johnny, why the hell isn't he Johnny?) responded back quickly with a tone that edged a bit too far into genuine concern for Peter to feel comfortable with, "The number you're calling from has a Gotham area code. Kid, where are you? You said there was no roof access?"

"Haha, just kidding , you caught me. Wow," Peter deadpanned, then hung up.

"So that was a total failure," saying it out loud helped, because those phone calls sure didn't. In fact, they confirmed the worst sort of panic stricken ideas that had been looming in the space of Peter's mind in an area that he called "The Irrational Panic Zone."

The Irrational Panic Zone (Peter almost wanted to trademark it) included thoughts such as: "Everyone actually remembers me but pretends that they don't because they hate me," and "I killed my aunt," and "Your neighbor is actually a spy for Nick Fury because he knows everything and is a horrible, horrible person," and "It's your fault Thanos won the first time," and, most recently, "This is not your universe."

Y'know. Thoughts that would send him into a totally rational panic at any given moment, so therefore it is irrational to think about them. It all works out. The "IPZ" also sounds like a really cool organization.

(Mr. Stark would have made the acronym a name. Peter doesn't want to add salt to his numerous wounds, especially when he thinks about panicking, so he pointedly hadn't made it a name…

… Maybe he would have liked "Irrational Aversion Neighborhood." IAN. A simple name, but Mr. Stark probably would have still liked it, if Peter came up with it.

Don't think about that, don't think about him, don't-)

Peter picked up the phone. The newly-dubbed "Caller Number One" had been calling him quite frequently (as had the second, but "Kid" still rankled him in a way that Peter doesn't think he'll ever be able to verbalize) and Peter really doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts right now.

"Yellow," Peter greets, his voice in a slow drawl, "How may I help you?"

"How the hell did you get this number?"

"May I remind you that you called me?" Peter said lightly, just to be a little shit, standing up and brushing off his jeans. It was going to be morning soon, and it was probably in his best interests to be on the ground in a strange city before the sun rose and highlighted his precarious location.

The voice on the other side of the line was not amused, and nearly growled , "This is a private phone. You shouldn't have this number."

"Well, Caller Number One," It turns out that Peter's boldness extends beyond his life in the mask: all he needs is for his face to be hidden, ( Does that make him one of those online bullies they talk about in school? The ones who only grow the balls to say shit because their real identity isn't out there?) "You kinda screwed yourself over there, because for all I could have known, I could have gotten the number wrong," (Unlikely. Impossible, actually.) "Or thought it was a burner phone and never called again," (More likely.) "At the very least I wouldn't have known how important this phone number is to you," (Sounding vaguely like a villain threatening a loved one there now, Parker. Maybe time to tone it back a little.) "Anywho. I wasn't gonna call you back and I can block this number if you want."

Peter sandwiched the flip phone between his head and his shoulders, shaking out his hands and flexing his fingers. Since he isn't sure where he was (what city, what state, what universe-) Peter wants to avoid leaving anything traceable back to him: including, but not limited to, the gum wrapper in his pocket, and his webs.

Sadly, leaving fingerprints was unavoidable, but considering Peter may not even have an identity here (or anywhere, really, but that's neither here nor there) it was not one of his primary concerns. Plus, the building was made of concrete and stone, which wouldn't show obvious fingerprints like glass would.

"What do you want?"

Peter raised his eyebrows, although Caller Number One couldn't see it. Maybe he really did sound too supervillain-y at the end there, "I don't want anything. From you, at least. I could go for a hamburger or even like, a granola bar, but I'm not bargaining with you for your privacy."

Making his way down the building, Peter tried to make sure the phone stayed snug in its little position. He had decided to keep his shoes on rather than use his feet to stick, so as he lowered himself down the building by his fingertips, Peter winced as he felt the strain on his ( Oh right-) ribs. But it was manageable, and the person on the other side of the line was silent, which, while helpful for the dull headache and his concentration, was not helpful for keeping Peter from spiraling, "So…." Peter drew out the word, he was level with the fourth story now, "Are you gonna… hang up? Or block me? Or something? 'Cause you're sending off a lot of mixed signals right now."

"Why is your voice muffled?"

Eh? Oh. The sweater must be muffling the phone's audio intake, "Oh, sorry. I'm climbing down the building right now, so the phone is wedged on my shoulder weirdly. My clothes must be-"

"You're what?! What the hell do you mean you're climbing down the building -"

"I may have been exaggerating how hypothetical I was earlier?" Peter offered, completely unrepentant, "I mean, you totally knew I was lying: it was super obvious. And I already said that the only two ways down were flying or jumping, and, it might have been kinda implied by my surprise, but I can't fly and jumping down six stories would suck ass."

"I- you have a phone? Why wouldn't you call 911?"

"How the hell was I supposed to explain how I got up there? Huh? 'Hey Mr. Police-man and/or Firefighter! I was on top of a building I shouldn't have been able to get on top of. Please don't press charges or ask why I was there?' like c'mon, dude, give me some slack here," Peter complained, although the relaxing of his shoulders at the muffled grunt of laughter Peter swore he'd heard had the phone slipping, and with a yelp, Peter thanked his quick reflexes for being able to grab the phone before it broke on the ground (although, to be fair, flip phones were nearly indestructible, and he was only two stories up now). With a quick hop and a soft exhale at the landing, Peter put the phone back up to his ear as he began looking around the dank (and dark! and very, very spooky!) alleyway.

"-lo? Hello? Fuck. Fuck! Hello?"

"Oh, hi!" Peter greeted cheekily, and was met with a heavy exhale of relief, although the stranger quickly snapped, "What the fuck was that?"

"I almost dropped my phone. Or, well, I did . But don't worry! I caught it!" Peter reassured sunnily, deciding that, at least in this city , he would not 'check out' the scary and dark alleyways. Something (that thing being both his sixth sense and his common sense) told him that this was not the time for an adventure, "And then I jumped the rest of the way down. It wasn't that far. I just think my ribs are, like, maybe-almost-broken, so it hurt more than I was expecting."

The slew of cursing and swearing and yelling that suddenly barraged its way through the phone had Peter's concussed brain fighting between Getting rid of the hurting sound or Being alone with his own thoughts , but in the end Peter's hatred for being yelled at took the reins and made the decision for him. Holding the phone an arm's length away, Peter made sure to speak loudly, and, with a deceptive amount of sweetness, not-so-politely informed Caller Number One, "I'm not going to stand here and be yelled at, so call again when you feel less angry. Toodles!"

And with that, there is blessed silence (aside from the sounds of the city, but this place is almost eerily quiet compared to New York), and Peter meandered his way down the sidewalk, making a point to look at buildings that surround him and take note of where he's going. The main walkway even this early in the morning still isn't empty, but it was less busy than Peter anticipated from such a large city.

(Peter could also definitely tell that there was something going on within the shadows and alleys of this grim looking place.)

As was always best in unknown circumstances when one is potentially in a murder-city, Peter kept his head low as he looked around for a library or maybe shelter…(and was that somebody with a grappling hook swinging across the buildings? What the hell is this place? ) Peter shook his head, then immediately regretted the movement as nausea welled up within him. Thankfully, Peter is used to concussions ( Thankfully? Wouldn't it be unfortunately?) , and it only takes a few seconds of deep breathing to beat the sensation back.

( Well Parker, you're in for it this time Peter thought to himself, lips pressed firmly together as he tries to skirt along the attentions of the city natives. While he does want to ask questions, even looking in their direction has all sorts of alarm bells screeching in Peter's mind. He's desperate, not stupid, after all.

Whenever this all finally blows up in my face, Peter thought bemusedly, I might just have to rename the IPZ into the IPR: Irrational Panic Region . Zoning laws dictate I can't keep more than ten world-ending thoughts in one location… and if this is what I think it is…)

Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, feeling the gum wrapper crinkle beneath his fingers and the smooth surface of his flip phone. If this is all he has left… Peter hastened his walking speed. A library would be very nice, right about now.

Unfortunately, Parker Luck seemed to be transuniversal.

(If this even was, in fact, another universe. Or subsection of the multiverse or whatever Mister Doctor Stephen-Freaking-Strange would say about this whole mess. All Peter knew was that he'd experienced the multiverse a bit too close for comfort to deny its existence, and the technology that was visible from the barred windows of a tech store looked… outdated, to say the least.

Everything looked like technology one would find in a pre-Iron Man world, before Tony Stark had turned his efforts away from war and onto philanthropy. Even Hammer Industries had far surpassed this level of tech.

… Thinking of Tony definitely didn't make Peter want to vomit. Totally not. He was a reasonable adult who didn't dwell on what ifs and self flagellation and the memory of the arc reactor dying and the sound of Tony's heartbeat stopping.

He didn't .)

Peter mentally rolled his eyes. As always, things were ten times harder than they needed to be, and now that it was fully daylight (not that the sun poked through the concrete clouds all that much..), Peter gathered his wits about him and started looking for someone (anyone) that didn't look like they'd gut him on the spot.

Surprisingly, it took a while.

Back in New York (back home) , while it certainly wasn't a smart idea to approach any Tom, Dick, or Harry and ask for directions, the majority of people would be willing to help, or at least direct some poor lost sap to the nearest information booth. But, surprise, the city with gothic style architecture and way too many gargoyles and a perpetually gloomy sky had unfriendly residents .

...Peter wasn't being entirely fair.

People certainly didn't look welcoming , by any means, but they hardly looked evil. In fact, neighbors greeted one another warmly, people kissed their partners goodbye at the door, and people weren't shanking one another at the bus stop. It was the way they looked at him that had Peter pausing. From their perspective, Peter stuck out like a sore thumb, and therefore, they were wary of him. It made sense.

(It was annoying and made him miss the various street food vendors in New York who always had a kind word for Spider-Man and would give him free food. And the kids who watched him with awe in their eyes. And the elderly people who he walked across the street or carried the groceries for. Or the staunch devotion of those he saved to protesting the Bugle's tarnishment of his name. Of Spider-Man's name.

No one protected Peter Parker anymore.)

Eventually, Peter gave up on trying to find someone that didn't make his senses scream and instead settled on someone who looked like they could beat him up.

It made sense, in his head. Someone intimidating was a lot less likely to feel intimidated by him, and therefore probably less likely to just straight up shoot him? Maybe? Hopefully?

His target: some beefy and built redhead who definitely could bench press his weight. Although his senses screamed danger , it wasn't directed at him, so much described her potential to be dangerous. So, Peter super casually stopped beside the redhead at the corner of whatever and don't know avenue as she waited for the flow of early commuter traffic to slow so in order to dodge across the road.

(Cross walks were apparently not in style here.)

"So!" Too loud, Parker! Calm yourself down! "Do you know where the nearest library is?"

Ignored.

Peter tried not to let it sting, continuing on, "'Cause, haha, I'm new in this city and I don't know where the hell I am and I don't have a, like, gps, and everyone looks like they wanna gut me."

Smooth (not) . But it worked, because out of his peripheral vision he saw her eyes slant toward him, and in a gruffer voice than Peter was expecting, clarified, "That wasn't a pickup line?"

"Oh! No!" Peter quickly shook his hands in dismissal, which might have been a mistake based on the way her shoulders tensed, but apparently Peter gave off such hopeless vibes that he was deemed unthreatening, "I'm genuinely so lost and would really appreciate directions.

There was a break in the traffic but the person didn't move, and Peter could have kissed the ground at their feet in gratitude, had that not been, y'know, an insane thing to do. But emotionally. Mentally. He was praising her to the high heavens.

Pointing in a direction Peter would not have gone in, she gave him simple directions, "Keep going four blocks, then turn right. You'll see the library."

Screw it, this person was a god (sorry Thor!) and Peter would never be able to repay them for their invaluable assistance.

(Okay so Peter may have picked up a horrible appreciation for melodramatics after dealing with so many corny villains. Sue him: Peter was a corny vigilante in his own right for running with the spider theme for this long. He could recognize that within himself AND simultaneously not find fault in it. Peter was going to run his spider shtick into the ground and no one could stop him.)

"You are wonderful," Peter thanked, hands posed in prayer, and yeah this person was definitely judging him now, but no matter! Directions in mind and no way to thank the person other than getting out of her hair, Peter backed up in the direction of the library, giving the person a real, genuine smile, "Thank you so much!"

Peter turned around on his heel, narrowly avoiding getting rammed into by another person and stepping into the street in the process. Before he could get hit by the car that was speeding towards him going 20 over the speed limit, Peter danced back onto the sidewalk, a cheerful pep in his step all the while. Parker Luck be damned! Things are going great now!

(Peter didn't see the way the woman behind him was ready to tackle him out of the road, if need be, or the puzzled look on her face as he walked away.)

...

Things were not going great.

Locating the library had been easy, as was finding a computer. The library had open computer usage (yay!), and he'd only have to apply for a library card if he wanted to borrow books. That being said: that was about where his luck ran out.

The computers were outdated . Sure, they were completely functional, but the clunky monitors and unsleek designs felt like stepping into another world, pun definitely not intended. While Peter could justify it as the library not having the lot of money to finance better computers, the entire interior of the library was sleek and well maintained, and didn't tell the story of a place running low on money. Sure, Peter had a flip phone in an age of Stark Phones and hologram technology, but that was because it was cheap and a burner. …Plus, the phone the woman at the corner had been holding - while her case had been scratched up, it was still new . The screen hadn't had any little scritch marks. As well, she'd been wearing nice clothes - well made stuff. It spoke of wealth, but the phone in their hands had been the rough equivalent to an iPhone eight, as compared to Peter's world where iPhones were outdated and outclassed by Stark Tech.

It was all painting an eerie picture and Peter didn't know how to feel about it. Still, he'd come to the library to figure out what was going on, so settling down at a computer, Peter logged into a guest account and pulled up Google Earth, turning on location tracking with an idle click.

Peter froze.

(Shit, shit, shit-)

As Google Earth zoomed into his location, it zeroed in on not New York , but New Jersey. Gotham City, New Jersey.

"Shit."

Peter pushed away from the computer, running his hands through his too-long hair. He grabbed the hair at the back of his head tightly, unable to look away from the damning sight. A looming dread washed over Peter, and he snapped back to the keyboard, pulling up a new search:

Iron Man - nothing.

Tony Stark - nothing.

Captain America - nothing.

Thor - nothing. Well. Something , but in a purely mythological way. Nothing like the living, breathing person that most definitely exists where Peter is from.

Avengers - nothing.

Shield - nothing.

"Oh, okay," there might have been a sob mixed in with his anxiety-filled exhale, but Peter has had almost two years of experience with being totally alone, which has taught him a lot of things… including what places are the best to have lung-heaving, sobbing, screaming breakdowns.

This was not that type of location.

Closing his eyes tightly, Peter buried his head in his arms, pushing aside the keyboard in the process.

( Okay Parker. You've got this, Peter attempted to reassure himself, You're in a world where the technology isn't as advanced because there has never been a Tony Stark to advance it. It's still the same year and date, at least, so that means my time probably matches up with this… world's.

Peter sucked in oxygen with a fervor, his shaking slowly stabilizing as he forced himself to think about everything logically, The reason why those phone numbers didn't work is because they are tied to other people. It could be random, or they could be vigilantes similar to my world. That is potentially a stretch but-)

Sitting up, Peter snatched the keyboard and furiously searched up something new:

Superheroes .

Bingo. He found something

Apparently in this world, while the Avengers didn't exist… the Justice League did.

Skimming through a couple of the top articles, Peter gathered that the Justice League served a similar purpose to the Avengers, but included a wider range of people and were more… well. Simply put, they were better . Peter could admit that to himself, privately. The Avengers weren't really all that back on his earth. Or rather: they were , but compared to the long history of the Justice League, their continued expansion of their ranks, the way pop up groups such as Young Justice or the Titans were only approved by the public once they received League support… It all spoke of a much more official and tight-knit community, a genuine league , as opposed to a couple of people with power who gathered when times were rough.

As he dove deeper into the subject, Peter genuinely had no clue why this world's tech wasn't more advanced. They were literal gods and aliens , with intergalactic connections… as well showcased physical proof of heroes having more advanced technology. His dive into the Justice League had led him to a Batman from Gotham - the name only catching Peter's attention because of the realization that Peter was in Gotham .

(Plus, Bat man. C'mon - the jokes practically wrote themself.)

Pictures of Batman outside of press circumstances were rare and far between, but there were pictures of his vehicle (which was apparently called the Batmobile ) . The vehicle was highly advanced, and based off of the scant few blurry pictures of it (because of the quality of the cameras in this age were shit and the apparent actual rarity of its sighting), Peter could tell that it had countermeasures and tech built into it that outclassed every other car on the market.

And sure , car modifications were a thing, and Peter could maybe think about Batman being a mechanical genius that built his own car, but then Peter tacked on his apparent use of something called Batarangs (maybe the guy's obsession with bats went a bit too far), which had a variety of usages, plus could create near-instant explosions?

Now things were getting fishy.

Fishy meaning: did heroes ( Or, Peter amended, Vigilantes) regularly have access to higher levels of technology than the average person? It's obvious that this Batman has to be a wealthy guy, with access to materials that not many people could casually get their hands on, and likely had others creating things for him, to apparently have a Batplane (it wasn't even funny at this point… just sad) and a Batcycle and be able to afford… outfitting an entire network of other bat or bird related vigilantes?

Peter sat back in his chair, (making a mental note of the fact that Gotham was apparently known for its eccentric collection of themed villains and murderers, with some of the highest crime statistics in the world) and stared.

(What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Or rather: What the hell happened to put me in this situation?)

Lacking anything else to do (Peter had looked up directions to the nearest shelter and planned to head there for dinner. He needed to be at the place before five, which meant Peter still had a couple of hours to burn.), Peter pulled out his flip phone to check to see if Mystery Caller Number One or Two had tried reaching out again, which: surprise, surprise! They had. The second stranger had stopped spamming Peter's poor phone after a while, but left a handful of voice messages that Peter deleted without a second thought. Caller Number One had appeared to have taken Peter's sage advice, because he hadn't called back right away and ended up waiting for over an hour before calling again.

(And wasn't that strange? Peter had spent hours in the library. He hadn't even realized how much time had passed, too focused on researching this new universe to even notice. Only now can Peter feel his stomach starting to ache and oh.

Food will be another problem. But Peter is excellent at avoiding what he doesn't want to address and so he dialed up Caller Number One! not really expecting the guy to answer but-)

"Oh thank god."

"Eh?" Peter asked, eying the computer with a sort of idle curiosity… paired with a healthy dose of fear about its ability to send him further into a downward spiral of panic. Considering Peter has no idea about how to get back to his own world… call it a hunch , but Peter figured that in all likelihood he's probably not getting home anytime soon. The fact that "Peter Parker" doesn't exist in this world… while not abnormal for Peter to experience, is still an annoying fact, so he probably needs to start on creating… well, himself , once again.

"I'm very purposefully not yelling right now, but I'm going to let you know that I'm sincerely pissed off about you hanging up before."

"Mhm."

"I don't know who you are, but whatever you're doing is reckless-"

"Yep."

"-irresponsible, and dangerous. Plus illegal-"

"Totally, yeah."

"-and I'm sounding like the Old Man right now, but whoever you are, go back home . Call someone and go back to your home city. I don't know what you've managed to get yourself into, but it sounds shifty as hell, so call someone-"

"Mhm, mhm, will do."

"-and you haven't been listening to a word I said, huh?"

"Oh for sure."

The voice on the other side groaned and Peter couldn't hold back his snort of laughter, "Sorry, dude, hate to break it to you, but I was definitely tuning you out."

"You make it very difficult not to yell."

"I've been told that by many people! Don't worry, it isn't just you - 'cause you have a point and blah, blah, blah - I'm just trying to figure out what my likelihood of success is hacking into the government's security system and creating a fake ID right now."

There was silence, and Peter wondered if he'd scared Caller Number One off - a shame, the guy was starting to grow on him - before the most incredulous, "What?" echoed loudly in Peter's ear.

Wincing, Peter turned down the volume of the phone, "I dunno what you expect of me. From the very little you know about me it's obvious that my life is in complete shambles. I mean, turns out it is very hard to get a state-ID when you technically don't exist, huh?"

"I know the struggle," the person over the phone agreed exasperatedly, and Peter emphatically nodded along, even though the person couldn't see him. See? This person got him !

"I could do it last time because I had a living address and it was just a matter of hacking the systems and re-proving the fact that I exist. But now? I have nothing. It's a catch-22: I need a job to be able to afford housing, but to legally get a job I need an ID. Plus I don't have my social security number or birth certificate… I mean, they just simply don't exist."

The person on the other phone laughed, although it was humorless and dry, "Are you sure you don't know who I am?"

Peter hummed, "Yeah, I totally thought this was Daredevil. I have no clue who you are."

"I wish I could express to you how much I understand what you're going through right now," the person exhaled heavily through his nose, "I hope I'm wrong but… you don't have anyone to call, do you?"

Now it was Peter's turn to laugh humorlessly, "Apparently, you are the person I could call. But… we both know how well that has worked out for me. Bright side: there was a recent revision of the New Jersey law regarding getting an ID. If I get a note from a social worker confirming that I am , in fact, homeless, then that works instead of a permanent address."

"Doesn't mean much if you don't have the Six Points."

"So helpful, you are," Peter snarked, before taking a deep breath, "Sorry. I'm on edge. I should be able to forge those, though. At least the birth certificate part. As for a social security number… Maybe I can say I lost everything and am now applying to get another original copy thingy sent to me? I mean I did lose everything, so that's not a lie…" Peter trailed off, opening more and more tabs as the person on the other side offered what assistance they could. Eventually, Peter's eyes flickered down to the corner of the monitor and yelped, "Oh! Shit! I need to get going before I'm late for dinner at the shelter."

"Yeah, they're pretty strict about that."

"Sage advice," Peter joked, easily wiping the search history on the computer and then logging off, "Anyway, Imma head off. Talk to you later."

It was instinctive, on Peter's part. It was just a casual goodbye - what he did ( used to do) at the end of nearly every phone call - but it had them both freezing up, "Uh," Peter said, ever so eloquently, "I mean-"

"Yeah," The stranger was just as awkward, if not worse than Peter with his own halting words, "Talk later."

For the first time ever (in the history of their three whole conversations), the stranger hung up first, and something within Peter settled at the idea that maybe, just maybe , he isn't as alone in this world as he thought.

(Of course, in the end, that was just a pipe dream. Peter was alone, in every sense of the word.

He was lonely, most of all.)

The shelter was nice.

Peter didn't have much of an opinion on the place - although that could be because he was utterly exhausted. His ribs were nearly healed after a day of sitting at the library and the ache and cottony feeling of his concussion had faded into a dull thud, thus sapping most of his energy with it. The shelter had dinner, which Peter was thankfully on time for, and then, tucked up on his little cot in the corner of the room (as close to an exit as he could manage, the only thing he could do to calm his raging paranoia) Peter put his head under the blanket he had been given and cried.

They were quiet tears - loud only to Peter because of his enhanced hearing - a silent sort of violent sobbing and shaking that would have had May up in an instant. May always knew when Peter needed her: he had jokingly thought of it as her Aunt-tingle.

And god did that hurt . Never again could Peter protest against her calling his sixth sense his "Peter-tingle," never again would she hold him close and pat his hair and tell Peter it was okay .

May was his last living relative, and With great power comes great responsibility but Peter was a kid when she died. It had been nearly two years ago - nearly two years of being so horribly lonely and lost and Peter still hadn't managed to create a real life for himself. Everywhere he turned there was something , some one , that made his heart leap into his throat and shake him to the core like he had just lost them yesterday.

That was the funny thing about grief: as much as people liked to say that there were stages, or emphasize its non-linearity, there was still that expectation of learning how to move on. Peter wasn't ready to move on. It was all he could do to simply acknowledge the fact that losing May hurt yesterday, and the day before that, and today, and it would still hurt again tomorrow. There hadn't been stages, no denial of her death or bargaining for a change. All there had been was a white-hot-rage at the godforsaken man who had murdered her, and once the rage had dried up, what remained was a sharp and constant ache that kept him from ever getting his footing. And perhaps, in some world, Peter would have been okay, eventually. But grief doesn't quite process the same way when MJ looks through him and he remembers kissing her.

Because that was it, wasn't it?

If Peter Parker died in his home universe, then he would die just as lived: forgotten. No one would grieve his disappearance. No one would put flowers on his grave - if he even had one. Because if Peter Parker dropped off the face of the earth all that would be left behind was an empty apartment he didn't have the stomach to fill, a lego figurine, and a homemade Spider-Man costume hidden in his closet. If Peter ever found a way back home… no. And that's the other thing, huh? Peter could never return home, because Home, capital H , was May's cooking and inside jokes with Ned and holding MJ's hand and bothering Happy with too many phone calls.

Home was looking at that Lego figurine and knowing that Ned had the rest of the set.

Home was MJ's necklace that she wore even though it was broken because he - because Peter - gave it to her. Home was his "I survived my trip to NYC" t-shirt because even though the memory of how he got it was crummy, it was still the beginning of Peter's realization that he was more than just the suit. Home was Ned hacking Peter's Stark-suit and laughing at the stupid amount of protocols Tony had managed to shove into the thing. Home was home, and Peter would never be able to go back there again.

Maybe his best friend would look at his Lego Death Star and wonder where Emperor Palpatine was, but then dismiss it a second later. Peter had been a massive part of Ned's life - just like Ned had been to Peter - but any trace of their relationship had been wiped clean by a cold and sterile magic spell. Instead of a cherished figurine, perhaps Palpatine was simply a toy lost to time, or the vacuum cleaner.

(In the end, there was no longer a Death Star to look at. It had been destroyed in Happy's condo.

… A lot of things had been destroyed in Happy's condo.

MJ's necklace! Peter's subconscious urged him to remember, but after two years of reaching for straws and hoping and watching them leave , one by one… Peter couldn't handle hoping.

Couldn't - wouldn't - let himself be hurt like that again.)

And so, Peter mourned them. Mourned that what could have been's and the what ifs' and everything that comes with planning out his life with people who no longer knew him, in any sense of the word. Peter welcomed the loss, because at least that meant that they mattered to him. At least that meant that he could still hold onto them, in whatever form they manifested in.

May gave him her heart: his want (not need , never need ) to help people.

(Because helping someone in need should never be a chore or a task to check off. It is something that one must do with every fiber of their being… in the fragile existence that is a person's life , there is no room for carelessness or nonchalance… May had taught him this, before the damning words (With great power comes great responsibility!) had ever left her dying lips.

So really… her final words were more a reminder. A reminder to uphold their code… a code that, in Peter's opinion, was the most righteous one of all.)

MJ… She gave him the ability to laugh at himself. To not take himself so seriously even when it feels like the world is crumbling beneath his feet.

( "I like drawing people in distress."

Peter could have filled hundreds of pages for her.)

And Ned… he gave Peter everything. He was the best friend anyone could ask for: his Guy In The Chair, his companion, his brother.

Happy's loss hurt too, in a different way than Ned and MJ. His loss felt most similar to May's… for if she was like his mother, then Happy was the closest person Peter ever had to a father .

(Even if Tony tried to give Peter everything… he was never a father. Not his father. Happy was always there, though. He listened to every voicemail, read every text, and flew halfway across the world in an instant.

And even when May… when she… Happy never blamed Peter. Never blamed anyone but himself, for not being there, when all he's ever done is be there.)

And now, here lies Peter Parker, curled up on a cot in a homeless shelter so incredibly far from home… in an unfamiliar place, in an unfamiliar universe, filled with unfriendly faces, and Peter couldn't stop crying. Not because of the loss , for Peter truly had nothing to lose, but because he couldn't help but feel so incredibly relieved .

There must be something wrong with him, because despite everything , Peter cried in relief that he hadn't seen a single Iron Man memorial or an Avenger's themed burger joint this entire day.

He didn't have to look his landlord in the face and tell her he just moved to New York - "That's why I never have anyone over, thanks for your concern." He doesn't have to meet anyone's expectations, be someone… be better than what he truly is.

Because in the end, as much as it rankled him when Caller Number Two said it, Peter still feels like a kid inside. He already lost five years of his life to being blipped - five years of history and living and time that he just. Lost.

Things would be hard in Gotham. Obviously. It was an entirely new… universe . There were no post-returning-snap government shutdowns or chaos that let Peter forge a new identity for himself with relative ease, even years later. There were no vigilantes that Spider-Man had gained a rapport with that he could call in for help if times grew really tough. It would be messy, complicated… yet even as the entire day had gone from weird way to wake up to multiversal crisis? , doing nothing but piling more and more stress upon Peter's shoulders… he never saw the bookstore that he'd gone to on his first date with MJ. He never saw someone he used to go to school with walk by like he wasn't even there. He didn't go back to an empty apartment that should be, by all means, filled with capital-H-Home types of things.

Maybe , Peter thought, I can make a life here.

Hence the tears and the guilt and the grief, because was Peter allowed to move on? Was he allowed to… to leave it all behind? Leave all the bad things in the past?

Peter was The Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man! after all, and wasn't he letting Queens - his people - down if he didn't fight tooth and nail to get back to them?

( Them . Because maybe if his apartment wasn't home, then the rooftops and nightlife and vigilante team-ups were .

(Was he allowed to have that?)

Because even though Peter Parker had been forgotten, Spider-Man hadn't, and looking back on it, Peter hadn't been appreciating Johnny or Daredevil or Deadpool as much as he really should have been. Their friendship was what kept him going, and now Peter sat here sobbing about how he had nothing to go back to and-

And he had a whole city .

Huh.

What did a meager apartment mean compared to that?)

Peter wiped his eyes with the cuff of his sweater, checking his pockets for his fifteen cents, gum wrapper, lint, and cellphone, and felt like laughing out loud, in between the silent sobs that wracked his body as he crashed and burned.

He was so stupid , huh?

He'd even said it before: that Peter was more than the suit. More than the mask. But that meant also that the mask was more than just Spider-Man.

Spider-Man is Peter Parker, after all.

So maybe… just maybe… there was something (some one . maybe even multiple someones) waiting for him.

(No. Not even maybe… they were.

Because Peter has weekly movie nights with Johnny and has been learning hand-to-hand from Daredevil for the past year and has a favorite rooftop to eat fast food with Deadpool on.

And maybe they weren't MJ and Ned and May and Happy… but Peter cared about them.

Whichever identity they were a part of - Peter Parker or Spider-Man - Peter was (contrary to his own belief, apparently) both of them.

They were him, and he was them, and Peter… may actually have a home after all.)

Maybe Peter's grave ( hypothetical grave) wouldn't be flowerless. Deadpool did have a fondness for elaborate bouquets, after all.

But maybe - just maybe - Peter should try to get back before they start worrying.

(He wouldn't wish grief upon anyone, and, truly thinking about it…

They… would all grieve for him… just as he would mourn them.

And Peter can't lose anyone else.)

So Spider-Man may be in an alternate universe!

He trusted his friends (if - when - he gets back, maybe his family?) to take care of Queens while Spider-Man was away, and really… isn't that all a teenage vigilante can ask for?

(Daredevil would probably beg to differ. He was apparently of the opinion that Peter deserved more than a lonesome first-aid kit and nights without backup.

…

May would have liked him.

(May did like him - Matt Murdock, that is.

And if Matt could be both Daredevil and Matt Murdock in Peter's mind… then Peter could be Spider-Man, too.

He could have friends, too.))

Somehow, things weren't magically better after Peter's wonderful epiphany. In fact, he felt even worse after realizing that he actually did want to go home , and not be stranded in a brand-fucking-new universe.

Go figure.

Waking up gasping for breath, covered in his own tears and sweat, Peter felt more refreshed than ever! Not patrolling had helped with conserving the energy he had gained from the dinner the previous night, which then was able to be put toward erasing the last remaining aches in Peter's ribs as well as soothe the last dredges of his concussion. Overall, Peter was feeling rested, relaxed, and ready for the day!

(Nearly all of that may have been a lie Peter told himself just to gain the energy to get off of his cot. No matter: his ribs and concussion had been healed, and even if Peter felt like something died in his mouth (and heart, but that was more of a long term issue), he still forced himself to stand up.)

Folding up his cot like he saw others around him doing, Peter noted the drawstring bag he had been given the night before when checking into the shelter. Noticing a new face, they had supplied him with what they called, "The Basics," but Peter had yet to look in the bag yet, too caught up in, well, everything to even care.

The shelter volunteers were dragging out the tables for breakfast while Peter and the others who had spent the night moved cots off to the side. Peter was mostly just following the lead of those around him, but eventually, the tables were set up, and he took a seat at the far end of one of the few empty ones, and checked inside the bag.

It ended up including much of stuff Peter and May had given out in the past after coming back from the blip: toothbrush, toothpaste, a reusable water bottle (already filled!), a small first aid kit, two pairs of gloves, socks, a couple of granola bars and packages of crackers, a small emergency aluminum blanket and some hand warmers, and a small flashlight. It was, all in all, very well stocked up. The drawstring bag was bulging from the amount of stuff that was in it, and Peter made a note to prioritize getting a better backpack to put it all in. Something that would be less easy for someone to snatch and run with.

That, however, was a task for when Peter had money, though, of which he currently had… oh right, fifteen cents.

What a joy.

...

Breakfast was nice.

(Peter couldn't think of any other word to describe it. He was being fed. The food was free and edible and Peter appreciated the volunteers' work, even if he could have put away a breakfast triple the size of this meal. But that was more of a him thing, since the breakfast was a normal size for any normal person.)

Nutrition was going to be Peter's top issue: he needed a job , and he needed one yesterday in order to be able to afford the amount of calories he had to pack away on a regular basis. After having read more about Gotham the previous day, and experiencing the residents general suspiciousness, Peter had an inkling that his worries about needing an ID might end up being… less of an issue that he anticipated.

That's not to say Peter was going to delve into a life of illegal activities! No-sir-ee! That was not his plan! But… In a world that is going to work against him (Although, it isn't so much him the world is working against (as in, cross-universal travelers) but the people who fight to survive poverty and homelessness in general. The systems put in place by the government keep people in a perpetual cycle of homelessness and financial instability, and work against a lot of marginalized groups, such as LGBTQ+ teens and racial minorities. But Peter's point still stands: in a country that won't help its people live ) then it is up to the citizens and those who are struggling to find ways to make things work.

And? If the solution happens to be getting a job illegally (due to his lack of ID)?... Well then Peter has to eat somehow .

(It wasn't just a New Jersey issue - it was an issue the whole United States faced, but it was also a problem no one could really understand but those who have been forced to live with it. And for those people? They were focused on living . No one chooses this life. It is nearly impossible to protest and petition and bring attention to one's cause when there are more pressing survival issues to face: such as where one's next meal is coming from.

May had tried to make a difference. She had made a difference. Peter… Peter is realizing now that he hasn't tried. He's been utterly complacent… and the guilt of that indisputable fact burns . Peter has known food insecurity - with May and after - and has known homelessness before (when the blipped all came back… it was chaos) but it had been a common thing throughout the entirety of Peter's world. He and May weren't the only ones without a home - it was half of the freaking population . And so it hadn't sunk in as much - because Peter may have been homeless before but the entire world had turned their attention to the issue, and he had benefited from it.

That's not to say that the poverty and housing crisis had been fixed in Peter's world, and he couldn't exactly feel guilty about the laws of an entirely different universe (as much as his subconscious wanted to be)… but in the end, Peter had failed to recognize the daily neighborhood issues a significant percentage of the population faced.

Peter had once wondered how he could be the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man without a neighbor hood to protect, but really, in the end, it's the neigh bors who were - are - the important ones.)

Peter began eating quicker, tuning out the chattering of the people around him, when he was broken out of his single-minded focus by someone sitting down beside him.

The face was unfamiliar (Duh, Parker) but still smiled widely at him, "Hey there!" the person greeted, although they didn't really seem to expect an answer, based on the way they instantly turned to their food without waiting for a reply.

Ha! Peter lived to surprise! So, swallowing his bite, Peter turned to face the person, "Hello."

The stranger's eyebrows lifted, "Hey, hey, he speaks! Some of the others down the table," the man gestured to a group of people sitting at the end of the long cafeteria-style table Peter had been sitting at, "We were trying to get your attention, but couldn't tell if you were focused on your food or just shy."

"And if I had been shy?"

"Well then I guess I would have eaten breakfast in silence!"

Peter smiled. He liked the man, with his exuberant personality, "Good thing I'm not shy, then."

The man laughed, "The name is Nic! You new here?" It was phrased like a question but Peter knew it was a statement, "Is it that obvious?" Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, "I… I ended up kinda being dumped here yesterday. Don't really know the low-down of Gotham yet."

Nodding sagely, Nic thumped his fist on the table, "I'll help you out-" "Peter." "-Peter," the man continued, "Ol' Nic has tons of Gotham City know-hows! C'mon, scooch down to the end of the table. Me 'n my friends'll help you out."

Something akin to hope bloomed in Peter's chest, "Ah, thanks!"

Breakfast was good .

The company was kind, and Peter's danger sense had dulled down to the tiniest whisper. He smiled more in that singular breakfast than Peter could remember smiling in the past few weeks , and it surprised him more than his companions when Peter laughed , the sound rusty and unnatural and Peter wanted to cry . His companions just laughed along with him, smiled, and didn't ask questions, but answered all of his.

Finding out that the shelter didn't offer lunch was mildly disappointing, but it did create a reason for Peter to stay out the whole day to get his bearings. Saying goodbye was harder than Peter thought it would be, but Nic just waved and said, "See'ya around!" and everything felt right .

The first couple hours of the morning proved unfruitful when it came to job searching (as expected) but after taking Nic's advice about offering to do labor in some of the residential neighborhoods (apparently, despite Gothamites general distrust for the world, they were still like people from any other place and preferred to pay other people to do their manual labor), Peter managed to earn some money by trimming peoples hedgings or cleaning brush and other menial lawn work. Due to his enhanced nature, Peter was able to finish any job given to him quickly, and by the time three in the afternoon rolled around, Peter had managed a solid sum of $77 after doing work for five different people. At the last house, the person inside - a sweet older woman - even gave Peter a sandwich after he finished working, which he appreciated greatly, and decided to call it a day for working, figuring he could go back to the library and begin work on forging a birth certificate.

Aside from narrowly avoiding getting his bag snatched by employing a combination of his sixth sense paired with an ungraceful shuffle to the side, Peter hadn't run into any trouble for the entire day - a very nice change of pace, in his opinion.

Idly, as Peter walked down the sidewalk, he wondered who else would answer if he called the other numbers he had memorized.

(If Daredevil's number had been some helpful guy (if gruff, which, to be fair, did suit Daredevil's personality), and Johnny had been someone cheerful who had been vaguely willing to play along with what he thought to be a joke in the beginning… )

So there were some baseline similarities. Maybe they weren't vigilantes in this world (although maybe they were? Peter didn't have enough data to make an accurate hypothesis), but their roles and temperaments in relation to Peter's life were somewhat similar.

… No way it would be that easy.

Peter felt the smooth cover of the flip phone in his pocket, and thought of the two numbers he had programmed in.

...

It wouldn't hurt to try.