Chapter Text
A pressure settled over him.
Over his chest, slowly spreading out to his limbs before making it all the way to his fingertips and toes, until he felt like even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t. Not even with his superhuman strength. And wasn’t that intriguing? He could lift buildings, throw cars, and make concrete crumble with his bare hands, but even thinking about lifting a finger right now made him want to throw up the non-existent food in his stomach.
He found the feeling oddly comforting, even though he knew full well that he probably should get up soon. He knew the logical thing to do would be to stand up and never look back. To leave this place once and for all, lest he be haunted by it forever.
Peter didn't move. He was just so goddamn exhausted, so what was the harm in just taking a few more, much-needed minutes? Slowly but surely, the cold around him seeped into his body and lungs, penetrating the layers of skin, fat, and muscle, reaching all the way to his bones and intensifying the weight on his body tenfold.
He was lying in the thick layer of snow that had formed over the past few days, in the middle of Central Park. Where nobody bothered enough to clean up, because who even came to Central Park in the middle of January, whilst the temperatures dropped below freezing?
Well, obviously someone else, crazier than Peter ‘I wear spandex at night for fun’ Parker, who also just so happened to carry a gun around. Presumably also for fun. Wasn’t it just embarrassingly pathetic that this was the end of Peter Parker’s, and more importantly, Spider-Man’s legacy?
He could already see the engraving on his tombstone: ‘Here lies Peter Parker, the guy who took pictures of Spider-Man, shot in the chest just like his uncle.’ That was, if somebody bothered enough to bury him. They might as well just leave him here until he rots and becomes one with the ground below, because right now, he was a nobody. The man lying here in a puddle of his own blood was Peter.
Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man.
Of course, the one time he had indulged in the self-pity and moping that came with the start of every year, he had been reminded of why exactly he didn’t do this more often. He had been doomed the second he set foot over the doorstep of his apartment building's entrance. Immediately, he had felt his body get heavier and movements grow sluggish. His eyelids dangerously close to falling shut and ready to do so as soon as his body found a safe and warm place to go into diapause and sleep away the cold weeks ahead.
He had, however, through sheer stubbornness, dragged his feet ahead to just walk. To walk in some pathetic attempt to forgive and forget. It was no wonder that his legs, moving on autopilot, brought him to the park where, as a child, he would spend the better part of his summers. Going picnicking with May, playing in the grass with MJ, and Ben giving him kite flying lessons. The grounds now missed their color, warmth, and the warm laughter he had grown accustomed to hearing there, and he wasn't going to deny the little tear that had slipped from his eye.
As he lay on his back in the snow, his soon-to-be murderer already long gone, he couldn’t help but find this situation ironically funny. How it started this way; a bullet lodging itself into a chest. The start and -however pathetic- end of Spider-Man.
He had gone full circle now. Hilarious.
His breathing came in short, labored pants as the shooting pain in his side dulled down to a bone-deep ache, only slightly dulled by the iciness already occupying the space. Taking his last moments on this god-forsaken, good-for-nothing earth to reminisce, he glanced down, eyes sweeping over his body, the holes in his side and chest leaking red sluggishly. The vibrant red, being the only splash of color in this place, shaded in grey.
Peter couldn't help the soft huff of a laugh that shook his limp frame painfully, and inadvertently made him groan. To think that even now, on his deathbed, Peter was the only one bringing any sort of color into this dull world. Did it really matter if the red came from his suit or his veins? Alas, he won't even be able to see this place crumble without him anyway, his body not bringing up enough energy to knit itself back together, as it usually would after patrols.
How could it, after all, if all he had been eating for the last few weeks had been microwaved mac n cheese and canned soup? The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, hero, vigilante, and menace of New York City, broke college dropout, destined to sell pictures of himself for two quarters a pop, with his beat-up Converse he’s probably had for 3 years too long and his scratched-up camera that even now lay heavy around his neck, like a noose, bound to choke him.
He was lying there, tarnishing the gentle blankets of snow with heavy red droplets. And as that terrifyingly familiar weight settled over his mind as well, making thinking more and more difficult, and- it wasn’t all that bad, now that he had nothing to live for anyway.
‘Is this what dying is meant to feel like?’ The thought washed over him, barely able to stick.
And yet...
Was death always this gentle and comforting? Sure, it had hurt getting shot, even now he was still reminded of his wounds, though it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore, and —wait. Was he even breathing? His chest wasn’t rising anymore. His lungs weren’t being filled with air. No oxygen was flooding through his blood and into his organs. Yet he could still feel the faint thumping of his heartbeat in his chest.
Was it meant to be like this? He didn’t know, but at least it didn’t hurt anymore.
Even with his eyes still open, he couldn’t see the trees anymore. No long branches swaying in the sharp winter wind, blocking his view from the polluted, blue-ish grey sky of the city.
His city. His home.
The black surrounding his vision grew bigger and bigger until all he could make out, in the center of the sky, was the small crescent moon shining down upon him, illuminating the paling features of his face softly.
Peter had always been interested in the universe and its possibilities. Multidimensional travel, alternate realities, new elements, and alien life were fascinating, but sometimes he forgot how it all started. So consumed by wanting to know more, more, more, thinking of new theories, experimenting with anything fascinating, and making, crafting, doing anything to keep his mind occupied.
The moon. So far away and small, yet giant at the same time. Not even a star. It had no energy to shine as brightly as its brothers and sisters in this infinitely big void around them. Yet, Peter could see it as clear as ever, even as his sight grew completely blank. Its shape burned into the back of his eyes. He could hear the world grow silent, feel the earth stop moving underneath him, and as he took a last shallow breath, Peter Benjamin Parker, the amazing Spider-Man, smiled his last smile, finally ready to find his peace, promptly ceased to exist…
(…Until he did exist.)
Ever so slowly opening his eyes, Peter didn’t expect the afterlife to be quite like this.
Frankly, he hadn’t even thought there was an afterlife at all, but it looked like he had been wrong, as he was seemingly encapsulated by nothingness. It wasn’t exactly how he imagined nothingness. It wasn’t the absence of matter, but a deep black void, deprived of any light or color.
If only there weren’t the familiar sounds of city life he could hear as clearly as ever. Damned super hearing. The padding of feet on pavement, the sound of gunshots in the distance, sirens howling, people talking, metal clinking, dogs barking, laughter. The familiar and constant static buzz of electricity in the air made the fine hairs on Peter's whole body stand up.
This didn't matter. Everything was totally fine. Those kinds of sounds hadn’t bothered him in a long time. He was a born and raised New Yorker after all, so just tuning them out and going right back to the comforting depths of his slumber seemed easy enough.
The thought that breathing slowly and deeply was going to calm him down only lasted for about two seconds before those god-awful smells attacked his nostrils, and that was his tipping point. The drop that caused the bucket to overflow.
The thick, smog-filled air flooded his lungs, and the only thing making him not throw up right now was growing up in such a place, and maybe the lack of food in his stomach. Peter honestly hadn't thought it possible for air quality to be worse than in NYC, but he seemed to be on a streak of being proven wrong.
The sharp smell of iron in the air made his nose sting, but making him gag was the disgustingly sweet scent of rotting flesh that seemed to burn the hairs inside of his nose. Or was that just the cigarette smoke he inhaled, who knew?
Steadily blinking the tears from his watering eyes, he ever so slowly tried to sit up. His whole body ached, and Peter couldn’t suppress the groan that climbed up his throat. It felt like he had just been beaten into the ground, which was probably what happened as little bits of concrete and gravel fell from his back as he sat upright.
Carefully turning his head and looking around him, the world took on shape. Even though it was clearly the middle of the night, Peter could ever so slightly make out the bulky layers of clouds that hung heavily in the sky, which were surely coming from decades upon decades of pollution.
As Peter's eyes adjusted to the minimal lighting - vision still sharp as ever - he could make out more and more details that normal humans shouldn’t be able to see or feel. Little particles reflecting faraway light in the air, the subtle vibrations of rumbling trains in the subway underneath the ground, small hairline cracks in the pavement hundreds of feet away, words on the clothing of scattered pedestrians in the streets, the rustling of money, children still up and playing on a playground blocks away.
But he wasn’t normal anymore, was he? Or even human, for that matter.
He was sitting atop the roof of an older building that seemed to be generally well-kept. There was familiar wear and tear that came with the passage of time, but he could feel the many heartbeats of its inhabitants underneath him beating steadily, though abnormally quick.
For the first time in a while, Peter took the time to fully take in his surroundings. Not just glancing around, but taking in as many details as he could in the dark of night. He was surrounded by old Gothic architecture, dark and almost spooky in the little lighting. Gargoyles perched on every corner, with contorted faces and bared fangs that seemed sharper than stone should be.
This would be absolutely gorgeous to photograph, his mind supplied unhelpfully. The thought came randomly, and Peter felt his stomach twist in knots as one of his hands moved to the camera that wa still hanging around his neck, a comforting jet heavy weight he wasn't sure he could still carry. Sprinkled in here and there were some newer and sleeker structures that still seemed to fit in somehow. Looming and dark, and matching the overall atmosphere. The buildings were tall, but not New York tall, making his brows knit together in a frown. Where in the endless space of the universe was he?
Pulling himself up onto trembly legs, Peter carefully walked up to the side of the building that didn’t face the street and looked over the ledge. Sighing silently when he found no ladder or fire escape, he slowly crawled his way down the brick wall, painfully aware of his wounds, while avoiding windows and balconies and instinctively staying out of the sight of surveillance cameras.
His spider-sense had adapted through the years spent fighting criminals in well-documented areas, so it picked up on the never-ending flow of electricity in even the best hidden CCTV camera.
Hopping down from the wall immediately proved itself a bad idea as a lightning-sharp pain shot up his spine, causing him to stagger and lean against the wall he had just been on to steady himself.
He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth to calm himself down, silently begging the pain to go away, and briefly thinking about just taking a quick nap in this small alleyway, before his eyes landed on a puddle that looked a bit too red for his comfort. He should've stayed on the roof, where he could have slept in peace. The soul-sucking tiredness that was still clinging to his mind was getting harder and harder to fight, but there was no way in hell he was scaling that wall.
Pushing himself up, his right arm automatically moving to the side of his body that still stung badly, he let himself be led by his instincts. With half-lidded eyes, he followed the pull of his senses that assured him safety. Side-stepping more than a few people with malicious intent, he let his mind wander.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, the only thing that kept him going was the strange urge to make a big, strong web in a safe place, which led Peter to an inconspicuous brick house at the corner of a dim street.
He didn’t know how far he had walked or how long it took to get to where he was, but he found that he didn’t exactly care right now. He could feel the exhaustion deep in his bones, not trusting his legs to keep him going for much longer, he practically wanted to flatline. To just be dead to the world for approximately 16 hours and not get stabbed or shot, out here on the streets.
Seriously, what was up with this city and its citizens being armed to the teeth? He could make out the metallic tang of knives and guns even through the thick smoggy air. Standing in front of the imposing and eerie house, the only lighting was a few, flickering street lamps down the street and a whisper of moonlight that just so made it through the dark clouds.
A shiver ran up his spine as he inspected the house closer, taking note that the nearest heartbeat was alarmingly far away, and suddenly, he wasn’t so sure about this anymore. He could, however, sense something extraordinary about it, as he passed a few brightly colored signs that he didn’t even attempt to read, letting his senses take over again.
Carefully stepping over the threshold, a warm weight immediately settled in Peter's chest, and he could almost hear his spider-sense rumbling in his chest with how pleased he felt.
Before he knew it, he was lying down again, wrapped tightly in a cocoon of his own silky smooth webs. He frowned, eyes already succumbing to his exhaustion, vaguely wondering if his natural webs always were that soft or if that just came from his body feeling like it was on fire before it touched the soft fabric.
As his eyes completely fell shut, the last thing he felt was the warmth, comfort, and safety that his webs and seemingly the walls of this house were emitting, in addition to a low rumbling in his chest that made his whole body go lax and momentarily let him forget the events that had just occurred.
For the first time in years, Peter felt like he could sink into a dreamless slumber, not plagued by memories or nightmares of his past.