Chapter Text
Peter Parker is no stranger to loss.
Or to grief, for that matter
Yet as he lies on the stained bathroom floor of his apartment, the blood from his arms splattering onto the tiles,
The pain hit harder than ever.
1 year and 3 months ago, May Parker passed away during a vicious conflict between the Green Goblin and Spider-Man
She sustained injuries to her spine, legs, neck, and right arm; there’s nothing they could've done.
It was completely and utterly fatal
It was regarded as a “truly tragic casualty”, and the public mourned the loss of a woman they never knew. Then her death was discarded, forgotten, buried underneath the demand for new stories and reports and never mentioned again.
The remorse has grown into an ugly voice in his head
You're a liability to this city.
It torments him
It consumes him, his thoughts, his body
He leans into petty criminals’ punches, and he doesn't bother dodging the pocket knives or the bullets that are consistently aimed at him.
He knows someone out there is disappointed in him; he can feel it every time he gains a new bruise or a new bullet in his abdomen.
Pain flares through his thigh as he shifts, and he grits his teeth and forces himself upright from the bathroom floor.
The room spins, his vision tunnels, his legs buckle beneath him.
And he’s on the ground.
again
The tiles are cool on his cheek, and there's blood seeping from his leg, his arms, his head, onto the floor. But he has to get up. He has to, otherwise he’s going to die on his bathroom floor, and then what was the point of it all? Ben, May, MJ, Ned, Mr Stark, he's the last one who remembers their time spent together.
Get the hell up, Parker.
Too pathetic to pull yourself out of your own misery. You’re going to die alone.
“Shut up.” he grits out, the taste of copper is prominent in his mouth now, and he feels nauseous. The bile is racing up his throat.
He hauls his arm onto the cabinet in front of him, feeling around in the contents until he pricks his finger on what he’s looking for.
bingo
A somewhat clean sewing needle and thread.
He holds it in his shaking, blood-stained hands
Time to get to work.
He winces as the point pricks his skin.
“Okay,” he whispers to no one “, Okay.”
“You’ve done this before, what's once more?”
He tells himself, voice shaking with uncertainty.
God, he wishes May were here, combing her cold fingers through his hair, cradling his head as he bled onto the floor.
Wow. It's impressive how pitiful you are
“I really don't need this right now”, he grunts, forcing the needle across his wound.
Don't you? You need me.
“I don't need anyone, I stopped relying on people a long time ago- Jesus.. What the hell am I even doing right now? Talking to myself, this is a new low,” Peter grumbles, biting back a yelp as he continues to stitch through the pain
HA! Of course, you need people; you can't do anything on your own.
“No. I don't, I'm doing this myself right now”
Oh really? What about Tony, Ben, May-
“Shut up.”
MJ, Ned-
“Shut.up.” his voice cracked underneath the pressure
What about Skip? You-
“SHUT UP. You're just a fucking voice in my head, you know jack shit about me, so just shut the fuck up.” His voice came out strained and younger than he intended at all.
silence
He couldn't help the tears from spilling; nobody was here to hold him, to yell at him, to slap him out of it. Nobody was here; he had made sure of that.
-
“FRANK! It's me! It's Matthew!”
Matt's choked words fell upon deaf ears as Frank’s forearm dug deeper into his throat, the axe in his hand trembling slightly as he studied the man before him.
He stepped back, if only slightly, and released his grip.
“Goddamn it, Frank.”
“What’re you doing here.” His voice was hoarse from conversations he never got to have.
Matt ran a hand down his face, the action making him look older, emphasising the worry lines and eyebags already borne into his face.
“How you been – good?”
Frank's eyes narrowed, and he turned away, making his way to his work bench, littered with pills, ammo and medical supplies
Breathing heavily, he popped 2 unlabelled tablets and turned to Matt again, who was readjusting his tie.
“Peachy”
A beat passed as two men who had lost everything stared at each other, two sides of the same coin, so similar, yet so different.
“What do you want” Frank ground out, the anguish from years of internal torture seeping into his voice.
“A client of mine-” Matt started, but he was promptly cut off by the change of channels from the old televisions stacked on top of each other in the corner of the room.
Both men instinctively turned in an instant, bodies poised for action in a moment's notice.
Through hazy static, a voice cut through the silence.
“J. Jonah Jameson reporting, new footage has been submitted through our tipline of the one and only spider-menace”
Matt's head tilted slightly, processing information. Frank stole a glance at him before slowly inching towards the TV.
“The video shows Spider-Man stalking an innocent man on the way to a warehouse, truly despicable! Are we really going to allow this to continue to happen?! In other words, we ran a poll to see who was more popular, the Avengers or the New Avengerz, the results are shocking!”
The rest of the news report faded into the background as both Frank and Matt locked eyes, sharing a mutual understanding of vigilanteism and the weight that followed.
Until Frank promptly banged a fist on top of the TV, shutting it down and causing an already spreading crack to venture further up the screen
“Damn bug is gonna get himself killed”
His voice came like nails on a chalkboard compared to the silence that festered in the room not moments ago.
“Aren't we all”.
-
He always finds himself back here, a reminder of what was, of what could've been.
“JOSIES” the neon lights stand as a beacon against the world of shadows constantly swirling around him.
Matt breathes in the air, it's gritty, filled with smoke, piss, and weed. You name it, he smells it.
He folds his cane in on itself, wincing as he stretches an injury too far on his arm.
He lets out a sigh, the breath bitter on his nose.
It’s night, the street lights buzz with anticipation as the words Matt desperately tries to say die in his throat.
“Foggy I..Shit..” He holds his head in his hands, holding back a sob as the world moves around him.
Until it doesn't. And someone is colliding into his shoulder.
The person's heartbeat is fast, breath is ragged, and he smells of cigarettes and Axe body spray.
“Oh- shit, my bad – you good man?”
Matt pauses, taking in the interaction, tilting his head slightly
“Yeah, I'm fine,” he responds quickly, burying his hands into his coat and turning his full body towards the stranger.
“I'm Matt”, he offers, he’s not sure why, but it slips into the awkward silence between them.
He holds out a hand
The man...- No, child on the opposite side of him hesitates before shaking it, his hands are cold, and covered in scars.
“Uhm- I’m Pe-..” he pauses again his heart stuttering. “Ben.”
Huh.
A lie.