Chapter Text
There’s a photo in the kitchen. He’s never paid much attention to it. It feels like he’s never even seen it till four months ago, but he knows it’s been there for a while.
Today, he picks it up, brushes off the dust and stares at it.
“I don’t even remember taking this,” he says to his wife, turning the frame around and waving it so she can see.
She glances at it, “one of the school field trips, I think,” she says absently.
He looks at it again. It’s not a field trip, it says “stark internship” in pretty bold writing. But he doesn’t remember there being any internships, and he would remember that.
There’s a name on the paper the boy is holding. He squints at it, then abandons it altogether, placing it back in the back of the snake plant pot.
He’s done so much press the past few years, so Pepper’s explanation also tracks. Maybe they printed it wrong.
A week later, he’s looking at the photo again. He takes it again from where it’s hidden, and puts on his glasses.
“What’s that name?”
“Peter Parker.”
“What internship did he do?”
It takes a while for FRIDAY to respond, which is unusual from the get-go, and she goes on to say something even stranger. “Peter Parker is not in my system.”
“I figured. So, it’s—what? School trip? When was this picture taken?”
“Unable to find any memory of Peter Parker, boss.”
“Can’t be right. Someone took the time to print a certificate specifically for him, so there has to be some memory,” he says.
FRIDAY is useless.
“Okay,” he breathes out, “then find out where he’s from. Search New York—do a facial scan.”
“This is strange, boss. His files only go back four months.”
He leans back his head and raises his brows. “That is strange. Who is he?”
“Peter Benjamin Parker, eighteen, lives in Queens.”
“What school? He goes to college?”
“Unable to find his name in any school or college system.”
“Where does he live?” He feels like a stalker asking.
He gets the address, then looks at the time. It’s nearing ten-thirty. But this is an eighteen-year-old boy, so he doubts it’s bedtime any soon.
“Pep, I’ll be back in an hour,” he shouts from the kitchen.
She doesn’t look up from the couch. “You’re stalking that poor kid?”
“I’m going to meet him, there’s a difference.”
“Does he know that?”
“He will. In ten minutes,” he says, pressing his chest and letting the suit cover him.
He gets there in record time. Normally, he’d enter from the front door. But right now, he’s hovering outside the window like said stalker.
It’s dark and empty. Doesn’t look like anyone’s home. He lands on the roof, and goes through Peter’s files again.
He’s like a ghost. His name is credited for a few photographs he took of Spider-Man for the New York Examiner, and the New York Bulletin the last few months. Scratch that. All of Spider-Man’s photographs come from him. The photos for the Daily Bugle are the same angle, except no one’s credited for those.
“What is he, Spidey’s B-F-F?” he asks, eyeing the articles. They’re all close-ups, or close enough that he doesn’t think anyone could be so lucky that many times.
“Do we have his contact?” he asks. He hasn’t spoken to the guy since Thanos. He’d been a big help, and Tony doesn’t remember when they split ways.
“We do not.” She responds.
He frowns. “Let’s track him down then. Gotta be swinging off a building somewhere,” he says, flying off the roof. “This is where he usually is.”
“Last sighting on Twitter three minutes ago shows Queenboro Bridge, near 21st Street and 40th Avenue.”
“Great, let’s go,” he says, and flies out.
In minutes, he’s at the bridge, and he can’t see Spider-Man anywhere. “Search nearby—incident reports, 9-1-1 calls.”
She leads him nearby to an armed carjacking being reported a few blocks out. He lands with a thud in the alley. Spider-Man isn’t here.
Before he can do anything, their guns disappear, and two of them are upside down. He looks up.
Spider-Man is staring back at him, like he’s shell-shocked. His suit is…downgraded. He climbs down, slowly. “Sorry. Sorry, figured this would be calmer than whatever you were about to do.”
“I wasn’t about to kill them, if that’s what you’re implying.”
He breathes out a laugh, but it’s nervous and shaky. Spider-Man turns around, and sticks them to the walls with his signature move.
“What, um—what are you—what are you doing here?” he asks, and before Tony can respond, he starts talking to the couple in the car. Consoling them, asking if they’re okay—telling them police will be here soon.
As if on cue, the sirens start blaring somewhere far away, and he swings himself off the ground in an instant.
“Sorry, they really don’t like me!” he yells, mid-air, landing on the top of a nearby roof.
Tony lands next to him, and his mask retracts. “Long time.”
Spider-Man stares at him again, and he nods, again like he’s shaking. “Yeah. Yeah—how’d you find me. Why—I mean—is there like—do you need help with something—“
“No,” he says. A beat of silence, and before he can delve into the actual matter, he sits on the ledge. “You’re good, Spider-Man?”
He shakes his head first, and then turns it into a nod. “Uh huh. Yeah.”
He nods as well, and even though the answer is a total lie, he can’t really push. He doesn’t even know who it is under the mask. That’s why he does decide to continue his actual mission.
“I’ll cut to the chase. I’m looking for someone.”
“Okay. Who?”
“Peter Parker.”
He freezes. “Peter—uh, why? Why are you…looking for him?”
“I have some questions. He has answers,” he clicks his fingers and points to him, “and you clearly know him.”
“Uh, I don’t—no idea. I don’t think I can help you there.”
“That’s a lie,” he says, and he projects the last four pictures and articles about Spider-Man in front of him. “That’s you right?”
The man stares at the photos, and he’s stammering again. “Yeah—that’s—that’s me.”
“And guess whose name is right there,” he says, zooming in on the name on each article. “Ta-dah. Peter Parker. So, the chances of him just being there at the right moment are…I don’t know, zero? So, who is he, and more importantly, whereis he?”
“Just some random kid I saved. He told me some story about not being able to afford his own place. So, I figured, you know, I’d help him out.”
“Right. Right. You save him, and he sells your pictures to the scummiest newspaper in New York?”
He’s speechless for the second time, before he regains some composure. “Those—those aren’t credited, actually. I don’t think—“
“You let him take them. He took those, right?”
For a moment, he’s silent. He runs his hand over his head, and almost whispers. “Yeah.”
“And obviously he couldn’t find a better newspaper than The Daily Bugle.”
“Yeah,” he scoffs again. “I guess they pay more.”
“Because they smear his name. You’re good with that? Just to help some kid you saved? Did he tell you he’s selling to that place? Probably why he left his name off.”
He doesn’t really answer that question, just shrugs and mumbles, “it’s all lies, anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
“Okay. So who is he? I can’t find anything on him, which is, weird.”
“No offence, but he’s not really worth looking into.”
It bothers him, the way Spider-Man says that. On one hand, he’s providing pictures for the one news outlet out on a mission to name and shame him just for this kid, and on the other hand, he’s not ‘worth’ looking into?
“Agree to disagree.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why—because there Is a photo of him in my kitchen, and I need to know who he is. Is that okay with you, Mr Holmes?”
He straightens himself. “He works at Delmar’s on the weekends, and he doesn’t do much else.”
“He’s not home right now.”
He’s very clearly shocked to hear this. “You went to his apartment?” He asks, and it’s not just shock. There’s a tinge of fear.
He ignores that. “I did. Like I said, it was empty, and I don’t break-in to people’s homes, which is what your reaction tells me you think I did.”
He breathes some relief. “Uh, sorry, no, I don’t know. I only see him like once a month for the photos. So, I don’t know where he is.”
“You’re making this hard. On purpose, I can tell. I have a great nose for this type of thing.”
Spider-Man sighs. “He’s a nobody. I don’t know how you got a picture with him,” he says, like it’s unbelievable, “but he lives alone, and he’s got no family, no friends I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Tony softens. “Okay, alright. I’ll track him down myself.”
He’ about to take-off, but he stops and turns around to face him again. “Also, I need your number.”
“I don’t have a number.”
“How am I supposed to find you?”
“Like you did today.”
Peter’s life is difficult. And that’s a huge understatement.
Turns out, making everyone forget you is the start of never-ending struggles. He has no school records, so he can’t apply for MIT this year. He also has no passport or ID, so he can’t get a job or apartment. Worst of all, though, he has no friends. Family’s another thing entirely, but he guesses he wouldn’t have had that even if this didn’t happen.
In Hell’s Kitchen, a lawyer called Matt Murdock helps him with his documents. He tells Matt that he was Snapped, and when he came back, he doesn’t remember anything until now.
He’s stressed enough about the whole thing that he almost starts crying when he’s explaining this. Matt believes that, and helps him.
His apartment is always quiet. At first, straight after May, he hated being there. He stayed out as much as he could, and only came home to sleep.
Even when he’s out, it’s the noise of the city that keeps him from wanting to just disappear into a hole in the ground.
Sometimes, he thinks about what will happen if his web jams one day, and he’s too far off the ground and he plummets onto the street below. What people would do. No one would recognize him.
Maybe his landlord. He’s a nice man—thinks Peter’s undocumented and offers him a cash deal. Technically, he was when he first started renting. Tells him he won’t find any place cheaper in this part of town, and he’s right. Peter looked.
He then goes to The Daily Bugle to sell pictures of himself in the suit. It feels disgusting. Not because of the things they write, but because of everything they did on that day. For being there. For being the reason he couldn’t even hold May.
It’s a job, he tells himself. He’s getting his GED and he just needs to ride it out. It’s also a job that pays more than other newspapers will pay, and it’s enough to let him survive. He can’t overdo it—it’ll attract attention, and this is already a risky situation.
He leaves his name off of it. The Daily Bugle is infamously known for uncorroborated claims and fake news. He might be a nobody now, but he doesn’t want to stay that way. He dreams about the day he gets into college and gets his life on track again.
The day he gets an actual job.
And he doesn’t want that day to be overshadowed by him working for New York’s scummiest newspaper. It’s temporary, anyway. He tries to work more hours at Delmar’s so he won’t have to sell them at all. But with studying and patrol, he gets burnt-out sometimes. This is an easy way out.
Not that easy. He has to pay nearly two-thousand dollars for rent. He makes about half of that from Delmar’s. Sometimes more, when he’s working more shifts. And the rest from the newspaper.
He barely makes enough for rent. He does not make enough for food. His fridge is empty most of the time. Mr Delmar feeds him on shift often. Says he looks too skinny.
The days he isn’t on shift, he gets by with the help of good samaritans while he’s in the suit. He always means to pay—he does, but they never let him. And then, he guesses, he doesn’t mean to pay. Because he knows they won’t let him.
Even with that, he can’t eat enough. He’s out too long and he’s hungry all the time.
But today is Tuesday. A random weekday. That’s why he’s out near the bridge. It’s a good place to swing around. It’s also the last place he expects to see Tony.
He’s here in his suit, and he’s asking about him. And not as Spider-Man.
He deflects as much as he can, but it doesn’t work. In fact, it seems to further push the man.
When Tony leaves, he thinks about the interaction again and thinks about whether he said too much. Or too little—he imagines that’s also suspicious.
When he gets home, he does a full sweep on the place, listening out for anything out of place. Just in case someone’s waiting around the corner.
He closes the door behind him when he enters. A suffocating wave of silence hits him. Today, it’s stronger than usual.
Deep down, he was hoping Tony would do a double take and say, ‘wait, Peter?’ and have a sudden moment of realization and they’d hug and he’d apologize for not coming to him sooner.
Then, he remembers Ben getting shot right in front of him. He remembers May’s last breath in his arms. Happy’s apartment getting completely totaled—what if he’d been there?—MJ falling off the bridge and him not being able to catch her.
He remembers EDITH. Mr Stark had been livid and rightfully so. He’d nearly gotten a city wiped out and it was all because he knew Tony.
He makes bad decisions. He makes the most terrible decisions, actually, and it hurts everyone around him. Even when he tries his hardest not to, he’s destructive.
So, everyone’s safer this way.