Chapter Text
He watched the cop get pulled out of the car, sleeves soaked in red, hair sticking onto forehead slicked with sweat. He heard the sirens, though they felt distant, buried, muffled in a place far far away from where he was standing. He could feel it when DeWolff grabbed him by the arms, shaking him, but his eyes- his eyes couldn’t tear away from the sight.
He had nearly killed a cop. Or did he already? He couldn’t tell. Not with the headache already threatening to kick back in with the ringing in his ears and the shallow breaths of oxygen that barely kept him upright. Did he-
Did Spider-man just kill someone?
“DeWolff, is she hurt? I-Is she okay?” He barely managed to breathe out, already moving without thinking, stumbling over his own steps. He couldn’t see or feel anything, not the fire burning in the back, not Scorpion’s groans, not the radio on the cops’ vests, all he could see was the blood on her head, on the windshield, on his hands- his hands were shaking, she was still, she was unmoving, laying down, is she-
“Spiderman!”
He was snapped out from his trance momentarily, and slowly the background noises became clearer. The shouting. Tyres rolling. Barricade tapes snapping. The citizens of Queens staring at someone they once believed to be their hero, someone has just flipped over a police car with a lethal weapon.
“Spiderman. What is going on with you?” DeWolff’s clasp on his arm tightened. He felt his focus finally pulled back to what was in front of him. The cop lady who’d been the only person he really ever calls or talks to nowadays. The one who trusted him when no one else did. The one who could give him a shred of that assurance from long ago where he felt like he did something right. DeWolff was now staring up at him, eyebrows furrowed with this look of horror and disappointment in her eyes.
Disappointment. It’s been a long while since someone knew him enough to give him that look. He thinks the last time was probably the aftermath of a ferry being torn in half, and while it makes his guts twist, he feels a sick sense of irrational nostalgia.
“I don’t know what’s happening to you, but,” DeWolff spoke, voice stern with hints of disbelief. “Go home. Come back only when you get this fixed.”
He watched DeWolff storm off, straight to where the injured cop was. And it was back again- the ringing in his ears and the piercing headache through his skull. Holding onto his head in groans, he knew he had to get out of here right now. Swinging up onto the roofs with a thud, Spider-man faded into the shadows once again.
He allowed the unnatural sensation of organic web shooting out of his wrist to distract him from his headache as he navigated his way through the streaks and blurs of buildings. But with the ache tearing him apart and the dark skies and coloured lights of NYC, he was brought back to the time he had disintegrated in Mr.Stark’s arms.
He remembered the tearing pain. He remembered the fear. He remembered how everything slowly crumbled into darkness. Right now, it feels a little similar. But maybe without the fear. And the tearing pain is without an end. And without the warmth of Tony Stark’s non-iron Ironman suit. He misses it a little, being 16 years old and fading away in someone’s arms though he didn’t want to.
Now he is… 23. And he kind of wanted that again.
“Go home. Come back only when you get this fixed.”
There was no home for him. No fix for this. Maybe there was a fix for his arachnid hormones. But Ned’s wall of Spider-man’s traces, the faces that absolutely were not his, stuck onto the wall, his look of confusion upon meeting Peter’s own eyes- There was no fix for that. The view last night of MJ’s hands tracing along another man’s jaw, her hips pressing against another man’s hips, her lips touching another man’s lips- There was no fix for that. None that wouldn’t possibly lead them down the same path that Aunt May ended up in.
So when his wrist chose not to shoot out the web when he was about to sling to the next building, he wasn’t sure if what he felt was a sense of relief. He did feel himself fall. Down, and down, and further down, he sees the barbed alleyway fences below him and he closes his eyes because it might hurt a little and-
The world went black.
Peter was not expecting to jolt back awake this soon.
And by this soon, he meant a literal split second right after the world around him went black, and suddenly, the world around him is too bright, too bright even for an NYC night, His clothes felt too comfortable to have been ones he just fought in, his headache was receding a little too quickly, and his body was feeling a little too…. Normal.
Peter’s vision cleared a bit. He realised that his head was buried in his arms, his shoulders hunched over at a table, and right beneath him where his eyes could see was a phone on the table. One he hadn’t seen in a while. People would logically call it an artifact.
Why does he have his phone from back in 2016?
“Dude. Peter,” He heard a voice and felt a palm land on his shoulder. He didn’t need another sentence to recognise that voice, and he felt himself freeze up. It can’t be. This was another sick dream. Another sick memory.
“Peter, are you okay?”
That was a voice he hadn’t heard in a while. Slowly, eyes wide, he lifted his head off the table and he found himself in a place he’d of course recognised- the academic decathlon team’s meeting site. Midtown School of Science and Technology’s very own library.
And to his right was Ned, whose hand was on his shoulder and- holy shit, it was the exact same Ned he knew. But to be fair, Ned had barely changed even after joining MIT, he still looked the same, and now he looks exactly as Peter remembers during their high school days.
And right in front of him was… well, put simply, the love of his life. Michelle Jones. She looked a bit different from her MIT years, having a more matured look in the later years of her Uni life (And he understood why another man would’ve already gotten with her before he could even get to know her more after the ‘everyone-forgot-him’ spell) but, god- She was still as stunning as ever.
But what stunned Peter more was why the fuck was he in Midtown High right after fighting the weird mind possession person and nearly killing a cop.
“Peter, do you need a break?” Mr. Harrington repeated from the front of the table with a very concerned expression that most of those at the table wore on their faces. “You can take one if you need to.”
“I- yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter managed out, voice a little weak. He definitely did not sound like someone who was fine. But as he slowly adjusted to the surroundings, he let himself take a breath and steady, beginning to sort things out within his brain.
Right. This must be the work of the mind possession freak. Why else would he revisit a memory from such a long time ago? He must’ve lowered his guard or was unable to defend his own mind properly after whatever the hell that ordeal was with his arachnid hormones, and- that’s right. The freak got to him. Got to his head. Now he’s stuck with people he never thought would recognise him again. Quietly, he considered whether he should indulge himself a bit more or try to return to reality.
His phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down at it to see a notification from Happy.
Oh. It’s that day. The day he officially got recruited by Tony Stark. Though he ended up declining. But hey, at least he still ended up with the suit at the end.
“Sorry, on second thought,” Peter spoke, clutching his phone to his chest. “Um, I think I do need a break.”
He stood up from the table and felt everyone stare at him, Ned especially, with that ‘should the guy in the chair tag along?’ look. Peter blinked at him for a moment, still taking in the sight of him and this memory he’d missed way too much, and shook his head with a sad, soft smile. Ned nodded slowly, eyebrows still furrowed in mild concern, and watched Peter head for the bathroom.