Chapter Text
Not A Hero
He didn't know from where he had fallen.
Or how or why he fell in the first place.
Peter just fell.
Through timelines and dimensions.
Always into a new version of himself. Living their life. His life.
From the very beginning, to its ultimate end.
Growing up.
Becoming Spider-Man.
Dying. Sometimes more than once per lifetime.
Never once remembering any of his previous lives before falling into a new one again.
Again and again and again.
Until he fell for a final time.
After lying on the dingy, cold, wet, and incredibly uncomfortable warehouse floor where he had found himself waking up after his fall, Peter spent a long time looking around him.
It was something that he had done many times in his many lives.
When everything inside of him became overwhelming, it often helped him to focus on his surroundings.
The ceiling high above him, with its visible mold and water damage. (That didn’t have a Peter shaped hole in it, so whatever magic portal or other scientific phenomena had spat him out inside this warehouse, instead of the air above it.)
The broken and dusty crates that were stacked badly in the far right corner.
The aforementioned floor he was lying on, which wasn’t in any way different from any other warehouse floor he had ever encountered, that had a foreign feel to it.
The very air had a foreign feel to it. One he had become unfortunately familiar with in more than one of his lives.
He spent a ridiculous time looking at the walls. Enough to become plenty familiar with the long, vertical crack in one of them, and the deeply annoying sound of dripping water from some busted pipe behind it. Annoying enough to finally make him haul himself up and out of the building.
As he walked through the unfamiliar streets of the place he had landed in, Peter came to a couple of realizations.
First, different from his previous reincarnations, this time he remembered each and every one of them.
Every time he became Spiderman (12 at his youngest, 23 at his oldest), and every time he died in and out of the mask (72 years was by far the oldest he had gotten to live. 14 the youngest he had died.)
He remembered every single person he had ever loved. And every single one he lost. Always that little bit different. Yet still the same.
Second, while he still had no idea how this whole falling through time, space and reincarnations even started, (or why), he knew this latest (final?) fall was fundamentally different to the others.
Peter was not starting out as a baby, crying in his mother’s arms.
Instead he was a fully grown adult, (a quick look at his reflection in a shop window had him place his age in his mid thirties, clothed in worn jeans and a hoodie. He sadly carried no personal items aside from the webshooters that were, as always, strapped to his wrists), and he had somehow ended up in a completely different universe.
Not the first time this had happened to him, actually.
In several of his previous lives Peter had been booted into a different reality. Both Peter and his spidey-sense could feel the change.
The unfamiliar streets he was walking along belonged to a city named Gotham, (a name picked up by his enhanced senses from overheard conversations, shop signs, and newspapers strewn around in dark alleys), which was apparently located in New Jersey.
His New Yorker pride had needed a moment to be at peace with this bit of information.
The city was dark and cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather or time of day. And the people that seemed to be living in Gotham reflected the city’s vibe.
Distant, wary, resigned.
They reminded Peter of civilians in a warzone. An experience he had made in thankfully only a few of his lives. (Still too many. It was always too many.)
Which brought him to his third revelation.
As much as this city might benefit from having Spider-Man around, Peter wasn’t going to don the costume.
Ninetynine lifetimes.
It seemed ridiculous that he would know exactly the number of times he had lived the life of Peter Parker/Spider-Man. And yet, there was no doubt in his mind about it.
99 versions of Peter Parker had been bitten by a genetically modified, radioactive spider.
99 versions of Peter Parker had suffered through his body being mutated from that bite.
99 versions of Peter Parker had become the vigilante/hero Spider-Man.
99 versions of Peter Parker had been betrayed by someone he trusted; more than once.
99 versions of Peter Parker had buried too many of his loved ones.
Fought too many of his enemies.
Suffered too many catastrophic wounds. Broke countless bones, lost life threatening amounts of blood. Severed limbs and ruptured organs, many of which he had not been able to grow back.
Lies and secrecy and broken promises and disappointing the people in his lives left and right, all for the mask.
Constant pressure of expectation and bone deep exhaustion from obligation, bearing down on him through the combined weight of 99 lifetimes.
99 versions of Peter Parker had gone through hell multiple times physically, mentally, and emotionally, and the 100th version of Peter Parker remembered them all.
And he was beyond tired.
With great power comes great responsibility.
Six simple words, said by a man Peter had loved and respected like no other in each and every lifetime.
Yet only in a few of those had he had the opportunity to realize that his uncle's words had never been meant in the way he had interpreted for himself.
Ben Parker had never known of the powers his young nephew was equally cursed and blessed with. His words had never been meant to pave the path of a vigilante. He had never intended for Peter to go out looking for trouble and placing himself in danger.
Powers and ability could not be made into an obligation for heroism.
In the same way that unenhanced people could not be forced to give most of their money to charity, become a member of the police force, firefighters, paramedics, join the military, or any of the other professions that were directly geared towards keeping others safe, while placing yourself in danger.
It had taken an accumulated 3000+ years of living as Peter Parker, with more than 2000 of those years spent being Spider-Man, but Peter finally understood that.
With great power comes great responsibility, but that didn’t mean that Peter needed to put himself in danger. Needed to risk his life again and again. Had to expose himself to one horror after another. Always place his personal life second.
He didn’t regret becoming Spider-Man. How could he, when being a hero had saved countless lives and connected him to people that had become close friends, family, and more.
But in this 100th life, for once, Peter Parker would not be an afterthought of Spider-Man.
No mask, no suit, no secret identity.
This time, Peter would live his life as a civilian, not a hero.
Up ahead, a woman was turning into a narrow side street, and three men who had been casually leaning against one of the houses nearby followed her in with smirks on their faces.
Peter quickened his pace, jogging to catch up to them.
Peter Parker was not a hero, going out to look for crime to stop.
With great power comes great responsibility.
But he was an enhanced civilian with more crime fighting experience than most heroes could dream of. And just because he wasn’t a hero, didn’t mean he would ever turn a blind eye when someone needed help.
This is getting ridiculous, Peter thought to himself as he punched the last of the seven wannabe robbers into unconsciousness.
This was the third time (the third!!) in little more than an hour (his rough estimation of time since he wasn’t currently in possession of either a watch or a phone), that he had to get between thugs and their intended victim.
Either some higher power was punishing Peter for having chosen to not garb himself in spandex and swing between buildings, or something was seriously wrong with this city.
It was the middle of the day, too! (Well, as far as he could tell, anyway. The skies here were as overcast and depressing as the rest of the apparently aptly named Gotham.)
Thinking about the police response with the first two incidents, Peter was leaning towards the second theory.
During his first encounter with Gotham's crime, he had worried about not having any kind of identification when he waited with the woman he had saved in that alley, for the police to arrive. But the officers had barely stopped long enough to write down what had happened, before cuffing and loading the criminals into the back of the van and driving off.
No request to accompany them to the station to make a detailed statement, no taking down names and phone numbers in case there were further questions later.
Peter had wondered if maybe this universe had different ways to process their criminals, but then the woman had spat a “Damn corrupt pigs, gonna let those assholes run at the next fucking corner.” under her breath as the police van had driven away.
Peter must have looked particularly clueless, since she had sighed and given him a sad smile.
“You must be new around here. Welcome to Gotham, the home of corrupt cops, psychopathic criminals, and a prison system that can’t seem to keep them locked up. If not for the Bats, this place would have probably burned to the ground long ago. Might have been better if it had. Who knows. Anyway, thank you. Not a lot of folks would have bothered to help some random person on the street. Try not to let your altruism kill you before this city beats it out of you entirely.”
And then she had been on her way, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Barely half an hour later, when he had stepped in again to shield a group of five children from what looked like some gang members, it had gone down similarly.
The kids had hidden behind a nearby car. (Good, though Peter would have preferred for them to find a hiding place farther away, or better yet, get out of the area entirely.)
To Peter, their response had been too ‘normal’. Too ‘used to’. None of them could have been older than 12, yet they had handled what should have been a very scary situation for kids their age remarkably well.
Peter didn’t like it.
None of the kids had a phone and it had taken quite a few minutes for him to flag down someone who would call the cops.
The kids had been wary of him at first (Good. Clever. An obvious necessity the more he saw of this city. And damn fucking heartbreaking), but had gradually gotten bolder in their questions of him.
“Are you a new Robin?”,
“Don’t be stupid, Mike. The Robins aren’t out during the day. Maybe he is a new Signal?”,
“He isn’t wearing a suit, or a cape, or a mask, though. And, he is too old. So he can’t be a Robin or a Signal, Jenny.”,
“Maybe he is like that guy in that movie we watched at Marissa’s house? Are you a Navy Otter?”,
“Navy Seal, Scott. He was a Navy Seal.”,
“You are so anal about this stuff, Adam. Well, are you a Navy Seal, Mister?”,
“Marissa! Don’t just ask him that! What if he is on a super secret mission and now he has to kill us because we know too much?”
Peter had breathed a silent sigh of relief. This, at least, felt like a much more ‘kids being kids’ reaction than the ‘expect shit to go down’ attitude from before. And, if this talk about Robins and Signals was anything to go on, Peter felt pretty secure in speculating that this world had some heroes and/or vigilantes running around. Which could be a good thing, considering his current circumstances. (It could also be very bad, but Peter was trying to think positive for now.)
“Not a Robin, not a Signal, not part of the cape and mask wearing community. Not a hero. Not any kind of marine animal or military personnel, and no secret missions that require me to eliminate witnesses. I’m just someone who knows when and how to punch people.”
The kids had been gearing up to ask more, but then the cop car had shown up, and the children had scattered. Clearly more wary of the police than they had been of Peter.
He didn’t like that, either.
He hadn’t been surprised when the officers, (different ones this time), had again asked minimal questions and just loaded up the gang members.
If what the woman had said was true, it was probably easier for the cops to not take up their time with Peter and just set the thugs free as soon as they were out of sight.
Peter didn’t like any of it.
Now he had just finished beating up this latest group of crooks - and was seriously considering if he should follow the police car afterwards to see if they would really just set them free again, - before reminding himself that he was ‘Not A Hero’ this time.
(Also, was this city so crime riddled that something was happening at every corner Peter turned, or was Parker luck somehow aware of where he would go, and decided to place any crime happening right in his path?)
“Oh thank you. Thank you so much. Oh my god I should have known it was a bad idea to come to Gotham! Why didn’t I listen to my fiancé?”
The man that Peter had just saved from being robbed almost bowled him over in his insistent attempt to thank him and shake his hand. It was so different from his previous two encounters that it took Peter a second to react.
“Oh, hey, yeah, it’s no problem. Are you hurt?”
Instead of answering, the man (well dressed, probably in his forties, and about a head taller than him. Not that Peter cared. He was just fine with being 5’7. Just. Fine. … Stupid tall people) went into what Peter liked to call a ‘panic babble’.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. But oh my god, I almost wasn’t! I mean, what good does the PR do me if I don’t even survive inspecting the property? Joanna warned me about investing into businesses in Gotham, but did I listen? No. Oh, she is going to hold this over my head for the next two years! How will I even find staff, if my employees need to fear for life and limb when merely serving coffee?!”
Definitely a more familiar reaction. Peter grimaced as he delivered a swift kick to the head of one of the guys who had started getting up again.
“Do you have a phone on you to call the police with? I would like to avoid giving these guys brain damage.”
“Of course, of course.” The other man hastily fished his phone out of his pants pocket (a smartphone, though a visibly older model than the ones in most of Peter’s reincarnations), “You probably left yours at home to not provide these lowlifes with a target, right? Smart choice, my friend. - Oh, yes, is this the police? I have a crime to report!”
As the man started to reiterate what had just happened to the operator on the other end, Peter was reminded of one of the many pressing issues that he still had to take care of.
Left your phone at home.- Right.
Peter Parker had neither a phone, or a home, nor a valid proof of existence in this world.
It was something he definitely needed to take care of soon, (something he would have probably gotten to much earlier, if this damned city wasn’t so busy throwing trouble his way).
He would have to get some information about how this universe worked, and if he could acquire the necessary documents through legal means, or if he needed to create them himself.
In many of his previous lives, the world had not been a stranger to time travelers, extraterrestrial visitors, or the dimensionally displaced. With quite a few of those people becoming legal citizens. So if this world he found himself in now had similar experiences, (which wasn’t too unlikely, seeing as there were apparently some heroes/vigilantes running around, and those somehow always attracted these kinds of things) Peter would like to forgo forging birth certificates and ID cards, and just let the proper authorities handle that particular bother.
Though looking at the horizon and guessing the time, he wasn't going to get much done today.
He sighed deeply. Not his first time sleeping on the streets. Still not something he looked forward to, though.
“Why, yes, thank you offic- She hung up on me. Oh well, I’m sure the police department is rather busy here. Anyway, I was told a patrol car would be sent our way shortly. Could I trouble you to wait with me until they arrive?”
Peter looked up at the older man’s pleading face and gave him a reassuring smile.
“Of course. Not like I have anything else to do. I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.”
He held out his hand which the other shook enthusiastically.
“Dominick Coulson,” and damn if Peter didn’t almost flinch at that last name, “but please call me Dom. Thank you again, Mr. Parker-”
Peter held up his hand. “Just Peter is fine.”
“Peter. Thank you, sincerely. As you can probably tell, I’m not from Gotham, and while I knew about the high crime rate, I simply didn’t expect, well, this.” Dom gestured towards the knocked out thugs. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”
“Really, Dom, don’t worry about it.” Peter smiled again. He was beginning to like the guy. “So what are you doing here, anyway? You said something about inspecting a property?”
Dom’s eyes brightened right away and he threw his arm to the building behind them.
“Indeed! You see, I’m a bit of an entrepreneur! Oh, who am I trying to kid with this. Surely you know who I am.”
He looked at Peter expectantly. Peter shrugged.
“Sorry, no clue. I’m actually also not from Gotham.”
“Really? I mean, not being from Gotham shouldn’t keep you from knowing me, but…”, then the other man just shrugged. “Oh well, I guess there is a first time for everything. Suffice to say, I am very rich and famous.”
Peter interrupted. “You were just almost robbed, should you really be telling me this?”
But Dom just laughed. “But of course. I know you wouldn’t do anything untoward with this information. I have very good instincts when it comes to people, Peter. But back to the story, unfortunately being rich and famous, places you under the constant gaze of the public. A public that, due to some things… hasn't regarded me very fondly lately.”
So, rich, famous, and notorious?
Because apparently Peter hadn’t had enough of those people in his previous lives. (He conveniently ignored his own various stints as CEO of multiple companies).
Peter knew the kind of headache that came with rich and famous people.
No matter how much he had cherished many of them. Or how much he had grown to despise some of them.
“And what kind of ‘things’ are we talking about here?”, he asked, crossing his arms and lifting one eyebrow. (He spared a moment to glare at one of the guys that was regaining consciousness and looked like he was contemplating something stupid. Thankfully, upon catching Peter’s look, he closed his eyes again and let himself fall back on the concrete.)
“Oh, nothing much,” Dom waved his hand in the air as if to dispel any negative connotations, “some speeding and parking tickets that I forgot to pay,”
Peter nodded. That wasn’t too bad, could happen to anyone.
“then I got accused of cheating on my fiancè, but I was just meeting my sister at a restaurant. She has lost quite a few pounds since her last public appearance, so people didn’t recognize her right away.”,
Again, this wasn’t too bad. A simple misunderstanding that the press had likely blown out of proportion. Peter was pretty familiar with this. He relaxed further.
“And then there was that little mishap where I kind of accidentally gentrified a lower income area into an upper middle class residential district.”
And there it was.
“What the- Dammit Dom! How do you kind of accidentally do something like that?!”
“It wasn't on purpose!” The older man cried. “It was just, you know, some renovations here, some modernizations there. A bit of restructuring of commerce… How was I supposed to know that all those little mom and pop shops I bought out to replace them with brand name restaurants, cafès and boutiques would have such a negative impact on the finances of the people that lived there?”
The familiar sting of a headache was making itself known to Peter. It was his ‘dealing with rich idiots’ headache. (Though the fact that he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for the last few hours might play a part in this as well.)
He massaged the bridge of his nose while letting out an annoyed sigh. “Common sense might have clued you in on this one.”
Dom seemed undeterred by Peter’s comment. “Well, as they say, hindsight is 20/20. Anyway, as you can surely guess, the public wasn’t very happy with me, so I had to come up with a way to make amends. And I figured the best thing I could offer after my mishap in dealing with the financially unstable, was to provide…?”
He looked at Peter with a little grin, waiting for him to guess at what Dom had come up with.
"Livable wages? Fair rent? Better infrastructure and public transportation?"
“Affordable coffee!”
The headache was getting stronger.
“Affordable coffee?”
“Well, not just coffee, of course! You see, I spent a not insignificant amount of money to build a slew of charming little cafes in low income areas, that provide food and drink for very reasonable prices. After we have had some great successes with the concept in some other cities, I decided to expand to Gotham. Though my lovely Joanna had some misgivings with this place, which I fully understand after what almost happened. Crime capital of the world, indeed. Oh, speaking of which...”
That was the moment when a police van turned into the street.
Again, Peter was not happy with the response time. And, again, he was even less happy with the cops barely stopping long enough to take their statements.
At least Dom seemed just as perplexed by this. “Huh. Gotham police must be crazily efficient, if those few sentences from us was all they needed to book the criminals. Should I have given them my card in case there were any further questions, you think?”
Crazily efficient my ass. Peter resignedly shook his head. “Nah, Dom. You’re good. So you were here to inspect a place for another cafe? This house here, I assume?”
“Right!” The other man grinned, turning back around to look at the building behind them. “It’s a good location, don’t you think? Bordering two of the city’s districts, close to the connecting roads, yet tucked back a bit so it’s easily accessible for pedestrians. We will have to remodel the front, of course, and outfitting the cafe itself will take roughly a month. But the building comes with a fully furnished 4 bedroom apartment on top of the cafe. Which would be ideal for the staff to stay at.”
“You want your employees to live above the cafe they work at?”
“Well, they don’t have to, but it would definitely cut down on commute, and the various things that could happen to someone while on the way to work, don’t you think?”
Huh, look at that. Seemed that Dom was a good guy after all.
“And the less my employees call out sick or injured because they were brutalized on their way to work, the less I have to pay for insurance and temp workers!”
… Good-ish guy? Oh well, beggars couldn't be choosers, and Dom really wasn’t so bad. A little crooked around the edges, but many of Peter’s loved ones had been like that. Though his stress headache persisted. Talking with Dom had provided a nice distraction, but all the things that Peter still needed to take care of (identification, shelter, food,...) were slowly creeping back into his mind.
Then Dom’s previous good cheer waned. “Though now I’m just not sure if I should go through with this. I knew Gotham was a harsh city, but now I cannot help thinking that the cafe would get robbed more than it would serve customers…” He sighed. “Oh, I wish I could just hire you, Peter. You are clearly capable of dealing with these kinds of problems. But you probably already have a job, and you said you weren’t from here, right? Are you on vacation?”
And just like that, Peter’s headache was gone.
“Actually, Dom, funny story…”
Tbc