Chapter Text
Peter lands in his new reality at 1:32 AM on the third of July.
The weird, spinny, liquid world of Strange's spell slides away, thick and soupy.
He's alone.
Peter looks around. He's still in Gantry State Plaza, the same place where he’d asked Strange to meet him. Where he’d asked Strange to fix all of his catastrophic failures for good.
The city skyline across the water looks the same, glittering and bright, unmistakably New York.
It feels, for a second, like nothing happened. Like instead of doing what Peter asked, Strange merely teleported away and left Peter to suffer.
He takes a deep breath, turns—and stops.
He stares up at a sign that he's seen his whole life, its massive red letters always a comforting reminder of home.
When he was a kid, May and Ben used to bring him here to drink ice-cold Coca-Cola from retro glass bottles, right under the Coca-Cola sign.
The sign towers above Peter now: crimson red, tall and bright and iconic, the same except for one thing.
Pepsi-Cola looms over him.
Peter turns his head and throws up.
It's not about the sign.
It's rather all of the small, devastating differences that leave Peter reeling, death by a thousand paper cuts.
The first month is the hardest. He's lucky (lucky. The word is ash in his mouth) that he landed here in the summer. He sleeps on rooftops in good weather and bunkers down in the subways when it rains. He showers in YMCAs and does his meager laundry with spare change he finds. He eats whatever he can, whenever he can.
It's easy to move around. It's not like he brought much: a spare change of clothes, his tattoo gun. A few photos.
His suit.
He keeps that at the very bottom of his bag.
He spends a month rattling around the city like a ghost.
Watching. Listening. Learning.
In many ways, it's exactly like the New York Peter left. It's the same basic layout, avenues North-to-South, streets East-to-West.Times Square, loud and garish and overwhelming, is entirely unchanged. Peter might not recognize all of the costumed characters roaming around, but at least there's still Elmo.
Peter likes to think that Sesame Street, at least, is a constant among all universes.
It's the little things that trip Peter up. He’s used to seeing a thousand Caribou Coffee shops, one on every corner. Here, those are Starbucks, serving underwhelming, overpriced coffee.
The subway is mostly the same, except this New York apparently got rid of the Third Avenue El track and they use flimsy paper cards to pay instead of tokens.
The money here is still paper, not plastic. It's all a dingy green, and Jackson's on the $20, not Carter.
Peter has to force himself not to pay attention to any music he hears: it's all so maddeningly, infuriatingly close except the slightest change—slightly different tempo, a tweaked lyric, a different singer.
All the little differences, all the idiosyncrasies, add up. It feels like being trapped in an unending fever dream, surreal and disorienting. He finds himself wishing he could wake up, and hates himself for it.
This is a punishment he must bear.
There are some bright sides. There was no Thanos here, no Blip to cause half a decade of grief and a lifetime of trauma. Or, Peter shudders, he hasn't made his move yet.
There is also no May Parker. No Ben Parker. No Richard or Mary Parker.
Most importantly, there is no Peter Parker.
There's also no junkies drooling neon-magenta, no meatheads with too-shiny eyes throwing cars over their heads to win stupid bar fights.
It was worth it. For that, at least, for the smallest of mercies—it's worth it.
Meeting Emma Jean is a fluke. He's wandering the lower stretch of the East Village towards Alphabet City, reacquainting himself with this stretch of the city, when he hears it:
The sound of an altercation just ahead. A demanding, gruff voice, and then her voice, sharp and heart-breakingly familiar:
"Fuck off, Jimmy!"
"C'mon, baby, don't be a bitch—"
"How many times do I have to tell you? We have fun at the club but I don't mix my personal and work life—don't touch me!"
Everything goes slow, magenta-tinged, between second and the next.
Before he even registers that he's moving, Peter finds himself between them. The guy gapes at him. Peter tries not to judge on appearances, but he's basically a poster boy for sleazy. Underneath the bright white of surprise, he smells like stale beer, old sweat, and a sick, nauseating yellow arousal.
"What the—fuck off, man, no one asked you—"
"Beat it," Peter snarls. His fangs fight to slide out, and it takes everything he has not to bare them. "Or you'll regret it."
Sleazeball looks him over, and Peter narrows his eyes. The guy seems to have a functioning sense of self-preservation because his scent goes acrid-gray afraid. He scoffs and holds his hands up. He backs away.
"See you around, Scarlet."
From behind him, a derisive snort.
"Not fucking likely, Jimmy. You are so banned."
It's only after the guy disappears around the corner that he turns, his heart in his throat, to face her.
MJ.
She's beautiful—of course, god, in any universe, in any form, Mary Jane will always be an absolute smoke show. Even now, as she scowls furiously at him, her hands planted on her hips.
"I had it," she scolds him. "You didn't need to do that."
Peter stares at her. He can't help it. It's like double vision: the woman in front of him and everything he lost, swimming before his eyes.
"Hello?" she demands and Peter forces himself to blink, shake it off. It's her, but it's not her.
He sees it suddenly, all the places where they're different: the curve of her mouth, the tilt of her eyes. Her skin is paler, her figure fuller. MJ smelled like incense, complicated and spicy. This woman smells like some kind of dark, floral perfume and a little like tobacco. Underneath that, a lingering, sharp blue of fear.
This is a stranger, a vulnerable woman who was just nearly assaulted.
Get it together, Peter.
"Sorry." He can't remember the last time he actually spoke more than a couple of words at a time. He has to clear his throat before he continues, "I'm sure you did. I'm sorry, miss."
She glares suspiciously. "If you're waiting for me to swoon, it's going to be a while."
A hot flood of embarrassment. Peter has been numb for so long it's overwhelming. It makes him stutter.
"No, I—that's not what I—"
He flounders, and there's an awkward beat where they just stare at each other. Finally, she shifts her weight uncomfortably.
"Um, anyway," she says. "I'm gonna—"
"Do you—" he starts before he can stop himself.
At her raised eyebrow, he continues, "Do you want an escort? Not trying to be weird, I promise. I just want to make sure you get to where you're going safely. Just in case that guy comes back."
Also, Peter thinks privately, from anyone else who might try something with her. From what he's seen, this area tends to have a higher rate of violence, with a lot more shadier types that lurk about than he remembers from his Manhattan. He doesn't know why. Another mystery of this 'verse.
"Oh," MJ says. She squints at him. "That's okay, I can handle it."
She wags her hand, and Peter finally notices the small can of pepper spray in it.
Right. Peter nods. He can do this. He let MJ go once. He can do it again. He can't tell if it's better or worse that he doesn't actually know her this time.
He steps back and pushes his hair out his face. He takes a deep breath.
"Have a good nigh—"
"Wait," MJ interrupts. Her voice is strange. Her frown deepens. "Do I know you?"
Peter closes his eyes and tries not to laugh hysterically.
"No," Peter says finally. "You don't."
No one does.
That's the whole point.
"Huh," MJ says slowly. "Weird. It really feels like…"
She trails off. Her head tilts as she surveys him. Peter can't imagine what she sees: his dingy clothes, scraggly beard, his unkempt hair. He should leave. She probably thinks him a bum at best, a pervert at worst.
"Follow me," she orders abruptly.
Peter blinks, startled. "What?"
She huffs impatiently.
"You did a nice thing for me and I've been a jerk, so, follow me. I'm headed to work, and you've earned one free drink, on me. As a thanks."
Peter nods shortly. He resolves to just walk her to her work and then cut out. He doesn't deserve to intrude on her life.
MJ sets off towards the avenue. She walks briskly, at a full New York pace, despite the staggering height of her heels. She's almost as tall as Peter with them.
"I'm Emma," she tells him as they walk. "Emma Jean."
Ah. It hurts like a knife in his lungs, but in a way…it helps. It feels…final. Like so much of this universe, it was ever so slightly shifted, ever so slightly strange. She is not his Mary Jane, and never will be.
"Wait, I thought your name was Scarlet?" Peter asks belatedly, remembering what Sleazeball had called her.
She smirks. "Only sometimes."
Huh. That's...interesting. Not that he can say shit about having an alter-ego.
"Peter," he says finally. "Nice to meet you, Emma Jean."
"Nice to meet you, too, Peter."
He should stop talking. Stop pressing on the bruise. Walk her to her work in peace, Peter, and then fuck off. He can't help himself. He has to hear her voice again.
"So, you work around here? At a bar?"
Emma laughs and that, too, is different. Mary Jane's laugh was quiet, sly, like a secret. Emma's laugh booms out of her, loud and honking. It takes Peter entirely by surprise.
"Yeah, you could say that. It certainly is a bar," she says, amused. "I work at Sister Margaret's."
She says it like it's important, but that name means nothing to him. Peter shrugs.
"Not familiar."
Another loud, honking laugh. Peter finds himself charmed by it: naked, un-beautiful, un-tempered amusement. It's a laugh for no one but herself.
"No? Not too many guys around here can claim that. Allow me to introduce you."
She makes a little ta-da motion, and Peter looks up at the building they've stopped outside of. It looks like it was once a modest church, or church-affiliated building: arched eaves, dirty stained glass, tall double doors.
Sister Margaret's is engraved in the masonry over the doors. School for Wayward Children.
Beneath it, in neon: GENTLEMAN'S CLUB.
Ah.
Peter feels his face go hot.
M-Emma snorts. "Just wait until you see the inside."
"I—" Peter protests. "I should go. I just wanted to make sure you got here safely."
She tilts her head to look at him, her long red hair cascading over her shoulder. She really is stunning.
"Peter," she says. "C'mon. Let me get you a drink. As thanks."
“It’s okay, you don’t have to.” Peter shakes his head. "You don't need to thank me."
"Well, I want to," she says stubbornly. "How about that?"
"Why?" Peter blurts. In her (towering) shoes, he can't imagine why she'd spent a single second on some strange, scruffy man, no matter what the circumstances.
Emma considers him, her unfamiliar-familiar green eyes bright in the neon light.
"I don't know. Gotta good feeling about you, and my good feelings tend to work out."
God, Peter's tempted. He wants to go inside with her. He wants to so bad.
This is the longest he's spoken to anyone since he got here, and part of him is so starved for another human's attention he'd crawl over glass for it. The fact that she is…a version of MJ is almost too much to bear. On his knees for MJ, his left knee proclaims, inked script below its fading marijuana leaf.
How true it remains. He wants to know her. He wants to make her laugh again.
A cold, sick feeling curls in his chest. He doesn't deserve to hear her laugh.
Whatever is showing on his face, Emma's eyes go soft and kind.
"Hey. It's just a drink, tiger. What do you have to lose?"
Tiger.
Well. He's always been a pushover for that.
He lets her bring him through the club, past the stage of glittery dancing girls and their moon-eyed, sweaty patrons. She shoves his ass in a booth at the back and tells him not to move. When she returns a few minutes later, it's in a much scantier outfit.
Peter suddenly finds he needs to look at the ceiling. It's lofty and rigged with lights for the stage. Needs a good dusting, probably.
There's the sound of a bottle sliding over wood, and of Emma Jean taking the seat across from him. When he's able to summon the nerve to look at her again, she smirks knowingly at him.
"I'm Scarlet here," Emma Jean—Scarlet—tells him. "In case you haven't guessed."
"I guessed," Peter manages to croak out. The…uh… cleavage, or, rather, the abundance of said cleavage is another difference between Emma Jean and MJ.
Peter takes a long slug of his beer, just for something to do. His eyes slide shut on their own accord as he swallows the first sip. He hasn't had a beer since he got here. It's perfect.
"Okay," Scarlet says with finality. "Tell me your story, tiger. Lay it on me."
Peter huffs a bitter laugh. If only she knew. She'd think him completely insane and that's if she didn't believe him. It'd be even worse if she did.
"You don't want to know my story."
"I do," Scarlet insists. "I told you, I've got a good feeling."
A good feeling. About Peter. What a joke.
She stabs one pointed nail into the battered, lacquered tabletop.
"Spill."
And, god knows why, but he does. Maybe it's the beer, going to his head. Maybe it's the way he's been drifting, lost and unmoored for a month. Maybe it's just the tone of her voice: bossy, confident, MJ.
He starts slowly. It's a highly edited version, but a version wrapped in aspects of the truth nonetheless.
He'd been born in New York, but had…gotten into some trouble. He'd been…away for a while. He had a…bad break up. He'd been trying to turn his life around, but his girlfriend got hooked on drugs he supplied. He ruined her life. He left to save her, and everyone else he'd ever hurt.
Now he's here. Jobless, homeless, just trying to get by. Feeling like a stranger in his own city.
Peter picks at the label of his bottle. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't want to see the judgment, the rightful condemnation in her eyes.
Even with the edited truth, she knows what he is now. A fuck up. A piece of shit. She won't want anything to do with him. Enjoy the beer, now get the fuck out.
"Damn," Scarlet whistles finally. "That's crazy. I'm sorry that happened to you."
Peter looks up, startled. She has her elbows on the table, her chin propped up in her hands. Scarlet's eyes are…sympathetic? That can't be right.
He inhales, but it's hard to get a read on pheromones in here: too much sweat, too much arousal, too many heightened emotions made sloppy with drink.
"It was my fault," he argues. Where's the disgust? The anger?
Scarlet merely raises an eyebrow.
"Did you force your girlfriend to take the drugs?"
He squints at her. He doesn't understand.
"…No?"
She shrugs. "Then, yeah, I stand by it. That sucks. I'm sorry that happened to you. To her too, but she isn't here, so."
"I—" he starts. His head hurts. "What?"
Scarlet looks at him, sharp and intense. Appraising. He feels trapped in it.
"Sounds to me like you left to give her a second chance. Is that right? Right some wrongs?"
"Yeah," Peter rasps. MJ, May, the whole world.
"And now you're here. Rescuing young, beautiful maidens from crusty, douchebag men."
Peter laughs despite himself.
"Yeah, though I have it on good authority she would have had it."
"Damn right," Scarlet smiles. She taps the table again with those long nails.
"Well," she continues thoughtfully. "It certainly looks like you can handle yourself from the way Jimmy looked like he was going to shit himself when you stepped in."
Peter rubs the back of his head. "I—yeah. I can."
"Do you know how to tend bar?" she asks abruptly, out of nowhere. Peter blinks.
"Uh—yeah? I mean, I know the basics."
Ben liked Old Fashions. May liked dry martinis. MJ liked margaritas, extra lime, on the rocks. Marko, the fucking bastard, liked whisky neat.
She nods decisively. "You know, I bet you're pretty hot under all that scruff."
Peter's face burns. "I—um…."
"Yeah.” Her eyes are bright and teasing. "No, I know it. Look-it that blush."
"Where," Peter begins weakly. He has to clear his throat again. "Where are you going with this?"
"We're hiring," says Scarlet, as if it’s not an absolutely insane thing to say.
Peter can't help but glance to his left, where an…endowed…young woman is twirling on a pole.
"I'm not, uh. I mean no disrespect, but I'm not sure that I—"
Scarlet snorts. It's ugly and adorable.
"For the bar. One of our bartender's put her notice in a few days ago. It was expected, she's seventy. But you need a certain…something to run the bar at Sister Margaret's. It's basically a bouncer gig as much as it is pouring drinks. Deb managed it because she's been here so long that the guys respect her, but any replacement is gonna have a hard time."
"You're just…offering me a job? Just like that?" Peter asks slowly. “You don’t even know me.”
“Do we ever really know anyone?” Scarlet asks blithely. “Anyway, I know the basics. You’re a good guy who’s had a shit go of it—”
“You don’t know that,” Peter argues desperately. "You don't know that I'm a good guy."
“Don’t I?” Scarlet challenges. “Bad guys don’t help women in distress. Bad guys don’t offer to walk them to their work without ulterior motives. Do you have ulterior motives, Peter?”
“No,” Peter answers truthfully. Well, mostly truthfully. Telling her “you are the alternate universe version of the woman I loved and shattered to pieces” doesn’t seem like a good idea.
Scarlet nods.
“I rest my case. Besides, based on those guns—" she nods at his arms, and then gestures at his hands and his face, "—and those tats, I think you've got what we need here.
“We get creeps like Jimmy from time to time, and we also cater to a...specific clientele. It can get rowdy here. It's nice to have a good guy with some muscle to throw the worst of them out when things kick off."
Peter absorbs that. If she recognizes his ink, she knows he did time, despite his careful sidestepping in his story. Still, her face doesn't waver. She clearly doesn't consider him a threat to her. A good guy.
Peter considers what a specific clientele might mean. The way she said it seems important, the same way she said Sister Magaret's.
It makes him take new interest in his surroundings. There are the guys by the stage who seem normal enough: a smattering of drunk college kids, unbuttoned businessmen, and tired laborers burning off steam.
It's the crowd closer to the bar that Peter's awareness pings on: the people up there aren't watching the girls on stage. They're by far more athletic—clearly not office workers or students. Buff, but not like construction workers or laborers. More...body builder, soldiery types. Muscles for show and intimidation. The dramatic increase of leather and barely disguised Kevlar that they're wearing is also notable.
They are also armed. Peter counts six concealed guns, three unconcealed guns, twelve knives. One woman is genuinely wearing what looks like a whip on her hip, and not the fun kind.
Peter abruptly remembers his own observations about this area: a lot more violent. A lot more shadier types hanging around.
Well. He's figured out that lingering mystery. Sister Margaret's is clearly the shadier type's preferred watering hole.
He looks back at Scarlet. She's watching him with clear, knowing eyes. She lifts an eyebrow at him, waiting for his response.
"Rowdy, huh? I can handle rowdy,” he says finally.
She grins. "I thought you might."
This is a terrible idea. He can't believe he's even beginning to entertain this. He tries to stamp down the curl of warmth, of hope that has begun to creep into this chest. He's being punished. He ruined MJ's life once, he cannot do it again. He cannot risk it—her—again.
"I'm a fuck-up," Peter whispers to the table. There's an edge to his voice he doesn't want to acknowledge. "I hurt people."
Scarlet laughs, but not unkindly.
"Yeah, we're kind of all about fuck-ups here. Wayward children, remember? And I might need you to hurt people."
She settles back in the booth and regards him.
"Listen, if you don't want it, that's fine. No one's got a gun to your head, and it's no skin off my back. I've just got..." she trails off.
"A good feeling?" Peter finishes numbly. She shrugs.
"Yeah. I've got a good feeling. What can I say? I'm a sucker for second chances, tiger."
Peter swallows hard around the sharp, painful lump in his throat. He feels a little like he's taken a blow to the head: dizzy and reeling and little like he wants to throw up.
A job. Bartending and…bouncing. It's not the worst job he's had. Not by far.
And it would…keep him close. He can protect her. Make up, in some small way, for the way he failed to protect MJ.
It would be…a start.
Her words from earlier ring in his ears: what have you got to lose?
Nothing. He's already lost everything.
"Um, yeah. Sure. Why not? I'd…do a trial. Prove my competence, at least."
Scarlet grins at him. "Good. Let's do tomorrow. Deb's still running the day shift, so come in at noon. Weasel has final say, but that's not a problem. He'll do whatever I tell him."
Her voice is casually confident. Peter suddenly has no doubt that most people do whatever Scarlet says. Considering the whirlwind of how this evenings gone, he's certainly not immune.
He does have one question though.
"Weasel?"
"He's the owner," she explains. "He tends to stay up in his office, while I run the day-to-day operations."
A stripper/ thug bar run by a man named Weasel. Sure. Peter's seen weirder things. He takes a deep breath.
"Okay. Tomorrow. Noon."
Scarlet smiles at him smugly.
"Enjoy your beer. I have to actually get some work done tonight. Stick around. Enjoy the show."
She shimmies. He can't help but blush again.
"Oh, and Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"Shave that terrible beard, will ya? I wanna see how hot you really are under that thing."
Peter laughs, startled. Scarlet gets up and then sashays away, leaving Peter with his beer and his thoughts.
And boy, does he have a lot of thoughts.
Peter shows up at Sister Margaret's the following day at noon sharp.
He had spent the rest of the previous night arguing with himself. It was a terrible idea. It was selfish. It was stupid. He wasn't going to do it.
He ended up with about forty minutes of sleep, then he got up and headed to the Y.
He stared at himself for a long time in the mirror.
Then he shaved his terrible beard, got dressed, and headed out to make another classic Peter Parker Terrible Decision.
He's met at Sister Margaret's by Emma, who looks incredibly refreshed for someone who was probably on their feet in eight inch heels until 4 am. She's wearing sneakers now, and Peter finds it weirdly wrong to look down at her. Something about Emma Jean's energy demands to be regarded as tall.
When she sees him, she lets out a loud, obnoxious wolf-whistle.
"Damn," she says smugly. "My good feelings are so good. Are you sure you don't want to work the pole? That's a money-maker."
Peter rolls his eyes, but he can't help but feel the warmth of her approval glow in his chest. It's been...a long time since he's felt anything like that.
He pours a couple of drinks under the sharp, critical eye of Deb, who is the hardest-looking septuagenarian Peter has ever seen. Deb looks like she's smoked three packs a day since she was a toddler and sounds like she eats nails for breakfast.
Peter has no doubt that the rowdier Sister Margaret types respected her: Peter develops a healthy amount of respect and fear of her within five minutes of knowing her.
He meets Weasel, who is aptly named: he's got a vaguely slippery, rodent-like quality to him. He's prickly and rude but he doesn't object to Peter being paid in cash and that's all that really matters.
At the end of it, Peter manages to walk away with a job.
A new beginning.
For the first time, he thinks that might actually include him, too.