Memories Are In Photographs

Peter Parker was a photographer. On evenings when he didn't have the energy to patrol, or when Tony insisted he took a day off, he'd roam the streets of his favourite city- his home- with an old camera around his neck.

He'd stop at traffic lights and intersections and capture the fleeting lights of the rows of taxis and cars that haunted New York City streets. He'd relax on a bench in Central Park and snap away at moments of joy among strangers. Sometimes, if he got an especially good photo, he'd walk up to them and offer to send it to them. Or he'd work on an assigment from the Daily Bugle- trying to get quality photos of news-worthy moments.

His favourite photos were the ones he took of Aunt May or the other Avengers when he spent the day at the Compound. He would print those ones out onto Polaroids and hang them on his wall or glue them into a scrapbook where he kept all his favorite ones.

There were pictures of his parents- taken by Aunt May and Uncle Ben when he was still a toddler- but those were the only ones he hadn't taken himself. The rest were him and Uncle Ben, him and Aunt May, goofy selfies with Ned and MJ, quick snapshots with Tony and Pepper. In that scrapbook lived his memories.

All his good memories.

Happy grumbled and complained when Peter video-recorded trips in Tony's limo or forced him to smile for a photo before he'd leave the car, but Peter persisted. He deleted apps on his phone to make room for more photo space (and when Tony found out, that had quickly been remedied with upgraded storage) and he saved and saved for new and better cameras.

Because Peter knew better than anyone that photographs were all that would be left one day.

He didn't remember his parents, not really. Any memories he did have were probably just stories May had told him often enough that they'd become ingrained into his mind. All he had were the photos of them holding his younger self.

Ben was gone and Peter was terrified. He forgot small things, like what his uncle's favorite food had been or what color his socks were and he would cry at night because of that. All he had left were the photos of them at the fair or eating out.

He fought and he struggled and he bled every day to make sure the same thing wouldn't happen to those he had left. He threw himself in front of trains and bullets to make sure the people he loved would live another day.

Spider-Man knew all too well that no matter what he did, there was the very real possibility it would never be enough.

And then Tony was gone and Peter spent every morning making sure he didn't forget a single thing about him, because Tony had been like a father and Peter would be damned if all he remembered were the memories preserved in frozen stills of cameras. But no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he knew that all he had left were the photos.

He took more photos. 

He took photos of every moment. In the superhero world, you lose more than you save and Peter never wanted to lose someone completely. 

Even if they were just preserved in Polaroids in a messy scrapbook- they would still be there, with him. So he snapped, snapped, snapped away and nobody said a word about it when he did, because memories are in photographs and

Most days, photographs were all Peter had.