𝐁𝐔𝐆𝐁𝐎𝐘 ┊ peter parker imagines

NIGHTMARES - PETER PARKER

A/N: this isn't an imagine, just something i typed up and thought i would share !!

Peter sat up, confused. He was no longer in his bed in Queens, that he knew. Instead he was in a dingy apartment building, in much worse condition than the one May worked so hard to keep clean. Wallpaper curled down in strips, revealing the filthy wall behind it. The carpets were shaggy and stained, a peculiar odor greeting his nose. It was as if no one had lived there for years, Peter realized, as he ran his hand over the dusty table. It felt cold and empty.

There were only two rooms, as far as he could tell. Peter seemed to be in what functioned as the sleeping area, with a rickety queen sized bed pushed against the far wall and a end table missing a leg, propped up with a small pile of books. Next to it was a crib.

He made his way over as if in trance, stopping next to the crib. It was empty. A small mobile decorated with little planets spun eerily, even though he hadn't touched it. Saturn was missing. Glancing downwards, he noticed a small blanket, and reached down to pick it up. It was soft and worn, one of the sides frayed. He felt a pang of sadness, though he wasn't quite sure why. Where was the infant that the blanket belonged to? Upon closer examination, Peter noticed initials embroidered on the bottom. P.P.

Thoroughly disturbed, he let the blanket slip through his fingers, landing in the crib without a sound. Then, unable to stop himself, he reached back inside and shoved it into his pocket. Stepping back, Peter glanced toward the other room. He felt drawn to it, for some inexplicable reason. His feet pressed into the shag carpet, boards creaking beneath his feet. He entered the room, shivering slightly as his bare feet connected with the frigid linoleum. It was a small bathroom, with only a shower, toilet, and sink. A steady drip, drip, drip of water fell from the faucet, the noise like a bullet in the dead silence. Slowly, Peter stepped forward, approaching the sink cautiously. His hand reached out to turn off the sink but never made it there, because he was distracted by the broken mirror, and he went to take a look-

He was standing alone in the dark. A slight breeze blew, chilling him to the bone. He knew this place, but how?

It was an abandoned air hanger. A desolate place, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Peter got a bitter taste in his mouth as he looked around the hangar.  His feet felt glued to the floor, heart thudding in his chest. And then with a sudden sinking feeling, he knew where he was.

It was the last place he had seen his parents.

Something inside Peter snapped, like a rubber band stretched too tight. He crumpled to his knees, shaking violently. His heart felt tight as he sat there, silently trembling like a leaf in the wind. The boy felt as broken and fragile as they day his parents left, a very unsettling sensation. He felt very young and old at the same time, like a child that had been forced to grow up too fast. A metallic taste filled his mouth and he unclenched his jaw. His lip throbbed, bleeding freely down his front. It had been split open by his teeth.

Getting to his feet, Peter took a shaky breath and began to look around, though he wasn't sure what he was looking for. He was shocked to feel tears trickling down his cheeks, for he didn't cry easily. It was odd, the teenaged boy thought, how empty it was. Surely there'd be something left behind.

Almost as if in response to his thoughts, he heard a loud clanking behind him, and whirled around. There sat a plane, one that Peter was sure hadn't been present mere moments before. "Hello?" he asked hesitantly, rocking anxiously on the balls of his feet. "Is someone there?"

The silence that followed seemed almost taunting, daring him to approach. And he was, although he wasn't sure when he had decided to take the first step. Deeply unnerved, his hand reached out to skim the surface of the plane. His fingers touched-

"Oh come on!" Peter was seated inside the plane, equally parts annoyed and terrified. There were straps across his seat, binding him to the chair. As he made to unbuckle himself, he heard a woman's voice, calling out from somewhere behind him.

"Shit! We're going down!" Her voice was familiar to Peter, very familiar. She came into view, and his heart lurched at the sight of her face, one he had only seen in pictures. "Mom?" He whispered.

She moved past as if she hadn't heard him, continuing to call out to someone in the front. There was an underlying desperation in her voice, an urgency that made Peter's hair stand on end. "Mom!" he called again, pulling desperately at the straps that kept him contained. "Come on, come on!" He struggled and stretched, but he was trapped.

A man entered Peter's line of sight, and he choked out a sob. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that this was Peter's father. They had the same jawline, same eyes. Peter called out again, but it was rapidly becoming clear that they couldn't see or hear him. He shut up for a moment, to listen to what they were saying.

"Mary, where the hell are the chutes?" His father was making no attempt to contain his fear, frantically opening and shutting compartment doors.

"Check that hatch!" she cried, before disappearing into the cockpit.

"Shit!" Richard Parker's face was pale. "Those sons of bitches forgot to replace them! They're gone!"

It was in that moment that Peter realized what he was watching. His parents last moments. His heart constricted, but he continued to watch, even as tears spilled down his cheeks and into his lap.

"What about Peter?" Mary asked softly, re-entering the cabin. He froze as his name was mentioned, hands clutching the armrests so that his knuckles turned white.

"May will look after him. He'll be fine." The married couple moved to sit behind Peter, clasping their seatbelt. Peter sobbed, head hanging, eyes flicking over to the window. Outside, the ground was getting closer and closer, and he began to panic. Could he die here? He let out a cry of fear, clenched his eyes shut, and waited for the impact.

Peter shot up in bed, heart hammering so hard against his rib cage he was sure it would burst. His cheeks were wet with tears as he released the bedsheets that had been clenched in his hands. "Just a dream," he whispered shakily, breaths come in short, harsh bursts. "It was just a dream." Peter felt as if a pillow had been pressed against his face, and struggled to regain his breath. He laid there for a while as his lungs slowly began to function normally. He calmed himself, repeating that it was only a bad dream, that he had no clue what his parents' last moments were like, that it was just his imagination. But as he shifted in bed, he felt something in his pajama's pants pocket, and shoved his hand inside to retrieve the item. His hands shook as he stared at the scrap of fabric- a small, blue baby blanker with initials P.P.

Word Count: 12557