Chapter Text
Late Night Friday, 10-16-2015:
She was a child—her face plump in condensing youth, her mouth stretched in a thin growl that exposed more gum than actual tooth; her hair was ratted with uncare from hours spent rummaging freely through the alleys. Her shirt was torn, leaving significant gaps between her shoulder and stomach.
She crouched on the warm concrete. The exposed grime beneath her fingernails left smudges after her touch.
Her face was smeared with oil, and other odd residue that was gathered by scavenging through the endless city, leaving streaks of filth to crust on the bridge of her nose and above her eyebrow.
He approached her silently, hands clinging to the wall as he slid behind her. “Wow! I didn’t know Rug-Rats were real!” He smiled as he spoke; he tried appearing mirthful, not wanting to give off the impression of malice.
She spun around when she heard his voice.
She had a feral quality; her eyes were wide as she bared her teeth at him. She kept her hands curled to her sides as she thrashed towards him.
“Woah—” He pulled his arms up to the side, trying to soothe her. “No harm done, just a joke.” He spoke softly, moving closer towards her. “So, what’s the story girl?” He crouched before her, keeping his hands in view the entire time.
Her eyes kept shifting from his arms to his torso to his head.
She snapped at him again, teeth clashing together as she balled her body tighter. “Go,” She seethed, voice low as her dark eyes reflected the eerie lighting from the alley.
He let a weak chuckle slip from his throat; the sound was more reminiscent of a gurgle—this was horror movie territory.
“Sorry, girl.” He tried again, sitting with his legs crossed over each other in front of her. “Just need to know why you appear to be more New York dirt than human.” He kept his voice light, ensuring there was no mocking tone.
The easiest way to break down the children was to appease them, showering them with light, gratifying comments until they were more confused than afraid.
“Away!” She shouted, drawing her knees to her chest as she shook her head. Her voice seemed to be limited by something; it was most likely a speech impediment.
She appeared to be ten, maybe younger—age was tricky.
Tilting his head to the left, he took in her appearance, “Can you tell me why you want me to leave?” He asked; his tone was unprovoking, he kept it soft but firm.
“Happy.” She whispered, “Me happy.”
She hadn't been to proper school or around people enough for her speech pattern to be this shattered and improper.
She could understand him, though; that had to mean something.
“What if I told you you could be even happier?” He waited for her response.
She kept her eyes downcast, “No.”
“Warm food.” He listed, drawing a list on his fingers as he hummed, thinking, “Oh, can’t forget about the baths. Warm, long —” He drawled on long, extending the G until it nearly sounded like an entirely different word. “Baths.”
The girl stiffened before she shook her head, “‘M okay.”
Maybe her previous behavior was an act; her not understanding proper grammar?
Peter had no leads on her past so he couldn't question it further.
Tapping his chin, he thought inwardly, “What about toys? Legos, Barbie, Bratz? I was more of a Bratz guy; Yasmine was far too pretty.” He continued; the girl looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Girl toys.” She tilted her head; Peter feigned slight hurt.
He kept his movements deliberate and slow as he placed his palm against his chest, “Are you saying, Bratz —the superior toy, with the most choking hazards out of any doll, isn’t manly? I hope you know that every guy in my class nearly threw themselves at me when they learned I played with such a toy.”
The girl’s eyes softened; it was hardly noticeable, but he caught it. “Silly.” She whispered, her posture loosened.
“Wow,” he kept his tone unbelievably gentle, not wishing her to think he was serious, “And now you think I’m joking? You should’ve seen me in elementary school.” He smiled at her. He knew his expression wasn’t obvious from beneath his mask, but he hoped she could see the outline of his lips.
“No school.” She mumbled, head shaking. Her dark hair was curled into matted clumps; they would need to shave it for it to return to normal.
“You don’t like school?” He asked as he moved closer to her.
She didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care.
She shook her head, “No, no school.” She tried again, but her eyes seemed firmer in her explanation. “Parents, no school.”
Her parents didn’t allow her to go to school? Or was she homeschooled?
Peter hummed as he tapped his chin; he let the topic drop. He nodded in understanding and made a slight noise, “Do you want to see a trick?” He asked. She seemed apprehensive of his question, but interest outweighed caution.
She nodded once, and then she waited.
Peter took a long exhale, over-dramatizing the warm-up; he bent down, stretching out his torso, arms, and legs. Taking one more inhale, he looked at her.
“Ready?” He asked; she merely nodded.
He performed a backflip; the action was smooth, his legs bent towards his chest as he extended them for the landing. He struck the ground with a slight rattle from his body, but turning around, he saw the girl staring at him. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was open in a small circle.
“Wanna try?” He asked, gesturing for her to come close.
She was debating something, her eyes darting to the side before she scrambled towards him.
Peter felt relief trickle into his chest, this always worked for the kids. “I’ll need to touch you here and here.” He hovered his hand above her upper back and shoulder.
He didn’t dare touch her until she nodded or denied.
She seemed to be fighting something before she looked at him, “Only the spots.” She gritted, words far too old for her age.
He nodded, “I promise.”
That appeased her as he slowly touched her upper back and shoulder, “Take a slow breath.” He urged.
She complied.
He flipped her; there was no movement on her part—he kept it controlled. His grip on her shoulders balanced the momentum of her landing. His grasp on her back flung her backwards. He made sure it was a slow flip; ensuring she didn’t feel disoriented when she touched the ground.
He fixed her balance from his grip on her shoulder once the backflip was finished. When she was no longer dizzy, she turned her head towards him.
Peter laughed, “Odd, right.”
She nodded.
Peter stepped back, “Listen, let me bring you somewhere safe. You’ll have a bed and a nice meal, I promise.” He made his words reflect his determination, “This isn’t safe; you’ll get hurt, or even worse.” He squatted in front of her, “I’ll visit occasionally if that will make you feel better.”
Her face was fearful, “No. No.” She tried again; her eyes were trying to make him understand.
He didn’t.
“Even if I visit you?” He watched her; her expression was subtle, but there was something more to it.
“You stop.” She pointed at him, her eyes trying to convey something more profound. “You stop.” She tried again, her voice cracked with emotion. “You stop.” It was nothing more than a whisper.
“You want me to stop?” He questioned; she shook her head.
“No.” She slid down on the wall opposing him and pointed at him.
Peter said, “Me.”
She nodded and then forced out a fake-yawn.
“Tired? I’m tired?” Peter guessed, head slanting towards the side.
Her eyes were brimmed with unshed fury; she seemed more angry at being unable to communicate than anything. “No! No!” She snapped, “You!” She gritted, “ Aburrido !”
He looked at her, his mouth gaping before he closed it, “ Tú hablas español? ” Taking level three of Spanish finally was paying off.
Her eyes widened as she nodded.
Immediately she began speaking, it was slightly hard to follow her words from them slurring, but he caught the simple gist of what she was trying to convey: her parents were dead, she escaped from a terrible family member, she was homeschooled, so she never went to actual school. And she was trying to say he would eventually stop visiting her, growing bored.
He reassured her that he would not grow tired of visiting her. He also explained in depth the place where he planned to bring her.
Their conversation continued for a good thirty minutes before she nodded in reluctance.
When he picked her up, after mentioning to her where he’d grab and why, they flew through New York. The wind was cool against their skin as he bent around obstructions, ensuring they were safe as he placed her down the stone stairs.
Moving towards the thick doors, he knocked once, then twice. Waiting for it to open.
The door unlocked after a minute or two; a tired-looking woman stood in the doorway. Her hair was in tight curls, and she wore a loose nightgown.
Skimming outside, she faltered as she saw Spider-Man; her gaze automatically dropped to the ground; she sighed as she caught a glance of the little girl clutching his leg.
“Another?” She yawned, stepping aside.
“Always!” He exclaimed, immediately slapping his hand over his mouth as he realized how loud he spoke, especially with how thin the building was.
“Sorry,” He offered weakly.
The woman shook her head as she rolled her eyes, dismissing Peter before focusing on the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Gabriella.” The girl spoke slowly, still positioning her body behind Peter's legs.
“Pretty!” The woman smiled, “I’m Billy.”
Gabriella remained quiet, looking up at Peter in response to Billy.
“She speaks Spanish, but she can understand most things, though. Just has a hard time responding.” He explained.
Billy smiled, “Marc is going to be so excited!” She made sure she was still bent over, making eye contact with the girl, “ El —” she scratched her chin as she thought, “ El habla español too !” The Spanish and English mix was confusing, but Gabriella seemed to comprehend the majority of it.
She looked up at Peter.
“ Ella is amiable .” He explained, stepping from her grip. “Billy, take good care of her. I’ll visit often, so you’ll know that I’ll be able to tell if she's being mistreated.” He smiled, clasping his hands on his hips as he stared at her, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth—he mimicked the behavior Billy would often display when she was agitated.
“When don’t you?” Billy sighed, “All I hear is Spider-Man came last night! Or Spider-Man bought me candy. Candy? Now I have to worry about cavities!” After she spoke, she rested her hands on her hips; they mirrored each other perfectly.
He tried to stilt the laughter suffocating in his throat. “Life is better with sweetness, Bill.” Peter shrugged, smiling and growing larger as she merely let out a weak groan.
“Not too much,” she groaned.
He sighed, “Spoken like a true pessimist, tell me, where is your happiness?”
“Gone, just like the funds for this place.” She glared at Peter, “Now go, don’t you have more people to save?”
“Always!” He shouted, again wincing when he realized how loud he was. He heard a slight clattering upstairs as he turned to leave, “Bye, bye Billy!” He waved at Gabriella as he walked down the stairs of the orphanage, extending a web he stuck it to a nearby building.
Hauling his body upwards at it, he immediately changed direction before he could crash into the brick. The wind lashed against his body, causing his poorly constructed outfit to whip behind him loudly.
After the entire situation, his night followed a slow and steady routine: he stopped countless muggings, one elderly lady slapped him with her purse afterward, thinking he wanted some money as a reward, he stopped a break-in—although it turned out it was just some boyfriend and girlfriend fighting.
The break-in started with him catching a man who wore all black; well, everything was black but his glaring yellow sneakers. He was at a ground-floor window, hands clutching at the sill and window as he tried prying open the pane; panting at the muscle strain he was undergoing.
“Bud, at least keep with the dress code.” Peter hummed, hanging upside down as the man uttered a loud wail.
Turning around, his eyes widened. “Spider-Man!” He exhaled, “Dude, help me. My f*cking girl locked me out.” He ran a hand down his features, “I swear, look, she has the light on even.”
Peter stared into the window; he was right—the kitchen light was on, illuminating a tiny kitchen with a woman sitting in it. She was staring straight at the window, flipping the guy off.
He returned the gesture as he turned around.
“I have nowhere else to go!” He whined, voice pitching upwards as he fell onto his knees. Graveling in front of Peter, he intertwined his hands together, “Help me.”
Peter looked at the girl; he couldn’t be seen in the dark shadows. “Why is she flipping you off?” He asked, his hearing extended to the stranger's pulse.
“Hell, if I know.” It sped up.
He was lying.
“You do know.” Peter dropped from his webbing, tilting his head in front of the guy, “What happened?”
The guy ran a hand over his features, his fingers caught on his beard, “Dude,” he sighed, shaking his head, “I didn’t mean to, alright, just—let me explain.” He inhaled weakly, “Well, her sister came over, all unexpected, right.”
Peter nodded slowly, “Right?”
“Yeah, I know! But she was wearing this short dress. It was like—I mean, it was here.” He gestured to just below his crotch, drawing his hand in a straight line as he sighed. “But I was thinking, well, maybe she forgot something. But then she just starts drooling all over me, and next thing I know, we get all freaky,” the guy takes another deep inhale, “And then she gets home and starts cursing my name, and says this was all some prank, but I mean, bitch, if this was a prank then why even play it?”
Peter screwed up his nose in apparent disgust, “Dude.” He groans.
The guy nods, “I know, f*cked up on their part.”
“No!” Peter shakes his head, “How can you have sex with her sister?”
“Well, I forgot it was her sister!” The guy shouts in turn; their voices echo in the small space between the two overbearing apartment complexes.
“You just said you knew it was her sister!” Peter gestures to nothing.
“I had a lapse of judgment!”
“You had sex with her sister!”
“I didn’t say it was a good lapse of judgment!” The guy shouts again, eyebrows furrowing as he grumbles some words so slurred together it’s impossible to try and break them apart.
The man has a pale complexion; beneath the building lights, his skin seems to glow.
“You called her a bitch too,” Peter shakes his head, “You never call a woman a bitch, come on man. You’re giving us a bad rep.”
“I called her what she is!” The guy snaps, “Aren’t you supposed to stick up for the little guy?”
Peter shook his head, “You’re lucky she didn’t stab you. Saw too many cases like that.” Peter spun on his heel, extending his web. His body became momentarily weightless as he heard loud shouts follow behind him.
“Fine! Be a f*ckin’ beta!”
Peter can hardly stop the loud laughter that erupts from his throat—beta? Seriously. He'd saved enough New Yorkers for one night.
Swinging towards Aunt May’s, he laments how late it probably is. He hasn’t brought his phone out on patrols since that one fateful incident involving a roof of an old building and a trembling dog.
Glad to say the only thing broken was his phone screen, fortunately he can text, just with a jumble of odd letters following after his main statement.
Crawling through his apartment window, he peels off his suit, ignoring how it sticks to his body with crusted sweat; grimacing slightly, he shoves on a baggy T-shirt that belonged to Ben before: the Fire Department, Queens, plastered in significant wording on the front. At the same time, he pulls on Hello Kitty bottoms that he must’ve stolen from someone because he has no recollection of buying them.
Collapsing on his bed, he lazily throws a matted blanket on top of his suit as he yawns; settling against his covers, he lets his muscles ache from the constant swinging and dodging he endured tonight.
His eyes flutter close, and seemingly a minute after he falls asleep, a loud blaring from beside his head rattles throughout his room. Biting on his lower lip, he slaps his screen a near twenty times, ignoring the shard of glass that shatters from his screen and almost embeds itself in his thumb.
“Petey!” May calls, voice echoing through the apartment, “I have the early shift today, but I get off at seven, so—” she knocks once before opening his door; she pauses as she sees him, “Dude, did you sleep at all?” She inches towards the edge of his mattress, fiddling with his hair she presses her hand against his forehead. “No fever; you look rough.”
“Weird dreams,” he muttered, sliding his body upwards, “What were you saying?”
“Early-shift!” She exclaimed, “Make sure not to cause any issues at school; I know you won’t. Okay, I gotta go; I’m already running late.” She plants a gentle kiss on his temple, scrambling from his room.
She causes a loud clattering to arise from the kitchen, grabbing what seemed to be her water bottle; she then made an even louder clamor from the front before she yelled one final time, “Have a good day, kid!”
The door slammed after her, leaving the apartment in unmoving silence.
Checking his phone, the time was six. If he slept an hour more, that would leave him an hour to get to school; if he used Spider-Man, he could get to school in five minutes.
Setting his alarm, he fell back to sleep.
—
When Peter woke up, it was his phone blaring; rubbing at his eyes, he realized it was a call; answering, he muttered, “Yeah?”
“Peter, where are you?” Ned whispered from his end, “Mrs. Nellson is pissed.”
Peter withdrew his phone from his ear, confused as he moved to stare at the time.
12:23, he slept for nearly six extra hours, cursing he flung himself off his bed, “I’m coming, Ned!”
Hanging up his phone, he changed into some stained sweatpants that he couldn’t care about cleaning, along with a hoodie he found off his floor; shoving on his mask and gloves, he jumped from his window.
He swung from the air on pure instinct.
His breath was stolen from his lungs before it returned momentarily; the air was crisp with how high he was.
He moved quickly, muscles protesting at his speed, but calming when he stood at the edge of the school. Shoving his web-shooters and mask in his bag, he ran towards the front stairs.
He checked in quickly, and ran towards his class, stumbling over his taped-up Sketchers before finally reaching Mrs. Nellson's class.
Taking a deep breath in the hallway, he opened the door. He handed Mrs. Nellson the note explaining his absence—sickness.
Ned looked at him, eyes confused, before his friend seemed to ignore the previous worry. He passed Peter a note from his Star Wars journal; the coloring was blue while little characters were drawn at the edges.
What happened, dude?
Peter spared it a glance before he shook his head, sick . He wrote it quickly, his hand barely even moving. He placed his pencil on the thin groove in the middle of his desk, keeping his eyesight straight ahead he handed Ned the note back.
He was already in trouble for being late; he couldn’t risk getting yelled at for passing notes.
Though Ned seemed not to notice the glances from the teacher, either that, or he didn’t care.
The newest Fortnite season is out.
Peter glanced at it before rolling his eyes with unconcealed affection, “I’ll go home with you.” He whispered, handing the note back.
Ned beamed as he pocketed the crumpled paper, “I knew you would.”
The clock ticking rebounded in the room, the teacher's dull heels bounced off the tiled floor, her hair was pinned back with a black clip, and her face remained impassive to the students surrounding her.
“Pop quiz.” She deadpanned, her voice staying monotonous the entire time she spoke. Her hands held a thick pile of paper that wobbled with each step she took.
She licked the tips of her index finger and thumb as she handed each person two papers of questions. “Twenty multiple choice questions, five write, and response.” She continued walking; when she got to Peter, she paused, staring at him while she practically slammed his quiz on his desk, “I will not tolerate any lazy responses, full sentences, full answers, full explanations.”
She walked away; her sweater left a few discarded strands on his desk. Wiping away the yarn, he picked up his pencil, writing his name, he began answering the prompts.
The very first question, he was stuck on; Peter hadn't had any excess time to spend reading The Odyssey, no less begin reviewing and studying it. Gnawing at the end of his pencil, he ignored how the wood splintered against his teeth while the eraser flattened in his mouth. Spitting out the rubber, he wiped it against his palm, rubbing his hands on his pants, he tried to focus back on his quiz.
Question One: Which character provides Odysseus with crucial assistance by disguising him as a beggar upon his return to Ithaca?
The answers were just a mess of multiple characters; tapping his foot against the tile, he ignored the anxiety spiking in his chest.
Ignoring the first question, he flipped through the packet straight to the back. Answer and Response: Describe Penelope's challenge for the suitors and explain its significance in demonstrating Odysseus's unique qualities.
The letters nearly flew out of his sight; none seemed to be actual, tangible words. As if they all just morphed into a different language.
Penelope’s challenge she makes for the suitors is that he hovers his pencil over the paper.
Drawing his hand to massage the bridge of his nose, he tried recalling the hours he had spent sleeping in class instead of reading. His mind must have some dormant memories of answers.
Placing down his pencil, both hands laid at his temples, prying through countless thoughts of unimportance. He remembers a dim memory of something about a bow and arrow; the challenge was focused on archery. He’s positive about that.
Taking a low breath, he resigns himself to his fate.
There is no way he’ll pass this.
—
The sun is warm on their backs as they move through the crowded streets, vendors selling greasy foods with music blasting from nearby restaurants smother the loud city with even more noise.
Traffic is heavy at this time; leaving no easy opening to cross. Peter and Ned run across the street, ignoring the horns that blare at them.
“Want to stop at the pizza shop?” Ned asks, nudging into his shoulder. Trying to sympathize with his low mood.
“Sure,” he nods, running a hand down his features. They walk further before Peter sighs, “I failed that Ned.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone, leaving his voice only slightly whiny.
“Well, that’s only the second pop quiz. I’m sure there’ll be more; besides, the worst she can do is make it twenty percent of the grade.” Ned smiles at Peter as they approach their old pizza diner.
The door squeals when they enter. The two sit at a sticky leather booth in a corner, it was their own-spoken designated spot since they were Freshmen.
The white tile floor has turned yellow from age and improper cleaning, while the walls have paint bubbling at the corners and a possible mold growth on the ceiling. Customers still sneak cigarettes into the restaurant despite the countless Do Not Smoke signs.
But it’s cheap, and the food is greasy enough for the taste to be good.
“You saw Liz today, right?” Ned slings his backpack on the empty booth seat beside him; Peter mimics his movements.
“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing at his jaw.
“You know she kept looking at you while you took the quiz.” Ned made a loose gesture with his hands, eyes widening as if trying to convey what a big deal this was.
“Everyone was,” Peter deadpanned at him, “I was having a mini-panic attack in the middle of class, unable to recall if Penelope was an actual character in the flipping story!”
Ned paused, “Penelope was Odysseus’s wife.”
The silence that reaped between them lasted for a solid five minutes before Peter practically disappeared in his seat, back slouching as he hid his face behind his hands, “I thought she was his sister.”
“He doesn’t have a sister,” Ned answered again, face wincing with sympathy.
“Yeah, I know that now.” Peter groaned, hauling himself back up in his seat. “I’m so screwed.” He laughed weakly, digging his palms into his eyes, “My English grade is already so bad because I haven’t had time to read the stories yet.”
“Well, I mean, what are your other grades?” Ned tried, tilting his head.
“All A’s, I mean high A’s, English is an A minus, but with this quiz, it will be either a high B or a low B. I have a 90.87 in her class, so it all depends on how much she scales the pop quiz—” His ramble was cut short by a waitress greeting them.
“Sorry for the wait. Would you guys like any drinks? Or are you two ready to order?” She was around their age, probably a freshman at college; she had dreads, while her brown eyes skimmed between Ned and Peter. Her face held a slight glower; she already knew they wouldn’t tip well.
“Medium pizza, go heavy on the pepperoni and cheese, please, and two Pepsi’s.” Peter listed off quickly, smiling at her; she returned the grin as she wrote it all on her notepad.
“That's all?” She glanced at Ned, who merely nodded his head, lips remaining sealed. “Okay, that’ll be out in fifteen.” She walked away from their table, her stained apron flowing around her dark jeans.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Ned sighed, shaking his head.
“Do what?” Peter felt his eyes squint slightly as his lips twitched in a questioning frown.
“Order like my Lola,” Ned explained, eyes glowing with the praise he gifted Peter.
“Thanks,” Peter sighed, chuckling slightly.
—
Their stomachs were bloated when they left, groaning as the food felt heavy in their bodies.
“God, that food doesn't digest well.” Ned groaned, patting his belly.
They winced in unison as they walked towards his home.
“Because it’s all grease,” Peter responded, his expression was much of his friend’s own, screwed up in a tight grimace as he kept walking oddly.
“You think our waitress was happy with the tip?” Ned looked at Peter; the sun was still high in the sky, leaving the city to hold an air of suffocation.
Everything felt too hot and too much.
“The three dollars.” Peter laughed, shaking his head, “She’s probably cursing us right now.”
Ned groaned, “I know, but I already used all my allowance to buy that Star Wars set.”
Peter hummed in sympathy, patting his friend on the shoulder. “Listen, you put the most money into it. Two dollars, you carried the tip.” Peter could hardly afford his half of the pizza.
“I guess,” Ned nodded, seemingly okay with the situation.
They stopped in front of Ned’s home, “Try to hide your face from Lola; she thinks a demon is cursing you.”
Peter merely hummed. He had nothing to say; after hanging out with Ned for how long he has, questioning certain things his friend shared often resulted in a pointless, and grueling exchange which ended with Ned circling to the main point anyways without explaining anything.
—
The new season wasn’t as exciting; they played for a few hours before boredom clung to them both.
It was around six when Peter left, sneaking out of Ned’s window since his Lola had started directing Bible stanzas at him in hopes of ridding him of the demon whenever she saw him.
It was just the safer and easier option.
Running down the still bustling streets, he avoided people as he slunk into an empty alleyway. Double-checking for any people, he began stripping, humming a song Ned sang while they were playing Fortnite.
Sticking his backpack to the alley wall, he crawled up; his suit still wasn’t anything to be proud of, but it offered him enough protection.
It consisted of an old zip-up he grew out of, but the color matched the aesthetic he wanted; while the goggles did an excellent job of minimizing the out-put and canceling bright lights, although they still were far too clunky.
His entire outfit screamed—a broke kid who didn’t get permission from his parents to be a makeshift hero.
He jumped from the top of the building; the wind carried most of his weight down.
The second part of his night began.
—
The patrol was easy; the most action he got was taking down a potential mugger, who tried stabbing him but failed. He saved a cat; he helped an old lady carry her groceries into her apartment; he stopped a few minor crimes: stealing and graffiti—which he may or may not have stopped but instead joined in on and then painted over—his patrol was easy.
Even fun in a few parts.
When he returned to his apartment, he stripped from his suit. His plan was to sneak into the kitchen, make some ramen in pure darkness not wanting to disturb May, and then he could slither back into his room and sleep.
But when he left his room, he faltered immediately.
May was pacing the floor, her thumb in her mouth as she was tearing at her skin, eyes dark with worry.
When she looked up and saw him, she looked both happy and pissed; walking over, she engulfed Peter in a big hug and then when she withdrew she turned her head on him.
“I am so—I, I'm so mad at you!” She snapped, walking away, she sat at the counter. Eyebrows furrowed across her forehead as she kept her head tilted upwards.
“What? Why are you up, May?” Peter sat to the side of her.
She deadpanned at him, “Are you serious? Why the f*ck are you up?”
“Because I’m a teenager.” He shrugged, tracing the false marble countertop, ignoring her glare.
She took a deep inhale, “Listen,” she began, her voice much calmer, “I don’t want to be this overbearing Aunt that you feel like you can’t trust with things. So, if you aren’t going to be home just text me. Please . I was this close,” she held up her index and thumb drawing them together, “To calling the police and reporting you missing.”
“I was with Ned; I texted you earlier.” He lied easily, keeping his eyes genuine.
“Yeah, but when I texted you, you didn’t answer, so I texted Ned, and guess what he said?” May was now glaring at him, “Oh, Peter left already.
“But then I started thinking, when I was your age, I was off sneaking around with guys. You get it; I was doing worse stuff than you. And, I mean, you’re a handsome kid, so I tried keeping myself calm. But you got home at almost one in the morning, Pete. I don’t want to dig into things you don’t want me to know. I don’t care if it’s a girl or a guy, but listen; if you aren’t hanging out with Ned, you must text me every twenty minutes.
“I don’t care if you're sh*tting, eating, even throwing up; you have to text me and tell me two things, how you are and if you feel safe. That’s it, two things. You could set an alarm for all I care? I don’t want to lose you.” She gathered Peter’s hands into her own, squeezing once as she hugged him, “I don’t know if you know it, but every time you leave, I get so worried. You're my baby, dude.” She pulled back, her eyes brimming with tears, “I need you safe.”
He nodded, keeping his vision on the floor, “I know, sorry for not texting you. I’ll set a reminder every twenty minutes. Promise.” His voice was subdued, May let out a weak exhale.
“Thank you,” she stood from her stool, moving towards her room. She hovered by the door, turning around she made eye contact with him. “Whatever you don’t want to tell me, or if you feel scared, I’d never be mad. You know you can trust me. Always.”
Peter smiled, it was slight, “I know.”
May frowned, nodding, “Night Bud.”
“Night May.” He moved from his stool, standing in the kitchen.
She closed her door behind herself. He tried to ignore the twitch of guilt from seeping into his gut.
Sighing, he moved towards the pantry, drawing out a ramen cup. He filled it with water, placing it in the microwave he set the timer for three minutes. He leaned on the counter, staring through the window over the sink as he waited for his food to be finished.
New York was still bright despite it being nearly two.
He frowned, he didn’t want to lie, but if the results allowed her to be safe and less worried, it was all worth it.
Late Morning of Monday, 10-19-2015:
Tony didn’t try to mask the annoyance squirming onto his features, how his eyebrow twitched every two seconds, or how he kept tapping his wrist—sending a non-verbal but solid cue that this interview had lasted far longer than expected, and it was time for it to be wrapped up.
It wasn’t below him to walk out of interviews or merely stay quiet during oddly personal questions.
“The public has been made aware of this new government rule that they are applying towards The Avengers, the accords; how do you feel about it? I heard that the responses on the team were very varied.” The guy had an acne cluster at the corner of his mouth; every time he spoke, the white heads nearly pulsated with puss.
Tony swore he even saw some leak out.
He yawned, “It’s fine.” He tapped his watch again, then moved to adjust his socks. He tilted his wrist to tell the guy that it had already been twenty minutes since they started.
“Fine? So you support the decision?” The interviewer asked again, his voice contained a pitchy tone that left Tony with a minor headache.
“I don’t care about the decision; ever since the ‘heroes’ have advanced, so have our ‘villains.’ We need good to out-balance the bad; that’s all there is.” Tony stood, heading out of the small room, he pretended not to notice how the guy flustered after him as Tony slammed the door shut.
The man followed after him regardless, shouting question after question on his trail.
“Good god, a guy can’t shut up,” Tony murmured, squeezing at his forehead he turned around.
The guy’s yell was echoing throughout the building, disturbing many people.
“Listen, Bud,” Tony waited till the interviewer was close enough to hear. “I’ve already had interviews about this; I supported it, but some didn’t. We need regulations not to hurt the people who will inadvertently get in harm’s way with us trying to save them. We talked and found something we all agreed on. That’s all.”
Tony turned on his heels; taking a deep breath, he ran down the hallway, slipping past workers. He lost the interviewer with his sudden answer.
When he got to the parking garage, he had to wait for Happy. The man was fuming when he left the elevator, “You didn’t even warn me you were going to run.” He snapped, unlocking the car and climbing into the driver while Tony slid into the passenger.
“You couldn’t keep up even if I did.” He shrugged, ignoring the curses Happy directed at him.
The drive to the downtown tower was slow; traffic was overwhelming.
Cars were piled on each side of them; Happy cursed when a car drove out in front of his left turn, almost resulting in a crash.
“Turn down that sh*t music, Tony!” He snapped as he aggressively slid the volume dial to zero.
“Oh, it’s Pink Floyd,” he exclaimed, “You loved them.”
“Not when the bass is far too—you go first; it’s your right away!” Happy gestured to a rusted golden car in front of them; the person waved as they turned; they were not from New York.
When they parked in front of the tower, Tony cracked his shoulders and neck as he moved from out of the car. “Thanks for the ride, Hap.”
Happy muttered a rude response as he faced away from Tony.
Strolling inside the tower, Tony faltered when a hand was placed on his shoulder.
Turning around, he groaned, “Why didn’t Friday tell me you were here?”
Nick Fury stood before him, his face set in an immovable expression. “I told her not to.” He explained, “Let’s talk in private.”
Tony raised his eyebrows, “In private, you mean just me or the team?”
“The team.”
“Friday,” he spoke upwards, eyes darting to where Nick Fury stood; the man was still untouchable.
Fury’s face was void of anything resembling an emotive human, his eye patch was still strung tightly on his head, his black clothes still unwrinkled, and he still displayed his constant frown.
“So, just—” Tony drawled in his words, “I didn’t do anything against regulations, right?”
Tensions were still high from the accords, and if the team found out he hadn't been properly obeying them, it would be a mess of insults directed at him.
“No, this is about something else.” Nick deadpanned, hands still crossed in front of him.
Tony nodded, “You heard him, Fri, get everyone.”
“Yes Boss.” Her voice echoed between them, the robotic tone heavy in the air.
“Elevator up?” He asked, guiding them toward the top floor.
Nick said nothing, sparing Tony an irritated glance as they piled into the elevator.
The ride was horrible; Tony had given up talking to Nick after his fifth attempt at conversation fell flat. So, all that left them was a confined space filled with odd and awkward tension.
The compound contained Natasha, Bruce, Wanda, and Vision when they exited the elevator. Though, they were the only members currently here.
Groaning, Tony looked at the four. “Where’s Cap and the Soldier?”
Natasha glared at him with his nickname but shrugged.
“Training, I guess.” She yawned, leaning further against the couch as she crossed her legs.
She was waiting.
“Friday,” Tony sat on the recliner, they had already replaced the chair that very month, and yet the back still reclined too far backward.
“Already on it, Boss.” She answered immediately. It took a second before she replied again, “Steve and Bucky are on their way. They got caught up talking to workers.”
“You mean Steve was talking.” Tony gestured to the open seats, “Sit down, Fury.”
Nick just looked at him, “I’m fine.”
Sam entered next, with Hawkeye following behind him; Steve and Bucky entered after them. Thor slammed through a window; they all ignored the glass that shattered over the room.
The Norse God merely laughed as he clapped his hands together, “Forgot about the windows!” He laughed further before sitting near Natasha, causing the couch to dip with his weight.
She slid closer to him; once she realized what was occurring, she clambered away, face paler than before.
Rhodey came a few minutes later; the room was filled with mindless chatter—Bruce and Tony discussing a new theory they’d like to try in the lab, with Wanda and Vision listening to Natasha talking to them about a new workout regime she’d like them to try. Hawkeye was listening to Thor, eyes widening with each thing the man kept sharing.
“My brother even once tied a rope around his penis—that is the correct term, right? We call it reðr back on Asgard, and he tied the other end to a goat horn! The guests were in fits. I found it a bit awkward since he was almost crying. But Asgardians still find ways to have fun.” Thor kept rambling, making large gestures with his hands as his face split into a grin.
Clinton chuckled slightly as he shifted away, keeping his smile soft—but anyone could see the hint of worry. There was nothing to say to escape the current conversation; so he kept suffering in silence as Thor kept talking.
Steve, Bucky, and Sam silently conversed before Nick cleared his throat.
“Our last guest has arrived; we’ve waited long enough.” Nick’s voice silenced everyone else; staring at the group, he cleared his voice, clicking something on his phone; a screen rolled down from inside the compound and displayed a picture.
It was a blurry photo of some person wearing blue and red.
“Oh, it’s that Spider-thing.” Tony nodded, “What about it?”
“We don’t know their alliance.” Nick explained, “We need to be positive he won’t turn around and slaughter countless people. It’s a safety precaution, so we need you guys to talk to him.”
“I already looked into it; the kid is Peter Parker; he’s young—” Steve interrupted Tony from sharing his information.
“How young?”
“Fifteen last time I checked.”
The silence was heavy.
Nick’s face remained impassive, “We’ve also done our research. There weren't any definite flags of potential malice. But it’s a safety measure.”
Natasha stared at Tony, then Fury, “Wait—” She held up her hand, eyes darker than before, “Are you saying you two knew this kid's age and didn’t try to stop him? He’s a literal child.”
“With stronger abilities than most, he’s fine. I watched a few YouTube clips,” Tony waved her off, focusing on Fury, “He lives with his Aunt, does charity work, and attends a good school. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
“And, if we don’t have anything to worry about, then S.H.I.E.L.D would like him to work with us. His skills would be beneficial.” Nick explained again, voice bored.
Hawkeye laughed lowly, “He's a kid, though.”
“You’re raising him to be a child-soldier,” Natasha bit, eyes narrowing on Nick. “I’m not doing this.”
She stood up; Nick spared her a glance before looking forward. “Sit down.” His demand was brushed aside, Natasha remained standing.
“I won’t be following orders, not for this.” Her words weren’t loud, but they were commanding of attention. Everyone heard the emotion behind her voice; she wouldn’t subject this boy to her upbringing.
No one could necessarily blame her.
“He doesn’t have proper training; with or without us, he’ll probably get killed,” Fury stated simply, eyes skimming over the room, gauging how many people he’s lost from Natasha’s slight outburst.
“And he’ll die free, without restrictions.” She walked closer to Fury, her face light red in the cheeks. “I will not, and I’m serious, Fury, go after this kid.”
Nick shook his head, “Fine, Widow’s out, who else?”
Bruce withdrew with her, along with Bucky and Clint.
Steve, Sam, Tony, and Rhodey remained in.
Wanda and Vision stayed neutral. Wanda stayed quiet during the debate between Natasha and Fury, she knew all too well how confusing it was to grow up in an unstable environment. However, it was equally as dangerous without proper training. While Vision re-thought through the choices and likely outcomes of the recruitment of the kid, what would be most beneficial for the child.
“Listen, I’m not down for putting this kid into some type of child-soldier thing either, like Natasha is saying, but —” Tony pretends not to catch the glares directed at him, adding but to that sentence was terrible either way. “He does need training. I’m positive his loyalty is only to New York; the kid grew up here.”
Fury stared at him, “You’ll catch him?”
“I’ll get the Spider, sure.” Tony yawned, leaning further back against the leather, ignoring how it squeaked against his thighs.
“Captain,” Nick stared at the other, “You?”
“I’m with Stark.” Steve nodded, running a hand through his hair, “It’s dangerous out there.”
“So, four in, four out, and two undecided. What about you, Thunder-Man,” Tony turned towards Thor, waiting for his declaration.
“The age is quite fine, I think,” The god shrugged, “When I was ten, my father sent me off to kill nearby roaming beast; I will go and talk to this child.”
“So, when do you want us to act?” Steve questioned Nick, voice soft and yet firm.
“He usually goes on patrol at seven, but one of you can stop by. Or even see the kid in person, hell, if I care. Just ask him about the training and his loyalty. That’s all you have to follow.”
“Who wants to go first?” Tony yawned, “I gotta take Pep out on a date, so I can’t do this tonight, Cap? Rhodey? Thunder? Sam?”
“I can’t either, Bucky and I signed up for aerobics class—”
“What do you mean by that?” Sam laughed, tilting his head to the side, face split in a grin.
“You told us to give back to the community, so we’re leading a work-out class.” Steve answered, eyebrows furrowing together, “What?”
Sam shook his head, shrugging, “Nothing; I just decided I need to join you guys. Sorry Tony, out for the night.” Sam dismissed him, waving his hand at Tony as he focused on the two before him, he kept smirking.
“Rhodey, Thunder?” Tony stared at them, waiting for anything.
“I will talk to the boy!” Thor declared before Rhodey could. When the god stood from the couch, the armrest ripped beneath his palm, causing stuffing to cascade to the floor.
Tony closed his eyes, sighing. “I’ll take over tomorrow.”
“The deal is sealed!” Thor smiled, laughing as he left through the broken window. Fury stayed in place before turning.
“That will be all.”
—
School seemed to have taken a sharp turn for the worse. Peter often kept up his grades even without his scholarship; it wasn’t hard. In his other classes, the material was accessible, and most of the equations in his advanced math courses, or even chemistry, were well in his grasp of understanding.
The only issue was English; he had no time to read the novels, and even when they did read in class, the lack of sleep that he often deprived himself of grew more powerful, and he’d fall asleep only after a few minutes of listening to each story.
He understood the concepts of English: grammar, spelling, and vocabulary. It was simply the novels causing him to struggle.
This was how he found himself sitting in his class after school with the Principal across from him, an almost sad smile on his features as he read through some curled papers.
“Peter,” he said his name very softly as if shouting would cause the teen to snap.
He tried to still the tapping of his fingers, nodding once in response.
“You achieved a B in this class, which is not bad. But you must know the scholarship you attained had strict guidelines; you have to get anything above a B minus for everything to be paid.” The statement was said without judgment, yet Peter couldn’t help the dim flush that washed through his pale features.
“Yes, I’m aware.” He kept his voice steady, ignoring the beady eyes of his teacher.
“You still have a high enough grade to maintain the scholarship, but anything less will cause great trouble. You need to focus better in class; Mrs. Nellson tells me you’ve been sleeping during her lessons. That’s very unlike you.”
The sun leaked through the large windows, sending Golden to crawl along the wooden desk, leaving the whiteboard to expose erased streaks of blue marker.
“I know; I plan on trying to do better. Is there any extra credit you can give me?” He motioned towards the teacher; her sneer turned deeper as she shook her head.
“No, I don’t offer, sorry.”
“I know you can do this, Pete; you’re among our most gifted students!” The praise was empty; he said this about everyone, “If there is any home trouble or anything that you can’t share, please let us know. We will try to help.”
Peter nodded, smiling as he stood, “Thank you for the concern; I will be leaving now.” He slung his taped backpack over his shoulder, ignoring how a hole with a pen sticking out jabbed his back.
With all the new backpacks he constantly needs, all stemming from his carelessness, May resorted to shopping at Thrift stores, focusing solely on the bargain bins. His last backpack had to be a part of a murder; the insides were oddly red and stunk of metal.
“Get home safe; see you tomorrow, Peter.” The principal spoke behind him as he approached the classroom doors.
Peter turned around, keeping his smile in place. He waved at them both and left. He ignored how he could hear them whisper as soon as he turned his back on the room.
New York could go one day without Spider-Man.
Peter Parker needed to catch up.
—
The night air was brisk; it still held a quality of humidity that New York always seemed to maintain no matter the season. His hammer bounced between his palms as he stood on top of the roof of an old store.
“Friday,” Thor began, voice thick as his eyes squinted downwards.
All the humans appeared to be like ants, thin and fragile.
“Yes, Thor?” Friday responded in the earpiece Tony gifted him for communication at headquarters in case anything odd occurred.
“Isn’t the Spider-Child supposed to be out by now?” Thor questioned, moving to squat at the edge of the building; his hair whipped around him, the braids slashed across his body as he kept his legs flexing.
“This is his usual time for patrol, yes,” Friday responded, her voice lacked the emotion usually conveyed by humans.
He found it a bit unnerving.
“What should I do?” Thor tilted his head, moving to stretch his arms behind his body, grabbing his opposite arm elbow, he tugged the limb; grunting at the slight burn that accompanied the action.
“There are two options: You may retreat to headquarters. Or, you may seek out Spider-Man; he could’ve taken a different route.” Friday explained; Thor hummed in response, debating.
“Suppose I’ll search for him.” He chuckled, laughter low in his throat as he jumped from the roof. Body slicing freely through the air.
Breaking his descent, he hit his hammer against the ground; the momentum of it carried his body to touch the ground with a slow swing instead of a bone shattering collison.
Tensing his calves when he touched the cement, he jumped back up. Lighting carried him up through the city, body flashing with electricity.
He spent his night scouting through New York, it took him nearly two hours of re-tracking the places he had already searched before he felt disappointment settle in his body.
Landing back on the ground, he sighed, scrubbing at his chin. “Did I miss him?” He asked Friday, eyes slitting in annoyance.
“Unlikely, it appears Spider-Man has missed patrol tonight.”
Thor sighed, tapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and he shrugged. “Suppose I’ll go back to the compound.”
“I’ll alert, boss.”
He didn’t reply, body already darting through the air.
—
His room was smothered in a yellow glow. The flickering lamp Ben gifted him years ago was illuminating his room. His body was stretched on his old desk chair, the back of it wobbled as he leaned against it.
His phone played some music on his Spotify; his mind felt foggy and tired. Rubbing at his eyes he tried stifling a yawn. Peter read nearly two of the mandatory novels they were given in English, answering the assignments he was missing.
“Peter,” May knocked on his door. She opened it, peeking her head in, and smiled at him.
“Yeah?” He turned around, pencil still in hand, as he tilted his head at her.
“Ordered food,” she declared, swinging his door open wider.
Peter stood from his chair, ignoring the slight tweak in his back as he walked out with her towards the kitchen. Pizza boxes were pooled on the counter, while breadsticks were scattered on the surface. She offered him a plate with a crack down the middle while she grabbed another with a chip on the side.
“Studying hard, huh?” She asked, sitting at one of the bar stools; she gestured to Peter to sit near her.
He complied, sliding on top of one, “Got a B in English.” He groaned, rubbing at his face as he adjusted himself on his seat, taking a large bite of his food.
“What happened?” She asked, her voice genuine. She wasn’t mad, just confused.
“Fell behind on reading the books,” he shrugged.
May laughed, “Can’t blame you; the stories they pick are always boring.” She took another slice of pizza, blowing on it before she ate it.
“Yeah, super boring,” Peter smiled at her, not meeting her eyes.
They sat in adamant silence before May randomly squeezed his shoulder; he looked up at her.
Her eyes were tired, the brown seemingly sleepless. “Bud,” she frowned at him, “This isn’t like before, right?”
Peter shook his head, “No, this isn’t like before. I’m just tired, I think.” He flashed her a reassuring expression, finally meeting her stare, “I plan on waking up early and getting to school to finish my work.”
While he was finishing his plate of food, neither of them said anything. The radio on the counter played some old song, the rhythm was filled with static while the lyrics were slurred.
“Goodnight, May.” He stood from his stool, cleaning off his plate in the sink, he retreated back towards his room.
“Peter,” May paused him with her hand gripping his wrist; she was still sitting when he turned, “You can tell me anything. Okay?”
“I know, night, May,” He smiled, closing his door behind himself. Yawning, he fell on his bed. Closing his eyes, he went to sleep instantly.
—
Afternoon of Tuesday, 10-20-2015:
He got in front of the complex at 3:30, straightening his shirt, he withdrew from the car, “Stay in front; it won’t take long.” He mentioned towards Happy, moving towards the entry of the apartments.
Tony had a guess Peter would try to avoid them, which was why he originally planned for things to fall how they had.
It took him five minutes to find the Parker apartment; he knocked on the door twice.
He was left waiting for nearly ten minutes before he knocked again, constantly checking his watch.
A woman opened the door; her hair was held up in a thin hair-tie, while her shirt was smothered in stains; she stared at him before laughing. Shaking her head, she closed the door on him.
Tony paused, knocking once more. He waited, confused by the whole interaction.
The door flew open again; the woman’s eyes held more shock than anything. “Holy sh*t!” She shook her head, “Why are you here? Is this some show? Am I on, What Would You Do?”
Tony shook his head, smiling at her; he knew she must’ve been Peter’s Aunt, May Parker. Though he didn’t expect her to be so young in appearance, it was said in the files that May and Ben both were a few years older than Peter’s parents.
“I’m here to talk to Peter Parker,” He smiled.
May blinked before slamming the door closed again.
He stood in front of the apartment for nearly five minutes. He was just about to leave before the door opened. Her hair was straightened, and she wore a new outfit. “Come in, come in!” She stepped aside for him to enter.
The apartment was small; it seemed she tidied the rooms while the door was closed. Things were cluttered in corners and bookshelves.
“Let me call him,” May smiled, motioning for Tony to sit on the couch. "It might take a minute or so, though." She explained, her smile held a hint of worry as she tapped on her phone with as much urgency as someone could muster.
“I’m patient,” Tony returned May’s smile, clasping his hands together.
—
His body was swinging through New York, nearly airborne as he took every sharp turn with ease, body automatically angled away from buildings. Webbing carrying him through air.
He got caught up enough in English for his grade to return back to an A minus, which meant Spider-Man also returned.
He snuck off right after school, feeling guilty about being unable to patrol yesterday.
Peter let out a low whoop as he landed on the ground. Moving to help a group of kids cross the street, they all thanked him once they got across, referring to him as 'Mr. Spider-Man '. He had already accomplished a few things in the forty minutes he was out: stopping a potential mugging, saving a dog from being run over, and now, he helped a group of kids move across the street safely.
When he returned to the air, he felt a sharp stab in his ribs.
And then he was falling.
Taking a low breath, he tried minimizing his collision on the cement. Groaning, as he rolled onto his back he moved his eyesight to stare above himself, he paused, confusion suffocated his thoughts.
Someone was floating in the air, body levitating in the sky as smoke seemed to roll off their limbs.
Descending to Peter’s level, they paused in front of him. The person wore a mask; it hid all their features; the mask was nothing more than two black dots and a single line for a mouth.
“Spider-Man?” The guy asked, his voice was low.
Before Peter could speak, it felt like his throat was being crushed; immense pressure was applied to his windpipe.
The guy in front of him had his arm outstretched; his hand squeezing Peter, lifting him off the ground without a single struggle.
The stranger's outfit was of just black: his shirt was an oversized black sweatshirt, his pants were nothing more than black sweatpants, even his shoes were black.
Peter realized dimly that smoke wasn’t coming off his body; it was a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth; even with the porcelain mask, there was still enough space for a cigarette to be lit.
“How sad,” The guy’s voice remained steady, “I was trained to take you down, and this is all I get?”
Peter grabbed at the guy's fingers, prying him off his throat as he gripped his wrist and upper arm; tensing his legs against the ground, he shifted his stance, altering the guy's body weight; he sent the man sailing above himself.
Instead of landing against the cement in a heap of pain, the man fixed his position mid-air, straightening his posture. When he landed on the ground, he gripped Peter in return.
They stood in front of each other with equal strength, both unmoving.
Peter stared at the mask, eyes meeting the black holes on the other.
The guy sighed, smoke furling from beneath his mask, “You aren’t strong enough; it’ll be pointless. You don’t have the drive.” His voice was low, even slightly irritated.
He levitated, letting go of Peter.
The stranger’s body defied gravity; his mask was focused on Peter the entire time he ascended.
“I’ll make you have an appetite to win.” The guy flew away; Peter webbed onto one of the nearby buildings. Swinging his body after the man, he ignored how his muscles strained under the force he was exerting.
New York was nothing more than a blur beneath him. His vision zeroed in on the stranger.
