Chapter Text
After his little vacation to another universe, Peter had become sort’ve fascinated with magic. Most of it made sense to him, of course, but that was half the fun. Currently he was in the New York City Public Library, nose-deep in a book on modern witchcraft and satanism, which made him feel a bit like a ghost-buster. (Absently, Peter realized that with his glasses on he did look quite a bit like Spengler...)
As he flipped through the pages, he was struck by how scientific everything was. Every spell had a counter-spell, there were components and preparations and exacting calculations that needed to be made. Although he didn’t really believe what he was reading was exactly accurate (the whole thing seemed a bit cliche, if he was being honest), it did seem to make sense. Everything abided by the basic laws of physics. equivalent exchange, action and reaction, etc. He could understand how a Doctor could end up good at this stuff.
Peter began to squint through his glasses (which he still needed to read, despite his spider-powers) noticing a change in lighting. This was making it a bit more difficult to read the messy print of the book, and he grumbled to himself. A cursory glance to the windows explained the change. The sun had gone down.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that the last thing he’d eaten was a bagel for breakfast, not the wisest decision for someone with an over-active metabolism.
Well, he huffed, now was as good a time as any to take a break.
Once finished checking out that book on witchcraft, as well as one on ley-lines and another on alchemy, he walked out into the cold winter air waiting for him. Wind bit wherever it was able, and he pulled up his hood in an attempt to at least protect the back of his neck. This was, evidently, a mistake, as it just succeeded in creating a miniature chamber which directed blasts of cold wind directly into his ears. Peter resigned himself to this micro-misery, gripping the strap of his satchel bag. This kind of weather had him craving soup, and it was better than eating microwaved burritos alone in his apartment, so he changed his course, walking towards his favorite little ramen place.
There's something about winter in New York, something in the air completely unique to all other cities during the coldest months of the year. Winds blow harsher, cheeks get rosier, the warmth of your own cosy little apartment seems a bit more alluring... That was something Peter always loved about New York, despite the misery it often brought (Even after his change, he would still, without fail, manage to get the flu at least once a year, always right around Christmas when he was trying to get his last-minute shopping in).
Entering the warm and cozy restaurant, Peter grinned. The smell of hot broth and pan-fried dumplings, along with the loud and chaotic nature of the kitchen, completely visible from the dining area, should have completely overwhelmed his heightened senses, but instead it acted to ground him. Back before he’d dropped out of college, he used to come here a lot during finals week, and then after that he’d come here after any sort of accomplishment he felt like celebrating.
“Mr. Parker! The usual?” The only server- his name was Dave- greeted Peter warmly. Dave was a kind-faced med student who took shifts here to help out his budding family while he got his degree. He had just gotten married and his wife had twins on the way. Him and Peter would sometimes talk about bio-mechanics when the place was more desolate, but at the moment it was actually quite crowded.
With a nod, Peter sat down at his usual spot “Uh, yeah, and can I get some of that hot milk tea?”
Peter tapped the old wooden table with the tips of his fingers rhythmically, punctuating the sentence with a wink and finger-guns.
Dave nodded back “Cold, isn’t it? The kind of weather that makes you just wanna curl up and hide.”
“You’re telling me.” Peter grinned thankfully, remembering this morning, when he'd gotten pushed into the Hudson by a would-be mugger “Feel like crawling into bed and never getting back out.”
“I’ll go get that started for ya.” The server smiled kindly.
Peter was already turning his attention to the books in his bag, “Thanks, dude.”
As Dave walked away, Peter pulled a notebook, the alchemy book, and a pencil, intending on taking notes. There was a lot of sifting through bullshit he had to do, figuring out what was made up and what was true (If any of it was). He’d noticed that while Witchcraft was a bit like physics, abiding by laws but not having all the answers as to why , Alchemy was more like chemistry, focused on producing reactions. In that sense, he liked witchcraft better, since it required a certain sense of intuition and air of animalism, which he happened to have in droves due to the fact that he did, y’know, have spider DNA.
A hot bowl of noodles and pork broth was placed next to him, along with some sushi (the spider-man roll, Peter couldn't help himself), some edamame, miso soup, pork dumplings, and steaming tea. He wouldn’t have noticed- too busy figuring out a particular reaction- had it not been for the absolutely delectable cacophony of smells, reminding him just how hungry he was.
He ate in a blur, barely taking time to breathe, something aunt May chastised him for years about but, well, he was hungry . He’d spent all morning web-slinging, then the rest of the day with his nose deep in a book. Onlookers might forgive him for the intensely sensual noises he was making if they knew of his plight.
Something Peter wouldn’t forgive himself for, however, was getting splotches of broth on the library-borrowed book. The book wasn’t exactly new- it had several dogeared pages and a notable scribble in one of the pages which combined two alchemy circles into a crudely drawn phallic shape. He hastily dabbed at the pages with a napkin, but the damage had already been done, grumbling under his breath about his hubris.
Peter closed the book, resolving to not make any more of a mess for the rest of the night. Just as he put the books back in his bag and closed the flap, a loose cartridge of web-liquid exploded with a distinctive hiss. He grimaced, just his luck.
Leaving payment plus a generous tip on the table, Peter finished the dregs of the tea, steeling himself to go back into the bitter cold that awaited him. He gave a friendly wave over in Dave’s direction (it looked like he needed it, too, he was dealing with a large party full of children), and walked back out onto the street. Walking home, he considered going on another patrol, but he had work tomorrow, and besides, it was Sunday night, not a lot tended to happen on Sunday nights.
It turned out he was wrong. On his way back to his apartment, he heard the telltale signs of a mugging, and after he’d taken care of that, he noticed a bodega getting robbed. And so his night went, thinking it was over until boom, two blocks later there was something else happening. That’s how he found himself cold and covered in sweat, suit sticking in all the wrong places behind a greasy 24-hour diner. It was somewhere around 1 in the morning, getting a group of stoned guys away from a stray cat.
Peter had his hands raised, standing between the group and the stray “Hey, come on, guys, it’s just a cat. Go home, it’s late. I’m sure your moms are worried sick.”
One of the men, a short but muscular guy who, despite looking young, was balding on top, spat at Peter, the glob of phlegm and saliva hitting him squarely in the chest. That wasn't going to clean out easily “Fuck off.”
A tall, lanky guy built more like Peter who had been lurking in the back spoke up, clearly significantly more sober “Come on guys, that’s Spider-man. It’s not like we’re gonna win against him in a fight. He'll probably wrap us up and suck out all our juices or something.”
“You should listen to your friend, seems smart.” Peter nodded towards the guy. "Except for that last part."
Short guy huffed, clearly still wanting to punch Peter, but slowly backed away after another moment of sizing-up.
“This isn’t the last time you’ll see us, Spider-Man. I’ll come back, with more friends next time.”
One of the guys mumbled “Dude, what are you talking about?” as the group slunk off.
Peter turned around, re-focusing his attention on the stray cat that was shivering violently in the corner behind him. “Hey there, buddy. Those guys didn’t bang you up too bad, did they?”
The cat, a sleek black thing with a kink in their tail, looked rattled but no worse for wear. Peter had to admit, the little thing was kinda cute, sitting there scared and shivering.
“Awe… You’re so… gosh darn cute!” Beneath his mask, Peter grinned, unable to help himself.
The cat tilted its head to the side, eyes wide and adorable.
Peter shook his head “No I- I can’t. My apartment doesn’t allow pets, I don’t have time to clean a litter box, let alone the money for vet bills…”
The cat let out a desperate sounding ‘beep’. Peter’s will turned to jell-o. He'd always had a soft spot for injured strays.
“Okay. Fine.” Peter huffed, defeated.
And so, scooping up the cat in his arms, he set off towards home, making sure to grab his bag and change of clothes that he'd webbed to a rooftop on the way (he’d made that mistake too many times now to forget). Peter climbed into his apartment through the window, and set down the cat on his bare wooden floor. Pulling off his mask, he inhaled a breath of fresh air.
“Alright. You stay, uh,… right there-ish. I’ll be right back. Oh, and please don’t piss on anything, these floors absorb every smell.”
The cat simply sat there. It blinked calmly, seeming to say ‘i’m not going anywhere’.
Peter strode into his bedroom, not a long trip as his apartment was tiny , and closed the door, dropping his bag on the floor. He spoke to himself as he changed into some more comfortable clothes, something that was frighteningly common for him to do.
“You can’t just keep a cat here, come on man. I know it’s cute, and helpless, and probably would make you feel less cripplingly lonely, but it’s basically borderline animal abuse. No, you can’t keep it. Stop thinking of cute names, you’re only gonna get-” Peter tripped on his pajama pants, stumbling over himself and almost falling over “oof- attached. How can I… Hmm… Okay. Tomorrow I’ll research no-kill shelters, find somewhere to drop them, and forget about it. Yeah. Good plan, me.”
With a high-five to himself, he stepped out of his bedroom freshly (well no, not quite freshly, he really needed to do laundry) clothed in an oversized t-shirt and basketball shorts, to see Einstein- no, no cute science-y names- the cat, sitting in the same place he’d left it, calmly licking it’s paw.
“You hungry?”
The cat perked up at this, padding up to him and rubbing up against his legs.
“gah!” The cat had shocked him, like a jolt of static electricity. Hm, maybe it was about to storm, or something.
Brushing this off, he headed towards the fridge, the cat weaving in-and-out of his legs the entire time. Some sort of… feeling… began to form at the base of Peter’s skull, right behind his eyes. It was like the precursor to a migraine, or maybe he was just getting sick again from being out in the cold for so long. It wasn't quite his spider-sense, that was more like a shiver down is spine. He opened up the fridge, sighing at the meager contents of it. A container of leftover fried rice, a carton of probably-spoiled eggs, a jar of salsa, some matzo-ball soup, a mostly empty sriracha container… Ah! A to-go box of week-old lasagne from Aunt May. Cats could eat lasagne, right?
Peter opened up the box, breaking off a cold chunk and placing it on the floor for the cat, who rubbed up against him appreciatively. He hungrily began eating the rest.
The unease at the base of his skull seemed to blossom into full on pain in a matter of seconds, the room beginning to spin around him. He gasped for air, throat suddenly tight. As he clutched his messy kitchen counter, he felt his spider sense go off, far too late, a jolt of white-hot electricity down his spine. Something was wrong, really wrong. Couldn’t’ve been the lasagne, it wasn’t that old. Speaking of the lasagne, he could no-longer hold onto it, and it dropped onto the floor sauce-side first. He’d been tricked, and he didn’t know exactly how, or when, but he was poisoned, or drugged or something, and collapsed onto the floor, his limbs feeling like TV static.
Looking up through tear-blurred eyes, he saw someone, definitely human-ish with long dark hair and a mischievous air, looming above him, a satisfied smile on their face. He tried to speak, maybe to ask for help, or to demand to know what the hell was going on, but found he couldn’t, the only sounds escaping his lips were strange, strangled, and almost inhuman.
When he woke up the next morning, everything felt… off.
God, he hated Mondays.
It was like being a teen again, limbs too long and disobedient, clumsy despite his best efforts. His eyes were all blurry, and he couldn’t really make out his surroundings. Gradually, memories from the night before came back to him, and he realized he must be on his kitchen floor, judging by the distinctive sounds of his leaky faucet and loudly gurgling fridge. He groaned, trying to stand upright, but found his balance was terribly off, and collapsed again into a heap. Something was wrong, terribly, utterly wrong, and he needed to know exactly what it was. His eyes felt funny, like they had an extra skin overtop of them. He blinked hard, and the problem seemed to fix itself, although he soon recognized there was a different problem he should probably be paying attention to...
Everything was huge . Either that, or he’d gotten smaller. The kitchen counter seemed stories tall, and his ceiling looked miles away. His clothes were pooled around him, and he could see all the dust that had built up under all the kitchen surfaces. Peter inhaled a bit too quickly, resulting in a sneeze.
Screw lizard-men and multiversal travel, he’d just been Honey I Shrunk the Kids ’d, and it was definitely, without a doubt, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to him.
Oh, Peter, you just had to say it, didn’t you?
With a sudden clarity, he realized what exactly was so off about him. He had a tail . A great big fluffy one, and, observing further, that fluff covered his whole body in a thick layer and- oh, he had paws , and whiskers and his ears were-
No, no fucking way was this happening.
He was a cat. Albeit a big one, but still. Big, and fluffy, and orange. Peter didn’t even say it this time, knowing he’d jinx it.
Well, it happened anyway, because apparently the universe is a bitch. The door of the apartment opened and closed with a shick, scrape, CLUNK .
No, on no oh fuck oh shit. Not now- why did he always pick the worst times?
“Petey! You home?”
A pause, a few heavy steps, “I brought breakfast burritos. The kind from that fancy place uptown, bet they don’t even put horse meat in ‘em!”
Another pause, feet shuffling “Shit, what time is- Aw, fuck. He’s already left, hasn’t he… Damn it, capitalism- No, don’t damn capitalism, if it weren’t for capitalism you wouldn’t get to unalive people- Well… Guess I'll have to eat all this all by my lonesome... Ooh!”
Peter looked up, and made direct eye contact with his apparent burglar. His… well, uh... what were they, exactly?
For the sake of ease, let’s just say it was Peter’s boyfriend, Wade.