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Chapter Text

      “Just the milk, please,” Spider-Man requested cheerfully, politely ignoring the way the cashier was staring at him with a dropped jaw. That snapped the man (Edgar, according to his nametag) out of it, and he quickly rang up the beverage.
        “$2.10, please,” Edgar mumbled, still peering up at the hero from under shaggy bangs. Spider-Man pulled out his wallet.
      “Yes! I have exactly that! And an extra two cents. So, not exactly that, I guess,” he rambled, handing over the money and dropping two pennies into a little jar on the counter.
      “Seriously?” It was the woman in line behind him, balancing a toddler on each hip. “You're a superhero in a million dollar suit. You're supposed to be rich or something.”
      Spider-Man laughed.
     “Mr. Stark actually gave me this. I used to just run around in my pajamas.”
      The lady snorted derisively, but the corner of her mouth curled up in amusement. “How dedicated of you.”
       He shrugged. “It wasn't a hardship. They were comfy. Can I have a receipt, please?”
       Edgar hurried to give him one, then continued staring after him as he exited the store and flipped onto the wall of the neighboring building.

      Under the mask, Peter Parker was having a very good day. He'd aced three tests, found two extra nuggets in his twenty piece, and picked a bouquet for Aunt May by stealing one flower from every pot, garden, bush, and park he'd come across (it wasn't really wrong if it was for a good cause, right?). Plus, he'd had enough money to buy a chocolate milk, which would make anyone's day.
       So in an effort to give back to the universe for gifting him with such a terrific day, he was out patrolling. Which, as it turned out, was a very good thing because that toddler was about to be hit by a bus. Not good.
       Peter leapt straight at the kid, wrapped him up in his arms, and braced himself for impact.
        The bus slammed it's brakes and Spider-Man at the same time.
        Peter went flying, unable to catch himself as his arms and legs were busy trying to keep a protective cage around the very much fragile child in his hold. He twisted himself to land on his back, keeping both the kid and his head from taking the brunt of things.
       “Ouch,” Peter remarked. He blinked away stars, slowly realizing that he must've been laying there for a while as a crowd of people had already surrounded him. There were screams and tears from a couple who must've been---
      “Oh yeah. Kid, right.” Peter carefully sat up and straightened his legs, holding the boy out and checking for injuries. The kid was blonde, maybe three or four (older than he'd thought) and had not a scratch on him. He was sucking his thumb pretty furiously but seemed otherwise unharmed by the crash.
      “Hey!” Peter called over, feeling more than a little awkward. There were a lot of cameras and spectators, and he was sure he looked awful, but. Well, he had a job to do. “Guys, I've got your kid. He's fine. I think. I mean, he might need some therapy. I know I do. But, physically, he's okay. Kids bounce back, right? What do you say, buddy, you alright in there?”
      The boy nodded and was promptly scooped up by his shaken parents.
      So Peter picked himself up and swung away, ignoring the many cell phones aimed in his direction.
      Spider-Man’s work was never done, however. In a city as big as New York, there was always someone in need of help, no matter how small that help was.
      “Mrs. Wigley! You're out late, and looking lovely as always, I might add. May I escort you home?” Peter offered a low bow, then took her hand and gently kissed the back. She giggled girlishly.
      Mrs. Wigley was at least ninety years old, entirely bald, and always had perfect makeup, courtesy of Jeff, who was one of the caretakers at her nursing home, which she often escaped from. Peter made sure to always check the duck pond when on patrol, since that was always where she went if she escaped.
       “If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Man.”
       Mrs. Wigley didn't quite understand the concept of an alter ego and genuinely thought Peter’s name was Spider Man. Peter loved her. Sometimes, when she hadn't escaped in a while, he dropped by her nursing home (discretely, in suit) to visit, and she delighted in showing him off to the other patients and caretakers.
      “Not at all, Madame.” He took her arm the same way he'd seen it done in Aunt May’s DVD of Pride and Prejudice, and they strolled slowly back to the care home, taking the scenic route through the park.
        “I have a son, you know,” Mrs. Wigley told him. “He lives in Alaska, so I don't see him much, but we do that video chat thing every week. He has two young children, and when I told them about you, he didn't seem to believe me, but they were quite excited. I don't know why, but it's very kind of them to get excited over my friends, isn't it? Polite young man you are, I thought, what a great influence you would make. Could you make a visit to me Sunday afternoon? I'd like to introduce you all.”
      Peter thought about that for a minute. Aunt May was working that day, so no trouble there. Of course, Mr. Stark had said something about working in the shop if his meetings were canceled….
      “I'll understand, of course, if you have other plans on a nice weekend,” she offered casually, and Peter remembered May saying something similar once, a look of disappointment in her eyes when she thought he might have grown “too cool” to hangout with his aunt on a Friday night.
      “No, I'll be there! It would be my honor, Madame,” he insisted, and swept her another bow just to hear her laugh again. “I would like nothing more.”
      Jeff met them at the door, and away Spider-Man went to do more good.

      “Hey Happy,” Peter whispered into the phone as he changed back into his pajamas in his dark room, trying not to wake Aunt May. “I hope you get this message. Could you do me a favor, please, and tell Mr. Stark that I can't come work with him on Sunday? I have other plans, and I'm really sorry. Also, and you don't have to tell this part to him if you don't want to, I just thought you should know that I stole some flowers from the tower today, and they totally caught it on the security cameras, and this guard dude got mad at me, and I ran away. And since you're the head of security, I thought you might find out, so I wanted to tell you now that I'm sorry. But it was for the greater good, really, you should've seen my aunt’s face. She was so pleased that I remembered to get that heart flower--- you know, the purple droopy ones with red on them?--- because it's her favorite, and I swear I wasn't going to take any from you guys, since you've done so much for me already, but that was the only place I could find those ones. So, sorry. Thanks. Bye.”

        Ned gave him cheese during first period. Six different kinds, actually.
     “My cousin's from Wisconsin,” he explained in a whisper, keeping one eye on the board, where their calculus teacher was writing out an equation. “She came into town last night and gave us like twenty pounds of cheese, which is really nice of her except that there's only three of us. We'll never eat it all. We'll literally die before we get the chance to eat it all.”
     Peter laughed and ate the cheese. It was delicious.

       “Mrs. Bueller, Mrs. Bueller, Mrs. Bueller!”
       “Yes, Mr. Parker?”
        “The answer in the book is wrong.”
       “So it is. Would you care to fix it?”
      “Mrs. Bueller, ma’am, I would love to. I'm so glad you asked.”
      “Well done, Mr. Parker.”
      “Am I your favorite student now, Mrs. Bueller?”
      “Mr. Parker, as I tell you every day, I do not pick favorites. But if I did, it would be Ned.”
      “Thank you, Mrs. Bueller.”
      “Darn it, Ned. I resent you and your cheese.”

      After school Peter met May at Mr. Delmar’s shop. Or, what remained of it. It had been a beloved fixture of the community, so the community had banded together to return it to its former glory.
       True to character, Mr. Delmar had already started hitting on May when Peter arrived, and May was her usual brand of oblivious.
      “Hey Aunt May,” Peter greeted, slipping in between the two and giving Mr. Delmar a smirk. “Mr. Delmar. How's your daughter?”
      He scowled. “If you weren't currently free labor, I would hurt you.”
       Peter smiled sweetly and grabbed a shovel.
       He had a wheelbarrow full of debris when his phone rang, and Barbie Girl started playing.
       Mr. Delmar, who'd been bent over the street trying to pull out salvageable items, shot up and gaped at him.
      “Are you serious?”
      Peter shrugged and checked the number. “Oh! It's my internship! Sorry, Mr. Delmar! It'll only take a minute!”
     “Sure, Parker! Anything to get out of work!” He griped. Peter grinned, and then ducked into an empty alley.
       “Mr. Stark! Hi!”
       “What the hell, kid? You cancelled on me through Happy? I thought you wanted to work in my lab. You have something going on?” Stark’s voice wasn't upset, per say, but he was definitely annoyed.
      “Aw, I'm sorry, Mr. Stark. I do want to work in your lab, or anywhere with you, actually; it's like my dream, so cool--- but see, there's this lady, and---”
      “You're ditching me for a girl?” Stark was almost offensively disbelieving. Then he scoffed. “Of course you are. Typical.”
       “No, Mr. Stark, it's not---” Click. “He hung up on me. Rude.”
       Peter sighed, debating on whether it was worth calling him back. Probably not, he decided. Mr. Stark was both busy and petty enough that he wouldn't answer. Honestly, he'd probably see it on the news soon enough. If Mrs. Wigley’s son believed that he was Spider-Man, it would no doubt be all over social media by Monday. And Peter knew he wasn't actually mad. Mr. Stark was just weird like that. Oh well. Peter shrugged it off and went back to working (and sniping with Mr. Delmar).

      It was Wednesday when Peter found the kittens.
      It started when he skipped out on gym class (it was his last class, and it wasn't like he didn't get enough exercise without it) to help a mom with her groceries.
      See, Peter wasn't really intending to skip class that day, but when he passed by some windows on his way to the gym he saw a double baby stroller with two adorable little children crying their eyes out in the Walmart parking lot. And their harried mother was trying to calm them both down while dealing with the other three children, of varying ages, who hung around her skirts and snapped at each other. To top it off, she was trying to push both the stroller and a shopping cart towards the store entrance. And the first thing Peter thought was: somebody should really help her. Then: why not me?
      The obvious problem was that f he ran over now she'd just send him back to school.
     Spider-Man, on the other hand….
      That's how Spider-Man came to be pushing a baby stroller through Walmart, with the rest of the kids taking turns riding on his back, enjoying the benefits of a babysitter with super strength.                ".     "Mr. Spider-Man, sir!”
       “What's up, Lexi?” Peter asked, twisting around to look at her. The girl had messy clothes and uneven braids and was currently gaping at him, showing off the gaps in her teeth.
       “Wait. You remember my name?!”
       “Why, of course! My lady, how could I ever forget the name of one as fair as you?” Peter asked dramatically, faking a terrible English accent and falling to one knee. The kids all giggled.
       “She's not a lady!” Lucas, her older brother, protested, clearly disgruntled. “She's a witch!”
       Peter gasped. “A witch? My lady must have wonderful powers! Wilt thou turn me into a toad?”
      “You're silly,” Lexi told him, beaming. “I'll turn Lucas into a toad, not you!”
      Peter made a confused noise. “You mean, he's not one already?”
       Being as short as he was, Peter couldn't reach any of the tall shelves for the mother--- Kerri, she'd introduced herself as--- but he could lift the kids up to grab things. They were so amused by this that Kerri started requesting items off the top shelf specifically so they could grab them. He was holding Lucy, the oldest, up on his shoulders to grab a roll of toilet paper when he noticed a flash.
       It was a young guy with a digital camera and a fanny pack. Tourists.
     “Dude,” Peter complained, “it's not cool to take pictures of other people's kids in the grocery store without asking. It's a little weird, actually.” The guy blushed furiously, mumbled an apology, but couldn't seem to take his eyes off Spider-Man. “Also, the staring. It's rude. I mean, what? Is there something on my face?”
      The guy nodded faintly. Peter whirled around. “Lucas,” he demanded, “what exactly is on my face? It's not a bug, is it?”
      Lucas nodded solemnly. “It's a big, red spider.”
      Lexi laughed. “No, it's your mask!”
      Peter froze, dropped to his knees, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You mean to tell me,” he began seriously, “that this isn't my real face?”
      Lucy snorted. “I think you are just too pretty, and that's why he's staring.” Peter let out a loud breath of relief.
     “Oh, thank goodness. I'm terrified of spiders.” He whipped back around to face the tourist, and Lucy squeaked from her spot on his shoulders. “Sir, if you thought I was pretty, you could have just said so. I'm comfortable enough in my masculinity to say, you're quite pretty too. Now get over here, and take a selfie with me.”
      The poor, red-faced man hurried to do just that, and Peter carefully pulled Lucy off his shoulders, so that she wouldn't be in the photo. Kerri took the picture for them, as it turned out, and told the man that he could keep the picture as long as he promised to blur Lucy’s face out before showing it to anyone. He agreed, and they continued on their merry way.
       Peter still hadn't found the kittens when, after helping Kerri and co. load groceries into their car and bidding them farewell, he saw a truck (with Minnesota plates, what was with these tourists?) break down in the middle of a busy intersection. Spider-Man pushed it off to the side of the road and spent the next ten minutes directing traffic to clear up the absolute mess caused by the obstruction.
      Some girl threw him a whistle, and he had a real good time with it.
      After that, he helped an old guy cross the street, petted ten real dogs, ate three free hot dogs, and then---
      Sirens. Smoke. Fire.
      An apartment building caught fire. And the first two floors were unbreachable after the first ten minutes. The fire department had luckily cleared them, but the fire was spreading fast, and there were still firefighters and civilians trapped on the top floors. They were setting up ladders, but time was running out.
      So Spider-Man asked where he would be most helpful (they were the experts, after all) and jumped in, armed with an oxygen mask, courtesy of Chief Garcia.
      Ashes flew against him, flames licked his suit, and he choked on the wave of heat that immediately hit him. He'd never been in a fire before, and according to the experts, this was a bad one. For a moment, he faltered, but there were people counting on him. If they died when he could have saved them…. (He couldn't have another death on his hands; this couldn't end like Ben).
       He could hear crying from another room; it was faint but there. He followed it, down the hall and into what must've been a bedroom. He could hear it, but where was it coming from?
      “Hello?” He coughed out, removing the mask to speak. Probably a bad idea, but eh. “It's your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man here to rescue you.” There was a pause.
     “Closet,” a hoarse voice croaked. Peter rushed over, ripping the doors open. There were three teenagers jammed into the small storage space. They must've been trying to protect themselves from the flames.
      “Ooookay,” Peter croaked, forcing himself to stay upbeat.  “This is going to be a little awkward, but I'm going to carry one of you in each arm, and the other guy has to cling to my back, alright?”
     A boy, who about Peter’s age, hopped onto his back and wrapped his limbs tightly around Peter's torso.
     The others hurried over and didn't fidget when he held them, though he knew his grip must be painfully strong. With that done, he ran back down the hall and jumped out of the same window he came in.
       Then he left them at an ambulance and climbed back in for more people.
       He did it again. And again. And again. Until his lungs felt like charcoal, and his expensive suit had melted in spots. Until he felt so covered in ash that he thought he might never be clean. Until bright spots were tattooed onto his eyes. Until he swayed on his feet.
       Until he could hear no more cries for help. Until he'd checked every room. Until an EMT laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and told him that everyone had been recovered.
       Peter gave Chief Garcia his equipment back with a murmured “Thank you” and an apology for singeing it. He didn't catch the man's response. The same EMT tried to catch him for treatment, but Peter thanked him and sent him off. He couldn't risk his identity. Of course, he couldn't focus enough to webswing either.
        Therefore, Peter was stuck with walking home. Unfortunately, he wasn't breathing very well, and exhaustion was settling into his very bones. He stopped for breaks often and left his mask pulled up to right above his nose to help him breathe.
        That was when he found the kittens.
        Peter was sitting on the steps of some building in a not so good part of town when he heard mewling. His attention was caught, and he stumbled up and after the noise.
       He briefly flashed back to following the sounds of crying in the burning apartment building, but quickly pulled himself out of it, almost stepping on a ratty cardboard box as he did so. Without really thinking about it, he took the box back to his spot on the steps, sat back down, and opened it.
        Three fuzzy little kittens greeted him. He smiled. He brushed off his legs. With trembling hands, he lifted them, one at a time, out of the box and onto his slightly cleaner lap. For the next hour Spider-Man sat in front of the First National Bank petting, cuddling, and baby talking the most adorable kittens he'd ever seen.
        At almost 1:00 AM, he looked up to find himself surrounded by scruffy people with scary faces and the same design tattooed on all of their biceps. He didn't have the energy to ask about it. He just lifted a little black blob.
       “This one’s Wicket, like from Star Wars. It's lucky they're all so different looking, because otherwise I could never tell them apart right now. There's so many weird splotches in my vision. This gray one, that was going to be Chewbacca, but then I remembered that this guy I know has a dog named that, so I'm calling her Leia. And the black and white one is Kelsey. I know it doesn't really fit the theme, but I just knew she was a Kelsey, and I couldn't take that from her. You wanna hold one?”
       And so for the next next hour, Spider-Man and his new friends played with the kittens.
       They left at almost 2:00 AM. At 2:01, they called Stark Industries. At 2:15, Tony Stark himself spoke to them. At 2:20, the call ended. At 2:30, Iron Man landed on the street in front of the First National Bank, confused and concerned.
      “Hey Underoos, why the heck….” Tony trailed off, finally taking in the strong smell of smoke and the colorful burns that decorated his beautiful suit. And lastly, the pack of kittens crawling across burnt legs. “Peter? Kid, what happened?”
       Peter shrugged and yawned. “Well, today was Wednesday, so I went to school, but then I skipped gym to carry groceries… there were some kids and some tourists, and then an old guy, and some dogs--- the live ones and the hot ones--- and then I had a whistle, but this building was on fire. So I helped. But it hurt. And then I went home, but there were kittens, and I made new friends, I think. We didn't talk much. I mean, I talked. About the kittens. But they didn't talk, except to say I was cute.”
        “Well, you must've made an impression,” Tony told him, “because your friends called me. They didn't talk much to me either. Said I should come and get you. Why didn't you call me for help?”
       “Help?” Peter frowned, confused, and idly scratched his head. “No, I’m alright. I'm playing with Wicket, Leia, and Kelsey. They're great. I love them. Leia is the most outgoing, but Wicket is really curious, and Kelsey likes to meet people.”
       “Is that right?” Tony was amused. They would talk later about when to call for backup, but for now, this was funny. (And if it made him feel all warm and fuzzy, that was his business).
     “Yeah. For kittens, they have pretty well developed personalities.”
      Tony laughed and sighed at the same time. Then he flew Peter to the tower for medical treatment and rest.
      Naturally, because he wasn't as heartless as the media sometimes painted him, he brought the kittens too.

Chapter Text

       Thursday was spent recuperating, after phone calls to both his school and Aunt May. Friday, he went to school but was forbidden from being Spider-Man. Instead, Peter and Aunt May went back to help with Mr. Delmar’s shop. The wreckage was cleaned up, and the new shop was officially underway. Peter tried and failed to convince Mr. Delmar to adopt one of the kittens (they were currently living with him and Aunt May, but they couldn't keep all three in their little apartment). Tony had already flat out refused to take any.
       “Which one do you think we should keep?” Peter asked his aunt eagerly. The best part about her knowing he was Spider-Man had so far been being able to explain the story of the kittens, starting with skipping gym and ending with Iron Man rescuing them all. Granted, half the time she looked like she might have a heart attack, but she always laughed at the funny parts of his stories, no matter how scary the rest was.
      “Kelsey, for sure. She's so sweet. And she has such a cute little face! Like you!” She said teasingly and pinched his cheek. He yelped and licked her hand in retaliation.
     “Ew! Peter Parker! That is disgusting! Get back to work!”
      For dinner May made pasta, which meant that they ate pizza while airing out their apartment to dispel the smoke.
     Peter was drying the dishes when May screeched. He quickly shoved them into the correct cupboard and ran into the living room to see that she was curled up on the couch, hands over her mouth, and staring at the television, transfixed.
      Peter looked over to see what was wrong and got a shock. The news was on, an update on a fire from Wednesday. The same fire he'd been at. They were interviewing the victims, but on screen they were showing footage of Spider-Man leaping out of a window with three teens clinging to him.
     “Oh my gods,” May whimpered, “that's you. My baby. Holy fudge. You could have died.”
      Before Peter could assure her that he was always perfectly safe (which he really wasn't), the screen changed. It was the same teens, now speaking with a handsome reporter.
      “I was crying,” the boy who'd leapt on his back was saying. “I didn't think anyone was coming for us. It was taking so long. I was so scared.”
     “Then we heard this voice,” a girl took over, “and it was like, so unbelievable that at first, I didn't even think to respond. Even in the middle of everything, he was kinda goofy, you know, like he is in videos and everything. When he introduces himself to everyone as the ‘friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?’ He did that. At the time, I was like, is this guy for real? But afterwards I had the thought that he was trying to distract us, keep us calm. It worked, I guess.”
      “So then I said, ‘Closet’ because no one else was saying anything,” the last boy revealed, and it was funny how they took turns telling their story. “And he was just there. He had an oxygen tank and mask and his suit, and that was it. And he was short, like shorter than me. I feel like a jerk saying it now, but at the time, I was like ‘What? This is all we get? No way are we getting out of here.’ And then he said he could carry one of us in each arm and one on his back, and no one argued. We just hopped on.”
       “He saved our lives,” the first boy admitted. “We’d have been dead without him; the first two floors were on the verge of collapse, and the fire department couldn't clear everyone fast enough. Spider-Man is a hero. No matter what anyone says, it won't change the fact that he risked his life to save ours and a whole bunch of other people. That's something heroes do.”
       More grainy cell phone footage, this time of him limping away from the EMT towards home. May gasped. Peter snatched the remote out of her hands to turn the TV off.
     “So… that was pretty moving,” Peter offered. May laughed, and the sound was watery but genuine. “It's a bit different hearing it from me and seeing it on screen, I guess?”
     “A bit? Peter, honey, I know it's not always on purpose, but you downplay everything. You told that story like it was an adventure, but that looked like a horror film. The amount of smoke pouring out of that building! Maybe we should find you a sidekick or something.”
     They both laughed at that.
     The rest of their night was spent together, playing cards and practicing Spanish.

     “Mrs. Wigley, my dear lady,” Spider-Man enthused, sweeping his usual bow and kissing her hand. Jeff had smuggled him into her room without anyone else being aware, because Jeff was The Man. Mrs. Wigley did her usual giggle.
      “You're stunning, Madame. Is that a new dress?”
      “Yes, my son sent me it. I think his wife picked it out because when he shops for me he always gets a size too big. Jeffrey, the dear, will be bringing in the computer any minute now. He sets up the video for me. Why don't you have a seat, Mr. Man?”
      Peter thanked her and perched on a small armchair beside where she sat at a small table. Jeff came back in, set up the Skype call, and left as soon as it was answered.
      “Hello? Mom?” On the screen was a man who looked to be about fifty. As Peter watched, two kids popped up beside him, and a woman laid her hands on his shoulder.
      “Fern? Fern, can you hear us?”
       Fern, better known as Mrs. Wigley, beamed.
      “Of course, dears. And I brought a friend with me today.”
      “Oh?” Her son asked, sounding slightly wary. “That's nice.”
      “Oh yes, he's a lovely young man. Mr. Man, scooch a little closer, won't you? I don't think they can see you,” Mrs. Wigley requested, and there was mischief in her voice. She was eager to get her son back for not believing her in the first place.
     “Oui, Madame,” Peter acquiesced. He leaned over to be in the camera. “Hi, nice to meet you all.”
      “Mr. Man, this is my son, Tom; his wife, Anne; and their children, Roy and Rose. Everyone, this is Mr. Man.” Mrs. Wigley clearly took great satisfaction in watching their jaws drop.
     “Please, call me Spidey,” Peter insisted graciously. Okay, maybe he also found this slightly amusing.
      Rose and Roy were squealing.
     “Spidey, Spidey, climb the wall, please, please, please!” Roy begged.
     “Climb the wall?” Mrs. Wigley, questioned, thrown off.
     “It's a, uh, talent that I have,” Peter explained awkwardly. “I'm fairly well known for it.”
      “And here I thought you just wore that mask for the fun of it. You're a celebrity!”
      Peter stifled a laugh. “You could say that.”
     “Well, Mr. Man,” Mrs. Wigley said slyly, “I would also like to see this talent.”
     “As you wish,” Peter said grandly, and obliged. He stood on the ceiling and waved at the computer just to show off.
      There were, of course, the usual gasps and stammers of incredulity, but after that conversation switched to more normal topics, though Peter could tell it took some effort for Tom and Anne.
       “So, um, Mr. Man, tell us a little about yourself,” Anne prompted politely.
       “I love Star Wars. I'm a real night owl. I eat a lot of hot dogs and pet a lot of cats. That's really all there is to know.”
       They talked a little longer before Jeff came back to tell Peter that he had to go before Jeff’s shift ended. As Peter crawled out the window, he heard Roy and Rose instructing their grandmother to go to YouTube and type in “Spider-Man.”
        Of course, crime doesn't stop for Skype. Peter went on a patrol. He stopped three muggings and a carjacking. He opened the door for a guy with an armful of groceries. He walked a drunk girl home and held her hair back when she puked. Her keys and phone were in her coat pocket, luckily, so after unlocking her front door and leaving her on her couch with water and cereal, he found “Sis” on her contact list and called.
       “Hello, Kim?”
       “Hi, this is your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. I'm looking for Kimberly Jone’s sister? Are you her?”
       “Um, yeah? I'm sorry, who are you again? What's going on? Is Kim okay? Is this a joke? If it is---”
       Peter cringed at her volume and checked back in on Kimberly, who was vomiting into the waste bucket he'd given her.
     “Woah, lady, that's a lot of questions. Let me catch up. I'm your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, this is not a joke, Kim’s okay, and she's super drunk. I found her stumbling around and steered her back to her apartment. I've given her some water and Cheerios, but I don't really know what else to do, and she's just puking a lot. So I thought I should call you. Because parents could make things weird, and who knows how trustworthy the rest of these people are?” She didn't seem to have an answer and instead informed him that she was on her way.
       Peter chewed his lip absently and refilled Kimberly’s water. He found blankets in a cupboard and made up a small bed for her where she laid on the couch. By the time he'd finished that, the sister had arrived.
      “Oh thank goodness,” Peter exclaimed in relief, as he opened the door for her. “This is so awkward! I feel like a creep, letting myself into someone's home like this! She seemed so out of it that I couldn't leave her there, but it's still weird. And she keeps puking, and I don't know how to fix it. You seem so responsible. I think I love you.”
       “Thank you, I guess?” She whispered roughly.
       “Sis” was tall and curvy and had obviously not expected to go anywhere. She still wore pajamas, and her hair was mussed.
       “Are you really Spider-Man?” She asked skeptically. Peter threw his hands up in exasperation.
      “Everybody asks me that, as though there's some other weirdo in a red and blue spider suit running around. I mean, are there any fake spiders around to confuse me with? I'm the only Spider-Man I've ever seen.” Peter ranted, heading towards the door. He waved and ran outside. Then he realized he still had Kimberly’s phone in his pocket and jogged back to leave it on the table, waving Sis another goodbye.
       New York was cool. A heavy fog hung about, and street lights buzzed. Peter felt at home. He found a perch on top of a church and dangled his legs over the still bustling roads. He sat there for a minute, enjoying the peace.
       “This is boring,” he admitted, to no one in particular. Peter wasn't quite ready to give up his bird’s eye view, however, so…
       “Calling Happy it is,” he declared. What else was he to do on a (he quickly checked the time) Monday morning? (Go home and sleep, a put upon voice sounding suspiciously like Aunt May whispered in his brain. He guiltily ignored it.)
      “Howdy, Happy!” Peter crowed. “Mr. Stark might have mentioned something, probably not because he said he didn't think you'd be interested, but I found some kittens the other day. Wicket, Leia, and Kelsey. I think they're all girls, but I don't know how to really tell. Anyway, May says we can only keep Kelsey, so I was wondering if you wanted a kitten? I can keep it until it's potty-trained, if you want? And then you could take it? Well, you know how to get a hold of me. I took a drunk girl home today. Her home, not mine. Obviously. I had to google how to take care of drunk people, and then I called her sister. I feel like I spend too much time talking on the phone, but a lot of people text more than me, so maybe it evens out. That's about it, I think-- oh, no, wait! I went back to the tower the other day, and I apologized to that security guard who's flower I stole, and I gave him cookies. And now, I think we're friends. He's really nice. His name’s Kiaran, he’s twenty-one but doesn't drink because he has two kids, and he can barely afford them, let alone alcohol. Or that's what he said, anyway. He showed me pictures; their names are Karen and John. They like bicycles. They're twins, but Karen’s in third grade, and John’s in second because he has trouble with math. I offered to tutor them-- as Peter Parker, I didn't have my suit on when I took the flowers from the tower, so he doesn't know about, don't worry-- and he said he couldn't afford it, but I gave him my number anyway and said that my school would count it as community service. Which is a lie, I don't need community service hours, I have a whole bunch from helping Mr. Delmar rebuild, and they wouldn't count it anyway, but I love math and kids. I don't want to be a math teacher though; that'd be awful. And also, I saw a monkey on a leash today. It was cool. Bye, Happy, feel free to call me back about that kitten! Have a nice night!” Click.
      With that, Peter swung his way home.

Chapter Text

         Ned gave him more cheese Wednesday morning, and Peter quietly blessed his cousin from Wisconsin, who was surely a goddess. Mrs. Bueller wasn't in, but left a note for the confused sub saying that Peter Parker was in no way her favorite student, and he should be told that should he try to claim otherwise (which he did. Seven times).
         Spanish was weird because MJ got into a very lengthy and complicated debate with the teacher (in Spanish, which revealed that she was much better at the language than many of their classmates). No one was quite able to catch what it was about, and their teacher refused to say. No one was brave enough to ask MJ.
        The principal stopped him on his way to lunch to congratulate him on getting his grades back up and improving his attendance. He didn't think either had suffered too much through the whole Vulture ordeal, but then again, he'd had more important things on his mind at the time.
        Peter still took advantage of the conversation to ask the principal if he wanted a kitten. He said no, and Peter privately celebrated. He'd never get to visit it if the principal had it.
        Peter asked Ned the same question, then worked up his courage to ask MJ. She stared at him.
       “Do I look like someone who enjoys small, furry, messy creatures running around?” She demanded, quirking an eyebrow. Peter’s own eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and he glanced at Ned for help, who merely shrugged.
      “I mean, yeah? Obviously?”
       Ned face palmed.
       MJ’s eyes narrowed fiercely. “You have thirty seconds to explain before you're dead.”
      “Well, doesn't everyone like small, furry, messy creatures? And you're probably a part of everyone. I'm pretty sure. Besides, you sit with Ned and me, and we're just as helpless and annoying only more smelly and less cute.” Peter reasoned. MJ snorted. Ned gaped.
      “Where I live doesn't allow pets,” MJ excused, going back to her book.
        There was a long silence. When Peter looked back at Ned, his jaw was still dropped. Peter reached over and closed it for him, after putting a fork full of peas into it. Ned gagged. He hated peas.
        Peter ate more of his cheese.

       He got the first call right after lunch, and recognizing Happy’s ringtone, ran into the bathroom to answer it, where he locked himself in a stall.
      “Hey, Happy, what's going on? Is there a mission? An emergency? An alien invasion?” Then, something else occurred to him, and he grew really excited, leaping up from where he sat on the toilet seat. “Do you want a kitten?!”
       “What?” Happy spewed, thrown off. “No, I don't want a kitten. Nor is it a mission, an emergency, or an alien invasion. I'll tell you what's going on when you give me a chance, alright. Calm down.” He paused, and Peter waited, settling back down on the toilet lid. This lasted a full minute. “Uhh, kid? You there?”
         “Yeah, I'm giving you a chance, like you said,” Peter informed him proudly. Happy sighed loudly.
        “That's… what I wanted, sure.”
        “Do you want me to talk again? Because I can, I have a list of, like, a billion questions for you; some of which you probably can't answer for security purposes, but I'll ask anyway--”
        “No!” Happy exclaimed, and Peter smirked. “Look, I'm calling because you are suddenly an Internet sensation. And boss isn't going to like it. Neither do I, for that matter. It was just a Wikipedia page, and some lady's stupid blog, and a YouTube channel, but now it's a Wikipedia page, stupid blog, and YouTube channel that have all gone viral. People are watching Spider-Man all over the country now, maybe the world soon, not just in New York. You ain't seen it yet?”
        “No,” Peter answered, not especially bothered. As long as it didn't expose his identity, what was the harm in this… whatever it was? “And I don't really have time right now. I'm sorry to do this to you, since I'm always leaving you long messages and all, but I'm already ten minutes late to my history class. I've got to scram. You're sure there's no emergency?”
        “Of course there's no emergency! But kid--”
        “Bye, Happy, talk to you later!” Peter chirped, hanging up and sprinting to history.

        The second call came halfway through history. It was Happy again.
        The third call came on the walk to his locker. It was Ned.
         The fourth call came in English. Mr. Stark.
         The fifth call came as Flash enthusiastically yelled, “Penis Parker!” during gym, which naturally went unnoticed by the teacher. It was Mr. Stark a second time.
         The sixth, and final call, came from Aunt May as he walked home from school. This one he answered. He could never leave her hanging.
        “Hey May! Is this about the YouTube channel?”
        “There's a YouTube channel?” She sounded faint, and Peter immediately felt guilty.
        “Mr. Stark only told you about the Wikipedia page?”
        “Peter, stop,” she commanded, sighing heavily. “He told me about the blog, alright? You're giving me gray hairs as we speak. You need to meet us at home; we have to talk.”
         Peter winced, but dared to ask, “Who's us?”
        “Mr. Stark is here with his-- Cheery. Weird name. You know, I'm still not sure what he does.”
         Peter giggled. “His name’s Happy, and he's head of security. He's nice. Doesn't want a kitten though. I asked.”
        May laughed.

        “Hey Aunt May, Happy, Mr. Stark,” Peter greeted, kicking his shoes off by the door and walking by where they were all seated in the living room to drop his bag on his bed. “Mr. Stark, are you sure you don't want a kitten?”
          Peter came back into the living room to see Tony contemplating that and holding Wicket up carefully in front of his face.
         “I want to say no, because a kitten would definitely ruin my image, but honestly, yes. I'm keeping this thing; I'll send you a payment later, don't fight me on it. More relevantly, why did you ignore my calls?” Tony sounded grumpy. He was obviously unused to this sort of inconvenience.
        “I had class. I can't answer my phone in class, and Happy said it wasn't an emergency.”
         Tony groaned. “So now you're all responsible, huh?”
        “I'm always responsible, sir,” Peter informed him innocently. May snorted. “Okay, I could probably work on that some.”
         Happy rolled his eyes. “Can we focus on why we're here, please?”
        “Yeah, what's up with the blog/Wikipedia page/YouTube channel thing?” Peter wondered curiously. Tony leaned forward to where he had left his laptop open on their coffee table.
        “This is what's up,” he announced dramatically, typing “Spider-Man” into the search bar. His screen exploded with results. “A few days ago when you typed that into Google, you got a few articles from the Daily Planet, some blog mentions-- one blog is actually dedicated to you, but it wasn't very popular, some local news footage, a small article on Wikipedia, and maybe some social media posts. But a few days ago, this billionaire executive posted a video of you, and his followers took notice, and since Monday more and more videos and pictures and eye-witness accounts have been posted. You're all over TV across America. The Internet loves you. Before you were overshadowed by all of us other heroes and the aliens and everything that's happened the last few years. And what with our current shaky political standing, after Sokovia, the Accords mess, and Cap and I fighting, not a lot of people were sure supers were still a good idea. But you are different. You just gained all of their hearts. And damn you for that, because keeping your identity is going to be a lot harder now. What part of ‘low profile’ was unclear to you?!”
           Peter cringed. “Who is this billionaire, and what video did he post exactly?”
           Tony was an intimidating mix of sarcastic and incredulous. “First off, his video was the catalyst which set off a chain reaction that all contributed to the mess we have today. Second, how do you not know this? You're the one who met him.”
          Peter didn't understand and his expression conveyed as much. Tony pulled up Facebook.
        “John Bacon is founder and CEO of a highly successful software company. He's young and charming, so he's almost as beloved as myself. You've never heard of him?”
         Peter gaped. “Of course I have! I just didn't know what he looked like. You're telling me I met him?!”
        May laughed, and even Happy cracked a small smile.
       “Yeah, kid, you did. This look familiar?” As he spoke, Tony pulled up a video. He saw a woman with her face blurred out wearing a familiar dress.
        “Hello? Mom?” A male voice addressed her, and Peter was realizing with a dawning shock what this was.
         The next few seconds had no audio (to protect Mrs. Wigley, Peter thought. Her name had been said). Then sound returned when Spider-Man entered the picture.
         Their entire Skype conversation had been recorded and posted on John Bacon’s Facebook page. The faces of John’s mother, wife, and kids were blurred out, and anytime their names or relevant details about their lives were mentioned, the audio was taken out.
        “This video is now on countless blogs and YouTube channels, most notably SpideyLuverGirl’s blog and Spideyflips’s channel, and yes, I feel uncomfortable saying that first one aloud. As if that's not enough, Mr. Bacon wrote a comment for you. Here,” Tony offered, shoving the laptop at Peter.
          He took it hesitantly and scrolled down to see the comment.
          It read:
    Dear Mr. Man,
             My darling mother is blissfully unaware of your true identity, both as a civilian and a vigilante, seeing as she believes “Spider” to be your real first name. I, however, am not. I'll be honest with you; my kids worship you for your snappy comebacks and cool powers, but my wife and I were both of the opinion that you were more of a pest trying to cling to the coattails of greater heroes. When I realized who you truly were, I was shocked. But I'd seen how happy you make my mother, how delighted she's been since finding you as a friend, and I knew I had the wrong impression of you. I researched you after our conversation, and it's clear to me and my wife that you're the greatest hero yet. Thank you for making such a difference in my mother's life. And don't worry, her location is private, and as you may have guessed, I changed my name long ago to protect my family. Please feel free to continue visiting her and making her day. You're a good person, Spider-Man. Thank you.
          The video itself was captioned: “Spider-Man being a true hero.” It had millions of views. Peter exited out of Facebook and found the YouTube channel Tony had been talking about. It appeared to be very popular, and as Tony had mentioned, it was all about Spider-Man. There was the same recording from John Bacon’s Facebook page, as well as other things. Videos of him doing flips and shooting webs, videos of him eating hot dogs, petting animals, holding babies, helping people cross the road, fighting criminals. There was a video of him directing traffic from the week before with his borrowed whistle. Of him saving that toddler from the bus. Him pushing Minnesota truck out of the intersection. Him at the scene of the fire, swinging out of windows with arms full of people and hobbling down the road with a singed suit.
        Spider-Man in front of First National Bank playing with kittens and giving them names. Spider-Man introducing himself. Spider-Man cracking jokes. Spider-Man dancing in the rain.
        The blog had all of that and more. It had the photos taken by the tourist in the grocery store-- the selfies, the pictures of him holding Lucy (with her face blurred out)-- along with his description of Spider-Man's behavior. It had pictures of him hugging Iron Man, statements and thank yous from people he'd helped (including Kimberly Jones and her sister), and a recording of the official statement fire Chief Garcia gave to the press regarding the actions of the vigilante known as Spider-Man (which was so nice it made Peter tear up a little). There were also guesses about who he was and where he lived, but luckily, they were all wildly wrong. There was nothing incriminating to be found, except that he'd given the names of the kittens, which he could always claim he copied from Spider-Man. He’d only told those to Ned, May, Happy, Tony, his new friends from that night, and MJ anyway. He doubted he'd ever meet his new friends as Peter Parker; Ned, Happy, May, and Tony already knew his identity; and MJ would honestly care less even if she did make the connection, which seemed like a bit of a long shot.
           “Honestly guys, I understand your concerns, but I think you're overreacting. Yes, way more people are going to be paying attention to me, but this could be the positive press that heroes need to restore people's trust in them. So far, none of this looks alarming; I'll just be more careful about changing and coming home and patrolling and stuff. I already am pretty good about that though, because I don't want bad guys following me home. Don't worry too much; this is good. People love me; it's not that surprising. I'm pretty great, so.”
          Tony gave him a hard look, but May was smiled wistfully. Finally, it was Happy who broke the silence.
          “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I trust you, kid. I've heard all of your nightly ‘reports,’” and the quotations were implied by his tone, “and you're pretty good at this stuff. You'll be okay. They just worry about you. You know how paranoid Tony is. He's fine to fly a missile into space, but give him a teenage boy and suddenly--”
         Tony elbowed him hard in the side, and Happy yelped. “Fine. Return to doing whatever you do. But if you need help, call. Say 911, or don't talk at all, or text it or something, and I'll set up a system to let Happy know to answer it. Cuz we both know he's not going to pick up to talk about cats or sunshine or whatever. He hates happiness. Ironically.”
          “Yessir, Mr. Stark,” Peter agreed, beaming and bouncing in his seat a little from sheer excitement. “And if Ned calls again, will that work for him too?”
          May frowned. “When did Ned call Happy? Why did Ned call Happy?”
        “The Vulture thing,” Peter answered easily, feeling slightly abashed. He'd been so excited to finally tell her everything that he must've sped past some important details. “With Liz’s Dad? Ned got in trouble for watching porn in the computer lab, but he was actually being my Man in the Chair and trying to call Happy. Only, he hung up. Which is kinda my fault for being a little Boy Who Cried Wolf, I guess. But I mean, what would Happy even do without me to provide entertainment? You'd be so lonely, just admit it--”
         “First off, no, I'm not admitting anything because that's not true. Second, that actually wasn't really your fault or Ned’s; it was kinda mostly probably mine, but all’s well that ends with the flying arms dealer in jail, so let's not talk about it anymore.” And Happy folded his arms, radiating grumpiness.
        “Aww, Happy,” Peter teased. “You're going soft!” A harsh glare. It had no effect on Peter. He cackled.
         “Peter, quit torturing the poor man!” May ordered, whacking his arm gently. “He's clearly got enough problems.”
        Tony chuckled. “He does work for me; that tends to have an effect on people.”
        Then May’s meatloaf started burning, and they had to quickly disable all the fire alarms and go out for dinner, where Peter proceeded to regale them with tales of lost tourists.

Chapter Text

       Ned was not stoked that Peter never called him back, but he understood. More than understood, actually.
       “It's not that I'm mad or anything, but OH MY GOD! You're famous! I mean, you kinda were anyway, but now you're really famous. And did you hear, that one site said that you've been caught talking to your ‘Man in the Chair’ on several occasions! That means that I'm sort of famous too! This is great. And Karen, everyone kinda guessed that she wasn't a real person, since they all know Stark designed your suit, but she's probably the, like, eighth famous AI ever. You know, cuz Jarvis/Vision, Ultron, that creepy German one, the one from that show….” And so on and so forth.
        Peter didn't mind listening, even if he felt mildly insulted on Karen’s behalf. Ned listened to him rant all the time. Plus, there was more cheese.

        Mrs. Bueller was back, albeit with a scratchy voice and deep shadows under her eyes. Ned tried to give her cheese too, with the claim that it would help her feel better. She declined his offer but gave him a smile. Peter pouted at the “obvious show of favoritism” towards Ned. Ned blew a raspberry at him.
         Peter spent most of his lunch and Spanish class that day trying to convince Karen to hack into Ned’s phone and change his background to a picture of Mrs. Bueller. This was, of course, fruitless because Karen had been programmed to refuse that sort of thing in situations where it was unnecessary to Spider-Man’s work. Peter tried to assure her that this was, in fact, very relevant to Spider-Man’s wellbeing and mission, but she didn't buy it. He’d have to make Ned teach him hacking.
       At lunch he told MJ that Wicket had been adopted to a good home. She gave him a glance of indifference, but Peter saw the corners of her mouth twitch when she turned back to her book.
        “Success,” he whispered to Ned, with a discrete fist pump.
        “I saw that,” she informed him, turning a page.
        “Yeah, well I saw… that thing you did first.” He insisted.
        “It's a funny book,” she protested absently. He leaned over to see the cover. It was Mein Kampf.

       Spider-Man was met with more cheers and free hot dogs than usual that day. Several people stopped him on the street to thank him and ask for selfies. He happily accepted. He caught a purse thief, sighed a kid’s lunchbox, prevented an accident between a Sedan and a Mini Cooper (both tourists, of course), and helped a gaggle of school children and their flustered teachers with directions. He swung around a bit, stopping minor crimes, and then he saw the commotion.
        “Fire Chief Garcia, sir,” he greeted, falling into a crouch beside the man. Garcia jumped and cursed. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.”

        “Geez, kid, then give me a little heads up. And it's just Chief, no sirs necessary,” he insisted gruffly.
         “Yessir-- I mean, Chief. What can I help with?”
         “We've got a possible hostage situation in the First National Bank. The cameras are closed circuit, so we can't get on them, and the silent alarm either was disabled or was never hit. An employee happened to be in the bathroom when the bank was infiltrated and was able to make a swift 911 call. The perpetrators haven't yet made contact. We believe there to be at least five unsubs and twenty or more hostages, judging from the cameras on the street. But we have no idea what's happening in there- except that we happen to believe that this particular bank might have a few customers who have gang affiliations. And we're pretty sure some of them are in there.”
       Peter thought about that. “So basically, your big fear right now is that the gangsters and the bank robbers are going to get into a shoot out and hurt all the innocent bystanders?”
        Garcia nodded. “You're stealthy. Sometimes. I want you to sneak in through the bathroom window, which is cracked open, and monitor the situation. You'll be our eyes and ears, and if necessary, you can defuse the situation. Hopefully. Maybe. Look, you're a civilian, but I need every resource I've got in these events, so please don't screw up.”
          Peter saluted, which didn't seem to calm anyone down, but at Garcia’s orders he was quickly hooked up with a small wire and camera. Then he entered the building.
          The bathroom door was also cracked open due to sheer dumb luck, and Peter quickly crawled out of it and to the ceiling before entering the lobby. The hostages were all lined up in the back, while the thieves paced. They had duffle bags full of money and were clearly trying to find a way out.
       “We should try to negotiate,” one perp suggested, pulling his ski mask a little farther down his neck.
          Another cursed. “Yeah, cuz that always works.”
        “What do you mean ‘always works?’ You've never done this before!”
        “I've watched TV; I know how this works!” And back and forth. Peter watched this fascinating display from the ceiling, wishing he'd brought popcorn.
       He studied the hostages, looking for any injuries. Nope, they all seemed fine physically, just traumatized. There weren't any kids, at least. But as he scanned the group, he recognized some of them.
       They were the same people he'd befriended outside this bank before, the ones who’d helped him play with the kittens. They were all there, all ten of them. And while the other hostages looked scared, his friends just looked ticked. Eventually, the biggest one stood up.
          “Okay, this is ridiculous,” he said bluntly, staring down the robbers, who were staring at him with disbelief. “You're the worst robbers in the world. Not that it matters, because this is my bank. And that is my money. And I want it back. You have thirty seconds to leave the money and surrender yourself to the police before my buddies and I kick your asses, and you wish you were dead. Understand?!”
        One of the robbers who hadn't been involved in their debate over what to do strode forward, pulled out his gun, and shot straight at the guy, whose buddies all shot forward--
         Only to watch Spider-Man drop from the ceiling and take the bullet to his shoulder.
       “OW! MOTHER OF-- I can't say that, I can't say that, no swearing on the job, but that really hurt, you jerk!” Peter took advantage of the shooter's shock to web away his weapon, using his uninjured arm. He then darted forward and webbed the guy to the wall. Turning around he saw that his friends had already taken care of the other four robbers, who hadn't resisted. They had given up their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.
         “You took a bullet for me,” the man who'd stood up to speak was gaping at Peter in disbelief. Peter waved it off as best he could while clutching his gushing wound with his uninjured hand.
        “Well, I figured you'd probably die, and I probably won't, so it just kinda made sense at the time,” Peter gasped out, hissing as he registered more of the pain. He rolled up the bottom of his mask to breathe better. “I'm gonna have to call Mr. Stark. It's pretty embarrassing, actually. Both times we've met he had to rescue me; I swear that hardly ever happens. Usually I can patch myself, but I've never actually been shot before….”
        “Kid,” a woman said, pulling her leather jacket a little tighter around her as she edged closer. “How about you sit down, and we'll get the coppers, alright? Ricky, get this boy a chair, will ya? He took a damn bullet for you, least you can do is let him sit down. Joe, go tell the damn police they can take these guys away, eh? We did their dirty work for them; I hope they're fucking grateful. Honestly. And if one of you bank people could get this kid a water. That wasn't a request; go get a damn water. How ya feeling, kid?”
        Peter thought about that. “Like I've been shot. It's better than I thought it would be, but that might be because I got hit by a bus the other day, and that was no good. And this one time this guy collapsed a building on me, and I was in my pajama suit, not this one, so that was really sucky. Thanks for everything. Do you have any tweezers? I've been thinking, and I'm pretty sure that's how it's done.”
         She raised her eyebrows. “No, kid, you will not be pulling out your own bullet.”
        Ricky brought the chair, and Peter thanked him enthusiastically before sinking into it. A bank teller (Michelle, according to her nametag) brought him a bottled water, and he gave her a fist bump.
       “I'm not ignoring you,” Peter said, pulling out his phone with some difficulty. His phone happened to be in the pocket on his right, which was where the bullet was. “I'm texting Mr. Stark." He put away the phone and turned to speak to her.  "So I'm your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, who are you?”
       “Shannon,” Shannon told him. “And Ricky’s my fiancé. I owe you. He may be a filthy pig, but he's my filthy pig, and I love him.”
  Peter gasped in delight. “Congratulations! That’s really… my… mother, of sorts, used to say the same thing about my… her husband. That's.. I'm happy for you guys.” Then he glanced down and gently grasped her left hand, lifting it up to see the ring better.
         "Wow. A black diamond. Those are caused by… well, that doesn't really matter. It's beautiful.” Somewhere in the background Peter noticed Fire Chief Garcia watching him with a crinkled forehead (which meant he was worried) and working with the police chief to care for the hostages. They gave Ricky and Shannon’s group a wide perimeter, Peter noted, though he couldn't quite figure out why.
        “Thanks, kid.” Shannon gifted him with a lopsided smile. Ricky came back over, followed by the rest of their crew.
         “Spider-Man,” Joe (the one who'd retrieved the cops) said, taking a step forward, “you've done us all a service today, saving the boss’s life like that. We want you to know, you ever need us, we got your back.”
          Peter grinned foolishly, forgetting momentarily that his mask was rolled up. “Thanks, but you helped me before, so I think we're even. You guys are the best. Do you want the last kitten? I gave Wicket to Mr. Stark, and I kept Kelsey, but Leia still needs a home.”
          They all looked at each other and shook their heads, though most were smiling. It was a strangely coordinated move for a group.
          Peter heard an approaching whir and stood shakily, almost collapsing as his vision blacked.
       “Mr- Mr. Stark is coming; I can hear him,” Peter mumbled, swaying. He felt hands holding him up. They half carried him outside, still forming a loose circle around him. “Congratulations Ricky, Shannon. Good luck. Thanks a bunch, everyone.”
        They chuckled fondly, and Shannon gave him a brief peck on the cheek before he stumbled into Iron Man’s careful grip.
       “Those are the same people who called me last time you were here. What is it with them and the First National Bank? What is it with you and the First National Bank? Maybe it's just the bank itself.” Tony mused lightly, but Peter heard the tension thrumming underneath. Tony was worried.
        “It's because they don't have tootsie rolls,” Peter explained sluggishly. The adrenaline had completely faded since he stood up, and the change in position had him feeling the blood loss more and more. “Not even lollipops. What kind of a bank doesn't even have a candy bowl?”
      Tony snorted, carefully picking up Peter, trying not to jostle him. “Mine, now that you mention it. I should file a complaint.”
      “Darn right. They're ripping you off!” Peter informed him, before promptly passing out.

Chapter Text

       Strictly speaking, Peter wasn't supposed to be out and about as Spider-Man quite yet. In fact, he wasn't sure if he was supposed to even have gone to school that day, but he'd had an AP test to take. Since no one had called him to reprimand him, he assumed that meant that they either weren't actively monitoring him or didn't care what he did.    

      Both options left him free to be Spider- Man. But bullet wounds, he was learning, took some time to heal completely. He was keeping a low profile, leaping across rooftops, but it strained his injury, and he landed wobbly with an “oof!” on top of a small apartment.

       Deciding that maybe he wasn't quite as healed as he'd thought he was, Peter hobbled over to the door leading down into the building, sank to the ground, and leaned back against it.  

        "Ooh, that's better,” Peter muttered. Karen, for some reason, disguised his voice without him ever having told her to. “Karen, what the heck? Why do I sound like Liam Neeson?”    

         “My sensors have detected a man watching you from your right. It is in my programming--”

    “Holy hotdogs!” Peter exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Owww! That hurt. Thanks for the heads up, Karen; it's not like I would’ve wanted to know about the creepy guy spying on me before I sat down.”  

-     “This was funnier. You told me to be funnier,” and Peter could swear there was genuine sass in her voice.                    

     “Karen, it’s not funny if you put people in danger!”              

    “My sole purpose is to keep people from danger!” Karen protested hotly. “If he was a threat, I would've told you.”

      “Wait, but then--”                  

      “Hi Spider-Man.”                  

       Peter froze. “You are not Karen.”                                      

        A chuckle. “No. No, I'm not. But I am a huge fan. And I was hoping to maybe interview you?”  

-     Peter turned around slowly. The voice was coming from a boy, maybe middle school age, with a video camera and a notepad. The camera was on and pointing at Peter.                                        

-    “You got all that on film, huh?” Peter checked. The kid nodded.    

-    “Then I would like to clarify that Karen is my AI, not a voice in my head. And I'm not usually this clumsy. I mean, I might be. But this time I have an excuse, I got shot yesterday, and it’s not a great feeling.”                

-      The kid laughed. “I know. That was awesome! I mean, not you getting shot. But you saving all those people at the bank with a bullet wound, that was pretty cool.”                                      

-      “Thanks,” Peter said sheepishly. “Uh, so who are you?”

-     “Erik,” Erik introduced, sticking his notepad under his arm to offer a hand. Peter shook it enthusiastically.      

-     “I’m Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man; nice to meet you. Please, call me Spidey. Have a seat; let's chat. I've never really done an interview before though, so don't judge me if I'm awful.”                      

-      Erik’s eyes widened. “Really? I'm the first person to interview you? That's amazing. Um, in that case, I have a lot more questions. Can we start?”                

-     “Yeah,” Peter said easily, “I'm gonna warn you up front though, if I take off suddenly, it's probably because I heard something that sounded like it needed my help. So don't worry.”                        

-      Erik’s jaw dropped. “Ok, wow. So first, why do you have a secret identity?”                        

-     “My… real person? The guy I am out of suit? He has people to protect. I hide who I am so that the bad guys I meet doing this can't hurt the people I love.”      

 -     “That's deep. Do they know about Spider-Man?”                  

  -      Peter snorted. “They weren't supposed to, but apparently I’m a bad liar, so they found out.”        

-     “Almost every night you're out in the streets saving people from fires, accidents, criminals, and even themselves. Yet, it seems that you spend an awful lot of time doing other things too. You give directions, help with groceries, walk people home, rescue kittens, befriend old people, take pictures for people. You're the only superhero known for sticking around after emergencies to calm people down and help clean up. You never think any of that's beneath you? That you've already done enough?”                                  

 -      Peter shook his head. “I don't think there's anything wrong with people who don't do that stuff; please don't get that impression.  A lot of the real superheroes are just busy. And after fighting off villains or inhaling tons of smoke or throwing a bus or whatever--- well, sometimes you just need a nap. So I can't blame anyone for not sticking around after the emergency is over when they've already done so much. I mean, I don't always either. If the police are already there, sometimes I'm just more hindrance than help.”    

-     “That's not what I asked,” Erik pointed out. “Forget other supers. When you spent hours in that grocery store helping that mom and her kids. When you walked that old guy across the street. When you took Kimberly Jones home and called her sister. You didn't feel like any of those things were a waste of your time? Like maybe you had better things to do?”                                      

-       “No, of course not! I like to help people. With whatever they need help with. Besides, that stuff’s fun. Pulling people from a burning building… I'm glad to do it, but it's not fun. It's terrifying, actually. And I don't want to just swoop in and save the day. I want to prevent the day from being in danger in the first place.”            

-      Erik wrote something on his tablet and frowned. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

-      Peter sighed. “I mean… I’ve never really talked about it before. But I find people sometimes… being robbed or groped or … taken advantage of. And it's horrible, and I put a stop to it, but there's already been damage done. So if I see someone at risk, like Kim Jones was when I found her, and I can prevent anything from occurring to begin with just by calling a friend or walking her home…. Well, I’d much rather call her sister and give her some water than have to fight off people who want to hurt her.                        

 -     “Or sometimes people don't make it across the road fast enough, or drivers don't see them, or they don't see drivers. And if by walking someone across the street I can prevent an accident, then that's better than me diving in as the accident occurs or being too late.            

  -      “And after something happens, people deserve a break, you know? So if I can take care of Little Jimmy and make him feel better for a few minutes, then mom and dad get some time to pull themselves together after almost being killed or robbed or whatever.                                  

 -      “And people just need help sometimes. And it's my belief that anyone who can help, should help.”                                        

 -       Peter stopped himself from any further rambling.                  

  -       Erik’s pen was scribbling a mile a minute. “Do you think that your example with that will rub off on people? That you could be a role model in this? That people might see someone as amazing as Spider-Man doing something as simple as carrying groceries and be inspired?”                              

-      “Like, do I think I'm a role model?” Peter checked. Erik nodded without looking up. “I guess? That's sort of why I don't swear much? I figure I'm around kids so much; I don't want to be a bad example or anything. I don't know that anyone over the age of ten really looks up to me-- I'm not tall enough for that-- but I hope that if they do, they take away the need to help someone. Better they follow my example in carrying groceries than running into burning buildings. I don't recommend that to people who aren't trained professionals.”        

-      “What's the best part about being Spider-Man?”                    

-      "I get to pet cats and eat hot dogs and hug Iron Man and… honestly, I just like the feeling that I'm connected to New York. Like, I get to see the city at its worst but also its best.”              

-     “The worst part?”                

  -      Peter didn't have to think much. “Seeing people die. Thinking I might have been able to do something. Screwing up, because even a little mistake has big consequences. Being scared. Golly gee, this really is a deep interview. Quit asking angsty questions; I might cry.”              

 -     Erik smiled in sympathy. “Sure, Mr. Spidey. I understand that there's a lot of things you can't tell us, so let me ask what personal things you do want the public to know about you?”          

-     Peter scratched his head. “My favorite color is now purple. Because red and blue make purple. It wasn't before Spider-Man, but now it is. And also, I didn’t have any experience with a lot of this stuff before Spider-Man, so if I seem unorthodox it's because I'm making this up as I go. I know people aren't always happy with me, but I fix the damage I do, if I can. And if I can't, I know people get angry with me, but when it's a choice between someone’s life and a lovely new car, I'm going to pick the person, even if they're a jerk about it. And they are, sometimes.”                              

-      “Happy music or sad music?”

-      “Happy!” Peter chirped.      

      “Favorite Avenger?”            

-      “Iron Man!”                         -      “What happened to those kittens you rescued?”                  

-       Peter thought about that one. Technically, there was a chance someone could connect Peter Parker’s newly acquired kitten to Spider-Man’s rescues, but honestly that line of thinking just sounded paranoid.                

-     “I'm keeping Kelsey, Mr. Stark has Wicket, and Leia still needs a home. You want her?”                

-      Erik was clearly thinking about it, but ultimately shook his head. “My landlord doesn't allow pets.”                                        

 -      Peter shrugged. “You're missing out. Want a lollipop?”      

-      Erik accepted happily and watched Peter pull one out of his pocket.                                      

-     “What kind of stuff do you usually keep in your suit pockets?”                              

-     “Food. Money. My phone. Candy. That's about it.”                

-      Erik was laughing. “Why do you keep food and candy in your pockets?”                                  

-      Peter pouted. “Sometimes I get hungry. And the candy is for kids… mostly.”                            

-     “You literally get free hot dogs from all the vendors.”          

-     “Not all of them. And anyway, it takes a lot of energy to swing around and fight bad guys and use superpowers and stuff. A man can't live off hot dogs alone.”        

-     “Of course,” Erik allowed soothingly. Peter got the distinct feeling that he was being humored. “Every balanced diet needs lollipops.”                        

 -     “I'm glad you understand.”    

-      They went on like that for awhile, until a loud bang interrupted them.                    

  -     “That's my cue,” Peter announced, doing a triple backflip off the roof for no other reason than to show off.

      The bang, as it turned out, came from a car backfiring. Luckily-- or not-- the car in question happened to be stuck in the middle of a crowded bridge where a maniac with a pistol in each hand was clearly having a breakdown.                              

 -    “Nobody move!” He screeched, waving a gun at the trapped cars. “I'll shoot; I will!”    

-     Peter landed on the hood of a taxi. “I’d prefer you didn't. Please don't.”                                        

-     The guy whipped around. “You!” He pointed a little to Peter’s left, and when he turned to see what the man was pointing at, there was nothing there. “You bug!”                                        

-    “Little to your left, pal. Nope, your left. Not my left. Yeah, you're really far off now. Are you on something?”                          

-     He cackled. “Human flesh!”    

-     Peter figured it would be insensitive to laugh at that (besides, what if he was telling the truth, and Peter laughed; he'd feel so awful), but it was hard not to snort.                                    

-     “I don't think that makes sense, but I'm not really sure of anything right now. I don't suppose you want to put those down, please?”                          

-       He shrugged. “Not really.”    

-       Peter sighed and with his usual flick of the wrist, he snagged both guns and brought them back to him.                      

-      “Thanks anyway,” he told the guy, inspecting the weapons. “Wait, where and when did you get these?”                              

-      “The Matrix!” He screamed. “Time is a construct!”                  

-       As a test, Peter shot the ground. “Dude, these are squirt guns.”                                        

-      “Well,” he drawled, “then I need to fill them up, huh?”          

-       And with that, he jumped cheerfully off the bridge.            

-      Peter gaped. Then threw himself off after. By the time he had the guy back on the bridge, he'd decided to turn in early.        

-     “Good,” the deputy said, “because we just got a call from stinkin’ Tony Stark tellin' us to tell you to get back to bed before you hurt yourself again, and he has to... something about somebody's hot Italian aunt?"                        

-      Peter rushed home.

Chapter Text

        “Hey, Parker.” Peter was instantly confused. Was that really Flash saying his name in a calm, friendly voice, or was it an alien shapeshifter taking on Flash’s form to get him to lower his guard?

       Nah, Peter decided. Even an alien would be able to see that Flash only ever put his guard higher up. So was this a trick? Did Flash want something?

     “Earth to Peter,” Flash tried, waving his hand in front of Peter’s frozen face.

     That did it. Flash never used his real name in such a pleasant tone. Peter leapt backwards, making Flash start.

       “Who are you, and what did you do with Flash?!” He accused, hand sneaking back to his bag, where he kept his suit.  

      “Parker, what the hell? We've literally gone to school together for, like, years. Don't be weird, dude.”  

        Peter shivered with fear. “I'm not being weird. You're being weird. Really weird. You haven't called me ‘penis’ once this whole conversation.”

       Flash laughed. “Oh, that's just a little joke between friends. A nickname is all.”

       Peter narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What do you want?”

     “Michelle said you have kittens.”

      The conversation had taken such a weird turn that Peter was speechless.  

      “You want a kitten?”  

       Flash shushed him. “No need to alert the whole school, gods.”

       Judging by how loud the cafeteria was, that didn't seem likely. Peter was further baffled.

     “What, are you self-conscious now?”

      When Flash didn't reply, Peter laughed disbelievingly. “Ok, man, you can have a kitten. Her name is Leia; she’s sort of litter trained.”    

      Flash smiled. “Great, I'll meet you outside after class.” He left.

     “Wait, what?” Peter called, but he was already gone. He turned to look at Ned, who was standing beside him in the lunch line, gaping. “You know what he meant?”

       Ned shook his head, never quite closing his mouth.

       True to his word, Flash was at his locker when he got there. He politely moved out of Peter’s way to let him access his things, and then silently followed Peter home, making the entire commute unnecessarily awkward.

       Peter unlocked his apartment door, mentally regretting that Flash-- of all people-- now knew where he lived.

      “Where’s your aunt?” Flash asked curiously, peeking around the cozy space as though she might pop out from behind the furniture.

       “Working. Kittens are this way.”

        They stood quietly, watching the kittens play in their little pen area (which Peter and May had made carefully for them a few nights after he'd brought them home) for several long, uncomfortable minutes before Peter gently scooped Leia up and handed her to Flash.

       “I'm trusting you with this small, furry nugget of goodness because even though you're a jerk, I don't think you're a bad guy. So treat her well.”

       Flash raised a brow and rolled his eyes but nodded (all at once, which gave a very odd effect). Peter scooped some kitten feed into a plastic bag for him and sent him on his merry way.

       Then he grabbed some popcorn and turned on the TV. It didn't take him long to find the right channel. 

       “And last night a local boy became--and these are his own words-- the very first person to formally interview Spider-Man.” Peter smirked.

      “Now, Jan, that is--”

      “It's Jen, actually.”

      “That's great, Jen. I'm sure everyone really cares.”

     “Maybe not, Bill, but you know who would care?”

     “Can I have three guesses?”

      “No.”

      “Does that mean--”

      “I was talking about Spider-Man, Bill. Spider-Man would care.”

      “What makes you say that, Jen?”

      “The video we’re about to show everyone,” Jen said, turning to face the camera and wiggle her eyebrows dramatically. Peter giggled and choked on a popcorn kernel.

      “You're not funny, Jen. Nobody laughed at that.”

      “I bet Spider-Man laughed at that,” she countered. Peter’s eyes widened.

       “How did she know?” He whispered in awe, tossing some more popcorn into his mouth.

      “Look, I just have to provide some comedic relief here, because this video? It could make people cry. We all know and love Spidey for his humor and ridiculous optimism and positivity, right? And for being heartbreakingly adorable, which is honestly enough to move me to tears.”

        “And all that's in this video?” Bill asked skeptically. Peter felt the same, but he was blushing nonetheless.

        “Yep. All that. But what's more, Spidey gets real. Deep. For one or two moments. That’s where I really cried.”

       “Alright,” Bill accepted, suddenly a little more serious. “So what I'm getting from this is that we're advising just the slightest bit of viewer discretion?”

     “Yes,” Jen answered immediately. Peter wiggled with excitement, even though nothing was really happening yet. “More than that, we’re advising viewer sensitivity. This is a real interview, and Spider-Man is a real person under that mask. He knew what he was doing when he put on that suit, and he's got a lot going on behind those big bug eyes. So when viewers watch this interview, I want them to really consider what Spider-Man does for this city, what he gives up for it, and why he does all this. It's pretty amazing.”

       Peter nearly swooned. He was sure his face was bright red.

      “Speaking of amazing, the kid that conducted this interview is cool.”

       “Really cool,” Peter mumbled to himself in agreement.

       “His name’s Erik Marner. He’s thirteen, and he says his goal in life is to be a reporter and journalist. The respectable kind who tell it like it is.”

       “So not us?”

       “Not us.”

        Peter laughed.  Again.

       “But enough of that. We've talked about things enough. I want to see this video. I want the people watching to see this video. I want the world to see this video.”

       And with no further introduction, the video popped up.

      The picture was dark and grainy, but Peter could see it was being taken from the same rooftop where he’d met Erik. The camera turned slightly so that Erik’s face was in the picture.

      “Alright,” Erik whispered. “I've done my research. Spider-Man’s been reported on this roof no less than 30 days in the past year. That might not sound like a lot, but it's the most frequently he's visited any one secluded place. I need to catch him somewhere where we can conduct the interview in private. This is my best option. Tonight is my 20th try in a row of coming out here. Maybe I'll get lucky.”

        The video stopped and then showed another clip. A blurry figure swung through the sky. Spider-Man. Erik was whispering into the camera, freaking out.

        “Okay, okay, be cool. It's just Spider-Man, no big deal. Nothing weird about that. He might not even come up here-- oh my gosh, he's coming up here! This is the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

        Peter laughed, reminded of his own videos from Germany. The universe was weird.

       The full video wasn't shown, just several highlights, and then at the end, after Spider-Man had swung away:

       “He's so much better looking in person,” Erik sighed. “Crap, now I have to edit that out. Anyway… there you have it, folks. At the end of the day, Spidey’s just like us… or so he claims. Personally, I don't know a lot of people with hearts that big. He's a real hero, and he doesn't even know it. Feel free to leave comments on my blog! Unless you don't like Spidey, then you can go-”

       The clip cut off.

      “What a dedicated youngster-” Jen was saying, but Peter turned the TV off and laughed to himself. He was tempted to look online and see what people had said about it, but he thought that might be a little vain. Besides, he was sure Ned would tell him all about it.

       So instead of obsessing over himself on the Internet, he went out. As Peter Parker. And because he had such great memories of the spot, he visited the First National Bank.

       It was mostly empty, except there were Ricky, Shannon, Joe, and the others in their group, talking to Michelle, who was working.

       They all glanced up at him as he came in, then dismissed him immediately. He sighed internally. Most people tended to do that, and it was for the best. Didn't mean his pride wasn't stung.

     ‘Why are they always here when I am?’ He pondered, to distract himself. ‘Do they just love the bank or something?’

       Peter could understand that. He loved banks too, when they gave out tootsie rolls.

      Speaking of which… there, on the counter--- under a sign that said, “BY RECOMMENDATION OF SPIDER-MAN, AS A THANK-YOU FOR SAVING OUR VALUED CUSTOMERS---” was an enormous bowl of tootsie rolls. The good kind, not the weird fruit ones.

     “YES!” He shouted, pumping his fist triumphantly and racing toward the bowl, where he proceeded to grab exactly three (he didn't want to be a hog, but they were technically there for him, so. Three seemed reasonable.)

        He realized abruptly that his friends (who didn't know they were his friends) were glowering at him. Michelle’s head was buried in her hands.

      “Er, I'm sorry. That was… quite rude. I'll just… be going.”

       And he grabbed one more piece of candy to compensate for his frazzled nerves. He was actually out the door and a block down the street when he had the epiphany.

       His friends really were always there. At that bank. And Garcia had said something about some customers having possible gang affiliations….

      Peter ran all the way back, pushed the door halfway open, and leaned in to ask: “Hey, quick question before I get out of your hair-- are you guys, like, gang people or something?”

      Everybody pulled a gun. All at once. Including Michelle. Peter put his hands up, and it occurred to him belatedly that he should have thought this one through.

      “Uh, aren't there, like, cameras or something?” Peter asked eloquently.

     “That won't matter if I loop them,” Michelle informed him confidently. He gulped and tried again.

       “I'm too young and nerdy to die?”

        Ricky looked at Shannon for help, but she was clearly just as confused. Emboldened by that response, Peter continued.

       “Nobody will believe me over you? Not that I'll tell anybody, no worries there. I have an aunt? I'm her only family left? Can't leave a poor old lady all alone in the world. Okay, so she's not old. But I wish she was, cuz everybody hits on her. But then I wouldn't have so much time left with her so maybe not. Ummm, I'm talented and beautiful and have a lot to offer the world? Yeah. You can't ruin that. And these are good clothes, and bullet holes would ruin that.”

        Joe coughed. “Ah, kid--”

        But Peter was on a roll. “I work for Tony Stark. I swear, it's true! And his head of security, Happy, I check in with him every day. So he may or may not hate me, but he'd still have to tell Mr. Stark if I were dead. And then Mr. Stark would come after you, either through lawsuits or with IronMan. I'm not sure which is scarier or more appropriate to the situation. And I've got a kitten at home, you know, who's going to care for her if I'm gone? Okay, so Aunt May would probably do that, or MJ or Ned or Mr. Stark or maybe even Flash. But it's the principle of the thing! And my parents already died and my uncle, so it's not like us Parkers have a great track record for this sort of thing, but I was actually hoping to not make it any worse.”

      “Hey, brat--” Ricky cut in, but Peter once again kept on steamrolling.

     “That's another thing! I'm not a brat! I'm a good kid, mostly! My grades are alright, I'm nice, I do my chores, I follow the rules usually sometimes. Yeah, I come home late and lie about where I've been, but it's for a good cause! And something else, the bank just started giving out tootsie rolls, and I haven't even eaten any yet. This really just isn't a good time for you to end things for me, you know. I've got a lot to live for--”

       “Spider-Man?” Shannon asked incredulously. Peter fell silent abruptly in a way that was definitely NOT suspicious and attempted to seem casual.

       “Who? Never heard of him. I mean, I've heard of him, obviously, he's fantastic. But I've never, like, heard of him. Why, what about him?” Peter’s voice got squeakier and higher pitched the longer he spoke, so he cleared it.

       “No way,” Joe mumbled. Michelle dropped her gun.

     “Baby, this kid’s about twelve,” Ricky muttered to his fiancée.

      “No, I'm several years older than that, actually,” Peter corrected helpfully.

      Shannon snorted. “It's him, Ricky. Just trust me on this. It's very obviously him.”

       “Uh, it's very obviously not,” Peter informed her. "Red and blue would clash with my aesthetic." She shook her head and tucked her weapon back into her purse.

      “Oh my gods. Spider-Man’s a pre-teen,” Ricky concluded, looking lost.

      “I'm not twelve!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands up exasperatedly.

      Nobody responded.