Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I'm clocking out!” he yells into the back, mouth pressed into what his co-workers liked to call his constipated shit frog face.

He waits by the timecard machine, sighing and tapping his foot. It's an old model, complete with the hand clock interface and the actual punching in of cards. He's got one hand propped up against the wall above his head, as he leans on it with his head hanging and his constipated shit frog face on. It usually takes his boss a couple of minutes to respond, and he can't nag him either, or Joseph will yell at him for asking twice in a row. He adjusts his sunglasses as he sighs, keeping his head down. The fluorescent lights are too damn bright in the kitchen.

Bossman only lets him go once he gives the okay and Peter would ditch, but he needs the money cause bills don't pay themselves. Or at least they used to not just pay for themselves.

After what feels like an eternity, Joseph grunts at him to go so Peter slams (well, more like gently fist bumps) the punch-out button with his fist. He runs to the storage closet in the kitchen, snatching up his skateboard under his arm and running back out. Travis is wrapping the sauce bin with cling wrap when Peter almost slams into him running around the corner. The cigarette behind his ear almost falls off as he startles. Peter books it.

“Watch it, Parker!”

“You watch it, Trav!” He yells back.

He's making his way towards the back exit door behind the kitchen when he spots Garrett who's organizing the takeaway disposable plates and cups. Garrett pauses, still bent over the bags, his nappy blond curls sticking to the back of his neck with sweat, squinting at Peter.

“You coming in tomorrow, douche-glasses?” Garrett asks.

Peter pushes the armbar of the backdoor open. It's freezing outside.

“I'm taking the week off, pube face,” he replies without looking back at Garrett. Garrett struggles to grow facial hair so he just ends up looking like Joe Dirt.

“Like you can afford it!” Garrett yells behind him.

Peter flips him off behind his back as he steps into the alley, the cold hitting him at full blast as the door slams shut behind him heavily. He drops his skateboard down when he is out of the dirty alley, rolling his way down the sidewalk. Despite it being nighttime, New York is still teeming, the sidewalks crowded for the holiday. He can hear the top ten Christmas hit songs playing from all around the block; from department stores to people's open windows, to car radios.

His breath puffs out in cold billows in front of him. It smells like it could snow soon; the clouds look heavy. He pushes himself on the skateboard, weaving in and out of the crowd as they turn to give him weird looks. It's probably because of the sunglasses. He usually would not wear them at night but ever since the Christmas season rolled around, New York's lights have dialed up to a level that makes his eyes weep.

Rolling down the sidewalk, he lists off the shit needs to get done in his head before he leaves tomorrow. First, he needs to pick up his brand-new tailored suit since having money is a thing now, apparently. Then he needs to go home, check the mail, check on Cheryl, water his pot (hehe, pot), throw out the trash, and finish packing his bag.

He’s moving fast down the sidewalk, his mind still on the things he's got to do when a crowd of drunk assholes block the whole pavement. Peter comes to an abrupt stop, his arms flailing in the air, as he gets off his skateboard, kicking it up into his arms. He's ready to walk around them when he spots a flower shop across the street. They have some garish Christmas decorations in the window and a whole bunch of Poinsettias.

Peter hesitates, biting his lip as he stares at the flower shop. Some asshole part of the drunk posse starts yelling behind him. Peter hugs his skateboard tighter to himself under his arm and jumps into the street, walking between the cars as they wait at the red light. A taxi honks at him as the traffic light turns green.

He holds out a hand at the taxi. “I'm walking here, dickwad!”

Safely across, he doesn't let himself hesitate as he opens the glass door to the flower shop. The bell chimes pleasantly overhead as his olfactory senses are filled with the smells of flowers and plants. He wanders around the flower shop, peering at the delicately made flower arrangements, with a hand in his pocket. He glances over his shoulder, with his brows furrowed, at the worker behind the counter. Should he ask for help or…? Slowly, he saunters on over to the counter.

The forty-something-year-old lady with drawn-on pencil-thin eyebrows looks up at him with pursed lips.

“Hey, so, uh… I was hoping to buy my Aunt some flowers.”

She chews her bubblegum, popping it a few times as she looks at him apathetically.

“Any certain kind of flowers your Aunt likes, honey?”

Peter shrugs, pushing out his bottom lip as he shakes his head. “Nah, she liked—likes, I mean, all flowers.”

“Ok, well, we have our special holiday arrangements if you're interested in that,” she says in that same monotonous tone, nodding at the display flowers.

“Uhm—” Peter glances at the display, “do you have anything in a pot?”

So that's how Peter walks out of the flower shop with one ten-dollar purple orchid in a pot that was on sale. The bell chimes behind him as he carries the orchid under his arm. He sets down his skateboard and flies down the sidewalk on it. He needs to get to the tailor's shop which is about… he pulls out his phone to check, twenty blocks away.

Peter shivers. He doesn't take well to the cold after the bite.

By the time he makes it to the tailor shop, he's so cold that his nose hasn't stopped dripping liquid boogers for the past thirty minutes and his hands are frozen to the point of pain. He dashes into the shop, exhaling out a groan at the welcome change in temperature. It's bright in the shop but at least he's got his second darkest shades on. He tucks his skateboard under one arm and the orchid under the other. The owner of the shop emerges from another room.

“Welcome. How can I help you?” The man has a posh accent that's not English.

“I'm here to pick up my suit?”

“Of course, and what is your name?”

“Parker, Peter. I mean, Peter Parker,” he fumbles while blood rushes to his ears in embarrassment.

The man doesn't seem to notice or care and nods his head once, turning around as he disappears around the corner. Peter sets down his skateboard and the flowerpot on the floor gingerly, careful not to make a sound. He rubs his hands together, finally starting to feel them tingling with warmth. He's an old dude with gray hair and a U-shaped hairline. The exact kind of person you'd expect to be working at or running a tailor shop with at least 40 years of experience. It's intimidating, honestly.

A few moments later, the man appears around the corner again with the suit in hand. It's a sharp dark gray tuxedo with a bunch of other fancy stuff he doesn't understand but left to the man to choose.

He hands him the suit hanging by a clothing hanger and Peter takes it slowly.

“Please try on the suit and then we may see if further adjustments are needed.” The man points to the dressing rooms, pointing with his palm like politicians or rich people do.

Peter nods his head—swallowing—as he steps into the dressing room, closing the curtain. He unzips his puffy winter coat and tosses that aside. Then he peels off his work uniform and jeans until he's left in his boxers. There's a white dress shirt under the vest and a tuxedo jacket. He puts that on first and then the whole shebang. Unfortunately, he's only got his shitty resale non-slip work shoes instead of his dress shoes, so it looks stupid. But only if you're looking at the bottom half.

Huh.

A slow smile creeps up on his face crookedly as he looks at himself in the mirror. He plants his fists against his hips. He looks sharp as hell with the glasses on and the whole nine yards of tuxedo suit, if he does say so himself. Thank you, dead rich billionaire parents. Your inheritance will be put to very good use. At least they can do one useful thing for him in his life, even if it's only from beyond the veil.

He opens the curtain and steps out. The man appraises him with a grave face.

“If I could have you walk from one end of the room to the next a couple of times, I would greatly appreciate that.”

Peter listens to him, suddenly feeling like his feet have grown three sizes too big. Swallowing, he can’t help but think that maybe the man knows he's an imposter playing dress-up in rich people's clothes that he does not belong in. You can take the boy out of poverty but not the poverty out of the boy.

“Very good, Mr. Parker.”

Peter tries not to feel like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs as he skips back into the dressing room. Freshly changed into his sticky work uniform, the tailor is waiting for him with an arm stretched out. The man snaps up the tuxedo suit and starts meticulously placing it into a plastic bag, which goes inside another bag with a zipper. The man then leaves and comes back with three white dress shirts, all folded and in separate bags.

“Cash or card,” the tailor asks as he rings up the total at the cash register.

“Uhm… card,” Peter garbles, almost choking on his spit as he attempts to speak and swallow at the same time.

“Your total will be $3,450.37, Mr. Parker.” The man says it with eerily calm.

He does choke on his spit this time.

“Will you be making a one-time payment?”

“Yeah—yes,” Peter replies, a bit sharper than he intends to, and gropes around in his jeans for his wallet.

He inserts his brand-new spanking credit card into the card reader. Oh, sweet, sweet capitalism, he thinks, how you have fucked me over.

The tailor hands him the receipt and then the most expensive thing he's ever bought in his life. He walks out into the cold blast of the New York air in a daze. Seriously, holding this few grand handmade tailored tuxedo next to his ten-dollar on-sale orchid is throwing him off balance. His rent is cheaper than this suit, for fucksake! He drops his skateboard down and rolls off towards his apartment.

He used to have to scrap the burnt shit off the bottom of the pan when eating food. May used to have to pick between buying herself shoes or him shoes after Ben had died (she always bought him the shoes). Money was never taken for granted. And then suddenly, he turned 18, and a letter showed up in his mail, and his life was flipped upside down. Call him Princess Parker the way he went from rags to riches.

He's got the riches but to keep them, he has to attend Gotham City's upper-crust gala charities and mingle with people who walk like they got thirty-inch rods rammed up their asses. Now that his parents are dead, they want him to go in their stead. He huffs. A load of bullshit and bologna if you ask him. A thrifted suit from the Salvation Army was also apparently not allowed and the lawyer had told he had to go in a tailored suit, even though it pains him to spend this much money. So here he was. He's got more money than he knows what to do with but for now, he's going to play it safe. He'd prefer not to end up like one of those unlucky bastards who wins the lottery and then spends it on useless garbage, going into debt. He heaves a great sigh internally. Tomorrow, he leaves for Gotham. The armpit of the world. Off to see what sprawling mansion his dear Mummy and Pappy have left him.

Right.

And that's another part of the deal.

The upkeep of the Parker estate. Can't have Mummy and Pappy turning over in their graves now. Gotta make them look good in front of the public eye, even in death. What a fucking joke. He lives in New York for crying out loud! Why does he have to mingle with New Jersey backwater people!?

Who knows how much money he's going to have to drop on the mansion to fix it up to code?

Anyways.

It's fucking nuts to think that he went his whole life thinking he didn't have parents when it turns out they were just much too busy sniffing lines of cocaine, sipping champagne, throwing mansion parties, and running one of the world's largest companies in genetic editing technology. Maybe he'd lived with them before he was able to form solid memories when he was five or some shit. But that doesn't matter. His family always has and will always only be Aunt May and Uncle Ben. Even when he was 14 and had lost them both. Even when he was kicked off his ass from one couch to the next pull out of bed in foster homes for two years until he was emancipated at 16. Even when he quit being Spider-Man six months ago. Even when he abandoned his friends six months ago. Even then.

He sniffles at that, snapping back into present reality as he spots his brownstone apartment complex. But before he goes in, he jogs over to the mailbox. Grabbing his mail, he shuffles through the envelopes, all his things bundled up his arms as he carries them. Peter stomps up the stairs and buzzes into the complex. In the back of his mind, he can feel it's starting to snow. A snowflake lands on his nose. He lets the door shut behind him heavily and pushes his shades up his nose with a knuckle.

Man, he feels frozen half to death.

He runs up the two flights of stairs to the third floor. Walking down the hallway, head up in the clouds, when all of a sudden Cheryl calls out to him loudly. He almost drops the flowerpot.

“What's that you got under your arm, Peter? More weed for us?”

Cheryl always keeps her apartment door cracked wide open, no matter how many times the neighbors insist to her that it's not safe to do so. Luckily, she lives right across from him even if her having the door wide open all the time makes his spider senses go hay wild in concern.

He rushes to her side, shushing her.

“Not so loud, Cheryl. It's just an orchid.”

She leans back in her old recliner, looking up at him with a mischievous smile that shows off her dentures.

“Who's the lucky girl?”

“Aw no. It's just for my Aunt,” Peter says sheepishly.

Cheryl shrugs a shoulder, her curly white hair bouncing on her head, as she turns to look back at her ancient box TV. Something about the Avengers and the Justice League is playing on the news. He tries not to frown.

“That Superman hunk sure is sexy,” Cheryl says with a giddiness in her voice.

Peter presses his lips into his signature constipated shit frog face.

“Yeah, more like a hunk of shit…” he mutters under his breath.

She doesn't hear him.

“Do you need anything before I leave? Remember I'm not gonna be here for a week but I stocked up your refrigerator yesterday so you should be good with that…” Peter sets down his stuff in a precarious heap as he runs to go check on her fridge. Finding it alright, he steps back to pile his shit into his arms again. She's too busy staring at Superman's biceps to respond to him.

“Call David if you need anything while I'm gone. David said he'd help,” Peter calls out to her over the noise of the TV as he's halfway out the door.

“That piece of shit doesn't know how to do anything! You better get back home soon, Peter!” Cheryl yells back at him.

He laughs and shuts the door behind himself. Cheryl's never told him about her age, but he thinks she's about 75. She doesn't have family, and she's lived on her own ever since her husband died. They smoke together sometimes since she's cool like that. Partly blind, loves superheroes and their glasses match. What more could he ask for from a grandma figure? Well, he could do without the loves-superheroes-part but whatever.

Tip-toeing around the water-damaged wooden floorboards, Peter fumbles the key into his apartment door and bangs the door shut with his hip. Carefully, he sets the pot down on the windowsill, leans the skateboard against the wall, and lays out the tuxedo on his bed. He glances at the alarm clock sitting on his nightstand. Pretty easy to spot considering he has excellent vision.

It says 11:42 PM.

He tosses his shades somewhere on his bed.

Oh, who is he kidding?

It's actually because his kitchen is in his bedroom and his bedroom is in his kitchen because his apartment is a shitty one-roomer stuck somewhere between Queens and Brooklyn. And that just about sums up his life. A shithole, up until a week ago when that surprise inheritance hit him in the mail. So now it's more like the gold flakes on top of the shit sundae. Still shit, but just pretty now. God knows why Mary and Richard Parker decided to leave their wealth to a son they never even sniffed at and seemingly, they didn't even go by Parker. Get this, they went by Vanderbilt, the most kitschy name they could come up with. So fucking stupid. But he's not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

Peter knocks the side of his temple with his knuckles, already starting to feel the beginnings of a migraine, courtesy of his excellent vision that absolutely does not come with any extra side problems.

His stomach groans at him, cramping painfully.

He squints against the incandescent white light that floods his vision when he opens his crappy cheap fridge. It makes the backs of his eyes pulse in sharp pain. Scouring through his fridge, he looks for the milk as he moves a half-empty carton of eggs and some cheese that's starting to mold. He probably needs to cut away the moldy part and throw that out sooner than later while it's still salvageable. Though he can now more than afford a new block of cheese, it's hard to kick the bucket on frugal habits.

He doesn't have the patience to make himself a better meal with the way his head is trying to explode itself at ass o'clock in the night so, cereal it is. It feels like his head is ballooning. He needs to eat and then pop a pill to sleep, preferably after curling up under the covers and pretending he's not alive.

He finally finds the milk carton sitting at the back of the fridge. And it's frozen.

Fucking great.

Scowling, he grabs the frozen hunk of milk ice and slams the fridge closed. He grabs the only bowl he has and the one spoon he keeps and sets it down on the tiny countertop. He pours himself some no-name brand cornflakes. Cornflakes so cheap, as a matter of fact, that they came sold in a plastic bag and not in a cardboard box. No rich people cereal for him. No, sir, no matter how much the piggy bank is full, just some good old cheap shit. He sets down the bag of cornflakes and then frowns when he sees the sides of the countertop peeling off. He sticks his nail under it and the whole fake wooden plastic side falls off.

He sighs.

Great, just another thing to fix. Another thing to throw his money down the drain for. You'd think the way things break so often that money would grow on trees. Well, it does come in letters of will from dead parents, but that's beside the point.

He opens the milk carton and tries to pour whatever liquid is left in the carton onto the cornflakes. Three sad drops come out and only two of them successfully land on the cornflakes. One drop lands on the countertop. A few frozen chunks of milk dislodge in the carton and do land in the cornflakes though. Peter closes his eyes and tries to think happy thoughts. Of smoking a blunt, of payday, of no taxes, of free healthcare, and a whole day without a migraine.

He doesn't bother turning on the lights. He can see perfectly fine in the night with his enhanced vision, and it helps to keep the electricity bill down. Glass half full, glass half empty, at least that's one perk to being bit by a radioactive spider. He steps to the left two paces (a testament to how small his hovel is) with his cereal bowl in hand and sits down at the table. He has one chair and its metal. He found it for free off of Facebook Marketplace and it didn't even come with a cushion to sit on. The table also wobbles when he leans too far to one side. He munches on his mostly dry cereal and bits of frozen slushy milk. He's pretty sure shit from ass has more flavor than this but it's a comfort food at this point. His spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl as he eats the last cornflake. He has no idea why he ate his dry cornflakes with a spoon. He could've saved water by not washing the spoon. His head isn't in its A-game.

Out of his peripheral vision, he can see the red mocking glare of his alarm clock. It ticks at him. He ignores it. He’ll sleep in a bit. Peter picks up his phone. He always has the screen brightness turned down to the lowest he can. He's at 29% battery. Grimacing, his head swims for a moment, as the back of his eyes pulse in exhaustion. He swipes down his notifications.

Spam email. Spam email. Spam email. Job offer from Massachusetts Costco. Spam email. Get 50% off on your next purchase with us at Macy’s.

He winces.

He had bought a winter coat from Macy's one time when he was a wide-eyed freshly emancipated 16-year-old on May's two-year death anniversary during the Christmas season. It was also the first night he had taken on training to become a better Spider-Man. He was feeling lonely in his new apartment and seasonal depression had gotten to him and he had dropped almost two hundred dollars, which was money he did not have at the time, on a new coat. That was a mistake. At least it's held up well.

LinkedIn. LinkedIn. Wingstop promoting its new wings flavor. He swallows heavily as his stomach growls. Temptation is strong to order himself some wings but, no—he needs to be wise with the money. LinkedIn. Facebook Marketplace showing him a free desk. He expands that notification and clicks on it.

Huh.

It's in pretty good condition too. There are four pictures that he scrolls through, squinting his eyes. The pictures are a little blurry, but it doesn't look like it's because of the camera quality but more like whoever was taking the picture didn't hold the camera steady. They're off center too and he's pretty sure he can see their bathroom with their toilet lid up. But otherwise, it's a pretty decent desk from what he can see. It's a little scuffed on the bottom of the legs, out of use probably. It's nicely sized, dark brown, and even has some drawers. Awesome.

He decides to message the vendor, some dude by the name of ‘Daniel Barnes,’ with something simple.

God knows if it was still, despite it only having been an hour since the post went up. In today's day and age, when everything is too expensive and you get paid in thoughts and prayers, he doesn't have much hope of it still being available. He chews on his lip as he stares down at his phone screen waiting for a response. Daniel Barnes was still online from the green dot in the corner of his profile. His leg starts to bounce up and down anxiously. Two minutes slid by like molasses and Daniel still hasn't responded.

Daniel Barnes doesn't have a profile picture, but it was probably safe to assume that he was an old man, maybe in his 70s, struggling to use Facebook.

Resisting the urge to throw his phone, he sets it face down on the wobbly table carefully instead. His stomach growls again. He wishes he had remembered to shop for groceries for himself yesterday. But nope, only for Cheryl, and now he suffers the consequences.

He stands up and grabs his dirty bowl and spoon to wash in the sink. Using the only kitchen towel he has; he dries the dishes. He puts away the bowl and spoon. He sniffles and glances back at the orchid sitting on the windowsill. He refuses to think that it's anything more than just a pretty flower he bought for no reason.

He looks back at the clock.

12:20 AM.

Out of nowhere, his head throbs and pulses, squeezing his temples and stabbing the backs of his eyes, as he staggers. Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, he groans. Opening his eyes and blinking away the spots in his vision, he finds himself in front of the orchid. It looks innocent enough. Harmless. His heart twists the longer he looks at it.

Peter reaches out to rub a petal between his fingers. The petal feels thick and waxy, like plastic. May always said she thought the gesture of flowers was boring and unoriginal. Fake. She always strived to come up with a unique gift. Something weird and funky, like that one time she gave him a thrifted gag gift of Batman paraphernalia that said, “Batman sucks balls.” May always knew what heartwarming gift to give him. He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. Reflecting back on it, now, almost all gifts she gave him were secondhand or thrifted.

It's stupid how that's the thought that has him swallowing past the frog in his throat. No matter how little they had, she never failed to give him everything. But then he'd failed her. On this night, four years ago, Spider-Man couldn't save her. And now she lies in a grave. He had vowed to become a better Spider-Man after what had happened but now he knows the world is better off without that part of him.

His phone buzzes with a notification, knocking him out his stupor. It's Daniel.

Yup. Definitely an old dude. Peter responds immediately.

He stares at his phone screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as he waits. He glances over at the clock.

It's 12:33 AM.

Daniel's profile picture circle pops up at the bottom of the chat. Peter stares at it, willing Daniel to come get his grandkid to help him type out what he's got to say. After several minutes, Peter throws in the towel, resisting the urge to groan like a moody teen. Instead, he gets up to finish packing his bag for the week. He ruffles the duffel bag he's got half made at the foot of his twin mattress.

Four long-sleeved shirts, two hoodies, a scarf and mittens, two pairs of jeans, five pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, one pair of knock-off dunks, one tuxedo suit, three white dress shirts, one tie, one desire for a washer and dryer in Gotham City and a partridge in a pear tree. He grabs his toiletries out of the bathroom and pauses halfway through when his head pulses something vicious.

“Mmmf,” he can't help but voice.

Bracing an arm against the wall, he squeezes his eyes closed, rubbing his temples and his eyes with more force than necessary. Even the sound of his own voice is intolerable. His sensitive ears pick up the rush of blood in his ears and his deep breaths of anguish. Then the sound of a neighbor's TV playing a laugh soundtrack… a cat meowing in an alley… the buzzing of electricity throughout the building… a drunken crowd…

A tight panicky feeling wraps itself around his chest.

Shit. Now he's having a panic attack.

He throws his toiletries into the duffel, groaning and moaning as he gropes around blindly for his unlabeled bottle of painkillers. He'd made these capsules himself, synthesizing oxycodone into a stronger dose for his metabolism. With shaky hands, he tosses back a glass of water along with the pill. Then he crawls back towards his bed and collapses on the mattress, shoving his head under his pillow. He doesn't know how long he lays there breathing through the torture, his brain trying to blow his skull wide open.

It might've been several minutes of self-sanctioned meditation when the peak point of pain starts to dissipate. It doesn't really go away until he gets a good night's rest, which seldom happens, but at least it's calmed down. His phone pings and the sound rings loudly in his overly sensitive ears.

He rolls over, squinting his eyes against the phone screen. It's Daniel. The little timestamp in the chat says it's 1:06 AM.

He couldn't in the morning because he wouldn't have time since he was planning to leave at 6:00 AM. Most of the day would be dedicated to dealing with the Parker estate. If he waits the week until he comes back, there is no way the desk is still going to be there. He sighs, glancing at his alarm clock.

1:08 AM.

Just one problem.

He could easily carry the desk on his back but that definitely would be way too damn suspicious. His phone pings again and it's only been two minutes since he last sent his reply.

There were a lot more spelling mistakes. He guesses Daniel got tired of waiting too long too. With a heave emboldened with herculean effort, he rolls over onto his side and gets up. Plucking the sunglasses off his bed, he slides them on.

He arrives at the Devil's Lair—also known as the Avengers Tower. He'd inputted the address without really thinking much about it and followed Google Maps blindly but now he finds himself standing in front of the most obnoxious, pretentious, attention-seeking skyscraper this side of the country. So, either this guy is fucking with him or it's some poor pencil pusher trying to get rid of their old desk. He half expects a camera crew to pop out of the bushes and tell him he's on some kind of prank show or social experiment. He brings up Facebook Messenger, still awkwardly standing in front of the double glass doors. He doesn't want to walk in and then get lasered down or something. He checks the time.

1:38 AM.

Cue the sigh.

He spins his skateboard by one end as he looks around the front of the building. He's definitely got on his constipated shit frog face. His senses aren't tingling so it might not be that Stark finally figured out who Spider-Man is and is going to sic the Hulk on him. But he's also spraypainted the side of this building at least a dozen times with “fuck superheroes” and never been caught. Or at least until now. He grumbles. Really, it's his fault for being gullible enough to think he'd hit the jackpot twice with free furniture in New York City at an ungodly hour.

He shivers. It's freaking freezing out here, even with his Macy's puffy winter jacket.

His phone screen lights up with a message from Daniel.

Taking a deep breath, he walks to the double doors as they open automatically for him. Instantly, he's hit with a blast of warm air. His shoulders slump in relief as his muscles finally stop tensing. He cranes his head around. The lobby is quite empty, as to be expected on a weekday at ass o’clock in the morning. He doesn't see any poor-looking desk worker schmuck except for the security guy behind the front desk munching on some donuts, who hasn't even bothered to look up at him.

He does see Captain America standing there—stupidly might he had—in the crappiest disguise he’s seen (sunglasses and a ballcap… really now?) in the middle of the world's douchiest-looking lobby (courtesy of Stark). But seeing Captain America in the flesh absolutely does not make him get the fanboy sweats. Peter shrugs (ignoring his racing heart) and looks down at his phone, sending another message.

Captain America's phone pings at full volume just as Peter sends the message. The hair on the back of his arm starts to stand up. No way… could it be? He watches as Captain America struggles to type on his phone, pecking the screen with one finger like the old man he is.

Yup.

There is no other reason for Captain America to be standing there, pecking at his phone at a snail's pace, looking like he's about to throw it against the wall, at one in the morning. Peter meanders on over, pocketing his phone and clearing his throat.

“You got the goods?” He says in a hushed voice.

Watching Captain America snap straight up into superhero mode was kind of funny, he's got to admit.

“I'm sorry?” He says, but nothing about that tone of voice says he’s sorry or confused.

Peter can’t help but snicker. “You know the—”

“Drugs aren't a laughing matter, son.” He was one hundred percent dead serious when he said that, complete with a ‘Captain America’ is disappointed-in-you tone. Ouch.

“You're such a square,” Peter sighs, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

Captain America frowns and takes off his sunglasses, studying him for a moment.

“Are you…” he looks down at his phone, confusion visible on his face, “Peter Parker?” And then he shows him his phone screen where Peter's profile picture is pulled up. It’s a random old Asian lady that he set as his picture years ago.

“Uh, yeah?” Peter says defensively and then crosses his arm. “I lost some weight.”

Captain America just raises an eyebrow at him. “Come on. I've got the desk in a conference room,” and then he just marches off without looking behind him like he expects Peter to follow him blindly.

Peter follows him blindly.

He peers into the room. Honestly, he thinks, while looking at the size of the room, Captain America may have fibbed about it being a conference room because it's the size of a broom closet. Or it's a conference room for gnomes. He goes in anyway while the good ‘ol Captain lingers in the doorway and there he finds the desk sitting there in all its glory. It looks like it’s been shoved in the gnome conference room haphazardly, but at least it looks even better in real life than it did in the pictures. He shoves his way in between the wall and the desk, the edge of the wood biting into his thighs. With possibly a bit of a maniac smile, he strokes the wood delicately. It's perfect. It's breathtaking. And it's for free. He turns around to tell Captain America he'll take it when he sees the guy standing guard outside the doorway, craning his neck around like a prairie dog. Like he expects someone to pop out of the woodwork.

“Dude,” Peter starts. “Are we, like, under attack or something? What's with the bouncer stance?”

Captain America turns to look at him over his shoulder but his eyes are still turned to the lobby. “No,” he clears his throat loudly, a bit louder than necessary in Peter's humble opinion.

“Right,” Peter says slowly, “well I'd like to take this baby home.” He pats the desk with a big smile.

“Of course, of course,” Captain America starts to sound panicky now. He is not even looking at Peter when he says that. He can hear an elevator ding and then someone starts to make their way on over at a rapid pace and they are not being very subtle about it too.

Captain America suddenly turns off the light and closes the door on him. He is left in the dark, so he takes off his sunglasses and his eyes adjust in a second. God bless that stupid little radioactive spider. He can see the desk as clear as day in the pitch black.

Then the worst possible thing happens, the epitome of everything wrong with the world, the bane of his existence, the center of his superhero hatred—he hears Tony Stark. He had known there would be a possibility for Stark to be roaming around the Tower, but he had never actually thought that would happen. There's probably a bigger chance of getting struck by lightning or a Redditor asking a meaningful question for once, than this.

“Rogers, is there a teenager in my closet?” Stark says miffed.

“He's here for the desk.” Captain America already sounds agitated. Peter can relate.

“Is that old code slang for cocaine? Is that what they used to say in the 40s?” Comes Stark's pompous voice. He can hear him annoyingly clicking a pen.

Captain America stays silent.

“Does it hurt to laugh sometimes, Cap?” Geez, what an asshole to insult Captain America. He has to be breaking some kind of Amendment. Stark's voice is louder now when he says, “If you wanted to get rid of the desk, I would've had cleaning come pick it up, Captain Underpants.”

“What I do, on my own time, is none of your business, Stark.” He can hear the steel in Captain America's voice and Peter silently cheers him on.

“Excuse me? Did I just hear that right? Did America’s own Vintage Popsicle just tell me to ‘f off’ in my building? Passive aggressively, might I add? The building I own, by the way, just in case you didn't hear me the first time.” He thinks Stark might've just wagged his finger around in the air.

Captain America is silent. But he can hear the way his heart starts to race in anger and his breaths get heavier.

A sigh from Stark. “Just open the door, Rogers. If you want a child, I'll get you one! But you cannot keep kids in closets.”

He thinks Captain America stonewalls him from the door. He can hear the American icon breathing on the other side. Then he hears them start to tussle, their shoes squeaking. At this point, he can't make out what they're saying as they've started yelling over each other at the same time.

Peter takes out his phone and glances at the time.

2:15 AM.

He sighs. He really doesn't have the time for this. He's got to wake up in four hours, so he slips his shades back on. Opening the closet door, he finds the two of them postering at each other, like a pair of ruffled roosters. Stark and the Captain turn to look at him, a dismayed look on Stark's face and a hard one on Captain America's. Surprisingly, Stark is wearing a pair of dirty jeans and an AC/DC shirt that's also smeared in grease. It's off putting. He'd expected the guy to be in Armani suits and Italian loafers 24/7.

Stark inhales deeply like he's about to spew a bunch of bullshit.

“You'd better thank your lucky stars that I'm the one who found you hanging out with a teenager in a closet and not some poor intern cause they'd get some very bad ideas very quickly and that PR nightmar—”

“There is nothing illicit going on.” The Captain's face is thunderous.

Peter tries to get his two cents in. “I really just need this des—” he points his thumb over his shoulder.

Stark dares to haughtily hold up a finger at him. “The adults are talking.”

Peter tries to say, “But I—"

Stark doesn't even bother to say anything to him, he just holds up a finger as he turns to Captain America.

“You can't just shut the door and leave a teenager in the dark in a closet.” Stark points to him without looking at him.

Peter is starting to get ticked off.

“Stark—”

He tunes out of their conversation. After several minutes of listening to their pointless arguing, his constipated shit frog face on, Stark turns to him. And Peter was still stuck between the desk and the wall but at least the door was open now.

“You want an autograph kid? A picture for the Gram? I can get you one before I have to kick you out.” Stark snaps his fingers at him.

“I'm not a kid,” Peter snaps.

“Ok, ‘not-a-kid.’ You sure you don't want that autograph?” He smirks at him like he finds Peter funny. It makes his blood boil.

“I don't even fucking know you.”

Captain America opens his mouth to try and interfere but of course Stark rides right over him. Which is probably, again, Unconstitutional.

“You're kidding right?” Stark raises his eyebrows, staring at him like he’s the weirdo. That smug little piece of shit— “You're literally standing in my building.”

Peter stares at him with a blank face.

Stark sighs like it's the world's most arduous task to deal with those who are part of the middle working-class peasants. “Tony Stark,” he extends a hand. There's a giant gaudy-looking watch on his wrist.

“Who?” Peter cocks his head and pointedly pockets his hands.

Stark presses his lips into a thin lip, shaking his head like Peter is in the wrong here.

“How do you not know who I am? Do you not have a phone?” Peter tenses under his gaze, at the way Stark appraises him. “Every underaged gremlin I know has a phone nowadays, especially the tiny ones. I can get you a phone, only the latest in the line of Stark phones.”

Stark pulls out his phone and starts typing away on it at speeds that could probably rival the Flash. It's paper thin and looks like something straight out of the future. And it is entirely inconvenient too.

“I don't need or want your stupid fucking phone.” Peter bristles.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he suddenly pauses his texting and looks up at him, squinting.

“How old are you? 12?” Peter opens his mouth to reply—he can feel his blood pressure rising—but again, Stark rolls right through him. He turns to look at Captain America. “Where'd you get the kid?”

“Facebook Marketplace—”

Stark scoffs. “Everybody knows you only buy live animals off of Craigslist, Rogers.”

He thinks a vein somewhere in his head pops from the way he's lightheaded with anger.

“Motherfucker, I am not a kid. I just want the goddamn desk and to get the fuck out of here!” The words come out louder than he intended them to.

The asshole only looks mildly vexed at his outburst but at least he doesn't say anything.

Captain America finally speaks up when the tension in the air is thick enough to slice.

“Peter, how about you wait for me outside, son? I'll bring the truck around to the front.”

Peter's shoulders ride up to his ears, as they burn, his gut churning in shame at being told off by Captain America. He marches off to the glass double doors but not before hearing Stark yell at him, “I'll write you a check for that desk!” He can hear Captain America scolding him none too gently.

He double-flips him off.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes of waiting out in the cold, shivering violently, as it snows on him when he sees Captain America pull up in an old rust bucket of a pick-up truck. The desk is strapped down in the bed of the truck. He climbs into the passenger side and melts into the seat gratefully when he feels the hot blast of the heater running. Peter glances at the dashboard.

It says 3:03 AM.

“Seatbelt?” Captain America glances at him and puts the truck into drive. He's too exhausted to protest as he clicks it on. He sees the Captain nod in approval out of the corner of his eyes. “Address?”

Peter mumbles it to him and then slouches into his seat. He stares out the passenger window, watching the snow and the holiday traffic fly by. It's strangely hypnotic, even behind his shades, he can feel his eyes drooping. A thought crosses his mind, jolting him out of his drowsiness with a bout of anxiety. That icky feeling of shame and guilt sits heavy in his stomach. “He's not gonna spread rumors, right…?”

Captain America glances at him, an alarmed look on his face. Sharply, he says, “No, he would never. Tony can be difficult, but he means it in a good manner. I told him you were here for the desk but, kid, if I knew you were this young, I'd never have agreed to meet at such a time.”

“Okay…” he mutters, burrowing his face into the collar of his puffy coat.

It's quiet in the truck other than the rumble of the engine and the sounds of the city. Peter is falling asleep, feeling strangely warm in more ways than one when he's awoken by the sound of the Captain's voice.

“I've been meaning to ask… why do you wear those sunglasses?”

Any other time someone would’ve asked him this question he'd bite back at them but he's too tired to care.

“Miosis, my pupils don't dilate correctly.” A white lie. A partial truth. They do dilate correctly just not to normal human standards.

The Captain seems to accept that answer. He might've dozed off again because when he comes to, he recognizes the old brownstone complex of his apartment.

“Shit…” he blinks the sleep from his eyes.

Captain America is not in the truck. He opens the door and immediately the snow pelts him. He slams the door shut behind him and makes his way towards the bed of the truck where he can see the Captain has moved the desk down onto the sidewalk in front of the complex's stairs. He sniffles, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand as he buzzes them into the building. Grabbing one end of the desk, he helps Captain America move the desk into the cramped hall of the first floor. The door shuts firmly behind them, and Peter sighs.

Captain America has his hands on his hips and is eyeing the stairs.

“I've, uh, got it, Captain,” he says stilted.

The man looks around the floor, with his hands still on his hips, and then says, “Is there an elevator?” It's clear he's noticed that there isn't one in the building.

Peter sighs for the nth time and acquiesces. Together, they make an awkward shuffle up two flights of stairs to his apartment. With the way Captain America is so beefy and built like a shit brickhouse, it makes for some awkward furniture moving. Finally, they're in front of his unit and Peter is five seconds away from passing out on Cheryl's welcome mat. It says, ‘You're Welcome to Fuck Off.’ Captain America is staring at it with a bewildered look on his face. He gropes around for his key and finally unlocks the door.

The cold from his apartment washes over him in an instant. It's colder in here than out in the hallway and that's saying something. Still shivering and with his nose dripping everywhere, they move the desk into the corner by his bed. He could obviously do this by himself, but he's so bone tired that just the thought of having to make small awkward talk to Captain America to get him to fuck off and not have him help makes him want to take a swan dive out of his window. So, when they set down the desk underneath the window, at the foot of his mattress, he is surprised to see Captain America get his butt out of the room quickly. He does linger by the doorway, but Peter thought he'd have to fight him tooth and nail for him to leave (metaphorically).

He casts a glance at his alarm clock.

3:49 AM.

Peter moves to the doorway, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He's losing feeling in them from how icy they are. Preparing to do an awkward song and dance with goodbyes the Captain actually catches him off guard with a question.

“Are you going to be warm enough tonight?”

It's a simple question. But he's looking at him earnestly with those wide All-American baby blues. Swallowing around the hard lump that's abruptly formed in his throat he nods his head once. He's an adult for fucksake. This shouldn't be the thing that makes him weepy.

The Captain nods his head once and steps away.

“Thanks, Captain,” he says quietly. The words are loud in the quiet of the hallway.

“Of course, son.” A pause, “and it's Steve.”

He nods once too. “Alright, Daniel,” his words are cheeky.

Steve's quiet laugh echoes down the hall as Peter closes the door.

Something loud is rattling his brain inside of his skull. It blares at him as his senses take a few moments to connect back to his brain. He finally recognizes the sound. It's his alarm. He rolls over with a groan and slams his hand down on the snooze button. A harsh crunch and his eyes fly wide open, as he hisses against the beginnings of light that start to stream through his window. Glancing to his left, he finds his alarm clock in smithereens. Lifting his palm to his face, he sees tiny, shattered plastic pieces stuck to his palm. Collapsing back against his crappy mattress, the springs squeaking, he screws his eyes shut.

Fuck.

What a great way to start the day.

He hadn't realized when he'd fallen asleep but apparently, he had taken Captain America's words to heart and had turned up his heater before he fell asleep. His sunglasses were somehow on the floor. It was warm and toasty in the room which made the task of having to get out from under his threadbare sheets even more grueling. With his eyes half closed, he stumbles to his tiny, cramped bathroom on bare feet. Like the rest of his apartment, he never bothers to turn on the lights or even close the door. It's not like anybody is going to see him anyway.

He ambles back over to his bed, rubbing his eyes with furious fists, and fumbles through the sheets, looking for his phone. Pulling it out, he checks the time.

It's 5:29 AM.

Shit. He doesn't have time for breakfast anymore. And his phone is at 9% battery. Wow, even better. He plugs in his phone and then runs into the bathroom, hopping into the shower right away. He doesn't have the time to wait for the water to warm up, and since the communal water boiler is shit, he takes a cold two-minute shower. He slams the door open, toothbrush in his mouth, foaming like a rabid dog, as he races around. He jerks open his closet door and grabs the only long-sleeved shirt that he still has hanging.

Jumping around on one foot to the next as he shoves his feet through yesterday's jeans and then his feet into his battered-up Converse, it's no wonder he almost eats shit as he trips. Catching himself on the wall, he runs to the bathroom and spits, rinsing his mouth with more cold water. He groans as his sensitive teeth ache. His toothpaste is non-mint flavored ever since he discovered he's now allergic to mint. He learned that the hard way when he ate a candy cane.

Rushing back into his room, he pauses for a second, debating whether to make his bed or not. A nagging voice (which sounds like May) in the back of his head urges him to carefully make his bed. Satisfied with that, he unplugs his phone. It's charged to 44%. Not bad for the seven minutes he ran around like a headless chicken. His phone is a knock-off of Stark phone, but better of course. He made it himself from a discarded piece of junk Stark phone he found in a dumpster while diving for parts.

He shoves his arms through his Macy's jacket, throws his duffel bag over his shoulder, and perches his sunglasses on his nose. Rummaging through his drawer, he finds his old wristwatch he hardly uses and straps it on. The orchid sits on his windowsill innocently. It'd be a damn shame to let it die while he's gone. Grabbing a plastic grocery bag, he sets the orchid gently in it. He checks the time and sighs in relief.

It's 5:39 AM.

Lucky for him, he might just make it to the Parker estate by 8:30 AM.

And then he swings open the door and finds a giant desk blocking the whole hallway. He freezes, staring at it. He shouldn't have jinxed himself. Honestly, he knows better by now. The thing is truly, outrageously enormous but admittedly, it's nice. It looks hand-carved and sturdy. He knocks his knuckle against the top of the desk. Hmm, might it be walnut wood?

He then notices a Polaroid stuck to the top corner of the desk with gum tack. He picks it up. It's a picture of Tony Stark. A pretty shit one too and the bastard looks way too damn smug about it. He flips it over and, on the back, it says, ‘You forgot your autograph.’ And It's signed too. This is fucking perfect. This idiot thought he could hand a one-of-a-kind signed autograph to someone who hates his guts and not see it end up on eBay. He pulls out his phone and snaps a quick photo of it. Laughing to himself, he shakes his head as he posts it on eBay for auction.

And now he just has to deal with the giant freaking desk. He places his duffel bag and orchid on the nasty carpet of the hallway and jumps over the table. He walks down to the end of the hall and knocks on unit C30. It's where Tonya lives with her three kids. She's a single mother and god knows she needs the desk way more than he does. He waits for a moment. He knows she's awake by now, getting her kids ready to drop them off at daycare. She works at a local hospital and goes into work around this time so she might be on her way out. He can hear one of her kids start to cry and scream. He winces for her in sympathy.

The door opens. Tonya looks dismayed and stressed as she opens it but when she sees him, her face breaks out into a sunny smile. Compared to most New Yorkers, she is a saint. She's got some cute ducky scrubs on too.

“Hey, Peter!”

“Hi, I'm sorry to bother you at this time, Tonya but I have a desk out here and I was wondering if you'd like to take it.” He points down the hall at it.

She leans out the doorway and looks at it, raising an eyebrow, her tone befuddled. “Are you sure, Mr. Parker?”

He laughs it off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I just got a really nice one and then a friend sent me this desk when I already told them no. Soooo…” Never in a million fucking years would he admit to calling Tony Stark a friend, even in this context. Not even Batman and Robin would be able to waterboard this shit out of him.

She smiles at him gratefully, nodding her head. “Well, thank you so much, Peter.”

“Yeah! Of course, no problem!” He gestures towards the desk with both hands awkwardly. “It's honestly pretty heavy, so, I could help you move it but I've gotta do it now since I'm going to be gone for a week.” He laughs like a dweeb.

Tonya opens her door wide open. “Yeah, no worries, Peter. I got a bit of time left before I have to leave.” She eyes it again. “It looks pretty big though.” More screaming breaks out and he can hear them start to sob. She sighs. “Let me go see what these knuckleheads are fighting about and then I'll come help you move that.”

Peter nods his head and points with his thumb over his shoulder. But Tonya has already turned around and is scolding Matthew as he stomps his feet. “I'll just go grab the desk…”

Peter runs to the desk, vaulting over it. He looks around and behind himself. Seeing that the coast is clear, he picks up the desk by the middle and jogs over with it in his arms like a lunatic. He sets it down in front of the doorway just as Tonya appears.

“Oh! You didn't have to do that by yourself Peter but thank you!” She claps a palm against her chest, gratitude etched on her face. “Come on, let's get this inside.”

Peter helps her ease it inside her apartment. Melanie, her seven-year-old daughter, is watching the TV in the living room. Her nose is almost touching the screen from how close she is to it. She's watching it raptly and Peter isn't paying attention to the TV until a word catches his attention. A sinking feeling slices through his stomach as he approaches the TV with crossed arms.

A news anchorwoman is fervently talking as video footage of Spider-Man's feats flashes across the screen. The headline reads “It's been 6 months since Spider-Man disappeared. Where is New York's vigilante?”

He doesn't realize he's stopped breathing. It's like watching a car wreck happen in slow motion—he can't look away; he has to see what happens next. The screen flashes over to a new video and then it's a woman being interviewed and she has kids who are all wearing Spider-Man costumes. And then it's a construction worker being interviewed. An elderly man. A high-school boy from Midtown Tech. A whole family who say he'd saved their home eight months ago. They all have something to say about Spider-Man helping them. Whether it was to cheer them up with a joke or save their life.

He feels sick.

And then a redhead woman with wild hair, looking like she just came out of a long shift, stares directly into the camera, her voice wavering in desperation. “Wherever you are Spider-Man… I hope you're alright. New York misses you. I miss you. The world needs you.”

He's shaking and suddenly he's never been so glad that he always wears sunglasses. He turns away, tightening his arms around himself. The blood that rushes and pounds in his head drowns out the sounds of the news anchor moving on to talk about the Avengers and the Justice League.

The room falls away as he's sucked into a mirage of memories that claw at his lungs. His breaths come in shallow chokes and gasps, as heavy smoke curls through the air from the fire that's roaring all around them. He can feel the familiar burn of rage fill his veins once again. But with it comes a sense of dread, for he knows what happens next. The visage of the man, the monster, who stands in front of him, obscured by the smoke is taunting him like he does every night. Laughing at him like he does every new morning. Mocking the death of—

“When's Spider-Man coming back?” Melanie's sad little voice snaps him out of his turmoil. He blinks down at her. He thinks he's surprised to see her standing there in front of him. She's not burning into ash. She's perfectly fine. He's still shaking, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets. He reminds himself that she is real and that this is real.

Peter looks down at her, her big ‘ol eyeballs looking up at him. She's got glitter glue smeared on her cheek and in her hair for some reason. The image makes his heart ring itself out like a sopping wet towel. She thinks Spider-Man is his friend.

He crouches down to her level.

“I don't know, Girly Girl. I think Spider-Man is busy.”

She frowns and scuffs the toe of her light-up shoes against the floor, tugging on the bottom of her jacket.

“With what?” Her nose scrunches up.

He shrugs and pouts his lips. “With school?” He reaches out with a finger and boops her nose. She doesn't giggle but she does give him a tentative smile.

He stands. “I'll see you later, alright?”

She nods her head, still looking down at the floor.

Stepping back out into the hallway, Tonya is behind him, she thrusts a tupperware of red velvet cake at him. “Homemade,” she says as she pushes it into his hands.

“No, I… I really can't.” His stomach embarrassingly chooses that exact moment to growl.

She tsks and grabs his hand, wrapping his hand around the tupperware and letting go. “I'll be damned if I let you go hungry, Peter. You take that and I won't take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Peter sighs, deciding not to put up a fight, and smiles, looking at the generous slice of cake in his hands.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Tonya merely smiles and asks him, “Where are you headed off to?”

“Gotham,” he says shortly with an anxious smile.

“Oh!” her eyes widen in surprise, and she chuckles. Peter laughs along with her, a bit stilted.

“Good luck with those Gothamites and stay safe out there.”

“Yeah… thank you, Tonya.”

He smiles at her closed-lipped and then retrieves his duffel bag, placing the cake on top of his clothes, and his orchid. She's waving at him goodbye, and for some reason, he thinks she looks a little sad. He takes the stairs two at a time and he pushes the apartment complex doors open. The cold embraces him, already chilling him to the bone. He can barely see in front of him, the way the snow is coming down. He checks his wristwatch, and he finds he's just in time for the taxi.

5:59 AM.

He sighs, hoisting the duffel bag up higher on his shoulder, and clutches the flowerpot closer to himself, hoping to shield it from the chill.

It's okay. Everything is going to be fine.

(The memories prowl at the back of his mind and the stench of smoke still lingers in his nose.)

He breathes in deep and exhales slowly, letting go.

Let's do this, Gotham.

Chapter Text

The taxicab is now approaching the estate, crossing its open gates. It's been dreary and gray all morning in Gotham. From what he's heard though, that's normal. His parents’ lawyer had told him that the household staff that his parents had employed would be there, waiting for him.

Peter's orchid sits on his lap as he watches the gate get smaller and smaller through the rearview mirror as they drive further into the estate. A weird sense of urgency and dread starts to close in on him, his eyebrows furrowing. They drive around a horseshoe driveway. A giant opaque fountain sits in the middle of the driveway, surrounded by neat hedges. So far, it looks much different from what he'd imagined. Instead, it looks just like how all rich people keep their gardens and homes in the People's magazines—with borderline psychopathic tendencies. Everything was neat and squared off. Not a single leaf out of place.

The rest of the mansion is just as daunting. It sprawls from end to end and vaguely resembles the shape of a Greek pantheon in a more cream color. He bites his lip, chewing absent-mindedly on it.

A tall man wearing a black suit, who couldn't be older than forty-five, with a head full of tawny hair that's waxed back to a swoop, awaits under the porte cochere. He's definitely the head butler. The taxi comes to a stop and the cab driver looks at him in the rear-view mirror. The driver hadn't said anything the whole drive, not even to question him for wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day, but now he speaks up.

“Damn, kid. You've got rich friends?”

Peter doesn't say anything as he hugs the flowerpot closer. He doesn't want to leave the taxicab. His stomach hasn't stopped churning since the moment they crossed Gotham's city limits. This city sets his teeth on the edge and makes his skin crawl. He feels like he's been thrown off balance and can't seem to think straight. After a few moments spent gathering his wits, he sighs and pulls out his wallet, handing the man cash.

Climbing out, he pulls his duffel bag after him, with his flowerpot tucked under his arm and slams the car door closed behind him. Immediately, the taxi driver peels off in a putter of smoke, leaving him standing in its fumes.

The butler approaches him and bows at a full ninety degree. Peter swallows. This is about fifty shades of fucked up right now. Never in a million years would he have ever dreamed of or wanted someone to wait on him, hands, and knees. Also, he can't stop staring at the giant crystal chandelier that hangs above them in the porte cochere. He can't help but morbidly think about it dropping on them.

He seems to take in Peter's demeanor and says with a wide smile on his handsome face, “Welcome Mr. Parker. My name is Christopher Marshall, and I am the majordomo of the Vanderbilt estate. May I take your luggage?”

Huh. Not Parker estate, but Vanderbilt. And the man doesn't have an English accent like he thought he would. In fact, it's got a southern twang to it.

“Oh, no, I—nah I'm good.”

He knows he sounds about as nervous as he feels, and his paranoia is not helping.

The butler walks over to the giant mahogany doors and pulls one open as it creaks ominously. He stretches an arm out as he holds the door, that friendly smile still stuck to his face.

“After you, sir.”

Peter can't look him in the eye as he nods once, stepping through the doorway as he skittishly drags his eyes around the foyer as they walk in. The door closes behind them with a heavy thud. He's sure his face reads as all kinds of wide-eyed and gullible, as he looks around. The rest of the house is the same cream color on the inside as on the outside. Though the lights are surprisingly dim. He wonders if his parents died happy in this mansion, living this life.

He shivers. He's still defrosting but at least it's nice and warm in here. He pauses, a thought slowly forming in his sleep-deprived mind.

Wait.

He'd thought the place would be falling apart with a hole in the roof somewhere or overgrown vines starting to take over the walls. Possibly three generations of racoons having made a home out of the kitchen or dime bags strewn all over cracked marble floors. Instead, it's clean. More than clean, actually. It's pristine, glistening, and radiating even. It'd probably be more sanitary to kneel and lick the floor than eat the lasagna from the Italian restaurant he works at.

The butler appears behind him, Peter tries not to jump.

“May I take your coat, sir?”

“Yeah, thanks man,” he nods his head rapidly.

The butler takes his Macy's jacket and hangs it on a giant wooden coat rack.

“What's your name?” He blurts out after staring at him like an idiot, and then awkwardly adds, “Sir?”

He's frozen stiff, nose dripping, a cheap orchid plant tucked under his arm and ratty Converse tracking mud onto the shiny floors. Geez, the poor dude must think he's gonna have to deal with a brute now.

He doesn't so much as blink at Peter's cringeworthy outburst. “Christopher Marshall,” he says warmly.

“Nice to meet you, Chris.”

“Likewise, Mr. Parker.”

“Uhm—where's the rest of the people?” He looks around himself.

“The staff are attending the rest of the house, Mr. Parker,” he answers calmly and, again, with that smile. Honestly, it seems like nothing short of the world ending could knock Chris's smile. Kind of an odd goofball to have such a sunny disposition in gloomy Gotham and he hasn't even questioned him about the shades he's wearing inside like an asshole.

There's a huge, bifurcated staircase with ornate wooden railings leading to a landing on the second floor through a set of double doors. Beneath the stairs there's another set of double doors that appears to open into a living room. The rest of the foyer is just a wide-open space with paintings hung up on the wall of random people and two doorways leading off into either wing of the manor.

He's standing there in the middle of the foyer like a nimwit, when an elderly woman in a maid's uniform appears from the right doorway.

His stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly in the pin drop quiet room. He feels his cheeks flush hotly.

“Mr. Parker, would you like some breakfast while Mrs. Winifred drops off your luggage?” Chris's words feel like they've been dipped in southern hospitality.

Peter swallows, his jaw filling with the sharp tang of acidic mouth-watering hunger.

“That sounds awesome,” he croaks.

He'd been told that he's been seated in one of the dining rooms of the east wing of the manor. Which makes something die in him a little.

He's sitting there, in a giant plush wooden chair at the longest dining table he's ever seen in his life, waiting for them to serve him food and he can’t lie, he is really fucking starving. His plate has been set and there's six different utensils laid out, plus two smaller plates. He feels like a caveman just looking at all the choices. He sighs as his stomach growls again. His vision swims as he stares at the wood grain of the table, leaning against the edge. His eyelids are growing heavy as he stares at the gaudy white table runner.

He doesn't know for how long he spaces out when Chris comes back through the kitchen butler doors, carrying a large silver tray that he uncovers. He starts plucking several platters off of it onto the table. Chris ducks back through the doors and then comes out with another tray. And then another. And another. At this point, Peter is starting to grow really alarmed at the amount of food they're bringing out for just one person, even though he's certain he could eat all this and still have room for dessert. But they don't know that.

“What would you like to drink, Mr. Parker?” His voice creeps through the fog in his mind as Peter snaps out of his trance.

“Water,” he rasps, rapidly turning his head to look into Chris's kind eyes. “Please,” he adds belatedly.

“Of course, sir.”

He disappears back through swinging doors into the kitchen.

Peter turns his attention to the steaming food piled on the platters. He sees stacks of pancakes, strips of bacon, sausage patties, hash browns and eggs cooked in every possible way. Waffles, muffins, loaves, cookies and then a variation of fruits in a colorful array. The smells are overwhelming, in the best way possible, and his stomach groans at him loudly in protest as he stares at the food. He's never seen so much food in his life. He can't wait to stuff his face.

Chris comes back and tops up his glass with cool water and notices that he's staring at the food like a hungry dog.

“Please, help yourself to any dish, sir,” Chris says to him kindly.

Peter reaches for what's closest to him and starts to pile his plate sky high with food. No matter how tired he is right now, hunger is winning out. He can sleep once he's calmed his appetite. He's between bites of bacon when a thought occurs to him.

He looks up at Chris, his face stuffed with half mashed bacon and blueberry pancakes as he asks, “Uhm—” he swallows hard, “Would you like to join me to eat?”

Chris doesn't seem surprised or, perhaps, agitated for not thinking of him earlier. He just smiles at Peter with his pearly whites.

“Thank you, Mr. Parker but I already ate. Please enjoy breakfast, sir. The staff worked hard to prepare you a fulfilling meal. As my Ma always says, it's the most important meal of the day.”

Peter's smiles as he sets down his fork with a noisy clunk against the plate.

“Can I ask you something? Personal?”

Chris seems amused at his question. “Of course, sir.”

“How old are you?” Peter squints at him, cocking his head.

Chris grins as he says, “I'm 35, sir.”

“Wow,” Peter is a little dazed at that revelation, if he's being honest with himself. “I thought butlers were supposed to be, you know, like, older?” Peter quickly backtracks, “No offense!”

“None taken. It's unusual to see younger butlers take head roles. I am quite young to be a majordomo but then again I am the twenty-third head butler to be employed here at the Vanderbilt estate.”

Chris is completely respectful, but Peter still can't help but bristle on his behalf. Those poor butlers probably couldn't stand his own parents and had to quit after having to deal with their egotistical behavior. He can't imagine having to prepare a feast like this one for people like his parents every day, several times a day.

The thought sobers him as he stares down at the chocolate muffin he has in hand. He looks up slowly. He hadn't even noticed, but he ate most of the food in his hungry trance. That's alarming. Is he really that tired that he forgot to eat like a normal person? He just hopes that Chris assumes he ate this much because he's a poor starved bastard who's never touched this much food in his life. Which is true, but still.

The more he thinks about it, the more his stomach churns and suddenly the chocolate muffin isn't so appealing anymore. He sets it down on the plate slowly. He feels… guilty. Gluttonous, really. He's here in this giant mansion, people waiting on him, hand and foot, while people like Tonya are struggling to make ends meet and still have the kindness to reach out to him and give him a slice of their own food, however meager.

“Are you finished, or would you like some more, Mr. Parker?”

Peter stares at his dirty plate. “What do you guys do with the leftover food?” He asks quietly, swallowing heavily.

“Usually the staff takes the leftovers, or we save them for later to be reheated. If an abundance of food was made, we take it to the local shelters.”

Peter can't help but feel relieved at that but no less guilty.

“May I retire your plate?” Chris reaches the dirty plates.

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” Peter nods and leans back against the chair, wiping his sweaty palms against his thighs.

Chris picks up the plate and he catches his eye.

“May I suggest a light nap, sir? They do well for digestion.” Chris's tone is light and teasing.

Peter must really look like hot shit for this guy to pick up on how tired he is, even with his sunglasses on. Besides, he is feeling pretty sleepy right now from all that food. He nods his head and staggers up from the chair.

Later, he'll have half a mind to think of how May would have torn him a new one for not offering to help clean up but for now, he throws his shades on the nightstand and kicks off his shoes. He passes out on the king-sized bed.

Something wakes him up.

He knows it's dark when he opens his eyes because suddenly it doesn't hurt to look around the room without his sunglasses. He'd slept through the day. Past the noisy onslaught of his heavy breathing and his pounding heart, he can hear the sounds of wildlife in the forest miles out from the manor. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance.

That's not what woke him up.

Slowly, he sits up and looks around the room carefully. There's no one else in the room except for him. His senses are overshot with adrenaline, but he can still hear the sounds of someone moving around the manor quietly.

But that's not what woke him up.

The hair on his arm and the back of his neck starts to stand. He can't see or hear what it is, but he's sure something is out there. He feels cold and hot all at once—feverish—as a ghastly sense of danger slithers over his mind. He gets out of bed and slips on his battered Converse. Carefully he opens the door a crack and he pokes his head outside the door, listening for any sounds. The west wing echoes as he steps into the hallway; he's the only human being on this side of the manor.

That's not right.

His senses gnaw at him and urge him to put one foot in front of the other. He makes his way down the halls, his eyes wide, as he cranes his neck, inspecting every shadow. His fists are clenched into sweaty bunches. Once he's down in the foyer, he follows the tingling sensation as it whispers at him to leave the manor. He looks behind himself, at the dark quiet of the manor, his hand on the entrance doorknob. The danger should be here.

But it's not.

It's out there, his mind whispers to him. He can't stop as he walks out the door and down the driveway. He doesn't recall when, but at some point, it started to rain as he walked down the side of the highway. He knows that somewhere, in the back of his mind, he should turn around and go back to bed, but he can’t, and he doesn't want to. He hasn't felt like this since… since the fire and the man, and—

A loud honk sucks him back into reality with a sharp gasp as he turns towards the car, hissing at its bright high beams. The car honks at him again and Peter runs off the road to the other side onto the sidewalk.

The first thing he notices is that he's soaked wet to the bone. Secondly, the scent of rotting wet garbage fills his nose, and he has to hold back the urge to just empty his guts onto the sidewalk right then and there. New York doesn't smell pretty either but, the stench that permeates Gotham air is something different.

Where is he anyways?

He spins around in a circle in the middle of the sidewalk, and he knows he must look fucking insane. He's covered in cold sweat and his heart hasn't stopped pounding. The cacophony of noise from the city is making his headache too. Someone is making their way down the sidewalk towards him. They look up at him warily, their eyes bloodshot, and give him a wide breadth. Another person runs by, knocking into his shoulder roughly. Across the street, he can see a swarm of people getting ready to cross the street and he moves before they can trample him.

He makes his way down the sidewalk, following the holiday crowd and keeping his head down. He splashes his shoes in funny looking puddles full of black shit. He thinks he spots a dead rat the size of a Chihuahua munching on a slice of moldy rotten pizza behind a dumped flat tire in an alleyway. He keeps hustling down the sidewalk, not knowing where he's going but just trying to keep moving, until he hears a soft beeping coming from the inside of a back alley.

Sound suddenly warbles from something vaguely muted into something sharper, like he’s coming out of the water, and he decides to move in the direction of the beeping. It grows louder the further he makes his way down the alley. His head buzzes like a swarm of angry bees until he’s standing directly in front of the source of the noise. A giant stinky dumpster. Fucking great. His spider sense seriously led him to a fucking dumpster of all places. What was all that “harnessing and training his spider sense bullshit” for a year with Shang-Chi for then? To get caught up in a moment of paranoia and walk around for who knows how long in the pouring rain like a buffoon?

The incessant ticking grates his nerves and in a moment of anger he kicks the dumpster, hard enough to leave a clear indentation of his foot in the metal. Something rattles inside. Curiously, he lifts the lid of the dumpster and sticks his head inside. He finds an amateurly made bomb. It's made with a small, green-themed clown clock, stuck to the inside of the dumpster with duct tape.

Holy shit.

He reaches inside and tears the bomb off from the side of the dumpster, staring at it as it starts to dawn on him. Maybe all that training wasn't for nothing. He squints at it, his eyebrows drawing together. Doesn't this belong to the… Jokester? Chokester? Jester? Chester? Gotham's number one villain or something? He scratches his head.

Right, anyways.

Isn't this Batman’s city too or something? Shouldn't that fucking guy have found these by now or does he want his city to blow sky high? He knows that leather clad freak has a weirdly possessive streak for not letting other heroes, vigilantes or even enhanced people in Gotham. Not even his own buddies in the Justice League. Honestly, the guy is more of a scary bedtime story for criminals than anything. But admittedly, he can mildly respect the guy's work ethic. Until recently, they hadn't even caught a clear photo of the Bat. It always looked like they'd taken photos of the supposed ‘Bat’ with a toaster. Not that Peter is keeping up with him or anything.

He's no demolitions expert but he's dealt with enough of his own flavor of villains to learn how to do this. He also knows from experience; this might not be the only one. Bomb safely defused, he looks around the alley, hoping to see a discarded bag or another piece of clothing to turn into a satchel so he can place the bomb in. Seeing nothing, he stuffs it into the pocket of his hoodie and hopes for the best.

Looks like he's in for a long night of no sleep. Typical. He sighs. Welp might as well finish what he's started. And if Batman won't do it, then he'll just have to do it himself.

His spidey sense has led him to the last bomb. He's collected about five other bombs all across the city already, having to run around in a dead sprint for the past god-knows-how-long. Evidently, it's at Wayne Tower.

On top of the goddamn roof. Just his luck.

He's been standing at the foot of the Tower, eyeing it, and he thinks Stark might've actually just been one upped by an even bigger numskull. The Empire State building isn't even this greedy. He's almost tempted to leave the bomb there, keyword, almost but it's not the employees fault their employer is a dumbass. He knows Brucie Wayne is an even bigger bozo than Stark and a fucking idiot to boot. Not to toot Stark's horn or make him look good in any way, but at least he’s smart. This guy is also a klutz to add to the list of unfortunate things about him. Peter thinks Brucie does it on purpose though. The number of times he shows up on TV with a broken arm is suspicious. It would explain his poor work ethic. Injuries equals excuses to not work. Peter scoffs and rolls his eyes. Really, the only thing that schmuck has going for him is his face. It's infuriating.

He’s in the gossip rags more times than Jesus is in the Bible. What's up with that? Brucie Wayne has more men and women hanging off his arms than he has clothes hanging in his closet. And he's got to rub elbows with this guy at the dude’s own gala, for Pete’s sake! Peter can only be glad that at least that freaking prick isn't a superhero as well as a billionaire like Stark. One superhero billionaire is one too many.

Anyways. He turns back to the task, shaking himself out of his righteous internal rant.

Business people in sharp suits with black umbrellas, brush past him, milling in and out the revolving doors. They don't seem to care that a sopping wet rat of a guy is standing in front of the doors, glaring at the wall. Peter makes his way around the building, keeping his eyes peeled for the cameras as he creeps close to the walls, staying out of view. There are a few security guards patrolling around the perimeter in raincoats, but most of them look a bit out of it from the cold.

Peter shares their sentiment. At this point, he himself is not sure how his heart is still working from how cold he is. He can't feel any part of his body. Finally, he manages to find a way around one of the cameras, as it's angled in a certain manner which would usually be impossible to get around, unless one could hypothetically stick themselves flat against the wall and climb up behind it. Like Peter, for instance. Lucky him. The only problem is the bulk of the defused clown bombs in the front pocket of his hoodie aren’t gonna allow him to plaster himself flat up against the wall like he needs to.

Unless…

He sticks his arms out of his hoodie and turns it around, so the hood of his hoodie is in front of his face. There, problem solved. Thanks to science, and not thanks to that radioactive spider, he actually didn't end up with hairy spider arms but instead, he has the power of physics. If he had a sales pitch for being bitten by radioactive spiders it'd probably sound something like: ‘With the force of Van Der Waals, you too can stick to walls!’

He slaps his palms against the wet building and then inches on up until he can awkwardly plant his feet too. Fortunately for him, he thinks, panting softly as he crawls up the side of the building like a freakshow on all fours, he hasn't spotted Batman. If he even exists. He's sure if the guy does exist, he would love to get his rocks off by scaring the shit out of Peter.

His spine shudders. Crap.

Someone is following him. He spoke too soon.

He's almost to the lip of the roof up, the ticking of the bomb a raucous sound in his ears, when he sees a quite frankly huge dark figure swoop out of the corner of his eye. He's able to catch the tail end of a black cape. Fuck. Quickly, he jerks his neck into the collar of his soaking wet hoodie. Whoever is out there absolutely cannot see his face. A sudden uptick in his spider senses has him crawling up the building like his ass is on fire. Reaching the top of the roof, he vaults over the lip and lands lightly into a crouch. His thrumming heart feels like it's ready to fly its way out of his chest as he casts his eyes around for the bomb.

There.

It's taped at the top of one of the spires. How the fuck that clown in his synthetic Party City green wig and cheap Halloween makeup got it up there, he has no idea. The dark shadow swoops in even closer this time. He really fucking hopes that's not who he thinks it is but there's little hope for that.

“Come on…” he mutters in frustration.

He’d left the Spider-Man mantle with no qualms (lies) but now he wishes more than ever that he had the mask at least. Hell, the web shooters would be really handy right now. But all he's got is his wit, his strength, his sticky hands and his spidey sense, which will have to do for now.

He breaks out into a dead sprint across the wet rooftop, splashing his pants and his shoes as he leaps for the spire. He manages to hold onto it with just the tip of his fingers, as the rest of his body swings outwards in a wild arc. He tries not to scream. Any other time, this wouldn't be a real cause for alarm, but he has nothing to catch himself with if he falls. He finally manages to grasp the spire more firmly and push himself up closer to the loud insistent bomb. He rips off the bomb and defuses it the second he gets fingers on it, stuffing it into his back pocket.

He backflips off the spire onto the rooftop and simultaneously spots a broken shard of glass laying amongst the trash. What catches his eye in the reflection of the glass has him turning his face away in the blink of an eye and throwing up his hood to cover his face. The shadow of that figure stands seamlessly with the dark, his cape flattened around him as he rises from the ground like a creature of the night. The whites of his eyes are the only thing that could be seen in the neon lights of a nearby billboard.

Everything slows down at that moment.

He closes his eyes, breathing out slowly, just like he'd been taught as he centers himself and lets everything else fall away. His ears pick up the sound of every raindrop as they fall on his face and slide off the bridge of his nose, joining the sleuth of rising oily water.

Drip, drip—count to three Peter—drip.

One. He hears the creak of leather and the shuddering density of his cape as it moves around him like a second skin.

Two. His back is turned to the creature of the night, the protector of this city and there is no mistaking that he will tear him apart to protect Gotham. Can a Spider outrun a Bat?

Drip, drip—he clenches his fists, come on Peter—drip.

Three. He breathes in, honing his senses as he lets the tension melt away from his muscles. With his face covered by his hoodie, he's left in the dark, but the image of the Dark Knight is burned into his retinas. He can hear the quiet shallow breaths of the man, imperceptible to normal human ears but his, and the lethargic pace of his heart as it beats in tandem with the rain.

Drip, drip—

An explosion of brutality warps the tension that stands between them and in the few precious seconds Peter has to jump away, he narrowly dodges a bat shaped shuriken as it imbeds itself right where his head was. With nothing but his meta-cognition to guide him, he prays for the hood to not fall off his face, as he kicks off an air-conditioning machine and soars over Batman’s head. It stays in place as he drops low to avoid a swift heavy jab that whistles in the air and twists around to avoid a fast kick. A flurry of punches disturbs the air but Peter dodges each and every one of them with practiced ease. Peter ducks and slides between his legs, onto his forearms and side, and comes up hopping into a crouch.

Suddenly, he feels something sticking to the back side of his hoodie, beeping rapidly and getting higher in pitch as he makes the split-second decision to rip it off his hoodie, leaving a hole, and throws it far into the sky. It explodes with electricity that makes the hairs stand up on the back of neck and Batman doesn't give him even one second of respite, as he's immediately having to go back to twisting and flipping away lightly from Batman’s attacks. They get into close proximity once again but Peter doesn't have time for this, so he throws a fast feint, first time on the offensive, and uses that minute distraction to grope around the floor for that shard of broken glass lying around and throws it like a shuriken in the general direction of Batman's mask.

This gives him the second he needs to get away and he's off like a slingshot. He throws himself off the Tower, blind and sailing through the air, as his senses scream at him to get the fuck out of there, when a few seconds later he hears a grappling line whisk through the air over his head. He lands heavily on the catwalk of a billboard with both feet in a low crouch and instantly he leaps upward to run and jump off onto the next rooftop. He’s having to blindly trust his instincts, which are eating away at his nerves and making his senses go haywire.

Another bat-shaped shuriken flies at him and he swings his body just in time to the left as it easily misses. He makes the mistake of suddenly thinking he could dodge all his attacks, when something starts to shriek through the air at a decibel that makes his eardrums thrum. He gasps and stumbles. A sonic weapon. His brain feels like it's oozing out his ears as he grabs the fabric covering his face and rips it away. The world comes back to him in a kaleidoscope of colors that makes his eyes burn like acid has been thrown in them and he ducks his head, shielding his eyes from Gotham's city lights. He has no time to debilitate as he's breaking off into a dead sprint again.

Batman is not far behind him and Peter spots a rooftop door and with one solid kick the metal door slams against the drywall inside of the stairwell. He skips taking the spiraling stairs and jumps over the railing, free falling down the middle, and before he can spill his brains onto the floor, he grasps onto the railing, catching himself with practiced ease. He lets go and hits the last few feet to the ground on light feet. He rips off one of the sleeves of his hoodie and wraps it around the lower half of his face, conscious of the fact that there might be cameras around. He finds himself doing parkour through an empty abandoned office floor. He can hear Batman hit the ground heavier than he did behind him, as he barrels after Peter like a bull in a china shop.

Peter sees a giant floor-to-ceiling cabinet with its drawers full of messy files, so he topples it over with a quick jab of his elbow and everything goes flying down. He vaults over the mess and he's sure he's at least bought himself a few more seconds, even though the man is eerily quiet. No groans of frustration, no panicking and no shouting; like a predator that stalks its prey. Suddenly, it dawns on him mid-stride, as he's running away from the infamous Bat, why rumors of him are whispered like they're afraid he'll appear in front of them with the ire of hell spawn.

He breaks through to the other side of the office floor and bounces off the opposite wall as he takes the corner at full speed into a hallway. Distantly, he notices an air vent up on the ceiling but he needs time to get up that air vent without the Bat noticing. To the left of him, across from the hallway is a big water cooler.

Peter seizes the chance to finally shake him off and dives for the water cooler. With a powerful spinning high kick, the metal cooler crumples like paper under the force of his foot, as he sends it rocketing through the air straight for Batman's face at speeds that would be nigh unavoidable. He knows that this won't stop him, perhaps nothing will—which he can grudgingly admit he really respects Batman for—but he'll be damned if Spider-Man can't outrun one guy in a Bat costume. Batman manages to move out of the way, so it doesn't crush his face, but it does manage to clip him in the torso and shoulder, sending him crashing backwards.

By the time Batman has recovered Peter is already within the air ducts. He had jumped up and with one hand stuck to the ceiling, and with the other, he'd wrenched open the grate of the vent cover using his fingertips and swung himself in, legs first. So, now he's crawling backwards through the metal tunnels but at least he can watch the opening just in case Batman decides to throw another one of his Inspector Gadget contraptions up here. He slowly and carefully scoots his way down the ducts, his ears picking on the sounds of mice scurrying through the walls and Batman's lithe prowling.

He finally tears away the makeshift mask from his face, breathing in deep the stench of musty, dusty, moldy air. He's squeezed in here like a pickled sardine in a tuna can. He can barely wiggle his shoulders down enough to move. At least he can see well. It would be pitch black in the air ducts, if it weren't for his eyesight. He’s been moving at a downward trajectory for a while now, and he can only hope that a god somewhere has granted him a little bit of luck, and he's getting closer to the ground floor than further away from it.

He's close enough to the outside now, he can smell the familiar stench of rotting wet garbage and pollution. He pauses halfway through scooting his ass backwards through the air ducts, trying his best not to sneeze at the amount of dust he's kicking up when he notices he's been smearing blood all over the air ducts. He turns over his arms frantically, squinting at his hands until he finds its source. The blood has been smeared from his fingertips.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mutters softly under his breath as he inspects his fingers. The cuts have already healed up; no scars, only dried blood. It must've happened when he was opening the grated vent cover.

All those pain staking measures he took so Batman wouldn't grab even a tweezer of his hair, see his face through any security cameras, or get a swab of his DNA to identify him just went down the drain. He sighs, feeling chagrined at himself, as he hangs his head between his shoulders for a moment before picking back up the pace again.

Oh well.

There's nothing he can do about it now but claim plausible deniability if Batman comes to hunt him down in his shitty New York apartment.

His soled feet hit another grate and finally, he can smell and hear Gotham on the other side of it. He kicks it open with a foot and wiggles his way out the ducts until only his arms and head are still in the tunnel. He turns to look over his shoulder and finds he's a good distance off the ground. Scooting closer to the edge till almost his whole body is dangling off, he drops down, dive bombing for a moment, before he tucks and rolls. He straightens up and breaks off into a run, slowing down as he nears the collection of people.

And then he slips through, melding into the night crowd and the chilling rain.

Peter is standing across the road from the Gotham City Police Department shivering and drenched like a wet flea-bitten cat in the filthy rain.

Dawn has yet to break through the skyline, but he's pretty sure it's about two in the morning. It's hard to tell with all the city lights but if his internal clock isn't wrong, he's been at it—squirreling and scaling down walls, diving through dumpsters, crawling through manholes in nasty sewer water and re-enacting a high-speed action movie chase scene with Batman—for some five hours. If he had the suit, he could've gotten it done within two but those are past grievances. That and the missing arm sleeve is the real kicker.

He'd dropped off the bundle of clown bombs at their front step (like he used to do as Spider-Man) and watched them scramble around like pigs in a pen at feeding time. They immediately deployed search parties and had cops scouring every inch around them and then some. Of course they hadn't found Peter. He'd made sure they didn't as he watched from the sidelines. He'd even left a cute little note he’d stuck onto one of the bombs, written with his non-dominant hand so they wouldn't use his penmanship to track him. “I found these Jokester bombs laying around. Thought I'd help out Batman—Yours, Truly.”

More than not, he thinks, as he watches a cop stop to spit chewing cud on the ground, he's stupefied. He swears on his dead parents’ grave that he picked up all the bombs lying around the city. And yet, somehow, his spine still crawls, and he can feel the way cold sweat continues to gather in uncomfortable places. Now that the rush of adrenaline has left his veins, he's shivering like an anxious dog and chattering like a monkey. He rubs his arms up and down to try and futility generate some warmth.

Having had enough of loitering around, Peter is about to turn around to leave when the star of the show finally shows up.

Batman is striding over to where the cops are still gathered around the clown bombs, purpose in every step.

It's amusing to watch as they all take a wide breadth from the towering figure of the Dark Knight. Peter bets all his pocket change (one nickel) that Batman has definitely made some perps wet their pants. Only one man approaches him. A guy with tragically ginger hair and a handlebar mustache, wearing a trench coat, greets Batman with familiarity. He must be the head honcho of this cop clown shop or Ed Sheeran's cousin. Or both. Slowly, Peter crouches down, peering around the corner of the building he's hiding behind. He extends his hearing to listen in on their conversation.

“Time,” Batman says gruffly to his friend.

Holy bat-voice, Batman. Does this guy eat nails for breakfast? It almost sounds like it hurts. It makes Peter's spine crawl.

“2:26 AM. Perp avoided the cameras. No traces either,” Handlebar mustache cop informs him.

Ok, fucking rude. He is not a perp.

Batman grunts as they both stare down at the bombs. “Have you searched the perimeter?” Comes Batman's rough voice.

“We did. Nothing,” the cop says with a deep sigh and places his hands on his hips.

“Hmm,” Batman intones again as he turns around and looks straight at where Peter is hiding.

He ducks behind the corner, flattening himself against the wall as his heart races at a pace that would give any normal person a heart attack. Oh fudge. After a moment, he peeks his head back around the corner to watch, unable to withstand the curiosity. Handlebar mustache cop turns around, presumably to say something to one of the beat cops standing there. Peter watches as Batman shoots a grappling line and disappears out of sight.

Ed Sheeran's cousin turns back around, “Now that you're here—” he cuts himself off as he sees that Batman is gone and sighs, resigned, like it happens often.

Peter snickers to himself and takes that as his cue to leave.

By the time he crawls back to his bedroom in the Vanderbilt Estate, he's beyond tired and wet. Most of the adrenaline has left him wilted and exhausted but that tiny part of his mind stays, and it stays screaming at him. He feels like a sodden cat left out in the rain. The small beginnings of a migraine have started to creep into the backs of his eyes. Boy does his shit snowball just keep getting bigger. He sighs and rubs his eyes furiously as his stomach grumbles in hunger.

Peter quietly groans as he collapses onto the floor in a wet heap. His senses are still tingling, anxiety and paranoia eating at him alive. Something still isn't right. Something is still out there. Which makes no fucking sense since he just went out and dealt with it. Even if he didn't manage to clean up all the bombs, he's sure Batman can deal with the rest. Maybe his head is fucked up?

He wrenches his hands through his hair and decides he needs to take a hot shower. Rolling over onto his side, he winces as his head pounds painfully and grabs a clean set of clothes, finding a set of fluffy towels in the ridiculously large bathroom. He fiddles around with the water temperature for a moment before stepping into the shower. He could probably fit twenty people in here comfortably, he thinks as he looks around with tired eyes.

As Peter is lathering his hair, the hot water pelting down on his chilled skim, the back of his neck suddenly burns with the sting of a thousand lashes. He hisses and ducks his head, clenching his fists and leaning heavily on the tiled shower walls. He brings a hand up to pinch the back of his neck, all the hair on his body standing up, as he breathes out shakily. His senses are overwhelmed as they pick up on every single noise within the manor. He clenches his teeth and rides it out, squeezing his eyes shut.

It couldn't have been more than a couple seconds before the pressure releases and he inhales the steamy air greedily, gasping as he fumbles to turn off the shower head. Finally, it's quiet. He stumbles out of the shower and grabs the fluff towel. He quickly and roughly dries himself off with trembling hands. His spider sense has never been that intense, not even when May die—he cuts off that train of thought violently.

His head feels like it's filled with cotton as he tries to think up of a reason as to why his spider sense went off so dramatically. He stands in the middle of the bedroom, and closes his eyes, listening to the sounds of the manor.

Nothing. No unusual sounds.

Just nothing.

And it's probably nothing but leftover anxiety from what happened earlier making him jumpy, he chides himself. Besides, it's been a while since he'd been in the midst of action. He's probably just out of practice. He goes through the motions of getting dressed for bed and he stumbles into bed, falling face first.

Half-way through dreamland, he idly thinks—he’ll wake up before breakfast.

He does not wake up before breakfast.

By the time he comes to, it's well past midday and the sun is low but bright in the sky as he hisses like Dracula when his retinas touch the daylight. The first thing that he takes into account is that his head feels like it's ballooning again. The pain is borderline intolerable as last night's wimpy migraine has roared into a full-blown one. He plucks his shades off the nightstand and shoves them on. Immediately, relief is imminent for his eyes. Now, he just needs the pills for the rest of his fucked-up head. He doesn't know what he'd do without his beloved pills. Slowly, he sits up as all the blood rushes to his head and his vision goes hot white and then black dots start to do the tango around his eyeballs.

He groans loudly, “Motherfucker.”

As he's rubbing at his face, when he spots a note sitting innocently on the nightstand. He picks it up, squinting at the neat scrawl. “Mr. Parker, you seemed exhausted, so I let you rest. When you are ready to come down, we will have breakfast, lunch or dinner prepared for you—Yours Truly, Chris.”

“Shit.”

It's well beyond breakfast time and his stomach agrees as it growls loudly. He needs to eat before he takes his oxycodone pills. Leisurely, he searches through his duffel bag, pulling out his tuxedo for later tonight and the rest of his clothes.

Panic starts to fill his chest as he turns over his duffel bag and shakes it out. Holy shit, he can't find his pills.

Please, please, please! He couldn't have fucking left them back at the apartment—an image of the unlabeled bottle of pills sitting on his drawer pops into the back of his mind—fuck! He'd left them back at his apartment. Peter groans loudly and rips his hands through his hair, tugging on the strands as his migraine continues to knock at his skull, as if still reminding him what a pain in the ass it is and will continue to be.

He has no fucking clue how he's going to get through the gala now and if he asks for opioids, they're going to think he's an addict or some bull. Gosh dang it! He is such a ditsy idiot. He raps his knuckles up against the side of his temple. All he can do is cross his fingers, take as much acetaminophen as he can, and hope for the best.

After a very late lunch-slash-early dinner, Chris had beat him to a hasty retreat when he'd tried to help with cleaning up, so Peter had come crawling back to his bedroom with his tail tucked between his legs to get ready for tonight. The food had helped a tiny bit, along with the weak pain killers, for his migraine, but by now he had accepted defeat and was ready to settle in for a long night at the gala.

He kicks at the piled evidence of last night's adventure of dirty discarded clothes. The red hoodie sticks out from under his dirty jeans like a sore thumb. He sighs and picks it up with pinched fingers, inspecting it with disgust. There's a giant hole on the back where he ripped off that weird Bat-electrocuting device from their rooftop fight and a missing sleeve. Shit. He frowns. He'd forgotten about that last night. Now there's a piece of his clothing fluttering around somewhere in Gotham's rat-infested streets. If Batman's weirdly obsessive ass finds that, he might be screwed.

He drops it back down on the dirty pile. He definitely needs to burn these clothes later. The thought makes him mourn. Batman needs to send him a check for a replacement hoodie. He doesn't care if he's got generational wealth now, he's still frugal.

Peter strips out of last night's sleepwear and hops into the shower, finally able to take the time to enjoy the amazing luxury of instant boiling water and the equally terrific water pressure. He hops out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, and he does a little victory shimmy in the floor to ceiling mirror, feeling good for no good reason.

He coifs his hair with wax into a slicked back swoop and wiggles his eyebrows in the mirror. What a handsome bastard he is. He goes back into the bedroom, swaying his hips and grooving to the invisible music as he strokes the fabric of the laid-out tuxedo. Right now, he could care less that he has a migraine that's ready to explode his head or that Batman might be onto his ass by now. All he cares about is making tonight a great night. By the end of the night, he's gonna have these fat cats eating out of the palm of his hand.

He sighs, brushing away a piece of stray lint on the shoulder pad of his suit.

Tonight, he must go by Peter Vanderbilt. Not Parker.

He straightens out the collar of his few-grand tuxedo and squints at the reflection in his mirror, feeling like he's missing something. He's pinning on his clip-on fifty-cent red neck tie he found at Salvation Army, when a knock at the door draws his attention. It's Chris and he's holding a mahogany box full of cufflinks.

Chris is already smiling when he opens the door. “You look quite dashing, Mr. Parker,” he appraises him with a look of approval. “And I wasn't quite sure if you had brought along cufflinks, so I dug up Master Richard's box out of his dressing room. They're yours now, of course.” He opens the box and Peter can feel himself start to blush, embarrassed that he hadn't thought to bring cufflinks. He'd thought of everything but the cufflinks.

There's at least twenty very expensive looking cufflinks lined up in the box and each one is probably worth more than his rent. He's debilitating and biting his lips nervously as his eyes flit over them, when Chris picks up a pair of red jeweled octagon cufflinks.

He holds them up to Peter's tie. “I believe these Tom Ford diamond cufflinks would look good with your necktie, sir.”

Peter agrees and Chris helps him fasten the cufflinks to his sleeve cuffs.

Peter admires the red diamonds for a moment before looking up at Chris and smiling tentatively, “Thanks, Chris.” Chris leaves him shortly after to wait on him down in the foyer.

Peter debates wearing his sunglasses to the gala. He could either go without them and risk looking high with the way his pupils are almost always dilated to pinpricks. Or he could wear them and still risk the questions and odd glances but spare himself a worse migraine that might leave him comatose from his too sensitive eyes.

He sighs.

Such hard decisions.

Eh. He'll wear them. Why not?

Rich people can do douchebag things and not get questioned for it. It's expected of him, really. If he wants to be part of the filthy rich, he's gotta behave like the filthy rich.

He straightens out his clip-on tie that says, ‘superheroes can kiss my ass’ and smiles.

Chris keeps looking at him through the rear-view mirror from the driver's seat. He looks slightly worried. Peter tries not to bristle. Wayne Manor is, luckily, the closest neighboring mansion on this side of easy street. It's eight pm sharp when they're pulling up to the entrance of Wayne Manor. His head throbs.

The car comes to a rolling stop and Chris turns to look at him. “As we agreed on, call me so I can pick you up. I hope you enjoy your evening, Mr. Parker.”

“Thanks Chris,” he flashes him a smile as he steps out of the car. As Peter makes his way up the front steps, a porter opens the door.

The Wayne manor has been decorated for the holiday, with garlands and Christmas lights hanging from chandeliers, railings and chimneys. The lights are warm, and the atmosphere is cozy and there's a live band playing Christmas music at a perfectly socially acceptable volume. He can smell the scents of a thousand different perfumes and colognes emanating from the crowd and the wafting smells of food and complimentary luxury alcohol.

He adjusts his glasses and grabs the lapels of the tuxedo self-consciously as he makes his way through the crowd. Some heads turn to look at him curiously, others see the words on his tie, leer at him, and whip their heads around like the sight of him might melt the plastic off their faces. Each time he turns his head, there seems to be a brighter and more pretentious dressed aristocrat or nepo-baby then the next person.

Oh shit.

He hears before he sees Stark’s loudmouth talking to some bedazzled blondie. He throws up his arm to cover his face, quickly looking anywhere but in Stark’s direction as he ducks behind a man wearing three-inch insoles but it's too late. Peter accidentally catches Stark's eye behind the man's shoulder.

Stark makes his way over, drawing the eyes of everybody around them, and claps a heavy hand on his shoulder, greeting him like they're old friends and starts to steer him around the room. “I've been meaning to tell you; those glasses don't exactly scream 'cool' to me. More like ‘the asshole who can't read the room.' Just saying." Stark says in lieu of greeting.

“I have an eye condition.”

“Hm, don't we all,” he intones dismissively. “Where's your pizza tray?” Stark reaches out to grab a hors d'oeuvres from a passing tray. The poor waiter looks startled.

“What?” Peter has to loudly exclaim over the noise of the crowd.

He eats the hors d'oeuvres whole and dusts his fingers off. “Didn't know Wayne was hiring out Joe Bastianich's busboys now.”

“What the fuck—No, you fucking prick. I'm not,” Peter stops himself from making a scene, taking deep breaths as he instead hisses out, “I'm here on my parent's behalf.”

“Oh?” Stark isn't even paying attention to him as he says that. He's looking over his shoulder at someone. “And whose behalf would that be? The owners of Luigi's Pizza Parlor?”

“Will you stop with the Italian restaurant jokes?” Peter crosses his arms defensively.

“Relax. So, who is it then?”

“Vanderbilts.”

Stark turns to look at him, flabbergasted as his eyebrows raise up to his hairline. “Illegitimate child or lab grown?”

Peter bites his lip, debating whether he should tell him. “I just found out when I got a letter in the mail a couple of weeks ago…” he says too quietly.

Stark quirks an eyebrow and snatches two hors d'oeuvres off another waiter passing by this one doesn't flinch and offers Peter one. Peter shakes his head ‘no.’ He's surprised Stark hasn't reached for the alcohol yet.

“What? Mommy and daddy didn't have enough time to raise you, so the nanny did?”

“No,” he says with exaggerated patience, “I thought I never had parents until now. My Aunt and Uncle raised me.”

“My congratdolences then. Now you get to fine dine and wine with the rich.” He pops a hors d'oeuvres in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Peter doesn't say anything as his stomach churns and his head pounds. A man with a really tight blue suit on and a head full of hair gel comes up to them, greeting Stark loudly and ignoring him. He watches Stark clasps the guy back in one of those rich people hugs, and then kind of forcibly pushes him away. The guy stinks like tequila.

Stark turns back to him as soon as the man leaves and brushes the invisible lint off his suit. To Peter he says, “Always hated that guy.” Under his breath he mutters, “Wears too much Hermès and I swear that hair could double for the Mark 52 helmet.” He places the hor d'oeuvres he'd grabbed back onto a passing tray full of champagne flutes.

Peter can begrudgingly agree.

“So,” he grabs him by the nape of his neck to weave him through a gaggle of old men laughing, “You ever pass an interest in continuing Mommy's and Daddy's multi-billionaire dollar legacy?”

“GenXit?” He cranes his head to look at Stark confused. “No.”

“Why? Too complicated or too boring?”

Peter shakes his head and shrugs. “They decided to liquidize the company and pass the inheritance to me.”

“And yet you live in a brownstone apartment in Queens and your rent is three-thousand-forty-one dollars and twenty-seven cents a month.” He says way too casually.

Peter looks at Stark, perturbed. “Are you stalking me?”

“We're practically buddies and it's not my fault your information is so public.” He lowers his voice, “You really should set your Facebook account to private, Mr. Vanderbilt. Everyone can see your dating status.”

Peter decides not to comment on that. “I've only met you once, Stark and you haggled me and Captain America for fucksake! That's, like Unconsti—” he throws his hands up in the air and a waiter immediately appears at his right-hand side.

“Would you like some champagne, sir?”

Peter flushes bright red in embarrassment. “Oh no, I, uhm—I'm not twent—”

Stark reaches out and plucks a flute off a waiter's tray. “Of course, Mr. Vanderbilt would love some champagne.”

Peter laughs awkwardly until the waiter leaves and then he drops the pretense. “Dude! I'm eighteen and you should know that already since you stalked me. You can't give a minor alcohol.”

He leans in closer to Peter and quietly says, “You can when it's expected of you, especially as a billionaire, Parker.” Stark emphasizes his surname by pushing the flute towards him, egging him to grab it. Peter narrows his eyes and delicately plucks it from him.

“God, are all teenagers this lovely?”

Peter stares at him unimpressed.

Stark sighs loudly and rolls his eyes at him. “Liven up! YOLO, you know? Or whatever slogan they have pasted across t-shirts for teenagers these days.” Peter gives him his constipated shit frog face.

Stark suddenly turns his head around. “Speaking of Good ‘Ol Cap. Five o'clock, speaking with our host.”

Peter looks around and doesn't see Steve, but he does spot the goddamn Black Widow in an open-back floor length gown speaking to the mayor of Gotham.

“Why are the Avengers here?”

“Because I'm here,” he says arrogantly, like that's an adequate answer. “And I bet that necktie,” he pokes Peter’s chest, “and your next paycheck at Joe's Pasta House, that the Justice League are somewhere around here.”

“Really!?” Peter looks around at the crowd as if expecting to see Superman walking around in his red cape and blue yoga pants.

When he turns back to Stark he's looking at him with a tad bit of disbelief. “And here, I thought you hated superheroes,” he says as he steers him away before he walks into an old lady in a way too sheer dress.

“I do,” Peter splutters. “And why?”

“Why what?” Stark turns to look at him as if he's dumb as they pause behind a couple in matching bright red. “Why else would I show up to these pain in the ass charity events Ms. Potts keeps bugging me about?” He blows raspberries and keeps them moving.

“Because you pretend to be a good person?”

Stark turns to make a face at him. “Now you’re learning, my child. Come on. Let's see what I can needle out of Brucie bear-bear.”

Peter hadn't even noticed that Stark had dragged him halfway across the room closer to where Bruce Wayne is standing, entertaining a bunch of drunk giggly guests. “Woah, woah, wait—”

His spider sense suddenly spikes and pulses like a beacon each step they take closer and closer to Bruce Wayne. He's a step behind Stark, half hidden behind his shoulder as Stark loudly inserts himself into the midst of that circle. His stomach swoops like a bad ride at a cheap amusement park.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he pauses and nods his head at Steve, “Cap.” Stark grabs his arm and shoves him into the forefront of the group. “Meet the Vanderbilt's long lost prodigal son, Peter.” Exclamations break out amongst the shiny dressed flock.

Bruce Wayne switches his champagne glass from his right to his left hand as he extends a hand to shake, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Vanderbilt.” Peter shakes his hand. The man has a wimpy grip but peculiarly calloused and scarred hands.

“My condolences to your family. It's tragic what happened to them, I know them quite well. They were good people of Gotham. As a matter of fact,” he turns to the rest of the mass now, “I remember one summer when we took a vacation to Cabo San Lucas and they—” Wayne launches into a spiel about some story.

Peter tunes him out. The lawyer handling the whole fiasco with his inheritance, had told him that his parents had died in a brutal car crash. Apparently, their BAC was at a 0.25 and they had traces of opioids in their bloodstream. They were DOA at St. John's Hospital.

Everyone seems to be paying rapt attention to Wayne's words. Except for Stark, Steve—who looks like he's been caught in conversation with the elderly sheer dressed lady—and a guy with shaggy curly black hair and a bad hunchback wearing a reporter's tag.

He comes to when Stark opens his big mouth to say something idiotic. “Peter here,” Stark says, with a smile that's full of shit, “is a big fan of superheroes. And he was wondering—”

Peter pointedly looks down at his tie. “No, I’m fuc—” Stark steps on his toes not-so-subtly. He can feel one of his veins and the back of his eyes throb in time.

Stark continues, raising his voice over his protest, “—He was wondering if you wouldn't happen to have sneaked the Justice League in your back pocket somewhere, would you, Brucie bear-bear?” Stark smiles like an asshole.

Wayne smiles like it's funny, his voice perfectly pleasant and warm, maybe even a little slurred, as he says, “I know I have deep pockets but not that deep.” He then laughs boisterously, and the rest of the raucous crowd copies him. He winces. The spike in sound makes his head pulse in stabbing pain.

Stark laughs humorlessly and curiously, neither does that reporter laugh but his eyes glint in amusement. Steve is still too busy with his ancient date who seems to have latched her long nails into his forearm.

Wayne doesn't seem to notice the awkward atmosphere. “Before you joined us, Mr. Stark, I was telling my colleagues about how Wayne R&D is moving into renewable solar energy.” Wayne gestures towards the other rich twerps standing around him with his glass.

“Fascinating,” Stark drawls, “Personally, Stark R&D has its own arc reactor. You should try it sometime, Mr. Wayne. The offer still stands.”

“Actually,” Peter says, “solar cells can be pretty efficient if you know what you're doing.”

Stark raises an eyebrow, even Wayne looks vaguely intrigued. “And do pray tell how?”

“Nanostructures to increase surface area of the cells and better capture sunlight and perovskites instead of silicon.” Peter shrugs his shoulder.

“You do know perovskites have problems with stability and scalability, right, kid?” Comes Stark's holier-than-thou-art attitude but his lips are quirked up into a smile.

“A protective layer around the perovskites using nanographene sheets or quantum dots can be used instead.” Peter curls an eyebrow back at Stark, and in spite of himself, finds himself enjoying their banter.

“God, where in Thor-all-mighty have you been hiding that big brain of yours, Pete? Behind that foul mouth? Because we could use yo—”

Wayne suddenly cuts through their banter, Stark looks off-put. “Kids are so smart these days. How old are you, Peter? I think I have a son around your age.” Wayne cranes his head around, still smiling, “I think my other son, Dick, might be around here somewhere.”

“I'm eighteen, sir.”

Stark mutters under his breath, ‘Dick? Well, parents can be cruel these days.’ It's Peter's turn to step on his toes this time. Stark winces and shoots him a faux wide-eyed innocent look as if to say ‘what!?’

Wayne seems to not have heard them as he turns back around but the reporter is looking in their direction, turning a funny shade of pink. “Wayne Industries could really use a mind like yours, Mr. Vanderbilt. You could do great things for the world.” Wayne's blue eyes bear into his. Peter shivers. For some reason that gaze feels familiar.

“I'm sure,” Stark cuts through loudly, “that Mr. Vanderbilt would find Gotham's ‘elite’ R&D even a little latent for his tastes.” Stark sniffles and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “But of course he can see and decide for himself.” Peter shoots him a dirty look.

Wayne opens his mouth to reply when the reporter next to him not so casually jabs his elbow into Bruce Wayne's ribs. The man's lips are pressed into a fine line, like he's trying to suppress a smile, as he clears his throat loudly.

“Oh, right, right,” Wayne looks abashed. “We got so caught up that I forgot to introduce my guest. This is Clark Kent, a star reporter from Daily Planet, hailing from Metropolis. He does a splendid job of covering Gotham's charity events.”

Clark Kent stretches out a huge hand, stepping closer into the circle, as he gives Stark a firm handshake as well as Peter one. Even from behind his own sunglasses, he can tell how unnervingly bright blue Kent's eyes are.

“Nice to meet you,” Kent says with a smile that could probably end up on a billboard for a toothpaste commercial, as his eyes crinkle warmly. Interestingly, he's got a flat Midwestern accent.

And now that he's stepped closer, Peter can see that the man is actually huge—despite the hunchback. He's tall and broad shouldered, with thick dorky nerd glasses and ill-fitting clothes. If the man straightened up he'd probably be just as tall as Captain America or even taller. Peter squints at him, pausing. Doesn't he kind of look like Superma—

Captain America's voice breaks through the noise of the people gathered around Bruce Wayne. “Ladies,” he nods his head, hands on his belt, “and gentlemen, my apologies for the hold up. I hope I didn't miss anything important.” He doesn't say anything remotely funny but, no matter, the people giggle. Peter kind of gets it honestly. Just listening to Cap's voice makes you feel all the more American and patriotic.

Peter startles (and that's odd, he doesn't get surprised anymore, not since the bite—) as Stark leans into his ear to whisper, “Watch this.”

Uhuh oh.

He watches as Stark takes a step toward Steve with an open arm. The man looks like he smells blood in the water. “Rogers! Why don't you tell Mr. Brucie honey-bear here how we were discussing, in our last Avenger’s meeting—”

He doesn't hear the rest of Stark's magnanimous speech as he accidentally bumps into the reporter who now stands next to him. They had to shuffle around the circle to make room for Steve to step in and somehow they'd ended up next to each other.

He looks up at the giant man, “Oh, sorry.” Kent looks down at him.

“Don't worry about it,” comes Kent’s very mellow voice. Peter adverts his eyes.

His eyes are definitely unnerving even though his demeanor is entirely like a teddy bear. Peter tries not to shift around too much. He's loath to admit it, but Stark next to him kept him grounded and anchored. Now he feels like a buoy lost at sea. Next to a giant man. Who hasn't stopped staring at him.

Peter looks up and Kent is already looking away, but Peter is a hundred percent sure he was staring holes into the side of his face not just a second ago. He's starting to get annoyed—teddy bear disposition or not. What's this prick's problem? They're literally standing right next to each other so it's actually pretty fucking obvious.

Peter does not jump (seriously, what is wrong with him today? Why is he so jumpy?) when Kent's voice quietly floats down to his ear.

“Are you alright?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

He looks up again. “What?”

“I don't mean to be forward, and you can tell me off Mr. Vanderbilt, but—do you need to sit down?” His voice is noticeably quiet.

Peter feels uneasy. “Uhm, no,” he lies straight through his teeth. “Why?”

Kent's brow wrinkles, a slight frown on his face. “Are you sure? I mean, it's just, you're swaying a bit…”

At this point, he's ready to book it across the circle to Steve and Stark, no matter how rude it is. The back of his head starts to pulse again, and a wave of dizziness hits him hard. All of a sudden, he's struggling to stay on his feet. He locks his knees as cold sweat breaks out all over his body. Shit, shit, shit—at least he made it through most of the night. Even though he knows it's an illogical train of thought to follow, with how he's passing out in slow motion, at least he can say he attended the gala.

He doesn't hear Kent calling out to him. He doesn't hear anything because he hears everything all at once. It feels like his head is splitting open as the sweet smells of food and perfume make him gag. Somehow, he's dragged himself across the other side of the room on shaky legs. Distantly, he hopes he hasn't made a fool of himself. That train of thought is ripped away from him as he doubles over, dry heaving loudly. He throws his forearm over nose, hoping to quail the nausea and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Are you alright there Mr. Vanderbilt? Need ten?” He doesn't know when Stark made his way over to him, but his painfully loud voice hits him like an echo underwater. He sounds concerned.

Peter staggers as his vision whites out for a second. He stumbles into the nearest wall, leaning heavily on it.

“Woah Peter, let's sit you down buddy—” a pair of hands catch him and then he's slowly being lowered down onto a set of stairs.

Peter groans loudly and ducks his head between his knees, covering his ears with his forearms and squeezing his eyes shut tight. He thinks he hears another voice speaking to Stark. It sounds like… Steve? His head bursts with a rush of agony. He bites down on his arm, resisting the urge to scream and lash out at everybody. To do something unthinkable.

There's a rush of voices and then an arm around his shoulder that picks him up and guides him outside. He can smell their sweat, so he turns his head and heaves again.

Cool fresh air hits his face in sweet relief. He breathes it in greedily and then it's being sat down on grass.

“Peter…” that's Stark's voice, even though he's whispering, it hurts his head, “what hurts?”

He tries to open his mouth to speak, he really does, but nothing comes out.

“Your head, bud?” Stark asks softly.

Peter can only helplessly nod as he grabs his hair in fistfuls, pulling at it violently. A pair of large hands cover his and gently pry away his fingers from his hair. Instead, they replace his own to very carefully soothe and pet down his hair.

He hears Steve's familiar voice presumably ask someone for ibuprofen or acetaminophen inside the manor.

Peter shakes his head, even though Steve can't see him. “No, oxy… oxycodone,” it barely comes out like a whisper but whoever is next to him, seems to hear him well enough.

The next few minutes he's not really coherent enough to understand what's going on. He doesn't know who of the guests is helping him through this debilitating humiliation. He knows a familiar round shaped pill is pressed into his hand. He knows he swallows it. He knows Chris was called soon after to pick him up. And he knows that the dosage was barely strong enough to elude his symptoms, only for a little while.

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the bed.

Peter wakes up, back in the Vanderbilt estate, and for the second day in a row immediately knows something is off.

He walks into the foyer in a daze, still half asleep and notes that his migraine has dwindled to tolerable levels. But the pill won't last maybe a couple hours longer. He'll need to cut his week short and return home. The manor is still quiet in the early morning, the sun barely peeking over the horizon.

He makes his way down the stairs. He hadn't noticed it before but at the foot of the stairs, off to the side, there's a red door with a brass handle. It's closed. Something in him draws him to walk to the door and try the handle. He finds it unlocked. Inside there's a fire roaring in the fireplace but no one is around to attend it. It feels like his demise; like a moth to a flame, he's helplessly drawn to it. Deep shadows dance along the walls from the intense blazing of the fire. There's mail strewn haphazardly on a desk. He approaches the desk and pushes the envelopes around. One of them falls off the table and onto the floor.

It's addressed to him: Peter Parker.

He picks it up. No return address, no send address, no stamp.

He can hear Chris coming down the stairs again now, humming to himself. The door is cracked open. He shouldn't be here. But the voice that always sits in the back of his head tells him to open the envelope. His hands are shaking now as he rips open the envelope and takes the letter out. Chris peeks his head into the study room and says something to him, but Peter can't hear him over the rush of blood in his ears. He looks up, and somehow, finds himself standing at the hearth of the fire. It's grown larger since he's looked away. It doesn't feel real. He doesn't feel real.

He unfolds the letter and several polaroids fall out.

He picks up the first one. It's a grainy picture of him in Tonya’s apartment. He's talking to Melanie. It's titled: “Spider-Man & Friends. December 2, 2024 — 5:48 AM. Queens, New York.”

His pulse pounds. No…

Frantically, he picks up the next one. It's of him and Chris speaking at the front steps of the manor. It's titled: “Spider-Man & Butler. December 2, 2024 — 8:46 AM. Vanderbilt Estate, Gotham City.”

Please, no…

Another one falls out. He picks this one up too. It's of him standing next to Stark, as they talk to Bruce Wayne. Steve can be seen off to the side. “Spider-Man, Stark, Wayne & Avengers. December 4, 2024 — 9:58 PM. Wayne Manor, Gotham City.”

He’s shaking so hard; that he can hardly grip the pictures. All the pictures were taken, not from an outsider's perspective, but from an insider. Like they were right there next to him the whole time. Gooseflesh runs up his arms, as the back of his neck itches. He picks up the letter and reads it. He can hardly breathe.

A drop of blood falls onto the paper. He wipes it away. He thinks he's stopped breathing. He feels like dying. He thinks he's dying as the flames rage at him. There's a ringing and it's getting louder and closer. Or is it his head? He can't tell anymore. He's being swallowed up by smoke as the sounds of the bells drown everything else out. There, he sees the man again, at the foot of the door, as the fire crawls along the walls of the study room. He can't breathe. Someone, please help him. The man bellows out to him, obscured by the smoke, and Peter sticks his fist through his chest—

“Peter!” Chris is shaking him back; his eyes are wide and frantic. He looks scared. Peter’s fist is pressed up against Chris's chest.

Oh, god, no.

Peter backs away from him like he's been burned. What is he doing? He blinks his eyes rapidly and looks around himself. The fireplace has been put out. His heart sinks.

Shit. No, no, please no. This can't be happening.

He jams the heels of his palms into his eye sockets and rubs at them roughly. He's not… he's not, he can't, he wouldn't hurt him… but when he turns to look at Chris—Chris whose sunny disposition seemed like it could never be shaken—and sees him wrought with worry and drenched in sweat that stinks of fear, he knows then and there, he needs to leave.

There is no fire consuming the manor. There is no smoke choking his lungs. There is no man taunting him. And there is no place for him in this manor.

He was caught up in a delusion.

Peter stares at his trembling hands and sees that the letter and the pictures that were clenched in his hands have fallen to the floor.

“Sweet Jesus, Mr. Parker. You had me damned scared,” comes Chris's anxious voice. It trembles. “I’m sorry I had to shake you but…” He trails off as cocks his head and looks down at the pictures with furrowed brows. “What's this…?” He bends down, a hand outreached.

Peter kicks away the polaroids with his foot. “It's okay, Chris,” he whispers to him. His voice is rough, like he's been inhaling smoke for hours. “Don't worry about that.” They both know he's lying.

He can't stay here any longer. He'll hurt them. Whoever is behind this will hurt them. These whispers, this paranoia, these delusions; none of that is real. But this letter and these pictures—he bends down to pick them up—that's real. It's them who've been haunting him. It's them who've been watching Chris and Stark and Steve and Tonya and her kids… They don't deserve this.

He can't go to the police for this, or they'll know. Expose him, beat him, lock him away, make him their weapon, hurt his friends when he's turned his back. Some way they'll hurt him. They'll hurt them. He has to do this. To protect them.

His heart hammers as he stuffs the letter and the polaroids in his pocket, his mind made up.

That morning, he leaves the Vanderbilt estate and doesn't look back.

Chapter Text

“$5.78 is your total, sir,” Peter curtly tells the customer as he tosses the pink Bic lighter onto the counter.

“Uh—” the man intones listlessly as he stares up at the old box TV. Luis, his boss, has had that TV mounted on the wall since before the dinosaurs went extinct. If he could, he would've changed the TV channel months ago, but Luis claims he doesn't know where the remote control went and mysteriously, (and suspiciously) there are no controls or buttons on the TV itself.

“Can I get, uhm, get a, uh—” the man says slowly. He suppresses the urge to sigh loudly as he watches the guy open and close his mouth a few times, still staring at the TV, hypnotized. Peter half-expects drool to start to fall out of the guy's mouth. 

The customer slowly turns his head towards Peter but refuses to unglue his eyes from the TV. “Uh, a, uh, pack of Marlboros.” Peter's already got the guy's pack of cancer sticks rung up before he's even finished his sentence. 

“$13.57 is your total.” 

The guy reaches into his pants, searching around for his wallet and Peter has to force his face to not go into constipated shit frog mode. Peter can see in real time how the man's brain finally catches up with his words, and he comes back to life, spitting at him.

“Thirteen dollars? Are you fucking cheating me out on my money, punk?” The man's nostrils do something funny as he glares at Peter like an angry bull.

“No, the Marlboros are seven seventy-nine,” Peter states back blandly, unfazed by his huffing and puffing. 

The man slaps down a twenty onto the counter, muttering under his breath, “You've gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

Peter, any other day, would've sympathized with him about the prices, but at this point, it's too late in the night for him to care. He hands back the guy his change and his receipt, and the man rudely snatches them up, storming out of the bodega. The bell rings loudly as the door slams back closed. 

“Thanks, come again,” Peter says after the door has already slammed shut, the man long gone. He doesn't think the guy heard him. He sighs to himself. 

Oh, well. 

He adjusts the hood of his sweatshirt over his dirty, unruly hair, balling his fists onto the counter as he stretches his back. He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection in one of the cheap compact mirrors, as he slides his sunglasses down his nose, and grimaces. 

Guh. 

Christmas is in two days, and he looks ready for Halloween rather than Christmas. He's got two giant eye bags under his eyes, and his skin looks sallow and pale, especially under the cheap flickering fluorescent lights, casting everything in a weird shade of pale green. He pushes his shades back up his greasy nose bridge and pulls out his phone from his back pocket to check the time. 

11:29 PM. 

He could weep from relief. Only thirty-one more minutes until his shift is over, and Jared takes over. Luis likes to keep the bodega open 24/7, even for the holidays, so he usually ends up working the shifts that nobody wants to work. He can't wait to spend the holidays with all his family! Oh wait. He doesn't have any. Haha, being Peter Parker is so awesome (cue the sarcasm).

At least he's got Cheryl.

For the past two Christmases, ever since he moved into the complex, he and Cheryl have celebrated Christmas together, and it's probably the only reason he can get through the season at all. They exchange their shitty wrapped Christmas presents, smoke a joint together, and eat whatever Peter manages to scrounge up together in the one pot he owns, while watching reruns of good old Christmas movie classics like Home Alone and The Polar Express on her ancient TV. He bought her a pair of thermal underwear and a nightgown for Christmas because she likes practical gifts. 

Peter doesn't realize he's spaced out for that long until he sees a teenager in the back browsing through the food. He hadn't even heard the bell when they came through the door. Shit. He sighs and rubs at his mouth harshly. He watches the teenage girl for a moment, making sure she's not stuffing anything up her sleeves (not that he would really stop her if it was food because, come on—), and with nothing better to do, turns back towards the TV. Something like trepidation fills up his spine.

The TV is so old that the sound that comes out of it is pitched and tinny, like it’s being strangely broadcast through a microwave. But even through its struggling speakers, he can make out Stark's familiar cadence. The news anchors are talking about the speech that was given early today by the Avengers. Weirdly enough, Stark is the one who gave the speech, apparently, about the Avengers’ stance on the Registration Act. Why didn't Steve give the speech? He'd figure Captain America, as the leader, would've done the honors. The blond lady is going on about how a Pulitzer prize winner journalist by the name of ‘Lois Lane’ from the Daily Planet has, quote, said that, ‘Stark's answer was a disingenuous nonsensical non-answer meant to divert expectations to further improve their reputation in the eyes of the public by taking neither side. Thus, no risks were taken, and favor was neither lost nor gained.’

Yikes. 

Now those are some harsh words, even from a journalist. The blond lady lets out a sharp bark and raises her eyebrows, incredulous at what she read herself.

“Seems like the Avengers are in hot water for not taking a clear stance, Emmanuel,” says the blonde news anchor to her partner. Emmanuel nods his head as he taps a stack of papers against the desk. 

“That's right, Jennifer. Unlike the Justice League, who were very clear on where they stood. As they said—they will not stand for injustice or a government that wishes to control them and absolutely refuse under any circumstances to sign the Registration Act.”

“And I just can't help but wonder what Spider-Man would have to say about the Registration Act?” Jennifer crosses her arms on screen.

Anddd that's his cue to turn around and pretend like the TV doesn't exist anymore. Fuck this. This is why he doesn't watch TV anymore. Superheroes this and superheroes that. What a load of bullshit. When he turns back around, surprisingly, he finds the teenage customer waiting for him in front of the counter. She is also watching the TV silently. She sets down five bags of various strangely flavored Justice League brand snacks onto the counter. 

“You know what I want for Christmas, mister?” 

Peter reaches for the Frito Flash One-Hundred-Yard Spice Dash flavored chips to ring them up. 

“What?” He asks, disinterested.

She smiles wistfully, “For Spider-Man to come back home for Christmas.” 

Peter's brow furrows in confusion as he rings up the Glowing Green Lantern Marshmallows Edition with the brown-haired dude as the Green Lantern on the packaging. What kind of stupid elementary wish is that? 

“Home?”

“New York,” she says like it's obvious. 

“Ah.” 

His breath leaves him in a rush, but the exclamation comes out stilted and apathetic. She narrows her eyes at him, not finding him convincing, and looks to be two seconds away from lashing out at him verbally. She continues to stare at him expectantly like she expects him to agree with her or pull Spider-Man out of his ass or some shit (he could, but that's beside the point).

He finishes up ringing her Justice League chips and pushes the plastic bag with her junk food to her. “Your total is $21.52.” 

She looks at him, irked, and then sighs, like he's the one inconveniencing her, and hands him a fifty-dollar bill.

The whole time Peter is counting out her change from the cash register, she's staring him down like the devil, and it makes his skin crawl as he fights to keep his expression blank. He hands her back her change and her bag, and just as she reaches for it, she spits at him, “ God! Where's your holiday spirit?” 

Well damn? 

Quickly, she marches out the door in a whirlwind, and he winces as it slams shut for the second time. Great. Luis is gonna have his head if he finds out that Peter's managed to piss off customers twice in a row. He sighs to himself, laying his forearms on the counter in front of him as he clenches and unclenches his fists, a frown fixed on his face. He feels ashamed to be acting this way, and he knows Aunt May would hate to see him like this if she were still here, but the past few days have been hard . He swallows down the awful walnut-shaped lump that threatens to claw its way up in his throat as he rubs the skin of his knuckles with a harsh thumb. 

And he's been worse ever since that stupid inheritance he received from his dead parents. He's so paranoid and anxious these days he can't take a shit without inspecting the toilet bowl twice over. Speaking of anxiety, he's surprised the other shoe hasn't dropped and Batman hasn't shown up in his room, hanging upside down from the ceiling at two AM like some kind of freak paralysis demon. He’d figured the guy, with his boogeyman reputation, would've hunted him down already. For Pete's sake, he flinches every time he turns a dark corner around a seedy alleyway, thinking that Batman is going to pop out of the shadows and torture him for information or whatever it is that Batman does. 

He sighs. 

But that's the least of his worries, in the giant pile of steaming shit that's his life right now.

He just wishes May were here. He'd give anything to be with her again. Hell, he'd go dig his own grave right now and lie down next to her, but he knows that's just insanity doing the talking for him. Desperation and grief threaten to overtake him, but he just… misses her so much. Everything would be so much easier to deal with if she were still here and he knows that if she were, none of this bullshit would've happened. Everything would've been okay. 

But she's not… 

So, for now, he does what he does best: head down, clock in, go to work, and go home. He tries to think as little as possible and tries to never linger or idle. Arm’s length distance… don't let anyone near bad luck Peter Parker, lest they get trapped in his circle and die like they always do. Sometimes, he can't help but think that he traded his superpowers for the lives of his loved ones, like some kind of fucked up supervillain who wants it all and but in the end, loses it all. 

Most days, he doesn't know how he stays sane. Ever since the ‘incident’ at the Vanderbilt estate, he knows even less. Paranoia, anxiety, and pure anger fester inside him like an open wound. The only thing that's cauterizing that wound is the drab routine of life. Routine is sanity, and sanity is key. Right? At least that's what all the self-help books say anyway.

Even though he'd planned to quit his jobs after the charity gala, he never did. It's not a coincidence that shit started going down the minute he stepped into the elite social circle. He wished he'd never accepted the inheritance. He'd prefer to leave it all behind and pretend he never looked at that fucking money another day in his life. But as Aunt May always said, ‘with great power comes great responsibility,’ and there's a lot of power in that money. The only thing he can do now is hold onto it and pretend it isn't there; hopefully, manage to keep it out of the hands of some evil bastard. Anybody else would've probably jumped on the money—death threats, and stalking or not—but he can't just be anyone else. Not because of who he is or who he was, but because of the responsibility he has to the people around him. It's not fair to them. So, money be damned. 

His thoughts leave him. Now it's just him, the quiet hum of the lights, and the static sound of the television left in the bodega. He checks the time. 

His phone reads 11:57 PM.

Three more minutes till his shift is over. Jared is supposed to show up at midnight to relieve him of his shift. Time slides by like molasses. 

Five minutes past midnight, and his co-worker still hasn't shown his face. Where is that fucking guy? He taps his fingernails against the glass of the counter, extending his hearing and watching for Jared at the door, hoping to hear his familiar steps and heavy breaths. Nothing. He chews on his thumbnail and then stops. May would admonish him for chewing on his fingernails. He stuffs his fists in his pockets and then pulls them back out. An anxious energy thrums throughout his body as he destroys the skin of his lip, chewing at it. 

He pulls out his phone and leans his hip against the edge of the counter. He's got two new notifications. One from Daniel Barnes and the other from an unknown number. He's about to click on them to open the messages when he finally hears the tinny sound of the bell ringing and Jared's labored breathing with the arrival of a strong, cold gust of wind. It smells like it might snow again. 

He pockets his phone as he finds a red-faced Jared who is bracing his hands on his knees. “Fuh—fucking sorry, man. My, uh, cat got out—” 

Peter emerges from behind the counter, briskly walking towards him. He sighs deeply, exasperated. “You don't have to lie, I'm not Luis.”

Jared flails for a second, “Shit, right, dude, I'm really sorry man. Truth is, I think I saw Spider-Ma—”

He sees red as molten hot anger courses through his veins at those words. "There is no fucking Spider-Man anymore, Jared,” he spits out venomously.

He presses the store keys into Jared's chest. Vaguely, he recognizes that the swell of emotion that fills him is not normal, but he can't stop this visceral reaction nor his scathing words. “Look, I don't care what your excuse is, just show up on time, for once in your goddamn life.” He lets go of the keys and pushes past him, knocking shoulders. 

He hears Jared fumble with the keys as he gripes at him under his breath. Peter pushes open the door, the bell chiming, as the icy air bites at him.

The last thing he hears is a muttered ‘asshole’ before the howling wind swallows away everything. 

Peter is staring down at his phone screen as he walks down the sidewalk, weaving through the crowd. A few times, he bumps into people and some turn to yell expletives at him or whisper under their breath ‘watch it asshole,’ like it's his fault. Typical holiday attitude. He's got two message notifications: one from Facebook Messenger and one from his texts.

He clicks on Facebook Messages first. 

He feels a half smile quirk onto his lips. He replies:

Steve's grammar is pretty good in this text. It must've taken him a while to type out that message. He huffs out a puff of laughter as a thought occurs to him. Or maybe one of the Avengers helped him. The thought of Stark or the Black Widow helping him is almost endearing in a grandpa kind of way. 

Heh.

He clicks on the unknown number. 

Stark. Goddammit. He doesn't want to ask how the man got his phone number. 

And munchkin? Seriously? He rolls his eyes internally as his thumbs linger over the screen, wrestling with himself. Should he respond? On one hand, he's sure that if he does, that'll open a floodgate of Stark's pestering, and on the other hand, he wouldn't mind said pestering. Even though he whines and complains—and he's reluctant to admit this—he liked the banter they had at Wayne's gala. He sighs, exasperated with himself. Maybe he should respond. 

He doesn't realize he's so sucked up into his phone that he's surprised to see he's arrived at the front steps of his apartment complex. He shoves his phone into the front pocket of his jeans, shouldering the door open roughly and takes the flight of stairs two at a time. 

He's speed walking down the hallway towards his door, key in hand, when he abruptly stops, the hair on his arm and back of his neck standing up. Shit, Cheryl's door is still this wide open late at night and it's freezing out in the hallway. Peter creeps closer, as quietly as possible. It's dark inside, so he takes a step into the doorway, and he extends his hearing, listening to her soft snoring in her bedroom. He takes off his shades, holding them pinched between his fingers, as he looks around at the dark living room. Nothing seems out of place, but still, gooseflesh breaks out all along his arms, and he faintly registers the slight buzzing of his spider sense in the back of his mind. God, it's seriously cold in here; way too cold for an old lady. Poor Cheryl. David was supposed to close the door. Peter rubs at his forehead roughly, vexed at David's incompetence as he hisses out a breath of frustration between his teeth. 

“Goddammit, David,” he mutters, before taking one last look around and closing the door with a soft click. He sighs to himself, rubbing the top of his sweatshirt-covered head as he steps over to his door. 

Peter is jingling open his door, struggling to get the key in the keyhole, when he hears a sound down the hallway that makes him pause. Apparently, by word of mouth, he'd heard that somebody had finally moved into the empty unit at the end of the hall while he was away in Gotham City. It'd been empty for months, oddly enough. Since, in a city like New York (despite being the one spot on the planet where literally everything bad happens), apartment openings don't last more than maybe a few days before they're snatched up but, allegedly, it'd been under repair and their cheap landlord had taken forever to fix it. Probably some black mold or rotting support beams. This new neighbor, though, is throwing him off kilter. 

The one person he can hear inside the apartment is unusually quiet compared to most people. He's used to most people making some type of loud noise while in their apartment. Like, flushing the toilet, for one (unless his new neighbor doesn't flush… gross), or watching TV or talking on the phone. But nothing, nada , zilch. Except for breathing and walking. As a matter of fact, the loudest noise that comes from his neighbor's unit is their cat. Perplexing, to say the least, but a blessing. 

The faint thud of their boots can be heard getting closer right when the door knob starts to rattle. Out steps a tall, broad man with wilted shoulder-length brown hair and a black cap that obscures their face. He's wearing what looks to be Russian military style combat boots and a fully kitted outfit, all in black with an excessive amount of straps on his cargo pants and leather jacket. Peter can hear the cat meowing loudly at the man as he closes the door. The man turns around to lock his door, and then briskly walks down the hall; head down, shoulders curled inward, leather-gloved hands balled in tight fists. His demeanor totally screams ‘fuck off’ but, still, he should probably say something to his new neighbor; it's what May would've wanted. Peter inhales sharply, trying to think of what to say.

As the man approaches, he tries calling out to him in a friendly voice, except it comes off more ‘nervous, sweaty first-day-on-the-job employee’ than friendly neighbor. “Hey, man! Did you just move in?” 

Peter realizes just how much bigger and taller his neighbor is than him when he squeezes by him in the cramped hallway. And at the sound of his voice, the man slides his eyes over to him without turning his head, his face obscured by his hair and the rim of his ball cap. His eyes widen as they meet, as if he's startled to find Peter there in the hallway as well. Their eyes meet for a second, which are a cold blue grey, filled with a wary look in them as his nostrils flare, before he turns his gaze back down to the floor and disappears around the corner without a word.

Well… okay then. 

Peter stands there for a moment, his lips pressed thinly into his constipated shit frog face as he stares at the warped floorboards. He rubs at his jaw roughly, working his tongue in cheek. 

Man, what the fuck is his life. 

Maybe the guy hadn't heard him? But that makes no sense, considering the guy had looked him right in the eyes, and then spooked like Peter had maggots crawling out of his face, and then had proceeded to, basically, run out of the hallway. He shakes his head, clearing his sullen thoughts. 

He sighs, pulling out a playing card—a Joker—that he carries around with him everywhere in his back pocket and slips it between the crack of the doorway, lifting the tape and thread he's got on the door out of the way. 

He's got an “advanced” security system that he calls A.S.T.A.T. (advanced security tape and thread), made up of a piece of tape and thread he’d cut off from one of his threadbare t-shirts between the doorframe and the door. It's supposed to alert him if anyone has broken into his apartment, since, you know, he's too fucking cheap to get an actual alarm system. Supposedly, it’s pretty foolproof. About 99.999% foolproof and Nick Fury approved, but he doesn't know about that latter part. He'd read about this idea under a column of some shitty teen rag that said, ‘Secrets of S.H.I.E.L.D: How to turn your room into a super-spy bunker!’ when he was, like, twelve in the waiting room of a dentist's lobby, even though the magazine had said to use hair instead of thread. But when he'd tried it with his hair, he'd found that his hair had refused to break. It was pretty freaky (and cool—something he definitely would've taken a picture of and sent to Ned…that is if he still talked to Ned…) how one strand of his hair had stretched and held together like a string of web between the door frame and door.

The perks of being Spider-Man, he internally sighs. You get to spend your only day off saving cats from trees and running away from billionaires dressed as goblins riding air hoverboards on random fucking Tuesdays! Yay. But hey, at least he has indestructible hair and no split ends! Thank fuck he's done with being Spider-Man, he grumbles, shoving his way into his apartment. Nothing like being a super paranoid spy on a budget. Kind of like Batman… He laughs at the thought.

He huffs, done with his internal tirade, as he checks that the tape and thread are still in one whole piece. The tape was dirt cheap when he bought it, so it breaks pretty easily.

And speaking of new systems, since he'd Hulk-smashed his last alarm clock, he had to go dumpster diving for a “new” one. Ironically, it was Justice League themed. He hates it. He casts a quick look at the alarm clock on his nightstand as the door shuts behind him. His phone pings at him again as he tosses his keys and his sunglasses on the nightstand. He pulls his phone out from his back pocket absentmindedly as he yanks open his fridge door, peering at the meager contents. And there's another new development—his waning appetite. It's hard to keep down food these days when he's choking on overwhelming delusional superstition and the overhanging sense of all prevailing doom that has his spider sense in a tizzy all the-fucking-time. It's awful. He sighs as his stomach growls and he clenches his fists at the sensation, frowning at himself. He should eat… something, probably. 

Peter decides to slap together a quick ham and cheese sandwich even though he hates dry sandwiches and he hates the yellow singles rip-off brand Kraft cheese that's been sitting in the back of his fridge for God-knows-how-long. If he were to analyze the molecular compound of the cheese, he bets he'd find it to be rubberier than the bottom of his fucking Converse. He only buys this stuff because it's cheap and a source of food, despite how little good sustenance it has. He downs a glass of water with the sandwich, after mindlessly eating it. His phone pings at him again, but he ignores it, falling into a weird headspace as he stares at the popcorn ceiling of his apartment, bone tired. It must've been some ten minutes of leaning against the tiny counter, chewing the dry bread slowly, because he can’t be bothered to sit down at his rickety coffee table, when his phone chimes three times.

The next message makes his heart rate spike.

With shaky hands, he presses ‘call’ as a million morbid thoughts about what could've possibly gone wrong go through his mind. He can feel his blood go icy and cold sweat starts to pool. What if they hurt Stark? Or blackmailed him with Peter's identity? Or worse yet, what if they ki—Stark finally picks up the line. 

“What's wrong?” Even to his ears, he sounds frantic and fraught with worry. 

“What?” Stark shouts. His voice sounds distant, like he picked up the call from the other end of the room, as loud metal clunking can be heard in the background. “Ms. Potts wants to know if you're coming to the dinner tomorrow, and I swear she is on me like government money on a bad idea. If I don't have a head count by tonight, then the only head that's going to be counted is mine when it's rolling on the floor—”

“Mr. Stark, please, just—” Peter can't even comprehend half of what Stark is saying. Why would Stark message him that? Why would he say ‘ASAP’ if he's just ranting about—about—about stupid stuff? He doesn't get why he would say that. To make him panic?

There's silence on the other side of the phone before Stark says, “Did you just call me Mr. Stark? Don't do that, kid. Makes me sound like I'm ninety and my dad. I got at least a few more bottom-of-the-bowl binge drinking years left in me, so refrain from tacking on Mister, would you?”

“Mr. Stark, I can't right now, will you just—?” He sighs loudly into the speaker and pinches the bridge of his nose, momentarily closing his eyes as the conversation lapses. Stark is miraculously silent for once. He can't get his mind to shut up about the possibility of something terrible happening to Stark. What if—what if—what if—

“Peter…” He thinks Stark is trying to say something, but he can't hear him over the pounding of his own heart.

“Hm?” What? He can't think straight. He couldn't tell you his head from his ass, right now. “Why'd you tell me to ‘call you ASAP?’” He runs his fingers through his hair, harshly pulling on the strands. 

“Peter.” Stark sounds solemn, but his voice cuts through the torrent of panic threatening to overtake him. 

“Yeah?” He breathes out.

“I'm okay, alright? Just… breathe. I’m fine, Care-bear. I didn't mean to scare you with that text. I just needed an answer before tomorrow. I gotta get a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ out of you by tonight for Ms. Potts so she doesn't take the last 12% of the company I still own.” Stark does sound fine. He sounds more than fine, but… 

Peter tries to stretch his hearing, listening to the other end of the receiver, but he can't pick up on Stark's heart. He can only hear the loud metallic banging. Oh, god, what if he really isn ' t okay? What if this is one of those ransom calls where Stark is trying to signal to him that he's not actually okay, but he's using normal conversational words and—

“Why can't I hear your heart?” He blurts out down the line. 

“What?” The loud noises stop, and Peter thinks he steps closer to the speaker, because he can suddenly hear his voice more clearly. “Kid, putting aside the fact that you're hearing me through a speaker phone—I don't have a normal heart, remember? That's kinda my whole schtick.” He hears him set down something else in the background.

“Right, I just, ah—shit,” he rubs at his nose harshly. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He tells himself he's just exhausted from work and taking on extra shifts and having to spend the fourth holiday in a row without May. Textbook seasonal depression, you know. What everybody else says when you get weirdly moody during the holidays.

Stark's voice cuts through his circling thoughts again. “So, yes or no?” 

“Yes or no for what?” Peter bites out. 

He expects Stark to rebuke him for not paying attention, but surprisingly, he doesn't. Peter quietly listens to Stark's long-winded reiteration of the past ten minutes.

“Got it? Now, yes or no. I got a company to run and precious time to waste,” Stark says entirely like an asshole. 

“I thought you said you didn't run the company, though…?” Peter questions with raised eyebrows.

A loud, obnoxious sigh comes down the receiver. “ Seriously? Did you hear anything I just said?” It sounds like he steps away from the receiver for a moment, mumbling ‘God, do all teenagers have selective hearing?’

His voice comes back louder again. “Peter. Yes or no? Come on.” 

“I—I,” he falters for a moment, “I can't go.” 

“ Why? ” 

“Because I can't leave Cheryl alone during Christmas!” Comes his petulant outburst.

“Okay.” He can hear Stark exasperatedly sigh over the phone. “And this Cheryl can’t find her own people to hang out with?” 

“Dude, she's literally an old lady with no family or friends except for me.” 

“Sounds like you, which is exactly why I need you to come. You need to make some time.” 

“I'm not gonna leave her alone! That's, like…” He searches for the right words, “...messed up, man.” 

A deep inhale over the line, and he can imagine Stark rolling his eyes. “Okay, man,” he mocks him, “how about Christmas Eve then?”

“ Why do I have to go?” 

“Just give me a yes.” 

“You said yes or no.”

“That was the me of the past, and then I changed my mind. People can change, Parker.” 

Peter pulls back his phone from his ear, squinting at the screen's brightness. It says 12:03 AM. “Dude, you said that literally three minutes ago. And technically it's already tomorrow, you know. I think you're too lat—”

“Stop being a smartass with me and giving me excuses and just say yes already.” 

“No.” 

“Peter.”

“No, fuck you, you're not my dad.”

“And thank god for small blessings, now say yes.” 

“No! Why do you even want me to go so badly?” 

Then he drops a bomb on him. “I invited Bruce Wayne.”

“What!? Are you fucking kidding me?

“Okay, well, technically, I had invited him. And I may or may not have said you'd be there since Ms. Potts entirely expects you to show up, but, lucky you, Brucie-bear ended up declining. He said something about ‘other family plans,’ which is— interesting . Didn't know he had family to celebrate Christmas with, and I find his fascination with you a little odd, so—” 

“Who else?” 

“Who? Oh, you know, the usual… Avengers and friends,” the last part, he mumbles, and then his voice rises again. “A small party, really, Pete. So no cold feet for you.”

“Is it… Do I have to bring gifts or something?”

“No, only yourself.”

Peter chews on his lip, contemplating whether he should go. He should probably go…? Right? Stark said he'd move the date just to accommodate him, and it might be nice for once to eat dinner with somebody other than Cheryl. Not that Cheryl isn't great or anything, but sometimes when it's only the two of them and some weed, the high heightens the seasonal depression, and he feels a little too glum afterwards. And coincidentally, he does have tomorrow evening (and Christmas evening) off from work, so…

“You said… Christmas Eve, right?”

“Sure did, Sour-puss.”

“Ok, uhm—I guess… I guess I'll go.” 

“Knew I could always count on you.” 

Peter's eyebrows furrow at that, ‘cause seriously? They've only met in person twice. 

“Seven pm sharp tomorrow night at the Tower, got it? Alright, great.” And then he hangs up, leaving Peter with his mouth open just as he was about to ask what he should wear to the dinner party. Or better yet, on what fucking floor the party is going to take place.

Ugh. Shit.

Seriously, screw you, Stark. Peter hopes the rest of his life is as pleasant as him. 

He huffs, and instead of turning his phone into a kunai and losing his deposit by embedding it into the wall, he throws it down onto his bed. It bounces around as he pulls off his threadbare black sweatshirt (he'd been too sentimental to actually part with the red hoodie that'd been mutilated in the ‘Mission Impossible: Spider-Man and Batman edition’ chase scene he'd recreated some weeks ago. So instead, he'd ended up turning the fabric into scraps and strips to recycle and use for whatever. His big toe gets stuck in a hole in the knee of his jeans and stretches the hole even bigger as he pulls them off. Son of a gun! He closes his eyes and counts to five. It’s okay, it's fine. Who cares? Peter doesn't care. He definitely does not care that he just tore a hole the size of Texas into the knee of his best jeans during the smack dab middle of New York Winter. 

He sighs. 

My, what awesome luck you have, Peter Parker.

He's in the middle of pulling on a threadbare pair of grey sweatpants when a message pops up on his phone, distracting him from his clothes-fueled grumbling. It's Steve. That guy sure does seem to stay up pretty late. 

Christ on a cracker. 

That message is really fucking hard to read. It needs some desperate TLC. And somebody needs to help out that poor old man with texting. You could probably get, like, thrown in jail for life or some shit for allowing Cap to struggle like this with technology. He frowns at his screen, squinting at the brightness (even though it’s all the way down) and throws himself onto his shitty mattress, the springs squeaking, as he holds his phone over his face. He can't help but think about how surreal it is to be texting Captain America so casually on a random Monday (Tuesday?) night. Ned would never believe him if he told him… that is, if Ned still even remembers who he is. He swallows heavily and pushes that thought aside. 

Peter sets his alarm for five AM and cracks a wide yawn. The clock reads 12:39 AM. He's gonna get less than four hours of sleep. Yay. He loves his life. 

He's halfway into dreamland, dreaming about Spider-Man endorsing the generic brand of cheese slices he eats, as Batman throws a bat-shuriken at him, when a thought occurs to him, waking from his strange cheese-induced half-dreams like the dead.

He sets down his phone on the nightstand and lays his head on his drool-crusted pillow. This time, he welcomes the strange dreams, and soon he's drifting off into a cheese-filled Batman-paced world as sleep envelopes him. 

He awakens with a rude start, his heart thudding in his chest like a horse in a flat race, as he sits straight up before he even realizes what's going on. He wildly looks around his room, eyes wide open, and his head on a swivel. What the fuck was that? He takes a glimpse at his alarm clock and finds that it's only a few minutes past two in the morning.

Oh fuck, please, no, not again. 

It absolutely cannot be another spider-sense-induced nightmarish round of hypnotized sleepwalking halfway across the city. He sits there, spiraling, as he stares at the door like somebody is about to come through, breaking his door down in a bad rendition of ‘here's Johnny!’ Or worse, Batman has finally figured out it was Peter that he was chasing. 

He unclenches and clenches his fist, waiting with bated breath as his befuddled, drowsy mind struggles to stay awake. His eyes feel like they're sinking into his skull from how bereft of any energy he is. Heavy pounding on the door kicks-starts his heart into a galloping pace.

“Shit…” he groans quietly to himself. 

Peter stumbles out of bed, his socked feet hitting the ground as he shuffles to the door with leaden steps and arms folded over himself to try and stave off the freezing cold in his apartment. More loud pounding ensues from the door and Peter fears for the hinges on the door. 

“ I'm coming! ” 

Jeez, what kind of asshole is seriously banging on his door at ass cheeks in the morning? They need to take a fucking chill pill, for crying out loud. And he swears if this person ends up breaking down his door, he's gonna make them pay for a new one, and a good one at that, too. 

He carefully peels back his A.S.T.A.T. and yanks the door open, glare already set firmly in place. He looks up and finds himself face to face with his new skittish neighbor—the one who had ignored him just a few hours ago. The first thing his sleep-addled mind can't help but think is that the man looks like a creep with the black cap and the long limp hair, and secondly, if the guy keeps staring at Peter any harder, he might actually succeed at burning holes into his skull. Like, seriously? Is this guy a robot? He must win a lot of staring contests. Peter squints up at him, absolutely flabbergasted.

“Dude,” he starts, deadpan, “do you even know what fucking time it is?” 

The man continues to stare at him and then finally, finally , he opens his mouth to say something. “I can't get the window closed.”

“ What? ” This is what the man was breaking down his door for? He briefly closes his eyes, clutching the door frame for strength and patience as he counts down to five in his head, as the frame creaks ominously under the strength of his grip. 

The man doesn't elaborate as Peter looks back up at him. He's just standing there, watching him, with that despondent stare. At least he's changed from his earlier black military punk get-up into a grey Henley and some normal sweatpants. Weirdly, he's barefoot. Peter, with every fiber of his being, resists the urge to bash his head into the wall. He can already feel his mouth pressing into his constipated shit frog face.

“What window?” Peter finally bites out. 

“In my apartment.” His voice is deceptively soft, a bit rough around the edges and gritty, despite the whole brooding Russian military serial killer vibes he has going on. 

“Yeah, man, I know that, that's obvious,” he sighs loudly and presses his fingertips into his forehead. “How about you just show me?” 

The man nods once, his eyes tracking Peter's movements as he closes his door (making sure it's unlocked, not to shut himself out). A few quick paces down the frigid hallway—Peter thinks he can see his breath billow out in cold condensation in front of him—and the man is inserting a key into his door and opening it.

Woah.

First impressions: this apartment is nicer than his. The layout is definitely bigger, and there are two doors down a hallway, which he presumes might be where the bedroom and bathroom are. Everything looks slightly newer, too, or that might just be the nice, albeit really spartan, furniture (at least compared to his furniture) sitting around in the moonlight, making the drab wallpaper look nicer than it actually is. Lucky bastard… His neighbor shuts the door and, without turning on the light, beckons him with a hand. Peter, helpless to do anything else, follows him. He shivers as he steps further into the apartment. He's led over to a window in the living room, to which the man stops in front of it stiffly, saying nothing. The window is half ajar at an awkward angle and damn , is it freezing outside. 

Peter's eyes dart up to the guy's face. “Uhm… this one?” He hesitantly reaches up to pull it down. 

The man nods once, eyes trained on him, unblinking, and Peter awkwardly clears his throat as he shimmies the window back into the frame. 

“So, uhm, yeah—these windows get kind of finicky …” Peter scratches the back of his neck. “So, there’s a certain kind of way you have to jam it in.” He gestures at it like a dweeb and laughs like an idiot. “‘Cause the landlord is cheap and bought cheap windows…” His laughter trails off as the man continues to say nothing.

Peter can feel a blush of shame start to crawl up his neck to his ears. Jeez, tough crowd. A few more moments of painful silence pass by. He can see and hear the way the man's jaw works as his eyes finally slide away from Peter's face, and the intense look is fixated on the floorboards. He looks like he's chewing on something he'd like to say but Peter is bone tired and, frankly, doesn't have the patience or energy to deal with socially inept neighbors so just as he opens his mouth to tell him he's gonna go back to his apartment, he hears the soft, almost imperceptible, steps of a cat. 

A giant white fluffy cat with big blue feline eyes comes padding down the hallway leisurely, tail curled up and over its back as it chirps up at them happily. Despite socially crippling circumstances, Peter can feel an involuntary smile spread wide onto his face. He crouches down to greet the cat at their level. 

“Aw, dude, no way you actually have a cat!” His new neighbor definitely just earned himself a brownie point in Peter's books. “What's its name?” 

He reaches out a hand to pet the cat. The cat slowly closes its eyes and bumps its head under his palm, purring gently.

A soft sigh comes from the man as he crouches down next to Peter. “Alpine.” 

“I—” the man stops, opening and closing his mouth several times, as if wrestling for control. “I adopted her…” 

Peter glances at the man out of the corner of his eye, rubbing the top of her soft head. “Do you know how old she is?” 

The man ducks his head and reaches out to pet her, too. Immediately, she attaches herself to the man, purring like a diesel engine. Peter watches them for a moment. For such a tough looking guy, he sure is tender and gentle with his cat. It's really sweet, actually.

The man shrugs, the corners around his eyes tight as he says, “Two years old…?” 

Peter nods his head, and a few more minutes of silence stretch by before the man abruptly stands, disappearing down the hallway, with his fists balled tight to his sides. Okay then? He hopes the man comes back.

Alpine pays no heed as her owner leaves and clambers onto Peter’s lap without a second thought. He scoops up Alpine into his arms and carries her over to the one overstuffed, frumpy couch in the living room to snuggle Alpine on. He hopes the man doesn't mind him taking residence on his couch, but Alpine is just so darn cute, and he can't risk putting her down and losing the feeling of her low engine purrs vibrating through him. Eventually, he hears his neighbor come back down the hall, rustling with something behind the couch. The man doesn't protest Peter's presence on his couch, so Peter hunkers down even further, into the admittedly pretty nice couch, and returns Alpine's loving stare.

Something tickles Peter's shoulder, and he turns to find one of those cat toys on a stick dangling from his hand. Alpine shoots her head up and starts swatting at the fuzzy little thing hanging from the end of the string. Without warning, the man reaches over the couch, and Peter presses the cat toy into his own hand. Peter grabs the cat toy from him, swinging it around, trying not to look as confused as he feels, as Alpine chases after it with enthusiasm, rolling and jumping all over his lap and the couch. He ponders for a moment. There's something else about his neighbor that he can't quite put his finger on. 

He watches his neighbor move away into the kitchen, and catches the glint of dog tags falling out of his Henley.

Oh.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Peter looks back down at Alpine, guilt flooding his chest and settling heavy in his lap (or maybe that's just Alpine). He strokes her head, contemplating the last few minutes he's had with his neighbor. Alpine kneads her paws into his lap, stretching languidly and yawning widely up at him. Peter wrinkles his nose. Her breath smells fishy. 

Her soft, low purrs quietly peter off as she curls deeper into his lap, burrowing her face into his stomach. All of the excitement from earlier finally leaves his body, and he's left feeling drowsy. Desperately, all he just wants to do is stretch himself out on the couch and fall asleep. His head lolls against the back of the couch, while his eyes feel impossible heavy as he tries to keep them open. He tries to fight off the sleep demons, but he's weak to them as the lull of the soft breaths of his neighbor and his neighbor's cat have his eyes forcibly dragged closed like he's under a spell. He's forgotten how peaceful it is to fall asleep to the sound of somebody else…

Peter doesn't recall falling asleep, but he must've anyway because the next moment he's coming to a soft, low grumbling. He finds the man sitting next to him, a bit aways on the couch, holding two steaming mugs. The scent that wafts from them is sweet. He's talking to Alpine, who must've woken up sometime before he did. He continues to watch his neighbor for a moment before sitting up from his slouched position. He knows he has an atrocious bedhead. 

It's weird, though. 

No night terrors, no panicking, and he doesn't quite feel the urge to run out of the room screaming. Peter feels… comfortable. Admitting that scares him. Every time he wins something small, he also loses something big. It's like some kind of fucked up cosmic balance scale labeled ‘Parker luck.’ 

His neighbor extends one of the mugs to him. It's got Captain America's shield emblem on it. It brings out a small smile and an amused huff from him. Curiously, he notices that the man's right hand is gloveless while his left has a leather glove on, and he's holding his mug with his right hand. He can feel the man's intense gaze on him as Peter carefully blows on it and brings the hot liquid to his mouth. Just as he suspected from the smell, hot chocolate. Delicious. The man's gaze never leaves him as Alpine curls onto the couch between them. Peter, feeling self-conscious again, lowers the mug, staring down at his lap. 

“Good?” His neighbor asks in a low voice. 

“Hm?” Peter looks up, his sleep-addled brain struggling to keep up. 

The man nods his chin at his mug, “Good?” 

Peter nods, blinking slowly as he looks away from him, and his eye catches on a clock sitting on the only other piece of furniture in the living room, a desk. Shit. He has to go to leave for work in, like, two hours and if he shows up late, Joseph is gonna have his fucking ass . He bemoans the precious sleep he's lost while trying to act like a good neighbor. He bites down on his lower lip, strong enough to draw blood and scab it over in an instant, too busy with his head up in the clouds to notice his neighbor's gaze narrow as he watches Peter's cut heal up in an instant. 

Peter licks his lips, tasting leftover blood, as he opens his mouth to let the man know he's gotta leave, when the man beats him to it. 

“Are you alright?”

Peter turns back to his neighbor. “What?” 

The man clears his throat, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I heard yelling coming from your apartment.” 

Peter’s gut drops at the same time heat rises to his cheeks, shame filling him faster than floodwater in a canal. He fumbles for a moment, looking for something to say. 

“I—” Peter's eyes dart around the floor. If his neighbor heard him, and he's a couple of doors down from him, then Tonya has definitely been hearing him. The night terrors started ever since… ever since the accident, a year and a half ago, and then again, half a year later, after another… incident happened, in which it was like adding fuel to the fire. His dreams have been bizarre at best and fucked-up at worse. In the end, he finds nothing to say. 

“Sorry,” he says lamely. 

The man shakes his head but doesn't comment on his apology. It makes Peter feel strangely relieved.

“Jimmy.” His neighbor says around the lip of the mug, his steel grey eyes trained on him. 

“Huh?” Peter babbles out, half-way asleep again.

“My name.” 

“Ah…” comes Peter's intelligent response.

The man, no—Jimmy, looks at him expectantly. Oh, right. His name. If Aunt May could see him now, she'd given him the eyes of doom for his lack of manners. 

“Uhm, I'm Peter,” he extends a hand, “Parker.” 

His hand hangs awkwardly in the air for agonizingly too long as Jimmy turns around to grab something from around the couch. He turns back around and gestures for Peter to hand him his empty mug.

Jimmy meets his eyes for a brief moment while he grabs Peter's mug. “Nice to meet you,” he says, lightly.

Peter, careful not to wake Alpine, stands from the couch. “Uhm—thank you for the,” he stuffs his hands in his threadbare sweatpants, “for the hot chocolate.” 

Jimmy says nothing as he stares at him and then shrugs, taking the mugs to the sink. Peter clasps his hands together and tries not to cringe as the noise resounds too loudly in the quiet apartment. 

“Right, well, uhm—I should ” he points a thumb over his shoulder, “I should get going now, so.” He glances at the clock again, it reads two o'two. “It's pretty late and I've got—” He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at his scalp. “I've to go to work in like three hours and Joseph—my boss—is gonna kill me if I don't show up on time. So, yeah.” 

He knows he's rambling at this point, but Jimmy hasn't said a word in response. His neighbor is busy scrubbing the dishes. Maybe he hadn't heard him? Oh, wait. Oh shit. What if he's hard of hearing and Peter was just being a complete asshole the whole time assuming that the man could perfectly hear him?

Peter is halfway between the living room and the kitchen when Jimmy finally responds.

“Okay.”

Okay? “Okay,” Peter echoes quietly. 

He dusts the invisible lint from his knees and walks to the front door, feeling off-kilter. It's that same feeling you get when you're about to leave your home and you think you've forgotten something important, like your wallet or your phone, but you double check and find that you do have them on you, but still can't shake that feeling. He hesitates at the door, hand hovering over the door knob, internally wrestling with himself. It'd probably be, like, polite and stuff if he invited Jimmy to Cheryl's and his little crappy Christmas thingy they have. The guy seems… kinda lonely, anyway. And not to be an asshole, but looking around at the frankly sad amount of furniture in this apartment, he kind of doubts Jimmy has, like, people to hang out with on Christmas. 

“Uhm—” he hesitates, as his throat closes up when Jimmy turns to look at him. “Do you want to come over? For Christmas, I mean. Me and Cheryl, it's not much, it's just us two, but we get together for Christmas in the evening, like around five, and we just, like, hang out and chill at Cheryl’s. If you don't have plans, that is.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as he sniffles. His hands feel oddly cold for some reason. 

There's another pregnant, awkward pause as Jimmy continues to stare at him through the curtain of his hair. The longer the moment drags on, the more Peter's convinced he's gonna say no, so to save himself from the humiliation of rejection, he opens his mouth to dismiss his invitation when Jimmy interrupts his thoughts.

“Who's Cheryl?”

“Oh, uhm—she's our neighbor. An old lady who lives across from my apartment and probably, like, two doors down from you. She's pretty cool.” 

Peter clears his throat, scuffing his feet on the wood floors. Damn. He forgot his shoes. After a beat, Jimmy murmurs ‘okay,’ and if it weren't for Peter's enhanced hearing, he doubts he would've heard him. 

December 24th, 2024

This time when he sits up in bed, he knows it's 4:30 AM instead of two in the butt ass morning. Seems like he'd accidentally set his alarm clock to automatic, so now the radio is playing at full blast and he groans just as loud, rubbing his eyes pitifully. He longs for sleep as he drags his ass out of bed and into the bathroom, sticking his toothbrush into his mouth as he listens to the station with half an ear.

“Good early morning, New York City! It is December 24th, Christmas Eve day, holiday cheer is filling the air, and it is currently 5:00 AM—the sun will rise at 7:20 AM. We're looking at a cloudy and cold day ahead of us with a high of 30 and a low of 5, with a 90% chance of snow starting at around 5:00 PM, and it's expected to be snowing throughout tomorrow as well. So make sure to bundle up well, New York! As it seems, we're gonna be having a white Christmas this year. Now over to Zack with the morning traffic…” 

Running on nothing but the fumes of benevolent hatred for capitalism, paranoia, and a giant ‘fuck you’ to everybody who has the luck of running into a sleep deprived Peter before the sun is even out, he secures his douche-shades onto his face and steps out into the hallway at exactly 4:30 AM. He usually clocks into Joe's Paste House at five o'fucking clock in the morning. Because Joseph, for whatever fucking reason, likes to open at six in the morning with some flimsy excuse about how ‘the early bird gets the early worm.’ 

Fuck those worms and fuck everybody, Peter grumbles as he fixes his A.S.T.A.T. onto the door frame and steps out into the hallway, ready to take on another shitshow of a day. 

By the time he's inserting the key into his apartment door, taking off the A.S.T.A.T for the second time today, it's three in the evening as he's got a huge stain of spaghetti sauce that a toddler had the joy of smearing on his apron and two giant bags (ten pounds each to be exact) of Iron Man and Batman sour gummies that he found on discount at the mom and pop shop from across his job for five dollars (it was a BOGO deal!) He saw them and immediately knew he had to have them. He knows they'll make for a perfect Christmas gift for the Man in the Tin Can. It's genius of him, really. The gummies are supposed to be super extra sour, but some of the Iron Man and Batman head shapes look a bit… off. 

He pauses from where he's finagling with his door, his eyebrows drawing together as the back of his neck starts to itch and tingle. Is someone behind him? The hairs on the back of his neck and arms start to stand on end as he slowly turns his head. His hands are shaking, his heartbeat is erratic, and his stomach is plummeting to his feet. Shit, shit, shit. He can't swallow; he feels like vomiting. He doesn't want to turn around. What if it's—it's them ? What if they're behind him? Ready to make good on their word? He's scared stiff, but he turns around painstakingly slow.

He can only imagine what the world would say seeing Spider-Man scared straight because of a boogeyman. They'd laugh in his face.

They'd hate him, something vile whispers in the hallway. 

And that's what makes him whip his head around, but to no avail, he finds no one there. As far as he can see, every door down the hallway is closed. Cheryl's door is closed. Tonya’s door is closed. Jimmy's door is closed. David's door is closed. His door is open, but no one is out in the hallway. God… he's going insane. Or maybe he's just tired… Yeah, that sounds about right, he reasons to himself as he nods his head. He's really tired and hearing… voices… which can be logically explained away. He barely gets any more than four hours of sleep a night, so it's bound to take a toll on him, spider powers or not. 

But then—what's that buzzing sound? He frowns to himself and scans the corners of the hallway. It sounds like… bees? But he doesn't see any bees or beehives hanging around. Maybe it's outside…? But the buzzing is growing so loud now. The sound of a thousand angry swarming insects. It's bees… it must be bees! It can't be anything else! Nothing else is this loud and angry. They must've somehow made their way in. Maybe through an open door or somebody who forgot to close their window. He swallows heavily. They’ve made their way in, and they're getting closer.

The angry bees sting the back of his eyes, drowning out the sound of everything and anything as they swarm over and hoard his head. They're taking control as they step forward and lay a hand on Cheryl's doorknob. What is he doing? It must be the bees. It's not him, it can't be him. He's not doing this. There's nothing wrong with him. He's in control. It's the bees. The bees have control, and they won't stop as he twists open the doorknob, and cool air from the inside of the apartment rushes outside. The bees urge him forward. The more he stands still, the more he debilitates, the angrier they grow. 

Move, they whisper in his ear. 

Leave, they shout at him. 

Here they are! Their screams echo in the dead of the hall. 

His mouth flounders open and closed, gasping, as his diaphragm spasms. He can't breathe, god, he can't breathe. The bees are in his lungs now, and they're taking over every inch of his body. Please, help him! Somebody help him! He clutches at the wall desperately. These bees won't stop; they're so angry, and he can't move. The terror is paralyzing, and the fear is breaking him. The bees are choking his lungs and attacking his heart. Puncturing his muscles as their venom sinks its way into his veins. The rushing, whooshing sound of his dying beating heart fills his ears, like that of a jackrabbit, raring to punch its way out of his chest. 

Stop! Stop! STOP! 

He's painfully sucked back into reality by the sound of Tonya's door opening.

It breaks the stillness that's encroached into the air. Tonya is stepping out of her apartment, kiddos in tow. She's looking at him in concern, confusion etched all over her face. Nonetheless, she still smiles at him like always, tentatively, like nothing is amiss and Peter's world hadn't almost just warped in itself and come crashing down. 

“Peter…?” Her voice is low and placating.

Peter says nothing as he stares at her. 

“Peter?” Her head cocks to the side. He sees her eyes dart to Cheryl’s open door. “Remember, Cheryl has her doctor's appointments every Tuesday in the afternoons?” The ‘what are you doing’ is left unvoiced but implied.

“Uhm—I, I, uh…” 

How does Peter tell her he's been freaking out? How does he tell her that he's been spiraling? How does he tell her something's not right and that he's Spider-Man and his spider sense has been going crazy? How does he tell her he lost the only family he had left and he's so fucking lonely that he's mentally fucked in the head? How does he tell her someone is stalking him and knows his secret identity and that he's suddenly gained a suspicious sum of money from his wealthy dead parents and now his life may never be the same?

Right. He can't. 

So, he draws himself in, compartmentalizes the emotions, the wild instincts, and every bit of himself that's not normal, and shoves it away because he's supposed to be a superhero, and superheroes absolutely cannot have mental breakdowns in front of civilians.

“Nothing. Sorry, I forgot about that.” He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he sticks them in his pockets and tries to get his panicked breathing under control.

“Are you…” Tonya steps closer to him, staring at his face. Her kids linger in front of her apartment door, messing around with each other quietly. “Peter, are you okay?” 

“What? Yeah, why?” He touches his face and feels something wet on his cheeks. He draws his hand back from his cheek, startled to see tears on the tips of his fingers. Hastily, he wipes his cheek with the sleeve of his dirty uniform and almost jumps when something brushes the back of his pant leg. 

Oh, right. 

He forgot about the two bags of shitty sour gummies he bought. Peter realizes too late that she's asked him another question, but he was too busy, lost in his head like a lunatic. 

“Sorry… what'd you say?” Peter looks at her, but not quite in the eyes. 

“Oh, I just wanted to thank you for agreeing to watch the kids this morning.” She glances back at them and smiles. “You're doing me a huge favor, Peter and I can't thank you enough, sweetheart. So, I thought, what better way to say ‘thank you’ than a slice of cake!” She then holds out a Tupperware container with cake.

“I—” What? Peter wants to say. He's still stuck on the fact that she said he'd agreed to watch her kids this morning. He has absolutely no recollection of ever agreeing to babysit her kids (not that he's opposed to it), unless he really was fucking out of it. It could be that he was sleepwalking and sleep talking, but that doesn't make sense. He swallows hard. Something's not right here , that little voice whispers in the back of his head. All the hairs on the back of his arms start to stand straight up.

He opens his mouth to correct her, and to tell her that he never agreed, and that maybe that wasn't him who she was talking to, but then Melanie pokes her head out from around her mom and gives him a happy little wave. The look on her innocent little face makes his gut clench, so he listens to that feeling and bottles his concerns away into something to analyze later. He shouldn't ruin their holidays with his paranoid debacle or red string theories. Peter eyes the one CCTV camera winking in the corner of the hallway. He'll have to check out the footage later. He plasters on a pleasant expression, forcing himself to meet Tonya's eyes and pretend like everything is alright. 

He grabs the Tupperware held out to him, inhaling deeply. “Yeah! Of course. What day did we agree on again?” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, as he flubbers his way through the conversation he has no recollection of having previously. He thinks his smile might look a little fake from the way his face feels so stiff.

“Wednesday,” she nods her head. 

“Awesome!” He snaps her fingers at her and guesses, “at fuh… fiiiivvee?” 

“Yup! Five pm, Wednesday.” She is smiling widely, something like relief evident in her eyes. 

Lucky guess. “Remind me again but… we talked about it before I left for work?” He exaggerates his confusion as he tries to surmise what happened. 

“Yeah,” she squints at him. “I’d say it was about five fifteen when you were leaving and I caught ‘ya before you left.” 

He slaps his palms against his thighs. “Righttt! I remember now!” Peter definitely doesn't remember, and he definitely left for work at 4:30 AM and not 5:15 AM. “Sorry, I must've been really out of it, Tonya,” he laughs awkwardly.

She seems to believe his fibbing and chuckles as well. “Alright, Mr. Parker. I gotta round up these kids to take them to the grocery store with me.” 

Peter nods his head. “See you later, Tonya!” He turns around and takes a step back. 

He's got one foot in the door to his apartment when Tonya calls back down to him. “Oh, and Peter?” 

“Yeah?” He says, lodging a foot against the door to hold it. 

“Just in case we don't see each other tomorrow, Merry Christmas!” She yells down the hallway.

Right. He'd forgotten she was leaving for Pennsylvania tonight to see family for the holidays. The twins, Melanie and Marcus, wave at him from around their mom, their little voices yelling down, ‘Merry Christmas’ to him as well. Tonya's youngest son is too busy smashing his Hawkeye and Green Lantern figurine toys together.

And despite everything, for the first time today, a small genuine smile stretches onto his face. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says.