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.
Me: hey. is the desk still available?
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.
Daniel Barnes: Hello :) . Its Daniel . And yes ,, thank you .
Yup. Definitely an old dude. Peter responds immediately.
Me: when can i come pick it up?
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.
Daniel Barnes: If you would like to now . Or in the morning .?.
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.
Me: yeah, i can pick it up now. i just don't have a vehicle to haul it.
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.
Daniel Barnes: ONo worrie !!:) I hav a truvk . I cab hekp deliver ..
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.
Me: sounds awesome man. but before you deliver it, i wanna come look at it. what's your address?
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.
Me: hey. i'm here but i don't know if you sent me the right address?
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.
Daniel Barnes: Yess !!:) . Im doen in thb lohhy .
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.
Me: i'm here. where are you?
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.