Chapter 1
Notes:
If y’all see any grammar mistakes, please point them out, and if you have questions about anything, don’t be afraid to ask!
Chapter Text
The Iceberg Lounge glittered in the dark like a treasure chest cracked open—blue lights glowing against polished glass, golden fixtures reflecting like tiny stars, and the cool hum of soft jazz curling through the air. It was no place for children.
And yet…
A child wandered in.
Small, barely reaching the bar stools. Wide brown eyes, curly hair sticking out in odd directions, clothes wrinkled, too light for the Gotham chill. He stood in the entryway, blinking against the dazzle of overhead lights like a moth stunned by a flame.
Peter Parker didn’t really know where he was. He just knew it was warm. And sparkly. And not yelling.
“Hey,” called the bartender—Rocco, a thick-set man with tattoos peeking out from his sleeves. “This ain’t a daycare, kid.”
Peter flinched but didn’t move.
Then he mumbled, “Can I just sit for a little bit?”
Rocco squinted. He expected someone to come rushing in after the kid, panicked. Maybe a nanny. A parent. A cop. Nothing. Just silence and snow behind him.
“You lost?”
Peter shrugged. “Maybe.”
Rocco sighed. He poured a shot of apple juice into a clean whiskey glass and set it on the counter. “Alright, sparkplug. One drink. Then we call someone.”
Peter smiled shyly, scampered to a barstool, and climbed—awkwardly, using his elbows and knees.
He nearly made it.
Nearly.
One second he was sitting, the next—
Thump.
The stool tipped and down he went like a sack of potatoes. He blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.
“Nope,” muttered Rocco, stepping around the bar. “You’re gonna crack your skull like that.”
Peter giggled, dazed. “That was fun.”
“You’re gonna give me a heart attack, kid.”
He came back the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Always slipping in through the door when it opened for someone else. Always smelling faintly of wet leaves and subway grime. Always alone.
Day One.
Peter scrambled up the barstool like it was a jungle gym, wobbled once at the top, and then—
Thud.
Rocco winced. “…You alive?”
From the floor, Peter’s tiny voice chirped, “Uh-huh!”
Day Three.
Peter climbed more confidently this time, swung a leg over, and sat down with all the triumph of a mountaineer conquering Everest.
He grinned. Held up one hand. “Made it!”
And then he leaned too far forward trying to grab his juice and—
Thump.
“Damn it—!”
“‘M fine!” came the muffled reply.
Day Five.
This time, the bartender caught him halfway down.
Peter dangled upside down in Rocco’s arms, blinking. “Hi.”
“Hi. You planning to fall off this thing every day?”
Peter considered that, then said seriously, “I’m not doing it on purpose.”
Day Six.
They gave him a cushion. Just a folded towel.
He wiggled around excitedly, drank his apple juice, kicked his legs—
—and the towel slipped.
“Whoops—”
THUMP.
Peter groaned. “My butt.”
Day Seven.
A waitress tried to catch him. She did not succeed.
Peter hit the floor, blinked, and smiled up at her like nothing happened.
“I bounced,” he said proudly.
“No, you concussed,” she muttered, rubbing her head. “We need a plan.”
Day Eight.
A booster seat was found in storage. Dusty, but functional.
Peter beamed like he’d just been crowned king. “It’s a throne!”
He lasted nearly the full hour before he leaned backward to look at the sparkly chandelier and—
Wobble. Crash.
Rocco sighed from behind the bar. “That’s it. We’re installing a back.”
Day Nine.
Booster seat plus cushioned backrest. Peter sat proudly.
“Comfy?”
“Uh-huh.”
Five minutes in, he twisted around to look at the stage, leaned too far, overbalanced the whole booster, and—
BOOM.
Peter vanished.
“…Where the hell did he go?”
They found him under the counter, blinking. “I fell down.”
Rocco stared at him. “You’re a goddamn flight risk.”
Day Eleven
Seatbelt.
They installed a seatbelt.
It went right between his legs and buckled at his waist like a Disneyland ride.
Peter dangled his legs and chirped, “I’m strapped in like a rocket!”
“Yeah, well, if you go airborne again, I’m calling NASA,” muttered Rocco.
Peter wiggled in his seat, wiggled some more, twisted halfway sideways—
jerk.
The seatbelt caught. He flopped back into place with a surprised oof.
“Hey,” he grinned. “It works!”
Day Twelve
No falls.
No flops.
Just one small boy, sipping apple juice, belting out made-up lyrics to the jazz music playing in the background.
Rocco watched him, arms folded.
The kid was still too skinny. Still had that oversized hoodie. Still always alone.
But today, at least, he was safe.
And upright.
For once.
Day Thirteen.
Peter didn’t even make it to the bar.
He tripped over the doormat.
Face-planted into the entry rug with a loud fwump, backpack going one way, body the other.
A bouncer peered over. “…You good?”
Peter gave a thumbs-up from the floor. “Yeah! That was on purpose.”
(It was absolutely not on purpose.)
Day Fourteen
Rocco watched Peter sprint toward the bar like his feet were on fast-forward.
“Slow down, kid—”
Peter tripped on absolutely nothing—just air, gravity, and hubris.
He skidded forward, hit the side of a waitress’s boot, and grabbed her leg like a life preserver.
“I’m okay!” he declared as he dangled there. “You’re tall!”
Day Fifteen
Peter tripped on the same step twice in one visit.
Once coming in.
Once going out.
Both times:
Face. Floor.
The second time, he lay there dramatically and sighed. “Maybe the floor just misses me.”
One of the card dealers muttered, “If he ends up in traction, I’m not explaining it to Penguin.”
Day Sixteen
Peter tried to twirl.
Why? No one knows. There was music. He was happy. He twirled.
Then he twirled into a chair leg.
Thunk.
He sat down on the floor, blinking. “That chair’s mean.”
Rocco replied without looking up, “It’s a chair, not a villain.”
“Maybe it’s both.”
Day Seventeen
Peter tripped on a drink tray.
Peter tripped on his own shoelace.
Peter tripped trying to re-tie his shoelace.
Finally, the bartender snapped, “Kid! Just sit!”
Peter flopped into his booster, sighed loudly, and within seconds—
Thunk.
He dropped his apple juice off the bar.
Rocco stared at the shattered glass on the floor.
Peter blinked at it, then whispered, “Oops.”
Day Eighteen
Peter tripped over a feather boa someone dropped.
He got tangled.
He rolled.
When he came to a stop, he sat up wrapped like a burrito and said, “I am fashion.”
Someone in the back muttered, “This kid’s a walking lawsuit.”
Day Nineteen
They tried to make Peter walk slower.
“Okay, bud,” said one of the cocktail servers, kneeling. “You just have to go… gentle feet. Like a fox.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “I can fox.”
He took one careful step.
Two.
Then he tripped on his booster strap, fell forward, and grabbed a barstool that dragged two others with it like dominos.
CRASH.
“I’m okay!”
He was not okay. He was stuck inside the legs of a barstool like a spider in a chair trap.
Rocco groaned into his hands. “We need to bubble wrap him.”
Day Twenty-One
Someone did bring bubble wrap.
Peter wore it like a cape.
He tripped three times anyway.
It just made funnier noises now.
Pop pop pop thud.
Peter sat up and announced, “I’m invincible.”
Rocco leaned over the bar, deadpan. “You’re five and made of rubber bands.”
Day Twenty-Four
The Lounge was unusually calm. Too calm.
Peter had juice.
Peter had crayons.
Peter had somehow convinced the hostess to give him a napkin “to draw a treasure map.”
No one was looking too closely. He was quiet, which meant something was wrong. But they were all busy—Rocco was restocking mixers, the servers were swapping shift stories, and the saxophonist was arguing with the pianist again.
So no one noticed when:
Peter took apart a paperclip.
Peter dipped it in his apple juice.
Peter poked it into an electric floor outlet by the bar.
There was a spark.
A fzzzt.
And then—
WHOOSH.
A tiny napkin fire blazed to life on the bar.
Peter stared at it. Eyes wide.
“Oh no.”
He tried to smother it with another napkin. That caught fire too.
He blew on it. That made it worse.
He poured juice on it—sticky and sugary and hot now from the sparks.
The fire made a sizzling noise.
“Uh-oh,” Peter whispered, frozen. “I did a science.”
Rocco smelled smoke.
He turned around just in time to see:
• Flames, tiny but real
• Apple juice soaking into the bar
• Peter standing on his booster seat holding a crayon like a magic wand
• And muttering, “I think this is how Iron Man started.”
Rocco screamed.
Someone else screamed.
Peter screamed loudest.
One Fire Extinguisher Later…
The fire was out.
The bar was wet.
Peter was damp, singed, and blinking like a kicked puppy.
“I didn’t mean to make fire,” he sniffled. “I was just makin’ a juice-and-lightning experiment. I was bein’ smart!”
Rocco knelt down, hands on his knees, staring him dead in the eye. “You built a lightning bomb with crayons and a paperclip, you maniac!”
Peter’s lower lip wobbled. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”
Someone from the back called, “Should we get him tested for superpowers?”
“No!” Rocco shouted. Then, muttering: “…Maybe.”
Aftermath:
Peter was banned from:
• Paperclips
• Napkins
• All wall outlets
• Experiments of any kind
He now had a little laminated “Peter Activity Box” with crayons, juice with a screw-top lid, blunt scissors, and zero napkins.
He sat in his booster-with-back-and-seatbelt combo, legs swinging, happily drawing.
Rocco stared at him like one might a ticking time bomb with dimples.
Peter glanced up and grinned. “I didn’t know juice could burn. Cool, huh?”
Rocco just sighed. “I’m retiring.”
Chapter 2
Summary:
Peter Parker vs. the Concept of ‘Helping’
Chapter Text
Day Twenty-Six.
Peter decided he wanted a job.
He had announced it proudly, standing on his booster seat and holding his juice like a CEO about to address the boardroom.
“I’m ready to help now. I can carry things! I’m strong and sticky!”
Rocco blinked. “…Sticky?”
Peter nodded seriously. “Like a lizard.”
“That’s not—okay, just—just sit down, buddy.”
But Peter did not sit down.
Because someone, somewhere, had left a craft kit on the side counter.
Why was there glue in the Lounge?
Unclear. Possibly something involving a themed night or a bored hostess.
Regardless—Peter found it.
And he used it.
First, to glue two crayons together.
Then a napkin to his elbows.
Then, somehow—himself to the floor.
Enter: Rocco, Mid-Rush
“Peter, what did I say about—”
Pause.
Blink.
“…Why are you stuck to the tiles?”
Peter looked up from where he was crouched like a little gremlin, hands flat on the floor, glue bottle next to him.
“I was makin’ a trap. For bad guys.”
“You glued yourself to the Lounge.”
“I didn’t mean to!” Peter wiggled his fingers. “I wanted to catch robbers, not me!”
Rocco facepalmed. “You are the robber. You robbed me of peace.”
Thirty minutes later Peter was unstuck (with a lot of olive oil and muttered curses).
He had been relocated to a quiet corner.
But then he spotted the cocktail trays.
Shiny. Balanced. Full of drinks.
One wobbly tray leaned off the edge of a prep counter.
Peter, ever helpful, ran over to fix it.
He stretched—reached—
…nudged it.
And in perfect slow motion:
Tray slipped.
Tray tipped.
Tray launched.
CRASH.
Glasses exploded like fireworks across the Lounge floor.
People ducked. Someone swore.
Peter stood frozen in the middle of the mess, mouth open in a perfect “O.”
“…Oops.”
Rocco sprinted in like a man halfway through a heart attack. “WHAT. HAPPENED.”
Peter pointed. “The tray exploded.”
“You exploded it!!”
“I was helpin’!”
“You were destroyin’!”
Aftermath:
Peter now has:
• A “No Trays Allowed” sticker on his booster seat
• A ban from “helping”
• A suspicious smell of glue that no one can figure out
The Lounge now has:
• Three fewer glasses
• One small mop bucket labeled “Peter’s Zone”
• Staff members who flinch every time someone says “I’ll help!”
Peter sat cross-legged in the corner, holding his apple juice with two hands.
“I didn’t mean to do bad,” he said sadly.
Rocco, sweeping up glass, grunted, “Kid, you invent new kinds of bad.”
Peter blinked. “Does that mean I’m creative?”
Rocco sighed and muttered, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Peter grinned. “Then I get to go to your funeral!”
“…You’re not allowed to talk anymore.”
Chapter 3
Notes:
Any grammar mistakes? Point them out!
I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Day Thirty-One
It was loud at the front—penguin-shaped neon flashing in the windows, jazz thumping under soft conversation and clinking glass.
But the back hallway?
Quieter.
That’s where the new hires were talking. Two fresh-faced servers on their first real shift. Still learning the ropes. Still learning who was who.
And trying to figure out why there was a five-year-old in the Lounge.
“Is that the kid I’ve heard about?” one of them asked, voice just a little too casual. “The sticky one?”
“Yeah, Peter or whatever,” the other laughed. “He’s like a walking hazard sign. I saw him try to mop once. He mopped up the walls.”
The first snorted. “Why’s he even here? This isn’t a daycare. You’d think someone’d have called Child Services by now.”
Peter wasn’t supposed to be nearby.
He wasn’t supposed to hear that.
But he had wandered close to the hallway, chasing a crayon that fell out of his lap. Quiet as a mouse.
And he did hear it.
His fingers curled around the crayon. His eyes dropped.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t go running, didn’t cry.
Just went back to his seat, pulled his knees up into the booster, and sat very, very still.
Didn’t sip his juice.
Didn’t hum.
Didn’t draw.
Rocco noticed first.
The kid wasn’t swinging his legs.
Wasn’t making weird crayon sound effects or narrating his scribbles.
He was just… still.
“Pete?” Rocco asked, drying a glass. “You good?”
Peter shrugged one shoulder. “’M fine.”
The words were automatic.
Too quiet. Too flat.
Rocco put the glass down.
It didn’t take long. One of the waitresses came in from the back, face like thunder.
“Rocco.”
“What?”
“You got new staff running their mouths about Peter like he’s some stray raccoon, and he heard it.”
Rocco’s jaw locked.
Behind the bar, Peter was hugging his knees now.
And still not drinking his juice.
That was the final red flag.
Peter blinked as a soft hoodie was draped over his shoulders.
“Cold?” asked one of the bartenders gently.
He shook his head.
“Just in case,” she said softly, tousling his curls. “Don’t want you getting sick.”
Another staff member crouched next to his seat with a second juice. “Double apple today, boss. Extra chilly, just how you like it.”
Peter didn’t look up.
Didn’t take it.
His voice cracked when he whispered, “I heard them.”
Rocco crouched down behind the bar, arms braced on his knees.
“Kid,” he said quietly. “Listen. You don’t ever take garbage from people who don’t know you.”
Peter looked up, lip wobbling. “They said I shouldn’t be here.”
Rocco didn’t raise his voice. But every word hit like a sledgehammer.
“They don’t decide who belongs here. You got that?”
Peter blinked.
Rocco leaned in, gently tugging the juice toward him. “You’ve been here longer than they have. You’re family. They’re tourists. Tourists don’t get to talk trash about my kid.”
That made Peter blink. “I’m your kid?”
Rocco cleared his throat. “In spirit.”
From the other side of the bar, someone chimed in: “You’re all our kid, short stack.”
“Yeah,” another added. “Without you, this place would be boring as hell.”
Peter smiled. Just barely.
Then slowly—carefully—reached out and took his juice.
He sipped.
And finally swung his legs again.
The new hires were reassigned. Far from Peter’s section.
And a sticky note showed up on the hallway wall:
❝If you talk about the kid again, do it with love. Or don’t talk at all.❞
—Management
Day Thirty-Three
It started innocently.
Peter had finished his juice. He hopped off his booster seat, tugged on the bottom of his hoodie, and proudly declared to the nearest staff member:
“I gotta go potty. By myself.”
Rocco looked up from stacking glasses. “You sure you don’t want someone to—”
“I’m a grown up,” Peter said with great dignity. “I can do it.”
And off he marched.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Rocco squinted toward the hallway. “…Did he fall in?”
A waitress muttered, “Maybe he got lost again.”
“Not possible. He’s got the floor plan of this place memorized better than me.”
Another minute passed.
Then—
“Um… Hello?”
A small, tinny voice echoed from the hallway.
Then louder:
“I’m kinda stuck.”
Cue chaos.
Rocco bolted around the corner like he’d just heard an explosion.
The door to the men’s bathroom was slightly ajar. A single sneaker peeked out from beneath the far stall.
Peter sniffled. “I locked it. But now it won’t un-lock. And the toilet is looking at me funny.”
Rocco knocked gently on the stall. “Okay, okay, no big deal. Just turn the latch back, alright?”
“I tried ! It won’t move!”
“Try again?”
Rattle-rattle-rattle.
CLUNK.
“Ow,” Peter muttered. “My wrist made a crunch noise.”
“Oh my god,” someone whispered from behind Rocco. “Is he gonna die in there?”
“He’s five, not eighty!”
Rocco growled. “Kid, don’t panic. Stay still, alright? We’re gonna get you out.”
“I have to pee again,” Peter said miserably.
The Extraction Effort Begins
Within moments:
• One bouncer was testing hinges
• A server was offering snacks under the door
• Someone called maintenance
• Two staff members were loudly debating whether or not they should just kick the door down
Inside, Peter whimpered, “I don’t want my ghost to haunt the toilet forever.”
Rocco said, “YOU ARE NOT DYING IN THERE.”
Enter: Selina Kyle
Dressed to kill, heels clicking, one eyebrow raised.
“What’s all the yelling?”
“Peter’s stuck in the stall,” someone explained.
Selina sighed like this was not the first time she’d heard that sentence.
“Did anyone try a screwdriver?”
“Maintenance is five minutes out—”
Selina rolled her eyes, opened her purse, and pulled out a hairpin.
“I got it.”
Click.
The door swung open.
Peter sat on the floor, flushed and red-eyed, legs crossed, looking utterly defeated.
“I was gonna live in here forever,” he mumbled.
Selina crouched down. “Not with that ugly tile, sweetheart.” She helped him up, brushed off his hoodie, and gave him a wink. “Come on, bathroom bandit.”
Peter sniffled. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “Next time, just yell earlier, okay? We all thought you fell in.”
“I didn’t. But I almost peed on my shoe.”
A sign appeared on the stall door:
⚠️ If you are Peter, please don’t lock this. Just knock on the wall and we’ll come help. Love, The Lounge
A second note was added in marker underneath:
P.S. If trapped, do NOT make a deal with the toilet ghost. He lies.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Any grammar mistakes? Point them out!
I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Day Thirty-Seven
The kitchen was busy.
Pre-rush buzz. Orders flying. Knives chopping. Servers dodging like trained ballerinas.
And no one noticed the tiny hooded blur sneak past the swinging doors, tugging his sleeves down over his hands.
Peter had been on a mission:
He needed ice.
For science.
His goal?
To see if he could “make a snowball inside.”
His method?
Break into the walk-in freezer and collect “snow chunks.”
Rocco explicitly told him:
“Stay outta the kitchen, Pete. There’s knives, fire, boiling stuff—you’ll turn into soup or ice cubes.”
Peter promised.
Crossed his heart.
And then immediately broke that promise like it was a graham cracker.
Inside the Walk-In Freezer
Peter stood triumphantly beneath hanging bags of frozen veggies, gripping a fistful of frost from the back wall.
“This is perfect,” he whispered to no one, shoving a half-frozen green bean in his pocket for later.
He turned to leave.
And the heavy door?
Clicked.
Shut.
Locked.
Five Minutes Later
No one noticed at first.
Until Peter didn’t answer when Rocco asked if he wanted another juice.
Until he didn’t show up for his daily crayon critique of the lounge décor.
Until someone said, “Hey, where’s the kid?” and everyone froze.
It hit like lightning.
“The kitchen.”
Kitchen Panic
“Peter?!”
“Did he go near the stove again?”
“Check under the counter—he curled up there last week!”
“WAIT. THE FREEZER!”
A waitress flung the freezer door open—
And there he was.
Sitting cross-legged on a milk crate.
Shivering.
Hood up. Cheeks red. A half-formed snowball in his lap.
“I got stuck,” he said through chattering teeth. “But I made two snowballs.”
“YOU COULD’VE FROZEN INTO A PETER-POP,” Rocco yelled from behind her.
Peter blinked up at them. “What’s a pop?”
“You, if we were ten minutes later!”
They wrapped him in three coats and two dish towels.
Selina showed up with a space heater.
Someone made him a “non-freezable snowball” out of cotton.
Peter sipped warm apple cider and whispered, “I think I saw my breath become a ghost.”
Rocco muttered, “I saw my soul leave my body when I realized you were in there.”
New Lounge Rules (Posted in Big Red Letters)
🚫 NO KIDS IN THE KITCHEN
🚫 NO FREEZER “EXPERIMENTS”
🚫 NO SNOWBALLS MADE OF VEGETABLE ICE
⚠️ IF YOU FIND PETER, ASK HIM WHAT HE’S DOING IMMEDIATELY.
☃️ IF YOU SEE PETER IN THE FREEZER, SCREAM FIRST. THEN SAVE HIM.
Peter now walks past the kitchen with wide eyes and a respectful whisper:
“That fridge is a trap.”
Rocco adds, “So is you unsupervised for five minutes.”
Day Thirty-Nine
There was a fancy event happening—something glitzy. Probably one of Penguin’s big charity scams with silver trays and velvet ropes and people in uncomfortable shoes.
The Lounge had been transformed. Elegant lighting. Soft music. Even fancier appetizers. And right in the middle of the grand room…
An ice sculpture.
A big, swirly, glitter-covered penguin—frozen solid, perched on a mirrored platform.
Peter had never seen anything so majestic in his entire five years of life.
“It’s a frozen bird,” he whispered in awe. “Like a shiny ghost chicken.”
“Don’t touch it,” a server warned as she passed by. “It’s just for decoration.”
Peter nodded solemnly.
He would absolutely not touch it.
Touching would be wrong.
…But no one said anything about licking.
Two minutes later—
SSSSLLLLLLP.
THHHWWAAACK.
Peter’s tongue made contact.
Then refused to let go.
His muffled scream was instant.
“MMMMPH!!”
Eyes wide. Arms flailing. Feet slipping on the floor.
Tongue?
Firmly attached.
He started pawing at the sculpture in blind panic, making soft, horrified whimpering sounds like a wounded cat.
“OH MY GOD,” yelled a waitress.
“HE DID THE THING! HE DID THE THING!”
Within seconds, the Lounge was in crisis mode.
Rocco came sprinting around the corner and nearly crashed into a tray. “What’s—oh for the love of—PETER!”
Peter just whimpered.
“Mmmm! Mmmmhp! Pfffffff!”
“You licked it?! Why would you lick it?!”
Peter’s eyes were brimming with tears. His hands slapped the base of the sculpture in betrayal.
One of the busboys shouted, “We need warm water! A towel! A blow dryer! A flamethrower!”
“Not a flamethrower!” Selina snapped as she arrived. “We want him unstuck, not flambéed!”
Extraction Attempt #1: The Towel Soak
Warm water was gently dabbed onto the sculpture.
Didn’t work.
Peter made a panicked squeaking noise.
Attempt #2: Breathing Gently on His Face
A bartender knelt down and exhaled softly like he was trying to thaw out a frozen squirrel.
Peter sneezed directly into his face.
Attempt #3: “Just Pull It”
“No!” half the staff screamed. “We are not leaving his tongue on the penguin!”
Finally, with a warm rag, a hair dryer set to low, and a whispered “It’s okay, buddy, we got you”—
Peter came free.
With one final wet sllrrp, he stumbled backward, tongue swollen, face red, tears running.
“I think the penguin was mad at me,” he sobbed.
“You licked its butt, Peter,” Rocco said weakly. “I would be mad too.”
Later, with a blanket and apple juice
Peter sat bundled up at the bar, sniffling.
“Never trust frozen birds,” he whispered hoarsely.
“You don’t say,” Selina muttered, rubbing her temples.
A Sign Was Added to the Sculpture:
❄️ DO NOT TOUCH
❄️ DO NOT LICK
❄️ PETER, THIS MEANS YOU
A second sign showed up under it:
❝NO TONGUES ON BIRDS. EVER.❞ – Management
Chapter 5
Notes:
Just so we’re clear, I know nothin’ about alcohol…so this was kind of hard to write. But I still had fun.
Any grammar mistakes? Point them out!
I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Day Forty-One
It had been a long night.
The Lounge was winding down. Jazz low. Lights dimmed. Guests trickling out.
Peter was still perched in his booster seat like a sleepy king, coloring in a wrinkled menu and sipping his third apple juice.
Well… he thought it was his apple juice.
Because on the bar, three identical shot glasses sat side-by-side.
One? Apple juice.
The others? A flight of local beers left behind by a guest.
Peter glanced up absently, reached without looking, and grabbed the wrong one.
He sipped.
Paused.
And then—
“BLEAGHHHH!!”
Peter convulsed.
His whole soul tried to leave his body.
He gagged. He flailed. He coughed so hard he nearly fell off the stool.
“MY TONGUE IS POISONED!!” he wailed. “WHAT IS THIS??”
Everyone Turned.
Rocco was there in seconds. “What did you just drink??”
Peter slammed the shot glass down like it had personally offended his ancestors.
“It was spicy apple juice but BAD and FIZZY and it tastes like old feet!”
One of the bartenders sniffed the glass, then groaned. “Oh no. That was a pale ale.”
Peter was now draped over the bar, tongue out, whining dramatically. “It attacked me!”
“You weren’t supposed to drink anything not handed to you,” Rocco scolded, grabbing a fresh juice and shoving it into Peter’s hands.
“I THOUGHT IT WAS MINE!”
“You can’t tell the difference between apple juice and beer?”
“I trusted the glass!” Peter wailed, tears forming. “It lied to me!”
For the Next Ten Minutes:
Peter:
• Drank four apple juices in a row to “kill the taste.”
• Made dramatic gagging noises every few seconds.
• Demanded a doctor “to check if he had beer disease.”
• Told everyone he was “never drinking again. Ever. Even water.”
Later, As Things Settled
Peter sat bundled in a blanket, sipping a fresh juice while glaring at the offending glass.
“You betrayed me,” he whispered. “You were the chosen one.”
Rocco rolled his eyes. “You took one sip.”
Peter looked up with haunted eyes. “And it haunts me.”
A New Lounge Rule Was Posted That Night:
All shot glasses must be removed when Peter is present.
🧃 Apple juice only.
🚫 No beer.
🚫 No “beer-flavored apple juice.” That includes kombucha, Rocco.
A second note was scribbled underneath:
❝Peter is not a taste tester. Stop letting him near the bar.❞ – Management
Day Forty-Four
Peter had been unusually well-behaved for almost an hour.
Too well-behaved.
He’d finished his juice. Drawn two pictures (a penguin in a top hat and what might have been Rocco on fire?), and only tripped once.
So, naturally, everyone got a little too comfortable.
“Whatcha doin’?” Peter asked, peering over the bar where Rocco was drying a glass with a towel.
“Cleaning,” Rocco grunted. “Gotta polish all these before closing.”
Peter’s eyes lit up.
He clasped his hands. “Can I help?? I’m very good at swirly things!”
Rocco blinked. “…What?”
“Swirly!” Peter mimed little circles in the air. “Like—whoosh whoosh! I saw you do it!”
Rocco hesitated. He knew better.
But Peter was giving him the eyes.
Big. Hopeful. Too-sweet-to-say-no eyes.
“…Fine. One. And you stay seated. Don’t move. Don’t drop it.”
Peter saluted. “YES, CHEF.”
Thirty Seconds Later
Crash.
Rocco didn’t even flinch. He just sighed and held out a hand. “Give me the towel.”
Peter pouted. “It jumped.”
But he begged again.
This time, they gave him a plastic cup.
Peter swirled it dramatically. “Look! I’m a glass ninja!”
He did a spin.
The cup flew out of his hand and smacked a tray.
CRASH.
Two real glasses went down like dominos.
Everyone flinched.
Peter gasped. “They exploded like snowflakes!”
“NO MORE HELPING!” Rocco bellowed. “SIT.”
But Peter was on a mission.
He wriggled off his booster, tiptoed to the stack of clean glasses behind the bar while Rocco was distracted, and grabbed another one.
He was halfway through “polishing” (read: aggressively smooshing) it with three napkins when—
CRACK.
Peter froze. Stared at the long, spider-web fracture up the side of the glass.
Then looked at the four other cracked ones nearby.
Then—
“ROCCO I THINK I BROKE FIFTEEN.”
Panic Mode Activated.
The bar cleared.
Staff scattered to rescue the dishes.
Peter was gently escorted back to his seat and wrapped in the Emergency Blanket of Destruction™.
He held his juice with both hands like a war veteran.
“I was trying to help,” he sniffled. “I was making them sparkly.”
Rocco muttered, “Kid, you sparkled them straight into the afterlife.”
Tally by End of Shift:
• 11 broken glasses
• 4 plastic cups cracked
• 2 towels shredded
• 1 stack of napkins somehow on fire (again)
• 1 child who insists he now has “glass PTSD”
New Rule Posted That Night:
🚫 PETER MAY NOT CLEAN THINGS.
🚫 OR POLISH THINGS.
🚫 OR TOUCH GLASS.
✅ PETER MAY SIT.
✅ DRINK JUICE.
✅ DRAW PENGUINS.
✅ AND NOTHING ELSE.
Another note scrawled in red ink under it:
❝If Peter says “Can I help?” you have exactly 3 seconds to run.❞ – Rocco
Chapter 6
Notes:
Any grammar mistakes? Point them out!
I hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day Forty-Six
At this point, the Lounge had accepted several universal truths:
1. Peter Parker would spill his juice.
2.He would trip at least twice a day.
3.If a chair could be fallen out of, Peter would do it.
But the booster seat—the custom one with the backrest, foot bar, seatbelt, and padded sides—was supposed to be Peter-proof.
It had been working.
For two whole weeks.
Until tonight.
Peter was mid-story, arms flailing as he reenacted some dramatic nonsense involving a flying raccoon and a sandwich thief.
He was standing—technically still in the booster, but doing a little bounce-dance thing that made his juice slosh dangerously.
Rocco had just turned his back.
And then—
“WHEEEEEEEEEE—”
THUNK.
Everyone turned.
Peter had launched himself backward.
The seat was still at the bar.
The belt still fastened.
Peter had slipped up, over, and out like a cartoon banana peel and was now lying on the floor still attached to the belt, hanging upside down like a bat.
Silence.
Peter blinked up at the ceiling.
“…I think I flew.”
Panic. Chaos. Emotional damage.
“I TOLD YOU HE DEFIES PHYSICS!” a server yelled.
“HOW DID HE EVEN—?!”
“DO WE NEED A NET?!”
Rocco stared in horror. “He unbuckled himself mid-bounce. Mid. Bounce. That’s a war crime.”
Peter sniffled from the floor. “I don’t feel so good.”
New Plan:
No more booster seat.
Now? A full harness system.
By the end of the night, Peter had:
• A padded booster base
• A five-point harness (donated by a bartender with a toddler)
• Velcro leg straps
• A chest clip
• And two plush penguin shoulder pads for comfort
The result?
Peter sat like a very adorable test pilot.
“Am I flying a spaceship now?” he asked, thrilled.
“No,” Rocco said flatly. “You’re flying nothing. You’re staying right there. Forever.”
Later That Night
Peter reached for his juice. The harness caught him just short.
“Can’t… reach…” he groaned, straining.
Rocco handed it to him without looking up. “That’s the point, Stretch Armstrong.”
New Lounge Sign:
Booster Seat Mark II – The Peter Containment Rig
🚫 No Standing
🚫 No Jumping
🚫 No In-flight Beverage Service
🛑 NO UNBUCKLING
Secondary note scrawled in red:
❝We are one bounce away from installing airbags.❞ – Rocco
Day Forty-Nine
It started with a sizzle.
A spark.
And then the unmistakable crackling hiss of oil hitting flame.
Someone yelled from the kitchen.
Then smoke drifted into the main lounge.
Not heavy—but visible.
“Fire! Get the extinguisher!” a voice barked.
Peter was still strapped into his full-body booster harness, doodling a penguin in a cowboy hat.
He looked up as the smoke slithered past the bar.
Smelled the burning.
Heard people running.
Heard the panic.
His grip on his crayon tightened.
His chest started rising fast.
His feet kicked against the harness—but the straps didn’t budge.
“Rocco?” he called, voice high and thin.
Rocco didn’t answer—he was already sprinting to the back.
Peter’s heart dropped.
His legs kicked harder.
He didn’t understand that it was a small fire.
That it was nearly out.
That everyone knew what they were doing.
All Peter knew was:
There was fire.
He couldn’t move.
No one was looking at him.
And so—
He panicked.
“ROCCO!!”
Peter shrieked like a siren, arms flailing wildly against the harness.
“LET ME OUT! I DON’T WANNA DIE! PLEASE!!”
His voice cracked into a sob.
“DON’T LEAVE ME—I’M STUCK—I’M TRAPPED—PLEASE DON’T GO—”
The sound cut through the Lounge like a blade.
People stopped mid-step.
Even the music was still.
Then—
Rocco was there.
“Peter!” he dropped to his knees, unfastening the harness in record time. “Kid, it’s okay. I’m right here, we got it, you’re safe—”
Peter lunged forward, grabbing onto his shirt like a lifeline and bursting into full, shaking sobs.
“I thought—I thought it was gonna burn up and I was gonna be stuck and I couldn’t move and—”
“Hey, hey, breathe. Shhh, I’ve got you.”
Rocco scooped him up, held him tight, hand rubbing over his back.
The rest of the Lounge backed off. Gave them space.
Smoke was already clearing. The fire was out. But no one said a word.
They just watched.
Because Peter wasn’t just some kid anymore.
He was the kid. Their kid.
And right now, he was terrified.
Ten minutes later Peter was curled up in a booth, wrapped in a fire blanket, sipping warm juice. His face was blotchy and red, eyes puffy.
He didn’t say much. Just leaned into Rocco’s side, holding onto his sleeve.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” he whispered.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Rocco replied gruffly. “You were scared. That’s okay.”
“I thought I’d never get out.”
“You could’ve set that seat on fire and we still would’ve gotten to you, Pete. Always.”
Peter nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Then, after a beat:
“…But also I might’ve peed a little.”
Rocco snorted. “You’re not the only one, kid.”
Later That Night, A New Sign Was Taped to the Harness Rig:
🔥 In Case of Fire:
🛑 UNBUCKLE THE KID FIRST.
🧃 THEN Grab the Juice.
❗️THEN Save Yourself.
And underneath, scribbled in sharpie:
❝No fire gets to Peter. Ever. Not on our watch.❞ – Lounge Crew
Day Fifty-One
It was late.
Crowd thinning. Music low.
Peter was curled up in his usual spot—booster seat, harness loosened, juice in hand, eyes drooping as he doodled sleepy penguins with one hand.
He was just starting to nod off.
And that’s when he showed up.
A tall, slurring, red-faced drunk guy with a crumpled blazer and too much to prove.
“Heyyy,” the man slurred, stumbling toward the bar. “That’s the freakin’ lounge mascot, right?”
No one answered him.
He wobbled over to Peter’s seat, blinking at the kid like he wasn’t quite real.
“Ain’t this the little goblin I been hearin’ about?” he said, loud. “Hey, kid. Boo.”
Peter blinked blearily. “Huh?”
The man leaned forward and banged the bar with both hands.
“BOO!!” he shouted in Peter’s face.
“AHH! FIRE! GHOST! GETCHA!”
Peter flinched back violently.
His juice spilled.
His drawing tore.
And his little hands scrambled uselessly against the harness as tears sprang up instantly.
“No—stop!” he gasped, voice breaking. “No fire—please don’t—”
His bottom lip quivered.
His whole body trembled.
He wasn’t laughing.
He was terrified.
And then—the temperature in the Lounge dropped ten degrees.
Because everyone saw.
And everyone heard.
Rocco’s voice cut through the room like a knife.
“Step. Away. From the kid.”
The drunk guy turned, blinking. “Wha? Relax, it was just a joke—”
“NOW.”
Behind him, three staff members stood stone-still, jaws clenched.
Someone reached for the backroom radio.
Another server rolled up her sleeves.
And Selina Kyle—already perched on a nearby barstool—raised one brow slowly. “Wrong bar to mess with the baby, darling.”
Peter had curled into a ball now, small hiccupping sobs shaking his chest.
The man tried to wave it off. “He’s just a brat. Needed a scare. That’s how kids toughen up, right?”
Rocco stepped forward.
“Let me explain this slowly,” he growled, stepping in close. “That ‘brat’? He’s ours. You don’t yell at him. You don’t touch him. You don’t even look at him the wrong way.”
He grabbed the guy by the collar.
“Now get out. Before I let Selina take your teeth as a tip.”
The man spluttered, tried to protest—
And was very firmly dragged out of the building by two very large, very angry bouncers.
Peter was still crying quietly, arms pulled into his chest, legs drawn up.
Rocco crouched beside him and unbuckled the harness, scooping him up without a word.
Peter latched onto his shirt instantly, burying his face in his shoulder.
“He scared me,” Peter whispered. “I thought it was real.”
“I know, bud,” Rocco murmured. “He’s gone now. You’re safe. We got you.”
Peter sniffled. “No more ghosts?”
“No ghosts. Only juice and blanket monsters.”
“…Okay.”
Later That Night, A New Rule Was Added to the Wall:
🚫 DO NOT YELL AT PETER.
🚫 DO NOT SCARE PETER.
🚫 DO NOT TALK TO PETER IF YOU HAVE THE EMOTIONAL MATURITY OF MOLDY TOAST.
💀 First Offense = Warning
💀 Second Offense = Removal
💀 Third Offense = We Let Selina Handle It. You Don’t Want That.
Day Fifty-Five
It was raining again.
Thin sheets of water streaked down the Lounge windows like ink, turning the neon lights outside into watercolor smudges.
Inside, the Lounge was warm. Quiet. Safe.
But Peter stood in the doorway like it wasn’t.
No juice request.
No penguin drawings.
No wild stories about time-traveling turtles.
He just stood there. Shoulders up. Eyes down.
Rocco noticed first.
He always did.
He stepped out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a towel. “Hey, bug. You gonna come in or grow roots out there?”
Peter didn’t move.
Rocco frowned. Crouched down. “What’s goin’ on?”
Peter fidgeted with his sleeve. “What if… there’s fire again?” he mumbled. “Or loud guys. Or ghosts. Or I fall and break the floor. Or mess up and no one wants me here anymore…”
Rocco’s expression softened.
He straightened. Held out a hand. “C’mere.”
Peter followed, small and silent. Past the booths. Around the bar. Through the back hallway.
And then—
They stopped in front of a narrow little side room. Barely bigger than a closet.
Blankets had been draped from hooks and chairs. Twinkle lights glowed around the top.
Inside: a giant beanbag, two throw pillows with penguins on them, a pile of plushies, and at least eight packs of crayons.
Taped to the front of the blanket door:
PETER’S SAFE FORT
No yelling.
No ghosts.
Juice welcome.
Monsters get punched.
Peter blinked. “You built a fort?”
“We built it,” Rocco corrected. “Me, Selina, and three bartenders who now all have blanket-burns. Took us a few days.”
Peter stepped forward slowly. Eyes wide.
The beanbag squeaked when he sat. He looked up. “There’s lights.”
“Twinkle mode,” Rocco said proudly. “You can set it to ‘night stars’ or ‘party flash.’”
Peter clutched a penguin plush to his chest and whispered, “I can stay here?”
“You can live here if you want,” Rocco said. “But maybe not forever. We’d miss you at the bar.”
Peter peeked out from under the blanket flap. His voice was soft, almost scared.
“…So I do get to stay?”
Rocco looked him right in the eye.
“Kid. You’ve spilled more juice in this building than the wine cellar. You’ve got a seat with your name on it, a booster rig that violates six safety codes, and a bunch of grown criminals ready to throw hands if someone looks at you funny.”
He leaned in.
“You’re ours. Got it?”
Peter nodded. Fast. Tearful.
Then crawled forward and hugged him. Tight.
Later that night The Lounge wound down with soft music and warm lighting. Staff moved quietly. Guests trickled out.
Peter, now deep in his fort, had curled up with two penguins and a blanket over his head.
His juice cup sat beside him. Half-finished.
One crayon still in his hand.
Rocco peeked in around midnight.
“You out, bug?”
A tiny mumble. “Yeah.”
“You good?”
A pause.
Then:
“I like it here.”
Rocco smiled. “We like you here, too.”
Just before closing, a sign was taped to the fort door:
💙 Peter is asleep.
No loud noises. No turning off the lights.
No one leaves till the baby’s tucked in.
And underneath, in Rocco’s sharp handwriting:
❝Family doesn’t clock out.❞
Notes:
Let me know what you guys think of this? Not my usual cup of tea, but I enjoyed writing it.