Chapter Text
Peter ran full speed, his shoes slapping against the cracked sidewalk. The left sole peeled, just a little, with every step. Every once in a while, it caught on the rough cement. Not enough to kill his balance or slow him down, but it was annoying.
He risked a glance over his shoulder.
The animal control officer had doubled over, hands braced on his knees, gasping like he’d run three uphill marathons in the middle of July. That would have been good news had a uniformed cop not taken his place, chasing after him, baton in hand.
“Get back here, kid! I mean it!”
Yeah right. Like that was gonna happen.
“Talk about a big reaction to a small problem,” he grumbled to himself. It wasn’t like he’d stolen the entire Animal control van. He’d just broken into it. A little. One lock might have been slightly crushed in the process of freeing what had to be the sweetest stray cat he’d ever met in his life.
He could feel the vibrations as she purred frantically in the crook of his arm, claws just barely kept to herself. But she didn’t squirm or try to get away, because she knew him.
He knew her.
She stayed in the allies near the old bakery, without ever wandering too far. That made her easy to spot every time he went on patrol. At first, she wouldn’t come near him. She’d just stare at him with her sharp green eyes like she was trying to read his intentions. Eventually, he offered her enough scraps that she let him close enough to scratch the back of her neck. After that, they’d become friends. He sought her out just for the company.
So, when he saw her locked in the back of that animal control van, wide-eyed and scared, he had to do something.
He peeked over his shoulder. The cop was still hot on his heels. It was too bad he was in his street clothes instead of his make-shift Spider-Man suit. He could have hopped on a wall and been out of reach in seconds. Instead, he was left to run at a leisurely human speed.
There was a side street coming up, hidden between two buildings. Taking it might be a good way to gain some ground. He picked up speed, rounding the corner in a flurry of steps. Then–
Wham.
He collided shoulder-first with another person, their frame solid, like they used to hit the gym, but cushioned, like they’d more recently been hitting the bar. Peter stumbled back, only managing to stay upright because a hand grabbed the back of his hoodie near the collar.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, kid!”
The voice gave Peter pause. He’d heard that voice all over the news. He looked up, eyes wide. Designer sunglasses. Precisely groomed goatee. The immaculate suit and shoes probably cost more than his life. His jaw went slack.
Tony Stark.
Holy crap. He’d just body-checked Tony Stark.
The cop’s footsteps pounded louder, closing in fast. No time to fanboy. No time to think. Instinct took over. He threw his arms around the billionaire’s middle, clinging like he actually belonged there, like they had matching holiday sweaters and inside jokes, shouted in the most pitiful, panicked voice he could manage, “Dad! You gotta help me!”
Tony froze.
Great. As if the last four blocks of paparazzi tailing him hadn’t been enough, now there was some sewer rat of a photographer crouched behind a dumpster with a telescopic lens, probably waiting for him to sneeze so he could sell it to TMZ as a breakdown. And then, because the universe had a sick sense of humor, a kid came flying around the corner like he’d robbed a bank, slammed into his chest, latched on and called him ‘Dad’ like he’d rehearsed it.
Instinct screamed to shove the kid off. He didn’t know him, making the situation all that much more absurd. Before he could react, the unmistakable click of cameras sliced through the air, spiking his annoyance. A new plan rapidly formed. Instead of backing off, he leaned in, one arm hooked around the kid’s back, while the other shot out like a sword.
“Are you serious right now? You don’t photograph minors without consent! Especially scared ones! What is wrong with you?” His voice dropped into a low growl as he gestured violently toward the distance. “Get out of here! I mean it!”
The majority of the photographers hesitated, then retreated, some more quickly than others. One brave soul held out, a digital media recorder in his hands. “Is– is that kid really your son?”
Instead of answering, Tony shot him a venomous look, nostrils flared, lip curled into a snarl. “I said, get out of here!” His eyes locked on the remaining photographers, daring them to stick around.
Once the media had backed off, the kid loosened his grip but didn’t let go.
“Behind you and to the left,” the kid whispered into his chest. Tony turned, expecting to see another photographer lurking around the corner. Instead, he spotted a police officer hovering nearby, tapping his baton against his palm. It was hard to tell if he intended to use it or if the menacing routine was just part of his daily ego boost.
Their eyes met, and Tony pulled himself out of the kid’s grip, eyes still narrowed. “You got a problem?”
The officer hesitated, clearly unsure of how to process everything that had just happened. After a moment, his hands went up in surrender, and he slinked off into the shadows, leaving Tony standing there, face-to-face with the manipulative little troublemaker who had nearly bowled him over.
“What the hell was that?”
“Nothing.” The kid stepped back, shrugged, and rocked back on his heels. “Got the news people off of you.”
Tony scowled. “Uh-huh. And I guess I got the cops off of you. What did you do? I didn’t just free a serial killer, did I?”
The kid bristled, like the question had hit a nerve. “No! All I did was save a cat! They were taking her to the pound. I had to get her out of the van!”
Without warning, the kid thrust the cat forward, presenting it like a prestigious award rather than a mangy street animal. It was thin and scraggly with one clipped ear and a pair of wide, distrustful eyes. Tony recoiled, taking a full two steps back.
“Hard pass,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose. “That thing’s probably eaten up in fleas and who knows what else. If no one’s taking care of it, maybe it’s better off at the pound.”
“Just because no one is taking care of her, doesn’t mean she should be treated like a second-class citizen,” he quietly grumbled.
Tony barely heard him over the distant blare of a siren and someone laying on their horn. Somewhere behind them, a city bus hissed to a stop, its brakes squealing like a dying animal. The kid shifted his grip on the cat, cradled it to his chest.
“Besides, do you know what happens to stray cats at the pound?” the kid continued, volume building with passion. “Something like seventy percent of them are killed! Killed! I couldn't let that happen! She’s– she’s good.”
Tony’s arms crossed over his chest, really taking in the kid's appearance for the first time. His hair was a mess, a little too long and cowlicked in the back. There were holes in the knees of his jeans, his hoodie was stained baroundthe the neck, and his shoelaces were frayed. “Where are your parents?” he asked, voice clipped.
“Dead.” The kid raised his hand, waffling it side to side. “Maybe.”
Tony let out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like it might help him find patience somewhere in the back of his skull. “Christ, kid. Who’s in charge of you?”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s different.” The kid nodded, as though the question were about breakfast cereal and not legal guardianship. “So, technically, I’m a ward of the state. I live at the Saint John Bosco’s Youth Residence, but trust me, it’s not as classy as it sounds. Total dump run by jerks.”
The comment, ‘ just because no one is taking care of her doesn’t mean she should be treated like a second-class citizen,’ looped back around in Tony's head like a bad jingle he couldn’t shut off. He smothered it down. “Hard knocks, huh?”
Peter smirked. “Well, they do make us go to mass on Sundays, though. I think it’s part of the charter agreement. No church, no check.”
“Right,” he muttered, shifting his weight so that his shoes crunched against a grit on the sidewalk. He looked back toward the main road. Cars, trucks, and cabs, all creeping closer together as they anticipated the traffic signal change. He peeked down a quiet alley and studied the shadows. There was no sign of the paparazzi yet, but they’d be back. They always came back.
“Well, on that note, I think it’s probably time for me to get out of here. Good luck with your cat situation. Maybe buy a collar. And a flea bath.”
The kid's shoulders hiked up to his ears, the hand not holding the cat was extended, palm up, fingers splayed. “I don’t have any money.”
Tony rolled his eyes. Of course not. He reached into his back pocket, tugged out his wallet, and fished out a pair of twenties. He didn’t pause to analyze why– maybe the whole orphan comment had landed harder than he wanted to admit. Or… maybe he just didn’t like leaving things in half-measures. He extended the faded bills, bobbing them slightly, encouragingly, like bait.
The kid took them slowly, eyes wide like he’d just handed him a ten-million-dollar winning lottery ticket.
Nodding once, Tony turned on his heel, already headed toward the car parked half a block down. He paused a few steps later, curiosity bubbling over. “What’s your name, kid?” he asked over his shoulder, pretending like it didn’t matter.
“Oh. It’s Peter,” the kid answered, sounding only slightly surprised. “Peter Parker.”
Tony made a mental note, tucking the name into the back of his head in case he needed it later. Then with a little, half-hearted wave, he kept walking.
Peter ducked into the nearest bodega, the cat still tucked against his chest. The man at the register shot him a look, but didn’t complain as he traversed the sticky linoleum. He scanned the shelves quickly, grabbing a thin red collar, a travel-sized bag of dry cat food, and a small tube of herbal flea remedy, guaranteed to be safe for cats. After some quick math, he grabbed a pack of gummy worms from a peg by the register and handed over the two crumpled twenties.
He tore the candy open the moment he stepped outside. The first worm hit his tongue like sugar and lightning, pulling a wide grin across his face. Sweet, chewy, and colorful. It was like biting into pure happiness. He couldn’t remember the last time food tasted that good. Not counting the warm, sweet buns, a group of church ladies sold to the parishioners after mass. On the better Sundays, he was able to sneak over, look at them with wide, innocent eyes, and bargain for a few freebies to be split among the orphans the church sponsored. He loved being able to share the treats with the other kids. Especially since all but one were at least three years his junior.
By the time he finally wandered back to Saint John Bosco’s, the sun had dipped just low enough to throw orange light over the rooftops. He checked the windows for any signs of Ms. Finley, the head of the house, or Mr. Cooper, her assistant. When the coast was clear, he tucked the cat beneath his hoodie. She stayed mostly still, her tail tapping against his ribs.
He slipped in the back door, the one used for deliveries and services. There was a wide laundry chute that led to the upper floor. The walls were slick, but with his sticky, spider-powers, he had no trouble scaling to the top and out the square wooden door.
The hallways smelled like lemon-scented floor cleaner and whatever cheap, canned spaghetti was being warmed in the kitchen. Behind a closed door, a radio was playing a boring talk show, and a few small voices could be heard whispering down the hall. It was quiet, like there weren’t nine children being housed there.
With a deep sigh, Peter used his shoulder to push through the boy’s bedroom door. The space was crammed with too many beds and not enough storage space, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He padded across the scuffed wooden floor and gently pulled the cat free, placing her on the foot of his bed.
The cat arched her back, stretching and sniffing the blanket. Peter rubbed behind her ears and felt her body go soft under his hand.
“What’s its name?” A small voice asked from beneath one of the beds.
Peter turned, looking down to find Artie, the newest resident, peaking out, eyes wide and curious. He shimmied out of hiding, using only his knees to cross the distance between them.
The cat tensed at the new presence, but didn’t run. Peter placed his hand reassuringly on her neck. She settled down after, but didn’t take her eyes off Artie.
“I don’t guess I ever thought about it,” Peter finally answered. He’d always just called her kitty, but it was more of a designation than a name.
“I used to have a dog named Rustle.” Artie smiled, then shifted, his face falling into a more forlorn expression. “Ms. Finley says he’s probably went to the pound now.”
Peter nodded in acknowledgement, looking more at the cat than at Artie. He didn’t have the heart to tell the little kid that, for once, Ms. Finley was probably right. Instead, he studied the cat in front of him. Bright green eyes. Soft grey fur. “Dusty,” he decided. “Her name is Dusty.”
Artie grinned and stepped closer.
Then the door creaked again. Bea stood tall in the frame, arms crossed, eyes sharp, with her dark hair pulled back in a frizzy bun. She was the only other teenager in the house and somehow always managed to look like she was already tired of being an adult.
“You’re back, huh?” She scowled.
Peter shrugged and nodded at the same time. He was back, but not for long. He fully planned to slip out again after dark, but in his Spider-Man costume rather than jeans.
She didn’t say anything else. Two of the other boys wandered into the room, spotting the cat. One scurried over to pet her while the other excitedly darted off, giggling, presumably to tell the others what was hidden in the boy’s bedroom.
Within minutes, small hands were reaching out to pet Dusty’s fur. Peter could feel her tense under the attention, but she didn’t bolt. He peeked up at Bea, who was still staring at the threshold, brows still knit together.
“You can’t keep that thing here,” Bea warned, her voice low and authoritative. “You’re going to get us in trouble. Again. You’re always getting us in trouble.”
Peter winced. She wasn’t wrong.
Ms. Finley hated it when he snuck out. If she caught him, she’d yank him into her office by the ear, then rant loud enough for the whole house to hear. And somehow, everyone else ended up paying for it too, usually with a plethora of extra chores. He hated that part the most.
“Sorry,” Peter said, mumbled. “I don’t do it on purpose. I just get… restless.”
It wasn’t a great excuse, but it was the best he had without giving away his alter-ego, something he really wasn’t prepared to do.
Bea rolled her eyes and huffed. “What about the cat?” she pressed. “I’m serious, if they see it, especially Ms. Finley, we’re all toast.”
Peter glanced at Dusty, who was now cautiously tucked into a loose loaf on his blanket.
“She’s quiet.” He ran his hand from the top of her head to the tip of her tail. “She’ll probably just hide under the bed when it’s loud, and if we crack the window, she can come and go.”
Bea looked unconvinced. There was no time for further discussion. Clemintine, their little spy in the making, came running into the room, whisper-shouting, “Guys! Ms. Finley’s coming and she looks real mad!”
Peter’s heart dropped into his stomach. Dusty darted under the bed, and the room grew silent. The loud thump, thump, thump of Ms. Finley’s feet pounding up the stairs filled the room, causing everyone to scramble to their feet.
They filed into the hallway, backs against the wall, shoulders stiff, waiting for Ms. Finley to round the corner.
“Did I hear laughing?”
“No, Ms. Finley,” everyone chorused in unison.
Ms. Finley crossed her arms and glared. “What have I said about running around, giggling, and whispering with your squeaky little voices?” With eyes still narrowed, she scanned everyone’s face, pausing when her gaze reached Peter. “Where have you been?”
Peter looked down. It was easier to lie when he didn’t have to look anyone in the face. “Nowhere, Ms. Finely.” He could see Bea cutting her eyes at him from the side. He bit his lip and tried to come up with something that wouldn’t get all of them yelled at. “I was–” He didn’t get to finish.
“He was under the bed,” Artie blurted.
Every head turned toward the smallest boy. Artie rocked on his heels, his eyes locked to the scuffed floor. “I didn’t wanna come out.” He grabbed Peter’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “So– so he came under. We were hiding.”
Peter held his breath, expecting one of two things to happen– either Ms. Finley would buy the lie, or she'd start shouting about “telling stories.” Artie was young and still new. He hoped for the latter.
Ms. Finley’s eyes narrowed. Then she snapped, “Don’t baby him. He needs to figure it out like the rest of you. Dinner’s in ten. If you're not clean and in your seat by then, you’re not eating.”
She turned and left, the heavy clomp of her steps fading down the stairs. Peter and Bea released a collective breath and turned to the younger kids.
“You can’t do that, Artie!” Bea hissed. “Peter’s on his own!”
“But I like Peter!” Artie argued, with a small stamp of his foot. “Peter’s nice!”
Bea looked at Peter, then back at Artie, her mouth pressed into a tight, unhappy line. “Liking Peter is a good way to get yourself in trouble.”
The remark piled more guilt onto Peter’s shoulders. He tried to balance his time between helping the smaller kids and doing his own thing. Bea clearly didn’t see it that way. Rather than argue, he grabbed a rag off the radiator and beckoned for the boys to follow.
“C’mon, guys,” he said. “Let’s go clean up.”
Peter scrubbed Artie’s face clean, fixed Scout’s lopsided shirt, and dispensed soap into all the boys' hands. Across the hall, Bea did the same, wrestling ponytails and smoothing collars. Under the bed, a pair of gleaming eyes peeked out– watching.
Peter caught sight of them, smiling as he shooed the younger kids toward the stairs.
There was no time to waste. Dinner was waiting, and it wouldn’t wait for long.