Chapter Text
Peter walked into the office for The Bugle and waved to Betty before finding his desk. He didn’t have much, just a stolen stapler, a mug full of pens and paperclips, and a couple photos he took of the New York skyline from rooftops he frequented. Of course, the management hadn’t bothered to update the technology in such a long time, that the giant Windows 64 computers could practically be in a museum. “One step above a TS-80,” he muttered to himself.
As much as he loved the clicky-clack of his keyboard, he often found himself sneaking mechanical components into his filing drawer to pass the time when he wasn’t editing a photo or emailing editors. He heard the chair in the cubicle beside him squeak its wheels with a dramatic thump of a box. He wheeled back to see who Jameson’s new victim was.
“Hello,” Peter chirped, mindlessly twiddling a pencil. He fought the urge to chew it.
The man turned to face him. Green eyes, short black curls, a sharp jaw and a strong roman nose looked back. There was a stripe of white in his bangs that caught his eye. “Hi, nice to meet you. You must be Peter, the one Mr. Jameson doesn’t stop talking about,” He stuck out his hand and a faint smile curled at the corners of his mouth, “I’m Frankie. Frankie Hardy.”
“Good to know I’m on his good side today,” Peter gave a small chuckle and shook his hand. “Are you a new writer?”
“Ah, yes. Just the small stuff. Local eateries, directories and such for the website. No interviews scheduled yet, apparently that must be earned by the one and only.”
“Fast learner. Oh, there’s coffee in the breakroom but I have a small box in the bottom left drawer if you want something that doesn’t taste like it got made in a dumpster.”
“Thanks,” he smiled crookedly, and Peter could see his little fangs peek out. Sharp canines. Peter ruffled his hair and directed his focus back onto his photo editing. Betty came over to drop off a vanilla envelope of editor requests and she winked at him, nodding over to Frankie.
Peter rolled his eyes. “You gotta stop trying to set me up with people,” he whispered. She just snorted and leaned in to whisper more discreetly.
“Not for you this time, I want him for myself. If he’s gay I’ll hand him over.” She patted his shoulder and wandered off again.
The rest of the work day was going by smoothly, that was until Frankie looked over to ask a question, but noticed Peter hunched over a small pile of wires and circuitry. “What’cha… doin’?”
Peter jerked up like he’d been electrocuted– he was not used to someone being next to him in the office and Frankie was scarily quiet. “Whoa there, relax. I promise I’m not a ghost.”
“S-sorry. I.. Uh,” Peter held up what he had in his hands, “I’m working on a little project to fix my old ring camera.” The lie came out smoother than what he expected from himself. I mean, it wasn’t a total lie: it was a camera. But, it was Karen’s camera from his suit. She needed a couple sensors tweaked from when they got smashed as he got thrown into a brick wall.
Frankie nodded, still looking curious. “That’s cool you know how to do that stuff. I used to try robotics and some mechanical engineering in high-school, but I think the passion died when I shorted the breaker and my mom almost killed me.”
Peter smiled at that. He was surprised he himself hadn’t, but then again, the capacity in the Stark Lab was insane. Their possible conversation cut short when Frankie’s desk phone rang and he looked at Peter helplessly. The green light was blinking.
“They never trained me on phones.” Peter laughed at him. He looked very cute with that expression.
“Here, the red blinking light means it's from the office, but if it’s green, that means someone’s calling in about a possible story. All you have to do is put them on hold for line 7 for now and Betty can handle it. Want me to do it?”
“S-sure, yeah. Watch and learn.” Frankie pushed the phone over so Peter could reach it.
“Hello, this is The Daily Bugle, Frankie from the directory segment speaking. How can I help ya?” The person on the other end sounded like Animal Crossing characters to Frankie, and Peter followed up with a couple ‘Mhm, aha’s’ then told them he’d transfer them to the correct line.
Afterwards Frankie tried to memorise all the line transfers Peter was rattling off at the speed of light, but surely he knew himself well enough to know that all that information would leave him the next day. He’d probably have to keep asking about lines for about a week to get it down.
When it was time to clock out, Peter was practically sprinting down the stairwell to not be approached by anyone and to make it to the subway just in time.
-
The money was sporadic at best, not to mention Jameson’s fickle attitude about whether someone should keep their employment with him. Those who knew how to placate a narcissist were welcome to stay. That and the pushovers with low self-esteem and masochistic personality traits. Peter knew exactly where he fell. Like high-school all over again.
And though it was stressful, it paid well enough for his studio apartment up-town and allowed him to buy enough groceries to satisfy his super-metabolism. That was the biggest upside. He often thought back on May’s efforts with bittersweet nostalgia, and often wondered how proud she would be at his little double-agent stint. Or was she shaking her head down at him from Heaven? He figured it was a good mix of both.
The studio wasn’t exactly perfect. There was a large crack by the window, the radiator only decided to work when you wacked it with enough fervor to make it tremble, and the ceiling fan was a lost cause, but it was home. The couch was from a garage sale, and passed the bed-bug inspection and that was good enough for Peter (even if it did smell like old-lady perfume.)
He flopped onto it and groaned, flicking through channels and keeping his ear out on the police radio comm he always had running. He tossed the remote back onto the coffee table, spewed with various photo scraps, old chinese takeout, and electronics. He sighed at the state of the mess. Cleaning should be easy, but getting the energy to choose it over swinging around the city wasn’t.
With a groan from the exertion of sitting when he was lined with bruises and healing wounds, he pulled the camera’s guts out from his bag and added it to the coffee table pile. This, he had to get done and couldn’t just collect dust on the table. So, of course, he left it there to work on making some dinner before his patrol instead.
Spaghetti with watered down red sauce would have to do. He figured he’d even add a splash of parmesan and seasonings to feel like he made an effort. There was a loud knock on the door as the water reached a boil that nearly made him drop the box of noodles. “Shit! What?” He opened the door. No one to be seen on either end of the hallway, even with he craned his neck to get a glance down the stairwell. He looked back at the door to see a notice taped to the door and groaned.
What now?
The paper was such a neon orange it made his eyes sting.
NOTICE: Late-Pay Fee Owed: $150.00
You submitted your payment to our online portal via debit card ending in **85 on 08/03/25. Rent was due promptly by 07/31/25, by 11:59PM.
If this fee is not submitted with payment and signage to the leasing office within 4 weeks of posted notice, you may be subject to Eviction.
Sign Below:
“God-fucking damnit. Seriously?” Peter threw it on the coffee table and continued with his dinner in a newfound haste of aggression. He even broke the noodles in half, Italian’s be damned. At least patrol and possibly getting a few new punches thrown his way might relieve some tension.
He’d make sure to get a couple pictures to turn in for good measure and a few extra gold coins.