Chapter Text
I
If you can bear the absence.
“Peter…”
Hearing him sigh shook him more than the fact that he had used his real name instead of his nickname.
“I can’t know exactly what it is that’s passing through that spider head of yours right now, but know that once upon a time I was a teenager too.” The last comment almost makes him smile. It feels strange on his face, because as of late the corners of his mouth have barely been more than stiff. “And I know that every shitty thing that happens might seem like the end of the world, but..”
There’s an awkward pause. Then he clears his throat and continues.
“But as hard as it seems, there’ll always be a way out. It might just seem like a crack right now, but it’ll open, bit by bit. And before you know it, that crack will have turned into a window and more light will be able to come in and I…I don’t know if I’m explaining myself well, I just…you know what I mean.”
No. He didn’t know.
“We need you to answer us. We can help you. Just…”
He fights against his watery vision and the shudders that try to betray him. He fights as hard as he can, but even so he can feel the salty tears sliding down his cheeks again, although he doesn’t make a sound.
“Just come back Peter. You know where to find me.”
The beep signals the end of the message. He hangs up and immediately turns off the phone. It’s risky to leave it on for long, even with the adaptor that hides his location. He leans his head back, resting it against the dirty cushion. He pulls his legs into his chest and wraps his arms around them while he takes long, deep breaths, trying to control the anguish that claws at his throat and crushes his heart.
I’m okay.
He has enough money to pay the rent for the weekend and it still leaves him with a few dollars to pay for the food in the dining area. He would survive. He shrinks in on himself a little more, and suddenly his hotel room seems too big for him, even though it’s hardly more than a five by ten-foot square. It’s big enough to fit a bed and a small bedside table, which was the most that 30 dollars could get him. Peter knew that living in New York was hard and expensive. Aunt May had mentioned it frequently enough while she watched him inhale his dinner without even stopping to chew. But now he understood just how hard it could be, and even when trapped in the little window-less box he feels more comfortable than ever before. He’d never complain about his room again.
But it’s not your room anymore.
A chill goes down his spine and the hollow in his stomach opens back up. He was starting to forget what her voice sounded like. How the apartment used to smell on those Saturday mornings when she burned the blueberry pancakes, or how it felt to be in her arms after a particularly terrifying nightmare. It was almost like his brain couldn’t record the details and they slowly went rusting away in his mind.
Six months.
Aunt May had been buried next to Ben on a warm July morning. The funeral was barely more than fog in his mind. May had made sure that the funeral service had been paid for years before. The idea of May anticipating a premature death makes him feel sick to his stomach. She had never mentioned it. Peter didn’t often think about the mortality of the people around him, despite the fact that kept dying off at an alarming rate. But May had gone without any warning. Peter had evaded the social services for months and tried to keep the apartment running with the modest inheritance that May had left him. It was just a few savings in cash that she kept inside a jewelry box that Ben, years ago, had given to her as a gift. The rest was in an account that he wouldn’t get access to until he was of age. So, he kept up his routine: school and Spiderman. He kept going to classes. He kept patrolling. He tried to keep smiling.
Peter couldn’t tell Ned. Much less to Mr. Stark.
In the end, the money didn’t last forever. There were just too many fees and, even with his grant, school had dried up his resources faster that he had planned for. His part-time jobs, eventually, just delayed the inevitable. Before he knew it, he found himself in the streets. He had seen it coming for a while now, but living it in real life was nothing how he had imagined it to be. But he kept fighting.
He finished the school term without skipping classes, and patrolled just enough to not worry Mr. Stark, but not too much in order to conserve enough calories and not die from hypothermia. Every once in a while, he scraped together enough money to pay for a few days in this old rickety hotel. It didn’t have heating, but it was like heaven compared to cold New York streets in January. Besides, he could wash his clothes and take hot showers. So, if skipping a few meals for a handful of weeks was necessary to return to the warmth of the room, he would do it.
The wind howled against the old windows from the hallway, reminding Peter that he had better cover his bar shift so that he'd be able to pay for the following nights and keep the winter storm at bay. He would take a hot shower and wait until early tomorrow to have breakfast in the dining area. If he got lucky, he’d find some leftovers in the bar and wouldn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.
He was fine.
He would be fine.
He had a plan.
He checks his phone again, like it would ring again. The broken screen barely displays the images properly. At the moment the only thing showing is a charging battery icon. He makes use of his days in the hotel to charge his phone before going back out to the streets. The cold doesn’t help the old battery's lifespan but he plans out his usage time so that it lasts long enough. He texts Ned every now and then to feign his complete okay-ness, and then turns it off until the next time he’d need it. He knows that Ned is suspicious. He’s starting to run thin on ways to get out of apartment visits, along with the excuses and lie after lie that patch over the constantly growing emptiness that May’s absence left behind. He has to plaster a smile on his face every time Ned sends her his regards or has keep the birthday present that he leaves for her. Ned knows that something’s wrong, but he’s polite enough to not pry. He knows Peter well enough to not cross the line. Eventually Peter would tell him.
Or maybe he wouldn’t.
Now that Mr. Stark had found out, Peter knows that it's only a matter of time before Ned and the rest of the school find out too.
He sighs, remembering the call.
A few weeks back, on a particularly bustling night, he had lost track of time. He'd prevented a few muggings and then found himself stuck in a fight between two gangs. He should have just left it. But as soon as he was about to head home, a girl ended up caught between the two sides. She reminded him so strongly of MJ that Peter couldn’t stay on the sidelines. He was a stubborn hero. He had to save her. Well, he did. Unfortunately, his spleen didn’t make it out quite as fortunate, or anything close to it, really. A deep stab wound in his torso and a beating later, Peter had ended up in an old alley, praying that his accelerated healing — which had slowed down alarmingly during the past months — would do its job. He had forgotten that Karen had protocols. He had forgotten that it was the middle of the week. He had forgotten that he was a teenager that should have had an aunt waiting for him at home. He had sent Mr. Stark to voicemail various times before de-activating his suit and geolocation.
Then, the call had woken him up.
Peter hadn’t reflected much on his answers. Karen’s terrified voice sounding in his ears had woken him up. The sun glared in his face, and he was too weak to process her words. It was Tony. He had gone to his apartment. Or what was supposed to be his apartment. But he hadn’t been there. Neither had May. What had been left of their home was now inhabited by a Puerto Rican family. The doorman had spilled everything.
He was fucked.
He was still fucked.
“Tell me where you are and I’ll be there in a minute,” he had said. Peter hadn’t answered. He knew what that would mean: social services. He would get stuck into the system and given up for adoption, maybe in New York, or maybe on the other side of the country. And all of it orchestrated by his childhood hero. So, Peter had disappeared. Three days ago, he had sent Ned an apology email from the public library furthest from his lodging. He made sure to promise him that everything was okay, that he shouldn’t look for him, and that he didn’t need any help. And up until a few hours ago, he didn’t know anything more about his world. He turns on his phone, making sure that his signal isn’t trackable, and checks his voicemail. There are a couple more messages, but he can’t risk being tracked.
It would be fine to keep a low profile and let Spiderman go on vacation for a while. It would do him good, to tell the truth. Lately his body feels like it’s asking for more and more rest. When he isn’t sleeping, he's either working or looking for any opportunity to make a few extra dollars. Right now, he has to get up, take a shower, and set out for the bar. He’d clean the dishes and wash up until the bar closed, at around 4 a.m., and then return to the hotel and sleep until 8, which was when the dining area opened. The food is almost free, and it comes in good proportions. Technically it is free, but Peter feels his conscience weigh down on him if he doesn't leave some cash in return. So, he takes advantage of every opportunity he has to visit and eat a decent meal. That would give him energy to go to the storerooms to help unload merchandise. It was hard work, but it provided him with more or less ten dollars within a couple hours. That, plus the salary from the bar, would help him settle everything the next week. It's the closest he'll get to a plan.
The routine keeps him sane.
He takes a few more breaths before straightening up and his vision goes blurry around the edges as his body changes position. The dizziness that accompanies it is already all-too familiar. He reminds himself to keep his diet as varied as possible, but fresh vegetables and meat are pricey and difficult to keep fresh without a proper fridge, leading him to feed himself on instant noodles or anything that comes in a can. He recounts his stash one more time. Three packets of instant noodles, a couple of cans of tomatoes, and four small packets of saltines. All of them recently expired, but it was all that he could afford right now. A lot of it would serve to save up for a few complete meals if things got complicated, but he always rations his intake until he gets a little more.
Peter formed new habits that he never imagined that he would. Right now, he would go to take a hot shower — god bless hot water — and take advantage of it to fill all the water bottles that he could. That let him have a stash for when it was time to return to the streets. Sleeping in alleys saves a lot of cash, but he has to spend a little more on food to keep him warm and moving. He stashes away as much cash as he can for emergencies: medicine, additional clothes, or lodging.
Currently, he has found himself in said emergency.
The winter storm had swept into the city with the force of a battering ram. His spider metabolism didn’t help; it was impossible to thermoregulate his body temperature. He’d always known it, but during the first year, under May’s roof, it wasn’t a big problem to pile on more comforters or even turn up the heating a little. He had tried to prolong his stay in the streets as much as he could, up until last night, when even after wrapping himself in all the clothes he had still didn’t get him to a temperature that he could fall asleep in. He decided, then, that it was time to take refuge. According to the news, the weather was supposed to improve by Tuesday, so he’d have to work hard this weekend and reduce his consumption to the minimum to save every penny and make sure that he’d have a warm night inside the old hotel.
The hallway greets him with a slight chill and the smell of cheap detergent that Peter remembers. He heads to one of the three common bathrooms available as part of rent and takes a long shower, savoring every drop. The hot water restores some heat to his body. Before heading out, he wraps himself in a couple more layers of clothing and grabs some emergency cash, stashing his Spiderman suit in the ceiling panels and locking the door. The streets had taught him to trust nothing.
Another survival mechanism.
The rest of the night slides past like a blur. Between the warmth of the bar — thanks to the clusters of people — and the labor, Peter doesn’t take note of the hour until he hears the music turn off and the stools shriek against the floor as they're stacked on top of each other. At one point he had managed to rescue a handful of onion rings in decent shape and a couple chunks of intact cheese that had arrived in between dirty plates. The bar doesn’t serve food, other than some appetizers to accompany the drinks, but Peter has learned that when people are drunk enough, they usually forget about their food. Peter doesn’t interact much with the rest of the staff, partly because the owner knew that he could get in trouble for having a minor working for him, and partly because he doesn’t want to answer questions.
It was best for everybody.
Peter leaves the bar as soon as the clock strikes 4. From that moment on, his break time is counting down and he’s honestly five seconds away from keeling over from exhaustion. He goes out from the back, which by then was already deserted. If the owner found out that he had gone out through the front, he would lose his job. He couldn’t risk it, anyway. He takes the long route from the establishment’s service door and heads towards the exit to the open street. The alley is clammy and frigid. If he hadn’t been so immersed in his thoughts, he would have been able to recognize the situation without hesitation.
Shame it didn’t go like that.
Just a couple meters from the lighted area of the curb, two silhouettes huddle together in tensed positions. One of them, the taller of the two, seems to be intimidating the shorter one, which he assumed was the one whispering hissed apologies. The tingle down his back figures out the rest. He creeps forward with more caution as he approaches. He curses to himself that at the moment he’s playing civilian and is just Peter Parker, but he can’t close his eyes and let the lady that, as he later found out, was being assaulted. Peter had stopped more assaults at his rather short age than many police officials that had spent their whole lives in service.
He’s able to pick out the cowards that would only shout a little and flee after realizing that confrontation is unavoidable. There were also the ones that, because of their nerves, made mistakes that he took advantage of to save the situation. And then there were the ones like these: the scary ones. The ones that didn’t give a shit about who got in the way, like they were just a couple more bills up for grabs. Peter knows from the moment that he hears him speak. He was one of the dangerous ones.
“Hey, everything okay over here?”
Peter hears his voice tremble slightly when he speaks. He feels naked. Usually, he can crack a few light-hearted jokes whilst interrupting an attack, but right now he’s just a fifteen-year-old trying to stop an assault. He notices the knife in the attacker’s hand, held in a threatening position.
“You want me to empty your pockets too, or what?”
Peter swallows hard but smiles, ignoring the man’s threat.
“I don’t think that anybody wants you to do that, buddy.”
“I’m not your fucking buddy, kid.”
The woman stares at him like he’s lost his mind. Something in her reminds him of May; maybe it was the motherly worry that flitted across her face for a few seconds. Peter approaches slowly, feeling his heart hammer against his chest. It would have been easy to shoot a web right at his arms and disarm him, but with his shooters stored away and without a mask, he’d have to figure out a way to get help without giving away his powers.
“Why don’t we all calm down, you put down the knife, and try to do something right for once in your life?”
“What!?” the woman squawks, almost incredulous at what a boy of Peter’s age has just said to an attacker that doubles him in both weight and age.
The man’s face twists into a wolfish grin, and then everything goes to shit. The knife rises towards the woman, and in his attempt to protect her, her bag gets ripped out of her hands while the sharp blade opens a four-inch-long gash in his lower abdomen. It flashes by so quickly that he feels awfully human. The woman lets out a desperate shriek when the man punches Peter’s abdomen so hard that he folds over, sprawling out over the ground.
When he finally manages to get up, that man is gone, and the woman is crying bitterly in the corner.
“You’re such an idiot,” she mumbles. “I had pepper spray in my bag.”
Peter opens his mouth, as if in protest, but understands that the woman had just lost her belongings and the possibility of defending herself because of him. He doesn’t dare to wonder how much was in the bag, or what the money would be used for. He watches the woman sniffle weakly for a moment, the sight of her pain and fury burning a spot into his brain. All he can do is give a clumsy apology and flee the scene, stumbling his way back to the hotel.
You’re an idiot.