Chapter Text
"That'll be…a dollar-fifty," Peter swallowed heavily around the word, almost chewing on it as it passed his lips.
That, small insignificant number, was the cost of his coffee. Not nowadays with inflation on the rise. But a whole year and a half ago when he lost any chance he had at a somewhat normal life. But maybe it was a while before that. God. It's like he couldn't even—
"Ah-hem," Peter blinked himself out of his stupor as the woman in front of him, cropped cut blonde hair and a permanent scowl etched on her face, cleared her throat.
They stared at each other for a few moments.
She spoke again, "You g'onna gave me my change?" Every word she spoke was grating on Peter's ears and not in the hyper enhanced senses way. Her voice was just annoying as all get out.
"Um—yeah, here sorry about that! Got real' spacey for a second," Peter does his best to give her a sheepish shrug, pulling the coins out from the register with a ca-ching! before dropping the designated four dollars and fifty sense in her outstretched palm.
He was much too tired to be working at the moment. Peter was bad at dealing with bullshit on the regular and now was getting shlack from this lady for no good reason.
The woman stared at him. Her lip curled further and her eyes glared with indignation, "Are you new, or something? I come here a lot. And I've never seen you here before."
Peter was not new, and he had actually met this woman multiple times, thinking back on it. He'd mostly been on re-stock duty and not manning the counter, something about 'not being a good or friendly face to customers' from Paul (the asshole).
And he said as much, "I normally work the back. Um, I'm no good with the customers, according to my boss."
Her one eyebrow raises up to her forehead, "Is that the only reason?"
You mean outside of the fact that Paul was a jackass? "…yeah?"
"Hmph. I'm missing change," says the woman, without looking down to actually count any of the coins or the dollars in her hand. "Where's your boss? I'd like to have a word."
Oh my god. Was this lady actually trying to pull something with him?
Peter just nodded— a little shakily, because he needed this job and couldn't afford to lose it because some lady wanted a lick back for a supposed wrongdoing— and pressed his hands across the counter and leaned forward to call out to Paul a few aisles down. "Paul? Could you come here for a sec?"
A distant, "Yeah, coming, coming!" rung throughout the store. Which, seeing as it was almost five AM in the morning (a time designated for the high strung women that did Pilates and druggy businessmen who fancied themselves as American psychos) was completely empty.
Save problemo numero uno, over here.
Then came Paul, strutting down the fluorescent lit linoleum floors like a catwalk, his long hair bouncing through the imaginary wind that breezed through the store. He was a flamboyant man which Peter wouldn't typically mind, but he was just a jerk.
It was truly a misfortune that this was the only person that he had managed to find that would employ him and be okay with not remembering doing so, was a complete and total narcissist.
Paul put his hands on the counter, completely cutting off Peter from the conversation— which he didn't mind, in this situation. "What seems to be the trouble here Ms…?"
"Robin," she said it off-handedly, clearly wanting to get to the real juice of her complaint, "Your lousy employee here is trying to steal my change!"
"I—" he thought about maybe not defending himself, in the event that this cost him his job, for a second before he realized that if didn't defend himself he'd still probably lose it. There was no ill will between him and Paul— save Peter's one-sided irritation— but that also meant that there was no will at all. For obvious reasons.
"Paul, there's been a big misunderstanding. Maybe I counted the change wrong or something. I've been really out of it all day." Peter counted it correctly. But it's the thought that counts or something?
Paul gave Peter a look. He seemed to get a lot of those these days. Usually amounting to 'who-is-this-person' or 'stranger-danger' or what have you. This one was one of quick, quiet contempt.
The manager then immediately switched up and smiled at the woman, Ms. Robin, and moved to comfort her by placing a hand upon her shoulder. Gross. Peter hated this guy. He opened his big fat mouth and pretended to be sympathetic, "Aw, well I'm truly sorry, Ms. Robin. Our friend…" he watched as the gears were attempting to be turned in Paul's head.
See, the thing about Paul was that he was not only a raging narcissist, but he also suffered from a very severe case of face-blindness. It was the only way that Peter could easily get away working in the same place for as long as he did.
"…here, can be a little," Paul whistled and did the circular motion for 'crazy' next to his head.
Ms. Robin didn't seem to amused. If anything, her frown seemed to only deepen and she shrugged Paul's heavy hand right off of her shoulder. Y'know what, good for her. Stand up for yourself lady, Peter approved.
Or he would if she would stop having it out for him, "Sure. What about my change?"
Jesus. What kind of scam was this lady running?
Paul awkwardly coughed into his hand, clearly stunned to have his advances rejected by a woman. "Um, right. Okay. Can't do much of anything. Here take this. We'll take it out of his paycheck," he dropped in her hand a twenty dollar bill.
Ms. Robin finally relented at that, rolling her eyes and moving to walk out of the convenience store, thought not before shouting out, "That's literally all you had to do. Should've done it in the first place."
The door, glass and just a shitty as this job, slammed behind her.
Well. At least that was sorted. Wow, that had to have been a record for the most time he's talked to anyone as 'Peter' in a long time. Unfortunate that she wasn't nice. But what could you do. Peter got that happy buzz that flowed from muscle to muscle from the social interaction, regardless.
Paul groaned and slammed his head into the counter, lightly, as to not bruise his 'beautiful face' or 'disturb his glorious locks.' All words that Paul had said to Peter at one point or another to genuinely, unironically describe himself. Not that Paul would remember those interactions. Though, knowing him, Peter doubted that Paul would even remember their interactions without the spell over him.
Peter just stared at the man who laid on the counter, dramatically. "…I'm going to take my five."
Paul said nothing, so Peter took that as confirmation.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and snatched a bag of Cheetos on his way out the door. Normally he wouldn't condone stealing, but he also wouldn't condone wage garnishment which was being done to him. So it balanced out in the end. Eye for an eye.
Peter opened the metal door towards the back alley which creaked in disharmony. Really, they should have gotten someone to come back here and oil it forever ago. But a business that paid less than minimum wage and under the table like Cornerstone Convenience really probably wasn't looking to pay someone extra to come out and do a shitty job of something.
He stepped out into the alley, ignoring the smell of gasoline and New York, as he trudged past puddles of god knows what to a open dumpster. Peter scrunched his nose up at the smell, only worsened by his strong sense of smell. He hated how most days it felt as though it was only getting stronger. Something that was definitely not great, considering the city that he lived in.
Peter gripped the lid of the dumpster and slammed it down onto the can, before jumping up and getting comfortable in his chosen seat. He slipped the phone and Cheetos out from his pocket, and opened up Instagram.
Listen. Peter knew it was a bad habit.
He just wanted to throw that out there before there was any judgement and y'know. Concern.
He didn't need concern. Peter needed to be happy. And he was only truly happy at two points in his life nowadays: blasting himself directly into the past or saving the day as your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.
And he was on the clock (again, not actually, he was being paid under the table and had to rely on written time-stamps of when he would come in to assure his manager that he was, actually there the entire time) so stalking Ned and MJ and everyone from his past on Instagram, it was.
The video quality was grainy, both because Peter needed a new phone because his screen was cracked and because Ned was notoriously horrible at taking high quality videos.
Video-Ned's voice rang out, "Hey guys! It's your boy, Ned. Back at it again with another semester finished at MIT. What?! " Ned looked different. Older. Peter saw him everyday— in these videos, never in real life as much as he wished— but he had a more mature quality to him now. He had the beginnings of a beard. A 'wizened goatee' he called it, and Peter knew that Mr. Stark would be proud by association.
"Can you believe it? It feels like only yesterday that we were freshmen, and now here we are heading into our junior year. What do you have to say about that, MJ?" Ned passed the phone over to MJ, who was wholly unprepared to suddenly be called upon, if her shocked face was anything to go by.
She looked older too. Not in a bad way! Aunt May had always said that that was an incredibly rude thing to say to a lady, and he'd never want to be rude to a lady such as she. MJ. No, she had long brown hair that she'd dyed actually to look a bit more reddish (Ned had reported that she wasn't very happy about this development in one of his earlier videos), she worse glasses some of the time, and seemed very into Boston fashion, if the constant rotation of scarves and jackets that she had were anything to go by. That, or it could be in an ironic way, you'd never know with MJ.
With raised eyebrows and wide eyes, MJ just shrugged, "Um. It's crazy. Can't believe it."
Off-screen, Ned called out, "Come on! That's a cop-out answer!"
MJ rolled her eyes and then awkwardly smiled as she looked directly at the camera, "I guess, um. I've gotten farther than I could ever have imagined. I mean, New York to Boston," she scoffed, "Come on. Big culture shock there."
He heard Ned distantly make yet another complaint about her response.
Peter smiled, ate a cheeto, and imagined what it would be like for him to be there with them. To talk to them, and respond. Peter bet he'd say something like, "It's the best! Can't believe I've gotten to spend another couple years with my best friends!" or, "She's just downplaying it, we're literally living the dream life!" or—
"Pass me one of those?"
"Holy shit—!" Peter jumped up and almost out of his skin, spilling a couple of Cheetos onto the cold, wet concrete in turn. He snapped his neck to the right to get a better look at who said that, his phone still distantly playing the audio in the background like a muted, broken record—Ned and MJ's voices still running through the same script that he had listened to hundreds of times already.
"She's a Red sox fan now!"
"Come on. I've never, and will never, be into a game where the one and only goal is to get a ball from one point to the other."
"The Knicks merch in your dorm room begs to differ—"
From the shadows of the beaten down alley, a man dressed in black with a definitive skull on the front and practically dripping in blood, emerged. Peter's heart dropped. A murderer-psycho-crazy-person. Great, just what he needed after the raid he had already done earlier (technically, yesterday, but he hadn't got any sleep so the days tended to blur together).
But Peter could handle this. Shit. He wasn't ready but he could handle this. Just like he handled everything else that was being thrown at him throughout his life.
He tensed up, gearing up for a fight, and then paused when he realized that his senses hadn't tipped him off about this supposed threat at all. Which was weird because there were very few times in his life— post-bite, post-spell, post all the learnt suffering— that his senses had been wrong.
He tilted his head and got a better look at the man. He was covered in blood, yes. It covered his face and limbs and torso, along with some dirt. And…gunpowder, from the smell of it? It was hard to tell between the funky smell of the alley, but the iron and gunpowder was distinctive enough. The gunpower smell likely came from the gun that Peter was noticed at his side. Or the one on his back. Or perhaps the one that was very likely hidden away in some other crevice.
But the iron, outside of the amount that he was already covered in, came from elsewhere. Peter focused in, and noticed that the blood was actually pouring out of a few wounds along his torso. So not a murderer! Well, jury's still out on that one. But most definitely a heavily injured person. Shit, Peter felt like an asshole.
"Um, oh my god, you're bleeding— are you okay?" Peter asked hurriedly. Was there some kind of crime that he just missed out on? A robbery? He hadn't heard anything, so this guy must've come from quite far away. Way too far for a normal person to manage on foot.
The man, tall and built and potentially enhanced, grunted. "Didn't ask for a med eval, just a Cheeto, Christ kid." But the injured man grabbed at his side anyways, either attempting to staunch the blood or cover it from him. Something that Peter would think to be noble— hiding a severe injury from a 'bystander'— if Peter didn't get the vibe that this wasn't a very noble man.
Cautiously, Peter slid off his dumpster and brought his Cheetos carrying hand forward into the shadow. An offering.
The man took the hand not occupied by covering up the wound and shakily brought it up to the bag. He dipped in and took not one, but two Cheetos, which Peter thought to be pretty greedy of him. And in turn for Peter's own noble sacrifice of two of his beloved snacks, the man dripped a bit of blood into and around the bag. Ew.
Peter's opinion of him immediately lowered. Peter knew his healing factor was strong but doubted it was strong enough to stave off bloodborne diseases, so he mentally relinquished the bag to the man. Bettter safe than sorry.
The man threw both of the Cheetos into his mouth, something that Peter also noted to be bruised and potentially bleeding, and chewed out, "Don't worry, I'll cover this for ya."
Peter's opinion of the man immediately shot back up again. Courteous, at least.
He could only really nod in response to that.
There was an awkward silence for a while, of the man and him just staring at each other. Peter had grown to find uncomfortable silences very normal— when he was Peter, of course. The forgettable. Spider-Man was a different story. But he adjusted.
He didn't think the man thought the same, as after a long while he could detect a hint of fear and discomfort in the man's heartbeat by the way it picked up. Probably thought Peter creepy which did happen more often than not. An unfortunate side effect of no longer having to worry about facial expressions— between the masks and the times otherwise when he was essentially a non-entity— was that he came off a little…odd.
So Peter, being courteous, broke the silence first, "Um. Do you want me to grab you a towel?"
The man scoffed. "Nah. I'm a big boy, I can tough it out."
Peter doubted that. Unless the man had healing factor stronger than himself which Peter, again, doubted. "Tough enough for bullet holes?"
Peter didn't think he knew a single supe that could tough out a bullet hole, himself included. Shit hurt. And this guy must either be stupid or crazy to think otherwise.
The man grew irritated at that, his heart rate picked up in the other direction and he gritted his teeth and pressed the other Cheeto-dust covered hand into the brick wall next to them, "Listen, kid, thanks but no thanks. Scram."
Peter hesitated but nodded placatingly anyways, moving slowly as he grabbed his phone off of the dumpster and left without saying anything else. Better to let the man think that he shook off any kind of attention, for a few moments. He'd forget this interaction, anyways.
Peter opened the creaky back door of the convenience store, dodging his way past the 'EMPLOYEES ONLY' area, and immediately headed for the back aisle, passing by linoleum aisles of junk food and shelved medicines, to grab a roll of paper towels. And some duck tape. And a bottle of shoddy beer from the equally shoddy refrigerator that Paul barely kept stocked properly. He'd have grabbed some soap or rubbing alcohol something with a alcohol concentration higher than like two percent, but Peter knew those were all on back-order. Fucking Paul.
Because what? You thought Peter would just leave a random guy (as potentially murderous, and definitely dangerous as he seemed) to bleed out in an alley-way? Hell no. Just wasn't in his superhero code, as loose as those had seemed to be becoming.
As he left he called out over his shoulder to Paul, who was lazily chatting with someone on the phone as he 'manned' the counter,"I'm taking my five. Be back in a few."
Without looking up from his phone or the packs of cigarettes that he was fumbling with, Paul called back, "Okay! Don't fuck around back there too long."
Y'know the spell did have some perks. Namely, that he could take as many breaks as he needed, without ever being called out for it. Which is how his watching Ned and MJ time often turned into hours in the back of the alley.
But his mood was immediately shot down when he remembered the downside of the spell that was not actually being able to be with said friends on account of the fact that they did not— and could not— remember his existence. Ugh. Not the vibe killer he needed when heading out to face this potential actual killer.
Peter finally made it back to the door, which he managed to crack open the tiniest amount, looking through with one eye to see the man now partially collapsed against the dirty brick wall of the alley, his eyes a little bit bleary as he huffed and puffed and breathed heavily. The man moved a bit, out of sight line, presumably to lean against the wall further or pick something up.
Peter opened the door a little bit more to keep track of the man and it creaked loudly. Ugh, Paul. Peter knew that he should have wrote down a sticky note so that the man actually remembered to get this thing oiled. At least then his boss could've pretended that it was his idea and it actually would have gotten done.
At the abrupt noise, the man— who has clearly now completely forgotten of his existence and any goodwill that came from those Cheetos— whipped around and pulled out the gun that was holstered at his side with him.
FRONT!
Yeah. He can see that.
Peter threw both of his hands up in the air in an immediate and instinctive surrender. As Spider-Man, he could do a lot against a gun. But he wasn't Spider-Man right now, was he? And because of that, Peter very nearly dropped the beer from his hands and, unfortunately, did drop the roll of paper towels to the floor. Eugh. Those were probably all gross now, with knowing what the quality of New York City alleys was.
The man clicked his tongue at Peter, a warning call before the potential coming shot then, "Who the fuck are you?"
Seemed Peter was right on. This guy forgot. Just as everyone did. Peter wasn't surprised and he didn't even think to expect anything different. More just shocked by the immediate draw of the gun. The man didn't immediately turn to use it the first time around, but then again, Peter was the one there first, looking completely harmless. Now he was an unknown.
"Just a convenience store worker!" the words flowed easily from Peter's mouth, just as most excuses for his sudden existence did these past few years. It was the truth, this time. Which did happen oh so rarely, nowadays. "I saw you from the window. I, um, thought you might need help." He lifts the beer and duck tape, and then lightly points, without moving too much, at the roll of paper towels.
After a few moments of what seemed to be careful deliberation on the man's part, he lowered his gun. Peter breathes a sigh of relief. Again. Bullet wounds are a bitch to deal with.
"M'kay. Just," the man sighs, "Pass them here."
Peter ignored this order— risky, but he wanted to speak to the man so it was a necessary to see how much the man would tolerate— and walked over carefully, as one would to an injured animal, and handed the stuff over. The man didn't protest this time around, thankfully. Just gave Peter a strange look. Like it was weird that he was helping an injured man.
Peter turned back without facing his back towards the man, and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs going back into the convenience store.
"Do you know how to clean up a wound?" Peter asked. Partially because he was curious enough to ask, partially because Peter could actually help in the event that it was needed. Though, with the armory that the man seemed to have, Peter doubted it.
"Yeah, I do, wha— fucker, can you?" The man is clearly, very easily irritated.
"Yeah." He gives no clarification beyond that.
After a few moments of Peter not explaining, the man looks Peter up and down appraisingly, with such a high level of scrutiny that Peter thought for sure he was going to be kicked to the curb. Or shot. One of the two. He nods his head a bit, as if to approve of something. "What's your name, kid?"
He froze up. He hadn't been asked that in a really long time, even though Peter knew that it was always the question on everyone's mind when they looked at him, before forgetting. "…Peter."
"You paused. That your real name?" The man was cautious, as Peter was sure any self-respecting… whatever he was, would be. He hadn't yet opened up any of the things that Peter gave him. Probably suspicious.
Peter couldn't blame him for that. Because even he didn't know if it was still his name. No one knew him by that, anymore. All he was was Spider-Man now which— don't get Peter wrong, he loved— but it did make being just Peter, when he really wasn't, hard.
Still, there was an attachment there. Something that connected him back to one of the only two lives he ever knew. Back to his friends, back to his family, back to the times that he could go to Delmar's, ask for his regular, and they'd actually know what that was.
He hadn't been to Delmar's in a long time. Probably since the trip to Italy and Mysterio, happened. Peter couldn't go out as easily with his identity revealed back then. And now he had no identity at all. None in the name 'Peter Parker,' at least. And he couldn't take another blank, unknowing stare from eyes that used to look at him with love.
"Yeah," he says after a few more seconds. He sounds as sure of it as he could muster up, at the moment.
The man stared at him, before sighing, and cracking open the bottle of beer that made a distinctive fizz! sound. "Jesus. You're a real strange kid, Peter," the man dismissed any further questioning about that easily, before leaning down and lifting up his shirt to dump the beer all over his wounds.
Peter blinked as the man barely even flinched from the pain that Peter was sure he was in. Guy must go through this a lot, he takes it.
With a shrug and uncomfortable shift of his legs from upon the stoop he was sat at, Peter said, "I get that a lot. What's your name?"
"Nunya," the man— Nunya, allegedly— said with a grunt as he strains to make sure the alcohol covered enough of his skin. Bullets must have been clean cut then. Clipped him, else he'd be checking for exit wounds. Or he was just a maniac that was okay with bullets getting closed up in his body.
Peter rolled his eyes, "Yeah. Nun' ya fucking business, I know that one."
"I'll have you'se know that this is my business, seeing as 'm the one with the bullet holes. Thank you." Nunya says it with such a serious and heavy Brooklyn accent that Peter has a hard time understanding at first. Then it dawned on Peter that this was Nunya's attempt at a joke.
"Oh! Well, um, then its my business too!" Peter then quickly threw out, before tacking on, "Your real name. Because I got you the supplies."
Nunya snorted. "Y'know what, sure kid. Name's Frank. Frank Castle," he threw the beer bottle in one of the nearby trashcans— not Peter's dumpster— and he heard it crack. Probably not a great addition to this already very shitty alley.
Peter was, frankly (and that was funny), wowed by Nunya's, now aptly named Frank, suave and cool charm. He was like James Bond! If James Bond looked like a ripped, ragged war veteran from Brooklyn. Reminded him of something, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what…
"Nice to meet you, Frank. Wish it could've been under better conditions," Peter gestured down at the wounds and then back to the alley and convenience store where he worked.
Frank chuckled, which looked like it had to have hurt, if the wince visible on his face was anything to go by. But the guy seemed to tough it out and didn't make even a sound of discomfort, let alone say anything about it.
It being the bullet wounds that he was sporting like a fashion statement upon his torso, with his black tee pulled up as he seemed content to let the alcohol dry.
"How'd that happen anyway?"
Frank gave him a glare, one that said to Peter 'are you in a position to be asking the guy with at least three(?) guns questions?' "Nunya."
Peter laughed lightly, toying with his phone in his lap, which still played Ned's video at a light buzz.
"—I'd like the Knicks if they won, time or time again."
A gasp from Ned, "You take that back! They've got the next match in the bag—"
"Alright. Keep your secrets, then." Not everyone had the luxury of being impossible track like Peter was. He would find out some other way. Either by stalking this guy on his way home or checking the police scanner later for any shooting updates.
"You're laughing now but if I told you, I'd have to kill you." Frank said it again in that same serious heavily accented tone that Peter couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not. Which didn't exactly instill a lot of hope or feelings of peace in Peter.
So he just awkwardly laughed at that, watching as Frank began to wrap the pieces of paper towel all together, first just flat upon his side and then in bunches, before biting at the duck tape and throwing it all on. He mumbled under his breath, "Fucking— low quality paper shit.
"Yeah, sorry. That's my boss, Paul's, fault," Peter probably shouldn't have heard what Frank was saying if he didn't have enhanced hearing, but he didn't mind butting in. Hopefully Frank wouldn't mind either. "
Frank grinned wolfishly and seemed to perk up at that, "He an asshole?"
"Yeah."
Frank cocked his head to the side, "You don't like him?"
"My. How could you tell?" Peter joked sarcastically. Crazy just how quickly someone could pick up on that. He wasn't really surprised, it's not like Peter kept it a secret how much he hated the guy. It was just that nobody ever seemed to notice.
"'s written all over your face, hot shot," Frank leaned back as soon as he finished up wrapping the paper towels. As he did, Peter could already see speckles off blood beginning to bleed through. Yikes. A second later, Frank's voice got dark, "Want me to take care of him for you?"
Peter paled. Yeah, he hated the guy, but Jesus he did not want him dead for crying out! "Um, no that's okay! He's an asshole—but uh, not that big of an asshole, y'know?" Nailed it.
Frank snorted, reaching his arm up to run fingers through his own hair, "Relax, kid. Just messing with you."
Oh. "Har, har, very funny," it kind of wasn't very funny, at all. But like, probably a very dangerous person right here, so. Peter would laugh as much as he deemed it necessary, thank you very much. "So why the Cheetos?" Peter asked suddenly, partially as an attempt to change the conversation.
Well, it was suddenly for Frank, but it was a very calculated move for Peter, outside of changing the topic of conversation from 'taking care' of his boss. The spell was cast, what— two years ago now? But Peter still didn't fully understand it. He was trying to though. And it helped to try and get the perspective of how people's minds and memories were altered upon his disappearance.
Case in point: the Cheetos that Peter had 'bought,' brought, and left behind. The dust of which was still on Frank's finger tips. He so rarely got to witness the spell working its magic like this, sue him if he was a bit excited.
Frank grunted as he sopped up the rest of the alcohol with the paper towel, going to off-handedly say, "Grabbed them off the shelf, y'know, like any normal person would."
Peter pushed further, "What shelf? Where?"
Frank opened his mouth and blinked, his face going slightly blank, "…convenience store." He sounded unsure of his answer.
"Did you get them before or after you were shot?"
Frank's blank face suddenly became all irritated, "What's with all these fuckin' questions, man? You working for someone or something?"
Okay. Guess that marked the end of his questioning for the day. Didn't really tell him anything he didn't already know: that working and short-term memory rewrites were shoddy, at best. Don't tell Dr. Strange that he said that though.
Peter sighed and laid back further into the stairs, "Just the convenience store. Where you got your Cheetos."
Frank scoffed, "Yeah. I know. You're the one who rung me up, jackass." The man seemed to finally be finished with applying the paper towels onto his side, as he pushed himself off the wall slowly.
It was so fascinating how creative these false memories could be sometimes. They warped to incorporate him when it was convenient and when he was in sight, but the moment he was gone, he was erased entirely.
It really sucked ass. But hey, at least he could play along for a little while.
"Where you heading now?" Peter rose to stand up next to Frank as the man moved to hobble out.
"Nunya."
"Wow. Really got to stop asking questions, huh?"
Frank clicked his tongue as he wandered to the edge of the alleyway, "Yeah. And sticking your nose in places it doesn't belong. It's fucking dangerous, kid."
Actually, he did belong here. Helping. Wouldn't be your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man if he wasn't friendly with the neighbors. Even if he wasn't Spider-Man at the moment. Wasn't anybody.
"Hey, but you needed me. And my help," Peter paused in the middle of the alley as he watched Frank, with his back turned to him, about to walk out into the night. "Hey, Frank?"
"What now?" he sounded annoyed. Irritated. Probably wanted to be anywhere other than here, which Peter couldn't necessarily blame him for.
"See you around?"
Frank scoffed, "If you end up seeing me around, trust me, you'd want to stop."
Peter took that to mean, yeah. See you around. In Frank's own roundabout kind of way. And he watched as the man left the alleyway behind, vanishing into the open streets in a cloaking of shadows just as quick as he had come in.
He got closer to the edge of the alleyway. Really, he should have long gotten back to his job at this point. But there was never any harm in trying. Trying to find out if there was a loophole or strategy or any semblance of a way to just be himself. Peter Parker. Not an unknown, and not Spider-Man, for once.
Peter pressed himself against the brick wall for a few moments, really weighing his options. He'd been out of Frank's sight for long enough and presumably far enough away, unless Frank stopped walking just as soon as he left (truthfully, Peter still was ironing out the kinks and inconsistencies that came with the conditions of the spell), he'd have forgotten about Peter entirely.
Well. Here's to hoping.
Peter inched his converse forward slowly, ducking his head out from the alley first until he spotted Frank and when he did he called out his name. "Hey, Frank!" He moved out onto the pavement of the outside world.
The man turned around, tense and all strained.
"Who the fuck are you? How do you know my name?"
Nope.
Same issue as always.
Peter tried his best not to feel crushed. This was just a brutish but friendly stranger that he felt some kind of connection with. He couldn't get his hopes up.
"Sorry," his voice sounded small even to his own ears. The glare of a kind, now-stranger ate away at his heart and his slowly diminishing sense of hope. "Wrong person."