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Peter wakes to regular morning sounds. A coffee machine whirs away, slices of toast pop up, a fridge is opened and closed. But the radio isn’t on, and as he cracks his eyelids open past rheum and an errant eyelash or two, the ceiling is different from home. Instead of eggshell paint a few feet from his face, there are timber rafters far above his head.
He’s lying on something too lumpy to be a mattress. A colourful, babyish blanket lies across his chest instead of blue sheets. This isn’t his bedroom, or his lounge room, or Ned’s house.
The memories from yesterday come swimming back to the forefront of his mind. The last thing Peter remembers is falling into the East River. Last night, he went out for a test of his latest web formula and lost track of how much was left. He decided to head home, jumped off a shipping container, sent another web towards the bridge, and it ran out. He must’ve blacked out after he fell in. The mask’s goggles had filled up with water and it was just so hard to see. The stupid mask that isn’t on his face.
“Good morning,” someone says and no, no, Peter is so not sticking around without his mask and with someone he doesn’t know.
Peter scrambles to sit up, kicking off the blanket to find he’s still in the makeshift superhero suit, minus his shoes, with a towel under him. He jumps off the couch and almost crashes into a coffee table, then takes a look around.
The apartment is sparse; limited furniture, no decorations, and open-plan. High windows take up most of one wall, stairs to a door to nowhere take up another. Roof access, maybe? He could run for them–
“Are you okay?” the dark-haired man asks from where he stands by the coffee machine.
Peter doesn’t see a clock anywhere, so he can’t yet say ‘I’m late for school, thanks for maybe-saving me, bye.’ He nods instead.
“He nodded,” the man at the dining table narrates around a mouthful of colourful cereal.
“Um, yeah, I–” Peter looks around again and spots his mask and rucksack on the coffee table and his shoes underneath it. “What happened?”
The man in the kitchen shrugs. He appears to be ready to leave for an office job, dressed in a charcoal-coloured suit and reddish sunglasses over his eyes.
“We saw you fall into the river. It seemed like you couldn’t swim, so Vladimir went in after you,” he gestures to the other man, who sends an annoyed glare back, “and you passed out before we could get an explanation.”
Which– shit. Peter could've drowned if it wasn't for whoever these guys are. Who had totally legit reasons for wandering around near the river in the middle of the night. One look at Vladimir – eye-scar, dodgy-looking tattoos, permanent bitch-face – gives Peter an idea of why.
The more respectable-looking of the pair continues speaking. “What were you thinking, going into the river when you can’t swim? Was it an accident?”
“Yeah, I didn’t mean to fall in,” Peter admits. He snatches up a shoe and hops on one foot to put it on. “I got lessons, when I was a kid… not many, though. So, thanks, I guess, but I’d better go–”
Vladimir sets his spoon down and narrows his eyes at Peter. “I know you; you’re the one they’re calling ‘Spider-Man,’ running around in red pyjamas. Seriously, are you in kindergarten?” he says, Eastern European accent more prominent now that he’s said more than two words.
“Hey, I’m in hi– I’m in college,” Peter says as he hauls on his second sneaker. It's a terrible recovery, but really, he's hoping to skedaddle as soon as possible, so it doesn't matter. Thanks but no thanks for the conversation, criminals. Besides, he heard Daredevil used to wear black pyjamas and a ninja mask back when he was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen; everyone has to start somewhere. Though, Peter doesn’t really ever want a reputation for maiming people.
Vladimir laughs wholeheartedly and the other man chuckles into his coffee.
Peter frowns at both of them as he ties off the last shoelace and stands up straighter than necessary. “Thanks again, but I’ve really gotta go,” he says, grabbing his rucksack and pulling the straps onto his shoulders. He picks up his mask, but doesn't put it on yet, and makes a beeline for the hallway to freedom.
“You’re welcome…?” the man in the kitchen says, wandering to casually block the exit.
“Peter,” the teenager says without thinking. He winces a second later, smile turning strained.
“I'm Matt.”
Peter shakes Matt’s hand with what he hopes is an okay grip. Increased strength is not on his side in daily life. Multiple water bottles, several pens, half a dumpster lid and a payphone have given their lives in his endeavour to control his strength.
“If you ever run into any legal trouble, thanks to your hobby,” Matt says, pulling a business card from his pocket, “you now have someone to call. I’m a defense lawyer.”
Peter skim-reads the simple card before he pockets it. “Yeah. Thanks,” he says and turns to leave.
“By the way,” Matt says, stopping Peter in his tracks, “could you do me a favour? Since we fished you out of the river.”
Peter frowns, suspicious. “Uh, what is it?”
“Stick to helping people find their way around town and catching bike thieves. You don't want to mess with the… more malevolent criminal element in this city,” Matt says, as if sharing a secret. “Okay?”
It doesn't sound like a threat, not really. And Peter kind of hopes a lawyer isn't too close to any of the crime going on in NYC. “Like the guy who ‘fished me out of the river’?”
Matt raises his eyebrows in surprise, then smiles. “Between you and me, he can be a real pain sometimes,” he says and turns to look at Vladimir. Peter wonders how difficult it is to see through those sunglasses, indoors. “There’s my two cents, what’d you wanna tell him?”
Vladimir drops his spoon into the bowl and pushes back his chair to stand. “Do you want some advice?”
Peter takes a step back, towards the hallway that probably houses the exit. “Not really.” Not from the randoms who were wandering the docks at three AM, in particular.
“See, he doesn’t want my advice,” Vladimir says as he approaches the others. He uses his scarce height advantage over Matt to lean an arm on his shoulder. “You’re not into drugs, yes?”
Matt turns to glare at Vladimir and gets a peck on the nose and a fond smile for his trouble.
“Yeah, no, I don’t– I don’t do drugs,” Peter says, adjusting the bag strap on his shoulder.
Vladimir looks at Peter, expression deadpan once again. “Good, because I don’t sell them anymore–”
Matt bashes Vladimir in the ribs with an elbow, and that line of ‘advice’ ends there.
“Thanks again,” Peter says as he dashes around the corner, towards the door. The sliding metal door of freedom is so, so close, but, he should probably ask a vital question. “Wait, where am I?” he says, somewhat to himself, turning back only to find he's been followed.
“Hell’s Kitchen,” Vladimir says, leaning against the wall.
Peter’s heart sinks. “Oh, shit.” Now he'll have to go home, get his school stuff, then come back to Midtown for class. Which he's probably already late for.
Vladimir grins, which is possibly scarier than when he doesn't. It more heavily implies the whole slit your throat for tuppence thing he has going on. “You lost?” he asks, amused. “A subway station is close by, you know how to get home on the train?”
“Stop scaring him,” Matt calls from the depths of the apartment before Peter can answer.
“I’m not scaring him, he's Spider-Man, remember?” Vladimir says over his shoulder. He rolls his eyes and says to Peter, “It's seven AM; you hurry, you won't be late for elementary school.”
Late for marching band practice, yes. Late for class, no. May is going to kill him for not coming home last night, regardless. He can already feel a crick in his neck from sleeping on a couch and the distant ache of healing bruises from the fall.
“Okay, thanks,” Peter says again, opens the door, and runs like the devil is on his heels.