Chapter Text
The first time Peter goes to Delmar’s, it’s serendipity.
There have been a string of burglaries in the area, but Peter hasn’t managed to catch the culprit yet. It’s the kind of thing that would be easy to manage if he still lived with May. College has changed things for Peter in a lot of great ways, but it’s been hard to be away from Queens. Columbia is only a half-hour away (even less when he swings), but it makes the commute for patrolling harder.
The extra effort it takes to swing to Queens and back, plus the late nights and busy classes, takes a lot out of Peter. After a night of swinging, fighting, and creeping in the quiet, every inch of Peter's body screams for him to sleep. Knowing that he still has a half-hour swing home only intensifies the weariness.
So, rather than swinging home for the sleep he needs, Peter procrastinates returning at all.
At first, Peter rests on the top of a building with a good view until he can muster up the energy to return home. After a few nights, even that isn’t enough. Because, as tired as Peter is, he has an even greater need.
Hunger.
The only place that is open in the early hours of the morning is Delmar’s, a place Peter knows well. He patronized the 24-hour diner frequently when he lived here with May. Peter is well-acquainted with the good-natured man who runs the place during the day. Tonight, though, Peter sets the bell swinging at an hour when even Delmar is fast asleep.
Stepping inside feels like home. The worn tiles are cool through the suit on Peter’s feet, and the artificial lighting creates a sense of an alternate reality. The dingy counter takes up a large part of the small restaurant. Tables and chairs are scattered around the room in clumps reminiscent of a child’s forgotten array of toy soldiers. Boots with leather seats line the edges of the diner, their cracked upholstery leaking spongey stuffing like burst sores.
Nothing has changed, and the ill-kept state of the place is familiar to Peter.
There is only one customer at the diner at the moment. The old man seated at the counter doesn’t even look up as Peter enters, which is good all things considered. Other than the sound of some movement in the kitchen, the place seems empty. If Peter had thought to bring a change of clothes, he could have come in anonymously, but tonight he is too tired to care about risks. No one comes this late at night, anyway, and even so, he can always leave if anyone gets too curious.
Still… Peter chooses the booth that is so far tucked into the corner he almost misses it. It can’t hurt to be a bit careful.
The seat seems to deflate under Peter like a punctured tire, and he leans back into the lumpy cushion with a little sigh of relief. His muscles are screaming after the night he’s had. Interrupting a car theft required Peter to take on the impact of the vehicle as it was leaving an alley. Additionally, he’s had to occupy several uncomfortable positions over the course of the night, and though he’s more than willing to do it, it feels nice to sit.
The crackling of the light fixture is like the most soothing lullaby to Peter, who finds himself slumping forward to prop his chin on his fists. Sleep drags his eyelids down, and though Peter jerks up and out of its spell every so often, he doesn’t have enough willpower to end the cycle of nodding off and starting up.
“For future reference, it’s called caffeine.”
A thud echoes against the tabletop, sending Peter’s enhanced senses jerking awake. Peter bolts from sleep’s threshold to the lumpy seat. His muscles tense, including those in his arms.
Peter’s head slips off of his knuckles, slamming into the tabletop.
“Ah.” Peter winces as he raises his head, brushing his masked temple with his fingers. There is definitely going to be a bruise there. His eyes dart to the countertop, where he realizes that the sound that woke him was someone setting down coffee.
Peter blinks several times, clearing the sleep from his gaze before the mechanical eyes of his mask rise to the figure standing beside the booth.
The girl appears to be roughly Peter’s age, though she is taller. Her brown eyes do not hold the things that most civilians’ do when they see him suited up. There is no awe, wonder, or uncertainty in her gaze.
No, all Peter can see is amusement to accompany the dry smirk on her lips.
“I… What?” Peter stammers. His lips are heavy, and it feels like he is talking through lead. Peter struggles to get his mask half-lifted so that his mouth is free of the material.
The waitress raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. He is starting to notice a bit more about her, now. She’s wearing a black dress to her knees that has gray trim. As uniforms go, it is simple. The way she stands in it implies she’s not the most comfortable in the dress. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but several wisps have escaped. She brushes one of these away as she speaks.
“Drink the coffee,” she instructs. Peter glances down at the stained ceramic mug, and despite himself, he takes it into his fingers. The warmth is nice, though it is a bit too hot; even through the suit, Peter’s brain suggests that he set down the mug. That only causes him to grip harder, letting the discomfort sharpen his sleep-dulled brain.
“I didn’t ask for it.” Peter doesn’t know why he says it, and he takes a sip instead of asking himself why.
This girl’s gaze is more intense than most people’s. She doesn’t look away as he takes a sip of the too-hot drink, and she only speaks after he’s charred his throat by swallowing. “Sleep-deprived drivers are just as dangerous as drunk ones,” she replies. “And unless you’re planning on sleeping in the booth, I can’t let you out of here half-asleep. I don’t feel like finding out that you fell asleep mid-Tarzan and flattened yourself.”
Peter finds a sleepy smile pulling at his mouth. “Selfless,” he comments, taking a breath to cool his scorched tongue.
“Nah. I just can’t risk them finding our coffee in your system during the autopsy. Then we’d have the FDA poking around, and I don’t like talking to people with clipboards.” She pauses, gaze becoming pensive. “Or people.”
“And yet here you are, talking to me.” Peter gives a thoughtful hum as he takes another sip, mechanical eyes flicking to the cup and then back to her.
“You’re not a person. You’re a spider-mutant. I haven’t talked to one of those before, so I’m conducting research before I establish my opinion.”
Peter nods as he sets the cup down with a sigh. “It’s a smart approach,” he agrees, leaning back in the seat. “Happy to be your baseline when it comes to mutants.”
“Eh, I dunno about that. Mutations would explain some of the people who come through here at this time of night.” Peter laughs, shaking his head as his fingers wrap around the mug. The girl pauses, glancing at the cup then back at him. For a moment, her dark gaze roams his face, and Peter feels like she can somehow see him through the mask. Then she has moved on.
Her fingers tug a small notepad and pen from a pocket in her dress, and she glances at him. “So, are you gonna get anything?”
Peter starts. “Oh, right.” He blinks a few times, and then the order rolls of his tongue. “A number five, please. The Cuban. And could it be smushed down real flat?”
She scrawls down the order, not looking up at him as she speaks. “So you’ve been here, then. Out of the suit.”
Peter starts, the white eyes whirring as they widen. “I, uh-- I haven’t… What?”
“You didn’t look at the menu,” she explains, sliding the pen back into her pocket. Her eyes return to him as she flips the notebook shut, and the corner of her lips quirks up. “Don’t worry. I won’t snitch.”
“Thanks,” Peter breathes, sitting back. “I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, it could ruin you,” she agrees. “If the papers find out that you actually like the food from here, I mean.”
Peter finds a tired laugh leaving him again. Something about this strange, sardonic waitress seems to wake him up. It isn’t how he planned to end his patrol, but it’s not an unpleasant way to do so.
“Um, I’m Spider-Man,” he introduces himself. “Do you have- I mean, what’s your name?”
“Well, I don’t know yours, so that seems like an unfair trade,” the girl muses, thoughtful. “Maybe I should tell you a made-up name so it’s even.”
Before Peter can reply, the man at the counter warbles, “Michelle!”
“Right.” She straightens, letting out a breath. “Gotta go. I’ll have that Cuban out in a minute.”
Peter doesn’t know why he feels disappointed as she turns to walk away. Before she can leave, the words drop from his lips. “Bye, Michelle.”
She pauses, and for a minute Peter thinks he’s overstepped. She still doesn’t turn away, but after a beat of silence, she speaks. “You can call me MJ.”