Chapter Text
Peter let out a loud whoop as he swung in a wide semi-circle over an array of rooftops, before landing, light-footed, on the top of a passing train.
He leaned back and lay down, one leg propped up, arms behind his head, enjoying the feeling of cool wind whipping over him as he closed his eyes contentedly. The late morning sun beat down and heated him through the suit - something he was extremely grateful for - in contrast to the cool, slowly warming metal of the battered train.
There hadn't been a lot of trouble today; crime rates were down and there wasn't a great need for Spider-Man besides a stray mugging or two. And, as much as Peter liked doing good, it was nice to be able to take a breath, once in a while. Today was a good day.
Peter didn't have many of those these days anymore - too busy figuring out how to keep himself alive. Food was becoming harder to find, after the homeless shelter near him shut down a few weeks ago; he'd only trusted the people there because he'd saved a few of them, but going to any other shelter was off the table, never knowing if they'd catch onto his age and hand him in. Plus, they were quite far away.
Still, laying on the train with the soft autumn sun high in the sky, he tried not to think of the impending cold of the coming months, instead focusing on the sounds of the city bustling around him, humming in unison.
It was calming, to be so surrounded by people and yet unseen, unnoticed, and comfortably alone. It reminded him of the people he fought for, the people he sought to protect; they were the main reason he dragged himself out of 'bed' (though you could hardly call it that) in the morning and stayed out until ungodly hours. They gave him motivation.
Soon, too soon, his journey was over - signalled by the familiar, tall, graffitied bridge rapidly approaching. Sighing, Peter pushed himself up and shot out a web, bracing as the train rushed under and using the resulting momentum to swing himself up onto a nearby building.
Glancing around and taking a moment to listen out for danger, he stood still on the smooth concrete rooftop, sunlight now significantly duller in the sky, obscured by large clouds. They’d come quickly, with no warning. Most things did, Peter noticed.
One day, the world was turning as usual and you were walking to school with your best friend, laughing and chatting contentedly. The next, you were crouched in an abandoned building, hunting for comfort in the bare stone around you.
After feeling assured that there was no impending doom anywhere near, Peter simply stepped forward, letting himself drop off the building - falling for a moment - before shooting out a web with a fwip and twisting to launch himself in the right direction.
He let his eyes skim over the buildings as he moved, each painting a unique picture of the lives inside; flora overflowing in a cute balcony-garden on one, others dull and conformist in their monotony. He ghosted a smile at the variety of lives bustling around him, another reminder of the people he was helping, and a small comfort as well.
A minute or so of swinging himself into progressively more run-down parts of town brought Peter to his destination; he angled his trajectory and sailed into the open window of an abandoned apartment complex. Home sweet home , he quipped in his mind, grimacing at the newest expanse of the gradually growing mould on the nearby table.
It was quite bare, as you'd expect an abandoned building to be. There was a table and a few stray chairs, a pillow or two - but that's all there'd been when Peter had first found this place. He remembered that first day, when he'd been cold and alone, searching for somewhere to stay. Trying to just take shelter from the downpour in the awning outside, he'd found the door opened easily and provided some shelter - better than nothing, at least.
He'd thought it was quite empty and sad, used to the clutter in his bedroom or the various strange decorations in several of the foster homes he'd stayed at. Since then, he'd brought in some old, ragged blankets and other small things, but nothing that could suggest - even to himself - a permanent residence, let alone a home.
After all, who knew when he'd need to move, or when someone would wander by and decide to take something? Better not to have too much stuff in the first place. And, as for a home… well, he hadn’t had one of those in a long while now.
He sauntered in, pulling off the Spider-Man suit and inspecting it. Luckily, there were no holes of any true consequential size today (thanks to the general lack of stabbing).
It had definitely seen better days; the spandex-esque fabric was worn and stretched in several places, sewed up gashes littering it, along with a few stubborn blood-stains that soaked beyond the red and tainted the blue an ugly maroon.
There wasn't much patching anywhere visible, thanks to the (quite genius, if Peter could say) choice to add more details to cover up the damage caused whenever he got stabbed or shot. Peter had to make the best with what he had, due to the whole, you know, homeless thing. He'd gotten the original fabric from an abandoned factory and - after a thorough cleaning - it worked well.
Taking a look at his watch (clunky and old, sure - he’d salvaged most of the parts to repair it from back alleys and dumpsters - but it worked well enough), Peter's eyes widened. 2:07pm . Shit . He was going to be late for his shift.
Pulling on a big hoodie and jeans, Peter climbed out the window and jumped, landing on the pavement not far below. Taking off at a sprint, he quickly made his way from the somewhat-abandoned area in which his temporary home was located and found himself surrounded by traffic; the road was jammed with various vehicles, and the streets bustling with crowds of people blocking the way.
Despite it being 2pm on a Thursday, the city was as bustling as it always was - hundreds of pedestrians rushing this way and that to get where they needed to go. Peter wormed through people in business suits, t-shirts, clown outfits… you name it - New York truly was an interesting place to live.
Finally, he skidded to a stop in front of a small corner store, checking the time. 2:31. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, glancing over to the till where, to his dismay (but no real surprise), a rather irritated man reading a newspaper was sitting.
"You're late." It was a statement, not a question - and that made Peter buzz with annoyance, which he swallowed out of his voice. He was one minute late.
"I'm really sorry Mr Pilmore, I tried to get here on time but there was traffic and I didn’t mean to-"
The man looked over the top of his paper rather pointedly, "What have I told you?"
Peter stopped in his tracks, "Sorry, sir." He quietly walked into the back room and began unloading boxes of stock: bags of sweets, crates of energy drinks, massive packs of chips, and much more, all needing to be put in their correct places.
Wasting no time (there was no point stalling, he wasn't paid by the hour, after all), he managed to get the job done with scant trouble in a little over two hours. It took longer than it should because Mr Pilmore was a stickler for details. He would insist everything be placed in a very specific, very inconvenient and unnecessary order. If anything was wrong, you'd be sure you could sit through a lecture and then spend another hour doing it right.
Tracing his eyes over his handiwork, Peter felt a familiar pang of hunger, glanced around, and pocketed a protein bar. Mr Pilmore wouldn't notice; he was too busy reading the sports section of various newspapers - and never anything else. Locking up the back before walking over to the counter, Peter waited by the till for a moment before speaking.
"Uhm, Mr Pilmore?" he asked, hating how meek he sounded, "I finished."
The man simply grunted in response, taking a few minutes before shoving a hand under the counter and pulling out a few bills and shoving them at Peter.
"Thank you, sir." He looked over the meagre pay, regretful that he couldn't find anywhere else that would pay more to someone his age with no credentials, and who was technically, officially, missing. Waiting a moment for the inevitable lack of response, Peter turned and pushed the door open, only to groan as he stepped outside.
A slow drizzle began to spit from the gray sky, and Peter flipped up his hood for the small bit of protection it could provide, before beginning the slow trudge back to the shelter.
*
Peter was grateful for the apartment and the protection it provided from the weather, he really was. But on days like these, days when winter was creeping up and cold breezes swept through cracked windows, he couldn't say he was a huge fan.
It was probably far better than being completely exposed to the elements, Peter knew that. But he also knew spiders couldn't thermoregulate, and that - annoyingly - seemed to have been something he inherited.
The moment he got back, he ripped off his clothes and threw on some new dry ones, wrapping himself in as many layers and blankets as possible. He managed to drift off for a short while, before the cold soaked into his bones and he awoke with a shiver.
The blankets really weren't a substitute for proper heating. They kept him from freezing, sure, but he didn't think he could legitimately survive a winter in this place. Last year, he'd managed to find a place that was quite warm throughout the winter, but he wasn't so lucky this time. Rubbing his hands furiously up and down his arms, Peter shivered.
Was there something he could do to stave off the cold? His stomach took that moment to growl, and he sighed. Great , he thought, pulling himself to his feet, just my luck. Parker luck.
'Parker Luck', as Peter said, was something Uncle Ben used to say whenever things seemed to go especially wrong. It worked like Murphy's law: if something could go wrong, it would, according to Ben. And Peter was inclined to agree. His whole life seemed to have been plagued by Parker Luck, from the moment he was born.
Pulling up a loose floorboard, Peter grabbed a can of soup from his stash and an old camping stove from the corner of the room, stomach aching with hunger pains as he poured a small amount of fluid into the apparatus, and dumped the contents of the can into the small metal bowl.
He was loathe to part with it, looking at the meagre pile of canned foods that were truly only enough to last a day or two, if he ate enough. But hunger was hunger, and he could only ignore it to a certain extent.
He'd found the stove in a trash heap - still quite functional (after a bit of tweaking), though some parts were missing. Huddling close to the little warmth provided by the small, blue flame, he waited impatiently for the food to heat up, grabbing a bottle of water.
Luckily, water wasn't a big problem, as he'd found a few public water fountains he could use to fill up his water bottles. Food was the main problem. Food required money, money required a job, a job required a home - plus being over 18...
So he was glad he'd found a job he could use to satiate the worst of his hunger, even if it was severely underpaid and probably illegal. Still, it worked for him, and who could blame a guy for trying to survive?
…apparently the government, as well as the universe itself, if his bad luck was anything to go by. Oh well, he was getting by.
Peter quickly shovelled the soup into his mouth as the flame died out, savouring the momentary fullness before his body quickly realised this was nowhere near enough food, and promptly went back to protesting its hunger. He walked over to the other corner of the room and looked out the window. He'd been asleep long enough for the rain to clear, and the sky was just tinted a light gray. Of course it stops as soon as I'm sheltered…
He sighed, gazing at the sky with a feeling of longing. The days were getting shorter, and bringing the cold with the fading light.
The day Peter left his foster home for good was one of the shortest days of the year; sun coming and going far too quickly, the lingering moments of light muffled by dark clouds pouring down pelting rain. He winced at the chill seeping through the windows, the weather bringing back bad memories.
Shaking off the lingering remnants of those thoughts, he grabbed his Spider-Man suit; he'd already patrolled for a fair while this morning, but what else was there to do? Maybe it would take his mind off the hunger. Plus, he was cold. Maybe exercise would warm him up.
Swinging over the city, he could forget about himself. He could stop being ‘ Peter Parker: homeless, orphan, alone’ and be ‘Spider-Man: strong, hero, savior’. There was something relaxing about that. The chill seeping into his bones was dulled by the adrenaline of running and jumping and fighting.
Peter dropped from the last web, allowing himself to hang before he threw out another with a quick fwip and caught himself. He was soon far from the apartment, pain lagging behind him. He was free.
Eyes sweeping over the city, his gaze caught on a TV blaring brightly in a living room across the street, visible through half-open blinds thanks to his enhanced senses. Curiosity piqued, he honed in on the box, watching the news play; he could hear what they were saying if he blocked out the other sounds around him and…
“-the Avengers have saved the day once again! New York’s very own heroes made an appearance on Tuesday when flying robots wreaked havoc across the city streets. We go now to Mary-”
He clenched his jaw, a bitter taste blooming in his throat. Heroes, huh? Peter scoffed internally, before catching himself and cursing quietly - he thought he was over that. He knew, logically, that it wasn’t their fault. He had to save himself, and he had done; anything else was a childish daydream, long since abandoned.
And yet, the resentment still lingered on those days where logic seemed so difficult to grasp, where coherent thought was overruled by pure rage and emotional turmoil - it was hard to completely shed, when he’d spent so many days wishing for fanciful scenarios where the Avengers swooped in and saved him.
It wasn’t fair; he knew that. It’s not like they knew he even existed, or any of the horrors that occurred on a day-to-day basis to people like him, sitting up in their ivory tower. Still, he could hardly fault them for not fulfilling the escapist fantasies he’d clung to when all other hope had been stripped from him, when cruelty reigned over his reality and pain became his only thought-
Peter gasped deep, fighting for air as he felt yet another blow rain down upon him - as consistent as the downpour outside. His arms were cradling his head, trying desperately to block the worst of the kicks. He let out a strangled whimper, curling tighter, as his foster mother chucked a nearly-empty bottle of whisky at the wall near his head and sneered down at the small boy as he flinched, glass shards going flying.
“What’s wron’ with you, boy? Stop bein’ a pussy, stand ‘p.” She screeched slurred words at the shuddering mess that was Peter Parker. When he didn’t respond, she sent another kick into his stomach, winding him harshly, “D’you even know- d’you know how expensive you are? You’re not even worth th’ check I get for you.”
Her only reply came in the form of another whimper and a ragged cough from the limp child on the floor. “Worthless brat…” she muttered, turning and stumbling away into the hallway. The only light brightening the dark room now was the light creeping under the door.
Once she was gone, Peter lowered his arms and pushed himself up into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his torso as he winced at the ache that produced. He sat in silence, cold creeping into the room through the one cracked window.
No tears fell, no sobs wracked his body. Peter had cried enough tears for this life. He didn’t see the need to cry anymore. Tears were a cry for help, for bringing warm, reassuring embraces and mugs of hot cocoa. They told the people you loved that you were struggling and needed help.
Peter didn’t have anyone.
He was alone, and as the deafening silence echoed in his ears, he realised that was more true than he’d ever known. It was a moment of clarity; the dust had settled, the clouds had parted, and now he could see reality for what it was.
No one was coming to save him. No one would crash through the wall and whisk him away. They wouldn’t hold him and say it was alright. And if they did, it would be a lie. Nothing would ever be alright again. The world thrived on family and friends and other people.
And Peter Benjamin Parker was inarguably, unequivocally, alone.
In that small, dark, cold room, Peter lost the final bit of child-like hope he’d held out. The last spark was extinguished and faded to black ash. This life was over. He was done. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
He packed a bag.
Peter huffed, shaking his head to clear his mind. No. He was done with misplaced, aimless blame; the Avengers were heroes and - even if they hadn’t saved him - he’d managed to help himself, in the end. After all, wasn't it really his fault-? The faint noises of panicked talking in a back alley, ( thankfully ) drew his attention away from the too-familiar train of thought.
His head perked up, quickly shooting out a web to swing himself in that direction. After a few moments, he spotted what seemed to be a mugging. Two large people in black hoodies were cornering a young man in a business suit, who seemed quite afraid.
“I- I don’t have much on me, I swear!” the man cried, stumbling over his words out of fear.
“Then give us what you’ve got, man. Make this easy.” came a gruff voice.
At that, Peter lowered himself down, hanging upside-down on a web from a metal bar, and cleared his throat when he was right behind the larger mugger. “Hey, dude. That’s not very nice, you gotta get a job to earn money, yeah?”
Startled, the mugger turned, revealing a scruffy face who promptly turned the knife he held on Peter, “What the-”
Peter webbed Knife Guy’s weapon, frowning to bring a lecturing tone into his voice, “Now, now. Haven’t you heard? Those things can hurt people!”
Knife Guy’s accomplice whipped around, and she sneered at Peter, revealing a handgun, “Oh look. It’s the guy who runs around in his pyjamas. Why don’t you run on home to momma before I hurt you?”
Peter bristled slightly at the comment - twisting around to swing out of the way and land on the dumpster behind her as she fired her gun a couple of times - shooting a web to try and bind Gun’s hand to her hoodie, only missing as she quickly pulled it out.
He groaned slightly, and jumped forward, kicking Knife Guy against the wall and swiftly shooting out a few webs to keep him there.
“Really? A gun?” Peter scoffed, “How original.”
The sight of guns still made him slightly jumpy, but he’d had to get over the worst of it in order to be Spider-Man. He couldn’t have a full-on panic attack every time a bad guy pulled out a glock.
‘Gun’ shrugged and fired again, making Peter shoot out a web to pull himself up and out of the way. A confined alley wasn’t the ideal place to fight, but he’d gotten used to it. A moment more and he’d successfully kicked the gun from her hands, webbing her feet to the ground before securing her to the wall.
He sighed, picking up the gun with a look of distaste and swiftly webbing it up out of reach from the criminals before turning to Business Suit Guy.
“You alright?” Peter asked, looking at where the young man had hidden in a corner behind the dumpster, terrified but unable to run.
Shakily, he lifted himself to his feet and took in the scene, nodding.
“Wonderful. Think you could do me a favor and call the cops, let them know? Make sure to include that I webbed them up so they know the time window.” After a nod from the man, Peter turned to leave.
“Uh- wait-” Peter turned, giving him a questioning look (well, under the mask he was), ”Thank you, Spider-Man. I really appreciate it.”
Peter swallowed down bile as he noted how similar the man looked to Uncle Ben, and smiled slightly, “No problem. Be careful out there.” With that, he shot out a web and swung over the rooftops.
A few hours later, Peter found himself quite a while away from his usual territory; following the sounds of crime and screaming meant he never really stuck to a pre-planned route, except on quiet days. As it turned out - in contrast to the morning - it was not a quiet evening. Apparently, the criminals had decided that this Thursday afternoon was the perfect time to, well, be criminals.
As he landed on a nearby rooftop, Peter looked around, scouting his surroundings. With a sickening feeling in his stomach, he realised he recognised the part of town. It was near his last foster home.
After the day he was having, - bad memories dredged up left and right - he wasn’t too keen to invite more thoughts like those into his mind. But when had his mind ever done what he wanted?
Peter was walking down the main street, lined with shops, shivering from the cold. He didn’t have a proper winter jacket, hadn’t had one since he was put in foster care - shoved from shitty home to shitty home.
With a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, hood up, he pushed through the crowds. Swearing under his breath at the amount of people around, he took a break to duck into a small dip in the walls between shops, catching his breath. He looked around, properly taking in his surroundings for the first time, and realised, with a sickening jolt, that it was only a few days before Christmas.
It was his first Christmas alone.
He was headed into the New Year with nothing but a small bag of ragged clothes and a whole lot of new trauma. Wonderful.
Peter shook his head harshly, cursing at the vivid recollection of the day. He really didn’t need this right now. He stood from his perch, stretching out and realising that all that illuminated his surroundings were the bright streetlights buzzing below, and the golden glow seeping from the windows nearby.
He took a look at his watch, realising it was much later than he’d thought, and sighed. He’d gotten caught up in his thoughts, and stopping crime, and now he had to swing halfway across the city late at night, on a nearly empty stomach. Nice going, genius.
Of course, Peter regularly stayed out late as Spider-Man. However, he’d made a habit of slowly rounding down his day by staying closer to the apartment when it was getting late. That way he could quickly get back and rest, or deal with any injuries that might arise while on patrol.
Now, he could either swing for a full hour or so - inevitably getting delayed by crime on the way - or he could pull a long shift. Sure, he was tired. But if New York didn’t sleep, that meant crime didn’t. And if crime didn’t, that meant Spider-Man wouldn’t. After all, why not stay out tonight, since he was already so far away?
After mentally reasoning with himself, Peter let a small grin creep onto his face as he swung out into the night.
*
Several hours (and quite a few bruises) later, Peter was not quite so sure about his decision; it had already been a long day, and now he’d spent even more hours dealing with the more serious crimes that always popped up late at night (or, well, very early in the morning).
He was practically dead on his feet. Currently, he was leaning against a raised platform on a random rooftop, miles from the apartment, and wondering whether he should’ve thought this through a bit more. Still, after having prevented the crimes he had, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret his decision.
If even one more person was a little safer because of him, it was all worth it.
Peter pushed himself to stand properly, swinging to the roof a couple streets away that he knew had a small sheltered area he could hide from the cold in. Landing on gravel and wincing at the push and pull on his injuries, Peter huddled up under the metal slats covered in wood, and curled as far into himself as he could.
He shuddered as a cold wind flowed into the small space, chilling him to his bones. Having said that, it was warmer here than just outside; some of the heat from inside seemed to leak out and provided some small comfort. So, an improvement.
Closing his eyes, Peter tried to keep his mind off the cold, the hunger, the loneliness. He focused on happy memories, ignoring how empty he’d inevitably feel in the cold light of day.
Shouting.
Crashing.
The smell of alcohol and sweat. Wind knocked from aching lungs. Lying, huddled in a pile of blood and tears on the floor.
Gunshot. Hot and cold. Dying. Fading.
Metal screeching on metal. Screaming. Sound cut off.
Crying. Aching loneliness. So very alone. Everyone, dead. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault-
Peter jolted awake, breathing heavily as he forced heavy eyelids open to the unwelcome sight of the late morning sun. He pushed himself up from the ground, sitting on lukewarm concrete. It’s okay, he reassured himself, it was just a nightmare .
He swallowed down bile as a lump formed in his throat.
But it wasn’t just a dream, was it? Because it’s all true. They died, and it’s your fault. Your fault. Your-
Cutting off the thought, Peter forced himself to focus on the noises of the city around him. Cars driving through streets with not much traffic. Early morning joggers. Pigeons cooing across the road. He stood, stretching with a groan as he felt the familiar aches and pains that came from sleeping on concrete.
There was only one way to get rid of the early morning thoughts - the random strings of irritating sentences and guilt-ridden accusations that he knew, logically, came from his own mind, but that felt more like an invasion. They forced their way in and spoke endlessly until he got up and moved and did something.
And that something would be a quick patrol on his way to the apartment.
Shaking his head to clear his mind of the last of the thoughts, he stepped from the shelter and jumped off the rooftop; he allowed himself to fall for one blissful moment, wind streaking past his ears- and then he cast a web and caught himself, pulling up and letting go once again, shooting another web at the apex of his jump.
It did the job, quickly ridding him of any unwanted thoughts (well, now he could at least ignore them). Peter was used to this, after all; he barely had any nightmare-less nights these days, which partially contributed to his general lack of sleep. Anyway, he knew how to deal with them.
…well, mostly.
Some days were still bad. There were days where he listened to the thoughts for longer than he wanted. Days where they were too loud to be drowned out, or he was too tired - or injured - to swing across the city to get rid of them. Those days, he lay on the apartment’s rotting wooden floorboards - or whatever rooftop he’d camped out on - and listened numbly as tears pricked absentmindedly at his eyes.
And then there were the worst days. The days where he not only listened, but believed them, at least on some level. Those times, he’d curl up in a tight ball, wracked with tearless sobs, disgusted with himself. They’re right , he’d think, venom dripping from each word in his mind, You’re a curse. You ruin everything and everyone you touch. It’d be better if you didn’t exist-
But today was not a bad day.
Luckily, today, the thoughts poured away like sand through his fingers; washed away by the tides. And so, he let them go. He took a deep breath of city air as buildings rushed past and blurred. Soon enough, Peter was back at the apartment, sliding through the window and skidding to a stop on the dusty floor.
Huffing contentedly, he pulled off the mask and grabbed a water bottle, chugging it greedily. He hadn’t drank much last night - having not taken enough for as long a patrol as it ended up being. Silently, Peter chastised himself. He thought he’d learned his lesson on one of the many nights his tongue had ended feeling like sandpaper, but apparently not.
Despite the voice in his mind telling him not to, Peter pulled open the floorboard and grabbed a snack bar, eating it before he could change his mind.
He couldn’t be effective as Spider-Man if he was starving, he told himself, half-pretending he wasn’t already malnourished and on the verge of starvation. That was one of the big downsides of being his type of enhanced, as well as homeless: the metabolism. He needed about three times as much food as the average person, but had access to a third as much.
That resulted in a lot of hunger pains, and a slowly decreasing weight.
Peter took a glance at the few bits of canned food, the water bottles, and the bag of chips he’d managed to find, (unopened! Crazy what people threw out, when they weren’t worried about starving.) and sighed. The tiny ‘salary’ from Mr Pilmore was nowhere near enough. Looks like it’s time to pull out my photography skills , he chuckled dryly as he grabbed an old, falling-apart camera, and pulled his mask back on.
A few hours later, Peter was a few polaroids lighter and $60 heavier. Which was great, that was food for another week or two, if he stuck to buying things in bulk and cans. Sure, he got sick of the lingering taste of metal pretty quick, but it was the cheapest thing possible, and at least it was somewhat healthy.
Sure, it felt pretty weird, taking pictures of himself (Spider-Man) and then selling them to some newspaper journalist from the Daily Bugle , whose favorite pastime seemed to be slandering said vigilante. But, hey! It was easy money, and he wasn’t really hurting anyway if he was aiding in his own slander.
To be honest, he wasn’t sure why Jameson was so set on presenting Spider-Man as a “dangerous menace”, (his words, not Peter’s) but the obsession got Peter a good chunk of money every once in a while, so he wasn’t about to complain.
Still, he didn’t really take advantage of it, it felt off, and Peter wasn’t super happy to see the newest article calling him out and saying he should be locked away. But, for now, it had paid for his lunch for the foreseeable future, (Peter didn’t have the luxury to plan beyond a few weeks, he was too busy staying alive) and he was content.
The day was going alright, so far; Peter was wandering the streets in his civilian clothing, hood up, looking for any possible sales or job offers he could take advantage of, when his spidey-sense started screaming. Of course, he’d jinxed it.
Sighing, Peter focused his senses on the surrounding area, no longer tuning out the chatter of the city, eyes scanning the crowds for any potential threats. Suddenly, he froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone he’d seen often, though nowadays more in his nightmare.
The sounds of the crowd began to fade and muddle together, heartbeat growing loud in his ears as the all-too-familiar fear began crawling up his throat. He knew this fear; he was acquainted with it quite well.
It was the fear of hearing the door slam a tad too loud as an atmosphere of irritation filled the house. It was curling up on the furthest corner of the bed, hoping they’d just go to sleep, or pass out drunk. It was cold nights and colder sweats listening to the growing sound of footsteps approaching the door. And it was gasping for air, defenceless, and looking at the person who’s supposed to protect you .
Except they were never going to.
Because the moment he stepped foot in whatever house or ratty apartment he was set to stay in next, he knew. He could smell the scent of day-old beer subtly lining their clothes, could feel the way their handshakes and ‘comforting’ squeezes to his shoulder were cold and uncaring. Nothing like the warm, kind, caring feeling of his Aunt or Uncle. Not like the hazy, golden outline of long-forgotten memories surrounding his parents.
Peter could feel his heart pound louder and faster with every passing moment and it hurt - because why was he still afraid?
He was Spider-Man. Strong. Powerful. Protector. He helped people, saved them from people like them .
And yet, as Peter twisted on his heel and speed-walked in the other direction, - using all his self control not to break into a full out sprint, as if somehow that would alert them, and they’d know, they’d know - as he felt his breath quicken and his heart pound in his ears, as if he could feel his very blood vibrate with it, he didn’t feel like Spider-Man.
He felt lost, and alone.
He felt small and defenceless and broken.
He wasn’t Spider-Man. He wasn’t strong, or powerful or brave. He didn’t fight the bad guys.
He was Peter Parker. And Peter Parker ran.
He ran when his parents died, hiding in a wardrobe amongst piles of fallen clothes that were all so very foreign because none of them were his . Because his home wasn’t his home anymore and the closest he could get was cradling a dress or shirt in hopes of smelling a familiar perfume or cologne - holding them close even long after the scents faded.
He ran when his Uncle died, pushing away the grief and burying himself in layers of falsehood and fake nonchalance even as his smiles lost their luster and the world flew by in blurred monochrome.
He ran when his Aunt died, locking away his heart and using Spider-Man as an escape - only to become himself in the dead of night as he tried to outrun the haunting thoughts that chased him across the rooftops when none but the moon and stars could witness his cowardice.
When the pain got too much to bear, Peter would turn on his heel and run the other way.
And so he ran.
The world muted as wind whipped his hair across his skin, dust particles cutting his face as he shoved past people and skidded to turn corners as fast as possible. He had no thoughts but to escape , to sprint and forget that anything existed beyond the ground pounding beneath his feet and his heartbeat echoing in his ears, panicked breaths hitching and struggling as his lungs burned from lack of air.
He wasn’t sure how long it’d been before he became aware of his surroundings once more, but he found himself standing on the sidewalk in an empty street, heart beating out of his chest. Holding himself up against a wall, he slid into an alley as he felt bile rise; he forced himself to stand as he retched a stream of stomach acid and the pitiful amount of food he’d eaten recently.
Throat burning with an awful acidic taste, he pushed himself to the opposite wall before he collapsed - soundless, tearless sobs wracking his body as he wrapped his arms tightly around his middle.
A new wave of panic swept over him without explanation, and his stomach tightened rigidly. His breaths began to quicken once again. His eyes searched the alley desperately for something, something -
Five things you can see.
The dark, dark alley. His own, shivering hands, gripping at fabric for comfort like a coward- No, no! Focus. A puddle of sick, sitting across from him, taunting his weakness- Focus. The blue sky, tinged with gray. A pigeon, sitting on the rooftop above, cooing gently.
Four things you can feel.
Cold, seeping into his bones from the concrete. The burning on his tongue, reminding him of- Stay on task. Shivers coursing through his body. Fabric bunching under his hands.
Three things you can hear.
His pounding heartbeat, loud in his ears. People laughing, a few blocks away. Water, flowing through pipes.
Two things you can smell.
Vomit, strong and nearly overpowering. Car fumes - seeped into every corner of the city.
One thing you can taste.
Stomach acid, rancid and biting on his tongue.
The only thing he could taste right now.
A shudder ran across his skin at the thought of the event, guilt and shame following suit. Now that the panic had subsided, he was left with a hollowness that those emotions had come to fill. Peter cursed under his breath. He was weak. So very weak.
Ashamed, he closed his eyes tight. He thought he’d become stronger, overall. Even when he wasn’t Spider-Man. He thought some of the bravery would have bled over into Peter Parker. Thought that fighting crimes as a vigilante-slash-superhero would help him. Most of all, Peter thought he wasn’t scared anymore.
Sure, he’d had nightmares, - in fact, he could barely remember the last time he slept properly, with no interruption - but he’d stopped breaking down at the sight of a gun. He’d stopped wincing at every raised voice. He’d gotten better.
He was wrong, so it seems.
As always , Peter thought bitterly, the smell of bile and half-digested food wafted towards him, and he groaned, pushing himself to his feet. He pulled out a water bottle from his backpack, taking a swig and clearing the worst of the taste.
Stepping from the alley, he glanced around before pulling up his hood, (which had fallen down at some point, much to his dismay) and taking quick steps towards the nearby park, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind.
A few minutes later, and he’d stepped across the threshold - the gray-blue hues of the city quickly drowned out by bright greens. It was one of the larger parks in the area, and Peter was grateful for its existence; walking through nature had always calmed him.
He took a deep breath, walking further in and letting his feet guide him to the usual spot. Soon enough, Peter stood beneath the large bows of a towering oak tree, and quickly climbed up into its branches, taking a seat near the top.
Webbing his bag to the trunk with the web shooters practically permanently on his wrists, he looked out over the cityscape, taking in the feel of a chill breeze on his skin. He closed his eyes gently, allowing the feel of the tree gently rocking in the wind to bring him comfort.
Here, he could relax. Here, he wasn’t Peter Parker, or Spider-Man, or an orphan, or a runaway, or a starving, tired, homeless, kid. Here, sitting amongst the birds that sang out a sweet cacophony of sounds, feeling the rough bark through his clothes, he wasn’t any of those.
Up among the leaves, he was nothing. And he could deal with that.
*
Another day, another predicament over food. Peter’s stash was replenished now, thanks to the pictures, but he still didn’t like to diminish his supply. Who knew when he’d be fired by Mr Pilmore, - replaced by someone he could pay even less, someone whose life didn’t depend on the money - or Jameson would get over his weird vendetta and stop paying for the pictures?
Or what if he desperately needed something for his web shooters, or something else Spider-Man related, and he didn’t have the money for it? Parker luck could strike at any moment, and Peter couldn’t risk being left stranded, with no backup cash, just to take the edge of his hunger pains.
He could deal with the pain, after all. It’d become background noise, at this point - sort of like how the constant conversations in a crowd had, once he’d gained some control over his powers and enhanced senses. Peter’s life was an amalgamation of pain and cruel hope that was stripped away a moment after it was given. Pain was normal; it was expected.
So Peter sighed, replacing the floorboards and drinking some water to take the edge off. Maybe some patrolling would get his mind off it.
Sure, he knew - logically - that it would just make it worse, all that exercise and adrenaline coursing through his veins. But it felt good and, in the moment, it helped him forget. That was all Peter could ask for, at this point. Just getting through, one day at a time. He’d deal with long-term problems when he could see himself living past the short-term.
For now, Spider-Man.
Peter pulled on the suit, anticipating the rush of adrenaline as he soared above the rooftops. He grinned; patrols were the highlights of his days.
A few hours later, and Peter let out a low hum. His legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop he was currently perched on.
It'd been another quiet day. Sure, he liked it once in a while, but it got boring quick. Especially when he’d been counting on preventing crime to keep his mind off other topics.
He knew he should be glad, (people weren’t being hurt!) but he couldn’t help but shake the feeling of wariness itching in the back of his mind. Maybe they were getting hurt, he was just too far away. Or maybe it was the prelude to something terrible and dangerous.
Silence usually meant something big and bad was brewing on the horizon, after all. It was like how people say animals are always the first to know of a disaster. Well, petty criminals tended to be the first to see big crime coming. If only Peter had that ability.
He was sighing again, pushing himself lazily to his feet as he decided to try another part of the city when, suddenly, he felt his spider-sense (as he'd dubbed it) buzz urgently. He twisted around, hearing heavy footsteps. Wait. Was that-
Captain America stepped onto the rooftop across from him, and Peter had to scramble to avoid falling back down at the shock. Steve Rogers was right in front of him, in his superhero suit.
"Uhhhh-" Peter said eloquently, looking around.
A somewhat stern look crossed the Captain’s face, "Hi, Spider-Man. That is your name, isn't it?"
Peter just nodded mutely, wondering silently if he'd hit his head swinging over here.
"I’ll get right into this,” the Captain continued, “I’d like you to come with me to the Tower.”
Gulping down a wave of panic that rose at the idea of going to Avengers Tower, Peter sheepishly rubbed the nape of his neck, "As great as that sounds, Captain Rogers, sir, I'm gonna have to decline. Secret identity and all."
The ghost of a smile dropped off the Captain's face in an instant, causing Peter to wince and step back slightly, "That’s not going to work, Spider-Man. It was fine when you were small-time - helping old ladies and fighting the occasional mugger, but now we need to ensure you’re not a threat of some sort."
Peter moved further backwards as the man took off his large, deadly shield and stepped forward a bit, "You’re in the big leagues now, and we need to know we can trust you. Make sure you're not planning to turn around and cause trouble. You understand me, son?"
Peter's mouth went dry, pure terror rising sharply as he cursed under his breath. He should’ve listened to that feeling, should’ve gone back to the apartment. Now he was being cornered by an Avenger, demanding him to basically announce his identity. After that, it would only be a matter of time before CPS got involved. And then it was back into the system. Not happening.
"Yeahhhh," he dragged out, glancing behind him, "thanks for the invitation and all, but I uh, well my identity's pretty important to me, and I'm not in a rush to show anyone what's under the mask." he looked back down to the streets once again, gauging the right time to run, before sliding his foot near the edge of the roof, "I'll see you around, though."
The hard look that crossed the Captain's face in that moment made Peter hesitate for a moment, fear gnawing at his gut like a rabid animal. Suddenly, he dropped into a low stance as his spidey-sense screamed at him to DUCK , reaching up and grabbing a dart aimed for his neck.
He looked at the small projectile, then back at Steve - now quite surprised - with a look of shock and fear, "You're trying to tranq me?" he asked incredulously.
Not waiting for an answer, he leaped forward as another dart came flying for him. The shield came flying towards him at the same time, causing Peter to swiftly jump and twist out of the way, flinging out a web at the Captain's shield, pinning it to a wall as he front-flipped over him. ”Come now and we can forget about this resistance.” The Captain said, harsh tone audible, "No hard feelings, Spider-Man."
" 'No hard feelings?'" Peter asked, just as incredulous, as he dodged a flurry of darts, and spotted the source, - Hawkeye - throwing a web to block up the device he'd been using to shoot them, "Know the meaning of 'no', Cap? Cuz you don't seem to be taking it well."
The Captain frowned, "I wanted to do this the easy way, son. You chose this."
Peter forced out a chuckle as he dodged a punch from the super soldier, shooting out another web to stick one of the Captain’s feet to the ground, "Ever think of talking for more than thirty seconds before resorting to force? Or, maybe, I dunno, building up some trust?"
At that, Hawkeye shot out a projectile that was definitely not a sleeping dart, and Peter barely had time to start moving before an arrow sliced a shallow-ish trench in his arm. He hissed in pain, and gripped it tightly, blood beginning to pour from the wound. At least it was his non-dominant one.
Shooting a glare at Hawkeye and pinning him with a web, he landed lightly, on the other side of the roof from the Captain, swiftly shooting out a few more webs to lock him in place.
He looked back, full of anger, pain and irritation - as well as a touch of regret, "I guess I'm not worth that." The words were more to himself than anyone else - the meaning would be lost on them, after all - but he said them with all the venom he could muster.
Without waiting for a response, Peter flung out a web and swung out over the city.
*
Peter was pretty tired, when he pulled off his mask and ripped a length of fabric from an old, tattered t-shirt. He'd taken the roundabout way back to his 'apartment', keeping an eye out for any other Avengers in the mood to jump him. That also meant he'd spent double the time getting back, and now his arm was kind of numb.
A year ago, the wound would already be healing, fat and sinew knitting itself together. Now, though, he was always too hungry, too tired, for things to heal fast. Sure, they healed faster than the average person, but nowhere near before - back when he hadn’t worried too much about rationing, more focused on satiating the growing, unending hunger.
He’d blown through his money soon enough, and learnt a valuable lesson: constant, slight hunger is better than painful, aching starvation.He couldn’t remember a single day he hadn’t been hungry, since he got his powers. He grabbed a bottle of water and poured some onto a clean(ish) rag, trying to combat any infection caused by the bigger bits of debris and dust now in his arm - wincing at the discomfort.
Peter was pissed.
Today was not a good day.
His childhood hero had attacked him after a single rejection, and then Hawkeye shot him.
Hissing at the sudden pain from his arm - exacerbated by his rising anger - Peter shoved the bottle back on the table and pulled open his stash, grabbing a roll of duct tape and the (very bare) first-aid kit he’d found a while back. There was enough clean bandage in it to roll around his arm and stick down with the tape, trying to use as little as possible to conserve his supplies.
As the adrenaline wore off, he groaned at a newfound wave of pain. All he wanted was to curl up in a ball, wrap a lot of blankets around himself, and go to sleep. But he couldn’t; he needed to think; the Avengers had somehow heard of Spider-Man, seen what he did (helping out the little guy) and decided that he was a possible threat that could turn evil any day.
And he had no idea how the hell that misconception had occurred. Spider-Man would never hurt anyone innocent. Hell, he barely hurt the bad guys - just wrapped them up as a gift for the NYPD.
The more he thought about it, the more his gut clenched in anger, his hands balling into fists. All he wanted to do was help people. Be of some use. He dealt with the things that, sure, weren’t exactly world-ending , but they mattered. Maybe they weren’t massive, flying, alien spaceships - but they were the things that could wreck a single, precious life.
That was the thing. They weren’t literally world-ending, but they sure as hell could be, for a single person. Peter knew that from experience.
A single engine error had stolen his parents. A single bullet took his Uncle. One bad driver, and Peter was left stranded. He was talking to May, she was coming home. Lost and alone. His world had ended the moment that truck crashed.
She was on the bus. He heard the crash; the screeching of metal against metal. A sharp intake of breath. And then, silence. One mistake, and he’d been tossed into the wind, at the mercy of the tides. Thrown from foster home to foster home, left to fend for himself. Bottles breaking. Glass shattering. Fear. Pain, pain, pain.
Peter suddenly became hyper-aware of his oncoming panic attack, breath quickened and heart rate speeding before he even knew it. His vision clouded a misty red. The Avengers didn’t care about the damage they did, the lives they destroyed. They didn’t care about the struggles people faced day-to-day, trying to survive, while they lounged in the Tower and preached being saviours.
He didn’t register the impact - didn’t realise he’d slammed his fists onto the stone counter in the run-down kitchen area - until it splintered under the force; lightning-esque cracks spreading out from the small crater his fists lay in.
They didn’t stay there for long, a sharp, aching pain spreading from his arm ensuring that. He sucked in a sudden breath through clenched teeth, and half-collapsed, half-lowered himself to the floor. He sat there for a moment - anger brewing - before it dissipated, leaving just as fast as it appeared. Peter let out a choked laugh at the absurdity of it all.
The great protectors had attacked a 16-year-old homeless kid, just trying to put some good back into a world that had abandoned him.
Some part of Peter knew it wasn’t fair to pin that on them. He knew, logically, they were people too - fallible and exhaustible. They didn’t know he was 16, (and it’d stay that way, if he had anything to say about it) didn’t know, for whatever reason, that he wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. They couldn’t work nonstop, and they couldn’t prevent every bad thing from ever happening. Still, logic wasn’t coming easily to him right now; not when they’d just cornered and shot him.
Then, the mist faded. He sighed.
As much as he’d like to hold a grudge, he couldn’t convince himself to be so very unfair. Though his hero-worship had since died out, he still had respect for the heroes. After all, he himself, even before he had become a vigilante, had discovered the hopeless feeling of being unable to save someone. It was only amplified now by the knowledge that he could prevent it.
But Peter knew there were people he’d failed, people who’d died or been mugged or worse, before he could reach them. If he ever did.
So, no, he couldn’t hold onto the irrational anger any longer - despite the strange comfort it provided. He let out a huff of resignation, hoping he could remedy the whole Avengers-kinda-sorta-hate-me thing soon. After a few minutes, he pushed himself to his feet with his one good arm, stomach growling in protest. Right. Food. That’s something he should probably deal with.
Despite his controlling mindset over conserving his stash, Peter knew he needed to eat, in order to help his body heal. That was indisputable. And so he reluctantly pulled out the camping stove, and began to heat up a can of some sort of edible soup-slash-mush. Good enough.
He tracked the jumping flames with tired eyes, mulling over the day’s events. Parker Luck had to have a limit, right? It couldn’t do too many unfortunate things in a row. He let out a dry laugh at that thought, thinking over his life. Ok, maybe don’t rely on that.
The pain had faded slightly as the days progressed, but it still flared when he put too much pressure on the arm. Still, Peter needed food; and for food, he needed money. And for money, he needed to work.
Peter may have been attacked a few days prior - and still nursing his wound - but Mr Pilmore didn’t know that, didn’t need to know that. Plus, Peter doubted he’d care, even if he knew.
So, he showed up on time for his job the next day, on time. He was polite, (overly so, as the man practically demanded) he worked quickly and quietly, snuck away a few protein bars, and collected his tiny salary. He didn’t mention the aching pain in his arm every time he lifted a particularly tricky box that required both arms; didn’t cry out when he jostled into a wall, hitting his arm and feeling a bright flash of pain as he grit his teeth.
Grabbing the money and stuffing it in his hoodie pocket, Peter decided to buy some first-aid supplies. It was time to check on the stashes he’d neglected more recently. He'd developed a habit of hiding stores of essentials around the city, in case he needed them.
After all, who knows when you’ll get shot, halfway across the city? Not Spider-Man.
It was a safer bet to scatter supplies in nooks and crannies of areas he frequented, rather than place all his eggs in one basket. They’d saved his life already, on more than one occasion. A stray bullet left untouched for a few too many hours could pose a major problem; even with his healing hindered by exhaustion and hunger, a thin layer of skin growing over the hole would invite a whole world of pain.
Peter learned that the hard way.
As it turned out, cutting into your arm to get to a bullet that had - quite stubbornly - stayed stuck in your flesh was extremely painful. He should’ve guessed that, really. But he supposed the shock and post-shooting delirium had clouded his logic.
But Peter knew, now. And so, he stocked up on the cheapest supplies he could find, and swung around the city - checking stashes, replenishing or moving those that had been destroyed, or stolen, or used up. The whole task took a good chunk of the afternoon, but left Peter feeling much more secure. It also took a good chunk of his web-fluid, and he huffed irritatedly as he noticed how low he was. His back-ups were nearly empty, too. He needed to stock up. Which meant he needed a lab.
Which meant sneaking back into Midtown High, and using the labs there.
In the early days, when he’d figured out the formula, he’d been able to make it during Chemistry class. That ended soon, along with his attendance, once things got too risky; once the police were finally alerted to his homelessness, and staked out the school.
In more recent times, he’d needed to get into the school with the crowds of schoolkids - blending in - and snake his way up to his old class, make the fluid, and get out. He couldn’t synthesise it in the apartment or outside the school, it was too dangerous to transport the supplies. Plus, he could get caught much easier that way.
So, Peter stood at the steps of his old STEM school, and took a deep breath. Pulling his hoodie further down over his face, he pushed into the doors and blended into the crowds of teenagers, all wandering the halls. It was the very beginning of break, perfect timing.
Manoeuvring his way towards the stairs, he froze as he spotted a familiar face; Ned Leeds was standing by his locker, next to Peter’s old one, and pulling out his books. Peter felt the all-too-familiar feeling of guilt filling his throat, clawing up the sides.
He wanted to go and say hi, of course he did.
It would be all too easy to walk over, wrap him in a hug, and set it all right. Apologise, properly. Not just a note scribbled on torn paper. But it wasn’t the start that was the hard part; it was what would inevitably follow. It was the lies he and Ned alike would be forced to tell, the endangerment from having loved ones. It was the CPS involvement, the foster homes… the abuse.
Ned wouldn’t understand, not really. How could he? His parents were strict, sure. But he’d never felt the fear that came, so very naturally, to Peter. The wracking sobs and tears at small things, the panic attacks that felt like the world was crushing in around him.
And so, Peter swallowed his words, pushed back the guilt, and lowered his head, fast-walking up to the chemistry labs. Every step was forced. Every breath laboured as he bit his tongue to avoid the disaster that would follow.
Pushing open the door to the lab, Peter collapsed against it as it shut. He squeezed away tears and pushed down bile, focusing on controlling his breathing.
He was making the right choice.
…right?
*
Peter’s arm stung as he knocked it against a wall, cursing under his breath. Despite the urge to curl up and sleep until the pain just went away , he did his work, stocked his stashes, made the fluid, took care of himself (well, to some extent).
And now, despite the constant ache, he needed to be Spider-Man. He couldn’t take long breaks, not if he wanted the people of Queens to be safe. Spider-Man not only stopped crimes first-hand, but he scared off potential evil-doers, which lowered crime rates and made people a lot safer. Fear was handy, in Peter’s business; the vigilante business, that is.
For the next week or so, while he was recovering, he’d need to appear sporadically; so criminals couldn’t anticipate his absence, but he could still rest. There was no relaxation on his days off, of course, just planning and scrounging and rationing. Still, it was better than nothing.
That’s why, just a few days after the attack, he was swinging over the city in his skin-tight suit. He tried to keep weight off the bad arm, somewhat unsuccessfully, as he fought and swung. This left his right arm aching, but it was better than putting more strain on it. He winced at every hit and jostle to it, gritting his teeth and thinking of the people in danger - people who needed him, and he pressed on.
That’s also why, on that first day back on patrol, he found himself in quite the predicament. Peter was taking a moment to rest on a nearby rooftop when his spidey-sense buzzed harshly, matching the approaching sound. It was one he’d heard before, on the news. He grimaced, silently apologising to his injury for the inevitable pain it’d be put through, which would set back his recovery for a while.
He spun, leaning against a metal container, and put on his best display of indifference as Tony Freaking Stark landed on the concrete, in his Iron Man suit, and stepped forward.
“Heyyy, Iron Man...” he edged closer to the side, itching to leave before this got serious, eyes glancing around for any signs of other Avengers, “listen, as much as I’d love to stay around and get, y’know, shot , my arm really wouldn’t appreciate it.”
The metal suit held up its arms in a show of non-violence as the face plate snapped back revealing - yup, absolutely terrifying and exhilarating - Tony Stark’s face, “Hi, Spidey,” he began, “My bad about my friends, they tend to get pretty jumpy. Clint says sorry, by the way.”
“Yeah,” Peter drew out the word, frowning as his eyes narrowed in disbelief, “forgive me if I don’t take that at face value.”
Tony nodded, and his suit opened with a pshh of air, stepping out, “I don’t blame you, Underoos.” (“Under-what?”) “But I’m being serious. Here’s the thing: I’m a busy guy, so I’ll cut to the chase. We found some dead bodies covered in webs, plus you stopped a speeding truck, and Steve got antsy. Drew his own conclusions. Don’t worry,” he added quickly, “we know it wasn’t you, he just didn’t wait for the coroner’s report.”
Nodding slowly, Peter let his guard down slightly as his spidey-sense didn’t alert him of any nearby threats, “Ok, then.” he crossed his arms, wincing slightly at the motion as it tugged at the wound, “Why’re you here then? Why come find me?”
“Well, although Cap went about it the complete wrong way,” he sighed at that, “I would like to say that the invite is open anytime; drop by the Tower sometime, meet the team. I know you have no reason to trust us,” he added the last part at Peter’s obvious suspicion, “but I’d like to be able to, at some point. You’re strong, and flexible, and people trust you - mostly. You’d be great to work with.”
Peter looked Tony up and down, noting the distinct lack of threats or weapons, “Maybe I will.” he said shortly. He shot out a web from his uninjured wrist before continuing, “Next time, try building some trust before shooting someone, huh?”
With that, he dropped one foot off the edge and let himself fall until the web caught him with a hard tug and he swung in an upwards arc. His logic and instincts were at war in his gut; one trusted the hero’s open stance and calm demeanor, the other screaming insecurities and warnings of betrayal - though it was hard to tell which was which anymore, or even which should be trusted over the other.
The logic said they could’ve brought the whole team to take Spider-Man in - but it also said that would bring unwanted attention and create tension. His instincts could read dishonesty in shifting movements and heartbeats, but they also raised his hackles at the thought of trusting someone - especially after the earlier incident.
Peter let the dust-riddled air fill his lungs and whip past him, numbing the pain in his arm with a cold that seeped through the suit’s material.
It was familiar, painful, and far easier than searching for answers that wouldn’t appear. And, above all, it felt right .