Chapter Text
Chapter 1:
Peter woke up that morning hating the taste of sunlight.
Wait, does sunlight have a taste?
Meh, he doesn’t even know which way is up right now. Why ponder if sunlight has a taste?
Peter forced himself to wake up by finally sitting up in bed.
Ah ha, progress! He thought.
He slowly slid closer and closer to the edge of the bunk bed. Something must seriously be wrong with his mattress because his shoulder felt like it had been torn out of its socket and unceremoniously shoved back; and considering he’s had that happen before he was rather concerned for his shoulder.
Finally, Peter flopped out of bed and landed on the floor with a graceless thunk.
“Peter!” His aunt shouted down the short hallway, “Hurry and get ready! It’s already a quarter to 7! You’re going to be late!”
“Hmmmph alright” Peter grunted back; however, as his pulsing headache turned into a throb, he laid down on the floor and decided to move once his shoulder stopped hurting.
Apparently that wasn’t a great idea. He swears he only blinked but he looked back at the clock. 7:17
“SHIT!” Shit shit shit shit! It took about an hour to get to Midtown, and that was with regular traffic. Knowing his luck it would be way heavier than usual.
Peter forced himself up and, resolutely ignoring the way his shoulder throbbed, he practically sprinted to the bathroom with a pair of jeans he swiped off of the floor. He slammed the small bathroom door shut and heard the familiar crack of splintering wood.
"Oh sorry!" He paused, swiping deodorant on while praying for the best, "Oh God, I'm apologizing to the doors now." He looked back at it and saw a deep slit-like crack beside the hinges. "Sorry." He muttered again, thankful that Aunt May had already left and jumped into his jeans and haphazardly threw on a random t-shirt.
Jumping over the kitchen island he grabbed some pop tarts from the top cabinet snatched his coat--and unfortunately the entire rack--off the wall and ran full speed out the door, secret identity be damned. His teacher said that if he got one more tardy on his record he would put him in detention until five for an entire week. Peter simply couldn’t stand the thought. People getting hurt and possibly dying because he was stuck in detention, of all places? No thanks.
He ran even faster, finishing off his meager breakfast, finally getting to the subway station. He aggressively swiped his student pass in the terminal. He tried walking forward but hit his shin on the pole. OW.
Denied. Swipe again.
What?! He tried again. Nothing. Again. Again. He huffed out an annoyed groan and slowly, painstakingly dragged his card through the terminal.
Denied. Swipe again.
Peter spluttered starting to get kinda ruffled up by this stupid machine. Damn, his head hurt. Were the subway lights always this bright? He took a deep breath and swiped again, painfully aware of the line growing behind him.
“Hey, dumbass! Swipe the damn card already!”
Peter flinched at the voice, flushing red on his face and neck, anxiety rising. His tuition did cover this right? He swiped his card again—sweat rolling down his back—praying to God and Thor that the stupid card would just-
Accepted. Have a nice day!
He punched the machine hard enough to dent it at that. Nice day? You can kiss my-- He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. He repeated to himself over and over. Just hurry and get to class, it’ll be fine.
He ran as fast as he could to the nearest subway car.
“Hey! Can’t you read, kid!” Shouted a patrol officer. Peter looked over and he was pointing at the light-up sign above the tracks with words in large yellow print scrolling across it.
Out of service. All routes going to Midtown will be delayed by 15 mins.
Peter felt his eye twitch in annoyance. Everyone was yelling at him and he wasn’t even in the suit this time. He glared at the too bright ceiling, huffing. Today was not his day. Everything hurt and was too much and of course, the world had to fall apart right as he was late. He glanced at his watch--7:38. Huffing in annoyance he stepped back, and then ran forward as fast as he could, jumping the track. An old lady on the other side screamed as he landed in her personal space.
“Sorry,” he muttered, sweaty and feverish. “Thanks for the churro.”
The old lady blinked at him, completely confused ready to ask him something, but he took off before he could hear her response of “Spidey?!” and ran out on the other side of the station. Running as hard as he could he took off towards Midtown, again.
He finally reached the football field. 7:57. Maybe I can cut off a few minutes by running across the field. Peter stepped back a few steps, already figuring out his path. He jumped onto the fence scaling it in a fevered frenzy then jumped onto the bleachers nearby and ran all the way down them, jumping from set to set.
Unfortunately for him, his panicked, fever-induced brain failed to realize that bleachers are made of metal. And metal is a loud, reverberating material thus alerting everyone nearby. So everyone in the front rooms of the school, waiting for class to start, was treated to one of the nerdiest looking kids absolutely booking it and jumping six-foot gaps between the bleachers for an entire 100 yards and then some along the edge of the field in a Spider-Man t-shirt.