Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day was dragging on. Well not really, time was moving perfectly normal but to recently turned eleven-year-old Peter Parker sitting in his last class, watching the second hand tick forward like practically every movie he had ever seen, time was moving at a snail's pace. 

Maybe the universe knew he was excited to leave school, and get the good ice cream from that one shop on the other side of the city like May and Ben had told him they would after school. Maybe the universe was just slowing time down to mess with him, honestly anything was possible with how the world was now, what with the whole alien thing. (There were aliens! And the Avengers fought them off! Peter had quickly gotten interested in the world's new protectors, as well as practically every other kid in the world)

Okay so maybe the sugar from the candy he had eaten were causing him to also be a little more energetic on top of the excitement he already had for the day. His leg was bouncing, and he wasn't paying a lick of attention to the teacher as she wrapped up the lesson for the day. Honestly Peter didn't think anyone in the class would be paying attention. It was the school's fault really, who starts school in August ? Of course none of the sixth graders would pay attention to anything being said, late summer heat still sapping them of their energy. 

Still staring intensely at the clock he began to think of the gifts he already knew he'd be getting. He thought about getting to open the Lego set that Ben thought he hid in the closet (Peter was taller than Ben seemed to think) and the weighted stuffed animal that May had hidden under their bed (Peter was more nimble than they seemed to think).

And finally, the bell rang. Peter was already out of the school before most of the other students had managed to shove their school work into their own backpacks. 

. . .

Ding

The bell of the ice cream parlor rang to alert their presence, or rather their lack of presence as they left the parlor. Peter was so distracted licking the running drips of his ice cream trying to stop them before they reached his head, he almost tripped on a crack on the sidewalk. 

“Careful there champ,” Ben laughed as he caught Peter before he could face-plant on the ground. 

“Oh he's just in that Bambi phase, soon he'll be taller than you, Ben!” May smiled, standing on Ben’s other side holding her small bowl of Strawberry ice cream. She always said that she couldn't find strawberry ice cream like this place had, something about actually strawberries being made here and other things Peter hadn’t really cared to pay attention to at the time. 

“Well, we’ll just have to see then, won't we? Think you'll be tall like me and your dad Pete?” 

He nodded mid-lick, when all of a sudden the flimsy waffle cone that held the ice cream cracked, making some of the melting ice cream begin to slide down his hand, much to his dismay. 

“Oh Peter, I don't think we have any more napkins– and I think I just used the last of the ones we had in the car,” May said. 

“It's ok! I saw some back in the shop. I’ll just go run and get some then come right back,” he said. He was eleven years old now, he was capable of going to get something by himself. It was only a couple of blocks. 

“Oh I don't know…” May said, clearly a little worried about letting her eleven-year-old go running around alone in some random and unfamiliar, therefore dangerous, part of New York. 

“It’ll be fine May, He’s old enough now, right, Pete?” Ben said, winking out of May’s line of sight, making Peter grin, pale green still staining the corner of his mouth, a sign of the lost battle between Peter and the hot summer.  

“Oh, I suppose. Just come straight back, okay Peter? And don't talk to anyone you don't know!”

Peter was already gone before she finished her warnings. 

It was actually rather difficult to run with an ice cream cone, but he managed. The parlor was farther than he had thought it was, but he had found it. He always had a good sense of direction, he thought it had to do with Ben randomly quizzing him through his days. But Peter liked the challenges, the random science questions that when he couldn't answer, Ben would explain. He loved learning about how things worked and why. There was something so satisfying about understanding . 

Ding  

The bell of the ice cream parlor rang again, this time to mark an entrance instead of exit. The worker who had served them their ice cream looked up and almost started the greeting, who he expected to be a new customer, before seeing Peter's ice cream covered face and hands, cones having broken down even more during his journey back. 

Chuckling, he pointed over to a counter that had several napkin dispensers. 

“Over there.” 

“Thanks!” Peter breathed out. Maybe running hadn't been the best idea. He didn't have his inhaler with him, but hopefully it would be okay. 

After wiping his face and glasses off, and finishing his cone, he began to walk out. Then he went back to grab a couple extra napkins in case Uncle Ben and May needed them. 

He was practically skipping down the street when a camera in a shop window caught his eye. In it, Tony Stark was giving a speech about his rebranding, or well more specifically about why he was changing the status of the tower that was in New York. He was answering questions from random reporters, some answers barely even counting as answers as the billionaire flippantly responded with an offhand comment, never quite circling back to the particular question at hand. 

Peter was caught, snared by just the sight of the man. It seemed like over the years Tony Stark had somehow managed to be a prominent figure in the world, but not appear in it at the same time. Peter had always looked up to Stark, the way the man designed and built things was simply genius. He had managed to build something for himself that could save people, something Peter wanted to do. 

A raindrop landed on his glasses, shaking him out of his trance. 

It began to rain lightly, the sky now covered in gray clouds. How long had Peter been standing there? 

He quickly carried on his way, running a little harder than he should have, not that worried because he knew Ben would have his inhaler in case it actually caused an attack, but everything would probably be fine. 

He found the spot he had left them, recognizing the odd color of one of the doors to some random apartments. But Ben and May weren't there. It was beginning to rain harder, making 

Peter even more nervous. He hated getting lost, that mindless panic that came when you didn't know where you were, or where the people you needed were. Although the rain was warm, the longer Peter looked around for May and Ben a cold sweat began to crawl up his spine. 

Then, almost too quiet to hear, he heard a man's voice. Ben's voice. Peter tried to pinpoint where it was coming from, leading him to an alley close to where he was. 

“-mean it! I don't want to, but I will shoot! Just-just give me your money, man. You won't miss it. Not if you live here. All you fuckers are rich!-”

The voice that was speaking was not Ben’s. It didn't have his calm understanding, or that deep resonance that could put anyone to sleep. No. This voice was rushed, panicked, and desperate .  

Peter wasn't naive. He knew that New York, like any city, had muggers and other dangerous people. He knew that it was best to not engage, best to walk away from the danger, best to mind your own business, especially when you were a scrawny, newly turned eleven-year-old, and the mugger had a gun. There was nothing he could do. 

So Peter walked away. He turned his back and slowly walked away.

His neck hairs stood on end as he quietly walked away, praying that his footsteps were not loud enough to be heard. It was raining even heavier now, but it didn't mask the prickling feeling of wrongness that overtook him. He wanted– no, needed to find Ben and May. 

He suddenly felt very small. No longer the brave kid that had offered to go on his own, but a small, scared child wanting his parents. 

As he continued walking slowly away, he caught sight of whom the mugging victim was, at the same time they– both of the victims– spoke. His heart plummeted to his stomach, seemingly taking all his blood with it as he suddenly became lightheaded, Peter thought he might pass out. 

“Yes! Take it! We don't care, just don't hurt us. Please–”

“Now calm down son, We’re going to hand over the money, just calm down.” 

Now that was the voice of Ben. Its soothing cadence trying to calm down the criminal at the same time May’s panicked one only egged him on. 

Then Peter did something stupid. Very, very stupid. 

“ Ben!” he screamed. 

Peter saw Ben's eyes snap to his and widen in fear. Then he heard the gunshot. 

Before Peter knew what was happening, Uncle Ben was on the ground of the alley, holding a patch of red against his chest. Not even thinking, Peter ran to him, abandoning all thought of leaving or self-preservation. Now finding it hard to move through the tears in his eyes and the ringing in his ears. 

He couldn't tell if May was screaming or if it was the gunshot still ringing in his head. 

“Shit. Shit. Kid-you- you scared me! I- I- didn't mean- I didn't. Oh fuck ,” the shooter said, looking down as Peter kneeled down next to Ben, trying to lift the man's chest, so he could sit up against Peter. 

“Ben! Ben, please. Don’t- Please,” Peter begged. He hated how his voice broke as a lump in his throat threatened to cut him off.

His hand became increasingly wet as he tried to stop the bleeding, crimson blood seeping out of the wound. 

“Peter– Peter you need to-” he was interrupted by a wet sounding cough, blood coming out of his mouth, “Peter you need to get out of here. You need to-” a deep breath that didn't sound like it worked, “get the police. Get help. Just-”

Suddenly Ben stopped, breathing dropping short, his sentence left unfinished. 

“Shit, shit, shit-” Peter's voice shook, his hands shaking so hard he could barely move, he could barely see with the stream of tears.  He couldn't breathe. Suddenly he just couldn't breathe.  

“Oh my God, oh my god.” He was barely whispering now, repeating the same thing, gasping for breath between words. He didn't know what was happening. He vaguely registered the sound of May screaming. But he could barely see, he could only see- 

He didn't focus on the man, who was now mumbling to himself, brain buzzing too loud to process the rushed mumbles of ‘ shit he didn't tell me it would be loaded’ and ‘ right, no witnesses no witnesses.’ Repeated over like a mantra to the mad man. Peter didn't even look up as the man raised his gun again and-

Bang!

Peter jumped, immediately scrambling to cover his ears. 

He didn't even look up until he noticed that the other sound had, in fact, been screaming, and it had stopped as May was on the floor next to him. Dropping with a horrible thud in front of the eleven-year-old and the dead man in his lap.

“ Oh my god, ” Peter sobbed, as his gaze focusing on May, who was now laying still. “ Oh My God .” His hands were warm with blood, he could feel it soaking into his clothes, it was covering the street, it was everywhere. It was everywhere . 

And just like that, Peter Parker was alone in the world. 

He didn't pay attention as the mugger, no, the murderer, pointed the shaking gun towards him, not able to see anything past his blurry vision or hear past the rising in his ears. He didn't notice as the man practically jumped at the sound of sirens in the distance and closing in, authorities alerted by the sounds of gunshots, before mumbling a curse and running away frantically. 

Peter couldn't say how much time had passed before someone else came into that dark and dirty alleyway, preoccupied with the grief that pulled what seemed like a never ending stream of tears from his eyes as he held the two people who had been raising him. He was found begging the two bodies to wake up, ice cream and birthday presents at home forgotten. 

“-two victims. Gunshot wounds to the chest, unknown if alive-”

“-think he ran away when he heard you comin-”

“-hey kid I know it's difficult, but I need you to look at me, so I can check for injuries oka-”

“-Benjamin and May Parker-”

“-poor kid doesn't have anyone else, probably gonna have to go to-”

“-he can stay in the station while we wait for child services-”

Peter didn't process any of it. Barely catching parts of sentences as the rest of the night seemed to go by in a blur. He didn't even fully realize where he was for a long time, just continuing to stare at his hands as they shook, not able to see anything else but blood on them despite the fact they were cleaned off by someone a couple of hours ago. He couldn't forget how warm it was. 

Someone tried to ask him questions, he just stared blankly, brain seeming to be completely empty. ‘ In shock’, he might have heard one person whisper to another if he had been aware of his surroundings, aware of anything. 

 Time passes somehow at the speed of honey, so slow Peter thought that maybe he too had died and was waiting in purgatory, while simultaneously being too fast, as he was already being placed in an emergency home just mere hours after losing his family. He had no one else to go to, an orphan left to the last of his family, now alone in the world. All he had was himself. 

They didn't even let him go back to their apartment, the social worker dropping him off at the new place he should 'call home' and driving off before he even had gotten his mind together enough to speak. 

He didn't say anything though, not finding any words on his tongue. He didn't even say anything as the two people that would be his foster parents for the foreseeable future came to introduce themselves and comfort him. 

All he could find he could do was cry. Cry as he saw the woman's straight brunette hair, just like May’s. Cry as he was ushered into his new room, so painfully not his room, the one he should have been sleeping in, with all of his stuff and a good night kiss from Ben. Cry as he felt stupid for still crying, chest heaving at the heavy weight of all kinds of emotions that were swelling in his very core, everything being all too much.

He cried until his body gave out, and he passed out from exhaustion, eventually crawling under the covers that were too light, Peter having gotten used to the weighted blanket May had gotten him months ago, brown hair landing on a pillow that wasn't the one he knew. 

Chapter Text

Time after that was a little bit of a blur. Peter woke up in the home of the emergency foster family he had been placed in, confusion quickly turning into sadness as he got a bearing on his surroundings. 

The family was nice enough, they knew how to handle kids who had just been through something horrible. They had been taking in kids for years, so they knew how to calm him down, how to get him to eat at least something for breakfast, and how to explain to him what was going on. 

Where he was now was only temporary, he would be placed with a more permanent foster family in a couple of days when the opening was ready. Peter would be able to go back to his apartment, but only for a really short amount of time because the Police were investigating if the robbery was targeted in any way. They knew he was sad and that if there was anything they could do to help just ask. He wouldn’t have to go to school for a while. Other important things that Peter probably should have been paying more attention to. 

Everything was moving too fast for Peter, all the change weighing on his already fragile mind. The days seemed to pass quickly, he barely got out of bed and couldn't find joy in anything, grief of everything he had lost seeping the energy out of him. Before he knew it he was being told that he was going to his foster family.

Saying goodbye to the family that he had stayed with for only one week, Peter gripped onto his bag, a simple backpack that had been messily stuffed with things from his apartment before being taken away, all of his belongings that he owned now. He got into the backseat of his social worker's car and set off for his new family, not quite ready for everything that he knew would be changing in his life. 

. . . 

Over the four months Peter had been with the Walton's, he realized the new family who was fostering him was really nice, almost too nice. They were a young couple, somewhere in their early thirties, maybe. Mrs. Walton had straight brown hair like May’s, and Mr. Walton was a science teacher, just like Ben was before he retired. (Was the universe just cruel, or was it trying to make him feel better by giving him something so similar to what he had lost?)

It had been awkward for a few months, no one in the house quite sure of what to do in the new situation. 

One day, a couple of weeks into his stay, Peter had asked why they wanted a foster kid. They had solemnly explained that they had always wanted kids, but a couple of years ago found out it wasn’t possible for them, so they wanted to help take care of kids who had no one else. (It left a sinking feeling in Peter's gut as they had said the last part, being reminded that he had no one else). 

He was their first foster kid, so they were learning along with him. They weren't the best at it, but Peter could tell they were trying. 

Even knowing that, he couldn’t help from feeling so truly upset at them for not being May or Ben when he had one of his break-downs, something setting him off and leading to a long bout of sobbing and hiccups, Mr. Walton standing awkwardly just out of reach caught between knowing if a hug was the right move or not. These thoughts only made it worse, Peter crying even harder remembering he wouldn't get the hugs from Ben that always settled him down to the calm whispered of May as she sang to him and rubbed his back in calming circles. 

At least they were trying, Peter had to remind himself. 

At least they knew when to give him his inhaler, at least they gave him amazing home cooked food every day, at least he didn't have to go to school before he was ready to go back. 

Peter couldn't help but feel like they were what he thought May and Ben must have been like when they were younger. He didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse, the balance between it not being so similar to how his life already was, and the pain of calling Mr Walton ‘Ben’, only to suddenly be hit with the cold realization that he wasn 't and that he would never see them again. 

Everything eventually became… okay wasn't the right word as Peter didn't think anything would ever be okay again, but it became… passable. Days were hard, random things seemed to set him off, and it became obvious quickly that raising a kid, let alone a traumatized eleven-year-old, was a lot harder than the Walton's had expected. 

It took a couple of months, and a lot of therapy, someone that child protective services had said he needed to see (basically meaning it was a person who didn't care too much and wanted to get rid of him) and more months with an actual therapist who could help him (after he had mentioned one of the comments his old therapist had said the Walton’s had switched him to a more trusted therapist, a man specializing in grief in children apparently), but Peter and the Walton's finally decided that he could go back to school. 

It was nearing December now, cold air and snow becoming an annoyance to all New Yorkers as it did every year. It also meant more shopping for winter clothes, for gifts (both for him and family friends), and it also meant memories of past holidays were fresh in Peter's mind. 

When he had been allowed to go home and get some of his things, it was so rushed, and he wasn't thinking right, meaning he didn't get all that he needed. Meaning he didn't have any of his school supplies or even a backpack. 

When he had first arrived at the emergency foster family all he had was the too large shirt an officer had given him from the lost and found because his shirt covered in blood, a pair of pants that were also not his, and a singular plain blanket that Peter assumed they gave to all victims of trauma based on the cheap itchy of the material. He had been quick to toss the blanket into a corner and never touch it again, the texture of it seeming to stick to his skin uncomfortable no matter how hard he tried to rub it off. 

So the Walton's had brought him shopping, explaining that because they didn't know they would be getting any kids, let alone what age or size, they had practically nothing ready for him other than the room and would have to get clothes for him. Peter had almost thrown up when he saw the price at the ends of the day, they had gone to an actual clothing store and bought way more clothes than he ever thought he'd ever wear instead of the random assortment of clothes from the thrift store he used to get with May and Ben (not that he ever really cared, the thrift store had cooler shirts anyway). He noticed the little flash of surprise that splashed across Mr Walton's face as well, before it was quickly wiped off, also shocked at the price before hiding it and helping carry a couple of the bags out. 

That first shopping excursion was a couple of months ago, and now they would have to go again, this time for school supplies. Peter doubted they would ever have to buy clothes again, still sometimes shocked when he opened the closet door to find it almost completely full. 

Peter felt so incredibly guilty about it. He was already a burden on them, living in their house and eating their food, plus the money they had already spent on his clothes and therapist. The thought of making them spend even more money left a gross sticky feeling in his stomach, and when he had told them at dinner the night before they were supposed to go shopping about how he felt, they assured him it was fine. No matter what Peter tried to say they kept saying it was fine and that he needed stuff to focus on school and how school might be a nice distraction and other words that didn't do much to put him at ease. 

That same night, Peter had woken up in a panic, content of his nightmare already fading from his mind as he took in breaths to calm himself. 

In the beginning, his nightmares had caused him to wake up screaming and sobbing, robbing everyone in the house of a peaceful night's sleep. Now more often he woke up silent, sweating and heart beating fast and loud in his ears, but at least he had managed to stop waking his caregivers up. (It was another piece of guilt that ate at him, so he had been rather proud of himself once he started being able to handle himself without bothering them.) 

Not to say there weren't still nights where he would wake up and start crying, panic still there and then grief hitting him like a train, but at least tonight was not one of those nights. 

After a couple of minutes of sitting in the dark, he decided maybe a glass of water would help, or at least give him something to do to distract himself, so he went quietly to the kitchen. Living with the Walton's was similar to May and Ben's in that he could really do whatever he wanted, and they wouldn't be angry at him if he went to get water in the night or go to the bathroom or whatever he needed to calm himself down again for sleep. 

Quietly stepping down the hallway he paused as he realized there was a light on in one of the rooms, a crack in the door showing that the adults were still awake. Guilt hit Peter again as he realized he must have woken them up again. He really thought he had been quiet enough this time. As he began to move closer, thinking about attempting to convince them he was okay, and the couple could go back to sleep, he caught the tail end of a hushed sentence that made him pause. 

“ -too expensive Sally. With the added cost of him and you not working a job I don't know if just my income is enough,” Mr. Walton's voice said. 

Peter froze, hand just stopping as he was about to touch the door knob, processing the words he wasn't supposed to be hearing. He knew that he was expensive, and had done all he could to not be a burden, but the tone in Mr. Walton's voice scared him. Would they send him away? Off to a new family to start over again?

“ It's going to be okay Han, I can get a side job. Something to keep me busy while Peter is at school. I should be getting back anyway. We knew what we were signing up for when we decided to do this, and while yes– it is a little more costly than we thought, we’ll be able to manage. What do you think?” the softer voice of Mrs. Walton said from the other side of the door. 

“Are you sure? I mean with…” there was a silence that filled the rest of the sentence that made Peter think that a gesture must have been made to fill it on the other side of the door. “I just, it's all a lot to think about.” 

“I’ll be fine hun. We’ll figure all this out later. Let's just go to sleep before we wake Peter okay? Poor kid needs all the sleep he needs,” Mrs. Walton said, punctuating the sentence with a yawn. 

There was the sound of a sigh, then a kiss, then the sheets rustling as the light went out, leaving Peter alone in the hallway, hand slowly dropping down in front of the doorknob, thinking about a conversation that he shouldn't have heard. 

. . . 

School was okay. Peter had missed almost all the first half of a year, first going to Walton in late August and only now returning after winter break, so it was a little odd finally returning after everyone had been here for so long.

All in all, the catch-up work wasn't actually that hard. Science and math were easy, STEM things already coming easily to him. English was also easy, only having missed reading two books and two essays for the entire semester (how they only did that for the whole time Peter had no idea, but he had no complaints about how slow the class was). 

Some of the classes he had to be tutored in after school, but he picked it up easily. He was smart, in addition to the random bits of school work the Walton's had made him do while he wasn't in school over the months. 

While the actual school part of school was easy, the worst part by far was the people. Everyone had somehow heard of what happened to Peter, some expressing surprise he came back to the same school, others sending him looks of pity that made him want to hide away from everyone, although the majority just ignored him. 

While he wasn't the most popular previously, he had not been ignored. But apparently the knowledge of what had happened made other people uncomfortable around him, worried about his grief or something. He couldn't decide if he hated it or not. 

While on one hand, it hurt every time someone looked at him before awkwardly looking away and walking past, or to walk to a table with other people in it only to find that all conversation trailing off as everyone looked at him sadly. While it hurt, at least it wasn't the pity he got from some people. There was the occasional person who would come up to him, and the way they talked, the way they looked at him, made all Peter could think they were trying to fix him. 

It didn't help much that he was still not quite stable, sometimes just starting to cry in the middle of class as they were reading a passage about something that reminded him of May, or did an experiment that only made him think of memories of Ben.  

He had only just barely gotten over the loss of his parents, and now he was mourning the second set of parents that he had lost. 

. . . 

Christmastime has been… interesting. The Walton's were apparently Christian, although Peter had no idea until one day he came home from school (why was winter break before Christmas? It made no sense) to find a fake tree decorated in the living room. It was surprising, simply because when he had left that morning everything in the house had seemed completely normal, and now it was heavily decorated with various Christmas-related decor. Not enough to be gaudy, but enough for Peter to wonder how it had all happened too fast. Where had they even been keeping all of it? 

It also didn't help that he was Jewish. Something he had yet to tell his foster parents, worried that it might be awkward. (They hadn’t noticed his star of david which he kept close to his chest, a connection to his lost family.)

“Oh Peter! Welcome home! How was school?” Mrs. Walton said from the couch, putting the book she had been reading down. 

“ ‘was okay I guess,” he said quietly, still looking around at the decorated condo. 

She stood up, smiling (awkwardly? Nervously? Excitedly?). “So… what do you think?” she asked, gesturing to the decorations. 

He paused, thinking of what to say. He finally settled on, “It's nice.” 

She smiled again, this time looking happy. “Oh I’m glad. I know that the holidays must be hard for you. Memories and all of that.” 

Peter just stared at her, not knowing if she wanted him to respond or not. I mean yeah, of course they are hard but like, what do I say to that? He thought. 

She bit her lip anxiously and nodded her head at really nothing in particular when he didn't say anything, taking a deep breath and then saying, “Snacks, yes– let's get you a snack.” She walked to the kitchen, not really actually checking if Peter wanted anything. 

Peter stayed in the living room, looking at the decorated Christmas tree. It had many different kinds of ornaments, some were obviously souvenirs from earlier in the Walton's relationship, pictures of them in random locations across the world inside some of the ones that looked like hanging picture frames. 

There was no menorah, because of course there wouldn't be. What was he going to do? He didn't want to give up part of his culture, not wanting to give up his family traditions and history. 

In the past couple of months it hadn’t been a big deal, there wasnt much that changed other than on the occasional holiday where he would stay alone in his room and think back on memories of celebrating with his family. 

Peter realized how long he had been staring at the trees as he began to smell the familiar scent of toast fill the air  (plain buttered toast was one of his favorite after school snacks), mingling with the general Christmas scent that had been floating around, most likely from the just insane amount of candles the Walton seemed to enjoy burning.

He would deal with it all later, some other time, maybe. Right now he just had to put down his backpack and live through the day. 

. . . 

On Christmas day, after opening so many gifts Peter didn't know what to do with himself, he was organizing and folding the different wrapping papers, so it wouldn't make a mess. The Waltons were sitting on the couch, watching him as he picked up a piece, folded it, and put it in the correct place in the stack of already folded pieces under his arm, and moved on to the next. When Peter had first come to stay with them, they had been rather weirded out by some of the things he did, but over time they just accepted that's how Peter was. 

"Hey Peter," Peter looked up from his task towards Mr. Walton as the man continued, "we have some important news to tell you." 

The man was sitting close to his wife, holding her hands as they both smiled happily in their Christmas pajamas. 

Letting out a quick breath Mrs. Walton smiled quickly at her husband before turning back to Peter. 

“We’re pregnant!”

Oh. 

He tried his best to put on a convincing smile, and really hoped his tone also read as happy as they were as he said, “Oh! That's awesome guys!” 

Their smiles faltered a little at his response, telling him he hadn't done a good enough job. 

“Peter, we know this is a big change, but we were hoping you’d be happy for us…” Mrs. Walton said sadly. 

“No, I'm happy for you! It’s just, I felt like I finally got used to living with you guys a little, so I’m sad I’ll have to start over. But I’m glad you're finally going to get your own kid,” Peter explained, knowing that this time there was no point in putting a faux happy tone into it. He glanced back down at the floor as he finished, finding it too awkward to keep looking at them. Peering back up after they were silent for a beat too long.

They looked at him, heads tilting eyebrows scrunching in confusion. 

“Peter… we’re not going to kick you out just because we’re going to have a baby,” Mr. Walton said slowly, as if he really wanted the words to sink in. 

“Oh.” 

Mrs. Walton moved off the couch, crouching down near him and softly taking his hands in hers. They were colder than his. Peter felt like this was one of those moments where someone wanted you to make eye contact. Slowly peeking up from his stare at the ground he found that he was right, eyes immediately getting caught by hers, noticing the sadness in them. 

“Peter, we would never do that to you, okay? Just because things will probably get a lot harder in here doesn't mean we’ll get rid of you. We’ve already invested the last couple of months to make sure you feel like you have a home again,” she said softly, gripping his hands as if it would make him understand better. 

He looked away from her gaze, eyes landing on the box of some random toy he was sure every eleven-year-old got that year that the Walton's had gifted to him. 

“Okay,” he said, before realizing it came out more as a choked whisper. He nodded, just as an extra measure. 

“Alrighty,” she whispered, letting go of his hands. Standing up slowly Peter realized that he could actually tell she is pregnant. He was surprised he hadn't figured it out earlier, with the way she sighed while standing up slowly, one hand holding her lower back while the other on her stomach. Once she was standing up all the way again she smiled and said, “Hey, I think we have some hot chocolate we could make. What do you think?” 

“Sounds perfect,” Mr. Walton said, standing up from his spot on the couch and making his way to the kitchen. 

. . . 

Life continued on, some subtle things changing. Mrs. Walton didn't end up getting a job like she had said in that one late night overheard conversation. Instead, she stayed at home, always afflicted by a migraine or general fatigue. 

It meant that Mr. Walton had to pick up an extra job, something that covered most of after school and the weekend when he wasn't teaching. 

It was a little more difficult, but Peter was mostly managing on his own. He knew he wasn't the best kid, the way he would still react to things that set him off on a spiral or breakdown against his best wishes. He tried to be a good kid, he really did. 

While school was generally easy, there were still some things he didn't know. A specific unit referring heavily to a unit that he wasn't there for, and while everyone else understood what was happening perfectly he was left to stew in frustration in the corner. 

Peter hated not being able to understand something. There was a difference between not understanding something and being able to learn about it, answering questions of curiosity. Not like this though, this was the gross squirming feeling of frustration as no one seemed to be able to understand his questions and he just couldn't understand it . Peter Parker, the kid who valued his intelligence and ability to figure out everything, struggling to understand something basic. 

It led him to be gloomy, that same gross feeling sticking to him for a couple of weeks until the unit was over, on top of the already heavy weight of emotions he carried around from everything else that had happened to him. 

The teachers tried to pity him, although there was this one that constantly stated that what had happened to Peter was no reason to be behind, and he had no reason excuse to not understand. And oh how Peter had felt like punching someone, something that day. He didn't of course, because Peter Parker was a good kid. The quiet kid in the corner who had lost everything and at any second could snap. He didn't want to prove the whispers he had heard around school to be true. 

So he carried the anger with him too. Coming home from school in a dark flurry of emotions that seemed to rub off on everyone else in the condo. 

It was a hard couple of months. Winter and emotions and all the changes putting everyone on edge. The Waltons were left drowning, a life that they weren't ready to handle being handed to them at their request. 

One random march day, Peter realized something had changed. He didn't know what it was, but he did know that over the last couple of days they had been looking at him differently. A couple of times Peter had caught Mrs. Walton with red eyes and a running nose, as if she had been crying. She would only look at him sadly before diverting the conversation as if she wasn't obviously emotional about something. Mr. Walton wasn't around as much, but when he was, he didn't talk to Peter, avoiding him as if he was guilty. 

Peter assumed that it was something to do with the pregnancy, he guessed that it did make sense they would be emotional over it. It was all they wanted in life, wasn't it? To finally have a kid of their own. What a change they were going through, going from no kids and the very low chances of getting one, to having two in the span of a couple of months. 

He should have realized it was something more. 

. . .

It was only about three days after they had started acting weird that the Waltons sat him down at the dining room table, stating that they had something important to say. Peter had only just walked into the house from school, not even getting a chance to put his bag down in his room before being ushered into the hard wooden chair, overhead light on, illuminating the table like an interrogation room. (Peter hated when that light was on, and was thankful that they rarely did, preferring the softer ambient lights from the lamps scattered around the apartment as well as the candles).

As he sat down and looked at them, Peter could tell something was wrong. First, the fact that Mr. Walton was even here was concerning enough, the man was usually at his other job when Peter was getting home from school. They both had a solemn, sad, face on. Peter's first thought was that something had happened to the baby. 

There was a heavy silence over the table as they sat there for a while, Peter eventually squirming in his seat as the Waltons didn't say anything, seemingly hyping themselves up for the upcoming conversation. 

“So, Peter. We know this will be hard to hear, and we feel absolutely horrible about it. But,” Mrs. Walton cut off her sentence, pursing her lips before covering her mouth with her hand and looking to the ceiling. “Sorry I just...” tears started to form in the corners of her eyes. 

Mr. Walton sighed heavily and put his hand on his wife's shoulder, rubbing it in comfort. 

“Did you lose the baby?” Peter asked quietly. As horrible as it made him feel, Peter really hoped that's what this conversation was about. Because the only other thing he could think of that would be this serious they that promise would never come. That heavy stone that seemed to make him freeze was sitting in his stomach again, and without it Peter was sure he would have been shaking. Please don't say what I think you're going to say. Please don't send me away.

“What? Oh, no. She’s okay,” Mrs. Walton said, rubbing her stomach protectively as if to make sure she was right. “No it's just that. Well, Peter…”

She trailed off again. At this point Peter would rather they just told him flat out right, the tension from waiting making him feel like a rubber band about to snap. 

Finally, Mr. Walton finished what his wife had been trying to say. 

“Peter, as you could probably tell, things have been rough around here the last couple of weeks. With everything that has happened, we’ve been struggling and well,” he paused to clear his throat, looking away from Peter, “well basically, the point of the matter is that we can't keep it up. Raising a kid is harder than we thought and well, with ours on the way it's just that,” he sighed again, “Peter, we think it would be best if you went to stay with a different family.” 

And what Peter had been hoping against hope they wouldn’t say was spoken. 

Despite knowing that it would happen, tears still began to fill his eyes as he looked at them.

“But. But you said-- you promised that-” he couldn't even get through the sentence as his throat began to close up, everything becoming too overwhelming. 

It didn't help that Mrs. Walton was also crying in earnest now, tears and deep breathing coming from both sides of the table as they dealt with what they were doing to him. 

“I know , I know I promised Peter, and I’m so sorry . But everything has just been so hard and we can't, we can't do it all. I’m so sorry Peter,” her voice was heavy with sorrow, and at least Peter could think to be genuine. It didn't make him feel better, no matter how sorry they were it didn't make up for the fact that they were breaking their promise, throwing him away because he was too much trouble in favor of their own real kid. 

Peter couldn't see too well past the tears (god he had cried so much over the last few months), he had to push his glasses up to wipe them away.

“We already packed all of your things, and your social worker is on the way,” Mr. Waltons said, walking down the hallway to Peter's room before returning with an old suitcase. “Sorry we did it while you were at school, we wanted this to be as smooth of a transition as possible.” The man scratched at the back of his neck as he looked down at the suitcase, “And sorry we couldn't get all your stuff. He said that you could only have one bag when you go to the next family.” 

Mrs. Walton paused in her barely smothered sobs to say, “We heard that your new family is really nice, okay? They’ve been fostering for years, so they are much more prepared than we were. And they just had a kid age out, a boy like you, so they should be good to you.” 

She reached out across the table, trying to place her hand on top of Peter’s, before he pulled it away to wipe at his eyes. If she could have looked even sadder than she already did, that action caused it. 

“Please don't hate us Peter. We tried, we tried so hard .” 

But not hard enough Peter wanted to scream. You didn't try hard enough and just when I need you, you're giving up . Of course, he would hate them for that, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. How could he hate them? After everything they had done for him the past half year. It was a horrible balance. The hatred from someone you couldn't hate. 

All three of them looked towards the door as a knock came from it. 

Peter's eyes had cleared enough to watch as Mr. Walton brought his suitcase, Peter's life here condensed into an easy to carry bag, closer to the door and opening it. 

The man that had dropped Peter off here those months ago was standing on the other side of it, still holding the same overstuffed briefcase, disposable coffee cup in hand and already tired look on his face. 

“I’m here for Peter?” he said, or maybe asked? Peter couldn't tell. 

“Ah yes, you must be Mr. Wyatt. Please come in, we just shared the news and should be good in a couple of minutes,” Mr. Walton said in response, opening the door more to let the man in. 

“I prefer the kids to call me Daniel,” Mr. Wyatt said, scanning the condo until he saw Peter and Mrs. Walton at the table, tears still streaming down their faces. His face softened a little. 

“Hey buddy,” he said, voice in a practiced calming tone. “I know it’s hard, but I'm here to take you to your next family, sounds good? It’s going to be okay.” 

Still crying, Peter took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his forearm, shaking his head to the man's question. 

“I don't-” a shuddering breath caused Peter to pause- “I don't want to go. Please you can’t make me. I don't want to start all over. I want to stay.” Looking over at his foster parents, head moving as he looked back and forth repeatedly. “Please I promise I’ll be better.” 

The Waltons and Mr. Wyatt all shared a look that Peter wondered if all adults could understand but whose meaning was hidden to children. 

Mr. Wyatt sighed as he bent down to look at Peter, who still sat in the dining room chair. 

“I know buddy, but it's for the best. Let's go, okay? The sooner we leave, the easier it will be.”

Peter didn't hear the plus I'm on a time crunch the man mumbled to himself. He only felt the man's grip on his arm, not enough to hurt or anything, just enough to get him to follow the man's guidance as he led him out of the chair, and then over to the door where Mr. Walton still stood with the suitcase. 

Looking at his foster parents, well not anymore a part of his mind reminded him, causing another deep and shuddering breath. Looking at the Waltons, he walked out the door that had stayed open since his social worker had arrived. Not saying goodbye, simply guided by the fatigue of the whole ordeal. The door closed behind him, shut by Mr. Wyatt who was also holding Peter’s suitcase. 

The man's car smelt stale. Not of anything in particular, just of dust and oldness . The spring rain they had been getting for almost the whole month of March pelting down on the metal of the car, a steady beat that calmed him down the ever slight amount. Peter sat in the back, tears still running down his face as he watched the condo disappear through the window for the last time, hoping that his next family would be better. 

Chapter Text

Peter learned a lot of things at the Johnson's. 

He learned that he didn't deserve the clothes the Walton’s had gotten him, bag being ripped out of his hands to be sold and exchanged for hand-me-down shirts from some older boy, stains still dirtying the fabric. He learned it didn't matter that the lint pills that rubbed at his skin, and he would just have to tough it out, no matter how often it made him cry in frustration.

He learned that he didn't get to cry, and that only babies cried. If you were caught with tears you'd get a clean smack across the face until you got rid of the tears because there was no reason to cry you whiny piece of shit . 

He learned to respect his elders, always referring to them as Sir and Ma’am . To always look them in the eyes when they talked to him, no matter how much the eye contact made him squirm. But to also not make eye contact if not being spoken to, or else you would be wanting a fight, a sign of rebellion. How hard it had been for Peter to learn when it was the right time. 

He learned the only way to survive was to be invisible, to silence his footsteps and bite his tongue and hide . 

He learned it would be the only way to survive at the Johnson’s, the only way to survive the drunken patrol of Mr. Johnson who, if he caught you, would make you pay for being there. 

He learned that his birthday didn't matter. He learned how to swallow his sobs and silence his nightmares and how to deal with the grief on his own. He learned that he could not go and get a glass of water in the night if he wanted, each bedroom being locked from eight pm to six am every day like clockwork, and if you had to go to the bathroom or got sick it was your own problem.

He learned that the best way to survive was to spend as much time studying in the library, the one place that the Johnson’s allowed him to be. As long as he was there doing homework or reading any book he wanted, he could not be back at the house. 

He learned that he still loved science, even though it hurt how much it reminded him of Ben, it was a connection, each word off the page feeling like a pat on the back from Ben as he would explain anything and everything in the universe. 

He learned how to hide bruises. How to walk without a limp even after being pushed down almost a whole flight of stairs. He learned he needed to deal with the pain and if anyone found out about it, he wouldn't get to eat the little food they were allowed for a week. 

He learned that this had been happening for years, the Johnson’s being masters at hiding any sign of what happened in the house the second CPS stopped by for check in. He learned it didn't matter how old you were, his little six-year-old sister getting the same treatment as everyone else. 

He learned that if he was perfect, getting the best grades, being respectful, being silent and quiet, they didn't pay enough attention to him. 

He learned that he could sneak a disposable camera into his backpack, bought from the local corner store with coins he had been collecting off of the ground and as he cleaned the house and kept hidden in a peanut butter jar hidden under his bed for months. 

He learned he could do something that mattered, protect the other kids that were there. If he could just take pictures, still being a perfect obedient child to the Johnson's. 

He learned that as many times as CPS messed up, they took an anonymous envelope of evidence of child abuse in the household, too much evidence to ignore without feeling guilty, seriously. 

. . . 

It was a bittersweet satisfaction, watching the Johnson’s get put into police cars, yelling so loud that you could clearly make out their words across the street. The other kids of the house were standing around him, getting their own trauma blankets (Peter had urgently resisted when they tried to give him one, memories of that night sticking too vividly in his mind). He almost regretted it as the cold December air nipped at him, making him shiver in mere minutes, especially with the thin oversized t-shirt and shoes that were so worn they had holes in them. 

They had taken his star of David a couple of months ago, Peter making the mistake of not hiding it well enough, so when Peter went to rub it in the comforting measure he was so used to he was met with just the stretched edge of his shirt. 

They were told to stay outside the house for a while. Someone went through it, looking for possible signs of a bad living situation. (Peter prayed for once they paid closer attention and noticed the looks on all the cabinets and fridge, the sturdy lock on every door in the house that would need a key, the sealed windows, or even the state of their clothes.) Please just notice anything and get them out of here, they don't deserve this, he pleaded in his mind, watching his youngest foster sister suck applesauce out of a pouch some random adult had handed each of them. 

After that they were herded into a van, told they were going to a hospital and just that, no other information about what would happen to them. It took a couple of hours before anyone told them anything, all five of them sitting in the uncomfortable seats of the hospital after each being checked over for the abuse. 

Peter didn't like it, the harsh unnatural color of the lights made them seem even more bleak than they usually looked, made them look even skinnier than he had thought they were. (He also couldn't tell if it was just him, or if the light actually were making a buzzing noise that he just couldn't stand .)

He also didn't like how much it made him remember sitting around the police station waiting to find out what was going to happen to him, the same feeling of an adult giving you a pitying look before moving on, going about their business and probably forgetting about you. Maybe they would think of you on occasion, think oh that poor kid who was abused in that home, what a shame , then go on to forget you, letting kid after kid fall into the system of abuse and do nothing to change it. 

In what fair world did Peter have to be the one to finally save his little sisters? Peter, a twelve-year-old with nothing but a cheap disposable camera and the desperate need for secrecy or else it would all be ruined. 

It made him untrusting. Reinforcing the belief that he now knew to be true. He was all alone in this world, and he would not be able to trust anyone else in it.  

Time after time he had been let down by someone he was supposed to trust, lost to the world that seemed determined to break him down. He would not let it happen again, he would do better, try to fix the world, not let anyone else go through this.

Peter was broken out of his revelation by someone talking to him. (How long had they been talking?) 

It was his social worker, a man somewhere between being thirty and sixty (Peter never really could tell). He had on a button-up blue shirt that Peter could have sworn was the only thing he had seen the man in, noticing the same coffee stain along one of the sleeve cuffs. Looking down Peter also spotted an old leather briefcase that seemed to be absolutely stuffed to the point of breaking with different files and paper. 

“-and Peter will be going to a boys group home,” the man was saying. Hearing his name Peter finally realized that he probably should have been actually paying attention to what he was saying, assuming it was important. 

Sighing in a way that could have been exasperation or exhaustion, the social worker rubbed at his chin (which hadn't been shaved in a few days) and looked off to the side in an uncomfortable way. Not the way a social worker should be; all stress and uncomfortable-around-kids energy instead of the, you know, comforting one a supporter should be. 

“Now I know it’ll be hard going to separate houses after what you’ve all just gone through, but unfortunately the only place that has space for you two is all boys, so Lydia, or wait is it Lyra? Lauren- right sorry- Anyways, Lauren and Sofia you two are going to a nice foster family together,” the man finished saying, the fumbling of the names not being anything too surprising to Peter with all the different files the man had. 

(How many kids do you think he's sorted out like this before? Splitting them up and sending them off to now strange houses with the same problems without a second thought only to move on to the next file?)

Peter's first instinct was to say something, anything about how unfair that was. They had just gone through so much, and now they were going to be split up, never to see each other again? No way, he wouldn't let it happen. 

His second instinct was to bite his tongue and hide himself, not doing anything to anger Mr. Johnson. 

It scared him, that second instinct overriding his first. Who was he? Was he always going to let himself be controlled by someone who was only in his life for nine months?

Fighting against the lessons that had quite literally been beaten into him over the last couple of months, Peter managed to speak up in a voice that was way too meek for what he wanted. 

“Respectfully Sir, that's not fair. You can’t separate us like that.” 

The social worker– Daniel, Peter suddenly remembered his name– looked up at him and stopped scratching at his chin, an emotion Peter couldn't place on his face. It immediately made Peter freeze, muscles already tensing up waiting for the backhand to hit his cheek as it had every time he spoke out of turn these last months. 

Perhaps he visibly tensed, because Daniel immediately sighed sadly and put his arms down, before slowly crouching down to left on his heels, making it so that he was just eye line with Peter in the chair. 

“Peter,” the man said, making eye contact with Peter long enough for him to tell there was some genuine emotion behind him before Peter looked away. “I am so sorry.” 

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, all of you. I should have been better, I should have noticed something . I am so genuinely, sorry.” 

The apology shook Peter. He didn't know what to do, body still tense and adrenaline running from everything that had happened today, he was sure if he looked his hands would be shaking.  He couldn't say ‘ I forgive you’ or ‘ it's ok’ because it wasn't . It wasn't okay that he had let five kids into that house, too busy to even notice what was going on before driving off to the next one. 

So Peter didn't say anything, just looking pointedly at the tiles in front of where the man had crouched, only looking up once Daniel slowly stood, sighing again . 

“And I’m sorry, I know it isn't fair in any way, but this is the only way I could work it out. The group home for you and Mike is boys only, and Lauren and Sofia fit perfectly with this other foster family who just had a pair of twins age out, and well like I already said, Mia fits the request of an adoption perfectly.” 

Peter processed what was being said, and was upset that it made sense. He was glad that Mia was getting adopted, as a six-year-old she was more likely to get an actual family. It made sense that Lauren and Sofia would be fostered together, being sisters and all. At least Mike would be with him, although Peter didn't know if that would be a good thing. Mike was the oldest, and he had spent the most years with the Johnson's out of all of them. 

To Peter's memory, the only words he had ever heard Mike say in all nine months he had lived with the older boy were ‘yes’ , ‘no’ , ‘Sir’ , and ‘ Ma’am ’.

Even now looking across the walkway of the hospital room, Mike sat straight in the chair, staring at the floor, unblinking. He had been another one of Peter’s motivations for buying that camera, the fear that one day he would be broken down so much all he did was stare and follow orders. 

Looking back at Daniel, Peter realized the man had been looking at him for a while, probably seeing if Peter would say anything. Taking a deep breath, Peter nodded his understanding, a soft ‘yes sir’ slipping out without Peter even realizing it.  

Saying goodbye to the people he had been calling his family for the last nine months was hard, each kid shedding tears about being separated after the bonding they had gone through together. Even Mike was crying, although it was just a couple solemn teasers rolling down the fourteen-year-old cheeks as he silently hugged his sisters' goodbye. 

It was also awkward for Peter, as they gave him their thanks for what he had done. Over the years many kids had passed though the Johnson’s, and he had been the first to actually get anything done. He had saved them. The thought still terrified Peter a little, he could swear his body had been jittery in a mix of fear and anticipation ever since he had first taken a picture with that camera, a particularly bad bruise Laura had gotten after she dropped a plate (and the subsequent three days she went without food.)

It took a lot from Peter, watching his sisters walking away from him for the last time, all three leaving at the same time as Daniel would drive Mia to her new family before dropping off Lauren and Sofia at theirs together. Mike and Peter would have to keep waiting at the hospital until he could come back and bring them to their new group home. 

Once again Peter was left thinking about everyone that had left him, everyone he would never be able to see again. Was he cursed? Was he so much of a problem that the universe seemed to spite him, giving him a connection to take it away. First his parents, then May and Ben, then the Walton's, and now his sisters. 

Chapter Text

The group home looked almost exactly what Peter expected. A rundown house with a fenced in concrete front ‘yard’. He was just surprised it was even a house, fully expecting an apartment with too many people crammed into it. Daniel apologized as he left in a hurry after handing the boys off to the man and woman who ran it. 

Peter just wished for once people would stop apologizing to him, and just treat him in a way that didn't require apologies. How long would he go through life being the universe's chew toy only to get a ‘I'm so sorry, but’ in response?

Watching Mr. Wyatt's car drive off again, Peter and Mike were left in what he assumed to be the living room of the house. Unlike when he had left the Johnson’s, Peter had nothing. There was no bag to be taken away, just he and Mike left in their old-- who knows how many times-- passed down clothes. 

Standing in front of them were the two people in charge of the group home, a woman with her hair in a bun, she seemed older, although Peter couldn't say how old, and a man who was really tall, taller than Peter thinks he has ever seen anyone. That was really all of their defining features, nothing really special to note about them. 

Based on what Mr. Wyatt had told them in the car they were a couple who had been running this group home for a couple of years, mostly just a place for boys to stay until they aged out of the system or an opening at another foster home opened. They had just had one boy age out, so it would be a little bit of a stretch to fit both Mike and Peter in there, Mr. Wyatt had warned. 

The Adam’s, they were named. They seemed nice, but Peter wouldn't trust it, not after he had had that trust broken over and over again like it had been these years. 

Mr. Adam simply introduced himself then disappeared through the kitchen, the sound of the back door opening being the only clue as to what he could be doing. Mrs. Adam didn't seem to care too much, just stating that she would show them around the house and explain the rules to them, tour starting upstairs. 

It had been a relatively quiet affair as Mrs. Adam showed Mike and Peter, both quietly following her, footsteps not even making a noise. If you had closed your eyes you would think she was talking to a ghost. 

Peter felt like he had lost his voice over the years. Sometimes he mourned how alive he used to be, so openly curious and trusting. Life had seemed to stomp out that light. He rarely spoke, nowadays. First going slightly quieter after May and Ben's death, only for the rest of his voice to be smothered out completely by the Johnson’s, too many questions of his causing him too many punishments for him to be that same talkative kid. 

Not to say he wasn't curious, he'd be damned if anyone ever managed to get him to not want to learn, make him lose his interest in the world and the things that drove it. He still loved the library, seeing it as his only refuge from the Johnson's. He hoped that the Adam's would still let him go after school. He prayed that it wouldn’t be another one of the things stolen from his life. 

Peter and Mike would be sharing a room because, just as their social worker had warned, things were cramped already in the house. Peter didn't think either of them really minded; they had already shared a room at the Johnson’s. It was a modest room, enough space for the two beds in there, although it was obvious it wasn't meant for both. There was only one desk and a dresser that was smaller than Peter was. 

It wasn't like they had anything to put in there anyway. The best part of it all though, was the window. Unlike the condo the Walton’s had, and the locked permanently closed window that was at the Johnson’s, this room had a window that opened and led to the roof, which was relatively level. An escape, should he need it. 

Perhaps seeing the small spark in his eye, the first sign of any emotion from Peter really, Mrs. Adam followed his gaze and sighed as she realized what he was looking at. 

“Okay, yes I know that the window looks appealing. But do not climb out of it. If you fall we all get into trouble, yes? If you're going to sneak out, although I do not approve of it, just go out the back door, okay?” It was only really then that Peter realized that she had some kind of eastern european accent. Interesting. A year ago he probably would have asked her where she was from, instead he just nodded with a quiet ‘yes ma’am’. 

It was also interesting the way she had said it, telling him how to sneak out even though she shouldn't. Did that mean that there weren't rules here? Was it a trap? Something to make them trust her only to be stabbed in the back later?

Pointing to the desk she said, “One of you does homework here, other in the library or at the kitchen table, I do not care which, as long as it is done. Keep up with your studies, and we have no problems.” 

She pointed to the dresser before pausing and looking the boys up and down. “Hmm, I was going to say you must share the space in the dresser but, there is not much to put in there. We will get you clothes tomorrow. Thrift stores will have to be okay, lord knows they don't give us enough money to buy the things you need.” 

Peter found the way she spoke calming, surprisingly. It had made him tense for a bit, the way she seemed to end every sentence in a question, unknowing if he was supposed to answer them or not, before realizing that that was just how she spoke. It was a stern voice, but it didn't have the sharp edge that Mrs. Johnson had. It was a voice that was telling you what was expected, but not necessarily a mean voice.

Sighing she looked to the door, putting one hand on her hip while holding up the other to emphasize her words as she spoke. 

“Our rules are: No fighting will be tolerated. In this house we talk about all issues. No gangs.” 

Peter didn't think that'd be any trouble considering he was twelve . 

She held up a second finger, “Keep up with school, if you struggle we get you a tutor or help.” 

A third finger. “Dinner is at six. Be there. Be back in house by nine pm on school days, ten on non school days.” 

Nodding to herself she mumbled something before walking past them and out of their small room. 

Unsure if they should follow, Peter and Mike shared a glance, the unclear directions unlike the clear commands they were used to made Peter a bit uneasy. 

Their question was quickly answered as she yelled down the hall, “Follow.” 

With a start, Mike and Peter rushed to catch up to her in the hallway. 

Peter looks around as she leads them back towards the door in the middle of the hallway. It would lead to the staircase back to the first floor, all the bedrooms being on the second floor. He noted the plain walls and wooden floor. He paid attention to where it would creak, something that would be useful to know later. There wasn't much to learn in just the three of them walking, but he would learn the safe spots eventually. 

It was a surprisingly long hallway, about the length of the whole house and having four doors on each side. Passing one with an open door Peter glanced in. It was similar to his, same size but just with one bed. It was sparsely decorated, but it had things that made it, so you could tell the person had been there for a while. There was a plant sitting on the windowsill, small but still alive, somehow hanging on during these winter months. 

He didn't get to see if anyone was in the room before the three of them had already walked past it, and Peter didn't want to turn his head to show that he was snooping. 

“We have seven other boys, excluding you two. So that means that we will not be able to pay the most attention to you, but we still expect you to stay afloat. It also means that food and space are stretched. Nine boys and your government barely pays us enough to feed six,” Mrs. Adam said as they approached the stair landing. 

“This is where you all stay. Doors stay open enough that we can see in. Do not enter someone else's room unless invited in by them. Vice versa, no one should enter your room unless you give them permission. Tell us if someone does.” She paused looking both boys up and down again. 

“We’ve never had to have a shared room before, so you will have to figure out how it’ll work on your own.” 

Peter and Mike glanced at each other again.

The older boy’s eyes were already more alive than they were at the Johnson’s. Peter was glad, he had hoped that the change in scenery would wake him back up, shake him out of the Johnson’s oppressive hands. 

Sharing a room hadn’t been a problem before, seeing as they didn't have many belongings to put anywhere, meaning there wasn't much of an argument over space. They hadn’t been allowed to have friends, so there were no problems over inviting someone over. The girls weren't allowed to go in their room either, the Johnson’s firmly believing in separation of the genders. 

Peter wondered how much of that would change. So far in just the last fifteen minutes they had been there the Adam’s already felt so different from the Johnson household, so much more free in the rules. He hoped it wouldn't cause any strife between him and Mike, not having something to fight against together like they did in the past.

After they didn't say anything (she hadn’t asked a question) she nodded to herself and turned to go down the stairs. 

“Everyone else is at school right now. They all go to the local high school…” she trailed off stopping at the bottom landing of the stairs before turning around to look at Peter again. 

“You. You are still in middle school, yes?” 

“Yes Ma’am.” 

She squinted at him and hummed. Peter wanted to squirm at the way she seemed to be dissecting him with her eyes. He still made eye contact though; showing respect was required.

She had dark blue eyes. Actually looking at her, she was younger than Peter had first thought, face just seeming more tired than old. Her hair was pulled back in some kind of head wrap, hair some dirty-blond-gray mix tied up in a bun. 

“Where do you go? If it is nearby you can walk there, and you will keep going. If it is too far you will have to transfer to a new one near here,” she finally said after she finished studying him. 

He told her the name and she nodded before he even had to say where it was located. 

“You will keep going there. All the other boys walk to the high school, so you will have to go alone. Will this be a problem?” she asked before walking off of the stairs and into the living room again. 

Peter paused slightly at the question. To be alone, able to do anything he wanted sounded amazing. An escape from the controlling ways he had been living in since he entered the system. 

“Not a problem ma’am.” 

She nodded, looking Mike over. 

“And Miquel you are in high school yes?” The Spanish name sounded interesting in her accent. 

Mike tensed slightly at the use of his full name, before quickly answering in the affirmative. Peter hadn’t even considered the fact that Mike had a full name. Although it made sense that the Johnson's would change it, make it more white, with how they acted. How did Mike feel about it? Did he feel a connection to his full name and perhaps the culture that came from it, or would he go by what he was used to? 

Mrs. Adam was about to say something else before stopping and staring at Mike (seriously how many times was she going to study them like a book? It made Peter uneasy, the feeling of being read like that)

“Is there something else you'd rather we call you? You tensed at your name.” 

There was a tentative, “Yes ma’am,” unsure if it was a trap. How long had it been since Mike had been asked if there was something he wanted , Peter wondered. 

No words passed for a couple of seconds, Mrs. Adam waiting to see if the older boy would also provide the preferred name, and Mike not going to answer something that wasn't a yes or no. 

She just continued staring at him, expectantly. At this point Peter thought that she must know the most basic nickname from Miquel. Why was she waiting?  Her face didn't read as angry or stupid, it read as… patient. 

She was patiently waiting for Mike to speak up for himself. Mike who continued to stand completely frozen in that living room. 

Peter opened his mouth to say something, break whatever this was and move on with the tour, only to be stopped by Mrs. Adam as she held up a finger. 

“I want him to get used to speaking for himself. In this house we don't believe in oppression. If you have something you want to say you say it. There are no punishments for speaking. So now I ask again, what would you like to be called Miquel?” 

“Miquel ma’am,” he all but whispered under his breath. 

“Okay. Good. Also,” she pointed to both of them, “you do not need to continue with the ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir’ business. I feel old enough as it is.” 

It would be hard for them to break out of that habit. It had been in every sentence spoken in their old house for the last nine months, years for Miquel. 

She was going to say something else but the front door opened, a tall boy with dark skin and black hair in thick dreads pushed back with a bandana walking in. He had a backpack slung around his shoulder, so Peter assumed this was one of the other boys that lived here. Thinking back to what was said earlier, Peter finally processed the fact that everyone else was in high school . In seventh grade, he was the youngest here. 

The kid with the backpack closed the door behind him and started walking forward before finally looking up at the people in the room and stopping in his tracks. 

“Oh, um, my bad. Didn't realize there was someone here.” 

“Hello Gabriel. How was school? Where are the others?” 

“It was fine, I don't really know where they all went though. ‘Know Xander went to the park with Layton and I think Joel’s with his boyfriend.” 

Peter tried to process all the information, keep it in his head for later reference, but it all quickly slipped in one ear and out the other. Questions were also going through his mind, already taking what he got from the short interaction and using it to fill in the picture of what was expected here. 

Well first off, you were allowed to not be at home. That was different from the Johnson’s. You either had to be at school, home, or have proof that you were at the library-- the local librarian reporting back to the Johnson’s everything Peter did there and what time he came and left. (He often wondered what they paid that librarian, he should have had better things to do than watch Peter)

Xander and Layton might be friendly, going to the park together. And Joel was gay. Or at least he had a boyfriend. And they were open about that. Interesting. (The Johnson’s had been very against anything different, slurs being tossed around the house more than any kind words.)

The boy still at the door, Gabriel, Peter's mind reminded him, nodded up with his head towards Peter and Miquel. 

"These are the new kids taking over Nikhil's room?" he asked, and Peter could feel the boy's eyes studying them (again, Peter hated the feeling of being analyzed). He rubbed a little at the edges of his shirt, feeling a bit embarrassed over the oversized shirt and pants compared to Gabriel’s better fitting clothes. (It also told him the high school didn't have a uniform). 

Mrs. Adam nodded and pointed at Peter, "this is Peter," (she pronounced Peter like Pee-tyer) then pointing to Miquel, "and this is Miquel." 

She added a serious,"Be nice to them. They came from a bad place." A look Peter couldn't read the meaning of passing between her and Gabriel. 

Gabriel's eyes studied him again, a different energy to the look than it had before to the gaze, before nodding and looking down as he kicked off his shoes, talking to the pile of other footwear that was already at the base of the stairs as he said, "How far are you into the tour? I can show them round if you wanna start dinner or something. Don't think any of the other guys are gonna be around for a while though. Don't know how they manage to deal with the cold-- I hate that shit." The last part was mumbled mostly to himself as he shook off some of the snow that was on his hair. 

Looking around a little, he asked again in a normal voice, “where's mister?”

Peter glanced at Mrs. Adam, trying to gauge her reaction to all that. (Would she pass them off to this new boy? Would she say something about the swearing?) She simply blinked and said in an offhand voice, "he's in the workshop." 

She glanced back towards the kitchen where Peter noticed a clock saying it was 4:17pm. "I only showed them the upstairs rooms. I think I will be starting dinner now. Show them around, explain rules to them. Be nice.” 

She touched both Miquel and Peter's shoulders in what was probably meant to be a reassuring way, but it just caused both Peter and Miquel to freeze. Not that they had been moving, but it was a noticeable gesture of stillness that was almost as obvious as a flinch.  

She frowned at that before taking her hands back, just nodding to them and then to Gabriel. She took a deep sigh, a measuring sad look in her eyes before turning around to the kitchen, walking past the large table that sat between the living room and cooking area. 

“Alright cool.” Gabriel tossed his backpack onto the floor next to the couch. 

“So uh, welcome to the Adam’s house. Like she said my name’s Gabriel, and I’ve been here the longest, and gotta say it's the best home I’ve ever been at. They're very chill compared to some other places you could’ve gone to.”

He gestured to the area the three of them were standing in them towards the part of the house behind them. 

“So obviously this is the first floor. Basically everything is here except our actual rooms. There's the kitchen and dining room, and we’re standing in the living room. Though they're basically all the same room, but we just call it different things to make it more obvious I guess.” 

Like the older boy said, half of the house didn't have any walls to separate the rooms, so one  could look from one side to the other. Standing in the living room facing the back of the house Peter could see the big dining room table and a small counter-island-thing that divided it from the kitchen, where Mrs. Adam was moving around and cooking. 

“Then over here is the bathroom. Well it's our bathroom. The mister and missus have their own. It's just us for this so we gotta keep it clean and stuff. Layton will totally kill you if you leave it messy so just like, be smart.” 

He was pointing to the door that was an immediate left from the front entrance. He turned to look at them and fake whispered conspiratorially, “Fair warning it gets absolutely insane in there in the morning so don't even attempt to shower before school.” 

Motioning them over he walked into the bathroom, Peter and Miquel following. They watched as Gabriel opened the door to a storage cabinet, revealing shelves of those travel toiletries. 

“So just like. Take one of each of whatever you need. Well I'm just assuming you guys need them because like…” he glanced over Peter and Miquel again. Peter once again rubbed at the edges of his shirt feeling [embarrassed? Inferior?]. Gabriel cleared his throat, “Cus like, she said you guys came from one of the shitty places, and I know they probably didn't let you keep any of your stuff right?” 

There was a lull in the conversation before Peter answered. 

“Yeah this is all we have. No bags or anything so,” Peter said, not knowing how to finish the sentence but just feeling like he should say something to fill the awkward air. 

Gabriel nodded in understanding, and Peter got the sense that he actually did understand, instead of that false understanding most people pretended to have. When they thought they understood everything you had gone through when in reality they barely knew anything. 

“Yeah so feel free to take some of this stuff. Don't take more than you need though. This is probably the only group home in all of America where this isn't locked so like, yeah” he motioned once again to the cabinet before closing the door. 

“And well that's the bathroom. Basically the rules are just to keep your shit in your room and organized and stuff. There's no lock, so try not to barge in on anyone.” 

The rest of the tour basically went like that. Gabriel would explain the parts of the house and expectations. Some of the common chores and unspoken rules that existed, then also highlighting the actual rules again. Eventually they finished, the new boys having been introduced to every part of the house, the laundry room where they were to clean their own laundry, the kitchen where surprisingly all the cabinets had no locks and all they had to do was not steal someone else's food if it was labeled, and the dinning room where everyone had their unassigned-assigned seat.

They were just wrapping up when the front door opened again, letting in the cold air from outside. In the doorway now stood three teens. 

Quickly Peter realized that he wasn't really there . He was definitely standing in the house, definitely physically there, but his mind began to melt at all the new changes and information that was being told to him. He didn't quite catch the names of all the other boys there as they came in over time, didn't quite pay attention to the chatter of conversation and barely realized that time had even passed before all of a sudden it was dark out, and they had all condensed in the small dining room area, presumably for dinner. 

It smelled good, although Peter didn't know what the food was. Something with meat in a big pot, probably a soup of some sort. All he knew is that it was warm and good, and it was no problem that the portion was rather small because he didn't think he would be able to eat more after his time at the Johnson's. 

It surprised him how nice it was. Not necessarily fancy, no– the chairs around the table were all made in different styles and at least one of them creaked every time the occupants shifted his weight and there were too many people talking at once so instead of the table having one conversation it was more like three different conversations, but it was… homey . Peter hadn't expected that from a group home. He didn't know exactly what he had expected, but this is nicer than what his mental image was. 

He didn't trust that it would last, obviously. Because nothing good ever lasted for Peter. But for now he would accept it as it was. Appreciate the short grace period that he had been granted and just hold out for the next shoe to drop. 

. . . 

The next morning Peter and Miquel were awoken by loud laughing and stomps coming from the hall. There was a muffled “ get your ass back here” shouted by what Peter assumed to be an annoyed Gabriel followed by loud laughter. 

Mrs. Adam quickly came upstairs and put an end to whatever commotion was going on before knocking on Peter and Miquel’s door. Not opening it, she said through the door that they were going to the thrift store in about an hour, so they had to get ready.  

It was, very different from what they had been used to at the Johnson's. 

The thrift store wasn't that bad. Gabriel and a new boy Peter didn't know the name of tagged along (Peter later learned his name was Henry). It was a casual run, Mrs. Adam getting them each a couple t-shirts and a pair of pants. She also made them get winter coats, something Peter was incredibly grateful for. The winter was tough with only the thin t-shirts he had been wearing for the last couple of months. 

There was something domestic about the way they all interacted. Gabriel was a chill guy making jokes that Henry laughed at. Henry was a relatively quiet guy like Peter and Miquel, but it was more so in a way that read as him having a quiet personality compared to the forced quietness of Peter and Miquel. 

Mrs. Adam was to the point, but she still had a friendly energy. They were in and out of the store within an hour, the rest of the Saturday being free for them to ‘continue settling in’. 

The day passed easily, Peter feeling like an audience member watching the house go about its business. Dinner came and went, and almost like clockwork, Peter and Miquel went up to their room. It was what was expected of them after all, and it felt odd to Peter when no one came behind them to lock their door shut. He would have to get used to this place, and all the freedoms it provided. (Should he be concerned that it felt like too much freedom? Did such a thing even exist?)

Laying in bed staring at the ceiling he let his mind wander. So much had changed. Not even just today but in his whole life. He hadn't been in a stable place for so long. Time was weird. 

Continuing to stare at the ceiling Peter's eyes followed the lines that he could see under the paint, the place where the seam of the drywall hadn't been patched enough. That had been one of his random questions to Ben once, while Peter was helping Ben fix a part of their ceiling that had cracked and fallen. 

They're what holds the house together Pete. Every seam needs to be sealed to keep the house nice and warm and insulated. It's one of the finishing pieces, and if it's done wrong the house will look a little messy, no matter how nice the paint job. 

Peter let himself smile at the memory. It was fun sometimes, thinking about random things then being surprised as he remembered a memory of his loved ones. How he would remember all the small bits of life advice that they had bestowed upon him. It kept him going. The memory of one of Ben's favorite sayings, with great power comes great responsibility being Peter's mantra as he did everything in his power to get the girls out of the Johnson house. 

He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of a whispered voice from across the room.

“Peter ? ” 

He glanced over to Miquel’s bed across the dark room. The light was off and Peter didn't have his glasses on, so he couldn't make out anything other than a lump that he assumed to be the other boy. He was surprised to hear the other boy call out to him, they had never really spoken before, Miquel always seemed to have any trouble speaking at all, like the words just wouldn’t come to his mouth. 

“Yeah? ” Peter responded tentatively. 

There was silence for a while, and Peter was scared that maybe he had hallucinated the voice earlier. It would kind of suck if he was losing it, especially after he finally maybe got to a better place to live. 

His fears were put to rest and Miquel hummed a little before whispering again. 

“Thank you. ”

“For what?”

Once again a silence filled the dark bedroom. Peter slowly started to feel his eyelids get heavy as the energetic day came to hit him. 

“For everything. For saving them, for getting us out of there. For doing what I couldn’t.” 

Even with the pointed questions Mrs. Adams had asked Miquel today while shopping to try and get him to talk through his mutism, this was the most Peter had ever heard him say. And it was to thank him . He didn't know what to say. Sleep was starting to seep in now as well, thoughts coming slower and slower like he was walking through honey. 

What should he say to that? I'm sorry it took so long? It's okay? No one deserved to stay there ?

“You’re welcome,” was what he managed to respond before falling into the embrace of sleep.

Chapter Text

Time passed. 

It wasn't slow or fast, time simply moved on. Peter's life seemed to be happening to him rather than him living it. It was approaching summer now, the rest of winter and spring passing by with little change other than the weather.

Things did get a little less supportive around the house. With so many kids, Peter felt like he quickly fell into the background. He was quiet, not loud about any of his problems when they happened. The Adam’s had a lot on their plate, a lot of boys to take care of on barely anything. 

He quickly realized that the reason the rules were so loose was because they probably wouldn't have realized if any of the boys had broken a stricter set. Even with the late curfew, a few of the oldest boys would come home hours later and not even get noticed by the adults. 

Mrs. Adam was too focused on keeping the house clean, feeding them, keeping up with their school work, and tending to the occasional new boy that came to live with them (there had been one boy who liked to cause fights. Peter had been terrified when the Adam’s had the boy moved to a different group home because they refused to put up with someone causing so much trouble), and everything else she juggled. 

Mr. Adam was too focused on whatever he did in the workshop, Peter too nervous to ever ask what he was doing lest he be punished for asking too many questions (despite knowing he wouldn't, knowing that the group home wasn't the same as the Johnson. It didn't break his mind's tight hold on the belief though).

So he used the distracted supervision to his advantage. He went everywhere, anywhere in the city he wanted. He knew it was dumb, probably completely unsafe for a kid like him to wander the streets. But he could , so he did. He found abandoned warehouses, good food shops, antique shops, military surplus stores, and every other shop one could find. Not that he had any money to spend in the shops, but at least he knew they existed, and just that knowledge in itself was entertaining to Peter. 

He always came back home of course, always did his homework because of course he did. Peter Parker was the perfect student, despite everything that had happened to him. 

He was quiet and smart and always respected every teacher, never lying to them or talking back. He was a perfect target. 

There were some kids who were cruel, as there were at every school in the world. They poked at Peter with vicious words, driving deep into what he had been through and how it was probably all his fault. How he was cursed, or maybe he killed everyone he had stayed with. How maybe he was insane. How no one should be friends with him just in case they would be next. 

Peter was surprised to find that it didn't matter to him. 

Of course, it hurt, some nights he would lay in his bed, words echoing in his head making him reconsider life as he knew it. But they didn't bite into him the way they should have. He was getting numb to life, the feeling that nothing mattered because he knew deep down that it would all be changed in a few months. Nothing was final in the system he was in. 

But things didn't change, not like he had expected to happen. He stayed longer at the group home than he did with the Walton’s or the Johnson's. He stayed through the start of eighth grade. 

School was really no different from the past years, other than the fact he was perhaps a little less meek at school. He was gaining (so incredibly slowly, but progress is progress) confidence. His emotions that the Walton’s had accidentally broken down and then been beaten to dust by the Johnson’s were slowly starting to be rebuilt. 

He stayed though his birthday, a day he did not celebrate. None of the other kids at the house knew what he had been through, and Peter had no plans on sharing it. They all had their own share of personal baggage if they were staying there, they wouldn't want to hear Peter's sob story. 

So he kept mostly quiet about it all. They still noticed that it was a hard day for him. He was jumpier than usual, and it was easier to set him off. That night he had had perhaps one of the worst nightmares he had had in a long time, waking up Miquel with it. Despite the practice of getting control of himself and being quieter around it all, Peter’s brain didn't seem to get the memo.

(Laying in bed that night he wondered if in some other timeline, he was happily celebrating with his family. Maybe even his Bar mitzvah. He hoped there was another world where he was just happy .) 

He stayed for almost a year and a half. In that time three of the boys who had lived there when he and Miquel first started living there had aged out of the system, left to fight on their own. 

Gabriel was one of them, and it was actually a rather sad day in the house instead of the anticipation he other two had. Gabriel was friendly, and had bonded with everyone else in the house, even the new boys who were closed off like Peter and Miquel. 

Peter remembered one night when he had been having a hard day, and to escape from it all had climbed out onto that roof he had been eyeing so keenly his first night there. It wasn't the first time he had done it, and it wouldn't be the last. It was peaceful, up there. The roof was flat enough that he didn’t think he’d fall and especially wouldn't with the piece of chimney or some other important pipe that stuck out right where Peter could use like an extra shelf to stay there. 

The house wasn't particularly tall, and there wasn't much to see, but it was pretty nonetheless. Most of the nights he went out there he didn't even go to see the scenery, just to get out . Not the overpowering need to escape the house like it had been for the Johnson’s, because he could simply leave the house through the door basically whenever he wanted unnoticed if he wanted. No, it was just an escape from everything . He could close his eyes, not have to worry about someone taking advantage of his lack of attention and let go, feel the breeze go through his hair, listen to the rumblings of cars and other city noises that would never leave. 

So there Peter had been, sitting on the roof, eyes closed as he listened to the surrounding noises, casually trying to focus on certain sounds but not too invested in if he succeeded or not. It hadn't been any specific thing that made Peter come up here this time. He was just, tired. Everything was getting to be almost too much. The summer heat still hadn't left despite the fact it was well into September, making Peter slightly more annoyed than usual in addition to a particularly difficult day at school and library after. 

At least the breeze wasn't too bad. He thought as he leaned back to lay complete against the roof, head hitting the rough surface. He let the sounds of the neighborhood wash over him, the rustling of several trees, an indistinct argument somewhere, a child laughing, a dog barking. People living their lives. 

He was broken out of his trance by the sound of his window opening, sitting up suddenly at the thought of it being one of the Adam’s and the trouble he might get in. He was immediately put to ease when he saw the familiar face of Gabriel sticking out of the window, looking around in the dark for something. He finally found where Peter was and made a face that told Peter that he was what Gabriel had been looking for. Why? 

“There you are. How's it going Pete?” the older boy asked as he started climbing out of the window to join Peter on the dark roof. 

Gabriel was the only one who ever called Peter ‘Pete’. The last person who had done that was Ben. Peter didn’t know how he felt about it, but he never felt like telling Gabriel to not.

“I’m okay… why?” Peter asked back, mostly just happy that he wasn't currently in trouble for being on the roof. And a little confused. 

Why was Gabriel here? Was he using Peter's window to sneak out of the house for some reason? No, he had obviously been looking for Peter and if he had wanted to leave he could have taken the much easier route of using a door on the ground. 

Even though it was pretty dark, the city never truly slept, and street lights lit the area enough for Peter to see Gabriel to shrug his shoulders and shuffle closer to where Peter was sitting. 

“Just wanted to see how you're doing I guess. Didn't know if you like, wanted to talk to someone or something. I know when I used to go through hard days, all I wanted was for someone to listen and understand. None of that pity bullshit,” Gabriel said casually, finally settling close enough to Peter for him to still have personal space, legs stretched out. 

Peter didn't know what to say to that. 

“If not though, I'm chill to just sit here. And if you want me to leave I can go too,” Gabriel said to Peter's silence, looking not at him but to the landscape. 

They sat in silence for a while in a way that wasn't too uncomfortable that Peter felt like he had to fill it. He eventually tucked up his legs and held them for some form of comfort, not that he was necessarily uncomfortable but just to appease the side of him that kept telling him to hide and become invisible away from attention. 

“How'd you know I was here?” Peter asked after a while, curious on how the seventeen-year-old had known how to find him. Did a lot of people know he came up here? Did the adults? Was he going to get in trouble after this? None of the other rooms had a window to this side of the roof, the other side of the house having a rather steep roof that no sane person would try to stay on like this. 

Gabriel shrugged again saying, “Miquel told me but I also kind of knew. Nikhil used to come here too. ‘Think just about everyone who’s had your room comes out here.” 

Sometimes Peter forgot how long Gabriel had been here.

“And the Adam’s never locked the window?” Peter asked. 

“Nah, I don’t think they even realized, and if they did don't think they'd care too much. As long as no one gets really injured it doesn't matter so much I guess.” 

That made sense, now that Peter had gotten a better grasp on how the Adam’s were. He was happy for the fact that he wouldn't get in trouble at the least, if not even more scared for the implications of the fact they had access to the roof with little care. 

“How'd Miquel know I was out here?” 

Since getting his own room, Peter and Miquel had been talking a little less. Not necessarily on purpose, they just kind of each resigned into their own corners of the world, though they still shared a better connection than either did with anyone else in the house. 

Another shrug from the older boy. 

“He kinda always knows where you are, so I'm not too surprised.” 

Peter was surprised by that. Miquel kept track of him? Was that weird? Should he be concerned, or should he be glad to know that at the very least if he was kidnapped someone would realize? 

Maybe Peter made a look with his face because Gabriel laughed a little. 

“Don't worry about him. I think he just feels some weird ‘older brother’ duty. It’s nice, you have someone who cares about you.” 

There was an underlying sadness to the words. 

“You have people that care about you Gabriel.” 

Gabriel's smile twitched before dropping slightly, and he shrugged again.

“I'm not so sure,” he said quietly. 

Then saying louder and in a way that was obviously him trying to change the subject off of him, “But I didn't come out here to talk about me. I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay. I know-” he paused and sighed a little, “Listen. I know something must have happened last month, we- I could just tell somethin’ was up with you. So… I’m just here if you wanted to talk about it.” 

Peter didn't want to talk about it. So he didn't. Instead, he looked at Gabriel, trying to find out why someone cared. 

Not finding it conveniently written on the boy's face, he decided to ask. 

“Why do you care? You’re just going to leave in a couple of weeks anyway.”

The sound of rustling leaves filled the lull in the conversation as a particular strong gust of wind blew. 

Gabriel looked down at his feet as he tapped them against each other, and Peter thought he wasn't going to answer till he heard him speak.

“I dunno. You just remind me of my lil brother I guess. Well that, and I didn't know if you were gonna jump.” 

Oh. There was a lot to unpack there. 

And he didn't get to answer before the familiar head of Miquel stuck out of Peter's window, left open when Gabriel had come out. Miquel did the same look around, before finding both Peter and Gabriel and halting in his motion. 

He hadn't made any noise when doing it, so Peter was surprised when Gabriel suddenly turned to the window despite it being behind his line of vision.

“Oh hey Miquel. What's up? They want us or somethin’?” Gabriel asked, more of his familiar casual tone in his voice. 

Miquel shook his head, although he still hadn’t climbed out on the roof to join them. Did he want an invitation? Why was he here? Did Gabriel ask him to come eventually?

Peter didn’t think it was the last one since Gabriel hadn't seemed to expect Miquel to be there and with him asking if they were needed in the house it was unlikely. 

“Do you wanna join us?” Gabriel asked, and Miquel stayed hovering for a couple seconds, considering before slowly crawling out to climb on the roof with the rest of them. 

The three of them sat there on the roof in a silence that almost touched awkwardness but never quite enough for Peter wanting to start a conversation. 

He wanted to ask what had happened to Gabriel’s little brother, since he had never heard of the fact Gabriel had any family. He wanted to say that he wasn't going to jump off (at least not right now). 

Despite all the shit life had dealt to him, he didn't quite verge on actively suicidal. He wouldn’t mind dying in his sleep to never wake up but wouldn't do anything to actively die. There were some things he wanted to do, things he wanted to learn, before dying. Plus there was always that small part of the mind that, every time it got bad, would remind him that it eventually had to get better, it would have to . 

The night ended with no more conversation, each of them eventually heading inside the house as it got slightly cooler, and they got more tired. But every time after that night, whenever Peter found himself sitting on the roof, he was eventually accompanied by both boys. 

. . . 

It was an average march day, and Peter was walking into the house after school. Miquel had gotten his own room a couple of months ago, so Peter had been planning on holing up in his room for the rest of the Friday evening and maybe into the weekend with a couple of books he had gotten from the library. 

Usually he would have been in the library to read, but there was a new group of kids who came into Peter's quiet space now, filling it with loud and jovial conversations. (Peter had wanted to print out a copy of the library’s rules and staple it to their foreheads the third time they came laughing into the library, annoyed at their lack of respect for the calm quiet of the space). 

But instead of his plans to read about a new physics' theory he was met with the Adam’s standing in the living room, a man that Peter could immediately tell was a social worker standing beside them. 

It wasn't Mr. Wyatt so that either meant that they'd be getting a new placement in the house (they didn't have a spare room so did that mean someone would be sharing?) or someone was leaving (he hoped it wasn’t Miquel, they had finally sorta become friends after the other boy started to heal). 

Peter went to walk past the adults, fully intending to just go up to his room before he was stopped by Mr. Adam saying his name. 

“Yes?” Peter responded. He had dropped the sir and ma'am habit about a year ago. (Of course there were still some times when he got scared if someone closed the door too hard, and he would think he was back there . He reverted right back to his respectful self in those times, much to the confusion of everyone else when he would suddenly stand perfectly still and not look into their eyes, silent till they asked him a direct question).

“You're going to be going to a new foster home,” Mr. Adam said. 

Oh. 

Peter blinked a couple of times, unsure if he heard right. Furrowing his brow he asked a simple, “ What? ”

He hadn't done anything, hasn't caused any problems. He hadn't heard of anything going wrong in this house, they shouldn't need to get rid of him, should they?

Looking at the three adults Peter tried to read their faces, trying to understand why he was suddenly being moved. Yeah, this house might have not been the best, the chance of slipping between the cracks extremely high, but at least he had gotten used to it. It wasn't as bad as it could be. 

The man that Peter assumed to be a social worker had somewhere between an exasperated and apologetic face on. He held his hand to his chest as he spoke.

“Well Peter, my name is Lincoln, and I’m your new social worker. I'm sorry I didn't come to tell you when Mr. Wyatt retired, I just got a little lost in the amount of kids he had. If I’m being honest I might understand why he retired!” 

Peter stared blankly at the man. Now, Peter wouldn't ever say he was the best at social etiquette, but good lord at least he was better at it than this man. What was he even trying to accomplish with the admission?

Peter's gaze flicked over to Mrs. Adam, as if to check to see if she was hearing this too, only to be stopped by just a distinct look of anger and disappointment . Peter nearly flinched at that before realizing it wasn't towards him. She was glaring at the social worker who was now fumbling through his next sentence. 

“And well basically, well. Peter, there's this great family who just had their son age out of the system, and they wanted to foster a young boy. And since you're the youngest one in here, and you have good grades which is one of their requirements, they said they would take you in.” The man smiled in a way Peter could just tell to be fake. “You'll get to live in an actual home instead of a group home like this. Doesn’t that sound great?” 

Once again Peter wanted to punch someone. What the hell. He was finally getting used to staying here, even actually starting to like some people, and now he just had to leave? Again?

There was an awkward silence in the room as Peter just continued to stare at the man (he had hoped that maybe in his sleep he had gotten the ability to hallucinate someone with his mind because he simply could not believe this was happening) before the thirteen-year-old realized that he was actually supposed to answer the question. 

“Um, no? Is there any way I can stay here?” he asked. He really would rather not leave. 

Lincoln seemed incredibly surprised by Peter's response, as if in awe anyone would want to stay in the group home he had already spent the last year and a half in rather than move to some random family who would probably get rid of him in another half a year anyway.

Lincoln cleared his throat before saying, “Unfortunately no. I already told them you would move in, so they've already prepared everything for you and such. Plus as your caseworker I can decide what's best for you. And I think it would be best if you move in with the Strictlands.” 

Mrs. Adam’s angry voice stopped Peter before he was about to say something that probably would have been incredibly stupid in response to the man's bullshit reasoning. 

“And you could not have given warning before? You just show up and expect him to be ready to leave in one afternoon?” she said pointedly to Lincoln, face still bearing a cross expression. 

The man nervously shifted in his stand before chuckling awkwardly, sending back a pointed, “I’m his social worker I can move him to wherever I see fit.” 

“Can’t someone else go? I'm sure there's someone else here who would rather go to a new home, but I want to stay here. I've already been here so long and just-- I think that's stupid,” Peter said, that gross feeling sinking into his stomach as his backpack suddenly began to become heavier. His gaze seemed to be tunnel focused on the adults, as the knowledge that he couldn't do anything started to worm its way into his head. 

He could never do anything about it, always at the will of someone who didn't know him. At the will of the universe and whatever it decided to inflict on him next. 

He looked to Mr. Adam for any kind of support, as the man had been silent during the whole conversation after calling him over. They hadn’t bonded (if that was even the right word) quite as much over Peter's time here, not like he had with some of the other kids. Mr. Adam was staring blankly at his wife as she continued to mumble something under her breath, before saying something himself. 

“Ivanna, he’s the social worker. If there's another placement he can move the boy. Plus, it would be nice to have a little less going on here anyway.” 

Peter felt like his heart was breaking. But he had made a vow that he wouldn't let it show; he wouldn't let anyone else see how much they were breaking him down little by little. It had already happened enough that he knew how to fix it himself. 

Looking at their faces Peter knew he had lost the argument (not that he ever thought he would win). He unconsciously let out a little laugh to do with his mind's dark thoughts, of course. Of course, I'm gonna be uprooted again. There was nothing I could have done anyway.

“Fine. I’ll go pack.” 

. . . 

He was in Lincoln's car before he even knew it, the car traveling smoothly along the streets to his next home, all his belongings in two plastic garbage bags. 

He didn't get to say goodbye to any of the other boys, having left before any of them even got home from wherever they went after school. 

Chapter Text

Maybe the first thing Peter notices about the Strickland's is the fact that it seems too perfect.

Obviously he noticed as his social worker led him into the nicer looking condo complex. He noticed that the Strickland’s looked like rather nice, pleasant people. Just like the Walton's were.

He noticed that the condo was rather clean, almost too nice looking to be a foster home. The Stricklands talked happily with Lincoln, chatting about how happy they were to have such a nice looking boy take the place of the one who they had been taking care of for the last couple of years. Hopefully Peter would hold up to their expectations.

Lincoln left, and he seemed oh so proud for someone who just took a kid away from what he considered to be the closest thing to a home and dumping him in a new place.

They swiftly showed him the layout of the condo. Bathroom here, living room there, dining room over here, and kitchen here. Along the way, making comments to not scare him off but also share their expectations of him. Keep the bathroom clean, sweep the living room once a week, clean the dining room after dinner every day, and then in the kitchens they faltered.

They were happy to provide for him, as long as he asked. The fridge and cabinets would be locked otherwise.

A simple lock with a simple key, not anything crazy secure, but enough to send a message.

Mr. Strickland must have been gauging Peter's reaction to the locks because he smiled in a curt way.

“We’ve had trouble with some of our other fosters stealing before. Hope it isn't too off-putting. We’re really not that harsh; don't want to give off the whole ‘horrible foster parents’ stereotype, ya’know?” he trailed off with a forced laugh, trying to lighten the mood of the words.

Peter didn't quite believe it.

Peter gave an uneasy nod to acknowledge the fact that he had at least heard what the man had said, not necessarily that he had much trust in the man’s words.

Mrs. Strickland, also another perfect picture of the average commercial American with long blond hair to go with Mr. Strickland’s black, had a slight cringe of a forced smile on her face.

“Now Peter, we know that it must be hard moving to so many different places with different rooms and such, but we would like it if you verbally acknowledged us when we speak to you please,” she said in a sickeningly sweet voice and a practiced tone.

Not that he was even moving, but Peter felt himself freeze as he stood up taller.

So that's how this house would be then.

“Of course ma’am.”

They both smiled at that, and if anything they looked pleasantly surprised that he had even tagged on the ma’am, probably just expecting a ‘yeah’ or some other non-committal noise that a normal teen boy would make.

Peter made a mental note to treat this like the Johnson’s. Good to know. He had gotten too loose during his time at the group home, letting his guard down too much. He could go back though, if it would let him survive for a bit longer.

“Great. Let's show you to your room then shall we?” Mr. Strickland said, already walking and leading the way down the hall.

“Yes sir.”

Hopefully it wouldn't be hard to get back into the habit, Peter didn't want to know what consequences were like here.

. . .

His room was nice. Very nice. It was a large room, and he wouldn’t have to be sharing it with anyone and honestly Peter didn't know what he was even going to be able to do with all the space. There were shelves lining the walls that he assumed the last person who had stayed in it must have lined with things.

Peter didn't have things, and as perfect and nice as this family seemed he didn't really trust that he would be able to stay here. His longest streak in a place after May and Ben’s death was only a year and a half. Who was to say that this family wouldn’t want to get rid of him too? Who's to say that he wouldn't be packing it back up again in a mere few months. What was the point in putting anything on those shelves, or the point of filling what seemed like an excessively large closet with clothes when he'd probably have to choose a handful of shirts to shove into another garbage bag next time?

But it was still a nice room, as much as the size made him bitter. The floors were a nice tan carpet, the walls a simple light blue. The bed and desk and dresser all seemed to be nicely made, not cheap like they had been in the group home.

And there was a window. He was so glad that there was a window.

It was an older window, but it was one he could open up easily if he wanted. It led out to the fire escape that lined their building. It was perfect. (Even if it didn't lead to a flat roof and the company of his pseudo brothers, it was still a comfort to have an escape).

He wondered how often the boy who had lived here before had opened that window. Was there a need? What if for one he actually did get a good foster family, and he wouldn't need the option of escape. (Perhaps a more cynical part of his mind quickly shut that glimmer of hope out. Yeah right, when was the last time Peter was lucky enough to get something good.) (The slightly less cynical part of his mind pointed out that the group home wasn't actually that bad, even if there were some days they completely forgot he existed, at least they were nice for the most part).

He had chores he was expected to finish. No real problem there, he had expected it to be honest. It was a surprise when they told him that he would mostly be in charge of himself most days and that they wouldn't be home most of the time. They both had nice corporate jobs that would take most of their time. (And a part of Peter wondered why they would bother fostering kids then? Was he just to smile happily in photos and at parties to give the appearance of a happy family without the work?)

He was expected to get good grades in school, and to not get into any trouble. Again, no real problem there. Peter just wanted to tough out the next couple of months left in eighth grade, then he could go to a good high school and finally be free of his reputation.

He could be self-sufficient, and he would have to be it seemed.

Not to say that the Stricklands were mean, no so far they seemed rather nice. Although he would continue to be wary, and this time there was something deep inside Peter that really didn't trust them.

. . .

School wrapped up easily. Peter worked hard, although it wasn't that difficult to get all A’s. He worked hard to get into a good high school, knowing that if he went to some boring high school his escape of knowledge would be blocked from him even more. So when there had been some seminar thing with various high schools at their elementary school Peter had quickly latched his mind onto getting into midtown school of science and technology.

He had shared the fact with the Stricklands over dinner one night (though they rarely had dinner with all three of them, they did seem to be trying to make some kind of effort during Peter's first couple of months there). They were excited that he had such high goals for himself, and said they would be glad to sign whatever papers he brought to them to sign.

So he did. He got all the paperwork together, figured out the test days and how to get himself there for the entrance exam, and did everything. He got in and that was that. They were happy for him as well, telling them how proud they were to get such a smart boy for them to foster (and for a couple of nights he went to sleep happy that he had achieved something good, and was hopeful for the future).

He was a little disappointed when neither showed up for his graduation. He then was frustrated at himself for allowing himself to get disappointed. (Don't set your expectations for anything high, he had to remind himself. You will always be let down.)

Despite knowing he shouldn't have any hope for adults and their help, he couldn't help the dark swirl of emotions that came when he walked across the stage looking out at the crowd of happy families and parents, only to find no one for him.

He couldn't quite blame them he supposed. They both had their jobs (honestly Peter had heard Mr. Strickland on the phone once for work, and you would think the man was speaking an alien language). So they weren't around often, and Peter didn't expect them to be.

Most times they made up for it with a simple apology for missing something important, not that he really did anything they had to be there for, he still was one to be quiet in school then go to the library right after to consume more and more books.

Peter didn't mind so much, it wasn't too odd to leave an eighth grader, or rather now highscooler, alone to do what he pleased. It probably had to do with the phone they gave him which he was certain had at least three different location tracing apps (he had nearly exploded when they had gifted it to him. It wasn't new or anything, but it still worked. He had a phone now and that made the world of difference.)

So, for the first time in a while, Peter was rather okay with how his life was going. He was going to be going to a new and interesting school where he had hope of actually making some friends, and keeping his reputation out. He was in a home where an okay amount of food was provided for him each day, and even if it was controlled he didn't mind too much. He wasn't being abused or horribly neglected. He was… maybe going to be okay for a while.

Chapter Text

“Hey, can I sit here?” Peter asked, pointing to the empty seat.

The boy he had been talking to, who had light brown skin and dark hair and was wearing a button-up shirt, nodded with a nervous, almost surprised, look. 

Peter smiled and sat down, glad that, despite it only being the first ten minutes, he hadn't messed up his first high school interaction. 

All the freshmen were packed into the auditorium and awaiting some talk that was probably going to boil down to something like ‘chill out everyone is scared of everyone and don't get lost’ from the principal before dispersing to their first classes, schedules probably already memorized by everyone like Peter had during the days before, nervously checking the numbers to the school map to make sure he wouldn't get lost on the first day.

Turning back to the boy, Peter held out his hand, not quite knowing if that was the proper social thing to do but hoping the idea came across anyway. 

“Um, hi. I’m Peter by the way.” 

Apparently it either wasn't that weird to go for a handshake, or the other boy was just as socially awkward as him because he reached out and shook Peter's hand, smiling back just as awkwardly. 

“Hi. I’m Ned Leeds.” 

Peter nodded and let go of his hand. Okay what comes next? 

“So uhh, are you excited for the first days of our high school career?” Ned asked, words having a false cheeriness like he was mocking a too excited tour guide. 

Peter actually smiled at that before responding in the same mock cheer, “You betcha! Sure am excited to expand my academic mind.” 

Ned laughed and Peter felt like he had somehow won the social interaction. 

“So, what's your first class?” Peter asked, hoping that he had at least one class with Ned since they already kinda had the start of a friendship forming. 

They compared schedules for a bit, finding that they actually shared three classes together: geometry, physics, and world history. 

“Woah, you're taking photography? That's so cool,” Ned said, looking at the last class on Peter's schedule. 

“Uh yeah,” Peter said while going to rub the back of his neck in embarrassment, “I wanted to get into drawing, but apparently it got full, so they put me in my second choice. Sounds like it'll be fun I guess.” 

There really wasn't much Peter thought he could photograph to be honest. There wasn't anything in his life that really struck him as beautiful or worthy, but maybe the class would change his mind. 

Ned was going to say something else, but then the lights got dark, and their principal walked onto stage and, just like Peter had expected, gave a copy and paste speech about how important school was, and they all had earned their right to be here and bla bla bla. 

Glancing around Peter took in the other freshmen sitting in the dark. There was a blond girl a couple of rows up across the aisle who was taking down notes in one of those small notepads detectives keep in their pockets from all the TV shows, behind her was someone slouched down drawing a rather funny caricature of the principal as he kept talking. 

There were so many people, and Peter really hoped that this could be a good new start, a chance to start over without anyone knowing anything about him. He could just be a normal kid, normal life. No traumatic past distancing himself from them. 

The assembly was wrapped up, and they were corralled out of the auditorium and sent off to their first classes, and Peter was once again happy that he had managed to befriend someone so early on because he and Ned were able to walk to their geometry class together. 

Midtown followed a block schedule for their classes, meaning that they only had four classes a day, but that also meant that each class was an hour and a half. He had heard that it was supposedly good because that meant you never had the same class two days in a row, so you had more time to do homework or something, but Peter just found it weird compared to how he was used to classes being in elementary and middle school. 

His first class was pretty chill, the teacher just having them do some icebreakers and some basic math games. Peter and Ned quickly made sure to stay close to each other, finding it easy to already have one of the people at the table known. 

After that hour and a half class, they made their way to their second class– Physics. It was similar to their first class, Peter and Ned sitting next to each other and doing icebreakers with the rest of the table. This class being the class Peter was most excited for, considering physics and the sciences had been one of his main obsessions throughout his childhood. He was excited that he would finally have a chance to do something with what he learned, and hopefully learn more, and be able to talk to people who cared as much as he did. 

Looking around the classroom, Peter found himself smiling at some of the posters the teacher had hung on the walls, most of them being stupid science puns that would make anyone cringe to hear out loud. There were a couple of pop culture posters, science fiction seeming to be the teacher's preference. 

As Peter kept looking around, he found he had accidentally made eye contact with another boy, much to Peter's embarrassment. The boy had dark brown eyes, light brown skin, and short black hair that was gelled back but still had wave to it. They held eye contact across the room for a couple of seconds before Peter looked away, hoping that the interaction wasn't too awkward to brand him as weird. 

At one point the teacher asked the class what their favorite example of science (any kind of science) was in a movie or TV show. It was quiet for a couple of seconds until the cute boy Peter had made eye contact with earlier raised his hand. The teacher called on him, and he talked about how he found the way interstellar commented on the fourth dimension was interesting. 

“Yes, very good Mr. Thompson. I also thought that was interesting. Anyone else have any other examples?” the teacher asked. 

The room was still, all the freshmen too nervous to stand out, until Peter hesitantly raised his hand. The teacher lit up and pointed, glad that he wasn't talking to a completely dead audience. 

“Peter, is it?” the teacher asked, looking down at the name tag that he had every student make earlier, “What do you have to share?”

“Well um, I don't know if this like really counts but like I once saw an episode of MythBusters where they um, they like broke down the science of when Han put Luke in the Tauntauns stomach and like,” Peter said, finding himself going on a little bit of a tangent about the whole actual science of it and getting lost in what he remembered of that one episode, and before he knew it he had realized he had probably been talking for too long and slowly stopped. 

The teacher clapped his hands with a smile on his face and said, “Yes! Exactly! I’m so glad there's someone else here who likes MythBusters and Star Wars. Oh, this is going to be a great year I think.”

Peter smiled a little awkwardly and looked down at his hands while he twisted them around under the table, suddenly very anxious and surprised he had even offered to answer. He didn't usually do things like that, preferring to hide in plain sight silently. 

For some reason he couldn't explain, Peter looked up briefly and caught the eye of the same guy again. This time the other boy was frowning and already looking at Peter. 

Then, quite literally saved by the bell, the class ended and Peter quickly grabbed his bag and looked up to Ned since they also happened to have lunch together. 

The rest of the day went much the same, lunch being relatively chill as he and Ned claimed a table in the corner and talked, getting to know each other better. Apparently Ned was really into a lot of the same stuff Peter liked, although Peter did have a couple of moments of confusion, holes in his knowledge showing because of his past. He had managed to watch a lot of movies at the library, and in the group home they had occasionally rented out things to watch, so Peter wasn't completely lost. 

Talking with Ned, Peter got a warm cozy feeling as he finally realized something. He had a friend . A friend who was just as awkward and silly and liked talking about the same things he did. They eventually exchanged phone numbers, Peter finally having something to put into the new phone his new foster parents had gotten him other than just their two numbers. 

Then, when Peter had expressed said emptiness to his phone, Ned had been shocked and told him several different kinds of apps he should download, what TV shows he could watch for free, which ones he could pirate, and basically just an almost overwhelming amount of things. Not that Peter minded, he was glad he had an almost pseudo guide to make up for some of his missing childhood experiences.

Eventually lunch had to end, and they split off, not having any more classes together this day. Spanish II was easy, the teacher speaking in English and explaining all of what they were going to do this year. It was relatively boring, since Peter didn't really know how to actually make friends. Ned was a lucky fluke in his mind. 

His next class was English. Which would be awesome if they just got to read books and do book reports like middle school, or could absolutely suck if he had to break down sentence structures or something like that. Or if they had to do poetry, he was bad at understanding poetry. 

The classroom was cozy, being decorated with bookshelves full of books, posters, some plants near the windows, and even a small pride flag sticking out of the teacher's cup of pens. 

Okay, not too bad so far. Now, if they had to write personal essays about something in their past or something sentimental like how this classroom felt, Peter had no idea what he would do. He didn't like talking about anything that had ever happened to him. 

He continued standing around awkwardly, not quite knowing if he should sit like there was free seating or if there were assigned seats like some of his other classes. 

“You look like a lost puppy,” a voice said behind him, causing Peter to start slightly. How had someone sneaked up on him? He was usually very aware of his surroundings. 

Turning around, Peter found the comment had come from a girl with a piece of curly hair in front of one of her eyes and light brown skin. 

Before Peter could say anything, the bell rang again and the teacher clapped her hands to get the attention of all the students, quieting the murmured conversations. 

“Alrighty gang, do me a favor and sit wherever you want, and then start introducing yourself with the people at your table with your names and pronouns. I'll be around in a bit to write down your names. If you finish introducing yourselves, you can talk about your favorite book, or favorite genre,” she said, before clapping again, causing the students to start spreading out and claiming seats. 

Peter looked back towards the girl and when she didn't say anything, only raised her eyebrow, he shrugged and sat down at the seat closest to him. The girl then sat next to him. 

“Um.. Hi I guess,” Peter said awkwardly. 

“I’m MJ, she/they.” 

Oh right. “I’m Peter. He/him I guess.” 

There was a lull in conversation, apparently they were both just quiet people. 

“Why’d you say I looked like a lost puppy earlier?” 

“Because you did,” she deadpanned. 

Not realizing it, Peter tilted his head in confusion, adding on to the puppy dog energy before he looked away again when she didn't say anything else other than stare and let a small smile slip. Interesting. 

He felt like he had met her before, but he couldn't quite remember where. It was only when about halfway through the class, and she pulled out a small sketchbook to draw that he realized that she was the person who had been drawing a caricature of the principal earlier that day. 

The rest of the class went by just as smoothly as his other classes, nothing important happening the first day other than the teacher going over the syllabus and having them fill out a ‘get to know me’ worksheet where he got to talk of his reading history and how much time he had spent in the library. Things like what he thought his strengths and weaknesses were, favorite genres, if he had written before, things like that. 

Then finally, the final bell for the day rang, and he was out of school, making his way back to the Strickland's. 

It wasn't quite home yet, despite it having been almost five whole months there. Yes, the room had filled ever so slowly with items, clothes that they bought for him and random other things he had gotten as he wandered over the summer, but it wasn't a home. It was a place he was staying at till they either eventually got tired of him as everyone always seemed to or something took him away again. 

But it was still a place to be after school, so he went there. Not quite having the energy to go to the library today since it had been… a lot, to meet so many people and new things and everything that came with the first day of high school. 

Even weirder to him, is the fact that he still had new classes tomorrow, since he had only had four today. Three new classes and a study period tomorrow. At least Ned was in his first period tomorrow, an ease into the day with world history. 

For the first time in a while, the Stricklands were at home, and they had dinner all together, instead of leaving him alone until the later hours as they usually did. It was a pleasant domestic type of conversation that flowed, how was school and anything catching your eye and so what clubs are you thinking of types questions filling the air until they finished eating, and Peter eventually went to sleep that night. 

. . . 

The next morning was similar, world history with Ned which was simple enough. Unlike in middle school though, Peter was excited to learn that this class had a unit where they would go over how much of their history was actually influenced by things they only just learned about in recent years, things like Asgardians and aliens. Pretty cool. 

His next class he was much less excited for, Gym. He knew realistically that the teacher (was he supposed to call him a coach? Peter didn't know) hopefully knew about Peter's asthma and hopefully wouldn't work them too hard on the first day. 

Peter quickly found out he was wrong when the teacher gave out their gym uniforms and told them to run laps around the gym until they had completed ten whole circuits. It was like he had been sent to hell. 

The exercise brought a familiar feeling. Lungs burning, leaving his mouth and nose dry, and he couldn't seem to bring enough air to live. Heart beating so fast it was like it was protesting at the thought of doing anything. 

Peter wasn’t against exercise, he liked the idea of being fit, but his body always seemed to resist the idea by making him feel like absolute shit every time he ran like this. 

Pausing to the side, Pete leaned down, propping his arms on his knees in a makeshift support to try and catch his breath, trying to figure out if he needed his inhaler yet. 

Glancing around he saw most of the other kids still running the laps. There were a handful that looked like they were struggling like Peter, but they persisted. Looking at the coach, Peter spotted a couple of guys clustered around the adult, already done with the laps. The cute boy from physics was there, smiling and talking with some of the others in the group. 

One of them spotted Peter looking and tapped the couch, then gestured to Peter. The teacher sent Peter a look that read get running again, why did you stop? This caused the cute boy to also turn and look at Peter, a friendly smile turning into something else, like he knew some inside joke Peter didn't. 

The attention caused Peter's face to heat in embarrassment on top of the warmth that was already there from running. He took another deep breath and set out to finish his laps. 

Gym wrapped up quickly, but not nearly fast enough, and he was swiftly on his way to his last class of photography. 

. . .

“Find anything good yet?” MJ asked Peter who stood in the hallway, looking through the pictures on the camera. 

They were supposed to wander the school grounds and take a picture of something that represented either a hobby or an important part of their personality, then about halfway through the class period come back and present it to the class. It was like some kind of icebreaker type thing while also showing what they knew about photography, apparently. 

Peter had been fiddling with the settings of the fancy camera for a couple of minutes now, trying to think of something that would work . He had taken some mediocre pictures of the rows of books in the library (specifically the science section), and had found a chemistry model outside a classroom. 

Looking up, Peter spotted MJ walking closer to him, holding a camera of their own. He had been… intrigued to find that MJ was in this class too, hoping that this could work out to be  friendship of some kind and not weird. 

“Not really,” he answered. “I took some pictures of books, but I don't really know what to take a picture of ya know? What about you, did you find anything?”

They shrugged, “I just took a picture of my sketchbook. Well technically I took a picture of my sketchbook on top of a book of poetry I had in my backpack.” 

Silence. Then; 

“We only got like three minutes until we need to be back so…” MJ said, slowly leaning towards the direction of the classroom. “Want to walk back together, see if we spot anything else?” 

Peter nodded, and then he realized. Mj was trying to be friends with him. And she was just as awkward as him. 

He smiled, “yeah, sure.” 

. . . 

And that's how it went, life moving on in a steady pace and structure that Peter could trust. Every day, he’d go to school, eat the school breakfast and talk to Ned who also got there early, go to his class, look forward to his classes-- every class except the ones with Flash (Peter still didn't know what he did to antagonize him, but every time Peter seemed to know the answer to something he could feel Flash glaring at him)--, go to some extracurricular activity after school, homework, then home where he could eat whatever food wasn't locked behind a cabinet, go to bed and repeat. 

He got a hang of it all, while still being incredibly socially awkward and never quite saying the right thing sometimes, he got used to the flow of people and conversation, and got used to the life of an average, normal teenage boy. 

Clubs after school were fun, the Stricklands had really pushed him to do as many as possible, though Peter couldn't tell if it's because they didn't want all his time to be spent alone at home like he used to, or if it was because they wanted him to be accomplished and an even better trophy. Peter didn't mind it too hard, he could keep up to their expectations, and it was better than the Johnson's (anything was better than the Johnson's though, so it was a pretty low bar). 

The one thing he did have to swallow about his living situation, is how absolutely dreadful the Stricklands were with dealing with Peter when he was in one of those mental states where everything was terrible. They were not good at dealing with his nightmares, getting upset if he ever woke him up, sometimes threatening to take away his phone if he didn’t go to sleep (despite the fact it wasn't his phone that was keeping him up, it was the memories). They don't care if he didn't like the food they provided, texture or flavor feeling like he wanted to scratch it off. They either didn't notice or would get agitated with him if it was one of those times when he heard someone stomping or closing something harshly, and he was frozen in fear, brain trying to recall what he had done to upset Mr. Johnson despite the fact it had been years. Or the times it would rain, and an occasional thunderclap would sound too much like a gunshot and all he could think about was crying with blood on his clothes. 

But it would be okay, he could handle it. He was a teenager now. He could deal with it. (It was a mantra every time he even thought for a second about how much he hated it. He was lucky, he should be grateful this is where he was and not some bad place again just, deal with it ).

Academic decathlon, robotics, marching band, and other various clubs filled his time, and he was spending more and more time getting used to the media he could get from his phone instead of the slow-going of books in a library. He got to do exactly what he wanted, learn and be able to do something with his knowledge, help others understand and be able to talk to people who cared like he did. 

All in all, life was going pretty okay, and Peter barely noticed as the first quarter of the year went by. 

Chapter Text

“Alright class, the bell’s about to ring so you guys can pack it up a bit early if you want. Make sure you have your field trip permission slips signed and turned in by tomorrow . It’s not everyday we get an opportunity like this, so I’ll be really sad if any of you can't make it,” Peter’s physics teacher was saying, words slowly being drowned out by the sound of students shuffling and starting to talk. 

Ned nudged Peter as he was putting his things into his backpack, “So did you get your form filled out yet?” 

“Uh, not yet…” Peter said, wincing as he remembered he had forgotten to ask Mr. or Mrs. Strickland to fill it out last night. 

Ned let out an exasperated groan, “ Dude , you gotta do that man. It’s a free trip to Oscorp . It’ll be awesome, but only if you can come too.”

Peter laughed lightly, “I know, I know. I’ll ask them tonight. Promise.” 

That seemed to satisfy Ned because he just nodded and grabbed his own bag, and they made their way to the door. 

“I swear, sometimes I just don't understand why you avoid them so much. They're your foster parents, this is like, their whole job.” 

Ned was the only one in the whole school Peter had told about his situation. Not much, just that he had been in the system for a while and that these had been his foster parents since spring of eighth grade, not going into depth about too much. But considering Ned had been his best friend for almost half a year now, he felt safe to tell. The other boy had taken it in stride, not treating Peter any differently, not treating him like he was cursed or trouble. 

Peter shrugged again before needing to swerve out of the way of another student moving past him, “I dunno, I just don't talk to them that much.” 

Their conversation grew lighter and Ned started talking about some show they had been watching recently, and they made their way to lunch. 

. . . 

“Parker you better get them to sign that paper I swear,” MJ said, poking their pencil lightly into Peter’s arm.

“Alright, alright. Jeez, did you and Ned have a side conversation about me or something?” Peter asked, lifting his hands in a mock surrender gesture.

“No, I just know you, and I know the way you avoid talking to your parents like the plague for some reason, and I definitely did not convince my journalism teacher that going to Oscorp was worth it for me just for you not to go .” 

MJ had been a surprising friend for Peter. He hadn't expected it to work out, and had thought that MJ hated him for the first couple weeks of class, only to realize that was just how she talked and acted, the fact that she talked to him at all actually being a sign of friendship. 

He had been even more surprised when she had told him that she had convinced her journalism teacher to let her go on the science Oscorp field trip with Ned and Peter, citing a paper she was writing as justification. 

She looked at him like she was trying to figure out something written in his mind. “What's up with you? You were so excited to go when they first told everyone, now it's like you don't want to go or something.” 

“No I do I just, I just keep forgetting to ask my parents, really. I swear, I'll go.” 

She kept looking at him for a couple of seconds more before accepting his answer with a nod and saying, “Okay. Good. Now what rhetorical device are you analyzing in this paragraph?” 

. . .

The Stricklands were… okay. They were the best Peter could hope for if he was honest. It wasn't like they were abusive, and that really was something that he might have had to deal with if his social worker was as incompetent as he had seemed in the limited interaction Peter had with the man. 

So yes, the Stricklands weren’t abusive. They gave him a place to stay, paid for whatever he needed for school or clothes (not that he ever asked for any), they provided him with enough food to get by when they weren't there for meals, and days they were there they had a pleasant family meal and asked him questions about his life and Peter sometimes couldn’t help but think that is what his life should have been like if Ben and May hadn't been killed. 

So yes, the Stricklands were probably some of the greatest fosters he could have hoped for, but he wasn't quite comfortable with it. There was something off, and every time he stopped and tried to place it he was hit with a wave of guilt for trying to find something bad in this nice couple who cared for him– a broken boy who no one else wanted and had a whole department store of baggage. 

Coming home from school, Peter tried to think of a good way to ask about the field trip form; procrastination always screwing him over even though he knew it would. There just hadn't been any opportunities, both of the adults having been too busy to really be able to talk to. They hadn't all been in the same room in a couple of days, and even then Peter hadn't brought it up. He couldn't quite figure out why. Why did he always have so much trouble asking for things, things that he wanted? It wasn't even like this would cost money, or they would have to do anything. It was literally just getting them to sign a piece of paper, get it together Peter. 

. . . 

He had been dramatic. It really had not been that hard to just ask them to sign the stupid paper. He had been lucky, and it had been one of those nights where they were both home in time to have dinner and talk instead of leaving Peter a bag of salad or container of soup like he had been having the last couple of days. He had brought the field trip up, and had eagerly answered all their enthusiastic questions, even when they seemed to get a little disappointed that this trip didn't really mean anything like getting a job or internship there, and that everyone else in his class had also been invited there. They had signed anyway, Mr. Strickland patting him on the back and making a comment on making a good impression to get a job there in the future. 

He nodded at the comment, though he didn't tell them he had his heart set on working with Stark Industries since before he had become a foster kid. Yes, Oscorp had its specialties and was a leading science corporation, but it wasn't Stark Industries. It wasn't where Tony Stark worked. 

. . . 

“All midtown, everyone make sure you stick together, this place is really busy, and we don't want to lose any of you on this tour!” their tour guide was saying. Peter’s physics class (plus MJ) were standing in the middle of the lobby of the Oscorp building they were visiting, all bunched together as workers and scientists walked briskly around them like water in a creek around a rock. 

The place was huge . Floors upon floors of different types of research, development of amazing tech, offices, and labs with equipment that Peter would do anything to be able to use. It was like the place was practically built for Peter and his obsession with science. 

He definitely was going to work someplace like this one day. He had to. 

“I know this is probably the first time you’ve ever been in a place this important Parker, but you should pick your jaw up off the floor,” the familiar voice of Flash said next to him. 

Peter's head snapped away from the screen he had been watching. The audio of the video it had been playing, a breakdown of the building at what went on in it that practically rivaled a commercial, fading to the background.

The boy was standing close enough that he could say the comment without any adults hearing while staying as far as he could from Peter, as if he couldn't dare to be seen being close to him. There was a smug condescending look on his face, even though really Peter didn't think that comment was as strong of a jibe as Flash seemed to think. 

“Whatever Flash, leave us alone,” Ned said from next to Peter. 

“Just stop looking like a fish out of water with all the shock and awe. We have to put on a good image and you two look like two kids who just saw Iron Man for the first time,” Flash said back, rolling his eyes and walking away before either Peter or Ned could say anything. 

“What was that about?” MJ said, only just now walking up to them since they had been talking to the tour guide for a little bit. 

Peter shrugged, “Flash just told us to stop looking so awestruck.” 

Flash had been… bullying wasn't quite the right word for whatever it was. He would just say random insults towards Peter, who really didn't know what he had done to provoke it. There were comments about his lack of social tact, or about his clothes and sense of style, or just random things that really had nothing to do with him. It was like Flash had just decided to hate Peter and make it obvious. It really didn't actually bother Peter too much though, words gliding off of him pretty easily. He was used to it from middle school, and really it was nothing compared to some of the things he had heard throughout his time in the system and wandering around New York. 

Peter definitely didn't like Flash though. All feelings of finding him cute quickly vanished once he started being mean to Peter and his friends. Every condescending smirk or scowl towards him adding on just a little bit more towards Peter's feelings of simply not wanting to be near him. It wasn't that hard, considering they sat on opposite sides of the room in physics and in gym they had vastly different skills considering apparently Flash was a champ of soccer and lacrosse and Peter could barely run three laps around the gym without wanting to feel like dying. Unfortunately, Flash was also in a couple of Peter's after school clubs like robotics and decathlon, but he could deal with it. 

“He's probably just nervous about his appearance because his parents work here. Family image and all that,” MJ said. 

“His parents work here?” Peter asked. He hadn’t known that. Although, why would he? In hindsight, it made sense, with the way Flash always seemed to flaunt his status and the fact that he came from money, always seeming like he was trying to prove that he was better. 

MJ nodded, “Yup. His mom is one of the heads of their chemistry department and his dad is some big-wig corporate.” 

Ned made an incredulous face before asking, “How do you even know this?” 

“I have my ways.” 

The look MJ made sent a small shiver up Peter's spine. Jeez, when did he get such terrifying friends?

. . .

The tour group was in yet another lab with the tour guide explaining what they did there when Peter found himself wandering slightly away, words fading into the background as he zoned in on a piece of machinery spinning behind some glass with various scientists standing around it. He didn't really realize that he had walked away until a voice right next to him spoke.

“You should probably be listening to the tour instead of staring at them work, you know.” 

Peter quickly turned, spotting a woman in a lab coat looking at him. She had her hair up in a bun and safety glasses on, though she wore it in a way that looked stylish (while still following safety protocols of course). Peter didn't know what it was, but she just looked like she was important . 

“Ah, sorry. I just got a little distracted,” he explained, getting embarrassed that he had zoned out so much as to walk away. Not that he was that far, he was still in eye line of the group, just not quite with them anymore. 

The scientist gave an understanding nod. “I get it. Science is pretty distracting sometimes. Midtown, right?” she asked, pointing to the visitor's pass with his name and school on it that hung around Peter's neck. “Maybe you’ll work here some day, a lot of us here come from smart schools like yours. My son goes to your school too, and we have high hopes for his future. Keep up the curiosity. But really, you should probably go back to your group.” 

“Y- yeah. Thanks. Sorry. Um, good luck science-ing,” Peter said, cringing at his own words as he said them. 

A sudden alarm blaring practically made Peter jump out of his skin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are currently entering a level three emergency event. Please find the nearest safe room and remain until told it is safe to leave. All doors will lock in approximately thirty seconds,” an automated voice said before repeating, this time saying a shorter amount of time. 

The room erupted into chaos. You would think that the well-trained scientist of one of the leading science centers of the world would know how to deal with their own emergency protocol but apparently the addition of a more panicked group of teenagers along with a sudden jolt of the building from some external danger threw that all out the window. 

Peter quickly made his way towards his tour group, really hoping that he wouldn't get separated from them because he had a feeling that would be awful . He didn't know where the woman scientist he had been talking to went, but it didn't really matter. 

He started weaving his way through various people grabbing papers, some people diving under desks as the building seemed to shake again, or straight up just running in a random direction. Didn’t the voice say there was a safe room or something for these kinds of situations? Level three didn’t sound too bad, Peter reasons (mostly so he didn't panic himself if he had to be honest). 

He was about halfway to the group when he suddenly found himself heading straight towards the floor, feet slipping on a loose piece of paper on the floor. He landed hard, not prepared for it and his glasses seemed to fly away from him. Honestly, if it wasn't for the situation he was in he would have found it hilarious– the way he was now on the ground reaching blindly around for his glasses like Velma from Scooby-Doo. 

He thought he saw them (he wasn't completely blind , everything was just kinda blurry without his glasses) and reached out. As he picked them up, there was a brief sharp sensation on his hand, like he had pricked a piece of glass or something. But once he put the glasses back on, he didn't see any glass on the floor, or at the very least none near where his hand had been. 

Then, a hand reached out to help him up, the same scientist lady getting to his feet and softly pushing him towards his class. 

“Go, quick.”

It was only for a brief second when he looked back that he finally noticed her name tag. Rosie Thompson. He shook his head, not important right now , the voice over the intercom now repeating the time with only ten seconds left. 

He got close to the group now, the tour guide trying to corral them all into some room. They made it in, and the door shut. Then it locked. 

The room was quiet. Well, there was no one talking, but the sounds of confusion and frights and some heavy breathing did fill the air. They stayed like that for a while, no one really knowing quite what a level three protocol called for. Did it just mean that something was going on in the area, and they wanted to be extra safe? Or did it mean some villain had decided that today was the day to take Oscorp hostage. Life was so weird now that there were so many people with powers, especially after the whole Sokovian thing a couple of months ago. 

They waited, and waited. Then, the same pleasant and calm voice came over the intercoms. 

“Emergency protocol three concluded. Please return to your work, and thank you for responding accordingly.” 

The room's eyes all turned to the tour guide, who now anxiously nodded her head. 

“Right. Let’s uh- Let's get out of here and continue on the tour then?” 

And that they did. The whole group was antsy the rest of it, wanting to know exactly what the fuck had happened and if they were safe. But despite the fact she was obviously flustered about the change of routine, the tour guide chugged on, reciting line after perfected line of her speeches at every turn into a new lab. Labs, some of which had an obvious mess too in light of the accident and others that seemed perfectly fine, like the scientists there hadn't lost their minds at the idea of a villain attack in the middle of New York City. 

Peter scratched at his hand absentmindedly as Ned bumped into him softly. 

“Dude, what do you think all that was about?”

Peter just shrugged. 

“No idea. Probably some villain attack or something. I bet the avengers handled it.” 

Ned nodded sagely like he had this thought too. It was interesting living so close to what seemed to be the center for the group of superheroes. Just going to school and field trips when right outside a Norse god could be fighting someone in a giant mechanical suit hellbent on destroying humanity. 

Just another day in New York, Peter supposed.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up in a cold sweat. Sitting up in bed, everything felt absolutely wrong.  The world  was too bright and loud, but at the same time his head was stuffed with cotton, making everything muffled. He couldn't figure out if he was cold or hot, the blanket seemed like it was suffocating him, but simultaneously the skin exposed to air was freezing. 

And he was starving. He felt like he hadn't eaten in days, even though he’d eaten dinner last night with the Stricklands. The familiar feeling of his stomach twisting on itself was undeniable, though, dragging Peter out of his bed despite the lightheadedness he felt once he stood. He had to stay still for a bit, vision swimming and black spots appearing as he blinked rapidly. 

He grabbed for his glasses and shoved them on before stumbling his way to the kitchen, hoping against hope that they had left out more for him to eat today than usual. 

Entering the kitchen, Peter was met with two small apples and a jar of peanut butter. He completely disregarded the peanut butter for now (distantly he wondered if he could ask for honey next time), instead biting into the apple so aggressively he felt like a crazed animal tearing into its prey. 

The apples were gone in minutes, yet his stomach didn't settle. Like usual, both of the adults had already left the condo for work, leaving Peter to his own devices to get to school. According to the clock on the oven, it would start  in just half an hour. 

But he still felt like shit. He felt like he was thinking through mud and his stomach was still yelling at him to eat. Find something to eat. 

Peter didn't think as he reached towards the cabinet, didn't think about how he logically knew he wouldn't be able to open it because of the locks, didn't think about how he should(?) probably call or text one of the Stricklands to tell them he was sick and probably wouldn’t be going to school.

No, all he did was mindlessly reach out against the handle to the cabinet, and tugged.

And it opened. Forcefully. It was like Peter had ripped the lock mechanism and flung the door open with barely any strength put into it. He didn't think about it, too disoriented by whatever fight his immune system was using all his energy for. He stared dumbly into the cabinet, eyes glancing over what filled the shelves. It was all seasonings. A couple of tea boxes. Nothing really he could eat. 

Interesting. He didn’t manage to think or do anything else before his body decided that it needed to help out by making him pass out. He didn't even have time to register it before falling. 

. . . 

Peter opened his eyes and came to the conclusion that, in fact, none of his shitty feelings had gone away while he was out. Instead, they had gotten worse: hunger pangs hit him as he stared dizzily up at the kitchen ceiling. 

What?

Oh right , his slow mind finally putting together some pieces. He had been eating breakfast and then opened the cabinet and then passed out.

Holy shit, school.

He sat up with a sudden jerk (definitely not helping the dizzy, nauseous feeling) and peeked over the counter to get a look at the clock, which happily told him it was well past noon. Jerk.

He was moving to get up when his hand pressed down on something sharp, causing him to hiss in pain and take all his weight off of it. He pulled his hand back to look at it, and was surprised to find two bumps.  

Right, I fell on glass the other day or something, he remembered slowly, studying the wounds. 

The newer one wasn't much, just a small pinprick from a spare piece of metal (from the lock maybe?), but the older one caught his attention. There was something coming out of the small bump, which was now noticeably red and itchy, Peter realized. Leaning in closer, he brought his other hand to poke, and investigate, only to grasp something that appeared to be a spiderweb from the hurt hand. Okay. What the fuck. 

He didn't have time to think about it before the door to the condo started to rattle like someone was putting in the key, making Peter look up sharply. Old instincts took over and a sudden jolt of anxiety temporarily cleared all of Peter's sluggishness at the thought of being caught by an adult doing something he wasn't supposed to do, even if it wasn’t even his fault. (Not that they ever believed him if he said that it wasn't his fault, though).

He scanned his area, eyes immediately latching on to the broken piece of metal he had leaned on before, then flicking to the cabinet above him which was definitely open and definitely had a broken lock. Shit. Shit . He was in so much trouble–what was he going to do? He hadn’t messed up with the Stricklands yet, what if they were bad people, what if they treated him like the Johnsons did because he broke one of their rules?

His mind quickly spiraled, and he found himself frozen in place, standing in his pajamas in the middle of the kitchen with a broken cabinet and a clock that betrayed how much trouble he was in. 

The door opened slowly, revealing Mr. Strickland standing in the doorway. He had his briefcase in one hand and keys in the other, and Peter could tell he was mad . He hadn't even looked up at Peter yet, he was looking at the door like it had personally offended his family, and he was considering punching it for the act. Peter couldn't help but  swallow as the negative emotion leached into the room.

Mr. Strickland looked up. He just stood there for a couple of seconds staring at Peter (who was once again, feeling like he was about to pass out, but this time because of his racing heart and anxiety over whatever was making him sick).

Mr. Sticklands eyes traced over Peter, then flicked to the open cabinet door and down to Peter's hands, which still held the broken lock. His eyes widened slightly, and Peter swore he could almost see the anger alight in them. 

Peter didn't move as Mr. Strickland slowly put his keys in his pocket and closed the door behind him. No, Peter stayed absolutely frozen as the man walked across the room to him, steps echoing like loud bangs. He only flinched slightly when the man loomed over him and grabbed at his hand, the one with the broken lock and two injuries. 

“What the fuck did you do?” Mr. Strickland asked in a dark voice, anger dripping from his tone as his hand tightened around Peter's wrist. 

The words wouldn’t come to Peter, no matter how much he willed them to. He needed to explain (what if he thought they were excuses like–) , he needed to apologize (but that wasn't answering the question he would get in trouble if he didn't answer–) , but he definitely could not stay silent (that was ignoring the authority of–) . 

All that he managed to squeak out was a weak, “I um– I just–” 

Mr. Strickland looked Peter up and down as he kept stumbling over the words. 

“What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what trouble you caused? God,” Mr. Strickland said, looking around the kitchen. “What did you do? I was about to have a very important meeting for my career, and instead I was dragged away by your school calling to tell me you skipped? And I have to come all the way back here to check because god forbid anyone hear that someone under my roof skipped . Do you not care at all about our family’s reputation?”

Peter wanted so badly to explain that he hadn't skipped, he had actually been unconscious on the floor sick, but he didn't get the opportunity before Mr. Strickland continued. 

“And what? I come home to find you ripping open the cabinets? What, what we gave you wasn't enough? You had to go and break one of our few rules.” 

The words bit into Peter like a well aimed knife. 

“You know, you're lucky you're with us. You should be greatfulfor everything we give you. We know about your old homes– about the Johnson’s– they warned us you might have issues. But we took you in any way. Do you want us to send you back? You want to go back to–” 

The man paused his tirade, maybe finally realizing that he was gripping Pete’s wrist with enough force to bruise, maybe noticing how his pulse was fluttering way too fast, and he was sweating and pale, or maybe he registered that he was threatening to send Peter back to an abusive house despite the “nice caring parent” front he’d been putting on for him. 

He let go of Peter's arm like it had burned him and took a step back. He almost slipped on the apple core, Peter noted dully as he brought his arms close to himself, wanting to get as small as possible and hide. 

Mr. Strickland’s anger seemed to shift, the part of it that had been pointed towards Peter didn't fully dissipate but at least some of it seemed to turn into surprise, maybe even concern as Peter started shaking a little. 

“I– I am sorry, Peter. I didn't mean– I just– What happened?” he said, cutting off what might be an apology and instead asking the same question as earlier, though it was noticeably softer. (Maybe not quite softer, but at least  dripping with so much venom).

Peter tried to form the words again, tried to say anything.A simple “I got sick” would have worked. But no, his body had decided it’d had enough of all the stress and, once again, now would be a great time for him to pass out. 

. . . 

This time, when he woke up, he was back in his bed. He was laying on top of his crumbled sheets with his glasses still on, and his neck ached from the odd angle he was in. It was also darker out, though that could mean it was only four at night, with how early it had been getting dark in the winter. 

His head still pounded, and everything felt too loud despite the fact there was no noise. His eyesight was hazy, and he felt out of sorts. He flinched when he turned his light on, the brightness blinding him and making his head hurt. 

He was hungry yet again. It really hadn't stopped, not since he first woke up that morning. It was a sharp pain, like an angry animal. 

He shakily got out of bed, noting that just about everything sucked. It was all too warm, he was dizzy, and everything was just wrong. But he reached for the door knob anyway, hunger driving him to push past his sickness. 

The only problem was, when he reached the door and tried to open it, it didn't turn. It had been locked from the other side. (This was just like the Johnson’s. The sudden overwhelming claustrophobia that hit him at the familiar situation– trapped in a room with no way out– it was–)

“No…” Peter whispered, letting his warm forehead rest against the door and finding comfort in the slight coolness it offered. 

“Please,” he asked just as quietly, knowing it wasn't worth asking, knowing there was probably no point as he tried turning the knob again just in case it wasn't truly locked. 

It was. He slowly slid down and turned around, letting the fatigue get to him and resting against the door. It was slightly cooler on the ground, at least. 

God, he was so hungry. 

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, his perception of time off because of his fever, but eventually he heard something through the door. He probably wouldn't have if he hadn't been resting his head against it, but he caught the muffled voice of someone he could now place to be Mrs. Strickland. 

He couldn't hear what they said, but it sounded like they were at least walking closer to the door, so he stood up, legs nearly shaking and head swimming at the movement. 

The doorknob made a clicking noise as it was unlocked from the other side (he hadn't noticed before how odd it was that the lock was from the wrong side until now, stupid of him honestly–) and the door slowly opened, revealing a nervous Mr. Strickland standing with items in hand.

“Hey Pete… Good to see you’re up. I uh, I hope you're feeling better. Here,” he held out the plate he was holding, “Saltines. They're supposed to be good for when you’re sick.” 

Peter reached out and took the plate. ( Don't shake, make eye contact, be respectful ). 

“Thank you, sir.” 

He must have done something wrong because Mr. Strickland seemed to get uncomfortable at that, shifting slightly in the door frame. 

“Look Peter, uh... I’m sorry for how things played out back there. I was really stressed about something else, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Let’s just– let’s just pretend it didn't happen, okay? Fresh start and all that, right bud?” 

Peter felt like a trapped animal, his short breaths not getting enough oxygen and the unsettling desire to do anything–run, fight, hide–locking his body. 

But he nodded. He really didn't want to mess this one up, he finally had friends.MJ and Ned. Something to look forward to in his day. Things would be okay. He could survive this. 

Mr. Strickland smiled. 

“That's great. Here,” he reached into his pocket for a small bottle, “have some pain killers. They're supposed to reduce fever.” he shook two out into his hands before holding them out to Peter. 

Peter looked at them, hesitating for a second before slowly reaching out to take them. 

“I… don’t have any water,” Peter said softly. 

“Oh. Yeah, you probably need some of that, don't you?” Mr. Strickland said with a humorless laugh, “I’ll go get some. Go ahead, sit down. Eat some of those saltines. Hopefully you'll feel well enough for school tomorrow,'' Mr Strickland said with an expectant smile on his face, before turning and leaving. He closed the door behind him. 

Peter let out a shaky sigh once the man's footsteps receded. He sat down on his bed and began eating one of the crackers. He did feel slightly better because of it. 

He dropped the pills on his plate. They had begun to dissolve in the sweat of his clenched hand. It was getting darker now, well into the night and probably around dinner time. He reached over and turned on the lamp.

He looked around the room for his phone, hoping to text Ned or MJ about why he wasn't at school that day, and maybe to check online if any of his teachers had posted assignments so he could do them now. Though he didn't think he would be able to honestly, not with the way he could feel his thoughts lag behind his usual speed, the pounding headache, and the ache in his stomach reminding him yet again how hungry he was. He couldn't find his phone, though. They must have taken it while he was passed out. Probably as punishment.  

He sighed and added it to his mental ”how to act around the Stricklands” list. All he could do was sit back down on his bed and eat the saltines. 

He got through the whole plate before he heard anything outside the door, a muffled “Just do it, please,” in a passive-aggressive manner that made it a command. 

He set down the plate on the nightstand as angry steps approached. Mrs. Strickland’s, he could identify. 

The door opened suddenly, and Peter did his best to not flinch too much at the motion. 

Mrs. Strickland stood in the doorway, holding a cup of water and looking at him like he had caused everything wrong in her life. 

“Here,” she said, voice tense, as she set the water down on his nightstand with a loud bang. 

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She turned and left, nearly slamming the door as she closed it, leaving Peter alone again in his room. 

He waited until her footsteps had left again before he untensed. He blinked slowly as his fever reminded him it was still alive and kicking, so he drank a mouthful of water before taking the pills and laying down. 

Being sick sucked. 

He ignored his hunger as he took off his glasses and turned out the light, deciding sleep was the only thing he could do right now. 

Going to sleep that night, he did something he hadn't done in a long time. He cried in longing for what was gone. For the lives of those he would never get back, the life he would never be able to experience. He would never be homeagain.

Chapter Text

The next couple days were probably what hell was like. No meds seemed to help, and Peter was basically bedridden for three days. No matter how much he ate, he was starving. Every light was too bright, and every sound was like a gunshot next to his head. 

He was sick for five days. Five days without school, without his phone, without any access to his friends to have any support or comfort. The only human interaction he had was whenever Mrs. Strickland came and gave him food or another round of over-the-counter meds (none of which helped, or, if they did, the effect only seemed to last a few minutes). 

She was not happy. Peter had heard an argument between the Stricklands the second morning he woke up sick and obviously couldn’t make it to school. Despite the fact they were talking in a room across the condo, they might as well have been yelling outside his door with how Peter's hearing seemed to be these days. 

Mr. Strickland made her stay home from work to tend to Peter; apparently her job was more remote friendly. She had not liked that. Some more yelling about something Peter hadn't felt like deciphering through the walls. Some words about how they couldn’t send him to school, how would that look? To send their foster child to school looking like death just so they could both work? 

So it was a little tense in the condo, to say the least. 

On day six, it finally broke. 

Peter woke up feeling like the tide had finally receded and he could breathe again. His head was clear, his fever was gone. He was still hungry, but he had gotten used to it again. He didn't feel the fatigue that was causing his body to be heavy, if anything he felt lighter on his feet, like he could spring away at any second. He felt… strong. 

(The cabinet door, how had he broken the lock like that? If he didn't know better, he’d joke with Ned that he got super powers like Captain America. But it would just be a joke. There’s no way he would ever get powers. But it’d be funny.) 

He got out of bed, feeling good enough to go to school, and started getting ready. He walked out of his room, familiar tshirt and flannel on with his backpack slung over his shoulder. Now, if only he could get his phone somehow…

“Oh. You're better," Mrs. Strickland said, obviously on her way to bring in more meds for Peter in the routine they had built.

He nodded, then remembered himself and said, “Yes Ma’am. I think I can go to school today.” 

She nodded back, looked at the clock, and said, “You should probably be going then.”

He checked the clock too, not knowing what time it was since he didn't have one in his room and he still hasn't gotten his phone back yet. It was unfortunately late enough that he needed to leave immediately, no time for breakfast here or to catch the school provided one before classes started. 

His stomach let him know that it disagreed with this fact by sending him a nice pang of hunger as he made his way out the door, hoping to catch a train early enough to make it on time. 

. . . 

Life was actually pretty awesome, Peter decided as he walked the halls of his school for the first time in several days. Everything felt… crisp. It was like the world was suddenly heightened. He felt like he could see more than he could before, every detail that used to go without notice seeming obvious when he looked upon them now. This was especially odd considering he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He had been in such a rush this morning he had assumed he had put them on considering how blind he usually was without them. 

Something was definitely up.

It wasn’t just his eyesight that had changed. As he walked through the crowded halls, the noises were nearly deafening, like every sound was wired directly into his brain and amplified in volume. He had chalked it up to just having a migraine while he was sick, but considering he didn’t feel sick anymore and this was still happening, he must’ve been wrong. 

Sitting down next to Ned in their world history class right before the bell, he was met with the familiar excitement he had been missing. 

“Holy shit dude, you’re alive! Thank God. What happened?” Ned exclaimed, pulling him into a semi-side hug best he could while they were sitting at their desks. 

“Bro, I have no idea. I just got like crazy sick for a couple days and only just got better this morning. Sorry I couldn’t message you or anything, they took my phone,” Peter explained, finding comfort in the small bit of friendly physical contact. The only comfort he had gotten these last few days. 

Ned frowned, “They took your phone just because you were sick? That’s fucked up, dude.” 

Peter shrugged. He lived in their house, it was their rule. Plus, since they had paid for his phone in the first place, it was theirs to control; at least that's how it worked in Peter’s mind. 

“Yeah I dunno, maybe they’ll give it back in a few days. But if I keep not responding, that’s why.” 

Ned was about to reply when the bell rang, something that was totally normal that they had all experienced hundreds of times. Yet this time it was a piercing loudness that felt like someone had jammed a stick into Peter’s head. 

Ned let out a surprised noise of confusion and Peter flinched and immediately put his hands over his ears. 

“What was that?” Ned asked. 

The bell finally stopped ringing and the teacher started explaining their lesson of the day so Peter just shook his head and murmured a (not) reassuring, “migraine” to explain it away. 

What was going on with him?

. . . 

The rest of the first class was uneventful past the bell incident, and at the end of class Peter put his fingers in his ears in anticipation of the bell. After that he bid goodbye to Ned and made his way to the gym, completely unexcited to deal with whatever bullshit the coach had cooked up for them to do this time around, and the fact that he would probably have to do some kind of makeup class because he had the audacity to be sick these last few days. 

The scuffle sound that everyone's shoes made on the gym floor as they did the warm up killed Peter. But, as he moved around, he found that it wasn't that hard to do. Breathing was easy, and in general this whole exercise thing wasn’t as terrible as usual. 

In fact, he was almost able to keep up with some of the more athletic kids in class as they started a game of soccer. After a couple of scathing looks from Flash and his gang, he began to fall back to the edges of the gym like he usually would. 

Even after that, Flash kept staring at him occasionally with looks of confusion, like he was trying to figure out what had changed so much in the few days Peter had been gone. 

The end of class came quickly, and Peter was happy to find that he was off the hook for the days he had missed as he had actually put effort in for most of the day today. The coach looked him up and down for a moment, then said, “hitting the gym or something now, Parker?” 

Peter just shook his head in confusion.

The coach just shrugged and said, “Seemed like you put on some muscle, but guess not. Maybe you just finally got your first growth spurt.” 

Peter pondered this as he changed in the locker room. He had found his own little corner, avoiding the others, especially as he did not want to get stared at or bothered by the more jock-ish boys. 

Has this all been some weird growth spurt? Now that it had been pointed out, Peter did feel a little taller, though he thought that might just be some kind of placebo effect. That could also explain the hunger, people had always told him he’d get hungrier as a teen. Could puberty fix eyesight? He glanced at a mirror and paused. He was… leaner? Usually, he looked kinda scrawny. Not much meat on his bones, as Ben would say. This especially wasn’t helped by the years he had been living with barely any food because of budget or abuse or control. But now, looking in the mirror he could sees some semblance of muscle. 

This was so weird. 

No way puberty was this weird. 

He began putting on his clothes again, not really knowing what to make of all of this. As he was pulling his shirt on though, he heard some clear voices. 

“Parker kinda whooped your ass today Flash,” some guy said. Peter identified it as one of Flash’s guys. That meant that this conversation was happening on the complete other side of the locker room, a distance that Peter definitely shouldn’t be able to hear. He didn’t have more time to contemplate that as Flash shot back a quick response. 

“Shut up, you don’t know anything. It was just some fluke. He probably took something to try and show off, I mean isn’t he always? Plus he didn’t have his glasses on or anything. And my ankle is still fucked so don’t even come at me with that shit.” 

“Yeah, sure dude,” the first guy responded. 

“I dunno, I saw him from the side lines earlier, it kinda looks like he’s getting a more athletic build or something,” a second voice said. 

“Parker? Working out? Yeah right,” Flash scoffed. 

“What’s your beef with him anyway? You always seem to get more mad about him then like anyone else so what gives?” the second voice asked. 

A locker slammed in annoyance. 

“He just pissed me off alright? He is always being some teacher's pet and– whatever.” 

Peter finished changing in a silent locker room. 

. . . 

The next class was photography, which was nice because that also meant that Peter would get to see MJ for the first time in a while. Even if he knew that they would probably punch him for not responding after mysteriously disappearing. He loved his friends. He appreciated that they treated him like he wasn’t fragile and they cared enough to worry. 

As if on cue, MJ walked into the classroom and locked her sights on him before stalking over and punching his arm several times. 

“That's for making me worry,” she said before taking her seat next to him. 

“Sorry MJ, I ended up catching a bug or something and was sick for like the whole week. And I got my phone taken, so I couldn't text anyone.”

“Why the fuck would they take your phone for that? Your parents are so weird.” 

He shrugged it off again. This is why he tended to avoid talking about his home life, his friends always seemed to get him to recognize how he was treated as bad. He didn't ever want to have to explain to them that compared to previous placements, the Stricklands were just about the best he could ever ask for. He was provided for, more than ever before. He wasn’t being monitored and he was allowed to do what he wished, as long as it fit their picture of perfection. 

The class period came and went easily, and Peter used the study period that followed to talk to his other teachers whose classes he missed. He had to make up a math quiz, but it was easy enough for him that he finished with plenty of time left. 

After school, he luckily didn't have any of his clubs so he took the free hours to wander the city. He didn't want to go back to the empty condo yet, restless from being confined to his room for so long. 

Peter didn't know exactly what drew him to the empty warehouse, one he had passed plenty of times. But he didn't stop himself from slipping past the chained shut door, the gap wide enough for him to slip through but probably small enough to stop any adult that would attempt the same. 

He never really knew what kind of warehouse this had been before it was left forgotten. There were chains hanging from the ceiling, dust and debris around on just about every surface, and pallets of wood stacked around. Peter idly kicked a misshapen piece of metal as he walked, only to pause at the sound it made. It reminded him of the sound of the lock breaking when he had accidentally ripped the cabinet door off. 

He bent down to pick up the piece of metal. It was nothing special, just the steel hinge of something that had most likely been run over the wrong way by a forklift. 

How had he broken the lock anyway? It had to have been some kind of fluke, a faulty piece of hardware that he had tugged just the way it needed to fall apart. Right? 

For no reason in particular, he tried to bend the metal in his hand, knowing it wouldn't work. It was a sturdy piece of hardware, something that would take tons of force to manipulate and yet–

It bent easily in his grasp. As if it was a piece of clay. 

Peter dropped it in surprise, his brain already coming up with excuses. It was obviously a weak piece of metal anyway, obvious from the fact it was already bent. He had just gotten over a near week long fever, maybe he was seeing things. 

He looked around. Not that there would be anyone else as witnesses to attest. But in his glance around he saw some thick chains, and just to prove to himself that he wasn't crazy, he walked over to them. Surely he would just pick up the chain and not be able to bend it because that would be insane and he could prove to himself he wasn't losing it. 

The chain was heavy, the links being nearly the thickness of one of his fingers. He gripped it with both hands. And it crumbled in his grasp. 

He opened his hands, looking down at the metal. It was crushed, as easily as if it was paper. 

Peter dropped the chain and backed away. He had to get out of here. Something was going on and his brain couldn't figure it out, and that was something that scared him. 

His thoughts raced the entire way to the library. 

After a couple hours of research on the library’s computers and coming up with nothing other than fan stories and theories when looking up ‘better strength after being sick for a week??’ he finally returned to the empty condo. As he tried to fall asleep there were many thoughts that swirled around his head. Most of which boiled down to one thing. 

What was happening to him?