Chapter Text
The inside of Midtown High feels barely warmer than the frigid January air outside as Peter makes his way to homeroom. It's the first day back from winter break and everyone is acting like it. Students shuffle the halls, stuck between imitating dejected zombies and being excited to see their friends again. Teachers move with a little more pep and energy than usual, though with a pinch to their eyes that indicates they know it won't last. Peter navigates the droves easily and slips into a desk beside Ned.
“Sup,” Ned greets and initiates their handshake. Peter smirks in return.
“Had a good holiday?”
“You saw me like two days ago.”
Peter shrugs, “Just checkin'.”
Ned chuckles, amused, and claps a hand on Peter's shoulder. “I don't know what has you in a such a good mood but I like it.”
“You say that like I'm always moping about.”
“Moping? No. But definitely anxious. Like there's another Vulture hiding around every corner.”
Peter pulls a face -- his chill, relaxed smile turning into a grimace quickly. “Let's not joke about that. I just-- Things are going good, you know? Christmas was nice, I'm passing my classes, no major villainy in the last month or two.”
Ned tilts his head side to side, considering the statement. It's true that things have quieted down since Vulture got put away. His trial was surprisingly quick, the evidence -- and Stark's lawyers -- stacked against him. The end of the fight wasn't the end of the grief for Peter though, as he and Liz negotiated the end of their short-lived romance. From what Ned saw of it, there was actually a spark there, something more than a passing mutual attraction. To have to bid farewell before the spark could even catch weighed on both of them. Peter's current, comparably peppy attitude is a welcome change.
A chirp sounds from Ned's backpack and the boys lock eyes.
Peter licks his lips. “Was that the, uh....”
“SM Scanner?” Ned finishes. “Yeah.” He pulls his phone from his bag and opens the homemade app. In a surprisingly un-Ned-like move, it's very visually understated. All black and white with red used sparingly to highlight important bits. The app lists recent police responses and news activity, sorted from most to least concerning based on an algorithm Ned devised. At the top of the list, two items stand out.
Police: All units respond / breakout at Riker / lethal force expected
News: “Breaking: Explosions reported at Riker's Island Penitentiary”
Ned doesn't dare move at first, rereading the entries over and over. Both are being added to with every passing moment as the aggregator finds new info but it all just further confirms what the headlines say: something big is happening at Riker's Island. Peter is already reaching for his bag when Ned looks over at him, a dozen questions in his eyes. Before either boy can move, though, their homeroom teacher clears his throat and rises from his desk.
“Good morning, everyone,” Mr. Nielson greets amiably. “I hope you all had a good holiday break. It is my duty to remind you, however, that break is over and we expect you all to be on your best behavior as we get on track for the new semester. Now, lets take roll.”
Gritting his teeth, Peter settles back into his seat for what is sure to be a long day.
“I hope you're not thinking about skipping on the first day back.”
Peter skids to a stop, shoulders drooping as he wheels around to face Michelle.
“I've got a-- a thing,” he lamely excuses, pointing over his shoulder at nothing in particular.
“Yeah, you do. It's called an Academic Decathlon lunch meeting and I know you saw that text because read receipts are a thing.” Michelle crosses her arms, eyebrows raised, and Peter wishes for half a moment that she were still as closed off as she was before homecoming. Then that thought evaporates because no, he really doesn't.
With a deep, calming breath, Peter adjusts his backpack strap and approaches Michelle. She falls into step beside him as they head for the cafeteria.
Since all of the mess around Homecoming -- Peter quitting the team, getting reinstated, then kicked; skipping the actual Homecoming dance; Liz's dad getting busted and her having to move -- Michelle's attention has been on Peter more than usual. She seems to have a sixth sense for when he's about to dip and manages to wrangle him into staying with only a few words. It's a little terrifying but he can't deny the positive effect it had on his last report card of the previous semester. Par for the course for an AcaDec team leader, he figures, to care about attendance and grades in general as well.
Beyond that, though, he's caught her just looking at him a few times too. Not in a suspicious way but an observational one, as though he's a math problem she's puzzling out mentally. Right now, for example.
“Do I have something on my face?” Peter asks, glancing at her. She squints slightly, unbothered by being called out.
“Your hair,” she answers after a moment of further deliberation, “it's longer than usual.”
Just like that, Peter's mood improves a little. “Oh, yeah, I thought I'd, I don't know, try something new. It does this curl thing I like when it's a little longer and May told me I could grow it out if I paid for my own haircuts so it's... an experiment, I guess.” He shrugs like it's no big deal but still can't help but smile when he tucks a curl behind his ear in reflex.
Michelle bobs her head slowly, chewing her lip. They walk in silence the rest of the way to the cafeteria, nodding and waving to other students loitering in the halls. Just before they reach the doors, Michelle clear her throat.
“I like it,” she says quickly. When Peter raises a questioning eyebrow, she clarifies, “The longer hair. Looks good.”
And, well, how can he be anything less than happy about that?
Sometimes, something happens that makes Peter seriously reconsider the vigilante business. The wombo combo of snow, an early setting sun, and a ghastly wind chill has those thoughts simmering in his head at the moment. It sure doesn't help that he's fifteen stories up with nothing to block the icy breeze. He's pretty sure he'd be suffering from actual hypothermia right now if not for the heater built-in to his suit. And what does he get for all his suffering? Presently, not a damn thing.
“Ned, please tell me you have a lead,” Peter whines, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. Maybe he does need another layer atop the suit, heater notwithstanding.
“I'm doing my best, dude,” is Ned's weary reply. They've been scouring the streets for any sign of Gargan since his breakout a few days prior and so far, nothing. “Maybe check near the ferry? We know he had connections there because of the weapons deal.”
“I checked there Monday, remember? It's dead this time of year.”
“Oh, yeah, I see that in my notes.” Ned sighs and Peter can imagine him slumping back in his chair, staring annoyed at his laptop. “I guess you can just do a normal patrol at this point. Or head home. We're not getting anywhere like this.”
“Sucks to admit but... yeah. I'm gonna go home. It's fucking cold out here.”
“Language,” Ned chastises with a smile in his voice. Peter laughs. “See you tomorrow, dude.”
“Bye, Ned. 'Preciate you.”
“'Preciate you, too.”
The line goes dead with a click as Peter leaps off of the roof edge. He's instantly colder, the chill slicing right through his costume. I am absolutely finding a sweater to wear over the suit, he thinks to himself. Maybe he can stop by a thrift store or three this weekend. It's been a while since he added any new clothes to his closet and his current selection is starting to wear thin. He's plotting out the optimal order and path to visit the shops in central Queens when the communicator in his suit chirps with an incoming call.
“Hey, May! I just started toward home.”
“Oh good, can you pick up some detergent on the way? Maybe grab yourself a treat too since you finished your homework before you went out.”
“You're the best, Aunt May!”
“Yes. I am. Love you, Pete!”
Wasting no time, Peter falls into a deep dive toward street level. At least something can come of this patrol, even if it's just an errand run.
“Alright, everyone on stage. It's time for a speed round.” Peter grumbles and groans playfully along with his classmates in response to Michelle's order, drawing an unimpressed look from the girl. “This is our weakest event,” she chastises. “How would you guys feel if we lost nationals because of a speed round?”
“Pretty terribly,” Ned replies earnestly.
“Exactly, so get your asses--” she pauses at a look from Mr. Harrington, “--butts in gear. First topic, history of industry in Europe.”
Peter slides a black ponytail holder from his wrist as everyone distributes the bells down the table. He smiles to himself as he gathers as much hair as he can into a ponytail. The resulting stump of brown hair is more like a paintbrush than any animal's tail but it'll keep his curls from settling into his peripheral during the lightning round. He's just putting the third twist on the elastic when a snide comment from Flash catches his attention.
“Looking cute there, Miss Parker,” his teammate calls out. Michelle looks up from the podium quickly but all Peter notices is the rapidly growing heat in his cheeks as Flash continues, “Would you like some plastic butterfly barrettes too?”
Michelle looks livid and inhales, probably ready to rip Flash a new one for his harassment and blatant sexism but incredibly, Mr. Harrington gets there first.
“Flash, we've talked about this. You're demoted to second alternate.”
The boy sputters indignantly. “We don't even have a first alternate!”
“Then it should be easy for you to earn a promotion up to that spot. Lets start with apologizing to Peter.”
More sounds of distress emerge until Flash finally offers up a half-assed, half-mumbled apology. Peter nods when Mr. Harrington looks to him for approval but his mind is still back on Flash's comment. Michelle and Mr. Harrington's reactions were confusingly overblown for such a bland insult from the preppy boy. In fact, Peter isn't sure it could even count as an insult. Jokingly or not, he called Peter pretty. What's wrong with that? Or... was it the Miss Parker part?
Peter repeats the phrase in his head a few times and mouths it once, trying to figure out the problem. He misses the first question of the round as a result.
There's something to be said for the feeling of putting on clothes that fit, that feel right to own and to wear. After his stint in the freezing winds of a New York winter with nothing but a spandex techsuit to protect him, Peter made good on his plan to visit a few second hand stores. He finds what he's looking for easily enough. Sweaters are certainly not in short supply when one's standards are low enough. After picking out one nice enough to do its job yet shabby enough to elicit a discount at the register, Peter finds himself looking around at the other clothes on display.
He's never really owned any clothes that still had the tags on them. Even when they had the money, May and Ben knew the value in saving dollars where you could, for when you couldn't. Peter never had a reason to complain. The jeans almost fit, the shirts were punny, and the jackets were warm. What more could he ask for?
Standing among the racks of clothes, wad of cash in his pocket from shoveling driveways last week, Peter's mind wanders. Since second-hand clothes are so cheap, there's no harm in getting some things to experiment with. A new style maybe? Without purpose or intent to guide him, he begins to walk up and down the aisles until something catches his eye. Finally, he pauses in front of a rack of jeans that look his size. From the options, he selects a pair of skinny jeans and a pair of “pre-distressed” straight leg jeans, both faded to a light blue.
Then, on the way to the register, he is distracted by a collection of flannels. He likes flannels, hypothetically. They're useful as a top layer when it's a little chilly or middle layer when it's cold. The variety of colors and patterns makes it easy to mix and match. Plus they can be tied around the waist to make a sort of half-skirt look he's always liked. With only a moment more deliberation, he grabs a few and heads to the register.
Or maybe more than a few.
“Peter Benjamin Parker, what is this?” May calls from the living room the next day, a hint of laughter in her voice. Peter pokes his head out of his room.
“What's what?”
“This!” May gestures to the pile of clean clothes on the couch she was in the midst of folding. On the back of the couch rests a stack of flannels. “Are you going to become a lumberjack? Do I need to prepare to parent a lumberjack child?”
Peter laughs, walking over. “No, May, I was just getting some new clothes at the second-hand store so I didn't have to keep wearing the same two hoodies over and over. Besides, I think lumberjacks have more than five flannels in their repertoire.”
“Six.”
“Hm?”
May points to the one tied loosely above Peter's hips. It's turns out the half-skirt thing is just as fun as he expected it to be. So much so that he forget he was even wearing the flannel. Peter can't do much more than sheepishly shrug, knowing he's been caught.
“I love you, Peter, but you're so weird sometimes,” May tells him with a smile as she shakes her head affectionately. “Please tell me you didn't spend a fortune on these though. You know how important it is that we save what money we can. Midtown isn't a cheap school.”
“I know, May, I know. They were like... two dollars a piece. No big deal.”
She gives him an appraising look that tells him he's only barely avoided a monetary reprimand before taking the stack of flannels and plopping them in his arms.
“Put these away and come back. You're folding the rest of your clothes yourself.”
“Yes ma'am!”
The clear morning persists into a clear day, bringing rare sunshine to the city and setting off a series of vehicles collisions as drivers fail to adjust to the thawing and refreezing snowmelt. After preventing his third red light skid-out in thirty minutes, Peter perches atop a building not far from Times Square for a breather.
“Well I'd call this a productive start to the day!” Ned announces over their comms. “For you too, I guess.”
Peter snorts, rolling his eyes. “And what have you been working on while I was saving lives?”
“You know how when you got the suit back from Mr. Stark, Karen and some other features had been re-deactivated? Well I'm pretty sure I know how to get her going again without just turning everything back on. I've learned a lot more about how the OS works since then. I can be more delicate this time.”
“That... would be really cool actually. I kinda miss having all the different web types. Karen was a big help, too.”
“Awesome! I'll get right on that. As soon as you're, you know, not wearing the suit.”
Peter laughs and the two make plans to hang out after school one day soon. In the middle of explaining a tricky bit of coding that links the web shooters to the suit, Ned abruptly changes gears.
“Oh! Got a report of a break-in a few blocks away from you. Something about a big metal bug.”
“On it!”
Peter leaps from his perch in the direction Ned relays to him and comes across the scene of the action within a couple short minutes. If Ned hadn't tipped him off, he surely would have detected the ruckus on his own not long after. Two SUVs rest on their rooves while the storefront they were in front of is entirely torn out, littering the pavement with a gritty, glistening layer of broken glass and brick shards. Peter only has time to note that the unfortunate target is a jewelry store before the crook of the hour comes barreling out into the street. His precognition — he refuses to call it his tingle — warns him early enough for him to spring away. Landing atop one of the upturned vehicles he observes his foe.
After Vulture, Peter begrudgingly accepted that animal-themed villains were going to be a thing. Looking at the clearly arachnoid design of the armored villain below, he notes sadly that two-for-two is more than a trend. In fact, this guy is encroaching on Spider-Man's own turf even if he's gone the more scorpion route, judging by the look of his prehensile metal tail.
“Hey, ugly, green was last year's color. Just thought you should know!”
The villain peers at Peter through large yellow lenses for a moment before grinning. Why his suit has an opening for his mouth, Peter has no idea, but he's going to stuff it full of webbing every chance he gets.
“Well lookie here, Spider-Boy must be out for recess.”
“Spider-Man,” Peter corrects. How hard is it to get that right? First Tony teases him for it, then Aaron Davis mistakes him for a girl, and now villains are getting in on the fun?
“You're no man,” the scorpion guy drawls, rising to his full height and sauntering toward Peter. “That stunt you pulled on the ferry proved it. You're a kid playing dress up, putting on clothes too big for you and playing tea time with your dollies. Now Iron Man, he's a bastard but he deserves the name, at least.”
“The ferry—” Peter squints at scorpion dude, using his HUD to run a vocal analysis. “You're Mac Gargan,” he gasps.
“In the flesh,” Gargan agrees. He throws his body weight forward, giving Peter only a fraction of a second to dodge. That vicious tail strikes out to impale the spot Peter had been perching a moment before. “And armor.”
From a lamppost above the scene, Peter gulps. Just like with Vulture, he's only moments into the fight and already feeling outclassed. He's forced to leap away again when the tail strikes the lamppost halfway up, crumpling it like a soda can.
“Hey, hey, dude, it doesn't have to be like this,” Peter pleads, bounding back and forth across the battle zone to avoid getting stabbed. Gargan is moving with inhuman speed and grace, to the point that he must have some personal enhancements under the suit or the suit itself is more in sync with the wearer than anything Peter has seen before, short of Tony's work.
“It does, actually,” Gargan replies with unsettling calmness. “I've got beef with you. First you ruin my sale, then you ruin my face. You won't get the chance to ruin this job.”
Gargan's tail collides with the brick face of the building in an attempt to swipe Spider-Man and Peter follows up with a smattering of webs. The tail strains against them for a moment before opening like a flower and ripping the webs to shreds with the newly revealed bladed surfaces within. Peter withholds a comment about going off theme to instead focus on more important things.
“Job? This is a job? Who's paying you?”
“Ah ah ah, that's privileged info, boy wonder.”
Peter grits his teeth under his mask and picks up the pace. Gargan spits a few more taunts his way but Peter ignores them all in favor of punishing this gimmick stealing idiot for his one-note insults. Boy this, boy that; Peter knows he shouldn't let it get to him — he dishes out as much as he takes on that front usually — but today it grinds on him in ways he can't explain. Like an overwound clock, he moves double time and forces Gargan onto the back foot as web after web weighs him down. After narrowly dodging a vertical donkey kick, Gargan has the audacity to laugh at him.
“Alright, playtime is over kid; I've got adult business to tend to.”
Then, in a sudden reversal, the robotic tail strikes low, between Gargan's legs. Having intended to duck, Peter finds himself with nowhere to go as the tip opens and launches a bladed, dart-like projectile. He squeezes his eyes shut and dodges aside with everything he has but it's not enough to get him out of the way. A sharp pain blooms across his cheek. Concentration broken, Peter tumbles into the side of a vehicle.
By the time he scrambles back to his feet, there's no sign of Gargan or his shiny scorpion hide.
“Are you sure you're okay?”
Peter sighs and tugs his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Yeah, Ned, I'm fine.”
“I didn't ask if you were fine. I asked if you were okay. It's weird for a wound to take this long to heal. What if whatever cut you was poisoned? What if your powers are—”
“Ned,” Peter hisses with a severe look. “It's been a day. Bruises might heal up overnight for the most part but I thankfully don't get cut that much. It'll probably be gone by tomorrow.”
His friend nods, curiosity sated. Now that the seed has been planted, though, Peter starts to wonder. The possibility of the blade being poisoned or something else extra malicious never crossed his mind. In the aftermath, he was mostly concerned with not getting blood on the suit and later with patching up the damage. He rubs absently at the cut.
Ned elbows Peter and points ahead. “Dude, I think there's something in your locker.”
Peter looks up, already expecting a lame prank of some sort. Instead, a sliver of pink under the bottom edge of the locker door is all that catches his notice. He could faceplant for how stupid he feels right now. It's Valentine's Day. He's been so busy with figuring out Gargan's next move and... whatever is going on in his own head that the approaching holiday entirely slipped his mind.
Making a mental note to pick up some flowers for May on the way home, Peter spins the combination on his lock and tentatively pries the door open. When nothing comes tumbling out, no cascade of pudding or broken CDs, he opens the door the rest of the way and retrieves the curious object.
The outside is a plain pink envelope, unsigned and store-bought. With Ned peering over his shoulder, Peter peels the flap open carefully to reveal a black piece of art paper. Swirls adorn the surface in an array of colors that clash and mingle in ways that seem to faintly move. The other side, when Ned prompts him to flip it over, is designed similarly but with the swirls converging to form the words “Happy Valentine's Day”. Peter can't do much more than stare, entranced. Though he's not particularly artful, he knows the markings of color pencils when he sees them. And yet this card is much more.
“Wow...” Ned admires from behind him. “Who do you think sent it?”
“No idea. But I love it. I could stare at this for hours.”
Ned laughs, nudging him. “Cute. Say that a bit louder and they might actually hear you.”
A blush runs rampant up Peter's cheeks at the thought. Someone with a crush on him? No thank you. His life is complicated enough at the moment. Despite what he considers a realist perspective on the situation, he snags an unused magnet from the back wall of his locker and uses it to pin the miniature work of art to the inside of the locker door. It sits just above a picture of the AcaDec team at regionals last semester and another of May, Ben, and himself celebrating his tenth birthday at Coney Island.
Smiling at the artwork one last time, Peter begins swapping his books for his next class.
“Who do you think is your secret Valentine?” Ned muses as they're walking to World History. “I think it's Isabella.”
“The cheerleader?” A sound of disbelief escapes him. “I am at the bottom of the totem pole, dude. She doesn't know I exist.”
“We could've said that same thing about Liz though.”
“We were at least in AcaDec together,” Peter rationalizes. “I don't think I've ever spoken to Isabella.”
“Oooh, good point, what if it's someone in Decathlon! It'd be so funny if it were, like, Flash or something.”
“Funny is not the word I'd use.”
The duo slip into the classroom with seconds to spare, taking their seats as the teacher begins to call roll. By the time the projector starts up with today's lesson, thoughts of who could have handmade the valentine and snuck it into his locker are all but gone from Peter's mind.
Until the next time he has to swap books, at least.