Chapter Text
Peter was cold. And tired. And hungry. And cold. Did he say that already? Probably, but it couldn’t hurt to mention it twice. It was basically all he thought about these days anyways. Once he learned that he couldn’t thermoregulate like a normal person, he briefly thought about leaving New York City, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to buy the bus ticket to somewhere warmer. Not that he could’ve afforded the ticket in the first place.
So here Peter was, freezing his ass off in New York City’s Finest Alley (he came up with the name himself). Luckily, he didn’t have to sleep here, unlike some of the other unfortunate people he’d come across during his year with the other “dregs of society.” He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he guessed that it was nearing sundown based on the sun angle. That meant it was time to relocate back to his shelter. Alleys were fun, but only during the daytime. He wearily sat up and made his way back out onto the street.
On his way back, Peter decided to stop at a convenience store. He had a stash of food he’d been collecting back at his “apartment,” but he didn’t like to use it unless he absolutely had to. He’d learned the hard way that he should always have a little bit of food in case something went wrong. And with Parker Luck ™, something always did. Just a few months ago Peter had to fork over twenty dollars for a storage locker because all his stuff was stolen. He couldn’t pay for the locker the next month, so he was forced to abandon it. He got better at hiding his stuff after that.
The door to the convenience store jingled as he opened it. Peter glanced around and quickly made eye contact with the cashier, who stared disinterestedly back in his direction. He headed towards the back of the store and pulled his life’s savings (thirty-three dollars!) out of his shoe. Peter figured that he could spend up to three dollars today, and then he’d have enough food for tomorrow too. His stomach doesn’t really agree with the whole one-meal-a-day-because-I’m-broke thing that Peter’s got going, and his super metabolism doesn’t help either, but he really had no choice.
He sighed and transferred all the cash back into his shoe, minus the three dollars he’d set aside for today. Peter roamed down the aisle (shamelessly avoiding the cold) until he reached the protein bars. He figured that two would be enough to get him through tonight and tomorrow, and picked up two chocolate flavored bars off the shelf. If you’re starving, calories are calories. Plus, Peter liked chocolate. Sue him. Now all he needed is some water. Normally, he could find a public fountain or fill up a plastic bottle in a bathroom, but he had to ditch his bottle earlier in the day while he was avoiding the cops. If they didn’t want him to sit on the sidewalk, then they should add more benches!
Peter made his way to the coolers of drinks in the back of the store and took a second to try and remember what soda tasted like. Ever since… well, ever since, he’s had to prioritize necessities, and a fruity drink is definitely not needed for survival. He let his eyes roam over all the artificial colors; the firetruck red of Coke, the orange of Fanta, and the bright green of Sprite flashed out at him like Christmas lights. Finally, his eyes rested on the familiar red of… Bug Juice.
Suddenly Peter couldn’t breathe. Flashes of another day and another convenience store he tried so hard to forget take up residence in his head.
-Bug Juice in his hand and his hand is red but he’s pretty sure he hadn’t opened the bottle yet and why is Uncle Ben on the floor and someone is screaming and Uncle Ben is sticky and warm and Peter’s hands are sticky and warm and he can’t move and everything is red-red-red-red-red-red-RED-
“Yo! Kid. You good man?”
Peter flinched violently and turned towards the cashier. The worker threw his hands up, apparently trying to calm him down like he was some sort of wounded animal. He guessed that maybe he kind of was. He looked at the person’s nametag. Ollie. Ollie seemed to take his silence as confirmation to continue.
“Just wanted to let you know that we’re closing in five minutes. It’s Thanksgiving so the crew’s going home early to be with their families today. I’m sure you understand.”
Peter did understand once, but not anymore. He remembered holidays with Uncle Ben and Aunt May, with burnt stuffing and dry turkey and laughter and love. He might not have that anymore, but he would never deprive anyone of that experience.
“Yes sir.”
*****
Living a life of luxury was never something Peter was particularly interested in, but boy could he go for a hot meal. Or any meal really, he wasn’t picky. As he left the convenience store, he tore open one of the protein bars with his teeth and bit down. It wasn’t a five course meal, but it was something. He supposed he should be grateful he can eat anything. He didn’t deserve it. He shook away those thoughts and continued home. Well, not home, but you get the idea.
Peter was actually pretty proud of where he slept at the moment. After a few weeks of sleeping in alleys and other less-than-ideal locations, he had stumbled across an open manhole cover. It had been a particularly chilly night, and he had basically decided fuck it, at least underground he had some shelter from the wind. He had wandered underground for a while and stumbled across his equivalent of El Dorado, or something equally as exciting.
Behind a piece of rubble that only someone with superhuman strength could move (yay powers!) was a cave. Well, Peter called it a cave, but it was more like a half-collapsed tunnel. He guessed that it used to be some sort of subway station that had been abandoned and collapsed shortly after, but it didn’t really matter. At the end of the day, it was somewhere warm (sort of), dry (sometimes), and it was Peter’s home. Home. He called it a home, but that’s because the English language doesn’t have a word for a place that you inhabit, but you don’t actually live in. Peter didn’t live anymore—he simply existed. And he was okay with that.
That being said, his home (abandoned subway station) wasn’t terrible. Over the past year, he had developed quite the collection of ratty blankets. They were taken from dumpster and thrift stores, but his favorite was from Before. He was able to grab a few items before he ran, and the blanket was one of them. It was light blue and threadbare, but it was his most prized possession. May had knitted it for him for his eighth birthday.
Beside the pile of blankets was Peter’s stash. It had enough food to last about a week if he rationed and an unopened water bottle. He figured that if he were ever to the point of needing to use his stash, he would probably need the water too. He also scavenged an extra sweatshirt and jeans, and those lay in a nearby corner. So yeah, it was pretty homey if he did say so himself.
Eager to get back underground, Peter picked up his pace. Even if it was cold, he enjoyed walking through the city. He could people watch and think about something other than himself every once in a while. He strolled through Brooklyn, slowly making his way back towards Queens. He knew that it would have been smarter to relocate literally anywhere else in New York City, but he just couldn’t leave Queens. He felt like he had an obligation to be nearby, just in case. In case of what, Peter didn’t know. He just couldn’t leave.
Regardless, he had to get much closer to Queens before he could travel underground. Peter had tried mapping the tunnels a few times before, and it had ended badly each time. If it wasn’t for his super hearing, he would be a pile of bones underground, and no one would ever be the wiser. After one-to-many close calls, he decided that it was probably best if he just walked above ground like a normal person.
And so, he did. He didn’t mind though. He liked to imagine what the lives of his fellow New Yorkers were like. A man wearing a tuxedo passed him and disdainfully sniffed in his direction. That man, Peter decided, was a rich snob going to a meeting with Tony Stark to get him to invest in his company. Mr. Stark would decline of course because who would say yes to an asshole? Peter had to make do with any karma he could get, even if it was only imagined. He continued on.
A scream lit up the otherwise quiet night. Peter always thought it was funny how the prettiest nights always seemed to have the most crime. He guessed that even the bad guys were making the most of the weather. Though he still wasn’t sure why anyone would go out when it was this cold. Clear skies or not, Peter was a firm believer that no one should be outside in under 40˚ weather. Of course, he didn’t actually have a way of knowing exactly how cold it is (because duh), but judging by the way people were wearing winter coats, he felt that it was safe to say that it was at least that cold. When winter really sunk its teeth into New York in a month or so, Peter knew he was basically screwed. It was an issue for another day.
Another scream drew him out of his thoughts of the impending winter. Now he could pinpoint the sound was coming from somewhere ahead of him. Peter continued on his walk towards his rather humble abode. If he could get back before it was properly dark out, he would be able to stitch up some of his clothes that he had torn the other day. Peter had recently discovered that he does not get along with small dogs. How was he supposed to remember that he had a beef jerky stick in his pocket? Also, that poodle was vicious so really that lady should have totally paid for another sweatshirt.
A third and final scream flit through the stark air, and Peter was able to pinpoint that it originated from the upcoming alley to his right. Peter sighed and continued. He really hated people. Sure, some of them were fine, but for every good person there were at least three bad people, and he really didn’t have the energy to deal with them anymore. Life on the streets had taught him that. At first, he was naïve. People would help him out. Homeless or not, he was still a kid, right? Peter couldn’t have been more wrong. He took a deep breath and blinked, clearing his head and continuing on.
Peter approached the alley and peeked in. Around the corner, a young woman, likely attending the local college, was being mugged by someone wearing all black. He couldn’t really get a good look at the criminal, but Peter supposed that if you’ve seen one then you’ve seen them all. Most of them had a flair for the dramatic. The woman had stopped screaming for help and had started to cry silently instead, her tear tracks forming rivulets down her face. The man in black had pushed her against the grimy brick wall of the alley and held a knife to her throat. He had clearly asked for her to empty her pockets, because the woman was attempting to do so, though Peter could definitely see that she was struggling; her shaking hands were not helping to diffuse the situation.
As she handed over her wallet, she frantically looked past the mugger, likely looking for anyone to help her. Be her miracle, if you will. As she did so, she made eye contact with Peter. Frightened eyes looked deep into stoic ones, begging for help. As Peter continued to look at her, her face changed. A plea for assistance slowly morphed into one of confusion, and then finally sadness. As the woman faced her assailant again, she began to sob.
Peter kept walking.