Chapter Text
Blaming this on a third party who he wasn’t even sure existed was probably (completely) unwarranted. But, screw that. Peter Parker, the CEO of Parker Luck™, could totally place all of the blame for his completely messed up and messy life on that luck of his.
Most people would say, “But, Peter, Parker Luck doesn’t exist.” And he would follow up with, “It’s actually called Parker Luck Trademark ”—everyone forgets the Trademark—“And yes, it does in fact, exist.”
Parker Luck™ has existed since the existence of the Parker bloodline. Peter wouldn’t have believed that himself until he heard Uncle Ben and Aunt May tell stories about the two Parker brothers (his father and his uncle) who had completely and utterly poor luck. His father lost a job because he accidentally launched a donut at his boss. Which is a really long story Peter doesn’t want to get into (hint: it involves a lot of caffeine, three hours of sleep in a single week, and a ton load of physics).
Anyways, what really matters is that Parker Luck™ isn’t just out to get Peter ; it’s out to get his whole family, which doesn’t make him feel better now that he’s actually thinking about it. So, Peter can blame that stupid brand the galaxy created to screw with him for all of the lousy things that happen to him.
For instance, his parent’s dying when he was three, getting bullied in elementary school for liking Star Wars and being an orphan (yeah, kids are cruel), getting bitten by a radioactive spider, causing the death of his favorite (only) uncle, getting kicked out of their apartment when inflation went up too high for a middle-class nurse paycheck to keep them that same apartment that Ben had lived in (and his parents had seen), getting hit by hundreds of times a night because he was a spider-themed (which was probably due to his trauma-induced humor more so than the actual powers he gained for that theme) vigilante in New York, and getting crushed by a building from a bird-themed villain a couple months ago.
So, yeah. Parker Luck™ does, indeed, exist. And this Parker has the research to finally prove that.
If Parker Luck™ is pretty bad, it is nothing compared to that spider bite he got a year ago, which Peter would argue caused most of his problems.
See, Peter was casually walking around a, albeit poorly funded and understaffed, biological research facility. The interns, who were running purely off of energy drinks from the vending machine in the corridor and the little naps they would take in the break room that scared the hell out of the high schoolers who were visiting because they looked dead, were the ones in charge of the radioactive projects, under the supervision of one of the veterans, of course. However, the term “supervision” means something completely different in that facility’s book because all of the veterans were also in the break room, but they sat quietly, staring into space at the blank, white walls that entrapped them there.
Peter probably should have noticed the red flags, considering how obvious they were in retrospect. But just because Peter is a genius doesn’t mean that he isn’t dumb when it comes to observation skills; that’s why he has a Spider-Sense (and why he doesn’t always listen to it).
He had been enthusiastically talking to Ned about how he was hoping to make progress like this in the biology field when he was an adult.
“Do you see that, Ned?” Peter asked, a bright smile plastered on his face as he pushed his boxy, red glasses up his nose. Peter was pointing at a light amber colored spider that was currently preoccupied with scampering around the twigs in its little glass enclosure.
Ned gasped. “But that’s… That’s a horrid ground-weaver spider. Those are endangered.” Ned paused, but Peter wasn’t paying attention. “How did they get them here?” Ned asked softly. Peter would later swear that Ned said that they didn’t have enough funding for those types of spiders, even if they weren’t endangered and just considered rare , but Peter would also be preoccupied by the soon but fateful bite.
Before Peter could spout some random piece of trivia that somehow Peter had retained in his brain, he felt a small prick on his right wrist. The one that had been pointing at the spider. Peter gasped and his eyes immediately went down to his frozen-in-place hand, which had a small, amber spider crawling around and a pinkish bump near his thumb.
Before thinking, Peter jumped and slapped the spider with his hand in a panicked manner (he would later argue that he was as graceful as a ballerina when he did this but he wasn’t). When Peter looked back down at his wrist, the spider was gone but the pink lump remained. He looked up hastily to where Ned was. “Dude–”
But Ned was no longer next to Peter. Peter saw his best friend geeking out with one of the interns that was still working at the moment, trying to keep the high schoolers entertained and attention peaked. Peter gawked for a few minutes, wondering how his best friend for almost his whole life could just walk off when he was bit by a spider (the very same spider that Peter had been showing Ned in the little glass case).
Before Peter could do anything, his teacher announced from across the room, “Alrighty, kids. Let’s get going to the cafeteria to eat our lunch.” Peter could not explain why all of the teachers who worked at Midtown School of Science and Technology were all super awkward (except for, of course, Mrs. Warren). He sighed, rubbing the back of his right hand subconsciously as he walked over.
The rest of the day was pretty much uneventful, considering he got bit by a spider early on. And before everyone starts ganging up Peter, saying “You should have asked for help from an adult!” or “Why didn’t you get that looked at?” Peter would like to retort that it felt fine. He had done research on spiders and horrid ground-weaver spiders are not venomous to humans. Peter would be fine, don’t worry.
The next day wasn’t fine.
See, to understand this, you have to understand the end of the previous day. Peter and Ned were talking as they got onto the bus for the trip back to Midtown. Peter was a bit sniffly but it must have been because of all of the cleaning supplies and bleach that was prominent in all of the rooms they went in. Peter had a bunch of allergies (even though cleaning supplies never caused this type of reaction for him); it must have been the displacement of dust that caused him to react like this.
When they got back to school, now Peter had a runny nose. Ned gave him a look of concern, knowing how bad Peter’s reactions to allergens could get if the symptoms progressed as fast as they currently were. But for some reason, Peter didn’t feel the need to ask help from anyone.
“I’ll just take medicine for it when I get home. It is November, Ned. It might just be some sickness,” Peter reassured (or, at least, tried to reassure) his worried friend, as he wiped his nose with the sleeve of his sweater. Damn, he would have to wash this sweater and he wanted to wear it tomorrow.
“Okay, Peter. Just… text me if you need anything,” Ned said, trying to keep the concern out of his voice, since that was something Peter made clear in a subconscious way that he didn’t enjoy very much. Too many people doted over him like he was about to fall apart and disappear like his parents had when he was three. But it was nice to see that people cared about Peter.
Peter glanced behind Ned and saw his uncle’s car parked a bit away. Or, at least he thought it was his uncle’s car. He squinted, trying to see through the faint fog that came with blindness. What is with today? He has to wash his sweater and now he has to get new glasses? He loves these glasses. “I’m fine, I promise. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ned.”
Peter waved as he jogged slowly over to where Uncle Ben was waiting.
“Hey, sport,” Uncle Ben greeted as Peter jumped into the car. “How was the field trip?”
Peter sniffed, “It was fun.”
Ben glanced over at Peter, a sparkle in his eyes, before he looked back out the windshield and started to back out of the parking spot. “Really? Where did you go again? Ozport?”
“It’s Oscorp , Ben. They were… alright, I guess. They have a lot of good things that I think should be researched but… I dunno. The people there don’t seem to understand the importance of the advancements they could make. They could rival Stark Industries with their scientific advancements, even though they’re not really working in the same department right now.” Peter lit up, wiping his sleeve along his upper lip and sniffling once more, this time with the audible suck of mucus in the back of his nose.
Ben glanced over at him as they stopped at a red light, now a couple blocks away from home. “You coming down with something?”
Peter cleared his throat. “No.” A pause. “Okay, maybe. But I’ll be fine. This doesn’t feel like an allergic reaction; this feels like a cold or upper respiratory thing.”
Ben studied his nephew for a few moments until the light turned green and he looked both left and right before hitting the gas pedal. “Okay, but if something happens, come to me or your aunt. We’ll be able to help you, no questions asked.”
Peter smiled softly. Both Ben and May had always been like this, even before his parents’ deaths, from what he can remember. “Yeah. For sure.”
When they make it home, Peter goes to his room, falls onto his bed, and immediately falls asleep. He didn’t know he was that exhausted himself until his eyes met the piece of furniture that gave him almost as much comfort as Ben and May did (it was really close and something that Peter would never admit to their faces, even though they’d both would have gotten a kick out of it).
The next few days, which just spans into the next couple of weeks, are living hell for this Parker. He’s sick like he’s never been sick before, and this is coming from a kid who had almost every single allergy known to mankind. He’s bedridden, green around the gills, utterly inert. Aunt May had taken a couple of shifts off when she could to care for the boy who was almost her son; she would have taken more hours off if it weren’t for Peter to sputter out that he wasn’t sick (he was indeed that sick). It was a wonder he had been able to convince them not to take him to the hospital for it; only the Lord knows how much money they already spend on his health.
But then, exactly 17 days after that pivotal spider bite, Peter woke up fine. Scratch that: more than fine. Peter not only showed no more signs of sickness; he could see.
Yes, he did just say that he could see. His blindness was now inexistent. The world never looked so clear, even with those prescription glasses on. Peter had thought he had slept with his glasses on (he makes a point to set them on his dresser because once he had new, really cool glasses as a six year-old and they broke, which wasn’t his fault. At all.) because of how perfect the world looked, unlike how distorted it normally was.
Peter slowly put on and off his glasses staring around the room in a daze. His moment of glory immediately fell into a state of panic. How was he going to explain this to Ben and May? He’d never had contacts before! They itched too much.
Peter frantically paced (which he usually did but never right after he woke up in the morning unless he had a nightmare about not finishing a science project) around the room, pulling at a few of the dark brown curls that cluttered his head. He was in trouble. More than that, he was screwed. How would explain that he no longer needed glasses when he was born with his poor eyesight and the eye doctors had never been subtle with their warnings that Peter would never have anything close to vision that didn’t require such thick glasses.
So, Peter did the only thing he could think of (which was actually a really bad idea but the only idea he had in like 45 minutes and, oh shit, the bus leaves in 15 minutes and he still has bed hair!); he ran out of the house, struggling to pull his arm into the jacket sleeve as he jumped around the sidewalk, a once-hot-now-cold bagel hanging between his lips like a kitten in its mother’s mouth, and a clunky pair of boxy glasses that he definitely no longer needed on his face.
After shoving the bagel down his throat, he hopped down the street to the bus stop and into the bus, struggling to make out the few people who were also sharing the sidewalk with the wacko Peter is. He jumped out of the bus as fast as he could, almost jumping at someone who was trying to board the bus in the process.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbled repeatedly to everyone he almost bumped into. “ So sorry, sir,” he said to the person he actually did run into (like completely bumped chests and bounced off of each other like two cartoon characters in real life).
Peter squinted, now developing a raging headache already. Okay, maybe this wasn’t working. As subtle as Peter Parker could be (which just ended up making him look like a criminal), he tossed his boxy glasses into the glasses case which he had almost never used before because he needed them every second of the day and threw those into his backpack. Ah, now that was better.
Having taken comfort over keeping up the act of playing his old, blind self, Peter didn’t realize his mistake until he walked up the steps of Midtown.
“Yo, Penis!” a familiar, but not welcome, voice called out from an obnoxiously fancy car that could be sold to pay for the apartment that Peter currently lived in’s rent for the rest of the year. Peter hung his head, hastily trying to rush through the doors, but he fumbled and dropped his ID (because of course he did, curse you, Parker Luck™) on the floor.
“Hey, Parker,” a hand grabbed the back of his backpack, pulling Peter upright as his middle finger grazed his ID, which was now in his grip (he was, like, 98% sure that he hadn’t picked it up at all and it had stuck to his finger, but that’s not possible, right?).
“Flash.” Peter didn’t like to say that he was fearless when Flash came around (he was scared as much as the next guy who was bullied) but he didn’t like to play into the whole superiority thing his fear would give Flash or anyone like him. As Uncle Ben would always say: “Fear gives power over you to those who don’t deserve it. You can be scared, but don’t give them power over you.”
And this wasn’t Peter’s first bully, nor his worst (middle schoolers are cruel ).
“I thought you died, Penis. Everyone was worried about you. You missed, what? Two weeks? Three? But you’re back!” Flash smiled like he wanted to be some super villain that would be an Avengers-level threat.
“Glad to see you too, Flash. Can you let me go so I can go to class?” Peter was kind of tired. He felt hungry even though a bagel would have usually been enough to get him to lunch and he felt like his thumping headache was not going away, even after he took off his glasses.
Flash, of course, ignored Peter’s wishes and took his obvious discomfort as a sign to continue. “Where are your glasses? Don’t you need those to see? Did you break them again and now you’re broke? You must have such bad eyesight if it bankrupts your aunt and uncle, who are still using the savings from your dead parents.”
Okay, yeah, Peter was not in the mood for more orphan jokes. Peter pushed Flash back lightly, just to shrug him off of his backpack (which usually didn’t work because Peter was, quite literally, a twig of a person, another thing he was bullied about but whatever). To his surprise, Flash immediately let go. Peter thought it was an attempt to make him look bad but he then was overwhelmed by something. That’s the best he can describe it to be. In a split second, his eyes widened and his hair stood up everywhere and then he was in action but it wasn’t coordinated and it was sloppy movements and he almost fell as he took a swift step to the left and then Flash was on the floor in the hall where Peter would have been standing had he not moved at the last possible second.
Peter stared down at Flash and vice versa, both boys in complete and utter shock.
Flash was the first one to get a word out. “How the fu–”
His profanity was, fortunately, interrupted by the more powerful voice of Ms. Warren, who walked through the halls of Midtown of Science and Technology like she owned the place (she didn’t but she participated in school events as much as Mr. Morita). “Mr. Thompson.” Her voice commanded respect without raising her voice at all, as if she was Captain America and all of the students in the hallway were lost soldiers who had been taken hostage by Hydra during World War II. “Your car is illegally parked. Please move it before a tow truck comes by.”
Flash blinked, trying to get over what had happened between him and Peter, before scurrying up, now realizing the weight of Ms. Warren’s words. “This isn’t over, Penis,” Flash threatened dangerously at him. Peter nodded in disbelief, which must have calmed Flash, even though the disbelief was more towards himself. Today was a weird day.
Before he could give his new eyesight and instincts a second thought, the warning bell rang. Damn, he was going to be late to class. At a speed that was superhuman for the asthmatic Peter Parker, he ran to his chemistry class, darting to his seat right after slamming the door to the class right open. Ned sat at their normal desk giving him a concerned look which morphed into confusion.
Peter sat down at his desk in the back of the classroom right as the final bell rang and then the teacher started his lecture. He sat for a second, trying to calm his racing thoughts and heartbeat, gasping silently as his reality was hitting. Peter should be choking but he felt more alive than he ever had. Was Peter dead?
“Dude,” Ned’s friendly voice broke any other thoughts from forming in the quite panicked Parker. “Are you alright? Where are your glasses? Did you forget them?”
Peter stared at his friend before shaking his head vigorously. “No, I’m fine, Ned. Thanks.”
Ned nodded, not at all convinced. Which was completely fair. Neither was Peter.
They both turned their attention to their chemistry teacher, who was failing to grasp everyone’s attention. After 15 minutes of the teacher attempting to give a lecture (which was primarily him just telling the class that they needed to quiet down), he finally gave up and started passing out sheets.
“Solve all of these stoichiometry equations by the end of class for today’s grade,” the teacher’s voice was as tired as Peter expected a sloth to be.
When Peter looked at his page, he immediately started working on it like the future valedictorian he was (using the help of Ned, of course). But at some point, there were a few questions that stumped both of them (which was actually very impressive because Peter was a certified genius, according to Aunt May, and Ned was smarter than he likes to let on).
So, Peter raises his hand, not thinking anything about it. That’s when it hits. His headache gets a little stronger. Peter blinks slowly before reaching with other hand to his bag under the table and grabbing his crumpled water bottle, taking a quick swig, hoping to get rid of it. His hand and the ferocity of the headache stays, however. Peter, being the strong and stubborn Parker he is, fights through the pain and keeps his hand up. If he’s able to get through this assignment, he’ll be done and then might be able to go to the nurse. But then Aunt May will dote on him if it’s bad enough to make him go home saying, “You weren’t ready, I knew it.” And Uncle Ben would give him that disappointed look, like he caught Peter lying about how he was feeling. Peter hadn’t lied; he felt fine when he woke up. Uncle Ben’s disappointed look was the opposite of Peter’s puppy dog eyes; they worked like a charm in getting people to do things.
Peter’s teacher walks over to him once he sees the hand that is raised and Peter sets it down, not because it’s tired, but because his throat now feels tight. Maybe May was right.
“What do you need, Peter?” his teacher asked, both exhausted and kind at the same time. Peter felt like a pit was forming in his stomach and his skin felt dreadfully sweaty and cold. “Are you okay, Peter?” The teacher was now concerned.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” Peter lied. “I was just wondering if you could help m–” Peter wasn’t able to finish his sentence. He had to run up from his seat, hand planted on his mouth, eyes wide, to the trash can. He barely made it.
Stupid Parker Luck™.