Chapter Text
Peter Parker was tired.
The all consuming, aching, bone-deep kind of tired that only ever came with way too much on one's plate. It was slow; agonizingly slow—his lungs strained as he breathed, and every time it became more difficult, like he was right back under that building, struggling to hold up hundreds of tons of concrete and rubble, unable to stop because if he stopped—that was it. No do-overs for Peter Parker. There would be—nothing.
That didn’t fly for Peter. He was a do-er. The kind of guy to be everywhere at once. Solving differential organic chemistry equations while swinging around Queens. Discovering better alternatives to his web fluid while he studied for his english test on Fahrenheit 451. Talking to his Aunt May on the phone while he cleaned the apartment because his aunt deserved that and so much more when she came home from a 12-hour shift at the hospital. Practicing flash cards while Tony Stark simultaneously quizzed him on different parts of his 2008 Audi R8’s engine and various machinations.
Peter’s whole world revolved around doing. Movement. Action. Effort, even at the cost of exertion. Which brought him back to his original problem; despite all this, he was tired. Really tired. Midtown School of Science and Technology, clearly, didn’t share the sentiment.
Midtown School of Science and Technology was not for the weak. Seriously—it may be for “smart kids,” but the amount of required credit hours, volunteer work, and probably-unnecessary classes make it one of the most intensive schools in the nation. Not just because of the classes—because the amount of time you spend thinking about school and everything you need to do to graduate is near-constant, and everpressing.
In Peter Parker’s case, you would have to add interning at Stark Industries—the country's leading company in technology and innovation and—recently, advancements in human quality of life. Peter was not just any intern, though. He was Tony Stark’s personal intern—the company’s co-CEO, of course.
Oh yeah, and Spider-Man. He also did that.
Peter did a lot of things, all the time, every day. To top all of those things (see above), he made an effort into his relationships; with his aunt and his friends. When he wasn’t interning or Spider-Manning, he was building legos with Ned or going to museums with MJ. When he came home after all of those things, he’d spend time with May, watching old, cheesy movies and eating crappy, unhealthy takeout till they passed out on the couch together.
After all of that, what little, minute amount of time he has left, he either sleeps (five hours on a good day) or…he thinks. He plans. About anything and everything. Improvements to the Spider-Man suit, ideas for his shitposting instagram account, or even ways to mess with Tony without actually getting kicked out of the lab or blowing it up. He had so, so many ideas trapped in his brain after a full day of doing—and he often expressed them in the form of little, square sticky notes or a piece of paper, haphazardly stuffed in a little blue folder with a bootleg Spider-Man sticker on it (Partly so May doesn’t look in it—he made a deal with her that she wouldn’t interfere with Spider-Man so long as he never got himself injured more that something he could shake of in a day, though that took multiple weeks of convincing for—and partly because…judge him or not, he likes being Spider-Man, and he likes the merch people make of him, though it may be ‘bootleg’, or whatever).
That’s why what happened next was so shocking.
He’s sitting in the office of the school’s advisor—someone he’s seen maybe thrice in his life. A lithe woman, with light, stringy hair and an even thinner smile, Mrs. Riley wasn’t someone he really enjoyed speaking to.
“So, Peter, how are you doing?” Mrs. Riley asked, clicking through her clunky computer in what couldn’t have been a more obvious signal that she was not interested in how he was doing.
“I’m okay,” he whispered, his voice dry. He cleared his throat and smiled in a half-apology, half-attempt at proving his claim. She didn’t even glance up from her screen.
“Good, good. So I brought you in here, Peter, to discuss your plan here at Midtown. Don’t worry—” He wasn’t worried. “I’m going around to everyone, you’re not the only one under the microscope. You’ve been doing incredible in classes; our resident genius, it seems. However, I noticed you haven’t logged any volunteer hours. Have you been doing any charity work outside of school?”
Peter swallowed the frog in his throat. If you’d count the many, many hours fighting crime in the dead of night, losing sleep and a part of himself he’ll never get back—yes, he had been doing “volunteer work.” He didn’t think it would be wise to tell her that he was The Amazing Spider-Man, though. “No, ma’am, I haven’t.”
“Okay, did you know you need a total forty logged hours by the time you graduate?”
“Uhm,” He hummed, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “I think I’ve heard something about it.”
“Right, well we usually recommend Juniors complete at least fifteen hours during their school year, to get a good start. Those hours can catch up to you, if you’re not too careful.” Peter nodded, showing he understood. What else was he supposed to say to that? “Luckily for you, I have the perfect proposition. You have an A+ in every class you’ve taken—both this year and years previous. Midtown is known for their focus on student-to-student help, to further your goals in community and understanding of teamwork.” Mrs. Riley recited, as if she were reading directly out of the student handbook. “Tutoring through the school—working one-on-one with another student once or twice a week, would be an incredibly easy way for a young genius like yourself to log those hours.”
That slow, agonizing, bone-tired exhaustion in him chose that time to ache harder, like it too understood what she was insinuating. He took a deep breath, attempting to relieve the pressure on his lungs, and gave his best ‘I am doing amazing, I love everything and everyone’ smile. “Of course, I think I have some time for that.” He had an academic decathlon—another thing he spent two hours doing every week, though thankfully something he shared with both Ned and MJ, so it was both useful and enjoyable—on Mondays and Thursdays. He interned with Tony on Wednesdays and Fridays. That left— “Are Tuesdays an option? I–I think I can do Tuesdays.”
Mrs. Riley clapped her hands together. “Tuesdays are wonderful! I’ll let the tutor coordinator know right away! She’ll be very happy to hear there’s another student out there who’s ready and happy to lend a helping hand. She’ll send you an email today on where to meet tomorrow at 4:00pm after school. Have a good day Peter! Keep up those grades!” She waved him out of the room pretty much as soon as she started talking, shutting the door in his face immediately after she finished. Peter blinked, his brain still recomputing with his change of schedule. It’s fine, he could do this.
He was a doer. The best, in fact. Effort at the cost of exertion. Surely, one more little thing on his plate would be fine, right?
When the final school bell rings, he’s almost happy to be at AcDec practice. No longer will he have to sit in the back of the room, listening to teachers and professors drone on about something he’s already learned (thanks, Tony), unable to leave as the seconds tick by like molasses.
He thought he was happy, until Flash catches him just as he makes it in the door of the familiar classroom, his hands on Peter’s shoulders from behind and his face nearly pressed up against his ear “Hey Penis, where you running to?”
Peter shook him off instantly, swallowing hard while hiding the soft tremble that rippled across his skin. He wasn’t really scared of Flash, per se, but the thought of someone being behind him without him knowing made Peter’s skin crawl. “H-Hey, Flash.”
“H-Hey!” Flash mocked, slinging his bag into a desk chair before sitting atop the desk portion. “Why are you stuttering, Penis? Are you scared of something?"
“If he is, it’s definitely about our finals in a few months, not anything close to what’s in front of him, Eugene.” MJ claimed nonchalantly as she confidently strode into the room, throwing Peter a barely-there grin. Peter smiled back at her gratefully, his shoulders losing their tension
“Shut up Michelle. I wasn’t talking to you.” Flash sniped, though his face was red from being caught off-guard.
“And yet, here we are, talking to one another,” She droned, picking through her flashcards as she prepared her podium—she was the captain, after all. The other members of the decathlon team began filing in, including Ned(!), who bounced over to Peter and began animatedly talking about the announcement he saw online about a new tv-series. Peter could feel Flash’s glare on his back, which he unwaveringly ignored, and instead let himself get lost in Ned’s incredible joy at the simplest of things. Eventually, when MJ called for the beginning of the meeting, he was able to smile and participate, having left all his worries in a little box in the back of his mind.
It was all too easy to step into the shoes of Spider-Man—maybe a little too easy. While Spider-Man was, and always has been, his alter-ego, when asked by Ned or MJ, he would usually refer to Spider-Man as Peter without anxiety. To criminals, he was a shadow in the night, efficient in his execution and righteous in his mission. To the citizens of Queens and occasionally the surrounding boroughs, he was a beacon of hope and safety in the ever growing crime—as new advancements and evolution come with the dawn of enhanced rights, so do the people who wish to abuse those laws, or steal in the name of power while using those rights in the worst ways.
Spider-Man travelled mostly at night, like all of the other vigilantes. Not only was in convenient for him, having school, AcDec, his internship, and other engagements during the day, but it also gave him and his night vision an upper hand in fighting (as well as hiding from Queens’s police force, who still went back and forth on a given day whether or not to shoot at him).
It was cold tonight—colder than most in October. One of those nights where he was eternally grateful for the thermoregulation heaters built within the suit—not only did his spidery-ness mean his body had difficulties regulating his temperature, but it was so cold outside he saw most people below him on the street with coats, gloves, and beanies. And for a place like New York, that meant it was cold.
Spider-Man stretched his ankles, remaining crouched but rolling onto the pads of his feet until his bones made a satisfying crack. All the while, his eyes remained fixed on the city below, ears trained to pick out signs of struggle amidst a city that never sleeps. If he focused too hard, he could hear heartbeats, and if he were to get closer to a person, their bloodflow. He tried not to do that, though—not only did it feel so invasive, but if he focused too much on the little things, he’d miss the stuff right in front of him. He took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the biting, familiar sting of a cold, dry breeze.
“Alright, Karen, what’ve we got?”
“Today is Monday, October ninth. It is currently fifty-four degrees fahrenheit, and steadily dropping. I believe these two factors are contributing to tonight’s low crime rate. No crime has been reported within Queens in six hours.”
“That sounds vaguely depressing,” he commented idly, letting her words wash over him. “Who’s out?”
“Daredevil was spotted within Hell’s Kitchen an hour ago. Luke Cage has also made an appearance today, but much earlier, being spotted responding to a bank robbery in Harlem.”
He hummed. “Anything outside of Queens? Like somewhere no one else has been spotted—Midtown or Brooklyn?” He was feeling fairly jittery and had been hoping to get lost in his acts of Spider-Man, putting his mind on the backburner. A crimeless night was great, but, admittedly, not what he had been looking for.
“Not recently, sir. Would you like me to extend my search?”
Spider-Man sighed, annoyed but begrudgingly proud of the lack of crime at the same time. “No thanks Karen. I’ll just swing around till something pops up—if anything, I guess.”
“Let me know if you are in need of assistance.”
Though he remained out as Spider-Man for a little over three hours, the lack of crime-fighting really left him uncomfortably antsy, like little spiders (hah) crawling all over him. He had to physically keep himself from recoiling when May hugged him goodbye in the morning, his skin burning and hands shaking.
It got a little better when he arrived at school, his body and mind having other things to focus on. He joked with Ned, studied with MJ, and was pretty much able to completely ignore Flash. All in all, a good day.
He almost forgot about his new extracurricular—tutoring. Which, yeah, he’d like to think he’s pretty smart and able to explain things fairly well, maybe even better than some teachers. But also, take no offense, he didn’t really want to tutor. He’s always happy to lend a hand every once in a while, of course, but having another thing stacked on top of his already high-piled list? He wasn’t looking forward to it, especially on his one off-day during the week.
He met the student tutoring coordinator, Ms. Camille—a bubbly, blonde-haired woman somewhere in her late twenties. She brightly explained that he would be given a single person to tutor—his “study-buddy”, until that student decides they no longer need tutoring, to which Peter would be given a new study-buddy. Thankfully, they had enough tutors to have one-on-one sessions, which, she said, provided a “safer and more comfortable environment for the student. Remember, Peter, your study-buddy might be a little embarrassed about asking for help. It’s important to make them feel comfortable.”
Personally, he thought she was giving him a bit too much weight on his shoulders, but he took it with a smile, promising he would do his best.
“Great! You’re study-buddy is going to be…” She trailed off, scanning her list of names on a sparkly pink clipboard. “At table fifteen. Here’s a folder of different worksheets and studying techniques you could try out. Let me know if there’s any problems, alright Peter?”
“Thank you, Ms. Camille.” He took the folder, looking at the table she had gestured to. A boy sat there—maybe a bit taller than Peter (it was hard to tell sitting) and a large dog with a blue vest—a service animal. With a wave back to Ms. Camille, he walked closer, stopping a few steps short of the table when the boy looked up, and woah.
A pair of incredibly bright, swirling sea-green eyes met his gaze.