Chapter Text
Spider-man hauls himself above large glass buildings, his body is tense but in a manner that’s from years of practicing the fragile art of ‘flying,’ the surreality of it, sometimes, he finds himself forgoing.
Such as now, his attention is instead focused onto a car speeding through narrow streets, his arms pull taunt on his webs as he swings to the ground. His feet collide with warm asphalt, and easily bridges the distance between him and the moving vehicle. His lungs flutter in his chest as his eyes zero in on the Chicago license plate pinned to the back.
“Get ‘em, Spider-Man!” A large man yells, shaking a thick fist in the air.
Peter can only do a quick, gratuitous jump in the stranger’s general direction before sticking a web to the trunk of the car; sucking in a tight breath of air, and landing on the back of the vehicle.
He punches the back window open—breaks, in other, simpler words—the driver doesn’t turn around, but his accomplice, whose mask is drawn high over their features and hood low over their eyes, points a rather old gun in his direction.
“Dude, get out.” He commands.
Peter ignores the warning, he pushes his head out of the car, webs one of the spinning wheels, watches as the web suctions to the road and suddenly leaves them immobile.
The radio—he couldn’t hear it over the lashing of the wind, is a slow song by Cleo Sol, her voice oddly soothing in the rather tense atmosphere developing between the three.
“You know, even I—a man who doesn’t have his driver’s license, public transport for the win, pal; knows, you are a terrible driver.” Peter quips easily. He outstretches his hand to grab the barrel of the gun, giving it an effective squeeze. The metal crumbles beneath his grasp, the guy holding it lets go, attention now focused on fumbling to unlock his door and escape.
The driver, clearly older, has a thick and coarse beard that decorates the lower portion of his face accompanied by these terrible and noticeable pair of chops. He snarls at Peter and lunges over the console.
All Peter has to do is kick the doors, watch as they swing off their metal hinges, web the guy, web the other guy, call the NYPD and continue his patrol with these two being hauled away to some dank cell. What he doesn’t account for is the knife, he dodges it, he just doesn’t expect the second guy—he was running away!—to crawl into the back seat and stab Peter in the back.
The metal is deeply embedded in his latissimus dorsi, he can feel it snug between the layers of muscle; it stings, bursts of hot pains radiate from that point.
“Holy crap, didn’t think you’d come back.” He hisses through clenched teeth, elbowing the older man off of himself. The back seat is much too cramped for a three person fight.
“D-Dave we should get,” the younger one speaks, and with him no longer performing a poor imitation of some thug, Peter almost wants to tear off his facial disguise. He sounds very young.
Instead the older man wrangles Peter’s neck into his two fleshy palms, squeezing. Peter takes a sharp breath; tries to control his strength, and tugs at the hands, ensuring that his actions won’t lead to the other guy accidentally losing an arm with Peter’s sometimes unchecked strength.
The next thing happens much too quickly, they all are tackling each other in the backseat, when suddenly they lurch forward. Another car running into the back of them.
Airbags immediately deploy, breath escapes Peter, the knife remains embedded; and, Peter when he turns; watches as the smaller of the two gets rebounded by the passenger bag airbag, witnesses the face of someone who could not be possibly older than him, faint.
There’s an actual kid beside him.
Peter does what any sane person would do after such a minor crash, he webs the big guy to the back seat, grabs the other and runs off.
Peter had a relatively normal childhood growing up.
He would wake up to a low-sugar cereal breakfast during the weekdays, the old television sitting on their fridge would be playing the News and yet neither of his parents paid much attention to it.
His dad would have papers from his work spread across the table with his mom, sipping leisurely on her coffee, pointing at a few graphs and muttering incomprehensible words that his dad would often agree with.
He’d ride the bus to school, he’d experience some minor bullying, a few harsh words for his rather puny size; or his unremarkable presence. His parents would pick him up, they’d go home, he’d have dinner, play with his toys, watch Curious George since they always had physical DVDs of him stacked alongside the living room television.
He’d grow bored and bother either his mom or dad, or on the rare occasion both.
They’d pretend Peter understood what they were talking about and begin asking him questions, gesturing to complex and often illiterate math equations and Peter would stroke his chin and seriously contemplate their asks.
Peter’s parents loved him, this was a simple fact he knew, just as animals know to breathe, or plants know to seek out the sun. They were never an overly affectionate family, his parents wouldn’t spend time randomly slow dancing in the kitchen, they’d press chaste kisses to the other person’s cheek or forehead and that’d be their display of affection for the day.
Their love was simple with a main focus being the ease of it.
When Peter stayed with Ben and May though, on the many weekends when his parents had to do overtime, he’d sometimes forget that his parents were nothing like the couple before him.
It seemed so easy to imagine that they were.
Ben wasn’t an overly affectionate person, just like his father, but where Ben wasn’t, May definitely was. She’d rest her head on his shoulder despite their height being practically evenly matched, she’d hold hands, she’d play overplayed songs and force a tired Ben to dance with her.
Ben would buy flowers for her when he’d come home from long shifts more often than not, the petals would always be slightly withered, but May never minded.
She’d extract a vibrant vase from their cabinets, fill it halfway with water and pour in the minerals strapped to the flowers in the liquid while recruiting Peter to help her trim down the stems and fit them in the vase.
She’d kiss Ben in front of Pete, who’d wrinkle his nose and look away, feeling the rush of heat on his cheeks but May would merely laugh and kiss Ben’s entire face to further his awkwardness.
Ben would say afterwards, “The one thing to be embarrassed about, love is not it.” He’d ruffle his hair with each puncture of his words, calloused palms rough.
May and Ben couldn’t cook where both his parents could, they’d have Thai food often or pizza. May couldn’t sing, Ben could—Peter’s mom could sing, his dad only hummed.
When he’d see flowers he’d think of Ben and May, when he saw the stars his mind would return to his parents.
He couldn’t help but think that if he were to have any potential relationship, he hoped it’d be more like Ben and May. Even when they’d argue, May would be slightly loud, Ben would go nonverbal, he’d leave and their apartment would be tense with May pacing. He’d return smelling of the New York air, slightly bitter but with the aroma of street vendors and talk to May in a measured voice regarding the argument where one would inevitably apologize.
Peter’s parents never fought. They’d have periods of complete silence, but after a week or so they’d overcome it.
And then his parents died and his regular weekends at Ben and Mays turned into entire months and years.
Time passed in a sludge of brief periods where nothing of note would happen and yet time seemed to slip through him, it wasn’t until they were having pizza; re-runs of a Star Wars marathon on cable muted behind them, when Peter realized that it had been five months since his parents' deaths.
He then cried over his slice of pizza, salty tears landing on the melted cheese. May wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pressing him against her shoulders as she swayed them side-to-side, a method she’d taken to calm his crying fits.
His glasses shoved themselves against his nose and forehead from the embrace, but he couldn’t care.
He couldn’t believe he was so selfish to have two couples, his mom and dad, and May and Ben, to both want him at one point.
In those months, Ben would cry with Peter when he’d see him grow emotional, there was a shock at seeing such a man; burly and stoic, have tears sweep over his features. It once stopped Peter’s own sobs, but after the third time he grew accustomed to it.
His parents were dead and May and Ben were the ones who took him in.
The kid awakens with a groan, and Peter can not help pacing the grimy, back alley. He is suddenly wondering if what he did could be labelled some lesser form of kidnapping.
“The hell, Spider-Man!” The kid shrieks, his arms are tied behind his back; stuck to the dumpster.
“Yes. Me,” he can’t stop his voice from being halted by tension. He crouches in front of the kid, his arms hang limply from his knees, “Bud, how old are you?”
He’s met with spit barrelling at his feet. Again, should’ve suspected such a reaction.
“Go fuck yourself.” The kid bites, he’s now thrashing against the webs. There’s a lapse of true panic in his eyes when he realizes he can’t escape, at least not right now.
“This isn’t a path you want to go down—”
“—How the hell do you know? Huh, you’re some pampered street hero! I do what I can, I’m old enough, bud.”
“You look like you’re eleven.”
“I’m not.” He bites back.
“Okay, twelve.”
The silence is deafening.
“What do you know?”
Peter looks around, they are alone; they rest in an alley surrounded by hot trash whose summer heat spreads the stench into something so intolerable that his heightened senses are threatening to make him hurl.
“I know that life can be rough but this path, what you are doing, will only result in more crap.” Peter doesn’t say that he’s only two years older than him.
“Man, what do you know?” He shakes his head, his brown eyes are nearly black in the shadows, “You have powers, you’re-you’re not me.”
“I didn’t always have powers.”
“But you do now.” The glare he receives is brutal; it’s harsh and pained.
“Why are you doing this?” Peter sits on the cement, and waits.
At first there’s no response, and then there is: “You don’t really wanna know, you don’t care. None of you do. All you see is some troubled kid and reduce me to that.”
“I don’t.”
He glares at Peter, there's a gathering of sweat that brews against the back of his throat and torso, the knife continues to send shooting pains from beneath his suit, it makes his skin feel sticky.
Which is probably the blood fleeing from the wound.
“Talk to me.”
And Peter expects more curses, more harshly thrown insults, a few weak kicks that don’t meet him.
What he doesn’t expect is sudden tears.
He stands awkwardly, watching as the kid dissolves into phlegm-ridden sobs, shoulders hunching upwards before sinking down. “I’m—my brother is sick, I don’t have money for his hospital fees. My mom is-is dead and my dog has cancer.”
Peter frowns, “Oh, buddy.” He grabs the web dissolver from his pocket, about to dose it on the other’s hands. “I’m sorry, really. Listen, crime though, it isn’t worth it.” He keeps a tight hold on the bottle, “I might know some people who can give you a part-time job, something real easy and flexible because of school. What’s your name?”
“Lalia.”
“Okay.” Peter nodded, his tongue nestling beneath his top lip, protruding it slightly outwards, “So, just so—you don’t have to explain or anything, but is that a non-gender conforming name, or?”
“I’m a girl.” She answered, her voice suddenly deadpan as her tears evaporated beneath the harsh glare of the sun.
Peter nodded slowly, “Okay. Yeah, no, yeah, well—”
“You thought I was a boy?” She interpreted, not quelling the incredulous tone leaking into her words. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I—your hair mostly, I wasn’t paying attention. Now that you mention it, obviously you’re a girl.”
“Just because someone has short hair doesn’t mean they’re a boy.”
“Yes, I know that—”
“—You got long hair? You a girl, Spider-WoMan?”
Peter clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything, I just couldn’t see properly at the moment.”
“Fuckin’ men.” She muttered, looking at him.
Peter nodded slowly bypassing their conversation to something genuine, “Listen Lalia, I want to help you truly. I just, I want to make sure you are safe.”
“My dad is alive, I live with him.”
There was something off with her words an edge Peter couldn’t completely distinguish.
“There’s a pizza joint that I know, that’s searching for a new cashier, it’s near fifth so it’s usually pretty busy and pays well. Pizza in Paris, go in and ask for a job. Be persistent.” He advises, dissolving the webs over her hands “Stay away from crime, stay away from this life.”
She shakes out her wrist, there’s a slight red rash from the skin irritation from having direct contact with the solvent, Peter is still trying to find a way to revise the formula to fix that.
She turns and runs, Peter watches after her and hopes she’ll listen to him.
His schedule at fourteen is one that resembles more of a college student than a high schooler, he wakes up before the sun; can’t sleep for long anyways, there’s always a bundle of nerves that sparks his skin and leaves him awake.
He moves to a public gym, a large corporate one, he pays monthly for the membership but the necessity of it soothes the missing twenty dollars in his pocket every new month. He showers in the locker rooms, noting any new bruises or scratches gathered by that previous day's patrol. He often scrubs at his clothes beneath the harsh stream of the water and then switches into his white blazer that is still a few sizes too large despite buying it months ago.
His black slacks are still loose on his jutted hips as well, it leaves him appearing a year or so younger but there’s not much that can be done with the already sparse money he collects, thrifting is getting more expensive anyways.
He moves to his first job, early morning shifts at a jazz ‘club’ which could be more comparable to a nursing home with the elderly crowd that shuffles in to listen to the live music. It’s a small building, one with the windows blacked out and the wooden stage thinned and flattened from years of performances; what once used to be a bustling place is now a former ghost.
Old performers play instruments, mouths set in firm embouchure while each person takes the spotlight for a blessed moment, saxophone leads the pianist, which then converges towards the trumpets, all an improv song that Peter sometimes regrets that he won’t be capable of hearing again.
His job is a simple cleaning one, he works daytime and weekends nights which doesn’t merge well with Spider-Man business but the money is needed.
Besides, he gets off at twelve, so he simply patrols after that.
His co-workers is a young college student who speaks in terms that Peter grapples with understanding, while his employer is an older gentleman who used to know May, but is so offline that he never learned of her passing.
It’s a cover Peter only feels slightly guilty about using; ‘with Ben passing only a few years prior and his aunt stricken by sadness some extra dollars could help greatly.’
When he goes in this morning the college student is behind the bar, she has recently dyed her hair a warm pink with brown roots—blends easier, she told him whenever he mentioned that her roots were always darker than whatever shade she decided for her hair.
“Hey,” she greets him easily.
“Hi,” he responds, his hair is still damp but not enough to gather attention for his rather plain appearance.
“Frank called out, sick, just us two today.” She scrolls mindlessly on her phone, tilting her screen to show Peter an image of a girl who looks a bit older than him. “My friend's sister is looking for a date for her homecoming this year, just saying you guys could be each other’s. You’re going to be a senior right?”
“Uh, junior.”
The lie is easy, he moves to the cleaning closet, withdrawing the broom and begins sweeping the uneven floor.
“Seventeen?”
“Sixteen.”
“Fuck. Yeah, never mind.”
His body is tired, exhausted maybe. The sun is setting when he leaves the jazz club, he’s stayed longer today.
His journey down New York at night is one of familiarity. He used to remember the thrill of journeying by himself at the start, independence such a foreign concept until he’s given it and the freedom of it turns a dull shine.
The appeal has worn off.
Summer in the city is suffocating, the air is hot and thick with the stickiness of dreaded pollution. Humidity never fades, even in the midst of pouring rain it remains.
But, there’s an addicting appeal to the city in the summer that he can’t find it in him to mind all the negatives. The sun beats harshly but it warms everything, Central Park is filled with lounging people, laughter, a rebound and constant.
Peter walks over the narrow sidewalk, stopping at Pizza in Paris, he normally doesn’t go this way but he’s wondering.
When he enters the worker, a teenager just like him gives him an unamused glance.
“The deal isn’t happening this week.” He speaks plainly, Peter tries to stop the slight flush that twinges his ears.
“No, I just wonder if anyone applied today.”
The boy looks at him, shaking his head, “I fucking wish.”
Peter leaves, shoulders slumped a bit further down than not.
Peter lives in an abandoned building full of squatters, they’re many without any teeth, gums deteriorated a harsh black while the smell of drugs laces the place.
Peter crawls to the top floor from the outside, no one can access the spot. He has a small mattress he found from the dumpster, he didn’t realize it was infested with bedbugs when he first got it which was a tedious process to get rid of.
There’s a small pile of termite bitten but otherwise functional clothes, a window that has a blue tarp over the broken glass. A first-aid kit shoved against the wall with expired creams and disinfectants.
The floor is small, practically a single room.
Peter falls onto his bed, his stomach crumbles inwards from hunger, he had a small sandwich at work today. He lays down, thoughts wandering back to the girl.
He tried.
That’s what Peter thinks when he webs her, again, to another dumpster. She’s wearing lip gloss this time, and a new bruise is beneath her eyes.
She and that same guy were dealing some drugs, the get-away car swapped for a motorcycle. Peter webs up the guy, he’s already unconscious, and glares at the girl from beneath his mask.
“Two weeks.” He says.
Lalia’s leg bounces, her eye is nearly swollen shut from whatever caused her that injury. “That long ago?”
Peter wants to remark that it’s not that long, that he’s checked the pizza place every time that first week to see. Disappointment heavy in his stomach when he’d be met with the same response that she never came in for the job.
“I tried to help.” He says, but already the way that she’s looking at him has his stomach clenching.
“Spider-Man,” and suddenly her voice isn’t just the irritation it usually is. “Listen, I know what I am doing is wrong. But, there’s a reason.” She takes a shallow breath, “My mom has cancer and my brother is being bullied at school… I don’t have a dad.”
Peter can only blink.
He’s been called many things, naive—often, kind, smart; a fool though, not frequently. He has never felt like it more than right now.
“I thought your dog had cancer?”
She stares at him, her teeth, and Peter just notices that her front are bucked, they sink into her bottom lip. “My dog is named Mom.”
He’s almost inclined to believe her.
“You never went in for the job.”
This time she has the shame to look embarrassed. “Listen, I wanted too, really but—”
Peter stares at her and can only see her age. He curses at himself for a moment, pulling out the solvent, disbanding her webs, “Get away.” He can’t look at her, his stomach is twisting in a mix of relief and immeasurable guilt.
She stands still for a moment, before she turns tail and dashes from the narrow alley.
Peter hauls the Big Man onto the main street, moving to a payphone as he thumbs four quarters into the slot, dialing NYPD, he waits on the phone, briefly he explains the situation and leaves the man faint against the wall of the payphone webbed up to the metal.
He swears that next time he sees her it’ll be the last straw.
He doesn’t see her for a month, it’s in the heat of August when he finally does. It’s late, almost four, he doesn’t worry about what he’s doing up so late. He’s trying to escape the mental barrage that is his mind.
Spider-Man is walking down New York, he’s sweaty and hot, overheating almost.
He coincidentally stumbles over her, she’s limping, holding hands with a boy a few years younger than them both. Her head lifts when she sees Peter’s homemade suit, the meeting is a complete art in pure happenstance.
She sighs, thanking Jesus before her eyes roll to the back of her head and she collapses forwards. The boy near her is crying silently Peter realizes as he goes to catch her, her arms are damp.
When he rolls up her sleeves he sees the weeping skin of infected cigarette burns.
“Spider-Man,” the boy speaks softly, his voice is damp.
Peter can not speak, his hands tremble as he hitches her over her shoulder, he’s about to run to the hospital when the boy grips his pants. His eyes are wide and glossy, large tears spilling over, “No hospital.”
And Peter understands.
“Okay. No hospitals.”