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The empty form stared back at him. He’d been slouched over the cracked coffee table for the past hour, filling out the pointlessly extensive employee information forms, and everything had gone smoothly—the 7-Eleven on 9th Avenue hadn’t demanded much. Up until the final sheet.
Emergency contact information.
He flipped the pen between his fingers back and forth, contemplating like he was sitting in an exam, trying to recall some poorly learned information. Perhaps he could just leave it empty. Marta, the manager who had interviewed him—“shit, kid, who’d you piss off to end up here. Ha!”—had almost forgotten to even give him the forms. A rather capricious individual, mom of two teenage kids though she couldn’t be older than thirty-five, always smacking gum or fidgeting with the ‘manager’ label on her shirt like a hyperactive kid.
He was reading through it, “In case of an emergency such as injury, sudden illness, or other workplace incident….”. A conceited snort escaped his throat—he was the Spider-Man. What was going to happen to him—he’d break his ankle stacking soft drink cartons?
He closed the papers, but figured—Marta would notice the empty form more easily than if he just filled it with anything. Whatever, it wasn’t like anyone was going to read it.
Name of the emergency contact? He just put ‘Ned’, leaving out the surname on purpose.
Relation? Peter scratched his neck in thought. Roommate. At least that was their plan when they were fifteen.
Next was the phone number. Ah, that was the tricky one.
He sank back into the couch with a sigh, eyes darting around the quiet apartment as if the answer might magically materialize… until it kind of did when he noticed the suit lying on the floor, the old burner phone beside it, having accidentally slipped out of the pocket.
“Genius,” he muttered to himself, immediately writing down the prepaid SIM card number.
He’d bought the phone a month ago after an NYPD detective had asked him for help with a drug cartel down in Westchester County.
“I’ll sneak inside the evil lair—you know, like in Ocean’s Eight—and text you how many are inside.”
“You sure you’re an adult, S.M.?”
Having filled the forms, Peter impatiently straightened the papers against the table and stacked them into his backpack—officially ready for the first day of the new job. He’d spent the two days between getting the job and having to start it in that in-between euphoric state—less anxious about wasting money on coffee, food, electricity—all the luxuries of living in one of the world’s greatest cities.
7-Eleven was painfully uneventful. That probably aided a nervous system such as his, though he’d dozed off several times during night shifts. The bitter slop from the archaic, massive coffee machine couldn't keep him awake. On the bright side, the other employee whom he’d rotated shifts with was unexpectedly nice and uninquisitive about Peter’s strange habits. Joe, late forties, having served time which had narrowed the job market. Even Marta the manager rarely noticed when he was late—one time when he’d come in forty minutes into his shift, convinced it’d get him fired, Marta greeted him outside with a menthol cigarette between her fingers as usual. “Parker, there you are, I’ve been waiting for you—you have to meet my daughter Katie, she’s starting college soon. Everyone says we look like twins, don’t we? Don’t we?”
The job had consumed his time perfectly. He barely noticed the hollowness of the apartment, coming home late every night and leaving early every morning—squeezing only sleep and shower and homework into the solitude.
A twisted realization had turned up from some mean, grim place of his mind; a certain relief with the situation caused by Strange’s spell. He’d stumble into the apartment, all bruised and battered from the night, with no one sitting in the living room, sleepless with worry. No one’s face flashing with primal panic at seeing his injuries or seeing online videos of Spider-Man handling five armed criminals. Peter wasn’t responsible for anyone’s insomnia or stress ulcers or feelings. That made it easier for Spider-Man to carry responsibility for the city. Besides, it was easier to keep the Spider-Man identity a secret when there was no one to keep it from.
He was counting the register when Joe arrived fifteen minutes before the end of Peter’s shift, carrying a Tupperware and a large, steaming thermos full of fresh coffee that Peter inhaled longingly.
“I’ll take it from here. You go home, get some sleep. You look like you need it.” The older man patted him on the back, the sturdy, plump hand nearly knocking the wind out of his lungs.
Sleep, as if. He was itching to go out as Spider-Man.
“Thanks, Joe. See you later, man.”
October brought rainy days in New York, the asphalt evaporating with wet garbage and sewer runoff. However, in the heights above the miasma, the rain had left its earthly essence—a freshness that came both relaxing and energizing for Peter’s late-night patrols. In the back alley, he tore off his clothes, fishing out the costume from the backpack and shoving it on as fast as he could. Just as he was putting the mask on, the spider-sense had pierced through, sudden like a bolt of lightning. It rarely jarred him like that, narrowing his focus and his senses so precisely that he barely had space to think about anything else. He threw the backpack on the floor and put on the mask, already firing his web in the direction where his senses led.
Not far.
Through the glass door of the 7-Eleven—illuminated bright and white in the otherwise dark part of the street—some clown with a black ski mask was pointing a gun at Joe over the counter. Peter leapt in, the door swinging so hard it nearly broke the hinges.
“Is this your way of leaving a tip?”
The robber turned toward him abruptly, gun firing in Peter’s direction. He ducked in time, and the glass behind him crashed—the shrill fire piercing his eardrums.
Just as Peter prepared to fire his web at the man’s hand to disable him from using the gun any further, he’d pointed it back at Joe. Only a few inches stood between Joe’s forehead and the gun muzzle—Peter wasn’t entirely sure the web-shooter was fast enough.
“Another freaky move,” his voice was low and gruff under the ski mask, “and he dies.”
“You’re willing to kill a man over 7-Eleven? That’s some serious dedication.” Peter held his arms up in fake surrender. “I’m sure we can sort this out.” His fingers hovered over the right web shooter as he scanned it—the outdated, massive coffee machine behind the robber. The one he’d cleaned mere hours ago. “For example… You fire that bullet and I send a hundred-and-twenty pound machine your way.”
The robber’s head promptly turned toward the coffee machine in question, the split second of inattention enough time for Spider-Man to attach the web to the machine and for Joe to duck down under the counter. With the whipping sound of the web, the robber pulled the trigger.
The cigarette rack behind the counter burst apart, Joe luckily unharmed.
“I see,” Peter said. “Now I’m gonna fulfill my part of the deal.”
His arm muscles tensed, grasping the full weight of the coffee machine. The wires broke off from the wall, dragging behind it as it screeched against the floor. Colliding with the robber, the massiveness of the machine knocked him off balance from the side. Under impact, his gun flew out of his grasp and across the floor.
Peter had used a lot of force—in fact, a little too much—because the attacker was on the floor and the ridiculously gigantic coffee machine was threatening to tumble right onto him. He’d probably deserved it, Peter gathered, but he didn’t want to harm him more than he absolutely needed to. Both his hands gripped the web to regain control, as he stepped to the side instinctively.
His upper body twisted—the sharp, snappish motion coming as a surprise for his spine. Peter could swear he heard a ‘pop’ right before an awful stab-burn-throb fusion shot through his lower back. The machine fell back.
Peter froze in place, locked by the muscle spasm and fear of making another movement. He took care of the robber first by webbing his arm and leg to trap him against the floor, painfully aware of the cold sweat sticking his mask to his skin—silently cussing out his body for being so dramatic.
Joe straightened up from behind the counter, plump face pale and damp with panic. “Huh. Thank you…. Spider-Man.” He seemed both aghast at the situation and the fact Spider-Man had showed up so quickly.
“No problem.” Spider-Man’s voice came out strained.
Joe frowned. “Are you alright?”
“’Course. Police should be here…”, walking was just a tad bit painful, “… any minute now.”
He stumbled through the door, instinctively shooting his web to a building. Craving cold air and heights, he swung, despite the movement releasing more pain through his back. Once on the roof of the tallest building he’d scanned, he lifted his mask slightly to suck in a sharp breath. Adjusting into a stiff position, slightly slouched over his knees, he stared down at the street below—someone was making miserable attempts at parallel parking.
After a few minutes, when the initial back spasm unraveled slightly, he cautiously straightened up. Testing his back—twisting side to side, making a few steps—the pain slowly started to lose a little bit of sharpness. Speed-healing would surely take care of it, and he was going to be as good as new in the morning.
During the patrol, the spasm would come back each time he twisted under the wrong angle. The stiff, pulling sensation sat stubbornly somewhere deep in his spine, impossible to stretch out. Nevertheless, he’d successfully saved a cat stuck in a tree, caught a jewel thief, dealt with an ATM robbery and bought a hot-dog for a homeless man in Manhattan—only slightly regretting the last choice since he had no more money to buy himself food. Given that he had work in the morning, and the whole back situation, Peter called it a night at two a.m.
Back on 9th Avenue, he landed in the back alley—his feet hitting the floor causing his back to protest. He let out a pained yelp, leaning on the brick wall. After taking a much-needed brief pause, Peter’s hands were already working on getting him out of the suit—stopping mid-way. The backpack. He very clearly remembered having thrown it on the floor beside the dumpster, so why was he standing there staring at the floor, with no backpack in sight?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Tapping at the pockets of his suit, he felt his burner phone on him, and the heavy stomach-sinking realization had hit him—he'd left his actual phone in the backpack.
“What else could I expect,” he muttered to himself bitterly, leaning back on the wall because his back decided to shoot a spasm again.
On the swing toward the metro station, he gratefully didn’t encounter any crimes and nestled comfortably atop a train. Once in Queens, he traced his way back to the apartment, the quiet, anxious, phoneless feeling glooming over him. What was he supposed to do without his phone?
He kicked off his nightly tradition. Ibuprofen. A ton of water. Slipping in the shower and almost breaking his neck. Completely skipping the step of putting on clothes because that demanded a lot of bending and twisting and spinal work.
With much care and control of every tiny movement, he eased himself into the bed, feeling chilly only in his boxer briefs. The ibuprofen started to kick in—he was going to be so okay in the morning, ready to deal with the lost phone situation.
His breaths evened out, consciousness slipping into carefree daze.
It was dark, he noticed when he opened his left eye. That night-tired feeling lingered—it was definitely not anywhere close to morning. In the stupor, he still had yet to register why he'd even woken up. He was feeling completely alright, other than a low pressure in his abdomen—oh, right, the two bottles of water he had downed last night—he very much needed to use the bathroom. That was not so bad. It was barely an inconvenience, a tiny disturbance to his flow of sleep. So why was there a vague uneasiness within him, like his body knew that going to the bathroom might be a problem?
He swiped the blanket off his body, and then he felt it—the plain motion set off a shrill pang deep in his lower back, stealing his breath. Okay. He just needed to move around, stretch out of the sleepy stiffness his limbs were in. His body was basically a speed-healing machine—a minor muscle pull should pass easily. Even though he hadn't had a proper meal in two days with a metabolism that requires very proper meals every two hours, nor had he slept much in weeks.
He tried again, dragging his left leg across the bed. It stopped mid-way, as if there was some imaginary boundary he'd just hit. He had to face it—the mild back injury had gotten worse with sleep and he was now confined to his bed with his bladder about to burst. Very awesome situation. He tried upper body first. Propping himself on the elbows, he broke in a profuse sweat, breaths heavy with exertion. “Come on,” he muttered through gritted teeth, frustrated. Lifting a little higher, he hit that imaginary boundary his body was so stubborn on. The pain drilled him electrically—like it was alive there in his lower back, overpowering him each time he'd tried to fight it.
It angered him, mostly because it was so stupid. He'd feel a lot better if he'd gotten injured fighting some supervillain—but no, the coffee machine was the one to take him out. Beside the bed lay his costume, ridiculing him from the floor. He didn't feel like Spider-Man when he was just a loser with a prolapsed spinal disc, unable to get up to go to the bathroom.
He lowered himself back down, staring at water stain on the ceiling defeatedly. The weird night thoughts emerged. What if he never gets up again? What if he's forced to pee on himself? What if he just dies here all alone because he can't even call anyone because his stupid phone had been stolen? Then, a more productive question—what was the best thing he could do right now?
Hope for the best.
The speed-healing would have to kick in by the morning. No more moving, no bathroom, no anything. Fifteen minutes in, and if the discomfort of having to pee weren't enough, he was feeling that disgusting stiffness that came with laying in one position too long. He usually tossed and turned in bed, and now his limbs were trapped in that awful dullness. Adjusting the pillow slightly, he flipped over to the side that hurt less, and of course the angle of movement was wrong and another sharp spasm had cut through his back. He bit his lower lip so much it started bleeding. The change in position also put more pressure on his bladder, which made the whole “go back to sleep” thing very overambitious.
By some miracle, sleep came—like his body had finally agreed on temporary truce. Unfortunately, the morning never came and he awoke again about two hours in. His head felt like cotton, a slight tension headache building up from the lack of sleep. Something twisted in him thought, maybe it'd have been a lot easier if he just wet the bed in his sleep, out of his control, because he had to go—now, and if he really can't get up he'll have to do that consciously, which was even worse. He sucked in a deep breath. Here we go.
“Oh my—“ he bit his lip to suppress whatever sound wanted to come out of him, gripping the sheet like it would hold him together. “fuck—FUCK—”
His legs swung over the bed, and he was propped on one arm, other hand braced on his back. In the pause, he sucked in a few breaths—quickly realizing that stopping to take a break was pointless. It just made the pain more likely to chain him back to bed or freeze him into one position.
His feet touched the cold floor. As he started bringing himself vertical, his vision went black, stomach dangerously twisting with nausea. He ignored it—he didn't need his eyes to know where the bathroom was. Leaning his palm on the wall for support, he stood up fully, completely focused on trying not to faint or throw up. If someone saw him, they'd definitely consider this an urgent medical situation. The emptiness of the apartment had suddenly become more apparent in the agonizing haze. How could he be sure that he didn't need a hospital or some kind of intervention? Who was even in charge of knowing where the line was—who was supposed to know how much pain was enough and stop him from making it all worse?
The vision came back and he didn't faint. Good—he can faint, throw up, die, whatever—he can do it all after he's done with the bathroom. His bladder was stretched out thin, the discomfort in his abdomen blending with the backache.
Walking was too hard. Peter looked up, hopeful that the ceiling had more mercy than the floor. He stuck to the wall, crawling up and on the ceiling. He began the journey—arm and opposite leg forward, repeat—grateful that it was easier on his back than walking.
The grimy, hot-but-also-cold sickly feeling pricked under his skin when he reached the bathroom. He could feel curls plastering to his forehead with sweat, heart thumping in his ears.
The bathroom light angrily came on when he slapped the switch, giving a sense of normalcy to the feverish, middle-of-the night notion. He crawled half-way across the bathroom towards the toilet, impatient. Instead of hopping down, he placed his foot on the wall and pushed himself down onto the floor. With no energy to take another step, he let his body fall forwards, the wall catching him. With his head leaned on his elbow, back slouched, he finally—finally let his body do what it needed to do.
It was probably the longest time anyone has spent peeing in the history of peeing, and standing for that long a time had become torture. “Fuck. My god,” he whispered, hand tight against his lower back. He swallowed thickly, feeling a new physiological need arising deep in his stomach—pain had become an official drama queen. He was going to be sick.
On his knees as fast as he could, he heaved into the toilet. He let it all out, trying to control the contractions of his inner organs; each new cramp sent stabs through his spine. After throwing up, he hardly felt any better. There wasn't even that temporary relief after being sick. His head fell forwards, forehead hitting his elbow resting on the toilet seat. His eyes had started to burn as he was throwing up, but now the tears simply continued out of pure misery. He had no energy to stop them—in a silly way he thought crying would be the line, the proof that it was serious, and if he didn't cry, it'd still mean that he was okay. No use—his throat was tight and face heating, each new breath breaking apart harder than the last. The whole sobbing dynamics was too hard on his back, so he let the tears stream down silently.
He hadn't eaten properly in two days. He had been sleeping less than five hours a night for weeks. Of course the healing factor had taken a sabbatical. And he wasn't sixteen. He had turned twenty-two a while ago and his back had decided he had become an adult, even if his prefrontal cortex was lagging behind. That sort of thing would leave anyone crying slumped over a toilet seat.
He might've fallen asleep. Passed out. He just knew, by the time the little old clock on the shelf showed seven a.m., his brain was all fuzzy and somehow both full and empty. He would normally be out of the apartment at this time—drinking coffee and eating a granola bar instead of real breakfast—rushing to commute.
The pain had subdued by a tiny bit, only allowing him to stand up. Inch by inch, he faced himself in the mirror, both hands gripping the sink. After freshening up, he made the journey back to bed—across the ceiling, knees flexing minimally, hips braced to keep the movement as neutral as possible.
He'd actually fallen asleep. Body surrendered, pain finally giving up on the strict regime and letting him actually toss a few times. When he opened his eyes—room so bright it blinded him—he found his heart thundering in his chest like he'd just been startled by some nightmare. Semi-conscious, he heard what had woken him. An obnoxious, repetitive ringtone somewhere close to him, like a 70s telephone distorted by a cheap speaker.
It took him a moment. The burner phone, of course, adamant on bursting his eardrums in the pocket of his suit.
The caller gave up, unwilling to wait for Peter to get out of bed. He bent over, slow and careful to keep control of the clenching cramps holding his body. He fumbled with the suit on the floor, searching for the tiny, hard object. Who would even call him right now? He'd only given the number to the NYPD detective and some firefighters last week in Manhattan—they promised they wouldn't call Spider-Man unless absolutely necessary.
The phone appeared in his grasp, little ′Missed Call, Unknown Caller ID' written in red letters. He called them back. It rang once, twice, and then a weirdly familiar voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hello, I have a missed call from this number,” his voice came out rough.
“Oh! This is Marta Kaplan from 7-Eleven. Are you….” she paused, dragging the ′you' as if she was reading off of something, “…Ned? Mister Parker's emergency contact?”
Peter blinked a few times, his mind slowly circling back to the memory of filling out the emergency contact form.
“Yes. Yes, I am his, uh, roommate. Ned.”
“Okay Ned,” Marta chirped. He imagined her on the other end—checking out her nails casually, leaned deep into her office chair. “Well, Peter hasn't come in this morning and he was scheduled for a morning shift.” Peter briefly checked the time on the tiny screen, it was 3 pm. “Yesterday there was a… major incident at the store. Armed robbery, even Spider-Man showed up, can ya believe that? What was I saying—Parker, yeah, did he come home last night? Is he alright?” Peter suppressed a laugh once he imagined Marta being called in after the robbery and having to deal with the police, the snake tattoo on her neck jolting as she spoke. “will the insurance cover it? Thank God, we needed a new coffee machine anyway. What time is it? Damn, I need to drive my daughter to a spa appointment. Can we postpone this?”
“Oh,” Peter exhaled, “yes, he came home and he's uh, very ill. Can't get out of bed.”
“Ill? Does he know he's supposed to call in sick?” Her voice had gained a hint of irritation.
“Uh—” Peter started.
“I'm just kidding!” She exploded into laughter on the other end. “I know he couldn't call in. Someone found his backpack in the alley and luckily brought it here right after the incident. Had his ID in there, his phone and all! Your roommate is one lucky guy. Anyone could've stolen his stuff!” Peter's eyes widened, the unexpected wave of happiness washing over him. “Can I speak with him?”
“No, sorry,” his throat was tight again just like last night, and he was stupidly close to crying again, this time out of relief. “I'm at work and he's home right now.”
Marta's voice went judgemental. “He is alone?”
Peter frowned. “Yeah.”
“So he's bedridden and without a phone and you left him alone. Is he a bad roommate or somethin'? If he's really bedridden, we can send someone over—”
“Parker is a great roommate,” he cut in defensively. Then, he sighed. “No need to send anyone. Parker is in good hands. He has all the help he needs.”