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Chapter Text

When Peter is a boy, he befriends a cat that visits the alley behind his house.

It’s an ugly beast, scarred and scruffy and mean, with one eye that never stops watering. But it passes by frequently enough that Peter learns its habits, and he waits for it with a small bowl of tuna, stolen from the kitchen. It doesn’t come near him. It hisses angrily from a spot near the dumpster, and glares at him through its watery yellow eye. But Peter is a mature seven-year-old, and he knows that sometimes you have to be patient if you want animals to like you. You have to let them warm up to you; you can’t rush them. He just knows that this is the start of a long and beautiful friendship, with a cat who will play with him, and greet him at the door when he comes home from school, and curl up on his lap and purr. Peter plans everything out, from the cat’s name (“Gadget”, after his favorite cartoon, Inspector Gadget), to where he’s going to put its food dish (in the little room right when you come in through the backdoor, where his uncle always puts his coat when he comes in). Yes, he has to wait. Gadget will come to him when he’s ready. Peter waits patiently for a whole five minutes, before, seeing that the cat is still in the exact same place with the exact same look of hatred on its furry face, he begins to creep forward with the bowl of food outstretched. He continues to creep, even as his soon-to-be best friend begins to make a funny sound like the back door when it hasn’t been oiled in a while, and as his ears get progressively flatter. He just knows the cat will be delighted when he realizes Peter is bringing him such a kind gift of food.

Peter leaves the encounter with three deep gouges along his hand.

He never shows his aunt, afraid she’ll scold him for stealing the tuna just to feed an old alley cat, and the gouges become three pink scars.

The three pink scars fade to white, and he has just turned fifteen years old, with a camera in his hand and a youthful yearning to save the world. He studies hard, ready to use his mental prowess. He’s going to cure cancer, solve the energy crisis, design a web of brilliant ideas to catch every falling person he can.

A spider lands on his shoulder, and the scars on his hand disappear.

Suddenly he can do more, and it’s incredible.

He’s fast, and strong, and he can climb up and see the city from the tops of the tallest apartment buildings. He likes to watch the sunrises, even if it means cutting into a sleep schedule already butchered by school and work. His mind is no less sharp, and he has a job at one of the top ranked STEM companies in the whole city at only fifteen. He is studying genetic techniques associated with swift regeneration in lizards. If applied to humans, it could save so many lives. He is happy.

His uncle falls dead in an alley, and there is blood on his hands and his heart feels like a whole new set of claws have ripped through it. It is his fault, he knows. He is screaming, and the man with the gun is running, and his shirt is turning red and his uncle’s face pale. He should have stopped this, he is powerful, he is smart, he should have stopped the bullet before it reached his uncle, should never have left the house angry and let his uncle follow him like that. Sirens shriek. He is in the hospital. A doctor is speaking, telling them she is sorry, and his aunt is sobbing into her hands, a horrible wail that echoes in his mind as loudly as the sound of the gun.

No one should have to go through this.

It is only a week later that he puts a ski-mask on, and slips out his window. His aunt’s face is pale, and reminds him too much of his uncle. They’d started to look alike, in that way couples who’ve been together for a lifetime do. Her paleness disturbs him, takes him back to his uncle’s side. He is full of a nervous energy, muscles tight as coiled wire, and he takes to the rooftops. The city sounds much louder to him now. It takes him no more than thirty minutes to hear a scream. He follows it to an alley two blocks away, where a woman and a young boy are cowering before a mugger in another ski mask. Peter’s spidey-senses draw his attention to the gun in the mugger’s hand, and it occurs to him that perhaps this was a crappy decision. His heart is pounding, thrumming in his ears. His hands are shaking, and he’s finding it hard to take a breath as all he can think is gun. The mugger turns to face him, he’s shouting something. The man begins to raise the gun, the woman shields her son behind her, and that’s enough to push through the panic. Peter is faster than the mugger. He reaches out, grabbing the man’s wrist as he kicks his legs out from beneath him, striking the back of his knees. The gun clatters to the ground, and the man follows a moment later. Peter takes a great, gasping breath, the sight of the gun on the ground like a weight off his chest.

A purse smacks him right in the face.

The woman grabs her son as Peter staggers back, giving him one last terrified glance before fleeing the alley and leaving him alone with the would-be mugger. Peter decides her idea is a good one, and launches himself up the wall as the other masked man climbs to his feet. He makes it three buildings over, half running and half stumbling before collapsing against the side of a chimney. He breathes deeply, trying to calm his stomach, which still feels like it’s trying to climb out of his throat. This was not as smooth as he thought it would be, and in all honesty, he’s not sure how he’s going to convince his wobbly legs to take him home. He sits for around ten minutes on that roof, calming himself down. Then he curses, fumbling to pull his phone out of his pocket.

I’m such an idiot.

He dials 911, still breathing carefully as he does.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Hi, um, there’s a mugger? Someone should, ah, really arrest him”, he stammers out.

“Okay, sir, can you tell me your location?”

He mentally curses himself again. “Uh, a couple blocks off of 182nd Street? Two blocks. Two blocks North of 182nd Street. Yeah.”

“Okay, sir, an officer is being dispatched to your location. Is there anythi-” He hangs up the phone. That was waay too much talking for his comfort at the moment. It’s quiet time now.

He’s pissed it didn’t occur to him to call this in earlier. The guy’s probably long gone by now, it’s not like Peter did anything to really keep him in place. If Peter could just stop screwing simple things up, that would be really nice. At least this mistake didn’t cost anyone their lives.

Yeah, no one died this time. The woman and her son made it out unscathed. That boy doesn’t have to feel what Peter had to feel. He breathes easier. Then he pokes his bruised nose, wincing as he makes sure it’s not broken.

And he starts a checklist for the next time around:

#1: Don’t be wearing the same thing as the guys you’re fighting.

#2: Figure out a way to keep the bad guys in the same place until the police arrive. Also, call the police.

He hears sirens in the distance, coming in his direction. He stands up shakily, and groans when he realizes what a long walk home he’s got.

#3: Find a faster way around the damn city.

As it turns out, #2 and #3 have the same solution. And it’s literally a solution. A couple pretty common chemicals, which while they dissolve too quickly to make the surgical glue his lab is trying to formulate, make something very similar to spiderweb. It’s really not hard to make, one of the ingredients is basically Elmer’s glue, with a few other simple chemicals mixed in. A thin strand will dissolve in just a few minutes, though, which frustrates the hell out of the other scientists. They start to design a new formula.

Peter starts to build canisters.

He stays late at the lab every night to work, and on nights he has off, he heads straight to the library after school and begins to sketch designs in red and blue fabric.
He avoids going home. He’s so busy carefully not looking at his aunt, he doesn’t see the thinness to her face.

But he hears her cough, when it starts. He feels awful, once he pays closer attention to her. It still disturbs him to be near her, the guilt and familiarity eating away at him. But she is the only family he has left, and he cannot cut her off for what she cannot control. He brings her chicken soup in bed, and chases her off from various chores and errands by insisting that she should be resting. He makes an effort to spend time with her, telling her stories about school and what he’s doing at the lab. She is always proud, even if she doesn’t fully understand what he’s working on. It gets easier for him. He can look her in the face, and talk freely again with the woman who raised him.
But her eyes stay a little duller than they should be, and her cough gets worse. He finally persuades her to see a doctor, and the doctor diagnoses her with pneumonia. They prescribe her antibiotics, and nothing changes.

She is in the hospital for about three weeks when Peter quits his job at the lab. He’d so recently been using it to try and avoid his aunt, but now he resents it eating into the time he has with her.

The idea of her dying makes something in his chest grow cold and heavy, so he doesn’t let himself think about it. He keeps her bedside table stocked with flowers. They make her smile, brighten the sterile hospital room. Her cough worsens, even as she smiles at him.

Two weeks later, a doctor is speaking, telling him she is sorry. The cold thing in his chest threatens to crush his lungs. He clutches the daisies he was bringing to her room.

He slips out of the sterile building, and no one stops him. He heads straight home. He has to move, and this is good, because he cannot sit still right now, cannot wait for social workers and the messiness that comes when you are only fifteen and your entire family is dead. He heads straight for his house, and he packs a bag. He undresses, putting on the finished suit he spent so long sewing, sans mask. He dresses with his bulkier clothes over it, and folds the mask and as many of his clothes as he can into an old hiking backpack he finds in the storage closet. His breathing is harsh, and he doesn’t let himself think beyond gathering what he needs. He tucks in a couple science books, heavy as they may be. A first aid kit, greatly expanded in recent months, is wrapped in a sweater. His camera. He takes the emergency money from the old cookie jar in the kitchen and puts it in his wallet. Peter is certain this qualifies as an emergency. Fifty-two bucks won’t do much, but hopefully it’ll keep him fed for a bit. He slips his webshooters onto his wrist, spare canisters of fluid into a side pocket. He packs in empty space with less essential items. A sketchbook, a couple bottles of water, Uncle Ben’s old swiss army knife, a book of photographs he’s especially proud of. So on.

He secures his camera in its bag around his neck, shoulders the backpack, and slips out into the alley behind the house. He locks the door behind him, dropping the spare key from atop the door frame into his pocket. He doesn’t consider the idea that he may not need to use it again, he lets his muscles follow their own instincts. It’s early morning, perhaps four-thirty or five. His breath puffs out in pale clouds ahead of him as he moves down the quiet streets. He travels for maybe thirty minutes, barely aware of anything beyond his own steps.

The sky is changing colors, just beginning to take on a pale pink hue as he reaches a favorite hangout of his: a partially constructed skyscraper, all scaffolding and loose plastic and small nooks and crannies high above everything else. He climbs faster than he normally would, his heart pumping and his muscles aching by the time he reaches the upper levels and settles on a plywood platform. His bag thunks against the wood. He drops down heavily next to it and pulls his knees up to his chest, tugging his jacket tighter around his lean frame. He rests his chin on his knees and stares listlessly at the golden sliver of sun peaking over the horizon. Early morning sunlight creeps its way down the framework of the skyscraper, creating sharp lines and contrast on every edge and corner. Part of him appreciates it, wants his camera in hand. He doesn’t reach for it.

It’s for the best. He’d never be able to look at that image with joy.

He stays at his perch for a long time, as the sun spreads around him.

For the first time, he lets himself cry.

Chapter Text

When Peter wakes up, the first thing he notices is that some asshole threw a fast food wrapper on him in the middle of the night.

He rubs grit from his eyes and blinks at the paper hamburger wrapper stuck to the heavy jacket he’s draped over himself. He plucks it up gingerly, grimacing at the now mostly dried smear of ketchup on his makeshift blanket.

C’mon dude, a guy’s sleeping on a park bench in October, you really think he’s got money for laundry?

He crumples the paper, and tosses it into the trash can that sits literally ten feet away. God, New Yorkers can be lazy when they want to be.

There’s a rustle from the tree above his head.

“Nice shot!”

Peter is ripping off his coat and launching himself from the bench in an instant, because fuck that this is totally how homeless kids get murdered.

Actually, come to think of it, in all the crime he’s witnessed, he’s never seen a murderer drop out of a tree, but there’s a first for everything.

A scruffy blonde head pokes out of the lower branches to peer at him, with roughly the look one would expect from someone who appears to have slept in a tree.

“Hey, woah, sorry kid, didn’t mean to startle you! Glad you’re finally awake, I didn’t want to wake you up climbing down.”

He shifts about in the leaves, and then slides smoothly to the ground with surprising grace.

He’s wearing a purple shirt with a picture of a target, with a clump of arrows stuck in the center ring. It reads “My idea of group therapy” in white lettering.

He stretches his arms up with a huge yawn, rolls his shoulders, and blinks at Peter like he just slid out of bed.

Peter stares back.

As someone who’s slept in a tree once or twice to avoid being harassed by police or New York creeps, Peter is quite sure the guy has no business at all looking that comfortable.

The stranger turns, mussing his already unbrushed looking hair as he goes, and spots Peter’s jacket, half in the dirt where Peter had dropped it. He picks it up, brushing some leaves and dust off. He wrinkles his nose as he spots the ketchup smear.

“Yeah, sorry about that too. I wasn’t trying to drop it on you, I swear, it just kinda slipped and I didn’t really feel like getting punched for looming over a stranger in an accidentally-creepy manner trying to get it off of you.”

He holds it out and takes a step towards Peter.

Peter instinctively scuttles back five.

The blond freezes, jacket still outstretched.

They both study each other warily.

The stranger finally pulls back, putting his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Hey, hey, everything’s okay. I’m just gonna...put this back over here, I guess.”

He sets the jacket carefully back on the bench. He glances over at Peter, gauging his reaction. He runs his hand through his hair again, shuffling back, putting a few more feet of distance between the two of them.

He gestures at the tree.

“I swear I didn’t, like, climb up there to murder you or anything. I was just up there eating dinner, and you came and got all comfy on the bench, and I figured it was easiest to just hang there for the night. Honestly, super sorry for the wrapper and freaking you out, that was probably not the best way to start your morning.”

He gives an awkward little wave.

“I’m just gonna...go off and...let you do whatever. Hey, stay warm out here kid, storm’s supposed to be coming through this week.”

Tree guy turns and walks off before Peter has to decide how to react.

With weirdos like that, of course New York City is going to be supervillain capitol.

Peter waits a full minute, watching the weirdo head off across the park, before he finally moves to grab the jacket off the bench. He scoops it up, and promptly bolts down the jogging path, in the opposite direction of the stranger. Peter’s spidey-sense didn’t tell him the guy was a threat, but still. Better not to take any chances. He heads back into the city itself, weaving between buildings and taking side streets. Finally, he makes his way up the side of an apartment building, taking the Western wall, where everything is still in shadow.

He then spends about the next twenty minutes sitting on the roof, combing carefully over every inch of the jacket, checking for bugs or trackers. It’s probably overkill, he knows, but he’ll be damned if after everything he’s lived through he dies because some supervillain’s henchman stuck a tracker to his jacket. Satisfied, he heads back down the wall.

He walks.

It’s still cold out, and not many people are around. He puts the jacket back on, scraping at the ketchup clumped on it. You know, the jacket really is almost the same color as a hamburger, and with the ketchup on it the resemblance is striking…

Huh.

How long’s it been since he’s eaten?

Too long, apparently, and his stomach agrees, grumbling.

He makes a left, a destination settling in mind. There’s a lovely little taco stand down this way, and the owner’s been happy to give him the occasional free taco since he saved her stand from getting smashed by a thrown car a few months back. He pulls his mask out of his jacket pocket, unravels it and slips it on. It does almost nothing to cut the bite from the chilly air, but it soothes his paranoia a bit. He always feels more relaxed in his mask. Odd, seeing as it makes him a big red target for anyone feeling evil that day, but it feels good to not be Peter Parker for the moment. His back straightens as he walks, his stride lengthens slightly, and he moves with more confidence down the street.

Mrs. Perez spots him almost as soon as he turns the corner, waving broadly and smiling.

He waves back, breaking into a slow jog.

“Heeyyy, Mrs. P! How’s it cooking?”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles fondly. “You know damn well the only time my cooking is anything less than magnificent is when I’ve got you and your obnoxious friends crashing about my street. And even then, it’s still better than anything you’ll get at one of the other stands.” She leans over conspiratorially. “You hear about Sal’s stand? Failed inspection a couple days ago, he lost his permit!” She grins smugly.

Peter gives a dramatic gasp, putting his hand to his heart in shock. “What, you’re telling me the inspector didn’t find his lack of gloves and complete sanitary lack of care to be quaint and charming? I’m shocked.”

She bursts into laughter, shaking her head as she turns back to her stand to prod at the meat. “Ah, little spider, I’m glad to see you. I worry about you, you know. You’re too skinny and you pick too many fights.” She gestures with her spoon.

“Aw, don’t worry about me, Mrs. Perez. I’m pretty tough.”

“Hm. Well, tough guy, you want a taco? First batch of the morning, nice and hot!”

“Mrs. P, have I mentioned lately that I love you?”

“Yes, yes, act like you hang around for any reason other than my food. Scavenger.” She ladles ground beef into a shell.

“Oh no, Mrs. P, really, you are the entire reason I fight crime. The best human being in all of New York. And that’s including that old guy who walks around in Prospect Park in his bathrobe and names all the birds.”

She hands him his taco, smiling at his grateful whine. He takes it reverently, raising his mask slightly and lifting it to his mouth.

“Oh, my god, this is easily the best taco you have eve-”

An explosion cracks through the air, so loudly several of the windows on the building next to him shatter.

They both duck instinctively, raising their hands to shield themselves from the shower of glass. Screams ring from around them as early morning commuters bolt, or climb out of their cars to stare.

Raising his head, Peter can see a plume of smoke rising from a building two blocks over.

He turns to Mrs. Perez, who’s holding her hand up to a bleeding cut on her cheek.

“Are you okay?”

She nods quickly, already pulling napkins out of her stand to staunch the flow. “Go, go, I’ll be fine. Go save some lives.”

He pulls his mask back down over his mouth. He sighs deeply, as he gently places his taco back on the counter. Damn it.

“Put some neosporin on that cut, Mrs. P! Infections suck ass,” he calls as he darts away.

He takes an extra alley on his way, where he’s got a spot for supplies at the top of an abandoned fire escape. He tucks his clothes in the waterproof bag he’s got stashed, changing quickly into the rest of his costume.

God, he’s really gotta find a way to make this costume warmer, he’s frickin’ freezing.

His webshooters are already on his wrists, and he swings the rest of the way to the fire.

The building is some sort of warehouse, big and blank and unimpressive but for the smoke streaming from the upper windows. He can’t hear any people yet, no screams or coughing, only a crackle of flames.

Peter finds a side door unlocked, and slips inside.