Chapter Text
Peter sat in a public library in New York, fixing up his suit after a fight earlier in the day that he just barely managed to scrape his way through.
He was tucked and practically hidden in a corner that overlooked the street. One look out there and he could sense the cold: it being evening in winter, the sky gradually darkening, coupled with worrying white snow steadily falling from the sky.
It had been a drawn-on, already frosty, draining day that he couldn't wait to finish-and although the library was quiet, he couldn't wait to leave. He thought it was a bit boring at this point, considering he had studied for a few hours before this with nothing else to do.
It feels like forever ago Peter was last here.
He remembers alot from his old life, from going to this library with Ned after school.
Specifically studying together or more likely or laughing about something stupid and messing about like they wanted to. The time would fly in an instant as if the work was easy, as if there was nothing in the world that could hurt them.
Even as Spider-Man, he never felt in danger for himself (or Ned for that matter) because as long as they were together everything would be fine, they could do whatever they wanted.
Having a friend could really benefit Peter now; he's had the worst luck at college and although his friends-if he could even call them that at this point-are relatively nearby to where he usually goes, they had barely conversed, let alone hit it off.
A friend could help him in this difficult stage of life, his loss of joy and motivation for quite literally everthing.
Peter wants to just go outside somewhere where he will have one person to talk to that will listen and not ignore him or fight him. A friendly face that will just care.
He was never sad about being the not so popular geeky kid growing up: he had his few people who he loved and that was all he needed.
Comparatively, what he craves to do now is to put himelf out there so that this phase of what he can only describe as depression can go away.
And he really, really hopes it's just a phase.
Peter's life has been a bit shit recently: everyone hating him, forgetting him and some of his closest family dying. Tony among the ones he'd lost, his mentor and the man that he looked up to for so long.
The only thing he could really do to honor him, to remember him, would be to make him proud. Do what he would to try and be better, for the better.
Peter continues to keep at it, still goes on patrol every night and even spends extra time at the weekends going to new areas (which has become so much easier with no one wondering about his whereabouts). Peter puts most of his effort into his studies and doesn't waste time anymore. Doesn't let things get in his way. He's almost at the top of his class and is using his school as an outlet to help with his vigilante duities.
Improved web shooters, a completely new suit, new fans, no hatred to his vigilante alter ego. So everything he needed to to feel good about himself, in theory.
So what if he doesnt have a milion dollar suit or special AI assistant to help him? He never said he has to be exactly like Tony Stark, the people also obviously can't know he's not as well equipped as he'd like.
Peter just has to worry about fixing up the suit more, just like he's doing now and worrying about money. His latest struggles have been keeping warm, keeping hidden and sleeping somewhere safe when he actually has a chance to rest.
He missed the last payment of his rent so his landlord kicked him out, barely giving him ample time to grab all his things because he kept threatening to call the cops for some reason.
Now, three months later, Peter is dangerously low on savings and is barely scraping by with what little his job pays him.
Last night, he slept near his old apartment in queens, finding a relatively calm-seeming alley just a few blocks away and getting a few hours in before clocking in at work at the crack of dawn.
He could fully see the snow steadily falling outside, icy clumps settling on the sidewalk and he could already tell it wasgoing to be a hard night.
The alley would not suffice, he would probably freze to death considering his powers have somehow made him constantly cold.
Spiders are cold blooded, right? He didn’t think New York became that cold already.
A few years ago, he would have spent most of his time at school. He would have breezed through the day and then brought Ned with him to the park to go sledding. Aunt May would have ordered them some food and he could have slept with the heating on, warm and safe.
Nothing sounded better at that moment than being in his childhood room, he would do absolutely anything to have that back. Even for just for a little while.
Then again, as he looks down at the suit, he remembers why he can't do that, why he can't even let himself daydream or think of a better life. How that would be selfish.
The red and blue, a symbol of hope, of responsibiltity-how his Aunt had left him with that. These powers gave him the opportunity to do something good and to help people, and he had to take it.
Everlasting responsibility or the immense guilt of not taking it were his only two options and it's not like these parasitic enhancements can go ignored or flat out go away.
The stitching on the suit is coming together more with every careful stitch; yes, it will always come lose, always need to be repaired but this was for the greater good. There's no time to fully repair it, he has to keep moving, keep saving people, and ultimately keep distracting himself.
⎈⎈
As it turned out, time really did get away from him and the library would in fact be closing in 10 minutes. He couldn't fix the suit fully and he would have to go to sleep and fix it tomorrow when it opened up again instead of keeping warm and helping people like he should be.
Peter picked the small amount of belongings he had scattered on the table into his backpack and made his way to the door.
It was fully dark out now, the snow pooling around his ankles where it wasn't yet cleared. He mosied around Manhatten for a short amount of time before finding a small street corner with a store, an illumimated sign at the front saying open and notably quiet surroundings.
Peter knew he could deal with a night out here, if his body decided it could brave the cold for once.
He pulled his tattered, brown wallet out of his pocket, stepping into the store. From the cash he could scrounge up, there was only eleven dollars but he needed at least five, maybe ten for a new sewing kit and some fabric.
It would be fine. He wasn't that hungry anyways.
Coffee would have to do-it would probably taste terrible (for that reason cheap) and would warm him up just enough to be able to sleep if he got it decaf.
After griping the paper cup in his hands and getting his change, he set up what would have to be his bed in a small corner by the store that he made sure was outside of the guy at the counter's eyeline.
Obviously, the blanket and relatively thin clothes wouldn't do that much in the middle of winter, however using the only things he could find to put a layer between him and the floor and was a good start.
The heat from the bodega wasn't even reaching him like he thought and the snow was falling heavier and heavier by the second.
Peter merely watched the people go by and distracted himself to draw his mind away from the fact his body temperature was dropping rapidly, his head lowering and eyes threatening to close at every second from what he can only hope is sleep-deprivation.
After about half an hour, the coffee was fully drained, with the empty cup that had grown cold a while ago. Less and less people wandered down the streets and the snow gathered more at his feet.
Peter wondered if it had been a longer or shorter amount of time based on how everything winded down slowly or zoomed past him like one of the fast, almost-blurry taxis on the road.
The coldness very cruelly only seemed to increase, up to the point he didn't think he could deal with it anymore. Peter could barely feel his fingers, let alone move them, his hair was speckled with snowflakes and his body was beyond freezing.
All the people on the street looked so warm, so happy, so carefree. Most were content to ignore him, but that was fine-he could deal with it.
One or two spared him sympathetic glances but went on their way. If only he was in their place now, he would be able to rest, his head wouldn't be swimming and swirling about with nothing but coldness and longing.
Even if he could live in another cheap run-down apartments on the skyline, that would be fine. Anything would be better than this.
The Avengers Tower: that sure would be nice. Mr Stark probably had an insane heating system in there and he could bet whoever was in there now had somewhere nice to sleep.
With a team like that, in a place like that, he would never be cold. Here, all there was to feel was cold.
Time swept away again. The nightlife was already quiet in this area; winter made it so that only this bodega was visited.
More people walked by, a man among them. Why did he recognise him?
He looked at him, he barely looked back. He looked strong, wearing all black, blue eyes and straight hair that just brushed his shoulders.
The man stepped (or should he say power-walked) into the store, leaving Peter wondering if he was going crazy. The guy obviously wouldn't remember him even if Peter remembered who he was or where he knew him from.
He could narrow it down to someone he'd fought before. The arm looked weird though, metal?
Suddenly it came to him, so obvious now that it must be Bucky. He lives in the watchtower now-this place is not far from home then-the New Avengers there with him.
He had never really thought if Bucky missed the old Avengers, Peter knew him and Steve went way back and Sam and him went on missions together, where from what littlefootage he saw on the news he noticed that they looked pretty comfortable and safe, happy near one another.
He supposes Bucky was never really apart of them,never had time to assimilate properly and only fought with or against them in less than favourable situations.
Bucky was coming out of the store now, his mind was physically blurring now, he could barely tell it was him. Even the warmth of him walking past was comforting to him, wait, was that him staying?
Yes, Bucky leaned down and crouched next to him, picking items out of a bag and placing them on the sidewalk. Peter thinks he hears Bucky say hi to him, giving him those things to help him, some food maybe.
Bucky's being so nice, and he really needs that food. For one time since this stupid spell, he could actually be glad of the fact someone doesn't remember him.
Peter looked up with all the energy he had and stammered his way through a thank you. That was the least he could do.
One word pulled him out of all of his reverie, his weird disoriented state, his cold-induced confusion.
The confusion that would now be replaced with an odd look in Bucky's directon, a disbelief on both parts.
''Peter?'' Bucky asked, looking closer in his direction, like his brain is as frazzled as Peter's is. Blue eyes exceedingly, simultaneously concerened and dazed.