Chapter Text
The afternoon sun cast dark shadows over the streets of Astoria, a neighbourhood adjacent to queens, as Peter trudged along the sidewalk with the usual New Yorker’s hurried steps. The empty pizza delivery bag slung over his shoulder, kept bouncing with every step.
His shift at Uncle Joe's Pizza had been particularly hard that day, with twelve deliveries in three hours, the poor old granny that had gotten her purse stolen in the middle of his shift and the three different deliveries he had to make to the eight, twentieth and twelve floors with broken elevators- it was to say that all of these afters didn’t help peter stay in the pizzeria’s thirty minutes delivery promise for all these deliveries.
For a normal delivery guy, it would have been exhausting. For Peter, its wasn’t much different, if less physically draining.
At least that’s what he wanted to believe, pointedly ignoring his growling stomach and the perceptually empty fridge back at his flat.
But he needed the money.
Ever since that incident with the doctor's spell, the two peters, losing his friends and Aunt May- Peter knew his financial and social situation were dire. He was alone now, truly alone, with no support system to fall back on and bills that kept. Piling. Up. The ridiculously small pay and tips from delivering pizzas barely covered his rent, let alone utilities and food for an enhanced superhero.
He was hungry.
Like constantly hungry.
And when he wasn't hungry, he was tired from all the patrolling he still did at night, because despite everything, despite losing everyone, he was still Spider-Man.
And as Aunt May said, with great power comes great responsibility.
These words haunted him every passing hour.
Peter stopped at the crosswalk, waiting to cross the street, a short old woman with what looked to be a heavy bag of groceries stopped next to him.
"Excuse me ma'am, need a hand?" Peter asked with a smile, adjusting his delivery cap and instinctively reaching toward the grocery bag. Despite his exhaustion, helping others was second nature to him, as Spider-Man and not.
The woman peered up at him through her thick-framed glasses, her weathered face instantly cracking into a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Listen, sweetie," she replied with a thick New York accent, her voice raspy from years of smog and smoking, "I've been carryin' groceries since before you were born. Been managin' just fine for seventy-six years without fallin' over dead yet."
Then her expression softened slightly. "But since you're offerin' and my arthritis is actin' up somethin' fierce today... I suppose you can take the bag. My apartment's just down the block - 4B." She thrust the heavy bag toward Peter without waiting for confirmation. "Just don't expect a tip. I'm on a fixed income."
Peter huffed, "Don't worry ma'am, I just like helping people." He took the grocery bag, surprised by its weight. "Lead the way," he added with a genuine smile, falling into step beside her.
He walked behind her, every step heavier than he was used to, maybe Peter needed a nap. And look at that the old woman was right, it her appartement building wasn’t far at all, just a hundred yards.
“Thank you, Sweetie,” she smiled up at him, eyes squinted behind her thick glasses, after he stopped next to the glass door, “I can take it up from here. There’s an elevator in my building, god bless the person who insisted on it’s addition a few years back.” She extended her hand for the bag and Peter carefully transferred the groceries to her weathered fingers. "You're a good boy," she nodded approvingly. "Not many young people would stop to help these days."
“Argh, you know what?” she exclaimed after passing the door sill, the heavy thing still held by Peter, “An old woman can admit when something good happened to her, you stay right here,” She said in her reedy voice.
“Ah?” The door shut after peter let it go, “Alright, I’ll, stay here, right here- right here.” he said looking down at his feet.
Seconds passed, then minutes, Peter leaned against the wall. around minute five he started to worry, focusing on his hearing, he heard a ding then automatic doors opening.
Peter pushed himself off the wall just as the old lady opened the door.
“Here deary,” she said holding out a maroon paper bag, “It’s not much, but my grand-kids love it, have a good rest of the afternoon youn’ man.”
Peter’s cheeks ached, “Thank you ma’am.”
"Now, sweetie," she said, her wrinkled hand patting his arm gently as concern filled her faded blue eyes, "I suggest you go back home and get some rest. Those eye-bags under your eyes are growing darker by the second. A young man like you shouldn't look so worn down." Her voice carried that particular blend of good old New York bluntness and grandmotherly worry that only lifetime residents seemed to have.
It reminded him of Aunt May.
Peter thanked the woman again, the world seeming just the tiniest bit dimmer, watching her shuffle back inside as the door clicked shut behind her. He glanced down at the paper bag in his hands, his stomach giving another insistent growl. Opening it, he found two homemade chocolate chip cookies wrapped in wax paper, still slightly soft to the touch.
Peter took one out of the bag and ate it in three bites, “hmmm, oh yeah, hit’s just right. I should help more old ladies with their grosseries.”
As he licked the crumbs of the second cookie off his fingers, a concussive boom suddenly shattered the quiet afternoon. Peter's head snapped up, his senses immediately on high alert.
Not two blocks away, black smoke rose into the sky as screams pierced the air. Without thinking, he stuffed the empty paper bag into his pocket and sprinted toward the chaos, his delivery cap still perched on his head.
Peter ran, ran at a speed he knew wouldn’t injure anyone if he ran into them, a speed that wouldn’t make anyone suspect him of being Spider-man. He ran as he saw good old New Yonkers resume their slightly too hurried to be normal walk towards the place they were heading, deliberately ignoring the incident.
When he arrived at the place where the explosion occurred, he let himself have a few seconds to assess the situation. He was right in front of Astoria Park, it’s green space was now covered in dust and some smaller rubble, the debris and chaos was mostly on the street and the sidewalk along the buildings.
Peter didn't have his Spidey suit.
Which meant he needed to be extra careful about how he helped.
People were crushed under fallen structures, some crying out in pain while others layed disturbingly still. A few bullets were flying through the air, sporadic gunfire came from somewhere near the center of the destruction, from the what seemed to have been a shop or business.
Sirens were already sounding in the distance; the cops were coming, but Peter knew they wouldn't arrive quickly enough for those trapped under the rubble.
Through the chaos, Peter could hear words, a sort of speech.
It sounded like a crazed man was talking.
Maybe he was a fanatic, Peter shook his head
The man’s voice was loud, loud enough to be heard over the screams and destruction.
But Peter forced himself to stay focused on the immediate danger. He couldn't throw one of his usual quips or move too unnaturally, he could be recognized as Spider-Man. It was unlikely, but he knew, knew it could happen.
Mr. Stark had figured out he was spider-man back then, and Peter wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
He pushed his delivery cap down on his head, Peter knew he had to help, powers or not, suit or not.
Peter wasn’t about to do nothing when he knew he could do something.
People needed him, and he couldn't stand by and watch them suffer. With a deep breath, he ran into the chaos, keeping his movements low and just shy of superhuman, trying to blend into the decor, itho the paniced crowd, to blend strength with the appearance of adrenaline-fueled heroics that any good Samaritan might display.
He neared the closest trapped person, a young woman with dark hair matted to her forehead with dust and blood. She was clearly panicked, her eyes wide with fear as she struggled beneath a section of fallen concrete that pinned her legs to the ground. Her breathing came in rapid, shallow gasps, and tears cut clean tracks through the grime on her face.
"Hey, hey, I'm here to help," Peter said softly, crouching beside her. He assessed the debris quickly. Heavy but manageable with his strength if he was careful. "What's your name?"
"Emma," she choked out between sobs. "I can't feel my legs. Please help me."
"Hey, excuse me!" Peter called out, his voice cracking slightly as he waved at a woman running towards the park. "Sorry, but I really need your help over here!"
The woman turned around, hair whipping her face at her quick movement. "I'm trying to help lift this off Emma," Peter explained hurriedly, gesturing at the rubble. "Just need an extra pair of hands to get her out safely."
Peter nodded reassuringly. "Emma, I'm going to get you out of here, okay? Let the, excuse me what’s your name ?”
“Charlie.”
“Alright, Emma, let Charlie pull you alright? Just stay still for me. Charlie I want you to pull Emma back by her armpits, yeah right here. You pull her out untill she’s clear ok?" He positioned himself at the edge of the concrete slab, careful to make it look like he was using proper leverage rather than super strength as he slowly lifted the heavy debris.
"On my count!" Peter called firmly. "One... Two... THREE!"
With a coordinated effort, Peter lifted the concrete slab with carefully controlled strength while Charlie pulled Emma free. As soon as she was clear, Peter released the heavy debris, letting it crash back to the ground with a resounding thud and cloud of dust.
He quickly assessed Emma, noting with relief that there was no visible bleeding despite her panic. "Charlie," he said firmly, "I need you to stay with Emma. We're far enough from the center that you should be safe here, but keep low to the ground just in case."
"Wait! Where are you going?!" Charlie called after him, eyes wide with concern.
"There are other people who need help!" Peter replied, already backing away toward the destruction.
"Be careful!" Charlie shouted.
Peter flashed a quick thumbs-up before turning and sprinting back toward the chaos, keeping his body low as he navigated through the debris and smoke.
An older man's voice called out across the street. "Avengers on site! Everyone clear the area!" Peter glanced over his shoulder to see Winter Soldier and the new Captain America moving efficiently through the chaos. He ducked his head lower, making sure his delivery cap shadowed his face. The last thing he needed was to be recognized by any of the Avengers.
Peter wasn’t made for the big leagues, he’s learned his lesson.
Peter trudged home, shoulders slumped and legs barely keeping enough tension for him to stand. Adrenaline had long worn off, leaving him with nothing but achy muscles and the distant echo of screams in his ears.
Five people.
He'd managed to help five more people after Emma.
There was the elderly man pinned under a streetlamp who couldn't stop thanking him, even as Peter gently set him down beside an ambulance. Then the two college students who'd been trapped when a storefront collapsed.
They'd been huddled together, one protecting the other with her own body.
Getting them out without causing the rest to collapse had been tricky, especially with that maniac who had kept shooting the AK-47 everywhere. He'd had to knock the guy out with a rock-sized piece of concrete.
But Peter had managed the situation, careful to make his strength look like desperate determination rather than superhuman ability.
The fourth person had been an unconscious middle-aged woman with a nasty head wound who Peter had spotted only because of his enhanced hearing, her heartbeat just loud enough to be heard from beneath a pile of concrete and twisted metal even with the diminishing chaos around them. He'd flagged down a paramedic for that one, knowing she needed professional help immediately.
"Keep her neck stable," the paramedic had instructed as Peter carefully shifted debris while the medical professional prepared a backboard. "Slow and steady now. On my count."
Peter had followed every instruction to the letter, hyperaware of the Winter Soldier and Captain America moving efficiently through the chaos. He'd kept his cap pulled low, his movements controlled. Just another good Samaritan doing what anyone would do.
The last person had been a kid, maybe ten or eleven, hiding in what remained of a store's doorway, too frightened to move as secondary explosions continued to rock the area. Peter had talked to him gently, coaxing him out and carrying him to the police perimeter where his frantic parents had been searching for him.
"Thank you," the mother had sobbed, clutching her son to her chest. "Thank you so much."
Peter traced his palm, where he could still feel some of the scab. He clenshed his jaw.
His palm had been sliced open on some debris while helping the paramedic move that unconscious woman. It had stung like hell at the time. He flexed his hand as he walked, remembering the strange look Bucky Barnes had given him across the chaotic scene.
Had Mister Barnes noticed something off about him?
Peter hoped not.
The last thing he needed was Avengers showing up at his door.
Peter sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. The mutant attackers had been shouting something about human oppression and liberation for "their kind", the same rhetoric that had been all over the news lately.
More extremists taking advantage of the tension between enhanced and non-enhanced communities. The Avengers had handled them efficiently, as expected, but Peter couldn't help wondering if there would be more attacks like this one.
The city, the world, felt like it was balancing on a knife's edge these days.
"Just your friendly neighborhood delivery guy," he muttered to himself as he finally reached his apartment building. "Nothing to see here."
As he dragged himself into his shabby apartment, Peter winced at the familiar drip from the ceiling corner. The landlord had promised to fix it three months ago. He kicked off his shoes without bothering to untie them, too exhausted to care where they landed.
"Home sweet home," he muttered, taking in the cramped studio apartment with its peeling wallpaper and the persistent smell of his neighbor's cooking that somehow always seeped through the thin walls.
The bathroom was barely big enough to turn around in, but the shower, when it decided to cooperate, was his little piece of heaven after days like these. Peter twisted the temperamental knob, counting to five as the pipes groaned and sputtered before releasing a stream of lukewarm water.
He stepped under the spray, watching as dust, grime, and dried blood from his palm swirled down the drain. The cut had mostly healed, just a pink line where the gash had been.
Enhanced healing was handy that way.
As he toweled off and pulled on a worn t-shirt and sweatpants, Peter's stomach growled loudly, reminding him he hadn't eaten since that morning. Except for...
His hand went to his jacket’s pocket, finding the crumpled paper bag from earlier. Peter smoothed it out, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he remembered the elderly woman's kindness. The bag was empty save for a few cookie crumbs, but seeing it brought back the memory of something good on an otherwise chaotic day.
"At least someone got their groceries delivered safely today," he said with a tired laugh, setting the bag on his cluttered counter. He'd keep it, a small reminder that sometimes the smallest acts of kindness were the most meaningful.
James frowned as he stared at the Quinjet's opposite wall, mind reliving the past hour. That kid in the delivery cap had been... unusual.
Too controlled in the chaos.
Too strong for someone his size, and that wound on his palm,it had stopped bleeding after a few seconds. James had seen enough enhanced individuals to recognize the signs.
The mutants had said they were oppressed, that they were being hunted, that they deserved better. James wasn't unsympathetic. He'd been hunted too. But attacking civilians wasn't the way. Never was.
And that kid. He had to have been enhanced. The way he'd maneuvered through the debris, the impossible leverage he'd managed while freeing trapped people, it didn't add up for a normal civilian, even one with super strength.
But if he was a mutant, why help?
Why not join the attackers?
The way he'd knocked that attacker unconscious with a perfectly aimed piece of rubble caught James' attention. The delivery kid had scanned his surroundings first, his gaze sweeping past where James was positioned without quite registering him, before executing that tactical throw with practiced precision.
James frowned.
The kid had been careful too. Too careful. Hiding his abilities while still using them just enough to make a difference.
That spoke of experience.
Of training.
Or at least practice.
And of wanting to help.
"Something's off about him," James murmured to himself. He absently rubbed his metal arm, a habit he'd developed when deep in thought. The kid had moved with a peculiar something that reminded him of someone, although he couldn't quite place who.