Chapter Text
By the time Spider-man got to the scene, the back door was already ajar and the steady ring of the alarm echoed through the alleyway. Peter landed softly just outside, subconsciously adjusting the webshooters on his wrists as he crept forward through the open door.
Seeing movement toward the front of the small jewelry store, he pulls himself up the side of the wall and starts crawling across the ceiling to get a better view. As he gets closer, he can see five men all wearing cheap Ghost Face masks raiding the place. They are spread out, efficiently grabbing as much jewelry and precious stones as they can and shoving them into duffel bags.
Let’s do this Peter thinks to himself as he lets his grip loosen. He feels the satisfying jolt in his limbs as he lands posed and ready in the middle of the group.
“Dang, is it Halloween already? I could have sworn it was still July!” he quips to the men.
The five thieves immediately stop what they are doing, turning toward the new voice, and grab for their guns that are tucked away, aiming them at the new threat in front of them. Peter holds up his hands in a weak attempt at a calming gesture.
“It’s the spider brat!” one of the masked men barks out, gun pointed unwaveringly at Peter.
“Come on man,” Peter groans behind the mask, “that’s just mean spirited, you know it’s Spider-Man. Friendly, neighborhood-"
His sentence is quickly cut off by the barrage of bullets that start firing at him. He jumps into the air and grabs the ceiling for a moment before launching himself to the side, webs thwipping out mid-air to tangle one of the guns and pins another to the wall with the arm of the man holding it. One down, four to go.
“Now that's just rude,” he huffs as he dodges a few more bullets, “I probably should have guessed since you guys didn’t even ask trick or treat before taking these.” He uses a web to grab and pull one of the jewelry bags from the hand of on of the thieves before webbing him to one of the pillars.
He uses another web to launch himself over two of them men who decided the best course of action was to charge him head on. As he lands gracefully on the other side, he shoots two more webs that pin their guns to the ground, causing the thieves to drop them.
“Good thing I wear my suit everywhere,” he teases as he manages to web the last gun from the man to his left who had been trying to sneak up on his side, “Wouldn’t want to show up to a costume party without a costume.”
The man to his side attempts to tackle him, but Peter easily jumps up and out of the way, letting the man slam himself into one of the counters. He quickly webs him against the counter before the thief can right himself.
He then turns his attention to the other two who had used the opportunity to try to escape out the back, sensing a losing battle. Peter easily catches them with a couple webs, yanking them back toward him before webbing them up and dangling them from the ceiling.
“There you go, how about you guys hang out for a bit,” he jokes as he stands in the now webbed up crime scene.
The men say nothing as they all glare at him from the different locations he has tied them up with the webs, the only sound being the constant buzzing ring of the store alarm. With a sigh, Peter puts his hands on his hips, looking at the two men turning slowly as they hang from the webs, “Yeah, no ignore that one. ‘Hang out’ is way overused, I need to maintain quality.”
The flashing of red and blue illuminates the store, signaling the arrival of the police. Peter gives one last look to the scene before saluting to the apprehended thieves, “That would be my cue! Stop doing crime, it’s bad for your health!”
With that he quickly runs out of the building and shoots a web toward the top of one of a nearby building. He feels his stomach drop with gravity in that familiar satisfying way as he is launched into the air by the elasticity of his webs.
The cool night air rushes over his mask as he swings from building to building, moving with a rhythmic lift and fall as he navigates through his city. Eventually he comes to a stop on a rooftop, letting himself finally sit for a moment. His legs kick over the edge of the roof while he stares out at the city lights below.
Sometimes being Spider-Man has its moments.
“Mr. Parker!”
Peter jolts awake as he quickly sits up straight in his chair. His cheeks warm slightly as he takes in the sight of everyone in his biology class staring at him, including Mr. Kessler at the front of the class room, looking a bit combative.
“Since it seems like you already know all about protein coding if you insist on napping through the lecture,” Mr. Kessler teased from the whiteboard, “Can you tell the class what the difference between transcription and translation is?”
Blinking his eyes quickly to catch his brain up to the present, Peter looks up to the board and then back to Mr. Kessler before quickly answering, “Transcription is when an RNA is made from the original DNA strand while translation is when that RNA strand is used to make an actual protein.”
The biology teacher simply raises an eyebrow for a moment before reluctantly nodding in agreement, “Yes that is correct. Still, do try to not nod off even if you are convinced you know everything Mr. Parker.”
A few snickers echo in the small classroom as Peter sinks down slightly in his seat muttering, “Yes, sir.”
The rest of the class is relatively uneventful, though Peter feels like he is fighting for his life to keep his head from dipping at the droning tone of Mr. Kessler. Afternoon classes were the worst, and the last period always seemed to be when his body decided that it was time for a nap, despite his genuine interest in the subject. Though it probably didn’t help he was up late last night stopping robberies and swinging around New York.
Really any science or math class tended to be a favorite of Peter’s. No matter how many different schools he went to or how many different science or math teachers he had, the content remained relatively the same. There was always a different book that he would have to catch up on in the middle of the semester or a different point in history being discussed than where he was at in his last school, but the hypotenuse of a triangle was always a² + b² and the mitochondria was always the powerhouse of the cell.
Finally the bell rang and Peter quickly shoved his notebook in his bag before slipping out of the classroom and into the hallway. Weaving through the crowd of other students, Peter makes his way to his locker. Students around him talk excitedly to their friends about their plans for the weekend or the newest games or shows that have come out. Peter can’t help but feel his chest ache slightly as he can’t quite bring himself to ignore the conversations.
Friends had never been something that came easily to Peter. Ever since May died and he had been going from foster house to foster house and school to school, he was never really in one place long enough to make meaningful connections.
One day at a time Peter, he tells himself as he puts his history textbook in his bag, Spider-Man is more important than a little social awkwardness.
He starts his journey home, passing by the bus line as he prefers walking anyway. It had been about two months now since he got placed in his current foster home. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler are nice enough, if a little particular on how they run their home.
Peter had always been a good house guest he would like to say. Aunt May would have killed him if he was anything less. He keeps his things tidy, respects the house rules, and does his best to be as invisible as he can be. One would think that would make him the ideal foster kid, and maybe Peter Parker was.
The problem however was Peter Parker is also Spider-Man.
As he approaches the house, he notices a familiar red sedan parked on the street in front of the apartment building. His stomach sank, but with a sigh he climbed the stairs, already knowing what was coming.
As he pushes open the apartment door he is greeted by an increasingly familiar sight, his social worker sitting with the foster family with a tight smile and a tense atmosphere. Mrs. Robinson, his social worker, sits properly in one of the chairs, holding a stuffed manila folder. Mr. and Mrs. Fowler sat on the couch, looking tired and defeated.
“Peter,” Ms. Robinson calls from her chair, “would you join us for a moment?”
Peter briefly wonders how bad the consequences would really be if he were to throw himself from the nearby window before carefully setting his backpack down near the door. He walks over to the living room and sits stiffly in the other chair. He already knows where this conversation will go, he has heard it so many times that he could probably recite it from memory.
“I was asked here today due to some concerns that the Fowlers had with this placement.” Ms. Robinson began carefully.
Peter fixed his eyes down on the table, resigned to the direction of the conversation and just hoped to get through it fast.
“Mr. Fowler tells me that there have been some difficulties regarding curfew?” She asks gently.
“Difficulties?” Mr. Fowler interrupts, irritation evident in his voice, “Difficult would be an argument here and there, this kid vanishes without explanation and for several hours in the night!”
Peter winces at that slightly, keeping his eyes fixed downward.
Ms. Robinson speaks up, trying to deescalate the sudden outburst, “Now Mr. Fowler-”
“And don’t get me started on all the bruises and black eyes he comes home with!” Mrs. Fowler now speaks up, “I don’t know what that child is doing out there, but it clearly isn’t good! I will not have that sort of behavior in this house!”
Now looking thoroughly exasperated, Ms. Robinson raises her hands in a calming gesture and keeping her voice level, “I understand why this is a frustrating situation, but if we can just talk about-”
“We are done talking!” Mr. Fowler cuts her off, “We tried that and it clearly didn’t work. I believe it is in everyone’s best interest if the boy is moved to a different placement.”
Peter dares a glance up at Ms. Robinson, who casts him a quiet look of pity before turning her attention back to the couple. “I understand. Thank you for housing Peter these past couple months.”
She turns to Peter for a moment. “Go collect your things and meet me at the car, I will handle the paperwork.” She says gently as she opens the folder on her lap to collect a couple sheets of paper.
Peter simply nods in resignation as he walks over to the guest room he had been staying at. Really, it had lasted longer than average, but Parker luck always was going to catch up to him at some point.
He doesn’t have much to pack, but collects his meager belongings scattered around the guest room. He gets his extra Spider-Man gear out of the vent he had hidden it in (his suit and primary gear already in his backpack) and packs it at the bottom of his bag. His most prized possession is probably his laptop which he had found in the dumpster out behind a tech shop that he has modified over the past year into something functional and his.
After packing everything away, he quietly walks past the living room to the front door, catching a quick glance of Mr. and Mrs. Fowler signing him back over to the state.
He walks down to the red sedan and tosses his duffel bag into the back seat, holding his backpack on his lap. He sits there for about ten minutes, staring at nothing, before Mr. Robinson steps out of the building and walks over to the driver's side, slipping into the car.
She starts the car and pulls out into the road. They ride in silence for a while, Peter keeping his eyes locked on the passing buildings outside the window while trying to make himself as small as possible.
Finally Ms. Robinson breaks the silence. “Kid, I don’t know what to do with you.”
Peter wearily looks back over at the social worker who keeps her eyes forward on the road as she speaks. “That was the 3rd placement this year alone! You’re running out of options.”
Peter quietly looks back down at his lap, shame settling in his chest.
“I know,” he mutters.
“Do you?” Ms. Robinson asks slightly harshly before sighing and evening her tone, “I have tried to do everything I can for you Peter. But I can’t defend you if you keep sneaking out in the middle of the night doing God knows what and coming back God knows when!”
“You don’t understand!” Peter blurts out, frustration of the entire situation finally starting to leak out.
“Then help me understand!” the social worker shoots back, finally looking over at Peter, exasperation and exhaustion seeping into her words. The car is stopped at the red light, making the silence feel infinitely louder.
Peter opens his mouth to respond, wracking his mind to give her some kind of explanation. However, words die on his tongue as he can’t just blurt out “because I’m Spider-Man”, that would sound insane anyway.
Finally, he opts for his best option; to just keep his mouth shut. He shakes his head and lowers it once more, as if trying to memorize every seam of his backpack.
Ms. Robinson simply sighs in defeat, turning back toward the road as the light turns green.
They continue to ride in tense silence for a few more minutes before Peter finally speaks up. “So, where am I going now?”
“I’m taking you to the foster house on 59th. They’ve been kind enough to make some room for you given the short notice.” She explains as she makes a turn at the stop sign.
Peter nods as he takes in the information. “Well, at least it won’t be any Fowler than the last one.” He jokes, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
Ms. Robinson gives him an unimpressed look, clearly not in the mood for jokes.
Peter awkwardly clears his throat, “Right, yeah, not the time…sorry.”
The car pulls into the driveway of the larger foster house and parks. It is a little on the older side, some evidence of woodrot here and there, but pretty typical as far as these larger foster houses go.
Peter slips a strap of his backpack over his shoulder and grabs his duffel bag from the back seat and gets out. Ms. Robinson walks him into the house where they are greeted by one of the caretakers.
“This the new one?” the older woman asks gruffly, her voice and smell evident of a life of smoking.
Ms. Robinson nods in confirmation, “Ms. Johnson, yes, this is Peter Parker. Thank you again for being able to take him on such short notice.”
The woman just waves noncommittedly, “Whatever, just give me the paper work.”
Ms. Robinson smiles tightly, but opens her folder and hands a pen and a form to the woman. “If you could just initial on the first two lines and sign the last one, that would be lovely.”
Ms. Johnson grumbles something unintelligible as she takes the paper and pen and quickly initials and signs, not bothering to read anything.
“Arlight Peter,” the social worker says looking at him, “You be good, and please try to behave.”
Peter nods in a practiced way, “Yes, Ms. Robinson.”
She looks at him for one more minute before nodding once herself. “I’ll check in with you in a week.”
Peter watches as she walks back out the door leaving him alone with the caretaker.
“Don’t expect the Ritz here kid, you’re lucky I could find you in a place here at all.” Ms. Johnson grumbles as she starts walking down the old creaky hallway, gesturing for Peter to follow her. She has a slight limp in her gait, creating an uneven creaking in the floorboards as she walks.
“Breakfast is at 7am and dinner is at 6pm sharp every day. If you are late or oversleep, tough luck.” She began laying down the rules as she led him further into the house. “Keep your personal shit where it's supposed to be or I will throw it out. You’ll be added to the chore chart so make sure you are checking that every week.”
Peter nods along as he takes in the house. It is old and moderately maintained, a few cobwebs in the corners but at least there weren’t stains on the walls like he had seen at some other homes. He catches sight of a few other foster kids watching him, one a boy a few years younger than him with dirty blonde hair and a girl with small pigtails who was even younger. He nodded at them but they watched him with no response as he continued following Ms. Johnson.
Finally she slows to a stop in front of one of the doors. “Here is your room. Lucky for you, no one wanted to share a room with the creepy girl so now you get a bed.”
She pushes open the door and a girl, maybe only a year or two younger than Peter, with red hair is laying back on one of the twin beds, reading a beaten up paper book. She looks up at them with an annoyed and guarded expression on her face. “What do you want?”
“You got a new roommate Jean, try not to make this one go insane.” The woman grumbled, already turning to walk away.
Peter watched as Ms. Johnson walked away for a moment before turning his attention to the girl, who was now sitting upright on her bed.
“I’m Peter,” he offered as he awkwardly remained standing in the doorway, unsure how to approach this conversation.
“And I, am already bored of this conversation,” the girl replied, leaning back in her bed and reopening the beat-up book up.
Peter sighed a little to himself, not particularly thrilled about the tone and attitude of the new roommate. Though he couldn't blame her for the lack of enthusiasm.
Stepping into the room, Peter set his duffel bag on the bed as he began to methodically unpack it. He also sets his backpack down, taking stock of what few meager belongings he had as if he didn’t already check it twice before leaving the Fowlers.
He glances back at the girl, Jean he assumes, periodically. He can tell despite her outwardly appearing to be only reading her book, she is assessing him just as much.
After about a minute, he feels a strange itch in the back of his mind. It feels almost like his spidey sense but deeper somehow. He turns back around and looks at Jean who is now staring directly at him, no longer pretending to read, with a weary and confused expression.
“Who are you?” She asks, though her tone is more rhetorically cautious than genuine.
The tone specifically causes Peter to shift his complete attention to the girl now sitting up once more on the opposite bed. He wonders for a brief terrifying moment, if somehow she recognizes him. Not Peter Parker, but Spider-Man.
“Um, Peter? Peter Parker,” he repeats equally weary.
The two foster kids stare at their respective new roommate, sizing each other up in a way neither of them seem to be able to fully understand.
“Huh,” Jean finally says, picking up her book once more. This time however she remained sitting upright, more alert, as if bracing herself for something to happen at any moment.
Peter slowly turns back toward his things, unpacking the rest of his belongings, well almost all. He keeps the spider suit tucked carefully in the bottom of the duffel bag. He balls up the duffel bag with the suit inside and crams it under the bed. He eventually sits down on his own bed with his science textbook, also alert.
Peter didn't quite know what to make of this new roommate, but one thing was for sure. He would be keeping a close eye on her, though he is certain the feeling is mutual.