Chapter Text
Chapter 1:
Shit, shit, shit.
It’s been 6 months now since May died.
“Get back here!”
Her funeral was a peaceful one, arranged by the empty shell of Happy, Peter watched from a distance. It wasn’t like it had been hard for him to hide from the man, even if Happy had remembered him, Aunt May was a wonderful woman, who helped so many, and they’d all come to say their thanks. It was laughably easy to blend in, he would’ve burst out into hysterical giggles at the absurdity of it, had the occasion not been so grim.
“Sorry sir, but I really need this hotdog! Pay you later?!”
For a while Peter managed to hold on, for May. He patrolled and studied for his GED. He even picked up a steady job as a waiter at a local restaurant, his apartment wasn’t amazing, but it had warm water, and a nice view, a big upgrade from his previous living situation of an abandoned building.
“Damn menace!”
But then the Daily Bugle got its hands on a report of the day May had passed, and exploited it, blaming Spider-man – Peter, for the death of his aunt. Peter knew it was his fault, way before the Bugle started shoving the idea in the public’s face, but he ignored the guilt for May’s sake, she would have never wanted him to beat himself up over her death. So, for a little while, he continued Spider-man, but when the people he saved began to run away, terrified of him, it wasn’t very encouraging. He started slipping up, arriving late to work, covered in bruises and occasionally small spots of blood. It wasn’t until a citizen turned a gun to his head that it really clicked for him.
Ha, clicked.
He was fired the next day for showing up 5 hours late, with ripped stitches and an open wound that bled down his pant leg.
The suit was tossed, and even if he still wanted to patrol, his powers left with it.
“Good thing I’m still good at running.” He paused, taking a moment to slip into a nearby alley “Or I guess dodging.” The teen scrunched his nose, “I really do feel bad about stealing though,” Peter leaned against a neighboring brick wall, as he took a bite of his hotdog. “Not that I had much of a choice.” He muttered, he can barely afford rent in his new (beat-up) apartment, he could not spare a dollar right now – literally, he had a total of $0.55 in his bank account, just five cents short of actually buying a hotdog. He would’ve given the hot dog dude the money he had, and hopefully the man would’ve let Peter pay him back later, but he was sort of preoccupied at the time, and Peter had a feeling the man wasn’t in a giving mood. It’s not like he won’t pay him back after he gets his pay from work, he wasn’t just joking about that.
The jog to work was always Peter’s favorite part of the day. Usually, his shifts are in the afternoon, and occasionally the night, but he always preferred the morning. The crisp air always comforted the teen, it was as if he were still in high school, walking to class with Ned and MJ by his side. Ned would be grilling him for details on his patrol or gesturing excitedly about the newest Star Wars Lego set coming out. MJ would be listening along quietly, interrupting every now and then to spew half-hearted insults. It was like he could just close his eyes, and they’d be by his side, like he could imagine for just one moment that everything was back to normal.
But then his eyes would open again, and they would disappear, It’s bitter-sweet really, as if they never even existed in the first place. Technically, they didn’t – or at least, their friendship didn’t, and wow, that was hard to think about.
Peter shook his head, there was no need to put himself in a bad mood right before work, besides, it’s not even the morning. He was – unfortunately – given the night shift. Don’t get him wrong, the night was much better since traffic always dies down a few hours into work, it’s just that the people were always… on the sketchier side at night.
He approached an old pizzeria restaurant, the building releasing an odor of fake cheese and old grease that thickened the air and coated his lungs. It wasn’t the nicest place, but it paid well enough, and sometimes he’d even get a free pizza slice or two at the end of his shift! All in all, it wasn’t half bad, especially since they provide a motorcycle and the gas money that comes with it when he does deliveries.
A motorcycle!
And since his work is under the table, they never worried about his age, or why a kid his size was out so late. (He was quite skinny since keeping up with his metabolism is damn near impossible). When he had better pay jobs, it was easier to pass off as 18, even with the stubborn baby fat that clung to his cheeks. He actually filled out his shirts, whereas he looks much feebler now that they hang off his body, two sizes too big. He could’ve just lied about his age when he remade his government identity, but Peter knew he was a shit liar, he was better off waiting a bit longer until he turned 18.
“Hey Mr. Smith.” He greeted, slipping on his mask of indifference as he passed the beat-up bar section of the restaurant, not sparing a glace at the man as he headed to the employee lockers to throw on his uniform.
“You’re late.” The man grunted out, his voice gruff.
The teen rolled his eyes and turned in Mr. Smiths direction. “I’m early.”
Mr. Smith stared at him.
“By two minutes.” He deadpanned.
“Tch.”
Mr. Smith tossed the bike’s keys over to Peter. “The guy you were supposed to be on shift with tonight flaked out, so you better hurry up before I get a bunch’ a’ angry phone calls from paying customers because their pizza took longer than 30 minutes to arrive.”
Peter only sighed, “Yes sir.”
“You’re late”
Peter was getting déjà vu.
“I’m so sorry ma’am, I got a bit held up –“ He was cut off by a door slamming in his face. Damn. That’s definitely getting taken out of his paycheck. Peter stared at the door for a moment.
Then he looked down at his hands.
“...Okay.”
He knocked again. “Ma’am?”
Nothing.
Peter knocked a second time, a little harder. “Uh, you still have the pizza.”
But he was only left with silence.
He waited.
And waited.
Peter sighed.
“Look, I really don't want to annoy you or anything, but I kinda sorta need the money.”
Nothing.
“Because, you know, that's sort of the whole reason I'm here.”
Still nothing.
He sighed again and looked at the door.
“Okay. Fine.”
He turned around…
“Enjoy your free pizza, I guess.”
and walked back down the hallway.
“What do you mean she didn’t pay?!”
Has Peter ever told anyone his life sucked? Probably, he has a habit of accidentally muttering while deep in thought.
“I mean she took the pizza and shut the door without paying.” Mr. Smith was really starting to get on his nerves, like what else could ‘she didn’t pay’ possibly mean.
The man growled, and pinched the bridge of his nose, Peter could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. “Oh for gods sake,” Mr. Smith threw his hands into the air, “Obviously, that’s not what I meant Parker!” He clenched his teeth.
Woops.
“Why didn’t she pay for the pizza.”
Peter winced. “Ohhhh that… funny story actually. See there was this lost kid – “
“Parker.”
“—and he was, like, really lost. Like, incredibly lost. I mean, I'm pretty sure she didn't even know what street she was on”
Mr. Smith stared at him.
“A – And it’s way too late for her to be out alone, there are some pretty scary people out there. Like there’s this one weird old dude who was just yelling at me because someone stole a pizza from me! Pretty crazy world huh?”
Mr. Smith looked unimpressed. “And?”
“And I had to help her?” He said, lacing his voice in sarcasm as if to say no duh.
“Parker.”
“Right, yeah no. Anyway, I was already running late because of that, and then I got to the apartment and the woman just—” Peter mimed a door slamming shut with his hands. “Bam. Right in my face.”
Mr. Smith's eye twitched.
“I knocked again, obviously. I'm not just gonna leave without trying, because that'd be irresponsible, and then I told her she still had the pizza, because, you know, I figured maybe she'd forgotten about the whole paying thing.”
Mr. Smith slowly leaned against the counter.
“And?”
“She didn't answer.”
“And?”
“I waited.”
“And?”
“Then I knocked again.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“And?”
Peter frowned. “Are you just going to keep saying ‘and’?”
Mr. Smith stared at him.
Peter sighed. “Fine. I told her I needed the money.”
“You told her you needed the money.”
“Yes.”
“You actually said that?”
“...Maybe.” He scrunched in on himself.
Mr. Smith pinched the bridge of his nose, again. “Parker.”
He jumped. “What?”
“You can't tell customers that you need their money.”
Peter blinked. “Why not?”
“Because you're supposed to be representing my business.”
Peter looked around the dingy restaurant. Dirt coated the cracks of the tiles floor, and flies wandered aimlessly. “Respectfully, sir, I don't think we're exactly representing luxury dining.”
Mr. Smith's eye twitched again.
Peter smiled innocently. “Anyway, she still didn't pay.”
Mr. Smith groaned. “Of course she didn't.”
“Yep.” He said, popping the ‘p’ sound.
“How much was it?”
Peter's smile disappeared. “Uh…”
“How much, Parker?”
“Twenty-three eighty-five.”
Silence. Mr. Smith stared at him.
“I'm sorry.”
“You're paying for it.”
Peter's head snapped up. “What?!”
“You heard me.”
“But she took the pizza!” He argued, letting his hands fly above his head before dropping dramatically.
“And you were the one delivering it.”
He groaned. “That's not my fault!”
“Then whose fault is it?”
Peter opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again. Somewhat resembling a gaping fish. “...The pizza's?”
Mr. Smith stared at him for what seemed like the 100th time in the last 5 minutes.
Peter shrugged. “Just trying to think outside the box… Ha box, like pizza box.”
There was a long silence. “Get back on the bike.”
Peter sighed and hung his head. “Yes, sir.”
“And Parker?”
Peter paused at the door, furrowing his brows. “Yeah?”
“Don't come back without the money.”
Peter snorted and gave him a tired salute. “Yes sir.” He stepped outside and the cold air immediately slapped him in the face. Peter stood there for a second and closed his eyes. “Twenty-three eighty-five.” He looked up at the sky. “That's, like, three days of food… okay, maybe two.” Peter climbed back onto the motorcycle and turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered.
The teen stared at it. “Don't you dare.”
The engine sputtered again.
“I'm already having a bad enough night.” It finally started and Peter sighed in relief as he pulled out onto the street. “Okay.” He checked the next delivery on his phone.
“Let's go lose more money.”
Mrs. Evelyn’s convenience store was quiet when Peter finally pushed through the door.
The little bell above the entrance gave a tired jingle, worn from years of use. The sound was immediately swallowed by the steady, low hum of the refrigerators along the back wall.
The air inside was cooler than outside, slightly stale, and carrying the mixed scent of old paper receipts, brewed coffee that had been sitting too long, and the faint sweetness of candy wrappers. It was dingy, but welcoming.
“Morning, Mrs. Evelyn.”
“Morning, Peter.”
Peter breathed out a quiet sigh of relief as he shrugged off his jacket. The wet fabric from rain stuck slightly to his arms before peeling away, and he folded it over the back of a plastic chair near the counter. His shoulders ached as he rolled them once, trying to shake off the weight of the night before.
Mrs. Evelyn was sitting behind the counter with a crossword puzzle spread out in front of her. The paper was already slightly wrinkled at the edges, held down by a chipped mug that read World’s Okayest Grandma, a gift from one of her regulars. A pair of reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose, sliding down every so often until she pushed them back up with one finger without even sparing a glance.
Her pen tapped lightly against the counter in a slow, absent rhythm.
He slipped behind the counter, ducking slightly under the low shelf that held spare bags and receipt rolls. Peter dropped his backpack underneath it with a soft thud. The zipper was half-broken, so it sagged open slightly, revealing a crumpled hoodie and a notebook stuffed with loose papers.
He’d learned quickly that Mrs. Evelyn’s store had a certain rhythm to it.
There were the hours when people actually came in—kids buying snacks after school, tired adults grabbing coffee, and the occasional regular who always paid in exact change.
There were the hours when absolutely nobody came in, and the store felt like it had been paused in time, just waiting for something to happen, and then there were the hours where seven people would somehow appear at once, all wanting something different, all talking over each other, and Peter would wonder if the universe had a personal vendetta against him specifically.
This morning seemed to be one of the quiet ones, where even the fluorescent lights felt like they were buzzing softer than usual.
He grabbed the little clipboard sitting beside the register. The paper on it was slightly curled, filled with Mrs. Evelyn’s neat, cramped handwriting, stating inventory notes, reminders, and the things she probably didn’t need but wrote down anyway. “What needs work?”
She took a moment to circle a word she’d found “Stock the drinks.”
Peter nodded. “Got it.” He headed toward the refrigerators along the back wall. The glass doors were slightly fogged from the temperature difference, and when he pulled one open, a small rush of cold air hit his face.
Inside were rows of soda bottles and energy drinks, all lined up and stacked precariously.
Peter started pulling out bottles, stacking them in his arms.
“Peter?”
He looked back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
Mrs. Evelyn pointed toward the counter without looking up from her puzzle. “You're bleeding.”
Peter paused glancing down to where her finger pointed. There was a small red spot on the sleeve of his shirt, just above his wrist. It had already dried slightly at the edges, darkening the fabric. He stared at it for a moment like he was trying to remember when it had happened. “Oh.” Some drunk dudes had been following a lady while he was delivering pizza.
She looked up at Peter, pulling out the most deadpanned face she could manage, and raised her brows. “Oh?”
“It's not a lot; I probably nicked my wrist on a bush or something.”
“Peter.”
He sighed, shifting the bottles in his arms. “It's nothing.”
“Really,” he added quickly. “It's just a stupid cut.”
“A stupid cut that is currently bleeding.”
“Well…yes.”
She set her pen down, then reached underneath the counter and pulled out a small first-aid kit. The plastic case was scratched and slightly yellowed, the latch held together with tape.
Peter groaned under his breath. “I'm fine.”
“You can be fine while I put a bandage on it.”
“I can do it.”
Mrs. Evelyn sighed like she had been expecting that answer the entire time. She stood up from her chair, joints clicking faintly, and walked around the counter with the kit. The floor creaked under her steps as she made her way down the aisle.
Peter was standing there with one arm half-raised, attempting to spot the cut hidden on his forearm at a slightly crooked angle. He held his arm out again. “See? Barely anything.”
Mrs. Evelyn looked at the cut. “You're terrible at taking care of yourself.”
“That's not true.”
She reached for his arm without waiting for permission, gently but firmly turning it so she could see it better. Her hands were steady, practiced in a way that suggested she’d done this more times than he could imagine.
Peter winced slightly when the antiseptic touched the cut.
“Okay, maybe a little true.”
“Where did this actually happen?”
“Work.”
“The pizza place?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it an accident?”
Peter hesitated just a fraction too long.
“… Yeah.”
Mrs. Evelyn hummed softly, not pressing further, but her eyes flicked up to his face for a second like she was filing that answer away somewhere.
Peter gave a small, tired smile.
“Don't worry about it. There were just some jerks I needed to stop, that’s all.”
She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she finished wrapping the bandage around his arm with a final, neat pull, smoothing it down so it wouldn’t peel at the edges. “There.”
Peter flexed his fingers slightly, testing it. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
He pulled his sleeve back down carefully, covering it again like it was something he didn’t want to think about anymore.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. “But please Peter.”
He looked up at the woman.
“Try so stay out of fights. Lord knows we don’t need a good kid like you running around playing hero.” She paused, “You’ll get yourself killed.”
The store hummed quietly around them as the fluorescent light above flickered. Then Peter’s stomach growled.
Mrs. Evelyn slowly turned her head to look at him.
Peter silently cursed whatever deity in charge of looking after him before staring at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed the teen. Of course, his helpful powers like the super strength and spider sense dipped, y’ know, the stuff that would help him avoid getting beat up in an alley. His metabolism stayed for some reason, like New York was giving him a big fuck you for abandoning it. “That wasn't me.”
“Of course not.”
“Probably the refrigerator.”
“Peter.”
He sighed, giving up.
Mrs. Evelyn turned without another word and walked back behind the counter. Peter watched her go, still standing awkwardly between the shelves.
A moment later, she reached underneath the counter and pulled out a brown paper bag.
She set it down in front of him.
Peter blinked. “What's that?”
“Food.”
“I can see that.”
“Then eat it.”
He hesitated, fingers hovering near the bag but not quite touching it. “I can't keep taking your food.”
“You can when you're barely eating.”
Peter frowned slightly. “I'm eating.”
“You’re a shitty liar.” Mrs. Evelyn smiled faintly and returned to her crossword like the conversation was already over.
Peter sighed, defeated, and finally took the bag. “Thanks.”
“Mm.”
The smell of something warm and freshly made hit him immediately once he opened the bag. Bread, melted cheese, something seasoned just right. It was amazing already and he hadn’t even eaten it yet.
Peter took a bite and his eyes widened slightly. “Oh, wow.”
Mrs. Evelyn didn’t look up. “Good?”
He nodded quickly, already taking another bite. “This is amazing, thank you ma’am”
“It's a sandwich.”
“It's an amazing sandwich.”
That earned him a small, amused huff of air. She shook her head, pen moving again across the crossword.