Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“I'm clocking out!” he yells into the back, mouth pressed into what his co-workers liked to call his constipated shit frog face; where his lips press into a thin line and his cheeks bulge.

He waits by the timecard machine, sighing and tapping his foot. It's an old model, complete with the hand clock interface and the actual punching in of cards. He's got one hand propped up against the wall above his head, as he leans on it with his head hanging. It usually takes his boss a couple of minutes to respond, and he can't nag him either, or Joseph will yell at him for asking twice in a row. He adjusts his sunglasses as he sighs, keeping his head down. The fluorescent lights are too damn bright in the kitchen.

Bossman only lets him go once he gives the okay and Peter would ditch, but he needs the money cause bills don't pay themselves. Or at least they used to not just pay for themselves.

After what feels like an eternity, Joseph grunts at him to go so Peter slams (well, more like gently fist bumps) the punch-out button with his fist. He runs to the storage closet in the kitchen, snatches up his skateboard under his arm, and runs back out. Travis is there around the corner, wrapping the sauce bin with cling wrap, when Peter almost slams into him. He startles, and the cigarette that he likes to place behind his ear—the one that Peter has never seen him smoke because he's a wannabe pretentious asshole—almost falls off. Peter books it.

“Watch it, Parker!”

“You watch it, Trav!” He yells back.

He's making his way towards the back exit door behind the kitchen when he spots Garrett who's organizing the takeaway disposable plates and cups. Garrett pauses, still bent over the bags, his nappy blond curls sticking to the back of his neck with sweat, and squints at Peter.

“You coming in tomorrow, douche-glasses?” Garrett asks.

Peter pushes the armbar of the backdoor open. It's freezing outside.

“I'm taking the week off, pube face,” he replies without looking back at Garrett. Garrett struggles to grow facial hair so he just ends up looking like Joe Dirt.

“Like you can afford it!” Garrett yells behind him.

Peter flips him off behind his back as he steps into the alley, the cold hitting him at full blast as the door slams shut behind him heavily. He drops his skateboard down once he's out of the dirty alley, and rides his way down the sidewalk. Despite it being nighttime, New York teems. The sidewalks crowded for the holiday. As he rolls by, he can hear the top ten Christmas hit songs playing from all around the block; from department stores to people's open windows, and car radios.

His breath puffs out in cold billows in front of him, as looks heavenward, sniffing the air. It smells like it could snow soon; the clouds look heavy. He pushes himself on the skateboard, weaving in and out of the crowd as they turn to give him weird looks. It's probably because of the sunglasses. He usually doesn't wear them out at night, but ever since the Christmas season rolled around, New York's lights have dialed up to a level that makes his eyes weep.

Cruising, he lists off the shit needs to get done off the top of his dome before he leaves tomorrow. First, he needs to pick up his brand-new tailored suit since having money is a thing now, apparently. Then he needs to go home, check the mail, check on Cheryl, water his pot, throw out the trash, and finish packing his bag.

Mind still preoccupied, he doesn't notice when a crowd of drunk assholes suddenly move to block the sidewalk. Peter comes to an abrupt stop, his arms flailing in the air, as he gets off his skateboard. Peter, fed up the crowd, is about to walk around them when he spots a flower shop across the street. It's extraneously decorated with garish Christmas paraphernalia which take up the whole display window. But most notably, are the Poinsettias which are tastefully placed in the mess of holiday bling.

Peter hesitates, biting his lip as he stares at the flower shop. Some asshole part of the drunk posse starts yelling behind him. Peter hugs his skateboard tighter to himself under his arm and jumps into the street, walking between the cars as they wait at the red light. A taxi honks at him as the traffic light turns green.

He holds out a hand at the taxi. “I'm walking here, dickwad!”

Safely across, he doesn't let himself hesitate as he opens the glass door to the flower shop. The bell chimes pleasantly overhead as his olfactory senses are filled with the smells of flowers and plants. He wanders around the flower shop, peering at the delicately made flower arrangements, with a hand in his pocket. He glances over his shoulder with his brows furrowed at the worker behind the counter. Should he ask for help or…? Slowly, he saunters on over to the counter.

The forty-something-year-old lady with drawn-on pencil-thin eyebrows looks up at him with pursed lips.

“Hey, so, uh… I was hoping to buy my Aunt some flowers.”

She chews her bubblegum, popping it a few times as she looks at him apathetically.

“Any certain kind of flowers your Aunt likes, honey?”

Peter shrugs, pushing out his bottom lip as he shakes his head. “Nah, she liked—likes, I mean, all flowers.”

“Okay, well, we have our special holiday arrangements if you're interested in that,” she says in that same monotonous tone, nodding at the display flowers.

“Uhm—” Peter glances at the display, “do you have anything in a pot?”

So, that's how Peter finds himself walking out of the flower shop with one ten-dollar purple orchid in a pot that was on sale. The bell chimes pleasantly behind him, as he leaves the shop. Carrying the orchid in one arm, he drops his skateboard and continues on his way. He needs to get to the tailor's shop which is about—he pulls out his phone to check—twenty blocks away.

Peter shivers. He doesn't take well to the cold after the bite, anymore.

By the time he makes it to the tailor shop, he's so cold that his nose hasn't stopped dripping liquid boogers for the past thirty minutes and his hands are frozen to the point of pain. He dashes into the shop, exhaling out a groan at the welcome change in temperature. The shop is bright but at least he's got his shades on. He tucks his skateboard under one arm and the orchid under the other. The owner of the shop emerges from another room.

“Welcome. How can I help you?” The man has a posh accent that's not English.

“I'm here to pick up my suit?”

“Of course, and what is your name?”

“Parker, Peter. I mean, Peter Parker,” he fumbles while blood rushes to his ears; whether from heat or embarrassmen, he can't tell.

The man doesn't seem to notice or care about Peter's stumble and nods his head once, turning around as he disappears around the corner. Peter sets down his skateboard and the flowerpot on the floor gingerly, careful not to make a sound. He rubs his hands together, finally starting to feel them tingling with warmth. The owner is an old dude with gray hair and a U-shaped hairline. The exact kind of person you'd expect to be working at or running a tailor shop with at least 40 years of experience. It's intimidating, honestly.

A few moments later, the man appears around the corner again with his suit in hand. It's a sharp dark gray tuxedo with a bunch of other fancy stuff he doesn't understand but left for the man to choose.

He hands him the suit hanging by a clothing hanger and Peter takes it slowly.

“Please try on the suit and then we may see if further adjustments are needed," the man says, pointing with his palm, like Peter can only assume rich people do, to the dressing rooms.

Peter nods, swallowing, as he steps into the dressing room, closing the curtain. He unzips his puffy winter coat and tosses that aside. Then he peels off his work uniform and jeans until he's left in his boxers. There's a white dress shirt under the vest and a tuxedo jacket. He puts that on first and then the whole shebang. Unfortunately, he's only got his shitty resale non-slip work shoes instead of his dress shoes, so it looks stupid. But only if you're looking at the bottom half.

Huh.

A slow smile creeps up on his face crookedly as he looks at himself in the mirror. He plants his fists against his hips. He looks sharp as hell with the glasses on and the whole nine yards of tuxedo suit, if he does say so himself. Thank you, dead rich billionaire parents. Your inheritance will be put to very good use. At least they can do one useful thing for him in his life, even if it's only from beyond the veil.

He opens the curtain and steps out. The man appraises him with a grave face.

“If I could have you walk from one end of the room to the next a couple of times, I would greatly appreciate that.”

Peter listens to him, suddenly feeling like his feet have grown three sizes too big. Swallowing, he can’t help but think that maybe the man knows he's an imposter playing dress-up in rich people's clothes that he does not belong in. You can take the boy out of poverty but not the poverty out of the boy.

“Very good, Mr. Parker.”

Peter tries not to feel like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs as he skips back into the dressing room. Freshly changed into his sticky work uniform, the tailor is waiting for him with an arm stretched out. The man snaps up the tuxedo suit and starts meticulously placing it into a plastic bag, which goes inside another bag with a zipper. The man then leaves and comes back with three white dress shirts, all folded and in separate bags.

“Cash or card,” the tailor asks as he rings up the total at the cash register.

“Uhm… card,” Peter garbles, almost choking on his spit as he attempts to speak and swallow at the same time.

“Your total will be $3,450.37, Mr. Parker.” The man says it with eerily calm.

He does choke on his spit this time.

“Will you be making a one-time payment?”

“Yeah—yes,” Peter replies, a bit sharper than he intends to, and gropes around in his jeans for his wallet.

He inserts his brand-new spanking credit card into the card reader. Oh, sweet, sweet capitalism, he thinks, how you have fucked me over.

The tailor hands him the receipt and then the most expensive thing he's ever bought in his life. In a daze, he walks out. Not even the cold New York that blastd him can take away his bewilderment. Seriously, holding this few-grand hand-tailored tuxedo next to his ten-dollar discount orchid is throwing him off balance. His rent is cheaper than this suit, for fuck's sake! Unable to lament that train of thought any longer, he drops his skateboard and rolls off towards his apartment.

When he was younger, he used to have to scrap the burnt shit off the bottom of the pan to eat enough. Aunt May used to have to pick between buying herself shoes or him shoes after Ben had died (she always bought him the shoes). Money had never been taken for granted. And then suddenly, he turned 18, and a letter showed up in his mail, and his life was flipped upside down. Call him Princess Parker the way he went from rags to riches.

And even though, he's got the riches, they don't come without a price. In order to keep the money, he has to attend Gotham City's upper-crust social events and mingle with people who walk like they've got thirty-inch rods rammed up their asses. His biological parents used to be those type of people, but now that they're dead, they want him to go in their stead. He huffs.

Typical.

And a load of bullshit and baloney if you ask him. He'd almost tried for a thrifted suit from the Salvation Army, but also apparently that's a 'no-go.' The lawyer had specifically insisted that he had to go in a tailored suit. And even though it pains him to spend this much money, here he is. He's got more money than he knows what to do with but for now, he's going to play it safe. He'd prefer not to end up like one of those inept bastards who wins the lottery and then spends it all on useless garbage, and goes into generational debt. He heaves a great sigh internally. Tomorrow, he leaves for Gotham. The armpit of the world. Off to see what sprawling mansion his dear Mummy and Pappy have left him.

Right.

And that's another part of the deal.

The upkeep of the Parker estate. Can't have Mummy and Pappy turning over in their graves now. Gotta make them look good in front of the public eye, even in death. What a fucking joke. He lives in New York for crying out loud! Why does he have to mingle with New Jersey backwater people!?

Who knows how much money he's going to have to drop on the mansion to fix it up to code?

Anyways.

It's fucking nuts to think that he went his whole life thinking he didn't have parents when it turns out they were just much too busy sniffing lines of cocaine, sipping champagne, throwing mansion parties, and running one of the world's largest companies in genetic editing technology. Maybe he'd lived with them before he was able to form solid memories when he was five or some shit. But that doesn't matter. His family always has and will always only be Aunt May and Uncle Ben. Even when he was 14 and had lost them both. Even when he was kicked off his ass from one couch to the next, in and out of foster homes for two years until he was emancipated at 16. Even when he quit being Spider-Man six months ago. Even when he abandoned his friends six months ago. Even then.

He sniffles at that, snapping back into present reality as he spots his brownstone apartment complex. But before he goes in, he jogs over to the mailbox. Grabbing his mail, he shuffles through the envelopes, all his things bundled up his arms as he carries them. Peter stomps up the stairs and buzzes into the complex. Latently, he realizes it's started to snow as a snowflake lands on his nose. Man, he feels frozen half to death.

He's up on the third floor, making his way down the hallway to his apartment, amusing himself with his thoughts, when all of a sudden Cheryl calls out to him loudly. He almost drops the flowerpot.

“What's that you got under your arm, Peter? More weed for us?”

Cheryl always keeps her apartment door cracked wide open, no matter how many times the neighbors insist to her that it's not safe to do so. Luckily, she lives right across from him even if her having the door wide open all the time makes his spider senses go hay wild in concern.

He rushes to her side, shushing her. “Not so loud, Cheryl. It's just an orchid.”

She leans back in her old recliner, eyeing the flowerpot with a mischievous smile that shows off her dentures.

“Who's the lucky girl?”

“Aw no. It's just for my Aunt,” Peter says sheepishly.

Cheryl shrugs a shoulder, her curly white hair bouncing on her head, as she turns to look back at her ancient box TV. Something about the Avengers and the Justice League is playing on the news. He tries not to frown.

“That Superman hunk sure is sexy,” Cheryl says with a giddiness in her voice.

Peter snorts. “Yeah, more like a hunk of shit…” he mutters under his breath.

Lucky, she can't hear him or she'd beat him with her cane.

“Do you need anything before I leave? Remember I'm not gonna be here for a week but I stocked up your refrigerator yesterday so you should be good to go…” Peter says, setting down his stuff in a precarious heap as he runs to go check on her fridge. Finding it alright, he steps back to pile his shit into his arms again. She's too busy staring at Superman's biceps to respond to him.

“Call David if you need anything while I'm gone. David said he'd help,” Peter has to yell over the noise of the TV, halfway out the door.

“That piece of shit doesn't know how to do anything! You better get back home soon, Peter!” Cheryl yells back at him.

He laughs and shuts the door behind himself. Cheryl's never told him about her age, but he thinks she's about 75. She doesn't have family, and she's lived on her own ever since her husband died. They smoke together sometimes since she's cool like that. Partly blind, loves superheroes and their glasses match. What more could he ask for from a grandma figure? Well, he could do without the loves-superheroes-part but whatever.

Tip-toeing around the water-damaged wooden floorboards, Peter fumbles the key into his apartment door and bangs the door shut with his hip. Carefully, he sets the pot down on the windowsill, leans the skateboard against the wall, and lays out the tuxedo on his bed. He glances at the alarm clock sitting on his nightstand. Pretty easy to spot considering he has excellent vision.

11:42 PM.

He tosses his shades somewhere on his bed.

Oh, who is he kidding?

The only real reason he can see the numbers so clearly is actually because his kitchen is in his bedroom and his bedroom is in his kitchen because his apartment is a shitty one-roomer stuck somewhere between Queens and Brooklyn. Which just about sums up his life.

A shithole.

Up until a week ago when that surprise inheritance hit him in the mail. So, now it's more like the money is the gold flake on top of the shit sundae that is his life. Still shit, but just pretty now. God knows why Mary and Richard Parker decided to leave their wealth to a son they never even sniffed at and seemingly, they didn't even go by Parker. Get this, they went by Vanderbilt, the most kitschy name they could come up with. So fucking stupid. But he's not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

Peter knocks the side of his temple with his knuckles, already starting to feel the beginnings of a migraine, courtesy of his excellent vision that absolutely does not come with any extra side problems.

His stomach groans at him, cramping painfully.

He squints against the incandescent white light that floods his vision when he opens his crappy cheap fridge. It makes the backs of his eyes pulse in sharp pain. Scouring through his fridge, he looks for the milk as he moves a half-empty carton of eggs and some cheese that's starting to mold. He probably needs to cut away the moldy part and throw that out sooner than later while it's still salvageable. Though, he can now more than afford a new block of cheese, it's hard to kick the bucket on frugal habits.

He doesn't have the patience to make himself a better meal with the way his head is trying to explode itself at ass o'clock in the night so, cereal it is. It feels like his head is ballooning. He needs to eat and then pop a pill to sleep, preferably after curling up under the covers and pretending he's not alive.

He finally finds the milk carton sitting at the back of the fridge. And it's frozen.

Fucking great.

Scowling, he grabs the frozen hunk of milk ice and slams the fridge closed. He grabs the only bowl he has and the one spoon he keeps and sets it down on the tiny countertop. He pours himself some no-name brand cornflakes. Cornflakes so cheap, as a matter of fact, that they came sold in a plastic bag and not in a cardboard box. No rich people cereal for him. No, sir, no matter how much the piggy bank is full, just some good old cheap shit. He sets down the bag of cornflakes and then frowns when he sees the sides of the countertop peeling off. He sticks his nail under it and the whole fake wooden plastic side falls off.

He sighs.

Great, just another thing to fix. Another thing to throw his money down the drain for. You'd think the way things break so often that money would grow on trees. Well... perhaps it does now, but that's beside the point.

He opens the milk carton and tries to pour whatever liquid is left in the carton onto the cornflakes. Three sad drops come out and only two of them successfully land on the cornflakes. One drop lands on the countertop. A few frozen chunks of milk dislodge in the carton and do land in the cornflakes though. Peter closes his eyes and tries to think happy thoughts. Of smoking a blunt, of payday, of no taxes, of free healthcare, and a whole day without a migraine.

He doesn't bother turning on the lights. He can see perfectly fine in the night with his enhanced vision, and it helps to keep the electricity bill down. Glass half full, glass half empty, at least that's one perk to being bit by a radioactive spider. He steps to the left two paces (a testament to how small his hovel is) with his cereal bowl in hand and sits down at the table. He has one chair and its metal. He found it for free off of Facebook Marketplace and it didn't even come with a cushion to sit on. The table also wobbles when he leans too far to one side. He munches on his mostly dry cereal and bits of frozen slushy milk. He's pretty sure shit from ass has more flavor than this but it's a comfort food at this point. His spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl as he eats the last cornflake. He has no idea why he ate his dry cornflakes with a spoon. He could've saved water by not washing the spoon. His head isn't in its A-game.

Out of his peripheral vision, he can see the red mocking glare of his alarm clock. It ticks at him. He ignores it. He’ll sleep in a bit. Peter picks up his phone. He always has the screen brightness turned down to the lowest he can. And just his luck, his phone is at 29% battery. Grimacing, his head swims for a moment, as the back of his eyes pulse in exhaustion. He swipes down his notifications.

Spam email. Spam email. Spam email. Job offer from Massachusetts Costco. Spam email. Get 50% off on your next purchase with us at Macy’s.

He winces.

He had bought a winter coat from Macy's one time when he was a wide-eyed freshly emancipated 16-year-old on May's two-year death anniversary during the Christmas season. It was also the first night he had taken on training to become a better Spider-Man. He was feeling lonely in his new apartment and seasonal depression had gotten to him and he had dropped almost two hundred dollars, which was money he did not have at the time, on a new coat. That was a mistake. At least it's held up well.

LinkedIn. LinkedIn. Wingstop promoting its new wing flavors. He swallows heavily as his stomach growls. Temptation is strong to order himself some wings but, no—he needs to be wise with the money. LinkedIn. Facebook Marketplace showing him a free desk. He expands that notification and clicks on it.

Huh.

It's in pretty good condition too. There are four pictures that he scrolls through with squinted eyes. The pictures are a little blurry, like whoever was holding the camera couldn't keep it steady. They're off center too and he's pretty sure he can see their bathroom with the toilet lid all the up. Peter smirks. Must be a dude who's giving away the desk. But otherwise, it's a pretty decent desk from what he can see. It's a little scuffed on the bottom of the legs, from use, probably. It's nicely sized, dark brown, and even has some drawers. Awesome.

He decides to message the vendor, some dude (he was right) by the name of ‘Daniel Barnes,’ with something simple.

Thor knows if it still is available, despite it only having been an hour since the post went up. In today's day and age, when everything is too expensive and you get paid in thoughts and prayers, he doesn't have much hope. He chews on his lip as he stares down at his phone screen waiting for a response. Daniel Barnes' profile indicates that he's online from the green dot in the corner. His leg starts to bounce up and down anxiously as he waits. Two minutes slid by like molasses and Daniel still hasn't responded.

Daniel Barnes doesn't have a profile picture, but it's probably safe to assume that the dude behind the account is an old man, maybe in his 70s, struggling to use Facebook.

Resisting the urge to throw his phone, he sets it face down on the wobbly table carefully instead. His stomach growls again. He wishes he had remembered to shop for groceries for himself yesterday. But nope, only for Cheryl, and now he suffers the consequences.

He stands up, taking his dirty bowl and spoon to the sink to wash. That done, his eyes wander over to the orchid sitting on the windowsill. Quickly, he looks away as his chest pangs. He refuses to think of it anything more than a pretty flower he bought for no reason.

He looks back at the clock.

12:20 AM.

Out of nowhere, his head throbs and pulses, squeezing his temples and stabbing the backs of his eyes. He staggers and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, as he groans. Slowly, he peels open his eyes and rapidly blinks away the spots dancing in his vision. And when he can finally see, he strangely finds himself standing in front of the orchid. It looks innocent. Harmless. But his heart still twists the longer he looks at it.

Peter reaches out to rub a petal between his fingers. It's thick and waxy, like plastic. May always said she thought the gesture of flowers was boring and unoriginal. Fake. She always strived to come up with a unique gift. Something weird and funky, like that one time she gave him a thrifted gag gift of Batman paraphernalia that said, 'Batman sucks balls.' May always knew what heartwarming gift to give him. He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. Reflecting back on it, now, almost all gifts she gave him were secondhand or thrifted.

It's stupid how that's the thought that has him swallowing past the frog in his throat. No matter how little they had, she never failed to give him everything. But then he'd failed her. On this night, four years ago, Spider-Man couldn't save her. And now she lies in a grave. And then, in his grief and emotional turmoil, he'd made a false promise to himself, and vowed to become a better Spider-Man. He'd been unable to stand the thought of losing someone else again; it'd kill him. But now, older and more jaded, he knows the world is better off without that part of him—that part of him that breaks promises and gets those around him killed.

Suddenly, his phone pings in the dead quiet, knocking him out his stupor. It's Daniel.

Yup. Definitely an old dude. Peter responds immediately.

He stares at his phone screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as he waits. He glances over at the clock.

It's 12:33 AM.

Daniel's profile picture circle pops up at the bottom of the chat. Peter stares at it, willing Daniel to come get his grandkid to help him type out what he's got to say. After several minutes, Peter throws in the towel, resisting the urge to groan like a moody teen. Instead, he gets up to finish packing his bag for the week. He ruffles the duffel bag he's got half made at the foot of his twin mattress.

Four long-sleeved shirts, two hoodies, a scarf and mittens, two pairs of jeans, five pairs of underwear, four pairs of socks, one pair of knock-off dunks, one tuxedo suit, three white dress shirts, one tie, one desire for a washer and dryer in Gotham City and a partridge in a pear tree. He grabs his toiletries out of the bathroom and pauses halfway through when his head pulses something vicious.

“Mmmf,” he can't help but voice.

Bracing an arm against the wall, he squeezes his eyes closed, rubbing his temples and his eyes with more force than necessary. Even the sound of his own voice is intolerable. His sensitive ears amplify the rushing of blood in his ears and his deep breaths of anguish to the point of agony. Then, like a sonar, his hearing expands. The sounds of his neighbor's TV playing a laugh soundtrack reaches him. Ten an alley cat meowing… the buzzing of electricity throughout the building… a drunken crowd… a whistling kettle... a snoring couple...

A tight panicky feeling wraps itself around his chest.

Shit. Please, not again.

He throws his toiletries into the duffel, groaning and moaning as he gropes around blindly for his unlabeled bottle of painkillers. He'd made these capsules himself, synthesizing oxycodone into a stronger dose for his metabolism. With shaky hands, he tosses back a glass of water along with the pill. Then he crawls back towards his bed and collapses on the mattress, shoving his head under his pillow. He doesn't know how long he lays there breathing through the torture, his brain trying to blow his skull wide open.

It might've been several minutes of self-sanctioned meditation when the peak point of pain starts to dissipate. It doesn't really go away until he gets a good night's rest, which seldom happens, but at least it's calmed down. His phone pings and the sound rings loudly in his overly sensitive ears.

He rolls over, squinting his eyes against the phone screen. It's Daniel. The little timestamp in the chat says it's 1:06 AM.

The morning would definitely be way more than ideal, concerning his head, but not feasible. He has to leave at 6:00 AM. And if he waits the week until he comes back, there's no way the desk is still going to be there. It's miraculous the old man even answered him. Perhaps Thor heard his prayers. He sighs, glancing at his alarm clock.

1:08 AM.

Just one problem.

He could easily carry the desk on his back but that definitely would be way too damn suspicious. His phone pings again and it's only been two minutes since he last sent his reply.

Yikes, that's a lot of spelling mistakes, more than usual. Seems like Daniel got tired of his snail-paced texting too. With a heave emboldened with herculean effort, he rolls over onto his side and gets up. Plucking the sunglasses off his bed, he slides them on.

He arrives at the Devil's Lair—also known as the Avengers Tower. He'd copied the address into Google Maps without really looking at it and followed directions blindly, which now he sourly regrets as he stands in front of the most obnoxious, pretentious, attention-seeking skyscraper this side of the country. So, either this guy is fucking with him or he's just some poor pencil pusher trying to get rid of his old desk. He half expects a camera crew to pop out of the bushes and tell him he's on some kind of prank show or social experiment. He brings up Facebook Messenger, still awkwardly standing in front of the double glass doors. He doesn't want to walk in and then get lasered down or something. He checks the time.

1:38 AM.

Cue the sigh.

He twirls his skateboard absentmindedly as he looks around the front of the building. He's definitely a stank look on his face. Fondly, he reminisces on the dozens of times he'd spraypainted the side of the building with 'fuck superheroes.'

And get this? He'd never been caught. Or at least until now, he grumbles. He's starting to think that maybe Iron Man's finally caught onto Spider-Man's really identity and the Hulk is gonna come flying out of one of those windows in mass of green fury. And really, it would be all his fault for being gullible enough to think he'd hit the jackpot twice with free furniture in New York City at such an ungodly hour.

He shivers. It's freaking freezing out here, even with his Macy's puffy winter jacket.

His phone screen lights up with a message from Daniel.

Taking a deep breath, he walks to the double doors as they automatically open for him. Instantly, he's hit with a blast of warm air. His shoulders slump in relief as his muscles untense. Craning his head around, he catches that the lobby is quite empty—which is to be expected on a weekday at ass o’clock in the morning. Though, he doesn't see any poor-looking desk worker schmuck except for the security guy behind the front desk munching on some donuts, who hasn't even bothered to look up at him.

He does see Captain America standing there—stupidly might he had—in the crappiest disguise he’s seen (sunglasses and a ballcap… really now?) in the middle of the world's douchiest-looking lobby (courtesy of Stark). But seeing Captain America in the flesh absolutely does not make him get the fanboy sweats. Peter shrugs (ignoring his racing heart) and looks down at his phone, sending another message.

Captain America's phone pings at full volume just as Peter sends the message. The hair on the back of his arm starts to stand up. No way… could it be? He watches as Captain America struggles to type on his phone, pecking the screen with one finger like the old man he is.

Holy smokes, Batman.

There is no other reason for Captain America to be standing there, pecking at his phone at a snail's pace, looking like he's about to throw it against the wall, at one in the morning. Peter meanders on over, pocketing his phone as he clears his throat.

“You got the goods?” he says, in a poor imitation of an undercover copy trying to bust a gas station for drugs.

Watching Captain America snap straight up into ridged superhero mode is kind of funny, he's got to admit.

“I'm sorry?” He says, but nothing about that tone of voice says he’s sorry or confused.

Peter can’t help but snicker. “You know that—”

“Drugs aren't a laughing matter, son," he says, with a tone that brookes absolutely no laughter.

Peter's jaw audibly clicks shut as he looks up at him, slowly. The Captain's face is even more haunting, with an expression that spells one hundred and ten percent serious, with a two-percent margin. But more than anything, he looks disappointed, in a way that only Captain America can. Ouch.

“You're such a square,” Peter grumbles, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

Captain America frowns and takes off his sunglasses, studying him intently.

“Are you…” He looks down at his phone, confusion visible on his face. “Peter Parker?” And then he flips his phone, showing him the screen. It's Peter's profile picture, which he took off of Google of some random elderly Cambodian woman, taking up a quarter of the screen. Peter has to stifle a laugh because the whole thing is comically big. It's something like old people with bad eyesight do. And though, Steve might be old, he's pretty sure post-serum Steve isn't supposed to have bad eyesight. So, why in the world is the is the text so big?

“Uh, yeah?” Peter says, defensively. Captain America lifts a skeptical eyebrow. Peter crosses his arms. “I lost some weight.”

Thankfully, good ol' Captain America drops it with a heaving sigh. “Come on. I've got the desk in a conference room,” and then he just marches off without looking behind him like he expects Peter to follow him blindly.

Peter follows him blindly.

He peers into the room. Honestly, he thinks, while looking at the size of the room, Captain America may have fibbed about it being a conference room because it's the size of a broom closet. Or it's a conference room for gnomes. He goes in anyway while the good ‘ol Captain lingers in the doorway and there he finds the desk sitting there in all its glory. It looks like it’s been shoved in the gnome conference room haphazardly, but at least it looks even better in real life than it did in the pictures. He shoves his way in between the wall and the desk, the edge of the wood biting into his thighs. With possibly a bit of a maniac smile, he strokes the wood delicately. It's perfect. It's breathtaking. And it's for free. He turns around to tell Captain America he'll take it when he sees the guy standing guard outside the doorway, craning his neck around like a prairie dog. Like he expects someone to pop out of the woodworks.

“Dude,” Peter starts. “Are we, like, under attack or something? What's with the bouncer stance?”

Captain America turns to look at him over his shoulder but his eyes are still turned to the lobby. “No,” he clears his throat loudly, a bit louder than necessary in Peter's humble opinion.

“Right,” Peter says slowly, “well I'd like to take this baby home.” He pats the desk with a big smile.

“Of course, of course,” he says, clearly distracted.

Captain America is starting to sound panicky now. He's not even looking at Peter anymore. From over yonder, he can hear an elevator ding and then someone starts to make their way on over at a rapid pace and they are not being very subtle about it too.

Without warning, Captain America, darts outside, turns off the lights, and slams the door shut on him. He's left alone in the complete darkness. Realizing how useless his sunglasses are now, he takes them off, letting his eyes adjust in that quick split-second they need. God bless that stupid little radioactive spider. He can see the desk as clear as day in the pitch black.

Then the worst possible thing happens, the epitome of everything wrong with the world, the bane of his existence, the center of his superhero hatred—Tony Stark steps out of the elevator. He can hear that imp already barking up a storm on the other side of the door. And had Peter known there would be any possibility for Stark to be roaming around the Tower, he would've called it quits. Damn the free desk and damn Tony Stark. Unfortunately for him, there's a bigger chance of being struck by lightning or a Redditor asking a meaningful question for once, than him actually not running into Tony Stark in the Tower.

“Rogers, is there a teenager in my closet?” Stark says miffed.

“He's here for the desk.” Captain America already sounds agitated. Peter can relate.

“Is that old code slang for cocaine? Is that what they used to say in the 40s?” comes Stark's pompous voice. He can hear him annoyingly clicking a pen.

Captain America stays silent.

“Does it hurt to laugh sometimes, Cap?”

Geez, what an asshole to insult Captain America. Tony has to be breaking some kind of Amendment saying that to him.

Stark's voice comes louder now when he says, “If you wanted to get rid of the desk, I would've had cleaning come pick it up, Captain Underpants.”

“What I do, on my own time, is none of your business, Stark.” Captain America's voice is like a vice and Peter silently cheers him on.

“Excuse me? Did I just hear that right? Did America’s own Vintage Popsicle just tell me to ‘f-off’ in my own building? Passive aggressively, might I add? The building I own, by the way, just in case you didn't hear me the first time.” He thinks Stark might've just wagged his finger around in the air.

Captain America is silent. But he can hear the way his heartrate starts to race in anger and his breaths get heavier.

A sigh from Stark. “Just open the door, Rogers. If you want a child, I'll get you one! But you cannot keep kids in closets.”

He thinks Captain America stonewalls him from the door. He can hear the American icon breathing on the other side. Then he hears them start to tussle, their shoes squeaking. At this point, he can't make out what they're saying as they've started yelling over each other at the same time.

Peter takes out his phone and glances at the time.

2:15 AM.

He sighs. He really doesn't have the time for this. He's got to wake up in four hours, so he slips his shades back on and opens the door, to finds them postering at each other, like a pair of ruffled roosters. Stark and the Captain turn to look at him; a dismayed look on Stark's face and a hard one on Captain America's. Surprisingly, Stark is wearing a pair of dirty jeans and an AC/DC shirt that's also smeared in grease. It's off putting. He'd kind of half-expected the guy to sleep in Armani suits and Italian loafers 24/7.

Stark inhales deeply, ready to spew a bunch of bullshit. “You'd better thank your lucky stars that I'm the one who found you hanging out with a teenager in a closet and not some poor intern cause they'd get some very bad ideas very quickly and that PR nightmar—”

“There is nothing illicit going on.” The Captain's face is thunderous.

Peter tries to get his two cents in. “I really just need this des—” he points his thumb over his shoulder.

Stark dares to haughtily hold up a finger at him. “The adults are talking.”

Peter tries to say, “But I—"

Stark doesn't even bother to say anything to him, he just holds up a finger as he turns to Captain America.

“You can't just shut the door and leave a teenager in the dark in a closet.” Stark points to him without looking at him.

Peter is starting to get ticked off.

“Stark—”

He tunes out of their conversation. After several minutes of listening to their pointless arguing, Stark turns to him. And Peter, still stuck between the desk and the wall, had no choice but to listen.

“You want an autograph kid? A picture for the Gram? I can get you one before I have to kick you out.” Stark snaps his fingers at him.

“I'm not a kid,” Peter snaps.

“Ok, ‘not-a-kid.’ You sure you don't want that autograph?” He smirks at him like he finds Peter funny. It makes his blood boil.

“I don't even fucking know you.”

Captain America opens his mouth to try and interfere but of course Stark rides right over him. Which is probably, again, unconstitutional.

“You're kidding right?” Stark raises his eyebrows, staring at him like he’s the weirdo. That smug little piece of shit— “You're literally standing in my building.”

Peter stares at him with a blank face.

Stark sighs like it's the world's most arduous task to deal with those who are part of the working middle class like they're peasants. “Tony Stark,” he extends a hand. There's a giant gaudy-looking watch on his wrist.

“Who?” Peter cocks his head and pointedly pockets his hands.

Stark presses his lips into a thin lip, shaking his head like Peter is in the wrong here.

“How do you not know who I am? Do you not have a phone?” Peter tenses under his gaze, at the way Stark appraises him. “Every underaged gremlin I know has a phone nowadays, especially the tiny ones. I can get you a phone, only the latest in the line of Stark phones.”

Stark pulls out his phone and starts typing away on it at speeds that could probably rival the Flash. It's paper thin and looks like something straight out of the future. And it is entirely inconvenient too.

“I don't need or want your stupid fucking phone.” Peter bristles.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself." Then suddenly, he pauses and looks up and he squints at him.

“How old are you? Twelve?” Peter opens his mouth to correct him—he can feel his blood pressure rising—but again, Stark rolls right through him. He turns to look at Captain America. “Where'd you get the kid?”

“Facebook Marketplace—”

Stark scoffs. “Everybody knows you only buy live animals off of Craigslist, Rogers.”

Peter's pretty sure a vein somewhere in his head has popped from the way he's lightheaded with anger.

No longer able to stand it, he blithely bites out, “Goddamit—I am not a kid! I just want the stupid desk and to get the fuck out of here!” The words come out louder than he intends them to.

And the asshole has the audacity to only look mildly vexed at his outburst but at least he's shut his trap.

Captain America finally speaks up when the tension in the air is thick enough to slice.

“Peter, how about you wait for me outside, son? I'll bring the truck around to the front.”

Peter's shoulders ride up to his ears, as they burn, his gut churning in shame at being told off by Captain America. He marches off to the glass double doors but not before hearing Stark yell at him, “I'll write you a check for that desk!” He can hear Captain America scolding Stark none too gently.

He double-flips him off.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes of waiting out in the cold, shivering violently, as it snows on him when he sees Captain America pull up in an old rust bucket of a pick-up truck. The desk is strapped down in the bed of the truck. He climbs into the passenger side and melts into the seat gratefully when he feels the hot blast of the heater running. Peter glances at the dashboard.

It says 3:03 AM.

“Seatbelt?” Captain America glances at him and puts the truck into drive. He's too exhausted to protest as he clicks it on. He sees the Captain nod in approval out of the corner of his eyes. “Address?”

Peter mumbles it to him and then slouches into his seat. He stares out the passenger window, watching the snow and the holiday traffic fly by. It's strangely hypnotic, even behind his shades, he can feel his eyes drooping. A thought crosses his mind, jolting him out of his drowsiness with a bout of anxiety. That icky feeling of shame and guilt sits heavy in his stomach. “He's not gonna spread rumors, right…?”

Captain America glances at him, an alarmed look on his face. Sharply, he says, “No, he would never. Tony can be difficult, but he means it in good humor. I told him you were here for the desk but, kid, if I knew you were this young, I'd never have agreed to meet at such a time.”

“Okay…” he mutters, burrowing his face into the collar of his puffy coat, too tired to protest his age.

It's quiet in the truck other than the rumble of the engine and the sounds of the city. Peter is falling asleep, feeling strangely warm in more ways than one when he's awoken by the sound of the Captain's voice.

“I've been meaning to ask… why do you wear those sunglasses?”

Any other time someone would’ve asked him this question he'd bite back at them but he's too exhausted to care.

“Miosis, my pupils don't dilate correctly.” A white lie. A partial truth. They do dilate correctly just not to normal human standards.

The Captain seems to accept that answer. He might've dozed off again because when he comes to, he recognizes the old brownstone complex of his apartment.

“Shit…” he blinks the sleep from his eyes.

Captain America is not in the truck. He opens the door and immediately the snow pelts him. He slams the door shut behind him and makes his way towards the bed of the truck where he can see the Captain has moved the desk down onto the sidewalk in front of the complex's stairs. He sniffles, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand as he buzzes them into the building. Grabbing one end of the desk, he helps Captain America move the desk into the cramped hall of the first floor. The door shuts firmly behind them, and Peter sighs.

Captain America has his hands on his hips and is eyeing the stairs.

“I've, uh, got it, Captain,” he says stilted.

The man looks around the floor, with his hands still on his hips, and then says, “Is there an elevator?” It's clear he's noticed that there isn't one in the building.

Peter sighs for the nth time and acquiesces. Together, they make an awkward shuffle up two flights of stairs to his apartment. With the way Captain America is so beefy and built like a shit brickhouse, it makes for some awkward furniture moving. Finally, they're in front of his unit and Peter is five seconds away from passing out on Cheryl's welcome mat. It says, ‘You're Welcome to Fuck Off.’ Captain America is looking at it with a bewildered look on his face. Peter gropes around for his key and finally unlocks the door.

The cold from his apartment washes over him in an instant. It's colder in here than out in the hallway and that's saying something. Still shivering and with his nose dripping everywhere, they move the desk into the corner by his bed. He could obviously do this by himself, but he's so bone tired that just the thought of having to make small awkward talk to Captain America to get him to fuck off and not have him help makes him want to swan dive out of his window. So, when they set down the desk underneath the window, at the foot of his mattress, he is surprised to see Captain America get his butt out of the room quickly. He does linger by the doorway, but Peter thought he'd have to fight him tooth and nail for him to leave (metaphorically).

He casts a glance at his alarm clock.

3:49 AM.

Peter moves to the doorway, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He's lost feeling in them from how icy they are. Preparing to do an awkward song and dance with goodbyes, the Captain catches him off guard with a question.

“Are you going to be warm enough tonight?”

It's a simple question. But he's looking at him earnestly with those wide All-American baby blues. Swallowing around the hard lump that's abruptly formed in his throat he nods his head once. He's an adult for fuck's sake. This shouldn't be the thing that makes him weepy.

The Captain nods his head once and steps away.

“Thanks, Captain,” he says quietly. The words are loud in the quiet of the hallway.

“Of course, son.” A pause, and then, “And it's Steve.”

He nods once too. “Alright, Daniel,” he says, cheeky.

Steve's quiet laugh echoes down the hall as Peter closes the door.

Something loud is rattling his brain inside of his skull. It blares at him as his senses take a few moments to connect back to his brain. He finally recognizes the sound. It's his alarm. He rolls over with a groan and slams his hand down on the snooze button. A harsh crunch and his eyes fly wide open, as he hisses against the beginnings of light that start to stream through his window. Glancing to his left, he finds his alarm clock in smithereens. Lifting his palm to his face, he sees tiny, shattered plastic pieces stuck to his palm. Collapsing back against his crappy mattress, the springs squeaking, he screws his eyes shut.

Fuck.

What a great way to start the day.

He hadn't realized when he'd fallen asleep but apparently, he had taken Captain America's words to heart and had turned up his heater before he fell asleep. His sunglasses were somehow on the floor. It was warm and toasty in the room which made the task of having to get out from under his threadbare sheets even more grueling. With his eyes half closed, he stumbles to his tiny, cramped bathroom on bare feet. Like the rest of his apartment, he never bothers to turn on the lights or even close the door. It's not like anybody is going to see him anyway.

He ambles back over to his bed, rubbing his eyes with furious fists, and fumbles through the sheets, looking for his phone. Pulling it out, he checks the time.

It's 5:29 AM.

Shit. He doesn't have time for breakfast anymore. And his phone is at 9% battery. Wow, even better. He plugs in his phone and then runs into the bathroom, hopping into the shower right away. He doesn't have the time to wait for the water to warm up, and since the communal water boiler is shit, he takes a cold two-minute shower. He slams the door open, toothbrush in his mouth, foaming like a rabid dog, as he races around. He jerks open his closet door and grabs the only long-sleeved shirt that he still has hanging.

Jumping around on one foot to the next as he shoves his feet through yesterday's jeans and then his feet into his battered-up Converse, it's no wonder he almost eats shit as he trips. Catching himself on the wall, he runs to the bathroom and spits, rinsing his mouth with more cold water. He groans as his sensitive teeth ache. His toothpaste is non-mint flavored ever since he discovered he's now allergic to mint. He learned that the hard way when he ate a candy cane.

Rushing back into his room, he pauses for a second, debating whether to make his bed or not. A nagging voice (which sounds like May) in the back of his head urges him to carefully make his bed. Satisfied with that, he unplugs his phone. It's charged to 44%. Not bad for the seven minutes he ran around like a headless chicken. His phone is a knock-off of Stark phone, but better of course. He made it himself from a discarded piece of junk Stark phone he found in a dumpster while diving for parts.

He shoves his arms through his Macy's jacket, throws his duffel bag over his shoulder, and perches his sunglasses on his nose. Rummaging through his drawer, he finds his old wristwatch he hardly uses and straps it on. The orchid sits on his windowsill innocently. It'd be a damn shame to let it die while he's gone. Grabbing a plastic grocery bag, he sets the orchid gently in it. He checks the time and sighs in relief.

It's 5:39 AM.

Lucky for him, he might just make it to the Parker estate by 8:30 AM.

And then he swings open the door and finds a giant desk blocking the whole hallway. He freezes, staring at it. He shouldn't have jinxed himself. Honestly, he knows better by now. The thing is truly, outrageously enormous but admittedly, it's nice. It looks hand-carved and sturdy. He knocks his knuckle against the top of the desk. Hmm, might it be walnut wood?

He then notices a Polaroid stuck to the top corner of the desk with gum tack. He picks it up. It's a picture of Tony Stark. A pretty shit one too and the bastard looks way too damn smug about it. He flips it over and, on the back, it says, ‘You forgot your autograph' right next to his signature. This is fucking perfect. This idiot thought he could hand a one-of-a-kind signed autograph to someone who hates his guts and not see it end up on eBay. He pulls out his phone and snaps a quick photo of it. Laughing to himself, he shakes his head as he posts it on eBay for auction.

And now he just has to deal with the giant freaking desk. He places his duffel bag and orchid on the nasty carpet of the hallway and jumps over the table. He walks down to the end of the hall and knocks on unit C30. It's where Tonya lives with her three kids. She's a single mother and Thor knows she needs the desk way more than he does. He waits for a moment. He knows she's awake by now, getting her kids ready to drop them off at daycare. She works at a local hospital and goes into work around this time so she might be on her way out. He can hear one of her kids start to cry and scream. He winces for her in sympathy.

The door opens. Tonya looks dismayed and stressed as she opens it but when she sees him, her face breaks out into a sunny smile. Compared to most New Yorkers, she is a saint. She's got some cute ducky scrubs on too.

“Hey, Peter!”

“Hi, I'm sorry to bother you at this time, Tonya, but I have a desk out here and I was wondering if you'd like to take it,” he says in one rambly-winded breath, pointing down the hall at the desk.

She leans out the doorway and looks at it, raising an eyebrow, her tone befuddled. “Are you sure, Mr. Parker?”

He laughs it off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I just got a really nice one and then a friend sent me this desk when I already told them no. Soooo…” Never in a million fucking years would he ever admit to calling Tony Stark a friend, even in this context. Not even Batman would be able to waterboard that shit out of him.

She smiles at him gratefully, nodding her head. “Well, thank you so much, Peter.”

“Yeah! Of course, no problem!” He gestures towards the desk with both hands awkwardly. “It's honestly pretty heavy, so, I could help you move it but I've gotta do it now since I'm going to be gone for a week.” He laughs stupidly, trying to offset his awkwardness.

Tonya opens her door wide open. “Yeah, no worries, Peter. I got a bit of time left before I have to leave.” She eyes it again. “It looks pretty big though.” More screaming breaks out and he can hear her kids start to sob. She sighs. “Let me go see what these knuckleheads are fighting about and then I'll come help you move that.”

Peter nods his head and points with his thumb over his shoulder. But Tonya has already turned around and is scolding Matthew as he stomps his feet. “I'll just go grab the desk…” he mumbles.

Peter runs to the desk, vaulting over it. He looks around and behind himself. Seeing that the coast is clear, he picks up the desk by the middle and jogs over with it in his arms like a lunatic. He sets it down in front of the doorway just as Tonya appears.

“Oh! You didn't have to do that by yourself Peter but thank you!” She claps a palm against her chest, gratitude etched on her face. “Come on, let's get this inside.”

Peter helps her ease it inside her apartment. Melanie, her seven-year-old daughter, is watching the TV in the living room. Her nose is almost touching the screen from how close she is to it. She's watching it raptly and Peter isn't paying attention to the TV until a word catches his attention. A sinking feeling slices through his stomach as he approaches the TV with crossed arms.

A news anchorwoman is fervently talking as video footage of Spider-Man's feats flashes across the screen. The headline reads “It's been 6 months since Spider-Man disappeared. Where is New York's vigilante?”

He doesn't realize he's stopped breathing. It's like watching a car wreck happen in slow motion—he can't look away; he has to see what happens next. The screen flashes over to a new video and then it's a woman being interviewed and she has kids who are all wearing Spider-Man costumes. And then it's a construction worker being interviewed. An elderly man. A high-school boy from Midtown Tech. A whole family who say he'd saved their home eight months ago from fire. They all have something to say about Spider-Man helping them. Whether it was him, Spider-Man, cheering them up with a joke or saving their lives.

He feels sick.

And then a redhead woman with wild hair, looking like she just came out of a long shift, stares directly into the camera, her voice wavering in desperation. “Wherever you are Spider-Man… I hope you're alright. New York misses you. I miss you. The world needs you.”

He's shaking and suddenly he's never been so glad that he always wears sunglasses. He turns away, tightening his arms around himself. The blood that rushes and pounds in his head drowns out the sounds of the news anchor moving on to talk about the Avengers and the Justice League.

The room falls away as he's sucked into a mirage of memories that claw at his lungs. His breaths come in shallow chokes and gasps, as heavy smoke curls through the air from the fire that's roaring all around them. He can feel the familiar burn of rage fill his veins once again. But with it comes a sense of dread, for he knows what happens next. The visage of the man, the monster, who stands in front of him, obscured by the smoke is taunting him like he does every night. Laughing at him like he does every new morning. Mocking the death of—

“When's Spider-Man coming back?” Melanie's sad little voice snaps him out of his turmoil. He blinks down at her. He thinks he's surprised to see her standing there in front of him. She's not burning into ash. She's perfectly fine. He's still shaking, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets. He reminds himself that she is real and that this is real.

Peter looks down at her again, her big ‘ol eyeballs looking up at him. She's got glitter glue smeared on her cheek and in her hair for some reason. The image makes his heart ring itself out like a sopping wet towel. She thinks Spider-Man is Peter's friend. At least that's what he told her to reassure her.

He crouches down to her level.

“I don't know, Girly-Girl. I think Spider-Man is busy,” he says, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She frowns and scuffs the toe of her light-up shoes against the floor, tugging on the bottom of her jacket.

“With what?” Her nose scrunches up.

He shrugs and pouts his lips. “With school?” He reaches out with a finger and boops her nose. She doesn't giggle but she does give him a tentative smile.

He stands. “I'll see you later, alright?”

She nods, still looking down at the floor.

Stepping back out into the hallway, with Tonya on his heels, she thrusts a tupperware of red velvet cake at him. “Homemade,” she says as she pushes it into his hands.

“No, I… I really can't.” His stomach embarrassingly chooses that exact moment to growl.

She clicks her tongje and grabs his hand, wrapping his hand around the tupperware and letting go. “I'll be damned if I let you go hungry, Peter. You take that and I won't take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Peter sighs, deciding not to put up a fight, and smiles, looking at the generous slice of cake in his hands.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Tonya merely smiles and asks him, “Where are you headed off to?”

“Gotham,” he says shortly with an anxious smile.

“Oh!” Her eyes widen in surprise, and she chuckles. Peter laughs along with her, a bit stilted.

“Good luck with those Gothamites and stay safe out there.”

“Yeah… thank you, Tonya.”

He smiles at her closed-lipped and then retrieves his duffel bag, placing the cake on top of his clothes, and his orchid. She's waving at him goodbye, and for some reason, he thinks she looks a little sad. He takes the stairs two at a time and he pushes the apartment complex doors open. The cold embraces him, already chilling him to the bone. He can barely see in front of him, the way the snow is coming down. He checks his wristwatch, and he finds he's just in time for the taxi.

5:59 AM.

He sighs, hoisting the duffel bag up higher on his shoulder, and clutches the flowerpot closer to himself, hoping to shield it from the chill.

It's okay. Everything is going to be fine.

(The memories prowl at the back of his mind and the stench of smoke still lingers in his nose.)

He breathes in deep and exhales slowly, letting go.

Let's do this, Gotham.