Chapter Text
Peter B. Parker was a man—well, an Omega—who had made a staggering number of questionable decisions in his twenty-something years of life.
Working in an illegal speakeasy during Prohibition? Questionable.
Back-talking the mob boss who ran the joint on a daily basis? Highly questionable.
But none of those held a candle to the catastrophic lapse in judgment he had made around three months ago.
Peter stood behind the marble bar of Rest in Peace, muddling a maraschino cherry at the bottom of a highball glass. He poured in a generous measure of ginger ale, added a splash of grenadine, and topped it with a lemon twist.
It was a Cherry Mocktail. The only thing currently keeping his stomach from rebelling against him.
How did I get here? Peter thought miserably, taking a sip of the fizzy concoction.
But really, he knew exactly how he got here.
Like all Omegas, Peter experienced yearly heats. In the old days, those were hushed, extremely private affairs strictly reserved for marital beds.
But it was the Roaring Twenties now! Jazz was loud, skirts were short, and the younger generation had decided it was acceptable to spend a heat with a trusted partner without a gold band and a priest involved.
Peter had wanted to join the modern age. He’d wanted to lose his heat-virginity to someone safe, someone clean, and someone who wouldn't be weird about it afterward.
So naturally, he had gone to his boss—Mr. Miguel O’Hara—to ask for the weekend off.
"I need Thursday through Sunday off, boss," Peter had requested casually, wiping down the bar while Miguel reviewed the ledger.
"Denied. It is a busy weekend," Miguel had replied without looking up.
"Come on, Miggy. It’s my heat. I haven't taken a heat week off in the entire time I’ve worked here," Peter argued. "I'm going out to find a nice Alpha to ride it out with. Have a fun time, you know?"
Miguel’s fountain pen had snapped cleanly in half, ink spilling over the illicit accounting.
Miguel’s head had snapped up, his eyes zeroing in on Peter with an unnerving intensity. "You’re soliciting strangers?"
"Not strangers! I'm gonna vet them!" Peter had defended. "I'm looking for, you know, a stud who knows how to handle a first-timer."
Miguel had frozen. His pupils dilated so fast it was almost comical. "You’ve never..."
"No! Which is why I need the time off to do this right!"
Miguel had stood up, an unreadable expression crossing his sharp features. "Absolutely not. I will not have my head bartender catching diseases from some back-alley brute. If you require an Alpha, I will volunteer."
Peter had dropped his bar towel. "You? But you're my boss!"
"I am also an Alpha. A hygienic one," Miguel had stated, his voice dropping an octave into that low register that made Peter’s knees embarrassingly weak. "My estate is secure. You will be safe. I will handle it."
And Peter, in the mother of all questionable decisions, had said, "Okay."
The heat itself? Not questionable. At all.
Miguel was an attentive partner. Peter would even go so far as to describe him as gentle, or possibly even affectionate.
Behind closed doors, the mob boss had treated Peter like something precious, seeing him through the haze with a level of care that left Peter hopelessly ruined for anyone else.
But now, three months later, the consequences of that steamy weekend had arrived.
Peter’s favorite waistcoats were feeling uncomfortably tight. His natural scent, usually a smoky wood, had sweetened into something sweet and warm, like brown sugar and cinnamon. And every morning for the past three weeks, he had forcefully emptied his stomach into his poor sink.
He was carrying his boss’s pup.
——————
The heavy oak doors of the speakeasy swung open, dragging Peter out of his nauseous reverie.
Miguel strode into the empty bar. It was mid-afternoon, well before opening hours. The Alpha looked magnificent as always in his fitted suit. Except for the fact that his fedora had a smoking bullet hole punched cleanly through the brim.
"Afternoon, boss," Peter croaked, clutching his Cherry Mocktail like a lifeline. "Rough commute?"
Miguel took off the fedora, looking at the hole with slight irritation. He tossed it into a nearby trash bin.
"The Maroni family is getting too bold. One of their snipers missed my head by three inches outside the barber shop."
Peter’s stomach did a sharp flip that had nothing to do with morning sickness. "Three inches?!"
"It was sloppy work," Miguel scoffed, walking behind the bar and pouring himself three fingers of neat scotch. "And unfortunately for him, my men were not sloppy in their retaliation. He is currently learning how to swim in the East River wearing a new pair of concrete overshoes."
Miguel took a sip of his scotch, looking unfazed. Then, he paused, turning to look at Peter. His nose twitched.
"Parker," Miguel frowned. "Your scent. It has been... shifting. Are you unwell?"
"I changed my cologne!" Peter lied loudly, backing away slightly. "It's, uh, a French import. Very trendy."
Miguel looked unconvinced, his gaze drifting down to Peter’s midsection. Peter quickly sucked in his stomach, adjusting his suspenders.
"Speaking of rough commutes," Peter deflected desperately, changing the subject. "What happened to the Lincoln? I saw Lyla filing an insurance claim."
"Ah. A minor explosive device was wired to the ignition," Miguel said, leaning against the bar. "Fortunately, my driver noticed the wiring before turning the key. We lost the car, but it was insured. I am upgrading to a Bearcat."
Peter stared at him. The man had almost been shot in the head, his car had been rigged to explode, and now, he was just drinking scotch at 2:00 PM like he was discussing the weather.
Peter looked down at his own stomach. A pragmatic realization washed over him.
I can't raise a pup in this environment. What if a sniper misses Miguel and hits the nursery? What if the baby’s pram gets wired with dynamite?!
"Hey, Miggy," Peter started, his voice a little shaky. He gripped the edge of the bar. "Can I ask you a hypothetical question?"
"You may," Miguel said, turning his full attention to Peter.
"Do you ever think about... quitting?" Peter asked softly. "You know. Leaving the life? Packing up your money, moving out west, buying a farm? Just... being normal?"
Miguel stared at Peter as if the bartender had just suggested they both strip naked and dance the Charleston in Times Square.
"A farm?" Miguel repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Peter, I am the head of the most powerful syndicate in New York. I own half the judges in this city. I thrive on the unyielding influence I possess over Tammany Hall. Why in God's name would I want to shovel manure in Ohio?"
"Right," Peter swallowed hard, his heart sinking into his shoes. "Just... hypothetical."
"I am too deep in this life to simply walk away, Peter. Nor do I wish to," Miguel said firmly. He reached out, his large hand gently cupping the side of Peter’s face. His thumb brushed over Peter's cheekbone, a rare gesture of comfort. "But as long as you are under my protection, you have nothing to fear from it."
Except for the fact that I'm carrying the heir to the New York underworld, Peter thought hysterically.
"Sure, boss," Peter offered a weak smile. "I'm gonna go... check the inventory in the cellar."
——————
Peter sprinted the six blocks to his friend Friedrich Pearce’s apartment.
Perhaps it wasn’t the most useful thing he could’ve done in this situation, but Peter was panicking. And Pierce had always looked out for Peter, whether that be through general advice or protection from the more unsavory crowd of New York.
Peter burst through the door using his emergency back-up key, and set to pacing around Pierce's tiny living room immediately.
"Pierce, his car was rigged with a bomb!" Peter yelled, clutching his hair. "And today, he was annoyed about his fedora! Not the assassination attempt, the hat!"
"Peter, pal, please sit down, you're making me dizzy," Pierce sighed, putting down his newspaper and pushing a cup of tea toward the empty chair. "What exactly is the problem? You’re talking about Mr. O’Hara, are you not? He's a mob boss. You know this."
"I'm pregnant!" Peter blurted out, throwing his hands in the air.
Pierce froze, his teacup halfway to his mouth. "I'm sorry, you're what?"
"I'm pregnant!" Peter repeated, sinking into the chair and burying his face in his hands. "With Miguel's pup! I took him up on a... a heat offer. And now I'm knocked up, and the father is a man who orders concrete shoes like a regular deli order!"
Pierce slowly set his tea down.
"Right," Pierce said crisply. "So Mr. O’Hara has unwittingly sired a child with you, his bartender, and you are currently panicking because you don't want your offspring catching a stray bullet."
"Exactly." Peter groaned. "He won't leave the life, Pierce. He told me. It’s because he loves the power and he’s in too deep. But I can't raise a kid around Tommy guns and car bombs! I have to get out of New York. Or... disappear."
Pierce leaned back, tapping his chin. "Well, it's good timing, actually."
Peter peeked through his fingers. "What do you mean?"
"I've made my money here. The American market is getting too volatile, and I’ve been offered another job by my employer," Pierce explained. "I'm returning to London in a fortnight. I have a rather large townhouse in Mayfair. Several spare rooms. If you want to disappear, crossing the Atlantic is a solid start. The O'Hara syndicate has zero reach in Britain."
Peter stared at his friend, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was a massive leap into the unknown.
But he placed a protective hand over his stomach, thinking of the tiny, innocent life growing inside him.
"London," Peter whispered.
"Tea, dreadful weather, and zero car bombs," Pierce promised with a faint smile. "What do you say, Pete?"
"I say," Peter breathed, a sudden wave of determination washing over him, "I need to go pack my bags."
——————
Two days later, Lyla Han arrived at her desk outside Miguel’s office to find a sealed envelope sitting squarely on her blotter.
She opened it, her eyes scanning the short, hastily scrawled note.
Dear Lyla,
Please inform our boss that I am formally resigning from my position at Rest in Peace, effective immediately. Tell him it’s not him, it's me. I've decided to pursue a new career path that involves significantly less gunfire.
P.S. The key to the liquor cabinet is under the register.
Yours,
Peter B. Parker
Lyla stared at the note. She could feel an impending migraine forming behind her eyes just because of the words "formally resigning."
"Oh, sweet merciful heavens," Lyla whispered. "He's going to try and rip apart the entire city."
When Miguel was handed the note five minutes later, the resulting look on his face was one of both heartbreak and thunderous rage.
By the time Miguel mobilized his men to scour the city, tear apart Peter’s apartment, and question every known associate, it was too late.
The White Star Line ocean liner had already left the harbor, carrying Peter B. Parker far, far away from the New York underworld.
For the first time in his life, Miguel had lost something he fiercely wanted to keep.
——————
The weather in London was as Pierce had promised: dreadful. It was raining sideways, the cobblestone streets slick and gray.
But inside the Mayfair townhouse, a fire was crackling warmly in the hearth.
Peter sat in a plush armchair, exhausted, disheveled, and happier than he had ever been in his entire life.
In his arms, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, was a tiny pup. The baby had a tuft of dark hair, a sharp little jawline, and, when he opened his eyes, the exact same piercing gaze as his father.
Peter looked down at the baby, adjusting the blanket.
"Alright, kiddo," Peter whispered. "Time to face the music."
He reached for the parchment paper and a fountain pen resting on the side table.
——————
Miguel sat behind his desk, looking significantly more haggard than he had a year ago.
The syndicate was running perfectly. Profits were up. Bribes were made. Politicians were stuffed into his back pocket.
But the speakeasy felt hollow without his fast-talking bartender behind the counter.
Lyla walked into the office, carrying the afternoon mail. She looked slightly nervous.
"Boss," Lyla said cautiously. "A letter was delivered to you. It has international postage... from the United Kingdom."
Miguel’s head snapped up in interest. He snatched the envelope from her hand, tearing it open with far less grace than usual.
Two things fell out onto his desk.
The first was a photograph. Miguel picked it up, his breath catching in his throat as he examined the image.
It was Peter. He looked a little older, a little tired, but his smile was just as radiant as Miguel had remembered it. And in his arms, held tightly against his chest, was an infant.
Miguel’s heart stopped right there. He picked up the letter with a trembling hand.
Dear Miguel,
If you’re reading this, please put the gun down and take a deep breath. I know you're probably furious that I ran away. But I had a good reason for that!
Anyhow, I have a lot of explaining to do. Remember that weekend we spent together? Well, you are a very competent Alpha. So competent, in fact, that you knocked me up on the first try.
(I’ve heard that means the Alpha and Omega are fated mates. Sounds like a load of nonsense to me.)
Surprise, surprise!
I didn't run away because of you. I ran away because of how dangerous your life is, Miguel. I was terrified. I couldn't raise a pup in a world where snipers take potshots at barber shops. I had to protect him. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I knew you would never let me leave if I did.
I'm safe in London. Pierce took me in. You remember him, right? The baby is healthy, strong, and he scowls exactly like you do when I refuse to give him his bottle on time. My doctor says that he will grow up to be a strong Alpha. I wish you could see him.
I hope you can forgive me someday. I never stopped caring about you. I just had to put the pup first.
Yours always,
Peter
Miguel stared at the letter. He read it once, twice, then a couple more dozen times.
The ruthless head of the New York mob let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-sob. He tried to stand up from his chair, but his knees gave out from the shock of the revelation.
He caught his foot on the edge of the desk, tripped over the rug, and went crashing spectacularly to the floor of his office, the photograph still clutched in his hand.
"Boss?!" Lyla yelped, rushing around the desk.
"Miguel! Are you having a heart attack?!"
Miguel was lying on his back, staring at the ornate ceiling, his chest heaving. He held the photograph up to the light.
"I am a father," Miguel wheezed, awe bleeding into his voice. "Lyla. I have a son."
"What?!" Lyla snatched the letter off the desk, her eyes scanning the messy handwriting rapidly. She gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh my God. He... Peter... a baby?!"
"A son," Miguel repeated, scrambling ungracefully back to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knee. His eyes were suddenly burning with a frenzied energy. "He is in London. I have a son in London."
"Hold on a second, Miguel." Lyla said, reading the back of the parchment. "He wrote all this, yet... he didn't tell you the baby's name. Huh."
Miguel froze. He snatched the letter back, flipping it over.
Lyla was right.
Peter had written paragraphs apologizing, explaining his reasoning, and talking about the baby's scowl.
But in true Peter B. Parker fashion, he had forgotten to actually introduce the child.
Still, Miguel stared at the paper intently, as if the name would reveal itself that way.
"Call the dockmaster," Miguel ordered. "Book me a first-class ticket on the next ocean liner crossing the Atlantic. I do not care what it costs."
"Miguel, what about the syndicate?" Lyla pointed out. "You can't just leave Tammany Hall unattended!"
"To hell with Tammany Hall!" Miguel snapped, grabbing his coat and the photograph. "My Omega is in London with my unnamed son! Tell the capos I am taking a leave of absence! And if they burn the city down while I am gone, they can sweep up the ashes themselves!"
Miguel stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him.
He was going to London to find his Omega. When he got there, he was going to have to make up for lost time with his son. And have a long conversation with Peter about the importance of proper communication.
Then, he was going to bring them both home, even if he had to destroy the entire New York underworld to make it safe for them.