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Cold. Peter Parker is cold. Cold like he has never been before. You would think he was frozen in a cube of ice with how his teeth clack against one another.
Huddled in a corner of an abandoned building sits Peter, shivering in fetal position. His clothes are drenched and so is his hair. Leaving Mr. Hood's apartment in the middle of a storm was a subpar idea at best. But that's hindsight, right? At the time, Peter could only think of escaping. Where to was a Future Peter problem.
And, unfortunately, Future Peter has become Current Peter. After blowing a wall clean off a building- which, admittedly, was not the best approach to creating an exit- Peter ran until his feet couldn't carry him anymore. After looking at a map on someone's phone, he found out that he hadn't actually ran that far.
Looking at his feet now, it makes a lot of sense. They are a blue, purple-ish colour, with quite a few scrapes and cuts. When he had finally settled, he had to pull quite a few sharp things out of his feet. He didn't exactly have the time to put shoes and socks on before wrecking Mr. Hood's apartment.
Another thing he had learnt by looking on a map, was his location. Gotham City. Peter wasn't exactly a topography nerd, so he could be wrong, but he is pretty sure 'Gotham City' does not exist. By the looks Peter has had of it, it seems like Gotham is quite a large city. So why has he never heard of it?
But that doesn't matter right now. Peter can figure out the whole non-existent-city-problem when he isn't freezing to death. Or homeless, because- thank you, random woman who let him use her phone for way too long- Avenger's Tower does not exist.
So there are quite a few things on the to-do list at the moment. Peter's rumbling stomach adds one more.
He feels around his pockets, but doesn't find anything useful. In fact, he doesn't find anything at all- Mr. Hood must have taken his belongings. Assuming he had any with him. Peter finds he doesn't quite remember.
The apartment building he had found has obviously been abandoned for quite some time. There were cobwebs stretched around every surface. The building creeks with every gust of wind, and Peter can feel the walls shift and move.
He was on the second to top floor, Peter thinks. After falling out of Mr. Hood's apartment, he did his best to swing to safety. Being down one hand made it harder than he had expected, and caused him to take quite a fall.
Peter had fallen into a dark, wet alleyway. It was storming heavily, which obstructed his vision. So much so, that he couldn't see even one feet in front of him. This caused him to stumble right into a person. This happened to be a nice lady named Barbara.
"Uh, are you okay, kid?" The lady had asked. She had an umbrella, which was holding up against the storm quite well. It was attached to the back of her wheelchair, so she could control her wheelchair with both hands.
Peter tried to force out words, but he found it too cold to think of anything at all. The lady seemed to notice this and her face turned pitying. "You cold?" Peter managed a nod at that. She sighed and looked away from Peter for a moment.
When she looked back at him, her eyes were strangely kind. "I know a place you can warm up, if you want. There's a youth shelter less than three blocks away." At his hesitant look, she had continued, "They're funded by Wayne Foundation- the warm soup and heated blankets are too."
Peter's mouth watered at the thought of food, and the lady noticed. She took that as a confirmation. "Follow me, kid. And stay under the umbrella, there's no need to get even more drenched."
She had let him to the shelter, as promised. On the way, she introduced herself- "I'm Barbara. What's your name, kid?" She worked in Gotham's public library, volunteered decently often at the youth shelter she was taking him to, and said it was safe enough. "Still," she said, "you can never be careful enough." She let him use her phone to look on a map and look up some things. After a few minutes of walking, she gestured to the shelter. "In there," she said before leaving.
In total, Peter ate about five and a bit bowls of tomato soup at the shelter. He was still hungry after. When he was done eating, his insides were fuzzy with warmth, even though his clothes were still wet. Barbara had told him that he could sleep in the shelter, assuming they had place. They didn't.
In all fairness, Peter probably wouldn't have stayed the night, even if they did have place. Most of the kids there looked- well, bad. They looked like they needed a place way more than Peter did. Peter is durable, he can survive on the streets for a few days.
So, Peter set out to search for a place to stay the night. This led him to the building he finds himself in now.
He had climbed up to the top floor via the outside of the building. Peter had planned on sleeping at on the top floor, so he had rooftop access. But it turned out the top floor was less than stable, and he fell through the floor onto the second to top floor. This one was made of a harder material, and could hold Peter fine.
Under normal circumstances, Peter would have been able to catch himself. And he had tried. However, he had once again forgotten that he no longer possessed both hands. So when he tried to grab wall with his left to stick to it- he couldn't. At some point, Peter will stop forgetting one of his hands is gone. Eventually.
Peter isn't sure what to do. Every time he thinks of something, he gets distracted by the cold, or his hunger, or the pain still coursing through his veins. He feels like crying, but he knows he should conserve water. He might cry anyway.
He misses the Avengers. He misses Tony. If Tony was here, Peter wouldn't be curled up in a dark, cold building, alone and sad. He presses his teary eyes into his knees, trying to stop the fountain from pouring. Peter is alone. Utterly, and completely.
After a good few minutes of sobbing, Peter realises that crying isn't helping. While it's emotionally relieving, it isn't doing anything to aid the situation. He can cry about this when he has water to spare.
But what can he do? He doesn't have anything with him, and food, water and shelter all cost money. He needs a job. But he doesn't have a resume- nor any kind of identification at all. So, a job somewhere shady, where they won't ask too many questions. That could work. Now only to find such a place.
Peter slowly starts moving his legs, wincing as his stiff muscles are stretched out. With a hand against the wall for support, he stands up. He feels like a newborn deer, his legs shaking under him terribly. Using the wall, he makes his way to a window.
It isn't raining anymore, but the sky is grey, as if the rain will soon continue. He needs to do this quickly, before the chill comes knocking once more.
Peter starts climbing out of the window. It isn't hard, since the window is missing its defining characteristic- a window pane. It probably shattered a long time ago; deteriorating just like the rest of the building.
With one hand he starts climbing down the side of the wall. The stone is cold and coarse against his fingertips.
A sharp pain in his hand shocks Peter. Thinking an arrow or bullet has pierced it, he stops his descent to observe his surroundings. He can't see anything unusual. He can't sense anyone hiding. Peter hadn't even sensed anything coming at him. To check the wound, he looks at his left hand.
Right. No hand there. Peter frowns and lets out a frustrated noise. How can the pain be so bad that he thinks he has been attacked? Another stab of pain makes Peter hiss a breathy, harsh sound.
He continues his descent. When he's about two meters from the ground, he jumps. Peter regrets the choice almost instantly. His knees give and he ends up crouched on the ground. After a few moments of rest, Peter stands up and starts walking.
It doesn't matter where to, he thinks. Peter walks along the pavement without a sense of direction until he starts to smell something. Something good. Something tasty.
Peter quickly starts following his nose. If this were a cartoon, he'd be floating nose first.
Peter stops in front of a small coffee shop. It smells of chocolate, bread, sweets and coffee. God, he can't remember when he had coffee last. At the tower probably.
"You're such a bad example, Tony." Bruce huffs as Peter grabs his third cup of coffee of the day. Tony, who is sitting in a soft armchair with this fifth cup of coffee, doesn't disagree. "To be fair, I did already drink a lot of coffee before I met Mr. Stark." Peter gives a small smile to Bruce.
Bruce shakes his head and hands Peter a piece of cake. "You need to eat more, Pete- your metabolism needs food, not coffee. You'll collapse otherwise." The man in question waves Bruce off, but accepts the cake. Who wouldn't accept a slice of home baked cake?
The couch lets out a soft noise when Peter sits on it, across from Tony. "Say: 'thank you, Bruce'." Tony chastises Peter softly, not looking up from his book on pyrotechnics. "Thank you, Mr. Banner." Peter parrots.
"I'm a great guardian." Tony jokes with a smirk. Bruce snorts, but doesn't respond further.
"Kid? Hey-" Someone snaps in front of his eyes, and it makes him stumble backwards. Spidey-sense who knows her?
"Kid, what the hell are you doing staring into my shop? If you're gonna rob it, just do it- don't just stand there like a weirdo." A man snarls. The man looks around mid-forties with deep lines around his forehead from furrowing his brows. He has a thick, Jersey accent. Eugh.
Peter shakes his head quickly enough to make him dizzy. Dizzy enough for him to loose his footing. He's really off his game today, huh?
The man grabs him before Peter meets the ground. "Sorry, sorry." Peter apologises, shaking the man's grip off him. "Sorry, I guess I'm just a little… lightheaded." His focus is still on the food in the coffee shop. The man follows his gaze, then sighs.
"I'm Lou. Why don't you come in, kid. I'll get you something to eat, on the house." Lou points a finger in his face, then grunts out, "This time only, don't expect any more freebies, got that?"
Peter nods, slower this time. Lou walks into the store, and he follows the man without question. He should probably pay more attention to where the man is leading him. But to be honest, Peter can only think about the food he might get. His mouth is already watering.
Lou walks into the store, and there's a small bell that goes off. Peter is seated behind the counter in a small chair. A plate with a cinnamon roll is shoved in his hands.
Shit.
"What?" He asks gruffly, watching Peter's hesitation.
"I can't eat cinnamon. I'm, ah, allergic" Peter whispers, but the man seems to have understood him regardless.
The man waves a hand and takes the plate, then exchanges it with a big piece of cake without question. Peter thanks him, then goes to eat the cake with his hands. Lou stares at him before stopping him with a hand to the shoulder.
"Kid," Lou holds out a fork, looking vaguely horrified. Peter apologises with a shy smile and starts to eat the cake with the fork.
In less than five minutes the slice of cake- which was more like 1/4th of the cake- is gone. When Peter composes himself, he manages to look vaguely embarrassed. "I- I don't have any money. I can't repay you."
Lou shakes his head. "Kid, don't sweat it. I just didn't want to deal with a corpse on my front door."
Something tells Peter that this is Lou's way of being kind. It makes Peter feel even more guilty. A light bulb goes off above Peter's head.
"What if I wash your dishes or something? Just until I pay off the cake."
Lou huffs, crossing his arms. The man thinks for a moment. "Tell you what, my barista quit last Friday. If you can work her shifts, you can work here for as long as you like- assuming you don't fuck up horrendously. The pay is in cash."
Peter has to stop himself from immediately hugging the man in gratitude. He thanks the man thrice instead. "Whatever, kid. Show up tomorrow at eight AM. You know how to make coffee?" With a nod from Peter, Lou continues. "Good. I'll see you then. Now get out of here, kid."
Shit. Shit. Double shit. Triple shit, even.
Peter has no clue who the large hunk of a man sitting at table seven is, but he doesn't seem all that friendly. Peter knows muscular people. He shared a house with Steve Rogers!
But damn, that is one beefy man. His intimidation isn't lessened by the dyed streak in the man's hair, nor the black leather jacket he's wearing. Not to mention the biker's helmet under his arm and the 'J' scar on the man's cheek.
And this guy who looks like he could push Peter over with his pinkie, is staring at him. Staring like he wishes looks could kill.
Whatever Goddess is out there must hate Peter, because Large-Hunk-Man starts walking towards him. Internally, Peter is reciting every prayer he knows.
"This drink," the man starts. His voice is low and gravelly, it almost makes Peter want to offer him a cup of chamomile tea, "you make it?" Peter nods once, not trusting himself with words.
The man hums. It's almost a soothing sound, like smooth tearing of strong tape or the settling of a destroyed building. Slowly, the man reaches into his pocket. Peter's eyes widen. He must be reaching for a gun. What else would someone reach for like that? His spider sense isn't going off, but it hasn't been all that responsive lately so-
A wallet. The man was reaching for his wallet. Peter almost sighs with relief. He pulls out a crinkled five dollar bill. "A tip. For," The man looks down at his 'Hi, my name is:' label, "Ben. That you?"
"Uh, yes, sir." Peter watches Large-Hunk-Man suspiciously look him up and down.
"I didn't know Lou was hiring kids."
What is it with people thinking he's a kid. I mean, sure, he looks a bit younger but he doesn't look that young. He just has a bit of a baby face.
"He doesn't. I'm nineteen." And the man hums again, this time with an air of suspicion. It sounds just as nice as the first hum. It rumbles deep in Peter's bones, and sits swirling in his stomach.
"I'm Jason." Jason says, sliding the five dollar bill over the counter top. Peter takes it quickly, then looks vaguely embarrassed at his haste.
"I'm-" Peter hesitates, "Peter. Peter's my second name, it's what people call me." Something about this strange, large, well-tipping man makes his spider sense purr. He can't tell if it's in suspicion or… otherwise.
Jason reaches into his pocket once more, and it almost startles Peter the same amount as it did the first time. Does this guy not know how scary he looks, or does he just not care? Jason notices his tension, but doesn't comment on it.
"Here," Jason tears off a piece of napkin and writes down a string of numbers, "my number. For if you need someone to show you around Gotham."
"How did you know I'm new?"
Jason snorts. "For one, you talk like a New Yorker."
Peter smiles. "I am a New Yorker." Jason hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. "Well, we can discuss your residential choices over coffee." He holds out the napkin piece.
Wait. Is he… asking Peter out? First this guy thinks he's a child, then he asks him out? Should Peter be worried? What kind of guy does that? Is he under eighteen? Peter is not in the business of dating children, thank you very much.
Something about Jason's look tells him that it would be strange to refuse. Like it's expected of him to accept. Would Peter look weird if he doesn't? He hesitates anyway.
"Or not." Jason retracts the invite, and it makes Peter make a split second decision.
"No- no, I just-" Peter's hand is clasped around Jason's wrist. His spidey sense warns him softly, and he retracts his hand, but takes the napkin. "I, uh, just don't, uhm." Peter puts the napkin in his pocket as he thinks of an excuse outside of 'I'm over eighteen and I don't know if you are or not, but it's awkward to ask'.
"I can pay." He says with a soft look in his eye. God, doesn't that just make Peter want to leap over the counter. Jason makes his innards feel safe, despite everything about him screaming that Peter should be afraid.
Peter looks down bashfully, then looks back with a small frown. "No, it's just, I don't know how old you are and..." Jason's expression turns understanding and he smiles reassuringly.
"I'm nineteen. And have no interest in children, so do fess up if necessary."
Peter shakes his head. "I'm nineteen, I just look young." Jason accepts the answer. His smile stretches across his face, pushing the scar on his cheek upwards. Peter gets an idea, a devious, no good idea. "How about I bring my ID with me when we get that coffee?" This behemoth of a man asking him out is one thing, Peter accepting is a whole other thing.
Peter is so going to regret this.