Chapter Text
Peter Parker knew 3 things about himself.
- Peter Parker was Spider-Man
- Peter Parker was alive, despite everything
- Peter Parker existed
He needed to remember number three. He needed to ingrain it into his mind so he would never forget.
Some days it was easier to forget, like the days he went to see MJ and Ned, when they would give him blank looks and he would overhear them talking about him. He only heard them because of his super hearing, but still.
It was hard when he visited May’s grave, standing in silence until Happy came. They manage to come every week, but both of them have stopped acknowledging the other. Instead, they lock eyes and shed their tears, and he can see Happy’s questioning eyes, wondering who he is.
As if Peter wasn’t like his child.
And maybe it’s for the best, because anyone he got close to died. Or forgot, he supposed.
First, it was his mom and dad when he was four and a half. He doesn’t remember them anymore; he forgot them a long time ago.
Second was Uncle Ben. Uncle Ben, whom he loved as a second father, who loved Peter as the son he had never had.
Third was Tony. He had almost forgotten the curse he dragged around. He had healed, he was okay, and then Tony was dead. Another body to cry on. Another dead parental figure.
He thought everything would be fine; he was handling things after that. And then May died. And that, in the end, was truly his fault.
So maybe it’s better, because if Happy or MJ or Ned died, he wouldn’t survive.
✩✩✩
Not existing had perks.
That’s what he told himself, at least.
Not taxes, no government tracking him down. No records of any kind, so if he left any DNA by accident, he couldn’t be tracked.
Everything scrubbed. His birth records, his social security number, every photograph, every social media post, his driver's license.
On paper, he never existed.
It’s also got its downsides, other than the obvious. Such as the fact that he got fired today, from the janitorial position he had acquired at the Daily Mail. He hated working for J. J. Jameson, the man who hated Spider-Man, but money was money. He wasn’t sure why he was fired, just that he was. Jameson tended to have a short temper; maybe he missed a mopping spot. It probably wasn’t going to last much longer; he was relying on forged papers he had rushed to the library.
Of course, that meant he had to find a job that he could hold and that paid more than minimum wage. He was currently living in an apartment that barely fit everything he needed to live, owned by an old man who was willing to give it to him for Peter’s offer of maintenance around the whole building, free of charge.
Technically, he was illegally renting there, paying half-price in cash, at least for the first year, until he got on his feet.
Maybe in another life, he would be more put together, maybe he’d be getting his GED and regularly swinging. But not in this life.
Karen didn’t recognize him, and until he got a secure enough computer to reprogram her, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with a broken and malfunctioning suit.
He wasn’t going to get anywhere without any money.
Which is, of course, how he finds himself preparing to go into Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls.
The underground pub and mercenary hangout spot was talked about constantly amongst the thugs he caught on the street. Super-human hearing wasn’t always bad.
He took a deep breath, walking into the pub. Light filters through the dirty window, barely lighting the pub, probably so you couldn’t see the layer of dirt on everything.
He walked through, taking everything in. God, May would hate that everything came to this. Tony would, too, Tony, who had survived an alcohol problem and a drug addiction. Now Peter was here, ready to beg for a job serving drinks to bad people.
“Hey… um… anyone home?” His voice is too high, too scared, and he cringes when he hears it.
It takes him back to his days before T, before the bite. The bite had made it so he didn’t need to be on T anymore, and he was grateful, especially now, with no money, no insurance. He still had to wear a binder, but Tony had made him one that was less restrictive and that could work for patrolling.
His spidey senses went haywire all of a sudden, and he managed to catch a hand holding a knife. He quickly knocked the knife out of the figure’s hand and watched as it clattered to the floor, kicking it away with his leg.
With the threat neutralized, he was able to notice the person who had attacked him. Tall, scruffy, and glasses. Blonde hair to his shoulders and a flannel rolled up to his forearms. The man looked like he didn’t know what to do after Peter had disarmed him.
“Who are you?” The man asked, his voice having a bit of a whiny quality to it. “Because I know some people who would love to fuck you up, you little shit. I’m not one for hurting kids and all that, but I won’t hesitate to call my contacts-“
“I’m Peter.” He straightens up. There wasn’t any harm in giving his name anymore; it wasn’t attached to anything anywhere. No fingerprints, no DNA trace, no government documents. Nothing.
“I want a job here. Are you the… owner?” Did the place even have an owner?
The man narrowed his eyes at him, squinting at him as if trying to place his face. Maybe deja vu. People tended to get deja vu around him.
“I don’t hire twelve-year olds. Go walk yourself back to the preschool, and do us all a favor, okay?” He shakes his head and crosses his arms.
Peter just stares him down.
“Look, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, you look like a twelve year old girl, and you need to be at least twenty-one to work here, maybe eighteen, which you aren’t. You don’t fit. Go ask mommy and daddy for some pocket change, I’m sure they’ll get you whatever new Xbox you want.” The man makes a shooing motion.
Sure, Peter knew he looked every bit of white privilege, but couldn’t the man see his hollow cheeks and his thin frame? Couldn’t he see the way he shivered in the New York winter because the only thing he could salvage from May and Happy’s was a few basics?
“Mommy and daddy are dead, and I don’t need pocket change,” He snapped, glaring. His mood had gotten worse over the past few weeks, with not enough food to supply his metabolism. He was also probably close enough to his period that his hormones went haywire and his mood tanked every five minutes. He couldn’t afford whatever birth control he was on before, that’s for sure.
The man looks like he doesn’t know what to say to the statement, so Peter goes on.
“I need rent, I need money for food.” He tossed the man his fake ID, the one that said he was twenty-two instead of fucking seventeen. “Not all of us look the age we are.”
The man looks grimly at him and reads over the information. Peter knows what it says; he knows it might look fake, but he spent a lot of time making this, so it should check out if scanned. Not that the man would, considering that this is a mercenary bar.
“You’re not twenty-two, kid. Not to mention, you’d get killed about five seconds into working here. You’re like… a cinnamon roll. A twelve year old cinnamon roll.” The man shakes his head. “I should call CPS on you or something. You can’t work here.”
“You know as well as I do that if CPS gets involved, then so do the cops.” Peter was getting frustrated. “I’ll make you a deal. I work here half whatever price you normally pay and you don’t have the cops on your doorstep. You don’t ask any questions and you get yourself a janitor or dishwasher or bartender or whatever the fuck you want.”
The man’s eyes widen a little; it’s almost like there’s… pride in his eyes. He smiles thoughtfully.
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” The man grumbles.
Peter chuckles a little, sardonically. “No, you don’t.”
“Fine. You're hired,” The man runs a hand through his blonde hair. “You can call me Weasel. You need a name like mine, an alias. Nobody’s calling you Peter.” He hands his ID back. “And if anyone asks, you’re at least eighteen. Don’t reach for twenty-two, kid, you don’t look a day over six.”
Peter does a little salute. “Yes, Mr. Weasel. I’ll… be Spider.” A little on the nose? Sure. Who cares?
“Drop the Mr.” Weasel rolled his eyes. “Spider it is. Be here tonight, an hour before opening, around 7.”
Weasel shoos him out again, but this time, Peter actually leaves.
✩✩✩
Peter takes the bus as far as he can before he shoves on his mask and begins to swing home.
He’s been swinging as transportation more often these days, just because it’s convenient and he doesn’t own a car. The news likes to point out his sightings more often, but he’s not coming back, not any time soon. He tried, at first, with a homemade suit, but his healing factor began to disappear after his food intake went down and then he began to slow down. He wasn’t able to be Spider-Man if he couldn’t do the things Spider-Man could do.
Last he heard, a Spider-Woman had taken his place. How there was a Spider-Woman, he didn’t know. He was too hungry and tired to care anymore.
His spider sense (not Peter Tingle. He can’t call it that after May) goes off behind him, and he freezes, turning behind him. He looks around but can’t spot anyone, even if it’s going haywire.
He’s not about to deal with this now.
No immediate threats, clearly, maybe it’s just broken. Maybe it’s just like the rest of him. In pieces.
He swings the rest of the way home, hopping in through his window and taking off his mask. What a day. At least he had a job.
He goes around his little apartment, relaxing into sweatpants and grabbing some instant noodles for dinner.
All of a sudden, his spider senses went off again, that same feeling, and a figure tumbled into his window. He grabs the nearest thing he can, a wooden spoon (menacing, right?) and holds it up in defence.
The figure looks up, a mask so similar to his own, only white and teal and pink. His spider senses go off again in a you’re like me way.
“You’re like me,” He says it with a gasp, putting the spoon down. Spider-Woman.
She nods and tries to reorient herself, pushing herself up and straightening her back.
“Uh-huh! Hi! I’m Ghost Spider,” He can see her mask crease in a way he knows she’s grinning.
God, that voice. She’s a kid, maybe the same age as Peter when he started. It feels weird to see this girl, this child, on the floor of his flat, grinning at him like he’s the best thing she’s ever seen.
She takes off her mask, and, holy shit, she looks younger than Peter thought. Fuck. Maybe that’s why Mr. Stark had always called him kid. He was truly a kid. And so is she.
He swallows a lump in his throat, clearing it.
“How old are you?” He looks her up and down. Her body is malnourished, like his, except it shouldn’t be. He’s almost an adult, he’s only like this because of the spell. She… she shouldn’t be this small, she shouldn’t look so hungry, the way she’s looking past him to the food on the stove.
“Fourteen.”
Fuck. She looks younger; he can tell she knows too, by the way she tries to make herself bigger.
“Kid, respectfully, what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” She seems to shrink in on herself at his tone, only slightly, and his brain starts to spin. He can’t handle this child, this Spider kid. What is he doing?
“Sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to…” He sighs and watches her as she looks again, past him to the food on his stove. Is it good food? Probably not. “Would you like some?”
She immediately shakes her head, even though he can tell she’s hungry.
He grabs two bowls, splitting the food into two and handing it to her. She seems a bit hesitant, but eats it anyway.
“I want you to mentor me.”
“What?” He almost chokes on his food. He’s not mentor material. He’s a high school dropout who barely makes a living. He also doesn’t Spider-Man anymore.
“Look, kid-”
“I’m not a kid.” She says it with the same ferocity he did, and still does.
“You’re younger than me, and therefore, a kid.” He raises his eyebrow.
“You’re still a kid, and that means you can’t call me a kid.”
“And what if I’m not a kid?”
“You look like you're maybe fifteen. Sixteen, at most.”
“Jesus- why do people keep saying that? I’m eight months from being an adult, god.” He sighs and shakes his head.
She sticks out her tongue, and it makes him smile, the first one in a while. It makes him think about all the times he teased Mr. Stark like this. Tony. Whatever.
“Fine. I don’t know your name, so what do I call you, hm?”
“Gwen.”
“Nice to meet you, Gwen. I’m Peter. And no, to the mentor thing. I don’t do Spider-Man anymore; you seem to have it handled.” He immediately cringes at his words. He sounded like Mr. Stark in those first few months, back when he was just a recruit for Germany and not… well, he’s not sure what he was to Mr. Stark.
“Please, Peter, I can’t do this alone, I don’t know what I’m doing!” She finishes her food, bringing one of her knees to her chest and resting her head on it.
He knows he shouldn’t let a fourteen year old take this on. He was fourteen, he fucked up, he fucked up a bunch of times. He can’t let her become him.
He looks over to the kitchen, where one of his only photos is left. Him and Mr. Stark, the fake internship photo.
It had been so long ago, hadn’t it? Only two, three years for him, but for everyone else, it was maybe seven, eight years?
He can be the Mr. Stark to her. He can do it. Maybe.
He wipes the tears forming in his eyes.
“Fine.” He shakes his head. What the hell is he doing? He grabs a slip of paper and jots down his number.
“Here, contact me, and we can work something out. I have work in an hour, so we can do this another time.”
He gets up, collecting her bowl and putting it in the sink.
“Oh my god, thank you so much, thank you, thank you, oh my god!” She grins, and he starts to think it’s worth it, just to see a smile on the kid's face.
Then… she hugs him. And it’s weird, because it’s felt so long since he’s hugged anyone. He hugs her, this small little being, and he swears he will die for her if it comes to it.
“Any time, kid.”
✩✩✩
His phone rings, over and over. He knows the number won’t pick up, it never will anymore, and he’s grateful that somehow it hasn’t been deleted, since it’s become his nightly ritual.
Finally, the ringing stops, and Mr. Stark’s voice fills the empty air of his apartment.
“You know who I am! Leave a message after the beep!” Then a beep goes off. “Hah! I tricked you, didn’t I? Wrong beep.”
His eyes mist over like they always do, and he clears his throat when the actual beep goes off.
“Hi, Mr. Stark. I- It’s been a tough day. I swung, at least, though it kinda drained my energy. I got a job, too, though you’d probably hate me working there. It’s a mercenary pub, but a job's a job and money is money. Fuck. There… I… You know Spider-Woman? I think I talked about her a few weeks ago. She… she’s just a kid, Mr. Stark, she’s just as old as I was, but she feels so much younger. I don’t know… I said yes. I said I would mentor her. Help her out. So she won’t end up like me. Gonna do what you did. Help a kid out. Maybe save her. I’m running out of time and work starts soon, but-” His voice breaks, just like it does, every time he says it. “I love you, Mr. Stark, wherever you are.”
He ends the call, wiping his tears and grabbing his jacket and mask. Tonight was going to be a long one.