Chapter 4
It felt like a lifetime before Peter reached the shelter, though in reality, it had only been twenty minutes of walking. Gotham had a way of distorting time, stretching seconds into minutes, minutes into hours. The damp chill of the evening clung to him, settling deep in his bones as he navigated the maze of alleys and cracked sidewalks.
When the building finally came into view, tucked between two rundown structures on the edge of a crumbling street, Peter felt a pang of relief. The Martha Wayne Memorial Shelter.
Compared to the decaying buildings flanking it, the shelter looked practically new. Its chipped gray brick walls and fogged windows might have seemed old in another city, but here, they stood as a testament to resilience. The sign out front gleamed in the dim light, its bold lettering a beacon of hope in a place that had little to offer.
He didn’t hesitate.
Peter pushed open the heavy wooden door, and a wave of warmth washed over him. The air inside was a stark contrast to the cold outside, thick and oddly sweet, like someone had been cooking something comforting just a few rooms away.
The shelter was far from luxurious. Faded linoleum tiles lined the floor, and the walls were decorated with simple posters offering resources for housing, jobs, and support. But it was functional, and that was enough.
A few people sat at scattered tables, their faces weary but calm. Some quietly conversed in hushed tones, while others leafed through worn-out books, seeking solace in whatever small comfort they could find. The low hum of conversation blended with the soft hum of an old radiator in the corner.
Behind the front desk, a young woman looked up as Peter entered. She had a head of vivid blue hair, bright against the muted surroundings, but her face was worn—lines of exhaustion and caution etched into her expression.
Her eyes met Peter’s, and he noticed the way they flickered with something familiar—mistrust. The kind of guarded wariness he’d seen countless times already in Gotham. Everyone here seemed to wear it like armor.
Peter offered a small, awkward smile as he approached the desk, pulling his damp hoodie tighter around himself.
"Hi," he said, his voice soft but steady. "I, uh… I was hoping to stay here tonight."
The woman studied him for a moment, her gaze sweeping over him with a practiced eye. She was assessing him, measuring him against some internal checklist. A runaway? A drifter? A threat?
"Name?" she finally asked, her voice flat but not unkind.
"Peter," he answered quickly. "Peter Parker."
She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard in front of her. "First time here?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah."
The woman’s eyes softened just a fraction. "Alright, Peter. You’ll need to sign in. Curfew’s at ten, lights out at eleven. No trouble, and you can only stay for two nights, then you have to find someplace else for a night until you can come back."
Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "Thank you."
She slid a clipboard across the counter, and Peter quickly scribbled his name.
"Welcome to Gotham," she said, her tone laced with a mixture of sincerity and irony. "Hope you survive the night."
Peter forced a chuckle, the weight of the city settling heavier on his shoulders.
One night, he thought. Just one night.
As he turned toward the main hall, he caught his reflection in the fogged glass of a nearby window. He look like crap. The face staring back at him was familiar but tired—too young for the burden it carried. Peter shook the thought away and followed the signs to the bathrooms. Tomorrow could wait.
Right now, he really needed a shower.
He made eye contact with one of the shelter workers on the way to the bathroom and smiled. The man had blond hair and glasses, his face carrying the kind of weary but warm expression Peter had come to associate with the kind of people who worked in shelters—someone who'd seen too much but still tried to help anyway. He looked like he was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with a faded hoodie and a tired set to his shoulders that suggested long shifts and never-ending problems.
"Hey, you doing alright?" The worker’s voice was gentle, and there was a hint of concern beneath the casual tone.
Peter hesitated, his natural instinct to lie and brush off any kind of personal interaction kicking in, but something about the man’s gaze made him feel… seen. He wasn’t just another person here, another face to forget.
“Yeah,” Peter said, offering a small smile. “Just, uh… getting settled in.”
The worker nodded, his eyes scanning Peter for a moment longer before he looked away, no judgment in his expression—just understanding.
"Good. If you need anything, let me know," he said, starting to walk away.
"Actually, sir, are there any spare towels for the showers?" Peter asked, the man smiled.
"Yeah, we also have a toiletry kit, wait right here."
Peter nodded, shifting on his feet as the man walked off toward a storage closet. He glanced toward the small bathroom, its tiles cracked in places, and the faint smell of bleach lingering in the air. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now. He was grateful for the little things—having a roof over his head, clean clothes, a place to wash up.
The worker returned moments later, a towel and a small toiletry kit in hand. “Here you go,” he said, handing them over with a polite nod. “The kit’s got soap, shampoo, and a toothbrush. I’d recommend the showers now before it gets too crowded.”
“Thanks,” Peter replied, accepting the items with a grateful smile.
The warm water hit his skin like a wave of relief, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Peter let himself breathe. He closed his eyes, letting the stream wash over him. The water pressure wasn’t great—more like a gentle drizzle than a strong stream—but at that moment, it didn’t matter. It was the first time in so long that he felt clean, not just physically but in some deeper, more personal way.
Peter leaned his forehead against the cool tile, his hands braced on the shower wall. He could feel the tension melting from his shoulders, his chest, his hands. The weight of everything—the world-ending threats, the pressure of keeping secrets, the constant running, hiding, fighting—it was exhausting. He had been carrying it all for so long, and in that small, quiet space, with only the sound of water filling the silence, he let himself feel it.
The emotions hit him like a ton of bricks, unexpected and overwhelming. His vision blurred as tears mixed with the water on his face, and he had to stop himself from crumpling to the floor. Peter didn’t cry, not much at least—not when it was about saving the world or swinging through the city or fighting bad guys. But this? The small, quiet moments of relief? They made him feel like he was something human again.
He wiped his face with his hands, trying to pull himself together. But it wasn’t just the physical grime he was washing away. It was the burden of pretending, of holding it all in for so long. Being Spider-Man meant always having to keep going, even when you wanted to collapse. But here, in the privacy of this dilapidated bathroom, he could just exist. He could breathe. For a few minutes, Peter Parker could just be Peter Parker.
After a few more minutes, he stepped out of the shower, grabbing the thin towel and wrapping it around his waist. His skin was red from the warmth, but it didn’t bother him. For the first time in a long time, it felt like he was getting a little bit of his life back.
Once he was clean and dressed, Peter stood in front of the bathroom mirror, running a towel through his damp hair, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize the person staring back at him. The face was familiar, but it seemed foreign in some way. He looked like himself—dark eyes, messy hair—but there was a tiredness in his expression that was hard to ignore. The weight of everything, the endless running, the pressure to be something bigger than himself, it all seemed to catch up with him in that single, quiet moment.
He took a deep breath, pulling himself away from the mirror before the thought could fully settle in. The exhaustion hit him like a ton of bricks. All the adrenaline that had been keeping him going for who knows how long now seemed to crash down all at once. His legs felt weak, and he swayed slightly, leaning against the edge of the sink for support.
Walking towards the main room, Peter scanned the area for an empty cot. His eyes were heavy, and his body felt like it had been hit by a truck. He just needed a place to rest, even if it was only for a few hours.
He spotted an empty cot near the back, tucked away in a quiet corner of the room, and without hesitation, he made his way over. The thin mattress squeaked slightly as he climbed onto it, clutching the toiletry kit to his chest like a lifeline. The comforting weight of it, something so simple but grounding, helped calm his mind as he adjusted himself beneath the worn blankets.
Peter didn’t even bother to pull off his shoes. His body was already shutting down from the exhaustion, and within moments, the faint murmur of voices and the low hum of the shelter faded from his awareness. His eyelids grew heavy, his thoughts becoming distant, until finally, sleep overtook him.