Food... And Work
Peter spent the next couple of minutes walking the perimeter of the building (and climbing up onto the roof when he was out of sight enough to do so) to see if there was any ways in.
The closest he got was a shattered window on the second floor.
It would be a bit difficult to squeeze through without hurting himself, but Peter thought he could manage it.
Checking around to make sure nobody was looking, Peter placed a palm on the side of the building, then his other, and climbed up the side of the wall.
He reached the window, and paused to calculate how best to propel himself through to avoid the sharp shards sticking out on the rim of the window.
After a good moment, he just forced himself through.
Peter landed awkwardly with a thud on the dusty floor of the fire station.
He got to his feet, dusting the peeling paint off his palms and looking around the place.
Huh, Peter thought as he passed the fireman's pole, why on earth would they just abandon a perfectly a-okay fire station?
The place didn't look like it was all that bad. A few broken, rickety things, sure, but nothing that couldn't have been fixed.
Some people really were lazy, moving out of something fixable and just abandoning it instead of doing something about it.
Peter supposed he should be glad.
He wouldn't have a place to stay otherwise.
Thank god for lazy firemen.
He needed to find a suitable place to sleep in here. He definitely couldn't sleep in the main area where the fire engines used to be kept, the draft was awful.
He'd freeze to death. Literally.
After a while of aimlessly exploring and meandering around the fire station, Peter settled to stay in the break room. It was cozy, sort of. At least there were a couple of leftover cushions he dusted off.
No blankets, but he could make do without. At least there was no draft in here.
His stomach growled persistently.
Right. Food.
He needed to find food.
But even as Peter scurried out of the break room and back through the shattered window onto the tarmac, he had no idea what he was going to do.
He was basically homeless.
No money, no nothing... No food.
He could always dumpster dive, but he'd rather not. Not again. It was bad enough when May and him were in a bit of a tight spot after Ben's death and she had to dumpster dive.
Maybe he could go to a homeless shelter? Only for the food?
No... How would he explain the fact he has no proper records?
If he'd gone back in time, the real (or the time-accurate) Peter Parker would be ten right now.
He couldn't say he was Peter Parker, could he? Record searches would come up with ten-year-old him... And he is definitely not ten.
This sucks.
And I don't even know why it's happening.
Again, Peter's feet were just carrying him where they liked.
He turned corner after corner, and before long, he'd stopped in front of Delmar's.
His stomach growled.
Peter would have really liked to have a Delmar's right now. The Deli looked like it had recently been opened.
He glanced at the windows, spotting a small leaflet stuck to the window.
Now Hiring! (Must be 18 years of age.)
Peter bit his lip. He was definitely not eighteen.
Whatever. Maybe he could convince Delmar otherwise.
The bell chimed as he entered the Deli, and he stepped up to the counter.
Delmar looked up from his (decidedly chunky, thick) phone, before slipping it into his pocket.
"Can I help you?" He asked, raising a brow as he scrutinised the very scruffy teenager in front of him.
Peter blinked. "Um. I'm here about the leaflet in- in the window?" He said, his voice more higher-pitched than he would have liked as he gestured vaguely behind himself.
Delmar narrowed his eyes scrutinisingly. "A-huh," he hummed. "Do you have a CV?"
Peter swallowed. "No."
"Are you eighteen?"
"Yes?"
Delmar folded his arms across his chest. "You're an awful liar, kid," he tutted.
Peter cringed. "Please, uh, Mr. Delmar. I'll do any job you give me," he pleaded, biting his lip. "I really need the money."
Delmar took another look at him. He frowned. "Can you clean?"
Peter nodded eagerly.
"...okay," he said, sighing. "You clean for me every other day, and I'll make you a sandwich every shift for half the pay an adult would get."
Peter grinned, bouncing on his heels. "Deal! Thank you so much!"
"Okay. You start now." Delmar said, walking into the back and coming out with various cleaning items. "God knows I haven't cleaned in a while."
Peter didn't even care he was cleaning. He just scored food and money.
He took the mop and duster, and the polish, and immediately set to work.
Delmar was very right.
He hadn't cleaned in a while. The amount of dust Peter inhaled, he was surprised he didn't go into cardiac arrest.
There were plenty of cobwebs in the high corners of the back room and the main room customers go in, and even a couple of spiders (Peter took them outside).
He eventually finished as the sun began to dip low behind the buildings surrounding the area.
Peter stored the items where Delmar had told him to and came back to a steaming sandwich sitting on the counter.
Peter looked up at Delmar. "Mine?"
Delmar rolled his eyes. "No, it's for the ghost I entertain every hour," he said dryly. "Of course it's for you."
Peter smiled. "Thanks," he said gratefully, picking it up and taking a bite.
It wasn't his regular order, not at all, but the Cajun chicken and the sweet chili sauce was practically heaven after going so long without eating.
Peter practically wolfed it down, licking the sauce off his fingers as he finished.
"You eat fast," Delmar raised a brow as he came back in with an envelope of cash. "I'm assuming you don't know how cheques work, and frankly, neither do I, so here's the money."
The man handed over the white, crisp envelope.
Peter took it carefully, feeling the weight of the meagre money he'd made and smiling faintly. "Thank you. Um. Again."
"No problem. I gotta close up shop now, so..." He made a 'shoo' gesture, and Peter nodded quickly before scurrying out of the shop.
The cold air slapped him in the face, and he shivered, putting his hands in his pockets as he began to trudge back to the fire station.
He felt the comforting roundness of the disc that held the Iron Spider.
Speaking of the Iron Spider, Peter mused, should I start bringing Spider-Man to the scene, or no?
Peter had been thinking about that since he'd woken up that morning.
Of course, in his timeline, Spider-Man wasn't around until at least 2016.
But he had the ability. The know-how. Plus, he wasn't as naive as he used to be.
He could save people, even if it was a little too early.
Peter bit his lip, shivering hard against the cold.
He'd have to check the suit over. Make sure it wasn't too badly beat up.
And make sure he had enough web fluid. As far as he knew, he had whatever was left after Titan in his current web-shooters.
...And that probably wasn't enough.
He'd need to find somewhere to make web fluid.
But it'd be fine. He'd just have to ask Ned to find him somewhere easy to break i-
Oh.
...Ned wasn't here. Not his Ned.
He missed Ned. A lot. And he missed May. It would have been nice, being able to go home to their apartment...
To see May again.
Now he's lost her. And Ned. And everyone he knew in his timeline.
Peter realised, with a jolt, that he was seriously, well and truly, alone.
For the first time in ever.
Tears stung the back of his eyes but he blinked them back. He couldn't cry. Not now.
Peter made his way into the fire station, up to the break room.
He decided, before he slept, he'd search the cupboards. Maybe they'd left something behind for him to use in the broken storage units.
...all he found was canned potatoes.
Emergency food, he supposed.
Peter dragged his lead-heavy legs over to the sunken couch and pulled a cushion close as he flopped on it.
He shivered.
His eyes were heavy.
He closed them.
He slept.