often?

Now, Peter considers himself to be - generally - an emotionally competent person. 

…When it comes to other people. 

And he is! Really! Peter can read the blink-and-you-miss-it microexpressions that flit across a person’s face, can understand and predict how people are going to act - in and out of battle - before his opponent has even conceptualized their next move. 

(Opponent, Peter will admit, is a somewhat relative term. His opponent might be a pickpocket, the Rhino, or someone about to playfully pat his shoulder. Peter’s sixth sense is pretty liberal with the term opponent and its classification of who and what is deemed threatening.) 

Peter had even subconsciously known that Johnny liked him for a while, too! But then denial and guilt and self-repression and his general feelings about being undeserving kept Peter from ever consciously addressing the beyond-friendly-fondness that etched itself so artfully across Johnny’s face - even when Peter was being stupid - or, more obviously, the way Johnny’s hair would spontaneously burst into flames at the sight of Peter for the first year or so that they knew one another (and which still happens, to this very day, if Peter manages to catch Johnny off-guard). 

So. Peter knows people, sorta. He understands the little moments, at least: he saw how Becca immediately relaxed upon realizing that it was Spider-Man who had caught her pickpocketing. He saw how her hands rested casually in the pockets of her hoodie, not gripping onto her keychain with a key between each knuckle or watching every person they passed with an ingrained fear of “Will they…?”. And Peter could tell her gut instinct was to arm herself - to protect herself, to be prepared - because it’s scary to be alone. But then she would look at Spider-Man - once, twice, a double check, then a triple - and her hands would unclench, her voice would lose its high-pitched strain and drop down into something natural: low and soft and not loud, because she didn’t have to be loud, didn’t have to worry about making noise so that someone - anyone - might notice if she was suddenly cut off and-! 

…And somehow, in a way that Peter doesn’t quite understand, he had been the cause of those changes. His presence had reassured her so utterly of her own safety that instinct and years of worried parental warnings (“Don’t listen to music while you run,” and “Don’t stay out too late,” and “Don’t walk in dimly lit areas,” and “Stay in places with lots of people and street lights at night,” and, most importantly, “Please, please be careful. Come back home. Come back home,” and the unspoken prayer of “Please be safe, please let my baby come home safely.”) had melted away, like ice on a hot day. 

The residue - the puddle - left behind still showed in the way Becca continuously reminded herself of her safety, how she kept reassuring herself that Spider-Man was there, and so therefore she was safe.

The trust - the genuine trust - that Becca had in Spider-Man (in Peter) to keep her safe had been… terrifying. What if Peter wasn’t enough? What if she got hurt? What if he failed?

(-again? Peter repeats the desperate question to himself. It’s a mantra, repeated endlessly in his mind, and it’ll haunt him for an eternity: What if I fail again? What if I fail again? What if I fail-? The mantra never stops, never gives in, never lets Peter rest, never lets him think Hey, y’know what, I’ve got this. I’m going to succeed.It’s tiring. It is tiring. Peter is tired.)

Yet, despite his fears, Peter likes the fact that people feel safe around him, even if he doesn’t know where it - this seemingly unearned trust - has come from. 

That thing - with Becca, with her strange trust, with her faith in Spider-Man - wasn’t the first time something like that happened to Peter. After all, how many people were willing to let any old stranger carry their groceries or walk them to their car or play with their kids? For fuck’s sake, back in those two, three years that Peter didn’t go to school or have, well, a job (barring his shifts at the restaurant), he would go on patrol during the day - watching out for crime, sure, but also just… observing. Being there. Existing as a presence in the skies, on the streets, on the top of a bus waving to people on their way to work, to school, to nowhere and everywhere and all the places in between. And people loved it. They loved seeing Spider-Man on their commute to work, they loved watching him do flips and tricks and stopping purse snatchers and grabbing some food from a street vendor with a stupid little salute. A kid - anywhere from elementary to high school - would burst into their first class of the day saying “I saw Spider-Man!” and they would have a rapt audience as they told every single detail. Nothing was insignificant: not when it came to Spider-Man.

And Peter? Peter was floored. He didn’t - still doesn’t - understand. Doesn’t get “it” - his popularity, his almost celebrity status. That was an Iron Man thing, or Captain America, or Thor. They were the celebrities, the stars, the heroes who deserved to have a detailed recounting of every millisecond they were seen to an excited and eager audience. Not Spider-Man. Not Peter, who helped the little guy. Not Peter, who was a small-time vigilante. Who was barely a legal entity. Who felt so small, so pathetic, so often. Who hated himself and this world so fucking much that he wanted to leave it and go to a universe where he wasn’t alone.

But he couldn’t hate them: the kids on their way to school. The vendors on sidewalks who would give him free food, who were sometimes the only reason that Peter was able to eat. How could Peter hate the people who loved him, even when he didn’t - couldn’t, wouldn’t - love himself?

However, since Peter now has work during the day (in a job that he loves, which is both miraculous and horrible in equal turns, because the… things (people, places, situations, Lego sets, and really, does Peter need to go on?) that Peter finds himself loving have quite the tendency to fall apart in a very spectacular way, but he’s trying out being hopeful for once and so Peter banishes the doomsday thinking from his mind), going on day patrols was no longer possible. At least, not on the weekdays. 

(Peter can’t erase his feelings of doom any more than he can erase his nonsensical hope. He’s juggling his heart, head, and spirit in his own hands; there is blood on his hands as he handles his own organs, making his fingers and grip slippery and bloodslicken. He will drop them, Peter knows, he will drop them - his organs, his sense of self, his hopes - one day. It is inevitable. It has to be. Everything comes crashing down eventually.

But, Peter’s fragmented and bloody self whispers to him, as his parts and pieces rest in his hands for a moment, juggling and juggling around, they lie in his hands for a second, scattered, torn, alive, Not yet.

So for now Peter holds his most vital pieces in his hands and hopes. He juggles his organs and his soul and his spirit and the very core of himself and his hands are slippery and slick with blood and fear - the doomsday thinking never stops, but it gets quieter the more Peter focuses on the joy of keeping up his juggling for a minute more and the less he focuses on how easy it would be to fail, how unsteady his grip is - and hopes.)

Even though Peter doesn’t have work on the weekends and could spend those days on patrol, he is trying to be better - be kinder - to himself, and so Peter spends time with his family, or goes on dates with Johnny, or asks Miles “What’d you wanna learn today?”

Sometimes Miles wants Peter to teach him how to disarm a person without webs and without using too much of his strength, or how to diffuse certain situations, but most of the time Miles asks Peter to help him out with his homework, make cookies, and swing around New York playing games in the sky. He’s a kid, he’s playful, and he’s busy with school. Peter gets it. 

Miles doesn’t go on night patrols on school days anymore, instead opting to go on a shorter patrol right after school gets out. Or, if he does go out at night, then it isn’t for very long. He says that it's because he has a lot of homework or that he needs sleep - which he does, of course, the kid is sixteen, nearly seventeen, and still growing and needs his rest and to not be out all night when he has school the next day - but Peter met the kid when he was fourteen and staying out until two in the morning (even when Peter strongly discouraged it, but he wasn’t going to leave the kid alone so if Miles was out until two in the morning, than so was Peter) and still managed to be bright eyed the next day and ready to learn more. He’s known the kid for two years and watched his enthusiasm dim - not for helping people, but for the violence, for the fighting - although not his smile, not his heart, because Peter has done everything he can to protect Miles from as much of the real horrors as he can, to protect his childhood, even when Miles insists that he can handle the weight of the world.

(Peter would never handle Miles the weight of the world. He had thought, once upon a time, that he wanted Miles to be better than himself, better than Spider-Man, but now, when Peter looks at his kid’s face, and sees the crease between his brows growing deeper with every unresolved crime, every asshole who gets away, every douchebag with too much money, he wants Miles to be more than this world, this life.)

The life of a vigilante doesn’t call to Miles like it does for Matt and Peter, who saw something wrong and felt the need to fix it with their fists. It doesn’t call to him like it does for Wade, whose morals are ehh but who wants to do the right thing anyway. Justice and doing the right thing call to Miles, no doubt, because at his core Miles is kind, but it calls to him in a different way. A better way. Their - Peter, Matt, and Wade’s - world is cruel and violent, and their job is ugly. It’s not pretty or glamorous. Peter has sheltered Miles the best he could from the worst sides of humanity, but Miles isn’t stupid. Miles isn’t oblivious. He knows. 

Peter has done the best he can - to provide support, backing, to make sure that Miles knows that he isn’t responsible for the world, that Peter would never hold him responsible for the world, that he doesn’t have to carry that weight - and he is… Peter is so fucking happy to know that it’s been enough. That Miles doesn’t want to live in the world that Peter lives in - or, not as much.

Miles wants to help people. He’s artistic and loves graphic design and is so freaking smart and Peter could not be more proud of him. And Miles doesn’t want to live in their violent world, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. 

With great power comes great responsibility, no doubt, and Peter knows that these words make up the foundation of his own being and sense of self. May knew, too. May knew, before Peter ever realized, that Peter’s soul was made to help people. And Miles’s soul is made to help people, too - Peter can see it just as clearly as May had seen Peter’s true calling - but not in the same way. 

With great power comes great responsibility but that is Peter’s power and Peter’s responsibility: a responsibility that he has taken up by himself. No one forced him to be Spider-Man. No one forced Miles to be Spider-Man either, but it isn’t his calling. And that’s okay.

This vigilante and hero shit isn’t a job. It isn’t an obligation or something that must be done. It is something that Peter wants to do, and there is nothing wrong with not wanting that life.

With great power comes great responsibility…

…But responsibility and power comes in so many different shapes. 

Miles might not have realized it yet - realized that this: swinging around New York, getting shot at, despairing over what can’t be fixed and hoping beyond hope that what can be fixed is, but being disappointed again and again when it isn’t - but Peter knows. He knows like how May had known Peter’s calling; he knows like how Tony hadn’t - hadn’t understood - because Peter would go out - and has gone out - in a sweatshirt and socks, his heart facing the world and so easily hurt, no matter the circumstances.

With or without the suit, Peter is Spider-Man, because that is what exists at Peter’s core.

In Miles’s core is a good person who is going to figure life out in a different way, whose life will take him down a different path, and Peter is so excited for him.

Two spiders, a mercenary, and a lawyer walk into a bar-

Miles: does anyone else find it funny how jjj did like, a total 180 about spidey?

Matt: Explain?

Miles: like, he used to run all those hate campaigns and blame spidey for every bad thing that ever happened in the history of forever

Johnny: YEAH!!! I REMEMBER THOSE!!! I WAS SO ANNOYED WHEN HE TURNED AROUND AND PRETENDED LIKE THE PAST NEVER HAPPENED LIKE WTF DUDE

Matt: How did the news station manage to stay afloat? Most of NYC supported Spider-Man back then, too, so how was he even staying in business?

Peter: good pictures. 

Miles: YEAH!! LIKE!!! they always had the best pictures of heroes - esp spidey - and stuff

Johnny: i remember this one article that called spidey a fraud and a waste of space and used a pic of him eating as a source. like WHAT??? EATING?? ONCE??? DURING AN 8 HOUR PATROL??? that photographer used to piss me off so bad i was so tempted to track them down

Peter: haha

Wade: flame-guy we would have gotten along a LOT better at first if i knew u wanted to kill the bugle staff

Johnny: we can still do it

Peter: ABSOLUTELY NOT

Wade: we wont KILL anyone or anything too badly

Johnny: just some light arson 

Wade: and a tiny bit of blood!!!!

Peter: Do. Not. I’m serious. Do not do anything to the Bugle or any of the people working there

Miles: hey hey peter guess what

Peter: fuck

Miles: i just looked at some of the old spidey-hate articles right?

Peter: No.

Miles: stop me.

Peter: DO NOT

Miles: peter WTF WHY ARE YOU CREDITED AS THE PHOTOGRAPHER ON LIKE ALL OF SPIDEY HATE ARTICLES

Johnny: WHAT

Matt: You were providing your own smear campaign with photos???

Wade: omg WAIT was i gonna kill spidey??? FOR BEING SHIT TO SPIDEY????

Peter: WHAT THE FUCK WADE WERE YOU GOING TO KILL THE PHOTOGRAPHER?

Johnny: PETER?????

Peter: no we are NOT moving on from wade being on board to kill a random ass photographer

Wade: yes we are CUZ WHY THE FUCK WOULD U DO THAT 

Peter: did we all forget that i have/had no fucking money

…

Peter: JOHNNY WHAT THE HELL WHY DID U JUST VENMO ME MY FUCKING RENT??? UR ALREADY PAYING FOR IT????

…

Johnny: STOP REFUNDING ME

Peter: NEVER BITCH

Miles: is this love?

Matt: It is certainly something.

Peter was working on the “joint” mechanism in the shoulder of Otto’s undersea robot, using a step stool in order to get a better view, when the overhead cable - which attached at a point on the robot’s “head” in order to keep it upright - snapped. Twitching his head an inch to the side, Peter avoids getting beamed in the face by the cable and turns his attention to the robot, now with nothing to keep it upright, as it starts to tip forward where it would then crash to the ground. Peter, whose mild headache has been slowly increasing to a major headache over the course of the day, which is not helped by the bright overhead lights, thinks “If this think fucking crashes-!”

It’s easy to catch the robot, one hand splayed across its chest, and guide it back upright, “Need a hand over here,” Peter calls over his shoulder, although he can feel Otto’s eyes on him. Curious. But then his headache pulses again and Peter stops wondering why Otto wasn’t rushing over to help and focuses on the cool metal under his palm. Would it be too unprofessional for Peter to rest his forehead against the robot?

Otto had been working on a different project - something he’s been keeping quiet about but accidentally let slip that it was related to prosthetics (and Peter isn’t stupid, he knows that Otto is building the four mechanical limbs that turned Otto into Octo, but Peter also knows that now isn’t the right time to address that fact) - somewhere behind Peter. There was a small crashing sound, a scuffle, and then Otto entered Peter’s line of vision, looking slightly ashen (probably because his current major project, which is set to be demonstrated in a week, almost just went crashing to the ground) but otherwise alright despite the chaos, and reattaches the robot. 

As Peter steps down from the stool, Otto flits around him nervously, inspecting his hand and looking at Peter with a weirdly intense stare, but whatever. Whatever. No big deal. Otto lets him go home early when he sees how Peter winces at the bright lights.

That night, lying in his bed all cozy and listening to a “24 HOUR HEADACHE RELIEF PLAYLIST” on YouTube, Peter goes from half-asleep to fully awake, smacking his forehead with his hand, “I’m a fucking idiot.” 

Otto’s undersea robot probably weighed, if Peter were to guess, somewhere between two hundred to three hundred pounds. And Peter had caught it, with one fucking hand, and then proceeded to tilt it upright like it was nothing, all while precariously balanced on a step stool.

Whoops.

Otto doesn’t mention Peter’s moment of absurd strength, Peter doesn’t look Otto in the eyes, and when, a week later, Otto packs up the robot to demonstrate its capabilities, Peter breathes a silent sigh of relief and enjoys his day off.

“A day off”, of course, turns into Peter going on patrol, but he keeps it casual. 

Real casual.

He’s simply helping out where he can, offering a hand where an extra one is needed, and so-on and so-forth. And so, as he’s swinging (although there weren’t any tall buildings around to swing from, so the term swinging doesn’t really fit in a Spider-Man sense, but it does in a “casually passing by” way) Peter spots a mother - dressed in a white and black blazer and shirt, with neatly ironed slacks (they must have been prepared the night before) - looking frazzled and stressed, he stops. She turns at the door to her brownstone, fumbling with her keys and calling for her kid, who comes barreling out seconds later, right into his mother’s legs, unbalancing her and causing her hot mug of coffee to spill down the front of her white and black blazer. She hisses in pain but bites out a smile in spite of it when her son looks at her with wide, wide eyes - he must not have been older than five - lower lip wobbling as he asks, “Mommy did I mess up?”

And she crouches down, reassuring him even as her skin must be burning, her own voice wobbling but so, so strong, “No, no. baby, it’s okay. Just don’t rush out the door like that, okay? I could have spilled something hot on you, which would make Mommy feel really bad. Got it, honey?” 

The kid and mother are both seconds away from crying - one trying to be brave for the other, while the kid can still tell something is wrong because his mommy looked stressed and sad - and Peter doesn’t think twice before dropping down a respectable and safe distance away, asking, “Can I help with anything?”

The kid whips around and the purely child panic of stranger-danger melts into a look of utter joy and he doesn’t turn away from Spider-Man as he points frantically, “Mommy! Mommy! It’s Spider-Man!” 

The mother, who is trying not to cry or show how stressed she is or how much that hot coffee hurts (Did May ever do that? Did she ever bite back her tears for Peter’s sake?), gives Peter a watery smile, “Oh, it’s okay, we’re just… running a bit late this morning.” 

Peter doesn’t know what he is going to say before the words plot out of his mouth: “I can walk my biggest fan to school, if that would help?”

Instantly Peter hates himself because the number one rule around kids that were not your own (besides staying FAR AWAY unless given permission) was to never, ever offer up an exciting idea for the first time in front of said child, because that put so much unfair pressure on the parent. In the middle of cursing himself out as the kid’s eyes light up in utter glee, Peter puts his self-flagellation on pause as the mother’s do the same. She laughs, brighter than Peter would have ever thought possible considering the shitty morning she seemed to be having, and ruffls her son’s hair fondly, “What’da think about that, Charlie? Spider-Man walking you to school?”

Pause. What? 

The kid - Charlie - hugs his mom tightly (she shifts to make sure he doesn’t touch the coffee) and then sprints down the steps to the sound of his mom laughing and saying, “Slow down! Slow down!” Like it is a routine. Like Charlie is always going fast - sometimes too fast - and she loves it (loves his energy) even as she worries about him taking a tumble down the stairs. Charlie arrives at the bottom of the stairs safely and by instinct, Peter holds out his hand, which Charlie grabs onto eagerly, bouncing on his toes, his other hand clutching - and Peter just notices it now - the strap of his Spider-Man backpack. 

Peter’s heart is going to give out from the whiplash of emotions that he has experienced over the course of the last thirty seconds. 

The mother, still at the top of the stairs, waves at her son, her eyes flitting up to Peter’s as she tells him what school Charlie goes to. Her face is filled with genuine thankfulness as she confesses, “I have an interview today and time got away from us. Thank you. Thank you. I now have time to…” She gestures at her coffee stained clothes with a wry twist of her lips and Peter thinks that moms are the bravest people in the world. This woman had been in a panic, kept it hidden for Charlie’s sake, and could then laugh at her own situation. Peter doesn’t understand. 

Peter doesn’t understand because he can see the adoration and love that she has for her son and she just agreed to let Peter - a stranger - walk her son to school, which, if Peter remembers his distances correctly, is a twenty minute walk away. 

“Don’t worry, Ma’am,” Peter feels the need to say, straightening his shoulders like he’s a soldier reporting for war, “I’ll keep him safe.”

And now her fondness is directed at Peter and she says, like it’s easy, “I’m Danica. And,” Peter doesn’t understand, “I know. I know you’ll keep him safe.” She turns her attention to her son like she hadn’t just shattered Peter’s worldview and waves again, “Have a good day, honey!”

Charlie lets go of the strap of his backpack to wave back, (“Bye-bye Mommy!”) and then he’s tugging Peter down the street, already switching topics to what his favorite color, fruit, dinosaur, planet, superhero (Spoiler alert: it’s Spider-Man) are, and Peter tunes into his conversation while also keeping a keen awareness of what’s going on around him. 

It’s… nice.

Pictures of Peter walking Charlie to school show up the next day. Photographers and random people on the street work hard but Peter works harder and had moved his hand or body to block their views of Charlie’s face for all of their pictures. 

The only picture that exists of Peter and Charlie together - both of their faces (well, Charlie’s face, and Peter’s mask) in sight - was the picture Peter had taken on his own phone upon arriving at Charlie’s school, which he printed out a few days later and stuck inside a spill-proof and insulated coffee mug. 

It was a weekend, which meant no school, and Peter doesn’t want to make a scene or get Charlie too excited, so he leaves the mug on their welcome mat, knocks on the door, and flees to the rooftops. He was going to leave. He was going to leave. He was going to, but then his ears picked up the sound of the door opening and fuck it Peter wants to see their reactions. 

Danica looks calmer, the anxiety Peter saw during their first meeting non-existent. He hopes she got the job. He thinks she got the job, because there is a confident set to her shoulders and a surety that wasn’t there before. Charlie is right at her heels and instead of running he bounces on his toes and plays with the fidget toy Peter had quickly bought him on their way to Charlie’s school, because Peter knew what it was like to have hands that always needed to do something - to have a brain that needed to latch onto some sort of activity to even begin focusing on the present.

Danica sees the mug and Peter watches as she laughs loudly and boldly, and bends down to pick up the gift. As she pulls out the photo, Peter watches her entire face soften and go sticky-sweet with motherly love. 

“Look, Charlie,” He sees her lips move, and if there hadn’t been a staticy sound in his ears because May would look at him with that very same expression, then he would have been able to hear her too, “Look at this picture!” 

Charlie squeals with happiness and joy and holds the picture in his hands like it is something special, like it’s a treasure, and Peter…

Peter gets that kids like him. Peter had dressed up as Iron Man for three Halloweens in a row, for Thor’s fucking sake, but he doesn’t really get how Danica trusted him so easily when May would have eviscerated a stranger for even talking to Peter at that age. He’s not trying to disrespect Danica’s parenting! He can see - in her eyes, in her soft voice, in the way she bit back her tears and blame when it would have been so easy to be angry, even when it would have been unfair - that she’s a good mom. He can see the love in Charlie’s eyes, can see her love in the way the buttons in his shirt had all been done perfectly and his hair was smooth and nicely combed while Danica’s had been thrown into a ponytail. He knows Charlie loves her because he spent half the walk talking about all the things him and his mom do together for fun (bake cookies, go to the park, play board games and do puzzle and read books and play pretend and make forts and- and- and-) and the other half of the walk asking Peter questions about being Spider-Man.

She truly, genuinely trusted Peter - trusted Spider-Man - to take care of her baby. To take care of her baby. And that’s what Peter doesn’t understand: where that trust came from, how he earned it, what makes her faith in him so absolute when Peter sometimes wakes up in the morning not knowing what timeline or universe he’s in. 

It’s… odd and incomprehensible, but Peter likes being trusted. 

Peter likes going on dates.

He likes going on dates for a multitude of reasons: he likes planning them, carrying out his plans, seeing the joy on his partner’s face when Peter succeeds in making something beautiful and memorable, utterly memorable (Please, he begs in his mind, whenever he does something that makes Johnny goes soft and sappy and loving, please don’t forget me). But perhaps most of all, Peter likes dates because anything can be a date. He can tag the word “date” onto the simplest things. He had study-dates, lunch-dates, detention-dates with MJ. He has rooftop-dates, patrol-dates, and midnight-snack-dates with Johnny. 

He likes dates because he can say, “It’s a date!” and Johnny will snort at him for being corny and silly but he loves it - Johnny loves it - and Peter knows this because 1) he knows Johnny and 2) the one time he didn’t call one of their rooftop meetups a date, Johnny had playfully punched his shoulder at the end of it and said, “Thanks for the not-date, friend-of-mine,” and it had been playful and joking but also raw, like an open wound. Peter had cheered out loud (“You do like it when I call everything a date! You miss it, huh? Huh?”) and Johnny had flushed and grumbled that yeah, he did like it, he likes it quite a lot, actually, and so everything is a date because nothing is stopping them.

So Peter was a themed vigilante! 

He accepts it - he knows that he had been throwing stones at glass houses when he kept on mocking Gotham and its themed villains and heroes - but at least Peter isn’t ride-or-die spider-themed. Everything he owns isn’t spider themed, unlike some people-!

…His web-shooters just happen to be very accuratelynamed is all; they are not a continuation of the schtick. Web plus shooting - it all makes sense - and is not nearly as insane as the Bat-mobile or the Bat-plane or the Baterangs or the - fucking hell, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if it actually existed - Bat-submarine. Or what-the-fuck-ever because Peter has spent far too much time being in utter awe at the sheer ridiculousness of Gotham. Because was Batman bitten by a radioactive bat? Was the Joker bitten by a clown? (If so, that might explain some things.) What, was someone going to tell Peter that the Penguin had been bitten by a bird and that is the reason why he has a chronic case of bird-pun-itis??? Catwoman was an exception because her cat-burglary thingy to Catwoman was pretty ingenious and also Peter heard about her being friends with, like, lions, so he wasn’t going to test his luck, even from a dimension away.

So even though Peter is a themed vigilante, he still feels pretty content in his own stupid spider-schtick because it makes sense and he’s not obsessive with it, goddamn it. Even in his own universe Peter feels as though his theme is pretty tame and actually makes sense! Captain America was, what, America themed? Weird. Johnny’s schtick was fire which made his hero name pretty on point - and maybe Peter is being too critical here - but the Human Torch? “Flame on”??? When his power was to catch on fire?? Peter had been bitten by a spider, though, and his name is Spider-Man, so he’s not going to critique Johnny too much for that one. Just the “Flame on” part, because that was goofy as hell. Imagine if Peter’s catchphrase was “Webs out!” He would be arrested, for Thor’s sake.

And Iron Man: did Tony get bitten by iron or something?

Peter winces, remembering the whole… shrapnel-in-the-chest thing… and while it may not have been iron, Peter supposes the guy did get bitten by something metallic, in a way, and decides to give Tony a pass on the name. Plus, the media had been the one to name him Iron Man, Tony had just really leaned into it.

But - c’mon - Deadpool? For the guy that can die and come back? 

…

Maybe Peter is being too critical of having a schtick. Mr. Fantastic is way worse than being America themed because at least Captain America was, like, made by the United States government (‘s underpaid scientists). Mr. Fantastic was… yeah. 

(But Peter gets it, too. He’s seen the guilt Reed carries when he thinks no one is looking. He’s seen how everything in the Baxter Building has been made accessible for Ben, how the utensils are large and the remote is larger, how every doorway is massive and there are elevators even just to go to the second floor of their main living area because building stairs big enough to be comfortable for “The Thing” would make Ben feel chafed. Reed Richards turned himself into the persona Mister Fantastic, the head of the Fantastic Four, so that he could try - a little more every day - to atone. Peter gets it. Peter understands. 

So maybe Mister Fantastic is actually the best not-a-schtick out there.)

But Peter’s mind isn’t on shticks and themes randomly. No, not at all: the reason Peter is thinking about names and shticks and costumed vigilantism is because Peter is a fucking loser who somehow managed to become a Minecraft themed hero in Gotham during the few months that he was there - all because of a stupid Minecraft hoodie and Peter’s inability to just take a freaking break - and now owns a subtly creeper themed suit as a result. And then, in that creeper themed, and therefore Minecraft related, suit, Peter had just punched a tree with his fist, knocking it over, and causing one hell of a huh moment.

“Anyway,” Peter continues, “I think that out of everyone, Black Widow was, like, the most neutral person in the schtick-party because it's more of a code name than anything, and she wasn’t really spider themed… Oh, wait, no she had those, uhm,” Peter snaps his fingers, trying to recall the name, and the drug dealers he has tied up in front of him flinch. Weird, “Spider Bite taser-thingies!” 

Leaning a bit closer, Peter thinks he hears a whimper, “What do you think? I’m kinda doubling back on my own ideas now: Black Widow is probably not the most neutral party in the schtick war. And Hawkeye is kinda on the nose…” 

“We’ll talk!” One of the dealers cries out, looking far too fearful than the situation deserves, in Peter’s personal opinion. He’s not gonna hurt them. He hasn’t even laid a finger on them, aside from tying them up with a rope after they all conceded when Peter punched a tree down (Sorry Central Park) as an example of his strength. He would have used his webs but Peter is currently in the other suit - minus the lighter green vest with the creeper insignia, because Peter was not going to be claiming the Minecraft association in two universes, no thanks - which was black and dark green. He’d replaced the lighter green gloves with black ones, with a mask that doubled as an air-filtration system, which made it look sort of like a sleeker version of a gas mask. All that meant, of course, that Peter was not Spider-Man at the moment. 

(Peter didn’t really know who he was at the moment.)

Still, he wasn’t that intimidating. No one was really intimidated by Spider-Man, and even though that suit was red and blue it was still Peter, who was about as scary as a squirrel. 

But someone had still caved and so Peter leaned closer, real close, close enough that even someone without his enhanced vision could see the fear in the person’s eyes, and Peter feels bad for a moment before remembering these douchebags had been trying to sell to kids, and asks, sickly sweet and without any patience, “Where’s your supplier?” and then the talking didn’t stop.

The ring that Peter’s been tracking for the past few weeks is large: he knows that much. He had been primarily going after them as Spider-Man, but as Peter started going out more and more in the other suit, he had eventually stopped and asked himself, “What’s better for covert operations? Neon blue and red, or dark green and black?” And, well, that was that. 

(It doesn’t take a lot to convince Peter to not wear the Spider-Man suit these days. He uses it enough to keep people from being concerned about where Spider-Man was, or if he was okay, but more often than not Peter went on patrol in his other suit. Spider-Man dealt with minor pickpockets and made guest appearances around the city, stopping purse snatchers and little robberies. Spider-Man kept morale up and kept bigger villains from causing chaos when necessary. Spider-Man means a lot in a lot of different ways to a lot of different people, and Peter gets it, sort of, but it’s also a lot to live up to at the same time, so Spider-Man also takes a break. A breather.

Peter doesn’t. But he does, at the same time, because not being Spider-Man is nice and more than a little weird. 

In the other suit, Peter is swiftly working his way through most of the bigger underground crime in Queens, even leaching into other areas of New York City, too. Oddly enough, Peter’s interference doesn’t get mentioned in the write ups for those cases, like it would be if he was Spider-Man. The secrecy is nice. 

The other suit means no webs or sticking to things (when in view of others), so Peter leans into his enhanced strength more and fuck. Peter forgot how fun it could be. 

Peter doesn’t use his enhanced strength against people of course, but picking up whatever large metal machinery Peter can get his hands on and saying, “Eat shit, losers,” has a tendency to get things wrapped up quite quickly when dealing with unenhanced people. Plus, a well placed jab to the side can be incapacitating and Peter quietly revels in being able to use the hand-to-hand lessons that Matt’s been giving him for the better part of two years.)

So Peter goes out in the dark and stays hidden in the dark, feeling the lack of eyes on him keenly. 

Peter thinks he hates it: hates seeing people look into the sky with hope only to be let down, hates seeing his favorite food vendors keep aside something for him and then have to throw it away at the end of the night, hates that the one time he stopped a pickpocket in this new suit, the person - in a stark contrast to Becca - screams and pepper sprays him (his mask blocks it and filters out the air, which means Peter just stays still and upright even after being pepper sprayed in the face) and Peter is so startled that he almost lets them get away.

He hates it - the unfamiliarity - but it feels right, too, because why did Spider-Man ever deserve those things? What did he do to deserve their kindness?

The majority of Otto’s work revolves around robotics and prosthetics, with the occasional venture into sustainable energy. He is semi-intrigued by the arc reactor - even after Tony’s passing, it has still remained the most high tech energy source in the world - but doesn’t care to recreate it. Rather, Otto wants to invent his own energy source that can compete with the arc reactor. Peter finds his ambitions high, but admirable, and honestly quite achievable if they keep working together. Already there have been a few breakthroughs in areas where Otto had been stuck since Peter started working with him. “A fresh set of eyes” sort of thing.

Working with Otto is… easy. The work Peter does isn’t easy - not by any means - it's highly complex, but it’s… good. It’s good work. He genuinely looks forward to going to work, and the company makes it even better. Some days, they go without saying a single word, just existing silently side-by-side, while others they play loud music and sing along (both Peter and Otto have horrible voices), but most of the time there is an easy sort of companionship and conversation throughout the day that Peter didn’t think he would ever be able to casually have again.

Sometimes, Peter can see where it would be easy for Otto to slip. He might make a comment about some asshole claiming that Otto stole his ideas, or a company trying to undersell him or take advantage of the fact that he is an independent inventor, even going so far as to offer him a position in their company that Otto knows would kill his creativity. Peter can see how frequently Otto is pressured from all sides - private buyers, the government (though Peter isn’t supposed to know that), militaristic companies - to build weapons or something with a massively destructive potential. 

Peter can see it chafing him, but he wouldn’t have seen the signs if he hadn’t been keeping a lookout. Sometimes, Otto would get reckless in the lab. Not violent or cruel, or anything that would endanger Peter’s life, but with his own, when he thought that Peter wasn’t paying attention and he slipped a bit too far into his own mind.

So Peter did what he could. He shot the shit with him, sympathized with him, but would ultimately end the conversation with something along the lines of, “It’s your own inventions, dude,” They had long dropped any sense of formality, “No one can make you do anything. And who cares what any of those other dickwads say? It’s your mind, your creations, your choice to sell or not to sell. They can all fuck off.”

And Otto would laugh, the tension around his shoulders loosening, but not disappearing, and Peter would cross his fingers and hope to God that it would be enough. 

One Sunday night, after working with Otto for over half a year, Peter was out on patrol as Spier-Man after Sue had casually blown up his world, “Hey, I haven’t seen Spidey around recently. Are you doing okay?” and Peter nearly had a heart attack at the idea of trying to explain, “Oh yeah, about that, when I was in Gotham I kinda made another hero persona because I was debating spending the rest of my life there and never coming back - haha, am I right, family of mine? - and I still have the suit so I’ve been going out and busting trafficking rings on my own without backup for a couple months now. Cool, right?”

So Peter, of course, lied, “I still go out the same amount, I’ve just been keeping a low profile.”

Sue had given him a look, but hadn’t said anything other than, “Oh, alright then,” and Peter swore he saw Reed frowning, but no one called him out on his… actually-not-a-lie, now that he’s thinking about it, because he was going out, just not as Spider-Man, although it was certainly a deception. He had decided to make a few more public Spider-Man appearances, though, to maybe lessen the amount of deceiving he was doing. 

Patrol. Patrol. Peter refocuses on what he’s doing as a tugging sensation pulls at his gut. 

Tugging is, maybe, putting it lightly. Peter feels like he ate an industrial grade magnet that is now pulling him along. 

So, obviously, Peter follows the sensation. He follows the sensation across New York, the feeling getting steadily stronger the closer Peter gets to wherever he’s going and-

Oh fuck. Peter curses aloud, “Shit, shit, shit-!” because why the fuck was he staring at Otto’s lab. 

(Peter knows. He hates that he knows. He hates what this means. God fucking damnit, Otto.)