Take a shower.
Peter knew that all cities had their shiny parts and their not-so-shiny parts. But as he followed the streets to the marina, Peter thought New York was really overachieving on the not-so-shiny part of that requirement.
He wasn’t even positive he was on the right path—the tourist map he found was one of those one-page pamphlets with cartoon illustrations labeling the most cheesy of NYC attractions. The metro map was a little more helpful, but only just. He needed to find a library or cab driver or another inexplicably nice nurse.
He munched on a cracker and pushed up his glasses for the fifth time. The sweat that was dripping down his face seemed to wage a war against them, and he really didn’t know how many more falls they could take before even the stickiest of tapes failed. His chest tightened in a familiar way, so he found a wall to lean against and practiced the breathing exercises he found online. Once he got himself settled in Italy, he’d look into getting an inhaler, but for now, it would be rest and water and counting to six before exhaling.
Uncle Obie told him once that his body was just as useless as his brain and the principal at Horizons always laughed every time he had an asthma attack, but he was a product of flawed DNA and it couldn’t be helped. If there was anything to be grateful for in his short life (and Peter always believed there was something to be grateful for—number fifteen on the List), it was the fact that his mom and dad never had to deal with the nuisance of having such a poor excuse for a son. Not that he really remembered much of what they had to deal with, but Uncle Obie always said that they were lucky to be rid of him, having turned out to be such a disappointment. Peter always wondered what happened to his brain after he was taken from his family (according to a very old article he found, the writer described him as a prodigy?), but he knew they’d be appalled to see that he turned out positively subnormal.
Well, there was nothing for it. They’d never see him anyway, and once he got to Italy, he could settle and finally make a new life. Just a little over $1000 for the plane ticket and travel expenses and he was golden. He could do this. He would do this.
His breathing evened out and he made his way down the street again. Not for the first time that day, Peter longed for the bicycle he found back in Tennessee. It had been really helpful until its front tire blew out.
The place he was looking for was called Container LLC and the online advice he was given was to enter the main warehouse from the back and find the foreman. The drive he turned onto smelled like garbage and seaweed, and he could hear shouts from the laborers around him, moving in a hurry. Finding the warehouse was pretty easy; a sign indicated the business name (and Peter tried not to think of what it meant to be riddled with bullet holes). Outside was bright and sunny, but as Peter stepped into the open door in the back of the warehouse, his eyes struggled to adapt to the dusty and dim building. It was lit with huge fluorescents, though Peter could see many that were blown out.
“Move, kid.” A large man grunted as Peter jumped out of the way. He was pushing a hand truck and scowling.
“S..sorry!” Peter ducked his head and stepped inside further. There were several men moving around, all larger than Peter (though that wasn’t a difficult thing to be), all striking a very intimidating picture—heavily tattooed, muscular, cursing, and shouting directions at one another. Another person pushed by him as he took a moment to get his bearings.
He saw two men smoking on the platform outside of the warehouse and waved timidly to get their attention. “Um. Excuse me? Hi. Yeah, I’m looking for a,” Peter looked down at the name he had written on his hand in Sharpie back in Scranton. “Mr. Mac Gargan. Can you tell me where he is?”
They smirked at each other and looked him up and down. The bigger of the two took a long drag and asked gruffly, “Who’s lookin?”
“Um. Me, sir. I’m, I’m Peter,” darn it , “I, um, I’m looking for a job and I read that Mr. Gargan might have one for me?”
“Can you even lift a pencil, four-eyes?” The smaller one looked him up and down dismissively. Peter thought four-eyes was a rather uninventive insult—he had heard much worse at the age of six.
I may not be able to lift one, but at least I can write with one, he thought to himself. He patted himself on the back internally: this was why Good comebacks was on the List.
“Um, yes sir. I can lift fifty pounds,” lie, he could lift, at most, thirty , “And I’m really punctual and I’m a hard worker and I’m, um, homeschooled, so my schedule is really flexible. Oh! And I’m sixteen.”
The man scoffed and shook his head, threw his cigarette off the loading dock, and walked back inside. Peter was left with the larger man. His head was practically shaved and he had a large tattoo of a scorpion trailing down his neck. He stared assessingly at Peter.
“Sixteen, huh?” Peter nodded vigorously. “Piece of advice, kid. You look homeless. Take a shower, comb your hair, and come back with your mommy.”
A hot swoop of shame pooled in his stomach as he watched the man make his way back into the warehouse.
“WAIT!” Peter practically yelled, desperate. The man turned around. “Wait, please. Let me just talk to Mr. Gargan, there’s got to be something I can do, really, I’ll do anything, I really need a job, please sir, I can sweep up, I can load things, I’m a super hard worker, I am really good with my hands, my…my parents,” Peter was feeling sick with the next lie, “my parents say I’m a genius with fixing things, I can fix anything that’s broken, especially electronics, and they really need me to get this job, please.”
One thing Peter learned during his time on the road was that begging was not beneath him. Most people weren’t inclined to help strangers, but when those strangers looked half-starved and teary and young, they’d give practically anything to exit the conversation. Not that Peter was truly teary (that wouldn’t be very mature of him), but he found that with the right amount of sincerity, people would listen.
The man considered him for a second, shook his head, and turned his back. Peter stood, contemplating his next step, when he heard the man answer a cell phone that was ringing in his pocket. “Gargan here. What?”
Peter groaned internally—of course the foreman himself would deny him. He was about to turn around when he heard the conversation Mr. Gargan was having, “Fuck that shit, Stu. I’m not paying $500 for a new computer just because you couldn’t find me the parts. You know we’re on a deadline.” He hung up and sighed deeply. Peter puffed up his chest and tried to look like he wasn’t listening. “Ugh. Fine, kid, come into my office.”
Peter tried to keep up with the man as he weaved in and out of the boxes and shipping containers on the floor. No one looked at him, but several acknowledged Gargan. The foreman seemed to be popular, though he had an air of danger to him. His office was cluttered and there was an older PC (Peter thought it looked like a vintage Compaq ProSignia Desktop 330) sitting on top of his desk. Mr. Gargan gestured to it.
“I’ll pay you $100 to get it working again. My shipping manifest takes forever to download and I have some important email that I can’t get because the damn thing crashes everytime I open up the browser. If you can do this, I’ll think about hiring you for something else.”
Peter swallowed and nodded, stepping over to the desk. He flinched a bit at Mr. Gargan’s loud rebuke.
“NOT now. Christ kid, seriously you smell like shit. Figure that out first and come back tomorrow. I assume I don’t have to tell you to keep this on the downlow. I can’t get picked up for hiring 12-year-olds.”
“I’m sixteen.” Peter tried not to sound sullen.
“Sure, and I’m Tony Stark. Repair it tomorrow and I’ll give you your money. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”
Peter practically ran out of the warehouse and down the street. He was trying to figure out how he felt about what happened—on one hand, it wasn’t a hard no , on the other, he didn’t know where he’d find a place to shower and get clean clothes by tomorrow. He only had $14—at least dinner was covered with the sleeve of crackers he saved from earlier.
He wandered around listlessly for a while—trying to keep track of the streets he was taking so he wouldn’t be too far away from the docks. He found himself in a neighborhood called Forest Hills, standing outside of a branch of the Queens Public Library. Peter hardly ever felt comfortable in his own skin, but there was something about a library that was the closest to a sense of home that he ever felt.
The books smelled familiar, and he itched to check out all the nooks and crannies and corners and especially the science and engineering sections (Bruce Banner had a new book out that his dad collaborated on and Peter had been looking forward to reading it for the past month. He told himself it would be a reward for getting to New York.)
A young-ish librarian greeted him at the desk, handing him a map of each section and a list of upcoming events. As he went to explore, a flier caught his eye. She must have pushed it in the middle of the stack she handed him.
Project Safe
This library is Project Safe certified. Extended library hours allow for houseless and in-crisis children and teenagers to utilize the resources available in the SAFE section of this library. Resources include a clothing closet, food and toiletries pantry, and three public use showers. Registration only requires a birth year, and a card will be given to users to swipe 3x a week. This is a SAFE space—completely free, anonymous, and available to any NY resident.
Safe Space sponsored by the Maria Stark Foundation
For more information, please contact Stark Industries.
Peter looked on the back of the flier to find the hours posted: 4 AM-midnight. Perfect. That would give him only four hours on the street, and compared to the past four months, that sounded like a dream. And honestly, he found that most libraries had enough places to hide on the super cold nights. Of course, he couldn’t use the other aspects of the program—he knew enough to know that anything that said anonymous really meant CPS was waiting in the corner to drag you to a group home. And he totally didn’t deserve free stuff—it wasn’t for him anyway, it was for kids who really needed it.
Peter put the flier in his pocket, and walked around the building a little bit. He was a little unsettled after reading his family’s name—this was the third time in less than a day that someone or something mentioned Tony Stark. For one of the largest cities in the world, he didn’t seem to be able to escape reminders of what he didn’t couldn’t have.
It was around 8 PM when he decided to figure out what to do about Mac Gargan’s instructions. A 24-hour gym sat on the same corner as the library and they were advertising a $10/mo membership. Of course, they needed an address and $50 upfront. Peter walked away less hopeful and looked at the flier in his pocket again.
One time. He’d use it one time and then he would stay away. When he got to Italy, he’d send them money to pay it back.
On his way back to the library, he saw a sandwich/convenience shop and stepped inside to grab some more water bottles. The bell above the door rang and the person at the cash register waved absently as he was absorbed in a conversation with another customer.
Peter walked in between aisles, daydreaming of Italy and future plans. Distracted, he bumped into a large body in front of him, causing the man to spill the coffee he was carrying. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit with grease and oil stains. A name was stitched over his front pocket ( Parker ). The coffee was mixing in with the other stains on his clothes and Peter felt mortified.
“Oh my goodness, sir, I’m so sorry. Here let me help you!” He grabbed a bunch of napkins from the counter and got on his hands and knees to start sopping up the mess. The man he ran into bent down as well.
“It’s no problem at all, son. These were due a wash.”
“Yeah, I totally understand that, not that I’m saying you need to wash your clothes or anything, you don’t, I do, obviously, but not you…” Peter was rambling and the man put up a hand to slow him down.
“Seriously, son. Don’t sweat it. Now why don’t we get off this floor. My knees aren’t what they used to be. Hey! Delmar, can you get me a new cup?”
The cashier gave him a thumbs-up. “Sure thing, Ben. Your sandwich is almost ready.”
“Make two of them, please.” The man smiled at Peter and gestured to the guy behind the counter. “Best sandwich shop in Queens. Delmar is a genius. Ever been here before?”
“Oh! No sir, I just moved here.” Peter threw away the coffee-stained napkins and grabbed the water bottle he set on the floor.
“In that case, my treat! Name’s Ben.”
Delmar handed Ben two sandwiches. “Two sandwiches, extra cheese, extra pickles, extra grease.”
Ben winked at Peter, “Don’t tell my wife. She’d have my head.” He handed the second sandwich to Peter who tried to refuse.
“Oh, no sir. Thank you, I’m ok.”
Ben rolled his eyes and pushed it into his hands. “What kind of welcome would it be if I didn’t buy you a sandwich? Anyway, I’m late and I need to get home. See you around….?”
“Peter! My name’s Peter.”
“Well then, see you around, Peter. Have a wonderful night.” Ben left like a whirlwind and Peter turned to the shopkeeper at the register. Delmar lifted an eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“Just this.” Peter handed him the water bottle and $2 and walked out of the store a few minutes later. A wave of melancholy washed over him as he made his way back to the library.
“Boys, it’s far too late. It’s time for dinner, Tony. How long have you two been down here?”
His dad picked him up and put him on his shoulders. The four-year-old giggled as they marched into the kitchen. His mom rolled her eyes and gestured towards the booster seat at the table.
“It’s going to be sandwiches for dinner, I’m far too tired to cook.”
His dad lifted her up on her toes as she squealed and then dipped her into a kiss.
“EWW. Daddy, that’s gross.”
“It’s true love, Gizmo. Just you wait until it’s your turn. Pep, you should have seen him down there. He was such a big help—you’re so brilliant, buddy, you can do anything you want, anything at all and I’m going to be there cheering you on, every step of the way.”
“C’mon, love. Eat up.”
Peter giggled as they told jokes. Before tucking him in, his parents sang him his favorite song.
“...And when you wish upon a star, you’re dreams come true…goodnight, figlio. I’ll see you after my trip.”
Peter woke up sweating. He tip-toed quietly to the bathroom, avoiding the cameras in the dark library. Throwing up into the toilet, he checked the time. 3:30. He would take a shower soon and put on the jeans and shirt he found in the clothing closet earlier.
Everything was ok. He was ok. He’d fix the computer and convince Mr. Gargan to hire him. It was just $1000. It wasn’t like it would take forever.
Meanwhile...
"Tones, Pepper sent me down here to get you for dinner? Are you—oh my god, what happened here?"
"James!"
"Tony, are you okay? You're crying."
"Look at this. Tell me what you see."
"Um, it looks like call logs?"
"Call logs! Precisely! And look at the date on this one. Read it, Platypus!"
"Ok, ok. Calm down. This was today? *Male individual called in, claiming that the new picture of Peter Stark released yesterday looked like a boy he was roommates with in a school called Horizons located in Grand Junction, Colorado. The male caller didn't want to use his name, but said that his roommate was "younger than the other boys," and "kept to himself," before running away six months ago. He said that his roommate matched the picture exactly. When asked for his information in order to claim the reward if the tip was valid, he said he didn't want to give it and just wanted to keep that place behind him. Caller hung up before we could get a call-back number.* Horizons. Why does that sound familiar?"
"It was that "troubled teen" facility we raided last month because they were using the kids for child labor. Remember? The director was that piece of shit and we found multiple allegations of abuse and a fucking basement with blood stains."
"Tones, you need to calm down, you're shaking. Sit, please."
"Jim..."
"Tony, we'll check, we'll check, okay. Jarvis, have you run facial recognition yet?"
"Currently doing so now, Col, it seems most of the records were burned right before the Avengers raided."
"Tony, breathe, you're doing good. I'll call the team. We'll check, I promise."