"...You're Hired"
Peter checked his phone for the address once more, assuring that he had arrived at the right place.
He stood in the middle of a dingy, deserted street, trash bags piling up around dumpsters and graffiti sprayed along the walls, most of the buildings run-down and appeared abandoned due to their boarded up windows, though the fact that everything was shrouded in shadows - it was just that little bit too early to turn on the dim streetlights (though Peter doubted most of them worked) - probably didn’t help. Peter was looking at one building in particular, one which stood menacingly tall, looming even, with the words "Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls" boldly plastered across it, seeming all-the-more sinister as it covered Peter in shadow, blocking the little amount of light coming from the quickly darkening sky.
This was definitely the place.
You see, Peter has been struggling to make rent, more often than not it's late and he's sure his landlord is close to kicking him out if he doesn't get his act together. He's an unpaid intern at Stark Industries and so can only hope he works hard enough to get a job there after his internship due to the competitive nature of the high-class company’s hiring standards. His only income has been what little he's able to scrape together from his 'job' at the Daily Bugle - if you could call it that. Peter just comes in ever few weeks with a load of Spider-Man photographs, gets yelled at by his boss, John Jonah Jameson, and collects his pay-check from Jameson's secretary on his way out.
Because of this, he sometimes has to skip out on meals and has little-to-no furniture in his apartment, though his internship does provide free lunches, so it's not all bad!
Oh and not to mention; Peter is Spider-Man.
Since his Aunt - and last living relative - died, he has thrown himself into crime-fighting after a roughly two week-long break where he had mourned for as long as he could in he and his Aunt May's old apartment until he had to move as he couldn't pay the rent. It took him awhile to find an apartment he was able to afford (barely). If he was being honest, Peter doubted the apartment was fully safe to live in for the average citizen. It was in a rough part of Queens - though not as bad as Hell's Kitchen - the boiler only worked half the time and there wasn't much hot water, he's heard questionable sounds coming through the paper-thin walls and floor of the building, he could swear he hears complains of the lower tenants being burgled every few days and his apartment was incredibly small, only two rooms including the bathroom. The place was usually cold and wasn't particularly clean when he moved in, not to mention the mess of projects he had started in his little amount of free time and the scraps from dumpster-diving. It was safe to say his apartment wasn't the best.
Now, he stood outside a shady building, walking towards the front door.
From the ad online - which he had to dig deep to find - he knows it to be a bar inside, only open from 7pm to 2am. Luckily the owner lives above the bar so he doesn't hesitate further and knocks on the door.
For several minutes, it is as if no-one is inside, but Peter knows better. He can hear the man inside fumbling around, presumably hurrying to make himself presentable before answering the door. Peter knocks again, just to show he's still there and waiting.
The door is finally thrown open to reveal an older man, appearing to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with a pair of round glasses on his face, scraggly, un-brushed hair falling around his face, and stubble. He wore a black T-shirt and a red flannel which looks to have been thrown on last-minute and seems dirty with stains dotting it's cloth.
The man does not appear welcoming as he squints as Peter, "Who're you and what d'you want?" he spits.
"Uh, I'm here for the job hiring?" Peter's eyes flick around, unsure where to look.
The man just squints further, "Are you asking me or telling me?"
"Telling," Peter replies, finally looking the man in the eyes.
"How'd someone like you find my ad?" The scruffy man sat up straighter, now leaning against one door as the other stayed open. He looked Peter up and down, scrutinizing every detail.
"It wasn't that hard," Peter knew exactly what he meant but had decided to play coy. He knew this wasn't exactly a normal job posting as it had been buried in the darker corners of the internet but he didn't really care, he could look after himself if needed.
The other man seemed like he was attempting to stare Peter down but eventually let up. He stood up, no longer leaning against the door and began to step backwards into the building.
"You do know what the job is, right ?" throwing an unsettling grin back at Peter as he walked towards the bar, now turned the right way around.
"Well your ad said I would be serving the bar,” Peter thought back to what he was able to remember of the ad description.
”Okay, well, yeah but do you know what type of people I cater to here?” The man emphasized, sounding a tad frustrated as he leaned against the bar.
”It’s not my business, I’d just be here to serve their drinks and clean up afterwards,” Honestly, Peter didn’t want to know, the less he knew, the less he would feel obligated to meddle, but he also figured the less interested he came off, the higher the chance that the owner to hire him.
The man found this incredibly funny, laughing aloud, ”Hah! That’s a good mentality to have but seriously, you need to know who your dealing with here.” He turned serious, all previous amusement washing away, and continued, ”look. This is a mercenary bar. If you can’t handle that then there is no way you can work here,”
Peter hesitated a moment, thinking things over. It was good pay, he may be able to overhear intel for whatever Spider-Man was investigating that week - though he couldn’t get in the way of their jobs or they’d figure him out, and he could handle himself, “That’s fine,” This earned him an eyebrow raise.
”You’ll be making and serving drinks, changing the Dead Pool Board and helping to clean up after, plus any extra optional jobs which are extra pay.”
”Works for me,"
"And your shifts will be pretty late since we're open from seven 'til two."
"I know,"
"So like anywhere from four to seven hour shifts,"
"Okay, so what would be my shift schedule?”
”You’d be free Tuesday and Wednesday since those are pretty quiet 'cause most customers are away on jobs, and you could start pretty late on Thursday, about ten, I'd still need you at the end of the shift to help clean up, though, Thursdays and Fridays can get pretty messy,"
"That works for me!" Peter was more than happy with the schedule as it gave him more time than he expected for his Spider-Man patrols.
"And just to be clear, you're also in on weekends,"
"Thought so, do I get breaks?"
"'Course, every three hours or so you get a half-hour break, you can take whatever from our supplies free, within reason,"
"All works for me!"
”Alright then…you're hired. The name’s Weasel, no real-names here unless you can handle the consequences,”
"Just like that?"
"Uh...yep,"
”Okay, uh, so what should you call me if I can't use my own name?”
”Uh, I don’t know, s’your name,” grumbled Weasel.
”I’ll think about it later then, when do I start?"
"Now. We open in roughly two and a half hours,"
"Oh, uh, great!"
"You can put your stuff in the back, I'll show you how to make some basic drinks and then you can help me unstack chairs,"
Peter nodded, walking behind the bar and pushing open the door behind it, not even glancing around the room before placing his backpack by the door. He walks over to Weasel who appears to be getting out different types of alcohol and glasses.
"Right, so here's how to make one of my more popular drinks..."
Peter had just gotten a hang of the hellhouse's peculiar drinks after practicing with Weasel's supervision when it was an hour to opening.
"Ey, get over here and help me unstack these chairs," called Weasel who had already began lifting them off of the tables and onto the floor, tucking them in.
Peter replied with a mindless, "Okay," and came out from behind the bar to help. He quickly finished doing this in what Weasel believes to be over half the amount of time it usually takes him when he has help.
"Alright, so, uh, you got a hang on those drinks?" Weasel checks with him, leaning against the bar.
"Yep!"
"And you know where everything's kept?"
"More or less,"
"M'kay, I think that's all then," Weasel checks his watch as Peter looks around the room once again, "We open in ten, until then you can, like, do whatever,"
You see, Peter isn't like Spider-Man. Spider-Man is strong and brave, confident and witty, smart and resourceful, people look up to him and see someone they can rely on. Peter Parker, on the other hand, is none of that. He is short and scrawny, awkward and weird, clumsy and forgetful. Nobody trusts him to get anywhere on time or do anything of importance. When the mask is on, Peter becomes Spider-Man, an entirely different personality is taken on. On one hand, this means no-one would ever connect the two, on the other, it leaves Peter with a sense of emptiness, like part of him is gone.
So, you see, at the start of his shift, Peter believed that if it was Spider-Man who had taken this job, it would be a breeze, he would quip and banter, chat and joke, if someone got rough then he would deal with it, if a drink was dropped, he would catch it with barely a drop missing.
And that since it was Peter who got this job, Peter who is small and appears weak, Peter who could barely string a sentence together at the worst of times and had a tendency to get overwhelmed and knock things over, he would mess it up and get fired, or at least dropped at the first sign of better help.
Despite all that, the longer Peter spent in the room of loud drunks, the further he calmed, sure he was still rather overwhelmed and skittish, but it could all be put down to first-day nerves. He was making drinks faster, with less spillage, and spouting bits of banter in passing. It was like he was becoming a mix of Spider-Man and Peter Parker. A third identity.
'Ferret' is what the patrons had taken to calling him, one of them claiming, "Well, a ferret is like a nicer weasel," which caused yells of protest to come from Weasel.
And so it had caught on and now, Peter was developing a third identity. Ferret, someone charismatic, friendly, even to the crude bar dwellers, but not to be mistaken for a pushover, quick to make and serve drinks and brave enough to climb the rotten old ladder used to write on the big chalkboard that is the Dead Pool.
And Ferret was practically in his element by the time the bar closed, Weasel even said so himself, “You sure you haven’t been around these folks before? You seem right at home here,” ending that comment with a huff of laughter as the two of them restack the chairs on top of tables.
”Yeah, definitely, oh - and the customers came up with a name for me,” Peter looked at Weasel with a teasing grin, “It’s ‘Ferret’ because-”
”Shut up!”
“Okay, okay,” there was a stop in conversation, the only sounds really being the scrape and clang of chairs in between pauses of the tables being wiped down.
"What day's this again?" Asks Weasel from across the room.
"Uh...Friday?" With Peter being no help, Weasel finishes up and moves to the bar, getting his phone out and checking for himself, it was Sunday. He began wiping at the bar as Peter had moved to sweeping the floors of all the dregs.
Once they finished up, Peter washed his hands at the sink and grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder.
"Right, so see you tomorrow, seven?"
"See ya, Ferret,"
Peter's lips pulled into a smile as he replied, "Bye, Weasel!"
Leaving the bar, the previously looming appearance of the old building no-longer felt so intimidating, even in the complete darkness of the night- morning- whatever. With a deep breath, his exhaustion began to kick in as he started on his was home.
Unlocking his door and quickly shutting it behind him, Peter dropped his backpack next to his mattress before lying down, practically collapsing. He immediately fell asleep, no point getting changed as not only would that be a waste of clean clothes but of heat as it was freezing in his apartment. He wrapped himself in his thin covers and let himself go.
Usually he would be starting to contemplate ending his patrol as it was a little past three in the morning, but tonight he was drained from a mix of the nerves of a new job and having to maintain social etiquette with the customers - though not to the same extent as he would with the average citizen - and hadn't suited up at all. Peter has been out patrolling every single day since his Aunt's death, the sudden change in his usual routine threw him off, but he was just too worn-out to really think about it.