Sweet Hibiscus Tea [DISCONTINUED]

Peter doesn't like the smell of alcohol.

Well . . . that's not the exact truth.

Peter doesn’t mind it. He doesn't care about it, and he never drinks any, for obvious reasons.

But going from smelling the occasional red wine that was in his and - 

His and May’s- 

But going from smelling the occasional wine to working in a dirty and unsanitary bar is a giant leap, especially for someone who has enhanced senses like him.

Alright, re-wind about three months.

Before he started selling photos, he was completely and utterly stuck. 

He had nothing. No money, very few possessions, and not nearly enough material for a proper suit or enough of anything else to get a place to live

So, like any other broke teenager, he took odd jobs. 

Or tried to, at least. Nobody would hire the scruffy kid with no record of existence. 

To combat this, he somehow became a busboy in what has to be the shadiest bar in existence.

Sister Margaret’s home for Wayward Girls is technically part of the underground, so Peter has many reasons not to use his actual name.

He just . . . doesn't know what to use. The other workers and customers usually just called him ‘kid’ - which . . . ouch, trauma - or ‘hey you’, but he didn’t have a name.

Or, he didn’t until he found himself caught in the middle of a bar fight.

--- 

A large man grabbed him by the back of his hoodie as he tried to dart behind the counter and pulled him up, up, up, off the ground.

Peter struggled and squirmed, kicking his legs in a desperate attempt to escape.

He didn’t want to show his in-human elasticity, didn’t want the mercenaries and bar-goers to know about his enhancements, but right now, he’s panicking, and all he can think about is whether or not he’ll make it out of the bar alive. 

Peter’s spider-sense is shrieking at him now, forcing an unnatural hissing and clicking noise into his throat, and he finally snaps. He strikes out, shooting his hand out on instinct and finding claws. 

But not the claws of any animal he’s ever seen. Short and hooked like a bird’s, two thin ones on each finger with soft black fuzz in between them that extended to his knuckles before tapering off.

Slashing the face of the man and kicking him down with more strength than he should have, he seethes silently and stares at the paws and fur that have sprouted from his hands.

Once the fighting, animalistic urge dies down, they’re gone in a blink. 

It's funny. 

He could’ve sworn that spiders didn’t have claws or fur, but then again, he never took the time to research them when he should have.

Noticing the bar gone quiet, he glances up. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but silence isn’t it. This is a bar full of criminals. Is a teen beating a man so unusual?

Then he looks down again.

Ah.

That’ll leave a mark. 

Blood steadily flows from long strings of red on the man’s face. 

Peter thinks he might've caught one of the guy's eyes.

There's no telling whether or not he’ll see again.

He wants to feel guilty. he really wants to.

But all he can feel is a sick sort of glee.

----

Peter shook himself out of his memories as he pushed open the door.

The smell of alcohol and gunpowder hovered as usual, and he pulled his maroon bandanna with stitched-on yellow and black bugs further up his face.

“Hey, Bee! Get over here!” 

Peter - well, Bumblebee now - glanced up as Weasel ushered him into the back. 

It’s not one of his workdays today - he only works on weekends, and it's only Monday - but Weasel called him here for ‘something special.’ 

That’s not ominous or anything.

“Alright, so you know how I’ve got runners to deliver things around New York?”

Peter nodded slowly, not sure where this was going.

“Well, one of them is out of commission for the foreseeable future.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I'm guessin’ you want me to take the job until you find someone else?”

He leaned heavier into his Queens accent when on the job. Just in case.

Weasel nodded a few times and handed him an envelope. 

Inside were two addresses in red ink, with splotchy handwriting under it saying not to read the back ‘unless told to by the boss.’

so he's never gonna open that

“I’m gonna need you to pass that over to that address next week; think you can handle it?”

Peter sends him the most deadpan expression before waving his arms in a so-so motion.

He’s not paid enough for this.

“Don't worry; I’m sure you’ll do fine. You’ve got a baby face and a skittish personality so that you won't get caught either. And anyway, I’ll pay you overtime for this.”

Peter sighed heavily and nodded.

It’s not like he’s got much else to do in his spare time other than fixing his spider suit that he’s been procrastinating on.

Fine.

“A’right. I’ll do it.”

“Attaboy.”

He stuffed the envelope into his coat and stepped out into the chilly air.

God, it’s almost spring.

You don't realize how much time has passed until you’re hit in the face with a season change.

Taking off his bandanna and shoving it into his pocket, Peter shuffles his walk and stance until he no longer looks like he belongs in prison for selling drugs.

It’s quite a long way home, but he’s going to walk just this once.

Not every thought has to be one for survival. He needs to remind himself of that now and then.

But then again. 

He does look for crime as a - not paid - living.

He’s just glad he doesn’t have anyone to worry about him anymore and no school to ask him about his absence.

Its. . . refreshing, in a way. A dark, sad, twisted way.

But Parker Luck would get rid of anyone who cares about him, so maybe he’s better off alone.

Parkers and anyone associated with them either end up missing, dead, or left behind.

He can only hope for now that there are no casualties when he eventually flickers out.

_____

It’s official.

The Bulletin is enormous.

So far, he’s been doing standard intern stuff. 

Buying lunch, getting coffees, passing papers.

But nobody told him that he would have to go from one end of the building to another multiple times because the one guy kept forgetting to give him things.

He thinks the dude’s name is Dave.

Whatever, it’s OK; at least he gets money that isn't slightly illegal and morally wrong.

It's fine.

Going back and forth between floors, however, does present an opportunity.

Becoming a cryptid, that is.

All he has to do is act skittish and not talk  or say obscure and weird things, and all of a sudden, workers are spreading more and more conspiracy theories about him.

He even saw a board in the break room with a few words he’s said and a few pictures of him. 

Red string and all.

It's amazing. He never knew that adults could be so childish.

Then again, he’s technically an adult now, too, isn't he?

Even though everyone refers to him as a child?

Eh.

-

He stopped caring about being called young or inexperienced after Tony Stark died.

-

oh

Well.

That's a depressing thought he never thought he'd think again.

Time to put it back in the box with all of the other trauma and scars.

Ball it up and throw it away, just like he did with his parents, Ben, The Building, Stark, May, Ned, and MJ.

It's not like memories have personality and emotions.

They're just memories.

. . .

They only drag you down.