Sweet Hibiscus Tea [DISCONTINUED]

It’s time to deliver the message.

He thumbs the envelope and grabs his jacket and bandanna; he wonders about his jobs.

Specifically, whether or not he should drop them.

He has an actual, legal job now that pays him enough to live and has got himself an ID, social security number, and everything else he needs to be a person, so there’s no real reason for him to stay at Sister Margaret’s.

The morally correct answer would be to ditch it and suffer through weeks of brokenness and starvation before stabilizing again.

But . . . Peter isn’t very morally correct nowadays, is he?

He technically wasn’t as soon as he became someone who commits vigilante bullshit daily, but that can be shoved to the side for now.

Peter doesn’t think he could survive if he had to go without food and money again. 

He knows he definitely won't survive the questioning stares from his kind-of-co-workers in The Bulletin if he did.

He shook his thoughts away.

Now wasn’t the time to think complex thoughts or go back on his work.

He’s got a job to do, after all.

Sticking to the wall next to the fire escape, he started building a map of his trail in his mind.

He’s taking the darkest and gloomiest alleyways and traveling at night, so he blends in with the grimy mess with his black hoodie and dark jeans.

His hood is pulled over his head, hiding his fluffy red-brown hair, and his bandanna is pulled up as far as it can go without obscuring his vision.

There’s nothing quite like jumping over and across rooftops, and it’s got to be one of Peter’s favorite pastimes.

He joined a parkour group once but quit once he realized that he was too fast and strong to be with “normal folk.” The people were friendly, though.

He leaped from fire escape to roof to fire escape again, laughing slightly as the rusty metal rattled. Adrenaline was one hell of a drug. 

He’ll never get used to it.

Arriving at his location, he scanned the area. A siren was a few blocks away, but he wasn’t too worried about it. 

Crime was everywhere.

Knocking on the door in the pre-determined way he was told to, he waited.

The place wasn’t anything that screamed “criminal organization,” but it wasn’t anything to ignore. 

A creepy-looking warehouse with a rough-looking logo and a green triangle stood before him.

It’s not a very fun place to be.

The door creaks open slightly, and a quiet and then loud series of knocks answer his. 

Using the last instruction to create a short knock-THUMP-knock-knock pattern, the door opens with a slam, and he’s ushered inside.

It's dusty.

Like allergy-attack dusty.

Peter coughs slightly as he accidentally inhales some of it before handing the envelope to the person in front of him.

The criminal tears it open and turns it over. They must be “the Boss.”

Bossman reads or looks at whatever is on the back.

 Looks Peter up and down.

Then - 

“So you’re Bumblebee, eh?”

Uh. 

Peter nodded sharply. 

“Ya don’ look anythin’ like what Greg described”

UH.

Hm. 

He looked over his shoulder, and yep- 

His name is GREG??

That’s the guy. 

And Peter did a lot more damage than he thought.

The guy’s face was shredded.

And he looked angry .

That’s not. 

That’s not good.

“So. either my troops ‘r lying to me. Or.”

The Boss fastened a glare on Peter.

“You aren't Bumblebee.”

This is not good.

“‘ave anything to say for yourself, runner?”

Peter braced himself and stood up straighter, flicking the hood down and adjusting his stance.

“Yes, actually,” Peter drawled. 

“I think I’m gonna leave here, go meet Weasel, and get my share of money.”

The Boss seemed surprised by this but hardened their gaze and moved to an even more aggressive stance, which usually promised pain and punishment.

And Peter was never a fan of that.

So, he used his newfound claws instead of normal had-to-hand.

Or, he tried to anyway.

The claws wouldn't show.

So he tried again, reaching deep into himself, trying to find that same animalistic feeling as before.

Nothing.

This is SO NOT GOOD

He was screwed. 

The Bossman lurched towards Peter, clearly trying to grab him.

However, Peter does not like to be grabbed, so he finally does the thing that Weasel was always telling him to do whenever he got into trouble.

Fuckingbolt.

He skidded and dashed through hallways he didn’t remember going through, looking for an exit-

Sirens blasted from nearby.

And they were getting louder.

Damnit.

Of course.

The one time he does anything illegal for Weasel, he gets caught .

He doesn't do anything as the police apprehend him.

He doesn't do anything as the car huffs along.

He doesn't do anything as the police charge him with whatever the criminals he was sent to were doing.

And, as May and MJ told him so long ago,

He doesn't say anything,

And, against his better judgment, asks for a lawyer .

_____

Foggy got a call from Brett, which meant an interesting case in store for them because Brett never called Foggy unless it was for Brett to complain about Bess’ cigars.

It’s not like he can stop her.

Getting back on track, there was an interesting case ahead.

One that involved an almost non-existent teen, a sketchy warehouse, and- oh. 

An abandoned Union Allied warehouse.

That's . . . . suspicious. 

But he’s pretty sure Matt would tell him if it was serious, so he’s not too worried.

On the other hand, he is worried about the kid that the police also seemed to find along with the regular-looking crime-doers in the line-up.

After visiting the precinct the kid was held at and asking the police, he got some answers.

Peter B. Parker. 

. . . something in him tells Foggy that he’s heard of the kid, or met him, before.

The criminals called him “Bumblebee faker,” and the guy with the shredded face claimed that the kid had claws. 

“They were like the stingers of a wasp or somethin’, but with really weird fuzz, and there were two on each finger o’ his.”

The same guy also said that was why he had a scar. Scarface was “tryin’ to teach the little sucker a lesson,” and the kid freaked and “clawed his face off.”

So that was odd.

But then again, so was the kid. Parker lived in the apartment right below Matt - who was on forced bedrest because he nearly busted a lung, again - and had an internship at the Bulletin.

And suddenly, Foggy realized where he recognized the name.

Peter Parker was the vigilante and hero photographer that Karen constantly gossiped about.

The one who took suspiciously good shots and constantly acted like a cryptid.

The one who had a whole-ass conspiracy board dedicated to him in the Bulletin's breakroom.

And that just made everything more confusing.

Who was this kid? Where did he come from? Why was he in a warehouse filled with criminals? Why was there little-to-no info online about him? 

. . . and why did those folks know him and call him Bumblebee ?

Foggy was pondering these questions as he walked into the questioning room.

As he got out the recorder, he finally took a loot at the kid.

Scruffy red-brown hair tied up in a short, nearly unnoticeable ponytail, orange-brown eyes reminiscent of a forest fire, and soft freckles that seemed to only appear due to the kids’ tan. He wore a black jacket with fake yellow-ish white fur in the hood, dark pants with patches, and scuffed combat boots that had been through some stuff.

Let’s get this show on the road, then.

___

Peter . . . Peter didn’t like jails.

Never did. Always thought it was a horrible, horrible place for horrible, horrible people.

He never guessed he would be one of those people.

The cell he’s currently in isn’t much. Until proper evidence comes that he was a part of the organization, he’ll be in a police holding cell, which isn’t much better.

It just means less social interaction.

Man. 

He can't tell if it’s just due to his shit luck or something else, but what are the chances that the lawyers he’s given are the same ones that represented him before?

Very high, apparently. 

Peter hopes that he’ll be let out soon.

He needs to.

After all, who’s going to bully Weasel while he’s gone?

___

According to Mr. Nelson - who tells Peter to call him Foggy, but there’s no chance in hell that's happening - getting him out of trouble was a cut and dry case because there wasn’t any evidence that he was involved in whatever-it-was other than being in the same area. 

But Mr. Nelson also says that since Mr. Murdock lives right above him, Peter’s probably going to be checked up on because Mr. Murdock has a “mother hen instinct” and that Peter has “perfect guilt-tripping Bambi vibes.”

So there’s that.

Peter is told to visit their office in Hell’s Kitchen if he needs anything again. 

He’s also told to get more registrative information because he drove the precinct halfway through a collective stroke trying to identify him. 

That’s fun.

And with a to-do checklist and paperwork in hand, Peter was home free.