Resolution

Peter ran like the hounds of hell were on his heels. The bundle of clothes he’d so faithfully clutched onto was now tossed carelessly away in order to free up his arms, though his backpack still bounced now painfully against his back.

“PETER!”

He tuned out Mr. Stark’s yells, pumped his arms and legs harder even as his body protested the exertion, but he had to get away; he had to get somewhere to hide where no one would find him—not even May.

His heart broke as he tried to move past that quick phone call. How could she not listen to him? She’d been a victim to it, his Parker Luck, and she’d have understood if only he could explain it to her!

“UNDEROOS!” Mr. Stark called out from somewhere above, behind—and close. “C’mon, Pete! Stop running! We need to get you back to the med bay!” Repulsors blasted as Mr. Stark hunted him down.

Panic threatened to overtake him. There was no way Peter could maintain this speed. He dropped his arm, allowed the backpack to slide off and onto the sidewalk, and hoped that ditching the extra weight would make a difference.

It did. His stride lengthened and Peter was able to pull far enough ahead of his pursuer that he could take advantage of the twists and turns that were the Manhattan cityscape. Puddle filled back alleys and side streets became his saving grace and before too long, Peter was jogging down a surprisingly familiar alleyway and stopping in front of a non-descript steel door with a nuclear radiation warning label on the door.

All hail Queen MJ and her incessant need to take Peter and Ned to some of the weirdest under-age bars in the five boroughs.

He bent over, trying to catch his breath but gave it up for naught. Peter grabbed the door’s handle and pulled, anticipating the sheer relief at getting out of the rain and taking a few minutes to figure out his next step. His arm jerked. The door hadn’t budged.

“No,” he whispered to the universe. “Please, no.” He rested his head against the door. “Please? Can someone just c-c-cut me a break just this once?”

The universe said nothing.

A laugh filled sob broke from Peter’s throat and he banged his forehead staccato against the door. “Please-“ Bang. “this-“ Bang. “Once!”

Peter flung his arms out for balance as the door flew open and a bald, tattooed behemoth of a man stood in front of him, backlit by neon light and unmoved by the presence of pulsating dance music. “What do you want?” The man glared.

Peter stumbled back and squeaked. “Um, can I—“ he cleared his throat even as he tried to calm his still heavy breathing. “C-c-can I come in?” A rivulet of water ran down his forehead...

The man simply stared at him.

“P-please?” ... then down his nose.

Still no answer.

“Sir?” ... and dripped off to become one with the inch-deep puddle Peter had stepped back into.

The man snorted and shook his head in amusement, “Yeah, right. Whatever. I.D., please.”

Peter stared back blankly. “I.D.?”

The amusement faded fast. “Yeah, ya’ know? Documentation provided by either a local, state, or federal level of government to confirm that you are over the age of twenty-one and legally permitted to enter an establishment that serves alcohol... I.D., please.”

Peter blinked. “B-but I thought this was an-n-n under twent-t-ty-one club?”

The man scoffed. “Geez. Do you guys even read the flyers? We only do ‘under twenty-one’ on the third Thursday of every month!” A commotion sounded behind the man and he gave a quick glance over his shoulder to check on things. Satisfied that nothing required his urgent attention, he turned back to Peter. “Look, kid. I’m sorry, but you gotta go.” With that, he turned back into the club, allowing the door to slam firmly behind him.

Peter stood there, numb; tried to kick-start his brain before something else happened. On the plus side, he hadn’t heard any sign of Mr. Stark in the last few minutes, so he could take a second but—what could he honestly do? Peter could head to Ned or MJ’s, but May and Mr. Stark would find him in a heartbeat. He wondered if maybe Mr. Delmar would let him sleep in one of his booths or even in the backroom while he figured out what to do next but that was probably breaking some law or health code or something and Mr. Delmar knew May anyways so...

Shit!

Reacting to his spider instinct, Peter jumped back as the door to the club slammed open, barely missing him and cracking hard against the brick wall.

Two women, clearly intoxicated and oblivious to the near miss, stumbled their way out of the building and into the rain, Tattoo Guy following behind them. “... and if I catch you in here again, I’m callin’ the cops!” He yelled after them. “Stupid Daddy’s girls—fuck.” He grumbled to himself, though Peter heard. “I’m not paid enough for this shit.” He checked to make sure the women were at least moving away and then gave Peter a dismissive glance as he re-entered the club.

“And a fan-freakin’-tastic night to you, too!” The first woman, a brunette, shrieked back at the closed door. “You stupid... stupid...” She struggled to find the word she was looking for. “YOU’RE STUPID!” She staggered, fell into her friend and broke out into a giggle fit. “C’mon, Libby. Let’s go find another bar where they can appreciate our...” The brunette struggled again. “Our...”

But Peter had stopped listening. His eyes moved past the louder woman, took in the not quite blonde hair on the one called Libby, darker only because of the rain, but that didn’t matter. Peter could have wept with relief. This Libby still had the tan! “Libby?” He called out, hoping that luck was finally on his side.

Libby must have been at least as intoxicated as her friend, or maybe just wary of some random dude calling out her name outside of some bar in the wee hours of morning? All Peter knew was that she took her time turning to face him completely, and then a while longer to process that he was the one actually talking to her. She squinted at him through the rain, trying to place him. Then she got it. “Peter? Midtown Peter?”

“Y-yeah, it’s m-me!” He rushed forward, eager to establish a connection.

Meanwhile, Libby stepped back.

Peter stopped, raised his shaking hands to show he meant no harm. “Sorry. I j-j-just wanted t-to ask for help.” He rushed out. “I need-d—“

She cut him off before he could stammer out another word, “No.I don’t give a fuck what you need, Peter.” Fun, bubbly Libby was gone. “What are you even doing here?” She spun around to check out the alleyway. “Did you follow me here? Are you stalking me?”

Peter recoiled at the accusation, “N-no!” he denied. “I-I-I...”

“You what?!” Libby snarled back. “You want to ruin my life even more? Want to ensure that I never work in New York State doing anything? To sue me? What, Peter! What the hell do you want from me?!” She looked over to her friend, suddenly sobered by the events she was witnessing. “Can you believe this kid? I finally find a place where I’m perfect and then HE,” Libby waved wildly toward Peter, “decides to whine to Daddy that he wasn’t feeling good! Suddenly I’m a pariah and Daddy says I’m on my last chance! I’m not allowed to teach! Not allowed to sub! All those lives I won’t be able to shape because of this little shit! I’m going to be expected to do manual labour next!”

Her friend moved to comfort her, rubbing her back as she cooed, “I know, Libster. It’s so not fair.”

Maybe the cold really was getting to Peter, because that definitely didn’t sound right. “But that’s not what happ—“

Again, Libby interrupted. “Ugh. I am not drunk enough for this,” she whined. “Gah!” She paced the alleyway for a minute then stopped in front of Peter, and pushed her now soaked hair out of her face to take a good look at the boy for the first time. “What the hell happened to you, anyhow?”

For the first time since leaving the tower, Peter imagined what he must have looked like. “Um,” he looked down at the now transparent hospital gown plastered to his upper body and his dark blue jeans now black from being saturated by the rain. “I ran away?”

She blinked slow, sneered. “You ran away.”

Confusion threatened to overtake Peter. This woman looked like Libby, even knew him, but everything was all wrong. He nodded in answer anyways, “Yeah. I n-need-d-ded to leave. Things were b-bad. I had to go.”

Her expression changed, more assessing than anything else. “I guess that makes sense,” Libby replied as she wiped water away from her face, smearing away some of her make up with it. Her once youthful, attractive face contorted into something dark and malevolent as she spoke, “Daddy Stark probably wasn’t too happy that you almost killed his little side piece, huh?”

It was Peter’s turn to step back. “What? N-no! I love M-ms. P-potts! I’d nev-v-ver—“ His face flushed hot over his pallor as the rest of his body chilled faster now that he wasn’t moving.

“Oh, I’m sure he knows it wasn’t ‘intentional,’” Libby rolled her eyes as she air quoted. “Doesn’t matter, though, does it? Sure as shit doesn’t matter for my Daddy!” She wiped away more water, dragging streaks of black into her hairline as she moved closer to him. “Does it hurt? Huh, Peter? Knowing that Daddy isn’t going to forgive you for what you’ve done? That you’re nothing more to him than one of his most painful memories?”

“That’s-s not—“ Peter tried to defend as he backed further away.

But Libby kept on with her attack, “Well, GOOD!” she shrieked. “Then we’re even! If I have to be the bane of my father’s existence, then at least I’m not alone.”

“But h-h-he—“

Libby moved closer, her hands flying wildly through the air, even her friend stepped back. Libby was unravelling. “Why are you still talking!? Are you stupid?! Are you actually expecting me to help you?” She barely stopped for a breath, “Really, Peter?!” She cackled, “You ruin my life and then think that I’m gonna—“ Libby doubled over in laughter. “That’s rich!”

Peter gasped as his back hit the cold, wet brick. “P-please st-stop.” She wasn’t making any sense!

“Libby,” her friend spoke softly, almost afraid. “Come on, let’s just go, okay?” She wrapped a hand around Libby’s arm and started to lead her away. “We’ll go find some fun somewhere and forget all about this, yeah?”

Libby pulled away, straightened up, then turned back to Peter. “Go home, Peter from Midtown. Live with the fact that you seem to have a knack for ruining the lives of everyone around you.”

“Libby, stop.” Her friend barely chastised.

Libby looked over to the brunette, noticing her for the first time since the debacle had started. She straightened her now soggy dress, then smiled sweetly. “Oh, I’m done, Britt. I promise.” She spoke calmly, like she hadn’t just let loose a verbal lashing worthy of Loki at his most maniacal. She wiped the water away one last time, rearranging the black lines on her face once more. “I just needed him to know it’s his fault.” She nodded once. “That’s all. We can go now.”

Britt, now that she had a name, guided Libby once more.

“Wait.”

Libby’s shoulders drooped in exhaustion. “What now, Peter?” She didn’t even bother to turn back and face him.

“It w-wasn’t m-my fault.”

Neither of the women moved, then Libby huffed out a small laugh. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid,” and walked down and out of the alleyway.

“It w-wasn’ m-my fault,” He whispered into the darkness as fatigue washed over him. He had nothing left in him. No fight, no desire to run... just a hollow ache as he realized what he should have known all along if only... “It wasn’—“

It didn’t matter anymore, Peter realized. None of it did.

... and so Peter closed his eyes and simply fell asleep.