Chapter 6
It takes a week for Peter to start getting used to his new life, and by the end of the second month, he finds that he's adapting.
He soaks up the moonlight as he walks down a street in a Bronx neighborhood he now considers his home turf. The area is riddled with perpetual sirens at night and graffiti artists who mainly tag crude words all over brick walls and the sides of houses. Taylor Avenue is lined with falling-apart duplexes where the residents are either poor, drug addicts, ex-cons, were dealt a shitty hand, or a combination of the four. Although Peter wears the suit and patrols for the majority of the day, he usually doesn't have much to do on this street other than keeping an eye out for the domestic unrest in duplex 243 and making sure that the old guy who lives in 201 doesn't climb into his Chevy truck all drunk and disoriented at seven in the morning. And occasionally giving some food or water to the stray cat whenever the tabby makes an appearance. He usually only passes this street to get to where he's been sleeping, which is Van Nest Avenue.
Van Nest Avenue is just as run-down as Taylor Avenue, only this one has your car wash, gas station with a mini-mart, liquor store, small library, laundromat, and a bakery at the corner that's run by a sweet old lady named Mrs. Carter. She's a short, frail woman with pale skin that sags under her chin like putty and has thin gray hair that is laid delicately on top of her head. When she smiles—which is basically all the time—her eyes crinkle with deep crows feet at the corners.
Mrs. Carter is a big reason why Peter hasn't starved to death in the past two months. The bakery's running on barely any profit, if there is any, so she can't afford to give him free food. She does, however, give him the batch of muffins she screws up or the loaf of bread she burns. The carbs fuel his vigilante escapades and usually last him a few days.
But he can't live on bread alone, so after that first week after meeting Mrs. Carter, Peter offers to work at the bakery for less than minimum wage.
"You don't have to even give me a stable paycheck," he tried to convince her. "Just a few dollars here and there. I can clean or be like your assistant in the kitchen—whatever you need."
Mrs. Carter shook her head. "Sugar, I'm pretty sure it ain't legal. How old are you? Fifteen?"
That made Peter stop. His immediate response was yes, but then he realized that it was October and he had missed his birthday back in August. So, no, he isn't fifteen, he's sixteen.
"Eighteen," Peter said.
She rolled her eyes. "My eyes may be gettin' old, but I can tell you ain't grown."
"Fine, I'm not eighteen, I'm sixteen," Peter obliged. "But I . . . I need the money. Please."
Mrs. Carter knew he needed the money. If she hadn't, then she wouldn't have been giving him the reject pastries. Or maybe that was just an attempt to fatten him up; Peter has been on the thinner side lately.
Either way, she must have seen the desperation in his eyes, because she sighed and gave him a tight smile before saying, "Fine, but only because my back's gettin' stiff and I can't lift those heavy flour bags like I used to and 'cuz of those damn puppy eyes."
After that, Mrs. Carter became the source of Peter's income and some of his food since he is able to actually buy some now.
Like fruit.
Oh, Peter loves fruit. He hadn't realized how much he missed it until he bought an apple with the spare change Marjorie gave him that came straight from the cash register. The first bite was a spiritual awakening.
Now, he has an apple for lunch nearly every day. He also regularly buys protein bars from the gas station mini-mart (the higher the calories, the better).
Peter stops by the mini-mart around the same time every Sunday—his grocery days—to stock up on a block of protein bars and a bag of apples. The guy working the counter is always the same: Mr. Bastidas. Like Mrs, Carter, he's on the older side, only his cheek fat hasn't started to droop to make his chin look like a puppet's yet.
Peter doesn't interact with Mr. Bastidas as often as he does with Mrs. Carter since he only pops in once a week, whereas he works at the bakery every other day. Still, he has grown to like the man. He makes funny jokes and tries to get Peter to practice his very limited Spanish.
"You've almost got it," Mr. Bastidas said once about Peter's tongue-rolling when pronouncing r's. "Don't they teach you this in high school Spanish class?"
"I don't know," Peter had said. He only took one year of Spanish classes before the whole . . . zapped-out-of-existence thing happened.
Mr. Bastidas tsked as he scanned the two items. "Stay in school, muchacho."
Too late.
Peter just slapped a smile on his face and quipped, "What, like you?"
Mr. Bastidas clutched his chest like he's been shot in the heart. They both laughed.
As the man handed Peter his bag of apples and protein bars, he said, "I guess I deserved that. Can't dish out what you can't take yourself."
Peter grinned and took his groceries. "Gracias." Walking out the door, he called out, "Hasta luego, Mr. Bastidas."
"¡Adíos!"
Along with Mr. Bastidas and Mrs. Carter, Peter has also been having some human interaction with the librarian. Well, it's not nearly had much as he interacts with the other two. The librarian is this middle-aged woman named Mrs. Charleston who sits at the front desk like a dragon guarding a castle. She's . . . scary. Like, her glares could probably kill you if she stared long enough. But, as Peter comes in more and more to just sit in the library to read during his downtime—sometimes sporting a healing sprained ankle, bruised ribs, or a busted lip from patrols—he feels like she isn't glaring as him so much anymore. Plus, she actually let him borrow a book without a library card for the first time a few days ago. Progress.
So, all in all, Peter feels like he's doing a solid job at surviving on the streets. He found a way to get money, made some friends, and finally has some shoes and jeans, and even another sweatshirt to wear. It's even larger than his first hoodie he found, so he mainly just uses it as a blanket when he sleeps.
Speaking of sleeping, the residents and the shop owners in the neighborhood are blissfully oblivious to the fact that Spider-Man lives in the dingy basement of a foreclosed pub right next to the liquor store.
It's right across from the car wash and has a broken window facing the alleyway between the abandoned pub and the liquor store so he can slip in and out without being seen. It's nice; he doesn't have to worry too much about being caught as Spider-Man or Peter Parker.
Peter's actually quite proud of the little home he has made himself in the long two months he's been living as a nobody. When he first slips inside through the window—careful not to cut his skin on the sharp shard of glass that juts out around the edges—he enters the empty seating area of the pub. He has to venture into the kitchen in the back and then take the rickety, wooden staircase down to the vacant, compact basement.
There's no electricity, but instead of having to fumble around in the dark, his spider-senses guide him straight to his favorite corner where he sits on the large maroon sweatshirt and reaches towards the wall.
His fingers brush over the switch before he flips it.
Light doesn't flood every inch of the the small basement, but the dim lights do flicker on and give a nice glow that allows him to see much better.
The lights are old Christmas lights he found in some random person's trash. He was looking for shoes—which he eventually did find—when he spotted the lights. Miraculously, they were both battery-powered and weren't all shattered. Peter gave up a box of protein bars to buy the batteries he shoved into the battery pack before draping the lights over the pipes that stick out of the floor. Because the basement is more of an underground closet, the lights are stretched over the whole low ceiling and even trail down one of the walls.
Peter sets his newly acquired sack of five apples on the floor beside the borrowed library books. He looks away, trying not to regret giving half of his money to a homeless woman he found digging through dumpster during patrol instead of using it to buy his protein bars. He couldn't not help her out, even if it was only like four dollars and some change. He knows how it feels to have to dig through other people's garbage because your stomach is consuming itself. Maybe he hasn't been broke and living on the streets as long as she has, but he still gets it.
Crossing his legs and leaning against the wall, his eyes lazily lifting to the ceiling to trace over imaginary constellations, the thought of going to a soup kitchen crosses his mind.
He immediately shuts the thought down. A shiver runs down his spine and he squeezes his eyes shut, his hands fisting the sweatshirt beneath him.
Yeah, no. He wasn't going back to the soup kitchen—or any soup kitchen—any time soon. Or ever again.
Not even if he only has these apples and whatever Mrs. Carter happens to burn to eat this week. He has done it before; surviving the week to get to the next. The sharp pains in his abdomen are merely lullabies. It's like there is a little farmer stabbing against the soft, inner walls of his stomach with a pitchfork to remind him to feed the monster growing inside.
Most nights, the little farmer gets ignored.
Tonight is one of those nights.
Peter shifts, barely even wincing as the material of his sweatshirt collar rubs against the shallow cut at the side of his neck (curtesy of an ATM robber who got stab-happy), and curls up in a ball with his knees to his chest and his arms hugging himself. It's how he sleeps every night. He has enough room to lie down with his knees locked and legs straight, but curling up in a ball and hugging himself is just . . . it just feels safer. And warmer, especially as the chilly autumn night air seeps into the basement.
And, in the hazy moments right before sleep has all the way under its spell, he swears the arms around him feel like Aunt May's.
•
Peter's natural alarm clock jolts him awake at 4:00 am, half an hour before he usually wakes up, but it'll do.
Mornings in September can be pretty chilly, but thanks to the suit that's never not under his civilian clothes, he can comfortably make the trek to the shower. Like every other morning he wakes up early to catch a shower without getting caught, he's got his breakfast of a juicy apple clutch in his right palm.
He chows down on his way through the Bronx to a local high school campus. It isn't as shiny or funded like Midtown Tech is, but it still has a separate building by the football field for the football locker rooms. Peter makes his way through the darkness of the early morning to the back of the locker room where there is a little rectangular window high on the wall. After three seconds of climbing up, his finger tips sticking to the painted brick, he only has to apply minimum pressure for the glass to pop out. He catches it before it can fall and shatter.
He seamlessly slips into the locker room and lands on silent feet. At four in the morning, though, it's not like anyone else was going to be in here.
Peter makes his way to the showers and plucks some shampoo and body wash from some open lockers to borrow. He makes sure to use only a minimal amount after stripping down and stepping under the cold spray of the janky water pressure.
He tilts his head back, neck craned, mouth wide open, to catch the falling water. Once he's got a mouthful, he closes his lips and swishes it around in his mouth, then spits it out. It's getting to him—not being able to brush his teeth—but he knows he needs to prioritize food over hygiene. Even with the protein bars and apples from the mini-mart and the bread Mrs. Carter gives him, he isn't eating nearly as much as he should.
He's lucky if he hits 900 calories in a day, much less the 5,000 he used to consume about a half a year ago. It shows in the way his ribs press against his pale skin, like they're trying to bust through, and the way he can't be out on patrol all day without fainting. It's in his concave stomach, his sharp collarbones, his wrists of pure bone. When he lifts a finger, he can see the eerie outline of the bones in his hand moving. His knobby knees ache when he lands too hard, and his spindly arms strain to carry his weight mid-swing.
A plus side is that it gets easier and easier to slip through that rectangular window at the top of the locker room. A downside is that he feels like he's slowly dying. Plus, it just makes him look the part of a ragged homeless teenager. It isn't untrue, but he hates the way people look at him in the street or the worried glances Mrs. Carter and Mr. Bastidas send him when they don't think he's looking.
He looks down and sighs when he can see the outline of his ribs and how his hip bones jut out.
I'll get a real job soon, he reminds himself, even though he knows how hard it's going to be given the fact that he literally has no address, ID, or even a social security number. He can't pay taxes or provide a reference, other than Mrs. Carter.
Still, he holds onto the hope—no matter how foolish—because what else can he do?
After rinsing the squirt of shampoo out of his sopping hair, he tilts his head back and opens his mouth to catch more water. This time, he swallows mouthfuls, knowing it's his best opportunity to get hydrated for the day.
After his shower, Peter mostly just air-dries since borrowing someone's towel is not nearly as sanitary as borrowing a bottle of shampoo. The locker room has those hand dryers that push out loud whooshes of air, so he ducks his head under one of those to dry his hair. When he straightens, it flips against his forehead, reminding him that he needs a haircut.
He wiggles back into the suit, tucking his clothes under one arm and then climbing back out of the little window towards his basement. There, he drops off the clothes, then leaves to patrol.
Another good thing that has come from his new life is the fact that he can patrol without any limitations. There's no curfew, no dinners, no school, no debriefs, no lectures, and no academic involvements to get in his way. Swinging through boroughs and neighborhoods, he's free.
If only the freedom hadn't come with the price of loneliness.
It's fine, though. At least he still gets to see Aunt May as she walks into the hospital every morning for her shift. At least he can catch glimpses of his old team on the billboards in Times Square. At least he can watch as Ned and Betty's friendship blossoms into something more each time he catches them walking out of the school together.
Peter's lips quirk into a smile when Ned walks out of the school holding Betty's hand. They both have shy grins on their faces.
As much as he wishes he could give Aunt May a goodbye hug before she leaves for work, work alongside the Avengers, and be an ear for Ned to gush about his and Betty's relationship, he's content with watching from the sidelines.
Two attempted muggings and a lost dog later, Peter's swinging past Times Square in the direction of the Bronx so he can stop by the bakery to help Mrs. Carter out. He noticed the freezer has been getting pretty cluttered, so he'll probably offer to help clean that out and reorganize it.
As he's swinging past a billboard, his eyes catch sight of a headline and he nearly splats straight into a building before twisting his body to dodge it.
Peter lands on a roof and narrows his eyes at the digital billboard.
AVENGERS STILL YET TO COMMENT ON THE SPIDER VIGILANTE
Peter lets out a tired huff. He was sort of hoping he would somehow avoid being on the Avengers' radar, but deep down he knows that they'll take note of the guy swinging around New York wearing bright red and blue spandex. There's no way they could just ignore him.
It's not that he never wants to even try to work with them again. Maybe, one day, he can introduce himself and become a part of the team again. For now, though, he doesn't think he could do it. He'd slip up, say the wrong thing, or mess up in some monumental way and screw up any chance he had with becoming their friend again.
Someone shouts down below. Peter's gaze shifts and he spots a small gathering of people pointing up at him.
"And that's my cue," he mutters, turning and taking off.
The swing back to the Bronx doesn't take too long. He walks through the front door of the bakery wearing his civilian clothes over the suit (minus the mask of course) around four in the afternoon.
Mrs. Carter greets Peter with a warm hug. "Just in time! The coffee cake just came out of the oven, it's a new recipe so I want you to try it and tell me how you think."
On cue, Peter's stomach growls. He laughs and says, "Sounds great. I'm sure it's going to be delicious no matter what since you made it."
She swats his arm with an oven mitt and leads him back into the kitchen.
As soon as they step inside, Peter's nostrils fill with the overwhelming scent of cinnamon and sugar. The source of the enticing aroma is the glorious cake sitting out on the counter. There are little crumbles of sugary deliciousness sprinkled on top.
Peter was right: it is delicious. He devours his slice in ten seconds flat and raves with a full mouth, "Oh my gosh it's so good, like, it's not too dense and it's not dry but like it's got a really good flavor, too. What's the stuff on top? It tastes really good, best coffee cake I've ever had."
"You are too sweet, Sugar," Mrs. Carter says, a grin on her lips as she places a hand on her heart. "You say that about everything I bake, even if it's burnt like it's been scorched by the sun itself."
Swallow the last bite of the coffee cake and licking some excess sugar off his thumb, Peter says, "That's because everything you bake is so good. I don't know why you haven't sold out to a franchise yet."
She chuckles. "Not everything's 'bout the money."
"True." He wipes his hands off on his jeans. "Hey, would it be alright if I organized the freezer? It's been looking like it needs a good clean-out."
The smile on Mrs. Carter's face widens. "You truly are a Godsend. Ya know, I've been meanin' to do that for years now, just never got around to it, ya know, bein' so busy baking and stuff. Just don't throw out any frozen fruit."
Peter raises a brow. "What if it's been frozen longer than Captain America?"
"Then leave it be; freezing stops the passing of time."
He can't argue with that.
The little silver bell hanging above the front door jingles, and Mrs. Carter hurries out to the counter. Peter hears her high, cheery voice exclaim, "Charlene! Good to see ya, how are the grandkids?"
He smiles to himself and moves to the freezer towards the back of the kitchen. As he's opening it up, he gets a good look at the counter and the wall, his nose scrunching up. Once he's done with the freezer clean-out, he'll have to get a bucket and a rag and help Mrs. Carter clean up this corner of the kitchen. Seriously, it looks like someone spilled maple syrup and let it sit for seventy years. Peter side-eyes a dead rat in the corner by the broom he hasn't seen moved since he's met Mrs. Carter.
Bless Mrs. Carter and her impeccable baking skills, but this kitchen has got to be breaking at least six health code violations.
Turning his attention back to the freezer and forgetting about the rat, Peter reaches deep into the cold compartment, digging around to assess the mess.
Just as he's picking up a bag of frozen strawberries, a familiar voice calls out, "Peter!"
He jumps and drops the bag, his head snapping up and smacking the lid of the freezer with a dull thud. Hand going to hold the pain in his skull, Peter whips around, eyes darting all over the kitchen to find the speaker, but then it dawns on him why the voice is familiar.
His heart leaps. He hasn't heard that voice in five months. He didn't—he didn't think he'd ever hear from her again.
"Death?" he utters, slowly closing the freezer as he scans the kitchen. He expects to see her leaning against the doorframe or something, a smirk on her black-tinted lips, but then he remembers that he could only be with her when he died. His eyes go wide and he slaps a hand on his chest—solid chest—and looks down at himself to make sure he's still alive.
"Yes, it is I. My apologies, I did not mean to startle you, Peter."
"You're . . . you're good, it's okay," Peter stutters, brow furrowed. He looks over his shoulder, then glances out the door where Mrs. Carter is chatting up the customers. "Uh, where are you?"
"You won't find me, I'm not manifesting a corporeal form. This is my natural form."
"Oh . . . Okay." He nods once, twice. Taps his fingers against the closed freezer, peering at the door to make sure Mrs. Carter doesn't walk in on him seemingly talking to himself, and then frowns. "Wait, where have you been? It's been like two months."
Death pauses. Then, she says, "Neither of my cosmic siblings have reached out to you for the past two earth months?"
"Yeah. Were they supposed to?"
Death audibly groans. "Yes, they were—I will have a talk with them after we speak."
Peter nods. "Right. Um. So why did you . . . call?" He winces at his word choice. It's not like he actually understands how he's communicating with Death without her being physically present.
Thankfully, Death doesn't correct him. "To answer your first question, which was about where I have been for the past two months: I have been stricken with guilt and self loathing."
Peter frowns.
"Which leads me to your second question: why I am speaking with you." There's a slight pause. "I came to you to apologize."
Immediately, Peter shakes his head and says, "You don't need to—"
"No, I do," Death continues. Her voice sounds so solemn and . . . guilty. Peter can't describe it, but somehow he can almost feel her guilt. "As a cosmic entity, it is my duty to fulfill my responsibilities granted to me. I decided to not only go against that, but I also pulled you into my mess. I didn't realize—I pinky promise I did not realize that Oblivion would pay a visit. I thought I had convinced him not to go through with his plans. My actions were foolish and dangerous, and they costed you a great deal."
Peter crosses his arms and leans against the freezer, mulling over her words as he stares hard at the ground. He knows she meant well and never intended for Oblivion to show up, but she's right; it was irresponsible of her to pull Peter from his life and to muck around all day like everything was fine on both of their ends.
Still, Peter can't blame her. Not entirely. For one, he liked hanging out with her, roller skating, playing video games, and talking about her crush on Loki. It reminded him of the fun he'd have with Ned.
Living in a world where Peter doesn't have Ned or any other friends to hang out with, he gets Death's loneliness to some degree. He'd do just about anything to have a friend again. Nothing against Mrs. Carter or Mr. Bastidas, but it isn't the same.
Rubbing the side of his face, Peter says, "I accept your apology. Don't feel bad about it."
"But—"
"Seriously," Peter presses on. "I had a really good time with you, Death. I mean, yeah, it sucks that it was all ruined and I got blipped out of existence for a little while there, but you didn't mean for any of that to happen. Plus, I'm here, existing again."
There's a brief moment of silence before Death speaks again. This time, she sounds less depressed. "Thank you, Peter. That truly means a lot to me that you accept my apology. I would have understood if you hated me."
"Nah, I could never," he assures with a smile. "You're too chill and nice. Plus, your style—when you're embodying a physical form—is just too awesome. My old friend MJ would love it."
"Thank you. Oh, and since you have not spoken to Eternity or Infinity since your emergence into existence again, I shall inform you that you have our protection."
Peter's jaw drops and he's about to say something, but nothing comes out. He clamps his mouth shut, then says, "Pardon?"
"Eternity, Infinity, and I will try to stay vigilante and ensure that you do not die soon. This does not grant you immortality, only secures that you will not die from another's hand or from an accident unless you reach an age suitable for death."
Peter blinks. "What?" He waves a hand in front of him as he tries to gather his jumbled thoughts. "Hold on, hold on, hold on. So you're saying I can't die again until I'm, what, in my seventies?"
"Basically," Death replies. "You have to understand that you are responsible for essentially saving the universe. If Oblivion had made Eternity go out of existence, I would not have been able to send for Infinity to come help. Even if I had, the two of us would not have been able to counter Oblivion's power. So, you see, it is our moral obligation to keep you safe now."
Too late, his inner voice makes a snide mark, and for a second he's somewhere else, but he's back with a blink. Swallowing dryly, he asks, "So how does it . . . work? One of you will manifest if a guy's got a gun to my head and you'll rip the gun from his hand?"
"Not exactly. If you get close to passing and meet me again, in my manifestation, I will send for Eternity or Infinity—whoever is more available at the moment— to save you."
"Yeah, but like, how?"
Death chuckles. "Your brain, no matter how advanced for a human, will not be able to process the how."
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and nods. "Okay. Cool." He sends a glance to the door again, then asks, "So what do I do if I want to talk to one of you guys?"
"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that."
"Why not? We're talking."
"Yes, but we can only come to you, you cannot summon us." Death sighs. "I wish that wasn't the case because I know you must get lonely and I still believe it to be partially my fault, but, alas, I still have my duties to fulfill. I will try to check in with you more, though, and perhaps Eternity and Infinity will, too."
A soft smile touches Peter's lips. An overwhelming emotions of something flashes in his chest and he finds himself swallowing around a lump in his throat. "Thank you. That would—that would be nice."
Someone who knows him, Peter Parker, and not just as a street rat. And they know how situation.
"Very well. I am afraid I have been holding off on my duties for long enough now, so I will talk to you later, Peter. In the meantime, expect a—how did you say?—a call from my siblings."
Peter laughs. "Okay, yeah. Thanks, Death."
"Til next time, Peter."