Out On The Town
That night, it was pretty easy for Peter to take his pent up frustration out on the streets. Usually he felt a twinge of guilt every time he webbed up petty thiefs for the cops to catch. Like, seriously—he was ruining people’s lives for stealing a sandwich or a pack of cigs.
But tonight it was different. Tonight, oooh, he was so petty. All he had to do was imagine each criminal as Flash and, wham! Instant gratification.
He still pulled his punches just as much as usual, but he just didn't feel remorse over webbing up a crook or two. Creepy frat guy making moves on a girl? Swap in Flash's, and Peter sent a line at the guy’s face before he could yell, “Bro, really? Not cool.”
The girl jumped, like, five feet before doing a double take. “Aren’t you Spider-guy?”
Peter sighed, perching on the fire escape above her. “It’s Spider-Man.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” She just stood there, arms limp by her sides, openly gawking at him.
He stared back at her before rolling his eyes and gesturing at the guy, who was spiraling wildly like a web-bound yo-yo. “Shouldn’t you be running before the webs dissolve?”
“Oh, right.” She stayed put.
Bruh, Peter thought to himself. Some people....
”Start running,” he advised. She did. Now that that’s over, he thought with relief, before webbing himself away.
Fortunately, none of the other people Peter saved or caught that night were quite as deserving of the Darwin Award. The old jewel robber who tried to get away on a segway came pretty close, but at least he had the sense to ditch the segway partway and run.
Peter was appreciative enough at this that he let the guy get three full meters before webbing him to a dumpster. The man started bawling in terror and Peter was tempted to give him a little slack.
Flash, he reminded himself. He’s Flash.
Five minutes later, he felt a bit better when a little kid in a stroller pointed at him as he swung by and squeaked, “Spider-Man! Spider-Man!”
His heart warmed, deciding that little kids were the best. He shot the kid a finger gun, and the kid got so excited trying to copy Spider-Man, he accidentally flipped the bird instead.
Oops. Peter winced internally and prayed for publicity's sake that nobody saw the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man enforcing obscene behavior.
It was still kind of surreal being recognized in passing. Intellectually, he understood that a guy who dressed in a red-and-blue onesie and caught brakeless trucks would be well-known, but there was something uncanny about standing out in a place where everybody treated eye-contact as a contagious disease.
Around ten o'clock, something caught his eye as he swung low over the sidewalks: dark ski-mask, sprinting along the opposite sidewalk, slipping and stumbling as he clutched a really expensive looking purse that probably wasn’t his (unless he really had a thing for hot pink Valentino handbags)
Gotcha, Peter thought. He followed suit, wondering if it was legal to add jail time for super cliché criminal outfits. Ski masks, dude? Really?
“HEY, DICKWAD!” Peter shouted, swooping low. Damn, he was starting to sound like Deadpool. That was never a good sign. Maybe he should stop getting chimichangas with the guy.
At the zero position of the swing, Peter let go and barreled the guy to the ground. When the guy started struggling, it was web to the head and skull to the screen door, bashing it into the nearby wall. The guy slumped to the ground, unconscious.
On bad days, Peter was sometimes tempted to break his number one rule of never hitting downed criminals, but he always reined himself back in. This wasn’t Flash. And he was Spider-Man, not Daredevil.
Grabbing the bag, he stood, before a flash caught his attention
A guy stood on the sidewalk a few meters away, recording the whole thing.
Peter winced. Aww, crap. Definitely not his best move. He could practically see the soon-to-be YouTube video playing across hundreds of phones: Spider-Man Beats Up Guy on Street.
Whatever.
Ignoring the cameraman, he shot a web at the building nearby, swinging away to return the bag to its owner.
***
Two hours later.
Like in the Spongebob cartoons, Peter thought deliriously as he crumpled through the window to his room, landing on the floor with a thud. Owwwww.
If May decided to forgo privacy and axe down his door right now, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Well, the dysphoria problem had been solved for about four hours, but this was worse.
Way, way worse.
The rest of the patrol had been a hot mess. He'd fallen from three buildings before he called it quits. Then he decided to be an idiot, because, look! a mob about to beat up some poor homeless kid! They then decided to beat up him, instead. With knives.
Even with his super healing, knife wounds didn’t just instantly heal. And once one gang member pulled out a knife and got all stabby stabby, the rest did too.
A lot of them had healed, but since his body was putting so much energy into healing, he didn’t have much left over.
His binder had ripped, elastic, fabric, and all. Fan-freaking-tastic. It was now about as supportive as a lace crop top.
Then it was in PJs and collapsed on the bed, dozing off as he counted all the new sore muscles he'd acquired. Back. That was going to hurt tomorrow. So was that arm. Hamstring. Sliced, half healed calf muscle. Strained wrist. Head. Ow, ow, ow.
Tomorrow was gonna suck.
***
Tomorrow sucked. Boy, did it suck.
It was like what Peter imagined a hangover to be: overwhelming, exhausting, and painful.
No, of course he'd never drunk. Haha, what a thought.
He was correct: his head hurt like a biatch in a microwave oven, but he counted his lucky stars that all of the open nicks and cracks had healed properly on their own. One morning a year ago, he'd woken up with a broken ankle and foot set on backwards, heel-front, toe-back.
His vision strobed with each heartbeat, and he had to use the old torture binder to boot, which was certainly concocted in the lowest pits of Hell. But it worked, and he didn’t really have any other options.
May gave him a knowing peck on the cheek before he left. “Try to have fun on the trip, Peter!”
Oh yeah. That thing.
And if Peter let himself slump in one of the train seats today instead of standing so people less able could sit...well. He saved a bus last night, he got to ride butt plastered to the seat today. That's how it worked.
There was a crazy person strip teasing in the aisle. He tried to ignore it and pulled out his phone.
17 missed texts from Ned.
guyinthechair: peter
guyinthechair: peter
guyinthechair: peter
guyinthechair: dude
guyinthechair: its today
guyinthechair: ohmygod is this real?
guyinthechair: do you know thor
guyinthechair: have u seen the hammer?
guyinthechair: dude
And so on. Peter bit back a smile despite his dread.
guyontheceiling: excited much?
guyinthechair: dude. u have no idea. i could crrryyy
guyontheceiling: i have the general idea. u texted me 17 times
guyinthechair: dude
guyontheceiling: you said that alraedy
guyinthechair: i know. but dude. is this so normal for u now?
guyontheceiling: kinda. usually no people with me
The automated voice informed them pleasantly that they were arriving at Forest Hills.
guyontheceiling: gtg
guyinthechair: see u soon
Ned stopped for a second. Peter waited.
guyinthechair: but dude
There it was. Peter grinned before making his way out of the station.
The air outside was crisp and cool, a perfect day to be doing something more normal like...oh, I don't know, running away? Instead of cramming onto a bus to drive to SI. He wondered what would happen if he bailed. Just left the bus and patrolled the whole day.
Then he thought about DC and decided not to. He had quit on his team enough. And Mr. Stark would be on his case if he skipped—
“‘Sup, Penis Parker!”
Vroooom!
Peter missed Flash’s obscenely expensive car by a hair and thought desperately about how refreshing it would feel to crash yet another Thompson family vehicle.
Right. If Flash didn’t believe Peter’s internship was real, then screw it all—he could prove him wrong.
He also was petty as hell and wanted revenge.
”Peter!”
Ned waved his arms wildly as he ran, like he was doing an impression of one of those traffic cops that stood on airplane strips, and waved batons around. MJ trailed behind as sedately as ever.
”Dude,” Ned shouted. “It’s happening.”
”Yeah.” Peter couldn’t even sum up enough energy to sound excited. “Great.”
”Try to look alive, loser.” MJ bumped his shoulder affectionately. “You need an exorcist, zombie-man?”
”Jeez, thanks MJ. Also, that's not how that works.”
She grabbed his arm, looking him dead in the eyes. “But really dude. You good?”
She was talking about yesterday, he knew, but all his brain could suddenly focus on was the fact that she had let down her emotional wall for a second, and her hand was on his arm, and that jacket looked really nice today, and wow was she wearing perfume, and on and on and—
“Yeah, totally,” he squeaked, voice cracking several octaves.
She let go of his arms, barrier going up once again. “Great. Let's get toured, loser.”
He stood there, frozen for a second, watching as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with one hand, the other clutching her time-worn notebook close to her chest.
Ned nudged him. “Dude, you with us?”
Peter blinked. “Y-yeah.”
He thought he saw MJ smirk out of the corner of his eye. Damnit. Subtlety, Parker. Subtlety.
“All right, guys,” Mr. Harrington said. “This is it. Just remember that we’re really lucky to even be considered for this, so don’t go bragging to your friends about it, okay?”
“Like Parker?”
Flash. Of course it was Flash. It was always Flash.
As if reading his thoughts, he could hear MJ mutter under her breath, “That guy needs to die," but he was fairly sure it was only because of his super-hearing.
Flash plowed on. “I mean, Parker’s always rambling on about his fake internship, when in reality he’s only been, like, one time.”
”Actually, you’re the one who talks about it all the time, Flash.”
It took Peter a second to realize that the words had come out of his mouth.
What was he, five?
A couple of hushed ooohs came from the group, but Mr. Harrington raised a hand. “Guys, enough. Yes, Peter shouldn’t keep it up,” he gave Peter a pointed look, “buuut nobody should be talking except for me right now. Including you, Flash. So, guys, when we get to the Tower...”
But Peter stopped listening. He was kind of riding the high of having stood up to Flash. Ned gave him a fist bump and MJ shot him a quick smile.
It was kind of awesome, being the one on top.
Until Flash caught an elbow in his ribs as they headed to the bus steps. “Watch it, Emily.”
He shook himself. No. Don’t let him get to you. That’s not you. Don’t react.
MJ looked downright murderous. “That little shit...”
”Don’t,” Peter stopped her. “He’s not worth it.”
They piled onto the bus.
Once Peter got to his seat, he sat silently between MJ’s dry remarks and Ned’s fangirling, dread boiling in his stomach.
The Avengers were going to give him hell for this.