Chapter Text
It’s raining. Peter hates the rain.
These are the days that make it beyond difficult to see the bright side, or the ‘grass-is-greener’ side. New York isn’t the type of place to get storms every afternoon, but the days it does rain, it pours. All of the northeast gets flooded, and the subway lines become damp and mildewy from the unexpected water overflow.
Worse, though? It gets cold.
Really, it’s kind of Peter’s fault that he put himself in this situation where he’s been caught outside as the skies let loose—he wasn’t paying enough attention to the clouds. Water bounces off his back and soaks his hair, dripping into his eyes and causing him to shiver. He tugs his flimsy windbreaker tighter around his shoulders, attempting feebly to preserve some warmth.
Peter hates the rain because it takes a shitty situation and makes it a million times more unbearable.
It was getting bad again. That’s why he’d headed out today, to try his hand once more at snagging something to eat. He’d smelled the moisture in the air, heard the distant rumbling of thunder that warned him of a wet evening, but still, he’d gone out.
If anybody ever said they understood true hunger, they were lying. There’s no worse feeling than when all of your thoughts are on food. Enhanced metabolism aside, there just simply wasn’t enough of anything to sate his appetite. Ever. And on days like this—weeks like this—when he struggled to find just something, anything to dull the aches, his judgment became clouded, like the skies. Which led to his current predicament.
He's so hungry that he can hardly focus. He can't think about anything besides the fact his insides are twisting and coiling and tightening like a rubber band about to snap. It makes the rain become secondary as he walks his way through the mostly empty streets back to his home.
Fuck the sky. Fuck mother nature. And fuck his life.
When he reaches his refuge some thirty minutes later, the first thing he does is fall to the floor, his exhaustion winning over. He doesn’t have much. Just some small, abandoned shack tucked behind a couple of large, equally-dilapidated warehouses. But those belong to The Others.
Peter doesn’t mess with them. If he wanted to fight for a spot in there, sure. He could, and he’d probably win. But that isn’t what any of this is about. That isn’t what he’s about. So he settles for this two-hundred-square-foot box because it’s enough for him to survive on. He’s got a place to lie down. He’s got a place to store his belongings. What else does he need?
Not to mention, he’s got a door and no windows. That might sound miserable at first, but turns out, it’s a very underrated amenity. It's not easy for people to steal from him. Peter had learned the lesson of not securing his living space well enough once, and that was one time too many. The devastation of finding out all of your hard-earned stuff from days of scavenging is just…gone…
It made it difficult to get out of bed the next day. And yet, he did, and he still does. He’s not sure why sometimes. There really is no place for him here, as this city has made abundantly clear through its harsh treatment and lack of basic human necessities. He imagines, though, that one day he’ll get out of here. Start over. And maybe it’s that useless, dumb hope that keeps him moving every day.
But right now, he feels sick. Literally. As he sits on his knees, keeled over and nails digging into the coarse stone floor, he closes his eyes and tries to drown out the nausea. A short cry of protest escapes him as his stomach contracts, and shakily, he inhales. The world is spinning, tilting, constantly moving every time Peter blinks. He knows why he feels this way. Not for the first time, the lack of nutrition is causing him to be frustratingly ill.
Thankfully he doesn’t puke. Granted, it’s not like he has anything to throw up, but that’s why he’s glad that this time he can hold it down. Trying to upchuck nothing in his stomach is just ridiculously excruciating and it typically knocks him off his feet for a couple of hours.
He drags himself over to the corner of his room that he’s dedicated to being his bed. It’s just a couple of ragged blankets that he found and no pillows, but it’s better than the alternative, which is sleeping outside in the rain with nothing. He uses one of the blankets for warmth, trying to get rid of the chill. Bad weather always makes the temperature drop at least ten degrees. So even though he’s not outside, his clothes are still soggy and gross, and the atmosphere inside does nothing to help.
He tucks his legs into his stomach, trying to dull the pains of his body breaking down. The rain pummels the side of his building. Closing his eyes, Peter lets the sound soothe him into a place between sleep and consciousness, trying to ignore the intrusive thoughts beginning to jab at him. What he would give to sleep in a bed, man. Or eat at a buffet. Or own a damn heater.
That’s when he realizes he forgot an important part of his routine. He can’t rest easy until he checks. Peter rolls over to his other side, facing the wall, and slides his fingers into a loose plank. Ripping it off, he reaches into the little nook and snatches his future into his hands. Counts it.
It's all there, as always. Nine hundred sixty-two dollars and forty-five cents. If he wanted, he could probably buy himself a proper meal and a hotel room for the night with quite a bit to spare. Days like this make it hard not to. But Peter vows not to touch this money. Ever. Because if he starts using it for food and shelter, he knows he won’t be able to make himself stop.
This money is for a plane ticket to Colorado. Peter’s done all the math, all the research. It’s about $150 for the ticket itself, but figure another fifty for bus tickets to the airport and food and comfort. The rest will go to setting himself up for a new life. Finding a place to stay will be the hardest part. He might have to start on the streets until he can find somewhere cheap enough, but hypothetically, Denver should be a lot more forgiving than New York City.
May had always wanted to go there. Hopefully it’s as nice as she made it out to be.
The problem is he’ll have to re-learn scavenger routes, food hot spots, and places to avoid. And Peter knows that only comes with trial and error—a lot of error. He’s gotten pretty good at figuring out how to dodge those who want to pick trouble with him, though. He’s young and he looks like an easy target to rob, which is something he’s had to use to his advantage. Having powers helps in this aspect, he supposes.
The next goal will be to get a job. Peter’s hope is that he can make his way to the university and set up shop around there. If he could get some non-threadbare clothes, he could probably blend into the scene. With a university comes gyms—with gyms comes showers, and reckless young adults who will leave stuff unattended, money included.
That’s how Peter has made as much as he has these past eight months. He doesn’t like stealing. He despises it. But nobody is going to hire a sketchy-looking teenager without reporting him to the cops, and his seventeenth birthday isn’t for a while. So when he goes out on the street, he looks for people to pickpocket.
It’s not an easy practice. It requires developing a keen eye to search out people who are distracted, on their phones, or not paying attention. He tries to only go after those who look like they’re well-off enough to not be terribly bothered by losing a few bucks. If someone seems like they’re having a bad day, he leaves them alone.
Businessmen are the best. He’ll camouflage himself into the crowd of people on the street, slide his hand into someone’s suit pocket, and grab the wallet. If there’s a lot of money in there then he’ll take more. If there isn’t, he’ll just snag a few bills and call it a day. Eventually, though, he’ll leave the wallet in a nice area for someone to find. He knows it’s risky and that some bad people will probably keep it, but Peter likes to hold out the hope that some kind samaritan will return it to them.
It’s kind of ironic that he used to stop people like himself. Thieves. Because that’s what he is; he’s a sly, desperate thief. It’s given a whole other insight into this side of life.
The thing is, he wouldn’t call himself a criminal. He’s doing what he has to in order to survive, and that doesn’t make him a bad person…right? But this also makes him reflect on how many criminals he’s stopped who also aren’t actually bad people either. Sure, there’s the occasional psychopath who only aims to hurt others and benefit themselves. Yet how many of the others are just doing what Peter is? Trying to get something to eat?
It's easy to sit on the outside within a nice, warm house, and judge his choices. It’s easy to not worry about your next meal and where it’s coming from—if it’s even coming. It’s easy to not worry about how many days you can go without food before you simply fall asleep and never wake up, body shutting down forever. Frankly, Peter is ashamed of his past life and how he took he took everything for granted.
Now, it infuriates him how many careless people he finds, blind about their privilege and just throwing full dinners into trashcans. When he passes by a restaurant, he has to look the other way otherwise he’ll get too pissed off and jealous; and besides, he gets his food from those dumpsters, so it’s a double-edged sword anyway.
That’s life, he supposes. Unfair and unkind. People hate the less fortunate so much that they can’t even spare a glance at him and the other people on the streets. It’s better to ignore and pretend they don’t exist.
Sighing softly, Peter returns his money to its safety spot and shoves the plank back in place, concealing it. Then, he wraps an arm around his abdomen, pushing, trying to give himself the slightest bit of comfort.
It’s bad this time. He needs food. The city has been tightening down on the homeless’ antics, too, increasing security presence around the more prestigious areas. It’s funneled a lot of people into the same spot, which leaves the available dumpsters ransacked. And honestly, Peter does still have standards to some degree. A lot of fast-food places have dumpsters that are absolutely filthy. He won’t go near those with a ten-foot pole.
To be fair, Peter’s powers prevent him from getting truly sick, but it doesn’t stop brief food poisoning when he eats something spoiled, which he found out the hard way. He won’t eat moldy, soggy, outright gag-worthy bits of scraps. It’s not worth it.
He’s out of options. The rain eliminated the last few he had—but what he does have is a last resort. It’s something he’s tried to avoid using, but he thinks he’s come to the point where he doesn’t have a choice. He won’t touch his money. He won’t. He needs a new life more than he needs food in this present moment.
Peter’s too tired to go back out right now, though. And he’ll need his energy for whom he’s going to go see. He wouldn’t necessarily call the guy one of The Others, but he does hunker in the same area as them, which makes passage to him more dangerous than normal. But, if Peter can get there, then he’ll be fine.
Peter hasn’t made many friends throughout these past eight months. Friends are rare and unnecessary, anyway. It’s hard to trust someone else who is just as desperate as you. So, he wouldn’t say that he trusts Max. However, he did save Max’s life, so if there’s one person that’s going to help Peter out, then it will be him. He doesn’t like taking advantage of debts, but…
He’s hungry.
Yet still, the downpour outside continues to strike the walls of his shelter, reminding him of the gloomy situation he’s in. So he closes his eyes once more, moves so that he’s in the most comfortable position possible with his setup, and drifts—his mind numb but stomach yowling.
When the rain lets up slightly, Peter takes the opening.
From one of the corners of his building, he grabs the only weapon he has. It’s a screwdriver. He hopes that the day he has to use it will never come, but he knows it’s likely that it will. He’d feel better if he had a knife like a lot of people out here, but truthfully, Peter hasn’t found one he’s felt comfortable picking up.
Some part of him knows that he’s fooling himself by thinking a screwdriver is less vicious than a shiv. But the thought of one day having to defend himself like that terrifies him. He doesn’t want to hurt anybody.
His strength isn’t what it used to be, either. Peter thinks it’s because of the lack of nutrition because, without food, his senses have become muddled. He’s still far stronger than the average person, but he knows he can’t rely on his powers like before.
Especially when he no longer has his sixth sense.
Peter doesn’t know when exactly it left him, but he remembers when he realized it wasn’t there anymore. Some dude had tried to jump him from an alley, and he’d almost won. Peter had been punched three times in the face before he’d overcome his surprise and shoved the guy off him, and throughout the entire ordeal, his danger sense hadn’t hummed even slightly.
That was six months ago. It’d taken a long time to get over that travesty and get used to relying on his other five senses again like a normal person. It felt like a piece of him had been stripped away, and he hasn’t been whole since.
He doesn’t entirely know why it left, nor whether it’s temporary. His working theory is that because of the lack of food and energy, his body is trying to conserve what he does have and put it toward his original and more important features. Seeing and hearing are more valuable than sensing danger or something.
It sucks though because he needs to be way more attentive to his surroundings than normal, and he’s far more vulnerable. He’s a kid surrounded by haggard adults. He doesn’t fit in.
What infuriates Peter is the fact that his danger sense can disappear into thin air, but at the same time, his thermoregulation and metabolism still suck. Like what kind of bullshit is that? His luck is already rotten enough, but now it’s just going to strip him of all of the good parts and stick him with the awful ones?
Whatever.
As he opens his door and exits, he realizes that it’s still raining, but lightly. It’s more of a mist, which means that the same coldness is retained, but at least he won’t get soaked to the bone. Hastily, to preserve warmth, he starts on his way.
His destination is not far at all. Within five minutes he finds himself reaching the chain-link fence of the warehouses, and swiftly, he climbs over, landing silently on the other side. Peter’s only been over here once, back when he was newly street-ridden and looking for a place to stay. He shudders thinking back to his first experience. They’d run him out of there so fast that he hadn’t even bothered to attempt to go back.
It’s unsettling to walk through the narrow passageways between massive buildings, especially when he knows he doesn’t belong here. The rain seems to have mostly everybody inside though, so he keeps going, recalling from his memory where Max said to find him if he ever needed help.
He’s passing another grey, decrepit warehouse when suddenly he turns a corner and collides with something solid. Stumbling back, he instantly mutters an apology but cuts himself off when he remembers where he is.
“Who the fuck’re you?”
Peter swallows, studying the man he ran into. He’s old and wrinkled, with long wet hair and a grumpy frown on his face. He sways on his feet, and Peter realizes that the dude is probably plastered.
“I’m just walking by,” he answers curtly. “I’m meeting someone here.”
“Never seen y’before.”
“I’ve never been here before,” Peter acknowledges. “But I’m here to see someone.”
The man grunts. “Who?”
“I don’t have to tell you. If you’d rather get in trouble for making me late, then be my guest,” he replies.
The man coughs gutturally. Then, thankfully, he takes a step back and lets him through. Peter struts past him with confidence, but deep down, he’s rattled. If that had been anybody else, someone who was sober nonetheless, he would’ve been in some deep shit.
The rest of the way is smooth sailing. He has to sneak around a couple of people lounging by a worn-down and battered heater, but aside from them, Peter doesn’t see anybody else.
Eventually, he hits a green warehouse. Cautiously walking around one of the walls, he finds what he’s looking for: a small, loose sheet of metal. It reminds him of his money stash—a secret hiding. Kneeling down, he raps his knuckles on it, knocking.
After a couple of seconds, the metal shifts aside. Peter waits. Then suddenly a body is flying at him, sending him crashing into a wall, forcefully pinning him down while a knife darts to his throat. It rests there menacingly, serrated edges digging into his skin. Staring at him are brown, guarded, and untrusting eyes, giving a silent warning not to move.
“Well that’s certainly a way to greet someone,” Peter says, looking back at Max defiantly.
The blade falls as realization sets in on Max’s features. “Parker?” he says incredulously, backing away. Then, he looks around at their surroundings, as though making sure nobody sees them. “The fuck are you doing here? Get inside ‘fore someone slits your throat.”
Peter nods, smooths his shirt, and steps forward, making his way into the crawlspace. It’s a tight fit for a moment, but then it opens up into a small, chilly room. It takes on the appearance of a closet, not too different from Peter’s own residence save for the smaller size. There’s a makeshift bed in the corner and a couple of baskets full of stuff set against one of the walls.
Behind him, Max is putting the cover of the wall back into its spot. He’s not that old. Twenty-two, Peter thinks he remembers being told. He’s got a somewhat muscular figure and dark blond hair. When he turns around, he gazes at Peter with a confused expression, and Peter, trying to be nonchalant, moves to the far end of the closet, leaning against the wall with one shoulder.
“You look like absolute dogshit,” Max tells him.
“Tell me about it.”
“Fuck happened t’you? You look nothing like when we first met.”
Peter shrugs.
“Sit. You look like you’re bout’ta faint.”
Peter walks to one of the blankets on the ground and does as he’s told. It feels better. He knows he’s pushing himself way past his limits, and that this small trek alone has taken a lot out of him. Not much more of this and he probably will faint, to be honest.
“It’s rough out there,” he says as Max pulls an empty crate out and sits on it, listening. “None of my usual routes have turned up anything. Can’t find shit. And it’s freezing outside, so I can’t stay out there long.”
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Max asks.
Peter thinks on it. Counts his fingers. “Four…five days?”
Max widens his eyes. “Christ,” he says. Immediately, he gets back up and goes to one of the other full crates by the corner. Digging through it, he pulls out a couple of items, then throws them at Peter’s chest.
Peter fumbles to catch them, but when he finally does get his bearings and sees what he’s been given, his mouth falls open in shock. Bread. An entire loaf. It almost doesn’t feel real—it’s like what he’s holding in his hands is simply a mirage. Then, he examines the other object. And if the bread stunned him, this…
It’s a nearly full jar of peanut butter.
Hesitantly, he looks up at Max. “I… Max, I can’t this is…”
“You can,” Max tells him. He gestures to the crate he took the food from, and Peter notices that it’s packed to the brim with other food items. Chips, soups, more bread—it’s an entire pantry.
“I…all of it?” Peter clarifies, dumbfounded, staring back at what he’s holding.
“It’s yours now,” Max assures him.
And with that, Peter practically rips open the plastic on the bread. He takes out two slices at once and shoves them into his mouth, closing his eyes as the relief it brings swoops over him. Those are gone within five seconds flat. Next, he moves to the peanut butter, opening the jar and digging his fingers in bare. It’s so fucking good. He hasn’t had anything like this for a very long time.
But then, a thought strikes him, making him pause. He’s already feeling full—probably because his stomach isn’t used to this many calories at once. He has to ration. He’s just been given a gift, and if he eats it all now, he’ll be back in the same starving position within a week.
He swallows, then wipes his mouth. Max is still watching him, amused. “Done already?”
“I don’t have anything else,” Peter explains. “You know what it’s like. I can make this last me a week.”
Max nods. “I hear ya.”
A moment of silence passes.
“Thank you,” Peter says sincerely, and he truly does mean it with every fiber of his being. For somebody who is also struggling to give him so much… It’s insanely generous, and Peter knows that despite it being the only thing he can do, a simple thank you will never convey the weight of his gratitude.
“By god, you don’t need t’ thank me. I wouldn’t be here if not for you. Bread don’t begin to cover what I owe ya,” Max says. “To be honest, I was hopin’ you would show up one day so I could repay you.”
“I already told you that you don’t owe me for that.”
Max snorts. “Yeah, okay. ‘Cause anyone who gets saved from bein’ robbed ‘n killed is supposed to just accept it ‘n not feel indebted.”
“It is what it is,” Peter says, then leans back. He’s not trying to be modest. He just doesn’t like being made out to be the hero. Not since…
He shoves those thoughts away.
“So aside from that,” Max continues conversationally, “how y’been holding up?”
“Fine enough,” Peter replies. “I’m alive. That’s all I can ask for. Getting closer to gettin' the hell out of here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, grinning.
“Good shit.”
“What about you? You seem to be doing well,” Peter comments, eyeing the crate of food with playful envy.
Suddenly, Max’s face falls. And with it, so does Peter’s. “…What’s wrong?”
Max visibly seems to shake himself off, as though he’s trying to put an act together. “Nothin’s wrong.”
“That’s a lie,” Peter refutes instantly. Then, a smidge more gently, he says, “You really don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but maybe I could help.”
A brief pause. “How d’ya think I got all of this shit?”
Peter goes quiet, working through the words and their meaning. Then, it clicks.
“You didn’t.”
Max doesn’t reply. Just gives him a small, sad smile. Peter’s heart plummets into his stomach.
“C’mon man, I thought you said you wouldn’t work with them!” Peter says loudly. “What the fuck?”
“Shush,” Max reprimands. “You know that if you get caught you’re fuckin’ dead.”
Peter reluctantly lowers his tone to a hiss. “Seriously dude, I know what they told you, and I know it sounded too good to pass up. I get that. But be honest with me. Have you realized the things they didn’t tell you yet?”
Max breathes out through his nose, eyes glued to the ceiling. A hand moves to his shirt, lifting it up, revealing a litany of brown, purple, and yellow bruises on his chest. Peter winces at the sight, but all he feels right now is frustration.
“Trust me,” Max says, “I’ve realized.”
“What do they have you packing?”
“That ain’t your business.”
“No, but I’m worried, Max! How deep in this shit are you? Can you still get out?”
A huff. “We barely know each other, how the fuck are you worried?”
Peter recoils, hating that he feels slightly hurt by that statement. “Look, if you—”
“Three months, Parker,” Max interrupts sharply. “And if you were wise, you’d leave it alone. They pay. I have food. I have more stuff than I’ve had in years. Trust me, it’s nice. You’re a kid—”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Well you’re certainly not nineteen like y’said you were—”
“How would you know?”
Max gives him a knowing glare. “You’re a fucking kid. You have time to get out of here still.”
“And you don’t?” Peter refutes.
“No, I don’t. Now either let this topic die or leave. I ain’t here to listen to your judgement.”
Peter holds Max’s eyes for a moment longer, then looks to the floor. He wants to keep protesting the matter, but Max is right. It doesn’t concern him, and they barely know each other.
But still, he has to make sure of one thing. “Just tell me you aren’t using. Please, for the love of God, tell me at least that.”
No response.
“Max.”
“I’m not,” he replies heavily. “Only a bit of weed. Nothin’ more. I sell, I don’t use.”
Peter bites his lip but nods and lets the matter go. He’s not sure whether or not he believes that, but Max isn’t showing any signs that he’s on anything, and if he is, he’s certainly not going to tell Peter. There’s nothing he can do about that. If he tries to push, it will just go poorly. So, he’s left to hope for the best.
Peter’s aware of who it is that Max is working for. Max himself had told him about the group the first time they’d met, when they’d sat down to talk about each other’s lives. He knows that way back then, Max had been approached by some dealers that were offering him work for some money, and at the time, Peter thought he’d done a good job of convincing Max to turn them down. Now, he’s come to the unfortunate realization that he failed.
The problem is, Peter knows that kind of life and where it leads. Back then, in his old life, he’d come across the many widespread effects of drug dealers. Not only in their victims of people addicted to opiates and other substances, but in the business itself. Too many young adults who’d been taken advantage of, and were either now in jail, or dead.
Peter truly does fear for Max. It’s a hard life to survive, and an even harder one to escape.
But…it’s not his problem. As much as that pains him to say, Peter has better things to do than worry about someone else. He has to focus on his own well-being and health, and he’s got to stop trying to help others, especially when they don’t want to be helped. Peter’s barely making it by as it is. He can’t care for another person on top of that.
So he stands up. Shakes Max’s hand, bids him farewell, and wishes him luck. As Max shows him out, removing the sheet of metal, he says, “Let me know when you finally get out of this hellhole, will ya?”
“Of course,” Peter answers.
There’s an underlying meaning there though. It’s abundantly clear to Peter.
Let me know at least one of us made it.
Stepping back into the rain, which is marginally harsher than before, Peter tucks his bread and peanut butter under his jacket, lowering his chances of being a target while he makes his way back home. He hears the cover of Max’s closet slide back into place.
To him, it sounds like the finality of a permanent goodbye; but still, Peter doesn’t look back.
He’s not a hero.