A/N: Thanks for the reviews and the favs!

A/N2: I have no idea what was playing in NYC in March 2012. We're going with MI4, because that's what was in my DVD player when I wrote this one.


Everything's quiet and normal for a couple of weeks, and Peter's moved on, gone back to what passes for normal in this crazy, messed-up life of his. It's Saturday, and it's warm for late March. The snow's melting, and while it's still cold, it's just warm enough that the Union Square Farmer's Market is bustling. It's not as crowded as it will be later in the season, when it's a fun way to spend a Saturday and there's plenty of fresh, homegrown produce at hand, but there's a decent number of people here.

Peter loves market days. The market opens at eight, so vendors arrive around six to claim their spots and set up. There's not a lot of freshly grown produce this time of year, although there's always imports and stuff nicked off the docks, but there's always a healthy amount of vendors at the market and today's no exception. He's enough of a familiar face that if he's waiting at Union Square at six, some of the regulars will let him help set up in return for a taste of their wares. Peter makes a point to avoid stealing from them, unlike some of the other kids he knows. There's no benefit in pissing the regulars off, and between what they feed him and the unsold wares some of them will give him at the end of the day, he usually scrounges enough food for a couple of days, sometimes more.

Today's shaping up to be a good day; he scored a pair of fresh-baked cinnamon sugar doughnuts and a plastic cup of warm cider that sends heat curling through his body, and he's got a blueberry Danish twist tucked away for later. Mrs. Bogdan promised him a coke whenever he wants in exchange for setting up her stall, and if he goes at the end of the day, he knows she'll give him a couple of the leftover meat rolls. Emily always gives him a piece of fruit, and puppy-dog eyes usually convince Mrs. Bruno to give him some fries or a hot dog around lunch.

Belly full, Peter turns his attention to the buyers. He doesn't like to steal; every time he lifts a wallet, he hears Uncle Ben's disapproving lectures in his head, he really does. But…he's not safely tucked away in their Queens townhouse anymore. He's a homeless kid living on the streets of Manhattan, hoping to God whoever's after him doesn't find him, and if he has to steal from those luckier than he to make it through another day, so be it. His moral objections to pickpocketing were overruled the first time he hadn't eaten in three days. He's twelve, it's not like he can find a job other than running drugs or selling his body, and he's not going down that road. Stealing the occasional wallet or six keeps him from that fate, and besides, he never keeps anything but the cash. Everything else is dropped into a fire that night.

There, a man absently shoving his wallet into his coat pocket for easy access. Peter brushes by him, face averted as his fingers skim just inside the pocket, the leather catching on his sticky fingers and lifting up cleanly. He's long gone by the time the man reaches into his pocket for his money. It's a good score, a damn good score: the guy must've planned on some shopping because there's nearly sixty bucks in his wallet. The cash is slipped under Peter's shirt and secured with a quick burst of webbing, the wallet slipped into the inside pocket of his coat to be disposed of in the first fire he finds tonight. He keeps out a couple of dollars and splurges on a bag of roasted nuts, a favorite treat and one he rarely indulges in. He lurks by the edge of the market, scanning the crowd for marks and considering his options. He's made a pretty good score, but he only comes to Saturday markets as a rule—more marks to pick from, more people to vanish into when a lift is done—and this needs to tide him over for awhile, because he doesn't hit the market every week. He'd better risk another, he decides, and studies the people. His last lift was on the other side of the square, so he'd better stick over here for this one. He'll vanish afterwards, he decides, swing back around closer to closing to help pack up and get his rewards then. So, who to hit?

His gaze catches on a tall guy, probably late thirties to early forties, wearing jeans and a nice sweater under a really nice coat. The guy's flashing his wallet, pulling out a twenty and handing it over to Mr. Eisner in return for a bag of fancy breads and pastries. Peter gets a good look at the contents; the guy's got a lot of cash. Maybe it'll be mostly ones, with just a few higher denominations thrown in—but maybe it'll be more. Worth the risk, he decides as it's dropped into an outer pocket, the edge peeking up out of the coat. Definitely worth the risk. His mark wanders along, heading out of the denser crowds and Peter hesitates briefly, instincts honed by two years on the streets warning of a trap. But his warning sense hasn't gone off and it usually does if this is some kind of sting by the local cops or something. There's no reason to think it's a trap, and if he gets a good score, he'll be set for awhile.

He makes his move, careful not to even bump into the guy, relying on his powers to swipe the wallet. It's out without so much as twitching the mark's coat, he's home free—and then a firm hand closes around his collar and tugs him back, lifting him just high enough to force him up on his tiptoes, too high for him to get any leverage to rip himself free. It's a professional grip, one he has no hope of breaking even with the extra strength the spider bite gave him.

"I believe that's mine."

He twists, fear sheeting through him because he's caught, he's trapped, dammit, and his would-be mark studies him through calm, shrewd eyes, apparently completely unruffled that some grimy kid just tried to rob him blind. He plucks his wallet from Peter's hand and glances up, stern face warming into a smile.

"Phil!" a cheerful voice greets. "Found him, huh? Hi, Pete!"

Peter twists back to blink at the newcomer, taking in serious muscles, spiky blond hair and blue-gray eyes. He knows this face, he's seen it on TV and posters.

"I'm Hawkeye, but you can call me Clint," the man introduces himself, ignoring the part where "Phil" is holding Peter up just enough that he can't squirm out of his jacket and run for it. "I hoped we'd run into you here." He grins at Peter, and it's such an open look that he can't help smiling back even through his fear. He's pretty sure that they're not going to turn him over the cops, even if he was stealing from Phil.

They don't call the cop lurking near the doughnut stand over. Instead, Phil passes him over to Clint, who holds on as firmly as the Widow did, and retrieves his wallet. He pulls out the cash and tucks the wallet back into his pocket before he crouches, putting himself eye-level with Peter.

"A hundred bucks," he says levelly, holding up the cash between two fingers. "This buys us your day. Agreed?"

He doesn't actually think he's got much of a choice. Besides, they haven't hurt him and they haven't turned him in, which are the two biggest worries right now. Still, he's not just going to give up.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch," Phil promises, and Peter believes him. Besides, it's not like he has anything to lose. Still...

If I'm back by closing at three, I'll get some leftovers for helping my regulars break down their stands," he says. Clint laughs softly.

"Hard bargain, kiddo, but I think we can do a bit better, right, Phil?"

Phil's lips quirk. "I think we can."

They do a lot better. By the time evening falls, he's been stuffed full with food off a variety of vending carts, good food, the kind of exotic food he's never had in his life because New York boasts an incredible variety of vending cart fare. Clint decreed they were going to see a movie, so Peter got to see the latest Mission Impossible. Phil and Clint's running commentary on improbable movie hijinks and the right way to pull off various spy stuff is even more fun than the actual movie itself, and by the time it's done, he's even pitched in a few ideas on the actual physics behind the crappy imaginary movie tech, and how some of it might even be adaptable to real life. To his shy delight, Phil actually notes some of it down, explaining that he's a SHIELD agent-Peter has no idea what he means by that, but he gets it's some kind of super-spy agency that makes the CIA cry out of sheer envy-and that if Peter ever needs anything, he can come to their headquarters just off of Times Square and ask for Agent Coulson.

They both hesitate when he starts making noises about taking off, because being out in the open when night falls is a really bad idea. Clint grimaces, but he looks resigned. Phil's more quietly upset than Peter expected, but he meets Clint's stare and huffs an irritated breath.

"I'd tell you to get yourself a room for the night," he sighs, "but you're probably worse off in any place that would take you." He stares at Peter for a moment, and then he sighs again. "All right. Be careful. If you need anything, you're welcome at Avengers Tower—or you can find me at SHIELD headquarters."

He won't take them up on either offer, but he nods solemnly and then bolts across the street, vanishing into the maze of alleys that he calls home. And that night, sprawled out in a web-hammock and chewing absently on some kind of fancy brownie from the bag Phil gave him, he lets himself start to believe that maybe the Avengers really do give a damn about him.