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The Little Guy

In the last couple of weeks of July, Peter's feet got an insatiable itch to roam. Sometimes he left the conventional way, by the door, calling a quick 'see ya later!' over his shoulder as he went and barely pausing long enough to hear Mr. Stark's or Ms. Potts' reply. During those times, his wanderings had a purpose; mapping out the Upper East Side. Every second, was packed with so much information. He would become hyper focused, committing new streets to memory. Every day, he found new landmarks and familiarized himself with a variety of new paths and short cuts.

The walks were silent, but his mind was never idle so he didn't mind. In fact, this was one of the only times that he could think of where he preferred solitude to company. On occasion he would bump in to someone and mutter a polite 'sorry' that was met with vacant eyes. His 'sorry' was very rarely returned. Sometimes glassy eyes stared at him like he was a thousand miles away. Rarer still, he would bump into someone who would explode on him in an over the top screaming fit that was completely disproportionate to his offense. So, he avoided people because… well, one step at a time.

Other times, Peter would put Mr. Stark's patchwork FRIDAY to the test and sneak out through his window. He supposed that he couldn't actually call it sneaking since Mr. Stark had given him his permission, but still something compelled him to leave quietly and return just as silently.

He left whenever the emptiness set in, and the need for movement commanded his body. Sometimes those times came at a reasonable hour, but more often than not, they came at a time that could be considered either late at night or early in the morning.

The first night that he had climbed out his window past midnight, his first thought had been that May would've never allowed this. His second thought had been to tell the first to shut up, because it didn't matter that she would've had a brain aneurysm if she were here. She wasn't, and neither was her strict eleven o'clock curfew. The same curfew that she'd said wasn't to be broken for any reason other than 'earthquakes, tsunamis, falling meteorites, or maiming. I'm serious, Peter, if your late coming home for anything short of the rapture, I'll kill you'.

Mr. Stark never enforced a curfew.

Admittedly, that first night that Peter had climbed back through his window at way-too-late o'clock at night, he had been bracing himself for… well, he wasn't sure what exactly. Having never lived with the man before, he wasn't sure if he was a 'wait in a dark room for the return and flick on a lamp for maximum dramatic effect before the evisceration commences' kind of a guy or if he was more of a 'we'll talk about this in the morning' sort of a dude. But he had been anticipating… something.

Climbing into his room, expecting punishment but being met with no one should have been relieving. He had dodged a bullet, hadn't he? And true to what he'd said before, Mr. Stark hadn't been there to lay down the law.

And yet, incomprehensibly, a knot had tightened in his chest. A headache had built dully behind his eyes, growing in intensity as time passed, and for many hours after he'd paced the carpeted floor of his room. He couldn't remember ever being so blindsided by such an unreasonable reaction, but as he paced, mind whirling and palms pressed to his flushed cheeks, he willed his anger away because it had no place here and no reason for being.

Every nightly stroll after that had felt more like escaping, even though Peter didn't want to think of it that way. On nights like that, he'd venture out his bedroom window with stifling restlessness to carry him across rooftops and fire escapes. There was never any particular destination in mind, nor any purpose to fulfill other than to get out and be away for as long as possible.

It was a change, he explained to himself, that was all. he'd never seen this side of Mr. Stark before. The side that had shockingly few house rules and didn't seem to care how Peter spent his time or where. It was just another thing to adapt to, and he would. It'd all be fine.

So, Peter came and went as he pleased, and Mr. Stark never mentioned a word about it.

By the end of July, Peter had wandered through nearly all of the Upper East Side. Cramming years of exploring into a couple weeks, it was as if he'd lived there all his life. It had been exciting at first. Every day, there was something new to find. He would stumble across cafés, some of which were still open for business, and he could see himself taking MJ to them if she were here. Another day he'd come across an abandoned arcade that he and Ned definitely would've blown obscene amounts of money in. Once he'd caught his reflection in the store front of a super elegant shoe store, and he could almost see May next to him drooling over six-inch tall, sling-back stilettos that her arthritic toes wouldn't have been able to wear anyway.

If he pretended like those scenarios were still possible, he found that the ache in his chest nearly disappeared. It became sort of enjoyable, mapping out an imagined future in a new city for his closest people. It was like a vacation that was forever in the planning stages, never to be executed.

When the novelty of a new city wore off, Peter was surprised to feel pangs of homesickness sneaking up on him. He'd thought he had left that all behind him, that night when he and Mr. Stark had a heart-to-heart hashing out of what life looked like now. But then, with increasing frequency, Peter's mind would wander back to school, back to his old apartment, back to Queens, and his stomach would bottom out under the weight of his longing for the unattainable.

His last visit to Queens had been disastrous. He had left his old apartment with his meager possessions, crying and angry and feeling completely humiliated to be experiencing those things under Mr. Stark's sympathetic gaze. On the car ride back to their hotel room he'd sworn to himself that he'd never go back there again.

Life was funny like that, he supposed. Life had also paused its merciless barrage of gut punches long enough for Peter to actually laugh about it.

It was then, on the cusp of August, that Peter made a desperate attempt to ride himself of such useless misery. He decided to return to Queens, leaving the apartment in the late afternoon the second the notion entered his head, before his courage could fail him and he could change his mind.

Public transport was newly back up and running again, so leaping stealthily from rooftop to rooftop, Peter's feet took him to the nearest subway station. He hopped a train, took one of the many available seats, and tried to ignore the unease that came with being in a place that should be crowded but wasn't anymore.

It took some focus to get back home. He'd never traveled via subway from this direction to get to Queens, and he nearly forgot to change train lines. Eventually, he stepped out of the station that was closest to his school, and took in the sight before him.

It was a mess with minimal improvements since the last time he'd been there. The buildings and windows in the area were just as broken and vandalized as they were in June. Ugly spray paint tags remained where they had been before, although they'd become faded from a couple months of weathering. Peter could stand to look at them now. He didn't flinch from them like he had before, nor did his throat twist in to knots. They were just… there. Dripping anarchy 'A's and silhouettes blending into the urban setting just as traffic lights and street signs did.

Peter gave the street one last sweeping look before setting off down the sidewalk. He followed old pathways without thinking about them. Walking beside his school, he followed the perimeter of the fence and took in the sight of his school. Midtown had always been a tad bit too rich for his blood. May and Ben had worked hard to pay his tuition, and Peter had tried to pay them back in good grades. There was no denying that the school was meant for, at least the upper middle class if not higher. For such a clean-cut school, it was disturbing to see it so ragged.

There were the usual smashed windows, now hastily boarded up with plywood, and the area had been swept up for glass shards. Some doors remained broken, while others had obviously been replaced. Those things made it typical of its setting in this new reality. Slowing his pace, Peter watched maintenance workers leaving and entering through those new doors carrying tools and materials. He had to come back here in less than a week to write his entrance exam, and Peter supposed that it looked patched up enough to accommodate that. He wondered vaguely how the building would look when it reopened full time in September.

Turning the last corner of the perimeter, the football field's goal posts came into view. The field below them had tall, unkempt grass which somehow remained a lush green colour in spite of the heat wave bearing down on it. Hidden among the tall blades, Peter could see a shoe here and there sunken in the field and creating little pock marks in the grass. He could imagine them falling off of running feat and turned over ankles as students stampeded, stumbled, and fell across this very field. Peter's own confusion and horror at watching people crumble into ash was nothing in comparison to this. Midtown held around two thousand students, all of them trapped in a building, watching classmates vanish and feeding off of each other's escalating panic. Not knowing what to do or where to go, but sprinting in a blind panic away from an inevitable fate.

Turning on his heel, Peter walked in the opposite direction, leaving the school behind. He wished he could leave his thoughts behind too, but they lingered with him turning his dark mood even grimmer.

He took a turn at random and came upon a bodega that he had seen many times but never actually been inside of before. Passing by familiar landmarks, he idly cataloged in his head which establishments were still open and which had been abandoned.

He saw people, his people, many of whom he'd never met before but only knew from sight. In a park, the same old 'fedora hat and cane guy' sat on his bench. Peter was fairly sure that he suffered from some sort of vision impairment, given how tightly he would grip the elbow of the old woman who would accompany him everywhere. She wasn't with him now and the man sat alone. Peter tried not to read too deeply into that.

Near a bus stop, Peter saw a twenty-something hipster-looking woman with pink streaked hair. She frequented the subway on his morning commute to school and played music on her headphones at a volume that only he could hear. Through consistent, albeit unwanted, daily exposure, Peter's tolerance of death metal had grown from 'nails on a chalkboard' to 'meh'. She made eye contact with him, and Peter saw a tiny smile tug at her face. She tilted her chin up in a nod, as if to say 'Hey, you're still alive? Me too. How about that?'

Peter didn't know what to say to that, so he remained silent. Having never spoken a word to her in his life, it felt apropos. Instead, he gave her a little wave as he passed.

More blocks passed by, and Peter took stock of the neighbourhood, when suddenly the hiss of an aerosol can hit his ears. The sound made him pause and look around for the culprit. 'Vandalism is illegal,' he thought, but almost as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Someone was angry and needed to vent. If spray-painting some stupid tag was their way of doing it, who was Peter to judge? And besides, he thought with a glance at the other tags dotting the street, what was another drop in the bucket?

Peter trudged on, and he managed to walk ahead a few more steps before realizing with alarm why he recognized this area so well; He was going to Ned's apartment. The thought struck him like a blow, making him halt in his tracks. His eyes slid closed and he took a deep breath.

'Not today,' he thought. Two months ago, he would've thought 'not ever', but here he was standing in Queens again. Time, as it turned out, could heal a lot of things if Peter permitted it to. Mr. and Mrs. Leeds were still alive, and maybe one day he would visit them. But it was too soon for him, and probably too soon for Ned's parents. Peter really couldn't blame them if they were devastated by the fact that he was alive while their son wasn't. Grief had a way of pulling out all of the worst things in a person, and Peter didn't want to show up too soon and find out what those 'worst things' were for them.

"Hey, c'mon man, leave me alone!"

A high voice rang out from an ally that Peter had just passed. The voice warbled with fear and desperation in that unmistakable way that indicate that there was no escape. Without thinking, Peter turned and ran back the way he'd came.

"Leave me alone!" A deeper voice mimicked in a falsetto. There was cruel laughter, and then the sound of knuckles on skin came before a pained grunt. Peter whipped himself around the corner and saw a boy pinned against the wall. Another boy around Peter's own age, towered over him with his fist pulling back for another blow.

"Get away from him!" Peter shouted, never breaking his sprint towards the bully. There was only a split second where the pair looked at him with identical shocked expressions. The bully's fist halted but remained suspended in mid-air. Blood was flowing freely out of the kid's nose, running over his dark skin and dripping off of his upper lip. The sight of it enraged Peter even more, and he didn't bother to try and hinder himself to appear more normal.

In a second, he was tackling the bully to the ground. To Peter's surprise, he didn't try to fight back. Once Peter had gotten off of him, he'd shifted his weight solidly between his feet and prepared himself for a fight. But the bully just scrambled to his feet, wide-eyed and visibly shaken, and took off running.

Peter blinked, surprised at how anticlimactic that was. Was that initial confrontation really all it took to get him to back off? Flash had never beaten him up, instead preferring to bully him with his words. Still, would he have stopped if someone had stood up for Peter? He watched the bully disappear around the corner, and only then could Peter relax his stance. Hands dropping to his sides, he turned to look at the boy behind him.

"Hey, are you okay?" he asked while his eyes swept over his slight form. He was young, maybe ten-or-so years old, and wearing clothes that were a size or two too big for him. He was crouched on the pavement as the strength seemed to have vanished from his legs. At his feet was a backpack with spray paint cans in varying colours spilling out of it. At Peter's question, he looked up shyly and Peter's stomach knotted.

His nose was the worst of his injuries. Blood splattered his t-shirt, but thankfully the nose looked to still be intact. Looking closely, he could see old bruises starting to heal and blend into his darker complexion. Peter reached his hand down to help the boy up, but his eyes narrowed at the offered hand and he slapped it out of the way.

"M'fine, it's no big deal," the boy muttered, his embarrassment palpable, and he stood up on his own. His voice came out thick sounding from the blood and his eyes glistened with pained tears, but there was also a defiant edge lurking under it all. He lifted the collar of his baggy t-shirt to mop at his nose and he winced slightly under the pressure. Peter cringed, having dealt with his fair share of injuries, he knew just how badly that must've hurt. "That guy's just an asshole."

"You know him?" Peter asked and the boy nodded carefully. The stain on his shirt was growing larger by the second. "Pinch your nose on the cartilage. It'll help," he advised while grasping his own nose briefly between his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. The boy reached his hand up and mimicked the action, taking hold of the bridge of his broad nose. After a few moments, the bleeding started to slow and Peter smiled.

"We used to live in the same foster home, but now we don't," the boy elaborated in a nasal voice. "He likes to beat up the littler kids, steal their stuff, whatever."

"Oh."

Peter wasn't sure of what else to say. His curiosity was sparked and he wanted to ask more, but it seemed callous to press him. Some puzzle pieces slotted into place; It was possible that the bully had recently lost his family in the snap, just as many other kids had. Not that his loss justified his behavior, but Peter thought he could see how it might shape a person to be like that. It was grief, a different side of it this time, pulling out all of his worst traits.

There was more to this, he thought. They were out in the streets, not in his old foster home, the space that they'd been forced to share. There was some deep-rooted malice there if he chose to go out of his way to terrorize the kid outside of that home.

"But you don't live with him anymore," he prompted, curiosity getting the better of him. "So…?"

"My uncle adopted me, but he lives close to the foster home," his face twisted into a scowl that Peter thought was in response to his circumstances. His heart twinged in empathy, but then he realized that the face he was making was out of disgust, not bitterness. The boy gingerly let go of his nose and spat the last of the blood that had run down his sinuses on to the ground. Peter grimaced as the boy scrubbed absentmindedly at the dried blood above his lip. "I thought it'd be all good when my uncle came to take me away, but now he comes for me whenever he sees me out in the streets. I'm pretty sure dude stakes out my house too."

Peter's brows shot up and worry twisted in his gut. Damn, this was like some Stephan King levels of psycho-bully behavior.

"Why?" The question fell from Peter's mouth, and he wasn't even sure if he meant it rhetorically or not. The boy just shrugged and leveled him with a stare too serious for his age.

"He's just jealous," he said, like it was obvious. When Peter stopped to think about it, he supposed it was. "I got people and he doesn't. Also, I was the only one in that house that had someone come back for them, so y'know… probably doesn't help."

"Does he do this sort of thing a lot?"

The boy's gaze turned flat, and Peter realized, too late, how stupid that question was. The old bruises were answer enough. He pressed his lips together into a hard line as the ball of stress in his gut intensified.

What if he came back? Sure, Peter had scared him off this time, but what if it wasn't enough to keep him away permanently? It's not like he could hang around Queens all the time, waiting for the off chance the bully started trouble again. Peter's mind scrambled, trying to come up with a solution to protect this kid but came up short. His cheeks puffed up as he blew out an aggravated sigh and he ran a hand through his hair.

He guessed that he could only make sure that he made it home safe. It was all he could do.

"Here, lemme walk you home," he said, offering up his weak solution, and the boy looked at him strangely.

"What? No," he scoffed and took a step back. "Dude, I don't know you."

A wry smile pulled at Peter's mouth. For a moment he stewed on how unfair it was that he was too young to enjoy any of the perks of being an adult, but was apparently old enough to have strayed into the realm of 'potential stranger-danger weirdos' if he were to be his usual overly helpful self.

"Yeah, okay. Fair enough," he mumbled, shaking off his discomfort. "I'm Peter."

"Okay."

Peter couldn't help but laugh at that. He wasn't sure if the kid just had sharper than average street smarts or if he was distrustful and paranoid by nature. First names seemed like a relatively harmless thing to share.

"Well, alright then," he sighed and the boy eyed him suspiciously. He decided on a new plan. "In case you do run in to that guy again, let me give you some pointers on how to not get your ass kicked." That seemed to pique his interest, and his posture relaxed a bit. "You're first option should be to run away, but if you can't, dodge and stay out of range of his arms until he's tired himself out a bit." His eyes turned flat again, and Peter got the impression that it was taking every bit of his will power not to roll his eyes. Sensing his waning attention, he added: "And also, don't try to punch. You should kick."

The boy's brow quirked.

"Why?"

"That guy was, like, a foot taller than you. His arms are long and yours are short."

The boy nodded thoughtfully and Peter felt pleased that he seemed to actually listen to him.

"Here, reach your arm out straight in front of you," he instructed.

The boy seemed reluctant at first but then hesitantly stretched out his arm. Peter did the same, slowly moving himself closer so as to not startle him. When he got close enough, he balled his hand into a fist and lightly tapped his knuckles against the boy's short, twist out curls. The boy's fingertips were still six inches away from Peter's chin.

"See, you can't get close enough to hit him without getting hit yourself. But your legs are longer," Peter dropped his arm and shifted his weight on to one leg. "So, kick him in the stomach, like this." He slowly lifted his leg up in a side sweeping kick, twisting his posture so that the top of his shoe could lightly jab the boy's middle. Despite his slow movements and exaggerated care, the boy still flinched from the contact, never taking his eyes off of Peter's leg. Peter tried not to worry over that too much. "Try to kick hard enough to wind him and then, when he's down, run like hell."

The boy's eyes snapped up to meet Peter's and his brows knitted together.

"No way! If I can drop that clown, Ima kick his ass."

Peter lowered his leg, a frown pulling at his lips. He didn't like the idea of encouraging anyone to fight offensively. Protecting oneself defensively was an entirely different matter. Not to mention that he didn't have much faith in the boy's capability to beat up anyone. Eyeing his short, wiry frame, he could see the faintest hint of muscle definition lying under the skin of his arms. Eventually, they would develop there in his teenage years, but as of right now they were still wet noodle arms.

But the boy's eyes did blaze with furious determination, and if that alone could win a fight, undoubtedly he'd win.

"Up to you, I guess. But I'd run. It's safer," he said with a shrug, trying to shake off the frustration that came with knowing that no matter what he said nothing would dissuade the boy. He cracked something like a snarky smirk at Peter, which he found to be more endearing than intimidating. It teased a smile out of Peter, and he shook his head.

For the first time, his eyes trailed to take in the surroundings. There were the bare bones of a tag on the wall, a little ways away from where they stood. Peter's stomach clenched as he recognized the shape of the yellow and red line work; an Iron Man helmet with the face plate lifted and nothing inside.

"Y'know, you really shouldn't be tagging walls like this. Vandalism is illegal."

He glanced back and saw the boy zipping up his backpack. He hefted it onto one shoulder while rolling his eyes at Peter.

"You almost had me there. I almost thought you were cool."

"You did?" Peter asked, completely baffled as to when he'd given him that impression. The boy gave a genuine smile at that, and Peter didn't even care that he was laughing at his expense. He actually looked his age for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, and that made Peter feel light. The boy's hand wound around the shoulder strap of his backpack and his grip tightened around it. He cast an appraising look at his unfinished work before looking back to Peter.

"And it's not a tag, it's art," he said, emphasizing his apparent disdain for the former. "I'd never throw up one of those stupid anarchy-avengers signs. It's not my style."

Peter's brow lifted as he cast another glance at the wall. Admittedly, he was impressed by level of skill presented in the piece, especially considering how young the boy was. Even incomplete, it was clear what the colourful lines were supposed to be. But his gaze became fixated on the emptiness residing in the helmet and he couldn't tear his eyes away. It was clear what the message was, and while it wasn't an anarchy symbol Peter found that they shared the same hateful meaning.

Art was a lens that gave a glimpse into how the artist viewed the world. A teacher in middle school had told Peter that, back in the days when art was a mandatory class and not an elective.

During his junior year, Peter had found himself spending more and more time with MJ. With each passing day, month, and cup of coffee, she grew to be less sarcastic and snide with him, and Peter had the startling realization that he was falling in love with the person he saw underneath the surface. The person who, on occasion, would discuss with him the meaning behind her sketchbook art. Peter recalled seeing one of her sketches of their decathlon team coach, Mr. Harrington, looking happier than he had ever seen him in life, kneeling down to cuddle a beagle.

'Mr. Harrington has a dog?'

'No clue. But if he doesn't, he should get one.'

'Cuz dogs are the best?'

'Dogs are always the best, but that's not why he should get one. I don't think he's got a whole lot of good things going for him in life.'

And she had been right. Until then, Peter hadn't ever noticed before how junky Mr. Harrington's car was, how tatter his clothes were, and how he had absolutely no personal items, like pictures, on his desk to indicate any sort of close relationships. It was sadder still for Peter when he found out that Mr. Harrington was in fact married. It was like magic, the change of perspective that allowed him to see an obvious truth.

But this didn't feel like the unveiling of truth hidden in plain sight. Staring into the empty cavern of the helmet, this felt more like a shift of blame than anything else.

"It's still illegal, though," Peter said to no one in particular. He glanced around and noticed that the boy had started to walk away. He was a few feet ahead, walking towards the street, when he called over his shoulder:

"Oh, get over it, man. What's a little paint?"

Staring after him, Peter stood in stunned silence. He really didn't think that he wanted to get over it. He was tired of compromising himself and his morality to conform to this new world and its struggles. Tired of turning a blind eye to things that wouldn't have been okay before.

He was also tired of shouldering the blame for all of this. The mask on the wall was Iron Man's, but it might as well have been all of the Avengers existing collectively within its hollowed out interior.

Peter looked back to where he had last seen the boy, but he was gone. In his absence, an epiphany struck him with jarring force: he had liked protecting the boy. He had almost forgotten how gratifying it was to shield the little guy from the world's constant dangers. There was nothing but himself stopping him from donning his mask and protecting others. Hadn't that been the essential purpose of Spider-Man all along?

Fear and insecurity had stood in his way before. And self-deprecating guilt; the monster that blamed himself for this mess. But maybe it was time to stop playing the blame game and instead start doing things again.

Peter turned and headed back towards the street. A grin played at his face as he thought of how much possibility tomorrow was filled with.

'He didn't even thank me.'

For some reason, that belated realization made Peter laugh harder than he had in a while.

The night came shrouding the city in darkness, save for the artificial light of the city. The afternoon heat became tempered by the disappearing sun light, making the night without a doubt the most enjoyable part of the day. The apartment had air conditioning, and normally Peter was thrilled to be living in an air-conditioned home for the first time in his life, but that night the walls made him feel caged. The air was too cold.

The rooftop was so much more appealing for his nightly perusing through the post snap world's business. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he climbed up his bedroom wall and slid his window open. His hand passed through the air between the two patchwork FRIDAY security brackets, thereby triggering the motion and heat sensors that Peter knew would send a notification to Mr. Stark's phone (he may have done some sneaky digging through the patchwork FRIDAY blue prints to figure out exactly how it worked. The mystery had been eating him alive).

Living on the top floor, he didn't have to climb far to reach the top of the building. Pulling himself up over the ledge, he sat down on the cooling cement tiles and pressed his back against the short barrier. With practiced ease, his finger swiped through various news titles, fast enough to satisfy his antsy jitters but slow enough to be able to read them. Many of them were old stories, or new ones written about topics that he was already aware of. But then a title made him pause.

'Overwhelming Numbers in the Foster Care System Forces Ministry of Children to Revoke Certain Eligibility Requirements for Adoptive Parents.'

Peter's finger hovered over the title, but he was hesitant to press on it. Reading about the sudden increase in orphans seemed like one of those things that would likely send him spiraling down the old guilt ridden, depressive, anxiety attacking hole. He was actually having a good day today, and despite the fact that he was one of those suddenly orphaned minors, reading this would probably be detrimental to his well-being.

He thought of the boy he'd met earlier that day, and tried not to feel too guilty as he scrolled past the page. The article wasn't even from an American source, and therefore had no relevance to his life. He told himself that forcefully, but it did little to ease the weight in his stomach.

'Summer Harvest Predicted to be the Best on Record in the US, but is it Enough to Save Small American Farmers?'

That seemed like a safer bet, and Peter opened the article to occupy his mind.

It was… boring as hell. His eyes skimmed over facts and figures that he'd never cared to know. He learned that corn, wheat, soybeans, and cotton were the US major export crops. He also learned that since 2010, small American Farmers had been losing their land to bankruptcy at the hands of large chain farms at an unprecedented rate. And also, apparently the current economic crisis was prompting people to advocate growing and selling crops domestically, rather than importing crops that could've been grown in the US.

All of that was dry and boring, but comprehensible. The thing that made Peter frown was the part about there being minimal waste due to the premium quality of the crops harvested. He thought back to his fist sized strawberry (and all the other oddly sublime produce he'd eaten since then), and considered with some astonishment that such quality might be the new norm and not an anomaly.

'Less people means less pollution,' he reminded himself, but even before he had finished that thought he started to absentmindedly shake his head. It didn't add up. Air pollution would start to clear up with less cars on the road in a matter of weeks, but these crops were planted months ago. Not to mention, the only thing that should affect their growth was quality of soil and irrigation and stuff like that, right? It wasn't like Peter had vast reservoirs of agricultural knowledge locked away in his head, but he thought that was the case.

Still feeling perplexed, though not overly so, Peter continued to scroll and saw something that chased all other worries from his mind.

'Stark Industries Donates $50 Million to Crisis Lines and Mental Health Organizations Across America'

Yes.

Yes, they did.

Peter knew that a stupid grin was pulling at his face, but he didn't care. There was no one around to see it anyway. Pride surged through him as he read about the details. Ms. Potts was the head of the company and Mr. Stark was retired, but Peter knew that this was still a joint decision for them. And he knew, without having ever spoken about this to either of them before, that this wasn't much of a decision but rather an inevitability. Even having removed himself directly from the situation, Mr. Stark was still doing his part.

Smiling and closing his eyes, Peter saw the boy's unfinished graffiti. He really had Mr. Stark pegged all wrong, and the validation in his hands felt incredibly satisfying.

Mr. Stark also lived to help the little guy, just in a different way than what Peter did. And that solidarity meant the world to him.

Mary: Welcome back! One of the benefits of taking a break from reading fics is that you don't have to suffer the long update periods and you get, like, 3 (or 4? I can't remember how many I wrote since January) chapters in one sitting. Also, my deepest commiserations at having to deal with school on top of a pandemic. I thank my lucky stars everyday since this quarantine mess broke out that I've finished my degree. I can't imagine how difficult these circumstances have been for current students.