Peter had been sitting atop the roof of one of the city's many skyscrapers for the past hour, staring into the distance. It was quiet up here on this clear-blue day, one could even say it was peaceful; save only for the endless clamour of thoughts going through his mind.
It had been almost a week since his run-in with Ned. Until that point – until he had so stupidly allowed his feet to wander where they should never have trod – until then he had been recovering. Not healing, no. Those wounds would always fester beneath his skin, but at least they had been sustainable. At least they had been somewhat livable. But after May and now Ned, well…. he may as well have taken another knife and made sure they would never try to heal again. And Peter was fairly sure he couldn't endure another incident like that.
After the first few months had passed, Peter had come to a point where he had begun to wonder if there was really any point in continuing on anymore. With no friends or family, or even a life to speak of, what was the point? Living on the streets surrounded by drugs, gangs, and violence wasn't exactly what one would call a high quality of life. If he hadn't found the attic, if he didn't have the unnatural strength and abilities that the spider had given him, he wasn't sure he would have survived the first few weeks. Even still, he had been left to fend for himself in a once-familiar place, that now seemed terribly and incredibly foreign.
But then he had found the attic, he had found Julian. He had found some semblance of a new normal that left him thinking maybe, just maybe, he could survive this. If he managed to stick it out the next two years, then maybe he could make it out. Maybe he could still have some sort of a life that didn't consist of endless days of running from violence and wondering when his next meal would be.
If he just made it to eighteen, he wouldn't have to worry about government authorities finding him and putting him into foster care. He had already lost his life once; he didn't need someone else coming in and taking what little he had left now.
But Peter didn't think he could make it to eighteen anymore.
Because really, even if he did make it to legal adulthood – what would really be on the other side? What would be waiting for him there? Simply being an adult didn't make you smart; it didn't suddenly open a door to riches, comfort, and stability. If anything, it did the exact opposite. As Peter had learned, life wasn't kind to everyone. In fact, most of the time it was downright cruel. Sadistic, even. Unless you started out with something, you rarely ever made it to anything.
Maybe Peter had been on that path once; had once had family and friends and a life that would see him happy, comfortable, and fulfilled. But not now. Now, he had nothing. And you couldn't make something from nothing.
In fact, Peter would dare to say that it was all but impossible.
Peter's ears twitched as a high-pitched screeching sounded from the streets below, followed by a loud crash. Shouts soon rose to his ears, and Peter slowly got up and walked to the edge, peering down over the side.
A three-car pile up laid across the street and sidewalk below. People were scrambling out of their cars, each yelling at the other for their supposed screw up, while pedestrians stopped to see if anyone was hurt. Dogs barked and horns honked. Another day in New York City.
Peter frowned, then leaned back. Raising his head he took a moment to look, gazing at the city around him.
He could see the edge of the harbour in the distance, the seagulls flying around it, the sounds of ships and trucks rising into the air above. He could make out the familiar New York landmarks: the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the World Trade Center….
Peter took a breath.
The thoughts that had been plaguing him the past couple weeks started roaming in his mind once more. He shook his head, hoping that the thoughts would shake off and disappear.
But really, though, what was the point? What was the point in continuing to struggle to find food each day, diving in dumpsters filled with disgusting and often unspeakable trash, that left him feeling as though he were part of it himself? What was the point in curling up in pain as his stomach screamed and begged for food? What was the point in sometimes going days, weeks, without speaking to a single person, without looking anyone in the eye, with being surrounded by millions of people but not interacting with a single one?
What was the point in living a life that not a single person in the entire world knew you were living?
There wasn't a point. That was the truth of it. In the end, if he had none of these things, then there really wasn't a single point in continuing to –
"Hey there son, are you all right?"
Peter jumped, startled. He turned his head to see a man standing near the roof-top door, staring at him with furrowed brows and a clenched jaw, his eyes wide.
Peter stared at him, wondering who he was and what he was doing here. The man looked strangely alarmed, as though seeing Peter had somehow freaked him out. Peter supposed it did; it wasn't every day you found a random street-bum on your rooftop.
Peter hadn't realised he hadn't answered until the man spoke again: "I think you ought to come down from there, if you don't mind my saying. It's rather close to the edge; you wouldn't want to fall."
Peter blinked, then looked down, suddenly realising that he was standing on top of the roof's ledge. At some point between now and the last few minutes – few hours? – he had climbed onto the edge of the building and stood there, staring across the rest of the city, only a hair's breath separating his feet from the open air.
Peter frowned. He didn't remember climbing up; he was just suddenly here.
"Son?"
Peter swallowed. He knew he should listen to the man, that he should get the hell off the edge and onto the rooftop where it was safe, but his feet stayed where they were. It wasn't like this was the first time that he had stood on the edge of a roof; he had done it countless times as Spider-Man. Rooftops had never been frightening to him. Heck, they were often where he felt at ease the most.
But this time he didn't have his web-shooters. This time he didn't have a suit with a built-in parachute. This time he didn't have Iron Man to catch him if he fell.
Peter looked back down at the ground below.
It was an awful long way, even for him. He had fallen from many high places before, but the most that he had been left with was a sore side or back, and even that healed within a day. This high up though… a fall from this height wouldn't just end in bumps and bruises, it would end in something far more serious than that.
Peter knew that what he was contemplating was absolutely crazy, that there was no way whatsoever that he should even be thinking it. Aunt May… Aunt May would absolutely kill him if she ever even heard a whisper of what was going through his mind. She would carve him up for dinner then send him to his room without eating, where he would stay until he was old and grey. She would never forgive him for thinking of taking another person away from her, after she had already lost so much. After she had lost her her parents, her brother and sister-in-law, her husband…. So there was no way he could even begin to contemplate it; it was crazy.
But Aunt May wasn't here any more. She didn't even know who he was. And right now… right now he couldn't help but think that the only crazy thing was to stay alive in a world where he might as well already be dead.
No one knew who he was anymore; he had been wiped from their memories, he had been removed and cast away as though he were nothing more than forgotten trash. He knew that they couldn't help it, that his friends and family didn't have a choice, that it was instead because of his choice that this life was now his; but that still couldn't stop the voice in the back of his mind from crying in frustration, from screaming in anger, from whispering that maybe the best thing he could do was end his life, because right now the only person that knew he even existed was was him, and –
A hand suddenly grasped Peter's elbow and he jumped, instinctively jerking round and trying to raise his arms in an attempt to block, or fight, or –
The man was staring up at him with hard eyes, his lips pressed together as his jaw remained clenched. They stared at each other for a brief moment, before the man's quiet, but stern voice broke the silence: "I think you ought to come down now, son. Come on, that's it; just come on down and then we can talk."
Without really meaning to, Peter found himself following the man as he led him off the building's edge, and back onto the roof below. He didn't realise his heart was racing until the pounding blood in his ears was all he could hear.
Once they were safely near the door in the middle of the roof, the man sat Peter down against the wall before making his way to sit beside him. Peter noticed the man's hands were shaking, and he wondered if he was cold.
"Now then," the man said, "what's your name?"
Peter stared at him for a long moment before finally speaking, unable to keep the stutter from his lips: "P...Peter."
"Well Peter, my name is Joe. It's nice to meet you."
Peter didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
Joe didn't seem the least bothered. "So what brings you all the way up here?" he asked. "It's a mighty long way from the ground. Did you take the stairs or the fire escape?"
Again, Peter said nothing.
"Well I guess that's not really important at this point." Joe sighed, and from the corner of his eye Peter could see him fiddling with a camera in his hands.
After a moment he looked up, gesturing to the buildings around them. "I was just gonna come up here and take some pictures. My boss is driving me a bit mad1, so I figured I'd use this old camera as an excuse to keep from strangling him." Joe chuckled.
Peter glanced over at the camera, noting the lack of screen and the old shutter button. Definitely before the digital age.
Joe continued on. "I work for a newspaper," he said. "The Daily Bugle. My boss is a bit nuts – well okay, some people would say he's crazy – but he's a good man. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but he is.
"But today he decided he was going to push the idea that the paper should focus more on superheroes; like Tony Stark and his band of Avengers. It's been a while since they were really needed, so none of the other papers are talking much about them anymore. I think that's why Jameson wants to start focusing on 'em again; papers sold like crazy when they were around. I've told him now, I've said to just move on and let it be, that we should consider it a good thing that we don't seem 'em anymore. But when Jameson gets stuck on something, he refuses to leave it."
Joe held out his camera to Peter. "One of the interns found this while going through an old storage room. If my memory serves me right, I'd say it's an old '86 RC model. I've been fiddling with it all day trying to fix it; came up here to see if it works. And get away from the boss."
Joe lifted up the camera to his eye, spun the dial a few times, and clicked the shutter. Nothing happened.
"Ah, you see," he said, shaking his head. "Darn thing refuses to work. The shutter won't snap down, so the picture won't take." Joe sat the camera on the ground. "Ah well, at least it got me outdoors for a while."
Peter stared at the camera for a long moment. The wind picked up, ruffling through his hair. He glanced quickly between Joe and the camera, before finally reaching over and quietly picking it up. He looked back up at Joe, searching for any sign of anger or raised brows. Finding none, he looked the camera over for a few seconds, before snapping the bottom slide open.
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, before Peter finally spoke: "The latch is unhinged," he said, peering inside the camera. "And one of the gears is loose. If you just tighten the screw over here, you'll get the gear working again. And all you have to do is re-connect the latch from the button to the lens, and that should get the shutter working. You just need to have a –."
"Here," Joe said.
Peter suddenly saw a small jackknife being held in front of him. He glanced up, finally meeting Joe's eyes. To his surprise, they seemed gentle and reassuring, and oddly trusting. Or perhaps deceptively. Taking the knife, Peter pulled out the small screwdriver and began working on the camera.
Not more than five minutes later, he closed the slide and handed the object back to Joe. "Here," he said quietly. "It should work now."
Joe gave him a look, but took the camera and lifted it up, pressing the button. The flash shone and the button clicked. Joe moved back with a look of surprised incredulity on his face. "Well I'll be damned!" he said. "It actually works!" He paused for a moment, then looked down at Peter. "You're a smart kid," he said.
The smile slowly fell from Joe's face and he leaned back against the wall, the camera forgotten. "So what brought you all the way up here?"
Peter felt his body tighten and he looked away.
After a moment of silence, Joe spoke. "That's all right then, you don't have to talk if you don't want to. But let me tell you something: I've lived in New York all my life. I've seen the city inside and out. And to be quite frank, I know what a drug addict looks like. I know what someone who spends all their time drinking looks like; and you don't look like any of those things. You do look like you've been on the streets, though. So let me take a guess – you been having trouble at home? Fighting with mom and dad? Your siblings?"
Peter's feet scraped against the ground as he brought his knees up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them and looked away. "No," he said after a long moment. The words came out before he could stop them: "My parents died when I was seven. I don't have any brothers or sisters."
"Foster home then?" Joe asked.
"No."
"What then? It has to be something. Kids don't just leave home because everything's goin' fine and dandy. You can tell me, son; I don't hafta tell no one else if you don't want me to."
Peter wondered what the man's response would be if he actually did tell him; if he told him that the reason he was a homeless bum on the streets, begging and stealing food and even money, was because the life he had once lived had been stolen from him. Had been stolen and used as a bargaining chip, forcing him to choose between his life and everyone else's.
He wondered if he would believe him when he said that once he had a family, had friends, had fellow heroes in the fight against men and women and creatures who wanted nothing more than to gain wealth and power, whether through killing one person or killing millions. He wondered if he would run away, or maybe pat him comfortingly on the back before taking him to the insane asylum.
He wondered if maybe, just maybe, the man would believe him.
"I was living with my aunt and uncle," Peter finally admitted. "My uncle died a few years ago…" that much, at least, was true, "and my aunt, well…." Peter swallowed. "My aunt may as well not even know who I am anymore. She has a new boyfriend, and… and he's all that matters to her. She doesn't need me now. So there's no point in hanging around, right? No point in staying when I'm not wanted."
Joe didn't respond, and the two sat in silence for a few, long minutes.
The air was cold, a sign of the changing weather and coming fall. The leaves were already starting to turn yellow, and soon enough they'd be falling to the ground, the trees awaiting the arrival of snow to fill their branches in their stead.
Seagulls cried in the distance and the light of the slowly setting sun shone off a building's window, momentarily blinding him. Peter blinked and turned his face away, forced to look back at Joe. He glanced briefly at the man, before quickly looking away once more, briefly catching a glimpse of the man's slightly-squinted eyes and furrowed brows.
Joe suddenly slapped his knees, then stood to his feet. "How abouts we go get something to eat? You must be hungry; my treat."
Peter's instincts told him to say no, that he didn't need to be going anywhere with anyone, that it was best if he stayed alone. Staying alone meant staying out of sight; staying out of sight meant staying out of mind; staying out of mind meant never showing up on May's or the Avenger's radar ever again, which was good, that was good, that was safe, that was –
"Well? What do you say?"
Peter blinked, and his stomach growled loudly. He hadn't eaten since supper yesterday.
Finally, Peter rose to his feet, and nodded his head. "Yeah, okay," he said quietly. "Sure."
Peter didn't know when the last time he'd had a burger was, but if the way he was inhaling the one in front of him right now was any indication, it was a very long time indeed.
After a few minutes his senses whispered that someone was watching, and he looked up.
Joe was staring at him, his own food barely touched. He was squinting slightly, as though he just couldn't quite make Peter out. Peter slowed down self-consciously, placing his burger back on the plate.
"Thank you," he said. "I don't – I don't have any money with me right now, so I can't –."
"Kid, I told you it was my treat, so it's my treat."
Knowing that it was probably pointless to argue – and the fact that he really didn't have any money – Peter picked the burger back up.
The two continued eating for another fifteen minutes. Not wanting to push his luck, Peter stopped after the third burger, even though his stomach still grumbled for more.
When they were finally done and the cheque was paid, Joe leaned back in his seat. "Look, kid. I don't want to even pretend like I know what you're story is or what you're going through; that's your business. But if you need help right now, you just tell me and I'll do it. You need food or even a place to stay, I can get you that. There are plenty of places out there that are just meant for helping young guys like you."
Peter's arms began to tingle, and the guards that had begun to fall during the last hour slowly started to build back up.
"That's okay, sir," Peter said, shaking his head. "I mean, thank you, but I –."
"You don't have to be so quick to say no, you know," Joe interrupted. "Sometimes it's okay to take some help once in a while, even if it's from a stranger."
Peter fell silent, not knowing what to say. He hadn't accepted help – not this kind of help – from anyone, not since after Seftis, not since before That Day. And there was a good reason: because if anyone helped him, that meant they would start to get to know him; and if anyone got to know him, that meant that they might become friends. And if they became friends, then they could get close. They could get too close. They could get dangerously close, and then, well… Peter could only imagine what would happen then. Seftis had told him he would be watching, and that if he ever tried to find the Avengers again, if he ever tried to get close to any of them, if he tried to get close to anyone that might try and reverse what he had done, then… then….
Peter swallowed, the images of Seftis' threats dancing behind his eyes.
No. It was better to remain as he had so far been: alone. Because if anyone got too close to him – Avengers or otherwise – it would surely only be the worse for them.
Joe sighed, breaking Peter out of his thoughts.
"You need help, Peter. Just let me give you that help. Please."
Peter frowned, incredulity and anger suddenly flowing through his veins. "Why do you want to help me?" he asked loudly. "Why? We met barely over an hour ago, you don't even know me, so how can you possibly think I'm a good charity case? I could be a drug addict, a dealer, a murderer, a –."
"Because I don't want to see another kid standing on the edge of a damn rooftop, ready to throw all of his fifteen years away just because no one thought well enough to help them. Or because he was too damn stubborn to accept it."
Peter's mouth snapped closed.
The two stared at each other for a long moment, before Peter whispered with a small frown. "I'm seventeen."
The angry glare that had been on Joe's face suddenly fell, and a smile broke across his face as he laughed. "Well my mistake then," he said.
Joe leaned down and pulled something out of his bag. He moved back up and placed a camera on the table, the one he had been testing out on the rooftop that morning. "Here," he said, pushing it towards Peter. "I don't have any need for this, so you can have it."
Peter's brows furrowed together. He stared at the camera, then back up at Joe. "But – but you just got this fixed! It's an old camera; shouldn't it be in an antique store or something?"
Joe raised an eyebrow. "If 'an old camera' like that is an antique, what does that make me, hmm?"
Peter felt the colour rising in his cheeks, and he quickly tried to rectify what he'd said: "W-well, I didn't mean – I wasn't trying to say that you were old or anything, you're not – I swear! You're just kinda old, like, not Dick Van Dyke old, just Harrison Ford old!"
"You think I'm in my mid-seventies?"
Peter's eyes widened. "Wh-what? No! I meant – wow, is he really that old? – no, I meant that you were just – you're just a lot older than me! You're not young! I mean, you're hair is starting to turn grey, but you still have some left, and – oh God…."
Peter dropped his head into his hands, wishing he were anywhere but here. He just had to go and let his mouth run, he just had to say that Joe was practically an old man and now he probably wouldn't want anything to do with him again; he'd probably pissed him off for good and now he would get up and yell at him and maybe even try to hit him, because that's what everyone who was pissed with him tried to do, and he'd have to run, and –
Booming laughter suddenly broke through the silence, and Peter tentatively looked up through his hands to see Joe's face overflowing with laughter. Joe kept laughing and laughing, until he brought up his hand to his face and wiped away a tear. "I like you, kid," he said, still chuckling. "I like you a lot. Now here – take the damn camera and I won't hear a single word otherwise. Besides, you're the one that fixed it. If you hadn't done that, it woulda just ended up in the garbage with the rest of the trash."
He pushed the camera towards Peter once more, and finally Peter acquiesced and took it in his hands. He looked it over, taking in the old features, noting the lack of screen. Definitely wasn't made in the 21st century.
"There's a fresh roll of film in there." Joe raised a brow and gave Peter a look, speaking very slowly: "A roll of film is what photographers used to use, back in the stone age, when –."
"I know what film is," Peter interrupted, ignoring the colour of embarrassment that was trying to rise again. He turned the camera around, staring at it thoughtfully. He had always been interested in photography, as a kid. He had always wanted to learn how people managed to take such amazing pictures of the night sky, or of the rays of the sun setting behind a building. But between school and after-class groups, and then with Spider-Man and the Avengers, well….
"Thank you," Peter finally said, releasing his breath.
"You're welcome," Joe replied. "Feel free to come back to the Bugle, and we'll see what you make out with. If you get something good, who knows? Maybe I can convince Jameson to put it in one of the weekend editions."
Peter blinked and looked up at Joe with furrowed brows. How could… how could he possibly… how could he ever repay –
"Just maybe come to the door next time, okay? No more rooftops on fifty-storey buildings." Joe furrowed his brows, shaking his head at Peter with a small smile, lifting his coffee to his lips. "How'd you even make it up there, anyway? Did you find an old fire-escape, or something like that?"
Peter gave a small smile. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Something like that."