"YES!"

After hours of hard work, cutting his fingertips on wires and pieces of metal, Peter had finally managed to get the broken heater to work. Putting his hands closer, Peter soaked in the heat from the machine, basking in its warmth.

Using the power unit from the Stark laptop, Peter had been able to fix the heater and even improve it a bit. Of course, this wasn't a permanent solution. But it was enough for now, and that was what mattered.

Peter stood back and admired his work. It was not his best work, but the best he could do with what he had. It was rustic, to say the least. Wires and metal were held together with duct tape and sheer will power. It would only last for so long, running on a used computer battery—it was inevitably going to fail at some point.

But it would work for now, that was all that Peter cared about.

Glancing over at the clock-tower, Peter saw it was 8:10pm. The sun had long since set over Queens and darkness had blanketed the city, with only the light from street lamps and LED signs keeping light over the town. It would only take around half an hour to get to the bar, but if he was a little early it surely wouldn't matter, right?

Standing up, Peter made sure to check his pockets for his money, just to make sure he still had it. Peter was too scared to leave it somewhere here just in case someone else snuck into his "home."

Along with the $10 bill, Peter pulled out the note from Steve. It was strange that someone offered him help so easily—just because he looked like he needed it.

It had never happened to Peter before. Even after Ben died, when he looked like he had been hit by a bus everyday at school and had the reminisce of tear stains on his checks, no teachers ever checked on him. No one asked if he was ok. Only Ned. May was dealing with losing her husband, so Peter couldn't blame her for not focusing on him. But he couldn't help but wish more people were there from him during that time. Perhaps then his overwhelming guilt wouldn't have forced him to put his health on the line everyday to help save people.

Of course, Peter didn't regret becoming Spider-Man. He loved helping people with every fibre of his being. He loved the relief in people's faces when he arrived to help them. The smiles he got when he was swinging through Queens. But he couldn't help but wish the circumstances of him becoming a hero were different. That it did not take a tragedy for him to step up.

Then again, no heroes are ever happy, are they?

Every hero has their secret struggles they would rather not show the world. Most had some form of PTSD, with trust issues and panic attacks being more common than a good night's sleep. And yet—Peter didn't regret becoming a hero. Why didn't he regret becoming a hero?

Everything that had happened to him, the things he lost; friends, family, his own health. So much could have been avoided if he had just kept his head down. Deep down, Peter knew he should regret it. That he should wish for a normal life. But he rarely did. If he didn't help, who would?

Shaking the thought from his head, Peter climbed out his window and began his walk to work.

It was almost pitch black down some streets, if not for his enhanced vision he would have tripped over everything in sight on his way. Avoiding eye contact as much as humanly possible Peter continued down road after road until finally made his way to the bar.

He could hear the voices inside coming from inside the building. A thin line of light shone out onto the street from under the door. Gathering a breath from deep inside his lungs, Peter entered.

The sounds of those in the bar filled his ears as he walked deeper into the building and up to the bar. Those around him gave him an old, sneering look before going back to their own business. No one seemed to care much about a 15-year-old-looking kid walking into the bar. Shows the kind of people they are.

He caught the eye of Weasel, who smiled at seeing him and called Peter over to behind the bar.

"Spider! Good to see you ain't dead. With your stick-like body I thought you might blow away in the wind on the way here or some shit," The bar-owner laughed out, clasping Peter on the shoulder with his right hand.

Peter forced out a laugh in return before responding "Nope, all here. So what can I do?" He gestured around to the bar as he spoke.

"You'll go between working the bar and cleaning tables. Wherever I need you really. You got any moral code preventing you from serving drinks, kid?" Asked the man, sarcastically.

Deep down, Peter did. Tony and May had given him every lecture under the sun about the dangers of under age drinking and drugs. That he shouldn't do it, but if he was then he should always talk to them. None of that mattered now.

"No, all good. Show me where the stuff is."

Weasel just gave Peter a smile in return. He began pointing out different alcohols around the bar as he made drinks for some customers. Different beers, spirits, prices and anything Peter could need—as well as where the recipe cards were for the cocktails and house specials.

Looking at one of the recipe cards, it didn't look too different from what he was used to doing in chemistry class or in the lab. If anything, it was exactly like that. All he needed to do was follow a recipe, efficiently and accurately, easy.

And so Peter's first ever job began.

Clearing tables and mixing drinks soon felt natural as his shift went on. He poured and mixed drink after drink. Every person who ordered from him seemed wary at first, as if he was going to spill or mess up their drink at any second. Though after tasting, their faces morphed from ridicule to surprise. If the people's response was anything to go by, apparently he was quite good at mixology.

Wouldn't Mr. Stark be so proud. Peter quickly shook the thought from his head.

When those he made drinks for returned to their table, their companions would come up and ask for the same—clearly wanting their own drinks made by the expert himself. Weasel seemed to notice, and quickly crossed over to the section of the counter Peter was working at. With a quirked eyebrow he asked:

"Make me something after that one, yeah?"

With a shrug, Peter poured the drink and passed it to the waiting customer. After which Peter went onto making Weasel's drink, picking up a random recipe called "old fashioned." Pulling out the ingredients; bourbon, bitters, and some others, he got to work. When he finished, Peter garnished it with an orange twist and a cocktail cherry, as per the instructions, and handed it to his boss. Eyeing the drink, he took a sip.

The blond man's eyes lit up as the cocktail hit his taste buds. Staring for a moment at the drink in his hand, then at Peter. He was worried for a moment that he had messed it up somehow, he couldn't afford to lose this job. He had only just got it after all. But all those worries slipped away as Weasel called out:

"Shit kid, this is good. Tastes like heaven had a kid with a bottle of bourbon, that sounds weird but trust me. You sure you haven't mixed drinks before?"

As he finished speaking, the man downed the drink in one go, slamming it into the table. Honestly, Peter was kinda impressed the glass didn't break. Beaming at the praise, despite the fact it was about illegally making drinks at an illegal bar where he had illegally gotten a job, Peter's smile shone out into the room.

"No, sir. Never. But it's basically chemistry, right," Peter said as he collected an empty glass from the bar and put it into the wash. A few men who were sitting in bar stools gave a laugh at Peter's response. One even asked:

"You a smart kid, ah…"

"Spider"

"Yeah, you a smart kid Spider?"

"I try."

The people seemed to accept his answer, going back to their own conversations. And so Peter's shift continued on without many problems. He cleared a few tables as more people entered. Mixing drinks every now and then and making sure everyone was happy seemed to make up most of his time at the bar. An hour or so later, a young woman in her early twenties walked up to the counter. Dressed in a short black dress with a leather jacket and gold necklace. Her hair was down in faint waves that came down to her shoulders.

She leaned on the bar, unable to get a seat and started to consider what she was going to order. Unknowingly to her, the man next to her was looking at her the same way Peter had seen tigers look at antelopes before they attacked on the Nature Channel. It was unsettling to watch.

The man in question had scars covering the left side of his face, his hair was pitch black and pushed back. He looked fit, if it wasn't for the muscle that could clearly be seen through his shirt, his attitude itself would have told anyone around not to mess with him.

With a creepy smirk, the scarred man slipped an arm around the woman's waist and roughly pulled her closer. The others sitting at the bar seemed to look away from the scene, clearly not wanting to get involved.

"Back off," the woman bit out.

"Make me." the man slurred out, clearly intoxicated but not quite drunk just yet.

"Fuck off." she said again, trying to push the man away from her. But the man held on, refusing to let her out of his grasp. His hand started to reach for her neck and she continued to try and pull back. Peter had seen enough, if no one else was going to stop him. He would. He may not be Spider-Man anymore, but he was still a person who could help.

"She said back off, dickhead," Peter growled, roughly grabbing the man's wrist before he could grab her.

"Piss off kid , this ain't your problem," he tried to shake off his grip, but Peter was strong. Despite being severely underfed, he was still twice as strong as the man in front of him. The man went forward to try and kiss the women. Peter was not having it.

Anger surged through Peter as he grabbed an empty glass and smashed it over the man's head, causing him to fall back onto the floor and finally letting go of the woman. The entire bar went deadly quiet. Throughout the entire night Peter had been nothing but sweet, and his malnourished form made him look much weaker than he was.

"She said back off. Get out." Peter said, his words dripping with rage, "Lay one finger on anyone and I'll cut your goddamn arm off."

Cradling his head, the man staggered out of the bar. The only sounds in the room being his dragging feet and the small drops of blood coming from his head.

"Not bad Spider," the same man from before said, raising his glass to him. Others around gave him a curt nod before going back to their conversations once again. Weasel staggered over, a look of pure joy on his face.

"The baby has some nerve, and some muscle apparently," laughing as he spoke, "you clean up the mess the dickhead left behind," he gestured to the drops of blood and broken glass that was scattered on the floor, "I will serve the lovely lady."

He walked over to the woman who was attacked before. Before leaving, Peter turned to the women and asked:

"You good?"

With the softest reminiscent of a smile she responded "Yeah, thanks. The guy was a douche."

Feeling okay to leave her be, Peter grabbed a bucket and a cloth from under the sink at the bar and began to clean up the mess. After that the bar was starting to die down. People began leaving and soon there were only a few lonely people sitting alone around the bar.

Weasel called Peter over and handed him $40.

"Consider the ten I gave you earlier as payment for taking care of that dude for me. You're stronger than you look."

With a forced laugh Peter responded, "The glass did most of the work."

With a roll of his eyes Weasel added, "Same time tomorrow, oh and here's the number for this shit show in case you ever get sick and can't come."

Scribbling on the back of a receipt with a pen, he handed Peter the note with the phone number for the bar. Thanking him, he stuffed it into his pocket.

"It's 1:30am right now, you gonna get home safe?" His boss asked with a hint of concern evident in his face and voice.

"Yeah all good, I promise not to die before my next shift."

"You stick to that, you just became my favourite employee."

Giving the man a mock salute, Peter exited the bar, walking past the few who remained who were drowning their sorrows in check spirits and beer. He wrapped his arms around himself as the cold of the night (morning?) hit him. He had a little while to walk before he got home but it gave him time to plan his day. That's when it hit him, he had his test for Stark industries today.

Excitement suddenly started to course through Peter's veins and he picked up his speed. He needed to get home as soon as possible. The more sleep he got, the more chance he would pass the test tomorrow.

He was a little nervous about the test. There was likely going to be a lot of people there, even some who were in college. Peter knew he was smart for his age, but he worried that in the grand scheme of things—his intelligence may have been greatly overstated.

What if he didn't get in?

His worried thoughts clouded his mind and put a damper on his once excited mood as he made his way home.

Climbing up the fire escape ladder up the side of his building, Peter realised this was his only chance to get a small sense of his old life back. He had to get in. He just had too.

Tucking himself into his makeshift bed, he pulled the blanket around him tighter. He just had to trust himself and his brain. Easy enough, right? And yet Peter couldn't help but feel butterflies in his stomach at the thought of the tests he was going to take later that day.

Great. Nerves.

Just what he needed.