Peter wakes when a slice of sunlight falls directly across his face. He doesn't open his eyes right away. For once, his comforter is not absolutely stifling; normally it's so hot and humid in the foreman's office that he just lies on top of it until sometime in the small hours of the morning, when it is finally cool enough to crawl back underneath. But today must be unseasonably cold, because he is tucked comfortably within it, and he can't remember waking up in the middle of the night. Peter rolls over, thinking he might try to catch up on some of the sleep he missed, wondering how angry Mr. Delmar will be if he is late for his shift…
And as soon as he moves, the memory of the day before comes rushing up to meet him. The phone card, the explosion at Mr. Delmar's, nearly being caught by Mr. Stark. And—
Peter sits up abruptly, and whacks his head on the underside of Ned's bed.
Groaning, hand pressed to his throbbing forehead, Peter disentangles himself from the blankets on the floor and stands up. He is in Ned's bedroom. Ned is in the bed beside him, still asleep, even though the sharpness of the sunlight cutting through the window, still open from when Peter crawled through it last night, suggests morning has already come and gone. Sure enough, when he glances at the alarm clock on Ned's nightstand it is 12:30pm.
"Shit," Peter whispers.
He grabs Ned's shoulder, shakes him. Ned rolls over, blinking blearily, but the haze of sleep is quickly replaced by relief.
"Oh, good," he says, yawning. "You're still here. I thought it was gonna be a dream or something."
"Ned," says Peter, "we way overslept, man, it's past noon."
Ned glances at the clock, totally unperturbed. He yawns again.
"It's Saturday," he says.
His eyes start to slide closed. Peter shakes him again.
"Ned. Dude, your mom is gonna—"
"It's fine, it's fine." Still, Ned sits up, stretches. "I always sleep past noon on Saturday. That's what Saturdays are for."
Peter blinks. The only reason he keeps track of the days of the week anymore is so he knows what night to visit the girls; beyond that, it doesn't make a difference if it's a weekend or weekday.
He hasn't slept past sunrise in over five months.
Peter looks down. He looks tiny, dressed in a pair of Ned's sweatpants and his Midtown High gym t-shirt, but besides the fact that he doesn't exactly cut an intimidating figure, he feels better than he has felt in weeks, at least physically. Hungry, sure, but Peter is always hungry. Usually, that hunger comes along with exhaustion.
When he looks back up, feeling a little dazed, Ned is getting out of bed, shuffling around the room picking up the bedding, removing evidence of Peter's unsanctioned sleepover. As he stuffs the blankets away, he says,
"Okay. We obviously can't do this thing here. My mom is gonna wonder why I haven't emerged from my room eventually, and it's not like I can tell her Spider-Man crawled through my window in the middle of the night. So here's the plan. I'll go make up some school project or study session or something, you sneak out through the window, we meet at a second location. Yes?"
The dazed feeling intensifies. Ned is talking to him like it's the most normal thing in the world, like the universe didn't get turned on its head yesterday.
Peter says, "What?"
"Our deal," says Ned happily. Now he is getting dressed. "You have to hang out with me, and I have to help you with your suit." He points at the suit, draped across the foot of his bed, and groans longingly, but doesn't touch. It looks like an effort, but Peter knows what Ned is doing; he's holding Peter to his word.
Peter shakes himself, trying to shake away the sense of surreality that comes from waking up in an air-conditioned apartment, with his best friend beside him. It takes some serious focus, but some of the dazedness lifts. Peter starts to smile; Ned is waiting, watching him eagerly, innocently. Like he doesn't care where Peter has been—like all that matters is that Peter is standing in front of him now.
Peter feels a rush of affection so powerful he has to work for a few moments before he trusts himself enough to speak without his voice cracking.
"Okay," he says. "Where should we meet?"
"Can we meet at your warehouse? Is it like a secret lair, like the Bat Cave? Do you have other gadgets there? Did Mr. Stark make you, like, a Spider-Cycle? Can I see it?"
"A—what?"
"I don't know. Like a motorcycle, but with a spider logo on the side. And it shoots venom or something. Wait, do you shoot venom?"
"Ned. No. And when have you ever seen Spider-Man on a motorcycle?"
"I don't know dude, I don't know what you've been doing all this time. Can you grow an extra set of arms?"
"Ned. No. "
"How about like, spider mind control? Can you summon an army of spiders?"
"Ned." Peter crosses the room, grabs him by the shoulders. "Focus, please. What were you saying about the suit?"
Ned takes a deep breath.
"We need somewhere with electricity," he says. "And WiFi, preferably. And somewhere no one is gonna bother us."
"That rules out the warehouse," says Peter. "Uh—no WiFi."
He doesn't mention that he does not have electricity, either. Or running water. Peter loves his makeshift shelter—for him, the warehouse means safety—but he has the feeling from the way Ned is talking his friend is imagining something very different from the dilapidated file cabinets and ratty nest of blankets piled under the mouldering desk that Peter calls home.
It feels good, for once, to have someone think that Peter is in charge, in control. Not only does he not want to lose that, he also doesn't want to give Ned any reason to question the story Peter fed him last night.
He doesn't want Ned to question the reason Peter decided to leave Skip's. And if he sees the truth of how Peter is living…
"The library," says Peter firmly. "The main branch, on Fifth."
Ned raises an eyebrow.
"That's kind of a haul, Peter."
Peter grips Ned's shoulders a little tighter. "Ned, you know how happy I am to have you back, right?"
"Yes," says Ned. "And you're also super lucky to have me. You know that, right?"
Ned is grinning cheekily, like this whole thing is a wildly fun ride, like the roller coasters on Coney Island, where Ben used to take them during the summer: thrilling, but not actually dangerous. It makes Peter want to smile too, but he suppresses the urge. Because this is serious, and it is dangerous: it is why he didn't want to tell Ned in the first place. One of the reasons, anyway.
"I am lucky, dude," he says. "But listen, if you're gonna do this with me, we have to be careful , okay? Nobody knows who I am except you. Even Mr. Stark doesn't know I'm a kid, and if he did… Look, the point is, we have to be stealthy. We can't hang out anywhere we might be recognized, got it?"
Ned's face, far from losing its enthusiastic glow, brightens even further.
"Secret mission," he says. "Awesome. Yes. Okay. Stealth, I love it. So—you get a head start and I'll take the train and meet you in like, a couple hours. Hey—" He grabs Peter's arm, because Peter has already started to turn away, reaching for the suit. "Can I be your guy in the chair?"
"My what?"
"You know. In the movies, the hero always has a tech guy behind the scenes, running the whole mission from his computer chair. Can I be yours?"
"Uh, sure. Yeah. But—stealthily, right?"
"Oh, for sure."
Peter once again turns for the suit.
"Peter."
He turns back. Ned is looking at him so seriously that for a second Peter holds his breath, thinking Ned is about to raise another concern about Peter's secret double life, like he did last night.
"Do you lay eggs?"
Peter has never felt more grateful for Ned Leeds in his entire life.
It takes some doing, but Peter eventually disentangles himself from Ned's web of unending questions long enough to don the suit and sneak back out the window. He doesn't head for the library right away, but rather back toward the alley near Mr. Delmar's, where he left his backpack the night before. He is relieved to see it is still there; less relieved when he opens it and finds that someone has removed the small pile of cash from the bottom. He swallows a bitter surge of panic at the thought of another forty bucks gone—he has to save face for Ned now, not just for himself—and pulls his street clothes on in place of the suit. At least he still has his Iron Man shirt.
He passes the bodega on his way out of the alley. There is caution tape strung all the way around it, and around the bank across the street, and half a dozen construction workers linger around the gash through the front entrance which, in the daylight, looks like the dark mouth of a sleeping monster. Their uniforms all have Stark Industries logos. Mr. Delmar is there, too, speaking to one of the members of the cleanup crew.
His back is turned; he doesn't see Peter. And Peter, ducking his head, pretends not to see him either.
"Wha-bam." Ned drops a grocery bag on the table in front of Peter, making him jump. "My mom might have her flaws, but never say she let me go hungry."
Peter perks up at the scent of salt and chicken. The good sleep he got last night carried him as far as the library—and faster than Ned, leaving him with the task of finding a table that is sufficiently hidden from view but still has access to a power cord, at which he is now sitting—but sleep could only do so much to keep hunger at bay. By the time Ned drops the grocery bag in front of him, Peter is starting to feel sick from it; he didn't have time to go grab anything from the warehouse before coming here. He tries to hide his relief and enthusiasm as Ned pulls out two massive tupperware containers of rice and meat, but there is no need: Ned shoves both of them toward him.
"She's on a whole cultural appreciation kick," he says, throwing chopsticks at Peter, who catches them. "She's only making food from 'the homeland,' and don't get me wrong, I'm all about that rice life, but if I have to eat any more adobo I'm going to start bleeding soy sauce." He pulls a candy bar out of his bag, holds it up. "I'm good, man, that's all yours."
He busies himself setting up his laptop while Peter digs in. It's only when he's finished the first container and is contemplating the second—wanting to eat it, but battling the ghoulish instinct that tells him to save it—that Peter realizes Ned might have used soy-sauce blood as an excuse to give his portion away; a suspicion that is solidified when Ned tosses half the candy bar at Peter.
Peter's gratitude for his friend quadruples, overwhelming even the ghoul. He eats the second container, and the candy bar, and only when he is so full he feels like he might burst does he glance over his shoulder to ensure they are alone, then reach into his bag and pull out the suit.
Ned groans when Peter places it in his hands.
"It's like touching the Mona Lisa," he says. "I feel like I should be arrested right now."
"Do you think you can hack into it?"
"Who do you think you're talking to?" says Ned. He has already found the suit's main USB connection, and he plugs it into his computer, cracking his knuckles as he does. "Sit back, my man, and let the guy in the chair do his work."
For the next half hour Ned is quiet, in a way he only ever is when he is at work on a project like this one. It's not a relief: the library is almost silent, and it's a silence his brain seems determined to fill. Memories of the night before come screaming to the forefront—the loss of his job, yes (what are you going to do now, Peter?) , but mostly of his unexpected meeting with Mr. Stark on the roof of his old apartment building.
What did Mr. Stark mean when he said he'd "look into it?" And what would he find when he did?
A snort of laughter jolts Peter out of his reverie: he looks at Ned.
"What?"
"Nothing," says Ned. "Well—look. There's a lot of subsystems in here, but they're all turned off by something called 'The Training Wheels Protocol.'"
"What? " Peter clambers to his feet, rounds the table to stand over Ned's shoulder. Sure enough, the words 'Training Wheels' are splashed amidst the code in red letters. "Turn it off!"
"I'm… not sure that's such a good idea, Peter," says Ned, though he's still laughing. "Dude, are you sure he doesn't know how old you are?"
A reply rises automatically—of course he doesn't know—but it gets stuck in Peter's throat.
Is he sure? Peter has been careful. He's covered his tracks, as far as he can tell, but… but this is Tony Stark they're talking about. The smartest man in the world, and the richest. Maybe even the most powerful. If he wanted to know who Peter was, how old he was, he could figure it out in a second, and what proof does Peter have that he hasn't? The fact that he said he wouldn't?
A sharp, painful feeling has arisen in Peter's chest. It feels like the beginnings of an asthma attack—no. It feels like it did last night, just before he blacked out in the alley.
If Mr. Stark knows, why pretend he doesn't? To mess with Peter? To make him feel safe under false pretenses just so he can spring the truth on him when his guard is down, the way Skip did? And if he does know, then—then he really doesn't care. Doesn't care what's happened to Peter, where he's been, where he's living, because none of that matters as long as Peter does what he's good for and keeps his mouth shut—
(Shut up. Don't pretend you don't want this)
— and maybe Peter has been a fool this whole time, thinking he can get their attention by doing enough good. Maybe they've already gotten everything they wanted and now—
"Peter?"
Peter jumps. Ned has put a gentle hand on his arm, which Peter has unconsciously clenched into a painful fist at his side. He unclenches immediately, but it takes a second of staring into Ned's concerned face before he remembers himself, remembers where he is, and what they're doing there.
"Turn it off," he says again, more firmly this time. "He's just treating me like a kid, dude. It's fine, just… turn it off."
"Peter… you are a kid."
Peter flexes his hand at his side. It is still shaking.
"No," he says, "I'm really not."
Ned might be a little ridiculous when it comes to the superhero stuff, but he more than lives up to the hype when it comes to the computer stuff. By late afternoon he has turned off the Training Wheels Protocol and found the tracker, which Peter has carefully removed. They leave the library and walk to the wide lawn of Columbia's quad at Peter's behest, where Peter uses a piece of gum to stick it to a lamp pole.
"Okay Mr. Stark," says Peter. "Have fun tracking this lamp."
He and Ned leave, Peter feeling a little guilty but mostly elated, and just a tiny bit defiant. If Mr. Stark really doesn't care who he is, then why does it matter where he is?
Emergency-activate that.
Ned pays for them both to take the train back to Queens where, true to his word, Peter spends what remains of the afternoon with him. Neither one of them has much money so mostly they just roam, visiting old haunts, wandering in and out of comic book stores and coffee shops and bodegas without ever buying anything, and while they wander they talk. Ned tells Peter about school—apparently Peter's disappearance was hot gossip for a while but by the time the new year rolled around it had died down some. Everyone thinks Peter was 'troubled,' just like the counselor. Nobody was really surprised he ran away. Liz seemed sad though, Ned adds, as though to apologize for everyone else.
Peter tries to conjure up some feeling for Liz being sad that he disappeared. Ten months ago he would have been thrilled at the notion that someone like Liz even thought about him, let alone missed him. Today, however, Peter feels nothing. It doesn't matter what Liz thinks. It doesn't matter what anyone thinks, except Ned. If Ned doesn't hate him, that's enough.
When Ned is done with his side of the last five months, Peter fills in his own. He goes into more detail about his activities as Spider-Man—and, okay, maybe he embellishes a little, plays up the knife fights and plays down the giving directions to old ladies and stuff, but, well, it's nice. Nice to have someone look at him, without his mask, and still think he's a hero.
It's also weird. Peter doesn't really realize it until he starts talking about all the things he's done with his mask on, but in all the time he's been on his own he's spent more time in the mask than he has out of it. In fact, this is the first afternoon he can remember he hasn't spent patrolling. He's been so afraid of what he will feel like if he's just Peter all over again, the thought of just… not putting on the suit, not going out… it's never crossed his mind.
But after what happened last night, it is, weirdly, almost a relief.
But the relief is short-lived. By that evening Peter has almost finished his Spider-Man stories and Ned has led him, almost unconsciously, to the cheap Thai place Peter himself sometimes visits, where they grab a table and Ned orders two cartons of noodles before Peter can even think to stop him, though Ned seems to catch the look of panic on Peter's face as the waiter takes the order to the kitchen.
"It's on me," he says. "What did I say about my mom not letting me go hungry? She never lets me leave the house without enough cash to survive a small apocalypse, it's fine."
For the first time since they left the library, though, Ned gives Peter a doubtful glance, and Peter has to work to swallow the disquiet that arose at the thought of paying the bill. Any bill.
Ned clears his throat and, thankfully, changes the subject.
"Anyway, it sounds like you're doing awesome stuff dude. I mean, not that I was really worried about all that stuff on the news—I mean, hello, we all have video evidence like, right there—but it's nice to know—"
Peter chokes halfway through a sip of water, comes up sputtering.
"What?" he says. "What do you mean—what news stuff?"
"Uh…" Ned is half laughing, half incredulous. "You're not serious, right? You do know all the stuff the news has been saying about you, don't you?"
Before Peter can reply, he pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket and spends a moment pulling something up, then holds it out to Peter. Peter snatches it and then stares, brow furrowed, at the screen for what feels like a full minute, trying to comprehend the headline in front of him:
SPIDER-MENACE STRIKES AGAIN!
Eyewitnesses report seeing the masked so-called vigilante assisting in an armed bank robbery. When will the city take a stand?
"I wasn't—that wasn't—I was trying to help!"
To his shock, when he looks up, Ned is still battling a hint of laughter.
"That's not funny, man! Half the city is gonna think I'm some sort of criminal!"
Now Ned grits his teeth, grinning guiltily. "To be honest, dude, I think half the city already does. I mean, not really," he hastens to add, when Peter's eyes go wide. "Nobody really takes it seriously, otherwise they'd come after you and stuff, and it's only like, The Bugle and The Sun that publishes that junk, everyone knows they're garbage. But… you really didn't know? You have a rep, Peter."
"I—how? All I do is stop muggers and change tires, how can they think I'm a villain? "
"I mean… I guess a lot of people have said you let criminals go? So, like, The Bugle started saying you might be working with some of them and stuff? It's BS man, I told you, most people know you're just helping. But…"
Peter groans and leans back in his seat, hands over his eyes. He does let a lot of people go, just like he did for Mickey. But only the ones who haven't hurt anyone, and who aren't armed. He always webs up the dangerous ones for the police, always. He just… doesn't like ruining people's lives for no good reason. And now people think he's the bad guy?
"This is a nightmare."
"Hey." Ned reaches across the table, taps on it until Peter looks at him. "It's fine, man. I never believed any of that stuff, and neither do the people who are actually paying attention. And besides, you're Spider-Man, Peter. Who cares what people think?"
Peter lowers his hand, chewing his lip. Ned is right; Spider-Man was never about making people love him. It really wasn't even supposed to be about making people notice him, at least not until Mr. Stark came along. It was just about… not feeling so hopeless all the time. Feeling like he could actually make a difference. And he can still do that regardless of what The Daily Bugle says.
It's Mr. Stark that has him worried. Is that why he hasn't asked for Peter's help? Is that why he interrogated him on the rooftop, like he didn't think Peter could handle himself? Because he doesn't think Peter is trustworthy?
Or is it the other reason?
Is it because he knows?
"You know I would never… you know I'm only trying to help, right?" Peter says.
"Peter. Of course. I was a fan way before I knew it was you I was a fan of. And lots of other people are too." Ned's face splits into the widest grin Peter has seen all day. "Oh my God, I can't believe I didn't tell you sooner. You will never guess who your biggest fan is. It's Flash, dude."
Incredulity washes away worry. Together, Ned and Peter laugh away what remains of the day.
If there's one lesson Peter has learned from living on the streets, however, it's that lightness can only last so long—both literally and figuratively. As the sun begins to descend on the horizon, Ned is forced to make his way home, though before he leaves he does Peter one final favor: he buys him a phone card. Fifty dollars, which, Peter knows, is way more than his mom would have given him for a day's allowance. Ned has dipped into his own cash for this.
"Text me," he says, pressing the card into Peter's hand outside the entrance to the subway station. "I can't be your guy in the chair unless you have a way to talk to me, so use it."
For once, Peter doesn't object. Just closes his hand around the card and says softly, "Thanks Ned."
"I have a meet tomorrow," Ned says, "otherwise I would make you hang out with me again. But—soon, right?"
"Yeah," Peter agrees. "Soon."
"Okay." Ned pulls him into a quick, one armed hug. "Best day ever, right?"
"Best day ever," says Peter, and he watches as Ned descends the stairs, until he disappears beneath the city.
The slice of loneliness in Peter's chest and throat when he is gone is surprisingly sharp. He suddenly feels like he has spent the entire day on an alien planet. A different world, a better one. But now it is time to return to his own.
He should go back to the warehouse. This day has been fun—the best day Peter has had since Germany—but it hasn't stopped the press of responsibility rising at his back, which has been growing more forceful all day. He needs to count his money, check his food, start coming up with a plan for… for the rest of his life, he guesses. But he's not quite ready to totally abandon the feeling of companionability he had with Ned. Of normality.
For once, he's not ready to put the mask back on.
So he goes to the school instead. He restocks on web fluid, he takes a much-needed shower. He shoots hoops in the gym, and fiddles with the piano in the music room. And all the while he avoids listening to the ghoul, who had faded during the day but is back now, crouched on his shoulder and hissing lowly in his ear.
(I'll look into it.)
(Stay close to the ground.)
(You haven't been doing this very long.)
(When will the city do something about you? When are they finally going to recognize you for the bug you are and crush you like you deserve to be crushed? Maybe they already have. Maybe it's already coming. Maybe—)
"Shut up."
(Shut up, Peter, shut up. You know you want this. You've always been such a good—)
"Shut up!"
Unthinkingly, Peter brings his fist down on the piano. He feels the keys splinter under his hand.
"Shoot," he whispers, clenching his hand at his side again, clenching his eyes shut. "Shoot. Come on. Come on, Parker. Get it together. You can do this. You can think of something. You just have to focus."
He can. He can do this. He has Ned now; he can figure out the rest. He can find another job if he has to, and figure out the food, and he can do it all while keeping the other things secret, the important things, because he's done it before. As for Mr. Stark…
He doesn't know. He can't. And even if he does—even if he thinks Peter is just some dumb kid, a know-nothing who trusts too easily and lets too many people go—well, Peter can take care of that too.
When his hands are steady again, Peter pulls his phone out of his pocket, loads the card, and opens his texts.
Hey Happy, he writes, it's Spider-Man. Tell Mr. Stark I'm sorry I freaked out on him. I'm fine, and he doesn't have to worry about what happened. I've got everything under control. U can still call me if you need anything. I'm around. :)
He sends it, shuts the phone, and expels a short, sharp breath through his nose.
He can take care of himself.
He always has.
And if he has to prove it to Mr. Stark—he will.
Peter heads home.