Chapter Text
Peter is opening his email for the first time in several days at 5:37 PM, which he's decided to be a much more comfortable time than usual (his "usual" being right after patrol, aka just before sunrise, while sweating, panting, and nursing something along the lines of a broken rib).
He's been moving into his apartment for the past couple of days and is almost done attending college orientation, so, to the surprise of absolutely no one, all of his inboxes have blown up. His school email, his spam email, his regular email, his Spidey email, and… huh?
"That's weird," he mutters to himself, switching back to the tab he'd intended to close immediately. Normally, his personal email is empty, because no one sends emails anymore to chat casually, and only a handful of people know his personal email anyways. And yesterday, around noon, one of those people decided to email Peter.
RE: College
From:[email protected] To:[email protected]
Hey kid,
Just wanted to check in and see how college was treating you. I'd text, but Pepper's been on my ass about work and emails, and I need to keep up appearances. Email me back whenever, I know you kids don't check your inbox as much as you should.
Regards,
Tony Stark
Hm. How was college treating Peter? Well, let's recap:
Peter Parker is in his first year of college after taking several gap years, constantly dodging SHIELD recruitment, and is has made no plans for keeping his secret identity an actual secret with his new college life and roommate. His head has also been screwing with him lately, lots of "you're a failure", and not a lot of "you're doing your best!". So:
RE: College
From:[email protected] To:[email protected]
Hi Mr Stark!
Everything's going great, I love it here! And the email thing is good, I crushed my burner during patrol again and accidentally dropped my other phone while trying to text you for a new burner :P Anyways yeah, things are awesome 👍 Are things okay at SI? I thought Pepper was the CEO now and you basically don't have to work anymore.
—
Peter Parker
And here's the thing; when Peter sent that email, all of its contents were entirely true. Peter may have several major problems plaguing his ass, but things are always like that. Parker Luck, you know? So, constant major problems aside, things really are going great, and Peter really does love it at college.
30 minutes later, however, and that statement held up about as well as a soggy piece of bread under six airplanes and an elephant because, as nice as this little intro to his life has been, it fails to encapsulate how utterly fucked Peter is.
Peter Parker was supposed to die one year ago, but instead of floating peacefully in The Eternal Void, he’s waiting in line at the college cafeteria, holding his plate above his head in an effort to avoid it getting knocked clean out of his hands by the swarm of other students surrounding him.
Funny how life works out sometimes.
He slides his plate up to the register, and takes out his student ID, feeling out of his depth. He hasn't been in a cafeteria in years. Why did he think college was a good idea again?
“Meal plan?” the cashier asks. Peter nods and swipes his ID, about to leave the line when he hears:
“Sorry, you’re out of meals for the week.”
“What?” I’m on the 14 meal plan, and it’s only Wednesday, that’s impossible!
“I— I don’t have my credit card,” he stammers out nervously, clutching the edges of his tray as his eyes nervously flitted around the cafeteria. The line is building up behind Peter, and he feels the back of his neck flush red with shame.
“I’ll let you go, kid, but don’t let it happen again,” the cashier says, waving him along with a bored expression.
Peter smiles, choking out a quick thank you as he rushes out of the cafeteria, paper plate piled high and balanced precariously on one hand as he fumbles around in his pocket to grab his keys. His apartment is basically on-campus, so the walk is quick. Before he knows it, he's tapping his thigh anxiously while standing alone in the elevator, and then jamming his keys into his apartment door. He places the plate down on his desk as he sits, pulling out his laptop to check his student meal plan, and, sure enough, ten meals a week glares at him through the student portal.
“Ten meals… okay, okay, I can make that work,” he mutters. Ten meals a week. Ten meals a week for the hero of New York, who was supposed to be recovered from his disordered eating bout back when he was in high school. If he had a job, he could buy supplementary food, but he doesn’t, and he’s not about to go knocking on Tony’s doorstep like a wide-eyed Victorian orphan begging for bread and gruel. He’s wolfing down his last meal before he can think any better of it, his hunger winning over his long-term planning abilities.
Well, shit. It’s Wednesday, and he’s out of meals for the week, apparently. And he’s got fucking orientation tomorrow again.
It’s literally his first week of college, and Parker Luck is already screwing him over.
He goes to bed that night wondering if he could ask his roommate Nathan for some food, but decides against it. As far as he knows, Nathan is just as broke as he himself is.
This is fine, Peter tells himself as he gets ready the following morning. Ten meals a week, that’s fine. You used to have an eating disorder, Peter, you can deal with ten meals a week.
Yeah. This is fine. He just has to wait until Sunday, when his weekly meals renew, and then he’ll work out a new eating schedule, and everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.
Totally.
Everything is so not fine.
He faints in the middle of patrol on Friday night, and has to frantically reassure Karen that he’s okay, he knows his blood sugar is down, he just forgot to eat dinner, and what the hell is a ketone reading? You must be getting it wrong, I’ve totally eaten in the past twenty-four hours!
A police squadron tries to capture him that night after he apprehends a burglar. The officers in the patrol cars don’t even look like they’re trying, their bored expressions and dulled demeanor giving away that this is just another HQ-mandated “please for the love of God get Spider-Man into custody on accounts of vigilantism so we can study his DNA”.
Pfft. As if Peter would ever let that happen.
He swings in a stuttered, swaying pattern, brought on by his hungry exhaustion, thanking every god in existence for having nothing to do on Saturday morning, because then he can sleep in and ignore the quiet boil of hunger in his chest. For now, though, he has to put on a brave face and pretend like he still feels attached to his body and fully in control of the way he swings from alleyway to alleyway. His eyes scan the streets, relieved to see that the police have given up their half-hearted chase. He stops a mugging and an assault on his way back to his apartment, and then swings into an alleyway about two blocks west of his place, where he'd webbed up his backpack.
Peter pulls the backpack free from the webbing before he peels his mask off of his sweaty face and slides down the (dirty, grimy, probably diseased) brick alley wall. He takes a second to catch his breath and recoup before actually putting on his clothes. He can't be bothered to slip out of the suit, so he just jams his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hopes that the red spandex crawling up his neck doesn't draw too many eyes as he begins his walk.
Peter takes the stairs up the complex, praying that he doesn’t wake up his roommate, and lets his exhaustion hit him all at once as he collapses into bed, still in his post-patrol clothes and with the suit underneath them.
He wakes up around 2 PM the next day. Luckily, he's got jack shit to do on Saturdays, so he sleeps for another half hour before dragging himself away from the comfort of his bed and taking a lukewarm shower because the water isn't heating right because the Universe hates Peter Parker forever. His spider suit is… fairly disgusting. He needs to get it cleaned again. He can't keep falling asleep in it after patrol.
Freshly showered and wearing comfortable clothes, he emerges from the bathroom, doing a quick once-over of the apartment to make sure Nathan isn't there before stashing the suit in its hiding spot. He has to wait until Sunday for his meals to renew, so he distracts himself by cracking open his laptop and checking his email.
RE: College
From:[email protected] To:[email protected]
Hi Mr Parker,
I believe I've asked you several times to call me Tony. I'm glad that things are going okay for you, and could you please stop breaking your phones? People are going to start thinking I'm embezzling with how much I spend on burners for you, unless you want to make a public statement that "Tony Stark is financing Spider-Man".
And yeah, things are fine with the business, but I'm still the figurehead or whatever. As much as I hate emails, I will fake it until I make Pepper see that emails are pointless and stupid (ours being the exception, of course).
Annoyed regards,
Tony Stark
P.S. Your new burner and personal phone are being shipped. Should be at your apartment by tomorrow morning. I'm going to keep emailing you until Pepper's done with this whole productivity schtick.
Peter debates sending an email back, but he's got other shit to do. Namely, back-to-school assignments. He's still got a while left before the cafeteria opens tomorrow. 10 AM Sunday. He's got it memorized.
He hadn't intended to patrol, but he really needs something to keep his mind off of his stomach before he crawls back to his laptop and sends something along the lines of "Mr. Stark I'm soooo hungry please pay for my new five gazillion meals a week plan".
Keep it together, Parker, he tells himself, shaking his head.
Patrol is uneventful, but still exhausting, considering that he's very much running on empty, and his mood is brought down when he notices this damn van that keeps tailing him, and one may think that he's overreacting to this van, so some context is needed to explain why it sends an immediate sense of annoyance and dread through him:
See, in the years following high school (but before college), Peter had been busy. Things weren't going well, hence college being postponed in the first place. It wasn't exactly a priority when May was in and out of the hospital on rounds of chemo. Peter took up freelance photography because he just couldn't get hired anywhere, and Tony… well he'd been none the wiser. He'll continue to be, if Peter has any say in the matter.
So, while this shitshow was going down, while Peter was desperate for money, this van started to tail him. Every patrol, no matter when or where, this damn van kept showing up. It was black, unmarked, and relatively slow-moving, so he has no idea how it managed to keep up with him—
That's not the point, though. The point is, this van was always following him, until one day, on the eve of Peter's 21st birthday, the van came to a stop in the alleyway Peter had been hoping to change in. Three men stepped out, one dressed in a grey suit, the other two in tactical gear. Peter, still in costume, eyed them suspiciously.
"Spider-Man," Mr. Grey Suit Guy said, "I'm contacting you on behalf of SHIELD—"
"What do you want," Spider-Man gritted out, keeping his perch on the alley wall.
"SHIELD is interested in recruiting you, seeing as you're currently a rogue vigilante with no ties to any organization," Mr. Grey Suit Guy explained. Right. As if Peter believed that.
"You are operating outside of the law," Mr. Grey Suit Guy continued, "If you agree to work under SHIELD, you'd be protected, as you would no longer be a rogue. The police would no longer be able to persecute you—"
"Not interested," Peter said flatly. He knows the ties the Avengers have with SHIELD. He knows that, technically, SHIELD could be classified as "the good guys". SHIELD is also a government agency, and those tend to be notorious for wanting to recruit, study, or contain "dangerous" mutates such as Peter, and Peter simply couldn't afford to be contained right then. He had an aunt to take care of and bills to pay and people to save.
"We would appreciate it if you would at least consider a partnership," Mr. Grey Suit Guy said. Peter shook his head, grabbed his backpack from where he had webbed it up earlier, and began to creep up the alley wall. He had kept an eye on the three men the whole time, right up until he reached the roof of the building and swung over it in a single, fluid motion, disappearing into the night.
The story may seem anticlimactic, but just. Just put yourself in Peter's shoes, here: Your only surviving relative is dying of cancer, you're essentially broke and relying on taking photos of yourself for money, you were supposed to start college years ago but can't because of all this shit, and then these asshats who've been tailing you with a black van interrupt you right before you're about to change clothes to ask if you've heard of our lord and savior, The Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division (SHIELD).
So, that's the context for the van. It stopped showing up after that interaction, and Peter had been under the belief that either SHIELD had given up, or simply stopped caring, but now, three years, a dead aunt, and a suicide attempt later, the SHIELD van had the audacity to show up again on Peter's Saturday evening patrol.
It's been a long first week of school.
He gets back to his apartment and, similar to the previous night, collapses into his bed immediately, sighing contentedly at the knowledge that, a few short hours from now, he'd be waking up on Sunday with access to a whole 'nother ten meals from the cafeteria. Right before falling asleep, he grabs his laptop and boots up his email, typing haphazardly from his bed.
RE: College
From:[email protected] To:[email protected]
im literaly about o go to sleep but thanskn so mcuh goodnight !!!
RE: College
From:[email protected] To:[email protected]
Get some sleep, kid!
He was able to make do with leftover snacks squirreled away under his bed from orientation and treats handed out by civilians during patrol. He’s not sure if there’s much he can do past that, considering his lack of income. Exhaustion floods his brain, but sleep doesn't come easy. He dreams of black vans and men in suits. He dreams of an interaction he had many, many years ago.
“Peter, I promise, you won’t have to deal with SHIELD at all,” Tony had said, absentmindedly tapping away at one of his screens. “You’re too young. Hell, I wouldn’t even let their employees come within 500 feet of you.”
Peter’s foot still tapped nervously against the tile of Tony’s lab. He cursed when he realized he’d accidentally snapped his pencil in half again, and put it down on the desk he was sitting at with an air of defeat. His homework seemed to radiate malice, like it was specifically created to disrupt his (very important! Spider-Man! Tony Stark intern!) life.
“And when I’m not too young?” Peter asked, looking up. Tony’s eyes are still on the screen.
“What about it?”
“I could be arrested, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, feeling his chest twist with a familiar anxiety. “Or otherwise contained. Studied.”
Tony sighed quietly, dismissing a screen panel to his left side so he could look directly at Peter.
“All SHIELD knows about you is that you’re a minor, and that you’re being supervised by Tony-friggin’-Stark,” he said, raising an eyebrow and emphasizing his name. “They’re not allowed to detain, question, or experiment on you, and they know they won’t be able to because you are, basically, my ward. I wouldn’t let them do a damn thing to you.”
Peter nodded, still uncertain, but somewhat reassured.
“Speaking of being a minor, someone hasn’t finished their homework yet,” Tony sing-songed, looking pointedly at the pile of broken pencils and the single algebra sheet in front of Peter. Peter’s lips flattened into a pinched, frustrated line, and he exhaled forcefully.
“Fine,” he muttered, grabbing another pencil from his backpack. He went through a 24-pack of Ticonderoga pencils that day. New record!
“Oh, and Pete?” Tony asked, swiping on his screens to bring up whatever panel he’d been working on earlier. Peter looked up from his algebra, curious.
“You’ve got human rights, whether SHIELD likes it or not, and you’ve got a very rich man with very expensive lawyers ready to defend those rights. Got it?”
Peter let a brief smile flit over his face before turning back to his homework, trying to hide the persistent sinking feeling in his gut.
“Got it,” he murmured.
Human rights, human rights. Funny things. Do they still apply if it can be proven that you’re not 100% human? He’d meant to ask Tony that day. He knows he doesn’t fall under actual mutant law, because he’s technically a mutate, but how would he even prove that? Would SHIELD even care?
Peter wakes up early in a cold sweat. Five more hours until the cafeteria opens. He tries to fall back asleep, just to ride out the waves of hunger before he can have those awful, greasy sausages and soggy eggs. His chest burns.
You used to have an eating disorder, Peter, you can deal with this, he reminds himself. He can tell already that it’s going to become a constant in the background noise of his mind. You can deal with this. You can deal with this.
Oh, but he so can’t deal with this.