Peter wasn't going to let May pay the rent all on her own. Not when there was the two of them, not when being Spider-Man made everything that much harder.
And if that meant washing scratched up dishes and scrubbing old blood from the tile grout at S...
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"The number you have called is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone."
Beep.
"Hi, Happy! It's, uh. It's Peter. Peter Parker. Um, sorry I called so late—uh, I'm just giving my report of the day? I helped an old lady cross the street and she got me a hot dog, which was super nice of her, and I stopped a couple carjackings and helped a kid find his way home!"
Peter glanced at his wrist. The web-shooters wrapped around like a simple black cuff and could be passed off as a bracelet if anyone asked, and he definitely felt safer with them always on instead of having to just rely on Mr. Stark's version of his suit whenever he was in trouble. The systems were awesome and Karen was always nice to talk to, but... it still wasn't his own work. Not that he had the money or materials to make his design his own, but the cuffs were products of a systematic dumpster diving behind a few electronic stores over the span of a few weeks.
Beneath his left cuff was a battered watch.
It read 11:13 pm.
He sighed quietly, sure to hold the phone away as he did so, then brought it back to his face and mustered as much enthusiasm as he could standing in the dark alleyway. His breath curled in a thick white mist in front of his face. The sleeves of his baggy blue hoodie were pushed to his elbows and the white apron around his waist was stained all sorts of red and brown and red.
He didn't shiver.
Cigarette smoke filled his nose from the puffs of the passersby, and on the first few days on the job it was almost as unbearable as the blood.
Nowadays...
"A-Anyway, just wanted to let you know I'm up for anything, really! If you ever need me, I'm there! Um, so, have a good night! Sorry again for calling so late!"
Peter tapped the red icon on his phone before shoving it into his back pocket and tried not to be too disappointed. After Germany, after the Vulture, after Coney Island, the radio silence had only settled. He still left voicemails every time Spider-Man went out regardless if Happy actually listened to them or not, but he knew it was probably the latter. That if anything, his ramblings were stacking up in the 'unread' box until it was time to clean them all out for more storage.
He really wanted to stop leaving voicemails. But if he did, wouldn't Happy think something was up? Then he'd tell Mr. Stark and maybe they'd find out about his new job and—
Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes with the bottom of his palms.
Right. As if Mr. Stark and Happy cared enough to check up on him. They had better things to worry about than some fifteen year old vigilante, didn't they?
He looked back down at his watch. 11:18 pm.
Brown work boots clunked on the snow-melted pavement towards the back door he propped open with an empty beer bottle—seriously, he had to talk to Mr. Weasel about investing in some stoppers or something—and slipped back into the kitchen where the old woman at the stove was making some of the greasiest wings Peter had ever seen. And he saw a seagull in an oil spill once.
