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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.

"I'm back from my break!"

"Oh good, take these out to the leather jackets out there, wouldya', dear?" Granny Sal gestured to some plates on her left. She'd never said how old she was but Peter was sure she had to be pushing eighty. He didn't know how she could keep up in a place like this, but the last time someone got thrown into the kitchen when a fight started up and she'd broken a ladle on the side of his head to knock him out cold, he was reassured enough that she was probably in here for a reason. "We've got a real riot tonight. A whole group came back alive and they're splittin' the betting money."

"Gotcha, Ms. Sal."

"Sweetie, please. Call me Granny."

"Sure thing, Ms. Granny."

She chuckled and swiped the back of his head. He grinned and sidestepped away.

Peter balanced six plates on his arms and used his back to push through the door that separated the kitchen from the back of the bar. The moment he stepped out onto the floor, he was dodging almost drunk mercenaries and old, mismatched chairs until he made it to the tables pushed up at the far end.

Low hanging lights illuminated the otherwise dim and dingy building and the clacks of pool balls bounced off the brick walls. It definitely wasn't Delmar's, but there was a certain charm to the place. If someone was charmed by the scent of sweat and spilled beer.

"ey, Ferret!"

It was Ferret here. Not Peter. No real names unless you can cover your own ass, Mr. Weasel told him before he started his first night. And, well, it was better than anything else he could come up with himself. Besides, it wasn't like he would just walk into a bar like this with the words "It's Me, The Spider-man, Nice to Meet You" on his forehead.

"Christ kid, you still workin' 'ere?"

"Heh, thought you'd get run out after Jet fell on ya' couple weeks back."

"Hey guys," Peter greeted as he set down some hot wings, jalapeno poppers, and some other things caked in oil and breading. But the nachos, though. The nachos looked good. "And of course I'm still working here. The pay's good and you guys haven't tried to kill me yet so I mean, win-win? You get Ms. Granny's bar food and Mr. Weasel gets a guy to use the ladder to change the Dead Pool 'cause he's scared to do it himself."

A round of laughter echoed as Weasel yelled from behind the bar. "The ladder's a fucking hazard!"

"Then get a new one!"

"Who the fuck am I, Bill Gates? Between paying for not-broken chairs and cleaning up after your asses every night, I'm gonna need a whole lotta moo-lah and ladders aren't in the budget!"

"So I'm guessing that's a no on getting door stoppers?"

"Fuck outta here, Ferret. Actually, get your ass over here and change this goddamn board."

Peter sighed dramatically and turned back to the leather jackets gulping down their pints at the table. "Duty calls, gentlemen. Enjoy your cheesy, bready, wingy food."

He dodged even more mercs on his way back to the kitchen and came back out with the step-ladder his boss refused to even look at and set it up by the bar stools. As he climbed up and wobbled with a rag and a broken piece of chalk, Weasel leaned over the bar and glanced up.

A curtain of dirty blonde hair fell against the thick black frames of his glasses as he regarded the teen, humming and writing in the bets of the week. The kid was too cheery, too bright-eyed to even be within a mile of this place.

"Seriously though, the guys' got a point. You've been working here what, three months now? You're young, obviously, with that ridiculous fucking baby-face you've got goin' on and I'm sure some hipster coffee shop would love to put you in uniform and make you brew some venti mocha choco coconut crunch no whip the fuck," he said as he wiped down one of his glasses. "Still don't know how you found the job opening but for real, I'll give you an out."

Chalk dust spread over Peter's calluses as he bit his lip at Weasel's offer. He knew this job wasn't for everyone; it crossed the line of legality time and time again, and more often than not he saw body bags lugged out the back or bundles of thousands get passed beneath tables. His enhanced hearing let him know that aboutfive jobs will be worked during this shift, that Elijah who always ordered four pints got shot last week, that Dylan he first met three nights ago turned up dead with a bullet in his head and his assignment still loose on the streets.

If Spider-Man saw another fifteen year old kid in this very position, scrawling in names on a blackboard in the middle of Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls, the Hellhouse, he'd try to get that kid out of there as fast as he could.

But being a hipster barista didn't pay the bills.

Being Spider-Man didn't pay the bills.

"Thanks, Mr. Weasel, but I'm good," Peter shrugged. He practically slid down the ladder and gave his boss half a heart attack as he folded up the steel beast and hoisted it just enough above the ground to carry back. "Besides, you're the boss. I mean, uh, unless you want to fire me..."

Weasel eyed him for a long moment before he sighed and waved an unbothered hand. "You're quick on your feet and good with the crowd. Would be a pain in the ass to find a replacement the fuckers here don't wanna shoot."

Peter hid his smile as he ducked back into the kitchen and propped the ladder near the back door.

He heard the front door swing open at the end of the bar, followed by the arrival of Hellhouse's most notorious visitor.

"I'm back Wease! And I brought two day old tacos with me!"

Good ol' Wade.

"Don't wave that near me." And Ms. Domino, too. "I'd rather not have diarrhea just by association."

The rest of the night had him half on dish duty and half on serving duty and he was lucky the bar was filled with more of the usuals instead of the mercs from out of town who see him for the first time and think he's just another scrawny kid to push around. Now, he didn't want to blow his own bubble, but he may or may not have been the one who made a person-sized dent in the west wall a month back when someone got a little too in his face, but Weasel got a kick out of it and it put him in a lot of the patrons' good books, so, y'know. If it works.

And god, the tips?

Peter thumbed through the wad of cash he'd gotten for the night before he stuffed it in his jeans pocket and slung on his fraying winter jacket before he left for the night. Morning? Morning.

Mercs were probably the best tippers he'd ever met.

He wrapped his scarf tighter around his face and tugged his hood over his head as he walked the quickest route back to his apartment. Normally he'd swing back and get home without making May worry too much, but ever since he'd taken on the job he was afraid he'd fall asleep in the middle of shooting a web and take a nasty plummet into a cab or the side of a building.

So walking it was. At three in the morning. In New York. In December.

Which was absolutely fine. Totally. It wasn't like he was cold or anything—

Peter stepped on a piece of iced concrete and slipped.

"What the—!"

He jerked his wrist and shot a string of web on the nearest street light and yanked, pulling himself onto the curve above the bulb. His hands gripped the freezing metal as he stared at the spot that almost cracked his head. What the heck was that, spidey sense?! That was danger! Right there!

"Aw, man. You're not out of whack 'cause I'm tired, are you?" he groaned quietly. He let go of the metal to rub his eyes with his knuckles, but quickly pulled it back. And stared.

He jumped down from the lamp post and scurried into the light. He threw off his jacket and shoved up the sleeves of his hoodie, his breaths coming out in shallow huffs that he can see so clearly through his clouding panic.

Peter Benjamin Parker stood in the middle of a lonely New York street and could only watch as the skin of his hands and arms crept into a frosty blue.

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Cover art by frostmarris on tumblr!