Chapter Text
Peter's lived in the city long enough to mentally block out the constant noise of it all— he can ignore the sirens, the hum of helicopters over Park Slope, the loud grumblings of disgruntled people in Queens complaining that metro cards went up another two dollars a month. It's easy to block it out, even with his senses finely tuned to pick up the little things now. It blends in as background noise, hardly catches his attention and helps him control the constant urge to help, even when it's thrumming loudly beneath the surface of his skin nearly all the time now.
The continuous noise of the city helps to dull the adamant nagging sensation he has to do more lately— help more people, save more lives, keep progressing into something the whole city either loves or hates. It's a fiercely divided world he lives in now, one where Flash Thompson has a shirt with his logo on it (oh god, he has a logo) and his aunt thinks he's a menace. She doesn't know he's— she doesn't know. Sometimes he wonders if she suspects.
The barrage of noises are helping him to think now, perched on the tallest bit of Grace Church on Broadway, watching the late night bustle of 10th Street. He had needed to get out, bombarded with "Peter, you forgot this" and "What's gotten into you, Peter?" too many times in the last few months to keep track. His suit is on, perhaps as his own form of defense mechanism. Pretending to be something else (if he was still pretending, he didn't know) feels good right now, blocking out the noises of the city and—
Something catches his eye. It's easy for him to pick up on small movements now. He jerks his head to the side, focusing sharply on—
He sees a kid. He can't be older than Peter himself, but he's. He has a rifle slung over his shoulder. He looks like an anxious mess but defiant, posture rigid and tense. Peter can tell, even from half a block away, that the kid's a fighter. He's never seen anybody with a rifle out in the city, thinks the kid is bound to be stopped by— why hasn't he been stopped? He doesn't get the impression the kid is a crazed maniac looking to blow people away with a shotgun; he looks too defensive for that. He looks on guard.
He crouches lower, maneuvers his footing on the stone ridges of the church and watches the kid move. He checks behind his shoulder every six steps, but even in Lower Manhattan he's not getting nearly enough looks. The streets are emptier than usual at this time, but the two guys following this kid are— Peter waits. He watches.
It's only twenty-seven seconds later that the bigger of the two men, petty thieves if Peter's judgement is right, makes his move. They've caught up to the kid with the shotgun (are they crazy?) and have him pinned against the outside of a building in an instant. His shotgun wasn't positioned in a way that would make it easy for him to reach anyway, and Peter wonders if the thing is even real. It looks it.
The kid's face is shocked, alarmed, and angry.
The second guy, shorter and too skinny to not be on drugs, reaches into his coat pocket and Peter knows what he's going for before he even sees the blade.
He's down from the church's tower and shoots a web to pull back the shorter guy's hand, sending the blade to the ground. Another web pins the second guy to the wall, while the first guy, the bigger one, whirls around to confront Peter with his fist. Peter laughs loudly and ducks, sticking out his foot to swipe behind the guy's ankle. He moves effortlessly, instinct taking over and something else kicks in. He feels like somebody else.
The hand-to-hand combat enthralls him. Maybe he's showing off for this kid, who looks alarmed and confused and he definitely isn't from the city if he doesn't know who Pet— Spider-Man is. He wants to impress him. He's bored and so he takes his time, almost allowing the gigantic man to get a good jab in twice before finally nailing him to the wall with a web right next to his henchman.
"Who tries to rob a kid with a shotgun?" He asks them, head cocked to the side. When the kid tries to flee, Peter holds up his hand to keep him still, only a few feet away from where both of the idiots are stuck to the wall.
"I just saved you from getting shanked, the least you can do is stick around to say thank you," Peter informs him, voice tinged with both arrogance and amusement. "And who has a shotgun in New York City?" he wonders, raising a hand to mimic scratching his head despite the fact that he's completely covered in Spandex from head to toe.
The kid doesn't say anything, and Peter wonders if he's mute. He looks terrified.
He sighs dramatically before stepping forward to reach inside the larger guy's coat pocket and pulls out a cell phone. He dials 911 and taps his foot impatiently when it takes four rings for an answer; the response time in this city really needs work.
"I'm at the corner of Broadway and 10th and I've just tried to rob somebody. I'm not going anywhere, you should come pick me up. I was armed, but I'm not anymore." He ends the call and tosses the phone to the ground hard, pleased when it shatters. The man swears at him for it, but he scoffs back. "The phone was stolen anyway, buddy. Don't act so tore up about it."
"You," he says, motioning to the kid who, okay, maybe he's older than Peter is. He's got curly hair and blue eyes and he looks too— he looks too Midwestern to be from around here. Naive but not stupid, and alert but not without confusion.
"I—" the kid begins, sharp and quick, "I don't have a rule for this." He's still got his back to the wall, and he hasn't made a move to reach for his gun.
Peter cocks his head to the side to study him.
"Is that thing real?" he asks curiously, gesturing to the gun.
"Of course it's fucking real, why would I carry around a fake sh—" he stops when he hears sirens, and Peter sighs.
The police would show up when the kid's just getting to the good part.
Peter steps forward and wraps his arm around the kid's midsection with ease, he's much too skinny, and holds tight. "Don't let go," he informs the kid, who is less put off by his actions than he should be. "The cops don't like me too much right now, but I think it's because I make them look inefficient."
He shoots a web to the top of the Grace, knowing it'll give them enough leverage to get going at least a few blocks away so he can figure out where this kid needs to be and also he hopes he can talk him out of carrying a shotgun around the city. That sort of thing doesn't exactly fly with any urban population he can think of.
They swing for a few blocks, Peter easily guiding them to Washington Square Park. It isn't until they're back on the ground and his arm is no longer around the kid that he thinks to ask his name.
"Columbus," the kid replies. "What's yours?"
Peter ignores the question, nods at the shotgun again. "Why do you have that thing?" What the hell sort of name is Columbus? The kid's parents must have hated him.
"I just— there's. I'm here. I was relocated, by. The government relocated me, there were—" Peter doesn't need to hear more, he knows where this is going. "Fucking zombies."
He wonders if the look in the kid's eyes means what he thinks it does. He wonders if the kid is without parents, too.
"So they placed you at NYU?" Peter asks, guessing based on the neighborhood.
"Columbia," Columbus clarifies. They would put Columbus at Columbia. Peter laughs. Columbus scowls.
"Why were you heading towards NYU?"
"How far am I— what the fuck? Shit," the kid says, looking around quickly. "Earlier I counted four stops from where I went to where I was going. I just counted four more on the subway, so I thought— why didn't I end up—?"
Oh, this is adorable.
"The train is running local," he says. He never takes time like this, explaining things and going into detail about somebody's life he's potentially just saved (or at least prevented scars for this kid who most likely already has plenty of internal ones if he's just lived through Zombieland).
Columbus looks like he has no idea what this means.
"When they run local it's different from running express. They run local late at night, so they make more stops. You need to pay attention to the streets, here. Look. If you're on the D you're going to be lucky, most cars have digital displays now that tell you how many stops to the main streets. Some trains announce the stop, but it's always going to be out the window. Pay attention to the streets, not the number of stops. Do you have a cell phone?"
Columbus pulls out an iPhone. "The government gave me—" and Peter nods. It's the least they can do for the kid if his whole family is dead. Or even worse, if his whole family are zombies. PDS isn't fun for anybody, but he imagines it's much worse if your whole family decides they enjoy the taste of brains.
Peter quickly takes the phone, taps around to find the app Columbus needs, and thrusts the phone back towards him. He wonders if Columbus is his real name. It oddly suits him.
"Download Embark. It's good because it's got directions, train schedules and it's the only one that loads when you're underground. You'll get it down, but I'm assuming you're still pretty new to the city." Columbus takes the phone.
"Why are you wearing that?" Columbus asks him.
Peter was maybe waiting on a thanks. Not a comment on his suit.
"Are you looking to buy one? It's custom," he tells him, brushing it off.
"You're a kid," Columbus says, tone accusing. Peter flinches, his insides feel cold, but he brushes it off.
"You look twelve," he jabs back.
Columbus scoffs loudly.
"And you have a shotgun."
"I told you, I have a gun because—"
Peter waves his hand flippantly as if he's already bored by the whole story.
"Are you going to dorm?" he asks, changing the subject. It's not something Columbus is keen on talking about, he's sure.
"Trying to. Where's the nearest subway station?" he asks, and turns to look around.
"Do you just—" Peter begins, but stops himself. He steps forward again to grip onto Columbus, figuring no explanation is needed. He's getting a free ride.
Columbus grips so tight it almost hurts for the first sixteen blocks uptown, but relaxes once Peter tells him he's only dropped eight people before while they're crossing over the Sea, Air and Space Museum. He thinks Columbus almost laughs, but he's too busy taking it all in. Peter's used to this now, the views and the webbing between buildings, but he loves seeing somebody else amazed and frightened by it at the same time. Columbus seems pretty uptight.
He said he had rules.
Peter lands them on the roof of the Ruggles building. He's wondering which room belongs to Columbus. Would he have a single or have roommates? How nice was the government to him?
"Your building," he gestures. He takes two extra steps back.
"You never told me your name," Columbus says.
Peter thinks it's hilarious for him to ask. He suspects Columbus is not the kid's real name.
"Oh, Columbus." He sighs dramatically and inches his way towards the edge of the roof. Columbus looks alarmed. "I'm your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man."
He doesn't need to second guess himself as he steps back over the ledge. The last thing he sees is the drop of Columbus' jaw and he's grinning about it. He doesn't need to look back to know Columbus is watching him web off into the night.
If he adds a little bit of flair to the routine then it definitely isn't for show.
Not at all.