Chapter Text
Condensation spills out from the bathroom, the smell of mildew that was beginning to make its home in the walls attacking his senses. The extractor fan that their landlord had ‘fixed’ was useless - there had been a note on the fridge for Peter to call him for over a week now. That probably makes him just as helpful as the broken fan.
He just hasn’t had the time.
Never has the time.
If he had time then he wouldn’t be running late, his shirt half tucked in, toast burning in the kitchen and a laptop bag that still needed to be found before he could even think about leaving the house.
“Where’s your bag?!” He asks through the crack in Belle’s door. The small slit between the wood and frame is enough for whatever she’s been spraying in there to assault his senses. The overly sweet perfume makes his nose wrinkle and his sinuses itch. If he were to dare sneeze now then he’d risk the wrath of Belle’s ire.
While she might have inherited so much of Gwen from her pin straight hair, her eyes to her drive and confidence, she had adopted Peter’s slow starts to the mornings.
Any indication that he ‘didn’t understand’ why she needed to use half the can of body spray would make getting out the door that morning a little more hectic. Especially since it was one she’d begged for her birthday - it was a new release from pop star that Belle liked, very important that as a fan she showed her support - and that only MJ had indulged her in, using one of her rare days off to take Belle and her friends shopping while Peter set up her party. If Peter showed even the slightest distaste towards it not only would he be ‘annoying’ but he’d also be uncool and unsupportive of her favourite singer - and after years of listening to her on repeat, that was anything but true.
Well.
“Wherever you left your bag!”
“Why do you think I was asking you?” He mutters to himself, remembering the days when he was naïve enough to think that Gwen’s daughter somehow wouldn’t grow to be smart mouthed and stubborn.
There was a time in his life where Peter thought he might learn what a ‘quiet morning’ looked like. Even after he got bit by that spider and donned the suit for the first time, during High School and in the early days of college, he really thought that he might get a grip of things when he reached adulthood; might learn how to balance work and patrolling so he didn’t have to stay up later than necessary to finish the report (or four) that he still owed his supervisor). At some point in his thirty-two years on earth, he might have learned how to make toast without burning it or how to avoid picking up whatever virus was going around his kid’s school so that his stomach wasn’t threatening to expel itself onto the floor. He thought that when he became a father he might have learned to keep better track of his things, and wonders at what point he has to stop blaming it all on ‘being a young dad’.
He thought by the time Belle was eleven that he might have found the secret to parenting without Gwen by his side, doing it for nine years should have been enough practice, but he was still out of sorts, out of step and still trying his very best. Parenting was still swallowing down the burnt toast and using what little time he had to slap together some peanut and jelly on bread instead of searching for his bag so that he could start his day with confidence that at least Belle had eaten something halfway decent and nutritious.
Parenting was stuffing ten dollars into her violin case and exchanging the sandwich and her instrument for his laptop bag and pressing a thankful kiss to the top of her head.
“Is this lunch?” Belle asks, pulling back from him to inspect the poorly wrapped sandwich. One corner of the bread is poking out from the aluminium foil, not the only sign of how haphazardly he had wrapped it up.
“No, this is breakfast.” He answers, stepping back to finish tucking his shirt in. A small part of him misses the days when he worked at SI and didn’t have to worry so much about keeping up appearances, annoyed that his pride would only allow him to accept Tony’s help for so long. Living with May for as long as they did after Gwen’s death and continuing to do so once he’d started back up at college had been easier - even through the haze of his grief he had known it was the only way Belle would have had some stability. Once he had cleared off the majority of his debts and moved them out, he couldn’t justify living off Tony’s good will anymore, wanting to be evidence to his daughter that they could do things for themselves even if the help was nice when needed. “There’s ten dollars for lunch in your bag.”
Her face drops, barely noticeable with how quickly she catches herself. Peter knows her better. Even if he hadn’t caught the downturn in his smile, he could hear the disappointed inflection in her voice clearly. “Oh. Okay.”
His stomach begins to turn over for reasons other than the bug that Belle had brought home.
“Oh? No. Why Oh?”
The presentation might not be great but she normally had PB&J on her toast. Ever Peter’s daughter, she would always end up needing to take her second slice on the road with her anyway. The sandwich couldn’t be the issue. It wasn’t his best breakfast, that was reserved for Sunday wheatcakes, but he had definitely made worse when rushing around in a similar pinch - an admission he wasn’t proud of.
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Maybelle–”
Cutting him off, Belle leans up and pecks his cheek before darting into the corridor leaving him with only an echoing ‘Thanks, dad’ in her wake, leaving him lonely and concerned in a way he hadn't felt since he’d arrived back to their empty apartment on her first day of school.
He knows he’s meant to be proud that she’s self-sufficient enough to take herself to school in a more timely manner than he ever could, something about her fleeting expression has him yearning for the days when they’d walk hand in hand to the gates of her school. He had more time to pull truths from her then, gave him the slightest opportunity to make up for the nights where he couldn’t tuck her in and help ease those thoughts before bed.
He should be happy that she’s growing up, and he is. He just wishes that his own parenting skills could keep up with the pace she was setting.
“Why oh? What does that mean?”
A long suffering sigh rings down the phone line, sounding just as tired as Peter feels. The ginger beer that sits in place of his coffee mug on his desk might have done its job settling his stomach but the lack of caffeine he’s running on has not helped with his exhaustion. “Why’d you phone me with this, Parker?”
“May’s outta town, Ned and MJ are busy.” He lies.
Flash became his point of reference when Belle went to Elementary School. Progressing past their High School relationship, becoming a teacher had turned Flash into one of the few people that could calm Peter down when it came to Belle’s education, behaviour or attitude. Admitting that Flash’s insight was invaluable was something he would only ever do when he was desperate - no stomach bug was going to drag him down to that point, he’d faced worse and still held on to his resolve.
“It was an ‘oh’ about a sandwich, Flash. That’s not–”
There had been ‘oh’s about missed recitals or ‘oh’s’ when he admitted that they couldn’t afford the new violin she wanted or the new sketchers that everyone had at school or the ‘it-doll’ that everyone was talking about. There was ‘ohs’ when the plans he’d promised her turned into weekends at May’s or sleepovers with Ned.
He knew those ‘oh’s’ far too well.
This felt new.
His stomach churns again. He reaches out to grab his mug, grimacing around the mouthful he swallows back.
“Could it be that she just didn’t want a sandwich for breakfast?”
“No, I ruled that one out already.”
“That’s almost talking yourself down, I’m a little impressed.”
“Can we focus?”
“I was trying to focus on my planning my cover for next period, but–”
“Flash!”
He sighs again. “And it was definitely after you mentioned lunch?” Pete hums his assent. “The district has been making cuts to a lot of schools' budgets. They might have changed suppliers or something. She might not like the cafeteria food anymore.”
“Wouldn’t she tell me about that?” More questions begin to pile at the back of his throat like shouldn’t he have heard from the school about any changes, wouldn’t the PTA have spoken up about this - they sent texts and emails about almost everything else - but the idea that Belle was keeping something from him worried him the most out of them all.
Everyone had come together around them in the wake of Gwen’s passing - twenty-three, in the wrong place at the wrong time chasing after him - the words that they’d heard when they first announced they were having a baby ‘too young’ and ‘what about your future’ all took a different meaning once Gwen was gone. His friends and his family pooled together to try and make it easier, make it possible but– at the end of it all, it was always him and Belle. Everything he did was for her, and that didn’t make him the best parent because everything he had often wasn’t enough. So many times growing up, he had needed her input, knew that she’d grown up a little faster than some of her friends because he needed her too, and he hated that but it was— it was also what had gotten them here; they talked. She talked.
“Pete.” Flash says, something like sympathy beginning to drip into his voice. Peter swallows another mouthful of his drink. It doesn’t manage to settle his agitated stomach this time around. “You two talk about the big stuff, always have and while you might know that school lunches are a big deal, you know, she might think in the grand scheme of things that it’s not.”
“Might be big to her.”
“She’s eleven, you’re gonna have to help her navigate the idea of differing perspectives a little more.”
Eleven.
Belle was eleven.
She shouldn’t be worrying about his perspective of this at all. She shouldn’t be thinking that a problem was too small to bother him with.
She should be worrying about being eleven and what the best thing to have for lunch was and when her next sleepover was and whether she should spend four hours on the phone with her friends or spend it learning her favourite song on the violin.
Peter’s apartment had always operated on an ‘open door’ policy to those that knew his secret. It was sort of an unspoken compromise between his friends that if Peter didn’t answer his phone because he was busy getting into trouble then they could let themselves into his apartment to ensure he hadn’t succumbed to his wounds once he had arrived home. At that point, it was mostly just Ned and MJ that took advantage of the system.
Having a child at twenty-one because the blip had already robbed them of a few years and terrified them into thinking that their number of second chances were limited, the open door policy became a necessity for them to get through the day even with Peter dropping out of college to better support. Having Ned, MJ, Flash and May stop by frequently to let him and Gwen shower or sleep helped them feel just that little bit more human.
After Gwen died and Peter moved back in with his aunt, no longer able to afford his own place, he hoped that his friends would grant him the distance. His self-imposed isolation felt ideal - Neither May nor his friends would stand for that. Years later, he was grateful for their persistence.
Back in his own apartment, and with Belle a little older and able to look after herself for a couple of hours when he wasn’t home, there was less of a need for Ned or Flash to have to let themselves in of an evening. One person, however, still took advantage of having a key to Peter’s front door.
The only warning he gets of MJ’s arrival is a text sent approximately five minutes before she’s letting herself into his living room, reading; ‘ Late shoot, early start. Crashing at yours.’
“Hello person that does not live here.” He calls from the kitchen as if he hadn’t made up the couch and changed the sheets in his room for her. Her latest show had made its home in the warehouse a short subway ride away from his place. It was easier for her to sleep here than cross back over the bridge to her apartment.
Even if it was strange to hear her talk about it as a studio when he was more familiar with it as the place that he’d once broken his collarbone, Peter liked being one of the firsts to hear about her day. Most of the time her schedule could be just as chaotic as his that it felt like they hardly got to see each other unless something was going on with Belle.
“Hello man that should be having more than a sandwich for dinner.” She tuts, peering over at his shoulder to look at the cutting board. “Even if your stomach’s rocky, you should know that you can’t live off shit after patrols.”
So maybe he wouldn’t be the first to hear about her day, Flash somehow beating him to the punch - or maybe just eager to spread word about Peter’s latest crisis, getting the others up to speed should they be called off the bench as well.
“And what was the last thing you ate today?” He fires back, knowing that these night shoots tended to mess with more than just her sleep schedule. From the way she shifts, heat disappearing from his back as she steps away, Peter knows that he’s won. As his prize, he gets to pass the ham and mustard sandwich over to her with no complaints, turning back to the counter to make a second so that he can pack up Belle’s lunch.
Peter can feel the weight of her eyes on him, watching him curiously while she chews. “You really that opposed to greens that you won’t put a bit of salad in your sandwich?”
“It’s not for me. Unlike someone I did actually eat a proper meal tonight.”
If that meal was takeout from the Thai place around the block, that was his business. He hit all the major food groups, Belle had something containing vegetables, it was a win.
“It’s for Belle, I think she wants me making her lunches again? Cafeteria’s bad enough that taking a brown bag in is no longer embarrassing.”
Between work and patrol, he might not always have the time to make a full meal for them (and his repertoire of things he could cook is still relatively limited to anything that has ‘oven ready’ in the instructions), but he can make a sandwich. He can find the time to stock up on some chips, fruit and other snacks for her to take into school if that’s what she wants.
If this is what is important to her, Peter will find a way to make it happen. Even if it’s just ham and mustard to begin with.
“And you don’t want her having a little bit of greens at lunch?”
“She’s eleven! No eleven year old wants salad, trust me, this is great.”
“ My favourite sandwich as a kid was a veggie option; rocket, pesto, tomato. It was amazing.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that you were the pinnacle of normal as a kid– Ow!” He laughs, flinching away from MJ’s hand that is already posed to jab at his side again, right under his ribs. With her nails, it’s just sharp enough to startle him. “I feed you–”
“This is like a solid six.” She tells him around another mouthful, uncaring how impolite it is. Her hair is still pinned up in her character’s signature style and the day’s makeup on her face, wearing a version of herself that Peter doesn’t really know because anytime he watches her work, he is always taken back by how separate the woman on screen is to the woman he knows, in awe of her talent and skill. Under it all and in this space, she manages to still be so her, so MJ.
“--and you do this. Stop. MJ! I’m serious, stop!” He warns, a laugh bubbling out as her fingers grazing his side begins to tickle. “Stop it.”
“Can you two keep it down please?” A small voice shouts from the hall, her words trailing off into a yawn. Properly chastised by Belle, Peter turns to MJ smugly whispering, “Yeah MJ, keep it down.”
“Make your sandwich.” MJ tuts, a petulant and mildly embarrassed frown on her face that has him struggling to stifle a life.
Throughout the years, he’s had a lot of people ask whether he regrets having a child so young. There were people who didn’t realise how fast he had to grow up before he’d even gotten to college, asking if he ever pined for the experiences he had to miss because he was caring for a newborn instead of staying out at bars, or heading back to college when all his peers were settled in their careers.
He would never say he regrets Belle. Ever.
Sometimes he yearned for things to be a little different, the same way that he wished Gwen was still around or that Ben had gotten to see him graduate or what he’d done with his powers. He wanted a version of things that could never actually happen where he got everything he already had at the expense of never losing anything that had brought him to this point.
He had people in his life that helped him grow enough so that the things he missed felt a little smaller, even if they weren’t.
Wrapping the sandwich up better than he had that morning and sealing it in the empty ziplock bag the ham had come in with hopes that’d stay a little fresher for longer, Peter grabs a errant marker from on top of the fridge to write a note before stuffing everything inside: ‘ First of many. Promise they’ll get better when I go to the grocery store again. Love you, dad.’