Chapter 3: Pizza Time

He showed up at the pizzeria thirty minutes early, unable to focus on reading any longer, as the city was starting to grow colder and colder. Moving around would, at least, allow him to keep warm.

The owner (Marco?) took a long look at him, his dirty clothes and his messy hair, before sighing and inviting him inside.

"To start you with." He told Peter, "I got only five orders right now. Haven't delivered for a while, I guess." He shook his head. "At least should be easier for you."

Mentally, Peter did the maths. Five deliveries would get him at least twenty-five dollars. He would be able to get more food, perhaps even a second hand jacket, or a long sleeve shirt.

As he thought, a pile of boxes was dropped in front of him. The smell coming from them made his stomach grumble. He did eat his last peaches can earlier, but this amount of food was not enough for a mutant like him, who relied on physical abilities. He kept his hunger at bay, though, knowing he would get to eat later that night, once his job was done.

Each pizza box had a small piece of paper taped on top, with an address scribbled on it, and an order of delivery. Curiously, there was no name. Peter distantly wondered what kind of people he was about to deliver them to, if he was expected to carry a gun and couldn't even read the client's name. Knowing better than to ask questions, he was about to grab the pile when his boss shook his head.

"I am not letting you touch food with your filthy gloves." He told him, pointing at Peter's hands, still covered in his now worse for wear Spider suit. "Here."

The man limped back into the kitchen. Peter could hear him move around, opening a cupboard, grabbing something in it.

Marco came back, holding something dark and soft in his hands. He threw it in his direction and, by reflex, the teenager snapped it from the air.

It was a hoodie. The back of it had "Marcos's Authentic Pizzeria" written across it. It looked almost identical in quality to the million of others professional print-to-order hoodies he'd seen.

"Now please, get rid of your little costume. I don't even know in which dumpster you found something like this." The cook grumbled.

Peter hesitated but, in the end, relented. He kept the lower part of the suit on, changing in the restaurant's bathroom, but took off the gloves. Most of his outfit could be disassembled thanks to hidden mechanisms Mr. Stark had helped him put there. A wave of nostalgia hit him, he bit it down.

He came back out into the main room. While he was changing, Marco had put the pizza in a strange looking backpack, that looked like a square. Peter had, of course, seen people go around with those on before. He'd never really ordered food himself, it was too expensive and he didn't mind going to pick it up himself, when he did have the money for a treat, but he'd seen plenty of delivery bikers and drivers back in New York.

The hoodie fit loosely on him, obviously meant to be worn by someone larger and older than he was. He slid the pizza bag onto his shoulders. On the table, an address had already been entered into the GPS. Peter picked it up.

"Good luck, kid." Marco told him before he left, "Be careful out there."

With the way the man was talking it almost seemed to him that he was heading to his death. He was not, of course, but he would rather not tell other people of his abilities if he could help it, especially not after what had happened back at the gym the other day.

The GPS informed him that he was headed to Chinatown for his first job. Peter couldn't help but smile. Some things in this world were so different from his own, with all new heroes, villains and history, but at least there was still a Chinatown in big cities no matter the universe.

He made his way up the little pizzeria, crawling to the roof. His back felt warm against the pizza bag, the hoodie smelled clean.

Peter started running.

It was hard to move in a way that wouldn't shake the pizzas too much but, in the end, he decided to simply keep away from bouncing, flipping and rolling, using only soft landings after a leap, and making sure the bag did not flip over.

It wasn't easy, made him feel like he was transporting something much more valuable than he truly was. He put all of his focus on the task, shoving away thoughts of his family and friends.

He was almost starting to enjoy it when, as he reached his destination, he heard a gunshot ring in the night. Then another. He sighed.

He couldn't get involved now, not when he did not have a functioning suit, was running low on web fluid and firearms were involved. He grit his teeth in frustration. Gotham was a huge city, despite how many vigilantes it had, and he did remember reading about them, it was not a safe place to walk in at night.

He made sure the way was clear before heading town to the alley below, Spider sense blessedly silent, which could only be a good sign.

Peter knocked at the door of the building his GPS took him to. It was a residential one, with several people living in it. After a short wait, the door opened to reveal a surprised looking man. In his early fifties, he looked down at Peter with a confused frown, then saw his backpack and smiled.

"So it's true, uh?" He smirked. "Marco's is delivering again."

Peter nodded silently, sliding the bag in front of him. To his rising discomfort, he could see a gun on the man's belt, and was pretty sure he heard odd noises coming from the basement.

It took a lot of effort on his part not to go investigate the place. Instead, he handed over the pizza, keeping the address in mind, hoping he could come back and check it out later, as Spider-Man. The stranger accepted the food with a large smile then dug in his pocket.

The ten dollars bill he handed Peter looked completely foreign to him but he took it gratefully.

"'s great you guys are back in business," He got as an explanation for this sudden generosity. "All other places only deliver to the Heights, Old Gotham 'n other rich folk districts."

He didn't know what to say to that so he just smiled awkwardly, before glancing at the next address on the top box. 

The door closed as he was entering it into the GPS, he took that as a sign for him to start climbing away, which he did, after making sure no one was around to see it.

The next area he was heading to was called "The Bowery". It sounded familiar to him and he desperately tried to remember what he had read about it during the day.

He came up with no solid answer. It was becoming increasingly hard to focus and simply think, with how worn out he was. His stomach had started to grumble periodically, which did not help him focus on his current predicament.

The Bowery, as he quickly found out was, in fact, the area he had slept in during his first night. He recognized the damaged buildings and tense atmosphere as he slid around the roofs. He could hear voices conspiring in the dark. Gangs, he remembered. The job agency lady had said they were trying to keep kids like him away from them.

Not that he was a kid, of course. He had stopped being one the first time he saw someone he loved die in front of him. He had to act grown up now, especially now that May was-…

He buried the thought deep in his chest, focusing on the feeling of the tiled roof under his fingertips and the warmth of the bag on his back. He was almost to the right spot for his second delivery of the night.

"Here!" He heard as he reached the roof of the target building. "Come here!"

He frowned, looking around. There was a shape sitting at the top of one of the unused chimneys on the roof he was on. The moonlight lit his face enough that Peter, when squinting, could make out his features. He did a double take.

The man, sitting nonchalantly and smiling down at him, was wearing a domino mask. His outfit was clearly a battle suit of some kind, with leather, Kevlar and metal mixing and interlacing. It was hard to see colors, this deep into the night, but he thought he could identify some blue.

"This Marco's?" The stranger beamed. "I can't believe the one night I come help is the one you guys are open for deliveries again."

Peter nodded, intimidated by what he assumed was the first superhero he had encountered since he came to this new world. The man was acting extremely friendly, which threw him off a bit as most of his previous hero encounters had been either strictly professional or hostile, with some exceptions.

He remembered his older selves. They had both been very nice to him. He missed them, oddly.

"Come here, kid. I won't bite." The hero told him, beckoning him over. Peter, feeling his heart thundering in his chest, took a few steps forward, sliding his bag off.

He grabbed a pizza from it, the top one, and slowly made his way up to the chimney, making sure not to use any of his special talents to get there. The gym altercation was still fresh in his mind. Mutants, in this world, obviously had a propensity to become agressive and dangerous, why else would the man have reacted this way? Peter was not in a hero suit, other than his pants and boots at least, there was a real risk that he would be taken for a hostile if he showed his true abilities.

A hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him up.

"There you go." The man said, smiling gently. He helped Peter settle on the chimney next to him which, thankfully, appeared to have been plugged with a grid of some kind.

Still a bit dazed, Peter handed him the box. He couldn't for the life of him remember the name of the hero but he did look familiar. He probably would have to read the sheets of paper again, once he was done with his job at least.

The adult handed him a bill in exchange for the food. It was a 5$ one, with yet another face he could not recognize. He really did get lucky with the Washingtons. Most other bills had changed, but ones stayed the the same.

"Thanks-hm… sir."

The man nodded thoughtfully, then asked :

"Kiddo, you carrying any weapon on you?"

At first, Peter flinched back, worried he was being taken for a criminal. Eventually, he noticed that there was no hostility in the hero's voice, only worry.

"Um…" He stuttered. "…No. I uh… don't need it."

The way he spoke made the other man freeze for a second.

"New York?" He was eventually asked.

He nodded, a blush slowly creeping its way up his face. He had no idea his accent was this recognizable.

"Okay, kid." The hero sighed, flipping open the pizza box and grabbing two slices. He bit into one and handed the other to Peter, who took it hesitantly, not knowing if he was allowed to stop and talk with the clients. "You're from New York. I don't want to know how you ended up in Gotham delivering pizza but if you want to survive this town, you need to be a bit more careful."

The odd man finished his slice in three giant bites, which was somewhat of an impressive feat, then set the box aside on Peter's knees. Before the boy could protest, he was handed a small, cold piece of metal and the box was taken away again.

"You should eat your pizza," the stranger said, "The cheese is dripping."

Peter nodded blankly and did as he was told. The pizza tasted delicious, almost making him tear up. He kept his traitorous emotions under control as the older hero explained, knocking a finger on the metallic object he had given him:

"This is a taser. Pretty small, pretty compact, looks sneaky, too."

He put his hand over Peter's, moving his fingers to show him the hidden pressure points on the weapon. When he pressed down, an arc of electricity crackled at the tip of the taser. 

Peter felt his blood go cold.

"I understand not wanting to carry iron- a gun- but you can't go around with nothing in Gotham."

On those words, the blue-clad hero slowly rose to his feet, pizza still in hand. He gave Peter a sad smile, helping him down the chimney and back on the roof.

"Be careful out there, kid. Don't hesitate to use this, if you get into trouble."

His fingers clenched around the cold metal, the boy could only nod. He felt very small and very alone but, still, he had to go on. He slid the weapon into the pocket of his shorts, next to the unused parts of his Spider suit.

He looked up to thank the man, who was, after all, only trying to help him, but he was already gone. He stayed there for a few more minutes, on the cold, windy roof, before remembering he had three more deliveries to make before he could head back and get his pay.

The warmth of the pizza slice in his stomach comforted him, in the dreary night. He made his way to his next stopping point with more energy and speed than he had before, sliding and jumping carefully until he had crossed most of the Bowery to reach its northern half. There, in a backstreet, was where his GPS was taking him.

He climbed down a rickety, obviously very old, ladder. As he put his feet on the ground, however, he heard a familiar click, and felt a cold weight settle on the back of his head.

"The fuck you doing here?" A gruff voice asked him. Behind him, heartbeats and the sound of breathing told Peter that he was definitely not alone. He would not have time to draw the taser before being shot, and if all of the men were carrying weapons, he did not have enough web fluid to safely deal with all of them.

So, Peter did the only thing he could think of. In a small voice, he said :

"Pizza… delivery?"

The gun against his head did not move, but he did hear someone take a sudden, surprised breath.

"Holy shit." Another different male voice said. "Are you from Marco's?"

This time, the pressure on his scalp relented a bit as the gun owner relaxed his grip. "Marco's?" He repeated. "Let me see your back."

Peter obeyed immediately, heart pounding. He put his bag down gently, letting them see his empty hands all along. As soon as the men saw the logo on his back, he could feel the atmosphere shift.

"I really didn't think they would come." One of the men said. "Thought they were closed."

"We reopened tonight." Peter piped in with a strangled voice. He still did not turn around, the gun, while not on his head anymore, was now resting on the small of his back. He heard someone open his pizza bag, take out a box.

"Shoulda ordered more," the gunman complained to his friends, stepping away from him. "Here kid, sorry for scaring you."

He did not throw money at him, but instead a bag of something smelly and odd. Horrified, Peter realized he had just been tipped in cannabis. It took all he had not to throw it away, he was a good boy, and May had always told him to wait until his brain had finished developing to touch any mind altering drugs. In the end, he slid it in the pocket of his hoodie, hoping to drop it off on the roofs once he was further away.

"Thanks." He lied.

"Yeah yeah, now fuck off."

Not wanting a repeat of the gun-on-head incident, Peter immediately scrambled back up the ladder. He managed to clear three buildings before collapsing to his knees and puking up the slice he had been given earlier.

As Spider-Man, he had been in much more difficult situations than this. As Peter Parker, however, this was close to one of the most stressful things he had experienced in a long, long time. Close but not quite there yet. This town was messing with his mind, not being able to talk to M-J and the others was only dragging him further down.

He sighed and took out the small drugs bag. Standing up, he brought his arm back, readying his muscles.

His full force throw was enough to send the bag flying up in the air, away from the Bowery and into another city district. He watched it arc up in the night sky and fall in the distance. Someone might find it, hopefully an adult, who wouldn't risk anything when using it.

Two more deliveries to go.

He had not expected his pizza delivery job to be this stressful, but he had no other choice than adapting to his surroundings.

To his dismay, after dropping off the fourth pizza in the hands of an astonished looking woman (who was carrying way too many weapons to be a civilian), Peter ended up in an area of Gotham that, somehow, looked almost as dangerous as the Bowery.

"East End", was what his GPS told him the neighborhood was named. It seemed to have less drug use than the Bowery, and the buildings were in better shape, but he could hear and smell enough gunpowder and sex to know that crime ran high in those parts.

Once again, he stuck to the heights, only looking below when an altercation broke out. To his surprise, some of who he assumed were gang members had make up on. They looked like demented clowns. He remembered reading about a clown criminal, earlier, maybe they were his lackeys.

He eventually reached his destination, on top of one of the rare nice buildings in the area. Made of white stone, it reminded him of some of the other, much nicer, districts he had been through in Gotham. He climbed down to the street, rang the bell.

A young woman answered the door, looking him up and down. Her face was blank, expressionless, as she took him in. Eventually, she gave him a small smile. Behind her, he could hear the shuffling and meowing of pets. Did she own the whole building?

"Marco's Pizza." Peter introduced himself, having decided this was probably a crucial step in not getting shot.

"So he did reopen, uh? Didn't think I'd live to see the day." The woman replied, digging through her pockets for a handful of ones. She handed them over, trading it for the pizza box. In total, he had made 22$ in tips that night. That, plus the 25$ he'd get for the delivery, should allow him to survive for a bit longer.

This one client was not talkative and he was sent back pretty quickly after, which he was grateful for. His body had already burned through the parts of pizza slice he got to digest before puking and, although he knew that he would not be getting anything better than cold canned ravioli that night, he was still looking forward to eating something, anything.

Making his way back to the pizzeria, Peter was struck again by how different Gotham was from New York. The lights seemed dimmer, here, the air heavier. The people, too, were more quiet, more wary than what he was used to. 

As he pushed open the pizzeria door, Marco welcomed him with a stunned look and a slightly hanging jaw. He had not, apparently, expected him to come back from this round, and had started to down a bottle of liquor, a cigarette in his hands. A half-full glass rested in front of him, the liquid inside too thick to be water.

"You're back." The man said. "Did you complete the deliveries?"

Peter nodded, which earned him another astonished look.

"Shit." Marco said. "Guess I'm back in business, uh."

He shook his head and took out a few bills, that he set on the table in front of him. After some hesitation, he held out his hand. "Wait here." He told Peter.

After grabbing and counting the 25$, the teenager nodded, awkwardly shuffling around the small restaurant. It looked dusty, as if nobody had stepped foot inside in years. Several cleaner spots on the walls indicated that pictures and posters had once been hung there, only to be taken down recently.

After a dozen or so minute, the smell of food started to hit Peter's nostrils and Marco came back, a small box in his hands.

"Here. Individual size pizza. Good job tonight, kid."

Peter blinked, looking at the offered box.

"This is for me?" He asked dumbly, not fully understanding the kindness that people were showing him, in a town that appeared so dark and hostile.

"Yeah." Marco said. "Now shoo. I need to clean the kitchen."

"Y-Yes sir." Peter nodded, gripping the pizza box tightly. He left the bag and GPS in the restaurant, as requested, but was told to keep the hoodie. Feeling slightly dazed, he ended up sitting on top of a water tank a few blocks away, staring at the food on his lap.

It was a simple pizza, cheese, tomato sauce and onions, no meat, olives or anything special added to it. It was basic but Peter ate it with as much care as if it were a precious three-star meal. The warmth spread down his throat and into his chest. Before he knew it, he had devoured the whole thing.

It really was a good pizza, no wonder everyone had been so excited about Marco's being back in business.

Now with a bit more money in his pockets and a full stomach, Peter had to find a place to spend the night before being able to spend his earnings. He was already thinking about how to use the 47$ in his possession, his brain had not quieted since he first came to Gotham, he couldn't let it be quiet.

If he did, the memories would come back.

Notes:

In this story, Peter does not look like he did in No Way Home for the very simple reason that Tom Holland is around 25 and, in this, Peter is 17.

So when you picture him, think about a younger version of the actor!