Peter has been living on his own for what, ten, fifteen years? Well, the time kind of slides by him. Quickly. And roughly— he's more Spider-Man than he is Peter Parker, though he's trying to fix that. At least for Mary Jane's sake. Or his own. Or maybe even Aunt May's, who he hopes is watching him from the clouds.

But, in his dingy apartment, with too-thin walls, he can hear the new neighbours yelling at their kid. A scrappy kid that Peter's seen walking down the stairs on the way to school. He feels bad, honest. Spider-Man is supposed to save people, and this kid needs obviously saving. So, one day, when he's walking up the stairs with his sandwich, holding it close like someone'll snatch it.

Peter pauses at the sight of you, curled against your front door as your parents yelp insults and throw things. "Oh." He says slowly, before looking down at his sandwich. Peter lets his shoulders drop. You look like a wet cat, shivering in one of those "free" boxes you see on the sides of the road. "Hey, are you hungry? I got this sandwich."

He hunkers down beside you, passing you the wrapped up thing. "Here you go. It's pretty good. A BLT. You like those?" Peter smiles softly, the one he wears when people thank and bow Spider-Man for saving their cat from a tree, or when he helps a woman across the street.