A/N: If things seem confusing after this chapter, hang tight. The next chapter will clarify things.
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Commercials are pop culture. Maybe it's a bit of a bold statement for people who have cable and are able to watch TV every day, but for people who haven't really watched anything in a few months? For people like Peter, who hadn't seen commercials for the newest movies or shows and didn't recognize some of the jingles that his peers would absentmindedly hum in the library, it was a small reminder that he was disconnected from his peers. His life was not normal.
Sitting on a couch in a stranger's house, surrounded by strange children, and unable to fully process everything that had recently happened to him, Peter did the activity that required the least amount of energy. He watched the nightly news. For the first time in months, his entire attention was on the broadcast.
He regretted it almost immediately.
After a quick, happy story about the foundation of a new pet adoption agency, the current events were all about murder, robbery, sexual harassment scandals, lost children, a school shooting, and "Where is Spider-Man?" over and over.
Spider-Man himself hardly knew where he was at this point.
When the channel was changed to something more child-friendly, Peter mumbled something about being tired. He got up, climbed the house's narrow staircase, and shut himself in the room where he had dropped his bags earlier that day. They called this his bedroom, but it didn't really belong to him. Nothing here belonged to him except his hastily-packed suitcase and schoolbag. He didn't even have the room to himself: although currently empty, he shared it with three other boys whose names and exact ages he had already forgotten.
Without thinking very clearly, Peter dug his suit out of the bottom of his schoolbag where he had stowed it earlier. He rubbed the material between his fingers, stretching it and tracing the logo on the chest. It had been so long. Memories overwhelmed him. Memories of good times, physically-demanding times, and Tony Stark. Peter sniffled, continuing to hold back the tears that had threatened to fall since earlier that day. He couldn't believe how careless he had been in neglecting his duties to the city. His exhaustion was nothing compared to the pain of dying.
With hands shaking from anger and self-hatred, Peter pulled on the suit and mask. As he approached the window, he glanced over his shoulder at the room one more time, and a thought occurred to him.
He could run away.
If he left, then Aunt May would never have to worry about feeding him or clothing him. In fact, if he ran away, why even finish high school? He could spend the rest of his life saving lives. Heroes didn't need diplomas. It was a win-win plan: Aunt May and New York would be better.
Peter rushed back to the bed and dumped his books out of his backpack ‒he wouldn't need those anymore. Then he filled the bag with only the most essential items: a change of clothes, some underwear, his sneakers. He would have grabbed his phone and phone charger, but it had been confiscating. The social workers had said that he would be taken off May's phone plan for financial reasons, so they forced May to keep his phone. Like almost everything else, Peter hated it. Now, he had no way to contact Aunt May or Ned. He wasn't so worried about Stark because the man was probably too busy to respond to Peter's recent texts anyway.
A few minutes later, Peter had scaled the wall to the roof and was running across buildings to get as far away as possible.
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