Title: Undecided
Pair: Peter Parker and Louis Bloom
Tags: sample, incomplete, slow burn, psych horror, Peter Parker has no powers, Peter Parker is homeless, will absolutely get more messed up over time
Notes: let me know what you guys think of this so far, I’m looking for any beta readers or editors if anyone is interested just DM me we can chat 🙏🏻
Fog flows above him, bodies swaying slowly, as if slow dancing. The lights flash at a different tempo, though. Quick red and blue flicker pain to his attention, searing through his body, bone deep.
Thick exhaust makes the back of his throat throb.
Hands reach down but they can’t be batted away, the ground falls from underneath and all he can do is sway his head with nauseating dizziness. There, to the left, a shiny black eye that he can see a reflection in. It stares at him, unblinking, only inches away while things start to go dark again.
What is that..?
What..
“Parker.”
A slap to his mind wakes him up. The fluorescent lights stab his eyes, hair on the back of his neck prickling at attention from the lingering chill of the air conditioning.
“Parker!”
His head snaps up, “sorry, what?”
“Are you paying attention to what I’m telling you?”
His mouth goes agape, useless “I- uh..”
Mister Barnes sighs, taking a pen out of the holder, pushes the paper in front of him.
“You have to sign this.”
Form of Termination.
Due to repeated tardiness, absence, and
decrease in performance quality we are
terminating your employment with Boy-o’s
Pizzeria.
Employee must sign here X___________.
Staring dumbly for a minute, his brows furrow, confusion turning into dread.
“Are you saying I’m losing my job..?”
The man tilts his head while gesturing his hand with annoyance.
“Look I really don’t want to have to do this, but you’ve been coming in late a lot lately-“
“Hold on—Mister Barnes—“ he swallows “you said I wouldn’t get fired because of the crash.”
“I know, please let me finish. This doesn’t have anything to do with losing your car, we gave you a position in the kitchen, remember that? You’re late more times than not—“
“But I was sick, I tell you in advance every time I can’t—“
“Peter.”
His mouth shuts, the urge to argue a defense is caught in his throat.
“There have been complaints from coworkers about you lacking in performance, and under our investigation, we agree. And I hate to bring this up but,” Mister Barnes leans in, voice lowering, “your hygiene issue? You come in every day looking like you’ve run a marathon. We can’t have that in this establishment, not in the kitchen.”
Frozen, staring back at him with nothing to say, the embarrassment picks away at his skin.
“It’s not my fault..”
Barnes tilts his head with a mixture of pity and slight disgust.
Without arguing any further, Peter looks down, takes the pen and signs the paper.
It’s taken away with a soft rustle.
“Thank you, and good luck.”
Wordlessly, he strides towards the door, and behind him he hears a soft,
“I’m sorry, Peter.”
Plop.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Plip.
The response hangs in the air, heard by no one.
A rough throw, splash.
Across the street, a mother pulls her daughter close, sharp and deliberate.
The need to scream is overwhelming. However, that would risk the cops being called on him, so throwing rocks into the pond will have to suffice.
One rock for anger, another for resentment, each throw being an attempt to shed the toxins from his mind, memories taint the water, polluting it.
Coming here doesn’t work anymore.
Squatting down onto the bench, he opts to watch the sky. It's cloudy and void of any bright sunlight, there isn’t anyone else around, and judging from the humidity, it's going to rain soon.
Leaving is the right thing to do, find somewhere under a canopy or maybe a spot inside the hallway of an apartment complex.
But he doesn’t move, instead, he stares at his backpack, through the hole of the smallest zipper.
Reaching over, a hand digs through carefully, pulling out a familiar business card.
It’s stained, a reminder that it’s been sitting in that pocket for three weeks.
Sick Of Lies? We Sell The Truth.
No experience required – On the job training.
Hands-on opportunities in Photography, Social Work, Driving & Navigation.
Learn to see the world differently and capture it.
Join us at Video Production News
Louis Bloom - Call: (***) ***-****
What a weird guy..
He can’t actually consider this.
A flip reveals the back.
Only the brave need apply.
Will you save lives?
What kind of company is this?
A glance at his phone, then back to the card.
A dull dial tone trills through the cellphone, waiting for an answer on the other line.
Hello, this is Louis Bloom with Video Production News, please leave your name, number, and how you have been informed about our business. Thank you, and I look forward to speaking with you soon.
——Beep.
He flips the phone shut, letting clasped hands fall to his knees.
He’ll call back later, no. He shouldn't, not really.
This is his cue to go look at newspapers or borrow the library computers.
Peter gets up with a huff, and moves on with a sinking feeling in his gut.
It only takes about 4 steps before a familiar ringtone plays from his pocket.
With fumbling hands, his phone flips open.
“Hi-er-hello?”
“Hello, this is Louis Bloom. I saw a missed call but no message, could you tell me who’s calling?”
“Peter Parker, I was wondering if you-“
“Oh Peter! From the laundromat, yes I remember. You’re calling back about the position I offered you then?”
“Yes sir.”
“You know what? Our schedule is extremely tight right now, let me just..
There’s a faint rustle.
“Ah, yes, I see one small opening next month on the 5th”
“Next month?”
He can’t wait that long. The last check won’t carry him that far.
“Wait, hold on…”
“Okay looks like someone canceled an appointment, how does tomorrow at 4:00 sound?”
He exhales, “yeah, yeah, that would be great.”
Way to be desperate.
“Okay! See you at the Waffle House on Sunset Boulevard at 4:00 then. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t, sir!”
“Okay. See you then.”
“See you then…”
The phone hangs up. He doesn’t even realize how much he’s breathing right now, stress, adrenaline, and relief flooding his veins all at once.
A deep hum carries through the atmosphere, a stained window to the left rattling from needing repair. Fresh cologne compliments a wrinkled button up, topped off by perfectly combed hair.
Time on the flip phone says 3:36PM, and it’s about 12 minutes until the bus reaches his stop.
Every usual question that comes to mind for an interview can be answered with ease, but Peter isn’t so sure that this will be a “normal line of work”.
He still has no idea what’s involved, other than a camera.
He should’ve researched it first at the library, but all energy was spent walking towards the truck stop to shower before the interview.
It had taken at least two hours to get there, every muscle still aches in protest from that trip.
He rubs his tired eyes and takes a sip of water.
Needing an address is another issue.
Louis Bloom doesn’t seem like the kind of man that likes having to go out of his way for others. And offering Peter a position is doing him a huge favor anyway, the very least he can do is be prepared.
Flipping his phone open, Peter dials the same number he’s been trying to call all month.
Failure is expected, but it’s worth a shot.
“Hello?”
“Hi ma’am, do you have any beds open?”
Without skipping a beat, she responds. “No, I’m sorry we don’t. Try the other shelter; they might have one open for you.”
“What about your add-“
The constant dial tone interrupts him.
With a huff, he moves on to the next number, having all of the nearby resources saved onto his phone.
“Hi, our line is currently busy right now, please wait while we put you on hold, and a representative should be with you shortly. Otherwise, hang up and call back later.”
Static music plays through the tiny speaker, and he has no hope that this will work. What about Ned’s address? No, of course not, that’s in New York, it won’t work.
With a pressured sigh and the flip of his phone, there’s no energy left to think about anything else. His mind looks for rest in that thousand yard stare through the window. The blurry mess of colors that smear by lull him in between slumber and a zombie-like state.
The loop of the backpack is hung on the hook, lock on the door promptly twisted shut; left where nobody will mess with it. This shouldn’t take long, he doesn’t think anybody will pay attention to the bathroom stall, hopefully.
Taking another once over in the mirror, he fixes his expression to something less exhausted; a friendly smile. Good.
The door squeaks open as he steps out to check for any signs of Louis.
There, at a nearby booth, the man sits, calmly waiting.
Exhaling slowly, he fixes his posture and strides over with fugaze confidence.
Upon noticing him, Louis immediately stood up, the same plastic smile on his face from the first time they met.
“Parker, good to see you.”
He holds out a steady hand and Parker takes it.
”Good to see you too, Mister Bloom.”
They sit, and he tries to relax his shoulders after noticing how calm the other is.
There's a folder for the interview, but Louis wordlessly flips the menu instead.
He clamps his mouth shut and takes his own menu, mimicking posture even though he doesn’t want anything.
“I think I’ll go with the house waffles and a coffee. What about you?”
“I don’t know yet, I haven’t really eaten here before.”
“Really? You a local?”
“No, I’m from New York, originally.”
“Wow. The Big Apple, you're a long way from home. Probably feels different out here. I’m curious, what are the crime rates? There’s a lot of statistics but they’re not always accurate.”
“They’re… okay? I-“
A chipper voice interrupts,
“Hi my name is Trisha I’ll be your server today, what can I get you two started for today?”
“I’ll take your classic waffles and a coffee. Trisha?”
She looks up from the notepad.
“Your hair looks amazing today. You know, I have a friend in Aperture West Studio, your look is exactly the kind of thing their agency is looking for.”
She puts a hand on her chest with surprise, “oh, thank you!”
“Yes. You look great. Here, call me and I will put you through to my friend, take this. ” He hands her a card, and she takes it with a smile.
“Thank you. I just- I’ve never had anyone give me an opportunity like this—“ she goes on talking.
Peter can feel the gullibility radiating from her, but he doesn’t add anything. Instead, he allows his mind to wander. He’d fall asleep if he could, or maybe skip this entire fluff ordeal so they can get this over with already.
“And for you?”
Peter jolts himself back into reality.
Oh right. order food.
He blurts, “just a coffee.”
She smiles back. “Okay, I’ll be right back with those orders.”
As the clatter of her shoes fades, silence edges in around the booth. Peter fidgets with the corner of his menu, not sure whether to speak first.
“I noticed you showed up early,” he waves a finger. “I like that.”
“Being early is important to me, sir.”
“We’re on the same page then. Let’s jump right into it. What prior experience or skills do you have that could transfer into this position?”
Peter swallows, realizing this interview isn’t going to be handed to him. He answers carefully, “I did photography in high school, I know you guys do something with cameras, so.”
“You’re right, we do use cameras.” A pen marks something onto the notepad. “Do you have a portfolio you could show me?”
“No, I don’t.” All photos were either thrown away or somewhere in New York still. Probably the latter.
With the dismissive wave of a hand, he reassures, “that’s okay, plenty of people start from the ground up.”
His stomach twists at the statement.
“Ever had a rebellious streak? Sneaking out with friends, driving without a license, spray painting...”
Peter stares blankly, “…no.” A lie.
“Okay. And I know you have a working phone.” he makes a mark on his notebook, “did your parents give you chores growing up?”
“Yes.”
Louis smiles at that. “Good. Tell me more, was there a particular chore that you didn’t like to do?”
He had to think about that for a moment, there isn't really a chore that he likes doing, but that’s not what Louis is really asking.
Right, conflict.
“Not really. It was just something that needed to be done, the faster I got the list done the less I had to worry about it.”
He can tell the answer doesn’t quite quench the man’s curiosity, it must have come off as evasive, so he continues.
“Oh, this one time though, I didn’t scrub the dishes. My aunt caught me putting them into the dishwasher, she got really mad about it. I got an earful for weeks. I didn’t make the same mistake after that.”
“What did you learn from that experience?”
“That the dish washer is only for sanitizing,” he adds, “and doing things right the first time costs way less money. And sanity.”
Normally that would get a chuckle out of someone, or even a twinkle in their eye, but from Louis, nothing but a monotone response. “You wouldn’t believe how many people don’t understand that.” He glances up from his notepad, then adds, “have you ever witnessed anything that gave you a strong reaction?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know what your limit is, that’s why I’m asking.”
His face scrunches in confusion. How is he supposed to answer that? Bloom doesn’t budge, he just waits, eyes locked onto Peter’s gaze.
His gut churns, torn between the lines of what that question really means.
“I guess, seeing a dog get ran over.”
There, the twinkle in the man’s eye signals interest. He wants to know how he overcame hardship? That must be it.
“I mean, that didn’t mess me up really? I was sad for the family who owned the dog, and I could see it get run over every time I closed my eyes for a few weeks after. But that went away after a while..”
Peter could swear someone lit up a spark, something he hasn’t seen in Louis from the first time they met weeks ago, up until now.
“Describe it to me.”
What..?
“Describe…” he mumbles in question.
“Describe the scene to me, what exactly do you remember?”
He wants a description of him seeing the dog die? The memory plays back to him, all while feeling the absurdity of the question.
“I was across the street, I saw the little dog running… It was a chihuahua.” He clears his throat, “… and this van just… ran over it.” He can still see its eyes popping out of its skull, the wet crunch, gone in an instant.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, blinks a few times, and Louis is writing on paper again. Clicking the pen closed, he looks back at Peter, who flinches back to attention.
“I got what I need. Here, fill this out.” A paper is slid across the table with the pen on top. He starts to write down the information on the form, until one part makes him hesitate.
Address: ___________ apt no. ___ city:____ state:__ zip:___
Staring at it, his body breaks out into a sweat, hand wavering above the paper for what feels like minutes. His mind goes blank, eyes are on him.
But maybe he shouldn’t take this job, Louis hasn’t even told him what he’d be doing yet, and the entire interview has been weird since the start. Something in his gut…
He opens his mouth to speak, but takes a breath, “I don’t have anywhere to live right now… If that’s an issue I can just-“
The snatching of the paper interrupts him before he can finish. “That’s fine, don‘t worry about it. I’ll fill it with my address.“ Louis responds, stacking the papers before tucking them neatly into the folder.
Peter is speechless, and it’s only when he sees Louis stand up that he realizes the interview is coming to a close.
“That’s all I needed, Parker. Thank you for your time. I will contact you about the results of the interview.” He says while carrying his belongings loosely under one arm.
“Thank you for this opportunity, Mister Bloom.”
They perform a firm handshake, and with that, Louis walks away.
Peter stares at the empty table for a moment, and that’s when the waitress appears next to him suddenly, nearly startling him. “Here are those orders, sorry for the wait!”
The plate clinks down onto the table along with the coffee. He just stands there with a pang of guilt, she looks up at him with a soft smile. “Enjoy, I’ll be back to check on you guys in a minute.”
Peter nods, and when she walks away, he looks back down at the large waffle plate. The syrup makes his throat close up, imagining it burning his throat and stomach like acid. He can’t bring himself to eat the other man’s order.
Instead, he places a $10 on the table, the ring on the door announcing his departure as he leaves the restaurant.
