The Good, The Bad, And Everything In Between - DISCONTINUED

Chicken Soup...with a side of demons?

Category: Fluff and funny

3rd Person POV

"This will be fine. The internship doesn't start for another two hours so I've got plenty of time." Peter mumbles to himself.

He flips through an old cookbook he found until he sees chicken soup.

"I've made chicken soup before. Well, with Aunt May, but I still helped." He glanced at the clock.

"She won't be done with her shift for another four hours or so, so I can't ask her for help. Guess I've gotta make it myself. Shouldn't be a problem. I can cook." Peter says.

"Mr. Stark sounded sick. Mr. Dr. Strange said Mr. Stark had been feeling a little under the weather lately. So some chicken noodle soup should help him feel better." He says.

Peter looks around the kitchen and gets ready.

~~Time skip 1 and a half hours~~

"Annnnnnnd done!" Peter says.

Ignoring the smoke detector that has been going off for the last twenty minutes, (It wasn't his fault. He still doesn't know how the water caught fire) he opened the lid of the pot. Smoke rushed out.

Peter coughs, covering his nose and trying to wave the smell of burnt EVERYTHING out of the house.

"Shoot dang it. I guess I can't cook." He says, dejected.

He looks around the kitchen and sighs.

"I've made a HUGE mess. I better clean this up before Aunt May gets home." Peter says. He starts to clean up dishes and ingredients.

"OW!" He hisses. He looks down at his hand and sees a small piece of glass now lodged in his palm. Tears well in his eyes.

"I just wanted to cook something nice for Mr. Stark. I didn't want to cut my hand." He grumbles to himself. He pulls the glass out and watches as a few drops of blood fall onto the floor. He quickly cleans up the broken dish, removing all the broken glass, and winces when his cut brushes up against something.

He sighs again and heads to the bathroom to get the first aid kit.

Suddenly, everything goes black.

"Oh no. That's not good. That's not supposed to happen." He says, washing his hand.

The lights flicker back on a moment later. Slightly dimmer than before.

He hears a muffled voice coming from the kitchen. He panics, thinking Aunt May got home early.

"Aunt May! I'm so sorry!" Peter calls, quickly bandaging the cut. He runs out the door.

"I'll finish cleaning up, I promise. I just had to clean my ha -" He skids to a halt, staring at the kitchen.

A tall, lanky figure stands in the center of the room scratching its head. Firery red hair covers the top of the figure's head, swooping up slightly in the front. They're dressed in all black with snakeskin boots on their feet.

"Uhhh, hello?" Peter asks. The figure turns around. Dark sunglasses cover the person's eyes as they scowl at Peter.

"Wot? A child?" The person asks, astonished. He had a British accent. (Or was it Scottish? Peter wasn't sure)

"I'm not a child, I'm 16," Peter huffs, crossing his arms. Peter was certain the person rolled their eyes...even if he couldn't see their eyes.

"Who are you and what do you want?" The person asks dismissively.

"Ummmm. My name's Peter. I'm not sure why you're here though." Peter says.

"You're not sure why I'm here?" They ask. Peter shakes his head.