Chapter Text
"Well, I see you doing, what I try to do for me with the, words from a poet, and a, voice from a choir, and a melody. And nothing else mattered." -Edge of Seventeen, Stevie Nicks
With the sun high in the sky and lunch hour quickly drawing in, New York City was reaching its prime bustle. Like some kind of painting, the skyline was alight with twinkling sky scrapers, reflecting the bright, morning sun. Peter would say it looked almost peaceful from this distance, yet the city’s arteries told a different story. Strong waves of wind whipped busily across the roads, charging against the hundreds of travellers, daring them to fight back, to push their luck, to accelerate a little harder. Rising to the wind’s challenge, Harley seamlessly carved a path into the fluctuating air. The rolling gusts were warm but strong, swirling across the slipstreams and leaving meandering trails of fumes that climbed high into the air. It seemed as though the bike could simply slip through the air with no resistance, gliding seamlessly between the traffic and onwards to the glimmering city ahead. Harley’s driving was effortless, and Peter began to wonder how often his guide partook in this hobby. Had it not been accompanied by the heavy grumble of its engine, Peter would have assumed the vehicle to be silent.
As they sailed through endless lanes of slow moving traffic, the cacophony of beeping and angry commuters was easily drowned out by that same deep thrum, as though the bike itself was purring. And there, upon its back, Peter found himself perched clumsily, arms wrapped firmly around a near-stranger’s waist and legs clinging to the shell of Harley’s bike as though its shiny, metallic body would somehow reach out and prevent him from flying off into the sea of vehicles. This was not something Peter had done for a long time. Mr. Stark had been the first to show him how to ride a motorbike, but that was a situation he had been in control of. Here he felt vulnerable, as if he could let go and fall at any moment. Hiss arms tightened minutely and he could feel rather than hear Harley laughing at him.
So it is with complete honesty that Peter reports he did not squeal when Harley accelerated. He was Spider-Man thank you very much: web-slinging, risk-taking extraordinaire. Speed was his thing. But he wasn’t in control of this situation… and he had BD to worry about. As the lean towers of New York’s skyscrapers grew ever taller, however, Peter found himself relaxing, leaning into the turns and loosening his grip. Harley slowed the bike to the speed limit when they entered city limits, patting Peter’s thigh placatingly. He hoped the other didn’t think him weak. Who was he kidding? He was being such a coward right now.
———}|{———
Peter glanced around with curiosity as they pulled into an underground parking garage. Harley nodded to a sleepy-looking security guard in a little booth by the entrance (who did he think he was, James Bond?) and the man let them in with no more than a glance and a wave. The little entrance had an electronic barrier that rose up out of the way as they approached. He’d never noticed this place before - although that wasn’t saying much; Peter and May had never owned a car. Very few people in the city did. He had no need for a underground garage therefore no reason to pay any attention to it.
It was well-lit inside but not hugely important or extravagant looking. Average really, Peter thought. He did however approve of the orderly parking throughout, each car leaving a justified and neat gap between its neighbouring vehicles. The symmetry was satisfying to watch as they drove past multitudes of varying vehicles. Peter began to notice how the lights flickered to life even before they arrived in the approaching section, preventing any possible incidents. He liked how the reflections of those lights glinted secrets untold in the cars’ buffed and glossed finishes. He liked how the grumbling engine below him seemed to be amplified by the low ceiling and flat walls, echoing back around them from every direction.
With careful precision, the bike rolled steadily through several rows of increasingly posh looking vehicles until they were met by a row of motorbikes parked by the far wall. Peter inhaled; the last time he’d seen such an eclectic collection of bikes was at one of Mr. Stark’s private garages. Now that had been an odd day, Peter recalled. Sometimes he wished he’d saved physical reminders of these memories. Not that those would make much of a difference now.
With a sad little splutter, the engine cut off altogether. They had come to a steady stop in a narrow bike slot alongside a blue BMW. With a satirical stroke of the bike’s side as though it were a beast he was attempting to tame, Harley kicked out the support leg to prevent it from toppling over. He then placed both feet on the floor, letting the bike lean slightly. Peter watched rapt as Harley climbed off with little struggle, straightening himself out and removing his helmet in almost a single movement. It was a well practised manoeuvre and Peter couldn’t help but admire such agility. The bike was by no means light, or at all easy to dismount- in his professional opinion, of course. Harley clearly had experience riding; he really shouldn’t have been so scared for his life on the journey here.
Peter himself chose to remain on the leather seat for a moment longer, adjusting to the stark stillness. It was a strange sensation: as though his body waiting for his world to start vibrating to the frequency of an engine again. Removing his balaclava, Harley began running his hands through his hair. Man, that boy had good hair, Peter thought. Then whipped his head away awkwardly, making an attempt to dismount the great beast himself. Wobbling a bit as a result, his legs suddenly felt far too short, blurred vision making it impossible to perceive depth correctly. It was at this moment Peter realised his mistake and he winced almightily as he misjudged his distance to the floor. His right limb swung over the top and yet he failed to connect the extended leg with the floor, sending Peter tumbling headfirst towards the concrete. Well, shit.
Eyes closed, Peter began to brace himself, clenching his teeth. With lightning reflexes, Harley had his arm outstretched towards him though, preventing the impact. He deftly caught the smaller with one arm held out across Peter’s chest, correcting him from his fall with a surprised grunt. That had been incredibly lucky.
Once Harley retracted his arm after offering a reassuring arm squeeze, Peter broke free of his stunned rigidity and snapped his head downwards with enough force to give someone whiplash. Suddenly unable to meet the other’s eyes, he just shuffled awkwardly, teeth drawing blood from his lip. It was embarrassing, and weak. Not a week ago, Peter had been jumping cars, hitting bad guys probably a bit harder than they deserved. Now, he was falling off bikes. Peter refused to acknowledge what had just happened…
…
With a shaky breath, he decided to divert his attention elsewhere. If he didn’t see Harley, then Harley couldn’t see him. What could he look at instead? Oh look, floor. Damn, it was incredibly interesting floor! Concrete! With little rocks sealed beneath the surface- untouchable yet on display. And on that shiny surface, dark smeared rubber which had clearly been scraped off someone’s tyres as they spun the wheel in a doughnut. Very interesting. Wow, why didn’t he stare at floor more often?
“Pete.”
Oh yeah, that’s why. “Ye-ah”, he croaked. Then screwed up his mouth at the sound of his voice cracking. Damn, when did his mouth get so dry. “Yeah?” He repeated with a stronger voice this time.
“You ok, man?” Oh.
Something tugged on Peter’s heart strings.
No matter how hot his face felt, Harley’s concern far outweighed his need to hide. He hadn’t meant to cause worry. Forcing a smile, he lifted his head up to face the thunder and give a reassuring nod. Or he tried to. This became an aborted movement, stopped by the firm hold of both Harley’s now gloveless hands grasping both sides of his helmet. Restraining Peter’s hesitant movement, Harley flipped open the visor with concern, peering into the darkness within as though Peter’s own brown eyes held the secrets to life itself.
It was touching: to feel seen. In that moment, he felt like Harley could glimpse into his very soul. The serious, genuine empathy written on his features felt more profound than a simple consolidatory pat or sympathetic nod. Peter had a year to forget how to socialise. But now he had a chance to start again. So he smiled a genuine smile. And Harley must have seen how those hidden, watery orbs crinkled up at the corners because the taller simply chuckled to himself and began to remove Peter’s helmet.
Well it wasn’t Peter’s helmet. Peter hadn’t owned a helmet of his own. The leathers were a hand-me-down from Ben, or rather what he had left behind, however they hadn’t come with the much-needed head gear. Thankfully, Harley- the absolute genius he was turning out to be- had had the foresight to bring Peter a spare anyway, tucked away in the travel box he had attached at the back of the bike. Harley’s helmet was a deep black in colour, and a dark, reflecting satin in design, with specks of invisible glitter glinting in the sunlight. Peter had been interested to notice the odd undertone of red and gold glinting through as they had been riding. It was very nice gear, he would hate to see it ruined in a crash.
Peter’s own borrowed gear was far brighter than Harley’s. And he hated to admit it clashed terribly. The helmet was a bright orange colour (papaya, May! Not orange!) with the McLaren logo printed boldly in white on the back. Black and blue strikes ran up its ridges and disappeared behind his skull, invisible to Peter in the rear view mirror. Had he not been paired with a matching duo of bike and rider, Peter wouldn’t have minded wearing something so vibrant.
No, believe it or not, Peter actually was an avid motorsports enjoyer. He remembered long ago, when he was only tiny, Mr. Stark had raced for a Formula One team in the Monaco Grand Prix. Unsurprisingly, as a consequence, little Peter began a new obsession. Years later, the original team his idol had raced for had been phased out, and yet Peter had developed a love for the sport itself, leading to his growing support of a team he considered to be the underdog: a British team with striking papaya-coloured cars - McLaren.
He had gaped at Harley when the boy handed him the helmet, yet the other boy just laughed at his surprise, shaking his head with an “of course you’d be a McLaren fan, Mr. I will reference everything under this sun until you realise just how interesting this world is.” Then he had asked “Button or Alonso” and Peter had to remind himself Lando hadn’t yet joined the sport. His answer however was “how could you possibly make me choose” which received a laugh.
Now they stood side by side next to the back wall of the parking lot, putting their riding gear into small lockers. It wouldn’t be ideal to walk around wearing leathers whilst they journeyed across NYC. The relief of cool air on Peter’s skin was instantaneous. He hadn’t even realised how hot he’d gotten until he’d stripped off the leather to reveal his skins and shirt, now slightly sodden with sweat. Harley was much the same, sighing at the wet patches emerging on the dark fabric of his shirt. Finally free of the offending, far-too-thick gear, Peter unzipped his rucksack, rummaging around for his glasses and bottle of water. Thank you, May for always leaving a pack list by the door. At Harley’s noise of jealousy, he offered up said supply of the sacred liquid, resulting in a grateful smile and half-hearted finger guns.
By Peter’s feet, BD had crawled out of his bag too, exploring the interesting new terrain this great, concrete fortress provided. The strip of lights above had yellowed with age and flickered intermittently. The floor had developed a layer of dust or mud from outdoor footwear and tyres, and the locker handles were left bare, paint worn away from years of use. BD decided at this moment to scale the side of the metal cabinets, prowling above both their heads. Harley’s eyes tracked the feline as they once more donned footwear, “So where’d this darlin’ come from, then?”
Peter blinked, taking a moment to find the right answer. The truth was odd- actually, the truth was condemning. He could deflect… or reference. Harley would take a hint. A smile wormed its way unbidden to his face despite the grim truth: “Heaven. She was sent to grip me tight and raise me from perdition.” He recited this with complete seriousness (who was he kidding, Peter thought he was hilarious), and not daring to disturb his act, the boy continued to tie the laces on his well-loved Doc Martin’s.
It was just as well the floor was so interesting since Peter couldn’t help the grin forming as Harley stopped what he was doing to face him, hands on his hips: “Har-har. Another reference, her name’s BD-1, not Castiel. It would be more suitable to say boop boop beep than to recite biblical references to me.”
“No, Harley- hey Harley, listen. No, hear me out. Here’s a better one. She’s Connor, the Android sent by Cyberlife.” An audible thwack as Harley jokingly smacked Peter’s head. “Heyyy!” He complained, “That was more like BD than Castiel, though she’s still my guardian angel, they’re both technically advanced robots.”
Harley inched away with disappointment, shaking his head, “Wow, just wow.” Finally, Peter looked up with a mischievous grin to meet Harley’s look of false distress. The blonde held up a warning finger to his peer’s face as though admonishing him, “Pete, you really gotta up your game here. Surely you’ve realised by now. Because the truth is... She is Iron Man.”
With a false gasp, Peter jumped to his feet, feigning complete and utter surprise. “Iron man?!” The exclamation drew BD’s attention and she approached him from her perch above, hopping down onto his shoulder and licking her paws dutifully. Harley laughed and nodded sagely, locking the doors to their kit and heading for the exit.
“Onwards, my friend. You have much to teach me. And BD-1 has a city to save.”
Peter grinned, breaking into a jog, “You bet.”
———}|{———
It was busy. Peter had already predicted this, BD however, did not speak English. The little creature clung to him like some sort of deranged limpet, sharp claws lightly digging into his skin. Peter decided not to bother her, because even without his masterful powers of detection, he could tell she wasn’t quite scared, just not at ease. Additionally, he was fairly sure the feline took some sadistic pleasure in scaring others, hissing every time an unsuspecting stranger got a touch too close. Peter hunched up slightly with embarrassed laughter when she extended her black paw to whack at the offending creatures, a little beating stick striking with startling speed. BD sure was a feisty one. And yet she continuously nudged her head against his own, like a little reassuring angel on his shoulder. So despite that angry spark, she was golden at heart. His Castiel, his Connor.
But then feathers drifted into Peter’s line of view as he walked, accompanied by frantic flapping of wings. A flock of pigeons startled nearby causing BD to let out a horrendous yowl, using Peter’s head as both a stepping stool and barrier to the miniature, cooing army. The dreadful cries continued in what could only be construed as abject horror, even as they left the little birds far behind. He chuckled, affectionately stroking under her chin.
Harley laughed too, lightly booping BD’s nose from behind. She preened at his praise, switching shoulders to get closer to the taller boy in order to receive more attention. Peter decided that right here, right now, he felt strangely calm. Well, “strangely” wasn’t the right word - what Peter meant was that he felt normal. Inhaling steadily as he walked in parallel with Harley, his eyes darted across the street in passive observation, mind calm yet aware. Like playful, secretive spirits beneath the ground, whispers of steam rose up from manhole covers, spilling out onto nearly every street they passed.
The smell was unusual to Peter and nowhere near as smothering as he recalled. It had been a while since his senses didn’t send him into overload, and the boy was beginning to take advantage of this new outlook. He took note of all the things he saw: a little train of small children all holding onto the kid in front and led by a stressed teacher, guiding them through the busy sidewalks; a large group of men - possibly construction workers on break - were leaning against some long-standing scaffold on the street opposite, they were smoking and laughing obnoxiously loud but not causing a scene; a confident-looking woman stood on an empty crate on the street corner was holding a megaphone to her lips hen they crossed the road, and she shouted passionately with one hand thrown to the sky, making a fist; another woman, also slightly ruffled but from stress this time, was arguing over the phone with someone- sounded like marketing, no surprise there; then Peter’s eyes came to rest on a young, homeless man tucked away into a dark corner off the sidewalk.
Peter stopped. He didn’t notice the glares he received for his sudden pause, or Harley’s startled look when he turned to find empty space beside him. In fact, he wasn’t really looking, seeing instead a familiar scene playing out from bleary months gone by. It was a far too common experience in NYC- to see a homeless person that is, and the NYPD often forced those living on the streets to move on, especially in busy areas. Peter knows from unfortunate first-hand experience how that feels. A cold and stern glare, a rolling set of uncaring eyes, a put-upon sigh. They don’t want to help you, they just want you gone.
At first he’d felt betrayed. That those whom he’d once considered allies in making this city safe for everyone now harboured barely concealed resentment and disgust toward him. It doesn’t matter to them who you are, where you came from, why you ended up there. All they see is a failure.
Oh, but Spider-Man, local hero, living homeless on the streets was just too much of a surprise.
“Spider-man?”
“My bad, sorry, sir. Didn’t realise it was you.”
“What’s a guy like you doing here? Helping us out? Sure make the nigh go by faster.”
“Not got a lady waiting for you back home, Spidey? Didn’t take you for a street rat.”
“Ah, sorry. Thought you were one of the squatters, you know. Always hidin’ round here.”
It disgusted him, and yet every time he found himself merely agreeing politely: “It’s no problem, officer.” or “Of course, just your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man.” It was moments like that which made Peter miss May the most. She was so caring, a parent, a nurse and a volunteer. Peter had grown up helping out at F.E.A.S.T, serving the poor and caring for the homeless. She’d made it feel like a second home, a place to socialise and connect with the community. Without May… Without that incredible, powerful, so utterly compassionate woman, it just hadn’t felt right going back… not that anyone had bothered to refill the hole her death had left in its stead. Being homeless just got harder, and as crime rates increased, the stigma surrounding such people only grew.
He didn’t miss those first few months. Trying to navigate isolation, a complete lack of identity and devastating loss that had cost him so much more than he could’ve imagined. It really was a wonder he’d made it so long, even as superpowered, mutant Spider-Man.
Coming back to himself, Peter moved out of the peoples’ way and knelt down before the man. Without an inkling of apprehension, he’d put down his phone on the floor and pulled off his little rucksack, a sign of peace and trust. As he did so, BD-1 hopped to the floor inquisitively, joining the two by the door the man was propped up outside of. She placed a paw upon the stranger’s boot, “mrrrp?” At the quiet, foreign noise the man finally noticed him, looking up with heavy and tired eyes. They told a story, just like the fresh, pink scar across his cheek and those battered clothes. But that story was accompanied by a solemn smile and a kind nod, “Hey, kid.”
Peter smiled back, his heart aching with sympathy, “What’s your name?” His voice felt surprisingly steady as he reached into the bag. Fingers grasping the cereal bars he’d packed earlier, he introduced himself, “I’m Peter.”
Rather than offering a hand to shake, Peter instead extended the food with an encouraging gesture. The man’s eyes grew teary as he responded in turn, “Neil.” He couldn’t have been much older than Peter- the Peter who was essentially 20 and on the streets, not innocent 15-year-old Peter who hadn’t even dreamt of somehow ending up in this situation himself. He watched the man with sadness. His hands were shaking as he gingerly took the outstretched food, clasping their hands softly without reference to the slight tremor. It wasn’t a big deal, really; Peter hadn’t needed the extra food anyway… not anymore. He didn’t want to think about the long weeks he’d spent with minimal food and a hypermetabolism.
Below Peter’s bent knees, BD-1 mewled loudly once more, coming out to rub against Neil’s outstretched leg. He smiled, lip splitting slightly from dryness, “Who- sorry.” The man coughed a bit, clearing his throat. “Who’s this?”
Peter beamed at him, “I named her BD-1. It’s a reference.”
“Not one I know, I don’t think.” Neil nodded favourably anyway, stroking her lovingly behind her ears. His hands were dirty, dust from the floor embedded within his nailbeds and along the wrinkles of his palms. Peter resisted the urge to reach out and grab those pale hands with his own. He wanted to hold him, to tell him it would all be ok.
He could. It never means much though, not when you’re at your worst and nothing ever seems to go your way. It’s easy to say, not to change, not to believe.
No. Instead, Peter could offer support. Something that would change his trajectory. “Hey Neil, you ever heard of F.E.A.S.T?”
The man grimaced, rubbing a palm over his forehead in what Peter perceived to be regret. “Don’t know where it is. Never thought it would be me, yeah? Never paid attention. Now, whaddaya know? Nobody ever wants to talk to the homeless man. Get what you deserve, y’know?”
Peter nodded sadly. Boy, did he know. And for a long time he’d believed it about himself too. After a moment’s consideration, Peter extracted a day ticket from the bag and handing it to Neil with sincerity, he began to articulate himself, “I’m gonna give you some directions, yeah? You know where you are now?”
The man nodded, sitting up to show he was paying attention. Peter continued, “You’re gonna have to head down that street there and you’ll see the subway sign. Go down, ignore the people. They’ll stare- they always do- and grab the first one to Chinatown. There’s a sign right outside pointing towards the centre.” He paused, trying to remember what the hall used to look like. “It’s an old building. There’ll be a lot of people around that part of town who’ll be willing to help if you can’t find it.”
For a moment, Neil said nothing. Peter heard the sniffles before he noticed Neil had begun crying. On trembling legs, the man got to his feet, lent forwards and after a moment to allow the younger a chance to move away, Neil gave Peter a weak hug. It was with great pride that Peter could say he tensed only slightly at the unfamiliar touch, patting Neil’s back lightly before pulling away. Cereal bars and ticket in hand, Neil nodded to Peter, straightening out his coat and shuffling away. With one last stroke of BD’s velvety fur, he turned to leave, turning back a final time to whisper, “Thanks, kid.” And he left, leaving Peter and BD in the little alcove.
He could go home today knowing he made a difference. How he wished life was more fair when he had been at his worst.
“Where-” Peter jumped mightily out of his skin. “-on God’s good Earth, did you, you beautiful, magnificent, caring, compassionate-”
“Harley, stop.” Peter complained.
“-sweet, thoughtful, darling, self sacrificing-”
“Why me? You-” Harley reached forth and slapped a hand over his mouth.
Harley was leant just outside the alcove, sun causing his curls to glow a honey-yellow in the sun. His smile was soft but sincere, and his eyes portrayed how moved he felt. “Pete, you have a heart of gold.”
It was with a bashful blush that he slapped the boy’s hand away from his face, sticking his tongue out for good measure. BD had already climbed up to his shoulder, licking at her paws next to his ear. Oh to be a little, oblivious cat.
“To the salon, I say!”
“Harley, stop referencing things, that’s my job.”
“Nope. Let’s go to the salon. Really.”
Well Peter wasn’t going to complain, his hair had been getting too long. It was starting to hang over his eyes.
———}|{———
Harley, as it turns out, was loving life. The boy constantly compared the quiet, country-town experience to this new, busy-body, big-apple sensation that was New York. For his first time here, he sure was confident in knowing his way around, Peter thought.
“Hey, Pete. Did you know most people back home have never seen a skyscraper in person.”
Or: “I can’t believe you can just buy a hotdog on the street here. Like there’s just people stood there giving out food instantaneously. How is that possible?”
Peter bit his lip, glancing in the mirror. Harley hadn’t been kidding when he said ‘salon’. He’d pushed open the doors to the closest, fancy-looking establishment and boldly demanded a full, 5-star treatment. They had gotten more than a few strange looks and Peter was glad he’d never have to meet any of these people ever again. However, now they were sat down and dedicated, Peter was starting to feel nervous for a different reason. He can’t remember the last time someone else cut his hair. In recent years, he’d taken to cutting it himself, hanging from the ceiling so that the snipped hair didn’t coat him in an itchy coating. What if he didn’t like it?
Additionally, their hair stylist was getting somewhat frustrated after correcting Harley’s head for the sixth time. She shot a bemused look at Peter in the mirror, as though he could bring the sensibility to this conversation that this Southern kid appeared to be lacking. Harley remained completely unaware of her building frustration, continuing to offer blinding smiles to Peter at every opportunity. The brunette simply smiled sheepishly, neglecting to notify Harley that he really couldn’t see him anyway since he’d had to take off his glasses.
An hour later, Peter’s hair was slightly shorter. Harley kept remarking at its miraculous volume, a severe contrast to the flattened “drowned cat” look that had previously been going on. Even Peter couldn’t help the smile that formed when a stray strand curled in front of his face, bouncy and free. He liked how familiar it felt. It sharpened his face rather than accentuating his round and youthful appearance. It was a look more reminiscent of his older self than this small, younger body he found himself in.
As they were getting their nails done, his stylist kept cooing over how soft his locks had become to touch, smiling with pride at her work. The man by the desk (he had been dutifully looking after BD for the duration of their session) piped up about the real test being comparing the softness of her fur and his hair. It was a joke. Peter knew this but somehow, for some reason, Peter felt himself becoming happier, lighter. He liked feeling connected to others. He liked others liking him.
Today was a good day.
Shortly after the black nail varnish had finished drying, Harley got to his feet, and patted Peter on the head. Looking into the products their stylist had used, Harley went off on a loud tangent about self-care, disappearing with another member of staff behind the till. She had dyed hair, and vibrant nails, and a friendly, bubbly personality to match Harley’s own. They returned moments later with several bottles and another, completely unrelated conversation. Even Peter’s mind wasn’t moving fast enough to keep up.
“Hey, Pete. Gonna get you some of those hair products to take home, yeah?”
“Harley, those are expensive! I should pay.”
“Responsibility is for adults. We’re going shopping, loser.”
———}|{———
Several shops later, Peter was left staring at Harley with poorly veiled amusement. The boy was beginning to become weighed down with bags, silently struggling and yet still engaging in conversation. A surprise for sure. As they meandered into Times Square, the hustle and bustle began to make it difficult to navigate and Peter decided to take pity on the other.
“Yo, Harls.” Peter doesn’t know at what point today he had come up with that nickname, “Let’s grab something to eat.”
Not skipping a beat, Harley swerved towards the nearest café and plonked the bags down beside a free table with a grateful sigh, “I am but a simple fool. And whoever let me go around every shop in New York is also a fool. I blame that idiot.”
Peter cried indignantly, “Hey, you aren’t pinning all this on me.” He gestured wildly at the numerous bags and then pointed his finger accusatorily at Harley, mock tutting in shame. BD chose that moment to leap down to the floor, back faced comedically towards Harley, licking her leg as though she had no interest in his presence. She totally just disowned him. Outstretching his shoe before her, he grinned when she instantly placed a paw against it. It was the closest thing to a high-five one can achieve with a cat. They made a spectacular duo; BD would always have his back.
“Anyway, it’s my turn to do something nice so what’re you getting? I’ll order it for you.” Humming over the other’s protests, he gathered his phone and wallet, preparing to go inside: “Last call for Harley? Irritating, blonde boy named Harley?”
Nearby couples enjoying the afternoon sun over Time’s Square glared at him, yet Peter only had eyes for his new friend. The teen in question simply pouted dramatically, brow furrowed causing the skin to burrow up and wrinkle. It was frankly hilarious. “Hey!”
That wasn’t an answer. Damn Harley and his stubborn ways. “What’re you getting, or I’ll get you a boring-ass coffee and some Skittles.” Oh no, absolutely not, “Please tell me that’s not actually what you want…”
Several minutes later, the setting sun saw Peter sipping on his frappe with a warmed toastie in front of him. Predictably, Harley had a large pack of Skittles and a small shot of coffee on his side of the table, hands clasped over them like some kind of Bond villain. He was currently attempting to disturb Peter by consuming both goods simultaneously. It looked foul. And if Harley’s growing tears were anything to go by, Peter was willing to bet it was, indeed, foul.
“So, we’ve spent a day. BD kicked ass, I met a guy called Neil, and you made friends with a hair stylist. I know thy name is Harley. But Harley what? Skittle-monster? The Irresponsible? Harley Jr.?”
The boy in question made a comedic face of consideration. “Well, I don’t know. Skittle-monster has a nice ring to it. Maybe I can get it legally changed.”
Peter scoffed. “Very funny, Mr. ‘I have enough money to buy out half of Manhattan, but I also come from small town Tennessee.’” Harley just smiled dramatically. A moment of daring eye contact before Harley leaned forward. With a conspiratory beckon, Harley forced Peter close as though about to trade state secrets. His expression had not changed from it’s usual joking nature.
“What would you do if I said Stark?”
“Call you a liar.” Mr. Stark had never had children but Morgan. Never mind the fact that Harley was clearly kidding, grin already working its way up his face like a disease.
“Then my last name isn’t Stark.” This kid.
Peter rolled his eyes, jokingly slapping Harley, “Har-har, very funny. I can’t believe you aren’t Iron Man’s secret, illegitimate son.” And then he had already moved on, going to stroke BD’s head where it rested on his lap.
“Ok, ok. No kidding, sorry. The name’s Keener, Harley Keener.” He held his hand out seriously. Peter brought his own up and they shook hands firmly, though Peter forced him to switch since his corresponding arm was busy pampering BD.
“Parker, Peter Parker. But you can call me Al,” he replied, a big smile on his face. Now Harley’s look of judgement could be from his dated music reference or something else.
“Your surname is really ‘Parker’? No joke?” Amazing. Peter nodded, bewildered. It wasn’t the reference then. “Did your parents just really love alliteration?” Oh poor poor Harley, what a trap you’ve just walked yourself into, Peter thought.
“Wouldn’t know.”
It was funny how the sudden dark humour forced the usually rapid talker into a flounder. He hadn’t noticed Peter’s grin, or unbothered eyes, simply flapping around in panic like a fish out of water. This wouldn’t last long if the two continued to hang out. It eventually wears off, it did with MJ and him. But it was nice to remember her habits, and see her in his own actions even now. Harley was still in shock, one hand covering his mouth completely.
“You’re so eas-”
“Excuse me, young man.” Uh-oh. “Are you aware that animals are not allowed on the premises?” Shit.
Peter turned to face the unexpected intruder with a polite smile, raising a hand to block the sun from blinding him. The woman was middle-aged, short, and unnecessarily close to his face. She really didn’t look impressed. Deciding not to make a scene, he dipped his head subserviently, “Sorry ma’am, I just assumed it would be fine since we’re outside.”
“Well it’s not. I’m going to have to ask the pair of you to leave. You’re disturbing our other patrons.”
Moving to pick up the bags, Peter was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. The sound that the metal chair made when it scraped the floor as he stood was excruciatingly loud in the quiet little bubble Peter’s senses seemed to have shrunk to. Harley stepped around the table swiftly, hand still on Peter’s shoulder. Peter thought the other likely didn’t realise his fingers had begun to clench around him.
“He ain’t done nothing wrong, woman. What’s your problem?”
“We get enough of your kind round here, kid. Just clear out before you cause a scene.”
Harley’s hand left his shoulder and without that grounding anchor, Peter felt as though he had been untethered at sea. The argument had moved behind him, he could see all nearby eyes tracking the actions of Peter’s companion and the clearly unhappy waitress. Wishing he could disappear, Peter simply zoned out of the situation, allowing himself to drift away from himself. Foot traffic shuffled past endlessly, the odd remark of excited tourists managing to pierce the constant stream of chatter. Nearer to Peter, the speakers within the little café began to play an old song; Stevie Nicks… ah yes, a live version of Edge of Seventeen. The vocals were more flowing than the studio track he’d grown accustomed to. It faded in and out with the opening and closing of the doors every now and then. He tapped his leg slightly, smiling when BD began to chase his hand with a curious nudge. He liked this song.
“And the days, go by, like a strand, in the wind. In the web that is my own, I begin again. Said to my friend, baby: Nothin' else mattered.”
He hummed softly to himself, slowly coming back into his skin. Beginning to observe the others seated outside the café, Peter noted how much easier it was to ground himself when his hearing didn’t pick up the slightest movement of a rat in a far off alley on top of the already deafening clamour of existence. Most clients were still busy watching the confrontation occurring behind him, content on observing like free entertainment. But most isn’t an obsolete, and there always seems to be an exception to the rule. Here, this applied to one man. And this man had his sights set on Peter.
Those unresponsive, dull eyes locked with his own, unfocused set. And suddenly a silent connection strung between the two, one silent figure to another. His observer was sat tremendously still. Silent and largely hidden from site, the man was wearing an oversized hoodie, the initials JBB embroidered into the fabric. He had squished himself into a shady, overlooked corner of the café’s outdoor space, nursing a cup of steaming coffee. He didn’t move when Peter cocked his head, or when he blinked. Or when he blinked in morse. Or when he smiled awkwardly at this unresponsive interaction. Peter was starting to worry he was hallucinating. But he twitched minutely, before delicately placing down his coffee cup and shifting into the light. And yet his face was still hidden from Peter’s view.
And then the man stood up. He was in front of Peter in moments, face expressionless. But now, stood in the light, Peter bit back a gasp of recognition; he knew that face. Choosing to keep his mouth shut, Peter began to bite his nail, waiting for the new arrival’s next move. A head tilt, not unlike Peter had only seconds prior. And he was moving again, walking past Peter’s seat.
Peter turned in his chair to see what would happen, slight apprehension building. BD was pawing at his shirt, mewling quietly. He stroked her head, biting his lip as he watched Harley notice the intruder. The woman remained clueless, still mid rant. The soldier placed a firm hand on the woman’s shoulder, silencing the dispute immediately. “A problem, miss?”
She began to stammer out a reply, growing ever so slightly indignant at the interruption. God bless her soul if she thought crossing the Winter Soldier was the right move to make. God bless her soul.
“Well, yes. See these two… teens were making some of our clients uncomfortable so I was just suggesting that they move on.”
Bucky blinked, face still blank but eyes reflecting a lick of anger. What the woman had been referring to lay heavy in the air, eyes flicking towards where Peter and Harley stood close together, and their painted nails. The soldier didn’t remove his hand from the woman’s shoulder, and with a glare, the waitress stopped resiating his grasp, “I’m sorry, what was it that they were doing, miss?”
“Well they’re clearly… you know… homosexuals.”
She whispered it like treason. Like the word made her sick to even utter.
Quietly signalling to Harley that it was time to go, Peter was quick to move. They gathered the bags together and the pair filed out in tandem, BD rubbing against the legs of their saviour as she followed Peter. With one final nod of gratitude, Peter turned back to the crowd and followed Harley away from the café which very quickly disappeared behind a sea of people.
“Well that sucked.”
“You can say that again.”
“Ice cream?”
“Fuck yeah, darlin’. Now you’re speaking my language.” … “Parker.”
“Shut up, Keener. You’re starting to sound like a high-school bully.”
Harley simply smiled.
" Well, I went searchin' for an answer.
Up the stairs and down the hall,
And not to find an answer,
Just to hear the call,
Of a nightbird singing, "Come away"
(Come away, come away) "