It had been three years since May died.
And if Peter had learned one thing in those three years, it was that he absolutely loathed roommate hunting.
It was exhausting. Most people didn't know how to actually be a roommate. They were either a slob, completely inconsiderate of other people's space and things, or had no concept of money, which in turn would put Peter out hundreds of dollars when he would inevitably have to cover whatever bill they missed so as to not be evicted. And if it wasn't completely necessary, he would have given up on it and simply paid for everything himself. But living in a city that wasn't rent controlled while trying to pay for college as well as the balancing act of attempting to maintain odd jobs whilst also keeping up with his duties as Spider-Man, that wasn't really an option available to him. It made it infinitely more difficult, having to keep his alter ego a secret in his own home, but he'd reaped all the consequences of not doing so three years prior, and he wasn't exactly keen on repeating that ordeal.
His last roommate had started out nice enough but had ultimately revealed his true colors as an absolute prick. He was an art major, attending NY, and had this God-complex about him that Peter was sure even the most patient of people would get tired of, very quickly. Luckily, he'd been a little easier to keep in the dark when it came to Peter's other 'activities', seeing as he was rarely home, and when he was, he was usually unconscious after attending some frat party on campus where he would proceed to get black out drunk.
So, when he'd told Peter he was joining one of said frats and planned on moving out, relief was pretty much the only feeling he'd had towards the entire situation.
Of course, Thomas moving out meant he needed to find another roommate, which in of itself was not so much of a relief. Peter ended up posting flyers on the schools messaging board, letting his fellow students know he had a room available, and they could move in within the week.
That had been two weeks ago, and so far, no takers.
Plenty of people had showed up to interview, but after his last experience, he'd decided it was okay to be a little pickier. He'd been burned too many times on his last few to not.
Lot of good it was doing him so far though, he thought, waving the most recent candidate out the door and shutting it behind him with a resounding thud. The guy had asked if he could keep his parakeets in the living room. Because, apparently, he didn't have a cage for them. Peter had been pretty quick to wrap the interview up, after that, shuddering at the idea of bird shit covering his stuff. Admittedly, he didn't have the nicest things to begin with, but he still had a smidgeon of pride, dammit. Plus, he'd never admit it if asked, but he hated parakeets. Back when May had still been alive, their neighbor, an old, sweet little woman, had had five. She'd passed away suddenly in her sitting chair while watching TV one morning, and her birds had been left out. Three days without food had proved to be too much for the winged creatures, and the paramedics hadn't exactly pulled a sheet over her face before they'd wheeled her out into the hallway as Peter had started his walk to school. It was a sight he was not going to forget, anytime soon.
So, no. No parakeets, and no art majors.
Honestly though, he was running out of options. He knew he was going to have to stop being so picky and simply swallow his pride and let the next person that interviewed for the place have it, because the beginning of the month was fast approaching, and what little funds he had were running dry. He had an interview at a children's school that seemed promising, just as an aide who would occasionally substitute the science classes when necessary, but he was hoping he would get it and it would offer some relief when it came to his bills. He wasn't naïve though; he knew wouldn't cover everything. It was only two days a week, and his professor had insisted he apply for it for extra credit. Not that he really needed extra credit (he was excelling in her class, to be honest) but she'd told him it would look good on his resume. That, and she'd let slip how much they paid, and it wasn't really an opportunity he could pass up. Even if it was a private school and he loathed those. It helped that she knew the Dean of the place and had put a good word in for him, too.
It was the little victories that counted, most of the time, and he'd take them when he could.
He glanced at the clock above his stove, gently tapping the back of his skull on the worn wood of his door, debating how much time he had left until he had to be at his interview. He honestly needed to leave in the next twenty minutes, to make it on time. He huffed out a sigh, and began to make his way towards the bathroom, only to stop and turn back at the sudden knock the reverberated through the wood of his front door.
Probably just the landlord, dropping off a reminder that his water bill was behind.
Fuck.
He took a deep breath and opened the door, an excuse at the ready on his lips. Instead, he was met with the sight of a boy around his age, whose eyes were wide as the door swung open. Peter froze in his tracks, vague recognition creasing his own eyebrows.
"Hey." He said, waving a bit while Peter looked him over as he stood in the doorway. Peter peeked around him to see if anyone else was there, and when he was satisfied that the hallway was otherwise empty, with no landlord in sight, he stepped back a bit to assess him instead. He was tall, taller than Peter at least, and a little gangly, with swooping curls that fell over his forehead, coming to a rest just above his bright blue eyes. He stared at Peter expectantly, who coughed awkwardly in return.
"Oh, um, hi. Can I help you?" He asked.
The kid held up one of Peter's flyers from the campus mess hall, the yellowed paper crumpled and worn between his fingers. "I'm here to interview for the room?" He said, brows pinched together, a slight frown creasing its way across his mouth. Peter took a short breath and bit his lip, trying to remember if anyone else had contacted him about coming after the last guy, but nothing came to mind. He tilted his head, weighing the options of being able to interview the guy while also making it to his own interview at the school in time.
"Oh." Peter said, after an extended pause as the other boy simply watched him. "Um. Right. Sorry, I didn't know anyone else was stopping by." He cleared his throat. "The address isn't even listed."
"Yeah, right, about that." The other boy crumpled the flyer tighter in his hands, worrying it as he watched Peter carefully. "You interviewed a kid in one of my classes and he said you had a bunch of rules you didn't want broken and ended up denying his application. But he gave me the address and told me good luck." He said it all in one breath and Peter felt his eyebrow quirk up as he bit down a smile at the explanation. He seemed kind of familiar, but for the life of him, Peter couldn't figure out why.
"Ah. NYU?" He asked. The other boy nodded.
"I'm majoring in biomechanics." He said, blue eyes remaining steadfastly trained on Peter's face. "You look like you have somewhere to be though, should I come back another time?" Peter had sort of stopped listening after he'd said biomechanics.
"Are you in Professor Olivia's class?" He asked. The kid looked at him oddly but nodded slowly.
"Yeah." He said, hesitating. "She's pretty cool."
Peter opened the door a smidgen wider. "Listen, man, she got me this interview at a private school for extra credit. I'm supposed to be there in," he glanced down at the weathered watch that had once belonged to Ben adorning his wrist and muttered a curse under his breath, "fifteen minutes. Do you think we could reschedule?" The other boy hesitated for a second more but nodded. He reached his hand out towards Peter, offering a handshake.
"Yeah, what time should I come back?"
"Seven work for you?" Peter asked, hurriedly tugging his jacket on over his sweater. "I don't know how late it will run, but I'm assuming I'll be back by then."
"Yeah, seven's fine." The other kid agreed, a hand still held out. Peter grabbed it and shook it firmly. "I'm Harley, by the way. No, not like the motorcycles. Though I'm pretty sure that's what my dad intended it to be after." He shrugged lopsidedly. "Harley Keener." A smile quirked it's way across Peter's lips.
"Okay, Harley Keener." He said, the name sounding somewhat familiar, though he couldn't exactly put his finger on the reason why. "I'll meet you back here at seven."
The school was one of those posh, prim and private schools that any ordinary human would avoid like the plague. It was exactly what he expected rich parents would force their kids into, with no regard towards their own personal choices on the matter. He sent a mental thank you up towards whatever entity that had deemed him lucky enough to end up in a family with people like May and Ben, allowing him to have a somewhat normal childhood; one that hadn't involved places like the one he stood observing, despite the time ticking away on his watch.
The building itself had all the signs of classic architecture, and upon first glance, Peter wasn't entirely sure he would be welcome. There were kids, all girls, playing in the courtyard, which was fenced in by welded black iron that didn't exactly give the most welcoming of vibes. But a job was a job, and if the pay was anything like Dr. Olivia claimed it would be, he didn't want to risk missing out.
He bit his lip and pressed the button on the outside of the gates and was met with a loud buzz.
"Kate Willard Preparatory School, how may we assist your visit today?" Came a pleasant voice. Peter frowned.
"Uhm, hi. I'm here for an interview with Mrs. Reynolds?"
"Oh, excellent. Name, please?"
"Peter. Peter Parker."
"Give us one moment, Mr. Parker. Someone will be there to assist you shortly." The speaker withdrew, and Peter tapped his foot lightly against the pavement below him, looking down as he waited. He glanced at his watch again, worrying he was late. He'd barely made it in time, quickly shrugging his suit on under his clothes and flying through the streets of New York to get there at a pace that would make anyone green. He'd made it with three minutes to spare, and that was being generous. Hopefully they wouldn't take it as a sign that he'd be late all the time. He blew out a sharp breath and looked up at the sound of the gates creaking open.
"Hello, Mr. Parker. Right this way." The gate swung open fully, and he was met by a young woman in uniform, her hands clasped in front of her as she offered a radiant smile. She was young, probably no older than fourteen, but her mannerisms were that of a sixty year old woman.
She took him the long way, explaining the history of their school and their traditions as he listened, trailing behind her to observe the campuses grounds. It was, admittedly, gorgeous, and he wondered how much money was funneled into it on a regular basis. Clearly a lot, if the upkeep was anything to go off of. When they finally made it indoors, he was met with lemon-scented cleaner, fresh in the air and pristine marble floors that looked like they'd been recently waxed. The girl chattered on as they walked, Peter only half-listening as they passed by bulletin boards that fluttered in their wake, the colorful papers that advertised different programs and after school clubs fighting to stay in place. He glanced at them, but kept walking to keep up with his tour guide. It seemed the bulletin boards were the only place on the entire campus that weren't perfectly organized. He hummed at the thought but didn't ask his guide why.
They made it to the Dean's office and the teenager instructed him to sit before knocking on the foreboding wooden door, waiting a few seconds before she let herself in, the door thudding shut behind her. Peter waited, hand tapping against his thigh as he attempted to settle his racing heart.
You can do this. He reminded himself. Make May proud.
With that thought, the door opened, and the teenager stepped back out, a smile on her face. "She's ready for you." She announced, turning to hold the door open. Peter stood, smoothed out his sweater, and approached the door.
"Thank you." He murmured. She nodded and stepped out of the way, allowing him entry.
The inside of the office was gorgeous. Ornate portraits, whom he could only assume were previous Dean's, lined the walls, and there was a shelf built into the dark paneled wooden walls behind a large cherry wood desk. Heavy, leather-bound books sat on the shelf, and Peter took everything in, taking note of the beautiful orchid on her desk, a note hidden in its leaves.
"You must be Peter!" The dean was a tall woman, with dark hair that had been cut short enough to frame her face, neatly. Her brown eyes were kind, and she smiled, extending her hand to shake his own. Peter did, and she gestured to one of the overstuffed leather chairs that sat across from her desk. "Please, have a seat." He did, and she settled across from him in her own chair, her dark eyes taking him in. "You know, Liv and I go way back. She's an amazing professor and a dear friend, so when she told me she had a student who she thought would be a good help here, I couldn't believe my luck." She smiled. "Her recommendations are few and far between, so you must really impress her." Peter smiled, a flush rising in his neck and the tips of his ears at the praise.
"Well, I try." He said, smiling lightly. "She is a fantastic professor. Her class is my favorite." Mrs. Reynolds smiled and nodded in agreement.
"I'll be sure to let her know. Now, let's get down to business. As I'm sure you've noticed, we're a private school for girls. Our goal is to send them out into the world with all the knowledge and experience they need to be successful young women. We're quite strict on our rules, and we have very few men on staff, to keep any undue influence under control. Tell me why you think you'd fit in here." Peter swallowed and sat forward in his chair, his back straight.
"I have a little sister." He said, mind flashing to Morgan as he clasped his hands together. She wasn't really his little sister, not by blood at least, but Tony had always said blood was the least important factor when it came to family. He knew she didn't know him, not now, not anymore, but he still remembered her. She'd been the sweetest kid the last time he'd seen her, before everything had gone to shit, three years ago. Eager to please, a bit of a wild card, and always ready to have a pillow fight at a moment's notice. Now, he wasn't really sure. He hoped she and Pepper were doing okay, without him. He tried not to keep tabs too much, too worried about re-entering their own lives at the risk of their safety. Instead, he thought of them often and only allowed himself to look into them once a month. Last he'd checked, Pepper was still ruling Stark Industries with an iron fist, and from his estimate, Morgan would be entering the fourth grade. She'd be nine, now. Peter's heart ached at the thought of all the missed birthdays and the growth spurt she had surely gone through by now. "She means a lot to me." He continued, trying to keep his voice even. "I'm pretty sure she's going to end up ruling the world, one day, if her mom has anything to stay about it." The Dean's smile widened, and she nodded, gesturing for him to continue. "I want to make the world a better place for her." He said, tapping his thigh. That much was true. Morgan deserved to grow up in a world where she could do anything she wanted. God only knew what path she'd end up taking, but he had no doubt she'd excel in it, regardless. "Working in a place like this can show her how powerful young girls are. That's the kind of future I want for her. And the only way I know how to do that, is by setting an example." Reynolds' smiled.
"You know, Peter, I think you've got exactly the right idea."
The interview went much quicker than he expected, the Dean asking him a myriad of questions, her eyes twinkling at his responses. He could only assume it was going well, if her smile were any sort of indication.
She ended up offering him the job, less than thirty minutes in. She explained that it was only two days a week, three if they were desperate (which she quickly clarified, they typically weren't) and that he would need to work eight to ten hours each day, starting at 7 am sharp, and that she'd pay him $24 an hour. He more than likely wouldn't ever be left alone with the students, unless a teacher fell sick, in which case he would be given a lesson plan to dole out. She explained that the students were all well behaved and wouldn't give him much trouble, and if they did, he was to report them immediately so they could resolve the situation as quickly as possible.
Peter had accepted on the spot, mentally already doing the math of a payout for a three-day work week, and quietly celebrating in his head. An extra five to seven hundred dollars a week would do wonders, and he'd make it work around his actual classes, because, she explained, she'd really only need him on the weekends for the detention classes for the girls who boarded there during the semester. Dr. Otto had already promised to talk to his other professors if he got the job, and between the prospect of extra credit for her class as well as the highest pay he'd ever been offered, he really had no other choice than to say yes.
She'd offered to walk him out of the office, once he'd accepted, but he'd declined, far to excited and knowing he'd want to celebrate on the way out.
He did just that, attempting to keep his excitement contained to the blinding smile that lit up his features as he practically raced towards the hallway. It was like a fire had been lit under him, and he could barely keep himself tethered to the ground as he walked, ready to start swinging back to the apartment to release some of the adrenaline that had begun to swim through his veins.
He was walking so fast, he almost missed the flyer, fluttering dangerously loose on the edge of one of the billboards by the exit. He stopped in his tracks after he'd passed it, the name on it immediately catching his eye, as his heart stuttered to a stop in his chest.
It said his name.
He backpedaled quickly, turning to face the board. It was covered in hundreds of papers, held to the cork beneath them with pushpins, each one unique, most advertising a sports group or an after school club for any of the students to sign up. There were a few others, advertisements for babysitters, or girls who were willing to work odd jobs for some extra cash on the weekends. But the one that caught his eye and made him stop, was a shade of highlighter blue so bright that it almost hurt his eyes to look at. He did though, too wrapped up in taking note of the dark text, stark against the obscenely brilliant paper, advertising his name.
Reward: for anyone with information on one (1) Peter B. Parker. $7
And under that, in a delicate scrawl of purple crayon, the following sentence:
"It's all I have in my piggy bank right now. But we can do an IOU if you need more."
And under that, the initials M.H.S. with a twitter handle.
mhs_sightings.
He took a sharp breath, his ears suddenly ringing as his body tried to catch up with what his brain was already screaming into his subconscious.
M.H.S.
Morgan. Hope. Stark.
Oh, fuck.
He snatched the paper off the board so fast it tore a bit, some of the bright blue material remaining under the pushpin. He quickly began crumbling it into a ball in his hands, his mind still running a mile a minute. His eyes slid over the rest of the board, searching for any sort of indication that she'd hung more, worry clinging to his form like a shadow. When no other papers made themselves known, he blew out a steady breath and backed away from the board, turning heel and quickly pushing his way out of the heavy double doors, panting.
How the fuck did Morgan know his name?
He'd been so careful, ever since losing May. Sure, he kept tabs on everyone that had previously been a part of his life, before the spell, but he made damn sure that he did it secretly. He had no social media presence to speak of, at least nothing under his actual name, and he kept all of his settings on private for the accounts he did have.
No one was supposed to remember him. That was the deal. The sacrifice he'd made, to protect everyone else. He'd seen what his carelessness had ended in, the memory of May's body, limp in his arms, at the forefront of his mind. MJ, in the coffee shop with Ned, that little scar by her eyebrow, a close second in terms of reasons to stay away.
No one was supposed to remember him, least of all Morgan.
She'd been so young when everything had happened. Barely six at the time. He'd figured him disappearing from her life wouldn't have the greatest impact in the world. She was young and impressionable, but kid's that age seemed to have the memory of goldfish. So why the fuck was she putting up flyers with his name (his full name at that) so prominently displayed?
He paced quickly out of the school, brow furrowed as he stared down at the paper in his hands, his mind in disarray as he tried to figure out, how, exactly his baby sister knew about him. He'd been so careful, for this exact reason. All thoughts of excitement for his new job were washed away in the tide of worry that overcame him at the notion of one of the people he loved and cared about being put in harm's way, yet again. He'd made even more enemies with his alter ego in the past three years than he could count. And it hadn't mattered, not really, because none of them had any way of hurting him.
Just as he'd intended.
But now? With the possibility of Morgan remembering him, let alone going to the school he was about to start working at?
He was so fucked.
His strides to get him out of there were so fast, the gates swinging automatically open for him in his hurry, he didn't even notice the young girl with the dark hair standing under a copse of willow trees by the small pond, watching his every movement.
By the time he'd made it home, he was a mess.
He'd barely been able to keep his head straight as he'd swung through the back alleys of streets he rarely ever saw anyone go down, the flyer tucked safely against his chest. His heart beat a rapid number against his ribs when he reached the apartment and began to climb the stairs to his floor, his mind in other places. So much so, that he ran directly into the boy from earlier, the one he was supposed to interview.
Shit.
"Oh, sorry!" The kid practically yelped, as Peter steadied them both, his reflexes too quick to let either of them topple over. Harley straightened as he released his shoulder quickly, his blue eyes wide as he looked Peter over. "You okay, man? You look like you've seen a ghost." He said, tilting his head. Peter wanted to scoff at the comparison. It was no wonder the other boy had described him that way, he pretty much felt like he'd seen one. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Yeah, um, I'm okay. Sorry. I wasn't paying attention." He muttered.
"All good," Harley said, raising his hands in an easy-going manner, "not the first time I've been knocked off my feet. I've handled worse." He shrugged, and Peter took note of the worn leather jacket adorning his shoulders. It looked familiar, but Peter couldn't really figure out why. He frowned, his brain already in overdrive and unwilling to try and solve any other mysteries that may present themselves until he'd figured out what the situation with Morgan was. He cleared his throat, and with shaking hands went to unlock the front door, Harley watching his quietly.
"Um. Listen." He said, turning back to face him as the key twisted home in the lock, the door swinging open to reveal the small living room. "I'm going to be really honest with you. I'm really tight on cash right now, and not entirely sure I can accept the job I just got offered—"
"Interview didn't go well?" Harley asked, interrupting. Peter faltered, and he shook his head, refusing to make eye contact.
"Actually, it went surprisingly well. They offered me the job." But someone I used to know could be in a lot of real danger if I take it. Which is exactly why I'm going to have to call them and decline. He didn't voice that part aloud, and Harley took the opportunity to fill the silence, his voice confused.
"…Isn't that a good thing?" He asked, eyebrow quirking up. Peter blew out a short, frustrated breath through his nose.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's a really good thing. But something just came up, so I'm not sure I can take it." He flipped on the light switch by the door and gestured for Harley to follow him inside. The other boy did, after a moment of hesitation.
"I'm confused." He said, after a minute. "What does this have to do with the room?" He asked. Peter sighed again, this time heavily.
"I really need a roommate. And frankly, with the first of the month coming up, I don't exactly have the time to be picky. Are you clean?" Harley's eyebrow climbed higher, but he simply nodded in response.
"Yeah. I had to look after my little sister growing up. Being clean comes with the territory." He said. Peter simply nodded at the explanation.
"No animals?" Harley huffed a laugh at the question.
"No. I don't have the time to take care of one."
"Excellent." Peter said, running a hand raggedly through his hair. "And you're employed?" Harley nodded slowly.
"Yeah, I've got a really steady job. Not enough to pay for my own place, but if I'm splitting the rent, that's a different story." He shrugged.
"Cool." Peter shut the door behind them, and began making a kettle of tea, trying to keep his mind on track and his hands from shaking. "Rooms your's. Rent's due on the first. They don't do late shit. If we don't pay, we get evicted. Capiche?" Harley stared at him.
"Oh." He said, when Peter didn't say anything else. "You're serious?" Peter shot him a look and Harley held up his hands defensively. "Sorry, man. Eddie just said you seemed like a control freak. You don't really seem to be fitting that description right now, though." He shrugged and Peter looked away, focusing on pouring the tea into two mugs.
"Yeah, well, like I said. Some stuff's come up, and I'm in a tight spot. So long as you're clean, pet-free, and can make rent on time, it's yours." He handed one of the mugs to Harley before turning to his keys and twisting one of them free from the ring and pressing it into the other boy's hand. "And if you're going to have a party, just warn me in advance and try to keep it down. Noise complaints come with a $200 fine, and I don't plan on paying for that." Harley stared at him, bewilderment on his face, his lips slightly parted.
"Oh, um. Okay." Peter nodded and turned towards his room.
"Your room is on the left." He jerked his chin towards it and Harley's gaze drifted towards the shut door. "I cleaned it, after Thomas moved out, so it's pretty much spotless. You can start moving in tonight, if you want." Harley still didn't say anything, and Peter gave him an exasperated look. "What?" He finally asked, stopping outside of his door, hand on the handle.
"Nothing." Harley said, holding his mug of tea tightly. "It's just…I don't even know your name." He frowned.
Oh.
Right.
People usually introduced themselves.
Peter sighed again. "Sorry." He said, wincing. "My name's Peter. Peter Parker." Something seemed to glimmer in Harley's eyes at his words, but his expression relaxed too quickly for Peter to try and figure out what it was. "You're not a serial killer, are you?" He asked, studying him a little closer. Harley's laugh seemed to come from his belly, and he threw his head back in tandem with the noise.
"No, nothing like that." He said, finally settling down and shaking his head. "Just a normal kid from Tennessee, trying to figure his life out. Um, thanks for the tea. And, the room, I guess." Peter nodded and turned his door handle.
"You're welcome. I'll leave my number on the fridge for you tomorrow, if you don't have any questions now." Harley swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, but he only nodded.
"Okay, sounds good. Nice to meet you, Peter." Peter looked him over once more and nodded in acceptance once more.
"Nice to meet you too, Harley. I'll see you tomorrow. And if you're planning on robbing me, I'll just let you know now that it's a really bad idea." He warned. "I'm good at finding people." Harley laughed again, but this time it had a nervous edge to it.
"Noted." He said. And with that, Peter shut his bedroom door.
He set his mug of tea on his desk, already mentally tuning out whatever chaos was going to occur as the other boy undoubtedly would begin moving his stuff in. He supposed he'd been a little harsh, and definitely a little rushed, but there were more pressing matters at hand that called for his attention.
He flipped his crappy old laptop open, pulling up twitter and signing quickly into his private account. He blew out another breath, fingers hesitating over the keyboard. Did nine-year old's even know how to use twitter? It was a stupid question, and he knew it. Most probably didn't, but Morgan didn't really fall under the 'most' category. She was the daughter of Tony Stark after all.
Hesitantly, he pulled the flyer out from his coat, and typed the username in. The account was private, but there was a distinctive profile picture of a tree line, the same one he'd looked out over numerous times, when visiting the Stark's cabin in upstate New York. He frowned and hovered over the follow button. He knew this was probably a bad idea, but he had to know.
He blinked, and without thinking, hit the 'follow' button.