Chapter Text
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 be a roommate. They were either an inconsiderate slob lacking regard for other people’s space and things, or they had no concept of money. The money one’s were usually worse, since more than once, he’d found himself out hundreds of dollars when he would, inevitably, have to cover whatever bill they missed in order to not be evicted.
If it weren’t necessary, he would have given up on the endeavor entirely and simply paid for everything himself. But New York had perpetually suffered from a lack of rent control, and between his bills for school, juggling odd jobs, and his duties as Spider-Man…well, that wasn’t really an option available to him.
Keeping his alter ego a secret in his own home was a pain in and of itself, but he'd reaped the consequences of that mistake three years prior. He wasn't exactly keen on repeating those mistakes, and he'd sworn to himself that no one would suffer the same fate May had.
His last roommate had started out nice enough but had ultimately been more work than he was worth. As an art major attending NYU, he’d had this God-complex about him that Peter was sure even the most patient of saints would quickly tire from.
Luckily, he’d been a little easier to keep in the dark when it came to Peter’s other ‘activities’, seeing as he was hardly ever home. On the rare occasion that he was, he was usually passed out on the couch or in his room after attending some frat party on campus. Those usually wound up with him getting black out drunk, which in turn meant he wasn’t keeping up with Peter’s not-so-legal side hustles.
Still, there’d been a few almost-incidents that had made Peter dread roomates. Like the time he’d stumbled into their apartment while Peter was only half-way through the window after a night of patrolling, three of his ribs shattered from a fight. Or the time he’d been in asleep on the couch when Peter had accidentally burst through their front door, his shirt torn from a fight, his suit easily visible for anyone paying attention.
Every time though, he’d either been too out of it to ever remember, or—and Peter could only hope this was the case—he’d written it off as an unreliable, drunken, and blurred memory.
When he’d finally told Peter he was moving out to join one of the frats he frequented, relief was pretty much the only feeling Peter had towards the entire situation. Of course, Thomas moving out meant he needed to find another roommate, which was far less relieving.
He’d wound up posting flyers on the school’s messaging board, advertising an empty room and a quiet building with a laundry room. Prospective applicants, after an interview and approval, could move in within the week.
That had been two weeks ago, and so far, there’d been no takers. Or, rather, no one he was willing to take.
Plenty of people had showed up to interview, but after his last experience, he’d decided it was okay to be a little pickier with who he let move in.
Lot of good it’s doing me 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.
And, 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 owned five. After passing away suddenly while watching TV in her sitting chair one morning, her birds had been left out. Three days without food had proved to be too much for the starving herbivores, and the body bag wasn’t entirely zipped shut when the paramedics had wheeled her out into the hallway just as Peter had started his walk to school.
It wasn’t a sight he was likely to forget anytime soon.
So, no. No parakeets, and no art majors.
The problem was, he was running out of options. He knew he was going to have to stop being so picky, swallow his pride, and let the next person that interviewed for the place have it. The beginning of the month was fast approaching and what little funds he had managed to squirrel away when splitting rent with Thomas were running dry.
There was still the interview at a children’s school that seemed promising, though it was just as an aide who would occasionally substitute the science classes when necessary. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping he would get it; the extra cash would be a much-needed relief for his ever-growing stack of bills.
He wasn’t naïve though. He knew it 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 after she’d let slip how much the position paid, it wasn’t really an opportunity he could pass up.
Even if it was a private school, and even if he loathed those.
Regardless, it helped that his professor knew the Dean of the place and had put in a good word for him. It wasn’t often that he got a win, so he’d take them when he could.
He glanced at the clock above his stove, absentmindendly tapping the back of his skull on the worn wood of his front door as he debated how much time he had left until he had to leave for his interview. If he left in the next twenty minutes, there was a solid chance that he’d be able to make it on time.
He sighed and made his way to the bathroom, only to stop and turn back at the sudden knock the reverberated through the apartment. The chance of it being anyone other than his landlord dropping off another reminder for his overdue water bill was slim.
Fuck.
He took a deep breath and opened the door, an excuse at the ready.
Instead, as the door swung open, he was met with a lanky-framed guy around his age, with wide, curious blue eyes. Peter froze in his tracks, vague recognition creasing between his eyebrows.
“Hey.” He said, waving a bit while Peter looked him over.
He stood awkwardly in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of a baggy pair of khakis, the hood of his sweatshirt tugged over a mop of curly hair, eyebrows slightly raised. Peter glanced up and down the hall around him, and only when he was satisfied at the lack of his landlord, did he step back a bit to assess him instead.
He was tall, taller than Peter at least (“all limbs”, May would’ve said), and there was a strange light in his eyes as he stared back expectantly. Peter 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, glancing down at it and back up at Peter. His brows pinched together, a slight frown creasing his lips.
Peter sucked in 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 simultaneously making it to his own interview at the school in time.
“Oh.” He said, after an awkward, extended pause. “Um. Right. Sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was stopping by today.” He cleared his throat. “The address isn’t even listed.”
“Yeah, right, about that.” The stranger crumpled the flyer tighter in his hands, worrying it between his fingers those careful, arctic eyes remained trained on Peter. “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.” The words rushed out of him in one breath, as if it were a race to escape his mouth.
Peter’s eyebrows quirked up and he bit down a smile at the explanation. He seemed kind of familiar, but for the life of him, he 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 blinked, realizing he had sort of stopped listening after he’d said biomechanics.
“Are you in Professor Olivia’s class?” He asked.
The guy gave him an odd look, 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 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 stuck a hand out towards Peter, clearly 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 sounds good.” The other guy 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 would say it was for.” He shrugged lopsidedly. “Harley Keener.”
A smile quirked its 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 the kind of place he imagined rich parents forced their kids into, with no regard towards their own personal choices on the matter. He found himself sending a mental thank you up towards whatever entity had deemed him lucky enough to end up in a family with people like May and Ben. He'd had a somewhat normal childhood; one that hadn’t involved places like the one sitting before him, 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. It 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 clicked off 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 campus 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 the fresh scent of lemon-scented cleaner and pristine marble floors that looked like they’d been recently waxed. The girl chattered on as they walked, though Peter was only half-listening as they passed by bulletin boards that fluttered in their wake. His eyes were drawn to the colorful papers that advertised different programs and after school clubs fighting to stay in place as they moved briskly past. 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 made his way across the room.
“Thank you.” He murmured. She nodded and stepped out of the way, allowing him entry.
The inside of the office was gorgeous. Ornate portraits of people 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 the 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 her smile warm when she extended 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 followed her direction, and she settled across from him in her own chair. “You know,” she began, “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 felt 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 nodded in amiable agreement.
“I’ll be sure to let her know you said so! 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, in an effort 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 spurts she had surely gone through in his absence.
“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 say 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.”
“You know, Peter, I think you’ve got exactly the right idea.”
________________________________________
The interview went much quicker than he’d expected it to. The Dean asked 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—though she quickly clarified they typically weren’t—and that he would need to work eight to ten hours each day. The workday began at 7 am sharp, and she’d told him pay started at $24 an hour. He more than likely wouldn’t ever be left alone with the students, not unless a teacher called out sick, but in those situations he would be given a lesson plan to dole out.
She explained that the students were all relatively well behaved and wouldn’t give him much trouble, and if they did, he was to report them immediately so the administrative staff 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, as she explained, she’d really only need him on the weekends to help with detention 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.
The Dean offered to walk him out of the office, once he’d accepted but he’d declined, far too excited and knowing he’d want to celebrate on the way out.
He did just that, barely managing to keep his excitement contained to the blinding smile that lit up his features as he practically raced towards the hallway that led to the exit. It was like a fire had been lit underneath him. He could hardly keep himself tethered to the ground as he walked, the itch to get out of his civilian clothes and into the streets to swing back to the apartment and release some of the adrenaline that had begun to swim through his veins difficult to fight.
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 advertised 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 flyer off the board so quickly it tore, some of the bright blue paper remaining under the pushpin. He crumpled it into a ball in his hands, his mind still racing. 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, his breath coming in rapid pants.
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, always 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, and people were always saying they 'bounced back'.
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 legs carried him automatically out of the courtyard, the gates swinging open for him in his hurry. In his rush to leave, 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 remained tucked safely against his chest, his heart beating a rapid number against his ribs as he'd slung webs absentmindely. By the time he reached the apartment and began to climb the stairs to his floor, his mind hard already gone fully into overdrive. So much so, that he ran directly into the boy from earlier, the one he was supposed to interview.
Shit.
“Oh, sorry!” The guy 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 took Peter’s appearance in. “You okay, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
His head tilted, dark curls flopping over his forehead. 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 evasively.
“All good,” Harley assured, raising his hands in an easy-going manner, “not the first time I’ve been knocked off my feet. Promise 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, keenly aware of the weight of Harley’s gaze on his back.
“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?”
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 yours. 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 to press it into his new roommate'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.” When Harley still didn’t say anything, 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.
“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 olds 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.