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Corner stores were always his solace. Spider-Man usually spent so much time protecting them in his early days that he often knew the owners well, it also helped that they were being robbed less and less often; criminals preferring to organize together and rob something bigger rather than risking taking on the super-vigilante alone.
Flash also knew the owners pretty well. He came often enough in different states of well-being that he either ended up being pitied by the older owners or managing to build up some type of camaraderie between the younger, tired, teenagers and college students unlucky enough to have a shift with him.
Unlike the poor kids, they didn’t mind as often when Flash hung around, at least when he didn’t stink. He’s managed to figure out the amount of patience each person of each shift at each store had. Of course something like that took him months to figure out and actually fucking remember, but he, unfortunately, was still just human.
It was around eleven at night. Basil at the register occasionally forgot he existed, lost in her own world as she was with the shitty novellas on the tiny tv bolted in the ceiling corner and the dementia her family desperately refused to acknowledge.
She would’ve forgotten she was on the clocked if it wasn’t for the chimes of the bells hung above the door at the entrance.
Flash sighed internally, managing only to peel his face away from a drool soaked shoulder-sleeve before heavy steps were being made his way.
The person reached out and grabbed Flash by the hoodie cap and yanked him upward, knocking empty beer, soda, and whatever-the-fucks containers off of him and to the ground.
The grip readjusted to right under his left armpit, stronger than the force his entire body could manage if it wanted to be, and stumbled as he lead him forward and towards the entrance door.
“Goodnight boys, be good,” Basil yelled, eyes still glued to the screen.
Tripping over his legs as he dragged and slammed him into the door, Flash searched for the bar that would open the door as his face pressed against the glass.
He thought about just laying there, against coolness, comfortable. Then he opened the door for him and shoved him through the night.
Together, the pass by the usual people. They're only known and recognized through their frequent jaunts around the area.
… star …
Of course it was rare for anyone to hand him missions other than his handler, but what’re you gonna do when the director himself gives you a mission in person and fucking pats your shoulder and says “Good luck?”
Because Flash would like to fucking know.
He couldn’t even rub it in that Dick’s (their actual name) face since he was stopping right in front of his room door and expected to go out immediately after reading the report.
Quickly, he punched in the code for his room before kicking open the door and dropping his duffel bag onto the ground. Nervous sweat clung to his body as he dashed to the stacked desk in the corner. Clutter fell to the floor after he used one arm to sweep a majority of the mess to the ground.
He could picture Agent Barton wrinkling his face at the mess, but it wasn’t fair because he was worse despite not living on base.
…star…
Flash was back out the door in under five minutes. He had the basic necessities from the go-bag and a picture in his chest pocket. There was no telling how long the mission would be and just in case it would take him a month or two, he wanted something to help him keep in mind why he did this shit in the first place.
At the end of the hallway, Flash pushed open the double doors and exited the dorm building into the main hall. There were second rank agents everywhere, this level finally having the cockiness beaten out of them and a healthy fear of authority put into its place.
Flash zipped straight towards the entrance space, flipping off Nadia and pretending not to notice Abel’s stare on the way.
The secretary at the desk gave him a sweet deceptive smile when he entered, probably figuring out his social security number from one look alone. He didn’t bother with words, just showed her the outside of the folder Fury gave him before shoving it back inside his duffel back.
Her face shuttered into a blank gaze and she nodded to the door. “Good luck, kid.”
Flash held in his shudder. That was the second ‘Good luck’, what was up with this mission? “Yeah, thanks, lady,” he muttered hastily and rushed out the door and into the cool, almost-spring air.
…star…
Hanging there from the webs, bloody and naked and so fucking cold, Flash reminisced on the first time this happened.
Coach had finally let them out from practice and the deference and respect on the field soon turned sour as he and the boys gathered in the locker room.
It was weird- to them- why he stopped bothering Parker, even went out of his way to avoid him at times. They were idiots but not entirely devoid of observational skills and self-thought. So they eventually noticed, and rumored, and separated themselves. After that season, that would’ve likely change.
They would wish they prepared his replacement earlier as once they left, making plans and pointedly excluding him from any conversation, Parker had come to visit him.
…star…
He sobbed into his chest, big hands gripping at his shirt and body shaking with the force of his misery.
“Shh, you’re doing great, Flash! Who knew all you needed was a strong hand to guide you,” he mocked.
A hand stroked through wet hair, his hand not sticking to the webbing unlike Flash’s naked skin and the wet shower wall.
“Please,” Flash begged. “Please, I haven’t- I left you alone, please.”
Honest to god giggles left Parker’s lips as his hand slowed to grip his golden locks and yank them backwards until his face, burning red and wet from tears and snot was in full view.
More sobs shook his body, only prompting more to join them as with each shake he could feel it, could feel the uncomfortable, burning fullness that left dont-fucking-think-about-it flowing down his spread, stuck legs.
“But look at you,” he groaned, pressing deep and rotating his hips- he wants to fucking die. “It’s like you were made for this, Flash.”
…star…
Hospitals were cool, Flash decided. It fucking sucks when you’re sitting in the waiting room, but when you’re on the other end for a change, and not paying the expenses, it’s not so bad.
Kinda weird the others don’t like them, maybe because they’re all fucking spies, ‘can’t be seen, can’t be cared for ‘cause I was kidnapped and unlearned humanity.’
Flash is glad his childhood was fine, usually.
Oh, when did the Captain get here?
Eyes locked with blond and blue number one and just stared. Didn’t Flash used to have some type of boy crush on Captain America?
“You can call me Steve,” is what he usually says, and Flash almost fainted when Captain America said that, but Steve became Captain once more after he saw him banter with fucking Spider Man. Without the hyphen.
“Are you upset with Spider-Man, Flash?”
Oh, was Flash talking out loud? Maybe that’s why spies don’t like hospitals.
Breaking eye contact, Flash slumped into his hospital bed and, sleepily, angled it downward until he was just above laying flat.
“Leave, no light, less morphine,” a pause as he considered how much his dad resembled the Captain with his vision blurred and how much Steve had been hanging around Psycho Parker lately. “Please,” he added.
Just to be safe.
…star…
He thinks about doing it. He doesn’t tell anyone, doesn’t act any different than he normally does, but Fury calls him into his office one day, says “I can bring you back,” says, “there are things worse than death,” and he stops thinking about it.
…star…
Clint notices like he notices everything and then jokes about it and talks around it in the way spies do. Wording everything a certain way and double meanings and entendres and everything. Still, Flash just waits him out. He was never a patient kid but now, as an adult, and those few years with Parker, it’s easy.
People can die in their sleep starting at 30s, right?
“Flash,”Clint calls, tone shifted.
Just barely, Flash suppresses a flinch. Fucking weak.
“Sorry, sir. You called?”
“The fuck is up with you,” Clint demands, straight to the point now.
“I thought you’d know, considering,” he waves a hand in the general vicinity of where he saw someone instal an invisible camera.
He keeps his eyes on Clint, fighting to keep them from flicking away. His Handler doesn’t move or shift, hiding any minute tell, but Flash swore the fucking air changed or something because he’s suddenly getting a whole ‘nother vibe from him.
“Yeah, well, he’s being a fuck right now so I can’t really ask any favors.”
Oh, so they don’t know, cool. Whatever. It’s not like Tony Spider-Man-Is-My-Kid Stark would give a shit anyway.
“You could do it, find out on your own,” he suggests.
Clint answers him with a snort. “And have some robo vacuum cleaner leave an anonymous tip about my interference? No thanks.”
Flash can’t help a small chuckle at that. He’s seen enough robo household items to be wary of forks. Still, “I’m not telling you shit.”
Clint sighs. “it’s nothing worse than I’ve been through, just lay it on me, it’ll make you feel better,” he probes.
“I’m not-“
“You can tell me or you can tell Natasha.”
Wow. Flash looks up again and stares at his handler. Was he serious? He had to know something, to go that far, to jeopardize his trust. Sending that thing after him. Flash guesses he did want someone else to know anyway.
He sighs, “Tell me what you actually know, then.”
…star…
Flash remembered this. Sitting on a chair a little too wide for him, a bag in his lap and a closed door just a few meters away from him locked sound tight as his parents fought.
There’s no dog, or car, or nosy neighbors, or dad’s bloody knuckles as he stomps out the house, because Clint’s steps are only a little louder than light and he smiles at him when he comes out of Fury’s office. Flash’s eyes stay on his face, never wavering towards the door.
“You’re gonna room with me for a few days, Thompson,” he grins.
Flash nods once, professional. His eyes burn, but that’s the kid still sitting in the chair as he gets up, not Flash. That’s the kid wishing he could stay ‘soft’ and ‘girly’ and not deal with ‘tough love.’
The kid that’s staying with dad.
Flash smirks at the kid as they walk by.
…star…
The robots don’t like him. At least that’s what he thinks.
He asks what day it is and they say ‘Yesterday.’ He asks for coffee and they give him water. He asks for the temperature to turn up a bit and he gets a firm ‘no,’ but five minutes later there’s a robot rolling up to him with a hoodie in its single arm.
He asks Clint about it when he gets back, and he gets a non-answer about him needing to clean the vents. Okay, then.
…star…
His balls hurt.
Makes sense, when a super-powered closet-psycho can fucking knead them like butter with one skinny leg between his thighs.
He’s only noticing now because Parker decided to let up a bit on the choking, air flowing and stopping at his command. His grip on Flash’s neck doesn’t hurt anymore and he won’t waste more nails on that titanium skin.
But fuck, his balls really hurt.