Chapter Text
Peter was being self-indulgent.
It was not anything new.
He was headed to the shop just to look at MJ, not hover, or try to talk, or be weird. Just to get a look at her face.
It was teetering ominously close to August, the cruel tail-end of July. He had only a few weeks left to look at her before her disappearance was something like permanent, so he may as well be self-indulgent while he still could.
He went during the early morning (or about as early morning as he’d been up since he was out of high school) specifically to keep it un-weird—he got the sense she was beginning to catch on to why he’d usually come closer to close and linger until the mops came out, and he didn’t want to freak her out too much. Look, he’s a normal customer of a coffee shop whose main motive is to buy coffee and leech WIFI, not be weird or a creep. He promises!
The mid-morning rush was no joke, though.
He opened the door, and with his second step across the threshold, he was already in line. He just settled in. Not like he had… literally anything else to do today.
He tapped a foot on a nonsense beat.
What do normal, not-weird people do when waiting in line, again?
Scroll various apps, it seemed. These kids and their damn phones. Too bad Peter’s was running off a cheapo prepaid SIM these days. Can’t waste data.
Peter let his eyes drift over to MJ instead, mind a mile-high on fond thoughts of her loose curls and bitter smiles and blackberry perfume. Though when he actually got around to looking her way, there was this guy totally in the way. Peter plummeted back down to Earth.
Some schmuck in a suit was all up in her personal space. His face—was he wearing sunglasses inside?—was bent way too close to hers. What? That was a grown ass man, and she was at work, like, busy. She didn’t need any of that. What the hell was he doing? Back up, asshole. So weird. So weird, in fact, his legs were already moving without much critical thought or consideration for the angry mutters of “hey, no cutting” from the line.
“Hey,” Peter barked.
MJ looked up. “Um… hey?”
“Hey,” he said, “is this guy bothering you?”
MJ didn’t respond, aside from staring pointedly. His heart skipped a beat.
Peter tried the creep instead. “Hey, give her a little breathing room, alright?”
MJ opened her mouth to say something, before thinking better of it, just wore a light grimace. What was this?
Peter reevaluated the scene, looked at the dude who hadn’t yet cared to turn his head to his. He did so slowly, a bit hesitantly. As he turned to face Peter, he noticed the long walking cane he’d had tucked against his chest. Shit. Their heads were probably close because it was nearly impossible to hear anything in the packed café; everyone else’d just pointed items off the menu. Shit.
“Um,” Peter said.
“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll get your order up for you right here, Matt,” was all MJ said, tapping the counter with both hands, though her eyes never left Peter’s. His were set on her face, desperate for some glimmer of sympathy, the image of a man meditating on his own tombstone. All he got was the subtle curl of her lips. “And, ah, Peter Parker, you’ll have to go to the back of the line to be served, please.”
“Course. Sorry,” he managed, and immediately heel-turned away from the counter. He walked as fast as he could before it was called running, practically body-slammed through the door, its bells jerked into an offended jingle.
It was taking literally all of his willpower not to web to the top of some building in his civvies right then and there. So embarrassing so embarrassing so embarrassing he was unfit to be a part of human civilization he needed to get blown up or move to a cave immediately. Where was a supervillain when he needed one? They always want to blow his brains out when he didn’t want his brains blown out, never when he did. What was that about?
“Excuse me!” a man’s voice called. “Excuse me.”
What had MJ called him? Matt. Matt had a completely different vibe from the nefarious character Peter’d written for him inside his head.
His dark hair, glinting copper in the sun, was a tiny bit messy from his hustle out of the shop. It was a handsome face, firm-jawed, thick-browed… maybe, actually, a bit on the boyish side of handsome, a charming roundness to the features that weren’t all sharp and solid. He was the image of the nonthreatening husband from a detergent or meal-prep service commercial.
He was already holding a coffee (MJ did have excellent service) in one hand and his walking cane and leather shoulder bag in the other, a real white-collar type. His slate-colored suit was plain—landed more pencil-pusher than Tony Stark on Peter’s surprisingly comprehensive mental spectrum of suits—but it was neatly pressed and well-fitting.
Speaking of fit… Peter got the sense he was a very big fan of physical fitness from the semi-distinguishable swell of muscle under his button-down.
Peter stared, waiting to be scolded. And then he wanted to die again. Matt couldn’t exactly sense him, could he? He had to announce himself.
“Hi there,” he offered.
“Ah, hello. Thank God,” the man said, settling his head more accurately towards Peter’s voice and putting on a diplomatic smile. He tucked his cane under his other arm, pulled his bag over his shoulder, and offered Peter his hand. “Sorry about all that, um…?”
Peter winced but took the hand in a shake. “Um, it’s Peter, sir. I should… I should be the one to apologize! I was making some pretty bad assumptions. Accusations. I'm sorry.”
“No, not at all,” the man said. “You were just looking out for a friend, weren’t you?”
“Not exactly. I mean yes, exactly, looking out, but we’re not… the two of us aren’t friends.” He stumbled over his words again. “Not like dating not-friends! Just normal not-friends. Acquaintances.”
The man titled his head. At the new angle, the white sun trickled through his stylish red lenses. The illusion they provided was just barely broken—his dark eyes weren’t set anywhere near Peter’s.
“Oh, I got the sense that… well, you know what, that’s even better of you, isn’t it? Looking out for all of your neighbors, no matter their relation.” His features settled into another polite smile, lips tight over his teeth. “Anyway, I’d hate it if you went on kicking yourself for the rest of the day. It was just a misunderstanding, and I took no issue. I thought it was sweet, really.”
“I appreciate that, for sure, but I definitely… it definitely was my, um, actual bad," Peter emphasized. “But you’re really cool for calling out after me though. You totally didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course,” the man said. “Just looking out for my neighbors, too.”
He paused. Something too subtle to be called an expression ran over his face. Though the man wove his words in precise patterns, nonverbally, he may as well have been communicating with lines drawn in sand.
Which Peter figured made perfect sense. He supposed he should just be grateful the man couldn’t see the bright red embarrassment painted boldly on his own face. Was it in his voice? He hoped it wasn’t in his voice.
“Peter,” Matt said, “can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” he replied quickly. Anything to feel like he was doing the man some kind of service, some kind of returned favor.
“What are you?”
Peter was desperate for context, senses suddenly razor sharp, but he found none. The man’s voice was completely level, face completely illegible.
What… was he?
Peter’s blood flushed cold through his veins; his eyes stung.
Peter Parker was a 17-so-so-close-to-18-year-old. He was more or less a human being. He was no longer a son, a nephew, a friend, a boyfriend, an intern, or a college hopeful. He was a penniless loser, Spider-Man, and not really a whole lot else after the spell, but who’s asking?
It was as if the genre had suddenly shifted. He’d gone from an average day on a sunlit street to something out of a Noir, a thriller, the climax of a slasher. The birds were still chirping, and the cars were still honking their horns, but the scene may as well have been scored by the screams of violins.
The stone-faced man in front of him grew menacing. This must be an all-powerful villain, right? Possessing some invisible ability to wrench Peter’s identity from him, even after all of the blood and tears he’d poured down the drain to keep it close.
Should he run? Make a scene? Or was that what he wanted?
Peter almost wanted to cry out, hah, Mysterio, or Loki, or… someone else with evil illusionistic powers! This is your doing, isn’t it! The horrifying things I’m feeling! That’s why this stranger has such a hold over me, from three measly words! But he was incapable of moving his mouth at all. His heartbeat became the only sound he could hear.
And then the man tilted his head again in a particularly puppyish gesture and at once broke the enchantment.
“Peter, are you still there?” The man’s brow had knit—his face had such plain concern on it that the dark thoughts Peter had been caught up in immediately embarrassed him all over again. They faded quietly behind his eyes like a bad dream. This was just… some harmless dude, really. Who he’d worked himself up over for no reason. Twice. In like a two-minute period. What the hell.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He loosened his throat with a humorless laugh. “What am I? Like, um, I’m currently in between education and employment, if that’s what you’re asking, heh… um.”
“Oh,” the man replied. There came and went another micro-expression. “Yes. Sorry if I phrased it oddly.”
Peter’s eyebrow ticked up. Hm. Alright. Sure. Anyways.
“Did you actually want coffee, by the way?” Matt added. “A snack, maybe?”
“No—well, I mean, yes, but I was mostly just in there for my, um, not-friend.”
Matt smiled widely enough to show his teeth and paint little lines over his cheekbones before Peter could stutter the last of the sentence out. It was very heart-fluttery and sunshiny and all that, but it also confirmed Peter’s vague suspicions that his previous smiles were all a little fake.
“Well, as sweet as that is, you should’ve lied. I would’ve treated you. Still will, in fact.”
“Nah. No, thank you, I mean. It’s very nice of you to offer, and thank you for that offer, but it's alright,” Peter managed.
“You know, I once got hit in the head with a collection plate,” Matt said, somehow straight-faced. “Took it as a very, very hard sign to exercise generosity whenever the opportunity presents itself. Allow me to, yeah?”
What the hell?
“I’m good, seriously,” Peter said. “You should, uh, pay it forward. No need to be generous with me.”
“None at all?”
“Really.”
“Alright, then, if you’re certain,” he said. “But it’d be no trouble.”
Peter blinked. God, this guy was persistent. Made Peter a bit suspicious. But the 4 bucks he’d set aside for a small iced coffee were the last of his eating-out budget for the week, and it was only Tuesday… well, if asking again after being turned away thrice was good enough for the rabbis, perhaps it should be good enough for Peter.
“When we say no trouble,” Peter tried, “are we talking, like, none at all, or some non-zero value?”
“None at all,” Matt said, amused. “You know, if you’re worried about being indebted to a stranger, I could, uh, trouble you for a walk to the subway afterwards. I’m far from home, and a little turned around, if I’m being honest.”
“Of course,” Peter said. “I mean, I’d do that without compensation, even. It’s kind of my thing, actually, if you can believe it. Walking people around.” Well, Spider-Man’s thing, but that distinction was hardly relevant to the conversation.
“That’s a, uh, nice hobby,” Matt hummed, offering Peter his elbow. Okay, maybe it did sound a little insane outside of the context of Spider-Manning.
“Hey, no way in hell am I going back in there, by the way,” Peter said, taking it. “Not sure I can ever go in there again. But you can treat me to the next nicest, if that’s alright.”
“Fair enough,” Matt said. “Lead the way.”
Despite his blessing, Matt became patently unamused when Peter led him to the bodega across the street and the cashier requested $5.99 for a combo self-serve coffee and toasted bagel. The two settled out front at a filthy little table. God, it was so hot already, Peter noticed, taking a long sip. Heat rose from the sunbaked asphalt in shimmery little waves between the hurried legs of pedestrians. Maybe he should’ve done something canned and cold.
“Should I take this personally?” Matt said from behind his coffee. “What made you think my sense of charity is this skim?”
Peter choked a little at the apparent faux pas before the drink was set down to reveal a wry smile. Ah. Jokes.
“Hey, don’t diss a nice, honest cup of crap coffee, man,” Peter said. “This city was built on crap coffee.”
“Well,” Matt said, “I guess I can appreciate the, uh, cultural significance of crap coffee. But I’ll do it from a distance whenever possible.”
“Missing out,” Peter said, mouth full of burnt bitterness, and Matt just gave him an airy laugh in response.
Right. Small talk. Conversations. Peter definitely remembered how to do those.
“You said far from home. Are you in from out of town?” he asked.
“I suppose that depends on what you count as the town,” Matt said. “I’m just in over from the Island for work.”
“Oh, fancy,” Peter hummed.
“Well, I’d hardly say that. Hell’s Kitchen,” Matt said. “This home for you?”
“Yep.” Peter gave his answer before realizing it was a little bit of a lie nowadays. May as well qualify it with a bit of hard truth: “Queens boy, born and raised.”
“Well, I have a sensitive question for you, then,” Matt said, leaning in a little, dropping his voice to a mock whisper. Peter tensed again. Shit. Maybe he did know.
“You a Mets fan?”
Peter’s head dipped back in relief. Jesus, this guy really was gonna kill him.
“Course,” Peter said. “I think it’s like, illegal to root for anyone else down here.”
This really cracked Matt up for some reason, got a second real smile out of him.
“Hey, me too,” Matt said. “They’re not looking half bad this year, are they? Pitching rotation’s about as strong as it’s ever been.”
“No, they are not,” Peter huffed. “I got serious trust issues, though. Just waiting for some Tommy John news to drop.”
“Can’t say I don’t get it,” Matt said. “Hard team to trust, our Miracle Mets. But it’s fun to have a little faith, right?”
“Maybe them miraculously choking every damn year is the part I believe in,” Peter said.
“Why stick around, then?” Matt said. “There’s excellence waiting for you just up the river.”
“I dunno,” Peter said. “Just what I was born into. The Yanks are for the lucky ones, right? I’m sure your reasons are about the same.”
“This was the losing cheer, the gallant yell for a good try,” Matt intoned, much in the way one recites a bit of scripture.
“Where’s that from?”
“Old-time baseball writer,” Matt offered. “Said there was more Met than Yankee inside all of us, and that was the appeal, how their, uh, remarkable capacity for failure reflects our own. I always liked the sentiment. We need to put a little faith in our Mets, because we have to have a little faith in humanity.”
The bitter thing that’d curled in the back of Peter’s head writhed at the implication. Of course he knew there was good in humanity. It’s just that none of it was really… for him anymore, was it?
“It’s less about faith,” Peter said, “and more about a measured response to a frequent outcome. Sides, you got no expectations, you never get disappointed.”
Matt took a long sip of coffee.
“That’s perfectly sensible,” Matt said, his free hand tapping an aimless rhythm on the table. “Though in my experience, avoiding disappointment is only a short-term solution. You need something at least half-decent to believe in if you’re in it for the long haul.”
“Hey, man, are we still talking baseball here?” Peter said, laughed dryly.
“Not sure,” Matt said. “That what you want to talk?”
And there it was again, that fear bubbling up from nowhere—something in the slight tilt of his head, or the cold glint off his glasses, that made Peter feel like he’d been flayed down to his core.
All at once, Peter was angry.
He’d gone from neutral to furious in a moment, no pit-stop at pissed off. Who in the hell did this guy think he was? Were the hidden terms and conditions on the coffee and bagel some kind of therapy session? But most importantly—how was he reading Peter like a goddamned book?
Peter swallowed any accusations or insults under the last bite of his bagel, made a show of checking the time on his phone that probably went unobserved.
“Hey, is it all good if I walk you to the station now, man? I got a thing. In a bit,” Peter lied.
“Of course,” Matt said with a polite smile, already rising to stand. If he’d picked up on any change in Peter’s manner, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.
The three-block walk to the station was mercifully quiet; the only words spoken were warnings of curbs and stairs and other obstacles and the various expressions of appreciation that followed them.
Once they’d reached the turnstile, all that anger vanished as soon as it’d come on, replaced with regret and a little shame. Peter was about to let another opportunity slip through his fingers, wasn’t he? If he thought up some plausible excuse, the childish part of him wondered, would Matt go sit back down with him?
Hey, maybe they could watch—or listen—to a game together sometime. That’s a normal enough thing for a teenager and some thirty-something to do together, right? They could go to some sports bar that pretended it was a restaurant. The suggestion had made it all the way to the tip of Peter’s tongue before his nose filled with phantom scents of long-cleared smoke and long-dried blood.
No expectations, no disappointments.
“Gate’s right here,” Peter said instead.
“Appreciate the guide, Peter,” Matt smiled, feeling through his wallet for a MetroCard. “Hope I didn’t keep a busy young man.”
“Course not,” Peter said. “Thank you so much for the coffee. Seriously! Made my day. Month, even.”
“No problem at all. Hey, if I see you around again, I’ll buy you another,” Matt said.
Peter paused.
“It’s a joke,” Matt said to Peter’s silence. “You can laugh.”
“Ha?”
“You have yourself a good one, Peter,” Matt said, disappearing onto the platform with a little wave.
“You too!” Peter yelled.
Was the ‘busy young man’ part a dig?
If it was a dig, he totally deserved it.