#svsn

Like, he knows how, obviously—he’s well aware of how things shifted, once everyone came back from the Blip, remembers that first day back at school and feeling like nothing was the same, like the very core of the earth had somehow shifted out of place, looking around at a sea of unfamiliar faces and people who were five years younger than him what felt like only months prior, remembers hoping to spot just one person he knew, and he remembers how the first person he recognized was none other than Parker, and, for the first time since they met, Flash Thompson found himself wanting to cheer for joy for no reason other than seeing Peter Parker standing down the hall.

He also remembers how he had almost run to him, had almost hugged him, because at least there was someone. Then he saw Ned, and Michelle, and Betty, and multiple others as the day went on, and he realized that there was more than just someone—there are people, a group of them.

It only makes sense that, as the weeks went on, they all started to gravitate together.

“Hey there,” he coos, squatting down a few feet away in order to avoid startling her. She eyes him warily, and he holds his hands up, hoping it might earn him some trust. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Promise.”

Behind him, one of the muggers starts to tease him, saying something about how the supposed powerful Spider-Man going soft for a stray cat. Without looking, Peter aims behind him and fires a web to cover his mind, only glancing over to make sure he aimed right and that the guy can still breathe through his nose. The second mugger is looking at the first one incredulously, and then murmurs an offended, “Dude, I have a cat. You know I have a cat. My cat loves you. Why would you say that shit, man?”

Peter ignores him. Turns back to the kitten and asks, “You think I might be able to pet you, sweetie?”

It takes multiple minutes of gentle coaxing and soft words that he knows that cat doesn’t understand, but eventually he’s got the little furball in his arms, a little pouch of web on his chest that he nestles the kitten in, and he swing slow and careful back to his apartment.

He thinks he might name her Penny, because her eyes look like little pennies, and then they can kind of match. Peter Parker and his cat, Penny Parker, against the world.

All he has to do is convince Harry to keep her.

Like, he’s really cute, standing on the other side of the counter, squinting up at the menu and gnawing on his lower lip in thought. Harley thinks the oxygen has left his lungs and struggles to suck in another breath in time for the guy to turn his eyes back to Harley and say, “Um, I don’t—I guess I’ll just have a large hot chocolate? But, like, with caramel, if that’s okay.”

Harley dumbly nods and fumbles for a cup, uncapping his sharpie quickly. “Yeah, that’s fine. Name?”

“Peter,” the guy says, digging for his wallet. There’s a camera hanging from a strap around his neck, bumping against his chest lightly as he moves. “How much—?”

“Three twenty six,” Harley says, scribbling the name down on the cup. “Is that all? We have fresh pastries and, uh—cookies, too, just out of the oven, so they’re still all gooey and warm.”

Peter pulls a ten dollar bill from his wallet and hands it over with a small, almost sheepish sort of smile. “Tempting,” he says, “but I just ate a little bit ago, so I’m not hungry. Thanks, though. Keep the change.”

And then he makes his way to the waiting area, taking a seat at one of the tables close to the makeshift stage and fiddling with his camera absentmindedly. Harley stares after him for a second and feels dizzy with just how cute he is, but shakes it away when the next customer in line clears their throat. “Right,” he murmurs, blinking harshly. He hands the cup for Peter’s order off to Rhodey, who looks amused but doesn’t say anything about it, and offers the customer an apologetic smile. “What can I get for you?”

But she isn’t wearing it.

“That’s for you, right?” Michelle asks, quirking her brows as she looks at Betty.

Betty rolls her eyes and says, “Even though this would look amazing on you, yes, it’s for me. I picked out something for you, too, but I want your opinion on mine before I show it to you.”

Nose crinkling, Michelle tries not to dread what it is she might be shown, because she adores Betty—even if it still confuses her how they became such good friends in the first place (probably happened around when Ned had a huge crush on her, before him and Peter stopped being idiots around each other)—but Betty has struggled, a bit frequently, to remember that Michelle isn’t as feminine as she is. That Michelle isn’t dresses and glamour, maybe some makeup on a the days she feels up to it, that one skirt she owns that she likes to wear on occasion, but that’s all it is—occasional, sometimes, when she feels like it.

Prom dresses aren’t her thing. She thinks that Betty knows that, but she’s still wary, anyway.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, scanning over the dress once more. It really is, too—and the color will contrast against Betty’s pale skin beautifully, and she’s going to look incredible, like she always does.

“Thank you,” Betty says, a bit chirpy and visibly pleased. She sets her dress to the side, spins around, and opens her closet door, sending Michelle an almost devious grin as she reaches in, grabs a hanger, and pulls it out. “This one,” she says smugly, “is for you. What do you think? Did I nail it?”

Michelle stares. Keep staring, breath catching in her throat, takes in every centimeter, looks it over again and again and again. Finally, a grin tugs at her lips. “Yeah,” she agrees breathlessly. “You nailed it.”

Actually, idiot isn’t a strong enough word for this—he looks like a complete and utter dumbass, like he’s lost his fucking mind, like someone’s emptied the contents of his brain and now this is all that’s left, a husk of stupidity that’s staring himself down in the mirror and giving himself a fucking pep talk.

“Should’ve called Pepper,” he states matter of factly, glaring at himself as if it’s his reflections fault and not his own. “Pepper talks are better than fucking pep talks. God, this is so stupid—”

But it’s for something important, and it’s too late to call Pepper now, so he’s doing this instead.

For a moment, he stares into his own eyes, trying to hype himself up to the point of not feeling like a complete and utter moron, but has to push away from the mirror a moment later and shake out his hands, hopping from one foot to the other, like he’s trying to physically shake away his nerves. Breathing feels weird and sticky and unnatural while he’s amped up like this, but he knows that it’s in his head and elects to ignore it, spinning back around and staring himself down once more.

He’s doing this. And he knows he won’t regret it. And maybe talking himself through the mild panic making his bones rattle under his skin will make it feel less terrifying, because he shouldn’t be scared.

Not of this.

Not when it’s Rhodey that’s involved.