Chapter Text
“Alright, this one. Name and period?”
“Oh! That one’s easy. That is ‘The Swing’ by Fragonard from the…Rococo period.”
Quentin nodded, “Spot on,” He said, “Can you tell me anymore about it?”
Peter eyed the projected image - projected in such a way that it seemed the timeless art hung suspended in mid-air in front of them, framed in heavy gold swirls - and took a moment to think. “It’s a scandalous piece right? Like it was controversial?”
“They’re all scandalous, kid. Be more specific.”
“Ooh oh okay…It’s implying an affair, right? Like the lady on the swing is in love with the guy sitting in the bushes but she’s supposed to be in a relationship with the guy behind her who’s pushing the swing.”
Quentin checked the kid’s textbook. Though overloaded with flowery jargon, the information matched up with what Peter had said, “Good job.” He nodded and reached for the clicker and flipped to the next painting. “Last one.”
A new painting appeared before them, this one smaller and much less opulent.
Peter didn't hesitate, “‘Cure of Folly’.” He said, “It’s a satirical painting by Bosch and that man in the chair is trying to cure his brain sickness by having the doctor…let air into his head and cooling it down. It’s ironic because the doctor’s a fraud, which you can tell by the cone-thing on his head.”
“I can think of a few people who could use a cure like that.” Quentin said mildly, “You know the year and period?”
The kid nodded, “It’s from 1490 and part of the Northern Renaissance movement.”
“Correct. Alright, that looks like the last of it.” The heavy textbook was flipped closed and handed back to its owner.
“Oh man, I can’t wait to be done with this class.” Peter sagged against the arm of the couch, “This art stuff is insane…”
“It might get easier if you’d stop skipping class.” Quentin dimmed the lights, unsympathetic. He knelt before his projector, flicked it off and dug a small disk from his pocket. “Stop skipping class, by the way.” Obviously, he got that high school was a three year long drudge-fest and that being Spider-Man may certainly take precedence but encouraging a brilliant mind to turn his nose up at education of any sort was far beneath Quentin.
“It’s not because I’m skipping classes! We need to earn back the hours we lost on the Europe trip- thanks for that by the way -everyone who went has to do this. It’s just…the school schedule didn’t really make room for it so we have to rush this last part. ”
“Remind me again why you didn’t do this last year? You know, the year you actually took that trip?” Quentin fiddled with the a port in the projector and out slid a small rectangular image card. He swapped it with the one in his hand and it slid in like a DVD.
When this new life allowed Quentin a moment of reflection - and when he felt he could stomach one without a blowup - the banality of what he’d become made this head spin more than anything else. Was this him? Helping a kid - one who had spent the better part of the year worming his way into a permanent spot in Quentin’s heart - study for his last exams before summer?
He found his answer when he seamlessly incorporated their tutoring sessions into his schedule and, for reasons beyond testing his newly built tech, realized he looked forward to them.
“Man I don’t know. The teachers plan weirdly.” Peter groaned into the couch before twisting around to stare at Quentin, “What are you doing?” He asked.
“Hang on.”
He restarted the projector.
“Here.”
The image formed in waves, white pixels folding over and becoming blue pixels then folding over again and becoming dark blue and black pixels. It arced around both Quentin and Peter, engulfing the small space of Quentin’s living room under an artificial image. The night sky, or a highly romanticized recreation of it, replaced the bare white ceiling. A sheet of nebulous blues and blacks superimposed by a sheet of stars. The edges of the image curled, giving the impression of a horizon at the edges of a wide open sky, one littered with every constellation that could be seen from New York sans the pollution. It wasn’t a perfect map, Quentin had whipped this up in short order and he was admittedly not an astronomer, but it was serviceable and certainly more thorough than any textbook Peter had ever read.
Peter seemed to agree as he gaped up at the hologram, speechless. His eyes were round like dinner plates and Quentin noticed they were dark enough to reflect the stars.
“You like it?”
“This is awesome…” The kid sounded a little breathless, he sat up straighter, neck craning back as he tried to see everything. Quentin watched him take it all in. “It’s pretty, it’s really pretty and uh…yeah wow.” He said, downright starstruck. “The last time I saw this many stars I think I was literally in space.”
It was flattering, such unpolished natural praise.
Quentin had garnered plenty compliments among his superior and peers over the years as he developed his tech. Most of them overly clinical and frankly meaningless, more a professional obligation than anything else. Things may have been different if Stark had let the public see his work but that would never happen now and before Peter, Quentin had never seen such open-faced awe in the face of his creations.
Maybe this is you making up for lost time…
And this wasn’t even him at a hundred percent.
Though it felt pretty damn close.
“Thanks,” Quentin said as he re-settled himself on the sofa, “It’s for you.” He admitted, even as it it felt awkward to say it out loud. “To help you relax. I figured you could use something.”
“This is for me?” Bewildered, Peter tore his eyes from the ceiling. Disbelief made his voice go higher. He was always so surprised when his kindness came back to him.
Quentin nodded. “Yeah.” He said.
Through the dim light, he could see Peter’s ears darken as the statement sunk in. Quietly amused, he opted not to comment on it.
The kid’s head came to rest atop the back of the couch as he looked back up at the stars, “Oh man…thank you. Your stuff is so cool when you’re not trying to hurt people with it.”
Quentin made a face, annoyed because he had no counter to that. “Thanks, kid.”
“Oh wait, this reminds me,” Peter perked up, pointing a non-accusatory finger at Quentin, who raised an eyebrow. “How’s your uh…how’s work going?”
How was work going?
The jobs he found these days was less grandiose than what he’d been used to but they were keeping him warm and fed and he’d been lucky enough to find something that clicked with him just enough he could say it was enjoyable. As chaotic as his past was, Quentin had always kept a solid grip on what his purpose was at any given time. With every role he’d taken on over the years he’d taken it upon himself to mentally compile a list of his duties and their expectations. It kept him moving forward. Gave him an edge and kept him focused in a world that seemed to be hellbent on knocking him off course. It was a habit Quentin doubted he would shake any time soon. These days, his core responsibilities boiled down to finding clients to sell to, working out deals with them, then fulfilling his half and getting paid. And helping Peter - whatever that happened to mean at the time. That one was, admittedly, majorly self-imposed. Completely separate from work, but no less prevalent in his mind.
He had always known nothing could hope to stand his way if he wanted something. Only problem was, what he wanted had been a…fluctuating concept ever since Mysterio’s defeat nearly one year ago. After the experience of Operation Mysterio, being his own boss and working by his own rules, Quentin knew that no shitty desk job would ever compare. Fortunately, more people than the ones running the big corporations were realizing the world was changing, which left the market for freelance, off-the-books technology wide open. He just had to watch who he sold it to, make sure they had agendas that were relatively bloodless.
“Work’s good.” He said, eyeing the blackish, bluish canvas that was the empty virtual space behind the virtual stars. “I’m supposed to ship out another order this Tuesday. It’ll probably keep me steady for the next few months.”
The star map simulated a shooting star, it flew from one corner of the ceiling to the other, glowing hot white and gold.
When was the last time he turned on his tech just to appreciate it’s existence?
“That’s great.” Peter looked convincingly happy for him but a shadow of doubt lingered on his face, so faint he probably didn’t realize it was there.
“You think so?”
“Yeah of course!”
“Yeah?”
“…Yesss?”
Quentin knew the kid didn’t entirely approve. Unsurprising, given his history with people who sold strange technology to buyers that ranged from questionable and corrupt to potentially violent threats. But Peter was too polite to make the comparison out loud and he didn’t want to risk knocking Quentin loose from his foothold of stability, so he hadn’t protested. Still, his discomfort was transparent. Peter had been skirting around the topic ever since Quentin told him about his new career path and it became clear the world hadn’t seen the last of his work. It was a familiar silence, Quentin noted, the willing silence of someone who was afraid of finding the answer they expected.
Quentin understood himself well enough to know that, in the right conditions, he could live with a clear conscious even if the whole world feared or hated him. Everyone minus Peter Parker. Damn kid. Truly the living embodiment of the exception to every rule.
“Ask me what you want to, kid.” He wanted as few secrets between them as possible. A bittersweet irony, considering everything about him. It seemed the deeper he sunk into this new life, the less of his so-called ‘old self’ had room to breathe.
A brief silence passed as Peter undoubtedly debated whether he should actually speak his mind.
“Should I…” Peter’s eyes squinted up at the star map as he thought, “Should I be on the lookout for evil holograms when I’m out?”
That was fair, Quentin had told him many of his clients had black marks on their records. Though, the way Quentin saw it, none of them had done any worse than the average billionaire playboy or oil baron. The biggest distinction being that few of Quentin’s clients had the wealth that could buy a wiped criminal record. It was all a matter of social status and money. God, all of their problems seemed to come back around to both of those. He made a mental note to have that conversation with the kid at some point in the future.
“Hardly evil…” He said, rubbing his chin. “And the people I work with have better things to do than screw with everyday people.”
When the kid didn’t look convinced, Quentin tried again.
“I’m not gonna hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it, Peter.” He said firmly, “I’m selling products to people who asked me for them. That’s it.” And he’d certainly stuck his neck out for Peter’s sake by strictly limiting himself to non-offensive tech. It called to mind the boundaries Stark had imposed on his people after his jaunt in Afghanistan, only Quentin was doing it to himself now. That sacrifice had cost him a lot of cash and he’d told the kid as much. Of course, he’d also told Peter that the reason he stayed away from weapons was his fear of S.H.I.E.L.D intervention. Fury was a good scapegoat when it came to the shadowy and underhanded. Blaming him seemed a fair trade-off for not getting to kill the man. It probably wasn’t the most honest way to talk about his changing heart but Quentin was what he was.
And maybe, just maybe, he was also a work in progress.
This almost-year had taught him they were not always mutually exclusive.
One step at a time.
“Oh, by the way,” Quentin said, wanting to change the subject. “I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier. Happy birthday.”
Peter blinked and looked at him like he was crazy, “Um, my birthday’s not for a couple months, dude.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s not ‘till August.”
Quentin made his eyes bulge. He dropped his gaze to the floor, slapping a hand over his mouth as if mortified. He went rigid, brow furrowing into an expression of a man thoroughly strained by his own confusion. As if he hadn’t known since Peter mentioned his birthday during a conversation about the Blip months ago. Like he didn’t have a schedule tacked up in his tiny workspace with the days he could afford to set aside to work on the kid’s present circled three times over in bright red marker. He opted not to mention said gift, that sat three-quarters completed in his his workshop. Nothing too fancy, Quentin didn’t throw around world-changing tech around like a certain billionaire asshole he chose not to mention, but after taking what Peter told him about his daily escapades into account Quentin had managed to work out a little device that might make things easier.
But first, pretending he’s just forgotten the kid’s birthday by two months and a week. He refocused on the sound of Peter’s poorly-stifled giggles.
“Oh.” He ground out, pinching the bridge of his nose to further drive home the disgruntled, embarrassed image. “Oh.”
Peter scrambled to soothe Quentin’s injured pride. “I mean- thank you, Mister Beck! Thank you, but uh yeah, it’s not until August tenth.”
“Remember when we met?” Quentin asked, ignoring Peter’s confused frown at the non-sequitur, “And I said you could call me Quentin?”
“Yeah?”
“You should know that still stands. I think formality is the least of both our worries at this point.”
“Hmm.” Peter’s face scrunched, “Do you mind if I wait on that one? For a bit? I dunno why but I’d feel a bit weird with the first name thing.”
“‘Cause I’m old?”
“Okay those are your words!”
“So they’re right.”
As an answer, Peter reached out, his hand flopping half-lifelessly towards Quentin’s face. His palm gently slapped against Quentin’s cheeks, the hand patting his beard down flat as he stretched towards Quentin’s mouth. Pale fingers butted against his lips, “Shuusshh…” Peter mumbled between giggles as Quentin faked trying to shake his face free, “Shussshh…”
His expression perfectly deadpan, Quentin pantomimed taking a bite out of Peter’s hand.
The kid laughed as he pulled away and called him weird.
The sat quietly for a few long moments, Quentin tried to pick out Venus among the millions of dots of light. He doubted he succeeded. Suddenly, the kid piped up.
“Hey, you know what else you said when we met?” That lilt to his voice was back, as was the glint in his eyes that promised only a very irked Quentin Beck. He arched a brow.
“That the multiverse was real and you watched a planet die.” Peter squinted, remembering something particularly distasteful, “And that you were married!”
“And you know who fell for it?” Quentin leaned in, flicking Peter’s nose in retaliation. “You did.”
“And the director of S.H.I.E.L.D!” Peter squawked, gesturing wildly as he soared the heights of indignation.
“And if it weren’t for you, it would have stayed that way.”
They lapsed into quiet again, staring at each other. The silence lasted all of ten seconds before Peter broke and his face crumpled in on itself as he doubled over laughing. Quentin watched him with a small smile of his own. Hm. He could definitely keep being a work in progress for this. The kid’s good mood was infectious. Though admittedly, he was better at turning his pain into humour than Quentin. A year ago, Quentin would have told him to put the energy to better use, but he was a stranger in Peter’s world, less certain of what was best and still finding his footing.
They returned to pretending to study the virtual night sky. Quentin watched the kid from the corner of his eye.
“I can’t believe it’s almost been a year. Since you moved in I mean.”
“It’s pretty crazy, huh? You’ve made it bearable, Peter.” Quentin frowned to himself. Surely he could think of a better word than that. “I mean, hell, you’ve made it more than bearable. Personally, I’m amazed we made a year too, and…we made it because of you.” Lord knew Quentin wouldn’t have given anyone else the time of day if they pounded on his door and proclaimed him capable of bettering himself. “You should be proud of yourself.”
“Then you should be proud of yourself too. You’re doing so well, Mister Beck. Really.”
Heat flooded Quentin’s face. Grateful for the low light, he shook his head to clear it.
“Yeah well, you’ve kept it interesting enough. Better than prison would be for sure.”
Underneath the canvas of a fake galaxy, Quentin Beck felt the realness of the situation- of everything they’d built and how much it mattered- wash over him. It was a heady feeling.
“Listen, if anyone had to do…this to me. Bring me along on this god damn journey to- what are we calling it again- ‘being me just better’. I’m glad it’s you.” Quentin turned his head, only to find that Peter was already staring at him. “And I’m glad you’re here.”
He’d never said that to Peter and not meant it.
Peter scooted closer, he seemed happy.
The apartment felt cozy.
Above them, a blanket of virtual stars sparkled and shone.
“Me too.” Peter said, and smiled.
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