Chapter Text
Peter’s not entirely sure why he came, other than his two roommates did and that meant he couldn’t watch the next episodes of The Man in the High Castle by himself without feeling both guilt (for going ahead) and slight boredom (at the lack of unsolicited commentary).
Sure, Ned was going to help Betty help Liz make sure nothing got wrecked, and Flash was DJing the entire night, and that meant Peter was one hundo kickin’ it alone like a sad pup, but at least he wasn’t wallowing alone at home on New Year’s Eve, right?
Heck, if he didn’t have to use his vacation days to work on his thesis, he would at least be home with May, but c'est la vie, y’know?
“It’s a big place, so don’t get lost, please,” Betty had told him at the outset, kindly, even if her words were chosen to remind him of the first time their group went to Europe and he somehow got lost in their two bedroom AirBnB.
(There was a secret door, okay?)
“I’m sticking to the first floor, Bets, don’t worry,” Peter had said, nodding along.
“Isn’t your roommate here?” Ned then said, looking at his girlfriend.
“Baby, it’s Liz’s parents’ house,” Betty snorted. “Of course she’s here.”
“No, no—Jones.”
“Oh!” Betty said, and Peter knew, because this B-plot to his story was three-and-a-half years in the making.
“Yeah, she should be here,” she said, grinning and looking at Peter again, mischief written all over her face. “Want me to find her?”
And then Peter said, “If it was gonna happen, I think it would’ve already,” gave some excuse about the bathroom, and skedaddled the heck outta there.
So, anyway:
He’s lost.
He thinks he’s on the first floor, but the minimalism of the house could be playing tricks on him, really. And, like, there’s a Horde That Kills Mufasa-amount of people scrambling to find food, drinks, and people to kiss at midnight.
Peter is of the first two categories, if not only the first.
(He really shouldn’t’ve scarfed down the rest of his sandwich instead of saving it for tomorrow.
Drat.)
“On your six,” someone says from behind, nudging him forward with gentle force.
“Uh,” he says, chin tucked as he moves towards the closed sliding doors suddenly in front of him.
(Betty’s gonna kill him five times over for getting lost.
And Ned’s gonna laugh.)
He stops just shy of the closed glass, and the perpetrator of his almost-accident shows herself to his side—a mug-wielding, beanie-wearing, curly-haired girl his age in a Joan of Arc shirt and a thick, knit sweater hanging off her gangly frame.
The first thing Peter thinks is: That mug is steaming and about to spill.
The second is: Why is she going outside in this weather?
“Hey, uh, it’s cold outside,” he says, concern etched on his face and accented by his outstretched hands—one to steady the mug, the other to block the path.
The girl turns, her beanie boasting HARVARD in bold, white letters.
He realizes his—proverbial, thankfully—butt’s about to be handed to him two seconds too late.
The girl squints at him, dark eyes piercing and pinning him down. “It’s winter.”
“…Yes.”
“Okay. So it’s cold, in general.”
“…Yes.”
“So one would know that it’s probably cold outside.”
“…I just mean, like,” Peter flounders, not sure what he means, “uh, just—you don’t have a coat.”
She squints harder; says nothing as she takes a page out of a cat’s handbook, reaching out for the doors slowly while maintaining—unnerving, unthankfully—eye contact with him.
All they’re missing is an annoying creak, but the Toomes residence is too new and fancy for that to happen, so Flash’s new electro-pop mix plays in the background as a bouncy, insufficient substitute.
Harvard keeps staring him down—literally, she’s taller—as she inches to the now-open doors.
Peter pulls off his sweater quickly, hair mussed as he hands it to her. “C’mon, seriously—it’s like, twenties.”
She blinks, freeze-framing.
“You don’t wanna get hypothermia.”
Snort, as she visibly recovers. “Or do I?”
“It’s not a fun time,” Peter says, an easy smile on his face. “Trust me.”
The door’s already open and he feels the breeze coming through, half-blocked by her form.
“If I take your sweater,” she says with a blank face, sipping from her steaming mug, “how’re you gonna hang out with me?”
“I’m a walking heater,” he says, suddenly nervous in a different way.
“…Are you trying to say you’re hot?”
“I—no, not—I’m just—I have a high body temperature—”
Snickering cuts him off, a smirk now plastered on Harvard’s face. “I’ll take it, I’m actually freezing. Just promise not to die.”
“Yup, def, uh-huh,” Peter stammers, holding her mug as she layers his sweater on her own.
Somewhere behind them, he hears the beginnings of a dance battle.
By the sound of it, Ned’s definitely winning.
“You stayin’ in there?” the girl asks, taking her mug back. Sip. “I think I can buy four minutes out here with this tea.”
Peter grins. “I say three.”
“Are you a med student or something?”
“Engineering.”
“So you don’t know what I know.”
“You’re medicine?” he asks with a pitch up in curiosity, following her as she steps farther into the balcony.
(He is definitely not on the first floor.
Sorry, Betty!)
“No, but something else that requires research,” she says, finding the railing and leaning on it.
He joins her, the cold sting of metal hitting his forearms. “Cryptic.”
Shrug. “I don’t know you.”
“Ah, I mean,” he says, holding the rails with his hands as he stretches back, balancing on his heels. “You could.”
Harvard snorts, raising a brow at him. “Was that a line? ‘Cause it sucked.”
“Not really,” Peter shrugs, leaning back forward. “My friends are too busy helping with the party, though, so sober company’s nice.”
“Ah, same boat, sweater loaner,” she says, raising her mug in his direction. “Guess we have that in common.”
He smiles, puts out his hand. “I’m—”
“Nope,” she says, taking another sip. “I didn’t come here looking for someone, and judging by your overall look, neither did you.”
“Hey.”
She raises a hand off the mug, waving cheekily. “Hello.”
“…You’re not wrong.”
“I know.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
“I like people-watching, and overworked, Ivy-league college seniors are best seen at parties.”
“Because they’re tipsy?”
“Because they’re normal.”
Someone starts a wave of cheering inside, making them both turn.
“My point,” the girl says, nodding to the door.
Sigh, as Peter shakes his head, turning back to her. “…So no names?”
“More fun if we can guess it.”
“Potentially dangerous.”
“Should I be worried? ‘Cause my brother’s a cop. Just so you know.”
“Nah, but I might need backup.”
“Takes guts to ask for help,” the girl says, nodding approvingly. She hums, curls catching the faint light from inside as she sips whatever steaming drink’s in her hands. “Tell you what.”
Peter blinks. “What?”
“Exactly.”
He blinks again.
She grins, bordering on a smirk. “If we survive ‘til the end of the party, and you’re not a total psycho, I’ll concede to using the photobooth they rented out.”
“With me?” Peter says, pointing to himself.
“That was implied.”
“Can I bargain for a name?”
“What, are you already in love with me?” she deadpans, grin still present, and well.
Kind of, he wants to say, but he can already hear Ned yelling at him in that exasperated, Fake Angry way of his when he sees his friend doing something either really questionable or really stupid, assuming he wasn’t in on it himself.
So he says: “And you’re not? With me?”
The girl squints.
Purses her lips.
Stays quiet.
Lets the muted sounds of the current song fade and the next one pump into the speakers, before:
“You just might survive, Science Pun.”
“Really? We’re going off of t-shirts?”
“You can call me Joan.”
Peter smirks, offering his hand to shake. “Joan of Arc sounds cooler.”
She smiles, amused, and tilts her head to the side, loose curls falling past her face and over her shoulder. “Let the games begin.”
He likes her.
He’s probably in love with her, honestly, but he’s never known Love At First Weird-Ass Conversation before so he’s not super sure.
They spend the next two hours roaming the house like it’s a lost city, freshly dug up and holding bountiful treasures if one dared look close enough, or were willing to traverse the oft-perilous waters of less-than-sober undergrad and grad students.
(At least there was a team of bouncer-bodyguards stationed around the house, just in case, courtesy of Mr. Toomes and his booming shipping business.)
Peter learns small things—personal still, but nothing on her location other than her Harvard beanie. Things like being able to down still-steaming tea the way children down candy, and somehow never bumping into people despite her long limbs and tall frame.
Joan of Arc of Harvard likes to munch on the ignored bits of brownies, stuck to the tin edges and otherwise considered trash. She trades summarized stories of going on summer road trips with her family to D.C., purely to visit the Smithsonian with his own stories of science camp and going home early from science camp, because he missed his uncle and his aunt.
They snoop around the mostly empty third floor, and while she inspects the family photos displayed there, Peter finds a rack of DVDs and takes a photo to question Liz about why her family has three copies of the first Spy Kids movie, all unwrapped.
The second floor is where they’d met, and he holds her hand to not get separated while they weave through jumping, dancing twenty-two-and-up-year-olds, and she doesn’t say anything when they make it to a little alcove and their hands are still twined.
On the first floor, he worries about running into his friends, but Joan of Arc is a real hero—or telepathic—because every time he catches sight of Flash, or Ned, or Betty, or Liz, the girl turns sharply down another way, and that’s how they manage to get four helpings of dessert—undetected—before the night is over.
They hang out in the backyard for a few minutes, arm pressing into arm as they stand side-by-side to keep warm, talking idly about Star Wars and Jane Austen and the superiority and pretentiousness associated with the color maroon.
He notes that she smells sweet and flowery, and her hand is the warmest thing in existence, and he really, really thinks she’s some kind of beautiful, with her coded replies and curious eyes.
They get tired from the roaming and make a final run to the desserts before heading back upstairs to get a good view of the fireworks from the community’s country club.
Unlike the start of their adventure, the floor’s now packed.
“GET READY, CAMBRIDGE!” Flash yells into the mics, speakers relaying the enthusiastic message to the rest of the home. “WE ABOUT TO BRING IT INNNN!”
Peter sees his companion flinch at the sound. “You good?”
“This dude’s got bad trills,” she says, eye twitching slightly.
Oh, if only she knew how right she was.
Flash’s shower singing is…a true experience, to say the least.
There is a reason Peter dropped serious cash for the highest quality earplugs.
Flash continues his hyping, and aside from the weird offshoots, he’s doing pretty darn well.
Peter’s kinda proud of him.
“Do you think the security peeps have someone to kiss at midnight?” Joan of Arc asks suddenly, and Peter turns to find her squinting at one such guard at the back of the hall.
“Why? Are you volunteering?” he teases, squeezing her hand as he leans in closer so she can hear.
“I don’t plan on kissing anyone, so don’t go getting any ideas, SP,” she throws back easily, a light smirk on her lips.
Peter puts his free hand over his heart. “My aunt and uncle taught me better than that.”
She raises their linked hands, chewing the inside of her cheek to smother her growing smile. “I know.”
“FIFTEEN!” the people around them start yelling—some slurred, some confused, some sing-songy.
They feel the countdown from their spot on the third floor, the atrium in the middle of the home booming an echo and chorus of tens, nines, and eights before they can get to the staircase.
At one, strangers all around them lean in to kiss each other in pairs, but the two of them join the initial cheer instead.
Then…
They make the mistake of catching each other’s eye, the deafening yells and whoops surrounding them in slow motion, and he’s leaning in, and she is, too, and…
Someone crashes through them, stumbling down onto the strategically placed bean bag at the bottom of the stairs, and Joan of Arc bursts into laughter, and Peter can’t help but join her.