Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Johnny needed to breathe.

For a man who physically cannot resist oxygen and instead embraces it to fuel his flames, he couldn’t breathe. No matter how much it seemed like he was coping, he felt the complete opposite. It’s one thing to be late for time, late for an appointment, but it’s another thing to be late to some top-secret Avenging thingy or whatever they were calling themselves in this universe. Johnny doesn’t know; all he knows is that Sue is going to kill him.

It’d been a good two weeks since they fled their Earthーapparently called Earth-828ーto draw away another near-cosmic foe that wore a green overcoat. Because in the span of not even six months, another guy wanted Franklin, and this time Reed and Sue weren’t playing around. They barely had time to grab H.E.R.B.I.E., head onto Excelsior, and find themselves in a parallel universe that didn’t have the Fantastic Four. Meaning nobody knew who they were, the place already had protectors who nearly beat their skulls in due to intruders, yet they were welcomed into their tower moments later as if nothing had happened. The events were a lot to overcome, along with the looming threat of someone looking to take Johnny’s cosmic baby nephew; the cherry on top was navigating a modern New York City.

He didn’t think it was possible to find himself lost in the city, but it’s not like this version had maps plastered by bus stations. All Johnny wanted was a dang donut from down the street, though where he thought and remembered there being a cafe, instead it was a library, and somehow he ended up by the docks when he meant to turn left. It was a haze of a morning that Johnny entirely forgoes his breakfast and already starts planning lunch back at the tower.

The tower was nice for a multitude of reasons. On one hand, it’s convenient for the building to be located exactly where the Baxter building is, and on the other hand, none of the team could fathom how many people lived in it. Their home was used as office space during the day, and at night it was just the four of them, though here it’s always the same people. They arrived at the end of a quarrel, a weird, undefined tension between the Avengers, amplified only by the fact that Johnny didn’t realize he was taking sides. Hell, he just wanted to know where the good cereal was located; he didn’t know they were claimed with names written on the box — they also changed the recipe of Lucky Charms, and he is livid.

Regardless, it’s a stupid meeting involving the Valentina lady who first recommended their “team-up” in the first place. The Fantastic Four, or rather Reed, felt as if they owed a debt to the team housed, and supposed rather than just staying there for free, he felt they could help each other for the time being. Johnny didn’t pay much attention, sat at the end of the long board-meeting table in a conference room, flicking his fingers into a snapping maneuver and watching as the tips sparked. He’d yawn, only to be kicked by Ben, who was right beside him. Everyone seemed to be paying attention to Valentina, Sam or Captain America, and that Bucky guy.

“So basically we’re getting an allowance?” Johnny inquired afterwards, sipping on some smoothie remnants from the day before. He leaned against the island of the kitchen on their designated floor, the place slick and modern and very… bland. Muted colors, a contrast to their home. “What’re we, ten years old?” He scoffs, tossing the terms of their contract on the flat surface.

Ben shrugs, rolling his shoulder and grabbing the paper, glancing down at it. “Dunno ‘boutchu but I’m happy to be paid to punch people,” he chuckles. “It’ll be the same thing as last time, flamebrain.”

“Except it’s not. It’s not the same. At least there we’re known and adored and here, it’s like starting from square one all over again.” Johnny grumbles, crushing the plastic cup of his smoothie as he finishes it, tossing it into a bin across the way. “I mean, I flames-on once and people looked at me like I was a freak of nature! Fresh off that spaceship! I never thought I could rediscover that feeling.”

“Can’t say I have,” Ben’s sarcastic, slightly solemn tone didn’t fall on deaf ears, and Johnny wanted to end his life there with a buttal of a hand to his face and a quick apology.

To the side of them was the long hall, leading to the rooms they had near each other. Given they’re the only occupants on the floor, it’s not hard to listen to the steps approaching, and Susan looked equally tired and displeased, donning casual wear and bags under her eyes.

“We just got Franklin down for a nap and for once Reed is not overthinking the end of all ends,” she says, careful, precise, and hushed. Rubbing the temples of her forehead, she locks her gaze with her baby brother. “So help me god, Johnathan, if you wake your nephew, I will smother you in your sleep.” Franklin, in his all cosmic-being in his not even two-feet-tall body, wasn’t adjusting to the new Earth. Most nights, he’s crying, switched between his parents to hold while the other sleeps, and even Ben sometimes.

Johnny has his hands up in a mock surrender, brows up and words pacifying as can be, “Sorry, jeez. Didn’t know,” as she turns to leave, he grumbles once more and heads towards the stairwell. “I need some airーand find something edible to eat in this place. You wanna come with?” He asks Ben, and at a kind dismissal, Johnny shrugs, opening the door to head downstairs.

The layout of the place endlessly confused him. With the rise of tension between some people, Johnny didn’t know where some places were “safe,” so to speak. Technically, they were still guests for the time being, until an actual threat is imminent again, so it didn’t stop Johnny from raiding the fridge on the next story. There, housed one half of the team, being told they were briefly called the Thunderbolts, and it seemed empty for the time being. He knew a lot of them relied more on hand-to-hand combat than actual abilities, hence they spent time in the large gym and training room a few levels down. Whatever. Just more snacks for him.

It’s equally as stocked as the last time Johnny raided the damn kitchen, albeit two nights ago, yet he waltzed in like he’d lived there. The space was more lived in than theirs; little touches and details indicating a long time spent making memories. It reminds him too much of the Baxter building, and he tries to ignore it. Especially when he realized he wasn’t alone.

At the island, sat on one of the barstools in an oversized sweater and slightly baggy sweatpants, was Bob. Bobby? Robert? No, Bob. Johnny didn’t know the dude’s deal if he had to be honest; they’ve never really talked at all, Bob is just quiet and reserved, and lets his teammates do the talking preferably. Hell, Johnny’s not even sure what his powers were, if he had any. Nonetheless, he ignores the guy, opting to cross in front of him and fling open the fridge, making Bob jump at the sound and raise his gaze from the paper he was looking at.

A lot of stuff from before remained in the fridge. Some leftovers with hastily written names on plastic containers, a couple of eggs, slices of different deli meats in packets, and soda cans from months ago. Well.

Johnny grabbed an old soda can, cracking it open as he closed the fridge, and unintentionally turned to look at Bob. There, he sees a clearer image of his face, the dude’s gaze on a newspaper in front of him with a pen beside the black and white sheets. Closer to his body was a cup emanating some vapor, and the slight odor of salt and… beef? Chicken? With some veggies, too.

“Where’d you get that?” Johnny asks after he took a sip of the sorta flat pop, pointing to the styrofoam cup of food.

Bob raises his gaze, eyebrows furrowed in a surprised expression mixed with obliviousness, glancing around slightly before clearing his throat at the fact that he’s being talked to. “Uh, up there,” he mutters, pointing to a cabinet vertical to where Johnny leaned against.

The Human Torch nods awkwardly, expecting more conversation, yet simply leans up to open and pick one styrofoam cup out of many. They’re individually wrapped in clear plastic, with different flavors with instructions on the lid. Cup NoodlesーUse hot water, do not microwave. It’s then Johnny notices the kettle close by, non-discreetly grasping it, feeling the water remaining inside, and beginning to heat it by using his palm. He hums, waiting for the water to begin boiling, tearing back the covering of the cup as per instructions, and idly dottled around on a sense of uneasiness. He’d been better at conversation before, usually with someone who wanted to reciprocate, but Bob definitely wasn’t one of those people.

Johnny ends up circling the island slowly, glancing around before his eyes landed on the newspaper Bob was reading, looking over the older guy’s shoulder as he hunched over it. Circled were ad listings for different-sized apartments, some studios or with multiple bedrooms, all a few blocks away and in close radius to the tower. Johnny raises a brow, nudging Bob.

“You’re looking at apartments?” he inquires, moving to pour the steaming water into his cup with ease, watching as the condensed and hardened noodles relax in the warmth. “You live here, though.”

Bob practically squeaked at being nudged, raising his gaze once more, swallowing with a shrug. “It’s getting too loud. I just want a place that’s quieter and closer, so if they ever… need me, I’m there,” he explains, sipping the broth from his noodles.

Johnny nods along, his expression subtle and… thinking. He finds a fork to poke at his noodles, mixing them with the small veggies on top and taking a bite. There’s an apparent idea in his head, the way he stops chewing and stares at the newspaper with an unreadable expression, knowing Bob’s even more confused. Johnny finishes his bite, gesturing to the listings the other circled.

“Is there a lot for at least two people?” He asks, crossing to lean over and examine the words closer.

Bob stammered, caught off guard by the underlying meaning, his shoulders up by his ears as he also glanced down. “U-Uh, not really? ‘s mostly studios…”

Johnny points to an open house later that same day, eyes darting up with a smirk at Bob, “That one does.”

“That one’s a four-bedroom, though…”

“So?” Johnny shrugs, taking another bite of his food. “Hypothetically, it’s cheaper than the studio. We just split the rent with two other people, we’re practically living there for free.”

“Look,” Johnny continues more intently, moving a hand to rest and pat Bob’s shoulder, bringing him closer. “You’re overwhelmed here, I’m overwhelmed here. We can make it a little ‘bro-cave’ or whatever, it won’t be that hard to find two more suckers to join us. The hard part is already overーnobody wants to find other people awkwardly; we’re doing their job,” he exclaims with a grin. “And no one knows who I am, you’re less known than what I know. It’s like we’re undercover. It’s perfect!”

Bob blinked. There are flashes of emotion on his face, ranging from disbelief to utter confusion as to why anyone would want to live with him. Part of him wanted to decline, opting to live alone and have a space for himself, though he couldn’t deny the logic Johnny explained was sound. “I-I guessー”

“Perfect! I’m a great roommate, you will not be disappointed, I assure you.” Johnny grins, downing the rest of the noodles, not bothering with the broth and tossing it into the trash can. He claps his hands, “We’ll go there later to check it out. Then maybe we’ll make posters, saying two maybe Revengersー”

Bob corrects under his breath, “Avengers—“

“—need two more roommates and we’ll advertise ourselves as the epitome of excellent roommates,” Johnny concludes, flashing him a minor salute before leaving the kitchen to presumably get ready.

Sitting there, dumbfounded, Bob drummed the island’s top with his fingers and let out a breath. He owes Ava twenty dollars now.

-

Contrary to popular beliefーwell, not that popular, but neither Johnny nor Bob has ever necessarily lived on their own. Johnny’s too used to going where his sister goes, crashing at her place when home got too much with their dad (albeit she insisted her brother stay with her most times), and Bob, well. Moments of his addiction, he “lived” in houses with others like him; there was never a moment when he truly was alone, which only made the lonely feeling even more dreadful. Putting two people who’ve never had a chance of clarity and honest choice in picking where to live is certainly a case.

The apartment was nice overall. Sleek bare light grey walls with a few bricks here and there to give it a rustic vibe, or whatever the landlord lady said. She’s nice—Becky, much older than them with that classic hint of wisdom in the endless thicket of her curls. There’s clear speculation, and maybe a hint of recognition that went nowhere on her tongue, maintaining a sense of professionalism as she showed off the property. Four bedrooms, as said before, are empty with an open space of a living room and kitchen, and two nearly full bathrooms on either end. Located by the water in Kips Bay, it wasn’t a bad view on the wide windows nestled on the outer wall in the living room, staring out East River and a bridge nearby.

It’s a decent neighborhood, and Johnny felt slightly flattered when she offered to lower the price of rent monthly by a hundred or so in exchange for a quick search of finding two more roommates. She explained it, but honestly, Johnny wasn’t listening. Something about wanting to occupy the space finally after so long.

Instead, he was preoccupied with picking out his bedroom. They’d barely discussed the opportunity for a contract, the rent under Bob’s name as he hands over income statements and references, and credit checks, all with Valentina’s official seal mixed with Avengers certifications, it wouldn’t take long. Granted, because Johnny doesn’t necessarily have any of those things after moving dimensions, he was free to roam and claim what he deemed his.

Realistically, he should pick the bedroom with the most brick exposed. Much of the material wasn’t fireproof, nervous he’s gotten too used to the adjustments Reed fixed him back home, and Johnny really didn’t want to burn the entire building down sleeping when he had too good a dream. It’s how he burnt his first pair of bedsheets, another thing he needed to require, or else he’s sleeping on fireproof blankets. Though another part of him wanted the one with a balcony, for easier coming and going.

There’s a creak outside the open door, snapping Johnny out of his thoughts, looking back from the middle of the vacant room. Bob slightly waves, his oversized sleeve over his knuckles, “Hey, I have the, uh, thing,” he mutters, holding up the contract.

“Oh yes, sweet!” Johnny crossed to take it, along with a pen the elder had, quickly writing his signature at the bottom by using the wall as leverage. “I claimed this room, that cool with you?”

Bob shrugs, taking back the document, “I’m good anywhere,” he quietly utters, clearing his throat. “Miss Becky just left, were you… serious about those posters? Looking for two more?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” Johnny hands back the pen, crossing his arms. “I mean, once we get some stuff from the tower out hereーlike clothes and toothbrushes, maybe even beds—that’s a great idea,” he sarcastically mutters, scratching his chin. “Oh! And then we talk food schedules, because I am really bad at cookingー.”

A knock from the front door catches both their attention, hearing it click open softly, boots trekking in on the hardened floors, and a distant ruffle of paper in hands joining the fray. “Hello? I’m here about the apartment?”

The pair walked out to greet whomever, although the man before them was someone familiar. Enough to where heーJoaquínーlooked annoyed and displeased instantly at the sight of them, mostly Bob. There’s a bag slung over Joaquín’s shoulder, in attire that reads a post-workout regime, a tank top with Miami plastered on it, and some track pants. Johnny swears he’s never seen someone’s face fall so quickly; the room shifted onto another plane of awkward tension he desperately tried to leave at the tower.

“Oh, hi, Joaquín,” Bob waves, his eyes lighting up ever so slightly, his fingers giving another wave. He seemed more enthusiastic, the opposite to whom he was speaking to. “You’re moving out, too?”

“I never was moved in in the first place,” Joaquín’s distaste mixed with confusion, stammering, “Why… why are you even moving out? Why are you here? I leave the tower to escape the chaos, and yet it always follows me. This is a prime freakin’ example.”

Bob shrugs, fidgeting, “Well, I talked to ‘lena about it, and she was supportive.”

“…who then, in turn, talked to Bucky, who surprisingly had a lot of advice to me about it after I brought it up,” Joaquín lets out a sigh, rubbing at his temples. He mumbles something else under his breath, looking as if he’s debating on turning out the door without a second thought.

“Oh, are you and Bucky talking again?”

“... You didn’t hear that from me.”

“But hey!” Johnny interjects, patting Bob on the back with another sheepish grin, “Killing two birds with one stone—er—two stones, actually. We obviously need another guy for rent purposes, and you need somewhere cheap with people somehow in the same profession as you.” He crosses to Joaquín’s side, nudging him with an elbow, “Huh? Huh? You picking up what I’m putting down, bird guy?”

Joaquín looked bristled, his gaze shifting between the two other men, his resolve crumbling in a begrudging manner that catches even himself off guard. It’s a sick game when he’s boxed in by another approaching the open doorway leading into the apartment. He succumbs and leans back against the door, allowing whoever to view inside. It’s another male, around Johnny’s age, with brown hair that slightly curled, pale skin, and questionable Band-Aids on his face. He hauls a gym bag, a sweatshirt plastered with MIT’s logo, looking like he had just rolled out of bed. It matches the bags under his eyes.

“Is… is this the four-man apartment for rent?” He asks, cautious, a bit precariously. It’s a questionable sight for sure, three dudes hanging out in the first things they grabbed, standing in an empty apartment. Whether or not he recognized them didn’t dawn on the trio.

Instead, Johnny turns to look at Joaquín, “Bird guy, do you believe in fate?”

Chapter Text

Peter reeks of sulfite.

He knows he does. It’s what he gets for being prohibited from using the showers at school and rushing to make this appointment anyway. The endless lecturing he gave both Harry and Anya about this compound not being ready, and where does it get him? Frantically wiping off soot and making sure his eyes don’t bludgeon if it got any on there, standing outside a ridiculous open house for the fifth apartment option he’s been to this weekーand yes, all of the previous ones denied him.

He doesn’t think it’s necessarily his own fault; he overshot the amount of money he’d get from his scholarship, barely enough to cover tuition, and practically shudders when it came to housing. It lasted two semesters, and for a few weeks, he’d been crashing on rooftops in web-hammocks he’s made, and as much as the view was scenic, it was getting cold. He never did well in the heat.

Which is why Peter persisted with this four-bedroom apartment. Even if his heart was hammering in his chest, sitting with his hands in his lap, looking between these guys like some private investigator on the fritz. No, they weren’t just guys; they were Avengers. Not the Avengers Peter personally knew, they were new ones, hell, they were practically still in school when he got roped into that whole mess at fifteen. He knows this because he still sometimes keeps an eye out for the team, and even spoke to Captain America on the streets, where Peter pretends it didn’t hurt when the man didn’t recognize him. It never gets easierー

With no other options, and the fact that he’s practically scrounging for funds as is, Peter stayed with these three other men. Idly sitting on a dingy chair, his bag of all-important belongings beside him on the floor, his suit underneath his clothes. They seem like nice people; Johnny’s eccentric in all the ways Peter wishes he was, Joaquín’s laidback, and Bob is… Bob. Though there’s a nagging feeling eating away at Peter’s head, like he had walked in on something already preordained and established—a fourth wheel, really. Pathetically so, unable to criticize how Bob prepared ‘peace-making’ tea and set it across the table.

Granted, not a lot of things were in the apartment. Peter was barely coerced into signing the lease and forging his credit score for Becky to make sure everything came out positive, and Bob was mostly scrounging through what was left behind. A shitty microwave, a tea packet, and a cracked mug that’s able to hold the lukewarm tap water he’d boiled in the microwave. Peter tries not to hear the sizzle of the hot water as Bob accidentally burns himself.

“I-It’s not… great, by any means,” the older man utters, fidgeting with his sleeves. Bob had sat down, sliding the mug over on the small table, tucking his hair back in a nervous gesture. “But I hope it’s something.”

Peter took one glance at the tea and already knew he’d dislike it. Regardless, he stirs and sips from it, swallowing down the bitter taste with a shiver. Clearing his throat, he turns his neck to glance at the hall beside them, the distant sound of Johnny and Joaquín arguing about room placements. “Are they always this enthusiastic?” he asks, focusing back on Bob.

Bob shrugs, a nervous chuckle leaving his lips, glancing around like it’s a habit. “Not really, t-they’re not… bad guys, they just carried away. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Peter echoes with a look, a brow raised, stirring the warm liquid. “C’monーI know you guys are Avengers, it’s never just being ‘carried away’.”

Oddly enough, Bob’s shoulders slacken with a wave of relief, finding a newfound confidence that’s barely there, yet enough to be distinguishable. “Okay, thank god—uh, it’s been… a weird couple of weeks. Like a never-ending dodgeball game where you’re constantly… out?” he attempts to explain.

Peter’s puzzled, clearly so on his features. “I thought you all reached an agreement or something?”

“We did, but it doesn’t stop the awkwardness, y’know? It’s why I wanted to move out, temporarily for now, and Johnny just followed, and I-I didn’t even know Joaquín wanted to.” Bob lets out a breath, slouching in his seat, “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t have put that all on you, heh… What do you do? For a living?”

The scrape of the spoon in the ceramic mug echoed in the empty kitchen, Peter stilling at the question. No matter how long he’s spent preparing endlessly for questions such as that one, it never gets easier. He pretended not to feel a minor spidey-sense ripple through him, going through his thoughts like they were flashcards to perfect a response. Not again.

“I’m a lab assistant at the Horizons Foundation, it’s a subsidiary of Oscorp,” he murmurs, taking another bitter sip to down a stutter. “I work there with a couple of friends of mine. In my spare time, I substitute teach wherever.”

There’s a hint of a grin on Bob’s face, seemingly and genuinely surprised, as well as intrigued. However, he couldn’t inquire for more, as Joaquín and Johnny equally approach, and at the end of their own discussion, they’ve both drawn a conclusion already. Peter figured this is how the place will run nowーwith little to no input from himself, and he doesn’t care in all honesty.

“We’ve decided that you and Johnny will head back for smaller items from base,” Joaquín explains, barely giving a glance to Bob as he speaks to him. Their eyes barely made contact, and once again, Peter could sense that tension ease his way to the man across from him. “While Peter and I go out and buy whatever else. Maybe a couch, bed frames, the works.” Oh, Peter’s already counting the change in his pocket mentally.

“You want us to steal forks and stuff?”

“And toilet paper, too. Every cent counts, right?” Johnny answers Bob with another pat to his back, hauling him up with a gentle pull from his shirt. “C’mon. We’ll be quick.”

The pair bid farewell, albeit a quick one, leaving the vacant apartment. It remains nearly silent, except for the humming of the air vent, and Peter opens his mouth to say something before he realizes Joaquín is staring. Not at him, no, but at the closed door of the premises. It’s like a trance, with an expression Peter couldn’t make out, a cross between seeing a ghost and being in complete awe of whoever seemed to be there—or rather, who was there. Joaquín seemingly sensed the pair of extra eyes on him, snapping out of his thoughts with a blink and avoiding Peter’s gaze.

“Let’s go before it’s busier,” Joaquín utters, swiftly crossing to grab his sweater and keys, slipping on shoes as the chains rattle. He’s out the door before the younger man can say anything.

-

Peter spent a long time getting acquainted with his new shopping habits. He knows which grocery stores were about to throw out packaged meats, hence they were cheaper right before expiration, and he knew how to make one half-gallon of milk last for nearly a month. Buying no-name brands of things helped immensely, and he’s practically memorized how close the thrift shops were to each other. If he really wanted to, he’d spend an extra buck-fifty at the second-hand shops in the “richer” areas of Manhattan if it meant finding a clean polo for a job.

Which is why he’s so nervous walking into some department store, all bright and sleek with tags of prices in the double digits. He knew the possibility (and inevitably) of having to split the costs of everything with Joaquín and the others; meanwhile, Peter’s bank account was hanging on by a thread for another week or two. Horizons hated releasing funds early, and Peter was barely getting substitute calls at the beginning of the school year.

Joaquín merely hummed as they walked around, pushing a cart of whatever caught his eye. He grabs matching sets of comforters, full twin-size sheets for the supposed bed frames and mattresses they also had to pick out. They’re bland, the cheapest option, yet he only picked three, not four. Peter assumed he’d been found out and left behind in a sense, looking up as the man suddenly spoke mostly to himself.

“Johnny needs his own type of sheets,” Joaquín scratches his neck, murmuring a reminder. “He’s… he’s a special dude.”

“Cause of the whole ‘flamed on’ thing?” Peter jokingly scoffs, his facade dropping as Joaquín glances in his direction. The younger shrugs, idly browsing the shelves, “You make it sound like he’s a bedwetter or something.”

Joaquín chuckled, standing up straight, rolling the cart down the aisle. “Don’t let him know you said that,” he warns. “So you know about us being… who we are?”

“Of course. It’s hard not to know when you guys are constantly in the news,” Peter replies with a shrug of his own, hands in his pockets. He internally cringes when Joaquín throws in three packs of pillows that contain pairs. “But the Johnny thing… is it like a resistant type of deal when it comes to his sheets or something?”

“From what I know, yeah. Basically needs a resistant thing for everything in his room. We learned the hard way that he tends to be all flames during sleep whenever he’s totally relaxed,” Joaquín explains. “He triggered the sprinklers twice at the tower. Doctor Richards had to speedrun implementing and gathering materials to make sure that didn’t happen. I would think Johnny is doing that again now.”

Peter nods slowly, “Makes sense. Maybe we should know what those materials areーso we could ‘Johnny proof’ the apartment if he possibly falls asleep on the couch.” He snickers, “I could probably engineer like a sleeping bag or something.”

“You’re an engineer?”

“Well, not exactly. I tinker with stuff here and there. I-I work in a lab, so,” Peter stammers, mentally cursing himself. “I grew up… not having a lot of cash on hand. A bunch of tech in my room I refurbished from dumper dives.”

“Oh, ditto on that. I grew up in Miami, surrounded by tourists in fancier clothes than mine. But they always left behind expensive watches and burner phones after their drunk antics. Could always find them in the trash, fix ’em up, and pawn ‘em off.”

“That’s smart. I just became a hoarder.”

Joaquín laughed, shaking his head. The grin plastered on his face seemed genuine, the first of its kind Peter had seen in the mere two hours he’s known the guy. It feels like a step in the right direction, though it also brings about the nagging feeling in his gut. Every time he seemingly makes a connection, Peter couldn’t help but have a sense of dread and fear. It took so long to let Harry and Anya in, after numerous attempts on their end to get him to go out. He can’t help but remain in that state still… that somehow, the past will repeat.

“Maybe I should let you help me with my wings,” Joaquín added. They turn the corner down another aisle; simple bed frames in different wooden finishes, grabbing three as Peter follows behind like a lost puppy. “Wouldn’t mind having an extra set of hands. I mess them up so often, more than what I tell Sam.”

It’s a beat of silence of not being given a response. Catchy, overplayed pop music fills the space from the store’s speakers, charging the air into a tender silence, borderline on awkward again. Peter was lost, overthinking, running on motor reflexes as he mindlessly set a toolkit Joaquín handed to him inside the cart’s basket. Not until Joaquín nudges him gently. “You okay, Parker?”

Peter blinked, adjusting his gaze with a shaky nod, thinking of an excuse. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just… just gotta be honest, I don’t exactly have the funds for all of this stuff right now. But I can in a week or two, it’s just a lot of stuff, and schools barely started classes, so sub jobs are scarce and the lab doesn’t like releasing funds early on projects that are not a total success, and–”

“Pete. It’s fine,” Joaquín interjects, patting his shoulder with a small, supportive grin. “Again, I’ve been there, dude. No need to pay me back or whatever–you seem like a genuine guy, and it’s not even my own money I’m spending. It’s like an Avengers allowance, only means I get an advance of my own.”

“No, no. That’s not right, I can’t just take your money, regardless of its origins,” Peter shook his head, appalled and also grateful. He tried not to make the wave of relief evident as his shoulders and demeanor slouched. “At least let me pay for half of it. I don’t want handouts.”

“It’s not a handout. Just call it a… intuition,” Joaquín clarifies, though he slightly backed off at the look of near desperation on Peter’s face. The elder sighs, contemplating for a moment before speaking: “Okay, uh… Can you cook?”

“I guess…? I can make a kinda mean risotto from practically nothing,” Peter shrugs, pulled into another whirlwind of emotions at the flip of the topic. It’s true–he connects to May’s memory via the short and sweet lessons of her cooking, and there’s still a vast range of flavors possible with even a tight budget.

“Then there. That’s how you compensate and pull your share. Some nights you can cook us whatever, and we’ll be your pied pipers, fetching ingredients. How does that sound?” He proposes, “I mean, we’ll help you. God knows I’m not letting any of you season anything.” He adds on, making both of them chuckle.

Peter’s sense of dread is replaced with a warmer feeling, reaching his face and the tip of his ears. He felt almost sheepish, nodding slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Maybe I’ll beat Johnny in setting off the sprinklers.”

“See? That’s the spirit. Now let’s go pick out mattresses.”

-

It’s not the grandest room, nor the biggest, but by a long shot, it was indeed the nicest Peter can call his own in a long time. Wooden floors, one wall of faded brick that gave it a rustic feel aligned with the rest of the flat, and a fire escape connected to the window to make late-night treks easy to slip back inside. His quarters only had the bedframe hastily assembled with its box still cut open on the floor, and the sheets and pillows piled in the corner. Their mattresses wouldn’t be delivered for a couple of daysーluckily, Bob swiped some inflatable ones from the tower, it seems.

As the day grew into night, Peter spent those few hours tucking away the few belongings he had. He hung up some shirts in the closet, tucked away his suit neatly inside a sweater he also hung up, and plastered some posters on the wall with sticky-tak he bought with Joaquín. Some bands, an advertisement for Midtown, and one for the Yankees. It’s for the sake of adding color, he swears.

He’d barely stepped out of the shower and changed in his room before there was a knock. At his beckon, Johnny enters, his hair damp from his earlier shower as well (the wait between had been long, given how Peter was the last to go). The lights were dim, cascading a warm glow overhead, the fan lightly whirling.

“Hey, Joaquín ordered takeout. He said to get it while it’s hot.” Johnny’s voice was soft, less of the cocky side Peter had been introduced to, a testament to the exhaustion from the day. His blue eyes landed on the posters, leaning against the frame of the door with his arms folded. “I didn’t take you for a sports fan.”

Peter followed his gaze, briefly confused before waving him off. He drops his new slippers on the floor, sliding them on. “I’m really not. Doesn’t stop me from having pride in it, though.”

“I was about to say. I’m more of a Mets fan myself,” Johnny lightly scolds, chest huffed with pride. “I was there for their first game, mind you.”

“No way! You’re lucky, even I know that.”

“Yeah! My sister took me for my birthday. Granted, y’know, it was an alternate universe version of the Mets,” Johnny chuckles, matching the grin on Peter’s face. Their eyes lock momentarily before Joaquín calls out to them once more, the odor of takeout food filling the air.

The living room had been completely flipped. A singular lamp illuminated the space, the couch pushed to one side against the wider wall across from the front door, and two blow-up mattresses were on the ground, occupying the floor. Some pillows and blankets were piled onto each peach vinyl, indicating they’d have to share for a few nights, despite the light tension in the flat still looming over the others, yet it seemed more like an echo of its former self than anything serious.

Bob sat on the edge of one, the takeout boxes scattered in the bags they’d arrived in, some paper plates and plastic utensils around. He looks up as he’s pouring food onto his plate, waving, “Hi… it was my idea to put them out here. Like a sleepover.”

“He said it was for bonding or whatever,” Joaquín grumbles, sitting opposite him on the other mattress, snatching a plate to pour his own food. “I didn’t feel like arguing.”

“Well, we didn’t have enough mattresses for everyone. It just makes it less weird out here,” Bob murmurs, placing his dish neatly in his lap. He tucks back his own damp hair.

“I think it’s a neat idea,” Johnny agrees, sitting beside Bob, their shoulders nudging. “Ooo, maybe one of you could pull up a movie on one of your phone thingies.”

The trio discussed amongst themselves the sleeping arrangement for the night, and the media Johnny missed out on in his other universe. It filled the otherwise empty apartment with a sense of calm and familiarity Peter hadn’t had the privilege of experiencing in so long, and who, simultaneously, sat silent and merely watched. He wasn’t necessarily afraid to speak and contribute, nor was he himself tense; unexpectedly, he found his guard being let down. He’d grin, laugh, and nearly choke on his food as he was comfortably a part of a group of people he barely knew.

He’s contentーjust listening, observing, knowing he’s getting the color returned to his cheeks. He’s so used to being just that: a watcher, a listener, a nobody. The only time Peter made connections was as Spider-Man, where people constantly looked through him to say their thanks or hold onto him as a beacon of hope and safety. Yet here, he still feels included, still feels he’s finally a member of something again, surrounded by plates of food and shitty air mattresses that could barely take their combined weights.

And it scares him more than he cares to admit.

Chapter Text

Bob couldn’t sleep.

It’s a habit he hasn’t kicked and couldn’t after so long. He gave up a while ago, even politely declining a therapist at Bucky’s recommendation. Not being able to sleep had its perks in the tower—Bob found many areas that the others didn’t. Apparently, they had a dumbwaiter on one side of the building, spanning a couple of floors, and yes, it did fit a grown man inside (he got curious; could he really be blamed?).

However, here, in this semi-vacant apartment, there’s not much to explore and find.

Bob lay there, listening to the men around him snore and slumber in peace. The ceiling had reached its peak of entertainment for over two hours, watching as it went in circles, sometimes clockwise if he focused enough, sometimes counter-clockwise if it was in his peripheral vision. He counted the marks on the ceiling, corresponding to the number of cars still honking outside. The shitty sound of the clock on the wall ticking every second read 2:34 am, a few hours after they collectively went to bed. Yet here he was, body exhausted, yet his mind still running like a madman.

Carefully, Bob pries himself off the mattress, making sure not to jostle Peter too much. The younger man simply mutters something in his sleep, moving under the covers he’s practically hogged until now, and settling on his side. Breathing a sigh of relief, Bob stands, careful with his steps on the squeaky wooden floor, and retreats into the open kitchen a few feet away.

Normally, he’d make himself something to eat or warm up some milk to settle his nerves. But the fridge was still empty, obviously, and he couldn’t heat the leftovers for fear of waking the others, literally feet away. Using the Brita filter Johnny oh so wanted to have (because it “looked cool”), Bob poured himself water in a red plastic cup and sat on the island, feet swinging as he sipped from the cup slowly.

He knows it’s creepyーfrom the outside. Watching his companions sleep. He’d always been a people watcher, and now it seemed so easy. The way Peter hibernated like a damn bear, wrapped in blankets and endlessly cold. How Johnny was nearly falling off the vinyl mattress, the side of his face smushed in the pillow, and drooling endlessly. And… and how Joaquín had an arm over his head, softly breathing as the others snore. He looked somewhat angelic, hair swooped, and skin illuminated by the lights outside. Bob blinks and looks away.

Part of him wanted to go for a walk; there wasn’t a park far from there, though he didn’t want to stir old habits. Carefully and precisely, Bob went into the room Peter claimed, and slipped through the window onto the fire escape.

The steel beams rattle under his weight, rushing to stabilize himself via the banisters. Nearly the wind was knocked out of him, descending to sit on the stairs exposed, cradling his cup of water as he watched the distant traffic and high beams of cars paint the empty streets. It’s a scene Bob could lose himself to, a place he swears he’ll go once he’s taken his last breath, and for years he’s convinced himself all the pain and the agony was for this—some measly view, in a place he swears he doesn’t belong. However, he no longer finds himself moving towards the edge like before; he slugs against the banister, watching with an expression he wishes he could see on himself.

Bob lost track of time out there. The sky barely moved from the dark clouds and the moon peeking out, barely any of the lights outside falter, and it’s not when the window behind him creaks with another’s weight that Bob is snapped out of his thoughts.

He flinches, looking back as Joaquín manages to wrangle himself out of the window and onto the fire escape. The man yawns, rid of the drool he’d inadvertently had on his chin, and somehow found a sweater to throw on. He had another neatly folded over his arm, preferring to sit on the windowsill and sharing the same view. This… dance had always been weird.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bob murmurs, pulling at a loose thread hanging at the hem of his shirt. He fiddles with it, his wrist flicking easily.

Joaquín waves him off, avoiding his gaze momentarily. “You didn’t. I needed to take a leak, and I realized you were gone.” It was so casual, washing away brush-offs they mutually gave each other. He held out the hoodie to Bob, “You cold?”

Bob hums in confirmation, grasping the fabric to pull over his torso. The material was a little snug at his shoulders, overall comfortable with an Avengers logo at the corner in the front. Bob only realized the next morning that the sweater belonged to Joaquín himself.

“So, uh, h-how’re you feeling? About all of this?” Joaquín curiously broke the silence, the air teetering on something unsaid. Even in the dim light, Bob could make out the reflections in the almonds of Joaquín’s eyes as they met.

Bob shrugs. He handed over the water cup he hadn’t finished, his hands falling to rest in his lap. “Dunno. I mean, I guess it’s fun to be away from everyone. Fewer people hogging the bathrooms and arguing over where to sit at the table,” he dryly chuckles, cheeks a bit warm, a contrast to the chill in the air and the warmth of the sweater. “Only it’s with two dudes we barely know.”

“I know. I’ve been trying to get a read on Storm for the few weeks he’s been here. That Parker kid is who I can’t even begin to decipher,” Joaquín grumbles, finishing the last of the water. He held the empty cup loosely, glancing back out at the city ahead of them. “He seems like a good guy, though. Didn’t really flip out on who we actually are.”

“I kinda got the memo that he was more excited than anything else,” Bob ponders, to which Joaquín merely shrugs. “Like in a… weird way.”

“Weirder than you?” Joaquín teases. Their mutual, slight laughter was in unison. It’s warm, inviting, and the heat in Bob’s cheeks spreads to his eartips.

Even when the sun eventually began to rise, the pair enjoyed each other’s company. Reminiscing on the early days of living in the tower together with their teams, or chatting about anything, really. Somehow, Bob spun a whole mini-debate on which cat breed was the best after he spotted one emerging from a dumpster feet below. It slightly escalated to a shocking reveal that Joaquín was indeed allergic to cats, and it may or may not have been one of the other main reasons he wanted out of the tower. Alpine has left a lot of fur trails lately.

Somehow, in the midst of the chill, Bob’s figure ends up next to Joaquín’s, followed by his head on his shoulder. They don’t mention it, they don’t talk anymore, basking in the silence. Even when they called it a night, to catch just a handful of hours of sleep, Bob kept the hoodie on, and they separated once again. Never to speak about it.

He’s lost track of how many times this has happened.

-

In the tower, Bob constantly did grocery runs on his own. He’s the least known out of all of them, after all. The least recognizable as an Avenger, and while to some it’d be downright disrespectfulーembarrassing, evenーhe really didn’t mind. He liked being useful, carrying a list of items needed and the slick, black credit card Valentina handed over each time. He’d spend hours making sure he obtained the right feminine products the women needed, what skin care items everyone individually used, and, most importantly, what very specific ingredients were needed for meals that the entire tower could enjoy.

It really isn’t a surprise when Joaquín asks him to join Peter on their first grocery run later that morning.

Thankfully, the grocery stores and mercados Bob frequented were still in close distance. He mostly led the charge, answering Peter’s questions about everyone’s tastes and preferences. Joaquín gave them a wad of cash to spend, and Bob pitched in to pay the difference more often than not.

“Is there really a difference between tenderloin and sirloin?” Bob held up the packaged meats, the yellow tags on the plastic reading clearance. They’re due to expire in a couple of days. His eyebrow slightly shot up.

“It’s in the name! Tenderloins are, y’know, more tender, and sirloins are just equally… beefy? I guess?” Peter shrugs, hauling a bag of rice onto the bottom caddy of the shopping cart. “It really doesn’t matter, to be honest, I’m just getting whatever to make something easy for us.”

Bob nods. He’s personally in charge of grabbing snacks, tossing in a bag of Goldfish along with some sunflower seeds. “Right. But Johnny’s vegetarian, though.”

The way Peter’s face fell as he nearly dropped vials of salt and pepper, placing them in the seat of the cart with a demeanor that was so utterly defeated. “That’s not funny. Are you for real?”

“No, I’m kidding,” Bob grins, to which Peter lightly shoves him in playful annoyance.

“Don’t do that! I was gonna tear Johnny a new one if that was true, since he specifically asked for this food and meal. Jesus Christ," Peter shakes his head, grumbling something or another, rearranging the items in the cart. “I’ve been out shopping too much already. Maybe I should’ve made the list.”

“I acted like a personal shopper for so long, you get used to it,” Bob slightly snickers, pushing the cart after the younger man, who continued down the aisles. “What’re you making tonight?”

“Some botched version of fried rice with steak pieces. It’s easy. I make a lot of it so that you guys take it for lunch tomorrow if you end up going to the tower,” Peter answers. He throws in a miscellaneous bag of chocolate as a sheepish treat.

Bob resisted the urge to both frown and smile. The mixture of emotions, of this dude they barely know, being so… collected with their affiliation, and somewhat eager to help them out. It’s weird, almost like an imposter syndrome for Bob, who barely gives input on the team in the first place. “You don’t… have to do that. It’s just wasting food at this point.”

“Nothing is wasting food. It’ll get eaten eventually, and I meal prep a lot for myself, so I don’t mind.”

The pair practically ended up using the entire budget on fresh vegetables and fruit, picked lovely by them from the tables and placed in plastic bags. Hauling the load back in small caddies, the pair walked in unison back to the apartment, somehow managing to juggle their haul and cones of ice cream they stopped by to get. It’s a sight to behold, though thankfully their place wasn’t so far from there. Though Bob fails to hear the distant sounds of sirens, focusing on memorizing the street names, his attention is only caught as Peter clears his throat with a glimmer of.. Shame? On his face.

“Hey, uh, my lab partner Harry texted me. There was an accident at the lab, and he needs me there to make sure nothing important was lost or at risk of being lost,” Peter rambles with a flick of his wrist. He set aside the caddies on the sidewalk, quickly backing away, “I’m sorry–I’ll make up for it later!” As quick as he stammers, the quicker he’s gone, practically dashing down the opposite street and dropping his ice cream in the process.

Bob couldn’t even think for a minute. He was busy trying not to smear ice cream on his chin, flustered by the amount of stuff they had, and eyes glued to the running figure of Peter bolting down the street, all Bob could muster was a: “Peter?!”

-

If you asked how often Bob uses his abilities, he’d answer honestly by saying not regularly. He doesn’t like using them or making a habit of relying on them; in most cases, he does when his senses become too much or if he’s entirely relaxed in rare hours of slumber. That one day where mistakes kept piling upーspilling milk first thing in the morning, breaking his favorite pencil, and staining one of his only good pantsーit resulted in hurling a box of junk across the room with clenched fists.

So yeah. Not his favorite thing to use.

Though here he really had no choice. Being abandoned on the side of a busy street with caddies of food, more than he could carry even with his enhanced strength, Bob had no choice but to sulk and move them along with a precise hand of telekinesis. He really tried to make it subtle; thankfully, it was only a couple of blocks away. He can’t imagine how comical the sight was, and maybe even a little concerning; juggling groceries while his pinkie finger commanded the leftovers to follow like he’s some maestro in a chaos called an orchestra.

He can barely get the front door opened, where he’s met with the scene of Joaquín and Johnny assembling bed frames in the living room, whilst some drama blasts on a television plastered on the floor without a stand. The two men were sprawled on the floor, each with their own projects, a hint of somewhat sweaty metal in the air, and a bowl of definitely burnt popcorn.

Bob blinks, nudging along the boxes and bags, slightly huffing as he manages to close the door behind himself. “Help,” he murmurs, afraid to even move.

Joaquín stumbles up almost instantly, taking a few of the groceries from Bob, splaying them on the counters nearby. “What happened? Why isn’t Peter with you?”

“He, uh,” Bob lets out a breath, placing the rest nearby. “He ditched me.”

“Ditched you?” Johnny stood, his eyebrows furrowed in a near-scowl, overlooking the haul once he was closer. “Did he say why? I didn’t take him to be someone just to… leave you like this.”

“No, he said he had an emergency at his work. Some lab thing gone wrong or something,” Bob recites, scratching his neck as he oversaw the items.

“Well, if it was an emergency, can you really blame him?” Johnny shrugs. He immediately beelined it for anything sweet and savory, brushing past Bob.

“No, I don’t think you can,” Joaquín reluctantly agrees. Bob barely catches the hint of uncertainty in the man’s eyes, some flicker of doubt. Only a flicker, or at least he hopes. It’s in their veins now to be cautious.

Bob couldn’t remember the last time he had a choice in assembling his bedroom. The tower, he mostly claimed whatever was left over, the furniture slim pickings already organized in a certain way, and he wasn’t a fan of the wide windows constantly letting in sunlight when he attempted to sleep in. It’s a no-brainer. He also snatched blackout curtains and a couple of little knick-knacks to fill the spaceーto make it personal. He took Yelena’s advice and assembled a little basket of snacks for himself, too.

It was just missing the actual bed aspect. The frame was assembled, the corner flush with the right side of the room, and the small amount of clothes Bob grabbed and left to his name were neatly folded on the windowsill. Despite having to spend another night or so on a blow-up mattress, he wouldn’t necessarily trade it for anything else. The place just needed more character, something he hoped his roommates would help with because he honestly had no idea where to start.

“Bob? You okay?”

Bob jumped, looking back at the doorway to his room, meeting the concerning gaze of Joaquín. He looked preoccupied, holding some folded clothes, no doubt on his way to his room adjacent to Bob’s. All he could do was blink like some deer in headlights.

“You’re just… staring at a wall,” Joaquín cracked a grin, attempting to see whatever he was staring at. “Peter’s back. He’s starting on dinner soon, if you wanted to know. Unless the wall is too interesting.”

Bob shakes his head, fidgeting with his fingers, “Ha. No, t-the wall’s notーwhatever, uh, wait, I have something for you.” He glances around for a plastic bag from earlier, grabbing it off the ground.

“For me?” Joaquín stares at him, curious, for once taken off guard in a long while. He moves further into the room, meeting Bob in the center as he reaches into the bag and pulls out two boxes, clear with graphics all over them. Small mememorbiliaーaction figures of the Falcon and Captain America. His eyes widened instantly with a light Bob wanted to remember.

“I know last time you wanted some and felt weird buying them yourself, so I got them.” Bob swallows, handing the boxes over, “If that’s okay.”

Joaquín smiled, cheek to cheek, holding the toys amongst his laundry like they were some oasis in the middle of a desert. He glances up to hold Bob’s unsure gaze, and he feels the warmth touch his ears again. “Are you kidding me? This is more than okay! So many people ask for these to be signed whenever I meet them, and God, I wanted them for so long; they’re too cool. Thanks, you really didn’t have to,” he nudges Bob on the shoulder, the two men sharing a mutual laugh.

It’s short-lived, as their moments always were. At the sound of something shattering in the kitchen, both Johnny and Peter sound like they’re at fault. And as much as Bob feels disappointed at the loss of Joaquín in his room, he feels grateful that their relationship is no longer under the microscope of the others in the tower.

Part of him even looks forward to it.