Chapter Text
The soldering iron in my hand dances along a thin wire, melting each fiber down, sizzling as I linger in one place too long. I pull it up, examining my work. Unsatisfied, I turn the knob up slightly and go back down, eyes squinted in concentration.
The elevator across the room slides open, a young teenager charging through and then, not so gracefully, face-planting ten feet away from me. I jump, hand slipping, the hot metal searing the side of my finger. “Shit!” I shout, shoving the raw flesh into my mouth.
The boy raises his head, rubbing it with his hand, a faint grimace on his face. He winces when he sees me pacing around my worktable, my unburnt right hand flipping around the air. I’m more annoyed at myself than him. The amount of times Dad has told me not to put it above 650 Fahrenheit, but lead-free needs it to be hotter, so naturally I put it at 725, but this stupid chip isn’t working, so what's the only way to fix it after four hours of staring at it? Make it hotter. And so it truly is my fault for letting my concentration slip for a moment when it’s idling at 800. It’s not my finest moment. And what’s worse than the brown-haired boy staring at me, eyes wide, is that the thin gloves Dad specially made me for Christmas are sitting tauntingly at the edge of the table. I can almost hear them laughing at my stupidity.
Mr. Klutz in front of me scrambles to his feet, not bothering to brush off his metal-flecked shirt, tiny pieces shining in the light. His hands are moving at a quicker pace than my eyes can follow, his mouth shooting off words like a semi-automatic. As he bends down grabbing his backpack from the floor.
I remove my finger from my mouth- it’s only slightly undignifying- rolling my shoulders into an up-right position, my arms crossing over my chest defensively, ignoring my fingers' faint shaking.
I glare at the boy, and his flapping hands fall down to his sides, face looking nothing short of devastated. My gut twinges, guilt creeping up my face as we’re at a standstill, him opening and closing his mouth like he’s scared of saying anything. Finally, I break the silence, exhaling a breath out of my nose. God, I hate talking to people my age. Words flow easily out when I’m talking to anyone: Happy, Pepper, Rhodes, even Mr. Osborn, but the second I talk to anyone my age—excluding Harry—I clamp up completely, my brain doing no better than a faulty machine.
He takes my exhale as an invitation to start talking again. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I answer simply. Great job, Gwen. Top marks for two words spoken.
“I am so, so sorry. Did I burn you? Ah, I mean, did I make you burn yourself? I obviously didn’t make you touch it, but I kinda—well, not kinda, I guess I did—I kinda burned you indirectly…” He goes quiet, wide brown eyes glued to the smooth stone floor.
My eyes are significantly wider than they were a moment before.
He brings his head up, looking like a guilty puppy. “Are you okay?” he asks again with an awkward smile on his face.
“I’m fine,” I reply for the second time. Gwen, you have to say more than that. Come on, words! “Doesn’t even hurt that bad, see.” I hold my bright red finger as if it's proof that I'm in no pain whatsoever. The blister forming is trying to debunk that rumor.
More silence, we stare awkwardly at each other, and I can feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.
What’s the first thing you do when meeting new people… “I’m Gwen!” I say quickly.
His body goes rigid. “Peter,” he squeaks back.
“Peter who?” I can’t think of any Peters who work in Avengers Tower, no less any young teenagers.
“Peter Parker!”
Pursing my lips, I say, “Well, what are you doing in… um, here?”
“I am really lost! I’m just trying to find Mr. Stark because the suit started going on the complete fritz and—” He trails off, eyes widening even more than I thought humanly possible.
“Suit?” I ask.
Peter clamps his mouth shut, giving his head a shake and then face-palming like he just remembered something. “Yeah! The, uh-um.”
My phone buzzes for the fourth time, and I slide it halfway out of my pocket, seeing:
Five missed calls from: Harry “Dairy” Osborn
Twelve Unread Texts from: Harry “Dairy” Osborn
Two unread texts from: Atticus Finch (Dad)
Clicking off my phone, I jump from my stiff standing position and lean over the table, grabbing my bag and shoving my computer—that’s laid on a charging port—into it.
I stand back up, my hand pushing up on the steel desk.
My head shoots back up, smashing into Peter’s chin. We both yelp, my hand flying to my head, rubbing it sorely. I look up at him, and he stands barely an inch taller than me. Seeming unfazed from his chin just being whack-a-moled. “Sorry!” he says quickly, stepping back. “I was just looking at—” He gestures at my disaster of a once-fun project.
“A stabilizer.”
Peter’s whole face changes as he gives me a look like ‘may I?’ Once I nod at him, his eyes focus on his task. “What’s it for?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” I really need to meet Harry downstairs. He’s going to kill me for being late again.
He cracks a smile, not awkward or shy, an actual genuine smile. I expect him to say something about ‘why are you building it if you have no use for it’ but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he bends down farther, picking up the chip and turning it around in his thumb and index finger. He looks back at me, setting it down carefully on the table.
“Your feedback loop is overlapping. It doesn’t need to go that far. Just dial it back a bit, and it should work great!” Peter says, a proud look on his face.
I scowl. “What?” I slap my hands on the table, holding the small rectangle up to the light. “Oh my God, I’m quitting. I’m washed up, old news. An old dog can’t learn new tricks. Agh!” I know I’m shouting, and I can see Peter out of the corner of my eye, seeming very concerned.
I whirl on him, and he flinches back, hands aligned with his head. “I have been looking at this for four hours! Do you hear me? Four! And you come in here and fix it in four seconds.” He seems at a loss for words since he first walked in here. “How did you fix it!”
“I-um, you know—I… sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can really do miracles?” Peter stammers out like a question.
I sigh, looking at the ceiling, shutting my burning eyes. Finally, after a second, I say, “I don’t believe in miracles, Parker. I believe in taking things apart and seeing how they tick.” And I walk away. Harry is probably pacing his butt off downstairs. He is not the most organized person I’ve met, but the second there is a plan to do something, he is a stickler like no one was before.
I get to the elevator and pause and sidestep to the stairs. I’m pretty sure it kills my dad’s soul when I refuse to go down elevators, but he obviously wasn’t paying attention to that documentary about the abandoned Baxter Building I made him watch about elevators and their faulty engineering.
The last thing I do before I start the thirty-one floor descent downstairs is throw my head over my shoulder. “Thanks, Peter!” And slam the door behind me.
I’d say it’s one of my better social interactions… maybe.