Chapter Text
Peter Parker had exactly three rules for surviving high school as a secret superhero with a hero complex and chronic inability to say no to people:
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Don't fall asleep in class (even when patrol went until 4 AM)
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Don't accidentally web anything in front of witnesses
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Don't ignore his friends’ advice, especially MJ’s.
He was doing great with rules one and two. He had gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing. It was a skill born of necessity—when you spent your nights swinging through Queens, stopping muggings, and your days trying to stay awake through AP Calc, you learned real quick how to put things in mental boxes and deal with them one at a time. Spider-Man problems in one box. School problems in another. Homework, aunt worries, friend drama—all separate, all manageable.
Rule three was kicking his ass. Because Harley Keener, apparently, refused to stay in his assigned box.
“Dude, you’re doing it again,” Ned said, leaning across the aisle during pre-calc. Mrs. Morrison was writing something about derivatives on the board, and most of the class was either taking notes or pretending to while scrolling through Instagram.
Peter blinked, dragging his attention back. “Doing what?”
“That thing.” Ned gestured vaguely at Peter’s notebook. “You’ve written the same equation like four times. And you’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The brooding face. Very dramatic. Very un-Peter-like.”
“I don’t brood.” Peter looked down at his notebook and—okay, yeah, he’d definitely written the same partial derivative multiple times. And there was a really detailed web pattern doodled in the margin. “I’m just... thinking.”
“About calc?”
“Sure.”
“Liar.”
From behind them, MJ’s voice cut in, quiet but pointed. “He’s been weird since yesterday. Well, weirder than usual. Which is saying something considering your baseline is ‘human disaster with spider powers.’ I’ve been documenting it.”
“I don’t have spider—” Peter caught himself, lowering his voice. “And, you’ve been documenting it?”
“Someone has to.” MJ’s expression was completely serious. “For science. And because you’re my friend and I’m concerned about your mental state.”
“My mental state is fine.” Peter twisted around to look at her.
“Your mental state is demonstrably not fine,” MJ said. “You spent fifteen minutes this morning staring at your locker without opening it.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what? The philosophical implications of combination locks?”
Ned snorted, trying to cover it with a cough when Mrs. Morrison glanced their way.
Peter slumped slightly in his seat. His friends weren’t wrong—he had been weird.
The thing was, he’d woken up this morning with a plan. A good plan. A healthy, self-respecting plan that his therapist (if he had time for a therapist, which he didn’t, but hypothetically) would probably applaud.
The plan was simple: Harley Keener didn’t want to be friends. Harley had made that abundantly clear by befriending Flash freaking Thompson and his crew of walking ego problems. And yesterday’s conversation with Harley kept replaying in his head like a glitchy video file. When Peter had tried—one last time, because apparently he was a masochist who couldn’t take a hint.
The look on Harley’s face. The way he’d said Peter should just tell Flash the truth about the internship, like that was simple. Like Peter hadn’t spent years learning exactly how to handle Flash Thompson without making things worse. Like Peter was the problem.
And the thing that really got to him? Harley had said it while sitting at Flash’s table. While being friends with Flash’s group.
The hypocrisy was actually kind of impressive.
So the plan was: forget Harley Keener existed. Pretend the last few weeks never happened. Go back to the way things were before Tony decided to play matchmaker with two interns who clearly had nothing in common except a tendency to piss each other off.
Simple.
“Peter.”
“What?” He jerked his head up to find Mrs. Morrison standing next to his desk, one eyebrow raised in that universal teacher expression of ‘I know you weren’t paying attention but I’m giving you one chance to prove me wrong.’
“Would you like to share your thoughts on problem seven?”
Shit. Peter looked at the board, his brain automatically processing the problem even though he’d been thoroughly not paying attention. “Uh, yeah—so you’d use the chain rule, take the derivative of the outer function first, which is the exponential, and then multiply it by the derivative of the inner function, which is the polynomial, it gives you...” He rattled off the answer, watching Mrs. Morrison’s skeptical expression shift to grudging approval.
“Correct. Try to stay with us for the rest of class.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She nodded, moving back to the front of the class, and Peter slumped slightly in his seat.
As soon as Mrs. Morrison turned back to the board, MJ leaned forward. “Show off.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You literally solved that in your head while spacing out. That’s the definition of showing off.” But she was smiling slightly. “Seriously though, you okay?”
Peter wanted to say yes. Wanted to go back to the way things were before Tony decided to make him Harley’s peer guide. Before he’d spent a week trying to be friendly to someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. Before yesterday’s conversation had made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.
But MJ was looking at him with that assessing expression that meant she’d see through any lie he tried to tell, so Peter just shrugged. “I’m fine. Just tired. Patrol last night was—” He caught himself again, acutely aware they were in a classroom full of people. “—long.”
It wasn’t technically a lie. He was tired. Patrol had gone until almost 3 AM because some genius had tried to rob a bodega with a baseball bat, and then Peter had spent an hour filling out an incident report for Karen because apparently his AI had decided she needed more data on “local crime patterns.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced.
Neither was Peter, honestly.
MJ studied him for another moment, then sat back. “Okay. But if you need to talk...”
“I know. Thanks.”
Ned gave him a thumbs up, which was somehow both supportive and completely dorky.
Peter couldn’t help the small smile. This was good. This was normal. Just him and his friends, surviving high school one class period at a time, no complicated Southern mechanics required.
Harley Keener could stay in his mental box. Sealed. Locked. Not Peter’s problem anymore.
He turned back to his notebook, determined actually to pay attention for the rest of class.
He could do this.
By lunch, Peter had almost convinced himself the plan was working.
He’d made it through AP Lit without thinking about Harley once (mostly because Mrs. Chen had called on him to analyze a passage from The Great Gatsby and he’d gotten really into discussing the green light symbolism), gotten his locker open on the first try (a minor miracle). He’d successfully avoided the hallway where Harley’s locker was located.
Progress.
The cafeteria was its usual chaos—a few hundred teenagers with varying volume control crammed into one space that smelled like pizza and industrial cleaning solution. Peter grabbed his usual slice and a questionably brown apple, then headed for their corner table.
“Finally,” MJ said as he sat down. She had a salad that she was stabbing with the enthusiasm of someone in a hostage situation. “Thought you got lost.”
“Line was long.”
“Line’s always long.” She pointed her fork at him. “You were avoiding something.”
“I was not—”
“You walked past the cafeteria entrance twice. I saw you through the window.”
Peter took a bite of his pizza to avoid responding. It tasted like cardboard with cheese, which was pretty standard.
Ned leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Okay, so are we gonna talk about it, or are we gonna keep pretending Peter’s not having some kind of crisis?”
“There’s no crisis.”
“You’ve been weird for like two days,” Ned said. “That’s an objectively long time to be weird.”
“Maybe I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired,” MJ pointed out. “This is a different kind of weird. This is the ‘something’s bothering me but I’m going to pretend it’s not’ kind of weird.”
Peter set down his pizza. His friends meant well, but sometimes he really wished they weren’t quite so observant. “I’m just... I’m done trying, okay?”
“Trying what?”
“To be—” Peter stopped, searching for the right words. “I tried to be nice. To be welcoming. And that’s fine, that was my job as peer guide, but I don’t have to keep trying when someone’s made it pretty clear they’re not interested.”
Understanding dawned on MJ’s face. “Keener.”
“I’m not talking about this.”
“You’re clearly talking about this. You just said you were done trying.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m done talking about being done trying.”
Ned winced. “Dude, that sentence made no sense.”
“Welcome to my brain.” Peter rubbed his face. “Look, it’s whatever. He made his choice. I’m making mine. We can be lab partners and nothing else. Professional. Distant. Like coworkers.”
“Coworkers who share a lab with Tony Stark,” Ned pointed out.
“Still coworkers.”
“Does Tony know you two are having drama?”
Peter nearly choked on his pizza. “It’s not drama. And no. And it’s staying that way. Tony’s got enough to worry about without adding teenage social politics to his plate.”
MJ was watching him with that assessing look again, the one that made Peter feel like she could see directly into his soul and was finding his internal filing system severely lacking. “You’re really done? No more trying to win over the grumpy mechanic with your sunshine personality?”
“I don’t have a sunshine personality.”
“You absolutely do. It’s pathological.” She said it with enough fondness that Peter couldn’t even be offended. “But okay, good,” MJ said firmly. “You gave him plenty of chances. More than he deserved, honestly.”
“He literally chose to sit with Flash Thompson,” Ned added, like this was definitive proof of poor judgment. Which, fair.
Peter nodded, picking at his pizza crust. His friends were right. He’d done his part. If Harley wanted to be friends with Flash’s group instead, that was Harley’s decision. Peter didn’t have to keep banging his head against that particular wall.
“You know what helps?” MJ asked. “Not thinking about people who don’t deserve the brain space.”
“I’m not thinking about him.”
“You’ve looked at Flash’s table like three times since you sat down.”
Peter froze, his pizza halfway to his mouth.
“Yep.” MJ’s smile was sharp. “Noticed that. Which is interesting, considering Keener’s not even here today.”
“He’s not?” The words came out before Peter could stop them, and he immediately wanted to take them back.
Ned and MJ exchanged a look that Peter knew meant he was busted.
“I mean—I wasn’t checking for him specifically,” Peter tried. “I was just... general observation. Of the cafeteria. For science.”
“For science,” MJ repeated flatly.
“Yep.”
“You’re scientifically observing Flash Thompson’s lunch table.”
“Could be interesting data.”
“Peter.”
“What?”
MJ leaned forward, and her voice lost some of its teasing edge. “It’s okay to be upset. Keener was kind of a jerk, and you tried really hard anyway. You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re clearly upset.”
“I’m not—” Peter stopped, took a breath. “Okay. Maybe I’m slightly annoyed. But I’m handling it. I’m moving on. I’m not going to waste energy on someone who doesn’t want to be friends.”
“There we go,” Ned said. “That’s healthy. That’s character growth.”
“Exactly.” Peter nodded, more to convince himself than anything. “Growth.”
“So you’re definitely not going to spend the rest of lunch wondering why Keener’s absent,” MJ said.
Peter opened his mouth, then closed it.
Because that was exactly what he’d been doing.
Damn it.
“You guys are right,” he said finally. “I need to actually commit to this. No more wondering about Harley. No more trying to figure out why he acts the way he does. No more—”
“Caring about someone who chose Flash Thompson over you?” MJ supplied.
“Yeah. That.”
“Good.” MJ stabbed her salad again. “Because you’ve got better things to worry about. Like Academic Decathlon regionals. And your actual friends who don’t treat you like garbage.”
“And that Spanish quiz on Monday,” Ned added. “Because I know you haven’t studied.”
Peter smiled despite himself. “I’ll study this weekend.”
“Sure you will.”
“I will!”
“You say that every weekend.”
“It’s literally never different.”
The conversation shifted to safer topics after that—Michelle’s plans for Academic Decathlon practice (which apparently involved a new drill system that she was very excited about), Ned’s theory that their history teacher was secretly a vampire (based on the fact that Mr. Harriman never drank anything except dark red juice), and whether the cafeteria pizza was getting progressively worse or they were just noticing it more.
Peter contributed where he could, letting the familiar rhythm wash over him. This was good. This was normal. Just him and his friends, surviving high school one lunch period at a time.
He didn’t look at Flash’s table again.
(Okay, maybe once more, but only because Flash’s laugh was really loud and Peter’s spider-sense registered it as mildly annoying background noise. Not because he was checking for Harley.)
(He wasn’t.)
(Definitely not.)
By the time the final bell rang, Peter had almost convinced himself he’d successfully moved on.
AP Chem had been normal—he and Ned partnered up for a lab on reaction rates, and they’d only slightly almost melted a beaker, which was basically a win. History had been fine—Mr. Harriman was lecturing about the Cold War, and Peter had taken actual notes instead of doodling.
And most importantly, he hadn’t thought about Harley Keener for at least... forty-five minutes straight.
That had to count for something.
“You coming to practice?” MJ asked as they packed up. She took Academic Decathlon very seriously, which meant being late was treated like a cardinal sin.
“Yeah, just gotta grab my calc book from my locker.”
“Don’t be late. I’m testing a new system.”
“What kind of system?”
“You’ll see. It’s going to revolutionize our practice efficiency.” MJ’s eyes gleamed with the kind of intensity usually reserved for supervillains planning world domination.
Peter nodded, even though he had no idea what that meant. MJ’s ideas were usually either brilliant or completely insane, and sometimes both.
He headed toward his locker, navigating the crowded hallways on autopilot. His spider-sense gave him tiny alerts when someone was about to step into his path, making it easy to dodge the after-school rush. His locker was tucked near the broken water fountain, and he spun the combination—18-26-34, Fibonacci sequence, because of course—and yanked it open.
His physics textbook immediately tried to escape. Peter caught it with his reflexes, then spent a minute reorganizing the chaos inside. He needed his calc homework for the weekend, maybe his Spanish notes because there was definitely a quiz Monday that he’d been ignoring...
“Parker.”
Peter looked up to find Flash Thompson leaning against the locker next to his, arms crossed, casual in that way that meant he wanted something. That familiar smirk on his face that immediately set Peter’s teeth on edge.
Great. Perfect. Exactly what he needed to round out his day.
“Flash,” Peter said neutrally, turning back to his locker.
“Hey, so, random question.” Flash’s tone was almost conversational. “You know where your little boyfriend is? Dude didn’t show up today. Figured maybe you’d know, since you guys work together or whatever.”
Peter’s hands paused on his textbook. He very carefully didn’t react beyond a small shrug. “No idea. I’m not his keeper.”
“Yeah, but you’re like, his tour guide or something, right? Morita assigned you?”
“Peer guide. And that’s just for school stuff. And unlike some people, I don’t keep tabs on everyone’s location.”
“Ooh, touchy.” Flash’s smirk widened. “Trouble in paradise? Wait, no—there was never a paradise, was there? Because Keener took one look at you and decided he’d rather hang with people who aren’t complete losers.”
Peter very carefully did not punch Flash in his smug face.
Not because he couldn’t—Peter could absolutely punch Flash hard enough to send him through the trophy case if he wanted to. But because:
- Violence wasn’t the answer (usually)
- He’d probably get expelled
- He’d definitely blow his secret identity when Flash went flying like he’d been hit by a truck
So instead, Peter just closed his locker with more force than strictly necessary.
“Huh.” Flash tilted his head slightly. “That’s weird though, right? First week and he’s already bailing?”
Peter shut his locker with a metallic clang, shouldering his backpack. “Maybe he’s sick. People get sick.”
“Maybe.” Flash was still watching him with that odd, assessing expression. “Or maybe he’s just not feeling the whole Midtown vibe. Can’t blame him. This place is kind of a dump.”
“Then why do you keep coming back?”
Flash’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Fair point, Parker. Fair point.”
There was a weird moment where they both just stood there, and Peter realised this was maybe as close to a normal conversation he’d had with Flash in... ever? Not many insults. No crowd of people watching. Just two guys talking about a mutual acquaintance.
It was deeply weird.
“Anyway,” Flash said, pushing off from the lockers. “If you see him, tell him he missed a pretty solid lunch. We were placing bets on whether Ned could fit an entire hot dog in his mouth. It was educational.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” Peter said dryly.
Flash actually laughed—an almost real one, not the mean kind—and headed down the hallway.
Peter stood there for a moment, genuinely confused about what had just happened. Flash Thompson had just had an almost-friendly conversation with him. About Harley.
The universe was officially broken.
Academic Decathlon practice turned out to be exactly what Peter needed—three hours of intensive trivia that left zero room for existential confusion about former almost-friends.
MJ’s new system involved actual game show buzzers (Peter didn’t ask where she’d gotten them), and she ran them through rapid-fire questions on everything from Renaissance painters to quantum theory. Peter dominated the science questions, Ned killed the pop culture and history categories, and MJ was terrifyingly good at literature.
By the time practice ended at 5:15, Peter’s brain was pleasantly tired in a way that had nothing to do with patrol or complicated social dynamics.
“Good work today,” MJ said, packing up her buzzers like they were precious artifacts. “We’re going to destroy regionals.”
“If we don’t destroy each other first,” Ned joked. “Jason and Cindy almost threw hands over that math question.”
“Competitive spirit,” MJ said approvingly. “I encourage it.”
Peter slung his backpack over his shoulder, checking his phone. One text from May asking if he’d be home for dinner (probably not, he had lab time with Tony), and one from Tony himself: “Lab. 6 pm. Don’t be late, or I’m giving your workstation to the plant.”
Peter smiled despite himself. Tony’s threats were never serious, but they were always weirdly specific.
MJ hoisted her bag. “You heading to the Tower?”
“Yeah, got lab time with Tony.”
“Of course you do.” She shook her head, but she was smiling. “Tell Tony I said hi. And try not to blow anything up.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
“Two and a half. The third one was mostly Tony’s fault.”
MJ’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then looked at Peter with that expression that meant she was about to say something he wouldn’t like. “And you good, right? Like, actually?”
Peter adjusted his backpack straps. “Yeah. I’m good. Or I will be. Just... adjusting expectations, I guess.”
“That’s very mature of you.”
“I have my moments.”
“Rare, but documented.” She squeezed his shoulder. “See you Monday. Try to have a drama-free weekend.”
“I make no promises.”
Peter headed out of the library, waving goodbye to his friends. The school was mostly empty now—just stragglers from various after-school activities and Mr. Chen the janitor starting his evening rounds.
Outside, the late September air had that early fall crispness that made everything smell like leaves and possibility. Happy was already waiting at the curb in one of Tony’s less conspicuous cars—a Tesla that probably cost more than most houses but at least wasn’t bright red.
“Hey Happy,” Peter said, sliding into the back seat.
“Kid.” Happy pulled smoothly into traffic. “Good day?”
“Yeah, actually. Pretty good.”
“Tony’s expecting you in the lab. Something about web fluid improvements?”
“Yep. I think I figured out how to improve the tensile strength without increasing density. Tony’s gonna be so annoyed that I solved it first.”
Happy’s mouth twitched in what might’ve been a smile. “He lives for that. Don’t let him fool you.”
Peter grinned, pulling out his phone. One text from May: “Don’t work too late. And eat actual food, not just coffee and granola bars.”
He texted back a quick promise, then pocketed his phone and watched the city roll by.
Lab time. Science. Problems with actual solutions where everything made sense.
No complicated feelings about people who’d picked Flash’s group over friendship with him. No wondering why Harley had looked almost guilty yesterday. No mental replays of conversations that didn’t go anywhere.
Just him, Tony, and whatever explosion they’d accidentally create in the name of progress.
Perfect.