I Want To Be Well

New York was fucking terrifying, as it turned out. If he was being real with himself, Harley felt a little cheated. Running away to another state seemed so easy in media, and as far as he was aware New York was supposed to be amazing; he expected dazzling lights and well-paying jobs; what he wasn’t expecting was to be mugged on his second day here.

Nothing like getting a gun held to your face to knock your ego back on it’s ass, and you know, if maybe he happened to have cried his eyes out afterwards- then no one needed to know.

Really though, Harley was the real winner here. He’d manage to shoplift an entire blanket- and as far as he was concerned he’d snagged the best sleeping place in the city. He found some old scrapyard on the outskirts of Manhattan that had these huge concrete tubes laid down that were the perfect size to snuggle up in and sleep. He had to dodge the owner and his outright offensively large dog, but he didn’t have to deal with getting kicked out of a park or threatened out of an alley, so the improvement was there. He could even keep his blanket there while he was away and not have to worry about it being stolen. He was doing amazing, honest.

That being said, being homeless fucking sucked. Turns out his little town in Tennessee was an exception, and normal 15 year olds aren’t old enough to rent out hotel rooms. Go figure.

Job hunting also happened to be hell. Don’t get him wrong, Harley wasn’t some moral stuckup that was above stealing from major corporations, but shoplifting could only give you so much. If he got kicked out of one more store for being suspicious he wasn’t gonna have anywhere else to spend his money when he got it. So after what had to have been weeks of pounding the pavement, he finally snagged a job at some shady ass car wash that he was only partially sure was a drug front.

Technically speaking, Harley made less than minimum wage, but he was getting paid in cash and the manager didn’t ask invasive questions so he had no qualms with it, this was leagues better than a well-paying job that handed him over to CPS. As long as they didn’t get busted for whatever shady shit they were doing, he was gonna look away and do his job, morals be damned.

He let his mind wander as he wrung out his towel, just finishing up washing some rich sucker’s car. He eyed the Stark Industries logo on it with half-piqued curiosity. Harley had always loved science, and despite the fact that it’d been years, he couldn’t help but smile at the memory of Tony Stark himself crashing into his shitty little town when he was a kid. The real guy was so much nicer than the asshole on TV, and Harley could never stop himself from being a little fascinated by him.

So maybe he was an Iron Man fan, sue him. Stark was badass.

He smiled to himself as he finished up the car, sucking up to the patron and being extra polite in an attempt to snag a good tip from him, the guy could obviously afford it if he owned damn a Stark car, those fuckers weren’t cheap, and if the owner hadn’t been standing there staring him down, Harley wouldn’t have been able to suppress the urge to check out the insides. What he wouldn’t do to be able to tinker with something as advanced as this, tear it apart til he understood all it’s complicated inner-workings like the back of his hand. He was almost sad to be done with it, the nostalgia making him feel warmer than he had in days.

Memories couldn’t buy food though, so it was better that he got this patron out the door and moved onto the next one.

“Thank you for coming sir, I hope to see you again soon!” He chimed in his sugar-sweet customer service voice, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

The man just mumbled in acknowledgement though and got in his car, driving off without so much as a tip, or even a damn thank you.

What the hell? He’d done a goodjob with that car, fuck that guy and his lack of appreciation.

Harley scoffed, his upper lip curling up a little. He wasn’t sure why that bugged him as much as it did, people didn’t tip all the time, but the memories of his childhood hero had made him optimistic he supposed. Forgot that people were typically assholes.

His sour mood was probably also tied into how goddamn cold it was getting. Was he really gonna be washing cars in the snow? Was that a thing? He knew damn well he wasn’t getting paid time off, that was for sure. Maybe he should invest in some gloves, but washing cars in wet gloves seemed honestly worse, he thinks he’d prefer the frostbite.

Rolling his shoulders out, he leaned against the wall, not sure if he was grateful or annoyed that today had been slow. Washing cars 24/7 was a pain, but Harley still wanted to get paid, having scarce customers didn’t really bode well for him.

He watched the cars passing by with muted interest, his mind wandering back to Iron Man. He couldn’t help but think about that event, and how good it had made him feel at the time.

“Hey kid, if you ever want an SI internship in the future, you know where to find me.”

Harley rolled those words around in his brain, careful to not let himself get too caught up on them. SI internships were for college students, not homeless 15 year olds who slept in junkyards and didn’t attend highschool. Besides, would Stark even remember him? It’d been almost a decade, and Harley would bet his left foot that the name Harley Keener didn’t mean a damn thing to Stark anymore, showing up and expecting an internship was pathetic. He wasn’t gonna risk his dignity over an off-hand comment made years ago, one that probably never even held any real weight. Nope, that was a recipe for disaster. His current job was fine, great even. He’d figure out winter when he got to it, and until then he was doing just fine supporting himself. Fuck anyone who thought different. Harley could take care of himself.

It’d be nice if he didn’t have to though, wouldn’t it?

Peter really should’ve thought it through before running away. Seriously, who just runs away from the one person who cares about them on a whim?

It’d only been about a week and he was already running into more problems than he could manage, the foremost of those being how goddamn cold New York was in the winter. It hadn’t gotten cold enough to snow yet thank god, but it was definitely getting close enough to scare him.

One of the first things he’d done after escaping Skip’s house- his heart still misses a beat when he thinks about what he did, he tries not to dwell on it- was find a gas station and patch up his injuries with the small first-aid kit he’d brought with him. There wasn’t much he could do for cracked ribs, but he was almost entirely confident that he’d set his ankle correctly, and the pain killers had worked wonders.

For a moment he felt like he could actually pull this off.

Now though, he was seriously re-considering his choices. Skip wasn’t even a bad person! He really had no reason to leave, did he? What if Skip was worried about him? God, what if it was worse? What if Skip-

No.

He wouldn’t think about that, it was too late to turn back now anyways. He just had to keep going and hope for the best, which included finding a spot to just sleep. New York had such a high homeless population that he assumed it’d be easy, but nope, Parker Luck strikes again he supposes. Every time he thought he found a spot, he got ran off by either some pissed off property owner or way worse, someone trying to actually help by calling the cops or CPS.

Peter’s heart wouldn’t stop racing for hours after that encounter. If he was handed back to Skip after running away- he couldn’t stomach thinking about it. Just the thought of his foster father was enough to make his head spin, actually seeing him again-

Alone, his mind supplied, in his house. In his bed.

Nope. No thank you, Peter couldn’t let that happen. He already made his decision, all he could do now was shove the ever-growing grief and guilt down and keep looking for something else to occupy his time.

That’s just how it worked. Lose someone you love and just continue living, continue going to school, going home, going into alleyways in hopes of finding a warm one. He’s got all this free time now, might as well put it to use. Doesn’t matter that it hurts. Not if the hurts productive.

There’s bigger things to worry about.

He really does love Skip too, he thinks. Peter can’t wrap his head around the fact that Skip could be bad. Skip loved him, still does probably.

The thought tastes like copper on his tongue.

So here he is now, too weary to keep walking and too restless to keep his hands still. Peter does what he’s been doing the past week and sits down on a street corner- perched up on a wall or a bench or a curb, and pulls out Ben’s old guitar. If he can’t make money through a normal job, playing music in the streets is a damn good way to earn some.

His lips pull up into a small smile as he tunes the guitar. He knows he looks rough, he knows this. He knows he should be keeping his head down and being responsible with his time but sometimes things hurt too much to do anything other than create something. And if he can get money off something that might cheer him up a little, who’s to say he should deny himself that?

He fiddles with the knobs for a few minutes before deciding he’s satisfied, then taking a deep breath he quiets his mind and positions his hands against the strings, letting the music fill the air.

He can’t help but feel a little silly doing this, daring to make noise when his existence matters so little. His fingers fumble with the strings, missing chords and snagging awkwardly. Peter swallows as he feels his face heat up, and god- people are looking at him. Why would anyone want to hear him play? Maybe they’ll pay him to be quiet.

He laughs a little at that thought though, and almost feels emboldened by it. You got this Peter, you play guitar all the time. Stop being scared of something you made up.

He takes another deep breath and starts again, holding his breath as the tune untangles itself into something recognizable.

It takes a few songs before he’s able to find his voice, but hesitantly he begins to sing along, the lyrics soft and unobtrusive in the cold air.

He feels something in his chest loosen.

He’s in a pretty quiet spot, still not ready to disturb the peace in busier areas, but there’s still enough foot traffic to get noticed, to get a few tips.

Every time someone stops to listen for too long though he feels his breath stutter, doubts filling his mind. Skip always hated his guitar, threatened to break it a few times. Peter isn’t sure what he’d do if Skip had.

Regardless though, he keeps breathing. And people keep listening and everyone involved continues to be okay. Most people only stay for a few minutes, maybe for the rest of a song before continuing on with their days.

Which is why Peter notices pretty quickly when one guy doesn’t leave.

He sticks around the edge of the crowd, watching Peter with muted interest at first but for long enough that it makes his heart race. Maybe someone did report him to CPS, maybe this was stupid. I need to leave right now.

He finishes his song, a little rushed but he feels that’s justified, and gets up abruptly. He places his guitar gingerly into his case and holds onto it like a lifeline. If he lets up his grip the world is going to swallow him. Why is that guy still looking?

Taking a stuttering breath he stands up, knees almost buckling in the sudden onslaught of nerves. It’s just one guy, stop being scared. He’s not doing anything, he’s not gonna touch you, why do I feel Skip’s on me hands anyways?

And then without warning there’s a hand in his shoulder.

Peter jolts like he’s been burned, whipping around with wide eyes and latching onto the stranger’s outstretched wrist with a vice-like grip. Blown wide eyes latching onto the equally startled ones of the man who’d been watching him play.

Peter jerks back and lets go equally as fast, pulling away like some invisible force had yanked him off balance, maybe one had.

The man steps back along with him though, face morphing from surprise to concern.“Oh shoot, sorry! I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that lad, I didn’t mean to startle you, you alright?”

Peter blinks at him as his mind catches up to the words being said to him, was this guy apologizing? For what? Touching him? Scaring him? Skip would have never apologized for something like that.

“I- sorry- God, I mean, yeah. I’m fine sir, I- what did you..?”

He winces at how choppily the words escaped his lips, still struggling to calm his racing heart despite the fact that nothing was wrong. He was being pathetic.

The man’s eyes soften though, looking almost fond at Peter’s nervous rambling.

“I’m sorry about that kid, I shouldn’t have grabbed at you like that. I heard you playing guitar just now and just wanted to give my compliments. Don’t see much real talent like that nowadays with the internet and all the auto-tune and such. You play professionally?”

Peter huffed out a small, startled laugh before realizing the man was serious. “Oh. Uh no, my uncle taught me. I just like to play sometimes when I get the chance, good way to make some extra money you know?” He explained, mind racing to come up with a reason why some teenager with a black eye would be playing guitar outside in the streets, on a school night no less. There’s no way he got out of this without looking suspicious, was there?

The guy just smiled though, “I bet your uncles real good then, if the guy taught you that. You looking to get some extra money? I’ve got a bar down the street from here you could come play at if you like. It’s a lot warmer and safer than being out on the street and I reckon you’d be seeing a lot more tips there than where you are currently, hiding all the way out here.”

Peter blanked.

“I- what?”

The guy hesitated, “I mean it’s not like a gig, anyone’s allowed to come down and play at my place if they can hold an instrument, I just thought it’d be nice to offer since it’s so damn cold out here. Anyone that comes and performs gets a free meal out of it though, your scrawny ass looks like you could use one of those,” the man laughs, elbowing Peter slightly in the ribs and missing the way Peter sucks in a pained breath at the action.

“That’s- that’s really nice, actually. I’ll uh, I’ll think about it. Thank you, really.”

The man just laughed, “Don’t thank me! You’re the one who’d be bringing in customers with that voice of yours,” he mused. “Come ‘round anytime though! It’s right down the street from here, just don’t stay out too late. I don’t need your parents coming out and yelling at me for it.”

He fumbled with his wallet for a moment before handing Peter a business card with the name of the place written across it, Lost Pigeon Bar & Grill.

“My name’s Darrel, yours?”

“Peter.”

“Well it was nice hearing you play Peter, sorry again for spooking ya earlier. You have a nice night now lad, don’t be staying out too late.”

Peter opened his mouth the respond but the man was already turning away, quickly getting was lost in the city crowds.

What.

The.

Hell.

A small, more rational part of Peter told him that that offer was weird as hell, but the man seemed so nice. Peter was so exhausted of not trusting people, he knew he’d be giving this place a shot in the upcoming days.

For right now though, he was exhausted. The sun was set and it was time to start looking for a place to settle down for the night. Like he was supposed to be doing hours ago.

He wandered the outskirts of town idly, checking out anything that seemed promising til’ he found an old scrapyard that looked pretty low-security. There were barbed wire fences surrounding the place but he didn’t spy any cameras. Maybe it was safe…

He was too sore and tired to consider it any further and risk talking himself out of it. Peter scaled the fence, carefully avoiding cutting himself on the sharp wires and wincing at how the movement jostled his ribs and foot. Ouch.

He hopped down and glanced at his surroundings, peering at the various structures until he found some large, concrete pipes piled together, more than large enough to fit a small teenager. The inside was surprisingly insulated, but the stone itself was freezing.

Still though, he crawled on his knees into the nearest one and jolted when his hands brushed against something. Something soft. It was..

A blanket?

Oh.

Did someone else sleep here? Was he intruding?

He paused to consider it for a moment, more than tempted to just leave, but exhaustion won over. There weren’t any other belongings here and it was only one night. If the owner wasn’t home this late then there was probably nothing to worry about. He’s sure it’s nothing.

He was going to bed, and not god nor this blanket could stop him.

Peter smiled a little giddily as he curled up in the blanket’s warmth, thinking of the man’s offer.

Maybe things were looking up for him after all.