Chapter 2
When Peter wakes up, there's a one dollar note by his feet.
It's not often that the people of New York are willing to give anything more than a cent and a dirty look to the homeless population and so Peter assumes he got it purely out of pity. Probably because he's young and skinny and he doesn't have a ratty blanket draped over his legs because he can't afford one.
Not that he opposes it, of course; if the pity gets him enough to buy something to eat and a water bottle, then he isn't going to go around complaining about it. Over the time he's been homeless and alone, he's learned that he has to take advantage of everything he can if he wants a good chance of surviving on the streets. The pity he gets — especially as a teenager — is one of his easier forms of income.
He picks the dollar up and climbs to his feet, his feet and fingers numb and stiff from sleeping the night in the bitter cold. The crick in his neck doesn't go away until he's halfway down the street and still struggling to haul his backpack over his shoulders. There isn't much he can buy with a dollar — and he doesn't know where any dollar stores are, so that's out of the question — but he's going to hope that there's a cashier somewhere that won't mind taking a little less money for a product for once. It's not like it'll damage their business too much.
Putting his hoodie over his ears, he sets off down the street, rubbing a thumb protectively over the dollar as if it would disappear. His shoes squelch when he walks and there's water running down the back of his neck from the melting frost in his hair, but he's feeling decent today, and it shows in the form of a skip in his step as he strolls into the closest corner store he can find.
"Hello," the cashier says politely, "please dry your shoes on the mat before you come in."
Peter’s shoes are soaked through to his skin thanks to the sludge on the sidewalks, but he deems it too unimportant for the cashier to know — he just rubs his feet halfheartedly on the mat and brushes off the cashier's following thanks in favour of browsing the sandwich aisle.
There isn’t a lot of selection. He searches every label but doesn’t find any decent newer fillings that interests him, so he goes for the only one he knows he likes — chicken mayonnaise. Even just holding the package in his numb hands unleashes the gnawing hunger from its cave, its claws cutting lines into his stomach lining.
But his heart withers in his chest and sickening anxiety begins to settle in his stomach in place of the hunger when he notices the price of the sandwich. For a crappy corner store meal in cardboard packaging, he’d have thought that $3.50 would be a little excessive.
Nervously, he glances down at his dollar. Maybe the cashier will let him off on this one.
"Just this?" The cashier asks as he dumps the sandwich onto the counter. Even through the dazzling smile he puts on, Peter can see that he's a little nervous of him from the way that his shoulders tighten and his teeth worry his bottom lip. It must be either the hoodie or the blossoming bruise on his jawbone that's giving him the threatening 'teenage delinquent' look.
Not finding his voice in himself, Peter nods in the affirmative. He’s never been good at conversation.
Anxiety twists his insides further as the cashier scans the sandwich. "That'll be $3.50," he says, smiling again. When Peter puts the dollar on the counter and unsuccessfully tries to swipe the sandwich away before he notices, the cashier's polite facade fades only by a fraction. He pulls the sandwich away from Peter's immediate reach. “That isn't enough. I'll need $2.50 more before you can take this."
"This is all I have," Peter says, voice wavering nervously. "Can't you just take the dollar for it and I'll pay you the rest another time? I really need this, man...”
But the cashier isn’t phased and his voice remains calm and steady as he replies, “no can do, I’m afraid. That can cost me my job if I’m not careful.”
“It’s just a sandwich. It’s not even that expensive,” Peter points out, sounding a little more desperate than he'd intended. Hunger is a really big issue — the biggest issue, he could argue — for anyone homeless, but with his enhanced metabolism he really cannot afford to go too long without anything to eat. Not that the cashier can know that, of course.
”If it isn’t that expensive, then why can’t you afford it?”
Peter huffs and the man's smile grows smug.
"Sorry, kid." The cashier doesn't look sorry at all. "I can’t lose my job just because you’re hungry and can’t afford a little sandwich. Get your mom to make you something at home. Shoo.”
Peter inwardly groans at his choice of phrasing, but doesn’t feel up for starting himself a pity party by telling him that his mom is, in fact, dead. “You can't just give me this one thing?"
"No."
He knows he should back down, but he’s always been the persistent kind of person. "Please?"
This, apparently, had been clutching at the last straws, because the cashier's personality suddenly flips a dramatic 180. His fists hit the counter with such raw aggression that Peter's spider-sense jars and he jumps back a couple of steps, startled like a deer.
"Look," he snaps, his voice climbing. "I can't give you the fucking sandwich, alright? I tried to be nice about it, but you're just getting on my nerves now. Get the fuck out of here before I knock your lights out, yeah?"
(Peter wonders whether yelling and threatening a customer will get him fired as giving him a sandwich will.)
"Get lost!" he shouts again.
Peter feels his stomach twist with every syllable he speaks. "Okay. Jus-"
He cuts himself off without noticing, distracted entirely by the purposeful footsteps making their way towards him from somewhere else in the shop. He pulls his hood down to run an anxious hand through his hair, still damp from the melted frost. There's no way he's going to steal the sandwich — Spiderman stops petty crime instead of embarking on it — and he doesn't think that it's fair to endanger the cashier's job by convincing him to take the dollar for it. He's only following the set store regulations, after all.
Just as he's about to swipe his dollar from the counter, another voice joins them. "What's happening over here, then?" it asks, it's tone jarring in a sense of it’s casual, friendly dominance. Peter tries to place where he’s heard the voice before, but his memory promptly fails him.
The cashier's personality flips once more; this time, he's more on the submissive side. He seems immediately intimidated by the arrival of this new character and Peter — as he carefully picks his battles and keeps watching his feet — finds himself enjoying it quite a bit. "No-nothing," he manages out.
"It didn't sound like nothing," the voice comes again. "Why were you yelling, then?"
The cashier chuckles nervously. "It wasn't much. Just this kid trying to grab this $3.50 sandwich for a dollar. Kept persisting when I kept saying no."
"He looks like he needs it. The floor that interesting, kid?"
Peter looks up to snark at the man, then, but his mouth dries when he meets blue-green eyes he definitely recognises.
"Hawkeye?"
"In the flesh," Hawkeye responds, lopsided grin that beams pure honesty. Peter nearly doesn't recognise the man; with a hoodie, faded jeans and a mop of messy blonde bedhead, he looks alien compared to the man who wears the fitting suit and never misses a single shot he fires. Not nearly as threatening or cool; just a normal dude wielding popcorn and Doritos instead of his infamous bow.
It's nearly grounding, to see a man with such incredible ability and impact — an Avenger, of all people — standing in a shitty corner store on a street infested by rats and the occasional homeless person. Makes him seem more human and less ass-kicking superhero.
"Barton, chill. Homeless kid. Nothing more, nothing less."
"It's getting late, Barton. Let's go back to the Tower and we'll try again tomorrow."
And, all at once, two things dawn to him: who 'Barton' is, and what the 'Tower' is.
Hawkeye is watching him now, his eyes moving up and down his body, something he's seeing pinching his brows together. "God, you're like a walking stick. No wonder you were so desperate for the sandwich," he concludes eventually. Then he turns to the cashier, who seems to have no say on the matter anymore. "I'll pay the money for the sandwich as well as my food. Give me that card machine."
"I can't believe Hawkeye wants to use my card machine," the cashier whispers, just about audible enough for Peter's enhanced hearing to pick up, as he hands it over to the Avenger.
"You got somewhere to go, kid?" Hawkeye asks as he slots his card in and hits a couple of buttons on the machine. "Apartment?"
Peter doesn't find himself in a situation where he doesn't know what to say very often, but he's gradually finding that this is turning into a good example of one. A rush of heat spreads across his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. "I used to," he manages out eventually.
Half of him expects Hawkeye to turn around and start to mother him, like a lot of little old women try to do whenever they pass him napping on a street corner, but then he remembers that this is an Avenger, and Avengers don't have time to deal with scrawny homeless kids when there are better things to do out there. Like, chilling in Tony Stark's expensive Avengers Tower, or whatever else people living rich do with their spare time.
But he doesn’t. He just seems to understand. His eyes are full of questions — that much is obvious — but he thankfully doesn't vocalise any. He passes the card machine back to the cashier and turns to make his leave. "You stay safe, kid. The wind'll blow you away if you aren't careful," he says instead, pressing the sandwich gently into his shaking palms.
Peter pretends not to notice the ten dollar bill that comes with it.
.
He sees more of Hawkeye after that.
The first time, there isn't too much interaction. Just the perfect amount, really.
Peter had taken to sitting in his usual spot when he needs to clear his head; on the wall of a hidden backstreet, leaning against the adjacent corner of a building with one leg dangling off the side and the other laying in front of him. It's not an alleyway, so to say, but it's quiet enough to be considered one, and there aren't many people who come this way for it doesn't lead to anything save for old, rundown housing.
Peter still doesn't know why Hawkeye had even been walking down there and he doesn't dwell on it very often. It's best not to question his odd, unpredictable character even at this early stage.
He'd seen the Avenger before the Avenger had seen him, but his heart still skipped nervously when their eyes met for the briefest of moments. If Hawkeye had felt similarly, he didn't show it — he only grinned and waved at Peter as if he were greeting a friend of several years, before continuing down the road with half a skip in his step.
The second time had also been entirely unexpected.
He'd been especially hungry that day, so instead of retreating to the wall he'd taken to the streets and sat down near a particularly busy food store in the hope that someone would be nice enough to buy him something while they were doing their weekly shopping. It's unlikely, especially in this area, but it never hurts to try and the shop manager never tries to drive him away as most others do.
It may be a wealthier area but, even with that knowledge in mind, Peter definitely didn't expect to see Hawkeye strolling into the food store wearing his costume with the bow strapped to his back. Peter would have believed it were a cosplayer if he didn’t know better, but that messy blonde hair and light, knowing smile is something he can recognise anywhere.
When he'd come out with two shopping bags and a gaggle of swooning women who seem to hound his trail, he'd stopped next to where Peter had been sitting against the brick pillar and crouched down to meet his level. He'd handed him a chicken and mayo sandwich in a package identical to the one in the rundown corner store and said to him, "you're looking less cold today, kid. How've you been?"
Peter doesn't recall his reply, but he does remember that Hawkeye — an Avenger, in the flesh — had ruffled his hair before making his leave.
The third time, Hawkeye had been more talkative.
Peter had been sitting against his wall instead of on top of it, too exhausted to scale it for the first time in his life. He hadn't eaten in a good few days and he couldn't seem to make his fingers stick to the surface of the wall as well as he used to be able to — the effort it would take to climb it without using his abilities would have probably killed him before he got to the top.
(An exaggeration, but Peter was worried that it could be a possibility he doesn't want to think about.)
Hawkeye had come around the corner wearing sweatpants and holding a plastic bag over his shoulder. Upon noticing Peter half-asleep against the wall, he'd come and sat down beside him without hesitating. "You tired?" he'd asked genuinely.
Peter had turned his head to look at him, but didn't say anything. Living on the streets with no one to talk to really doesn't turn you into the most talkative of people.
"You're too skinny and pale, kid. Makes me worry about you." Hawkeye had turned his head so as to get a better look at his face then, and he'd made an alarmed noise. He'd then pulled out a blanket and then a McDonalds takeaway bag. "These were for Steve — he's feeling under the weather, and he loves cheeseburgers and these blankets that this old lady knits for her favourite people a block over — but I feel like you need them more. He'd understand."
He'd hesitated, unused to such generosity, but Hawkeye had put them in his lap before he'd managed to object. "Hawkeye," he'd whispered, his voice wavering as emotion clawed at his throat. God, how nice it was to get gifts like that...
"Call me Clint, kid. I hope you aren't one of those freaks who doesn't like McDonalds," the Avenger had replied with a fond chuckle. He'd stood up to make his leave, ruffling Peter's hair again. "I need to go. Catch you later, kid."
That was the time that Peter remembers the most. The blanket is still rolled up in his backpack for safe-keeping, actually.
This time, though, Clint isn't alone.
Since the lane in which the wall is found is practically deserted all day, Peter thinks that Clint had actually come to find him in order to introduce his friend — a thought which spreads warmth through his chest and reminds him that there are good people in this harsh, harsh world.
His friend isn’t smiling as him and Clint come to stand at the base of his wall, but Peter knows a friendly face when he sees one — gentle brown eyes and easygoing expression, hardly batting an eyelid as he meets his gaze. A good, honest person who Peter immediately recognises to be the second coolest Avenger named after a bird — Falcon. Huh.
”Hey, kid. Sam wanted to meet you,” Clint says. “You want to come down or are you alright up there?”
”I’m fine here,” Peter replies, quiet. “You can sit if you want.”
”Nice,” Sam says. He passes Clint the plastic bag he’s holding, braces his arms on the top of the wall (because of course he’s tall enough to do that) and seats himself with little more than a soft grunt to represent his effort. “I can see why you like it here. It’s nice and quiet.”
Clint passes the bag back up to his teammate and also takes a seat on the wall, squeezing himself between Sam and Peter. “We got some McDonalds, if you’re interested. Got you another cheeseburger and a diet coke,” he says, leaning back so Sam can pass the bag over him.
It’s still warm when he takes it out of the box and his cold fingers soak it in immediately. “Thanks,” he mumbles, through a mouthful of slimy burger and bun.
“You got a name, kid?” Sam asks as he digs into a sweet-chilli chicken wrap.
Peter would have hesitated if it were anyone else, but he’s found that he’s trusted them faster than anyone else he’s met while living on the streets — and not only because they’re Avengers, although he'd be lying if he says that it isn't part of it. Maybe it’s the way that they don’t throw him pity parties, or how they treat him like a person and not some piece of homeless scum living only to be an inconvenience.
He swallows his mouthful and says, “Peter.”
”It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”
He doesn’t say anything else; just offers Sam the dopiest grin he can manage with a burger between his teeth. Clint huffs and steals a bite of his teammate’s chicken wrap. “Delicious."
”You have your own! Lay off eating everyone else’s food.”
Clint’s eyes narrow accusatorially. “Are you fatshaming me?” he hisses.
(And that’s when Peter realises how much he’s beginning to enjoy the company of Sam and Clint.)