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Peter’s flicking at his lighter, trying to get a light without snapping it for the hundredth time, when he becomes aware of a presence focused on him.
Outwardly, he does not respond, the reaction long since trained out of him. He continues flicking at the lighter with controlled strength, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. He knows that they’re probably not the best for people, as half the people he sees with a smoke have wheezing lungs that the average ear can’t pick up on, but Peter’s not exactly normal, and he can appreciate the benefits that they’re known for without any of the downsides.
“Pete,” a deep voice with a notably blank accent greets, and Peter turns to face the man, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Tall, even taller than Peter, with blonde hair and striking blue eyes. One hell of a dreamboat, for sure, but Peter’s never hung around many, and his name doesn’t tend to travel very far.
“Can I help you?” Peter asks as he pockets his lighter. Figuring out how much strength he needs to get the thing to work will have to wait for another day.
The man looks oddly nervous for someone with defined muscles and a broad stature. Peter’s certainly not weak, but with the unique way he’s grown up, he’s got a lot of height and a laughably thin frame in comparison. If not for Peter’s hidden strength, this man would easily win in a fight.
“It’s Steve,” the man eventually says.
Peter tries to think of any Steves he knows as he looks the man over, and eventually lands on the scrappy and frail kid who would snap his cap at any old bully, even if he’d inevitably lose the following spat.
There’d been a lot of people who assumed the man wouldn’t make it to 21, but that was over a decade ago, by now, and this isn’t the same man that Peter left behind when he finished highschool.
“You grew up well,” he states.
“You haven’t heard?” Steve demands, sounding oddly shocked.
“I haven’t kept in touch with too many people,” Peter admits. The full truth is more along the lines of he hasn’t kept in touch with much of anyone, because there’s a whole multiverse of people out there and he’s been distracted with that, but he doesn’t need to get into those specifics right now. “Glad to know you’re doing well.”
“Better than well,” Steve admits, smiling. “I’m a captain in the army, now. I’m in town for recruitment, and then I’m headed back out into the action.”
Peter raises his brows. “Thought the only captain in charge of recruitment was Captain America.”
It’s a joke, but Peter learns a lot from the way Steve tenses and starts looking around wildly.
Him filling out makes a considerable amount of sense if he’s the Captain. Peter’s not too interested in the Avengers initiatives of the other worlds, figuring that he’s well before its time, but he knows that in many worlds, the Captain was a symbol for mutant rights before mutants became more common.
Peter’s of the opinion that being a symbol by himself must be rather lonely.
“Ah,” he says, then extends a hand. Steve looks as though he’s questioning every social rule he’s ever been taught, but then hesitantly returns the hand shake. Peter shakes once, firm, and then squeezes hard enough that if Steve were any other man, the hand may no longer be usable.
Steve’s eyes go wide.
“I know where I’m needed, Captain, and it’s not out there,” Peter admits. “But if you need me, I’ll be in touch. It’s important to have an ally.”
There’s a few seconds of silence as Peter pulls away, and then Steve seems to realise something and huffs. “Of course the serum is given to two kids who shouldn’t have lived to 21.”
“I was absolutely going to outlive you,” Peter defends, “And who said anything about a serum?”
He grins as Steve seems to start questioning everything he knows.
“The world pretends that we are the only ones,” Peter tells him, because the multiverse has taught him many things but this is the one most important to him on a daily basis. “The world is a liar. Ask around, later, I’m sure you can figure things out from there.”
⠀
⠀
The sun is sitting on the horizon, and Spider-Man is hanging upside down, still trying to light his cigarette. He’s snapped two lighters since his interaction with Steve.
A man walks underneath him, and Spider-Man tilts his head, smiling slightly beneath his mask when he realises who it is.
“Captain,” he greets, and sees the way that Steve smiles slightly in response.
“The Spider,” Steve returns, sounding amused. “One hell of a theme.”
“Came to me, first,” Spider-Man defends. He flips off of his web, landing cleanly on the ground as he tucks his lighter and cigarette into his coat. “The press still goofed it, though, it’s actually Spider-Man.”
“Of course, of course.”
They’re certainly not the kids coughing in the back of a classroom and making the 30’s even worse than they already were for most of their peers, but there’s a new sense of kinship that Spider-Man thinks they’ll get the chance to expand upon once Steve returns from the war for good.
“So, do the webs come out of you?”
“You’re a knucklehead,” Spider-Man informs Captain America.