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It was 2:10 when he left the house, 2:13 when he came back, and 3:57 when the police arrived.

He’d met both of them before. And from the exasperated, tired looks on their faces, it was going to go much the same way as it had the previous times.

Impatiently, he waited for his mother to call him: “Peter! Can you come upstairs for a minute?” With nothing but exhaustion in her voice. He barely subdued his gleeful smile as he leisurely strolled upstairs, hands in his pockets — the officers did not look happy to see him.

“Afternoon. What can I do for you?” Peter asked pleasantly. The officers glanced at Mom, and she looked miserable.

“They say they saw you downtown at Lou’s Music about two hours ago, and the store owner says his last copy of Dark Side of the Moon is missing.”

The implication was clear. Of course she knew he did it. He’d been playing it in his room the last hour and a half while snacking on the chips he’d grabbed from the gas station on the way back. And, truthfully, a part of Peter wanted to go back downstairs, inquire, “This one?” and then tell them to provide proof.

Because they would never provide proof. Peter knew he was untouchable, and he didn’t need weapons or intimidation or money to be it. He could escape every trap, slip through any door, climb any wall. He was the uncatchable rabbit, the silver fox the hounds could not capture.

And he was very proud of that.

The police were pigs, anyway, and he knew as much as he wanted to smugly rub his little souvenier in their faces, it would only create problems that he didn’t want to deal with. Cops were always out to ruin his fun, weren’t they?

So Peter shrugged and said, “I’ve been home all day.”

The man on the left with the bushy mustache sighed, already knowing what he was getting into.

“I’m sure. But we have two witnesses telling us they remember the copy being there and seeing a young man with grey hair—” Silver, you asshole. “—before it went missing. Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?”

Standard protocol. They knew something was up, but there was nothing they could do about it except ask the usual questions that Peter danced around like they were bullets.

“Nope. Mom, tell them I was home.” She always did. He could easily see the mounting frustration in her eyes and the creases appearing in her forehead as she nodded. “He never left the house.”

“There’s no chance he snuck out? Was there any amount of time you were indisposed that he could have left and came back?”

Easily, Peter countered, “I don’t even have a car. It’s at least a fifteen minute walk to get downtown, add in the time I was supposedly in Lou’s, and I’d have to have been gone for forty minutes.”

It was simple, beautiful logic. Indisputable. They grumbled for a while and of course, got nowhere. And when all was said and done, Peter took a moment to rearrange all the mirrors in and on the cruiser just to punish them for coming over in the first place. Really, when would they ever learn?

As soon as the door shut, he flickered downstairs and stretched out on the couch, feeling terribly proud until he heard footsteps on the stairs.

‘Great.’

“Peter.” Mom’s voice was cold and hard as steel. “We need to talk.”

“No,” he replied. “Not really.”

She was bristling instantly, and snapped, “I’m tired of this attitude! I’m tired of dealing with cops showing up at my house! Peter, I can’t deal with this! What am I supposed to do? Tell me, Peter, what am I supposed to do when I’m trying my damn hardest to take care of her family and all the neighbors stare at me like I’m some sort of failed woman and mother?!”

Peter tasted the raw, dull sting of guilt on his tongue, but his defenses kicked in and he responded with a scowl.

“Not my problem,” he said flippantly. Then the light hit her eyes funny. Except, no, it wasn’t the light — it was tears glinting. Stupid, horrible, disgusting tears that were indisputably his fault. This time, his heart clenched and so did his fists.

“What have I done to you?” she whispered. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer that. His scowl was more of a petulant grimace now, and the pent-up energy in him was ready to blow.

“Peter, I don’t know what to do. I’m at a loss. I don’t know what I can do. Do you even want to be here?”

A small, childlike voice rose in his head, begging her not to cry and apologizing futily for his insanity. Truthfully, Peter didn’t know what to do either. This was all he knew. Life was a beautiful amalgamation of cheap thrills and slow motion, liberally peppered with doubts and anger. But he couldn’t run on insecurity, so it was fueled into anger instead. Anger, resentment, bitterness, was all easier and more palpable and gave him something other than himself to direct his negative emotions at. And it wasn’t like this was all his fault — Mom didn’t get a free pass. Where was she when he broke the sound barrier at age five and a few windows along with it? Where was she when his first grade teacher had to call the fire department for a ladder to get him off the school roof? Where was Mom the first time he ran without shoes and realized, once he stopped, that his feet were bleeding and burning from the asphalt?

The answer didn’t matter, because the truth was still the same: not there.

The thought was validating enough to make him speak up.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he bit back. “You don’t have to do a goddamn thing except stop nagging me.”

“Language, Peter!”

And Peter, frustratingly, listened to her. He went on, “It’s summer. I’m just killing time.”

Mom’s mouth trembled with unspoken shame and anger and dismay. She quickly swept away her tears with her thumb, painted perfect crimson, and she sniffled.

“Anything else,” she whispered. “I would rather you did anything else except these destructive things. What is Polly going to think when they take you away one day? What am I going to do then?”

Ouch, ouch, ouch— Peter sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, under his teeth, and shut his eyes for a moment as he attempted to shut down the ache her words brought but also the furiousness. His fists began to hurt from being so tense, and he relaxed them into clawlike shapes instead.

“I’m sure you’d get by just peachy without me, nobody is taking me away from here, especially not those morons called cops,” he replied just as quietly. “They’ve got nothing on me and they never will.”

For whatever reason, Mom didn’t seem convinced, and it hurt his pride more than anything. Doubting his speed was unthinkable. Absolutely unthinkable.

“Your recklessness will get you killed one day.”

“No, it won’t. I am in control of myself when I move, whether you believe me or not.”

“And what happens when you trip, Peter? What happens when you get distracted? Forget something? This isn’t just your life!” Her voice had risen to a shrill and tears flowed freely down her cheeks, ruining her mascara. “You have a mother and a sister! You realize if you screw up, both of you could be taken away from me!? Do you want to live in the foster system?! I could go to prison, Peter, for child neglect or negligence! Why can’t you see past your own nose and think about something else apart from your own wants? You can’t live like this forever!”

Before he could help himself, he shot back, “I could try.”

Mom blurted out something sacrilegious, and their eyes remained locked for an eon. Her breaths were uneven and she looked old and worn out with black smudges trailing on her damp face. A part of him thought, “I did this.” with glee; another part thought the same thing with crippling horror.

I did this to my mom.

But what did she care? His eyes dulled. After all, this came down to the neighbor’s opinion of her. That was her life, though — looking good. That was why she became of a cosmetician. Have beautiful clothes, hair, makeup, family. What a joke. Sometimes he doubted she was even his mother. It would be a small comfort, knowing he was in the wrong place and that was why his life was a very neat mess.

He vehemently ignored the immense pain that same idea brought, the pain that overshadowed the comfort by a longshot. This was his home, his family, his street, where he belonged his whole life, where he became Peter Maximoff. He clung to that belonging possessively and viciously.

Mom looked deflated, and she stopped crying. Her arms were crossed tightly in front of her, and she sniffled as she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought this up. I’m going to take a nap.” And then she was gone and Peter suddenly felt hollow and like he hadn’t won that fight at all.

——

The rest of the day passed in an awkward tangle. Polly came home a moment later, and he found he didn’t have the heart to be hyper for her. He stayed downstairs, unwilling to listen to Mom inevitably tell her to stay home, as she was bound to do — she always got paranoid the police would show up and take her away or something as retribution — and even more unwilling to listen to Polly’s delayed reaction of long, plaintive wails. She begged and asked why a thousand times until Mom, already on a short fuse, snapped at her and then apologized and got her ice cream before going to take her nap.

It was only after they were both in their rooms, quiet and locked away, that Peter allowed himself to mull over what happened. It was brief and sullen and bitter, but it helped him convince himself that he was more or less in the right and his mother really was just uptight and overbearing.

“Anything else,” she whispered. “I would rather you did anything else except these destructive things.”

What the fuck else was he supposed to do? Join the local chess club? Volunteer at the animal shelter? Magically make friends on his shitty street that was devoid of anyone within five years of his age—

Maisy.

The thought hit him like a full supply of bricks. There was Maisy. Wonderful Maisy, with her plain looks and inability to make eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. Just when he thought the boredom would eat him alive, the universe spat out this distraction with a penchant for doubting him and running, sometimes at the same time. And, he thought with a lopsided, wry smile, they had that in common.

Night couldn’t come soon enough. He didn’t know how he made it through, but by the time he saw her small figure trotting past his mailbox, he was ready to implode.

Peter slipped out of his house like a phantom, prepared to sneak up on her as was customary by this point. Watching her jump out of her skin was downright fun, and he... He found himself walking at a 100% normal pace, even scuffing the ground with his shoe loud enough for her to hear. It felt like an eternity for Maisy to turn around, and when their eyes met, he faltered at the strange relief that stretched through his body. Like he’d been waiting for this.

The thought was spurned as he realized she was holding herself and trying very hard to smile properly.

“Hi,” she said.

Something was wrong.

“What’s wrong?”

Concern took over. Peter abandoned moving at a human speed and instead focused on scanning her for signs of injury, her face for signs of tears. He couldn’t deal with three women crying today. He just wasn’t ready.

Her habit of saying the last thing he expected her to say returned, strong and true.

“Peter, I don’t know if we should be friends?”

The words were a little garbled; breathless. No real conviction in them. At least, that’s what he told himself. The alternative was much harder to deal with.

Peter studiously decided to ignore the comment, hoping his neighbor would fall victim to her shyness and just pretend she hadn’t said anything. But the silence that grew between them as he still weakly checked her for signs of injury became a heavy weight.

Why would Maisy say that?

‘The police, you dimwit.’

Peter released a breath sharply and wondered, vaguely panicking, if this was it. Only three days and he had frightened her away. He felt jittery and the remnants of his day made it worse. His mind moved a million miles an hour, tracing every way the conversation could play out — explaining away his pseudo-innocence, lying that his uncle was a cop and just visiting, changing the subject, telling her the truth.

Somehow, he didn’t telling Maisy he had a hobby of stealing was a good idea.

“Peter?” she finally repeated. By then, he had finished examining her, and she was fine, so he was standing in front of her, determining how to let this go.

He decided to go the direct route. Maybe defuse things.

“Did I do something?” he asked. Ironically, he found that he was the one who couldn’t make eye contact this time, and then nerves got the better of them, and he decided that distracting was much better than defusing. “I was thinking, tonight, we should stretch first. You should, I mean by we. Stretching is really important. If you don’t stretch, that’s how you pull muscles and end up hurt and it sucks. You have good stamina, which is helpful, but I don’t think you want me to carry you a mile when you get a charlie horse.”

He was talking way too fast (a habit he was normally very good at controlling) and his tone was joking, but Maisy seemed just as tense.

“I-I mean, I guess so. But, still, I think—”

‘Distract her. I just need to make her forget what she was going to say. That’s all. Make it too awkward for her to bring it up.’

Taking a breath, Peter continued rambling, saying anything that came to mind, “Polly was asking about Annie today. She sounds like a firecracker and a half. But you seem like you’d be a really, really good big sister. It’s probably good that I didn’t get one, because I would’ve just driven her insane. I can’t say that I’m the best brother Polly could’ve gotten. But I do what I can. Anyway, Polly’s itching to see Annie again, and I told her I’d do what I could. Did you get my note?”

When he looked at her again, her arms had slid down and she was smiling a little. Her shoulders didn’t seem so tight. He felt the smile on his face before he even knew he was, and knew he had succeeded, if only for now.

‘Time to nail in the coffin!’ “What I’m trying to say is that even if you think I’m a nuisance, our sisters are gonna be like this.” As a flourish, Peter crossed his fingers, grinning. “So, what d’you say? Truce?”

It was interesting and odd that, even in the faint light of the evening, he could easily read all the emotions that crossed her eyes. Understanding, acceptance... Confusion... Uneasiness, frustration, hopefulness, conflict. Frustration. Maisy settled on frustration and Peter felt a flicker of fear that he had actually chosen wrong in his strategy.

Face red, brow furrowed adorably, hands fisted in front of her, she blurted out everything at once.

“I want to be friends with you!”

Peter stared as she said the unexpected thing for the second time tonight.

“You’re cool and I don’t have anyone else apart from Annie and Mom and I like hanging out with you and I’m upset because Ma heard about the cops and you never told me why they were at your house and I am afraid because I don’t know if I can trust you enough...!!”

By the end of her speech his chest felt tight and he hoped badly that the darkness hid the warm flush on his neck. The words sunk in, and his mind buzzed with them.

I want to be friends with you.

You’re cool.

I like hanging out with you.

He knew his shit-eating grin was probably not very becoming of him, but her words had melted away all his previous concerns and the memories of the abysmal day. And just like that, everything was normal again. Balance restored, Peter opted on making Maisy squirm.

He took a step forward, faintly hoping she’d stay put (she didn’t).

“Even though I make you nervous?”

She shook her head and said, “You don’t make me nervous. You make me frustrated.”

Frustrated was an interesting term to use, to put it lightly. Peter would later feel guilty for the route his mind took, adding the word ‘sexually’ in front of it and then helplessly letting his thoughts take off into a series of images, all of Maisy, all of her exposed skin glistening with sweat, much of it warmed with her embarrassed blush, her breathing erratic and hands tugging at the hem of her shirt...

The fantasy lasted .00001 seconds, and Peter had the decency to bite down his tongue before he said something uncouth.

“Okay,” he said, unable to retort safely. “I can accept that. I don’t want you worrying about me, though.”

Then the other words sunk in.

I don’t know if I can trust you enough.

He wasn’t sure what she meant by ‘trust’ and what that entailed, but she had to believe he’d never actually harm her. In fact, he’d more likely be around preventing harm from coming to her. So Peter went on, hoping she would believe him.

“I don’t know if I’m the most trustworthy person on the planet, but I would never hurt you, Maisy.”

She looked warmer as he said that. Lighter. Happier. Peter smiled wryly despite himself.

“You’re really dumb.”

He laughed, and everything was much better.

And then it got better.

He wasn’t sure what had actually come over him. First, he suggested that she work on stretching — an honest offer without any... ulterior motives. Maisy was not conditioned for running, and she needed to warm up to prevent any real injury or unnecessary pain in the morning.

But then the world seemed to tilt on its axis as she stretched her arms above her head, giving him a clear outline of her torso and her shirt that rode up and the... the swell of her... her... um...

It got worse as she bent over. She couldn’t touch her toes, though by god she tried, and Peter quickly realized he had no idea what to do with himself. His hands itched to touch her, just for a moment, just to take the edge off of his dumb hormonal cravings. Maisy wasn’t even that pretty, it was just... Well, she was...

Then he had an idea. And just like that, he gave in.

It was surprisingly easy to move in closer without her noticing. She was being very good about breathing evenly and deeply, and was so focused that she all but jumped when his fingertips made contact with her left shoulder blade.

“Relax,” he murmured, smirking. She seemed to do all but that, but she resolutely did not look at him and only nodded before correcting her form.

And then, in a different position, his palm went to her hip and nudged it in. Both hands caught her shoulders to hold them parallel, then slid down her back to straighten her posture. Peter was having too much fun, and found himself leaning in and whispering, “You can do better than that. Form is important, Maisy.”

She didn’t reply, but her skin felt uncannily warm and it took everything in Peter to step away from her when she was done. The entire mile she ran was torment. She did a fantastic job, and he felt smug at the fact that he had been the one to help her shape up and run better. This time, it was easier to keep pace with her and not take off at an inhuman speed like his body yearned to. Mostly because his body was distracted by her.

It was getting really tedious, but Peter dismissed it as harmless fun. She was fun to mess around with, someone who alleviated the monotony that was summer break.

Because it wasn’t like Peter really had ‘friends’ in the strictest sense of the word.

And it wasn’t like he had hobbies that were approved of.

A blip in the radar was very, very welcome for him.

Ten minutes later he was regretting that.

They had fallen in step, poking fun at each other as they talked about anything. Maisy seemed to have recovered from her cardio, and her face was appealingly flushed from her exercise, cheeks glowing and eyes bright with her hair trapped in a mop-like bun that looked soft and inviting to touch.

She sealed the deal when — completely unintentionally — she glanced up from under her eyelashes looking positively venomous and delectable in the best way possible. Her lips curved up as she teased, “I owe you for? God, you’re a megalomaniac, aren’t you?”

Yes. The answer was definitely yes. Maisy was right, and Peter couldn’t help but laugh at her bluntness. She looked so pleased with herself, and it was an urge he didn’t have time to restrain when he threw his arm around her shoulders. She was the perfect height for it, and Maisy stumbled as she was pressed into his side.

Before he lost his momentary courage, he leaned down and said, “You’ve got some mouth on you, Maisy.”

Without missing a beat, she retorted, “Only with you, Peter.”

Like electricity, the air charged for a moment and Peter Maximoff felt the hairs on his neck stand on end at her words. His whole body ached to do something drastic, and he forcibly made himself drum his fingers on her so they wouldn’t do something worse.

It took him a moment to find his voice, but when he did, he managed a sarcastic, “How sweet of you.”

The rest of the walk felt like a daze. Part of Peter felt like he was in some unearthly alternate universe or a dream. Walking down the street with a girl? At night? Unthinkable.

He couldn’t remember the last time he did this.

It was almost a relief when she wriggled out of his hold, but the plummeting in his stomach said otherwise. Thankfully, she didn’t seem mad — she was still gently smiling and staring a hole into the sidewalk in front of them.

Suddenly, he needed to know if he could count on this. The walk had made the whole day feel different. She made things feel different. Peter couldn’t bring himself to care why or question it yet, because distraction was welcomed and if it wasn’t hurting anybody, then what was the harm?

It all clicked. Maisy could be his little secret. Their midnight rendezvous could be all his. She was too innocent and naive to see it, but that was fine — it would be a nice little trade off. Maisy unknowingly eases his summertime woes, and he helps her run.

But she had to agree.

“Same time tomorrow?”

He cursed the edge to his voice when he tried to sound casual, but she seemed to miss it. Wide-eyed and biting her lip, she replied, “Do you... still want to?”

And he all but kicked himself when he instantly said, “Yes.” Peter bristled and cleared his throat, trying to recover his cool and not look like an idiot, so he added, “Yes. No, I mean, like, you have no idea how nice it is to get out of the house.”

‘Maintain eye contact. Don’t look nervous. Don’t let her say no...’

It seemed like an eternity until she said, “Okay.” smiling in a way that made his head blank for a second. “Me too.”

That would have been a perfectly satisfactory end to the night. Peter could have graciously bowed out after that, kneeled beside his bed to thank Jesus, and slept like a baby. He could’ve gone home and felt more satisfied and Peter-y than he had in ages. Surely God had done enough for him today.

But then, Maisy added, “You know, it feels like I’ve known you a lot longer than I have.” and his heart made its way to his throat.

Yes. Yes it did feel that way. Maisy had successfully put words to the feeling he had, and he blinkingly realized how close they’d gotten in a matter of hours. It was unnerving and it was... it was...

Kind of great, honestly.

He willed his feet to move before he again almost did something drastic to poor Maisy. Somehow, he kept his voice level as he let himself brush by her for one last selfish bit of contact and said, “You have no idea.”

Poor Maisy had no idea what was in store for her at all.