Thanks to the baseball cap pulled low over his face, Peter didn't recognize that his childhood idol , the Captain America , was standing right beside him.
Nor did he notice the expression on said idol's face, one that clearly read: Congratulations, kid, you're about five seconds away from losing your fan privileges.
Peter was still happily snapping photos of that damned magazine exhibit, circling it like it was the Holy Grail. After a dozen shots, he finally looked up and asked, "So, what are you guys doing here? Don't tell me you're Captain America fans too?"
Darren shrugged. "Not really. I'm just showing this Mr. Rogers here around. As for whether he's a fan of Captain America…" He gave Steve a sideways smirk. "That depends on how much he loves himself."
Peter blinked. "Huh?"
As usual, the joke flew so far over his head it broke atmosphere.
"Anyway," Darren said, his tone shifting into gossip mode, "how's that redhead girl situation going?"
Peter froze like a deer in headlights.
Last time Darren saw him, Peter had just pulled off that dramatic "Spider-Man rescues Mary Jane" moment , the kind of scene that usually ends with sparks, hormones, and the exploration of Newtonian physics in private.
Peter sighed. "Mary Jane and Flash broke up. Turns out, when things got dangerous last time, Flash ran faster than sound and left her behind."
Darren raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like good news. So why the funeral face?"
Peter's expression twisted painfully. "Because she's… dating someone else now. And that someone just happens to be my best friend."
"Ah." Darren folded his arms. "Got it. Classic betrayal arc. So, your dream girl went for your bro. That's rough."
Peter looked down miserably. "He's… Harry. The heir to Oscorp. He's tall, good-looking, rich, charming, and, "
"And you," Darren cut in, "are completely screwed."
Peter: "…"
He wanted to argue but couldn't. The facts hurt too much.
After a moment's hesitation, Peter lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Hey, uh… Darren, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"Well, I have this friend, "
There it was. The universal line every man used before admitting to doing something stupid.
Peter continued, face dead serious. "This friend of mine likes a girl. But the girl's in love with… his other identity."
Steve blinked. "Other identity?"
Darren already knew where this was going.
Peter plowed on, oblivious. "So, my friend can only see her when he's using that identity. And the thing is , it's working. She really likes him that way. But… she doesn't feel anything for his real self. Now he doesn't know if he should tell her the truth."
No need to call Sherlock for this one. Darren didn't even pretend. 'Your friend,' huh? Sure, kid. And I'm Iron Man's yoga instructor.
Clearly, Peter was talking about himself and Mary Jane. The poor boy had already "won" the girl , just not as Peter Parker.
Meanwhile, the girl in question was juggling Spider-Man and the heir to a billion-dollar empire. Darren mentally applauded her. Mary Jane Watson , living proof that the multiverse favors chaos.
Darren thought for a moment, then said, half serious, "If you ask me, your friend should just come clean."
Peter's ears turned pink. "It's not me, it's my friend."
"Right. Your friend," Darren said smoothly. "But really , he can't live behind a mask forever. At some point, he has to decide who he wants her to love , the suit or the man inside it."
Something in Peter's expression shifted. That simple statement hit him like a revelation.
He didn't want to keep hiding. He didn't want Mary Jane to fall for the mask.
Even if it meant losing her , he wanted her to love him.
"Yeah…" Peter murmured. "Yeah, you're right. I think… my friend will tell her the truth."
Darren grinned. "Good. And if your friend ever needs to vent again, send him my number."
He handed Peter his contact info with a wink. This kind of emotional soap opera didn't come along often , and Darren wanted a front-row seat for the sequel.
Peter pocketed the number, thanked him, and scurried off to continue his "research," snapping photos of every tragic exhibit detailing Captain America's "heartfelt friendship" with Bucky Barnes.
When Peter was gone, Steve finally exhaled. He'd spent the entire conversation trying not to make a sound, terrified the kid would recognize him.
Now, at last, he muttered, "Are all young people's love lives this… complicated now?"
Darren chuckled. "Nah, Peter's just special. Kid's cursed, I think. Everyone around him's a walking disaster."
Steve nodded gravely. "Makes sense. You seem to attract those kinds too."
"Touché."
...
They moved on to the next section of the exhibit , and Steve's good mood vanished instantly.
There it was, immortalized in perfect lighting: his early propaganda posters, his old tour uniforms, even a looping black-and-white film reel of him dancing with chorus girls while waving a shield and singing about war bonds.
Steve buried his face in his hands. "I can't believe they kept this part."
Darren was barely holding back laughter. "You were… pretty popular with the ladies back then, huh?"
Steve groaned. "They came for the show, not me."
"Oh, sure," Darren said, deadpan. "It was the bonds they were interested in, not the world's tightest pants."
Truth was, those shows had once drawn massive crowds. The costume designers, inspired by "patriotism," had made the suit so tight it practically counted as a second skin. Tickets had sold out for months , mostly to giggling socialites hoping for a peek at America's ass.
And here, seventy years later, that humiliation was now a permanent exhibit.
Steve clenched his jaw. "Let's go. This place is a disgrace."
"Why? You don't like your museum?"
"It's not a museum," he snapped. "It's a hit piece!"
Darren chuckled the whole way out.
...
They spent the rest of the day driving through New York , a city that had evolved into something both incredible and insane.
For Steve, every street corner was a cultural shock: holographic ads, food trucks selling sushi burritos, and civilians livestreaming every minor inconvenience.
Then, just as Darren was explaining how to "swipe right," gunfire cracked through the air ahead.
A street shootout , masked men with rifles trading fire with NYPD officers.
Steve's instincts flared. Before Darren could stop him, he flung open the car door, ready to dive into the fray.
But then , thwip!
A red-and-blue blur swung down from the rooftops.
Within seconds, the gunmen were disarmed, cocooned in webbing, and dangling upside down from a lamppost.
The blur landed gracefully, hands on hips.
"I'm your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man!" he announced proudly, before leaping back into the skyline with another acrobatic swing.
Steve's jaw dropped.
Darren didn't even blink.
"You're… not surprised?" Steve asked, baffled.
Darren shrugged. "Come on, this is New York. I've seen worse. Flying suits of armor, naked green giants, vampire mobsters, alien demigods , at this point, this barely cracks the top ten."
Steve had no words.
Apparently, the world he'd fought to protect had turned into a carnival of madness.
Darren, of course, wanted to cap off the day with something "educational" , namely, introducing Captain America to New York's legendary nightlife.
But Steve refused. After everything he'd seen and heard, he needed a break before his brain melted completely.
Darren sighed in disappointment. Shame. A few nightclub selfies with America's golden boy would've made great material for the Hydra group chat.
Still, duty was duty. He drove Steve to a safehouse , courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D. (and their generous expense account).
As they pulled up, Darren leaned on the wheel and smirked. "Welcome home, Cap. Try not to get into any more existential crises tonight."
Steve sighed. "I'll do my best."
"Good man."