A Peach Like You

by Sarah_Sandwich

Summary:

Peter Parker never considered himself special. Maybe, yeah, having radioactive blood and spider-like abilities makes him different and his vigilante career is out of the norm and fine, yeah, he's on the autism spectrum. Call that "special" if you want. But under all that, he's a regular college student juggling three jobs, an internship, a sad mockery of a social life, and saving the city day and night. The usual stuff.

So when he somehow catches the eye of a casually gorgeous country boy with an accent that could turn even Aunt May's brick-hard mashed potatoes to mush, he's only thrown for a minute before he writes it off as a fluke. What could a guy like that see in a guy like him anyway?

Chapter 1: I’m an only child and I’m desperate for attention

Peter’s web-line, tangled desperately between numb fingers, holds as he slams into glass. Air punches from his lungs, but the pane stays intact. He fumbles for his footing, slipping in the smears of scarlet left from his meeting with the window, then begins the slow miserable climb to the ninth floor. His abdomen burns. His head pounds.

He’s not going to pass out. He’s not going to pass out. He’s…

He’s so fired. The pizzas he was supposed to deliver are long gone by now, whether he can remember where he stashed them or not. His boss is going to be furious with him for flaking on his deliveries again. He may have attempted the tried and true ‘It’s not my fault, Mr. Leonetti, I was mugged,’ routine if it wasn’t for all of the cell phones that recorded Spider-Man getting stabbed not two doors down from the pizza shop. He can’t risk anyone making the connection between Spider-Man and Peter Parker.

What was he supposed to do? Not drop everything and strip down to his suit to stop the bodega from being robbed? Not web the clerk out of the way of the stray bullet? Not take the lucky stab between his ribs during his distraction?

Actually, he could have done without that last one. Ned has enough on his plate without having his mess of a childhood best friend slithering through his window every other day with life-threatening injuries.

He breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers curl over Ned’s window sill. His Friend of Spider-Man sense must be tingling because it’s wide open. A strange choice for February, but you won’t hear him whining about his unprecedented change in luck.

He pushes the screen until it pops free of the frame then rolls into the apartment. He lands with a thud on gray carpet and groans as the impact aggravates his stab wound. It’s not until the haze of pain clears enough to see the unfamiliar light fixture above him that he considers how unlike Ned it is to have the window open on a day that’s threatening snow.

Ned hates winter. He hates leaving the window open even a crack and often compromises by stuffing a towel in the crack to keep the draft out because, as much as he hates winter, he loves his best friend more.

As he blinks at the rest of the room, dazed from blood loss, he slowly puts together that this is not Ned’s apartment. It smells wrong for one thing. Like burnt bread and blood (the latter of which, yes, he realizes is his fault), but also there’s a distinct lack of life in this place that’s so contradictory to Ned’s merch and memorabilia-stuffed apartment that for a moment he thinks maybe this one is vacant. No shoes by the door. No pillows on the couch. No DVDs next to the TV. No takeout containers. No books. Nothing.

Other than a mason jar that’s half-filled with odd little trinkets on an otherwise barren bookshelf, the place is lifeless.

Well, nearly lifeless.

In the same moment he decides he ought to haul his broken body out the window and try for the correct window, a tall blond someone wearing a knit sweater and jeans that have been worn soft over time steps into the room waving a towel at the smoke lingering near the ceiling.

The man freezes as they lock eyes.

Oh, mother fudger.

A tall blond familiar someone. A tall blond familiar someone he wishes wasn’t so familiar.

This guy. He’s everywhere on campus. Every time he turns around, there he is, watching him. Peter doesn’t get it. The first few times they accidentally made eye contact he wrote it off as a fluke. But then, last semester, there were a few weeks when the guy kept trying to start a conversation. Thankfully, he stopped because Peter was tired of running away. He doesn’t need help being late to class thank you very much.

How bad is his luck that he’s running into the guy off-campus now too?

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with him, not that he knows of at least, and certainly not physically. He’s drop-dead gorgeous with his southern drawl and toned forearms that he accentuates by rolling the sleeves of his flannels to his elbows. Or he did, back when the weather was nicer. Now he never sees him not bundled up to his neck in a bulky winter coat.

But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have time for whatever it is Mr. Tall Blond Someone thinks could happen between them. He doesn’t have time for anything that isn’t school, work, or his internship at Stark Industries. His friendships are already suffering.

Yet, despite everything, some nights when he’s lying in bed too exhausted to sleep, he takes out the sketch MJ gave him last semester and wonders what this guy sees in him. No one has ever looked at him the way Mr. Tall Blond Someone did that first day—all wonder and awe, starstruck—but he knows better than to question MJ’s artistic renderings. She’s been sketching people in moments of crisis for as long as he’s known her and she has only improved her craft over the years.

So the expression on Mr. Tall Blond Someone’s face when he first clapped eyes on Peter Parker (after nearly ruining a four hundred dollar textbook with a twenty-five cent cup of coffee) is immortalized on cheap recycled notebook paper thanks to MJ’s expert eye and quick pencil. He’s not sure if he should thank her or resent her.

Knowing he has the likeness of this guy stashed in his bedroom adds another layer of complication to whatever it is that’s not happening between them. He should throw it away but… It’s the way he looked at him. There’s a gravity to his gaze that carries through despite the quality of the paper and the grit of the lead. He looked at him like he’s important. Like he was seeing him all the way through to his core. Sort of like the way he’s looking at him right now.

“Spider-Man?” Tall Blond Someone sputters.

Oh. Right. He’s him.

“‘Sup,” he gasps.

Tall Blond Someone gawks. “What’re you doing—,”

“Sightseeing,” Peter grunts. He forces a hand under himself and gets to his knees. No way is he having this conversation bleeding on the floor. Using the window sill, he levers himself up, biting back a groan as his abdomen screams and his vision swims. He gets his feet under him anyway and pushes upright.

“Woah, are you—?”

His legs buckle. He sticks a hand to the window to keep from face-planting as black spots dance around the room. Maybe standing wasn’t such a good idea.

“Easy!” Mr. Tall Blond Someone is suddenly in front of him and catches him under the elbows.

His lungs go tight at the sudden proximity, at the heat of his hands through the suit, but there’s little he can do but allow him to lead him to the couch.

“Okay. It’s okay,” Mr. Tall Blond Someone says, almost to himself. “I’m gonna help you.”

“Gonna ruin your couch,” he croaks, hyper-aware of the arm that snakes around his waist and the hand that rests on his hip near the tickle of blood fleeing his stab wound.

“Don’t worry about it.” He sounds distracted. “Came with the apartment.”

He thinks there should be an argument for the money it’ll cost to replace it because the landlord is going to pitch a fit if they try to leave behind blood-stained furniture, but he doesn’t get a chance to make it before he’s deposited on the caramel cushions then pressed back by a firm hand on his chest until he’s fully horizontal.

He hisses as the stab wound pulls. “Hey now,” he chokes through the pain, “don’t get any ideas. ‘M not that kinda girl.”

Mr. Tall Blond Someone’s lips twitch. “Your virtue is safe with me,” he says dryly. “Don’t sit up. I’ll be right back with the kit. Hold still.”

He leaves the room and Peter tracks his footsteps as he disappears down the hall. He’s gotta get out of here. He can’t be too far off from Ned’s. He was lured in by the open window. Anybody would make that mistake. He’ll just—

“What’re you doin’?” Once again he is pressed back into the couch by a hand against his chest. “Stay still. I’m going to have to cut your suit a bit.”

He blinks hard, but the box of medical supplies Mr. Tall Blond Someone cracks open on the floor doesn’t get any smaller.

“Are you a doctor?” he asks dumbly. He’s a college student, an mechanical engineering major if Peter’s not mistaken. Of course, he’s not a doctor. He’s no good at guessing ages but he’s gotta be around the same age as him.

“Yeah, I’m a doctor,” he drawls in that accent.

That was sarcasm. He’s ninety percent sure that was sarcasm. Eighty percent. Seventy-five at the lowest.

He eyes the scissors that approach his suit warily. “You’re not going to Dirty Dancing me, are you doc?”

Dr. Cowboy pauses, scissors hovering over his stomach, and looks at him quizzically. “What?”

“Dirty Dancing?” Peter prompts. “The movie? It’s— There’s a botched abortion thing?” Oh man. It’s never good when he has to explain a joke.

“Oh.” He refocuses on the tear in Peter’s suit. “Haven’t seen it.”

“What? It’s a classic!”

A wide palm presses down on his hip. “Hold still, idiot. D’you want me to cut the suit or you?”

Peter lays back against the couch and frowns petulantly at the ceiling as the snip of scissors cuts through the silence. The silence lasts until Dr. Cowboy snaps on a pair of gloves.

“You don’t have a latex allergy, do you?”

“Not anymore,” he dismisses. “How have you not seen Dirty Dancing?”

Dr. Cowboy rolls his eyes and presses the kitchen towel from earlier against the stab wound hard enough to draw a wince. “There’s a lot of movies I ain’t seen. This is gonna need stitches. You cool with that?”

“You got any examples of your work? I have a mean cross-stitch mysel—,”

He nearly swallows his tongue as Dr. Cowboy lifts his shirt with one hand and points a blue-gloved finger at his rib while keeping his other hand pressed firmly against the towel.

“See that scar?”

It’s new. Pink and bubbled but it looks like it’s healing well. “What happened?”

“Brought fists to a knife fight.” He releases his shirt and Peter finds he can breathe. “I stitched it myself so my sister wouldn’t tear me a new asshole. You New Yorkers don’t screw around, I’ll give you that.”

“Dude, are you a criminal?” he demands. “You’re legally obligated to tell me if you are.”

A dark eyebrow quirks over a blue-eyed stare. “If I was a criminal, I wouldn’t care about legality.”

Against his will, Peter’s lips twitch into a smile. “You got me there. You should tell me anyway though. Just for fun. Like it’s a sleepover and we’re sharing secret crushes, only yours is whether you have a crush on crime while mine is about how I put the crush on crime.”

Dr. Cowboy eyes him balefully long enough that Peter nearly gets up to leave. Tough crowd, yeesh.

“Some guy was messing around this poor schmuck who was waiting for a ride and I convinced him to stop. That’s all.” He shrugs.

Peter relaxes into the couch but says, “You should leave that stuff to the cops.”

“Right, like you do, you mean.” Dr. Cowboy doesn’t wait for a response, which is good because Peter doesn’t have one. “You gonna let me stitch this or do I have to wait until you pass out? I may be new to the Big Apple but even I know not to let the city’s favorite vigilante bleed out on my couch.”

Peter snorts. “You are new. I’m no one’s favorite. I’m a menace.”

Dr. Cowboy cocks his head and looks him in the eyes, or rather, the mask. “Cities are made of people, not journalists and cops, and the people here would do anything for you.” He holds his gaze with that grave penetrating stare and Peter says nothing, his throat strangely raw. Dr. Cowboy looks away first, checking under the towel. “Hold still. The bleeding’s slowed enough we can stitch this puppy up.”

Peter stares at him as he digs through the medical kit. “Fine, but then I want to circle back to why you haven’t seen Dirty Dancing.”

Dr. Cowboy rolls his eyes as he readies a suture kit one-handed with a practiced ease that should probably alarm him. “Can’t believe you’re still fixed on that. We moved a lot growing up, okay? End of story. I’m giving you a local anesthetic.”

“Ohh, fancy.” He winces through the prick of the needle. “Not end of story. What does moving have to do with anything?”

“No space for hauling around DVDs,” he says shortly as he sets aside the spent syringe.

“So? What about renting or digital?”

Dr. Cowboy peels back the towel and peers at the wound underneath. “Dad hated it when the TV woke him up from his drunken stupor before he was good and ready,” he says, distracted as he carefully cleans the wound. “After he split, we were too hard up for cash to afford enough food to fill us up let alone splurge on movies of all things.” He goes tense and looks up with a strange expression on his face.

“What?” Peter demands, craning to look at the wound without moving too much. “I’m not bleeding green again, am I?” That was an eventful afternoon he has no interest in reliving.

“Huh? No, you’re fine. I just…” He looks at him, eyes jumping from one oversized white lens to the other. “I dunno why I’m tellin’ you this. I never talk about…” He trails off.

“Oh, it’s the mask. It’s therapist shaped.”

Dr. Cowboy huffs an aborted laugh and picks up the needle and suture thread. “You get lots of folks spilling their troubles to you?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I suppose that’s where the ‘friendly’ part of the title comes from.”

“I like to think it’s my dazzling personality and boyish good looks.”

Dr. Cowboy smiles and pokes a finger against his side. “You feel that?”

“A bit. Probably as good as it’s going to get. My metabolism will eat through that anesthetic in another minute or two.”

He clicks his tongue. “You hero types are so complicated.”

“Dude, you have no idea. What about when you had your own income?”

“What?”

“Movies, focus up. When you got older and got a job, didn’t you ever go to the movies with friends?”

Dr. Cowboy ties the suture thread through the needle with sure fingers then shoots him a look. “You’re a nosy little shit.”

“Since you’re going to be stabbing me and stuff, I think I deserve the distraction.”

He shakes his head then starts the first stitch. It tugs uncomfortably as the thread pulls through his flesh, but the anesthetic does its job and that’s all he feels. He can’t see Dr. Cowboy’s work on the wound. Instead, he watches his face, his eyes, focused and analytical as he drawls, “There ain’t much more to it. By the time I was old enough to help with bills, I didn’t care much about movies.”

“And now you’re a well-rounded member of society that brings fists to knife fights and stitches himself back together after?”

A grin steals Dr. Cowboy’s lips but he doesn’t look away from his task. “I got some jagged edges that ain’t as smooth as I’d like, but…” He shrugs a shoulder. “I think I turned out okay considering. You done evaluating my place in society, Mr. Vigilante?”

“Touché. So what movies have you seen?”

“Why’re you so obsessed with movies?”

“Movies are great! I’ve never met someone who doesn’t like them.”

“I never said I don’t like ‘em. Just that I don’t go out of my way to watch any.”

“Tomato potato, tomato potato,” he says flippantly.

Dr. Cowboy doesn’t bother to look at him as he says, “If you’re referencing something you’re wasting your breath, sweetheart.”

His breath hitches at the unexpected term of endearment, but if Dr. Cowboy notices, he doesn’t react. He simply ties off another stitch.

“No Megamind? No wonder you’re so maladjusted.”

Dr. Cowboy hums. “So what’s your excuse?”

“Nice try, but you have to achieve level ten friendship to unlock this tragic backstory.”

“Saving your life doesn’t count for anything?”

“You’re exaggerating. I was doing fine on my own.”

Dr. Cowboy looks up at him from under the fringe of his hair but doesn’t contradict his statement. “Uh-huh. So what’s the exchange rate on tragic backstories these days? I’m a little outta touch with the trauma community but I feel like sharing my damage should get me something.”

Peter sighs. “Okay, fine. I’m an only child and I’m desperate for attention.”

Dr. Cowboy’s face twitches like he’s surprised and then he throws his head back and laughs.

Peter can’t look away. His entire being lights up as he laughs—bright like a camera flash through closed eyelids and over just as fast. He’s still blinking away the afterimage as Dr. Cowboy, still grinning, ties off the final stitch.

“You’re full of shit, Spider-Man.”

Oh. Right. He’s him.

He was so distracted, first, by nearly passing out and then by the effortless banter, that he forgot. He forgot to be awkward. He forgot who he was talking to. He forgot that Dr. Cowboy has no idea who he is.

Would they get along this well without the mask between them? No. No, they wouldn’t because the mask makes him free. He can be himself without consequence because Spider-Man is allowed to take up space. Spider-Man is allowed to be irritating and bossy and aggressive. He doesn’t need to worry what people will think of him because no matter what he does Jameson will print papers smearing his reputation, the cops will try to arrest him any time he stays still long enough, and the good people of New York will need someone to step up and take the harm that would otherwise come their way.

Under the mask, he becomes bigger than Peter Parker.

Having finished placing a bandage over his neat row of stitches, Dr. Cowboy snaps his medical kit shut and rises to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

Again, Peter follows the sound of his footsteps down the hall. When the faucet turns on he eases off the couch and retakes his feet. The black spots don’t return, so with mixed feelings, he checks his web-shooters and slips out the still-open window.

Maybe now that Dr. Cowboy has gotten a taste of Spider-Man he’ll forget about Peter Parker. Maybe the pizzas will be where he left them. Maybe Jameson will shave off his awful little mustache and maybe pigs will fly.

~*~

He slams his bedroom door and hurls his backpack against the wall with as much strength as he dares.

He knew this job wouldn’t last long but getting fired never gets easier. To make things worse, he’s got a dozen unread messages from Ned and MJ in their group chat. He was supposed to meet them at the campus library an hour ago for their study group but of course, he got on the subway after getting chewed out by his former employer and didn’t think to check his phone until he was turning down his street in Queens.

“Peter?” May’s voice carries up the stairs. “Did you bring home milk like I asked?”

He closes his eyes and lets his head thump back against the door.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!

It's here! I did it! I'll be posting new chapters every Wednesday (CST). I'm excited to finally get this out there. Let me know what you think in the comments!

Chapter 2: If you knew me in real life you wouldn’t take me seriously either

“Peter, wait up!”

He slows at the sound of Ned’s voice and a moment later, he and MJ fall into step on either side of him.

“Where were you last night, loser?” MJ asks. Her voice is hard but he knows her well enough to recognize that, while she’s irritated at being stood up, she’s not angry. Unfortunately, her concern is a heavier weight than anger would be.

“Sorry.” He pulls his sleeves over his hands and runs his thumbnail against the grooves of the wristband. “I…” What can he say? That it won’t happen again? That’s a lie and they all know it.

“It’s okay,” Ned interjects, bumping him with his shoulder. “We were worried is all.”

“Speak for yourself,” MJ mutters, burrowing into her scarf as a stiff gust tears across campus.

Ned ignores her, as used to her pretenses as Peter is. “Did something happen?”

His side twinges where a pink scar is already nearly healed and he flashes back to the way Dr. Cowboy laughed, like he surprised it out of him. His sure and steady hands. How quick he was in his wit, how easy he was to talk to despite his intensity at times.

It all sticks in his throat like a gob of mucus. He doesn’t want to talk about him. He doesn’t want to think about him. It was a mistake. There’s no point in talking about it because he’s not going to go back. There are more important things demanding his time and attention. Things like getting a new job.

“I got fired,” he admits.

“Dude.”

“Again?”

He hunches his shoulders against the panicky feeling that wells in his chest and watches his feet as he digs his thumb more forcefully into his sleeve. Over the past few years he’s gone through so many that pickings on the job front are getting slim. Dog-walking is steady but barely pays anything and his freelance work with the Bugle is dependent on Mr. Jameson’s mood so he tries not to rely on it.

“Heads up,” MJ says, “it’s your admirer.”

He wrenches his head up and—without needing to check where MJ is looking, without the aid of his Spidey-sense—he finds Dr. Cowboy. It’s surreal to see him here after getting to know him last night. He’s walking behind a slow-moving group with his head down as he types on his phone but after a moment he stills as though he can feel eyes on him. Then he looks up and their gazes lock.

It’s like being punched in the chest. All of the air kicks out of him and he can’t remember how to draw more in. It’s worse now. Before he made him anxious—not knowing when he was going to pop up, what he wants, what he would try next—but now…

Dr. Cowboy lifts his hand in a halting wave and Peter wrenches his stare away from him, rejecting the pull to cross the grass and… and… He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have time for this— this— whatever it is. He’s furious with himself for not being able to put him out of his mind since yesterday. He’s pissed at Dr. Cowboy for being so damn magnetic that he can’t.

It doesn’t matter.

He tucks his chin to his chest and lengthens his stride.

“You want to go to the Garage after this?” Ned asks, walking double-time to keep up. His oversized coat swishes in a way that grates on Peter’s senses.

“Good idea,” MJ chimes in. “We can compare notes on our sustainable energy reports for Wagner since we didn’t get to last night.”

Peter winces. She didn’t mean it as a dig but it struck true regardless. “I can’t,” he grumbles. “Tony’s expecting me in the—,” He stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. “Wait. What report?”

Ned and MJ trade a glance.

“The… It’s due tomorrow,” Ned says, stricken. “We’re supposed to come up with a theory on how to improve a current sustainable energy practice and then present it to the class.”

Peter screws his mouth shut to keep from screaming. Sometimes, if he can get there early enough, he beats Tony to the lab. If he’s fast, maybe he can get the bones of it done and then bullshit the rest during class. If he’s lucky, presentations will go long and he could get another day to finish it.

It’s a nice thought but Parker luck doesn’t work like that.

MJ takes his wrist and gently massages his fist open. His knuckles ache and his palm stings from how hard he was digging his nails into it.

“You’re a mess, Parker,” she says softly.

Great. Now MJ’s worried. This can’t get any worse.

~*~

His skull cracks against stone. City lights blur under a wave of pain as he slips from the wall and plummets into the pond. He barely refrains from gasping in shock as freezing water closes over his head. He drops like a stone, muscles locked, icy water cradling every inch of him. His foot hits the bottom and a plume of silt clouds over him.

No. No, no, he needs to move. He needs to get out of here.

He forces his knees to bend and pushes off the pond floor. The muck clings to his boots, stealing his momentum and forcing him to claw his way to the surface. Lungs burning, he breaches the surface and chokes as he tries to draw breath through his waterlogged mask.

He wrenches it over his nose and wades to shore, hacking and trembling.

Freaking perfect. Water pours off of him as he staggers up out of the pond only to be greeted by the freezing night. The heater in his suit must have shorted out because he’s not feeling anything except sharp, painful cold.

To make matters worse, the mook he was fighting took off and he’s in no state to hunt him down.

Shivering and dizzy from the knock to the head, he launches a web and begins the miserable journey out of the park and back into the city proper. His teeth are chattering by the time he arrives in the alley where he stashed his backpack and his blessedly dry clothes. Socks. The first thing he’s going to put on are his socks.

With numb hands, he shoves aside the dumpster. He groans. His backpack is gone. Another violent shiver rattles him from the inside out. He hugs himself around the middle. It’s a long way to Queens but Ned’s apartment is only a few blocks away. He can beg some dry clothes off of him. A hot shower too.

It’s not until a few minutes later when he’s perched on the wall tugging uselessly at a locked window, that he remembers Ned is out of town this weekend. His cousin is being awarded some kind of honor and invited the whole family to the ceremony in Miami. Naturally, Ned jumped at the chance to ditch the blustery Northeastern weather for sunny Florida and only looked back to wave smugly goodbye when Peter saw him off at the airport late last night.

Must be nice to be recognized for your achievements. He wouldn’t know.

A wintry gust tears through his soaked suit and reminds him of his immediate dilemma. It’s a long way to Queens and his joints are cracked with frost. He’s hyper-aware of Dr. Cowboy’s apartment only two floors below but… Is he out of his mind for considering knocking on his window after he ghosted him without so much as a thank you? He wants to see him again, that’s the problem. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want to.

His fingers spasm and he nearly loses his grip on the wall. He’s not going to make it to Queens regardless of what he does or doesn’t want. Resigned to his fate, he changes direction and crawls down to the plain curtainless window with the bent screen. He taps the glass and waits.

A shadow moves across the light and the blinds pull up.

He pokes his head down and Dr. Cowboy lurches back with a shout. He half-snickers, half-shivers as Dr. Cowboy wrenches the window open, thick eyebrows crushed together in a glare. “What the hell, dude?” His eyes widen as he takes in his state.

He’s not sure he’s even wet anymore. Maybe just frosty. “Can I come in? I got in a f-fight with a lake and the lake w-won.”

Dr. Cowboy fixes him with a put-upon stare that Peter is quite familiar with (on a variety of faces) then wordlessly removes the screen from the window.

Gratefully, Peter crawls inside and flips to the floor. A sigh escapes his lips as heat sinks into frozen skin, stinging his flesh, but offering much-needed relief from the cold. His shivers increase as his body desperately tries to warm itself. Not wanting to leave a wet trail on the carpet, he stands rooted beside the window as Dr. Cowboy sets aside the screen and pulls the window shut.

He takes a moment to look around. It’s just as barren as last time, except now there’s a pair of brown boots by the front door and a faded, nearly invisible stain on the center couch cushion. Oops.

Dr. Cowboy crosses his arms and stares at him with an expectant expression that reminds him of Aunt May.

“Oh. Uh, t-thank you,” Peter says belatedly.

Apparently, thanks isn’t what Dr. Cowboy is looking for because he rolls his eyes and stalks off down the hallway. Over his shoulder he says, “This time when you sneak out, could you shut the window?”

Ah.

A hinge squeaks then a door closes and Dr. Cowboy returns with a thick comforter that he probably pulled straight off his bed.

Heat floods Peter’s face, stinging his ears and making snot run into his mask. “Oh, I don’t need—,”

Dr. Cowboy ignores him and shoves the blanket into his chest. Then he skewers him with a hard stare and says, “I’d suggest ditching the suit but I got a feeling that ain’t somethin’ you’d consider.”

Absolutely not. He glances at the window, wondering if this is smart, if he shouldn’t make the trek to Queens after all. He’ll survive it. Probably.

Dr. Cowboy, apparently having noticed the shift in his attention, rolls his eyes and turns his back on him, heading into what appears to be the kitchen and out of sight. “Bail if you want, but I’ve got cocoa enough for two if you can deign to stick around for it.”

He winces but doesn’t offer an excuse. He gets the feeling it would fall on deaf ears.

As Dr. Cowboy putters around the kitchen, Peter wraps the blanket over his head and around his shoulders. Gradually, heat sinks into his skin and his suit thaws, turning damp. The stiffness in his joints and the harsh prickling of his skin fades to a dull discomfort and his shivering eases. He closes his eyes and drinks it in until he hears Dr. Cowboy’s footsteps returning.

Dr. Cowboy stops on the threshold with a mug in each hand and sends him a weird look. Then he shakes his head and sits on the couch, holding out one mug expectantly to the empty cushion on the end. “You plannin’ to hover all night?”

“I’m wet,” he says without moving.

“The couch’ll dry,” Dr. Cowboy says with the patience of someone speaking to a child.

Well… if he insists. Peter nestles in the corner of the couch, knees to his chest with the blanket curled around him like a cave, and accepts the mug with both hands. He sighs, content. Steam wafts against his face as he holds the mug under his nose. It smells like heaven—rich and sweet.

His stomach gurgles. When did he last eat? Was it the day-old croissants during his new job at the bakery? That was this afternoon and the sun sank below the horizon hours ago. He’ll have to grab something on his way home. Something hot. Maybe that -

He’s so wrapped up in the warmth slowly sinking into his body, easing his thoughts into a contented lull, that for several minutes he doesn’t realize he’s sitting in comfortable silence with a near-stranger, but once he does he can’t not fill it.

“Wanna watch something?”

Dr. Cowboy turns towards him, face inscrutable.

Peter holds his stare, suddenly aware of the speed at which his heart is beating. How is he so calm all the time? Even when he was mad earlier he was only a bit snippy and extra sarcastic. Peter’s never done well when faced with silent scrutiny. He’s on the verge of babbling something, anything, to fill the quiet when Dr. Cowboy speaks.

“Like what?” he asks. Flat. Resigned. Like he already knows what Peter is going to suggest.

Peter grins even though his mask conceals the expression. “Like Dirty Dancing.”

Dr. Cowboy rolls his eyes so hard his whole head rolls with them. “How’re you still going on about that? It’s just a movie.”

“It’s a classic. If you’d watch it you’d understand. What kind of streaming do you get?” He eyes the TV. It’s your standard flat screen, nothing fancy, but more than he’d expect from a guy that doesn’t watch movies. Then again, if the couch came with the apartment, the TV probably did too. He looks around for the remote.

“We don’t—,”

A key scrapes in the lock on the front door. He only has a moment to react as the knob turns. Unfortunately, considering his well-wrapped state and the closed window, his options are limited. He reaches back and pulls the blanket over his face.

The door swings open.

“Uhh…” A female voice says within the room. “Hello?”

Dr. Cowboy starts to laugh, deep body-shaking laughter. “Why’re you—,” He can’t finish the question, too overwhelmed to get the words out.

“Did you make a friend?” the woman asks. The door closes and the lock snicks back into place.

“Could you ask that again but more condescending this time?” Dr. Cowboy asks with a playful edge, lighter than Peter has heard him until now. Comfortable. At ease. “I think you can do better.”

“‘Course,” she says boldly. Then, in a high babyish tone, she asks again, “Did you make a fwend, sweetie?”

Peter peeks out of his blanket nest as she laughs and Dr. Cowboy throws something at her. She’s vaguely familiar like he’s seen her around campus before. Pretty. Long brown hair loose around her shoulders under a red knit cap that makes her brown eyes seem bright. She’s short but stocky rather than petite. He wracks his memory and finally comes up with the picture of her sitting across from Dr. Cowboy on the first day of fall term, teasing him about something that wasn’t important enough for Peter to remember at the time. Before the coffee spill. Before they locked eyes and everything fell away for a heartbeat in time. Before he ran.

She spots him and her face lights up. “Spidey! You do exist. I thought my dear darling brother lost his marbles when he tried blamin’ our new couch stain on you.”

Brother.

“Oh. I didn’t realize— I thought he— I’m really sorry about the couch.”

She shrugs. “Ain’t ours. Don’t worry about it.” She kicks her brother’s shin and says, “I don’t remember the last time I seen you laugh like that.”

He pulls a face. “Don’t get all sappy on me.”

“You’re the sap, sap.”

Dr. Cowboy picks a marshmallow off the top of his cocoa and throws it at her.

She swats it away. “Gross, that one was wet! Did you make enough for me?”

“Naw, figured you’re grown enough to do it yourself.”

She ducks into the kitchen then calls out, “Liar!”

“Keep complaining, Bee, keep complaining.”

She emerges with a mug in hand but no marshmallows. “You’re a terrible brother.”

“I’m an amazing brother. Tell her, Spidey.”

“Uhh,” he hesitates as they both turn and look at him expectantly. “Well, I mean, there’s room for improvement.”

Dr. Cowboy narrows his eyes as his sister (Bee??) barks a laugh.

“Is this about Dirty Dancing again? Bee, please talk to this guy about movies so he’ll quit buggin’ me about ‘em.”

Peter sits up straight. An ally? No, wait. “How does she know about movies but you don’t?” he demands. “Did you not grow up together?”

“We grew Harley in a petri dish in the shed. Still not sure how he got loose.”

Harley. His brain snags and stalls on that little tidbit of information while Harley and Bee kick at each other. Bee’s hot cocoa sloshes over the rim and splatters on Harley’s thigh. His name is Harley.

“I don’t get it,” he says, ignoring them as they insult each other. After that time he babysat MJ’s little brothers he resolved to stay out of sibling spats unless literal murder is imminent. He’s wise enough to admit he doesn’t understand the culture well enough to mitigate these types of things. “How did—,”

“We didn’t have a conventional childhood,” Bee says in a light tone.

“Yeah, he told me,” he says, waving a flippant hand. “Moving a lot, drunk dad, no money. What I don’t get is—,”

Bee’s playful air drops as she faces her brother with a startled expression. “He did?” she asks, eyes only on Harley.

Harley’s expression communicates something wordless as he states, “He tricked me.”

Peter sputters. “What? I did not! It’s the mask. It’s thera—,”

“Whatever, man,” Harley interrupts. “If you wanna talk movies, Bee is your girl.”

“Films,” she corrects.

A bad feeling settles in Peter’s gut. She’s not one of those types, is she? Gravely, he asks, “What’s your opinion on Mama Mia?”

Bee’s expression flickers. She glances once at Harley, almost apologetic, before looking back at him. “Overrated.”

He flinches as though struck. “Oh my God. I have to go.” He shoves at the blanket, searching for the opening.

“Wha—,”

“Let me guess,” Bee talks over her brother. Lips pursed, she looks him up and down as Peter regards her through narrowed eyes. “You think it’s a cinematic masterpiece that transcends generations and captures the heart of the queer community.”

“That’s not what I think,” he says with feeling. “That’s the truth.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. It’s a bad film.”

He gasps.

“No, it ain’t even a film. It’s just a movie.”

He gasps again.

“And not a good one.”

He gasps a third time, clutching his mug to his chest. He shrugs out of the blanket and stands. Harley looks up at him, face twisted in confusion. “Sorry pal,” Peter tells him, “but our budding friendship has come to a swift and crushing end. Thanks for the cocoa but I’ve gotta—,”

“Shrek, on the other hand,” Bee continues loudly.

He turns slowly. “Don’t you dare,” he whispers.

She smiles. “—is a revolutionary film that set a new bar for animation and deserves its place as a renowned classic.”

Slowly, he sinks back into his spot on the couch. It’s damp and chilled. “You’re on thin ice but I’ll give you another chance.”

“I’m lost,” Harley says. “Aren’t movie people supposed to flock together?”

“Films,” Bee corrects again and Peter shudders. She notices and laughs. “So what’s this about Dirty Dancing?”

“He’s never seen it!” Peter exclaims. “You’ve seen it, right? Don’t tell me if you think it’s bad. My heart can’t take it.”

“It’s fine,” she says and takes a sip of her cocoa, eyes sparkling over the rim.

He wheezes and cradles his mug closer for emotional support.

She snickers and plops down on the middle cushion, jostling him. “No, really. I like the songs and the dancing is fun but there wasn’t any substance between Baby and Johnny. The whole romance felt—,”

“Spoilers!” he exclaims.

“Spoilers? It’s ancient! Who cares about—,”

“Harley hasn’t seen it yet.” Harley. He feels idiotic for how weighty the name feels rolling off his tongue, forbidden fruit. Harley.

Bee laughs. “You’re trying to get him to watch it. Good friggin’ luck. The only jackass I ever met more stubborn than him had four legs and a lot more hair.

“Hey now,” Harley drawls. He’s reclined against the armrest with one foot on the couch and his mug resting atop his knee. “I might give it a go for Spider-Man.”

Ah. Right. Spider-Man.

All at once, he feels wrong here. They have no idea who he is. They don’t know that he knows Harley outside of the mask. Well… sort of. Regardless, he feels like he’s playing a trick on him—avoiding him in real life only to come hang out on his couch as someone else, safely hidden with Harley none the wiser. He shouldn’t even know his name but there’s no taking it back now.

“Actually, I should get going,” he says. He gets to his feet and lets the blanket fall behind him, covering the wet cushion he leaves behind. “Thanks for letting me get dry and warm.” Not that he’s dry, but he’s a lot warmer. He should be able to make it home okay.

“Are you what stinks?” Bee asks, wrinkling her nose as Harley gets to his feet.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry. Central Park is a dangerous place,” he warns, only partly joking. It’s got one of the highest crime rates in the city. He eyes Harley. “Thanks for the cocoa.”

“Sure.” Harley accepts the offered mug. “Maybe next time you’ll try it.”

He flushes hot all the way to his ears and is thankful for his mask. “Sorr—,”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harley says quickly. “I was just— I get the secret identity thing. You good to get home or whatever? Need some hand warmers?”

‘No’ is on the tip of his tongue but he pauses. Hand warmers…

Harley’s expression eases into something resembling the start of a smile. “Hang tight. Bee, don’t let him sneak out.”

He opens his mouth to defend himself but one glance at Bee’s raised eyebrow convinces him to close it.

Harley takes the mugs, one empty and one full, to the kitchen and returns a moment later with a bag of hand warmers. “How many d’you need?”

“Two is fine.”

Harley hands him four and skewers him with a look. “If I turn on the news tomorrow and find out Spider-Man froze to death overnight, I’ll be powerfully unhappy.”

“You watch the news but not movies?” he asks as he shakes the hand warmers to activate them. “Dude, you must be miserable.”

“You’ve got no idea,” Bee mutters.

Harley ignores her and continues to stare at Peter expectantly.

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine. Freezing to death isn’t nearly humiliating enough. If I die it’ll be face down in sewer water with a note on my back that says ‘kick me’ and my pants around my ankles. That would be par for the course of my vigilante career.”

Bee snorts into her mug but Harley makes a weird face like he wants to smile and frown at the same time.

“You seem to do okay to me.”

His heart flips.

Stupid. Shut up. Why would it flip for that? Dumb. Hearts are dumb.

“Okay,” he says. He’s gotta get out of here. He stuffs a hand warmer in each of his gloves and down the tops of his boots and wiggles them around until they’re slowly warming his toes. He sighs. He didn’t realize how cold they were.

“You protect people,” Harley says, apparently not done with the conversation, “and you don’t take yourself too seriously. I respect that.”

“Well if you knew me in real life you wouldn’t take me seriously either.” He yanks the window open, letting in a gust of wind, and says, “I’ll see you around.”

“We’ll leave the window unlocked.”

He pauses halfway out of it. Why would he do that?

“Dude, get out,” Harley says. “You’re lettin’ in the cold.”

He climbs out and the freezing night air saps the warmth from his skin without mercy as Harley slides the window shut in his wake. He doesn’t latch it and instead waves through the glass.

Bee’s voice is muffled but clearly audible as she says, “I cannot believe the first friend you ever made in your life is Spider-Man.”

“Shut up.”

Friend? Are they friends? He didn’t mean for this to happen. What is he supposed to do now? Should he approach Harley on campus?

No. Absolutely not. No way. Terrifying.

Harley is still standing in front of the window with one hand on the string to lower the blinds, so Peter waves back then lets go of the wall. Plummeting in a free fall, he arches back into a slow flip then fires a string of web that picks him up and carries him off into the lights of the city.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!!! I posted this instead of working and now I have to run to get my cat to the vet on time weeeee~~~

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for the response to the first chapter!! This fic already has as many comments as A Peach Like you and a third of the kudos lmao That's the power of parkner baby

Chapter 3: Get Me Interested

Peter wakes up to the obnoxious beeping of the alarm clock he cobbled together out of dumpster scraps when he was in middle school and the faint stink of pond water. Groggy from only a few hours of sleep, he slips out of bed and stumbles through his morning routine: get dressed, brush teeth, finger-comb hair, slam energy drink, take banana, kiss May’s cheek, grab his backpa—

He stops and stares blankly at the empty space where his backpack is supposed to be.

Right. It was stolen last night along with at least one textbook, his favorite hoodie, and all of his homework. It’s the whole reason he had to go to Harley’s again. The reason his racing thoughts kept him up all night despite making it to bed at a halfway decent hour.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” May asks from behind him.

He closes his eyes. He can’t tell her. It’s the fifth backpack this year. The 40th since he enrolled at ESU. The thousandth since he became Spider-Man. He doesn’t even know which textbook was in it. With luck, it’ll have been for a class he shares with Ned or MJ.

“It’s nothing,” he says, attempting a light tone. He pinches the inside of his sleeve where no one can see his anxiety. “I’ll see you tonight.” It’s a baldfaced lie. They both know he’ll be in the city either working or patrolling until the wee hours of the morning.

“Peter,” May says in a tone that bodes ill for him, “are you getting enough sleep?”

He refuses to turn and face her. If he does, she’ll see right through him. “I— Yeah. I’m not out that late and I get naps here and there during the day. I’m doing good.” The lies are sour on his tongue. He puts his hand on the doorknob.

“Alright.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “I love you. Take care of yourself.”

“Love you too.”

On the stoop, he shuts the door then releases a pent-up breath before starting down the sidewalk. Stupid little mistakes. That’s all these are. He’ll get better at juggling all of this. He needs to step up his game. Try harder. All of these problems could be avoided if he’d put in a little more effort so that’s what he’s going to do.

Remembering his banana, he opens his fist and finds sticky banana mush clinging to his fingers. Squished. Inedible. With a deep sigh, he tosses the remains in the next trash can he passes and licks the rest off of his palm.

It’s fine. He doesn’t have much of an appetite anyway.

~*~

The door slides open with a whoosh. For a moment, the rock music is blaring so loudly his skull aches under the pressure, but then F.R.I.D.A.Y. registers his presence and it decreases to a tolerable level.

At the sudden loss of volume, a dark head of hair pops up from under one of the desks that ring the room. “Pete?”

“Hey, Tony,” he says as he hurries into the lab, stripping off his new-to-him backpack as he goes. “Sorry I’m late. I had to stop at the thrift store on the way here and the line was crazy. Do you mind if I work on my suit? My heater isn’t working right.”

There was once a time Tony would have latched onto that statement like the worst kind of helicopter parent, demanding to know what was wrong with it, how it broke, how long it had been broken. It’s a testament to the growth of their relationship that he doesn’t react at all.

“Go nuts, kid. What were you doing at the thrift store?” He wrinkles his nose as he gets to his feet, scanning the floor like he dropped something. “You doing one of those cosplays or something?”

A spark of irritation ignites but Peter swallows it down. As caring and compassionate as Tony can be, he’s still a touch removed from the realities of average people like him. Realities where thrift stores are where you shop for necessities because you can’t afford to buy new stuff rather than a quirky hobby shopping destination. Most of the time he can ignore the gulf that his billionaire status wedges between them but today he can already feel it grinding against his patience.

“Or something,” he mutters. He changes the subject before Tony can dig in his heels. “What were you doing on the floor?” Peter steps into the ring of desks, heading for the one against the far wall that he favors but Tony throws out his hands.

“Don’t come any closer!”

Peter teeters to a stop. “Uhh—,”

“What do you know about subatomic particles and have you talked to Scott about how his suit works?”

“Oh my God, what did you shrink?”

“Not what.”

“Who?”

“Dum-E,” Tony admits grudgingly, “and if you step on him I’ll hold it against you forever.”

Peter scrubs a hand down his face then pivots on his heel. “I’ll get a magnifying glass.” So much for working on his suit.

~*~

He spends the next few weeks patrolling in his Iron Spider suit. He doesn’t prefer using it for the friendly neighborhood stuff because it’s less, uh, friendly, but it’s better than freezing his butt off until he makes time to fix his heater.

So it figures that the first night he’s back in his regular suit, the one that isn’t bulletproof, he finds himself caught in the middle of a firefight.

It’s a tricky spot to be in. Bullets are flying at his front from the drug dealers cornered at the mouth of the warehouse where they’ve been operating their cartel, and also from the cops at his back as they try to take control of the situation. Instinct coupled with his Spidey-sense keeps him alive, although he’s got a graze on his forearm to remind him it’s not infallible. Sometimes everything happens at once and sometimes, with multiple dangers present, it gives him conflicting information. A tricky spot indeed.

But the worst part of the whole fiasco? No one can hear his quips over the gunfire. They’re missing out.

He lands a web on a semi-automatic rifle and yanks it up and out of reach. “Young man, I’m going to confiscate this on account of— eh, what’s the point?” He tosses it into the harbor. That should turn the tide.

Sure enough, the cops rally and surge forward, guns held aloft. He swings overhead, more surveillance at this point to make sure no one gets in over their head but also to ensure no one takes advantage of the chaos to start putting bullets where they shouldn’t. He shouldn’t have to babysit the police, but, well…

He perches on the light over the warehouse door as the cops swarm the drug dealers who have the good sense to put down their guns. He only needs to stick around for another minute and then he can take off before the cops turn their attention to him.

That’s the plan anyway. He’s on the verge of calling it a night when his hair stands on end and his Spidey-sense flares loud and bright. He lets his reflexes take over and leaps off the light a moment before a spray of bullets shatters it.

That came from behind the cops. He swings over them, eyes straining to pierce the night until— There! Muzzle fire flashes in the same moment his Spidey-sense sings out in warning. He easily dodges the flurry of bullets that follow, zipping back and forth sporadically, making sure he stays up high so no one below is caught in the crossfire.

He makes his move the second there’s a break in firing. Firing web after web, he hauls himself across the empty expanse of parking lot by way of parking lamps. The man with the machine gun is visible now, scrambling to load a new magazine. He attaches it and is already firing before he has it aimed. Spidey-sense screaming, bullets flying, the barrel swinging toward him—Peter smashes into the man with a well-placed foot and sends him crashing to the ground, out cold on impact.

In the same moment, before even the smug satisfaction of victory has its day in the sun, fire sears through his shoulder and blood spurts across the concrete in front of him. He staggers forward, choking on pain, but his Spidey-sense is still demanding that he move so he ducks and rolls, narrowly avoiding a second bullet from behind.

He doesn’t stop. As he springs to his feet he triggers a web with his good hand and turns.

His web connects with the barrel of a cop’s handgun. They lock eyes and everything slows. His blood goes fuzzy under his skin. A cop shot him? A cop turned his back on his colleagues in the middle of a shootout to shoot him?

His Spidey-sense trills in warning so he yanks the web, ripping the gun from the cap’s hands. It clatters to the pavement between them and his Spidey-sense falls silent. His shoulder throbs. He takes in the cop’s face—hard gray eyes, clean-shaven, receding hair-line with what remains shorn close to his scalp. His eyes catch on the Captain’s badge on his chest. Then he runs.

~*~

Much like the first time he did this, he rolls over the sill into Harley’s apartment like a bloody sack of potatoes. Ned never does well with gunshot wounds and after that one time he, bleeding and fumbling, had to hide from MJ’s youngest brother in the bathtub while the boy stood a foot away in front of the toilet, he’s reluctant to go back to her family’s townhouse for this kind of thing. Besides, Harley’s place is closer and his medical kit better stocked.

It’s dark inside. If he wasn’t feeling so shaky he’d probably feel bad about interrupting his sleep.

“Harley?” he calls out, tongue thick in his mouth. It’s been a while since he stopped by, maybe a month. So him arriving now, like this, will be something of a shock. He would like to say he hasn’t been avoiding Harley, but he has. Every day on campus he avoids him, but as Spider-Man he hasn’t had a reason to come back except curiosity and some nameless emotion that makes his gut tremble and his fingers fidget and that’s not a good enough justification to tempt his luck.

“Bee?” he calls, just in case.

No response.

They probably aren’t home. Normal people their age go out and do young people things on… What day is it? Is it Friday still? It doesn’t matter. He’ll cope on his own like always.

He staggers to his feet and cups his shoulder to keep from dripping as he shuffles down the hall. He peeks into the first room and finds it empty, the thick blanket Harley lent him last time he was here heaped atop it. Not home then. He doesn’t bother checking the closed door across the hall. This kind of problem isn’t one he’s comfortable dropping in Bee’s lap. He knows Harley has good hands and can work under pressure but his sister is an unknown.

At the end of the hall is the bathroom. He flicks the switch on the wall and the lights glare to life, brightening the red blotches that leak from between his fingers and patter across the tile. He kicks the bath rug out of the way, lest he ruin it, and pulls Harley’s massive first aid kit out from under the sink. Someday he’ll be in a state to truly take it in but right now he’s going to pass out if he doesn’t do something to keep the blood inside his body.

Not with a small amount of guilt, he grabs one of the lilac towels hanging beside the shower and presses it against the exit wound on the front of his shoulder. He winces but knows from experience it should be hurting a lot worse. He can’t get enough pressure on it and he can’t stitch it until the bleeding slows. The longer he goes without one or the other, the closer he comes to passing out from blood loss.

Gritting his teeth, he wedges the towel between his shoulder and the door frame. Gingerly, he leans his body weight against it, grunting at the throbbing ache that burns through his shoulder. He breathes through the pain and forces himself to hold the position. Another minute or two and he should be okay to—

The front door opens.

He jerks his head up and has to blink twice before his eyes focus. From his position leaning halfway into the hall, he stares at Harley framed in the doorway and Harley stares back. For a moment, neither of them move or speak. Then Harley shakes his head, steps fully inside, and locks the door behind him.

“Sorry,” Peter says. The word rolls sloppily off his tongue. His knees feel like jelly.

“For scaring the fuck outta me or something else?” Harley asks as he drops his keys in the dish next to the door. He casts a narrow glance at him as he stoops to unlace his boots. “Why’re you standing like that?”

“Uhh, that’s a lot of questions,” Peter says as his sluggish brain tries to remember what the first one was. “I’m fine,” he says instead of trying to answer.

Harley’s fingers still and his gaze sharpens. Forgetting his boots, he stalks down the hall demanding, “What happened?” Then he catches sight of the bathroom and curses. He must get a good look at his back too because he curses again.

“Cop did it.” He blurts the words like a kindergartner ratting out a classmate.

“Did what?” Harley gently moves him off the door frame and takes over holding the towel against his shoulder as he guides him to the toilet.

Peter stumbles and plops onto it with all the grace of a tranquilized Rhino. “Shot me. A cop shot me.”

His chest is tight, restrictive. He leans forward against Harley’s hand and lets the weight of his skull drag his neck back at an uncomfortable angle, one that allows him to watch Harley struggle to come to terms with the news he has yet to process himself. He’s got a black eye. Up this close, he can see the green tinge that means it’s starting to heal. Idly, he wonders how that happened, if he picked another fight. He wonders if Harley would tell him about it if he asked.

“Why—,” The word pinches off as Harley’s stare bores into his masked face. “Shouldn’t we—,”

“It’s fine.” He knows the police hate him—most of them anyway. It’s the same as how the press loves to vilify him to sell papers and get clicks online. It’s the same as how the city officials love to complain about his lawless ways while doing nothing to stop him from making their jobs easier. But a cop shot him. The horror, fresh and squirming in his gut, threatens to crawl into his throat and finish what the cop started. “It’s fine,” he repeats.

“Hey,” Harley says sharply. It’s only then that he realizes he’s listing to the side, dangerously close to toppling from his toilet throne. “Focus up.” Harley appears to follow his own command and peeks under the towel. He adjusts it and presses down harder. “Tell me about Dirty Dancing.”

“What?”

“The movie you won’t shut up about,” he says as he roots through the medical kit one-handed. “Tell me about it. Who’s the main character?”

“But spoilers,” he mutters. The lights in here are too bright. His head is pounding.

“You think I care about spoilers?” He pulls on a latex glove, using his teeth to tug it over his wrist. “Gotta have a reason to watch it, don’t I? Get me interested. Talk.”

Peter huffs but wracks his brain for character details he can share without spoiling the plot. He closes his eyes as Harley picks up the scissors. “So the main character’s name is Frances Houseman but everyone calls her Baby…”

~*~

He wakes groggily and doesn’t know where he is. Sunshine is streaming through open blinds on a long, high window set into a wall the shade of beige that all the landlords in the city favor. No posters, no pictures, no shelves bedecked in knickknacks and keepsakes. It’s a freakishly neat space.

No… He revises his impression as his gaze falls to the heap of dirty clothes on the floor. Not neat just… empty. Like an undecorated hotel room. It’s a space for someone passing through—easily replaced, easily forgotten. Not meant for permanence. Not meant to be a home.

The only familiar thing is the blanket that pools around his waist as he sits up. Harley’s blanket. Harley. That’s right, last night Harley insisted he stay and rest, and by the time the stitching was done Peter was woozy enough to agree. Harley left the room to get juice and Peter must have passed out before he got back because that’s the last thing he remembers.

What time is it? How long has he been here? He didn’t mean to… He pats his face and finds his mask in place, safely concealing his identity from prying eyes. His suit is mostly intact save the blood-crusted hole cut in the front of his shoulder and the matching one he can feel on his back. The stitches he can see look good but this one is going to take a little longer to heal. Still, he should be able to get home okay if he—

A familiar pair of voices spill through the cracked door.

“You talked to your peach yet?”

“Leave off, Bee. I’m doing this my way.”

“Your way is nothing. It’s been half a year. Watching you try and fail to court this boy is gonna do me in. It really will.”

“He’s not ready.”

Peter tunes out, letting the conversation wash over him as he flexes his toes and takes stock of his body. He’s stiff all over and his shoulder aches horribly but he’s felt worse and survived. Swinging home is going to take some time if he wants to avoid pulling his stitches but he can do it.

“How would you know?” Bee snaps. “You’ve never even had a conversation.”

“It ain’t difficult math,” Harley returns with equal bite. “He runs every time he sees me. Even you could work it out if you’d quit bellyaching long enough.”

“Oh sure, make fun of the theater kid’s math skills. Low hanging fruit, Harley. Low hanging fruit.”

“You’re a fruit.”

His head is fuzzy and overhearing this bizarre conversation is making it worse. Aunt May is probably freaking out because he didn’t come home last night. He has to go. If he’s quick, he can slip away before someone comes to check on him and turns his leaving into an event. Keeping his injured arm tucked against his chest, Peter untangles his legs from the blanket.

Harley’s sigh carries from the living room. “Has it occurred to you that I’ve never done this before and I’m terrified of screwing it up and losing my chance?”

“Has it occurred to you that’s why I’m trying to help?” Bee fires back.

Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed and his vision swims. He steadies himself on the wall and breathes deeply, willing away the black spots and the accompanying rush in his ears.

“By givin’ me nonstop grief? What would you have me do? Chase him? Stalk him?”

“Write him a letter!” Bee exclaims, excitement in her voice. “Who are his friends? You could give it to them.”

“Michelle Jones and Ned Leeds, but that’s not— He’ll think I’m obsessed.”

Peter straightens with a start. Those are his friends. They haven’t… Have they been talking about him this whole time? Stupid. Of course they have. How does he keep forgetting that the Harley that he knows here in this apartment is the same guy who watches him from across the quad? Despite the ease he and Harley have when he’s Spider-Man, Harley is still that guy who’s weirdly captivated by him as Peter Parker. Maybe ‘obsessed’ isn’t the word he would use but…

“Aren’t you though?” Bee asks with mock sweetness.

Then there’s a thump that sounds like bodies hitting the floor followed by muffled grunts. It goes on for a few seconds then, in a strained voice, Harley groans, “Dammit, Bee. Shouldn’t you have grown out of those bony elbows by now?”

“Serves you right,” she pants. “You done pining your life away yet? I know they say patience is a virtue but not the way you do it.”

“What’s the supposed to mean?”

“You’re too good at waiting. You’re gonna have to take action or opportunity’s gonna pass you by. Wouldn’t you rather try and fail than do nothing and never know what might’ve come of it?”

Peter slips off the mattress in the ensuing silence, hand braced against the wall lest another dizzy spell strike. He shouldn’t be listening to this. It’s none of his business. The less he knows about Harley’s alleged feelings for him, the easier they’ll be to ignore. Right? Right.

He knows he should get out of here while he can, but… Bee’s call to action at once terrifies and excites him. What would he do if Harley made a move like Bee is suggesting? Now that he’s spent time with Harley, joked with him, been nursed back to health by him, would he still run? Should he?

“Alright, you win,” Harley says on a resigned sigh. Peter’s heart lurches into his throat. “What should I put in the letter?”

“Finally. D’you think his friends will give it to him?”

Ned will. He’ll flip but as long as he doesn’t lose it to the abyss of his backpack he’ll be delighted to deliver it and beg to read over his shoulder. MJ though… Who knows what she would do with it. She doesn’t seem to like Harley much. Peter gets the feeling she doesn’t approve of the way Harley’s always watching him.

“I think Ned is rooting for me, but Michelle, she doesn’t trust me at all,” Harley says, neatly surmising Peter’s thoughts in a move that confuses and thrills him.

“Okay,” Bee says, “so you’ll give it to Ned and—,”

“No, if I go through with this, I’m giving it to Michelle.”

“You’re… What?”

Peter takes a curious step toward the door but catches himself and stays back, out of sight. If Harley doesn’t think MJ would give him the note then why would he…

“I can’t cut corners. I have to do it right,” Harley says stubbornly. “If his friends think I’m not good for him then maybe I’m not.”

“You’re— That’s ridiculous,” Bee says. “He should get to choose.”

Exactly. Thank you.

Harley sighs and all at once he sounds exhausted. “Don’t you get it? He already has. He makes his choice every time he sees me and turns the other way.”

Oh. A tangle of emotions jumble in Peter’s gut. He didn’t think Harley was serious enough to feel rejected so he never considered how his response would affect him. He— He likes Harley, despite everything. Despite the poor circumstances of their meeting. Despite everything on his plate—all of his distractions, his responsibilities. He just doesn’t have time to commit to him or anything else. It wouldn’t be fair to give him a chance and then turn around and tell him he has to wait in line behind all of New York.

“If I do this despite him making it clear he’s not interested and his friends think I’m out of line, then I guess I am. They know him and I don’t so I have to trust their judgment.”

Peter holds his breath, waiting, hoping Bee will talk sense into him. When did he start caring what Harley thought of him as Peter Parker? Why is the prospect that he might stop looking for him on campus suddenly a dismal one? He’s not supposed to want this. He’s supposed to be relieved. One less thing to worry about. It’s— He’s not supposed to care.

Softly, Bee says, “You love setting yourself up to fail.”

“Maybe he’s better off without me.”

“Bullshit.”

“He might not be interested in guys.”

“No, he’s interested,” Bee says with startling conviction. “I saw the way he looked at you. No straight boy has ever looked at another boy like he did you. But I guess if all this goes down in flames, there’s always Spider-Man.”

He chokes at the same time Harley sputters, “What?”

“Don’t be like that. You guys have a connection, I swear. You’ve never even talked to this Parker kid but you and Spidey click.”

“Shh, shut up,” Harley hisses, dropping his voice to a whisper. “He’s in my room.”

Peter lurches toward the window. The very last thing he needs right now is to be caught eavesdropping. Things are complicated enough, thanks.

“What?” Bee whispers harshly. “What’s he doing here?! Why didn’t you say something?”

“I forgot! He got shot last night and he’s sleeping it off. That’s why I was sleeping on the couch.”

“Lord almighty, sleeping it off? You forgot? Cuz that’s not bonkers or anything. I don’t get how you can roll with this stuff.”

“Not my first rodeo, honeybee.”

With one hand on the window lock, he pauses, waiting for clarification on what that could possibly mean. Has he met other heroes? Does this have something to do with that stab wound he showed him that first night? His black eye… Hold on. Is Harley a vigilante?

No. No, that doesn’t make any sense. He’d know if there was someone new on the scene.

“You’re unbelievable,” Bee says in an undertone that, with his enhanced hearing, Peter has no trouble making out. “He’s in your bed and you— Real talk, why are you so convinced Parker’s your peach? You’ve got a better shot with Spider-Man. Are you seeing how crazy it is that you’d rather chase some guy you never said two words to than shoot your shot with Spider-Man?”

Harley sighs. “I don’t know that I can explain it in a way you’d understand.” Rapidly, he adds, “That’s not me talkin’ down to you.”

“No, I know. I’m not hardwired for this crush stuff,” Bee says, tone dismissive. “Try anyway because I’m lost in the weeds here and I… I’m not used to us not understanding each other,” she adds quietly.

“It’s…” Peter holds his breath as though it’ll help him hear better as Harley says, “I looked at him and everything stopped. I swear the world didn’t turn for a full second and I just… I knew. Ever since I’ve had this— this sense. It’s like I’m tuned to his frequency. I get a feeling and I look and there he is. It’s… Even though we haven’t talked, I feel like I’m slowly getting to know him.”

“Like how?” Her tone is hushed. A prayer at a bedside.

It seems to encourage Harley because he continues with fervor. “He don’t sleep. I think he’s taking accelerated classes or something because I’ve never seen him look anything but exhausted. He likes soft shirts and sweaters that are kind of loose with long sleeves that cover his hands.”

“Adorable.”

“You have no idea. He’s got a different backpack every week. Couldn’t tell you what he does with them all. I’d say he collects them but once he stops using one he doesn’t use it again. Oh, and his diet is terrible.”

“What?” Bee sputters, laughing.

“It is,” Harley insists. “I don’t think I’ve seen him eat anything green except Skittles. He loves dogs. He fell all over himself once to pet one and I still haven’t recovered.”

Bee groans. “You’re sickening.”

“You asked!”

“Whatever. If you’re sure about this boy then I’ve got your back.”

“Bee,” Harley says, tone turning serious, “when have I ever wanted anything like this?”

“That’s what’s freaking me out. What if there’s something there with Spidey too?”

“Maybe,” Harley says in a begrudging way that honestly would be offensive if he hadn’t just gushed about his other identity, “but he’s not real, you know? He’s a superhero. He’s someone else under that mask that I’ve never met and I don’t see how I ever will. But Peter… Peter’s real. Peter, I can know.”

“With your whole heart,” Bee says softly.

“With my whole heart.”

She sighs. “Alright. Let’s figure out this letter. D’you need to check on your vigilante pal or anything?”

Peter jumps. Crap. He flips the lock and eases the window open as Harley sighs and fabric rustles.

“He probably already let himself out.”

Bee snorts. “You sound like you’re talking about a dog.”

“He snores like one.” Harley’s voice grows closer as Peter levers himself onto the sill one-handed. With Bee’s laughter chasing his exit, he slips over the edge and flattens himself against the building, sticking by the balls of his feet and his good hand.

Above him, Harley clicks his tongue and mutters, “Always with the window open.”

The window slides shut.

Peter lets his head fall back against the wall as he catches his breath and tries to sort the tangle of thoughts and emotions churning within him. He’s never… No one has talked about him that way before—brazenly, openly declaring feelings for him. In every relationship he’s ever had, he felt like he was stumbling in the dark with no idea what he was doing or if it was appreciated. MJ especially always communicated her feelings from behind barriers of words designed to protect herself from the impact of them. Which is fine as friends. Truly, it is. Knowing how to read her, he can work around that. It didn’t bode well for their relationship though. He needed her to be direct and she needed him to be, well, around.

Does he want to open those old wounds? Does he want to let this happen? If Harley doesn’t go through with it, if MJ doesn’t deliver the note, does he want to fight for it?

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!! I pretend the serotonin is for you guys but really it's for me 🥰 Y'all leave the BEST comments! Thanks for everything and stay safe and warm out there!

Chapter 4: Does he seem like the poetry type?

Everything is hunky-dory. There’s nothing to worry about. Either everything works out or everything goes horribly wrong. That’s a 50/50 shot at success. He beats worse odds every time he dawns his mask. Telling a boy he likes him, or rather, letting a boy tell him he likes him, that’s cake in comparison to his nightly patrols. Cake.

“Peter,” May says conversationally, “you’re awfully stimmy this morning.” She quirks an eyebrow, her mug held between both hands under her chin. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Belatedly, he realizes he’s bouncing his leg so hard the silverware on the table is rattling. “Sorry,” he says, forcing his leg to still. He clenches his hands into fists and digs his knuckle into the meat of his thigh.

“No need to apologize,” she tells him from the opposite side of the table. She sips her coffee and regards him seriously over the rim. “You seem keyed up. Is there a big test today?”

He shakes his head and crams a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

May takes a pointed drink and waits for him to finish chewing.

Guh. She wants a conversation. He knew sit-down breakfast on a weekday was a trap. “I’m just nervous,” he admits.

“Oh?” Her eyes don’t leave his face.

He sighs. Once May decides she’s going to get something out of him, nothing can stop her. “So there’s this guy,” he admits.

She sits up straight. “Oh?”

He shoots her a look. “He just— I dunno. I’ve known he’s interested for a while but…” He searches for the words. “I don’t— It’s not like—,”

A slow grin curls her lips. “Do you like him?”

“Yeah!” he admits, his frustration boiling over, “but I can’t do anything about it. I’m so— I barely have time to breathe. I can’t— I don’t even know how I’d approach starting a relationship. It’s all so complicated,” he moans, as he shoves away his plate and lets his head fall to the table with a thump.

May chuckles. “What can we do to un-complicate it?”

He sighs into the tabletop and says in monotone, “Tell him I’m Spider-Man and a hot mess and that he shouldn’t take it personally that I don’t have time for him.”

“Hmm, yeah, that won’t do,” May muses.

He lifts his head and says haltingly, “I… What if I did though?” He’s been thinking about it. There are plenty of reasons why he shouldn’t and he knows them all, but…

Her eyebrows fly into her hairline. “What if you… told him you’re Spider-Man?” she asks slowly.

“Yeah. He—,” He pulls a face. “Well, he’s met me as Spider-Man a few times and I think I…” He trails off, remembering the way Harley kept him talking Friday night as he cut away his suit, cleaned up his bullet wound, and stitched him closed. How he woke up the next morning with his mask still securely in place. How Harley told Bee that he didn’t know how he’d ever get to know who he is under the mask despite having him unconscious in his bed, ripe for the unmasking. How he knows for sure Harley didn’t peek because he would have recognized him in an instant and then the conversation in the living room wouldn’t have happened.

Even the first time he rolled into Harley’s apartment on accident Harley jumped into action without prying or expecting anything in return. It’s like he never considered that his identity was something he could know. Something he could ask for.

“I think I trust him.” He shakes his head. “No, I do. I trust him.”

May watches him until his knee begins to bounce in the silence. “Do you think you should tell him?”

“Well, I don’t— It’s not that— I just—,” He growls, frustrated.

“Take your time, Pete. I’m not in a hurry.”

He takes a deep breath and flattens his hands atop the table. His fingers drum without rhythm. “I’m scared, I guess. Not that he’s going to blow my secret or anything, I just…” He ducks his head. “What if me being Spider-Man is a deal-breaker? What if I tell him and he decides I’m not worth it? It’s… It’s a lot, you know? Of course you know,” he adds, embarrassed. “I know what I do isn’t easy on you guys.”

“Peter,” May says kindly. She puts her hands on the table, palms up where he could easily place his atop them, but he shakes his head. If he’s forced to stillness right now he might combust. She folds her hands together instead and leans forward. “This isn’t a decision to be made lightly, but it sounds like you need to give this guy some credit. You said you’ve met him as Spider-Man and you trust him?”

He nods.

“Does he know you?”

He nods again but then reconsiders. “He… Not really.” His cheeks warm. “He’s got a crush on me but we’ve never actually talked except for when I’m Spider-Man.”

May cocks her head. “Interesting.”

He turns beseeching eyes up to her. “Please don’t make me get into it. It’s… It’s a mess.”

Her cheeks pull in like when she’s trying not to smile. “Okay. How does he act around you when you’re Spider-Man?”

“That’s the thing. We just… hang out? There’s no flirting or interest or anything but his sister says we click.”

May raises her eyebrows but doesn’t grill him about meeting Bee, thank goodness. “Are you sure he’s not flirting?”

He hesitates. The truth is, he’s not always so great at picking up on flirting. “Pretty sure,” he says slowly. “He told his sister he’s not interested because Spider-Man isn’t a real person. It didn’t seem like he was lying.”

May’s face alights with understanding. “So because he’s not interested in Spider-Man you’re worried he’ll stop being interested in Peter Parker when he finds out you’re the same person.”

He looks down at his plate and shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I just…” His shoulders sag. “What if I tell him everything and he doesn’t want it and then there’s this person out there who knows but doesn’t want anything to do with me?”

“Pete, honey, think about how he acts around you when you’re Spider-Man.”

He purses his lips. The bickering and banter, their easy comradery. Friend-like. Friendly.

“Now think about how he acts around you as Peter.”

His cheeks heat as he pictures those intense stares across campus, the awkward waves, and the way Harley always seems to know whenever he’s nearby, the way he always seems to know when Harley is nearby as well.

“Do you still think he’ll want nothing to do with you if he knows Spider-Man and Peter Parker are one person?” she asks kindly.

“No,” he admits, “but I’m still scared.”

“That’s normal, honey, but it doesn’t mean you should let it stop you.”

“What if I have an aneurysm and die while I’m trying to tell him?”

“Then he’ll likely carry that trauma with him for the rest of his life,” she says gravely, then cracks a smile. “So maybe avoid it.”

He rolls his eyes and says dryly, “Thanks.”

She puts down her coffee. “Permission to go full-mom?”

He sighs. He should have seen this coming. “Permission granted.”

Beaming, she rushes around the table. He grunts at the impact as she hugs his head to her chest and gushes, “My sweet little boy is all grown up!”

“Maaaay,” he whines.

She presses a kiss to his temple and releases him. “You have to tell me how it goes. I’ll be on pins and needles until I hear from you.”

He sighs. That’s the other thing. “Get comfortable because I can’t tell him unless MJ gives me his note.”

~*~

By Friday he’s losing his mind. MJ hasn’t said a word about a note all week and he’s been too scared to ask her or stop by Harley’s apartment again. Aunt May isn’t helping. She thinks he should tell him, note or no note, but MJ’s opinion is important to him. If for some reason she thinks Harley wouldn’t be good for him then he trusts her to make that judgment.

It’s the not knowing that’s killing him. Did Harley give her the note? Did he change his mind? Is MJ still thinking about it or has she already thrown it away? How is he supposed to know?

“Alright.” MJ closes her textbook with enough snap to earn a warning glare from the librarian, which she ignores. “What’s the deal?”

“Thank goodness I didn’t have to be the one to say something.” Ned drops his notebook atop the pile of things that occupy the fourth seat at their table. “I came back after a single weekend out of state and find out the Garage stopped making those raspberry strudels I like. I don’t want to bring race into it but—,”

“This isn’t about your strudels, Ned.” MJ swings her gaze to lock onto Peter beside her. He drops his pencil and his heart plummets to his shoes. “This is about Peter.”

“Oh, that thing,” Ned says, deflating in his seat. “Well, can we talk about the strudels next? I’m genuinely upset. I loved those things.”

“Of course. But first, spill Parker. What’s been eating at you all week?”

“What? Nothing!” he says, too fast to his own ears.

Ned turns a disappointed stare onto him. “The longer you drag this out the longer I have to wait to talk about my strudel feelings. Think of the people, Peter.”

He swallows thickly and drops his chin to his chest. “I… There’s nothing really to—,”

“Don’t,” MJ interrupts. “Don’t insult our intelligence. We’ve both noticed you’re being extra fidgety and weird. Are we your friends or aren’t we?”

He looks up, expecting to see hard lines and irritation. Instead, he finds the familiar soft creases of concern that it seems he can’t not inflict on everyone close to him. He looks across at Ned and finds more of the same. He’s the worst.

“It’s dumb,” he blurts.

MJ leans back in her chair and makes a ‘get on with it’ gesture but she looks relieved.

“We love hearing about your dumb things,” Ned says, scooting his chair closer.

A light kick against his shin encourages him to take a deep breath and finally ask, “How come you didn’t give it to me?” He looks at MJ from the corner of his eye then down at his fingers, twisting in the ends of his sleeves. “I… He gave it to you, right? Why didn’t you… I just want to know why, I guess.”

He glances up in the silence that follows and finds MJ frowning deeply.

“Didn’t give you… Oh.”

She slips a slightly battered sheet of sketch paper from the side pocket of her backpack and Peter can’t tear his eyes away from it. His heart pounds in his ears and his face turns warm. That’s it. It’s been right there this whole time.

“This?” she asks, turning it between her fingers. It’s neatly creased into four squares then crudely down the middle, probably by MJ as she stuffed it into her backpack. “How do you know about it?” She narrows her eyes. “Did he corner you or something?”

“What’s going on? What is that?” Ned asks.

“No, no nothing like that,” Peter says quickly. He glances at Ned’s confusion before turning back to MJ. “I… I overheard him talking to his sister about it so I just… I wasn’t sure what you’d do with it. If you’d… give it to me.”

Ned gasps. “Is that from your lover boy?”

MJ ignores him and asks Peter with an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, “Did you want me to?”

He drops his gaze back to his hands, more knotted than ever. “I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. No, I don’t know. I wanted to know what you think, I guess.”

“I think he doesn’t know the first thing about you,” she says bluntly. “I think he’s infatuated with a stranger and that can be dangerous. I think he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.”

With each statement he curls in on himself until his forehead hits the table. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I guess you’re right. It’s a bad idea.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then…” He sits up. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

She purses her lips and frowns at the note suspiciously. “It could be dangerous,” she says again, “or, it could be something I have no business being in the middle of. Whatever’s in here could be completely benign but it’s not my place to decide what you should or shouldn’t do and with whom.” She drops the note so it lands in front of him.

He stares down at it with wide eyes but can’t bring himself to touch it. “You didn’t read it?”

“Like I said, it’s not something I should be in the middle of.”

“Then why didn’t you give it to me right away?”

She shrugs. “Wanted to see what he’d do, if he’d get angry, if he’d force a confrontation.”

“And?” Ned asks for him.

She shrugs again. “Nothing. He seems kinda sad if anything, but he kept his word. As far as I know, he hasn’t tried to push anything.”

He frowns at the note. He doesn’t like that Harley’s sad because of him. “When were you going to give it to me then?”

MJ’s lips twitch and then she smiles, a crooked slant that conveys a wry kind of amusement. “Honestly, I forgot about it.” She gestures at it with her chin. “Read it. Let’s see what mystery boy has to say.”

His heart races. Here? Now? “I don’t know. Maybe it’s better not to know, you know?” he says quickly. “Maybe Harley will just—,”

Ned and MJ shoot fully upright and trade looks. Crap. Oh, he fudged this up.

“Okay, look,” he says before either of them can say anything. “There’s some stuff that I haven’t… I need to catch you up on some things that have happened.”

“You said he didn’t corner you,” MJ says darkly.

“He hasn’t! I went to him!”

MJ and Ned trade looks mixed with doubt.

“On accident,” he clarifies.

“Peter, dearly beloved,” Ned says, “I think for all of our sakes you should start at the beginning.”

He sighs but then does just that, starting with that first misadventure through the wrong window then winding between encounters and backtracking to add things he forgot, but he tells them everything. Well, almost everything. He glosses over how bad the injuries were, but they know if he stooped to getting help then it must have been pretty bad. By the end, MJ is hunched forward with her chin in her hands and a thoughtful frown and Ned is leaning across the table on his elbows, engrossed.

“So you like him back?” Ned asks.

“Maybe?” he says weakly. MJ shoots him an unimpressed look. “Okay, yes, but it’s more complicated than that. I hardly have time to hang out with you guys. I can’t— It wouldn’t work. I don’t have time for a— for a— for anyone else.”

“It doesn’t seem that complicated to me,” Ned says. “Last I checked there were four seats at this table.”

As one, the three of them look at the spare seat. For the life of him, Peter can’t imagine Harley replacing their heap of books and bags. What’s Harley like when he’s not at home making hot cocoa and snarky come-backs? How would he fit with his friends? How would their dynamic have to change to make room for him? Would he like that? Would any of them like that?

“I don’t know,” he says again. His stare finds the note. “Maybe it’s better to keep ignoring him. I like how things are.”

“I don’t,” MJ says.

His gaze jumps to her. Bewildered. Hurt. “What?”

“I mean,” she begins with a hard glint in her eyes as she pokes him in the shoulder, “you’re not taking care of yourself. You’re stressed and exhausted. With the way you’re going, it’s only a matter of time before you burn out. I don’t like how things are at all.”

“I—,”

“But worst of all,” she continues over him, “you’re not talking to us about things that matter.” She gestures at the note. “Case in point. And that’s a little thing. If you’re not telling us about the little things, does that mean you’re not talking about the big things either?”

“There aren’t any big things,” he assures her.

She snorts, unconvinced. “Whether or not that’s true, I don’t like it. If this new guy coming in and shaking things up is what it takes to get you to treat us like your friends again then… Well, I’m interested in what he has to say for himself. We can reevaluate things once we know what’s in the note.”

He swallows thickly. “I’m sorry. I just… You guys are my best friends. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Well, tough. We’re going to no matter what you do.”

“If we didn’t worry about you then we wouldn’t be very good friends,” Ned adds.

“You guys are great friends. The best friends. I’m sorry I’m not—,”

“Nope,” MJ cuts him off. “This isn’t a pity party. Read that note and let me know whether I need to get my Jehovah’s Witness outfit out of storage and make this guy’s life a living hell.”

“He already knows who you are,” Ned points out. “He’s not going to believe you’re a Jehovah’s Witness.”

“All the better. He’ll know exactly why he’s being punished.”

Peter tries on a smile but fails. He can’t look away from the note. His stomach hurts.

“Does he seem like the poetry type?” MJ asks kindly.

He shakes his head.

“Then it can’t be that bad. Come on, let’s get this over with so you’re not stuck dwelling on it all weekend.”

That’s a good point. He takes a deep breath and before he can think himself out of it, unfolds the note.

There are fewer words than he expected. He thought it was going to be a love letter, a declaration of some kind. Not poetry, but something big, something life-changing, something epic. Instead, there are a few short lines penned meticulously in the center of the page.

If you’re reading this, that means your friend must have seen something worthwhile in me so here goes

My name is Harley Keener and I’m interested in getting to know you.

If you’re interested too I’ll be at the castle in Central Park at 6:30 every night this week. If you don’t come then I’ll leave you alone and you won’t have to hear from me again. Either way, I’ll respect your choice.

Yours if you’ll have me,

Harley

It’s awkward and simple and not at all the intimidating declaration of feeling and emotion he was anticipating. It’s very… Harley. He’s not sure why he expected anything else.

“Well?” Ned asks, wiggling impatiently. “What’s it say? Was it love at first sight? It was, wasn’t it?”

His face heats but he swallows and says, “He wants me to meet him.”

“Oooo!” Ned leans forward. “Like a date?”

He shakes his head roughly. “No, like, uh… Just to get to know each other, I think. He didn’t say date. I don’t think it counts… Right?”

MJ holds out her hand. “May I?”

He hesitates but passes it over. There’s nothing to hide at this point.

Her eyebrows raise high up on her forehead as she reads then she passes it across to Ned with a small thoughtful hum. “Not a date,” she says.

“No,” Ned agrees, reading rapidly, “but ‘yours if you’ll have me’? He’s definitely angling for one.”

“What do I do?”

MJ shrugs and Ned hands him the note. He takes it with careful fingers and reads it one more time before folding it and tucking it carefully into his jean pocket.

“Whatever you want,” MJ says.

“What do you want?” Ned asks. “Are you going to meet him? It’s barely past five. You could go tonight if you—,”

“No,” he says then softens his tone and continues, “No, I… I’ll go tomorrow,” he decides on the spot. His skin feels too tight. “Tomorrow I’ll… I’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“You better not chicken out,” MJ warns. “After tomorrow he’s going to leave you alone. That’s your last chance.”

“Right. Yeah, I umm. I won’t.”

She doesn’t look convinced but turns to Ned anyway. “Alright, Nedward. The floor is yours. What did you want to say about the strudels?”

His face falls. Heavily, he says, “I loved those things. I’m really going to miss them.”

Peter nudges his shin with his sneaker. “We know, buddy. It won’t be the same without them.”

Ned manages a weak smile. “Thanks for understanding.”

~*~

He was worried Harley would be long gone by the time he finished webbing up the carjacker and made it to the park, but there he is, standing off to the side, leaning against the railing and frowning.

Heart rabbiting behind his ribs, Peter watches him from high up in a tree like a creep for ten minutes before he summons his courage. He waits until Harley looks up from his phone to frown at the usual crowd milling around the castle then sticks out his arm and waves. The movement catches Harley’s eye and he turns then blinks in surprise upon spotting him. He doesn’t move from his spot at the rail until Peter waves a second time, motioning him over.

Harley jams his phone in his pocket, looks over the crowd one last time, then hops the fence and strolls across the grass.

With every step Harley takes towards him, his heart rate accelerates. He’s going to throw up. Oh beans, he’s going to throw up in his mask and it’s going to go up his nose and then he’ll fall out of the tree and—

“You stuck?”

“Huh?” He looks down and finds Harley standing at the base of the tree.

“Like a cat,” Harley clarifies, shading his eyes as he cranes his neck to peer up at him. “Need me to call the fire department or somethin’?”

“I— No. I’m not stuck.”

“Uh-huh.” He says it like he doesn’t believe him then tucks his hands in his pockets and turns to scan the crowd at the castle like he’s looking for someone.

Right. He’s looking for him. What was he thinking showing up here as Spider-Man? Why can’t he be normal about things? This was stupid. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Why does he never do anything the easy way? He fumbles the note out of the hidden pocket on his hip and hesitates. What’s he supposed to say? How is this supposed to go? He has no precedent for this.

Harley turns back to face him with a deep furrow between his brows and dropping shoulders but when he catches sight of the folded note his face alights with recognition. Then his eyes narrow into slits. “Where’d you get that?” he demands, sharp and clear.

Peter’s mouth is so dry he’s shocked to find he can still form words. “My friend gave it to me.”

Harley’s whole body goes tense and he demands, “How did your friend find it?”

“You gave it to her.”

Peter holds his breath as Harley’s expression twists in confusion. It only takes a handful of seconds, then he blinks hard and stares at him, mouth open slightly. Oh, this is bad. Bad, bad, bad. Why didn’t he show up sans costume like a normal person? Dumb question. He knows why. If he showed up maskless, he would have chickened out on the second part of why he’s here. Yeah, he wants to take Harley up on his offer to get to know each other, but that has to start with telling Harley that Peter Parker and Spider-Man are one and the same. Anything less and they’re going to crash and burn and Harley will hate him by the end of it.

Unfortunately, the stress may kill him.

Harley’s mouth snaps shut and he shakes his head. “What are you talking about? You’re not…”

He shrugs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other then sits down on the limb. “I am though,” he admits. “I’m… him. Uh, sorry.”

Harley blushes. He blushes bad. It creeps from beneath the collar of his jacket and washes across his cheeks all the way up to his hairline. Peter follows the progression of it, mesmerized as he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever seen him flustered.

“Quit messing with me,” Harley says, but he’s standing stiff as a board and his eyes haven’t left the note.

“I’m not. You can read it if you want.”

Harley crosses his arms and, for a moment, Peter’s sure he’ll refuse, but then he huffs and sticks out his hand.

Peter holds it out to him, leaning carefully out of the tree as Harley moves onto his tiptoes to snag it from between his fingers. He roughly unfolds it and only glances at it for a second before shoving it back into Peter’s hand. He steps away and turns his back on Peter as he worries his knuckle over his bottom lip.

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats.

Harley spins on his heel to face him. “Why do you keep saying that?” His face is crumpled in a mishmash of emotions that Peter can’t parse. “This whole time you’ve been— Is it pity? You feel bad for me? Some hick idiot who—,”

“What? No! I just… I’m sorry it’s me,” Peter says weakly. “You thought— This isn’t what you thought you were signing up for. So I get it if you… It isn’t what you thought.”

Harley stares at him. “I don’t know what I think. You’re really…” He glances around and steps closer.

“Don’t say it,” he interrupts quickly. “Not here.”

“But you’re him,” Harley presses. “You’re… Who gave you the note?”

“MJ. Michelle,” he says quietly. “She gave it to me yesterday.”

Harley nods, eyes unfocused, distant. He licks his lips. Swallows. Opens his mouth and closes it again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Quit apologizing unless you came here to let me down easy.” The skin between his eyebrows pinches. “Is that it? Is that why you came like… like that?” He gestures at him. At his suit.

“No,” he says, too sudden. “No, I’m not… I’m no good at this kind of thing.”

“Will you…” Harley knuckles his bottom lip as he looks over his shoulder at the crowd again then turns back to him. “Can you take off the mask? Just for a second. I— It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he says hurriedly. “It— This doesn’t feel real.”

Peter chews his lip. He has to fight to keep from crumpling the note, ruining it with his anxious fingers. “No. Not here and I— It’s easier with it on. That’s actually— What I wanted is to—,” He cuts off and shoves hard at the frustration welling up inside him. This would be so much easier if his words weren’t all crowding out of his mouth at the same time and his heart wasn’t threatening to give out. Sweat trickles down his side as he takes another breath.

“I’m autistic.” The words feel foreign in his mouth, even after all these years of knowing. It’s not something he tells people, just like how he doesn’t disclose to people that he uses a spoon left-handed or that he’s tone-deaf. It’s part of who he is. It doesn’t need saying. “So it’s— Part of that is social anxiety and it’s easier behind a mask.”

“Okay,” Harley says slowly in that way people do when they don’t get it but don’t want to say so. “So… have you been pretending this whole time? Like you’re role-playing or something?”

He shakes his head, ignoring the way the pit in his stomach opens into a chasm. “The opposite. It’s… freeing? I guess? I feel more like myself as Spider-Man than I ever have as… as myself.”

Harley frowns up at him and says nothing.

“What?” he demands with more bite than he means to.

“Sorry, but that’s kind of fucked up, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. We’re both kind of fucked up.”

Harley’s lips crook into a tense smile and he tips his head towards him like he’s conceding the point.

Something eases in Peter’s chest. This, at least, is familiar territory. “I’m sorry I never talk to you at school. You scare the hell out of me if I’m being honest. Not in a bad way!” he adds when Harley’s smile slips. “I guess I’m not used to someone paying so much attention to me.”

“I can back off if you—,”

“No, that’s not what I—,” He shakes his head. “I was going to ask if you umm… D’you want to walk together? To the Edison building? That’s where my 8:00 AM class is. We can meet up where you park on Monday and uh, yeah. Walk. Together.” It was Aunt May’s idea. When he came screaming home after class yesterday, panicking over how this meet-up would go, she suggested on-campus as a neutral territory where they’re both comfortable and the walk to class as an activity with a set duration. A definite beginning and end.

“Really?” Harley asks, expression guarded. “You’re not going to run off on me?”

He cringes. “I’m sorry, I—,”

“No, don’t be.” Harley knuckles his forehead. “I’m sorry I’ve been making you so uncomfortable.”

“To be fair, pretty much everyone makes me uncomfortable. It’s a miracle I have any friends.” Harley doesn’t smile. Peter takes a breath. “Can we just… take this a day at a time?”

“Yeah, no, of course.” Harley shakes his head like he’s clearing it. “I’d love to walk with you.”

“Yeah? I know it’s kind of lame. It’s not too… slow?”

Harley shakes his head definitively. “No, I can go as slow as you need. We’ll take baby steps, fetus steps if we need to.”

Peter snorts. “We might have to drill down to zygote steps.”

“I can do zygote steps,” Harley says with so much sincerity it makes his ears ring.

Peter ducks his head, an embarrassed smile tugging his lips. “Okay, I’m going to go over-think this conversation and beat up bad guys until I can people again.” He gets to his feet on the branch.

“Wait!”

He pauses even though everything in him screams to go, go, go.

“Can I tell my sister?” Harley asks. “I’ve never kept anything from her before. I don’t know how good at it I’d be.”

“She’ll… You trust her?”

“With everything, yeah.”

“Okay,” he says even though his throat goes tight with anxiety. “You can tell her.”

“Are you sure?”

Peter takes in Harley’s face and says, “I trust you.”

He drops down from the tree and there’s a moment when they’re close enough to touch if they want. Harley’s gaze locks onto his despite the mask and for a moment, everything slows, the air turns thick, the sound of the pond insects and the crowd at the castle fade to a dull hum. They’re the only two people in the world.

Then Peter steps back and the moment breaks.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!!! Are these boys awkward or what? Special shout out to May, MJ, Abbie, and Ned for getting them this far. That's the Power of Friendship baby! Unfortunately, now it's up to Harley and Peter to run with the ball

I love you all dearly!! Your comments make my week every week!

Chapter 5: Courting Trouble

Notes:

Content Warning: There are some insects and light body horror at the very end of this chapter. More details in the end comment!

Monday is bearing down on him. Peter’s going to have to face Harley without the mask. He’s going to have to face him as Peter Parker. He’s going to throw up.

On Sunday night, he stays out far later than is wise but he’s too wired to sleep. He’s ready to drop afterward but still only manages to doze off and on for a few hours before he’s awake again and too aware of the time to get any more sleep. He could tool around the house for another couple of hours trying not to wake May, but his anxious energy has to go somewhere.

Which is how he winds up patrolling again. A quick morning patrol, he tells himself. It’s just the thing he needs to siphon off his nerves and leave him level-headed and centered. Just a quick one. An hour tops and then he’ll be ready to see Harley face-to-face.

Forty-five minutes later, he eases open Harley’s living room window and slips through it, careful not to drip blood on the carpet. He doesn’t bother to announce his arrival and makes a beeline for the kitchen and the roll of paper towels sitting beside the microwave. Harley should be in his god-awful morning class by now so—

“What are your intentions with my brother?”

He freezes with his hand outstretched for the paper towels. Slowly, he turns to find Bee behind him, her hair halfway curled and her hands on her hips.

Oops. He forgot about her.

“Um, what? I don’t—,”

“Save it for someone who doesn’t have eyes,” she says, rolling hers. “I don’t need to see your face to read your body language. You’re into him. So what’s the deal? Are you going to string him along forever because, newsflash asshole, he’s not going to be available forever.”

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” he says so quickly the words run over each other on the way out of his mouth.

“Oh fuck off,” she snaps, stalking another step closer. “My brother might be too stupid to recognize a connection with someone when it slinks in through the window and bleeds all over the goddamn carpet but I’m not. Don’t lie to me. If you want a chance, now’s the time to get off your ass and do something about it. Otherwise, stay the hell away from him. He doesn’t need you confusing his head now that this Parker kid is finally giving him the time of—,”

He pulls off his mask and she stutters into silence.

“Uh, hi.” He ruffles his hair so it unsticks from where his sweat plastered it to his scalp. “MJ gave me the letter and I talked to Harley on Saturday. I told him he could tell you who I am but I guess he uh, hasn’t yet.”

Bee presses the heels of her hands hard against her forehead. Only her soft breathing fills the space between them until she says, “So you’re both idiots.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh, I think that’s a fair analysis.”

“Wait.” She lowers her hands, revealing a dangerous glare. “This whole time, you knew who Harley was and you didn’t say anything?”

He takes an involuntary step back. He’s not going to be able to wisecrack, waylay, web-crawl his way out of this one.

~*~

A chill wind cuts through Peter’s hoodie and tousles Harley’s already messy hair but Harley doesn’t move to fix it or move at all actually. He barely even blinks.

Peter shifts from one foot to the other. He hopes he looks calmer than he feels. His fingers are tangled in an anxious knot within his hoodie’s pocket and he can’t meet Harley’s stare. Instead, he directs his, “Good morning,” to a piece of lint on Harley’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” Harley echoes woodenly.

His face heats as Harley’s stare refuses to waver and they continue to stand facing each other, but several feet apart and in dead silence aside from that stilted greeting. Students come and go around them, not sparing their stalemate even a curious glance.

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe they should have—

“Sorry,” Harley says. He shakes his head and crosses his arms only to uncross them and jam his hands in his pockets. “I just… It really is you. I sort of thought…” He ducks his head. “Ah, it’s stupid.”

Peter shifts his weight. “Yep. This is me.” He chews his bottom lip and holds his breath. His eyes dart to the dwindling number of students in the parking lot, then to the bumper of Harley’s truck, then to Harley’s shoes. “So umm… Should we—,”

“Walk,” Harley says, startling like he’d forgotten. He runs his hand through his hair, mussing it so it falls attractively to one side. “Let me grab my stuff.” He steps onto the rear tire of his truck and hoists his backpack out of the bed then steps to the ground and slings it over his shoulder in one smooth, practiced motion. “Let’s walk.”

They sneak surreptitious glances at each other as they fall into step behind a meandering group that all talk at once. Every so often they accidentally lock eyes and look away in sync.

Peter takes a deep breath as they near the Edison building. “So umm, I stopped by your place this morning.”

“Oh. I was in class.”

“No, I know. I just needed some super glue and I didn’t want to wake up Ned but uh, Bee was there and umm, she knows now so…” He trails off, eyes fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk that he habitually steps over.

Harley snorts. “That explains the texts she sent me. She wouldn’t say why she was so pissed, just that it was something we had to talk about in person.”

His eyebrows furrow. “In person?” Harley’s eyes are on him. He can feel their weight. He looks up and meets his gaze as they step into the shadow of the Edison building.

“I told you,” Harley says, “you can trust her.”

He licks his lips. “Is she mad at you too?”

“Not mad mad.” He pulls a face. “She’s probably going to do a lot of gloating actually. Is she mad at you?”

He winces. Her tirade about him playing games with Harley’s heart isn’t one he’ll forget any time soon. The ‘or else’ was implied at the end of her telling him he’d better take this seriously and stop being such a tool, but it was a strong implication.

“She called us both idiots,” is all he says to Harley about it.

They slow as they approach the door and then stop.

Harley nods. “Nothing she hasn’t said to my face then.” A line appears between his eyebrows and he licks his lips. “I’ll… see you later?”

Peter nods. “Yeah. See you.” He doesn’t look over his shoulder even though Harley’s gaze burns between his shoulder blades all the way up the stairs. The door shuts behind him and he releases his breath.

That sucked.

~*~

He spends class reviewing every awkward moment of his conversation with Harley rather than paying attention. He’s still caught up in his head when he steps into the hall and finds Harley leaning against the opposite wall. As Harley spots him, a smile blooms across his face that sets the butterflies in Peter’s stomach fluttering.

“Hey,” Harley says.

“Hey,” he echoes.

“Is this okay?” Harley asks, eyebrows pinched. “You usually go to the library next, right? Mind if I walk you?”

He shakes his head and easy as pie, they fall into step. They weave around students in the hall and exit the building. Peter’s hands are tangled in the pocket of his hoodie again. Why is this so hard? They were never this quiet when he was Spider-Man. Or if they were, he didn’t feel it like this. Like not carrying a conversation is a failing.

Harley clears his throat, his eyes on a cloud overhead.

Peter smothers a groan. “If you try to small talk me about the weather, I can and will ghost you.”

Harley turns surprised eyes onto him and breathes out a fragmented laugh. “Alright, challenge accepted.” He purses his lips thoughtfully. “What kind of fruit are you?”

Peter chokes. “Excuse me?”

“Not like that.” Harley rolls his eyes. “Bee claims she’s a dragon fruit and that I’m a peach. So if you had to choose, what kind of fruit would you be?”

Is this a test? He recalls that overheard conversation and his confusion grows. They kept referring to him as Harley’s ‘peach’. What the hell does that mean? Is that what Harley’s fishing for? Does he want him to say he’s a peach too?

“Blue raspberry,” he blurts.

Harley barks a surprised laugh. “That’s not a real fruit.”

Peter shrugs “I don’t really like fruit.” He never knows what he’s going to get. He likes strawberries in theory but it’s too much of a guessing game to bother trying. More often than not, he ends up with one that’s too mushy or too sour. Blue raspberry always tastes like blue raspberry no matter what form it’s in. There’s comfort in consistency.

Harley grins down at him with a look on his face like he’s never been more delighted by a conversation. They stop at the base of the ramp leading to the library doors and Harley asks, “Can we do this again tomorrow?”

His heart skips. He wants to see him again? Despite all of this awkwardness? “Yeah,” he says too quickly. “If you’re sure you’re okay with taking it this slow.”

“I’m good at being patient.”

Again, that conversation pops into his head and the tension drains out of him. Harley’s not going to push for more. He’s letting him set the pace and is respecting his boundaries. Zygote steps. He can do zygote steps.

He does look back this time and finds Harley where he left him, watching him walk away. Harley lifts a hand and waves. Peter waves back, cheeks warm, then hurries inside. He stops in the bathroom and sends May a string of exclamation points. Almost immediately, he receives back a slurry of heart and confetti emojis followed by the suggestion that they order in for dinner to celebrate a not-date well dated.

His thumbs hover thoughtfully as he considers. He could skip interning. He doesn’t have any pressing projects right now and it will be good to spend some time together. He’s been too busy for too long. He sends the text and then hurries to find Ned and MJ and tell them the good news.

~*~

He can never have anything good without bad following swiftly on its heels. It’s an unspoken rule, a law of the universe. He should know better by now and yet here he is, courting trouble by allowing himself the small happiness of being courted by Harley Keener.

He should know better.

A cream curtain rippling under soft golden light on a high-rise balcony catches his eye while he’s on patrol. It’s been pulled out of the open french door by the wind that never quits this high up, waving like a flag of surrender in the night.

He lands silently on the rail and steps down, ears straining. Only a faint gurgling sounds from within the apartment, like a half-clogged sink, slowly draining. It could be nothing—a door innocently left open, an accident—but his gut says otherwise.

“Hello?” He stretches his senses and catches the scuff of a shoe against hardwood, a soft inhale, the gurgling drain. There’s a faint tinge of copper in the air. “Friendly neighborhood wellness check, incoming.”

He brushes aside the curtain and steps inside. The high-quality furnishings are apparent even in the dim moonlight. Dense carpet cradles his feet as he takes in the massive L-shaped desk overshadowed by the bookshelves cased with thick glass to protect the contents.

Beyond the doorway, carpet gives way to wood. Following the inset lighting that lines the baseboards, he draws closers to the source of the gurgling, towards a doorway where the light catches a dark puddle as it slowly inches across the hall and slips into a floor vent.

The copper smell is stronger now. He takes another step and his Spidey-sense hums to life at the base of his skull. It’s not insistent enough to be a warning of immediate danger, but rather of the potential for it. All of this screams trap, but if someone is hurt then Peter doesn’t have the luxury of considering his own safety.

He releases a breath and rounds the corner. He gets a glimpse of a man on the floor, flat on his back, blood bubbling sluggishly from between his lips, then his Spidey-sense screams.

He ducks and rolls into the room as the air crackles and a bolt of green light sails over his head. The afterimage blots his vision but he gets two fingers on the neck of the guy on the floor. Before he can tell if he has a pulse, his Spidey-sense flares again and he has to drop to his stomach to avoid another green energy beam. He rolls to avoid a third.

“Holy lightning storm, Batman!” Blindly, he fires a web. It explodes in a burst of green light that illuminates the stringy bits of webbing that fly across the room as well as a woman standing at the apex, feet braced apart in sensible New Balances, bare hands splayed in front of her chest, lips pressed flat in a determined lined, and her eyes wide with fear.

“Is this stuff coming out of you?” he asks. Normally he’s the one that gets that question, but the ray gun he expected is conspicuously absent. Is she enhanced? Can she control electricity? Green electricity? Is it magic?

Her eyebrows furrow. She flicks her wrist and her eyes momentarily flare green as another bolt of energy zips through the air at him. He dodges easily and retaliates with a rapid-fire of webbing.

She flinches, raising both of her hands, palm out. The webbing seems to hit some kind of forcefield and explodes like it did before.

Oh boy oh boy, it is magic. He’d be geeking out if there wasn’t a man dying or dead on the floor. Still, he has to ask, “Are you a wizard? A witch?”

She straightens to her full height but it only draws his attention to her faded zip-up and plain yoga pants. “That’s none of your business, Spider-Man.” She speaks softly, a tremble in her voice, but is it from fear of him, what she’s done, or what she is?

“Oh, good. You already know who I am.” Surreptitiously, he gets two fingers on the man’s wrist. “Care to level the playing field?”

She licks her lips then says, “We’re not enemies.”

What an interesting thing to say to someone you keep throwing lightning at. “All the more reason I should know what to call you.”

A barely-there beat pulses against his fingertips. Still alive. There’s still hope, but he’s running out of time.

“Jill,” she whispers, drawing his attention fully back to her. Her gaze drops to his hand on the man’s wrist. “You need to go.”

“Jill?” he parrots. Slowly, he shifts to his feet, hands held loose and easy where she can see them. He needs to take her by surprise, incapacitate her, and get this man to medical attention. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know the limitations, or extent, of her abilities. “Well, now my name just sounds silly.”

A tiny smile flicks the corners of her lips but then she presses them flat and her forehead wrinkles. “Please don’t make me hurt you.”

“Why would you do that? You said we’re not enemies.”

“We’re not,” she insists, but her eyes are focused on his hands and her body is tense, ready to react, “but you’ll try to stop me.”

“I could help instead.”

The guy on the floor gurgles and another bubble of blood passes between his lips. He doesn’t have time for this, dammit. He shifts his weight towards the man, ready to spring over him should he need to.

She swallows thickly and shakes her head, more of a tick than genuine movement. “You won’t.”

“Why are you so sure? I’ve been known to surprise people.”

She looks him directly in the eyes and hers glow green. His Spidey-sense hums and the hairs on the backs of his arms stand on end. A sharp smell floods his nose and mouth. Ozone.

“Because you don’t kill.” Green energy spikes from her fingertips and, too late, he realizes if he dodges it’ll hit the man. Heart pounding, he braces for pain and squeezes his eyes shut as it crackles over him, hoping it won’t kill him.

It’s over in a heartbeat. He cracks open his eyes and pats at his chest. He feels… fine. A bit jittery like he drank too much coffee too fast on too little sleep, but fine. There’s a tickle in his throat but he’s fine. He coughs and it tastes like ash on his tongue.

“Was that supposed to do someth—,” His stomach rolls alarmingly. That persistent tickle is still there and when he coughs it grows more urgent, not better.

“I’m sorry,” Jill says, stepping back towards the window. “Don’t blame yourself for not saving him. I promise the world is better off without him.”

He staggers toward her but his stomach lurches so hard his knees buckle. That itch is starting to feel like something is crawling up his esophagus. The moment he thinks it, something brushes the back of his tongue. He gags. He can’t breathe. Something is blocking his airway.

Retching, he rips his mask up to his nose and coughs hard. Black specks splatter on the floor then skitter for the edges of the room. He stares in horror as another cough builds in his chest. His throat burns.

Spiders. He’s coughing up spiders.

“I hope one day you’ll forgive me.” Jill has one foot on the window sill, ready to step out of it. To where? What is she doing? Is she going to jump?

Desperately trying to ignore the spiders that puff from between his lips as he coughs, he fires a web at her but it only explodes in a shower of fried silk that illuminates the dozens of spiders that hit the floor in front of his feet. Legs scramble against his tongue, the inside of his teeth, the roof of his mouth. He gags and spits, gasping for breath before the next wave clogs his throat.

When he next looks up, she’s gone. The gurgling coming from the man on the floor stops.

Notes:

Furtherance of Content Warning: Peter gets hit with a magic spell that makes him cough up spiders. It's not super descriptive but it is described. It happens in the last few paragraphs of the chapter. LMK if you need more details <3

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!! Henceforth this will be known as the day I asked myself if I really wanted to commit to naming my big bad "Jill" and answered Yes. lol Poor Peter I am not nice to him :(

Thank you thank you to all of you reading and commenting!! It means everything to me <3

Chapter 6: We're both a bit stupid

Peter runs his tongue over his teeth.

The spell only lasted half an hour but it was the longest half hour of his life. He couldn’t get enough air to call the police until the guy on the floor was cold and long gone. His fault. He should have spent less time talking and more time fighting, figuring out her weaknesses, saving the victim rather than the attacker. His fault.

That guy though…

According to the news this morning that guy was Mitch Allen, a controversial senator and one of the loudest voices calling for the Sokovia Accords back in the day and not for altruistic and guilt-ridden reasons like Tony was. Had the Accords passed, being an unregistered enhanced individual would be punishable by death if you’re lucky or a life sentence without trial if you’re not.

The world is better off without him.

We’re not enemies.

Please don’t make me hurt you.

Who was she? Technically, she didn’t hurt him but he’s going to carry the emotional scars of last night for a long long time. He’ll never forget the feeling of spiders crawling around inside his mouth, up his throat. He runs his tongue over his teeth and shudders.

“Cold?”

Peter jumps and cracks his neck to goggle at Harley. He’s watching him as they walk side-by-side down the twisting path across the quad. Most students cut across the grass, no time for the whimsical route someone who would never have to walk it concocted, but this is the only time he and Harley have together so they take their time and follow the path as they every day for the past week.

“Sorry.” Peter manages a tense smile. “Zoned out.”

“Late night?” He’s still watching him, bright eyes blue like the cloudless sky overhead as they drink in every detail from the set of his shoulders, to the expression on his face, to the pace at which he walks.

Peter shrugs and stares ahead, unable to meet his intensity.

Late morning more like. He scoured the city but Jill was nowhere to be found. Once he was able to, he stuck his head out the window and found that she exited via the fire escape. Typical. He’s just happy her powers don’t also let her fly or teleport or something. Lighting powers and Curse of Spider Regurgitation are more than enough, thanks.

Now that he has her target’s identity as well as her first name, he’s itching to hit the library. There’s gotta be something that connects them. Maybe she’s a pissed off co-worker, some kind of subordinate that went off the deep end. Or maybe she’s a random taxpayer, sick and tired of living under the thumb of a rich, out-of-touch asshole. Or maybe she’s—

Oh, who is he kidding? That guy was awful. She could be anyone.

A bell jingles overhead as Harley holds the door for him. Peter stops in his tracks, blinking thickly at his surroundings. How did they end up at the Garage? He’s got class. What is Harley thinking?

“Today, sweetheart,” Harley drawls. “You’re blocking traffic.”

Face hot, he steps inside and waits off to the side as Harley holds the door for the couple behind him.

“I have class,” he says, dogging Harley’s heels the moment he drops the door. He stops at the end of the line at the counter. “Also, we’re not at the pet names stage yet.”

Harley glances at him out of the corner of his eye then goes back to gazing up at the menu. “Cuz I called you sweetheart? That’s a regional thing, don’t worry about it.” He glances at him again. “But I’ll try to curb it if it bothers you.”

“That’s not— I’m— It’s fine,” he grumbles. He knots his fingers together in his hoodie. “Why are we here instead of the Roosevelt building?”

“Roosevelt doesn’t have coffee.” The line moves and Harley steps up to the counter. “You a latte guy? You seem like you like your coffee sweet.”

“Hey, Pete,” Alison, the barista, greets before he can reply. “You just missed Ned and Michelle.”

“Oh.” He fights not to check over his shoulder. He’s not ready to field introductions between them and Harley. “Shoot,” he adds belatedly.

She grins causing her nose to wrinkle but he doesn’t get what’s so funny. Thanks to Harley’s sudden desire for caffeine, he’s late and for no good reason this time.

“Large oil change?” she asks as she punches in the code for a plain black coffee.

“Yeah, sure.” He still doesn’t understand why he’s here.

“Harley?” she prompts. “You still working down the menu?”

Huh? Does she know Harley? He shouldn’t be surprised. The Garage’s coffee is cheap, the WIFI is free, and it’s so close to campus it’s basically on it—there probably isn’t a student at ESU that hasn’t stopped in at least once.

“Yup,” Harley says, but for some reason, he’s looking at Peter. “I’m on the flat tire latte.”

She clicks her tongue. “Hot or iced? Whip or nah?”

“Hot.” He pulls a face. “Might as well try the whip.”

“Are you going to try the iced versions too?” she asks as she punches it in.

“I need to do something educational this summer or I’ll forget everything I learned this year.”

Alison laughs and something sour drops into Peter’s gut. Is Harley flirting? Right in front of him? It seems unlikely but… Well, he doesn’t like it.

Harley pays and they move to the end of the counter to wait for their order. He turns and does a double-take upon finding Harley still watching him.

“What?” he snaps.

Harley shrugs then faces forward with his hands in his pockets. “You always surprise me.”

Oh please. What’s so surprising about the most boring coffee on the planet? What’s so surprising about a broke college student ordering the cheapest coffee on the menu? Why does Harley expect him to be anything other than boring and cheap and average?

“What are we doing here?” He grinds the end of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger until the abused fabric gives way to a hole.

“We’re getting coffee, Peter,” Harley says in a tone that borders on condescending.

“We’re supposed to be in class,” he grits from between clenched teeth.

“No point,” Harley says shortly.

He pivots to face him and Harley coolly meets his glower with raised eyebrows. “That’s not a choice you get to make for me.”

“I didn’t,” Harley says. “You walked here. You came inside. You ordered. You could have turned back or said something at any time but you didn’t because you were so out of it that you didn’t notice where we were going until we got here.”

“Because I trusted you.”

Something flickers in Harley’s eyes but rather than verbalize it, they hold each other’s stare in weighted silence.

He followed Harley here blindly. That doesn’t just happen. May, Ned, MJ—his closest loved ones who have stuck by him over the years and earned his trust, they get his blind loyalty. He and Harley have only had a few scattered interactions spanning a handful of months. Harley only learned his name last weekend. So maybe… Maybe he’s not mad at Harley for possibly flirting with Alison, or thinking he’s special or calling him sweetheart. Maybe he’s scared because he trusts Harley on an instinctual level that he doesn’t understand. What is it about him that keeps sneaking under his guard? What has Harley done to earn that trust?

“Then trust me when I tell you,” Harley says in a soft but solid undertone, “there’s no point in sitting in a classroom when you’re like this. Caffeine will help. I want to help.”

Peter studies him openly in a way he so rarely does when Harley is looking back, when there’s no mask between them. “You’ll walk me to class after?”

“After you’ve finished your coffee. I promise.” Harley’s eyes don’t leave his. He’s unfairly handsome with those bright earnest eyes and his stubborn set jaw. The freckles on his nose and chin are barely there this side of winter but by the end of summer, they’ll be stark on his skin like they were the first time he saw him, that day in the cafeteria when the world stopped.

“Peter?”Alison calls and sets a paper cup on the counter.

He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t like being coddled and this is definitely coddling, but he’s never turned down free coffee before and he’d be a fool to start now over this. He breaks their staring contest and collects his cup to cradle between his hands. “Fine,” he agrees, speaking to the lid, “but this can’t be a regular thing. I miss enough class as it is.”

“Deal,” Harley says as his name is called. He grabs his cup and holds it up in silent thanks and receives a wave in return.

They weave their way to the door. “Do you come here a lot?” Peter stops to ask him as Harley opens the door and steps back to let him walk through first. Weirdly, they’ve never run into each other even though he's here at least once a day with Ned and MJ.

“Is that a pickup line?” Harley asks with a crooked grin.

Peter glares as his cheeks heat.

“Sorry.” Harley continues smiling as he gestures for Peter to lead the way back into the cold. “I work here. Closing shift.” They fall into step as the door swings shut behind them.

“Oh.” Great, so he works with Alison. They must spend all kinds of time together. He’ll never have enough free time to make up the difference. He can’t even visit during his shift because that’s when he patrol— “Wait. How late is closing shift?”

“Ten, usually. Later on Wednesdays cuz that’s when we do the deep clean.”

“Even later if I stop by needing stitches,” Peter adds, “and then you get up for your 7:00 am class?” Judgment drips from his tone as he side-eyes Harley.

Harley catches his eye and his lips quirk. “Must be why we get along so well. We’re both a bit stupid.”

Peter ducks his head to hide the sappy grin that pulls his lips and takes a gulp of coffee that scalds the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue.

~*~

Shockingly to no one, least of all him, he finds a fat load of bupkiss on his search for who Jill is and why she targeted Mitch Allen. The dude has pissed off so many people, she could be literally anyone.

The world is better off without him.

Well, tough. The guy died on his watch, right in front of him. He should have found a way to get him to medical help and then tried to reason with Jill. ‘Poor time management.’ His curse. It’s burned into his retinas from seeing it scrawled across every progress report since he was 14. He knows he can do better so why can’t he do better?

He stays out patrolling until he can barely keep his eyes open, then crawls home and passes out until Aunt May shakes him awake, telling him he slept through his alarm, he’s late for class, and that she’s got to run to get to work and therefore can’t give him a ride to campus.

Still dripping from a tepid shower, he shoots off a quick text to Harley while he’s on the subway telling him not to wait up. That’s why he’s surprised to arrive on campus to find him in his usual spot, leaned back against the front bumper of his truck, coat zipped to his chin, a paper cup in each hand.

He doesn’t deserve him. He truly doesn’t.

~*~

The rest of the week progresses much the same. And the next week. And the next. He’s barely getting by in class. Aunt May is worried but nearly all of his interactions with her are through text so he’s been able to stave off an intervention thus far. His opportunity to properly introduce Harley to his friends passes without his noticing. He’s being walked to the library by Harley, per the norm, but then he blinks and he’s sitting at a table across from Ned and MJ and Harley is seated in the chair beside him and he has no idea how long ago they arrived.

Ned meets his confused stare and grins brightly—too brightly—like he’s overcompensating to hide his true feelings in that way he does. “There you are,” Ned says and everyone looks at him. “We were just talking about whether—,”

“Weather!” Harley interjects. “We were just talking about the weather. Sure is nice out, huh?”

A roll of thunder rattles the window panes as the first drops plink against the glass. Great. Rain means no web-swinging. He needs to make time to get to the lab and figure out a more water-resistant formula. He can’t afford to be grounded any time the weather turns. He’s been meaning to upgrade for years but—

“Quit being a coward,” MJ says, pulling him from his thoughts like they’re made of tar—sticky and stubborn. At first, he thinks she’s talking to him but her gaze is fixed on Harley. Huh? What did he miss?

MJ turns her gaze onto Peter. “We were just talking about whether or not Harley should refer to you as his boyfriend.”

Huh???

“They wanted to know,” Harley corrects.

“It’s been a month!” Ned exclaims, barely reigning in his volume to a library-appropriate level. “Of course you’re boyfriends.”

“That’s up to Peter,” Harley argues.

“If you leave it up to him you’ll be in the courting stage for decades,” Ned points out. “You haven’t even been on a date yet.”

“Exactly. Quit tryin’ to rush us or you’ll freak him out.”

Harley refuses to look at him. He knows because he’s usually always looking at him but right now he’s very much not looking at him. That, and maybe his exhaustion, lends Peter the courage to ask, “You don’t want to call me your boyfriend?”

Finally, Harley looks at him. He looks at him like he’s the dumbest creature alive. “‘Course I do. You’re the one that wants to take zygote steps and keeps turning me down every time I ask you out.”

He— What. “I have?”

Harley scrubs his hand through his hair and Peter follows the movement like a fish in a tank follows a finger along the glass. “Lord,” Harley grumbles under his breath. “Abbie was right.” He looks up at him and says, “You’ve got no clue what you’re doin’ to me, do you?”

He searches his poor sleep-deprived brain but the information isn’t there so he has to ask, “Who’s Abbie?”

Harley stares at him. “My sister.”

Something clicks into place in his brain. An answer to a mystery that he forgot was a mystery. “Ohhh that’s what ‘Bee’ is short for. So should I call her Abbie? Who all gets to call her Bee? Is that a brother-only privilege that I’ve been stepping all over?”

Harley groans and lays his head on the table. “Who am I kidding? I’m just as hopeless.”

“Decades,” Ned whispers to MJ and shakes his head at the tragedy of it all.

He’s probably not wrong if Harley’s been asking him on dates. When? To where? How did he not realize?

There was that one time Harley asked if he wanted to get dinner after his last class but Peter turned him down because he had a shift at the car wash, his latest job to replace the bakery after he was late twelve-too-many times. Was that supposed to be a dinner date? Then there was the other time Harley suggested he could skip his 7:00 am class and they could get coffee, but if he misses any more sleep it’ll probably kill him and besides, Harley shouldn’t be cutting class just to see him. Was that supposed to be a coffee date? How many others have there been? How many times has he turned Harley down and not realized?

MJ is staring at him pointedly. She looks meaningfully at Harley whose head is still on the table and then goes back to staring him down.

Ah. Right. He clears his throat. “Hey, uh, can I talk to you?”

Harley sits up warily. “We’re not technically dating so if you’re thinking of breaking up with me then you don’t need to—,”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on.” Peter grabs his wrist and tows him away from the table. Harley’s chair topples loudly as he staggers to his feet and only Peter’s grip keeps him from crashing to the floor after it. Oops, too much strength. He slows to let Harley regain his footing but doesn’t stop until they’ve passed the librarian’s stern glower and disappeared within the stacks.

Somewhere deep within the self-help section, Peter turns and faces him. His mouth goes dry. With the sun clouded over it’s dim and shadowy in the stacks, lending a feeling of isolation, but Harley’s presence is lustrous. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks and a stricken set to his mouth while his gaze rests heavily upon Peter. When was the last time they were alone like this? Was it before he unmasked? It must have been.

“Umm,” he says then trails off. How is he supposed to think with Harley right there and looking at him like that? He didn’t bring him back here to make out but he’s forgotten the initial reason so why not? Right?

Harley pulls in a breath. “Look, I didn’t want to overstep.” His eyes are pleading at him to understand… something.

“Overstep?” One more step and they could be standing atop each other’s toes.

“Yeah.” Harley licks his lips and looks at his shoes. “Ned was ribbing me and calling me your boyfriend and I… Well, I told him I didn’t know if we were.”

Clarity shines upon him. Right. That’s why. “I thought we were. Are, I mean.”

Harley looks up, fixing him with that too-intense stare that he has. The one steals his breath. “You did?”

Peter nods. “That’s what I told my aunt and To— my internship… guy.”

Harley makes a weird face. “You told your boss about me?”

Peter grimaces. “Boss isn’t the right word but yeah. He’s weirdly invested in my personal life.”

“Weird like creepy, or—,”

“No, no, no! Weird like, it’s weird that Tony Stark keeps trying to dad me all the time.”

Harley’s head snaps back and his nostrils flare. “Tony Stark?” he demands, too loud. “You intern with Tony Stark?”

Peter rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah.” Guh. Why did he namedrop him like that? He knows better than to casually bring up that his internship is with the billionaire Avenger.

“So he knows?” Harley makes a discrete thwipping motion with his wrist. “And he… helps?”

Peter pulls a face. “He knows. He lets me use his lab and stuff.”

“But does he help?” Harley asks with a strange intensity.

He frowns. “I don’t need help. Especially not from Tony. He does enough.”

Harley presses his lips together and doesn’t look happy, which is a shame because a minute ago Peter was thinking how nice it would be to kiss him. Obviously, he can’t do that now that they’re both thinking about Tony. That is such a dad move to cock block him from across the city without even trying or knowing about it.

“So you haven’t been telling people that I’m your boyfriend?” he asks, not bothering to quell his pissy tone. This whole time he thought they were the real deal but apparently what little time he can afford isn’t enough.

Harley’s attention snaps back to him. “We never talked about it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

“Well, I guess I assumed.”

“But you’re okay with it? I can tell Abbie it’s official?”

He looks so hopeful the icy pettiness melts from Peter’s chest. “Yeah, tell her it’s official. Alison, too.”

“Who?”

“Alison? From the Garage? She’s always smiling at you and laughing at your jokes and— Stop smiling like that.”

“Darlin’, are you jealous?” Harley asks, eyes laughing as he looms over him.

“I— There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“Damn right there’s not.” He brushes the back of his hand down Peter’s forearm until their fingers tangle together. Peter’s heart trips as Harley runs his thumb over his knuckles. “No pressure, but I’m dyin’ to kiss you.”

Peter forgets to breathe. “Well, I’d hate for you to die.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’d totally bum me out.”

Harley rolls his eyes. “No, I mean really, can I kiss you?”

He’s thrumming with anticipation. It’s all he can do to keep from bouncing up and down like a child. “After all this build-up, you’d better.”

“Smartass.”

“I knew you only liked me for my a—,”

Harley kisses him. Soft and brief, a caress that stops the world if only for a moment.

He opens his eyes and he’s never seen anyone half as beautiful as Harley Keener in that moment. “Is that it?” he asks throatily.

Harley laughs, more exhalation than anything else. “You’re impossible.”

“You like the challenge.”

Something sparks in Harley’s eyes like he’d forgotten, or maybe never realized, that he likes to play and he likes to win and he likes to work for that win. “Tell you what, I’ll kiss you again better if you agree to go on a date with me tonight.”

His heart skips. A date? Tonight? When was the last time he went on one of those? Then again, it’s Harley. He trusts him and he has already turned him down who knows how many times without knowing. And besides, it’s raining. He can’t do anything about Jill if it’s raining.

“Okay,” he agrees. “W-where? What time?” His anxiety spikes. “What do I wear? I don’t own anything fanc—,”

Harley kisses him. Chaste, like the first time, but where the first was a gentle meeting that ended as it began, the second lingers. The whole world drills down to Harley—Harley under his hands, Harley in the heated air that curls around them, Harley kissing him like it’s all he ever wanted. Above them, the clouds finally break and a symphony of rain beats atop the roof while Harley’s thumb strokes along Peter’s jaw and his fingertips press firmly on the back of his neck.

Their lips part but neither of them move.

“What happened to zygote steps?” Peter whispers.

“I think our zygote grew up when we weren’t looking,” Harley says, equally hushed. He swipes his thumb across Peter’s cheekbone. “Meet me at the truck when you’re done with class? We can go back to mine and eat pizza and watch Dirty Dancing. Does that sound…” He trails off as uncertainty overtakes his expression.

Peter rocks up on his toes and kisses it away. “It sounds perfect.”

~*~

He should have anticipated that he wouldn’t be able to stay awake for the whole movie, no matter how much he likes it. He’s been burning the candle from both ends for so long it’s astounding there’s any candle left. He wakes briefly to a darkened living room, pizza boxes strewn over the floor, and Harley. Harley beside him on the couch, Harley’s thigh under his head, Harley’s fingers playing through his hair as he types on his phone with his other hand.

“What’re you doin’?” Peter mumbles sleepily. What time is it? It’s hard to tell with the storm turning it prematurely dark.

“Askin’ Ned to let your aunt know you’re sleepin’ over.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Go back to sleep, darlin’. You need it.”

He rolls onto his back and glares up at Harley. “You tricked me. This wasn’t a first date. It was a faux date. You just wanted me to sleep.”

“Can’t both be true?”

“No. You owe me a real first date. One you plan on me being awake for.” He gestures at the dark TV. “Did you even like the movie?”

Harley smiles, soft and fond in a way that makes his chest ache. What did he do to convince someone to look at him like that?

“It was a good movie. Reminded me a lot of you.” Harley brushes Peter’s hair back from his eyes. “Now go back to sleep and I’ll start planning the real date.”

Peter glowers. “I’m gonna sleep because I want to, not because you said to.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I still don’t like that one.”

“That what? Sweetheart?”

“Yeah, that. It feels like, umm…” His eyes flutter shut as he wracks his brain. “What’s the word? Not pretentious. Pandering. Precocious. Uh…”

“Patronizing?” Harley asks, sounding far too amused.

“Yeah, that. Stick with the other one.”

“You like it when I call you darlin’, darlin’?” Harley drawls, that bastard.

“Not anymore,” he grouses.

Harley laughs, light and muted, but Peter can feel him shake with it. It’s weirdly intimate. Wonderfully intimate.

“Kiss goodnight?” Peter asks. He sits up to meet Harley halfway but is surprised when Harley kisses his forehead rather than his lips. He lays back down, baffled at the warmth coursing through him. Something about forehead kisses… Something about showing affection and expecting nothing in return… Something about being cherished and protected and adored… He rolls onto his side as Harley resumes stroking his hair.

“Goodnight, Pete.”

“Night, Harley.” Harley soothes him nearly to the brink of sleep before he thinks to mutter, “Harley?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks.” Then he tips over the edge and into the inky black of a deep dreamless sleep.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!! I've been super busy lately so I haven't had the juice required to reply to last week's comments but just know that I read all of them and I'm full of so much love for every single one of you. Thank you so much <333

I wonder what Harley is thinking about Peter interning for Tony (¬‿¬)

Chapter 7: Can you let me in?

A tickle up the bottom of Peter’s foot steals him from the depths of his REM cycle and sends him screaming to the floor. Maniacal laughter is the first thing to greet his ears followed by Harley bellowing, “Abigale Luann, you leave him be!” Then Abbie’s footsteps (and laughter) retreat down the hall and the upstairs neighbor stomps their displeasure.

Over the back of the couch, Harley peers down at him with a kitchen towel draped over his shoulder. “You alright?”

Peter blinks blearily up at him, eyes crusty, unsure how he got on the floor of the Keeners’ living room. “What’s happ’ned?”

Harley grins but doesn’t explain. “Breakfast is on if you’re hungry.”

His stomach growls but he ignores it and squints at the window. It’s dreary and drizzling just like it was before he fell asleep. “Time is it?” he grunts.

“6:17,” Harley chirps.

“At night?”

Harley’s smile widens. “In the morning. Hence breakfast.” His eyebrows lift. “I know you’re hungry.”

Peter groans and pulls the blanket over his body like a shroud. He must drift off because the next thing he knows, the blanket is being folded down off his face and Harley is kissing his forehead. “I’m off to class. There’s a plate for you in the microwave.”

“Huh?”

“Food. Microwave. Don’t sleep through class but maybe do.”

Peter glares up at him but Harley only shrugs and appears unrepentant.

He sits up with a groan and, for a moment, considers lying back down and taking Harley’s advice. Even after more than a full night of sleep, he’s drained. Exhausted. His bones are rocks, grinding and scraping their sockets, trailing gravel and dust. His muscles were replaced with chewing gum that was stuck to the bottom side of a bus seat for two years. Even his eyes feel bruised.

“I gotta go,” Harley says, drawing his attention back to him. “Abbie will be here until you need to leave.”

Peter grunts his understanding then tries to school his expression into something beseeching. “Kiss goodbye?”

Harley’s amusement fades into something akin to affection as he leans in.

Bang!

Peter jumps to his feet, nearly clocking Harley in the nose with his skull.

Harley goggles at him. “Wha—,”

“Did you hear that?” Peter demands. He strides to the window and looks down at the street below. The usual pedestrian traffic is flowing normally. No strange gaps or clusters as people gawk or avoid a situation. No one is looking up either.

“No. What’s going—,”

“Stay here,” he orders. He pulls off his shirt and gropes for his backpack at the same time. Papers and books scatter across the floor as he yanks his suit from the bottom of the bag but he ignores them and thumbs the button on his jeans. “Pants are coming off,” he thinks to warn as he undoes the zipper.

Hilariously, Harley claps a hand over his eyes. How did he bag a gentleman?

Abbie enters the room as he is kicking his jeans into the corner. “What are you two doin’?” she demands. “Where are your clothes?”

“Stop looking at my naked boyfriend!” Harley snaps, his hand still covering his eyes. Adorable.

“He’s in the living room! And he ain’t naked.” She smirks. “Nice undies, Spidey.”

“Thank you.” He gives his ass a gratuitous wiggle as he shimmies into his suit.

Abbie snickers and Harley’s hand twitches but it stays over his face so he misses his chance to get a look at his Avengers underwear. It’s a shame. Ned says they’re very flattering.

Once his suit is up and over his shoulders, he says, “You can look now, princess.”

Harley lowers his hand, revealing a glare and a dusting of pink across his cheeks. “I hate this,” he says. “You don’t get to call me that.”

“I think you like it.” He smacks the spider symbol on his chest, shrinking the suit around him, then rips his mask out of his bag and over his head in one fluid motion. “Stay here, both of you. Don’t go anywhere until you hear from me.”

“What’s going on?” Abbie asks, her grin fading into a worried frown.

“Hopefully nothing,” he says with a lightness he doesn’t feel. He points a stern finger at Harley. “I mean it. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Do not sneak out to class while I’m gone.”

“Sure,” Harley says flatly. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Peter slides open the window. “No promises.” He flashes a peace sign and slips out the window.

No, literally. His foot slips on the wet sill and he bangs his head on the frame as he tumbles out and into a free fall. Blindly, he fires a web and it blessedly sticks despite the wet, jerking him upright and nearly taking his arm out of its socket.

Ow.

“You deserved that!” Harley shouts after him.

Mayhapsbe he did.

Head throbbing and shoulder aching, he swings back around to Harley’s building and scurries to the roof. The gunshot, he’s sure that’s what he heard, was close but not close enough for Harley to notice it or for the people down on the street to react. A neighboring building then maybe?

No one is looking out any windows but it’s been a minute since he heard it and this is New York. People are more likely to keep their curtains closed and stay out of it than they are to go poking around and get shot themselves.

He has a feeling in his gut and follows it to the nice building a couple of streets over, caddy-corner to Harley’s. It’s a chore to web-swing in the rain. There are no long swinging arcs, only quick desperate shots of webbing that barely stick long enough to keep him in the air until he can get his hands on something solid. It’s a waste of web-fluid is what it is. He lands lightly on his palms and toes against the damp stucco exterior and begins a rapid, spiraling climb up the building. He stretches his senses. Televisions squawk various morning shows, coffee pots burble, spouses kiss goodbye, kids cry for five more minutes rest, dogs whine to be let out for their morning dump.

He’s only a few floors from the top when her voice stops him in his tracks.

“—fast-acting. It will be over soon.”

Dammit. It’s her. He’s sure it’s Jill. He needs to get inside. He’s not going to be too late this time. He’s not.

He scrambles to the nearest window and taps on the glass. The pink curtain twitches aside and he breathes a sigh of relief at the girl that stares wide-eyed on the other side of the glass. She’s maybe in middle school? The older he gets, the harder it is to pinpoint kid’s ages, but the point is, she looks old enough to reach the latch and open the window.

“Can you let me in?” he asks. “Someone’s in trou—,”

She flips the lock and shoves at the window. He’ll have to worry about the implications of her hasty compliance later. Now, he helps her slide the sticky window and pushes the screen until it pops out of the frame and lands with a soft thump on her unmade bed. It’s a tight squeeze but he manages to shimmy through the window and flop down after it.

“Spider-Man?! Oh wow. My friends are never going to believe this! You’re the coolest!”

He leaps to his feet. The clock is ticking. “Hey, uh, kiddo. Listen, I gotta go help someone. Thanks a million but maybe don’t go around telling people I’ve been climbing into little girls’ windows, okay?”

“Oh, yeah sure of course!” She beams at him, revealing a full set of braces. “I’ve gotta go to school in a sec but you can use my window again if you need it. I’ll leave it open for you!”

“Cool, cool.” He edges towards the door. “Just… You never saw me, okay?” The very last thing he needs is for the Bugle to twist a story like this.

She zips her lips but doesn’t lose the megawatt smile.

Oh man, she’s going to tell her whole school. There’s nothing he can do about it now. He flashes her a thumbs up, then eases open the door, listening for anyone on the other side. There’s music coming from a closed door, the bathroom by the looks of it, and someone is shuffling around in a bedroom at the end of the hall with their back to him.

He makes a break for it. Quick but silent, past the bathroom, through the kitchen, and out the door into the hall of the apartment building. He eases the door closed behind him and releases a relieved breath. That could have been awkward.

Jill. Where is she? What is she using a gun for if she has magic? Maybe the gunshot is unrelated. Maybe he’s got two problems to sniff out.

Across the hall, the doorknob turns but he has nowhere to go. The door opens and Jill freezes in the doorway, eyes locked on his. For a moment, he knows satisfaction—good ole gut coming through again—but then Jill’s eyes glow green as the door behind him opens.

His satisfaction evaporates. He knows what comes next. “Ah, come on, Ji—,”

“Spidey? My mom says—,”

Green energy zaps him in the chest. Memories of legs tickling his tongue and crawling out of his throat paralyze him as surely as the pain that locks his muscles. He collapses to the floor. It didn’t hurt last time. Why does it hurt?

Stale dusty carpet. A cold hand patting his cheek. He forces his eyes open and finds his view obscured by the girl from the window. Did he black out?

“Oh my God, I thought you were dead!” the girl exclaims and then bursts into tears.

Crap. How long was he out? He gets his elbows under him and looks up and down the hall. Jill is gone. He feels like he was hit by a train and there’s a middle schooler sobbing over him. What a day.

“Hey,” he says groggily. He pats her knee. “Hey, I’m okay. She wouldn’t kill me. I think she likes me.” She must or he’d be dead twice over by now. He feels like death but his throat doesn’t itch. He’s much happier being blasted unconscious than the alternative.

“Spidey, she doesn’t have a crush on you,” the girl cries, distraught and sobbing harder now. “This is abuse! You gotta tell someone.”

He lays back down. What even is his life?

~*~

Fifteen minutes later, he crawls in through the Keener’s window with another dead man on his conscious. This one seems to have gone down with a fight judging by the pistol in his hand, but he ultimately went the same way as Mitch—drowning in his own blood. To make things worse, he couldn’t find where the bullet went. The gun was fired, he heard that much, but he didn’t see a gunshot wound on Jill and he couldn’t find any damage in the apartment. He’s afraid of what that means about Jill’s shield thing. If it can stop bullets (explode bullets? Dissolve bullets?) then it’s serious business. He’ll have to find a way around it.

“Everything okay?” Abbie asks. She’s on the couch with Harley who is silently scrutinizing him as though checking for injuries.

He sighs. “Depends on your definition of ‘okay’.” He pulls off his mask and ruffles his hair. Another dead man. Another failure.

Abbie guffaws and slaps a hand over her mouth. He looks at her quizzically and finds Harley staring at him too, eyes wide.

“What?” Oh no. What did she do to him this time? He gropes his face. “What?”

“Uhh…” Harley’s lips twitch and his gaze travels up to his hair.

Abbie snickers into her hand and tears pop into her eyes.

Peter whirls around and groans at his reflection in the window. He’s purple. His skin, his hair, even his teeth. This is insult to injury. There was no reason for this other than petty malice.

“I guess you’re going to skip today after all,” Harley says, not even trying to hide his amusement.

What even is his life?

~*~

Crap. His life is crap and people are starting to notice.

He keeps missing assignments, either because he forgot about it entirely, wasn’t in class when it was assigned, or plain ole ran out of time to do it.

He got fired from the car wash after five too many no-call no-shows.

Aunt May is breathing down his neck about his patrol hours.

Ned and MJ are plotting an intervention.

And Harley… Harley won’t shut up about going on that stupid date. They’ve been going round and round for weeks. Ever since that kiss in the library, ever since he stayed over once, ever since he stupidly joked about needing a redo on their first date, Harley has been pushing and pushing and pushing for more of his time. Time that doesn’t exist. Time he needs to spend looking for Jill. It’s driving a rift between them, one he feels widen every time he turns him down.

“What about Thursday?” Harley asks. He crosses his arms and leans his butt against the truck’s front bumper. He’s finished with classes for the day but Peter has another lecture to sit through before he heads off to S.I. for lab time.

“Same as Tuesday,” Peter says tiredly without meeting Harley’s eyes. “Class, internship, dog walking, patrol.”

“And you can’t skip—,”

“No, I can’t skip patrol,” he snaps. Why can’t Harley figure out that this is as good as it’s going to get for them? It sucks. He knows it sucks, but he can’t make more hours in the day. He can’t.

Harley raises a cool eyebrow. His eyes are flinty as he says, “I was asking about the internship. Surely, Tony Stark can survive an evening without you.” He presses his lips together and looks into the middle distance. “But if it’s asking too much we can shelf this and…” He shrugs and frowns at his boots.

“I…” Guilt roils atop the ever-cresting wave of frustration that’s trying to drown him. Nothing is going right. He’s patrolling more than ever and everyone is suffering for it, but he hasn’t made any progress in tracking down Jill. The pressure is mounting. She got away with two high-profile murders: one a politician and the other a CEO, both controversial enough that no one will shut up about it. Half the internet is lauding their murders while the other half is calling on social media to block and ban the ones doing so.

Selfishly, he wishes she would have offed them in different ways so it wouldn’t have been so easy to link the murders. Everyone is salivating over having a classic serial killer in New York and quite frankly, he’s over it. Two people he couldn’t save. Three if he can’t get through to Jill and make her see sense. More if he doesn’t stop her before she kills again.

He pushes it all to the back of his mind. If he keeps dwelling on it he’s going to go crazy.

“Shelf what?” Peter asks. “Our first date?” He crooks his lips in a half-smile but it falls quickly.

Harley looks up at him with ice in his stare. “You’re the one that insisted the first one wasn’t good enough. I’m trying, okay?”

Peter drops his attempt at levity. “I know. I only meant—,”

“Look.” Harley takes a deep breath. When he continues he sounds exhausted. “How ‘bout you let me know when you’ve got time for me.”

His heart cracks. “Harley, I—,”

He shakes his head and scrubs his hand through his hair. “I don’t want to pressure you. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate and I don’t want to be the one to add to that, but you asked me. Either you want this to happen or you don’t. If you don’t, could you let me know instead of messing me around?”

“I’m not messing you around.”

“Aren’t you though?” He sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “I’m gonna head home. I’m not in the right headspace for this.”

Peter’s stomach lurches. Quietly, he asks, “What does that mean?” Is this it? Did he push Harley over the edge, not realizing how close it was? Are they done? He knew this wouldn’t work. He knew it.

“It means I’ve got my own shit going on,” Harley says, clipped and sharp and even, “and I’m not in the mood to have my heart stepped all over right now.”

“What? What’s wrong? Why didn’t you say—,”

“You sure you have time to listen?”

Peter flinches.

Harley rubs his forehead hard enough to leave a pink mark. “This is what I mean. Sorry, but I can’t do this today.”

“Can’t talk to your boyfriend about your problems?” Peter asks.

“Can’t pretend to not have any problems so I don’t overload my stressed to breaking boyfriend.”

Peter’s gaze snaps to meet Harley’s hard stare. He narrows his eyes. “I’m not going to break if you reveal your humanity to me. I’m not fragile.”

“No offense, but you’re so stressed if I put an ounce more pressure on you you’ll pop like a balloon.”

“I’m always stressed,” he snaps. “This is my normal, Harley. Does that mean you’ll never talk to me?”

Harley’s lips peel back into a humorless smile. “What, you mean like how you talk to me? What’s got you so busy you can’t sleep, huh? Tell me about it. I’m all ears.”

Peter’s teeth clack as he closes his mouth.

Harley’s smile turns bitter. “That’s what I thought.” He stands. “I’m goin’ home. You know where to find me if you decide I’m worth your time.”

Harley opens the driver door and gets in the truck. The engine revs to life and Peter doesn’t move, not to run after him and not to walk away. The window rolls down and Harley says, “I’m not interested in a halfway relationship. Either you get all of me and I get all of you or—,” His expression flickers but he lifts his chin and continues, “—or I’m done. Let me know what you decide.”

Peter does nothing as the truck reverses. He does nothing as Harley drives out of sight. The engine is swallowed by the sounds of the city and still, he stands on the sidewalk staring at the place he last saw him.

A raindrop hits his nose.

Fuck.

~*~

The wrench snaps in half rather than loosen the stuck bolt. With a yell, Peter hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and embeds itself there with a crunch of drywall. He can’t do anything right. He’s a bad hero, a bad nephew, a bad friend, bad student, bad intern, bad employee, and now a bad boyfriend to boot. All he does is let people down. Harley is better off without him. They all are.

The door to the lab slides open with a soft whoosh and Tony strolls in. The wrench in the wall catches his immediate attention. “Woah, what’s going—,”

“I’m fine!” Peter explodes. “Everyone needs to stop acting like I can’t do anything on my own! I’m fine!”

Tony stops and slowly removes his glasses. Moving like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal, he perches on the edge of a workbench and stares at him until Peter’s ready to start yelling again. He’s so sick of being treated like a child who doesn’t know how to take care of himself. He’s sick of people acting like he’s going to break.

“I was going to comment on the tool sticking out of my wall but now I’m thinking we should focus on this one instead,” Tony says lightly with a nod at Peter.

“Very funny,” he spits.

“What’s up?” Tony gestures at him, “Since you’re so clearly fine.”

Peter closes his eyes and breathes deeply until he can unclench his fists. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too little, too late. You started this conversation, Underoos. Now we have to see it through or I’ll be dwelling on it. You know how nosy I get when I dwell on things. What’s rattling around in that noggin of yours?”

He’s right. If he leaves Tony to stew, he’s going to pick his life apart and uncover everything he’s been working so hard to keep to himself. He sits heavily and rests his head in his hands. Hollowly, he admits, “I think my boyfriend broke up with me.”

“You think?”

He sniffs. “He said to let him know if I decide he’s worth my time, otherwise he’s done.”

“And then you said…?”

Peter doesn’t answer and picks at the seam of his jeans.

“Petey-o, tell me you didn’t let him walk away after that.” He stays silent. Tony groans. “Yeowch. No groveling? No promises?”

Peter picks up his head just enough for Tony to see his sullen stare then lets it hang again. “I didn’t have a choice. I can’t lie to him.”

“Double yeowch. You don’t think he’s worth your time? Sounds like you’re the one that did the breaking up, buddy.”

He sits up and throws his arms wide. “I don’t have time to give him, Tony. What’s the point of convincing him I care if I can’t fix the problem?”

“At least he would know you care. I’d guess he’s feeling pretty alone and unwanted right now and that’s a shitty way to feel.”

“I don’t need the guilt trip.”

Tony hums and falls silent. The only sound is the rush of heated air in the vents overhead and Tony drumming his fingers against his thigh.

Peter breathes out. Softly, he says, “I’m tired of making everyone I care about feel bad all the time. I know everyone worries and I guess I…” He exhales heavily and rubs his eye. “What if he’s better off away from all that? Away from…” He licks his lips. “Away from me?”

“That should be his choice, don’t you think?” Tony says with uncharacteristic gentleness.

He nods and the lump in his throat is so large that for a moment he can’t speak. He swallows and pulls in a new breath. “Then he’s made his choice.” Peter turns back to the workbench and reaches for his wrench. His hand closes on air. He clenches it into a fist. He is not going to fall apart here in front of him. He’s not. Keep it together, Parker.

“Do you even like this kid?”

Peter turns around, incredulous. “Of course I do. He’s…” Funny, sarcastic, kind, smart, a goofball, a rock in the middle of a turbulent ocean. He’s… He’s Harley. He’s the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time.

“So why have you been sabotaging your relationship?”

Peter’s head snaps back. “What? I haven’t been… I’ve been busy!”

Tony waves dismissively. “Of course you are, I’m not saying you’re not. But I know you.” He points an accusatory finger. “This,” he gestures at Peter’s whole self, “this didn’t crop up after he gave you the ultimatum. You’ve been stewing on this ‘he deserves better’ crap for way longer than just today. You’ve been paving the way for him to leave. That’s not fair, Pete. How’s he supposed to make the choice that’s right for him when you’ve been pushing him to make the choice you think is right for, I don’t know, weeks?” He raises his eyebrows. “Months?”

He looks away from Tony’s pointed stare.

“Cut the bullshit and lay all the cards on the table, that’s my advice. Let him decide what’s good for him and what’s worth the work.”

“But I’m—,”

“You’re worth a lot more than you think you are, kid. I see it. May sees it. Your friends and now it sounds like this boyfriend of yours might see it too.” He stands and brushes off his slacks. “Give yourself permission to be happy, that’s all any of us want from you. That, and try not to throw any more of my tools through the walls.”

Peter says nothing for the second time that day as someone drops a truth bomb on him and walks away.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!! Mmmmm these relationship problems are so juicy. Peter my dirtbag disaster man whom I love soooo much. Get ready for some 💖✨communication✨💖

Thank you thank you for all of your wonderful comments!! You're all so special to me <333

Chapter 8: All of me for all of you

Peter taps the window with his fingertip. It no longer seems appropriate to climb in uninvited and unannounced. Now that he’s thinking about it, he should have changed and gone to the door like a normal person. Why does he have to do everything backward and wrong? He should go. He can’t— He shouldn’t be here. He gave a relationship a try and now he needs to accept his losses while he still has his pride.

The living room is empty but someone, Harley he’d guess based on the cadence of the footsteps, is in the kitchen. Music plays softly and something is bubbling, steaming the window and perfuming the air with something mouthwatering and savory. Before he can do more than consider slipping away, the front door opens and Abbie, stocking cap lopsided on her head and damp from the rain, sees him and beams. “What are you doing? Get in here, weirdo. Harley! Your boy toy is here!” She kicks off her shoes and sheds her wet outerwear then follows her nose to the kitchen. “What’re you makin’?”

Hesitantly, Peter presses his palm flat against the window and pushes it up. He half-expects it to be locked or for Harley to storm out of the kitchen and tell him to get lost, but instead, the window slides open easily and within the kitchen, the music shuts off as Harley speaks to Abbie as though she didn’t just announce Peter’s arrival to the household.

“What do you think it is?”

Abbie chants in time with sock-muffled stomps, “Birth-day soup! Birth-day soup!”

“Get out. You’re disrupting my process.”

“Aww, I’d hate to get between you and your potatoes. You make a lovely coup— AH!” The snap of a towel precedes Abbie dancing into the living room, rubbing her backside. “I’ll get you back for that, birthday boy!” Her grin morphs into a puzzled smile as she notices Peter standing just inside the open window. “You better get in there and win back your man.”

His stomach flips. Does she know they had a fight? She’s acting like everything’s normal but… Hold on, maybe she means win him back from the potatoes? Regardless, she’s got a point.

“It’s his birthday?”

She rolls her eyes. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” Conspiratorially, she creeps across the room. “He’s weird about his birthday. He always gets all moody. At least you’re here, otherwise, he’d be unbearable.” She arcs her eyebrows meaningfully then reaches past him and closes the window.

Heading for the hallway, she passes the kitchen and calls, “How long ‘til soup?”

“At least ten minutes. Longer if you keep buggin’ me.”

Abbie rolls her eyes for Peter to see then disappears into her room.

He definitely shouldn’t have come. He’s interrupting their birthday festivities and Harley doesn’t want to be bothered and— and— And Abbie shut the window. At least you’re here, otherwise, he’d be unbearable. Maybe she doesn’t know what she’s talking about but maybe she knows Harley better than anyone else on the planet. He takes a steadying breath and shakes the jitters out of his hands before entering the kitchen.

Harley is leaning against the counter with his thumbs tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, waiting for him by the looks of it. Face blank, his eyes sweep over him from head to toe. Peter stays stock-still in the doorway until he’s done.

“You hurt?” Harley finally asks lowly.

He shakes his head then remembers he’s still suited up. He pulls off his mask, flicking rainwater across the kitchen. Crap, he’s probably tracking wet all over the place. Some apology, Parker.

“Sorry, I um…” He takes a folded page of notebook paper out of the pocket on his hip and walks it over to him.

Harley stares at it, then takes it, but doesn’t unfold it. “What’s this?”

“My, umm, availability.” He cringes. What is this, a job interview? This is a disaster. He’s a disaster.

Harley’s expression pinches as he frowns at the paper. Without opening it, he slips it into his back pocket then straightens up and picks up a long wooden spoon dripping dark both onto the stovetop. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he says with his back to him as he stirs the soup.

“No, I’m sorry.” Peter wrings his mask until water droplets patter on linoleum. “I… I think I’ve kind of been an ass and you don’t deserve that. I umm, I’ve been informed that I was pushing you away because I don’t— What I do, who I am, it isn’t easy on the people closest to me and I… I wanted to spare you that.”

The spoon stops mid-stir but Harley doesn’t move or look up.

Peter takes a breath. “So, I get it. If I’m not— If you don’t want to do this anymore, I get it.”

Harley is frowning when he finally turns to face him. “My problem isn’t you bein’ Spider-Man or bein’ busy or whatever it is you’re thinkin’. You got stuff going on way bigger than me. I can deal with that. But you don’t get to tell me you want somethin’ and then stop me from doin’ it. I’ll wait if that’s what you need. I can be there when you’re not busy elsewhere, but I’m not gonna play games.”

“I wasn’t playing—,”

“Weren’t you though?” He gestures with the spoon and broth spatters the floor in an arc between them. Harley doesn’t seem to notice. “Didn’t you just say you were pushin’ me away? If you don’t want to be with me, say so. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t gotta worry about me spilling your identity to anybody. I just… If there’s somethin’ you want to say to me then I want you to respect me enough to say it. Don’t— Don’t trick me into doin’ what you want. I’m not interested in that kind of relationship.”

“Alright. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I won’t— I’ll talk to you,” he says even as his mouth goes dry at the prospect. Talking to people is the thing he’s worst at. He can quip. He can joke. But that’s not the kind of conversation Harley is asking for.

“Alright.” Harley doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even look relieved. He turns back to his soup. “Then we’re good.”

At a loss, Peter stands behind him, strangling his mask and searching for the words to get him out of this hot water. What else is he supposed to do? He apologized. He listened. He apologized again. He promised to do better. What else is there?

He clears his throat. “Happy birthday, by the way. Sorry I didn’t bring anything.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t like gifts.”

Peter crooks a half-hearted smile. “People say that but—,”

Harley turns around. “But I mean it,” he says, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. “Don’t get me gifts. They make me feel like shit.”

“Wha— Okay, I won’t.” He debates whether he should ask and his curiosity wins out over decorum. Typical. “Why though?”

Harley surveys him in silence then looks away, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “Are we doing this?” He looks at him sideways, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m gonna tell you things and you’re gonna tell me things? We’re going to be a real couple?”

“I— Yeah. If that’s what you want.”

“Is it what you want?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I need to hear you say it, Peter. D’you want this? Do you want me?” His voice cracks. He screws his mouth shut and turns back to the soup, shoulders rising and falling carefully.

Peter approaches until he can see the bubbles breaking the viscous surface around chunks of potatoes and carrots. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s no good at relationships. If Harley was smart he’d cut his losses and dump him here and now. Unfortunately, he does want this and it seems like Harley does too.

He releases a breath. “My uncle died,” he says quietly. Harley whirls around, eyes wide and Peter realizes his mistake. “Years ago! He— Sorry.” He yanks a hand through his hair. He’s so bad at this. “You asked me the first time we met—well, the first time we spoke—you asked why I became Spider-Man.”

“You said it was for attention,” Harley says, watching him.

He shrugs. “Technically, it was for money. The attention was nice though, at first. Then my uncle died and…” He wrings his mask and sucks in a breath. “I should have stopped it. I had these abilities and I was right there, I…” He looks Harley in the eyes with a bitter smile and admits, “I was using them to win illegal wrestling matches against normal guys. What a puke, right? Then for the first time, I had the chance to use them for something meaningful and I didn’t even try. I could have stopped that guy from robbing the bodega but I didn’t so my uncle—,” His voice breaks. “My uncle stepped up and he got shot for it. Right in front of me while I did nothing.”

He drops his gaze as Harley continues to stare. It was the worst night of his life. He was selfish, impulsive, and angry. So, so angry. Angry at Ben for trying to manage him. Angry at the hospital for charging so much to keep Aunt May alive when she’d been sick for so long. Angry that there were so many people getting by the easy way while he was expected to be better, to follow the straight and narrow no matter how difficult it got to keep his balance. Angry at himself for not coming to it naturally.

That anger hasn’t ebbed an inch over the years but now it’s directed solely inward. He’ll never be good enough because he already failed and he can’t undo that failure no matter how many people he saves. He’ll have to work his whole life just to break even.

“Why’d you tell me that?” Harley asks softly.

Peter looks up. “Because I want this and I want to do it right.” He licks his lips and searches Harley’s eyes. “All of me for all of you, right?”

Harley leans his hip against the oven and drops his chin to his chest. Arms crossed, he says, “I’m sorry about your uncle.”

“You don’t have to—,”

He continues over him, “My mom used to give me gifts after my dad hit me.”

Peter nearly drops his mask.

“Little things, you know? Pokémon cards. A toy truck. That kind of thing.” He rubs his thumb knuckle against his bottom lip then looks up and says, “So I mean it when I say I don’t like gifts.”

Peter nods too many times. “Got it. No gifts. Instead, I should…” He trails off expectantly.

Harley’s lips quirk in a ghost of a smile. “Just showin’ up is nice. I don’t need nothin’ special.”

Peter frowns. Time. The thing he has in shortest supply, yet it doesn’t seem good enough. Whether he needs them or not, Harley deserves special things. He’s been nothing but good to him despite the piss poor way he’s been treating him.

“You’re gonna wreck that thing,” Harley says in a soft undertone. He brushes his thumb across the back of Peter’s hand and Peter releases the choke-hold he has on his mask. It unravels between his hands, wrinkled and stretched out. Dammit. Not again.

Harley chuckles deep in his chest. “You’re not easy, are you, Parker?”

His heart squeezes but when he meets Harley’s eyes they’re smiling. “No. I’m really not.”

Harley bumps him with his elbow. “Good. Neither am I.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re so good together?” Peter hazards hopefully.

Harley smiles. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

Relief swells over him like an overflowing mug of root beer, all foamy and sticky and sweet. It’s not ruined. He’s getting another chance. “Before you forgive me you should read the note.”

“Note? Oh, you mean your availability?” Harley asks as he removes the square of paper from his pocket.

“Don’t make fun of me. I was so scared I thought I was going to throw up.”

Harley pulls a face and unfolds it. “Not in my kitchen, I’d hope.”

“Bold of you to assume I have control over these things.”

Harley snorts but then his smirk drops as he reads the paper. His expression shifts, first to confusion then to something else. Something soft and wondering. “What is this?”

“It’s… my availability. Sorry if it’s a little much. I had to drill down to the minute otherwise it wouldn’t work, but on Sundays as long as we don’t have too much school work, we have enough time we could go somewhere. Like umm, a date, maybe.”

Harley doesn’t look up as he flips the paper to the reverse side and soaks in Peter’s cramped scrawl. The paper is almost touching his nose, too close to read, almost like he’s hiding. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to. You’re important to me and it’s time I acted like it.”

Harley carefully folds the paper and tucks it into his front pocket. His expression is inscrutable. Quietly, he says, “Thank you.”

Peter shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So umm, how do you feel about hugging it out?”

Harley doesn’t smile. His eyes flit over Peter’s face, intense in that way he gets. He licks his lips and says with too much gravity, “I like hugs.” Then he holds out his arms and Peter steps into his embrace. Harley’s arms close around his back and it feels like gulping his first breath after too long underwater. He wraps his around Harley’s waist.

“I really am sorry,” Peter says into his chest.

“I know. We’re good.” Harley kisses his hair and holds him tighter.

“For real this time?”

“Yeah, for real this time.”

“Finally!” Abbie blows past them, startling them apart, and pulls a stack of bowls out of the cupboard. “If y’all took any longer the soup would’ve evaporated. Pete, you’re stayin’ for supper, right?”

Peter grins at Harley’s irritated scowl aimed at his sister’s back. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

~*~

As it turns out, Birthday Soup is a Keener sibling tradition. Abbie is the one that explains to him how Harley made it for her sixth birthday when their mom had to work late and forgot to pick up a cake. They didn’t have eggs to make a homemade cake, but they had plenty of cans in the pantry and Harley figured if he poured the right ones together and got them warm, they’d be edible. Abbie ended up loving it and they’ve had soup for every birthday since.

Peter doesn’t have the best tastes now that he’s gotten used to what Aunt May calls cooking, but he’d say Harley’s Birthday Soup could quickly become one of his favorite meals and it has nothing to do with the smug satisfaction that curls Harley’s lips when he asks for seconds.

“When’s your birthday?” he asks Abbie while Harley collects their empty bowls and takes them to the kitchen.

“November 28th.” She grimaces. “Thanksgiving always butts up against it.”

“Bummer,” he says, but he’s thinking about how far away he is from his next taste of Birthday Soup.

Harley exits the kitchen but instead of joining them, he heads down the hall and into the bathroom. The moment the door closes behind him, Abbie swivels to face Peter on the couch, a serious expression on her face. He leans away from her instinctively but she matches his movement and says in a low tone, “Look, my brother don’t speak his mind much when things are buggin’ him. If he got his way he’d bottle it all up and carry it around forever.”

Softly, Peter says, “I don’t want him to do that though.”

“Then you gotta pay attention. He’s been moping about this first date thing for weeks.”

Peter huffs. “We already had a first date.”

She pokes her finger hard into his chest. “You told him it didn’t count.”

“I was joking!” he hisses.

She doesn’t look impressed. “Were you?”

“I… Well, not really, but who plans on their partner sleeping through their first date? I mean, come on.”

She holds up her palms. “I’m on your side on that one, but you said you wanted a do-over and then you wouldn’t let him plan it. Something you gotta know about Harley is he don’t do things halfway. He either cares about you with his whole heart or you’re not even on his radar. If someone he cares about wants somethin’ then he’s going to see that it gets taken care of, but you wouldn’t let him take care of it and that sent him into a tailspin.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

She whacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What was—,”

“This ain’t about that, idiot!” She shoots him a disgusted look. “This isn’t about you. It’s about Harley. What he needs is to be needed. He doesn’t know how to care about someone without taking care of them. I get it more than anyone that it can be maddening and everybody’s got their boundaries, but you gotta let him do something.”

“I—,” The toilet flushes. “Okay, fine. I’ll figure something out.”

“Good. If you don’t, you’ll be hearing from me about it.”

Despite himself, he smiles. He likes Abbie. He likes how she and Harley look out for each other. Maybe it’s time for him to talk to May about having them over. She’ll adore them. Once she latches on she’s difficult to shake and they could use someone else in their corner. He hasn’t asked, but he gets the feeling it’s been just the two of them for a long, long time.

~*~

Peter peeks through the gap in the curtains but Harley’s truck is nowhere in sight. He resumes pacing—down the length of the couch, past the front door, pivot in the entry to the kitchen, and back again.

“Peter,” May says from the kitchen table. Her reading glasses are perched on her nose so she has to tip her chin down to look at him over the top of them. “There are three fidgets on the table beside you. Please use one before you destroy your only nice sweater.”

He releases his sleeve from between his finger and thumb where he’d been worrying the fabric. “Sorry,” he mumbles and picks up a fidget cube instead. It makes a satisfying click as he moves one of the switches back and forth.

“He’ll be here soon,” she tells him. Her tone is soothing but she’s doing that funny little smile she gets when she’s laughing at him on the inside. “I get to meet him, right?”

His stomach flips and again, he’s grateful they’re only going on a walk around the park. He doesn’t think he could sit down in a restaurant and eat a full meal without yakking it up.

“That’s the plan,” he says shortly. “If he ever gets here.”

May glances at the clock ticking next to the fridge. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to be here until noon.”

He follows her gaze and groans. He’s not going to make it through another fifteen minutes of waiting. He’s doomed.

May sighs and sets her reading glasses atop a stack of receipts. “Okay, spill,” she orders. “Why are you so nervous? You said this isn’t your first date.”

“Technically,” he corrects. He flips the switch faster. “Technically, this isn’t our first date. “But it’s our first date-ish date. Our first date that’s supposed to be a date and not a dirty underhanded ploy to get me to sleep.”

May lights up. “He did what? I knew I should have baked cookies.”

“Not forcing your baking on him is thanks enough.”

Her jaw drops but she’s still grinning. She doesn’t have any illusions about her baking skill, thank goodness. That doesn’t stop her from trying though.

A knock sounds at the door. In sync, they turn and look at the clock.

May bites back a smile but there’s no point because her eyes are laughing. “Looks like you’re not the only one who’s eager.”

He shushes her and smooths his hair as he rushes to the door. He gelled it so the wind won’t toss it like a salad leaving him looking like an orphaned Victorian child. He straightens his sweater over his jeans, a simple blue knitted pullover that May says compliments his complexion, and opens the door.

Dressed in his usual open-front flannel and jeans, Harley looks up from his phone and his eyes keep going up until they land on his hair. “What happened to you?” are the first words out of his mouth. Peter shuts the door, but Harley’s boot stops it from closing completely. “Aw c’mon, I didn’t mean it. I was surprised is all. You look real nice, darlin’.”

He considers forcing the door shut anyway but Harley might miss his toes if he did that. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Am not.” Harley's face appears in the crack of the door. “I didn’t know we were dressing up.”

“I didn’t know we weren’t dressing up.”

How did he mess this up already? He knew, he knew he’d screw this up one way or another. He doesn’t need May to tease it out of him to know exactly what about this date has him so keyed up. Last time they were eating pizza and watching a movie in Harley’s living room, neither of which rely on socializing to be successful activities. Walking through the park, on the other hand, is only 10% walking and all the rest is reliant on conversation and sociability. He’s annoying. He knows he’s annoying. He uses it to his advantage on the regular.

But he doesn’t want to be annoying to Harley. He’s not suffering under any delusions of dazzling him with his charm but it would be nice to not put his foot in his mouth or end the date with Harley wondering what he’s wasting his time on him for or look like a fool by getting all dressed up for a walk in the park. By definition, it’s supposed to be the easiest date there is. Why then, is it so hard for him?

“Hey,” Harley says, drawing him out of his thoughts. His expression, like his voice, is gentle. Reassuring. “I promise I’m not makin’ fun of you. It’s sweet that you got all cleaned up for me. Makes me wish I woulda done the same.”

“Oh. It’s okay that you didn’t. I— We probably should have talked about it.”

“Now we know for next time. Can I come in now?”

Peter releases the door and steps back, his mind all aflutter with the phrase ‘next time’ twittering between his ears. Next time. Harley’s already counting on a next time.

“Hello, ma’am.” Harley shuts the door.

“You must be Harley,” May says from right behind him.

He jumps and glares at her. How much of that did she hear? Crap, she’s going to be unbearable. “Harley this is my Aunt May. Aunt May, Harley.” He gestures between them then steps back as May sticks out her hand.

Harley gets a funny look on his face and shakes her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Peter, uh, it’s obvious that you mean a lot to him.”

May winks. “I could say the same about you.”

“May,” he hisses.

She ignores him and Harley’s suddenly pink cheeks and continues, “I also hear you’re hatching plots to trick him into sleeping.”

“Only the one so far,” he says with a sideways glance at Peter.

“So far?” Peter echoes, but he might as well not be in the room.

“Not to pressure you, but we could coordinate attacks better if we exchange num—,”

Harley is already unlocking his phone. “Absolutely.”

“Seriously? I’m right here!” They continue to ignore him and swap phones to enter their numbers into the other’s contact list. “Unbelievable.”

He rushes Harley out the door as soon as they’re done, ignoring their rushed nice-to-meet-yous, and sets a brisk pace down the hall to the elevator. Harley catches up and stands beside him with his hands in his pockets and a small unconscious smile on his face as he watches the numbers above the door tick down.

“I like your aunt.”

Peter grunts. He has a feeling this is the beginning of a very bad time for him. They each already have too much sway over him. With their forces combined, he’s toast.

The elevator arrives and they step inside. The doors close and they descend.

“What’s that clicking?” Harley asks.

Peter startles and looks down at the cube still in his hand. Oops. “A fidget toy. Sorry, I… forgot I had it.” He doesn’t like to take them outside the apartment because he has a tendency to lose or break them. When they’re at home he at least always knows where to find one when he needs it.

“Huh.” Harley’s eyes follow the cube as Peter tucks it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Neat.”

When they arrive at the truck, Harley opens the passenger door with a flourish and says, “Your chariot.”

Peter scowls at him and reluctantly climbs into the cab. “That time you were making fun of me.”

“If I was making fun of you, you’d know it, sweetheart.”

Peter points an accusing finger in his face. “Sweetheart! You are making fun of me.”

“Such a bright boy,” Harley coos and Peter’s glower deepens. Harley drops the act. “C’mon, Pete. Dates are supposed to be fun, right? Let’s just have fun.” He pats his thigh and shuts the door.

Are dates supposed to be fun? They’ve always been a source of anxiety for him but he supposes Harley has a point. They already did the getting to know each other thing so the only thing ‘first’ about this date is that he’s making a big stink about it. They walk together every day at school and he survives it—okay fine, he enjoys it—so he has nothing to worry about. It’s Harley. It’s just Harley.

Harley hops into the driver seat and cranks the engine.

“Sorry,” Peter says. “I don’t know why I get all freaked out over this kind of thing.”

“It’s alright.” Harley looks at him sideways then checks his mirrors and blind spot before pulling out onto the street. “I want you to have a good time. Anything else doesn’t matter.”

“I guess,” he mumbles. He lets his head fall back against the headrest and a splash of color in the back catches his eye. He twists for a better look and his jaw drops in delight. “What is that?” He snatches it from the backseat and laughs. It’s a rainbow tie-dyed cowboy hat stamped with the Kansas City Aquarium’s logo. He never would have guessed Harley would own something like this. He always seems so… so cool.

Harley sighs. “Don’t judge me.”

They stop behind a line of cars at a red light and Peter takes the opportunity to tug it onto Harley’s head. Harley turns a baleful stare on to him and Peter can’t help but laugh. “Please let me take a picture.”

Harley’s upper lip curls and his nose wrinkles. “No way.”

“Aw, come on. I thought the only thing that matters is that I have fun.” He juts out his lip in a pout and widens his eyes. “Please? You sort of owe me since you and my aunt are plotting to torture me.”

“Getting enough sleep to avoid dropping dead where you stand hardly counts as torture.”

“You owe me,” Peter repeats. He struggles with his phone in his pocket as they roll forward with traffic. “Pretty please?”

Harley adjusts his grip on the wheel. “You’re not allowed to send it to Abbie.”

Peter makes a sound of consideration in his throat as he snaps a picture. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

By the time they arrive at the park, he and Abbie have had a good laugh at Harley’s expense and a new wallpaper decorates his phone. Harley was right. Dates should be fun.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!! This is one of my favorite chapters. I love making them talk 😌 but the next one is where things get interesting ✪ ω ✪

Thank you thank you for your wonderful comments!! Some of them were so nice they broke me lol

Chapter 9: Here I am, hit me instead

Harley’s eyes change color constantly. Indoors they’re dark, almost navy, but during their walk through the park under the cloudless sky, they’re striking and bright and it doesn’t help that whenever Peter looks over at him, he finds Harley already looking back. Riveted. Under the direct sunlight, Peter is over-warm in his sweater but he’s not ready to call it a day. Their intertwined hands swing between them and the air is rich with the scent of damp fertile earth as they meander aimlessly. The park is crowded with New Yorkers and tourists alike as everyone ventures out to enjoy the first touch of spring, but for once he doesn’t mind.

Not until someone screams somewhere off the path.

He straightens and turns toward the sound but whoever it is is too deep beyond the treeline to be seen. People around them pause then break around him and Harley like waves over a rocky shore as they hurry down the path.

He looks to Harley and meets his expectant stare.

“I’m sorr—,”

“Go.” Harley releases his hand. “I’ll wait.”

“Okay,” he says on a relieved breath of air. He starts backing away, off the trail, toward the scream. “Stay here.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“It’ll only be a minute!”

He turns and sprints into the trees, ducking branches and leaping undergrowth. When he’s sure he’s well out of sight, he kicks off his shoes, tosses aside his sweater, and steps out of his jeans. He’s not sure what it says about him that he wore his Spider-Man suit under his clothes for their date. That he’s prepared? Paranoid? A workaholic?

He digs his gloves and mask out of his pocket and his fidget cube tumbles to the dirt and out of sight. He doesn’t have time to find it. When someone screams like that they don’t generally have time for him to dink around in the woods. He kicks his things into a bush then resumes his run while pulling on the final pieces of his suit. By the time he emerges into a clearing, he’s fully suited up and prepared to take on the mass of burly dudes kicking someone on the ground in the fetal position.

“Hey guys, mind if I drop in?” He shoots a web, zips into the air, and then drops on the biggest guy’s shoulders. He rolls with the momentum of his fall and hooks his leg around the guy’s neck, flipping him heels over head just like Black Widow taught him. The guy hits the ground in a cloud of dust and for a moment, everyone is still.

There’s a reason he chose bright red and blue for his costume. There’s a reason he leans heavily into quips and jabs. There’s a reason he weaponizes annoyance. Spider-Man’s purpose is to step into the middle of a fight and shout, ‘Here I am, hit me instead!’ and, not to toot his own horn, but he’s really good at making people want to hit him.

His Spidey-sense lights up like a firework. He ducks a fist and twists to avoid a knife, then fires a web at someone’s chest. He leaps then pulls hard on the web-line stuck to the man’s chest, using the man’s weight as an anchor to yank himself through the air until he lands and takes the guy down with a fist to the face.

He cartwheels around and draws a line in the dirt with his foot as he readies his fists. “That’s two for me! Are we playing by H-O-R-S-E rules or do you guys prefer Knock Out?”

Yelling, they rush him, exactly as they’re meant to. He grins. “Knock out it is.”

Things go quickly after that. In under a minute, he has them wrangled and webbed together in a pile and is helping the guy they were wailing on to his feet.

“Thanks, Spider-Man.” He clutches his ribs as he says, “I don’t know what I woulda done if you hadn’t shown up when you did. They weren’t going to stop ‘til I was dead.”

“Are you alright? Do you need an ambulance?”

“I’m good, I’m good. Thanks again. You saved my life.”

Warmth blooms in his chest and some of the weight slaws off his shoulders. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He waits until the guy limps out of the clearing before he fires a web and hauls himself into a tree. He means to do a quick check for injuries, they’re easily missed in the energy of a brawl, but a flash of movement below catches his eye. Sunlight reflecting off of something gold.

He drops through the branches and lands solidly a foot in front of—

“Jesus!” Harley trips, careening backward.

Peter’s heart jumps into his throat. Reflexively, he catches Harley by the forearm and tugs him forward. “What are you doing here?” he hisses.

Harley gets his feet under him and shakes his golden hair out of his eyes. “That was amazing!”

Hold on. How long has he been— “Did you follow me? Do you know how dangerous that was?”

“I want to do what you do,” Harley says, eyes bright with life.

A sour feeling builds at the back of his throat. “What? What are you talking about? You could have been hur—,”

“I want to do that,” Harley insists, pointing over his shoulder at the clearing. “I want to protect people. I want to fight.”

“I…” His hand is still clamped around Harley’s arm like he’s afraid he’s going to teeter headlong into danger the moment he lets go. He’s never seen him like this. Lit up, thrumming with energy and pure stupid determination to get himself hurt or worse. “You’re human, Harley. I have powers. I have abilities. You can’t do what I do.”

“So? Tony Stark is a regular guy. Maybe I can’t be Spider-Man, but I could be Iron Man.”

“Tony is a genius and a billionaire. He’s got the Iron Man armor and you don’t!”

“I’ll build one. I already know the basics.”

“With what supplies? What money?”

Harley pauses thoughtfully but only for a moment. “I met him once, Tony Stark. I’ll ask him to sponsor me.” He shrugs. “He sort of owes me.”

Peter stares at him. Uncomprehending. “I… You… What?” Harley knows Tony? He met him once? He owes him? What is he talking about?

“You’re his intern so you guys are buddy-buddy, right? ” Harley fills the silence while Peter’s brain suffers a paper jam. “You can ask him for me. He made your suit and tech, didn’t he?”

“The web-shooters and fluid are mine,” Peter snaps. He jams his finger into his own chest. “I designed them. I built the first models and the most recent ones. Mine.”

Harley holds up his palms. “Okay, yeah, sure, but the suit?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah,” he admits begrudgingly. “Tony built the suit.”

If he wasn’t dirt poor and desperate he’d dump the thing on Tony’s doorstep and never look back, but there’s no way he could afford plain old spandex on his budget let alone the high-density impact-resistant micro-woven ballistics spandex Tony engineered specifically for him. He was blown away by the suit when he opened that case and put it on for the first time, but over the years he’s begun to resent it. It hurt him physically to shut down Karen but he was tired of the babysitter. Tired of being monitored. Tony’s heart is in the right place, but the older he gets the more he strains to pull free from the leash.

“So introduce me,” Harley says.

Peter narrows his eyes. “You said you’ve met.”

“That was years ago. He probably doesn’t remember me. Will you, please? This is…” He loses some of the manic energy but he’s still insistent as he says, “I feel like my entire life has been leading up to this.”

Peter’s heart aches at the raw, open longing in his voice. Whether it’s a good idea or not, it’s important to Harley. Knowing Tony, there’s no chance in hell he’ll go for it. No way is Tony going to give Harley a suit and teach him how to be the next Iron Man. It won’t happen. Say what you will about him, but that’s the only reason Peter agrees. The only one. “Okay, fine. I’ll introduce you. He’s been asking about you anyway.”

Harley blinks in surprise. “He… He has?”

“Yeah, I uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I might have talked about you a time or two and now he won’t shut up about meeting you.”

“Oh.” Harley blinks. Something that was jarred loose settles back into place and he’s familiar again. He smiles, a crooked tug to one corner of his lips. “You been talkin’ me up?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. You want a lift home?”

“I’m the one that drove us here, idio—,” He cuts off and his eyes widen as he takes his meaning. “A lift? Like…” He makes a motion with his wrist.

Peter grins. “You think you’re up for it?”

“Bring it.”

~*~

Half an hour later, he hoists Harley through the living room window and slips in behind him. Looking a little green, Harley stumbles to the couch and faceplants with a groan. “You did that on purpose.”

Peter shuts the window. “You think I summoned a flock of pigeons?”

“Yes,” Harley says, his voice muffled as he continues to speak into the cushion. “You’d do it to spite me.”

Peter pulls off his mask and drops it and his bundle of clothes on the floor. “Unfortunately, my powers don’t include pigeon conjuration. Pigeons and spiders are natural enemies. It’s just the way it is.”

Harley mutters something that sounds like, “I don’t believe you.”

“It wasn’t that bad. Sit up.”

He swats Harley’s calves until, with a groan, he scoots into an upright position. As soon as Peter drops onto the couch, Harley topples over across his lap.

Peter goes stiff. He’s never… He’s never really done this part of a relationship before. Harley’s head is on his thigh and his shoulder is jammed into his hip. Snuggling, being the snuggler rather than the snuggled, he’s never done it, but it feels good. Intimate and scary, but good.

He peels off his gloves and tosses them across the room to join the rest of his things and hesitates. Harley hasn’t done this before—asked for comfort without words. He never asks for physical comfort at all, actually. Peter isn’t sure if that’s because of his requested zygote steps or if Harley isn’t that tactile or if it’s something else. Maybe they just weren’t there yet, but now… Now they are.

Cautiously, he threads his fingers through Harley’s hair and combs it back from his face. Harley hums, eyes closed, and Peter takes that as permission to continue. Harley’s hair is cool and smooth against his fingers but is riddled with tiny knots courtesy of the wind. Meticulously, he picks apart each one until not a single knot remains. By the time he’s finished, Harley’s face is slack and his breathing is deep and even. Peter isn’t sure if he’s asleep or only deeply relaxed but it doesn’t matter.

His heart is too full for his chest. The casual intimacy of— of making yourself vulnerable like this. Of Harley trusting him with his vulnerability, it makes him ache in the best way. He never dared to dream he’d have a relationship like this, not since the spider bite, not since Uncle Ben died and he took the responsibility of protecting the city of New York onto his shoulders.

And now Harley wants to carry that burden with him. He wants to put on a suit, seek out danger, and taunt death. The thought of it slips down his spine like an icy finger. He won’t let him. It’s as simple as that. He won’t— He can’t risk him like that.

A key scrapes in the lock and a moment later, Abbie stomps inside and lets the door slam in her wake. Harley inhales sharply and sits up, taking back his warmth as he blinks blearily around the room.

Abbie does a double-take upon spotting Peter on the couch.

He waves awkwardly. “Welcome back.”

She lifts a hand as though to return the gesture, but then shakes her head. She points a harsh finger at him but her glare is aimed at her brother. “Is this why you forgot to pick me up from rehearsal?”

“Oh,” Harley looks at him, “shit.”

~*~

His phone chimes while he’s swinging through Greenwich. He wrestles it out of his pocket and checks it during a long arc even though MJ always gives him crap about texting and swinging.

Bee-Bee Keener 11:58 pm

What the hell did you radicalize my brother????

Uh-oh. He thwips another strand of webbing as he releases the old one and begins a new arc as he hastily types out an assurance.

Sent 11:59 pm

Srry it b k gonna fix iy

A second later, Abbie’s name lights up the screen as it begins to ring. He groans and brings it to his ear. “I can explain.”

“Are you drunk?” she demands.

“What? No, I’m, uh, multi-tasking.” He thwips another web and rotates at the end of the line as he swings hundreds of feet above the cars rushing below.

“What’s that noise? Are you on the subway?”

A train is passing nearby so he’s not sure if she hears it or the wind scraping by the microphone. “Listen, Harley’s going to be fine.”

“Fuck you, Parker,” she spits. “He can’t do what you do! He’s not— He’s my brother. If anything happens to him, I—,”

He lands on a billboard. “Hey. Hey, listen, Bee. Abbie. Tony’s going to say no.” He sits on the grated platform between the lights that spotlight the sneaker advertisement above him. He dangles one leg over the edge and tucks the other under him. “There’s no way he’ll let him do this.”

Abbie sniffs. “What makes you think he’ll say no? What if he says yes?”

“He won’t. He doesn’t like me going out and doing this and I have super strength and advanced healing and stuff. There’s no way he’ll be on board with throwing Harley into this, no matter how much he wants it.”

She pulls in a steadying breath and in a quiet voice says, “Okay, but what if he does say yes and Harley goes out there and—,”

“I won’t let him go alone. I promise, no matter what, I’ll protect him. We’ll be— We’ll be a team.” He forces the words out even as a part of him balks at the idea. New York is his, Spider-Man is his. He likes Harley, of course he does, and he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him, but he doesn’t want to share this. Not with Tony, not with Harley, not with anyone—and he certainly doesn’t want to babysit.

Tony is going to say no though, so it doesn’t matter what he wants. It’s going to be fine. Tony is going to shut him down and Harley will likely have a good sulk about it, but there’s nothing he can do without Tony’s resources. Nothing except keep picking the fights he has been since before Peter knew him.

“Okay,” Abbie says. She sucks in a breath and releases it. When she speaks again she sounds steadier. “Thanks. Sorry for kind of freaking ou—,”

A flash of green in the corner of his eye snatches his attention. He’s on his feet in an instant. That’s her. That’s Jill. He feels it in his gut.

“I gotta go.”

He hangs up without waiting for a response and jumps, webbing furiously across the intersection after the source of that light. This time he’s ready. This time she’s not going to get away. She killed twice. He won’t let her kill again. Adrenaline couples with fury and pulsing under his flesh, sharpening his reflexes, heightening his senses.

A single whispered word provides all the direction he needs. He has her. He jerks a web to alter course and follows the whisper to a penthouse. Feet first, he smashes through the window. Glass twirls and glitters around him, around Jill where it stops inches from her face in a perfect circle. Her lips part in a surprised ‘O’ as he springs off of her invisible shield and rolls into a crouch.

He’s already firing webs while she struggles to regain her footing after the force of his collision. He doesn’t fire his webs at her, not while her hands are still held up defensively. He aims beyond her. A vase, a bookshelf, the table lamp—anything his webs can catch hold of, he yanks and it all crashes into Jill from behind. He’s done holding back. He’s done being bested. He’s done losing.

The bookshelf knocks into her shoulder. She cries out as she falls and breaks her fall with her hands.

That’s his chance. He takes it.

One web sticks her left hand to the floor. Another her leg. A third hits her shoulder and—

“Enough!” She thrusts her free hand at him, palm out, and a bolt of green flashes and strikes him in the chest like a static shock.

A familiar black cloud rolls over his mind and plunges him into the deepest pit of self-loathing. In it are all of the black thoughts that fester in the back of his mind. His throat constricts and a dull panic hums with his heartbeat but he can’t sweep them away this time. He can’t force himself to see beyond them to the situation at hand.

Uncle Ben. His fault. Aunt May’s worry lines. His fault. MJ dumping him for being an absent partner. His fault. Ned’s over-bright smile that does little to hid his concern. His fault. Deadlines he can’t meet. Jobs he can’t keep. All the people he couldn’t save. His fault, his fault, his fault.

A burst of green recalls him to the present as Jill’s shield fries through his webbing.

Like scooping sludge into a jar with his bare hands, he forces the thoughts into the back of his mind and refocuses. Everyone she kills is on him if he doesn’t stop her. The count is already at two, he won’t let it go higher. He fires a web as she’s getting to her feet, but she raises a palm and it fizzles into crisped silk in midair as she backs into the corner, both hands up, expression wary.

“Who is it this time?” he snarls, taking a step toward her. “Another millionaire?”

“Why do you care?” She bares her teeth, eyes shining. Blood runs down her palms but her hands are steady. “They deserve it. They won’t stop hurting people. You know they won’t, so why are you trying so hard to stop me? You have to see what I’m doing. You have to.”

“You’re killing people!” he explodes. “You can’t do that!”

“You’re wrong. I can.” Her smile turns the air frigid. “I’ll keep killing until every bastard with too much power and too much money is in the ground or I am.”

“I’ll stop you,” he snarls.

She shakes her head, a pitying smile on her lips. “You’re already too late.”

He stills and for the first time realizes they’re alone in the room. He doesn’t hear another breath or heartbeat anywhere in the penthouse. The soul-sucking emptiness rushes over him, as suffocating as a blanket of ash. He’s already too late. His fault, his fault, his fault. Too slow. Not good enough, never good enough.

Muted and distant, his Spidey-sense tugs at him as a green flash illuminates the room. He doesn’t react as it hits his chest and everything fades to darkness.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!! I'm literally in a meeting as I finish and post this because no one respects my sacred Wednesday morning posting schedule 😒 Suffering? Who is suffering? Not me 🙃

Thank you thank you everyone for reading and commenting!! I love you guys! I hope you have a great end of the week and get in some good good sunshine 🌞

Chapter 10: Animal and cage

Notes:

Content warning: depressive thoughts and minor passive suicide ideation. See end notes for more details.

With aching muscles and a headache that throbs with each beat of his heart, Peter blinks up at the dark ceiling and wonders why he’s in this unfamiliar place. He realizes he doesn’t care just as quickly as the thought enters his head. What’s it matter? He’s a waste of space. No, worse. He makes everything worse. If he was nothing, no one, it would be better than what he is. He’s corrosion, breaking down the people around him until they fracture and crumble. He breaks people. May, Ned, MJ—even Harley is better off without him.

Uncle Ben. If Uncle Ben was here he’d agree with him. Why wouldn’t he? He’s the first person Peter got killed. The first person he failed.

Gradually, he becomes aware of an annoyingly high-pitched chine and something vibrating incessantly. His phone. It’s ringing. He digs it out of his pocket and taps the screen until it stops then tosses it aside.

“Peter?”

It takes him a moment to place the voice, tinny and distant as it is. Abbie. That’s right, he was talking to her earlier. Before…

His memories trickle back. He was fighting… That’s right, he’s in his suit. He’s Spider-Man and he was fighting…

Jill, she was here. She hit him with a spell again and it did something to his head. Disappointment flares. It’s a shame she didn’t kill him like she did the others. It would be for the best if she did. What was it that she said about the first guy she killed?

The world is better off without him.

The world would be better without him too. All he does is ruin things. Ruin people.

“Peter? Are you there? Say something.”

“Why?” he croaks.

“Where are you?”

“I’m…”

That’s right. He was too late again. She killed again. He should find out who… But why? Why does it matter? They’re already dead. He already failed, just like he always fails, like he has failed since the beginning. Spider-Man was born from failure and someday he’ll die from it.

With great power…

He’s not strong enough to carry the responsibility that comes with this much power. It’s too much. He should have known better than to give him so much.

“Peter? Are you there?”

Despite his failings, despite who he is as a person, he has no choice but to keep going. Keep trying. The only thing worse than failing is quitting. So he picks up his phone and finds his feet. “Yeah, I’m here.” Absently, he follows the stench of blood and stops in the middle of a dining room.

Two. There are two bodies on the floor, blood long-cold and puddled around their heads, staining their cheeks and lips, their dinner clothes. A man and a woman. Husband and wife? Idly he wonders which was the target. Did Jill kill both of them because she thought it was neater? Or, in her eyes, did they both deserve to die? Perhaps it was convenient.

“Peter, you’re scaring me.”

Belatedly, he brings the phone to his ear and tries to turn his back on the horror of the dining room but his feet won’t move. There’s something familiar… He can’t remember. He stares into the dead eyes of the man on the floor and says, “I’m sorry.”

“Just… come over, okay? We have some Birthday Soup left over if you’re hungry.”

His gaze wanders to the meal abandoned on the table. “I’m not hungry.”

“Please? For me?”

His heart constricts. Everyone around him suffers. His fault, his fault, his fault.

“Yeah, okay.” If it’ll make Abbie feel better then it’s his responsibility to try.

“Come straight here,” she orders. “No detours. No— No side quests. Straight here. I’m counting on you.”

His stomach lurches. She’s counting on him. “Okay. Okay, I’m coming.”

“I’ll be waiting by the window. You’ll be fast, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes then,” she says decisively.

He doesn’t realize he forgot to say goodbye until his phone is back in his pocket. Another stone of guilt drops on his back.

He needs to… He needs to…

Thinking is difficult.

He stares blankly into familiar eyes until he remembers them with a start. It’s him. It’s the cop that shot him. He looks different in his nice civilian clothes. He looks different dead and covered in blood on the dining room floor. He thinks he should feel something seeing him like this. Justice? Revulsion? Pity? Satisfaction? He doesn’t feel anything. He needs to call the police to come clean this up and then he needs to go see Abbie. Two things. He can do two things. Even he can’t screw up only two things.

~*~

As promised, Abbie is waiting for him beside the window, sweater-clad arms wrapped around her waist, shifting onto the balls of her feet then rocking down flat-footed. Harley is there too, mirroring her pinched eyebrows, frowning deeply, but still as stone as his scrutinizing gaze rakes him from head to toe.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks. Something must have happened. Why wasn’t he here? He should have stopped it, whatever it was.

“You tell me.” Harley is tense. Closed off.

Part of him, a distant part, thinks that should be a warning but he can’t think. All he knows is he can’t keep losing people. He can’t carry this weight anymore. He’s tired of being a failure, a loser.

“Nothing,” he says, but that’s not right. Something happened. He came over because something happened. “Abbie was scared. She wanted me to come over.”

“I’m scared for you,” Abbie says shrilly, too loud. She turns on her brother. “Doesn’t he seem weird to you?”

Harley shrugs one shoulder. To Peter, he says, “Take off the mask.”

Oh, right. He does and Harley’s frown deepens while Abbie’s face creases farther with concern.

“What?” He knuckles his cheek but he feels normal. This is how he’s always been, on the inside anyway. “I’m just tired.”

“You’re tired?” Abbie’s voice pitches. “Then let’s rest. We’re going to watch a movie. Sit down.”

He frowns. “I should—,”

“I said sit down.” She stabs her finger at the couch. To Harley, she says, “Text his aunt. Tell her he’s staying over. I’ll get blankets.”

Harley appears to do as he’s told, glancing periodically at Peter as his thumbs fly across the keyboard.

It’s not worth the effort to argue. With a sigh, Peter slumps onto the couch. He doesn’t care about watching a movie but he’s not feeling any great urgency to get home either. What’s it matter where he sleeps? May will probably like having the apartment to herself. She’ll finally get a taste of what it would be like if he got his act together and moved out like people his age are supposed to.

Maybe he should. Maybe he should take his things and disapp—

“Hey.” Harley settles beside him so close their thighs are touching. “You wanna get changed? I’ve got clothes that’ll fit alright.” He’s watching him and speaking in a strange soft tone that doesn’t seem right coming from him.

“I’m fine,” he says shortly. He couldn’t care less what clothes he has on. Getting up and changing sounds like work and for what?

“Alright.” Uncertainty rings through Harley’s tone but he settles back and drapes his arm around Peter’s shoulders.

Yesterday he thinks he would have liked to sit like this with Harley but now he feels numb to it. Irritated maybe, if he digs deep and focuses too much on the weight of that arm trapping him in place, but mostly removed. Distant. If he closes his eyes it’s like he’s not even here.

A warm weight drops across his lap and drags him back into the present. Abbie is back and a large quilt is now spread across him and Harley. Abbie squishes in against his other side as Harley tucks the blanket out of his face.

Abbie points the remote at the TV. “What sounds good?”

His shrug jostles against Harley uncomfortably so he resolves to stay very still. “Whatever you want.” The sooner she picks something, the sooner he can drift again. Being here, being present, is quickly becoming intolerable and the questions aren’t helping.

“Mama Mia?” she asks. She gives him a sideways look and a forced smile.

He pretends he doesn’t see. “If that’s what you want.”

Her eyebrows pucker and she casts a glance at Harley before facing the TV. “Alright.”

He sinks further into the pit in the back of his mind, barely noticing what movie Abbie selects. Is this who he is now? He can’t even pretend to appreciate the kind gesture of a friend who cares? Although, ‘friend’ isn’t the right word. Not really. Abbie wouldn’t give him the time of day if he wasn’t dating her brother. So why can’t she leave him alone? He doesn’t need more meddlers in his life.

The TV flashes and he stares into the light. He’s too warm and his hands itch with the need to move but he can’t reach them. He and his body are two separate things. A crab and a shell. Foot and shoe. Animal and cage.

Then a spark flickers in the dark. He becomes aware of Harley’s thumb pressed against the back of his neck, a grounding pressure. And humming. Abbie is humming along with the characters.

Full awareness slams him back into reality and the world bursts into technicolor. He gasps and lurches forward, clutching his head as the dark lifts and is pushed away, back into the deepest corners of his mind. His eyes sting, his skin prickles at the sudden onslaught of stimulation as the world floods back into his awareness.

His thoughts burn clear.

Jill.

He springs to his feet on a surge of adrenaline and the blankets come with him, ripping away from Harley and Abbie. His hands are already in fists but there’s no one here to fight. He missed her. He missed her again. She bested him again. And what the hell kind of spell was that?

“Peter?”

The Keeners are staring at him. Abbie is pressed back as far as the couch will let her go and Harley is on his feet standing between her and Peter.

“Peter?” Harley repeats.

Little pricks of shame poke at the wall of fury raging inside him. He opens and closes his fists. He shouldn’t be here. “I have to go,” he says through the tightness of his throat. He needs to find her and stop her before she—

“Go where?” Harley says slowly. He’s standing like he might spring at him. “It’s late.”

“It doesn’t matter!” He turns away and casts about the room for his mask. Where did he— There. He stalks around the couch and snatches it off the floor.

“Go to your room,” Harley tells Abbie in a low whisper as if Peter can’t hear him clear as day.

“You can stay, Abbie. I’m leaving.”

“Like hell you are,” Harley barks. “Something’s wrong with you.” He shoots Abbie a sharp look that has her abandoning the couch and swiftly exiting the room. As soon as she’s out of sight, Harley turns on him snarling. “What the hell was that?”

“It’s none of your business.” Peter jams the mask over his head and turns to face Harley. “Try and stop me, I dare you.”

Harley’s nostrils flare as he breaths out through his nose. “No,” he says. “No, either you’re going to respect me enough to explain what’s going on or you can go to hell and stay there for all I care. I’m trying to be on your team but you’re making it so fucking difficult.”

Peter throws his arms wide and raises his voice. “What am I supposed to do? What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to take off the mask and talk to me, dipshit. You’ve been catatonic for the past… I don’t even know how long. Abbie said she was calling you for hours before you picked up and then you were acting so weird she thought you were going to kill yourself.” He steps forward and stabs a finger at Peter’s chest but stops short of touching him. “You scared her. We deserve an explanation.”

Jaw set, Peter rips off his mask and crushes it in his fist. Harley has the height advantage but they both know that means nothing. “I got got, okay? I was trying to stop a— a sorceress from killing someone and she got the best of me, killed two people, and hit me with a depression spell or something. It wore off and I’m fine now. Is that good enough for you? Am I free to leave, dad?”

The skin around Harley’s mouth tightens and his eyes blaze but his tone is ice as he says, “I’m not here to nag you or tell you what to do. Either you care about this relationship or—,”

“People are dying and I’m supposed to save them!” He grinds his knuckles into his chest. “I am!”

“Says who?”

“Says me! What do I have these powers for if it’s not to save people? I can do it, I have the ability, so I have to.”

“What if you can’t?”

The question hits him like a sledgehammer to the gut. What if you can’t? There’s no ‘if’ about it. He can’t. He hasn’t saved anyone. He’s too slow, too late, too distracted, too incompetent. Too much Peter Parker, not enough Spider-Man. Never enough.

“I have to try.” He holds Harley’s gaze, pleading for him to understand. His voice breaks. “I have to try.”

“You did,” Harley tells him softly.

He closes his eyes. “I failed them.”

A beat of silence and then, “Yeah, maybe you did.”

He can’t breathe. His chest is crushing his lungs.

“Pete, come here.”

Gentle but firm hands guide him to the couch. He gives in to the sunken cushion, the nest of blankets. He gives in to the strength with which Harley holds him, gives in to the hot pressure stinging the backs of his eyes. He failed those people and he knows better than most that there aren’t any do-overs in life and death.

“I fucked up.”

“Everybody does sometimes.” Harley runs a soothing hand down his back.

He shakes his head against Harley’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“That it’s me. That I’m not… not normal.”

Harley rests his chin atop his head, arms constricting as though he’s compelled to use every bit of his body to shield him from his mistakes. “I’m not.”

~*~

A mass of worms wriggles uncomfortably in the bottom of his stomach every time Abbie meets his eyes only to look away and find a reason to leave the room. The third time it happens, he shoves his cereal away and puts his forehead on the table. He has only just begun his wallowing when Harley enters the kitchen and sits across from him.

“I want to see Tony today.”

Peter sits up, a heavy foreboding joining the worms in his gut. “Today?”

“Why not?” The challenge glinting in Harley’s eyes is at odds with his relaxed posture.

Is this a test? To make up for yesterday? Yesterday. What a shit show. Peter hunches on his elbow and digs his knuckle into the tension headache blooming under his skull. “Alright,” he agrees reluctantly, “but first I need to speak to Abbie.” He’ll text Tony a heads up that they’re coming over and—

“No.”

He looks up sharply and finds Harley staring back, all stone. “No?” he parrots dumbly.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

An uneasy feeling ripples through him. Just how badly did he screw up last night? “I owe her an apology,” he says slowly.

“Yes, you do.”

He meets Harley’s stare but can’t for the life of him decipher his expression. He licks his lips. “I’d rather give it sooner than later. I don’t… I don’t want her feeling like garbage all day because of me.”

Harley doesn’t blink. “She don’t wanna talk to you.”

He wrestles away a flare of irritation and reminds himself that he deserves this. He lays his hands on the table palms up and suggests, “I’ll knock on her door and if she doesn’t want to talk, she can tell me that and I’ll go away.” He searches Harley’s eyes. “I’m not going to hurt her, Harley.”

Harley stares back at him, something resembling uncertainty creeping into his gaze. He stays silent.

“I swear,” Peter insists. “I would never hurt her. Last night was…” Last night was another night in a long string of nights, all of which have been absolute crap. “I lost my temper because…” He swallows. “Because people died on my watch. It won’t happen again.”

Harley continues to watch him, silent, evaluating, weighing him. Peter holds his gaze and waits.

Harley shifts his stare and runs his tongue over his teeth. He looks at him with finality in his eyes and says, “It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Peter assures him.

Harley breathes out and sits up. He props his elbows on the table and speaks to his wrists as he tells him, “You should know, we didn’t have the easiest childhood.” He frowns at the soggy bits of abandoned cereal in Peter’s bowl. “We… Dad was always yellin’. Hittin’,” he mutters like he’s half-hoping Peter won’t hear. “Just me for the most part, I made sure of it. Then he left and Mama wasn’t much better. Puttin’ us down, actin’ like we were her great burden.”

Peter bites his tongue on the apologies that threaten to spring free. They wouldn’t mean much and besides, Harley doesn’t seem like he’s done.

He sucks his teeth then looks up and meets Peter’s eyes. There’s no blazing fire held there like last night, no ice coating his words, but they ring with sincerity as he says, “Bee’s all I’ve got, all I’ve ever had. I’d die for her. I’d kill for her. I don’t care who you are or what you can do, we’ve had enough bein’ yelled at. You don’t act like that in our home, understand?”

“Understood,” he croaks.

Harley eyeballs him for a moment more then leans back and crosses his arms. “Guess you’d better go apologize then.”

His chair scrapes the floor as he shoves to his feet. He’s not running away. He’s beating a tactful retreat with his tail between his legs like a scolded puppy. He hasn’t been taken to task like this since Aunt May caught him in the suit for the first time.

“Pete?”

He jars to a halt in the doorway and tentatively faces Harley.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Your losses. I… It can’t be an easy burden. I’m glad you told me though.”

When he swallows it’s like swallowing paste. “You too. About… I’m glad you told me.”

Harley averts his eyes. “Yeah, well.” He sniffs pointedly then hitches up a smile. “Good news is after today we’ll be one step closer to getting you some back-up out there.”

Peter’s expression turns plastic. He forces a smile. “Right. Yeah. Well, I better…” He gestures vaguely towards the hall.

“Good luck,” Harley says. His mouth twists into a smirk. “You’ll need it.”

Peter slips down the hall and takes a moment to steady himself before knocking on Abbie’s door. The door flies open and Abbie looks at him with her chin tipped up, her eyebrows raised, and her lips thinned in an unimpressed line. She steps back and ushers him into the room with a wide swing of her arm. “This better be good.”

He swears the door clangs like iron bars as it closes behind him.

Notes:

Content warning continued: At the end of the previous chapter, Peter was hit by a spell that intensifies his darkest, most negative thoughts. He thinks the world would be better if he was gone/dead but does not try to self harm in any way. Abbie and Harley help him through it until the spell wears off.

Happy Serotonin Wednesday?? Everybody is going through it in this chapter haha Thank you thank you for all of your comments!!! Someday I will be better about consistently responding to them 😅

Take care of yourselves! Get a treat, you deserve it <333

Chapter 11: Broken and bleeding as he has broken and bled

At Peter’s side, Harley strolls with his hands in his pockets and hooded eyes that gaze at the halls of Stark Industries. “What were Bee's terms?”

Peter sighs and hunches further. It’s been a miserable day and with where they’re headed it can only get worse. “You want me to read you the entire list?”

Harley snorts. “She got you to agree to a list?”

He shoots him a dirty look. “What choice did I have?”

Harley pulls a face and shrugs like he has a good point. “Tell me one of them. I could use a laugh.”

Peter frowns at him. Is he nervous? He didn’t clock it until now because Harley always seems to have everything figured out and, let’s face it, Peter’s drowning in his own problems, but now that he’s looking for it he sees the tension holding Harley’s frame taunt and the way his eyes sweep from one thing to another without absorbing any of it.

His first impulse is to tease him but the ice he’s on is so thin the smallest rocking of the boat could send him crashing into icy waters. He still hasn’t figured out how he’s going to navigate Tony shutting down Harley’s new Iron Man dream. It could very easily blow up in his face and… Well, he’s not sure if their relationship will survive the fallout. Truth be told, he doesn’t know Harley well enough to know how he’ll handle that kind of disappointment.

“I have to go to her spring play,” he admits.

“That’s it? I was going to invite you anyway.”

Peter grunts. “Did you know there’s a costume contest? I’ll be entering as Alice.”

Harley guffaws just as the doors to the lab slide open but his laugh ends abruptly as Peter leads the way inside. He breathes deep the familiar stench of engine oil and the sharp tang of metal as U sweeps past with a broom. It’s his home away from home. The place he can come to and lose himself for hours.

In the middle of the room, Tony spins around on a stool and breaks into a smile as he spots them. “Did you take the scenic route, kid? What took so long? Are you going to introduce me or not?”

Peter rolls his eyes and steps to the side so he can see Harley clearly. “This is Harley. Happy?”

“No, Happy is—,” Tony does a double-take. “Harley Keener?” He takes off his blue-tinted glasses to ogle at Harley. His face splits into a smile as he stands. “What the hell happened to you, kid?”

Wait, what? What’s going on?

Harley rears back like he’s been slapped. “Excuse me?” he says faintly.

“You think I don’t remember you.” Tony’s grin slips into a smirk. “Rose Hill, Tennessee. You saved my ass. I thought for sure I’d be seeing your name making waves by now. What’ve you been up to?”

Harley stares at him, jaw slack, something churning behind his expression that makes Peter’s skin itch. This isn’t what he expected. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

“Harley goes to NYU,” he says to fill the silence. “Umm, mechanical engineering, right? How do you guys—,”

Delight lights Tony’s face. “Is that right? Guess I made an impression.”

Something flickers in Harley’s eyes and then his expression shutters and goes cold. “You’d guess wrong.”

Tony’s smile falters. “What did you say?”

“I said you’d guess wrong. You came and went. Might as well have never been there at all.”

“Harley,” Peter says lowly, “what’s going on?” They know each other? What does Tony mean by Harley saved him? Why does Harley sound so mad?

Tony smiles, plastic and fake, the same one he shows the press, and fingers the glasses in his hands. He narrows his eyes. “That’s right, you wanted me to take you with me. Gave me the sob story about your papa leaving you for lotto tickets. Sorry kid, but a bullshitter can spot a fellow bullshitter from a mile away.”

“Tony,” Peter says. Oh, this is bad. Why didn’t Harley say they’ve met before? Like, really actually met.

“Yeah, I lied,” Harley says. His hands are in fists at his sides, muscles tense. “The scratchers story goes down a little easier than saying he beat the fuck out of my mom, declared me man of the house, and took off with all our savings when I was six.”

Tony’s press facade cracks and guilt peeks through. “Look, kid, I’m sorry I didn’t get you out. If I’d known—,”

“Oh fuck off,” Harley snaps. “I don’t want pity or apologies. So what if my little adventure with the great Tony Stark didn’t change my life? Is that what you thought you did? You thought by the grace of your presence everything would be magically fixed so you wouldn’t have to feel guilty about ditching a twelve-year-old in that shitty little town?”

“I— Not fixed, but the equipment that I—,”

Harley laughs, loud and ugly. “Yeah, mama was real grateful. She loved the car she bought after she sold it all. Unfortunate that it didn’t last a full year before she wrecked it.” He bares his teeth, eyes bright. “Does it gall you to know you didn’t do squat to change my life? Does it bother you that within a week Rose Hill was back to the same old same with no sign of Tony Stark’s accidental visit?”

Tony stares at him, hurt brimming in his eyes. “No,” he says. “No, but it bothers me that I could have helped and didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t ask more questions. I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention.”

“Too little too late. I didn’t need you then and I sure as hell don’t need you now.” Harley turns on his heel and his eyes meet Peter’s for the barest of moments. Guilt swamps his expression but he doesn’t falter and long strides carry him out the door in a matter of heartbeats.

Rooted to the floor, Peter watches him disappear around a corner. He faces Tony. “Mr. Stark, I didn’t kn—,”

“Don’t go back to that ‘Mr. Stark’ crap,” he says but without his usual good humor. He perches his glasses on his nose and sniffs. “You better go after your boyfriend, kiddo. I think he could use a shoulder right now and he sure as hell doesn’t want it to be mine.”

~*~

He finds Harley after ten minutes of twisting and backtracking through the maze of hallways surrounding the lab. In the meantime, he has F.R.I.D.A.Y. fill him in on what Tony got up to in Rose Hill, Tennessee nearly a decade ago. Saved his ass is right. From the sound of it, Harley is the reason Tony and Pepper made it out of that mess with their lives. So why didn’t Harley say anything? Why is this how Peter had to find out?

The light from the hall highlights the wear and tear of Harley’s boots but casts his face in shadow. The floor is cold in the partly remodeled room where he sits with his back to the wall but Peter doesn’t complain as he settles beside him and mirrors his position, knees to his chest as he worries his sleeve.

He clears his throat. “You know, when people say they met Tony Stark once, what they mean is they got to shake his hand at a charity event, not that he enlisted in their help to stop a terrorist.”

Harley’s elbow catches his as he shrugs. “I guess.”

“You guess?” Peter leans forward and twists to see him. He doesn’t look angry like he did before, only tired. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Wasn’t nothin’ to tell.”

Peter raises his eyebrows.

Harley mimics the expression and says, “I’m serious. It was a crazy couple a days but then it was over and it… was over. Nothin’ changed. It was like he was never there. Like it never happened. Honest, Pete, I didn’t think he’d remember me or I woulda said somethin’.”

“Why is him remembering you a bad thing?”

“Because.” Peter thinks he’s going to leave it at that and pick apart the frayed denim stretched over his knee but then he sighs and tips his head back against the wall, stretching his legs in front of him. “Because him remembering means I missed out on somethin’ big. Abbie missed out. I thought he didn’t give a shit about me but if he remembers then we coulda got out of that hellhole sooner if only I’d...” He opens and closes his mouth. Shakes his head. “Things coulda been different for us. That’s all.”

Tentatively, Peter puts a hand over Harley’s and breathes a silent sigh of relief when he twines their fingers. He chews his lip in the silence and bounces his knee but Harley doesn’t seem bothered. “Do you actually blame Tony?”

Harley releases a long breath. “No. Maybe. I dunno. I…” He sits up and scrubs his free hand through his hair. “I’m pissed off that I was—,” He laughs softly but it’s devoid of humor. “God, I was so close to getting Abbie out of there and setting her up with a good life but I fucked it up somehow.”

“You did get her out. Look at everything you have now.”

Harley snorts. “An empty shoebox apartment and student loans?”

Peter falters. “She’s happy though, right? She seems happy.”

Harley shrugs and takes an interest in the sleeve of Peter’s sweater. It’s an older one so the end of the sleeve is littered with holes from him messing with them. Stimming and super-strength aren’t such a great combination at times.

Harley pokes his thumb through one of the holes. “Sometimes it seems like too little, too late, you know? Like we were being poisoned by that place and if I coulda got us out sooner then the damage wouldn’t be so bad.”

“You’re not damaged goods, Harley. Neither is Abbie.”

“Aren’t we though?” He smiles but it’s bitter. “Just look at how we reacted last night.”

“You mean when I freaked out on you?” He shifts to his knees and captures Harley’s hands. “I don’t want a partner who lets me scream in his face when I’m upset. I want one who tells me when I’m out of line and makes me better. You make me better, Harley. So I guess I don’t care if you’re damaged. I want you exactly as you are, damage and all.”

Harley keeps his chin tucked against his chest but he squeezes Peter’s hands. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to make you go back in there.”

Harley’s head jerks up. “What? No, I wanna go home.”

“Tough.” He presses a kiss to Harley’s forehead so fast Harley rocks back under the pressure. “Come on. Let’s rip this band-aid off. If I have to be better, so do you.”

“I thought you liked me exactly as I am,” Harley argues, sat like a stone in the corner.

“I do, but what if I like you even more two degrees to the left?”

“What if you like me less?”

“Then I’ll sabotage your and Tony’s newly rekindled partnership to get my slightly shittier boyfriend back.”

Harley’s laugh is nothing more than a puff of air but he’s smiling now and looks at Peter like he can’t quite believe he’s real. “Fine, but if he’s an ass then you’re making dinner.”

Peter pauses. “Or maybe we could pick up something on the way home and I’ll buy. Me making dinner wouldn’t be a reward for anybody.”

Harley allows Peter to pull him effortlessly to his feet. “You can’t cook?”

Peter shrugs. “I’m easily distracted. Have you ever forgotten you were boiling water? The entire floor stank like scorched metal for days.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“I don’t recommend it. The neighbors still tease me about it when they catch me in the hall.”

They take their time finding the way back to the lab. Harley grills Peter on what dishes he has successfully cooked while Peter regales him with tales of failure by both his and Aunt May’s hands. When they step back into the lab, they do it hand in hand.

Peter clears his throat and Tony slowly stands to meet them.

“Um, Tony, this is my boyfriend, Harley. I think you guys met once but it’d be cool to start over.”

Tony looks at Harley warily. “Is that what you want?”

Harley shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” He casts his eyes around the lab without taking it in then asks, “Got any tuna sandwiches in this swanky place?”

Tony makes a face but Peter can’t tell if he’s exasperated or trying not to laugh.

Harley shrugs again. “Well, I’m not going to be a pussy about it if you don’t.”

Tony groans and covers his face with his hand. Peter stares between the two of them. How did he not know about this? One of them should have mentioned it to him.

“Alright, alright,” Tony says. “You can be pissed at me all you want but at least let Petey here live in ignorance a while longer. He still thinks I’m an okay person.”

Peter frowns. “I think you’re incredible.” He’s not naive. He knows Tony is far from perfect. He has his gripes with who he is, what he’s done, and what he comes from, but that doesn’t erase all of the good he’s done over the years. It doesn’t negate that he made a decision to change, to be better, and has lived by that decision ever since. If he condemns Tony for his past without looking at who he is and who he’s is trying to be, then he has to afford himself the same treatment. He wouldn’t hold up under that scrutiny any better.

“Incredible might be overselling it,” Tony says.

Harley snorts. “I’ll say. Back in the day, you weren’t what I would call good with kids.”

“True,” Tony says, “but thanks to this one, I have a little more experience in that arena.” He jerks his thumb at Peter.

Harley’s expression sours. “Yeah? And how is that going? You left me to figure everything out on my own and now you’re doing the same to Peter.”

Tony’s eyebrows leap into his hairline. “All due respect, squirt, but you don’t know shit about what I’ve done and am doing for Peter.”

Peter steps between them. “This isn’t about me. We were—,”

Harley ignores Peter entirely. “You’re a billionaire. You make a lifetime of money every time you take a dump, meanwhile, he’s killing himself trying to do school and Spider-Man and work and you can’t even—,”

“Harley, stop.”

Tony steps around him. “Work? What? Why’s he working?” He tears off his glasses and turns on Peter. “Don’t you still live with your aunt? Why are you working?”

“We— It’s not a big deal.”

Harley turns on him too. “Don’t make me pull the receipts on this one, Pete.”

“There aren’t any receipts to pull,” he lies through gritted teeth. “Everything is fine.”

Harley’s voice softens an inch. “You’re not a machine.”

Tony raises his. “If you need money you should have—,”

“I don’t want charity,” he says firmly. He glares at Harley. What is he doing? Why is he throwing him under the bus? They’re supposed to be on the same side.

“It’s not charity, kid. You come here every day and let me pick your brain for ideas. You keep the city safe. You don’t have to starve to be a hero.” To Harley, he asks, “Is this why you’re so pissed at me? I swear I didn’t know he was trying to hold down a job on top of—,”

“Three jobs,” Harley corrects.

Tony closes his eyes and Peter wishes he could sink through the floor and get the hell out of here.

“I’m handling—,”

“Shut up, Peter,” Harley says.

“No, you shut up,” he snaps. “It’s none of your business how many jobs I have. I don’t need Tony’s money and I certainly don’t need you to rescue me.”

They glare at each other in furious silence until Tony coughs. “This isn’t actually about me, is it?”

“It’s a little about you,” Harley tells him without breaking from Peter’s stare.

“Well, I’m going to start paying you for the interning, Pete. No arguing.”

Harley whirls, eyes bulging. “You weren’t already paying him for that?”

“Oh my God,” Peter moans. “Would both of you drop it? If I wanted to be paid I’d have asked for it.”

Tony and Harley snort in unison.

“I’m serious. Drop it.” His mind is reeling trying to keep up with all the turns this conversation took. He needs to get the heat off of him but he also needs them to stop fighting. He looks at Tony, recalling the start of this conversation. “Did you call a twelve-year-old a pussy?”

“About my dad leaving,” Harley chimes in smugly.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “We can’t keep punching at each other like this. Both of you sit down.”

Neither of them sits. Peter crosses his arms and Harley stares at him expectantly, almost daring him to insist.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Alright.” He clicks his tongue. “We’ll do this standing.” He slips his fingers into his pockets and rolls his shoulders. “I’m not proud of who I was back then. I made bad choices. I didn’t treat people well, whether I cared about them or not. Especially if I cared about them,” he adds in undertone. “There are millions, possibly billions, of people I owe reparations to for one reason or another. I know this. I’m working on it. Everything I do is to make up for it.”

Tony looks to Harley. “So if you can’t stand to be in the same room with me because of how I treated you, I get it.” He searches Harley’s face as he stares stonily back. “But, if you think you can stick it out with me while I try to fix it then… Well, I’d like that.”

Harley surveys him for a long time before finally he says, “I want to do what Peter does. I want to help.”

Oh no. Here it comes. It’s too soon. There’s no way they’re going to be able to roll with this punch.

“How would you do that?” Tony asks with a glance toward Peter that bounces right back to Harley.

Harley tips up his chin. “I’ll build a suit like Iron Man’s. All I need is equipment and materials. I’ll do the rest.”

Tony sizes him up, expression neutral, contemplative.

Peter leans back on his heels. Man, they just got back to almost friendly terms and now it’s going to be ruined when Tony says—

“Fine.”

Peter does a double-take. What did he just… His chest turns cold. No. He was supposed to say no. He can’t be serious.

Harley’s expression eases, not quite a smile but a relaxation. Contentment. He got what he wanted.

“No,” Peter says. They both turn and look at him. “You can’t let him— You were supposed to say no.” Fear claws his lungs. “Mr. Stark, you can’t let him.”

“What’s the problem?” Tony asks. “You had to know he was going to ask.”

“You weren’t supposed to agree!”

Harley’s eyes are narrowed, his mouth open slightly, contemptuous. “What are you saying? You don’t think I can help? You don’t want me to—,”

“I don’t want you to die, Harley. Do you have any idea what it’s like out there? I can’t protect you from everything and do my job. I can’t.”

Harley’s eyes turn flinty and he looks down his nose at him. “Then someone better train me good because you can’t stop me.”

The fight drains out of Peter slowly, leaving his limbs heavy, his head throbbing with stress. He’s tired. He’s so tired. “Abbie’s gonna kill me. I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“That was a stupid promise,” Harley says, expression guarded, not ready to back down.

He sets his jaw. “Stupid or not, I’m not breaking it.”

“You can’t protect everyone, Peter.”

He flinches like he’s been slapped. With the way things are going, it seems he can’t protect anyone. He steps back and steps back again. “I need some air.” He ignores them both and leaves the room before either can think to stop him. He sheds his clothes in a trail down the hall. By the time he pushes open the window at the end, he’s suited up from head to toe.

“Peter!”

He leaps into a free fall.

~*~

Hidden in a deep window sill, he tucks his legs against his chest and rests his forehead on his knees. Inside, the choir harmonizes, practicing for tomorrow’s service. The stained glass casts saturated pockets of color over him but he hardly sees it. He can’t breathe through the pressure crushing down on him. He can’t do it. He has to tell Harley he can’t do it. He’s already— Everything is too—

A soft trumpet cuts through the panic clawing up his throat. He closes his eyes and hugs his legs as a piano trills and the choir comes back in. Light and melodious, they grow together until they reach the zenith and then fading, falling, they grow quiet once again.

He stays until they lock the doors and the sun guilds the city with gold so bright it burns to look at. He doesn’t want to go back. Harley may not be there anymore but he has no way of knowing. His phone was in the pocket of the sweater he abandoned at the tower. It’s been hours. He’s going to be furious with him for leaving him with Tony, for leaving him at all.

Or perhaps they’ve been bonding over building a suit together all this time. The thought makes him sick. For all Tony’s talk of making amends, Peter can’t see how giving Harley the tools he needs to endanger his life on the regular is helping anything. Jill is out there somewhere, ruthless and untouchable, and he’s feeding Harley right into her grasping mandibles. If they could just wait until Peter takes care of her then—

No, that’s no good either. There will always be someone going out of their way to hurt others and it has always been his responsibility to step in their way and take the punch. He doesn’t want that to be Harley. He can take it. He’ll recover. But Harley… He doesn’t want to see Harley broken and bleeding as he has broken and bled.

At least with Jill she doesn’t seem to want to hurt him. She has her vendetta against rich white dudes who cause probl—

He sits up so fast he slips and bangs his elbow, nearly tearing his suit against the rough stone. He hardly notices. Mind whirling, he slowly rises to his feet, stained glass at his back.

Tony. Tony has hurt people. Tony is rich and powerful and has hurt people.

And Jill…

She’s targeting him. She has to be. She’s…

He needs to get back to the tower now.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Wednesday!! Mmmm cliffhangers are so tasty. We're so close to the end. I'm dying to share it with you but I'm gonna be so sad when it's over

Thank you thank you to everyone who comments! I love you more than words can say <333

Chapter 12: Natural progression

The sliding glass door is slow to get out of Peter’s way. He nearly barrels through it—only the sight of Harley’s head bowed over a workbench, no villains in sight, tempers his impatience. Harley jerks upright as Peter trips into the room, heaving and gasping for air, head on a swivel. Tony isn't here.

“What happened?” Harley steps around the workbench, alert and analytical as he looks him up and down.

“Where’s Tony?” Peter needs to make sure he’s safe. He can’t take chances.

Harley opens his mouth but F.R.I.D.A.Y. speaks first.

“He is upstairs having dinner. Do you require his assistance, Peter?”

Two corpses at the foot of a dinner table burn in his mind’s eye. Would Jill make it three this time? Would she kill a child just because she’s associated with Tony Stark? What about Pepper who has been nothing but a guiding light for Tony, for Stark Industries? He doesn’t know anymore. Jill is different than she was when they first met. Gone is the light of fear in her eyes and the tremble in her hands, her hesitance. She found her footing in what she is and what she’s doing. Ruthless. A killer.

“Peter, tell me what’s going on.”

Harley. He can’t leave him down here alone, not in Tony’s lab when Jill could be here at any moment. Would she kill him without knowing who he is or what his connection is to Tony Stark? Would she kill him for being here? For being a witness? For being an accessory to the crimes she condemns Tony for?

He swallows but his throat is dry. It sticks. “She’s going to target Tony. I don’t know when. She might already be here. I don’t—,”

He’s always too late. It’s a pattern. His gut is telling him he’s operating on borrowed time. If ever Jill was going to strike against Tony it would be when Harley is also in the line of fire. The only luck he has is bad luck.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., tell Tony someone is after him,” Harley orders with the same take-charge calm he falls into when he treats Peter’s injuries. “Tell him he’s in danger.”

“I don’t sense any intruders.”

“All of them,” Peter says faintly. “She’ll kill all of them.”

“Just do it,” Harley snaps. “Tell him he needs to get his family out of here now.”

“Understood,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. says.

Harley releases a breath and faces him with squared shoulders. “What do we do?”

“We?” Peter echoes, a note of hysteria pitching his voice. “She’ll kill you. I need you to be safe. Please just—,”

The door opens with a whoosh. It could be anyone. It could be Tony coming down to see what the commotion is about. It could be Happy or Rhodey or any of the Avengers that Tony doesn’t currently have blacklisted from the lab.

But there’s a feeling in his gut.

The only luck he has is bad luck.

His Spidey-sense hums dully in the back of his head and out of the corner of his eye, a flash of green…

He tackles Harley and a bolt of energy clips past them, ruffling golden hair. It slams into the centrifuge with a crack like thunder and they hit the floor hard. Harley’s skull rebounds off tile but there’s no time to check on him.

He flips to his feet and crouches defensively over Harley.

Jill is in the doorway, head cocked to the side, her hand still lifted from her strike. Her white New Balances don’t fit her anymore. Her eyes are cold and her hands no longer shake. She’s no longer afraid of what she can do or what she’s done. He lost her.

“You’re not Stark.” Her eyes flick from Harley to Peter, narrow in irritation. “Why are you always in my way?”

“Leave,” he spits. “He’s not here.”

“I’ll see that for myself.” She fires a bolt at him but he’s not going to lose this time. He can’t.

Like he’s cracking a whip, he lashes a stool with a web and heaves, pulling it in front of him. The blast connects and the stool explodes. He deflects the charred remains with his forearm while he webs her ankle in the same motion. It connects and he yanks hard.

She falls to one knee and smashes down her invisible shield. The webbing smokes and frays. She rises. “I’m trying to spare you,” she snaps. “Don’t you get it? Why are you so determined to make me squash you?”

His ears are ringing with the need to protect Harley. He can’t lose. Not this time. He promised Abbie, but more than that, he can’t bear to lose him.

“Leave,” he repeats. “He’s not here.”

Movement behind him. Fabric rustling, dragging on the floor. He shifts to keep Harley in the corner of his vision as he sits up but doesn’t dare take his eyes off Jill.

Jill’s attention flickers to Harley, but Peter shifts to block him from view. She doesn’t miss the action. “Who is he?”

“No one,” he says, mouth dry. “He has nothing to do with this.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then why is he here?” She addresses Harley. “What is your connection to Stark?”

“Don’t answer that,” he says loudly. “Leave him alone. Tony isn’t here.”

Her lips part in a bitter shark-like smile. “Tony?” she parrots. “You know,” she looks him up and down, “I always admired you. You never take the easy way out. You always do what’s right, even when bigger heroes oppose you. Integrity, that’s what I saw in you.” She cocks her head. “I’m disappointed.”

“Has it occurred to you that what you’re doing is wrong?”

“I’m making the world a better place.”

“One murder at a time.”

“Exactly,” she says, eyes bright. “No one else was willing to step up and do it. We all know it needs to be done. A fresh slate. A new start.”

“That’s not how it’s going to shake out. You have to know that. Removing players doesn’t change the game. Evil begets evil.”

She laughs. “I’m not evil, Spider-Man. I’m killing the evil.”

“You can’t be trusted to decide who is evil.”

She smiles like he’s a child who doesn’t understand the dark underbelly of the real world and shakes her head.

He grits his teeth. “You won’t get away with it. If I don’t stop you, someone will.”

“I don’t expect to get away with anything, but I can’t shut my eyes to it anymore. Someone needed to do the hard thing and I realized, why not me? No one will miss me. I’m perfect for the job.” She smiles a thin-lipped smile. “You know, you’re the one that inspired me. You saw a need and you took care of it, laws be damned. Personal sacrifice? So be it. You stood up despite everything standing against you. I’m only following your lead.”

His throat burns. “No. No, I have nothing to do with this. I don’t want to hurt you, Jill, but you have to stop or I’ll make you stop.”

She laughs softly then tips her head to the side with a smile. “Aw sweetheart, I could have killed you any time I wanted. I spared you because I respected you, but I suppose it’s true what they say.” Her expression twists as her eyes flare green. “Never meet your heroes.”

He whips a table in front of him in the same moment his Spidey sense screams and a flash of green lights the room. The beam collides with the table, leaving a black scorch, but the metal holds.

He kicks it onto its side and hardly looks at Harley as he grabs him by his ankle and slings him across the floor until he collides with the underside of the table, safe. Sheltered. He doesn’t have the luxury to worry about whether he hurt him, they only have a moment—a glimpse of wide eyes, set jaw, the smell of sweat. “Stay here. Do not try to help.”

Unable to wait for a response, Peter rolls out from behind the table and another bolt of energy buzzes past him. He springs to his feet and fires a web that carries him up and into the air. Keep her busy. Keep her distracted. Keep her away from Harley.

He swings from the exposed air duct and snags a stool with a web as he passes it. It smashes into her from behind and knocks her to her knees. She twists and he has to drop from the ceiling to avoid the flurry of green bursts from her hands. As he’s falling, he webs another two stools and flings them at her. She blocks one with her shield but the other hits her shoulder and knocks her off balance. He doesn’t let up. He hurls everything he can get a web on at her as he dances around her, determined to get around that shield. Every time he gets a web on her she cuts herself free just in time to be hit by another.

“Enough!” she bellows and blasts the over-turned table in the center of the room. The table flips and skids across the room, revealing Harley, crouching, his arm outstretched for a half-assembled gauntlet on the table behind him.

Peter’s breath catches. Desperate, he fires a web and it connects with her elbow with just enough force to knock the bolt of energy she fires at Harley off course. It singes his sleeve but misses him. Peter leaps. He and Jill hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. He knocks her hands apart and webs one to the floor but the other clutches him by the throat and clenches.

Lightning sets his bones on fire. He screams as electricity seizes his muscles and his every nerve awakens in agony. His back hits the floor but the vice grip on his throat doesn’t ease and neither does the pain. Everything turns to white noise. His throat strains under the force of his scream and black teases the edges of his vision. His back arcs but there’s no relief.

Finally, he’s released. Twitching and spasming on the floor, he tries but he can’t get up. Harley needs him. He needs to get up. Get up. Get. Up!

Someone is screaming.

“I’m sorry,” Jill says. She’s standing over him, expression cold.

The next bolt of green hits him in the chest. Unlike the lightning, this pain is a slow build but no more gentle. It builds until he can’t breathe, can’t think. He gags and blood spews from between his lips and bubbles up his nose, flooding his mask, choking him. His hands won’t cooperate. He can’t lift his mask. He can’t breathe.

The last thing he sees is a figure bent over him, fumbling with the bottom of his mask, blue eyes wild with horror, and a second flash of green light.

~*~

Hurts.

Hurts.

“Peter? Baby, please say something.”

Hurts.

“I know, honey. I know it hurts. Help is coming. Just hang on, okay?”

Hurts.

“Open your eyes. Look at me. Please?”

Weren’t they already? He forces his eyelids to half-mast and blue blurs across his vision. Just blue. The best blue.

“Don’t you quit on me.” The voice trembles. “Don’t you dare.”

“Harley?” he croaks. Talking hurts. Everything hurts. God, it hurts.

“I’m here. I’m— I’m not hurt.”

The anxious knot in his chest relaxes. His breathing comes easier, softer, fainter. If Harley’s okay, that’s all that matters. If he could drift, maybe it will hurt less. If Harley’s okay then he can drift. Just until the pain fades.

“Peter? Hey, stay awake. Stay here with me.”

He drifts away.

~*~

He awakes to pressure on his legs and toes that tingle painfully. It’s dark when he opens his eyes but he recognizes his surrounding immediately.

He’s home. Overhead is the bottom side of the top bunk where Ned sleeps when he stays over. At the moment it’s cluttered with laundry and other junk he can’t be bothered to put away, but next time he and Ned have a guy’s night he’ll clear it off and they’ll pretend they’re going to sleep in separate bunks but they’ll both be crammed up there by the time they give up fighting sleep.

A mosaic of sticky notes decorates the wall, painting it with reminders that are often forgotten before the ink dries. Blueprints for web-shooter upgrades are scattered across his desk and somewhere in the drawer is a sketch of a boy who looks at him like he’s made of starlight.

A throaty snore at the foot of the bed shocks the sleep out of him. Peter sits up and the room swims. His ears buzz and a nauseous wave rolls over him but he pushes through and demands that his body heed him because Harley is slumped across his legs as though he fell asleep while on watch.

His memories dump back into his head like a sloppy ice cream scoop hitting hot pavement. He rips numb legs out from under Harley and scrambles down the bed on all fours, racing heart in his mouth. Harley wakes with a snort at the same moment Peter gets his hands on his face, cupping his cheeks, smoothing his thumbs over his cheekbones.

“Pete—,”

“You’re alive.” The words rasp out of him, guttural and raw. It’s too dark to discern the color of the wide eyes staring back at him but he still sees blue swallowed by a flash of green with every blink. “Harley, I—,” His throat closes and refuses to allow words out. All he can do is crush his forehead against Harley’s temple and hold him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other fisted in the front of his shirt.

They should be dead. He’s sure of it. He felt consciousness slipping from him and then that last flash of green… Everything is muddled by the haze of pain and terror. He couldn’t tell if the flash at the end hit him or Harley. He wanted it to be him but there’s no reason to expect she wouldn’t turn on Harley the moment he was out of the way. She knows he’s somehow connected to Tony and that’s all she needs now. That’s all it takes for her to decide murder is the best option.

He wraps Harley in a hug, arms encircling him, nose buried against his neck. They should be dead.

“Pe— Can’t breathe.”

He lets his arms go slack but can’t bear to disentangle completely.

Harley hugs him then. Delicately at first, like he’s afraid of hurting him, then too tight, hands clutching fistfuls of the back of his shirt, cheek pressed against the top of his head, thighs flush against Peter’s as they kneel together in the middle of the bed, clinging to each other like if they hold tight enough they can stave off death itself. How did they get out of there alive? He laughs against Harley’s neck. Here they are. Alive. Together. It’s a miracle.

A tear tickles through his hair and falls onto his shoulder, leaving a dark dot on his shirt.

“Harley, how—,”

Harley pulls back far enough to see him. Moonlight sparkles atop damp eyelashes. “Are you okay?” he demands. “What hurts? I promised May I would— May!” he hollers as he remembers.

Peter ignores the shuffling outside the room and slips his thumbs through the twin streaks on Harley’s cheeks. His palms fit warmly against his jaw and his fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m fine. What about you? What happened? Did she hurt you?”

“She just knocked me out,” he says quickly as two sets of footsteps approach. “Nothing like what she did to you. Are you sure you’re—,”

The door opens and May stands in the doorway, awash in the light from the hall. All it takes is seeing her face, pre-maturely creased with exhaustion and worry, for the tears to roll.

“Peter,” she says despite the tears that spring to her eyes as well, “don’t you know how to treat a date? Most couples don’t jump into life or death situations until after marriage.”

He laughs wetly and holds out an arm for her to join them. The other clings to Harley’s sleeve. He’s not ready to let him out of reach. He doesn’t know when he will be.

May kneels beside him, head ducked under the low ceiling made by the top bunk, and squeezes him in a hug. She loops an arm around Harley as well while kissing Peter messily on the cheek.

That’s when he sees Abbie hovering in the doorway looking small. His heart cracks. She meets his eyes.

“I broke my promise,” he blurts. “I’m so sorry.” Harley got hurt. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt so long as Peter was around to keep him safe. Instead, he walked him hand-in-hand into danger. Stupid. Reckless.

A weird look mars her expression. “I’m not upset that—,” She cuts herself off with a world-weary sigh. “You’re no good at takin’ care of yourself, are you?”

May giggles, just this side of hysterical. Peter pokes her side but he’d be a fool to try and deny Abbie’s point right now. “I guess not.” It’s difficult when there are millions of people to put first.

She makes an unhappy sound in her throat. “How come I always have to be the common sense in the relationship? First Harley, now you.” She shakes her head. “I can only hope the stress puts me under before you do something stupid enough to get yourself killed.”

He sniffs. “Does that mean you love me? Pretty sure that means you love me, honeybee.”

Abbie turns offended eyes onto Harley. “What’d you tell him about that old nickname for?”

“I didn’t!” Harley argues.

“It’s the natural progression of your name,” Peter says. “I may be an idiot but I’m not dumb. Get over here.” He doesn’t have an arm to spare but May does and she holds it out expectantly.

Abbie hesitates, almost wary until Harley holds out an arm too and murmurs, “C’mon honeybee. Hugs are good for you.”

She plugs in betwixt May and Harley, completing their rough circle huddled in the center of the bed, arms tangled around waists and over shoulders until it gets too uncomfortable to maintain. But even when they break apart they remain together, oscillating between comfort and jokes until the early morning light paints the room with streaks of color and finally, Peter can breathe.

~*~

Perspective is a beautiful thing.

After the lab incident, Tony and his family leave the city until he can be sure they’re safe and Peter is assigned a babysitter for everywhere he goes. Harley didn’t hold back on the details when he told everyone what happened and what kind of opponent Peter has been up against all by himself. He was also quick to connect the dots between Peter’s conversation with Jill and the murders that have been all over the news for months. Needless to say, all those who care about Peter come down on him hard. He almost doesn’t mind because now he doesn’t go a day with seeing all of his favorite people whom he’s been neglecting for ages but, as much as he loves them, he’s well beyond frustrated.

He’s arguing with Abbie over the necessity of romantic sub-plots when Harley comes home from his Saturday shift at the Garage.

“Finally,” he and Abbie extol in unison then trade narrow-eyed looks.

Harley rolls his eyes at them but he can’t hide the soft easy smile on his lips. He in particular has been enjoying having Peter around more often and seems quietly pleased at their ease with each other.

“I’ll be at rehearsal until seven,” Abbie announces as she stands from the couch. She dumps her end of the blanket into Peter’s lap and holds out a hand expectantly towards Harley.

Harley drops his keys in her palm. “Don’t sideswipe any parking meters this time.”

Abbie snatches her hand away. “I’m a good driver!”

His hand covers his heart. “I believe you. It’s my side mirror you gotta convince.” He drops his hand. “Oh, wait. I don’t have one anymore.”

The glare she aims at him could curdle milk. “I changed my mind. I’ll be out ‘til ten.” She stomps out of the apartment and slams the door.

Satisfied with his performance in his big brother duties, Harley drops beside Peter on the couch. His weight hasn’t fully sunk into the cushion before Peter is moving.

Perspective is a beautiful thing. Sometimes you need a taste of death to shine a light on something you haven’t been fully appreciative of—like having a hot boyfriend. Unfortunately, all of these babysitters means no privacy. It means whenever Harley is around, so is Abbie or Ned or MJ or, God forbid, Aunt May. The way she sees right through him and laughs at his frustration is mortifying.

Finally, they’re alone. Peter dumps the blanket to the floor, pivots onto one knee, and swings the other across Harley’s lap. He’s been fantasizing about doing this for an eternity and finally, finally, they’re alone.

Harley’s gaze snaps from the TV and his hands reflexively catch his hips. “Wha—,”

Peter presses him back into the couch with a hand on his shoulder and only allows him a moment to get on board with what’s happening before licking into his mouth. Harley’s question dissolves into a moan and his hands tighten on Peter’s hips. Their lips move together until Harley breaks the kiss. Not ready to separate, Peter threads a string of kisses over his jaw and down his neck as Harley struggles to catch his breath.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I uh, didn’t realize you were this, umm, sexual.”

Peter sits back from lavishing Harley’s collarbone and tries to calm down enough to figure out what he’s saying. “Oh. D’you want to—,”

“Stop? No, no, no. I just—,” He gazes at Peter with unfocused eyes, pupils blown wide. “You didn’t seem to care about this kind of thing before.”

Peter bites his lip. He probably shouldn’t confess this but… “Don’t let this ruin the mood but I don’t think I had the energy to be horny.”

Nearly two weeks have passed since their encounter with Jill and he’s been in bed by nine every night save one or two. Okay, more like five or six but whatever! Technicalities! The point is, he’s been good . At Tony and May’s insistence, he quit all of his jobs except dog walking and he had to beg to keep that one. In return, Tony promised that F.R.I.D.A.Y. would keep an eye out by accessing the city’s network of CCTVs. She got a good look while Jill Palpatined him in the lab so it’s only a matter of time before she spots her and sounds the alarm.

All of that is to say, for the first time in months Peter has been able to truly rest, and now that his body is operating on all cylinders again… Well, he has been seriously under-appreciating the fact that he has a boyfriend. A hot boyfriend.

“Remind me to be pissed at you about that later,” Harley says breathlessly.

Peter’s heart does a funny thing in his chest as he kisses Harley. He slips his hands up Harley’s shirt, over his soft stomach and the trail of hair he’s dying to follow. How did he luck into this?

Again, Harley breaks the kiss. Chest rising and falling under Peter’s hands, he asks “D’you— Not that I’m saying—,” He growls in frustration and every part of Peter’s anatomy takes notice—the shine on his teeth as he bares them, the flush of his cheeks, the way he looks at him, heated and awash with desire. “Is this how you want our first time to go? A rushed, stolen moment before someone interrupts?”

“Presumptuous much? Who says we’re not going to stop at making out? And maybe some heavy petting?” After a moment of consideration, Peter adds, “Without pants.” He raises his eyebrows.

Harley tries to make an unimpressed face but he can’t hide the way his equipment downstairs takes interest, not while Peter is on his lap in a similar predicament.

“When’s Ned going to be here?”

“I texted him not to come.” Hours ago. He didn’t even have to say why. Ned’s emoji-riddled response made it clear he knows exactly where Peter’s head is at.

“Oh,” Harley says.

That’s it. Just, ‘Oh.’ Disappointment curls low in Peter’s stomach. “You want to stop.”

“I don’t,” Harley says emphatically. “I very much want to take everything you’re offering, I just…” He looks up and his expression shifts, losing some of the haze of desire as he takes in Peter’s face. He reaches up and lifts a curl away from his eyes and asks, “Is this good enough?”

“Good enough for who? Are you wanting something more… romantic?”

“I…” His cheeks deepen in color and maybe Peter’s sort of a prick but he likes how shy Harley looks. Normally he’s confident—not arrogantly so, but he doesn’t blush and turn bashful and look up at him with eyes wide and demure, reeking of sincerity. “I kind of have a history of— Well, as Abbie puts it, I was a slut so I— I wanna do this right. I don’t wanna cut corners with you.”

A slow smile curls Peter’s lips. He fingers the waistband of Harley’s jeans. Lowly, he asks, “What kind of corners did you cut, Mr. Keener?”

Harley’s breath hitches and he closes his eyes. “Peter, holy shit, could you listen with your other head for a second?”

“I’m listening, babe.” He captures Harley’s mouth with a sloppy kiss then runs his lips over his jaw to his ear as he says, “Keep talking. It’s important for us to be open about our sexual histories before our first time together.”

A breath shudders through Harley and his grip on Peter’s hips turns painful in the best kind of way. “Pete, you’re killing me.”

He sits up. “Do you want to stop? I’ll stop if it’s what you want, but if you’re hitting the breaks because you think I need to be romanced, I’m telling you that’s bullshit.”

“I… Can we at least move to the bedroom?”

Realization strikes, leaving a bloom of delight in its wake. Peter laughs. “You want to be romanced! That’s adorable.”

“My sister lives here,” Harley argues weakly.

“Mhmm.” He kisses away Harley’s excuses and slips off the couch.

When he stands he hoists Harley up with him, hands under his thighs, effortless. Harley’s arm flies around the back of his neck and the other fists in the back of his shirt, but his panic at his new position fades as quickly as it arrived as Peter catches his lips and deepens the kiss, basking in the weight of Harley in his arms, wrapped around him, swallowing him alive. Then Harley wraps his legs around Peter’s waist and kisses him back and Peter realizes getting him into bed is actually the most important thing in the world actually.

He kicks open the bedroom door and Harley laughs, breathless against his lips, and whispers, “How are you so hot?”

It takes enormous restraint not to throw Harley onto the rumpled bed and leap atop him but he manages it. If it’s romance Harley wants, he’s going to woo the hell out of him. So it’s on his knees that he walks up the bed before depositing Harley against the pillows. The sight of him steals his breath. Swollen lips, flushed cheeks, eyes at half-mast as he drags Peter down, arm around his neck, for another kiss. He’s a goner.

“Shut the door,” Harley says against his lips.

Anticipation thrills under his skin at the simple order, the promise of what’s to come, but he can’t help but pepper Harley’s lips with kisses.

“In a minute,” he murmurs.

Harley turns his head. “My sister lives here,” he reminds him like he isn’t painfully aware. “You gotta— Please just shut it.”

Peter makes a frustrated sound but flounces off the bed and does it. “Would you relax?” He bounces back onto the bed and crawls up Harley’s body to straddle him once again. “She’s not going to be home for hours. You’re acting like it’s your first time.”

“Sorry,” Harley says, eyes on his mouth. “It just… It sort of is.”

Peter stops and looks at him, splayed under him, all soft and pliant and wide-eyed. “What? A minute ago you called yourself a slut.”

Harley blushes and Peter has to curl his hands into fists to keep from ripping his shirt off to see how far beyond his collar it goes.

“I— Yeah, but not like— I’ve been with a lot of guys but this is the first time I’ve brought anyone home or—,” His face turns redder. “—or cared. My first time was a blowie behind Denny’s and I didn’t even—,”

“Holy crap, that’s hot.”

Harley sighs, exasperated, and some of his usual self bleeds back into his expression. “Would you listen with your big boy brain for two seconds?”

“I’m listening, I’m listening. We won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

“You’re not listening. I want to do it all. I just…” His irritation fades and is replaced by a soft expression as he searches Peter’s eyes. “Is it always like this? When you care? It’s like I’m drowning even though I don’t need to breathe.”

Adoration. That’s the feeling that builds in Peter’s chest until he can taste it on his tongue. It spills out of him in the way he cradles Harley’s face between his palms and kisses him, sweet and reverent. A moment ago he wanted to rip him apart with his teeth, but now he wants to do it inch by aching inch, pulling him apart at the seams, one stitch at a time, unfolding his hidden facets and exploring undiscovered depths. Then, when he has looked his fill and learned every bit of him there is to learn, he’ll put him back together exactly as he was. Exactly as he is.

“No,” Peter says, voice raw. “This is different.”

“Oh.” Harley gazes up at him from between Peter’s palms. Gorgeous. “Different than… Who have you…?”

“You’re not the jealous type, are you?”

Harley stares at him, nonplussed. “I don’t know. Why?”

“MJ was my first.”

Harley blinks. “Oh.” He scrunches his face thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’m jealous.”

“Pity. Could have been ho—,”

“You don’t need any more horny juice, Parker. You’re hard enough to handle as it is.”

A roguish grin cracks across his face. “I’m hard, alri—,”

Harley groans and pulls him down by the front of his shirt. “You’re done talking.”

“Finally,” he sighs. He sinks into Harley—his mouth, his thighs, the plush center of his stomach, the sharp bones of his hips, and the deliberate care of his hands that hold him and don’t let go.

~*~

“Is this the part where I tell you I’m in love with you?” Peter mumbles into the pillow.

“Don’t tease,” Harley warns as he hikes up his underwear.

Peter rolls onto his side to watch him. “I dunno, I’ve seen a lot of movies and usually after the romantic pairing has mind-blowing sex either one of them dies or they confess their undying love.” He pats his chest. “I think I feel a proposal coming on.”

Harley throws a shirt at his face. “It’s probably gas. You’ll pull through.”

Snickering, Peter shrugs on the shirt, Harley’s shirt, then wiggles back into his underwear. “You say that now, but—,”

Harley rounds the bed and freezes, staring at the floor. “What is that?”

Peter swings his feet to the floor and curls his toes in the shaggy green fabric. “It’s called a rug, sweetie. People put them in their houses to make them homier.”

Stone-faced, Harley turns to him. “I told you, no gifts.”

The seriousness of the situation hits Peter like a water-logged towel to the face. His teasing smirk drops. “It’s not a gi—,”

“Don’t lie. I’m not stupid. You bought it to give to me. That means it’s—,”

He lurches to his feet. “I didn’t buy it! Harley, please. Just— I found it in a dumpster, okay? I found it and it’s still in good condition so I thought…” He sighs and presses his hand against his face, hiding his expression. “I thought it would be nice if it looked like you’re planning on sticking around for a while, that’s all.”

“You—,” Harley stares at him silently for several breaths. When he speaks next the ice is gone from his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look at this place.” Peter throws his arm wide, gesturing at Harley’s spartan bedroom. Only the blanket on the bed belongs to him. Everything else has been shut away in the dresser or doesn’t exist. “You could pack up and be gone in five minutes. You’ve got that jar in the living room full of all those little souvenirs from across the country. I just— I wanted it to at least look like this is your home. Like it’s where you’re going to stay.”

Harley searches Peter’s face, all traces of anger gone. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t want you to feel bad if it was a money thing. It doesn’t bother me that you don’t have much, not in that way. I… I worry, I guess. You can go anywhere you want at the drop of a hat but I’m only ever going to be here, in New York.” He meets Harley’s stare. “I wouldn’t blame you for moving on if that’s what you want but I don’t… I don’t want to be left behind.”

Harley steps close and settles his hands on Peter’s hips. “Pete, I’m not goin’ anywhere. You didn’t need to buy me anyth—,”

“I didn’t buy it,” Peter repeats firmly. “And it wasn’t for you. It was for me to make me feel better so it’s not a gift so you can’t be mad at m—,”

Harley kisses him. Peter stays determinedly still for a beat but he can’t help the way he eventually melts into it. Their lips part and Harley softly tells him, “Thank you.”

“It’s not for you,” Peter repeats stubbornly, eyes on Harley’s mouth.

Harley smiles. “In that case, maybe we should go get some stuff that is for me.”

Peter wrenches his stare up and finds Harley’s eyes full of affection, corners crinkled. “Really?”

“Yeah. You know any good thrift stores nearby? I want a lamp.”

Peter makes a face. “A lamp?”

“Yeah and a nightstand. I’ve never had one before. Seems convenient.”

“Can I pick out some stuff for the walls?”

Harley narrows his eyes. “I get the final say.”

Peter plants a kiss on his lips then says, “Deal.”

Harley steps back and eyes the rug with his mouth scrunched in an unimpressed slant. “Found it in a dumpster, huh?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it! It’s a perfectly good rug.”

Harley makes a sound of consideration in his throat and says nothing, but the way he looks at it gives Peter the feeling that if he wants his new rug to survive the week he’ll need to smuggle it home and hope May doesn’t notice. She enacted a strict ‘no dumpster fabrics’ rule years ago after he brought home bedbugs on a very nice hand-knitted throw. If Harley ever hears that story he’ll never trust his dumpster goods.

“Did you at least wash it?” Harley asks.

Peter looks at the rug and then back at Harley. He doesn’t have a good answer to that one.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin...Tuesday?? Wednesday mornings have been super jam packed for me so I'm trying out Tuesday evening posting instead. I might switch to Tuesdays for the last few chapters. We'll see!

This is probably my favorite chapter 🥰 The hurt <3 The comfort <3 The horny times <3 Dumpster Boy my beloved <333 the entire final scene is possibly my fav convo of theirs. That's Growth baby!

Thank you thank you to all of you! I adore every interaction 💖💖💖

Chapter 13: It all comes down to choices

Maybe Peter is assuming too much when he crawls through Harley’s bedroom window rather than the living room, but maybe Harley will be sitting on the bed waiting for him. Expecting him. It’s a deviation from the norm but if he’s right about the direction they’re headed then it will be a welcome one.

Harley, on the bed, back against the wall, one knee up with his sketchbook braced on his thigh, watches as Peter scuttles through the window, but in the moment it takes for Peter to turn his back and close the window, Harley has resumed penning careful lines. Annoying.

Peter yanks off his mask and fluffs his hair. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Harley mumbles. There is a deep furrow between his brows as his pen moves in a slow, exacting arc across the page under the light of the lamp atop his bedside table.

That sketchbook. He didn’t even know Harley drew until he started obsessively planning his stupid Iron Man suit. He’d like to say his boyfriend is a talented artist but he wouldn’t know because he’s never gotten so much as a glimpse into the thing. He’s not sure if he’s more annoyed or hurt by that.

Okay, that’s a lie. He’s annoyed. Very, very annoyed. Competing against a blank book for Harley’s attention might be an easier pill to swallow if Harley would show him what he’s doing all the times he ignores him to draw in the stupid thing. Then again, he knows what Harley’s doing. He’s designing a suit that will allow him to go stand in front of guns and throw himself on top of bombs or whatever. He doesn’t like being ignored but he doesn’t like why he’s being ignored more.

Thus, he resolves to be unignorable.

Harley doesn’t look up as Peter shuts the door or when he slaps the spider on his chest and the suit relaxes around him. He steps out of it and kicks it next to Harley’s pile of clothes on the floor doesn’t receive so much as a glance. In nothing but his underwear, Peter approaches the bed, and finally, Harley’s pen stops moving.

Narrowed eyes flick up. “I’ll murder you.”

“Aw, you always say the sweetest things,” Peter coos as he crawls onto the bed. Harley shifts the notebook away from him as he snuggles against his side. “Keep working. I’m not going to look.”

Harley doesn’t move.

Peter slips his hand under the back of his shirt and cups it against the soft skin of Harley’s hip. Then he closes his eyes and waits until Harley shifts and the drag of his pen across pulpy paper fills the silence.

Peter starts small, stroking his thumb along Harley’s waistband, then grows bold in his exploration, slipping his palm to the small of his back through the fuzzy patch of hair, up his spine until he runs into where his back meets the wall, then back to where he started. The first kiss he places on his shoulder over his shirt. The second, his neck. Skin. Then the knobby hinge of his jaw. That’s when Harley breathes out a shaky punch of air.

Peter smirks. Got him.

“I know what you’re doing,” Harley says lowly. His pen is poised above the page but blessedly still. Hovering. Waiting.

“You gonna stop me?” Peter squeezes his thigh.

A shudder ripples through Harley. “Could I?”

“Only if you want to. Do you want to stop me?” He rubs his thumb over the button of Harley’s jeans.

“Nuh—,” He trails off in a moan, half frustration and half… Well, a different kind of frustration.

“Haarleey,” Peter sing-songs against his neck, fitting himself more securely against his side as he slides his hands over his body, “you gotta tell me you want it, sweetheart.”

“Screw you.”

“If that’s what you want.” He kisses his throat where his pulse is fluttering as his hand strays from Harley’s thigh to somewhere more sensitive. “I was thinking I could blow you first though.”

Harley groans and his head falls back against the wall with a dull thump. Peter takes advantage of the exposed skin, nipping his collarbone then soothing it with a wet open-mouthed kiss.

“You’re impossible,” Harley says, already breathless, voice strained.

Peter plants his palm over the hard spot in Harley’s jeans but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of movement. “I haven’t heard a yes. You gotta say yes if you want it, babe.”

The sketchbook hits the floor.

~*~

Legs intertwined, bones liquid, brain liquid-er, he nuzzles his nose against the heated flesh of Harley’s chest as their heart rates settle. Harley’s fingers find their way into Peter’s hair and he closes his eyes and basks in the sensation.

Sleepily, thoughtlessly, he asks, “When do I get to look at it?”

“You can’t convince me you did all that without lookin’, darlin’,” Harley mumbles.

Peter raises his head to glower at him.

Harley glances down at him then does a double-take and loses some of his blissed-out stupor. “Oh, you don’t mean—,” His expression shifts, turning guarded. “You mean my sketches.”

Peter drops his head onto the soft intersection of Harley’s bicep and shoulder and grumbles, “Never mind.” It’s not important, he tells himself. If it was, Harley would share it with him but because he hasn’t, because he doesn’t want to, that means it’s not important and he should get over it.

Hesitant fingers resume stroking his hair and Peter tries to ignore the disappointment curdling in his chest. It’s not important. Funny how it sounds more and more like he’s not important with every repetition.

Harley groans and throws his arm across his eyes. “Fine, but hurry up and don’t tell me if you think they’re bad, but don’t tell me if you think they’re good either. Just— Just look and then we don’t ever have to talk about it again.”

The curiosity is killing him. He doesn’t want to force Harley to show him but then again, this could be his only chance. Biting his lip, Peter leans over the edge and grabs the sketchbook off the floor. Harley tenses but Peter flips open the front cover before he can third-guess his second guess.

Harley can draw. He flips to the second page, then the third. There are more diagrams than drawings. Blueprints, designs of inventions that don’t exist, or renderings of things that do but are broken down into parts then mapped out to show how they fit together. Everything is comprised of precise, symmetrical dimensions. He recognizes the microwave from the Keeners’ kitchen and also the ancient coffee maker from the school cafeteria.

Interspersed throughout the technical drawings are cartoons. Stick figures and stylized animals with expressive faces. They’re cute, but as he nears the back where the pages go blank, he finds careful depictions of Spider-Man mid-flip or swing. The physics of each action is unerring, painstakingly measured, and depicted perfectly. Everything is sharp and sure, nothing like MJ’s hyper-realistic sketches brought to life by shading and shadow rather than lines, yet just as impressive.

“Harley, these are incredible,” he breathes.

“You promised no gushing.” Harley’s voice is muffled with both arms now crossed over his face as he lays flat on his back.

“Did not. Does Abbie know about this?”

“She knows not to make a big deal of it.” All at once, Harley sits up and reaches for the sketchbook. “Give it back.”

Peter twists, blocking him with his shoulder. “No, no, wait. I’m not done.” He flips past Spider-Man, past what appears to be a re-imagined design of his spider suit, past a break-down of his web-shooters that isn’t quite right but is close enough it’d be alarming if it was anyone but Harley. Finally, he stalls on the pages Harley has been steadily filling for the past few weeks.

He breathes out through the knot of anxiety that tangles around his lungs as he absorbs them. Gauntlets, repulsors, boots, helms, faceplates, chest plates, the whole nine—every bolt, every piece of metal broken down to the barest basics then drawn and re-drawn from all angles. He flips the page and finds a list of names, most of them scratched out: Iron Man II, Iron Guy, Iron Lad, Irony, Iron Giant.

“Not so good at the naming part, huh?” he jokes weakly.

“Shut up. Anything’s better than Spider Man.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Laddie.”

Harley makes a distressed sound in his throat so, with a sigh, Peter closes the book and holds it out to him. Harley grabs it but Peter doesn’t let go. Their eyes meet. Peter wets his lips. “Harley…” There’s too much he wants to say but he doesn’t know how without sounding condescending or arrogant or controlling. He doesn’t want to cause another rift between them but…

He releases the sketchbook. Harley cradles it in his lap for a moment then drops it off the side of the bed. It hits the carpet with a soft slap.

“When did you learn to draw?” Peter asks instead of addressing the concerns billowing around his mind.

Harley flinches, apparently caught off guard, and meets his eyes. “What? Why?”

“I’m curious. You’ve never mentioned it before.”

Harley wets his lips and looks away. “It ain’t a secret, I just… I started when I was little.” He cautiously looks up. “There was a time a little bit before my dad took off when we were motel hopping. There wasn’t anything better to do so I sorta picked it up. Wasn’t serious about it or anything and I didn’t have proper supplies, just an old notebook and a mechanical pencil. It was a way to pass the time and I… I guess I just kept it up after that. Became a coping mechanism or something. You don’t need to think to make a bunch of lines on a page.” He shrugs and ducks his chin while his thumb worries a small scar on his knee. It looks old, like it grew with him.

“That’s cool. I hear coping mechanisms are important. Better than going out and—,” He cuts off abruptly as he realizes he circled the conversation right back around to the one he was avoiding.

“Picking fights?” Harley asks with a spiteful curl to his lips. “I do that too, remember?”

How could he forget? Harley is littered with little scars like the one on his knee and the one on his ribs that he showed Peter the first time he came here on accident. He has a bruise on his thigh right now that Peter hasn’t asked about because he knows it didn’t come from bumping the table or anything mundane. Harley has been going out and picking fights since before Peter knew he existed. His whole life sounds like one big fight. Regardless, that doesn’t change how Peter feels about him dawning a suit and following in his footsteps.

Harley sighs. “Just say it, Pete. I know you want to.”

He searches for the best way to phrase it but comes up empty so he chooses honesty. “I don’t want you to do it. To be…” He gestures toward the floor where the sketchbook full of Iron Man armor lies.

“I know. And you know I’m going to anyway.”

Peter tries to smile and fails. “Yeah, I know.” For the first time, he thinks he probably should have waited until they put their clothes back on to start this conversation. Too late now. He adjusts the blanket over his lap then takes a breath and confesses, “I’m scared.”

“Me too but not the same as you are, I think.” Harley looks at him with no pretense. His eyes are heavy in the dim evening light, serious. “You almost died.”

Peter latches onto that point with energy. “You almost died.”

“No, you almost died protecting me, Peter. I never want to feel that helpless again. How would I—,” He breathes out slowly, scrambling for control as emotion contorts his expression. His shoulders hunch and he asks, “How would I live with that? How would I… If I knew that with the right tools I could help, but I chose not to and it cost you your life?” He shakes his head. “I can’t take that chance. I won’t.”

If Peter says anything to the contrary he’s a hypocrite but he’d rather be a hypocrite than say what he says next. “What about Abbie?” Harley jerks like he’s been struck but Peter can’t reign in his words. “If something happens, if you die, she’ll be alone. That’s the chance you’re willing to take?”

Harley shakes his head. “I don’t…” To his hands, he says, “Obviously, I don’t want that to happen, but—,” When he looks up, his gaze is weighted with meaning. “—but she won’t be alone, Pete. She’ll have you.”

Peter stares at him, heart squeezed as though by a fist. Abbie is everything to Harley. He’d be stupid not to have figured that out by now. That Harley would trust her to him… “What if we both die?” he asks because he has to. “We almost did. We should have. What then?”

Harley falters, frowning as his gaze drops and a stilted silence descends over them. Peter bites his tongue to keep from breaking it. There’s no winner to this discussion, there can’t be, but he made a promise.

“I…” Harley works his jaw from side to side and blinks down at his fingers. “I love Abbie.”

“Of course you do,” Peter says as his heart breaks. He knows what’s coming next. How many times has he heard the same justification come out of his own mouth preceded by the very same statement? ‘I love Aunt May, but—,’ ‘I love my friends, but—,’ There’s always a but. He should have known it would go like this. Deep in his heart, he probably did.

Harley looks up and meets his stare with a tortured expression. “—but this is bigger than us. I have to do this. It’s… I’m meant to, I think.”

“Aunt May,” Peter blurts. “May wouldn’t let her be alone. She would take her in, look after her, anything. Anything she needs. She won’t be alone, no matter what, I promise.”

Something breaks in Harley’s expression and then he’s pulling Peter into a too-tight hug. Peter buries his face in his neck and hugs him too tight, too.

In a hoarse whisper, Harley says, “Thank you.”

Peter presses his forehead against his shoulder. “I still don’t want you to.”

“I know.” Harley presses his lips to his neck behind his ear. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Peter says quietly.

Later, when their clothes are on and Harley is dozing, he slips out of the bedroom and knocks lightly on Abbie’s door across the hall. It’s late and he needs to get home, but this is something he needs to do in person and sooner rather than later.

Abbie opens the door. Before she can get out whatever snarky remark is on the tip of her tongue, he opens his arms for a hug and says, “I’m sorry.”

She turns stiff and pulls back glaring at him until he lowers his arms to his sides. She doesn’t ask him to clarify what he means. Her eyes flick to Harley’s closed door then she says lowly, “You said you’d change his mind.”

“I tried. If I keep fighting him he’s going to do it anyway but without my help. He’ll be safer if I have his back.”

She swings the door shut but Peter catches it and plants himself in the doorway. “Abbie—,”

She scowls, eyes swimming. “He’s my brother.” Her lip wobbles. She opens her mouth to say something else but nothing comes. She gasps lightly and repeats, guttural, from her chest, “He’s my brother.”

His throat burns. “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t let— I’ll do everything I can to keep him safe. I swear to you I will. Everything. Anything.”

Her mouth bends into an upside-down U as she fights back tears but one inevitably slips free and a second follows swiftly after. A sob escapes her lips as she ducks into his waiting arms and squeezes him around the waist. He holds her protectively, one arm around her back while his hand cradles the back of her head and he murmurs over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

~*~

Finals come and go. Peter finds they’re much less stressful when he has time to devote to studying and available mental real estate to keep track of test days and times. He, Ned, MJ, and Harley study together every night the week before. Even though Harley is two years behind them he keeps up reasonably well and helps tremendously by refreshing their memories on the older material that they haven’t looked at in years.

Harley and MJ team up against him and Ned when they’re being “childish” (who can resist the siren song of an ice cream truck? Be serious) and Harley seems to have infinite patience for Ned when he gets going on a good ramble. Peter and MJ timed their conversation about the backstories of various video game characters. It got up to 45 minutes before MJ couldn’t take it anymore and forced them to refocus on studying. The only negative things Ned or MJ have to say about Harley involve him and Peter sneaking off into the stacks to make out which, yeah, fair.

He can’t believe he was ever worried about inviting Harley into the fold of their friend group. It’s like he was made to fill the empty seat at their table.

Jill is still in the back of his mind but she isn’t eating up all of his attention and sending his anxiety into overdrive anymore. Part of that is due to no longer being massively sleep-deprived, but the rest he thinks is the simple comfort of knowing it’s not all on his shoulders anymore. F.R.I.D.A.Y. hasn’t spotted her yet but it’s only a matter of time. They’ll catch her. He only hopes it’s soon.

In the meantime, Harley is getting worryingly close to finishing his suit. Now that classes have ended for the summer, every moment Harley isn’t at work or running Abbie around to auditions is spent in the lab with Tony or planning for when he’s next in the lab. Harley hasn’t told him anything but now and again Tony sends Peter a picture of their progress. Peter’s lockscreen is now a picture of Harley immersed in his work, oblivious to the camera. The most recent picture Tony sent was of a faceplate staring blankly up at the camera. The thought of Harley behind it makes Peter twitchy and a bit sick.

He’s patrolling more in the hope that Jill will show her face sooner rather than later so he can end this before Harley and his suit are ready for action. He can’t protect him from everything, but this one thing… He’d like to think he can protect him from this one thing.

~*~

“Yeah, yeah we’ll take a loaf.”

Peter makes a face as he releases his web. Phone held against his cheek, he plummets until he fires a new one and it catches and begins a new arc. “I guess you can throw it away and say you ate it.”

“Abbie likes it,” Harley says with a note of offense on her behalf.

“You don’t have to lie. May has no illusions about her baking. I keep telling her if she’d just follow a recipe—,”

Tony’s voice in the background catches his attention. “Have you told him yet?”

A feeling of foreboding settles in his gut. “Told me what?”

Harley huffs and mutters, “Damn super ears.”

“Get used to it, pumpkin. Tell me the thing.”

Harley sighs. “It’s done.”

His stomach flips and it has nothing to do with the free-fall he just plunged into. “What is?” he asks, in case he’s wrong.

“Don’t play dumb,” Harley says stiffly. “The suit. It’s done. Tony and I just finished the first test flight.”

Peter swivels mid-air to gawk towards the tower, despite it being all the way across the city, and crashes to an abrupt stop as he clotheslines himself on an awning. Only his sticky fingers keep him from clattering to the sidewalk alongside his phone. Fucking awnings. Rubbing his aching face, he drops to the ground and ignores the people that gasp and stumble back as he appears in their midst. His screen is shattered. Figures. He puts it to his ear anyway. “Hello?”

“Did you drop your phone?”

“Pfft, no. It’s impossible for me to drop things. Sticky fingers, remember?” He waggles said fingers at a little girl across the street and she waves enthusiastically back. Then he fires a web and hoists himself up off street level.

“Uh-huh.” Harley’s tone is as dry as Aunt May’s date loaf. “I was thinking, maybe tomorrow you could show me the ropes.”

He knows Harley well enough by now to hear through the nonchalant phrasing to the nervous underbelly of the statement. That doesn’t mean he knows how to deal with it though. He doesn’t want to show Harley the ropes and both of them know it, but what’s the alternative? Either he does this or he leaves Harley in Tony’s hands. It’s not that Tony isn’t capable, but he’s not the same kind of hero as Spider-Man and that’s what Harley wants to be.

The Avengers are the stopgap between total world annihilation and the Earth living to see another day, whereas Spider-Man is the stopgap between a desperate New Yorker down on their luck and another desperate New Yorker down on their luck, both of whom are being ground up by the same broken system. Both deserve help more than hurt but the one inflicting hurt still needs to be stopped. There’s a nuance, a delicacy, to what he does that the Avengers don’t have to deal with and therefore can’t teach. It has to be him if Harley is going to do what Spider-Man does, not what Iron Man does. It has to be him.

He lands lightly on a balcony railing and sits, legs dangling a couple dozen stories above the street. He takes a steadying breath and says, “Yeah, we can—,”

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He jerks his head up and lowers the phone as he scans the area for whatever pinged his Spidey-sense’s radar. There’s nothing immediately obvious. No fight on the street below. No burglary in progress at any of the shops. He’s not in danger yet, it’s not that kind of warning, but the potential for it is—

He spots her. She’s silhouetted against the sun, standing atop a roof looking down on him. Directly at him. He tenses, prepared to dodge whatever she throws at him, but she doesn’t attack. She watches him for a moment then turns her back and walks away. He has a peculiar feeling she wants him to follow.

He puts the phone to his mouth and says, “I’ll call you back.”

This is his chance. He’s out of time. He has to take it. If he wants to remove this threat before Harley is out here chasing it, he has to do it now.

“Wai—,”

He hangs up. He’ll deal with whatever Harley throws at him later. Right now he needs to focus. Experience is screaming that this is a trick, a trap, but his gut is silent. Something about the way she was standing, her posture, the way she moved as she walked away—she’s clearly angling for something but she had her chance to kill him and she didn’t. To do so now, as an act of surprise, it wouldn’t make sense.

Silently, he slips across the street and lands lightly on the edge of the roof.

“Spider-Man.”

She’s facing him from the far end. The only things between them are HVAC exhaust vents and roof gravel. He steps down onto the gravel as she watches. Her cheeks are sunken and her skin has a waxy look to it, jaundiced maybe, like she hasn’t eaten, slept, or seen the sun in days. Weeks.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Her lips crack into a smile and she turns her face to the sky before shaking her head at him. “You always surprise me,” she murmurs. She raises her voice and questions, “How are you so good all the time?”

“Answer mine and I’ll answer yours.”

She shrugs. “No, I’m not okay. I’m dying. Your turn.”

“I’m not. Why are you dying?”

She frowns. “You’re not what?”

“I’m not good all the time. I make mistakes, bad decisions. I’m human, just like you.” He hesitates then adds, “More or less.”

She hums but doesn’t seem to believe him. Musingly, she says, “I’m not sure I am human anymore. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” She shakes her head. “I want to apologize. It was never my intention to hurt you. I… I lost control.”

An apology was not what he was expecting, but he has more pressing questions than why she thinks she needs to. “What are you? Where did this power come from?”

She smiles bitterly. “Let’s just say I made a deal with a devil.”

“Why?” he persists. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself.”

“I told you, I’m expendable. If making the world better costs me my life, so be it. I’ll keep striving toward that greater purpose until this body gives out.”

“Killing people,” he says. “Your supposed purpose is killing people.” He flexes his fingers and watches her track the movement.

“There’s nothing for you to hurl at me up here, Spider-Man. We both know I’ll win. I’m only here to apologize and then I have one last errand to run.”

“What errand?”

She cocks her head to the side and her hand strays to cover her pocket. “I suppose I can tell you. I assumed I would have to knock you unconscious to prevent you from following me anyway. By the time you wake up, it will be done.”

“Jill—,”

“My patron made a potion.” She smiles. “It’s genius, much more efficient than what I was doing, targeting one person at a time. It targets anyone with evil in their hearts and stops them.”

He’s uncomfortably aware of his own heart beating. “Stop them from what?”

“You misunderstand. It stops their heart.”

He closes his eyes and breathes. “How do you know that’s what it does? How does it know what evil is? How does your patron know what evil is?”

She grimaces. “He knows. It’s magic. It can’t be scienced apart, it simply is. All I need to do is add it to the public water supply and voila, no more evil in the city. The good people like you will be unaffected and the world will be a better place.” She stares into the middle distance. The hollows in her cheeks appear deeper than before. “Then I can be done. I can finally be done.”

His breathing quickens and adrenaline pumps through his body. He can feel the conversation closing on him and he doesn’t feel like he’s said half of what he needs to. “Jill, I can get you help. You don’t have to keep doing this. I’ll help you.”

She smiles. “Thank you for not giving up on me but I’m too far gone. I haven’t been… This power demands to be used and I’ve been too selective. It’s killing me. It’s going to kill me. Thank you though, for restoring my faith in humanity. I hope you enjoy paradise.”

He feels the change in the air the moment before his Spidey-sense screams and she flicks her wrist. A familiar bolt of green erupts from her fingertips but he rolls out of the way and changes the setting on his web-shooter.

He’s had weeks to plan for this moment. Weeks to review and catalog everywhere he went wrong in their previous fights. Weeks to tinker. He depresses the trigger in his palm and instead of webbing, the spider symbol on his chest detaches and zips at Jill. She raises her shield but the drone dodges around her, spitting webbing as it goes.

She can’t block all of it. A web pins her feet. She bends and cuts it with her shield as another plasters across her shoulder and picks up gravel. Two more connect with her back but aren’t able to pin her either. The choice to meet him on gravel was smart, his webs are ineffective against it, but only at first. With enough time, the webbing builds upon itself until finally it catches and holds.

He walks across the roof and when he reaches her, she’s down on one knee with both hands webbed near her feet but far enough apart that she can’t form her shield. Immobile. He clicks his palm trigger and the drone returns and clicks back into place against his chest. “Thanks, Droney.”

“Think about what you’re doing,” Jill spits. Tears threaten to spill down her cheeks.

He sinks into a squat and looks her in the eyes. “I’m going to help you, Jill, but first I need you to know you’re wrong.”

She watches him warily, gaze heavy with fury and suspicion, but lacking in fear.

“I’m a regular person,” he says. “I feel all the same emotions anyone else feels. I get angry, I lose my temper. I’m selfish and proud and I hurt the people I love because I’m selfish and proud. You can’t idolize me. You can’t put me on a pedestal to excuse your shortcomings or anyone else’s. Whoever this devil is that you made a deal with, they’re playing you. They’re trying to get you to do something truly terrible.”

“I don’t believe you,” she croaks. “I can’t.”

“Fine.” He reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small opaque vial with clear liquid inside. “I’ll prove it.” He pulls out the cork.

Her eyes go wide. “Stop.”

“Why? If it’s truly harmless to good people and you think I’m a good person, why shouldn’t I?”

“I need it,” she says. A tear slips free and she begins to tremble. “I need it to cleanse the city. There are so many evil people. Can’t you imagine for a moment what the world would be like without them?”

“Yeah,” he says gravely. “Empty. It would be empty. No one is good all the time. We all make mistakes. We all make bad choices. I’m not saying we give a free pass to anyone who abuses other people, but we can’t kill them. Where is the line? Where is the mercy? Where is the opportunity to grow, to change? It’s our drive to do better that makes us human, not our infallibility. If we take away everyone with blood on their hands or a black thought in their head, there won’t be anyone left.” He watches her as he says, “At your core, you’re no worse than anyone else. It all comes down to choices.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t believe you. I don’t—,”

“Fine.” He gets to his feet and removes the stopper on the vial. Call him impulsive. Call him proud. Call him a fucking idiot. He lifts his mask to his nose, ignores Jill’s shrieks demanding that he stop, and downs the vial.

Jill’s mouth hangs open in shock but she very quickly fades into the background as the worst stomach pain he’s ever felt in his life rips through him. It spreads from there, fire in his chest, burning the back of his throat. Gravel bites into his knees as his legs give out. Bitter ash blackens the back of his tongue as a relentless, stabbing pain radiates from his gut.

He hunches in on himself, gasping. In hindsight, this may be one of those mistakes he mentioned a second ago. He thought with his healing factor…

“What did you do?!” A hand encased in metal lands on his shoulder. His vision swims but he’s pretty sure that’s Harley standing over him in Iron Man armor. Either that or he’s hallucinating. It’s a toss-up, really.

“Why did you hang up?” Harley snaps as he pats him down for injuries. He spots the vial lying in the gravel and picks it up. If Peter was in a better spot he might compliment his workmanship. Those big metal fingers don’t even crack the glass.

“Did you drink this?” Harley demands, brandishing the vial in his face.

Peter sways on his knees and only Harley’s hand on his shoulder keeps him from face-planting. Another cramp tears through him and he doubles over, too breathless to cry out. “Might’ve messed up,” he gasps when it eases enough to pull in a breath.

“Might have? What were you thinking?”

Harley hoists him up by the armpits and tries to maneuver him into a carry while Peter fights to stay curled over his burning stomach. He’s getting hot. Really, really hot. Everything feels distant, fuzzy. He licks his lips and tastes blood. “She’s wr’ng,” he slurs. “Had to prove ‘er wrong.”

“If that’s true, I’ll kill you.”

Harley gets him over his shoulder but then Peter cries out as the most painful cramp yet makes his eyes roll back in his head and sends him swimming in the black.

Notes:

Happy Mid-Week Day of Serotinin!! Fun Fact! The funniest line in this entire series is said in this chapter. It makes me laugh every time. Other fun fact! I realized while posting that Harley's first and last lines this chapter are him threatening Peter with murder lmao boys being boys!

Which oh yeah, sorry about the cliffhanger...again... Good news is, this is the last cliffhanger! Bad new is, there are only two more chapters :( The other good news is that the last 2 chapters are Big BOys so there's actually like 14k of story left lol

Thank you thank you lovely people! I wish you good food and simple days and pillows with just the right amount of fluff!

Chapter 14: Something new and good

“You dipshit.”

Peter registers the words before he realizes he’s awake, alive. Oh thank fuck he’s alive. That magic toxin stuff wasn’t screwing around. He didn’t expect it to take him down so fast or so ruthlessly. He expected pain and a bad time, but he thought his healing factor would kick it before it actually killed him. Luckily, Harley showed up just as he—

Harley.

He sits up and pain rocks his body, cramping and searing his insides. His stomach burns hot like an infection. A hand shoves him back down and he doesn’t resist. Through the fading pain, as he catches his breath, he dimly recognizes Abbie’s voice.

“—terrible at keeping promises. I don’t understand how you could think for a second—,”

“Bee?” He cracks his eyes open. She’s perched on the edge of the bed, his bed, lips pressed together, nostrils flared, eyes wild. Her braid is frayed and the loose t-shirt she’s wearing is crooked on her shoulders. “Where’s Harley?” For a moment, his thoughts stray to the darkest possibility. If Jill got free would she have attacked him? This is the second time he passed out and left Harley alone against his problem. They were lucky to survive the first time. To ask for a second miracle…

“Sleeping,” Abbie says shortly.

“Why? Is he hurt?” If he got hurt because of him… He tries to sit up but Abbie’s hand is still firm on his shoulder and she holds him down easily. Or, you know, maybe he’s being nice and letting her think that.

“Cuz it’s two in the morning, moron, and he hasn’t hardly slept in three days because of that shit stunt you pulled. D’you know how bad you scared him? I’ve never seen him like that. Never.” She pokes him hard, right in the rib. “Listen good, Spider-Dufus. I don’t wanna have to keep repeating myself.” She eyeballs him and he stares wide-eyed back. “When you promised to take care of Harley, that meant taking care of yourself too because losing you would ruin him. You have got to see he’s stupid in love with you.”

His heart trips with adrenaline, jolting him to full lucidity. “I…” He stares at Abbie. “I mean, I hoped so, but—,”

“But nothing. He is. So quit it with the suicide plays!”

“It wasn’t a suici—,”

“It was a gamble,” she snaps. “It was reckless. Stupid. You didn’t know what would happen and you did it anyway. Do you have any idea what it would do to everyone to lose you?”

“I know, I know. Harley—,”

“Not just Harley. Your aunt has hardly been eating.”

His stomach flips. He drops his gaze as shame washes over him but Abbie isn’t done.

“Ned and MJ have been taking shifts being here. Tony Stark stops by once a day checking in on you and he’s got his wizard pal working with that wackjob that caused all of this making detox potions and crap.” She looms over him, eyes shining. “I had to wrestle Harley out of here just so he’d shower and get some real sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She continues as though she didn’t hear him, “None of that is counting what it would do to New York to lose Spider-Man. You have got to think about other people. You’ve got to stop acting like you’re expendable because you’re not.”

“I get it,” he says quietly.

“Do you?” She pokes him in the ribs again, seeming to take a sick satisfaction in how he squirms. “You are beloved by countless people, ones who know you and ones that don’t. It’s time you acted like your life’s value is in being alive, not in what you can sacrifice.”

“Abbie—,”

“Promise me,” she says, chin tipped up. “Make me a promise that you’ll take care of yourself. That means resting when your body demands rest. That means not needlessly putting your life on the line in a desperate attempt to convince someone not to throw away theirs. Promise.”

“I… Did it work? You said— Is Jill—,”

“Promise first,” she insists hotly. She softens. “Please, I… I need you to promise.”

Realization dawns slowly. This isn’t about him scaring Harley, not really, not at its core. It’s not about May, Ned, or MJ either. “Hey,” he says softly. He puts his hand over hers and holds tight. “I’m sorry I scared you. I promise I’ll take better care of myself, okay? I promise.”

Her chin wobbles and her mouth turns down into that upside-down U. “You better.” She sniffs. “I’m counting on you being around a long time, you know. I never seen Harley happy like he is with you.”

“You make him happy too.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I— I’m not doubting my worth or my place. I’m… I knew he’d find his peach someday and I’d have to get okay with sharing him, but I… I always imagined it as losing something, you know?” She pats their clasped hands and says softly, “I didn’t know I’d be gaining something new and good right alongside him.”

A lump forms in his throat and his eyes burn. He blinks rapidly. “I…” He clears his throat. “I’ve never had a sister before. I’m sorry if I suck at it.”

She laughs wetly and sniffs. “You got all the major parts down: annoying as hell, bad opinions, questionable hygiene—,”

“Hey! May says I’m not bad for a guy my age.”

She flattens her expression. “Parker, that bar is so low it’s on the ground.”

Touché. They trade watery grins then lapse into silence, hands locked together atop his chest. It’s the kind of quiet you only get in the middle of the night when all of the reasonable people are long-asleep and the night owls have finally turned in. He could drift back to sleep easily but there’s something that’s been bothering him for years that he thinks maybe Abbie could help him with.

He taps his index finger against the back of her hand. “Hey, Bee?”

She makes a listening sound and drags her distant stare down to his face.

“Since we’re making promises, could you make one for me?”

She narrows her eyes. “Depends.”

“Smart.” His crooked grin fades quickly. “Can you… If anything happens to me, will you look out for May?”

She regards him in silence. “Why me?”

“She’ll listen to you and you’d be good at it.”

She snorts. “Harley’s the one that’s good at that kind of thing. He’s been taking care of me my whole life.”

He frowns. “That’s not how I see it. You look out for each other. You for him just as much as he does you. I just… If you could include May in that somehow… She’ll take care of Ned and MJ as much as they’ll let her but I worry no one will be looking out for her and…” He tries on a sad smile. “We’re the last of the Parkers, you know? Without me… I just worry.”

She returns his smile but it comes out wobbly. “Yeah, I get that.” She breathes out. “If I agree to this then I’m basically giving you free rein to do whatever dumb self-sacrifice thing pops into your head next.”

He’s already shaking his head before she can finish. “No, it’s not— A little peace of mind, that’s all I’m asking. If the day comes that I… I don’t want her to be alone.”

Abbie observes him and then finally nods. “Alright. If you promise to take care of yourself and try your damnedest to not do anything dumb enough it kills you, then I promise I’ll look out for May should the worst happen—and it would be the worst so you’d better try real hard to make sure I don’t have to uphold my end of the deal.”

He cracks a smile. “Should we get this in writing? I feel like I need a lawyer.”

“I’ll do you one better.” She holds up her pinkie. “Do you so solemnly pinkie-swear?”

He interlocks his pinkie with hers. “I solemnly pinkie-swear.”

~*~

Later when he wakes, the sun is up, a terrible smell is wafting from the kitchen, Abbie is curled up like a cat between his side and the wall, and Harley is seated at the foot of the bed where he was last time only now he’s upright and conscious and his sketchbook is propped on his thigh.

“Hey,” Peter says in undertone, hyper-conscious of Abbie’s deep, even breathing.

Harley glances at him, then resumes his sketch, his lips pressed flat.

Yeowch. Cold. He’s sure he deserves it but that doesn’t make the silence any easier to endure. Harley clicks his pen and sets both it and the sketchbook aside. Then he leans back against the wall, arms folded and frowning deeply. Peter’s neck is strained from him being flat on his back and craning up to see him but he doesn’t dare sit up lest he wake Abbie. Harley says nothing. Only watches.

“Are you icing me out?” Peter asks.

Harley looks away and shakes his head. His jaw ticks then he says, “I don’t wanna say somethin’ I’ll regret.”

Peter’s fingers twitch with the need to fidget. “You’re mad at me.”

“A bit, yeah.” He looks at him, jaw tight, eyes hot. “You had me on the phone. You were talking to me when you saw her.”

“She almost killed me, Harley,” he says quietly.

“All the more reason you should call back up,” he snaps.

“All the more reason to keep you out of harm’s way,” he counters.

Biting his cheek, Harley looks away. “You don’t trust me.”

“Of course I do,” he counters weakly. He hates this. He hates letting people down. He hates making them doubt how much he cares for them.

“Don’t lie. You don’t trust me to have your back.”

He opens his mouth and lets it hang for a moment as he tries to come up with a rebuttal, but he can’t, because it’s true. He props his elbow under him. “Harley, you’ve never done this before. I’ve been Spider-Man for half a decade. It’s not something you can jump into and expect to swim.”

“So help me swim,” Harley says, leaning over him, hands fisted on his thighs. “Quit shutting me out.”

Peter laughs, a single sharp note. “You shut me out,” he snaps. “I had to beg to see your sketches and you never talk about your lab work. Tony had to step in to get you to tell me you’d finished your suit and I didn’t find out about your first test flight until after you took it.”

“You made it clear you don’t want anything to do with it.”

“No, I made it clear I don’t want you to have anything to do with it. If you’re going to do it anyway then I want to help. I want to be there for you, I— Harley, if anything happens to you, I—,” He pulls in a breath, grasping for words that won’t come. There aren’t words to describe his devastation if Harley were to die. “I want you to be as safe as possible. If you’re going to be out there picking fights then I want to be right there with you.”

“Has it occurred to you that I feel the same way? Put yourself in my shoes for a second.” Harley rubs his nose as he gets his thoughts together. “You’ve been picking fights with bullies since you learned how to take a punch which, mind you, was young. Fighting is the only time you feel like your life has purpose. You look out for people, doing what you can with what you’ve got. It ain’t much but you feel like you’re making the world a tiny bit better, like you’re not a complete waste.”

He takes a breath and looks Peter in the eyes. “Then you meet a real-life superhero and he shows you what kind of difference someone can make with the right tools and you want that. You want that meaning that you’ve been fighting to find your whole life. It feels like it’s what you’ve been working towards all along. Then to make things more crystal clear, that hero is out there picking fights too big for one guy to handle. He needs backup and you’re in the perfect position to provide it. What would you do?” Harley demands. “If that was you, what would you do?”

Frowning at the bunk overhead, Peter murmurs, “I’d build a suit, no matter what anyone said. I’d help him.”

Harley leans forward, thrumming with intensity. “So why can’t you support me on this? What do I have to do to get you on board? Tell me and I’ll do it, I swear I will.”

“Nothing,” he whispers. “There’s nothing.”

Harley falls back with a thump against the wall.

Dammit. He’s screwing this up. Carefully, without jostling Abbie or aggravating his stomach, he sits up and reaches for Harley’s hand, but Harley pulls back out of reach. Peter’s chest hurts as he says, “I already support you. There’s nothing more you need to do to get it. I just…” He takes a breath. “Harley, I’m scared. When I started, I was stopping car accidents and bicycle thieves and carjackers. Everything now is so… It’s warlocks and aliens and gang wars and I can’t— I don’t see how you can jump into that without getting spit right back out.” Finally, Harley looks up and meets his eyes as Peter says, “I’m terrified of losing you.”

Harley holds his stare. “I can’t lose you either.”

Neither of them speak. What else is there to say? This isn’t something that can be fixed, there is no happy solution. They’ve put everything out on the table and still—

“For fuck’s sake.”

They jump as Abbie sits up, glaring at the pair of them.

“Just say you love each other and shut up. You’re never gonna get to a spot where you’re okay with the other being in danger all the time because that’s how love works, idiots. Obviously, neither of you is gonna give up this hero thing and it’s gonna get real awkward if you’re avoiding each other on hero duty because you broke up over something this stupid.”

“We’re not breaking up,” they say in unison. Their gazes lock and something like hope thrills in Peter’s chest.

“Good.” She crawls over Peter’s legs and stretches upon standing. “Work it out then. I’m gonna see if we need to call the fire department.”

Peter sniffs and finds the kitchen stink does have a charred note to it. “There’s a fire extinguisher under the sink. She won’t be offended if you suggest ordering in Thai instead of whatever she made. Thai is her favorite.”

Abbie flashes him a thumbs up then kisses his cheek, tells him once more that he’s an idiot but she’s glad he’s alive, then leaves the room and shuts the door behind her.

“What was that?” Harley asks after a beat.

Peter glances at him and finds him staring between Peter and the door. “Oh, uh, I think we adopted each other while you were asleep.”

A complicated array of emotion flits across Harley’s features. “You… adopted each other?” he repeats. “Is that what she called it?”

“No? She told me…” The light-hearted comment about his opinions and questionable hygiene dissolves on his tongue in the face of Harley’s expression—tight with… something. Peter opts for the open-honest truth. “She told me she thought she would lose part of you when you found your— When you found me, but instead she gained something good right there with you. There were some threats as well about me taking care of myself but uh, that’s the gist of it.”

Harley leans back and looks away but not before Peter catches the tell-tale wobble of his lower lip.

“Hey, what’s wrong? I thought… I thought you’d be happy.”

Harley laughs wetly and wipes his face. “I am. I’m just… Sorry, I didn’t think it would hit me this hard.”

“What would?”

“Knowin’ we’re not on our own anymore. That…,” He sniffs. “That someone out there is lookin’ out for us.”

“Two someones,” Peter corrects. “May, too. I don’t know if you know this but she doesn’t normally bake five times a week. That’s for you guys.”

Harley presses his lips together and drops his chin to his chest. “She don’t have to do that for us.”

“She wants to. Trust me, I’ve tried to stop her. I don’t think it’s healthy to eat that much of her baking.”

Harley laughs and wipes his nose on the back of his arm. “It’s really not good.”

Peter laughs too. “I know. I tried to tell you, you don’t have to take it.”

Harley shakes his head. “Abbie likes it. She likes… It feels motherly, you know? We never really got that growin’ up.”

“You never talk about your mom,” Peter says quietly.

Harley sniffs and his jaw goes tight. “Nothin’ to say about her. She didn’t do much. She didn’t do anything.”

Peter nods. He doesn’t need the full context to hear the double edge of those words. She didn’t do anything. She gave Harley gifts after his dad hit him. She didn’t do anything. It’s not difficult to piece together. “I’m sorry.”

Harley shakes his head and to his lap says, “Nothin’ to be sorry for. We got out. That’s what’s important.”

He nods again even though he knows he’ll never truly understand. He grew up with two loving parents until the day they died. Then he grew up with his equally loving aunt and uncle until his uncle died. His is a story of loss and heartbreak, but at least he had something to lose. At least he always felt safe and loved in his own home. He wants that for Harley and Abbie. He wants to draw them into Aunt May’s loving light and trap them in it until it’s no longer a novelty. Until they no longer feel like they have to say yes to everything she offers for fear they’ll squander their chance to be doted on. Until it’s no longer something they’re trying out, but something they can count on to always be there on their darkest day or their brightest.

He swallows thickly as he recalls Abbie’s blunt words earlier. She said it like them loving each other is indisputable fact. Maybe it is. Maybe from the outside they look like a pair of fools dancing around an immutable law of the universe. This feeling that bubbles behind his ribs and threatens to pour out every time he opens his mouth, it could be love. The desperation he feels to keep Harley safe, that could be love. This, this need to keep him close and share with him every bit of good he’s managed to scrounge up in his life…it could be love.

If it is, what is he supposed to do about it?

Twice Harley sucks in a breath like he’s about to say something but then Peter looks up and he blows it out and they return to silence. Peter stares at his hands as he fiddles with the blanket. He doesn’t know what to say after that revelation. Everything he’s feeling is too big to voice. It sits like a rock at the back of his throat, imposing and adamant in its refusal to budge.

He’s on the cusp of making an excuse about needing the bathroom when Harley moves. He digs something out of his pocket and offers it to him. “Here,” he says softly. “Before you ruin your blanket.”

Peter stares at the fidget cube pinched between his fingers. Gingerly, he accepts it and turns it between his finger and thumb. There’s dirt stuck around one of the spinny gears. “Why do you have this?”

“Because I…” Harley licks his lips. His eyes are wide and today, under the shadow of the top bunk, they’re dark and trained on Peter. “Because I love you.”

His heart races until he can feel it pulsing from the tips of his fingers to his teeth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He’s hyper-aware of his body. The expansion and collapse of his lungs, the ache in his back from slouching, the heated air on his skin, stuffy and humid from having the door shut all the time, the hard plastic of the fidget cube. “Cool,” he says airily. “That’s— Yeah, Abbie said twice now that you do. It’s good that she knows what she’s talking about.”

“Does she?” Harley asks, watching him intently. “Does she know what she’s talking about?”

His next breath shudders out of him. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s— She nailed it, I think.”

Harley’s lips curls into a tentative half-smile that quivers then reverts to a frown. “So… Are you going to say it back or…?”

That rock settles heavily somewhere around his adam’s apple. He clears his throat. “Not right now but umm, later? This is kinda your moment, you know? I’d hate to steal your limelight.”

Harley leans toward him, eyes narrowed, incredulous. “Are you turning this into a competition?”

“No…” He tries on a half-smile. “I just don’t want you to show me up.”

“Why d’you gotta go and make everything complicated?”

“It’s part of my charm.”

A funny look creeps onto Harley’s face and slowly his lips curl into a smile too fond to be allowed in public. “Come here, you nerd.” Harley helps him free of the blanket and into his lap then cups his face and kisses him—venerational, reverent, lingering. It’s a small kiss, a chaste kiss, but it leaves Peter breathless.

“How are you feeling?” Harley smooths back his hair and drinks him in. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask before.”

“Sore.” His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. “Not bad though. Food’ll help.”

“Good. I’m really glad you’re okay.” He kisses his forehead and says, “I love you.”

Peter leans back, eyes narrowed. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Harley nuzzles his neck with his nose and presses a kiss behind his ear. In a low voice he says, “The longer you take to say it back, the farther up it has to measure, darlin’. You should just say it now.”

“Uhh—,” He loses the ability to think as Harley slips his hands under his shirt, around to his stomach, and kisses his shoulder. “I dunno. Think I need some convincing.”

“I can be convincing,” Harley murmurs. His hands are huge and hot as they slowly inch down his sides to his hips. “Wait here. I’m gonna lock the door.”

For once, he’s happy to do as he’s told.

~*~

Peter wipes his hands on his thighs and releases a calming breath. He glances at Harley at his side. “You sure you want to—,”

“Honey, you’re outta your mind if you think I’m leaving you alone with her again.” Harley frowns at him. “Are you sure about this?” He shoots a significant look at his exposed face.

Softly, he says, “She’s dying, Harley. It doesn’t matter if she knows my face.”

“It’s a risk. What if she’s faking? What if she gets better?”

“Doctor Strange knows magic and medicine and he said there’s nothing we can do. He wouldn’t lie to us.”

Harley shrugs and looks away. He won’t admit his concerns are baseless but that’s okay. Peter doesn’t need him to. He only needs to get through this conversation and then… Then he promised to go upstairs to the lab to see Harley’s armor for the first time. He’s not sure which he’s dreading more.

He takes a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harley motions for Peter to enter first.

The room is small by Stark Industries’ standards but it’s more than double the size of Peter’s bedroom. It may have been a storage room at one point, maybe for Bruce’s projects considering his lab is somewhere on this floor, but now it’s a neat and orderly hospital room complete with beeping machines, white sheets, and a window letting in the late morning sunlight. Jill is laying on the bed hooked up to the machines with a thick blanket folded over her feet.

In a cushy armchair that looks out of place alongside S.I.’s modern furnishings, Dr. Strange is sitting with his eyes closed meditating or something. He holds up one shaking finger as they step into the room. Whether in greeting or to stave off said greetings, Peter can’t be sure. Either way, he seems occupied and they aren’t there for him anyway.

Jill turns her head as he steps closer.

“You look awful,” he says. She’s skeletal, even thinner than when he saw her last. Her eyes are sunken and her hair is thin and limp against the pillow. Dark circles are stark against her sallow skin and her lips are dry and cracked. She blinks slowly at him while Harley closes the door.

“They say dying will do that to a person,” she rasps. She clears her throat. “You seem to have recovered quickly. I’d say I’m flattered that you’ve forgone the mask, but…” She trails off with a pained smile.

“Kind of a moot point,” Peter agrees. He settles in one of the chairs at her bedside and pretends not to notice Harley hovering behind him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’d rather not focus on that,” she says.“I told you before, the power demands to be used and because I’m not, it’s using me.” She winces as she shifts to sit up higher. “Enough of that. Stephen says you made a full recovery thanks to his treatments and my insider knowledge.”

Peter shrugs. He doesn’t remember the treatments but Harley says he’s better off not knowing. They looked like sludge and couldn’t have tasted much better. Unsavory or not, they seem to have worked well. He still gets a sharp twinge when he moves too fast or the wrong way but that should go away soon. But like Jill, he’s not interested in talking about his health.

“Do you believe me now?” he asks.

She folds her hands together over her midriff. “I don’t know. I think you’re harder on yourself than you deserve but I don’t know. I know I almost made a huge mistake and I have you to thank for stopping me. I don’t regret what I did before though. I still think I’m right even if I was tricked at the end.” She smiles. “I heard George Stacy was voted as the new captain of the police force. He’s a good man. A vast improvement.”

Peter licks his lips and drops his gaze. “The old captain, the one you killed, he shot me earlier this year. He turned his back on his fellow officers and tried to kill me when all I was doing was trying to help.”

Her eyes are bright as she says, “So you do understand.”

“Yes… and no. I understand the desire for change. I understand looking at something broken and deciding to step up and fix it. I understand frustration with the system and the ways it’s broken, the desire to cheat it as it cheats everyone except the ones on top, but… But none of that justifies taking a life, not to me. I couldn’t in good conscious steal someone’s chance to better themself, to change and grow, only for the system that put them in their position of power to still be there, fully intact, unchallenged, and ready to replace them with more of the same.”

“What would you suggest then?” Jill asks. “I don’t see you making sweeping changes.”

“I can’t,” he admits. “One person can’t do it all. If we want to make real permanent change then we have to work together and we have to start at the foundations. Knocking a few jackasses off the top only paves the way for new ones to take their place. We have to rebel. If the system is cruel then I have to be kind. If the system is broken then I have to hold strong. If it’s unjust then I need to show mercy.”

“And if you don’t, you’re no better than the murderers that uphold the system?”

He frowns. “No. No, it would make me part of the system though and I don’t want that. I want to oppose it and remind people of how things are meant to be.”

“Is sneaking around at night and fighting criminals with no higher authority how things are meant to be?”

Softly, he says, “We’re meant to help each other, Jill.”

She falls back against her pillow with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t think I agree with you, but you’ve given me a lot to think about.” A wry smile curls her lips. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much time left for pondering ethics.”

“There has to be something we can—,”

“This power dies with me, Spider-Man. It’s all about choices, that’s what you told me. This is what the choices I sowed have provided for me to reap. I knew this is where my story would end when I started down this path. I don’t regret it. Someone had to do it and it might as well have been me. No one will notice when I’m gone.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Peter says. “There’s always someone. No one goes through life unnoticed.”

She licks dry lips and her gaze falls away. “Not a person, but… my dog. She’ll notice.” She rolls her eyes. “As well as the neighbor I left her with, I suppose she’ll notice when I never come back for her.”

“We’ll take care of your dog,” Peter decides. His apartment doesn’t allow pets but he’s heard barking from within Harley’s building. Harley makes a sound of protest behind him as though he’s reading his thoughts, but Peter ignores him. “What’s your dog’s name?”

Jill drags her gaze from over Peter’s shoulder to connect with his stare. “Lucy Liu.”

Peter nods. “We’ll take care of Lucy.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He bites his lip then takes a deep breath. “Can you tell me something?”

She eyes him warily. “I already told Stephen everything I know.”

Peter glances at Doctor Strange. He appears oblivious as he continues his meditations. “No, I’m happy to let him figure out what to do about demon overlords or whatever. I… I just want to know, why did you kill her? The police captain’s wife. She… I want to know why.”

Jill frowns at him for a moment but then her gaze drifts beyond him, over his shoulder where Harley’s body heat seeps into his back. “I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”

“No.” He doesn’t wait for the last word to roll off of her tongue. Hands clamped on the armrests, he leans forward in his chair. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Funny, you’d think he wouldn’t be here then.”

“He can speak for himself,” Harley snaps.

Peter shoves to his feet and steps between them. “She doesn’t need to know anything about you.”

“She doesn’t need to know your face either,” Harley counters. “Or is it less of a moot point than you said?”

They glare at each other. Harley’s mad. Madder than he was when they walked in here but Peter doesn’t know what set him off.

Jill breaches the silence. “You were the one in Stark’s lab and that was you again in the Iron Man suit, wasn’t it?” Her eyes narrow. “What is your connection to Tony Stark?”

Over Peter’s shoulder, Harley smiles sweetly, all teeth. “None of your business.” To Peter, he says, “That’s how you do it.”

Peter scowls. “You don’t need to be rude.”

“She almost killed you twice. Maybe more than that. Lord knows you wouldn’t tell me if it was.”

Ah. That’s what has him so angry. “Technically, the second time wasn’t her fault.”

Harley’s mouth pops open in incredulous fury. Oops.

“Wasn’t her faul—,”

“If I wanted to kill him, I would have,” Jill states.

Harley whirls on her all ice and bitter frost, his ire towards Peter immediately forgotten. “D’you want an award? You hurt him. Over and over, you hurt one of the few people on the planet that would rather die than take out his pain on anyone else. If he was any less of who he is, he would have snapped your neck and been done with you months ago. For all of your blustering about him being under your thumb and at your mercy, you’re blind to how much he holds back just to stand on the same playing field as you. You don’t have half the control he does. Let me guess. This Captain’s wife, she was an accident, wasn’t she? You—,”

“Stop,” Jill says softly. She’s gone pale. Ashen.

“—lost control.” Harley smiles in cold satisfaction as Jill closes her eyes. “You can excuse it away and tell yourself she was complicit in her husband’s crimes, that she was just as bad as him because she chose him, but you know that’s bullshit. You know you fucked up and killed someone you didn’t mean to. You hurt innocent people the same way they hurt innocent people.”

“Get out.”

“I go where he goes,” Harley barks, jabbing his finger at Peter. He crosses his arms and stares belligerently down at Jill.

She looks imploringly at Peter and he almost has to stifle a laugh. Does she really think he would make Harley leave because she wants him gone? “So it was an accident,” he says.

She shakes her head firmly but her knuckles are white. “She… I tried to make her leave but she wouldn’t. She chose.”

“You know that’s not a choice, Jill.”

She turns her face to the ceiling. “I’d like to rest now.”

He glances at Harley who, again, gestures for him to walk through the doorway first.

“I can come back and visit if you want,” Peter offers.

Jill doesn’t look at him. “If it’s you, I’d like that, but I don’t want to suffer hatred and accusations in my final days.”

“If Tony wasn’t so soft-hearted, he’d turn you in and you’d face a lot more than accusations,” Harley snarls.

“Alright, we’re going.” Peter takes Harley’s hand and makes for the door. He needs to get him out of here before he gets worked up any further. In the doorway, he pauses and looks back. What do you say to someone you know is going to die before you see them again? It’s not like he’s going to miss her or anything, but it’s still sad. She’s going to die and she’s going to be alone when she does. He clears his throat. “Did you get what you wanted?”

Jill slowly turns her head until she’s looking at him. “Yes.”

“And what did you want?”

“Justice.”

He nods. “Goodbye, Jill.”

She turns her face skyward and closes her eyes. “Goodbye, Spider-Man.”

~*~

Revulsion turns his stomach as Peter stands opposite Harley’s suit. He’s raw from his conversation with Jill and emotion is still pouring off of Harley in waves. He needs to get out. He needs to work, to sweat, to move, to siphon off this awful energy coursing through him. Instead, he’s staring up at a lanky replica of Tony’s Iron Man armor thinking of all the ways it’s wrong.

“You can’t do this,” he blurts.

Harley crosses his arms. “I thought we got past—,”

“No, I mean these are people, Harley.” He faces him. “You’re not Iron Man. You’re not going up against aliens or— or gods. What I do can’t be done with lasers and missiles. You can’t— This is…” He gestures at the suit. “You can’t do this.”

Shoulder to shoulder, they take in Harley’s suit where it’s stood up and staring them down with a blank faceplate. It’s stylized differently from Tony’s suits—deep violet where Tony’s is red, silver to replace his gold—but functionally, it’s the same. Repulsors, shoulder cannons, heat-seeking missiles—these aren’t tools to help people. They’re weapons. They’re just weapons.

“I didn’t even think,” Harley says quietly. “I was just…”

Peter nods. He gets it. Really, he does. It’s why it has to be him that trains Harley. Tony knows what Tony knows, but he doesn’t know what Spider-Man knows and Harley wants to be like Spider-Man. He wants to do what Peter does. That’s what he said.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” He has to ask.

“Peter, I swear to—,”

“I’m serious, Harley. Are you sure you want to be like me and not like Iron Man?”

Harley closes his mouth and looks from Peter to the suit then back again. “How stupid will I sound if I ask what the difference is?”

Peter turns away from the suit. “Not stupid. Do you want… I could show you.”

Interest lights Harley’s expression. “Yeah? Like, right now?

Peter shrugs. “Yeah, why not? Can you fly that thing yet?”

“Well enough to keep up with you.”

Peter snorts. “We’ll see about that.”

~*~

“This is your building, right?” Peter bounds up to the stairs, grocery sacks swinging from his arms, and turns to face Mrs. Morrison, an elderly woman with a stooped frame and kind eyes.

“Yes, this is it. Thank you, Spider-Man. And your friend, too.” She nods at Harley where he stands on the sidewalk, suit gleaming in the fading sunlight, equally decorated with shopping bags.

“We’re happy to help. You might be seeing more of Laddie around. I’m helping him get his sea legs.”

“Well, if you’re vouching for him I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful addition to the community. I should get these inside.” She nods at the grocery bags, prompting them to hand them back to her.

“You sure you don’t want us to take them up for you?” Harley asks. His voice is metallic behind his helm but not lacking in warmth. “It’s no trouble.”

“No, no, you’ve done enough. I can manage the rest of the way. Thank you again.”

“Tell Toby I said good luck at his recital,” Peter says as he helps transfer his bags into her waiting hands. “He’s gonna be great. I know it.”

She beams. “I’ll do that. He’ll be so happy you remembered.”

“How could I forget? I had a blast learning to pirouette with him. Check it out!” He leaps from the stoop and spins atop his toes. “Eh? How was it? Be honest.”

“Remember to pull back your shoulders and you’ve got it. Have a good night boys.” She departs with a smile and the door closes behind her.

Harley turns to him. “What next?”

“There’s a hot dog cart a few blocks over.”

“Okay? And? Do they need their dry cleaning picked up or—?”

Peter laughs. “Well I won’t know until we get there, but I’m starving. Race you?”

The whine of charging thrusters rents the air. “You’re on.”

~*~

The wind gusts hard, nearly snatching the hot dog from Peter’s hand but he guides it to his mouth and crams the last of it inside where it’s safe. Beside him, Harley stares out over the edge of the roof at the forest of lights under the darkening sky. Only the barest hint of orange marks the point where the sun vanished not long ago.

Peter unwraps another hot dog and huddles beside Harley, trusting he and his bulky armor will block the worst of the wind. The armor on Harley’s hip is digging into the meat of his thigh but he doesn’t move away as he eats in silence. He hasn’t been able to get a read on Harley since they left the tower, not with that helmet on, and now that it’s off he’s finding his luck isn’t any better. Thoughtful. He seems thoughtful. But about what? Is he regretting his choice of teacher? Does he think everything they did today was a waste of time?

Most people when they think of Spider-Man, they think of the big things like taking down the Vulture and saving the Avengers’ plane—well, the contents of the plane. They think of that time he faced off with the bionic rhino guy and ended up having to wrap him in a steel beam until S.H.I.E.L.D. could come up with some Vibranium cuffs. But it’s the little things that make up the core of Spider-Man. It’s the friendly and the neighborhood that make him Spider-Man more so than the amazing. That’s what he tried to show Harley today but does he see it? Does he understand?

The wind tosses Harley’s hair across his eyes. He lifts a hand to brush it away but clobbers himself across the face with his gauntlet. “Ow.”

Peter chokes on his hot dog, laughing, and grins in the face of Harley’s scowl. “Takes some getting used to, huh?”

Harley sighs. “Yeah. I’ll get there though.”

“Yeah? Still interested after today?”

Harley frowns down at him. “Did you purposely keep me out of anything that could have turned into a fight?”

“Yes. I mean, no, but yes.”

“Peter.”

He fails to hold back a smile. “I mean, I didn’t ignore anyone who might have needed help of the violent variety but I intentionally didn’t seek out anything like that.” He takes a bite of his hot dog and chews. “It’s important that you’re doing this for the right reasons. You have to remember who it’s for and what you’re doing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Helping people. It always has to come back to helping people.”

Harley nods and draws his knees up to his chest as he resumes his empty stare over the city.

Peter knocks him with his elbow and pops the last of his hot dog in his mouth. “What are you thinking about?” Harley knocks him back and Peter winces at the jarring impact of metal on his bicep. “Little too rough there, buddy.”

Harley tears his gaze away from the lights. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“Not me, no, but a normal person you might have.” He pats Harley’s thigh even though he likely can’t feel it. “You’ll get there.”

Harley searches his face. “Is it like this for you all the time? You have to be constantly aware of what you’re doing?”

Peter shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s different because I can feel what I’m doing. You have to remember what the right amount of strength is for every different thing.”

Harley hums and turns back to the horizon with a frown while Peter balls their wrappers into one large ball then tucks it inside his mask and under his leg so it doesn’t blow away. Then he leans against Harley’s side until Harley gets the memo and puts his arm around his shoulders.

“It’s not uncomfortable?” Harley asks.

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

Harley looks down at him with a dozen micro-expressions warring across his face. Peter waits him out, a smile slowly lifting the corners of his lips until Harley huffs in exasperation and asks, “So are you actually uncomfortable or are you just being a romantic little nerd.”

Peter laughs. “It’s not bad.” He pokes at the metal arm. “Could use some cushion but I’ll pull through. Maybe you can add some next time you get to tinkering.”

Harley sighs. “I have so much work to do.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “I was thinking I’d replace the shoulder rockets with those bag hook things. Make carrying groceries easier. Then I’d have free hands to walk little old ladies across the street.”

Peter melts. “Really?”

Harley shoots him a look. “Probably not that exactly but I do have a lot to do. I need to incorporate some non-lethal weaponry, don’t I? Some kind of taser maybe. Restraints of some kind. Magnetic maybe. I was thinking about what I could build to—,”

Peter swivels onto his knees to face Harley properly. “Really?” he repeats. “That’s why you’ve been so quiet?”

Harley blinks at him. “Have I been? Sorry, I didn’t reali—,”

“No, no it’s fine. I just… I was worried you were having second thoughts. Regrets.”

“Worried? Wouldn’t you be relieved if I changed my mind?”

Peter bites his lip and sits back on his heels. “I… I mean this morning I would have been, but after today I… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I thought I’d hate it.” He looks at Harley. “I never wanted to share this with anyone, but today with you, I… I had fun? For the first time in a really long time, I— I’ve always loved it but I forgot that it used to be fun.”

Harley searches his face. “I had fun too,” he says softly. “What are you saying? You’re on board now? I didn’t even do anything.”

“Are you kidding? You were a natural. Mrs. Morrison let you carry her eggs. She didn’t let me do that until like the fourth time I walked her home.”

“That’s because you’re a spaz and you don’t walk, you scurry. I wouldn’t trust you with my eggs either.”

Peter laughs under his breath. He’s weirdly aware of his heart beating behind his ribs, thrumming and steady as he looks into Harley’s eyes and realizes that he’s excited to share a million more days like today with him. He wouldn’t want it to be anyone else. He still doesn’t want to see him in the line of danger, but that’s not his choice to make. His choice is whether to be at his side or watching his back. There is no other choice.

“What are you looking at me like that fo—,”

Peter catches Harley’s hand before he can poke him in the forehead and blurts, “Can we go on a date?”

“What? Now?”

“Yeah, why not? Have somewhere to be?”

“You know I don’t.”

Peter rocks to his feet and pulls Harley with him. He pulls on his mask. “Try to keep up this time, Laddie.”

“If you keep calling me that no one is going to call me Iron Legacy.”

Peter grins and backs towards the edge. “Now he’s catching on.”

Harley’s features collapse into a familiar put-upon expression as Peter’s next step encounters nothing but air and he tumbles from sight with an exhilarated laugh. He throws his head back and revels in the rush of the fall until he hears Harley’s tell-tale boosters tearing after him.

~*~

Peter tucks his mask into his back pocket and steps out of the trees. Ahead of him, lit from above by a lone street light next to the castle, Harley is leaning against a fence post with his head ducked, face washed blue in the light of his phone. He looks up as Peter approaches and slips his phone into his pocket. “Are we really doing this?”

Peter stops in front of him. “I got your note.”

Harley rolls his eyes. “You’re really doing this.”

“I um, first I want to apologize for being an antisocial weirdo and not talking to you sooner.”

“You know you don’t need to apologize for that.”

“I sometimes have trouble recognizing a good thing when it nearly dumps coffee all over my textbooks.”

Harley throws his head back and groans. “Why are we doing this?”

Peter sticks out his hand. “I’m Peter Parker—,”

“I’m not shaking your hand you weir—,”

“—and I’m in love with you.”

Harley stutters himself silent and stares.

“I’m all yours, if you’ll have me.”

“Pete—,”

“You’re supposed to shake my hand.”

“In response to your love confession?”

“Come on, just do it. You’re ruining my whole plan.”

Harley huffs but sticks out his hand. “Drama q—,”

Peter curls his fingers under Harley’s fingers and lifts his hand to his lips. Harley falls silent and a dusty blush creeps out of his collar and colors his cheeks as they lock eyes. As much as he loves confident, snarky Harley, there’s a special place in his heart for this soft side of Harley that only peeks through the armor in his most unguarded moments or when Peter can sweet-talk it out of him. “Someday soon I’m going to figure out how far that blush goes.”

The blush darkens and Harley tries to turn away but Peter holds his hand tight. “Now’s the part where you profess your undying love to me.”

“Oh, is it? I must have missed that assignment in Relationships 101. Silly me, I left my powerpoint at home.”

Peter smiles. “I love you.”

Harley’s bluster vanishes and that softness returns. “I love you too. Kind of obsessed with you, actually. Drives my sister nuts. Her name’s Abbie, but I think she’ll let you call her Bee if you want.”

“Yeah? Why would she do that?”

“It’s a family thing. If you want me then you gotta put up with her too.”

Peter steps forward. “I can live with that. I’ve never had a little sister before. Might be cool.”

“She grows on you like a parasite.”

Peter laughs and twines his fingers around Harley’s. “Is it too soon to kiss you?”

“I think you’re supposed to wait until after your second near-death experience together so we’re probably due.”

“Good.” Peter closes the distance, caressing Harley’s lips with his own in a chaste but lingering kiss. Harley leans with him as he pulls back and deepens it rather than let it break. Peter makes a strangled sound in his throat and circles his fingers around Harley’s wrists as their mouths move together.

Peter breaks the kiss with a gasp. “We should—,”

A scream rents the night. A weighted look passes between them then they turn toward the source as one.

Peter slips his mask out of his back pocket and over his head. “You’re coming, right?”

Harley turns the face of his watch and depresses it. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says as nanobots race to cover him from head to toe. Peter rips off his shirt and staggers out of his pants to reveal his suit as the nanites solidify into the Iron Legacy armor, leaving only Harley’s face exposed. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Sweet. First task, hang onto my stuff.” Peter shoves his clothes against Harley’s chest and grins when he automatically catches them. Then he takes off at a dead run.

“Seriously?” Harley calls after him. His voice is metallic again, shielded by his helm, and his boosters rent through the night as he takes off. “I’m not your pack mule!”

“I was thinking caddy. Hand me my putter when I need it, would you?”

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“Against my better judgment.”

They hit the treeline and while Peter dives straight into the thick of it, Harley arcs above the highest reaching limbs and streaks through the sky, his unseen protector.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Day! *blubbering sobbing throwing up* i love this chapter so much and there's only one left I am Bereft

Thank you thank you to all of you for sticking this out with me. I love you guys <333 what are we gonna do when it's over??? i'm gonna miss them <3

Chapter 15: Five Years Later

WHO IS NEW YORK’S NEWEST VIGILANTE?

The whine of charging rockets— A blast of propulsion— A streak in the sky—

Your first thought is Iron Man, but you take a second look and find yourself looking at an uncanny valley version of our beloved red and gold metal man. Longer limbed, nearly a foot taller, bedecked in silver and royal purple with a fashionable magenta glow through breaks in the metal, IRON LEGACY is the new kid on the block! Oft seen zipping along after New York’s own Spider-Man, we at Gauntlet of Ink have to ask… who is this guy? Where did he come from and how does he know Tony Stark?

There’s no doubt his tech comes from Iron Man himself. Otherwise, we’re positive he’d have been put on a No-Fly list and grounded by the long-time hero, if not for impersonation, then for infringing on his intellectual property. Despite our best efforts, we’ve been unable to catch the hero on the ground long enough for an interview but our lead reporter was fortunate enough to run across a New York resident that he helped personally…with her groceries! Read on below for our inside scoop and first known interaction with the hero affectionately referred to by Spider-Man as Laddie.

Story by Samuel Wells - Lead Writer | Photos by Peter Parker - freelancer

 

 

TECH TYCOON TAKEN DOWN IN TIMES SQUARE

In an electrifying solo debut, Iron Legacy, the latest vigilante to take up the metaphorical (and literal!) gauntlet to protect New York, has stunned the world with his determined defense of tourists in Times Square in his first fight sans his wall-crawling bestie. Scroll to browse our photo gallery of images submitted by those on the scene! Then check out the trending hashtag, #LetsHearItForLaddie on twitter!

 

 

New York Celebrates Crime-Fighting Duo’s Return… FROM SPACE??

Six days ago a mysterious aircraft razed a path of destruction through Midtown killing dozens and leaving scores injured. It disappeared as suddenly as it arrived, allegedly with Spider-Man and Iron Legacy on board. For days New York waited with bated breath for the heroes’ return, but without so much as a name for either man, learning what happened to the pair proved impossible…

Until today!

Early this morning, pulsing and flashing lights drew Carrie Adams, Bronx resident, from her first coffee of the day and to the window overlooking the street below. She couldn’t believe her eyes when the swirling vortex of light resolved into our missing heroes, not until her neighbors began exiting their homes to ogle at the pair as well. Ms. Adams reports they didn’t stick around to answer questions. With a wave at the sky and another at the gathered residents, Laddie scooped up Spider-Man and flew north with a signature burst from his rocket-propelled boots. When Ms. Adams looked up, she caught a glimpse of the underside of a massive spaceship, but then she blinked and it was gone.

Multiple witnesses have confirmed this account and report that the super-duo appeared to be in good health. Requests for comment on the event from known affiliate Tony Stark have gone unanswered as of this writing.

 

 

LADDIE LEAKED! Who is Harley Keener???

Four years ago, a new masked vigilante joined the out-of-control menagerie parading around the city with full confidence that he could duck justice for his blatant disregard of our laws just as those before him have and continue to. WRONG! Officially operating under the title, Iron Legacy, but colloquially known by native New Yorkers as Laddie, a nickname coined by the wall-crawling menace, Spider-Man, we at The Daily Bugle have yet another name to add to this alleged “hero’s” growing list of monikers:

HARLEY KEENER

Raised in Rose Hill, Tennessee, this twenty-six-year-old small town transplant was spotted in the Legacy armor on Thursday night without his helmet. He was in an alley apparently conversing with a small child with no parent or guardian in sight (concerning??). A trustworthy anonymous source says he recognized Keener thanks to a promotional video Keener was recently featured in for, you guessed it, Stark Industries.

Continue reading on Page 3 as we dig deep into Keener’s Rose Hill roots, how it all connects back to Tony Stark, and what kind of legal ramifications we can expect over the coming weeks.

 

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The clatter of freshly trimmed nails on hardwood jerks Harley’s focus from his sketchbook. He closes it and braces himself as the ugliest, drooliest dog he’s ever seen scrambles around the corner into the kitchen, its jowls wagging more than the docked stub of a tail left attached to its backside.

He reacts fast and plants his palm against the thing’s forehead to keep from being slimed. “Abbie! Control your beast!” He dodges a glob of drool and groans as it glorps to the floor with a wet smack.

“Lucy’s no beast. She is a lady.” Abbie enters the room and sets a leash atop the table. “And she deserves to be treated like one. You know what she wants.”

He grumbles under his breath, one hand still held fast to Lucy’s thick, solid skull and slowly eases out of his chair. He backs toward the cupboard as Lucy pushes against his hand, nails clawing and scrabbling ineffectively against the smooth floor as she tries to rush him. He gets his free hand in the treat jar then tosses one across the room. She tears after it.

“How many more years d’you think she’s got left in her? Two?” He watches as she scarfs down the treat then happily trots to the couch where she’s likely to add to the drool stain on the far cushion. “One?”

Abbie socks him in the shoulder. “Quit it. She’s in perfect health for her breed.”

“It’s the ‘for her breed’ part that I’m counting on.” He dodges Abbie’s second punch and asks, “What are you doing home so soon? Aren’t you supposed to be recording this weekend?”

“Finished for the day. Perks of being a voice actor. You get your takes and you get out.”

He eyes her suspiciously. “Where’s Luke? You didn’t walk here yourself, did you?”

She flattens her gaze. “I’m not an idiot. Peter walked me and we had Lucy.”

Harley looks toward the door as though looking will make his boyfriend appear.

“He couldn’t stick around,” Abbie explains, “but he told me to give you his love. Speaking of which—,” She darts in quick and plasters a wet kiss to his cheek.

“Guh! You’re as bad as your dog.” He shoves her away and wipes his arm across his cheek while she laughs.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Real talk, I’d feel better if you’d call Luke next time. The end of the workday is prime time for—,”

“You don’t honestly think Luke is a better bodyguard than Spider-Man.”

“I— Well, no but I don’t— I’m not jazzed to think the two most important people in my life are vulnerable at the same time.”

Abbie crosses her arms. “You’re paranoid.”

“I don’t think it counts as paranoia when my boyfriend gets kidnapped every other week.”

“Oh please, it’s not that bad. They’ve only managed to get him to a secondary location like twice and he was fine. At least you know he can take care of himself.”

“It’s only a matter of time before he gets caught off his game and then—,”

“Harley.” She clamps a hand on his shoulder and steers him back into his chair. “What’s going on? This has been our life for almost a year. Why are you spinning out now?” She looks meaningfully at his sketchbook and then back at him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been stressed about something.”

He sighs and drops his head into his hands. He’s not ready to tell her the truth. Not yet. Not the full truth at least. He’s not lying when he says, “I need a vacation.”

She hums knowingly. “We haven’t done a road trip since—,”

“—Since we wrestled Peter out of the city and took him to Maine. That was a year ago and it was only a weekend trip.”

“So take the truck and go.”

“It’s not that easy anymore and you know it.”

“Take Peter and you won’t need security.”

He makes a sound of disagreement in his throat. Peter hates leaving New York. It makes him all twitchy and he spends hours scouring Twitter and news apps for tidbits about the state of the city and is generally no fun to be around.

“Talk to Peter,” Abbie says firmly. “Trust me, he knows something is up with you and he wants to help.”

He sighs. “Alright.” It’ll be easier to run by Peter first anyway. He won’t have good advice but at the very least Harley will get to practice how he delivers the news that will undoubtedly throw their lives into chaos again.

Abbie squeezes his shoulder then ducks into the fridge for the pitcher of tea that’s always there. He watches her pour two glasses then set one in front of him before she takes the seat opposite.

“Hey, Bee?” he questions tentatively.

She looks up with raised eyebrows, waiting.

“You’re doing okay, right? With the new gig and… and everything.”

She smiles wanly. “You mean besides worrying about you? Yeah, I’m good. I’m happy.”

His stomach sinks. “Yeah?”

“Aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Mostly. It’s… I still feel like… I love Peter and I love what we do for the city and that I get to have both of you under one roof but I… I feel like I’m still making up for it, you know? Like I have to do more to make up for who I am and where I came from. Just being Harley isn’t enough. I have to be bigger. Better.”

She kicks his shin softly. “You don’t have anything to make up for, dummy. Don’t let the shit the Bugle says get to you. You know they’re just peeved Tony’s lawyers kept you from getting charged with anything. You’re… You were my rock growing up. Daddy was all fire and fury but you were a stone wall shielding me from the scorch.” She frowns. “And Mama was rot. She ate away at us both from the inside out.”

His heart skips at the mention of Mama, at Abbie’s easy dismissal of her. Maybe he’s right to keep his mouth shut. Maybe this new wrinkle is something for him to swallow and contain on his own. If Abbie is happy then isn’t it his job to keep her that way? He sucks his teeth then admits, “It always feels like I should’ve done better. Like there was an opportunity somewhere that I missed that could have saved us.”

“Harley James, don’t you talk like that. We saved ourselves the best we could. Don’t poo-poo that. I’m proud of us.”

He snorts lightly. “Yeah, I guess I’m proud of us too. Who’d’ve thunk I’d be turnin’ my alleyway fistfights into a superhero career?”

He expects a snarky remark about getting too big for his britches but instead, a distant, contemplative look enters her eyes.

“What?” He kicks her shin. “I shared mine.” Part of it anyway. “You’re up.”

She pulls a face at him then takes a deep breath and settles her elbows on the table. “D’you remember— You probably don’t. It was forever ago, before New York, before we left Rose Hill. You asked me where it all goes—all the hate and the bitterness forced on us by growin’ up how we did. You said you get rid of yours by fighting then asked where mine goes.” She pulls in a fortifying breath. “I didn’t have an answer and now I’m thinking that’s because it wasn’t going anywhere. I think it sat on my chest and tried its damnedest to stop the breath in my lungs, but I… I finally figured out what to do with it all.”

“And what’s that?”

She picks up her chin. “I want to change it into something beautiful, something with meaning, and I want to give it back. I want to make things that speak to people, that change minds or take you out of your own for a while. I’ve been thinking on it recently, about your place and mine, and I think I’ve got it figured out. Your purpose is in protecting life, mine is to make it worth living.”

She looks at him as though daring him to laugh, as if he would.

He covers her fist with his hand and gently coaxes it open. “I think that’s beautiful. You’re really enjoying the voice acting then?”

She tries on a smile. “Yeah, I— I still want to be on a stage someday but this is good too. I feel like I’m part of something for the first time maybe ever. When this movie is done I’ll be able to point at it and say, ‘I made that. Me and my team, we made that together’.”

“When it comes out we’ll do a big movie night and invite the whole gang.”

“Yeah? You have to make sure Ned and Peter sit separate though. They don’t shut up.”

Harley laughs because she’s right. “They get excited.”

“Movie theater etiquette. It’s basic human decency.”

“Whatever you say, Queen Bee.”

“You should see if you can get Johnny to come.”

Ugh. Johnny. “We’ll see,” he says begrudgingly.

She smiles knowingly and they drink their tea and chatter about things that don’t matter until their glasses are empty. Then Abbie gets to her feet and knocks twice on the table. “Talk to Peter. Don’t make me get May on my side.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll talk to Peter. Keep May out of it. She’s a busy lady.”

“Speaking of, are you going to the opening of that new F.E.A.S.T. location? It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

“‘Course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

~*~

The crowd isn’t large but Harley is sweating in his suit by the time he exits the stage and ducks into the backroom. He is going to kill Peter for bailing on him. Harley’s good at the waving and the polite how-do-you-do’s, but Peter really understands how to talk to these people. He’s got the exact right combination of levity and dry—at times dark—humor that New Yorkers respond to. Behind the helm, Harley doesn’t even have a winning smile.

May bursts through the curtain with a beaming smile and flashes him a double thumbs up.

He rolls his eyes before willing away the helmet with a thought. “I did okay then?”

“Sweetie, you were fantastic.” She palms the side of his head and pulls him down to her level so she can plant a kiss to his temple in a move that never fails to melt him from the inside out. “Peter took forever to loosen up out there. You’re a natural.”

He doesn’t believe it for a second but it’s sure nice of her to say.

She grows serious. “Have you decided whether to respond to your mom?”

He pulls a face and looks away as his stomach twists into a familiar knot.

“It’s alright,” she says, not giving him time to answer. She pats his shoulder. “We’ll do whatever is best for you and Abbie. You just let me know what that is.”

“I wish I—,”

The curtain billows again, admitting Tony to their backstage powwow.

Harley sighs. “You’re here?”

“Aw c’mon, sport.” Tony snickers at his private joke as he ruffles Harley’s hair. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not happy to see me.”

He ducks away and glares. “I’m still pissed at you.”

“Right, right. What for this time? It’s always something but it’s hard to keep track of the specifi—,”

“The letters,” Harley snaps.

“Ah.” Tony drops the playful air. “Right. I am sorry about that.”

“Sorry you did it or sorry I know about it?”

“Eh, a little of both? I don’t like keeping things from you, kiddo, but I didn’t want to let her manipulate you either. She started sending them right after your name leaked and we were dealing with all of those court cases. From one son of a shitty parent to another, I know how they can screw with your head and you had enough on your plate.”

Harley sighs. He knows all of that. He supposes he’s not really mad at Tony either, it’s just easier to have a target for all of the pent-up things roiling around in his head lately. He also knows Tony doesn’t deserve that.

“Look,” Tony says, “how ‘bout I make it up to you?”

He shakes his head. “There’s— You don’t need to. I know why you didn’t say anything and I guess I don’t blame you.”

“Let me make it up to you anyway. How does an all-inclusive, two-night lake-side cabin stay sound? I’ll even throw in a rambunctious nine-year-old for free.” He raises his eyebrows like he’s dangling a tempting offer in front of his nose.

“You’re seriously trying to get me to babysit right now?”

“Not just you! Peter is invited, too. You can make a romantic weekend of it!” He points a stern finger. “But don’t scar my kid.”

Harley’s suit trills in warning. Perfect, an out. He smiles with too many teeth and says, “I’ll think about it.” Then his helmet forms over his face and he’s backing toward the door. “Love you, May.”

“You too! Be careful. See you tomorrow for lunch!”

“Text me your answer!” Tony calls as he steps out the door.

Harley lets it fall closed behind him without responding. It’s part of the game and they all know it. He and Peter wouldn’t turn down a weekend with Morgan in a million years.

With a flare from his boots, he rockets up to a rooftop before anyone spots him in the alley and then checks his heads-up display. Text scrolls and a glowing red X pulses near the harbor. Perfect. He was starting to worry they wouldn’t be back.

He fires up his boosters and launches into the sky with a thrill that hasn’t faded over the years.

Becoming Iron Legacy didn’t come as naturally as he’d hoped. The first year was the hardest thing he’s ever done. He drove himself to ruin, demanding perfection. Failure meant lost lives. Failure meant there was substance to Peter’s concerns and that meant he could take all of this away—or so Harley thought. He kept going by the skin of his teeth, unable to share the burden with Peter because he was convinced he’d turn it into ammunition against him. Looking back, he could have avoided so much heartache if he would have talked to him.

It took a nightmare come to life to break down that final barrier—his first loss. The first person Harley should have been able to save, but didn’t. He turned off his phone and locked himself in his room. He refused entry to everyone but of course, nothing he said or did could stop Spider-Man from crawling in through his window. Their relationship changed permanently after that night and the weeks that followed. Harley aired all of his doubts and insecurities, his fears. Peter took them all. He didn’t turn away. He didn’t use them against him or tell him he should quit. He took them and didn’t flinch, because they were his too and he’d been carrying them all on his own for years.

Things changed. He and Peter became a real team, a force to be reckoned with, and people expected that where they found one, the other would soon follow. They were put to the test again when Harley’s identity got leaked. He wanted to quit. He couldn’t risk Abbie like that. He couldn’t risk Peter, Spider-Man or not. He’d had plenty of time to make enemies and any of them would have been happy to have a go at his loved ones.

It was Tony that changed his mind. He coached him on how to handle the spotlight. Some of his tips were no-brainers like: don’t give terrorists your home address and challenge them to a fight. Others were actually helpful. Things were never the same after that but, in spite of everything, he loves how his life turned out. The one thing he could do without are the periodic attempts to kidnap Iron Legacy’s’ boyfriend and cow him into compliance.

Every time he thinks he’s got a handle on the whole public identity thing someone has to go and pull the rug out from under him. That’s why when he crashes through the roof of the warehouse in a rain of splintered wood and plaster dust and is met with cocked guns and a large white sheet with Peter projected onto it, he only feels a momentary frisson of panic before the monotony of the play settles over him like a broken-in denim jacket.

“We have a team ready to move in on him,” a bald man announces. “Look the other way, let us carry on our business all respectable-like, and we’ll let your sweetheart live another day.”

Behind his faceplate, Harley rolls his eyes. They never know what they’re getting into by going after Peter and frankly, he thinks Peter enjoys it. He knows visible security would dissuade most of these attempts, needed or not, but Peter refuses to have any. Tony tried. For the entire first month after Harley’s identity leaked, Tony had a security detail assigned to him, but Peter kept giving them the slip until they threatened to quit and Tony was forced to leave Peter’s safety in his own hands.

Harley stopped griping at him for it when he realized that by letting Peter make himself an open, obvious target, no one bothers Abbie. He’s sure Peter put that together first but he’s even more sure that his boyfriend takes a deranged delight in being routinely underestimated by the cheap low-lives that try to take advantage of Harley’s public status. The fact that he then gets to put the hurt on them as Spider-Man doesn’t help. It’s his way of keeping both Abbie and Harley safe—at his own expense, per the norm. Harley knows he can handle himself but every now and then someone gets too close.

On the screen, the view changes to a different vantage and zooms in until Peter fills the screen. Harley’s stomach swoops. Even at this distance, hovering some yards away, Peter is unmistakable as he dodges through foot traffic with a travel mug tucked precariously in his armpit and his phone under his nose. The feed jumps to another camera as Peter tucks away his phone and downs a gulp of what Harley can only guess is very old, very cold coffee while unerringly avoiding the toes of the people around him.

A moment later, a message lights up Harley’s HUD—something about dinner and a joke about being a cheap date. Dammit Peter, pay attention.

Harley forces his attention to his own situation. If his intel is right, and he’s confident it is since he’s been tracking this operation for months, these guys have turned from smuggling drugs to smuggling people. His efforts to find them must have been noticed considering they had all of this ready for him within minutes of setting off the proximity sensor he left here days ago in the hopes of catching them in the act.

That’s ruined now. Only a handful of smugglers are in the warehouse, guns trained on him, waiting to see if he caves under the threat against Peter. They’re either very confident in their ability to snatch people off the street or very stupid. Those bullets won’t hurt him worse than a few bruises, but they will piss him off. It takes hours to get the dents out and repaint the suit.

“So whattya say?” Baldy asks with a significant glance at the screen where Peter is now stopped giving a tourist directions. “You ain’t seen us do nothin’ wrong. Forget about this whole thing, fly back the way you came, and fuck your boyfriend good tonight. Savvy?”

On the screen, Peter pats the tourist on the shoulder and they separate—the tourist crossing at the intersection while Peter strolls with his hands in his pockets into a narrow alleyway. The feed changes to another source and displays an empty alleyway. It flickers and changes to the same alleyway from a different angle, equally empty.

Harley smiles. “I’ll do one of those things.”

Everything happens at once.

Someone shouts into a walkie-talkie, “Grab him! Legacy’s not playing! Grab him!” and the guns fire in the same moment he cuts the power to his thrusters and drops below the spray of bullets.

Harley shoots the walkie-talkie guy with a stunning blast from his palm first. The walkie-talkie hits the cement floor with a crack and Harley reactivates his boosters just in time to avoid the same fate before zipping up and away to avoid the gunfire that follows him like a cloud of gnats. He picks them off from above. A bullet cracks across his shin and he dips sideways, cursing, as the impact throws off his flight. A second bullet catches him in the shoulder and he rocks back but remains steady in the air as he fires one last stunner and the final smuggler goes down.

Harley holds his arms at his sides and lowers to the ground. First things first, the walkie-talkie is on the ground squawking, “We lost Parker! Get out of there!”

Harley picks it up and holds it in front of his face. “You guys are fun but I’d like to phone a friend.”

“You bastar—,” A sudden scream through the speaker cuts him short and then the walkie-talkie goes silent.

Harley drags unconscious smugglers into the center of the floor while he waits. It won’t be long until the stun effect wears off and he’d like to have them restrained before then. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long.

Peter’s voice crackles through the walkie-talkie, “I heard someone’s looking for a friend, over.”

Harley drops a smuggler so he’s leaned up against another and brings the walkie-talkie to his mouth, “Yeah, you know any good ones? Preferably one who won’t bail last minute before planned public appearances.”

“Didn’t you get my text? I said I’d make it up to you with dinner, over.”

“I’ve had your cooking. If anything it’s another offense to apologize for.”

“You’re supposed to say over, over.”

Harley sighs deliberately into the walkie-talkie then says, “You owe me. Dinner’s not gonna cut it.”

Peter is mid-laugh when he clicks on next. “Read the text, Laddie. Over and out.”

Grumbling, Harley drops the walkie-talkie in the lap of a smuggler and sets about hauling the rest of them to the pile while he navigates his HUD to bring Peter’s text back up.

Pretty Parker 04:36 PM

‘Sorry for bailing. Dinner?? I’m a cheap date no cooking needed. I’ll swallow every drop and clean up after ;3’

Christ, Peter. He drops the last guy in the huddled mass on the floor and slaps a sticker on his chest. A moment later, an invisible force shoves Harley back a step, indicating his magnetic restraint is active and the smugglers are contained.

He’s still shaking his head at his boyfriend when the bald guy stirs. He jerks against the invisible forcefield keeping him snug against his colleagues then glares up at Harley. “Bet you think you’re a real hero, kid, but you ain’t shit. We’ll be back.”

It’s a sobering reminder that his work isn’t done. “No, sir,” Harley says softly. “I’m only doin’ my part.”

~*~

He enters the apartment from the balcony and finds himself home alone. A massive bookshelf sits beside the TV, crammed full of DVDs, a handful of books, a few collectibles that Peter salvaged, and a neat space rock from that one time him and Peter accidentally got abducted for a week and sent everyone into hysterics. His mason jar is there too, nearly full now with small souvenirs from all but eleven states.

Filling most of the room is a couch and two armchairs, enough for all of them to have a place when Ned and MJ come over for their weekly movie night. If Abbie keeps flirting with Johnny they’ll have to replace one of the chairs with a sofa and won’t that just stick in his craw. She’s not flirting, Harley knows that, but she wants his Hollywood connections and isn’t shy about using her brother’s hero connections to get there. As much as he doesn’t like Johnny, he’s not stupid enough to stand in Abbie’s way. Some things don’t change. What baby sister wants, baby sister gets and it’s Harley’s job to make sure it happens.

Across from him, the door opens and Peter walks in. He does a double-take upon finding Harley standing in the middle of the living room in his suit. Then he grins and drops his keys in the dish that Harley keeps well stocked with any fidget toys he whips together during his downtime in the lab. He’s pretty proud of some of them, but Peter still favors the old plastic fidget cube that he has hung onto since Harley returned it to him all those years ago.

Peter eyes him up and down. “Were you thinking roleplay?”

“I mean, I wasn’t planning— I just got home.”

It still catches him off guard sometimes, Peter’s interest in him. There were times during their first year together that he didn’t think they’d make it. It was hard. Harder than it needed to be with both of them pursuing vigilantism, but especially difficult because Harley never knew where he stood with Peter. There would be weeks when they wouldn’t see each other, would hardly talk, and Harley was sure they were on the cusp of fizzling out, that Peter had lost interest. Then Peter would come surging back, all ardor and devotion, and Harley would be caught in his riptide, helpless to do anything other than try to keep track of the shore as he struggled not to drown.

The insight into Peter’s life as Spider-Man was the missing piece Harley needed to make him make sense—to be able to anticipate when he’d grow distant, too absorbed in the latest puzzle presented to him to keep track of anything or anyone else. Still, when that interest pivots onto Harley it makes his head spin and his heart race.

Peter shrugs. “I’m game if you are.” He strolls past him with an exaggerated swing to his hips and an expectant stare over his shoulder.

He’s not game. Not yet. Not with a smuggling ring still out there waiting for them to knock it down. With a thought, Harley’s suit breaks down into particles and retreats into his watch. “How many did you wrangle?” Harley asks as he follows Peter into the bedroom.

“Six,” Peter says then peels off his work shirt and tosses it on the floor. He doesn’t seem to realize how gorgeous he is. Toned muscles, broad shoulders, tapered waist, biceps big enough to eat off of—he’s oblivious as he ruffles his hair and digs through the pile of worn-but-not-dirty clothes on the floor next to the hamper and gives the armpit of one of Harley’s henleys a sniff. “Which is good, any more and there would have been a lot of running and I’m very full. Kathy brought in donuts this morning and slipped me a whole box. I think I’m in love with her.”

Harley rolls his eyes. He might feel a teeny bit threatened if Kathy wasn’t in her 70s. “So much for dinner.”

Peter turns to face him with a heated look, giving him a front-row view of the dark trail of hair that disappears into this waistband and his abs, still toned and flat despite the dozen donuts in his stomach. “I’ve always got room for dinner.”

Mouth dry, Harley looks away to hide the heat in his cheeks that he knows is showing by the way Peter is looking at him, drinking him in, searching for where his blush begins.

Focus, focus.

“Umm…” He was going to say something about today. About finding the rest of the smuggling ring, but he can’t think when Peter is looking at him like that.

Peter tears his eyes away, a satisfied curl to his lips, and pulls Harley’s shirt over his head. It’s not fair how it fits more snugly across his shoulders and hangs looser around his torso. Web-swinging builds all the right muscles.

Harley clears his throat. “So where were you? Earlier I mean. You missed May’s ceremony.”

Peter winces and pulls the sleeves over his hands in a way that Harley will never not find adorable. “Don’t be mad at me. I was tricked”

Harley narrows his eyes. “Where were you?”

“Johnny said it was an emergency!”

Something sour drops onto the back of Harley’s tongue. The Fantastic Four’s move from California to New York has brought Harley nothing but grief and headaches. What is it about their presence that attracts so many aliens? And why is Johnny Storm obsessed with Spider-Man?

“I can see you’re upset,” Peter starts. He links his fingers around Harley’s wrist. “But I swear I thought something was really wrong. He wrote emergency and—,”

Ugh, that’s the other thing. The skywriting. It’s disgustingly romantic and Harley can’t stand that it’s for Peter. It’s not Johnny’s fault. He has no way of knowing that Spider-Man already has a flying superhero boyfriend and doesn’t need or want another one. Everyone knows Harley is dating Peter, but no one knows that Peter is Spider-Man. The only redeeming factor in the entire fucked up situation is that Johnny doesn’t like Peter. Why? Harley couldn’t care less as long as it stays that way. He can tolerate his little crush on Peter’s alter ego as long as at the end of the day he’s the one who gets Peter’s excited rambling, gross humor, cheesy pick-up lines, and grumpy I-woke-up-like-this face.

Peter shakes Harley’s arm. “You’re not even listening. He wanted outfit advice. From me.”

Harley snorts, amused despite himself.

“There you are,” Peter says. He releases him with a roll of his eyes and undoes his belt. “I don’t know why you let him get to you.”

“Cuz I can’t put a ring on Spider-Man and tell him to back off,” Harley says without thinking.

The annoyance wipes clean off Peter’s face and the button he’d been undoing on his slacks pops free and falls silently to the carpet. “What?” he asks weakly.

Oh shit. “I…” He stares at Peter, wide-eyed. “I didn’t mean— Not that I don’t want— I just…” Oh shit.

“What did you mean by that, Harley?” Peter asks slowly. He licks his lips. “I thought you… You think marriage is bogus.”

“I think my parents’ marriage was bogus.”

Peter catches his pants as they slip down his thighs, sans button. “That’s not what you said before.”

Harley ducks his chin to his chest and rubs the back of his neck. “I umm… May’s been talkin’ to me a bit. About Ben and uhh… You know, them. Their relationship. She said nothing made her happier and stronger than having made that commitment.”

“Oh.”

He peeks at Peter. “You didn’t know? I kind of assumed you put her up to it honestly.”

Peter shakes his head, throat working silently, a line furrowed between his brows. His sleeve is pinched between his fingers but the fidgets are all in the other room and Harley doesn’t dare walk away now. Not for anything. He wipes his palms on his thighs. Softly, he asks, “What’re you thinkin’, darlin’?”

Peter looks at him. “What are you thinking?”

Heart racing, Harley searches his face. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He hadn’t figured out yet how he wanted it to go, but he certainly didn’t mean to— What the hell, why shouldn’t it go like this? Nothing else they’ve done has been conventional. He might as well propose to Peter while he’s still sticky from public speaking fear sweat and Peter’s pants are broken. “I’m thinkin’ I don’t want anyone but you and I want everybody to know it.”

“Harley,” Peter breathes out. He laughs airly but his smile fades quickly. “This is so sudden. You really… You really caught me with my pants down.”

“You’re such a loser, please marry me.”

“Okay.” Peter laughs. “Yeah, okay. Are we— Like the whole deal? The wedding, the flowers, the DJ?”

Harley takes Peter by the hips, joy on his tongue, sweet and warm like cotton candy. “I literally don’t care. All I want is you.”

“Okay,” Peter says. He pops up onto his tiptoes and plants a kiss on Harley’s mouth. They part and he repeats, “Okay. We should—,” He bites his lip and meets Harley’s eyes. “May and Ned have been planning our wedding for like two years. It would crush them if we skipped it for a courthouse thing or Vegas or whatever.”

Harley knows Peter well enough now to read between the lines. He notes the worried pucker of his brow, the shine of anxiety in his eyes, the strength of his grip on Harley’s forearm. “In that case,” he says deliberately, “we should pick a date and uh, whatever the other wedding things are. We should do those too.”

“Rings,” Peter says faintly. “We have to buy rings.”

“Right. We can’t skip those. I’ll need something to show off when I tell everyone you’re mine forever.”

Peter flushes, not dark enough to be noticeable unless you’re looking for it, which Harley is. He’s tuned in to Peter’s frequency now and his longing is written plainly on his face.

“Yeah?” Peter asks. His warm dark eyes look up at him like he’s placing his heart between his palms and trusting Harley not to squash it. “You’re going to tell people?”

“Everyone, yeah. We could do a spring wedding and—,”

“Fall,” Peter corrects. “I always— I mean,” His flush deepens, “May and Ned, they planned it for fall. It would mess up their whole thing if we did spring.”

Lord, he loves this man.

With a flick of his finger, he removes Peter’s hand from his waistband and his pants droop around his thighs. They’re going to get married. Peter wants to marry him. He’s been thinking about it, dreaming about it. About him, them, together. “Then we have no choice,” Harley says. “We’re getting married in the fall.”

“Mhmm.” Peter loops his fingers through Harley’s belt loops and backs towards the bed. “None. No choice. They’re gonna go overboard.”

Peter’s legs hit the bed and, too quick to track, he spins so Harley is the one falling back onto the mattress.

His breath catches. “Wait.”

Peter stills with his knees on either side of Harley’s thighs, his pants still clinging to his left ankle. “Everything okay?”

Harley licks his lips and stares up at him as he summons the courage to ask. He takes a breath and blurts, “Would you be okay— No, I mean, should I… Should I invite my mom?” The last word comes out as a croak, but it comes out and that’s the best he could expect. He’s too aware of his heartbeat as Peter sits back on his haunches, a stunned expression on his face.

“Your mom? I didn’t think you… Harls, where’s this coming from?”

Harley flexes his fingers and his gaze falls to Peter’s collarbone. “She, um, she’s been trying to get ahold of me apparently. Me and Abbie.” He glances up at Peter’s eyes and then away. Softly, he admits, “I haven’t told Bee yet. I’m still… I don’t know what to do.”

“You haven’t talked to her? Your mom, I mean.”

He shakes his head. “No, uh, May actually was the one that—,”

“May? My May?”

Harley shoots him a narrow stare. “Our May, yeah. I guess my mom’s been sending letters to Tony for…” He laughs breathlessly. “God, for months now I guess? But the old man’s been trashing them without opening them or saying anything to me or anybody so… So a few weeks ago she started in on May. Well, technically, F.E.A.S.T. but they’re addresses to May so—,”

“Harley, this is— What are we going to do? Do you want to talk to her? You know you don’t have to, right? Do you want her to… to come here or— What does she want? What did she say? Why are you smiling at me like that?”

He can’t help it. The tension he’s been silently shouldering for weeks is bleeding out of him like a balloon with a leak in the face of Peter’s questions—his unflinching solidarity and innate understanding that this isn’t something to be taken lightly, that something as simple as a few letters has taken a whack at the foundation he and Abbie forged together so many years ago, a foundation he thought unshakable. Maybe it is. Maybe with May and Peter and, yeah, even Tony’s support, they can’t be touched.

He takes a deep breath. “I gotta talk to Abbie. I can’t— I can’t decide this on my own, but she just started that new gig and she’s so happy. I can’t— What if she wants to reconnect with her? She can’t go alone but I don’t wanna go back to that place. I don’t wanna drag up all that shit we were supposed to leave behind. I dunno… I don’t know if I can do it.”

Peter leans over him and smooths his thumbs over Harley’s cheekbones. “First of all, there isn’t anything you can’t do so jot that down. Second, you’re right. You need to talk to Abbie before you get sucked any farther down this worry-hole.”

Harley pulls a face. “Call it somethin’ else, Pete.”

“But ‘worry-hole’ is perfect! It’s a play on words. Like a wormhole, only—,”

“Yeah, I get it. Don’t make it less abhorrent, though.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Whatever. My point stands. Yes, Abbie’s happy with her work life right now but we both noticed you’ve been acting weird. She’ll feel better if you fess up and then you guys can decide together what to do.” Peter skewers him with a look. “This is the thing that’s had you all stressed out and distant lately, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. It is.” Harley sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. I just… I wish she’d leave us alone. She was supposed to leave us alone.”

Peter leans in and kisses his forehead, soft and lingering. He pulls back be he’s still leaning over him as he says, “I’m with you, 100%, whatever you want to do, but she’s not invited to our wedding.”

Harley startles and meets his eyes. “What? Why?”

“Because you don’t want her there,” Peter states. “If Abbie wants to invite her to a wedding, she’ll have to pony up and throw her own.”

Harley swallows thickly. “You gotta be the one to tell Bee.”

Peter snorts and a crooked smile lights his lips. “Babe, she’s not going to—,” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me. What?”

“Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think she wants any more to do with your mom than you do. I think this is going to be an open and shut, cease and desist, case closed let’s go get a bucket of ice cream and watch a stupid-funny comedy and forget about it kind of conversation.”

“Then why did you seem so worried at first?”

“Because you were acting like you wanted to talk to her. You asked if we should invite her to our wedding, Harley. I thought you’d been body-snatched.”

Harley laughs, surprising himself. “No, you didn’t.”

“Did so! I considered it for a full thirty seconds before I realized that you were only asking because you’re worried Abbie might want to mend things with her.”

Harley grimaces. “I really hope you’re right that she won’t.”

“We should talk to her tomorrow before lunch with May.”

Harley’s stomach curls with anxiety but he nods. He’s ready to get this over with. He has already spent too long dwelling on it. “Alright,” he agrees. He settles his hands on Peter’s hips. “Sorry I killed the mood.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me,” Peter simpers sweetly in a way that is neither simpering nor sweet. “Get on the bed properly and we can get a good cuddle in before dinner.”

“Which dinner?” Harley asks. Peter only smiles and nudges at him so, with minimal grumbling, Harley moves to rest atop the pillows and opens his arms for Peter to curl into him. He plants a kiss on top of his head. “Thank you.”

Peter squeezes him around the middle. “So… we’re fiances now, right?”

Excitement buoys in Harley’s chest. “Yeah, we’re gonna get married and have a dumb overblown wedding and it’s probably gonna suck.”

“Mmm.” Peter burrows closer. “I can’t wait.”

“We should invite Johnny.”

Peter laughs and pinches his side but doesn’t argue against it. Smiling, Harley tucks his nose in Peter’s curls and breathes deeply. Habitually, his thumb finds the smooth circle of skin on Peter’s lower back near where his love handle would be if he had body fat to spare. He needs to eat more but his metabolism is impossible to keep up with, although that doesn’t stop Harley from trying.

“Still a scar?” Peter asks without lifting his head.

“Nah, it’s healed. No hair yet though.”

Peter makes an impatient noise that warms the skin where his face is tucked. “Hair always takes forever to grow back.”

Harley hums in agreement and continues rubbing slow soothing circles over the spot. The day Peter picked up this wound was a hard one. He was supposed to be there. He was on his way, but things got messy and Peter had to act. “Wish you would have waited for me.”

Peter pulls back to frown at him. “I tried. You know I tried.”

“Yeah, no, that’s not what I meant.” He pushes back Peter’s curls and presses a quick kiss to his forehead to reassure him. Peter’s frown doesn’t ease an inch. “I mean, I… I wish I’d been there. I wish I wasn’t so slow.”

“You’re not slow. You got there faster than anyone else. You got there as fast as you could.”

“I know,” Harley says, “and it still wasn’t fast enough.”

Peter softens and lifts a hand to his cheek. “There’s no such thing as perfect, but you’re damn close. Let it go, Harley. I’m okay.”

Harley leans into his palm. “Thanks for the tip, kettle.”

“I’m okay,” Peter insists.

Harley pulls in a breath. “I know,” he says on the exhale. “It just freaks me out when you get hurt like that.”

Peter huffs a small laugh out his nose. “That’s funny.”

“Oh, is it?”

“You used to be totally unfazed. Remember those first few times? You were borderline grumpy and not worried about me at all.”

Harley takes in Peter’s face, the bags under his eyes that won’t go away no matter how much Harley carves from the impossible burden atop his shoulders, his smile, his eyes filled with affection, humor, and trust. He presses his lips to Peter’s palm and murmurs, “I have more to lose.”

~*~

Harley opens the door and twin cyclones barrel past him into the apartment, abandoning him on the threshold.

“May!” Peter and Abbie cry as one then begin the usual squabble over who gets to hug her first. Abbie jabs Peter in the ribs but Peter sticks his hand over her face and holds her back, laughing as Abbie careens backward with a yell.

“Ack! I said don’t stick to my face, freak!”

“Children, children,” May speaks over the chaos. She stands from the sofa and holds her arms out from her sides. “I have two arms for this exact purpose. Get in here, both of you.”

Peter and Abbie fall in, squeezing May from either side and Harley’s throat constricts. His heart is in this room. A million tiny threads twine neatly around each of these people and connect back to him, tethered deep beneath his flesh where he doesn’t have a hope in the world of cutting himself free. Not that he would want to. His heart is in this room.

The three-way hug breaks when May instructs them to check if the cookies have finished cooling. They race each other to the kitchen, pushing and taunting all the way. Her baking hasn’t improved much over the years but cookies are one of the few things that consistently come out well. May shakes her head and meets Harley’s stare with a fond smile as she makes her way to him. “For being so patient, you get both arms in on the hugging action.”

“I don’t mind waiting if it means I get the good hugs.”

“All of my hugs are good hugs.”

He can’t argue with that. He’s never felt the same kind of love and protection anywhere but in the midst of one of May Parker’s hugs. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, careful to keep his tupperware upright, and releases a long breath as she closes him in, soothing away the residual tension from his surprisingly short talk with Abbie this morning. As Peter predicted, she adamantly refused to engage with their mother’s plea for reconnection. As far as she’s concerned, they’ve outgrown their need for a mom. Why would they open up all of those old hurts when they’ve got everything they could ever want in May? May who is steady and constant and brazenly loving in all the ways they’ve never had before.

May pulls back first and her expression falters as she catches sight of his face. “What’s wrong? Your eyes are all red. Bad day?”

Harley smiles and kisses her cheek. “No such thing.” He’s not articulate enough to describe the things he’s feeling. The weight of it, dense and solid, yet comfortable. Like a good hug.

She tilts her head and a funny smile curls her lips. “Alright, Mr. Mysterious. Let’s get this soup to the kitchen before it gets any colder.” She steps aside and ushers him over the threshold. “You could have cooked over here, you know. Might be a nice reprieve. I know how Peter gets about Birthday Soup.”

“Next time,” Harley promises. He steps inside and closes the door.

Notes:

Happy Serotonin Day!! I'm barely getting this one out before we get a big ole thunderstorm. The power keeps flickering and it's not even raining yet so we'll see how long it lasts 😬 Also, I got a slew of writing prompts on tumblr (@sarah-sandwich) that I'm going to write next and they're Very Fun so be on the look out for those!

Well... this is it ಥ_ಥ Thank you thank you darling readers. I am placing the most loving tender smooch on your temple. Until next time <3

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Peaches Verse