Chapter Text
He felt alive.
He and his garage, the small chill that licked its way from the outside, leaving his tools almost too cold to touch. His nose burned most times, he caught fevers like they were baseballs, and little to nothing kept the raccoons out of his snacks.
Small fingers held and met steel anyways, his radio always ticked onto one channel.
Avengers News: Meet the Protectors
“Tony Stark–Iron Man–has just…Gwen, can you give us coverage on your side?” His radio crackled against itself. “Iron Man has just flown straight into what we’ve identified as a wormhole! Captain America is on the ground–Black Widow dodges an alien attack– is that the hulk? Do we have eyes?”
He leaned in only for radio silence to sting his ears. Nothing.
“Fuck!” Harley says, hitting the old machine. “Stupid ol’ thing, fuckin’ up now of all times! Why couldn’t you have broken yesterday?! Huh? I woulda’ had it fixed an’ all ready to go!”
“Harley!”
“Mom!”
He hears the door open, he feels the tug on his t-shirt, far too stretched out to be anything less.
“Not. Now. Abbie.”
“Yes. Now. Abbie!” She replies, smiling smartly. “Mama says don’t talk back to her or you’re banned from the lab forever!” More tugging. “Forever, Harley! That’s…That’s…”
He spins, quickly picking her up and sitting her on the table. He makes sure to push anything dangerous (i.e. everything) aside, out of her line of sight, so she doesn’t accidentally kill herself.
He looks up, sighing as he plucks a screwdriver from her hand.
“Cut it out,” he says, laying the radio out flat. “I’m tryna’ do us all a favor and figure out if the world’s ending! Do ya’ really think it matters if aliens slaughter all them avengers? Ain’t no lab with no world, Abbie.”
“Mama said that was all just pretend!”
“Mama also said she’d take birth control after the ruckus I caused, but looky here–” he pulls her cheeks, black rust smudging underneath her eye. “Improntou Keener way.”
She obviously doesn’t understand what he’s saying, her focus on rubbing her cheek with her sleeve.
“I’m sayin’ that mom’s always wrong!”
“A’gonna get’chu, Harley Keener!” Her voice is loud and boisterous, even from the kitchen it’s crystal clear. “If your lab looks like a tore-nader ripped along through it, them avengers gonna be the bottom of your worries!”
He opens his mouth and it’s almost like she can see him.
“Everybody’s got their own problems! Watch your sister!”
“But-”
“Harley!”
With a sigh of defeat, he places the screwdriver back in her hand, fighting back the urge to tear his own hair out.
Dead. They could all be alien fodder any second now–but everybodies all worried about who’s gonna watch his sister.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Before she can put it into her mouth, like she so obviously wants to, he lifts his own, smiling.
“Let’s make magic happen, yeah? You wanted that one pop channel–
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” She bounced, aiming the screwdriver, with little direction, at the radio.
“Well, let’s see what this little booger can do. I swear I had the spare antenna ‘round here–” a quick glance at Abbie. “Hand it over. We’ve got work to do.”
She looks away while handing it to him, revealing it from her little dress pocket.
He felt alive, then.
He doesn’t know when he snaps out of it, doesn't know why until the wrench clatters on the ground. He looks at it for a few seconds before reaching for it, trying to blink the dullness away.
He was…doing something.
Peter Parker started fixing web-shooters. Or what Harley guesses is web-shooters. What else can they be? Overpriced fucking party streamers? Who wants white party streamers anyways?
And yet, when Harley brought it up, asking what the fuck he was holding in his hands, saying, “These fuckin’ party streamers, Paker? Finally, hit puberty? We celebratin’?”
Harley wasn't actually serious but then Peter became skittish. And yeah, the kid was a ball of ADHD, unaddressed trauma and–fatherly issues (if you know, you know)--it’s not unusual.
But he added suspicion to the mix.
You see, Harley thought he was being left out. Parker and Iron Man would always be quiet when Harley entered a room, they shared looks all the fucking time, exchanged blueprints, had team meet-ups with only each other.
Harley doesn't have a perfect self-image, so he went with it. He wasn’t going to let the sinking feeling in his chest drown him.
He was going to be the next Iron man. He was going to be something. Kick high ass outta Tennessee and play with the big guns. Them Avengers , he remembers, thinking fondly about his sister, about his mom. And maybe there was a sick, sick, nausea that rolled its ways into his nerves, and maybe he ignored it.
But they didn’t keep secrets because they didn’t value Harley’s time or opinion, no, no, no—they just didn’t trust him. Maybe that’s the same thing though.
“I told you I’d replace it,”
Harley jolts, the nail knicking his thumb. He presses on it.
“It’s more fun to fix,” he says, his saliva thick. “Maybe therapists were on to somethin’ after all.”
He laughs, mature and steady. Harley wonders if it’s genuine.
He palms Harley’s shoulder, turning his neck.
“Seen Pete?”
Words aren’t coming out, his throat constricts, like a cobra, growing tighter and tighter.
He manages to shake his head.
“Alright,” he sighs, though, quiet. “Kid’s gonna give me a heart attack. But hey, at least Thing Two’s smart enough to be scared of three A.M. New York. Or maybe you’re just introverted. Same difference, in a way.”
And he leaves, just like that.
Harley stares at the dried blood on his thumb, so tired.
Why don’t you trust me? Why not? After everything I’ve done–after everything I’ve given up? Why not me ? Why is it never me? It’s always…It’s fucking all a joke. This. The Avengers, S.I., Asgard.
It all has to be some sick fucking joke.
A little contraption rests a few inches away from his aching fingers. He grabs it, feeling through the edges and dents. It’s like a very flexible wrist guard, with little inserts to file and shoot web. If Peter’s who he thinks he is, then this design is actually pretty savvy, given the situation.
However, they’re bulky. Easily broken–Harley’s guessin’, anyways–by the sheer amount he’s seen tossed in random ol’ boxes.
Before he cracks one open, he makes sure he’s alone.
The design’s smart. Peter Parker smart , but smart nonetheless.
And if he fixes the joints, if he tightens the web capacitor, then so be it. It’s their fault for leaving something so desperate and broken literal centimeters away from him. And, if anything, they sorely underestimated Harley–they’re so fucking sloppy.
It’s borderline offensive how careless they are with…
With Spider-Man.
Crazy.
***
Peter climbs in through the window, ripping the mask from his face. His adrenaline is spiked, his injuries a harsh flame, although healing.
He pulls up a stool, nearly collapsing.
Something clicks against the ground and he reluctantly looks.
Web-shooters failed again.
He’s running out of the web at this point!
He shoots a web towards it, reeling the stupid mechanism towards him.
After a short inspection, deeming it too broken, he tosses it to the corner of the room where he’s tossed the rest of them.
Suddenly his ears pick up a heartbeat. Not a sleeping one, no, this one is fast and…and terrified. It sounds like it’s being ripped apart.
He doesn’t have half the mind to remove his suit, tripping towards the door. He follows the sound, even when it settles, even when it slows back to normal.
Just need to make sure.
He opens the lab doors.
“Peter-”
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.!” He whisper-shouts, making cut-off hand motions. “Night mode on.”
He carefully walks over, feeling a mixture of surprise and confusion when it’s just Harley. But he’s not in trouble, he’s not in any mortal danger, no he’s just asleep.
Peter frowns, rolling his eyes.
Of course. Probably fell off a plane, plummeted off a cliff. Dreaming something totally fantastic and heart-jerking.
Peter doesn’t see the eyebags, the way sweat tightens his curls to his forehead, the way his cheeks are flushed.
He doesn’t see it then.
He throws his suit into the laundry bin as he re-enters his room.
And if he sleeps in through his first class of the day, ignoring the alarm, ignoring F.R.I.D.A.Y. when she reminded him again, then that’s on him. However, if Mr. Stark decided to check in on him and Peter smartly stuck to the ceiling, half-awake, then that’s on Mr. Stark.
He’s in the lab now, trying to soak in as much anti-spiderman time as possible. He pulled a muscle in his leg and bruised a few ribs so it’s gonna take a while for the area to be fully functioning again.
He can’t half-ass the healing. It risks everyone. Everyone and himself.
“Holy shit,” he says, shooting web out. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. dial Mr. Stark–also dim lights by ten percent, please!”
He’s still admiring Mr. Stark’s handiwork when he joins the call.
“You finally home, kid?”
“Yeah–hey, Mr. Stark–why didn’t you tell me about the web-shooters? I thought we decided to toss this prototype?”
“Mr. Stark didn’t tell you about the web-shooters,” he responds, mocking. “Because Mr. Stark had nothing to do with the web-shooters. Do something cool, Spidey? What is it? Did you compress the–”
“It wasn’t you?”
There’s a shared silence, one that is as tight as Peter’s heartbeat. He breathes in, almost at the same time as Tony.
“Harley,” they both say.
Mr. Stark ends the call after sharing a look, sighing.
***
“You should eat, Harley. You have gone twenty-three hours, four minutes, and seven seconds since the last meal. You are also severely dehydrated.”
“What are you? My mom?”
“I am F.R.I.D.A.Y. Mr. Stark’s A.I.”
There’s a massive migraine, sitting in the back of his head. Every time he lifts his head from his pillow, it pulls him down, screeching, pulling at his brain. He shuts his eyes, an arm resting against his forehead.
“What time is it?”
A beat. “5:30.”
“A.M.?” Not the first time he’s woken up too early.
“P.M.”
He jolts up, little particles entering his vision as the spinal fluid rushes to his brain. He stumbles to the bathroom, clumsily brushing his teeth.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Fuck,” he says, swallowing too hard. His balance is way off, his shirt inside out. “Fuck! F.R.I.D.A.Y. what’s on the schedule today?”
“Mr. Stark has initiated the babysitting protocol. No training, working, or studying while injured, sick, or concussed. Your temperature is 102.1 F.”
He halts. “Override!”
“You cannot override the babysitting protocol. It was programmed for Admin’s Access.”
“Then open terminal!”
He coughed, glancing at the code.
“What the fuck–what the fuck is the Cowboy Protocol? F.R.I.D.A.Y. enlarge.”
For when Harley is in deadly danger; i.e. iron lad’s legacy.
He’s so fucking vague , he thinks, clearing the screen.
He quickly coded in a privacy setting, an anti-tony stark, if you will.
That’s what you get for using Linux, Tony! Fuck you and your open-source, ya’ sick fuck!
He also decided to give F.R.I.D.A.Y a temporary accent because fuck everyone. How does it feel for an A.I. to constantly insert itself into your thoughts and constantly questions your sanity?–a sprinkle of country and you get chaos.
“Mr. Stark would like to speak with you.”
“Tell em’ to-–to shove it up his titanium ass!”
“Message recorded and received.”
He closes his eyes, the overwhelming heat knocking him out.
He dreams of cornfields and UFO warnings. Of oversweetened tea and sunburns. He feels his mom’s hand over his shoulders, hugging the life out of him. One suitcase hanging on his numb fingers. Abbie doesn’t stop crying and he wonders if she ever did.
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” He says, waking up. “Call Ab-”
He silences.
No, if you call then she’ll hear your voice then she’ll figure out your sick. And then she’ll ask what’s wrong and you don’t know what’s wrong, not explicitly and then she’ll keep asking, crack a few jokes because she always marveled in comedic relief. After you’ll finally talk about how homesick you are then she’ll ask to visit but you cant visit.
Because you’re in New York.
“Harley?”
Why did F.R.I.D.A.Y. sound worried? She’s a fucking A.I., nothing genuine about her soft tone.
“I think you should disable the privacy setting-”
“You can’t think, Friday. You’re not human.”
And if he felt bad about it, he hid it well.
Turns out there’s a fever reducer in the Med Bay. Some of the scientists and nurses give him wary looks, but he doesn’t have enough energy to care. He pops a few in his mouth, accepting the cup of water someone hands him.
“Disabling babysitting protocol? That was stupid, Harley.”
He looks up, Mr. Stark leveling with him. He looked pissed.
“ Enabling the babysitting protocol? Now that was stupid.”
“How is keeping you idiots safe anything but smart, Harley? You know better than this.”
He opens his mouth, closing it soon after.
He pushes past his shoulder, ignoring the small sorry that falls off of Tony’s lips.
***
“Five bucks, man.”
“For a water?”
“What’d ya’ expect? This is tourist expadanza, kid! Go be famous somewhere else, Iron-boy.”
Harley takes the water, rolling his eyes. “Keep the change,” he says. “Scammer.”
***
Peter has spider senses–not the actual sixth sense, not the one where he can literally predict danger, but the other ones. He has super hearing, super strength, super healing. Yet, how in the hell did some country bumpkin from Timbuktu evade him? Just…how?
The last time he remembers seeing Harley was a few days ago, in the lab. Peter and Mr. Stark were talking about– wait, no. Did they really talk about spiderman when Harley was there?
Shit, they’re stupid. Like stupid times two because that’s how bad it is.
But to be fair, Harley’s ‘I do not care, I hate you’ attitude is really convincing! Even if he did fix the web-shooters, he probably just thinks it’s Iron Man helping Spiderman. Not Peter Parker. Nope, no way.
Harley can’t possibly connect the dots.
He’s swinging through the city when he sees someone sitting on a roof. He pulses, not sensing any danger, but something feels ominous.
“Harley?” He asks himself.
The boy turns, “Spiderman?”
Peter froze, shit.
“Uh–yeah. Spiderman here. You’re–uh–you’re that Stark kid right?”
“That’s Peter Parker.”
Peter adjusted his mask, confused.
“Yeah, but you’re like iron-kid. Peter’s–-don’t get me wrong that Peter kid is cool and courageous and everything but he’s definitely not like…”
Harley sighed, kicking his feet.
“Dangerous temperature levels,” Karen says, “Harley Keener has a fever.”
“You shouldn’t be out here, especially when you’re sick.”
“What are you? My mom?”
“No–”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re the friendly neighborhood Spiderman and whatever. Saving cats and kicking ass. Don’t you have like people to save, places to be?”
“Well,”
“Exactly. I don’t think some rando like me is worth your time. Now make like a spider and web– or whatever the fuck –outta here.”
“But you’re sick.”
“I already took fever reducers.”
Peter paused before coming closer. If Harley doesn’t know about him being Spiderman then this distance should be fine. Plus, he’s in disguise. Comofolouge, if you will.
Incognito.
He wasn’t about to leave Harley out here by himself.
“I can escort you back? You’re staying at Stark Towers, right? I know a guy.”
“That shits public information? Maybe I shoulda invested in a better privacy lock.” A beat. “And the, quote on quote, guy ya’ know , it’s Tony Stark, right? Your web-shooters are complete and actual ass, man. You gotta pay more attention or ya’ gonna die before you save anyone.”
“Noted.”
“Also, your self-awareness? Needs a crap ton of work. What’re you doing on a random buildin’ anyways? Tony finally putting trackers in his interns?”
“Uh–he called in a favor?”
“Right.”
It’s a little too quiet, especially for the usually rambunctious teen. He looks tired and unwell and maybe it’s the fever but–but he seems sad too. There’s a spiteful undertone in his sentences and a lost look about him that makes Peter worry.
Peter shudders, rubbing his arms against the cold. “Karen, increase the-”
And he realizes Harley’s not even wearing a jacket–hell ! All he’s got on him is a black pair of sweats and some random t-shirt.
Peter takes a cautious seat next to him, trying to indiscreetly and super casually wrap an arm around him. He focuses all of the heat there, jolting when Harley rests against him.
“Ya’ ever think I’m out here on some random roof because I don’t wanna be there right now.”
Peter frowns.
“Don’t get all super-horny on me, dude. I’m just–I’m Homesick is all,” he coughed, sniffling.
“I think you’ve had enough of New York for one night,” Peter stands, pulling Harley up with him. “Let’s call it.”
Harley stumbled forwards, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder.
How they managed to get back to Stark Towers in one piece is a mystery. He’s pretty sure Harley fainted three times, needed to throw up once, and complained all the way there. Harley asked Peter how he knew which window was his (surely that’s not public information) and Peter just–pretended not to hear it.
“Uh, bye,” Peter says.
Harley blinks slowly at him, leaning against the window.
“Bye, Spiderman.” He smiles, small. Peter’s heart stops. “My hero.”
He opens and closes his mouth, not sure what to do now.
He lifts his hand forward. “Why–uh– put it there .”
Harley looks at his hand like it offends him but eventually gives in. It was a loose handshake, and it was–it was almost like they were holding hands. Just for a second!
Peter fell back into the night, cheeks unusually warm.
Harley Keener.
Wow.