Chapter Text
Present
Peter hangs back from the service at the lake until Aunt May, with a comforting but firm arm around his waist, guides him closer to the dock where Pepper and Morgan are sending off Mr. Stark’s arc reactor. He hasn’t cried yet.
Well, not today.
Well, not here where the Avengers could see.
Well, the remaining Avengers.
His throat aches with the need to release the pent up agony in his chest. He lost him. He really lost him. He spent years vying for Iron Man’s— No, for Tony Stark’s attention, his favor, his pride, and only got it during the five years he wasn’t here to appreciate it. And then he lost him.
When the staggered clusters of people standing on the lawn break up, some heading inside for refreshments and conversations while others start towards the procession of parked cars that line the long drive, he makes his excuses to May and splits off towards the small trail head visible in the treeline beyond the house. He only needs a minute to siphon off some of the misery coalescing in his chest without humiliating himself in front of Earth’s mightiest heroes.
He doesn’t expect someone else to have had the same idea.
His cheeks are already wet, vision obscured by tears, when he rounds a bend and nearly walks smack into a tall, light-haired figure in all black. They’re all in all black.
“Shi— Sorry,” he says as he dodges around shiny black dress shoes and manages to kick dirt over his own. He hastily scrubs his face with the backs of his sleeves, but his suit jacket is depressingly water-repellent.
“It’s alright.”
The stranger’s voice is light and cushioned by a southern drawl, but Peter gets the feeling that he’s annoyed. He doesn’t know how he can tell, but his gut says it’s true.
Face damp and sleeves smeared, he looks up and meets stormy eyes. A spark of recognition flares within him only to fade as quickly as it came. Try as he might, he can’t put a name to this face. Crooked squashy nose, eyes blue like a rain cloud under serious eyebrows, his hair is that shade that straddles the line between brown and blonde, neatly trimmed and styled with gel. It looks… wrong, somehow.
“Are you alright?”
He realizes he’s staring and steps back with a shrug as he throws a cast away glance at the surrounding forest, but his gaze swings right back to the boy in front of him. Who is this guy? He’s his age, or somewhere near enough to it, but there definitely weren’t any other high schoolers tooling around with the Avengers five years ago. Maybe he’s someone new.
“Fantastic,” he deadpans and surreptitiously tries to wipe his sleeves on the butt of his slacks. Who decided on the dress code for funerals? Funeral dress should be all knits and cotton. Comfortable, light, and absorbent. This polyester hell is miserable.
“You knew Mr. Stark?” The words are out of his mouth before he can call them back.
To his credit, the guy raises his eyebrows and gives him a look like duh. Why else would he be all the way out here dressed in fuddy-duddy funeral clothes?
“Mr. Stark?” the guy echoes with a sardonic edge. “Was he your boss or something?”
Peter winces. Was. “Sort of. I’m… I was his intern.”
The guy’s gaze sharpens and seems to take him in anew, or perhaps for the first time. “Peter Parker?”
Peter blinks. “Yes? Who are you?”
“Harley Keener,” he says, and actually sticks his hand out to shake.
Peter wipes his hand on his slacks before he takes it. Harley’s hand wraps around his, warm and calloused. Something niggles at the back of his mind. A feeling. A memory. Déjà vu.
He says the words that come to his mind as though he’s spoken them before. “The potato gun kid?”
A smile curls Harley’s lips, crooked and hinting at mischief of days gone by.
Plain of the Lost
“Yeah, that’s me,” Harley says, teeth bared in a shit-eating grin that wrinkles his nose. “Did he tell you I saved his ass? More than once.”
Peter hazards a half-smile. “Yeah, he might’ve mentioned it.”
Harley puts his hands on his hips and looks around their dusty little camp. It’s not much. There are no materials to build with and the dirt doesn’t behave how you’d expect. The only things they brought with them are the clothes on their backs and whatever they may have had in their pockets when they got snapped. The best they’ve been able to do is to mark out small territories that no one is depressed enough to call a ‘home’. This is temporary. Whether they’re called back to Earth and their normal lives or they move on to some kind of afterlife, they all agree this can’t be it. This is purgatory—not an ending, but a transition to something else. It has to be.
“So what’s the application process like for this place?” Harley asks. “And what kind of deposit are we looking at? The usual one-month plus first month? What are your rates?”
Peter shakes his head. He’s out of practice with this whole socializing thing. He’s usually the one making jokes and trying to keep people’s spirits up. To have that energy directed at him has him wrong-footed. “There’s not much, but I can give you a tour. Then, if you’re interested, you can sketch out a spot for yourself.”
“Sure, sure. Where’s yours? We can start there.”
Peter hesitates. “I don’t have one.”
Harley looks at him then, head cocked to the side. “Why not? You’re not sticking around?”
Peter runs his tongue over his teeth. That’s not it. He already decided the best way to find his people would be to stay in one spot and make sure his name gets around, let them find him, but… “I don’t need one. I… This is for them. Not me.” He gestures at the huddled masses, clumped in small groups, playing games in the dirt or solitary and staring up at the never-changing sunset or down at the dirt that doesn’t stick to clothes or feet.
Harley watches him. “So you see yourself as above everyone else?”
“What? No, I… Not above.”
Not below either, but separate? Definitely. There are a number of New York accents in his little corner of the Plains. The more he gets the word out there that Spider-Man is watching over this area, the more of them arrive. It doesn’t matter that he stopped bothering with the mask. It doesn’t matter that he’s a regular guy underneath it. A kid, some might say. They still treat him like he’s some kind of authority. Someone important. Someone who can help. He tries to keep things casual by making bad jokes and goofing off, but they take it as him putting on a brave face and being the light in the dark and it only makes the thick line between him and them all the more stark.
“They don’t think of me as one of them,” he slowly explains. “I don’t want to make them uncomfortable by being around all the time.”
Harley frowns at him. “So where do you go?”
He shrugs. Mostly, he walks the perimeter of the area. There’s nothing else really to do. To anyone nearby, he asks if they’d like to join their little community. Most of the aliens keep walking and some humans too, but most people are relieved to find a place to stay, a place where they aren’t alone or lost.
“Okay, well, how ‘bout this?” Harley says with conviction. “You show me around and I’ll pick us a spot. We can be neighbors.” He flashes another crooked grin like this is all a big joke. Like they’re kids playing house in the backyard.
“Alright,” Peter agrees, more to put an end to this conversation than any reason else. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Maureen.”
“Lead on.”
Present
“Yeah, that’s me.” Harley’s smile fades before it’s fully formed. “I should probably get going. I keep getting weird looks from…”
He trails off, but Peter knows he means the Avengers.
“Hold on,” he says without knowing where he’s going with it.
Harley eyes him warily.
“Let me at least introduce you to Morgan. She was telling me about all the stories M— her dad told about me. I bet he told her about you, too. She’ll want to meet you.”
Harley chews his bottom lip and casts a sideways look toward the house. Then he shrugs and says, “Alright. Lead on.”
That sense of déjà vu washes over him again, but he ignores it and starts back the way he came. Harley falls into step beside him as he brushes at his cheeks.
“I don’t look like I’ve been crying, do I?”
Harley looks at him and his lips twitch. “Yeah, but a respectable amount of crying. Don’t worry, it’s flattering.”
He trips on a root and lets Harley take the lead to hide his warm face.
~*~
He’s hiding in the lab when Harley walks in. Pepper talked them both into staying the night. Not that it was difficult, considering Morgan was the one that made the request—that little girl is impossible to say no to. May left hours ago, and after Morgan was put down for a nap he ducked into Mr. Stark’s garage for some respite. It appears he is, again, not the only one to have the idea.
“Hey.”
Harley stiffens and the exhaustion wipes away from his face as he straightens and locates him in the room. “Hey,” he says in return, and then his gaze drifts beyond him to the holoscreens hovering behind him. “Snooping?”
His tone is flat but Peter can tell he’s trying to make light of… Of everything.
“No.” He pulls a face and shrugs. “Well, sort of, I guess. I was curious if he kept working on some stuff we had in progress when the— the blip happened.” The blip. What a dumb term. He has to keep reminding himself that’s how everyone has been referring to it all these years, but it feels wrong in his mouth.
Harley hums thoughtfully and perches on the edge of the workbench. His seat puts him much higher than Peter on the rolling stool, his head barely even with Harley’s hips.
“Why would he work on Spidey stuff? I thought you got blipped with the rest of us.”
Peter’s heart jumps into his throat and he quickly scans the room, even though he knows they’re alone in here.
Harley looks down at him. “What?”
“He told you?”
“Told—? Oh. No, he didn’t.” He frowns into the middle distance for a moment, then shakes his head. “I think I’ve known for a long time. I don’t remember when I figured it out.”
“You don’t remember,” Peter repeats acerbically.
Harley shrugs. “Wasn’t important, I guess.”
Yeouch. Okay, that’s something he’s going to dwell on later. Some random kid in Tennessee shouldn’t be able to figure out his identity, not even one connected to Mr. Stark. Especially if it wasn’t important, if he wasn’t even trying. It’s alarming to say the least.
Silence falls around them as Peter half-heartedly pokes through the files from before the blip and Harley stares at the screens without comment, without blinking. He wonders if he’s even seeing them. Time passes. He’s not sure how much. He hasn’t been any good at tracking it lately. It’s almost like he expects no time to pass at all, but then he looks at the sky and finds the sun has been moving steadily across it and it shocks him back into the present.
“Do you remember it?” Harley asks out of the blue.
“What?”
Harley turns his unblinking stare on him, something haunted in the depths. “The blip. Being blipped. Do you remember anything?”
“I get… impressions.”
Orange. Always orange. There’s a specific shade that makes a trapped, panicked feeling well up in his chest and he knows it’s because of that place. Fear, helplessness, frustration, boredom, but also safe, protected, cared for. A sense of home that he doesn’t understand. He feels like he found something there and unwittingly left it behind. He has muddled dreams he wakes up from feeling inexplicably sad and lonely. No one else feels like this, or at least no one has talked about it, but there was something there. Something that he wants back. He just can’t remember what.
Harley nods like he expected as much.
“What about you?”
Harley looks away. “Same. I feel like I…” He trails away.
“Like you what?” Peter digs.
Harley frowns at the holoscreen, but again seems to look through it, past it to some great beyond. “I feel like I’ve forgotten something important.”
Notes:
Heeyyyyyyy so you know how I usually have the fic all written before I start posting?? That is not the case this time 🥺 I am so in love with the idea of this fic but it's been sitting in my drafts for literal years and if you guys don't kick my ass I'm never going to write it. So, here's the first chapter. Kick my ass.
Chapter 2: Help
Summary:
Peter returns to New York after spending the weekend following Tony's funeral as a guest alongside Harley Keener at the Starks' lake house. He settles back into his usual routine of slacking off school in favor of Spider-Man duty, only for a familiar suit of armor to fly overhead and disrupt his careful balancing act.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Present
Peter doesn’t expect to see Harley Keener again after that weekend at the lake house. So when he does, it’s a complete surprise, never mind the suit of armor he’s flying around in.
~*~
“This is my corner! My family’s been workin’ this corner since my Papi came over on the fuckin’ USS Courageous!”
The sausage vendor glances helplessly at Peter, a high schooler, then says to the fruit vendor for the third time, “But I have a permit from—,”
“So do I, shitheel! What d’ya think this here is for? Toilet paper?” He raps his knuckles against the plastic covered permit fixed to the side of his cart. “I’m tellin’ ya, this here is my corner and I don’t care what piece of—,”
“Could you guys maybe share the corner?” Peter pipes in.
“—paper some meat-brain city nincompoop handed to ya. I ain’t movin’ and I ain’t—,”
Peter is the first to look up.
He doesn’t fully, consciously, realize why his heart is pounding or why he’s searching the sky until the sound registers. Thrusters. Familiar thrusters. The fruit vendor looks up next, distracted from his diatribe by the swiftly approaching roar, and then the sausage vendor looks up just in time to see Iron Man rocket past overhead. There and gone in a blink.
They all stare at the overcast sky, silent.
Finally, the sausage vendor speaks and his question lets Peter know he hasn’t lost grasp on reality.
“Was that Iron Man?”
“Can’t be,” the fruit vendor breathes, eyes wide and searching the sky. “Can’t be.”
He’s right. It can't be. Peter shakes off the tenuous tendrils of hope before they take root. He saw Tony die. It can't be him. So who the hell is it?
Peter clears his throat. “Hey, uh, I gotta go.” He backs away. “Food for thought, you might get more customers if you sell on the same corner. Meat and fruit, like garlic and roses! Roses to attract pollinators and garlic to keep the pests away.” He withers as they stare at him blankly.
"Who the hell wants to eat garlic and roses?" the sausage vendor asks.
"The kid's nuts," the fruit vendor mutters.
“Not eat," Peter says, somewhat desperately. "Grow. Like gardening? At least, that’s what my aunt says.”
The vendors trade incredulous looks.
"We ain't growin' no garlic 'n roses," the fruit vendor says.
The sausage vendor shoos at Peter. "Get outta here, kid. Ain't you got school or somethin'?"
"Forget it," Peter snaps. He turns and hightails it into an alley, only looking back briefly to make sure no one is watching. Then he ducks behind a dumpster and strips as fast as he can, leaving his clothes scattered as he scurries up the wall. He wasted too much time. Whoever that was, was moving fast. He’s gonna have to—
There! He crests the wall and spots a fight on a different rooftop, only a few blocks away. His first instinct is to swing over and jump into the fray, but he hesitates, then approaches slowly. Watching. There’s something uncanny valley about this iron man… He’s much taller than Tony, for one thing. Thicker, too. Intimidating. But the colors are the same. The design, the functionality. It all screams Stark.
He stays out of the way, up on a billboard, watching as the not-Iron Man dispatches what appears to be an enhanced jewel thief in an over the top court jester costume complete with little jingly bombs. Peter still winces when the repulsor blast hits the thief in the leg an instant before some kind of magnetic restraint launches out of a wrist cannon and wraps them up tight.
When the fight is finished, Peter leaps lightly down from his perch but stays poised to move, unsure what to expect.
The iron man whirls on him immediately, but then stops. Still too tall and too bulky to be who Peter wishes it was, but knows it can't be. Then the visor dissolves in a mist of nanites and Harley Keener smirks out at him.
“Hey, you’ll never guess what I’ve been up to.”
Peter gapes at him. “Har—,” He glances at the tied up thief behind Harley, face-down and clutching their leg, then back. “What— Why?”
“Why not?”
Harley has a weird look on his face. After only a weekend to get to know each other, Peter doesn't expect to know his every facet, but this almost arrogant self-confidence is different enough to be nearly as shocking as Iron Man returning to the skies.
"The Avengers are scattered," Harley continues when Peter fails to drum up a reply, "nobody knows what’s going on with the Defenders, and last I checked you’re only one guy. I thought you'd appreciate the help.”
Peter rears back. “I don’t need help.”
Harley’s smile turns sharp and sarcastic, a far cry from the quiet, introspective kid at the lake house. “Sweetheart," he sweeps his arm out wide over the city, "you need all the help you can get.”
Plain of the Lost
“I said, I don’t—,”
Harley strides ahead of him anyway, following the path Peter has marked by muscle memory rather than wear. “I heard ya, sweetheart, but I reckon you need all the help you can get.”
Peter stalks in his wake. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Harley shoots him a sideways stare as Peter draws up beside him and the singing at their backs turns muffled and faint. Sound travels strangely here. Like the air is too thick to carry the vibration as far as it should. Or, should isn't the right word. It doesn't carry as far as it did on Earth, in Earth's atmosphere.
“It means, last I checked, Spider-Man was a crime fighting vigilante. Not a therapist.”
“Well, I— That’s not— I do okay with the emotional stuff!" Peter sputters. "People used to talk to me all the time about— You know, their problems and things.”
“Mmm, problems and things," Harley echoes, his tone heavy with condescension. He peeks at Peter from the corner of his eye and smirks. "Well, color me convinced, darlin’. Guess I’ll mosey on to some other settlement that doesn’t already have a one-man endless fount of emotional intelligence.”
Peter's cheeks are inexplicably hot. It’s because he’s angry, he tells himself. Harley is getting under his skin, is all. It has nothing to do with the way the word darlin’ rolls off his tongue like liquid sugar, or the heat of Harley's skin against the back of his neck when Harley drapes his arm around Peter’s shoulders.
“Christ, I can’t believe you’ve been stomping around in this thing this whole time.” Harley picks at where the Iron Spider suit cuts off around Peter's neck. “Can’t you take it off?”
The heat in Peter's cheeks leaps into his ears. “I don’t want to,” he says stubbornly. “It’s comfortable.”
Harley knocks on his shoulder and the sound of dead metal rings out. “Sure it is, sugar.”
“Would you stop that?”
“Stop what? Touching you?” He flicks the back of his ear. “Somebody’s gotta keep you humble, Mr. Hero.”
Peter clamps his teeth on the truth. The touching isn’t the problem. It’s rather nice, actually. If he knows anything about himself, it’s that he doesn’t do so good if he goes too long without it.
It’s the pet names.
They make his stomach feel all funny and his breathing turn quick. It’s not fair.
He swats at Harley like he would a mosquito. “If you’re going to patrol with me, you need to take it seriously.”
Harley sways away from him with a full-bodied eye roll. “Naturally." He gestures at the expansive plain laid out ahead of them in an unending sea of vibrant orange. "The very serious business of walking in a circle. What would these poor helpless people do without your thankless sacrifice?”
“We’re looking for people who need help,” Peter snaps. “It’s not an ego trip.”
Harley looks at him then, air of playful antagonism put away for a moment. “And that’s your thing, right? Helping?”
An ugly emotion bubbles up in Peter's chest. It’s supposed to be his thing, but if he was any good at it, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
He rubs at the ache between his eyes. It’s so not cool that stress responses are the same here as they were on Earth, even though he’s fairly certain they’re no longer in physical bodies. They don’t need to eat or drink or defecate, so… Well, something’s certainly not right.
But he still gets butterflies when a mouthy cowboy calls him sugar and a headache when he thinks too much. It’s not fair.
“My thing is patrolling.”
Harley watches him for a moment more, then turns his blue sky stare out to the horizon and sticks his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “Then it’s gonna be my thing too.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Nothin’ better to do and…” He doesn’t look at him. “It ain’t healthy to be alone all the time.”
Peter bristles. “I don’t need you to—,”
“I didn’t say jack shit about you, did I?”
Peter swallows his ire, shamed more by the way Harley won’t look at him than by his snapping, or his assumption. Again, he’s supposed to be good at this. He tries to find the right words.
“Do you want to talk about it? What happened? Your… family?”
Harley looks at him then—an unsmiling, searching look. Stony and closed off. “Don't go acting like they’re dead and gone, cuz they’re not. I’m gonna see ‘em again. Whether it's here or back home.” He turns his face to the horizon where the sky is swathed in perpetual sunset. “Life’s got a habit of working out. This ain't it. Not for me, and not for them.”
Peter says nothing, and when Harley resumes walking, he falls into step beside him. He wishes he had Harley's optimism, but in his experience, nobody's watching the score to ensure no one suffers more than their fair share, and when somebody dies, they stay dead, no matter how shattering their passing is for those left behind.
Present
Mr. Stark’s dying face bleeds across Peter's vision. There are memorials all across the city. He can’t go two feet without tripping over candles and Iron Man memorabilia and now this kid in a big man’s suit is telling him he doesn’t measure up? Sweetheart, you need all the help you can get. Thanks for the news bulletin, kettle.
“Go fuck yourself,” Peter says.
Harley spreads his arms wide. “Make me.”
Peter bares his teeth in an unseen snarl behind his mask, blood rushing, heart pounding, sick to his stomach. He could pound the snot out of this guy without breaking a sweat. He could grind him to a pulp and who would suspect Spider-Man?
He fires a web across the street, but before he swings away, Harley steps between him and the edge of the roof and snaps, “You’re not better than me.”
He knows that. Of course, he knows that. It’s not Harley’s fault they lost to Thanos and caused the blip. It's not Harley's fault Iron Man's dead. But Harley’s no Iron Man. Nobody is, and that is Peter's fault.
Using only his fingertips, Peter shoves Harley back just hard enough to make him stumble and open a path to escape. “Stay out of my way,” he says, and then he leaps.
~*~
Peter is ten minutes late when he slumps into second period, having missed AP History entirely. Mr. Benson stops mid-lecture to mockingly welcome him to class, but when Peter says nothing and puts his head down on his desk, Mr. Benson resumes talking about the isopods in the plastic aquarium on the desk at the front of the room.
“Dude.” Ned prods at his spine from the seat behind him. “What gives? You’ve been late every day this week.”
Wordlessly, Peter shrugs. High school hasn’t been a priority since he lost and then won a war in a single afternoon. Since long before that, if he’s being honest.
The morning drags by in a series of unwanted social interactions and brief bouts of unconsciousness. By the time lunch rolls around, he’s nearly human again.
Plastic clatters on the tabletop as MJ sits across from him with a hunk of cheese-covered garlic bread on a tray.
She skips greeting Peter and Ned and asks, “You guys have any classes with the new guy yet?”
“New guy?” Peter looks up from the cup of marinara sauce he’d been resolutely emptying and sucks his finger clean.
“Just biology so far,” Ned says.
Peter frowns at him. “I thought we had bio together.”
Ned pauses, lid peeled halfway off his bento box. He seems offended as he says, “We do.”
“There’s a new guy?”
Ned shoots him a frustrated look and tears the lid the rest of the way off of his meal. “Yes, Peter. You’d know that if you stayed awake for the half of class you bothered to come to.”
Peter and MJ trade a look that she ends with a significant lift of her eyebrows as she pops the top off her cup of marinara sauce and dunks a torn off chunk of cheesy bread into it.
“Are you… mad at me?” Peter asks Ned.
Ned shoots him a look. “No. I just thought we were all going to graduate together, but it’s looking like we're not. It's upsetting. I'm upset.”
“I’m not failing.”
“You have a C!” Ned exclaims, not bothering to mask his distress. “We’ve only been back a month and you have a C.”
“In Spanish. I know enough to get b—,”
“You need three language credits to graduate with me and MJ in May. At the rate you’re going, I just worry that—,”
A clatter of plastic interrupts him and the all three look up to find Harley Keener settling down beside MJ, opposite Peter.
“Howdy.”
“What are you doing here?”
As one, Ned and MJ turn and look at Peter, but Peter only has eyes for the sharp grin on Harley’s face while complicated emotions swirl in his gut. They got on for the two days they spent together upstate with Pepper and Morgan, but Peter isn't sure how he feels about Harley stepping onto his turf. Okay, no, he knows exactly how he feels and that feeling is pissed.
“You’d know if you’d stayed awake in biology.” Harley cranes to look in Ned’s box. “What’s that?”
“They're uh, tortas. My mom made them.”
“They smell good.”
"They're cold," Ned says, sounding disappointed even though the lunches his mom packs for him are always cold by the time he gets to them.
MJ pokes at Peter's shin with her foot. “How do you guys know each other?” She eyes Harley suspiciously through a fringe of curls.
“Depends," Harley says before Peter can think of how to answer. "How much do you know about your lunch buddy’s nightly pastime?”
“Not here,” Peter snaps. Then he adds, because how could he not? “They know more than you.”
Harley tips his head and, curious, looks at Ned and MJ anew. “Huh.”
“Wait, how much does he know?” Ned demands.
“Later.” Peter looks around, but no one seems to be listening. On the other side of the room, Flash is telling anyone who will listen about his spring break plans in Norway.
Peter pushes away his crumb covered tray and skewers a glare on Harley. “Why are you here?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, because you live in Tennessee?”
Harley pops a torn off chunk of cheesy bread into his mouth and tonelessly says, “I live in New York.”
“Since when?”
He looks Peter in the eye with a piercing look. “Since I moved here. What’s with the interrogation? Pepper thought you’d be excited.”
“Ohh,” Ned interjects. His expression compresses into a pitying wince. “Did you know Mr. Stark, too?”
“Not—,”
A hard thump on Peter’s back interrupts his repeated warning.
“Are you still peddling that tall tale, penis?”
He grits his teeth and doesn't look back at him. “Go away, Flash.”
Flash straddles the bench beside him and raises his voice. “Wow, the man’s dead and you’re still trying to ride his coattails. What’s it like to be that desperate to be somebody?”
“Fuck off, Flash,” MJ says with a note of warning.
Flash puts up his palms and gets louder. “Honest question! I have no idea what it’s like to be a poor, nothing orphan who has to make believe he’s a hero to justify the drain he is on his family. Well, what’s left of his family anyway.”
Peter was concentrating so hard on not letting his irritation get the better of him that he missed Harley getting to his feet and rounding the table. But there’s no way anyone could miss Harley hauling back a fist and planting it square in Flash’s mouth.
Notes:
Hooray a new chapter! Some of you need to work on your moves. My ass is feeling very un-kicked. Regardless, I promise the next chapter won't take 10 months to get up 🤞🍀 I already have 5k-ish written and don't plan to start another new job, get into another car accident (very minor, I'm fine), or buy another house in 2025 so my writing mojo should be untapped and flowing. Buckle up! It's all downhill from here 😈
Oh yeah I'm also self-publishing a couple of books in a few months (with characters you might find a tad familiar just saying!) If you're interested, you can follow along by subscribing to my newsletter at sarahbelisa.com/newsletter or by following my author tumblr @sarahbelisa 😊
Chapter Text
Present
“Look around you, Harley,” Principal Morita’s ever sensible tone carries through the closed door of his office, “this isn’t the rural country school you grew up in.”
“You didn’t hear—,”
“I don’t need to hear it. That’s my point. They’re all talk. All of them. This is the mathlete school of stunted social development. The last time we had a physical altercation was three years ago when Betty tripped and took down the woodwinds during marching band practice.”
There’s a fraught pause where Peter stares at the ceiling like he can’t hear the conversation on the other side of the door, clear as day, and isn’t taking offense to Principal Morita’s case against the student body of Midtown School of Science and—
Okay, maybe he has a point. A small one.
Morita sighs. “You’re a smart kid, Harley. This is, as far as I can tell from your transcripts, an unprecedented shot at getting somewhere. Don’t waste it by taking out your pain on a kid who calls his academic rival ‘penis’.”
Despite his best efforts at disguising his super powered eavesdropping, Peter’s face scrunches into a sour pucker.
Morita lowers his voice and says gently, “Taking you in was a stretch. The Stark name still carries weight, but not enough weight to overlook violence against other students. You won’t get another chance. Don’t blow it.”
There’s another long pause, so long, Peter thinks Harley is trying to stonewall Principal Morita, but then, finally, he hears, “You know he calls him penis?”
Morita sighs. “We reprimand him for it, but Peter might surprise you. He’s a tough kid, been through a lot. Nothing Eugene says really seems to stick to him.”
There’s a beat and then Harley says quickly, like he’s trying to say his piece before getting shut down again, “He called him an orphan and a drain on society.”
“Oh.” Principal Morita’s tone turns sad. “And that hit too close to home?”
Something bangs against the wall. Peter jumps, but so does the secretary. Then Harley storms out of the office. Peter glimpses a toppled chair and the look of pity on Principal Morita’s face before Harley captures all of his attention.
Harley pauses mid-stride as he catches sight of Peter seated wide-eyed across from him. His expression is a jumble of fury and pain as he screws up his mouth and spits, “What are you looking at?”
Plain of the Lost
Peter blinks and Harley’s curious face looking down at him takes the place of the static orange sunset. He said something, but Peter was so lost in thought he missed it. He didn’t even hear him walk up to his lonely corner of the plain.
“What?”
“I asked what you’re looking at,” Harley says.
“What do you think?” Peter asks dryly.
Harley shrugs and sits beside him, then lays back and folds his arms behind his head. “You could have been hallucinating clouds. How would I know?”
Peter grunts and tries to find the tail end of his lost thought. When he came out here, he’d been pondering what to do about a scuffle that kicked up between Devon and Edith. Then that thought trailed off into missing May and wondering if she’s here somewhere in this place, which then led to the usual queasy guilt at not doing more to find her, to figure out a way home, to fix what he broke by being too much little guy and not enough big time hero. Anything other than lying around hallucinating clouds.
“I’m thinking about self-regulating diagnostics.”
Peter rolls his head to the side. “What?”
“For my Iron Man suit,” Harley says, clarifying nothing.
Peter blinks thickly and again asks, “Huh?”
Harley turns onto his side and palms his cheek, elbow in the dirt. Expression bright with ambition, he says, “I’m building a suit like Tony Stark’s, except better.”
“An imaginary suit?” Peter asks carefully. Maybe Harley failed to notice, but there’s nothing fucking here .
Harley rolls his eyes. “No, dummy. Back home. It’s almost done. I just gotta refine it and figure out how the hell he got around the icing problem without cooking off his paint job.” He rolls onto his back and tucks his arms under his head as he stares up at the sky, eyes distant. “One of the great things about being stuck here is now I have plenty of time to think.”
Time to think has never been anything but a curse for Peter. For not the first time, he considers how opposite he and Harley are. Not completely at polar ends, but in significant enough ways that if they weren’t stuck here with nothing more intriguing than the other to occupy themselves, he thinks they might not get along as well as they do. Or at least it wouldn’t have happened so fast—this glomming on.
“You like being stuck here?” Peter asks, incredulous.
Harley shrugs. “No, but it’s not the worst.” He flashes a bright smile Peter’s way, dazzling and sudden like headlights turning through your window, then gone. “You’re here,” Harley says, chin tipped up, eyes on the sky. “Could definitely be worse.”
Peter doesn’t know what to say to that. He watches Harley for a few more seconds until it feels weird, then looks skyward himself. “Self-regulating diagnostics?” he asks.
“Yeah. Self-repair, whatever you want to call it.” Harley sits up abruptly and swivels to face Peter, cross-legged. He takes up Peter’s wrist and Peter’s breath hitches as Harley hoists up his arm, peering at the Iron Spider suit, seemingly unconcerned that Peter is inside it. “Nanobots.” He picks at them with his thumbnail, to no effect. “Self-diagnostics and repair are the next logical steps. Hell, Tony’s already got some rudimentary version of it. He can get them to reform and relocate, but they can do more.” His gaze is distant again, Peter’s arm forgotten despite its captive state. “They can do a lot more.”
Peter’s arm is resting across his stomach while Harley sits beside him, the light pressure of his fingers still looped around Peter’s wrist, his knee pressed against Peter’s hip. It’s distracting. Good distracting. Out of the downward spiral of his thoughts distracting.
Peter swallows, then asks, “Like what?”
He doesn’t know how much time passes with Harley rambling through idea after idea, interrupting himself in his rush to get his thoughts out, but for the first time since they arrived wherever they are, Peter doesn’t wish he was anywhere else.
Present
Peter abandons his tentative plan to plead Harley’s case to Principal Morita and instead follows Harley out onto the street. His thoughts whirl through everything he knows about Harley and his sudden and unexplained arrival in New York.
Orphan.
Too close to home.
Did something happen to Harley’s family?
A lot of people died during the blip. Sure, people like him ‘n’ May vanished and returned like no time had passed, but the people who stayed behind had to contend with airplanes falling from the sky because the pilot vanished; the sudden loss of government infrastructure; short-staffed hospitals; elderly folks abandoned and left to die alone because no one knew to go looking after their caretaker vanished. Horrible stuff. Tragic losses. And then five years later, when that pilot returned thousands of feet in the air, or a pedestrian returned in the middle of what before had been a clear intersection, well… A lot of people died then, too. And there’s nothing the Avengers or anyone else can do to bring them back.
Peter catches up to Harley as he reaches the sidewalk and exits the school property. It’s hardly the first time Peter has ditched, and won’t be the last.
Harley’s hands are fisted at his sides, and a taut stiffness has locked up his neck. There’s no outward sign that Harley knows it’s Peter scurrying along beside him. Peter opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. There’s a feeling deep in his gut, some kind of intuition, that whispers it’s better to let Harley come to him.
Nearly twenty minutes pass like this before he figures out Harley has no idea where he’s going. Harley turns a corner and stops abruptly upon spying the dead end of the alley. He huffs and makes to spin back around and continue his sulk around the city, but Peter steps in his path and Harley teeters to a halt, glaring.
“Do you have your suit?” Peter asks before his head gets bitten off.
Harley hesitates, then turns his wrist so his watch catches the sun. His glare is suspicious. “Why?”
“Wanna go punch stuff?”
Harley’s cheek twitches. “I thought you didn’t need help.”
“I don’t,” Peter says firmly. He steps around Harley into the shadow of the alley and pulls off his shirt. His bag is at school in his locker, but that’s okay because ever since he returned, he can’t stand being out of his suit. It’s like a second skin to him, always there. MJ thinks it’s a trauma response to not being ready for the first big fight against Thanos. He doesn’t think she’s wrong, but he does think she’s bold to narrow it down to one thing rather than that entire shitshow of a day. Two days. The before and after of the blip. However you want to count it.
Peter tosses his shirt in the shadow behind an air duct and pulls his mask out of his pocket. He tugs it over his head and asks, “Are you coming or not?”
~*~
The sun is nearly past the lip of the horizon when Peter realizes, with a bolt of alarm, that the orange sunset glow is fading to blue dusk. Once again, he seems to have forgotten that’s a thing the sky does. Typically, this would precede hours of straining his memory and worrying about his lost five years, but not tonight.
Tonight, Harley is here.
The thing about impromptu class cutting is if you don’t think to grab your backpack, then chances are good you’re broke. Not that he wasn’t broke to begin with, but eh, details. The point is, Harley is sitting at his and May’s kitchen table chewing a turkey sandwich, looking exhausted and a bit bedraggled, but much calmer than he was when they left Midtown Tech several hours ago. Peter doesn’t know why it’s so weird that he’s here, but it is. He feels so… close.
Like, really close. Peter doesn’t know how to explain it. He’s just… close. Here. Not at school. Not out in the city. But here? In Peter’s home? Where Aunt May lives? Harley feels closer than he’s ever been. Which shouldn’t be hard, right? They hardly know each other. This sudden nearness shouldn’t be so surprising. Except it feels like Peter has tucked him amongst his soft tender insides and Harley is nonethewiser.
Why would he do such a thing? And why for someone he has spent a grand total of three days with? Why for someone who looks right and wrong all at once sitting at the Parker kitchen table eating a limp sandwich?
Harley lifts a judgmental eyebrow at him. “Don’t forget to chew.”
Peter smacks his lips and noisily chews with his mouth open.
“Gross.” Harley throws a bit of crust at him.
Deftly, Peter arcs back and catches it in his mouth, then chews it up too.
Harley laughs—half snort, half guffaw—like it was punched out of him without warning.
An intense wave of fondness and longing crests over Peter. He almost loses his mouthful to the tabletop, it’s so unexpected.
A bit of crust hits him in the nose. “Quit staring. It’s not that bad.”
Peter swallows, then asks, “What’s not?”
“My laugh.”
“I like it,” he says and then realizes it’s the truth. It’s endearing and… familiar, somehow. Like he’s heard it a thousand times and hopes to hear it a thousand times more. “Who told you it’s bad?”
Harley dims. A windup toy that’s run out of juice. He lowers his sandwich and the light in him stuffs out. Not even his fury from before steps in to replace it. He just… goes dark.
“My sister.”
“Oh,” Peter breathes. He doesn’t have to ask, but he does anyway. “Is she dead?”
May would have whacked him for asking so tactlessly, but she’s working late and something tells him Harley appreciates the directness of it. And besides, that means Harley only has to say one word in response.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” Peter hesitates, then asks, “Recent?”
Harley sets his jaw and his nostrils flare as he inhales. “No. Not for them.”
“Them?”
He sucks his teeth, then opens his mouth. “I blipped, and they didn’t—my ma and sister. I was driving, we were on the highway. I blipped. They didn’t.”
Devastation. That’s what Peter would name the feeling that punches through his chest. Maybe it’s because he knows Harley a little from the stories Mr. Stark used to tell, or because of the connection they’ve built up today and that weekend after the funeral, but it hits him like a bullet to the heart, and he knows it’s only a fraction of what Harley is feeling.
Inexplicable tears burn his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Harley just shakes his head.
“What about your dad?”
“Don’t matter,” Harley mumbles. “He walked out when my sister was just a baby.”
“D’you want to talk about her? Your sister?”
Harley doesn’t look at him. The remainder of his sandwich sits on his plate, untouched. “No.”
“Okay.” Peter sets down his sandwich, no longer hungry. “My parents died when I was little. I don’t remember them much, but my uncle… He was killed a few years ago. I mean, whatever. When I was fourteen. Whenever that was.” He scratches his nose. Stupid blip years. “My point is, I get it. I get that nothing can make you feel like it’s not your fault. I get feeling like… like if I’d just done one thing different, he might still be here.”
Peter lifts his head when he feels Harley’s stare swing to him. He almost expects him to be angry. Peter would have been, back then. When it was all fresh and horrifying and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to undo it. He’d have bitten the head off of anyone who dared to presume they knew how he felt. The soul-sucking guilt of it all, and the rage. That rage only targeted the killer for a short time before Peter stopped projecting and accepted it as all his fault.
Harley though, he doesn’t scream at Peter or storm out of the apartment. He nods, quiet, and drops his stare to his hands, folded on the table.
“Does it ever stop being so—,” He gestures at his chest and Peter knows what he means.
“It comes and goes more now than it did, but it’s… it’s always there.” After a beat where Harley looks truly, miserably defeated, he adds, “It helps to find an outlet.”
From under his eyebrows, Harley weighs him with a look. “Spider-Man?”
Peter nods. “He was shot, Uncle Ben was. So I just… I do whatever I can to make sure no one else has to lose what I did, how I did. I do what I should have done that night.”
What he doesn’t say is that the wins feel like he’s honoring Uncle Ben’s memory—standing on his shoulders, reaching beyond everything he once thought impossible. Because then he’d have to admit that the losses feel like losing him all over again. He’d have to admit that losing to Thanos, letting the blip happen, it feels like it was his fault. That everything that came after it was his fault. The death of Harley’s family—his fault.
“Helping,” Harley murmurs, almost to himself. “Your thing is helping.”
To the remains of his sandwich, Peter says, “It’s supposed to be.”
They don’t say much after that, but Harley stays and Peter sits in the silence with him and it feels familiar and new in the strangest way.
~*~
The next day, Harley catches Peter’s eye across the cafeteria and jerks his head at the door. When he turns and walks out, Peter doesn’t hesitate to make his excuses and follow.
~*~
“Race you to the Planned Parenthood billboard!”
“I don’t— Hey!” Harley shouts as Peter leaps off the roof and fires a web, “I don’t know where that is!”
Peter just laughs and tugs his webline to launch himself up. He flips through the air while, behind him, thrusters surge.
He leads Harley on a goose chase around Midtown. Showing off? Yes, definitely, but bigger is the ball of delight pulsing against the undersides of his ribs at the simple prospect of having Harley’s undivided attention. He’s almost disappointed when Harley catches sight of the billboard in question and pivots midair to rocket toward it.
Peter arrives second. The metal grate is rigid under his booties as he lands, the spotlights angled up at their faces, bright despite the glare of the afternoon sun.
Harley’s faceplate dissolves and treats Peter to a pinched glower. “That whack job is right—” he levers himself down until his armored legs dangle over the rooftop a dozen feet below—“you are a menace.”
Peter squats beside him, toes curled over the edge, and looks down past the lip of the roof to where a mess of tourists stand in the middle of the sidewalk, all looking down at their phones while New Yorkers glare and push through the clog. If he were alone, he’d drop down and give them directions to wherever they’re trying to get to—whatever it takes to keep the peace—but Harley is here and Harley is difficult to ignore and even more difficult to walk away from.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That was a friendly neighborhood tour of the city. Nothing menacing about it.”
“Tell it to my aching abs. Flying this thing ain’t as easy as it looks.”
“You think you have abs?”
Harley lolls his head to the side to treat Peter to a sour look and, behind his mask, Peter smiles. He doesn’t know what this is exactly, but it feels right. Harley feels right.
~*~
They continue like this through winter. Teasing competitions interspersed with quiet moments. Harley doesn’t talk about his family and Peter doesn’t ask. They have days where one of them is withdrawn and morose and the other needles him into forward motion. And they have days where their moods synchronize—resulting in either an entire day of missed classes exchanged for laying on their backs on some remote rooftop, or similarly missed classes as they tear through the city, a single force to be reckoned with.
Despite Ned’s staunch concern and MJ’s increasingly judgmental stare, Peter aces his finals and scoots by in all of his classes, even Spanish. Then they trudge through the holidays, and turn the corner to the final semester of their senior year, and the dead frozen heart of January.
Notes:
Happy Serotonin Wednesday! Please ignore that for most of you (and me in two hours) it's Thursday ^_^
You thought I forgot about this fic didn't you? Well, I did. Sort of a little 🙂 Everyone say thank you VelcroKitty!!! On god how has it been six months. Time sure does just go huh? Anyway! Hope you liked it! Chapter 4 is basically done. Fingers crossed it doesn't take another half a year for me to post! After that we are well and truly in wip territory. Start praying.
Chapter Text
Present
It’s a quiet night and, for once, Peter is patrolling alone. It’s surprising that Harley hasn’t shown up even though he said he wouldn’t. Usually when he says that, Peter only gets a couple of hours on his own before thrusters rent the night and Harley arrives claiming boredom drew him out. After having seen the barren studio apartment that Harley calls a home, Peter suspects that isn’t quite the whole truth, but they don't call each other on their bullshit. Not that kind of bullshit, anyway.
He supposes he was foolish to assume Pepper would pack up and move her and Morgan to the city to stay with Harley, but… he did think that, until a few weeks ago when he asked Harley if he and the Starks did anything fancy for Christmas and Harley shrugged and said he told them he was going to stay in the city for break. That he was fine on his own. It made Peter feel awful for not thinking to invite Harley over to eat Thai and binge trashy reality TV with him and May. Not exactly traditional, but Peter imagines it would have been better than sitting alone in an empty room the first Christmas after Harley lost his family.
Peter found an excuse to see Harley's place shortly after that and was less than impressed. Now that he knows where and how Harley lives when he’s not at school or rocketing around on his heels, he has learned to expect Harley's near constant presence during patrol. To anticipate it. Which makes his absence tonight palpable to the point of distraction.
It doesn’t help that it’s a quiet night. The sun set hours ago, but the criminal underbelly has refused to cough up anything interesting. There’s something about a fresh blanket of snow that soothes the city silent. Peter wishes it would do the same for him. Instead, the itch to move, to get out, pricks at him relentlessly until, frustrated, he gives up and swings for the block of Midtown he’d been avoiding, and the windowsill he sneakily marked with hot pink duct tape weeks ago.
He finds it easily. Like he’s mapped the route in his head a hundred times, from a hundred different starting points, to ensure he’ll always be able to find his way here. Or something.
He taps on Harley’s window with a fingertip. If Harley is actually asleep, he doesn’t want—
The blinds rip up and there’s Harley, hair rumpled, wearing only a pair of gray Fruit of the Loom underpants, his eyes rimmed sleepy pink.
Oops.
But Harley hardly even looks at Peter before he tugs the window to the side without needing to unlock it. The screen, Peter notices, has already been removed and is leaning against the wall.
“Hurry up. Before my balls freeze off.”
Peter slips inside, closes the window, and then the blinds before he removes his mask and drops it beside the screen.
Without the mask as a filter, the stale body odor smell of the place greets him enthusiastically. It’s the same as it was last time. Bed against the wall, backpack slumped by the door, a pile of dishes in the sink, and a whole lot of nothing else if you can ignore the plastic box that Harley kicks under the bed with enough force for it to hit the wall with a thud.
Harley says nothing, doesn’t even look at him. He only pulls the thick comforter from his bed and wraps it around his shoulders before sinking to the floor to sit with his back against the mattress.
The half-dozen excuses Peter scraped together for why he stopped by dissolve on his tongue. Harley hasn’t asked, and he doesn’t seem surprised. Maybe Peter's an idiot, but it only occurs to him to be concerned now, while looking down at Harley’s sad, huddled figure on the floor of his sad, empty apartment.
Peter hovers as the worry takes root, unsure what to do with it, then decides, to hell with it, and prods Harley’s thigh with his toe.
“Cold night. Got room for two in that thing?”
Harley doesn’t respond, but he holds out an arm, and that’s all the invitation Peter needs.
He drops and scuttles to Harley’s side and then pulls the blanket snugly shut, swaddling them together. Warming slowly. Silently.
“You missed a nasty accident,” he says to fill the quiet. “Everyone made it out, but they all had to go to the hospital, and all four cars are totaled.” He pauses, hoping for a sign that Harley's listening. “Wanna hear the joke I told the paramedics?”
A minute shrug is the only response, and the only response Peter needs.
He rambles through all the jokes and stories he can think of, and while Harley doesn’t laugh or engage, Peter knows he’s listening. He knows because it's better than the things a grieving mind will do to a person. And it's better—anything is better—than silence.
Plain of the Lost
Nowadays, Peter only notices it when the others lay down to rest, and he alone stands watch over their little camp of 62. Of course, they don’t need rest, but habit is a powerful thing, and the familiar routine provides a little comfort. Besides, what the hell else is there to do?
A few times now they’ve been attacked by other humans, and once by an alien, so he doesn’t rest with them. He’s not sure why they were attacked—they don’t have anything more than anybody else. He chalked it up to fear, but Harley said they were probably just bored.
Either way, they ran off when Peter masked up and fought back. He wanted to chase after them, find out where they’re coming from and if they have a big group that he needs to do something about, but the others were rattled and he worried it was a deliberate attempt to draw him away and leave his people exposed and alone.
He doesn’t know what the best thing to do is. He just hopes May is at home: safe, worried about him, and safe.
He hears Harley’s approach long before Harley sits beside him, knees to his chest, shoulder knocking against him as he gets comfortable on the hard ground. When he’s situated, the silence returns only for a second before Harley blows out a frustrated puff of air.
“Too damn quiet,” he grumbles softly enough for Peter to hear without disturbing the others several yards away. Sound doesn’t carry here the same as it does on Earth. The atmosphere is dense, pressing against their ears, all sound muffled and smothered before it can carry beyond a few breaths, but neither of them wants to cause any foul tempers born of disrupted rest.
Harley sighs again and cranes his neck to look up at the sky he could surely paint by memory by now, if only he was granted the materials. Despite himself, Peter looks up too and takes in the eternal sunset. At least looking up at it doesn’t feel so small. Doesn’t feel so stuck.
He and Harley have had long debates about whether time passes here. To look around, you’d think time was frozen—a breath held, a still ripple—but that doesn’t hold up when you consider the people. If time is stuck and they exist outside of it, they’d still hunger and thirst. Someone at least would have needed to poop by now. But if time is stuck and they’re stuck inside it, then how are they moving around? When someone falls asleep, why don't they sleep for what earthlings would perceive as days and days rather than just a few hours?
Anyway, the point is, they still try to measure time even though none of them are certain time exists here and there’s no reference point by which to measure. So Peter’s not sure how long they’ve been sitting there, side-by-side, silent, when Harley’s head meets his shoulder. Tentative at first. A ghost of a touch, a brush of hair, then a slow increase of pressure until Harley's weight is pressed against him—chin still tipped up, breath warm on Peter's neck and jaw.
Something taut and shivering in the cavity of Peter’s chest uncoils. He closes his eyes and counts the beats of Harley’s heart.
Present
Peter doesn’t know who started it, but he notices when he’s suddenly holding Harley upright. He notices when a cold nose presses into the skin behind his ear and sends his heart into a frenzied patter. He notices when Harley breathes out, and it travels in a slow wave along Peter’s jaw before breaking over the corner of his lips, sending a ripple of goosebumps across his skin. He’s never been so tuned in to another person before—every breath, every heartbeat.
Peter doesn’t realize that he stopped talking until Harley breaches the silence, his voice a quiet rasp.
“It’s not getting easier.”
Peter's heart ceases its fluttering and squeezes in a vice.
“Everyone said, give it time,” Harley continues, his forehead against Peter’s neck, “and I did. But I’ve been…" He exhales shakily. "It’s not working. It’s not getting better.”
It’s not right. This isn’t right. Peter's instincts scream for him to fix it, to fix Harley. This isn’t how he’s supposed to be.
A flash of a smile. Natural and full. A sunset silhouette—relaxed, easy, and so, so confident that everything will work out.
He doesn’t know where that came from, but it feels right.
Peter finds Harley’s hand under the blanket and grips it tight. He says the only thing he can think of. “Come stay with me and May.”
Hot breath on his neck.
"Please," Peter says.
“Okay.”
He expected more of a fight. Alarm bells trill in his head. This isn't right at all.
“I’ll help you pack.”
“Okay,” Harley says again, emotionless. He doesn’t move, and Peter doesn’t try to move him. Together, they sit on the hard floor, silent, except for the breaths shared between them and the rush of the city outside, muffled under a fresh layer of snow. A trapped feeling quivers under Peter's skin, but he holds onto Harley anyway. For as trapped and scared as he feels, he knows from experience that what Harley is feeling is a million times worse.
Plain of the Lost
“Hey, Pete?”
Peter doesn’t open his eyes for fear the bubble of peace he’s miraculously found in this desolate place will burst. Harley is still leaning against him, and he's warm. Peter had nearly forgotten what it felt like. Warmth. Temperature. What does that mean? Do they have blood? Of course they do. But if he were cut, would he bleed? Can he die here? He hadn't considered it before. This place is so purgatory-coded, he assumed they'd just wait here until they were spat out dead or living. But to die here? Would the corpse rot? What would—
"Peter," Harley repeats.
Peter sighs. “Yeah?”
Harley breathes in and out twice before he continues. “You got anybody at home? Romantically, I mean.”
Peter's eyes pop open despite himself. “No,” he says to the empty plain laid out in front of them, suddenly hyper-aware of everywhere he and Harley are touching, and not in the comforting way he was a moment ago… while he was thinking about what it'd be like to die here. What is wrong with him?
Harley hums. “Is it because you’re a dense motherfucker about flirting?”
Peter rips away to stare with a mix of offense and bewilderment at Harley’s mischief-crinkled eyes.
The crinkles deepen as Harley gets a good look at his face. “I haven’t been subtle with the touching and the pet names. When’re you gonna nut up and kiss me? You know a lot more has been going on between the others. I think, despite your heroly image, we can be allowed some kissing.”
Peter’s mouth pops open—dry and speechless. This only encourages Harley.
He pivots to his knees and leans toward Peter. “You know an opportunity like this isn’t ever going to come around again, right? No city to save. No classes. No judgey friends or relatives. Let’s just find out what’s good. Let’s… let’s see where this goes.”
Peter isn't completely naïve. He knows there have been a plethora of hook-ups in their little group as of late. Some pairing off, but mostly just making human bodies do what human bodies do with other human bodies. It’s not his business. They’re adults. He assumes they know what they’re doing. He has been averting his eyes and his ears and hoping against all hope that any drama that bubbles out of it will get mopped up by someone else before his sense of duty compels him to intervene.
Never before has he been more grateful for his baby face. Nobody in the history of ever has wanted to ask a teenage boy for relationship advice.
Harley ducks down to catch his eye and asks, “You want to, right? You’ve thought about it? You sit out here and think all the time, so I don't know how you couldn't have—at minimum—accidentally come across the idea by now.”
Oh, he’s thought about it. Whenever the others would drift away from the group in twos and threes, he thought about his own two he could make, but he never considered it was a feasible reality until about twenty seconds ago. Harley just seems so…
Harley’s palms land on Peter's knees, pressure through his suit as he leans in, blue sky gaze fixed below Peter's eyes as he licks his lips. He looks up, and his gaze turns assessing as Peter's eyes dart anywhere but Harley. “You like it when I touch you. Don't deny it. D’you want me to start it?” Peter's stare locks onto Harley. Harley visibly grows eager. “Is that what you’ve been waiting for?”
Peter nods, shocked by his boldness, even more shocked when Harley breathes out a hushed, "God, okay," and dips down, lips parted, and kisses him. Soft and achingly tender. A bright spark in a dark room.
“Say somethin’, Pete.”
Peter only realizes that he stopped breathing when he tries to speak and finds he’s run out of air. He pulls in a breath and asks, “Like what?”
Harley’s lips turn up, one side higher than the other, a dimple puckering his cheek. “I dunno. Somethin’ like,” he pitches his voice into a breathy falsetto, “oh baby, do that again!”
Peter scowls, and Harley’s grin evens out as it grows into a smile. He rises and suddenly his palms are framing Peter’s jaw. “Hold still, darlin'. I’ve been dying to kiss that pout off your face for an eternity. Anybody ever tell you how pretty it is?”
Harley doesn’t wait for an answer. He closes his lips over Peter’s, and this time, Peter kisses back.
Present
Peter wakes with the sense memory of lips against his. He blinks blearily and is surprised at his surroundings. The morning sun is weakly shining through the window by the bathroom, and he's on the floor beside Harley's bed in a crumpled blanket that's still warm in the empty body-shaped divot beside him. Peter expected to be… outside? Maybe? And for the sun to be setting, not rising.
He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them. Slowly, as he wakes further, the strange feeling fades except for the barest tingle of his lips. He could have sworn…
A drawer closes.
Peter shifts and finds Harley standing in front of his dresser pulling on an undershirt. That's right. Harley's apartment. He came over in the middle of the night, well after sunset, and… Harley wouldn’t have kissed him while he was sleeping, would he? He watches as Harley grabs a long-sleeve shirt next and puts that on too. And then a hoodie.
No. No, that would be— It was a dream, he decides. Harley hasn’t shown any sign that he thinks of Peter that way, or that he’s thought of anyone in that way while he’s been going through the loss of his family. Stupid. Stupid of him to even have the thought. This little infatuation is getting out of hand.
Peter scrubs the back of his hand over his lips until the phantom pressure is good and gone, then kicks free from the blanket and stiffly climbs to his feet. He stretches as he looks around at Harley’s few possessions. They could pack up the entire apartment in an hour and Harley would never have to come back here. He can’t tell if that’s a selfish thought or not, so he just asks, “What are we packing first?”
A pair of sweatpants hit him in the face.
“Breakfast,” Harley says, then tosses him a flannel with a stiff collar and a sweater with a zip. “Your stomach’s been growling for an hour.”
~*~
Harley acts normal through their kingly meal of microwaved breakfast burritos and energy drinks from the bodega downstairs. There’s no sign of last night’s quiet breakdown, and neither are there signs that he may have spent his hour this morning thinking about Peter’s lips and how easy they’d be to kiss as he slept. Luckily, Harley also doesn’t seem to have any second thoughts about moving in. It would have been annoying if Peter had to steal all his stuff and force Harley to come home with him.
He’s so focused on Harley—whether he’s okay, what his lips would feel like against his lips, if he needs more help than Peter can give—that he forgets entirely to warn May about his impromptu invitation until the three of them are standing in the living room and Aunt May is eying Harley’s baggage with an expression of exhausted resignation.
“Umm,” Peter begins, “is it okay if—?”
She shakes her head and points sternly at his bedroom door. “Your room. No one is couch surfing here.”
“Yes, May,” Peter says. “I love you, May.”
May sighs, hands on her hips, expression stern, but caves a moment later. She gives Peter a one-armed hug and kisses his temple. “I love you too.” Then she gives Harley the same treatment. He seems surprised, but dutifully leans down and lets her kiss the side of his head.
Her nose wrinkles. “Nice to meet you, Harley. Put your things in Peter’s room and then take a shower.” She pats his arm. “Mi loofah es tu loofah.”
“Yes, May,” Harley says with a funny look on his face. “I love you, May.”
She smiles, and later, while Harley is in the shower, she tells Peter that she approves. It doesn’t occur to him until that moment that she may have jumped to some wrong conclusions thanks to his complete lack of explanation about Harley's arrival here. For some reason—even though they watch TV uninterrupted for nearly half an hour before Harley exits the bathroom—he doesn’t correct her.
Notes:
OMG hiiiiiii*･ﾟ♡ welcome back (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) I started writing this one again and there's this really funny scene coming up that I'm dying to share so I figured I better hurry up and update so I can share the funny scene sooner lol I've been hanging onto this chapter because the next one isn't done yet and I like to keep one in the chamber in case of emergency, but I cranked out some words the past couple days so I'm feeling good.
THAT SAID please note the rating change! As of next chapter (I think) we are moving into Mature territory. I'll be adding some new tags as well so check for those (I will remind you when ch 5 drops tho don't worry I got you). Funny scene notwithstanding, we are shifting tones into some serious angst and the boys need to run some critical experiments vis-à-vis the question we've all been wondering: can you cum in the soul stone?
As always, comments and kudos make the writer brain go brrrrrrrrrrr
Chapter 5: In the mineshaft!
Summary:
The rating is now officially Mature
New Tags Added:
⁕ suicidal thoughts ⁕ implied/referenced suicide ⁕ sexual content ⁕
A winning combination ask anybody
Please note: I did not add a major character death warning and rest assured that's not something I would slap on mid-fic. No MCD in this here fic, no sir.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
That first night, Peter and Harley patrol until they can barely keep their eyes open.
Upon returning to the apartment, they discover Peter forgot to inflate the air mattress that May had dug out of storage for Harley. Rather than sacrifice sleep to tackle such a momentous task—on a school night nonetheless—they pile together on the bed. With Harley's leg over his thigh, Peter spares an errant thought for the bunk bed he had before they lost most of their possessions while blipped and, for the briefest moment, he's grateful for the blip.
Then he passes out.
~*~
Peter wakes to May banging on his door as she shouts her usual goodbye.
He picks up his head and replies by rote, “Bye! Love you!” Then drops his head back down and grunts upon finding his pillow has solidified overnight.
“Right ‘n my cussin’ ear,” Harley's voice grumbles, thick with sleep, and startlingly close. Then a palm seals over Peter's nose and mouth and shoves until Peter topples off the mattress and hits the floor with a resounding thump.
~*~
They arrive at school together, on time for the first time in weeks despite Harley's insistence on a cup of coffee first. Early, even. Peter is almost surprised to find Ned and MJ hunkered in the same hallway alcove where they used to meet back when he actually showed up before school, but here they are. Watching him and Harley approach. Their expressions steeped in silent judgment.
Peter's shoulders hunch under his backpack straps. "What? I thought you'd be happy to see me."
Ned looks away, but MJ stares him down and asks, "Sorry, do we know you?"
His steps falter.
Harley breezes past him. "Ooo, someone's catty this morning. Hey, Ned."
Ned looks away from him too and mumbles an excuse before slinking away down the hall.
"I've gotta go too," MJ says.
"Well— Hold on!" Peter signals to Harley to hang back as he hurries after MJ. Harley shrugs and does so, squinting at black marker scribbles on a locker.
Peter catches up to MJ and stops in her path. "Are you guys mad at me?"
Her lips press together, then she leans close and says lowly, "He's a bad influence on you, Peter. You've never been like this before. We hardly see you."
"I can't abandon him, Em."
"But you can abandon us?"
In the silent wake of her demand, she stares hard into his eyes, then shoulders past him and follows Ned.
He watches her go, and after a moment, a familiar heat arrives at his side.
"What's her problem?" Harley asks.
Peter sucks his teeth. Then he shakes his head and turns away. "Nothing. Just stupid high school drama. I'm so over this place."
"Damn. All that rushing to get me out the door and you already want to leave?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you want to," Harley replies with irritating confidence.
Down the hall, through the crush of bodies, Peter accidentally makes eye contact with Flash. Flash didn't apologize per se for what he said the day Harley decked him, but Peter can tell he feels bad, even though his brand of ribbing camaraderie isn't what most would clock as an olive branch of peace.
Flash cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Hey, Penis! Nice to see you around for once!"
Other students turn and, upon catching sight of him, murmur their surprise.
Peter sighs. "Yeah, let's go."
~*~
All morning, Peter's thoughts stay stuck on Ned and MJ. He feels terrible for skipping again on the heels of MJ's abandonment comment and criticism of Harley, but the truth is, he's just as bad an influence on Harley as Harley is on him, and there's no way to make MJ see that without revealing a ton of shit he doesn't want anyone who cares about him to know.
Sick of treading the same worn path of guilt and shame, Peter puts his friends out of his mind and lands atop a flagpole protruding from a brick building. Harley pauses in front of him, hovering with his palms at his hips, pointing down toward the street below.
Peter says, "Bet I can catch more crooks than you before midnight."
"Midnight? You're a masochist, Webhead. Bet I can catch double."
"You're on."
In the end, they call it a draw and spend the evening rush hour side-by-side, sprawled on their backs—suits traded for winter coats—surrounded by fast food wrappers, arms and hips pressed together to stay warm. The park is bustling and he has three missed calls and an irate voicemail from May, but in their little cove—tucked away from the path and hidden by a thicket—they can pretend it's just the two of them. Rather, Peter can. He doesn't know what, if anything, Harley might be pretending.
It becomes their spot, that thicket. Better than any windblown rooftop where they have to stay suited and masked and call each other Iron Lad and Spidey. Better than the apartment where May lectures him about senior-itis and the near-daily phone calls she's getting from the school and college and everything in moderation. It's better than school by a mile. By a million miles.
Months pass. Snow falls and melts and falls again. Each day the sun hangs longer in the sky. MJ stops glaring at him in the halls, and Ned stops sharing his notes, but Peter doesn't care. They're his friends. They'll forgive him. Someday they'll understand he was falling in love and he had to hold on to it. He had to give it everything he had and make sure that, someday, it would be his for keeps. He knows better than most that there aren't any guarantees in life. If you want something, you have to grab on and never let go. And he wanted Harley. He wanted him all the way up to the moment he gave him up forever, and after that he wanted him still.
~*~
Peter figures out that Harley is thinking about killing himself in the middle of March. It's spring break, MJ and Ned haven't asked for any sleepovers or hangouts, May is out of town at a conference for non-profits, and a snowstorm has shut down the entire city. March Madness always brings a blizzard, and this year's didn't disappoint.
He and Harley are in their spot, cocooned by a foot of snow, and crime has ground to a halt in that way only a huge dump of snow can cause. They have literally nothing to do except whatever they want, and Peter is glorying in having Harley all to himself without any distractions and only minimal guilt.
"Hey, shut up for a second."
Peter lets his ramble cut short as, beside him, Harley levers himself up onto his elbow. Peter watches from the ground as Harley's eyes scan over his face like he's searching for something.
"What?" He resists the urge to wipe at his cheeks. Did he get mustard somewhere? If he did, wouldn't Harley just say so instead of frown at him like he's some kind of puzzle?
"I'm tryin' to think and you're muddying it up with your yapping." His frown deepens, and his gaze fixes somewhere near Peter's chin. "Hold still. I'm gonna try somethin'."
"Umm, what are you—"
It quickly becomes obvious what Harley means to do. He leans over Peter, staring intently at his chin—no, his mouth—and then, when their noses are a millimeter apart, Peter gasps as he cottons on to Harley's experiment. That's all the warning he gets before Harley's lips, warm and dry, push against his, and then pull away.
Peter isn't even sure he closed his eyes. He might have managed a blink.
Harley sits back and licks his lips. He searches Peter's face. "Sorry. I won't do it again."
"Why not?" His voice sounds strange. Or it might be that his ears are ringing.
Harley shrugs. "I figured you wouldn't want me to."
"Why not?" Peter asks again. He can't look away from Harley's mouth. His cold-chapped lips, wet red tongue, teeth a little too large. He wants to kiss Harley back, but nothing like the chaste press of lips Harley just laid on him out of nowhere in the middle of a conversation about…something…not important.
"Cuz I'm me. And you're—"
Peter grabs Harley's coat and pulls. "Stop saying stupid things."
Harley falls forward and catches himself with a hand in the snow. Peter rocks forward and does what he's been wanting to do for months. Their lips meet a second time, and his nose presses into Harley's cheek. His skin is warm, his lips are cold from being licked, and his tongue is hot when Peter teases it out from behind his teeth. Peter kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. Months of kisses pour out of him and into Harley's parted lips. He grabs Harley's waist, intending to pull their bodies flush, but his bare hand finds warm skin under Harley's coat, and Harley flinches at the cold.
"Let's go," Peter breathes. He nips a last kiss and pulls back.
"Go where?" Harley asks. His expression is dazed, but heated, and Peter wants more. He wants it all.
"Home," he says without thinking.
Something flickers in Harley's expression, but Peter is too far gone to pause and decipher it. Later, he'll mark this moment as the one that ruined everything—the point when Harley's downward spiral slipped into a free fall—but for now, Peter is too caught up in getting what he wants to notice.
"Sure," Harley says. He ducks his head and kisses Peter slow, like he's testing something. He keeps his eyes closed when he pulls back. "Home."
~*~
That night they fumble through their first time together. Peter expected there to be teasing and competition, but Harley is quiet. Attentive, but it's like they're lost together in another world. One where it's just the two of them. One where time stops.
The Plain of the Lost
"What have the others even been doing?" Harley demands as he roughly jerks his pants back over his hips. "This whole time, I thought they were getting off!"
Peter is flat on his back with the Iron Spider suit reduced to cover just his legs, with his regular suit deflated and bunched around his waist. He's afraid to fully dismiss the nanobots. Where would they go? He doesn't even fully understand where they came from. The tower? That was sold, wasn't it? Tony summoned them, somehow, but if Peter dismisses them, will the suit vanish? Will it abandon him here? He has found he can safely rearrange the nanobots, but that's as much as he dares.
Now that he's not encased from neck to toes, he doesn't bother ordering them to cover him up again. Not yet. The air feels good on his exposed skin. How long has it been? Months, surely. Years? Maybe. It's impossible to tell. He should have suspected ejaculation would be off the table considering the inside of his suit hasn't turned into a swampy, sweaty mess in all that time. That's the hell they've found themselves in; no bodily excrements means no bodily excrements. Even the fun kind.
"Maybe they're kinksters," Harley continues. He doesn't lie down with Peter. Instead, he paces as he struggles back into his shirt. "Maybe eternal edging is their dream come true." He gasps, head popping through the neck hole in a fluff of golden hair. "Maybe this place is their heaven and we're unwilling bystand— No! We're all into it; some of us just didn't get the chance to find out before—"
"Please shut up."
"I'm just saying, do you know if—"
"—I will kill you if you—"
"—you like—"
"—finish that—"
"—edge play?"
"—sentence," Peter says flatly.
Harley stops pacing and looks at him, eyes lingering below Peter's metaphorical belt. "I can make a guess if you don't want to get all introspective."
Peter tackles him.
Harley goes down with a laugh that turns into a grunt as he hits the ground. They wrestle for approximately ten seconds before Harley's teeth sink into Peter's trap muscle. A moan rips out of him, and Peter rolls his hips without meaning to.
"Oh, fuck, where was that earlier?" Harley demands. He nips the same spot and, to Peter's mortification, his whole body twitches. "I'm regretting putting my clothes back on."
"We should— We should stop," Peter says. He can feel super-heated blood creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Figures he can blush but he can't cum. What a cruel world. He's bridged over Harley, but Harley seems to be in no hurry to get off the ground or grapple Peter around so he's on the ground instead.
"Why? Nobody's gonna hear." His hands creep up the small of Peter's back. "They're a million miles away, and the air here might as well be cotton for how well sound carries."
"It's not like we can do anything," he protests weakly.
"Darlin', we can do all sorts of things. C'mere, I wanna know what other sounds you make. You like teeth? I got all the teeth in the world, so long as you're the one askin' for 'em."
"Harley." It's his flimsiest protest yet. Just "Harley," as he allows his elbows to bend nearly to ninety degrees to give Harley better access as his teeth scrape over his shoulder. He shudders. "Harley, we shouldn't."
"You Catholic?"
"I'm Jewish," Peter rebuts with all the vitriol the question warrants.
"Well, you're soundin' awful Catholic right now. Give yourself over to a little hedonism, just for a little while, and then you can get back to your not-Catholic shame and purity when we're done."
"You're so annoying."
"And yet, you're captivated by me."
"That's— That's not—" Peter doesn't finish. Partly because even he can hear the hollowness of the statement, but mostly because Harley's teeth clamp onto his earlobe. He collapses forward with a cry, barely keeping himself from crushing Harley with his full body weight. Harley takes the opportunity to work his thigh between Peter's legs. It's awkward with his suit there—bunched and hanging and trapped around his calves by his other suit—but then Harley shifts and suddenly the angle is just right.
Peter gasps and grinds down on Harley's thigh, reveling in the pressure and the bursts of pleasure and the way Harley's breathing picks up, loud and present against his ear. He can hear Harley getting as into it as he is.
Harley's fingers dig into his back, forcing him down harder. His teeth release from Peter's earlobe, but before Peter can more than whimper from the loss, he's biting down hard on Peter's trap muscle again.
Something inside Peter bursts apart, fragmenting into a million sparkling stars that he chases with his hips until one-by-one they fade, leaving him loose and the closest he's been to relaxed since he woke up in this place.
"Shit."
"That was so hot," Harley says as he mouths kisses along Peter's collarbone—lips and teeth with surprise darts of tongue. "All sorts of things. I told you, we can do all sorts of things here."
"You gotta feel that," Peter tells him, and then he kisses him. His post-climax bliss lowers his walls enough that he follows it up with, "I wanna find out what you like, too."
"I'm super into that idea," Harley says. He nips at Peter's lower lip, then lays back on the ground. "Hey, Pete, by the way"—he waits for Peter to meet his eyes. Then he smiles and says—"you're super into edge play."
Present
"It's messier than I was expecting." Peter tries to fold his shirt over on itself to dry the thick wetness on it, but only smears it further.
"Really? What were you expecting?" Harley already took his shirt off, wiped his stomach with it, and threw it in the general direction of their bedroom. Now, he's lying slumped against the couch's armrest with one foot on the floor and his head hanging back, neck exposed.
Peter doesn't say it, but he wasn't thinking about the orgasm at the end of the rainbow at all. Almost like he forgot that's the whole point. His every cell was focused on touching and being touched. On making Harley feel good. He sort of figured they'd just go until they got tired and their kisses and touches turned sated and slow and became holding and— Well, it sounds kind of stupid when put into words. Even in his head. What kind of teenage boy forgets about the cumming part of sex?
"I dunno," Peter mumbles as he pulls his shirt over his head. "Didn't really think about it."
"Well, gee. I'm flattered."
"Not like that!" He chucks his shirt to join Harley's on the floor. "I— There were other things I was thinking about."
"Like what? Your math homework?"
"No, like— like touching and—" His face goes so hot it's a wonder there's any snow at all in the state of New York. "You can't expect me to just say these things. You're supposed to be the one that makes the moves." Peter blinks hard as soon as he registers the words. He doesn't know where that came from.
Harley sits up. "Why?" he demands, offended. "Are you supposed to be the girl in the relationship or something? Am I supposed to pay for the dates and is Aunt May gonna cover the wedding?"
An anxious croak lodges in Peter's throat. Harley really isn't afraid to throw things like marriage out there scant minutes after their first time together. He can't imagine being that nonchalant about anything, but especially not this. If he screws this up, he'll never let himself forget it. So far, he's not doing well.
"I'm not the girl," he manages eventually. "I don't expect any of that, but I…I want more of this if you—if you do."
There. It's out. He said it. Peter exhales shakily. He's never been forthright with his feelings, but the very last thing he wants is for Harley to leave this couch under the assumption Peter was thinking about homework while they were jerking each other off. It already wasn't anything romantic or swoon-worthy. They returned to the apartment and took off their coats, and suddenly it was awkward, so they sat on the couch and watched TV for a full agonizing half hour before Harley's hand finally wandered onto Peter's thigh.
Peter mirrored him—his hand on Harley's thigh—and from there it was a game of chicken where neither backed down until…well. The messy part. Not a gut-punching climax like in a porno. More like relief after a long, long time on the edge.
Harley scoffs and juts to his feet. He doesn't look back as he makes for the hallway, muttering, "Why would anyone want a sad sack of shit like me?"
"Harley—"
"I'm taking a shower." The bathroom door snaps shut behind him.
He doesn't emerge for over an hour. Peter stays planted on the couch, waiting, but when Harley finally comes out—damp and pink in a fog of steam—he goes straight to bed and lays with his back to the room.
Peter only hovers for a minute before he decides to leave him be. He doesn't know how to handle this stuff. He's just a dumb, inexperienced teenage boy. So he does what he does best: he pulls on his mask and makes a quiet exit through the window.
There's gotta be something out there to take his mind off of this humiliating turn. A broken snowblower, a stalled car, anything. Anything.
~*~
It's not terribly cold, which means the snow is heavy and damp. Great for building. Not great for shoveling.
Peter’s back is sore by the time people put away their gear and tuck in for the night. He's officially out of walks and stoops to clear, so he fires a web, pulls himself up and off the street, and swings leisurely through the night. The snow is already gray and sludgy, its magic squelched under unimpressed and unthwarted New York City traffic.
It's quiet. The sounds of the city muted in a way that makes his stomach twist. He used to love it when the snow swallowed the city's hubbub. It used to bring relief and novelty. Not tonight. Tonight, the way the snow muffles the sound puts all of his hair on end. There's something nefarious about it. Something that shouts for him to look out. To run or else be trapped.
Or maybe his instincts are picking up on something else. Maybe it has nothing to do with the snow. Peter resolves to stay out until he figures it out.
He helps with a minor fender bender—mostly entertaining the kids while the adults work out the insurance. Then he helps an elderly man get from the subway to his townhouse without taking a spill on the damp, but rapidly refreezing sidewalk. And he swings—one web after another, street after street, over rooftops, through mazes of awnings and billboards—on and on through the night while his gut nags that something is wrong.
Finally, he finds it. Or he finds something.
A strange flash of red light through a boarded-up window catches his eye. Peter redirects his swing with a tug and a leap, and then perches atop a gargoyle facing the old closed-down laundromat across the street. There's nothing suspicious about it, other than that flash of red. He can't imagine that it's squatters. Not with a light that color.
He resolves to check it out and, hopefully, quiet the unease in his belly.
With a bit of webbing to slow his fall, Peter hops down to the sidewalk, then jogs across the street. The door is chained and boarded, as are the windows. He doesn't see that anyone broke in from the front, so he makes for the alley.
No windows on this side. Just the HVAC system leading to the air conditioner, some laundry exhaust vents no bigger than his arm, and a row of trash bins. Peter peeks into a bin, expecting dryer lint, and instead stops and stares at the tangle of wires and scorched sheets of metal crowding the bin.
What the hell?
Maybe a dryer caught on fire? But that's a lot of wiring. Way more than what you'd find in a single dryer.
He checks the other two bins and finds more of the same. The metal isn't the painted, consumer-ready type you'd expect for a store-bought machine. It's sheet metal. Unpainted and silvery in the moonlight. Whatever is going on here, Peter expects it has nothing to do with laundry.
More cautiously, he creeps around to the back of the building. Blocking the door from sight is a big box truck parked crooked in the small lot, and when Peter squeezes past it, he finds the door is shut, but not boarded. Looking closely, he can see holes from where boards were nailed, but are no longer.
He grabs the doorknob and his Spidey-sense hums to life at the base of his skull—a warning of danger to come. He turns the knob and slips inside.
It's dark and quiet, save for the soft clickety-whirl of a socket wrench coming from the front of the building. He blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and finds himself in a cramped office. There's a desk shoved against the wall to his left, littered with garbage and at least one presumably spent syringe. So squatters were here at one point, but now? Maybe someone is trying to fix up the machines and get this place back up and running. You'd think they would have started with a little cleaning up back here first though.
There's a door between him and the front with a small window at face-height. He creeps forward, careful not to step on anything that will give his presence away, and peeks through.
A huge, hulking machine squats in the center of the laundromat. Bulbous and dark with hoses snaking from a dozen ports, all feeding to one tube that's clamped to a dryer exhaust vent. A dozen or more extension cords all lead from the outlets along the wall to the back side of the machine. There's a control panel covered in blinking lights standing a few feet away, connected to the machine by a thick bundle of cords.
The socket wrench sound stops, and Peter ducks so only his eyes are peeking through the window. A shadowed figure wearing coveralls steps around the machine, muttering and rubbing his hands together. He steps up to the control panel, turns a dial, pushes a button, and—
Well, Peter should probably stop him.
Peter pushes through the door. "Hey there, neighbor. What's all this then?"
The man jumps and spins to face him. He has gaunt, sunken cheeks, and a wild expression in his eyes. "Spider-Man!" He tries to back away, but runs into the control panel. "Please, I was just— Please, I only want a second chance."
A muffled shout to Peter's left draws his attention. On the ground in the corner, bound and gagged, is a masked man. For a second, Peter thinks it's Daredevil—what with the head-to-toe red leather suit—but the mask is wrong with black diamonds and white eyes. Also, he's extremely wiggly, flailing about on the floor. Peter can't imagine Daredevil ever acting with such a startling lack of dignity.
Peter jerks his thumb at the masked man and faces the man in the coveralls. "Who's this? Party guest?"
"He helped me! I would have never known how to— It was his idea!"
Peter cocks his head. "So…he helped you and you repaid him by tying him up?"
"You don't understand! I had to do something to shut him up and prevent him from touching things. He could have killed us all or ripped a tear through space and time. It was for the good of the city—of the world. I would never hurt anyone. I swear. I just want my family back."
Softly, Peter asks. "What happened to your family?"
"Not everyone lost in the blip made it back," he says, grief and desperation turning his voice ragged. "My family died that day, and he—"he stabs a finger at the masked man"—he said the Avengers used a time machine to undo the blip. He said time travel is real and but they stupidly used it to correct a single consequence of their loss to Thanos, rather than use it to win the fight in the first place and stop all of it from ever happening. To stop my family from dying that day."
Peter is reeling. This random man knows far more than he should. Even he, Peter, barely knows what the Avengers did to unblip the blip. He did hear something about time travel, though. And he's very familiar with Thanos.
"You're building a time machine to go back and make sure we win against Thanos?"
He barks a laugh. "No, of course not. I would have to be there and—" He holds out his arms as though to gesture at himself. His greasy coveralls, a bit of a beer gut. Just a regular guy. His expression turns pleading. "But I could save my family. I was there when they… It would be easy. I dream about it. A shove. A tighter grip on my son's hand. I can do that much. I can save them."
It breaks Peter's heart to tell him no, but he does. "These things aren't meant to be messed with. We don't know the consequences. One little change could destroy the world. The universe."
The man clenches his fists. "Do you have any idea what it's like to lose the only people that make your life worth living? Do you know what it's like to know you have to tools to go back and save them? You expect me to just forget?"
"I…" He thinks of Harley. "No, but I know someone in the same situation as you, and he…" It's not getting better. "It's been really hard, but he's still here. He's still trying. There's more to live for than what we've lost, but we can't mess with time travel. What if you go back and the butterfly effect makes us lose for good? What if something in the universe breaks and Earth gets swallowed into a black hole? I don't know what the Avengers did, but I know they would have done everything they could to make things right. If they didn't go back and stop Thanos the first time, there's a reason for that. We just have to trust them. We have to trust that the reality we're in now is all we have to work with, and move forward."
The man drops his arms to his sides and hangs his head. "I just want my family back. I can't… I can't do this without them."
"I know. I'm sorry. Let's— Let's get you home, okay? Are you hungry? I'll buy you dinner. There's a neat little place just around the corner that—"
"I'm not taking your money, Spider-Man."
And Peter really appreciates that. He's only got twenty dollars left of the emergency money May left him for the week, and it's only Wednesday.
Peter puts his arm around the guy's shoulders and guides him out the back. He asks for his name—Guy Torres—and leaves him with a few more assurances and a plug for F.E.A.S.T.—they do far more than feed and house the city's most vulnerable. With his best delivered, Peter shuts the door behind Guy and returns to figure out what the hell to do about a time machine and a wiggly masked man who knows far more than some no-name vigilante (or villain?) should.
Peter starts by inspecting the machine while the masked guy thrashes around on the ground and shouts through his gag. It seems…functional. He has no way of telling whether it functions correctly without testing it—which he will not do—but there are lights and a mechanical hum that tell him it's primed and ready for…something.
He pokes around it for a couple more minutes before he determines that it's safe to unplug it. Part of him thinks the safest route would be to destroy the thing, but a niggling voice in his head is telling him, wait. So, when the cords are all removed from the wall and the machine is dark and silent, he makes his way around it to the masked mystery man who has wormed his way across the floor and appears to be trying to open a compartment on the machine by smashing his head into it over and over. Or maybe he's self-harming.
Either way, with a hand on his shoulder, Peter turns him away from the machine and pulls away the torn shirt that was tied around his mouth.
"Hello—" is all he gets out before Mr. Wiggly starts babbling.
"OH EM GEE, Spidey-kins, are you a sight for sore eyes!" He blinks rapidly several times. It takes Peter a moment to power through the disorienting effect of watching his mask move like that, and realize he's trying to flutter his eyelashes. His eyes stop twitching and go wide. "That creepy old man totally tied me up for no good reason. I thought he was gonna murder me, but now you're here! MY hero."
"Right. Who are you?"
"I'm your good buddy, Deadpool! Heartmate, some would say. You only don't remember me because this universe's you hasn't met me yet, but trust me you've never webbed my mouth shut before even once and when I get gruesomely injured you sob and wail and hold me until I'm healed up all better, even if it takes weeks. We're that close."
"Sure." Peter sits cross-legged. "So go back to that bit about being from a different universe. That part was interesting. How did you get here?"
"Great question! Let me in this compartment and I'll show you." He rolls onto his side and bangs his forehead against it.
"No." Peter rolls him back. "Use your words. You seem to be a fan."
Deadpool sighs. "How come in every universe, you're mean to me?"
"I thought we were heartmates?"
"We are. That's why it hurts so much." His mask contorts, pouting up at Peter.
"Cut it out. That's making my brain hurt. Tell me about the universe hopping and how you know so much about Thanos and what the Avengers did to fix the blip."
"The doctor ordered you a happy ending, that's all. He enlisted me because I've got experience in universe hopping and junk, and everyone knows I'm a sucker for a happy ending, especially yours, Webs." His mask winks.
"No," Peter says. "None of that."
"Wait a second." Deadpool squints. "How old are you?"
"That's none of your business."
"Oh my God, you're an infant, aren't you?"
"No! I'm— I'm an adult!"
"Jesus. Oh, Christ. Forget all that stuff I said about your butt and being heartmates. I was thinking of someone else."
"You didn't say anything about my butt."
"Didn't I? That's not like me. Am I sick? Feel my forehead. Do I have time cancer? Oh wait. I have regular cancer." He laughs, a booming guffaw. "Anyway, what was I talking about?"
"You were— You have cancer?"
"Baby boy, do not even worry about it. Old news, okay? It'd kill me if it could, but it can't, so let's just move on. Anyway, time travel. Long story short, Doc popped up in the middle of Sister Margaret's and kidnapped me to his wanker sanctuary or whatever, gave me to lowdown on the shit hand you're about to get dealt, and requested my services in giving you and yours an out. I accepted—no fee, no big deal—because I'm such a cool and good-hearted fellow who loves altruism and whose loyalty to Team Red isn't bound by things as trivial as time or—"
"Who told you all of this? Where does the time machine come in? How did you universe-hop?"
"You know, you are just the same no-fun Nelly in every universe. It wouldn't kill you to put some effort into not being such a diehard workaholic. Go on a bender or something, kid. Eat a cigarette. Live a little."
"I'm not untying you until you answer all my— Did you say eat a cigarette?"
"Well, duh. I'm not going to tell a minor to smoke. Smoking's bad for you."
Peter huffs an exasperated sigh. At this rate, they're going to be here all night. If Harley sets his mind to finding him… Well, he probably won't, but Peter would rather not take his chances with an alleged time machine sitting around. He meant what he said before. You never know what you could break or screw up. And he meant what he told Guy: the Avengers had their reasons for changing only as much as they did. He trusts they were good ones.
"Tell me how you got here."
"You didn't argue about being called a minor. You really are a little baby Petey, aren't you?"
Peter's stomach turns with a lurch. This guy knows his name?? Maybe he is the real deal, but Peter's not going to confirm shit until he stops talking and starts explaining. He muscles past his anxiety and says, "Answers now, please."
Deadpool groans. "Fine. But only because you asked nicely. Manners are a disappearing resource in the super community on both sides."
Peter sighs.
"Okay, okay! Doc gave me the time travel harness. It's got a fancy name, but I forgot it. He said it'll transport you to the time and place you wanna go, but it's gotta be somewhere and some-when you've already been and you'll only get one shot. Or…yeah. I'm pretty sure that's right. Anyway, you'll merge with the present you once you get there, so no worries about untidy duplicates."
"I don't really care how the thing works. I'm not going to use it. I want to know why and who told you all of this. Besides, what you described is impossible."
"It's movie magic. Don't overthink it."
"But it doesn't make sense!"
"Exactly! That's what makes it so fun! Anyway, the good doctor already foresaw that everything works out fine, so don't even worry about it. You'll know what to do when it seems like everything is falling apart."
"The doctor? Like, The Doctor? Doctor Who?"
"It's Strange that you have to ask," he says, and then laughs uproariously.
Doctor Strange? That's…unusual. Peter didn't spend a lot of time with him, but he seemed very protective of the time stream. Well, except that moment when he gave up the time stone to Thanos. Ignoring that, he didn't seem at all the type to send wayward Spider-people on adventures into the past. And besides, why wouldn't Strange have come to tell Peter himself? Why send this weirdo who talks too much and doesn't pay attention to details?
"Oh! And he said not to talk to him about any of this or he'll get in big trouble. Huge. He's totally not allowed to conscript little boys to unfuck the universe, even if the little boy is like, the best little boy in the whole world."
"Stop calling me that."
"It sounds creepy, doesn't it?"
"Super creepy."
"Sorry. Shutting up." His mask folds on itself over his mouth, then curls into a mute, placid smile.
Peter pauses, just to see how long the quiet lasts.
It lasts five whole seconds.
"So whattya say, pal? Will you untie me now?"
"What about the time machine? If the harness brought you here and is what Doctor Strange wants me to use to go back, why—"
"Oh, that was just my little contribution. A little panache, you know? Some flavor."
"So it's just a hunk of metal that lights up?"
"No, silly! It was bait."
"For what?"
"For you! And our friend Guy is gonna be the reason you actually go through with this little lark."
Peter narrows his eyes. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I know you, Petey. You can be in the worst agony anybody's ever known, and you'll grit your teeth and take it. But if you know someone else is going through the same thing—many someone else's—you'll do whatever it takes to make it better. Even if it's a huge risk. Doc doesn't know that about you, but I do."
The hairs on the back of Peter's neck are all standing on end, but his Spidey-sense is silent and, now that he's thinking about it, it's been silent since he talked down Guy. Deadpool hasn't elicited even a twitch from it.
"Are you going to untie me now? Guy clearly isn't into bondage because these ties are not safe and, tbh, his knots are kind of shit. He didn't even make it look pretty."
Peter shakes his head, but Deadpool answered his questions and his Spidey-sense seems to think he's cool, so he unties him.
The ropes fall away and as Deadpool sits up into a stretch, Peter webs him cross-legged to the floor.
"Hey!"
He webs one hand to his thigh and the other to the floor.
Deadpool jerks ineffectively against the webbing. His mask morphs into a pout. "Aw, c'mon, baby boy. Is it because I called you Petey?"
"I don't want you to follow me."
"I've only done that like one, two, twenty times. Tops. Not you," he adds quickly. "My Petey."
"Sure." Peter opens the compartment Deadpool was hitting his head on and finds a chunky metal harness—the kind that goes over your shoulders and fastens across your chest—hooked up to a pair of regular old jumper cables. Carefully, he disconnects them and holds up the harness in the light. It's nothing much to look at. No ethereal glow. Just a hollow circle of unadorned steel that sits over the chest. "Anyway, I'm gonna go. Good luck getting back to your universe."
"In the mineshaft!"
Peter stops with the harness halfway over his shoulder. "What? You live in a mineshaft?"
"Naw, don't worry about it. The author just needed to justify the chapter title. That's actually the whole reason she brought me into this scene, but then it accidentally bloomed into, like, Chekov's whole entire gun." He cackles. "She should have known better, tbh."
"Are you actually insane or are you just messing with me?"
"Both and neither! Seriously, have you looked at the titles? Check the dropdown. It's good for a chuckle, I promise."
"Who— Are you still talking to me?"
"Baby boy, not everything is about you. You need to learn how to let others have the limelight every once in a while."
Peter hikes the harness onto his shoulder. "Sure. Well. I'm gonna go."
"Good luck altering the time stream, sweetums!"
Peter makes for the door and over his shoulder sing-songs back, "I'm not altering the tiiime strEEaaam."
"We'll sEEEeeee."
"Those webs will dissolve in two hOUUuuursss."
"Thanks for letting me knOOoooww. Hate to watch you gOOOooo! Love to watch you—!"
Peter shuts the door and continues without pause through the office and out into the moonlit night.
Outside, he takes a deep breath and releases it in a cold cloud. He needs to think about everything Deadpool told him, but one thing is for certain: Harley can never learn of this. Which means Peter needs to stash the time travel thingy somewhere he won't stumble across it—where no one will. And then, only then, he can go home and sleep.
Notes:
HERE WE GOOOOO (∩^o^)⊃━☆
We're rapidly approaching the end of part 1. Oh, did I not mention there's a distinct line carved down the center of this story, segmenting it into two halves that can never touch, much less be reformed into a whole? Well ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) my bad. Two chapters left in part one. 50k written. Get ready.
Chapter Text
The next morning, before the sun has risen, Peter wakes to Harley lifting his blanket and crawling onto the couch beside him. Spooning him. Warm, solid. An arm pulls tight around Peter's waist, and then Harley’s head thunks down on his shoulder.
Peter hesitates, then tentatively wraps his fingers around Harley's wrist and squeezes.
"I'm sorry," Harley says softly. "I was… Look, I'm just sorry, okay? I shouldn't have acted like that."
It's not getting better. Harley's words from two months ago float through Peter's mind. They haven't talked about it since. Peter sort of expected that, if Harley wanted to, he'd have brought it up. Peter doesn't know how to broach the subject of Harley's grief, let alone how to help carry it. He can give his company, a place to stay that isn't actively depressing, a dubious outlet, but what else is there? Time travel is not an option, and if Harley wanted therapy, he'd get Pepper to hire him a therapist. After yesterday, Peter can only imagine how Harley would react if he were to suggest one.
"It's okay."
"It's not," Harley says. "That was your first time, wasn't it?"
There's a "no" on the tip of Peter's tongue when he recalls with a start that, yes, actually, it was. Why the hell did he think it wasn't?
Wait.
His first time was mutual handies on the living room couch? Oh, that's sad. No wonder Harley feels bad. Maybe Peter should feel bad too.
"Was it yours?" Peter asks instead of confirming the obvious. It's messier than I was expecting. He sounded like he's never even masturbated before. Why the hell did he say that?
"No," Harley says after a brief pause. "There was a girl. Back home. A few girls, actually." He forces a chuckle that's nothing like his laugh—the one that bursts out of him unexpectedly and lights the entire city. Peter has only heard it twice, but it's cemented in his memory. Snorting and inelegant and Harley. "I tried really hard not to be gay. Didn't work."
It occurs to Peter that this is the first Harley has told him of his sexuality. All these months crushing on him, and he didn't even wonder if Harley was into guys. He just assumed. Hearing he's been intimate with multiple girls is shocking, but it has no right to be. What is wrong with him?
Peter asks, "Small town?"
"And religious mother."
"Oh."
"It was okay. She was… She was great about it, actually."
"And Abbie?" Peter asks. "Was she—"
Harley rips away from him, taking the blanket with him and leaving Peter blinking bewildered and cold in his boxers. Alone on the couch.
"How the hell do you know my sister's name?" Harley demands. "Did you look me up? You did your research before you invited the crazy guy to live with you and your aunt, huh?"
Peter sits up. "What? No! I— You must have mentioned it or—"
"I did not," Harley snarls at him.
"How would you know? I learned it somewhere, and I definitely didn't look you up."
"Well, I haven't said her name since the fucking sheriff showed me her grave to get me to stop harassing him about filing a missing person's report, so you sure as hell didn't hear it from me."
Peter slumps back. "Shit, Harley. I don't know, okay?" He pauses. "That's how you found out? There was no funeral, or—"
"I wasn't here for the funeral. I blipped back, and they were five years rotted in the ground."
"That's horrible." There are tears building in Peter's eyes and a slab of grief on his heart that he doesn't understand. He's an empathetic person, but it's not usually disabling. It's hard to breathe. There's a horror to it too. A hair-raising feeling of the worst thing that could ever happen, happened. Maybe that's it. If it were him that blipped back to May dead and gone—
But no. It's Harley. The feeling is centered on Harley and what he lost and what Peter lost through him. It's not a fear of what if it were me? It happened. It's here and now. And Peter feels the full weight of the injustice that's been done to them. He'll never have the chance. He missed something. Something important, but the opportunity's passed. No chance of it now, whatever it was. A door has been closed harshly in his face, and it took something precious and irreplaceable from Harley when it did.
He blinks back tears. "That's horrible."
"Peter," Harley says sharply. Peter wipes his eyes to see him better and finds a strange look on Harley's face. Part alarm, part…recognition?
"What? I swear, I don't know where I learned her name, but—"
"Not that. I…I believe you." His expression turns puzzled. Tentatively, he asks, "Have we met before? Before Tony's funeral?"
Peter shakes his head. "Definitely not." He'd remember Harley. He's different from anyone he's ever met.
"Are you sure? Sometimes I… I get this feeling."
"What feeling?"
"Like I've known you before. Like I just need to remember."
Peter stares at him. He licks his lips. "I get that feeling too."
"Really? You're not just saying that because it sounds romantic or whatever?"
A soft heat fills Peter's cheeks, but he steadfastly shakes his head. "Sometimes you say something about yourself and I'm like, no shit, but then I remember that, before you said it, I had no reason to know it. Like…like just now when you said you were gay. I feel like I already knew."
Dryly, Harley asks, "And you don't think that maybe the kissing and the hand jobs had something to do with that?"
"Oh. Right. Well, that's a bad example. But there are others! Like… Like…"
"Like knowing my sister's name?"
Peter frowns. "It's usually more subtle than that, but yeah, I guess. Usually, I don't notice until I try to remember the exact moment I learned something and there's just…nothing there."
Harley nods, like he understands.
"What do you think that means?"
"I think," Harley says, tasting each word as it rolls off his tongue, "it has something to do with the blip."
~*~
"It's not telepathy."
"It could be!"
"It's not," Peter insists. "If it was, it wouldn't be just you and me experiencing it. There were millions of us. Billions. Someone would have written a newspaper by now if we all turned psychic."
"Well, maybe no one else has reunited with the people they were with in the blip. Maybe that's how it works."
"We were in the Soul Stone. Or, you know, our souls were. I don't think there was any alone time for the two of us to split off and play twenty questions."
"Wait. We were inside a rock for five years?"
"It's like a metaphysical manifestation of…something. Like a pocket in time and space, but for souls. I don't know! I wasn't really paying attention, okay? It seemed a lot less important than finding Aunt May at the time."
Harley shrugs like, fair, and thankfully moves on. "So what do you remember?"
Peter sighs. "I already told you."
"Say it again. Orange. Trapped. What else?"
"Time was either really slow or not a factor."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because when I first got back I kept getting surprised that time would pass, the sky would change, and it'd freak me out for a second before I remembered it was normal."
Harley nods. "Same. What about, like, wind? For a month even a light breeze was crazy overstimulating."
Peter nods. "Sound, too."
"Yes, everything was so fucking loud."
"And all the routine stuff like eating and drinking, sleeping, and going to the bathroom. I swear I had to re-potty train myself. So many close calls."
Harley smirks. "I think that was just you."
"Seriously?"
He shakes his head. "Nah, I kept getting surprised too. I thought it was…" His expression turns morose, and he doesn't finish his sentence, but Peter can intuit the rest. He was in shock and grieving. He had more reasons than most not to be in tune with his body's needs.
"So what does that leave us with?" Peter asks. "We were souls trapped in a rock where we didn't have bodies to care for, weather, sound, or time? Or maybe there just wasn't a way to track time. Maybe we were conscious for the full five years with no corporeal form and we just…floated in there unable to communicate or—"
"No," Harley says. "No, we could communicate. I'm sure of it. The rest…maybe. But I definitely know you from somewhere, and the stone is the only thing that makes sense."
"Why are you so convinced you know me? It's not like you've been guessing my relatives’ names or anything."
Harley shakes his head. "I just look at you and…I know." He looks at Peter. "I know you. Your mannerisms, your facial expressions, how you think—everything." His eyes flit back and forth, up and down over Peter's face, his posture, taking him in. "I know right now, you don't believe me. But you want to."
Plain of the Lost
To the sky, Harley says, "You know this isn't forever, right?"
Peter glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but Harley's chin stays pointed upward, so he continues sky gazing too. It's easier to talk like this anyway. "No one knows that, Harley."
"I do. Think about it. Does this feel like an end to you?"
"I don't— I don't know. What does an end feel like?"
"Not this," he says with finality. "This is a waypoint. An in-between. A liminality. Someday we're gonna get out of here and wherever we end up next, I'll find you."
"I guess if we end up back on Earth, I believe you. But if we're dead and—"
"We're not dead."
"How would you know?"
"I'd feel it. I'd feel… Right now, I feel like I'm on pause. If I was dead there wouldn't be this…this waiting. Death is rest or suffering or nothing at all. This isn't any of those, so we're not dead. At some point, we're going to die and move on to the real afterlife—or cease existing—or we're going to wake up back on Earth having been in a mass coma event. And if that happens," Harley turns and looks at him, and Peter tears his gaze away from the sky to meet his steadfast stare, "I'll find you and we'll pick up right here, where we left off. I'll introduce you to my ma and Abbie, and you'll introduce me to your Aunt May, and this is just going to keep going. Me and you."
"You believe that?"
"I do."
Peter doesn't believe him, but he believes Harley believes it. And it's nice to coast on someone else's belief for a while. So he turns on his side, tucks his elbow under his head, and asks, "When we get back, how are you going to find me?"
"Easy," he says, eyes on the sky. "I'll go to New York and cause trouble until you show up to stop me."
"I'm pretty sure I'm stranded on an alien planet right now. Or I was, but maybe Tony got my comatose body back to Earth."
"He definitely did."
"So I'm in whatever random New York City hospital Tony Stark dumped me in, and—"
"No way. You're at the Avengers' compound upstate. Iron Man visits you every day and promises your lifeless body that he'll find a way to bring you back and he won't rest until he does. Black Widow gets all weepy whenever she visits and says you look so young lying there all pale and small in the hospital bed. And Captain America—"
"You've diverged so wildly from reality you lost me. Nat barely knows I exist."
"Nat." Harley snorts, then rolls onto his side to mirror Peter. He pokes his nose. "Get a load of Captain Imposter Syndrome over here."
"Shut up." Peter tries not to show his pleasure at the small bit of contact or the way Harley is curled toward him. "Where are you in the coma-verse?"
"Me? I'm at home. Mama would've gotten me into some podunk county hospital at first, but they'd be crammed full of coma people. Healthcare prices are already high, but they'd jack 'em up even higher and Mama'd have no choice but to bring me home and care for me herself. Abbie's gotta be mighty tired of catheter bags and sponge baths by now. She's never gonna let me live this down."
"Okay, so you're not a complete optimist."
"Baby, I'm a realist. I just see what's real easier than you do, Mr. Worst-Case Scenario." He grins. "I bet you one million dollars that's exactly how it's going."
"Bet," Peter says and sticks out his hand.
Harley doesn't hesitate to shake on it. Then he rolls onto his back and folds his arms behind his head. To the perpetual sunset sky, he says, "I can't wait for you to meet them. They're gonna love you to bits, and you're gonna be so cute and awkward about it."
Peter wrinkles his nose, but he's too captivated by Harley's unshakable belief to protest it. Instead, he stays curled on his side, watching Harley as he watches the sky, and says, "Tell me about them."
Harley indulges him with enthusiasm—hands flashing in the air above them as he describes long summer days at the pond fishing and roughhousing with his sister; cooking and washing up side-by-side with his mother; family game nights playing Clue where they each poorly affect an accent and roleplay as their character: him, the posh and arrogant Mr. Green; Abbie, the crass and sultry Miss Scarlet; and their mom, Mrs. Peacock—elegant and refined and a complete airhead.
His love for them is palpable in every word. A few times as he's reminiscing, Harley's expression dips, revealing just how badly he misses them.
With remembering comes grief. Peter lets Harley ramble until his verve begins to dampen with it. Then, he asks, "What will they do when they meet me?"
Harley rolls onto his side without warning, and then they're nose to nose. "When?" he echoes. A satisfied smirk pops a dimple into his cheek. "This mean you're on board with making me a millionaire?"
"No," Peter pokes his dimple, "but I'm willing to indulge in your fantasy world for a few minutes. So tell me. Will your mom go all mama bear on me and insist nobody's good enough for her little boy?"
Harley snorts and rolls onto his back, blue eyes open and gazing upward. "No. I'm gonna tell her you single-handedly kept me sane all this time, and then she'll treat you like a hero without even needing to know you actually are one."
"That's not— If anyone's keeping anyone sane here, it's—"
"Oh, shut up. You brought us all together. Without you, I'd be out there by myself, lost and alone, and I'd be more pessimistic about what all of this is for than you are." He glances at Peter out of the corner of his eye, then back up to the sky. "If me being here is doing anything for you, you have yourself to thank for that too."
"Maybe, but you're the one that wouldn't let me compartmentalize you away with everyone else." He watches the side of Harley's face. "You wouldn't let me stay alone like I wanted."
Harley turns and meets his stare. "No one should be alone like that, Peter. No one."
"I'm just saying, when I meet your mom, the story won't be about how I single-handedly saved you. I couldn't have saved you if you hadn't saved me first."
"See?" Harley pokes his nose again. "She's gonna fuckin' love you. Ugh." He rolls onto his back and lifts his chin as though to feel the sun against his closed eyelids. He smiles. "I can't wait."
Present
While he and Harley are playing twenty (thousand) questions, trying to find out exactly how well they subconsciously know each other, Peter receives a text from MJ.
His stomach swoops with nerves, and hot guilt bubbles up his throat. He has hardly thought twice about his friends for all of break. And the times he did think of them, it was only to be happy they weren't bothering him to hang out and cut into his time with Harley. He knows he's being the world's shittiest friend right now, but they're his best friends. He can't imagine they won't forgive him eventually. Right now, his focus is fully on Harley. They're on the cusp of something and he doesn't want to mess it up.
Besides, if he was hanging out with them, he'd just be thinking about Harley the whole time, wondering what he's doing and if he's okay on his own, and that would make them just as mad as not hanging out at all. So really, it's the logical choice to stay with Harley. Then at least Harley stays taken care of and he… Well, he gets what he wants.
He checks the text, prepared to skim and put it down, but stops in his tracks. All it says is, "EMERGENCY."
Peter's heart rate kicks up, and he sits up straight. To Harley, he says, "We gotta go."
~*~
They arrive at MJ's apartment in record time. Peter doesn't know what kind of emergency they're walking into, so they duck into an alley across the street and Harley dissolves his suit while Peter throws clothes over his and hides his mask in his hoodie pocket. Then they hurry across the street and up to the second floor, where MJ opens the door before Peter can finish his knock.
"Great, you brought him," she says in a clipped tone, barely glancing at Harley. "Movie starts in ten. Ned, you ready?"
"Wha—" Peter glances to the side at Harley, who looks pissed. "What?"
MJ raises her eyebrows. "We're going to the movies." She twists around. "Ready, Ned?"
Ned's voice is timid and uncomfortable. "MJ, I really don't think this—"
"Hold on, hold on," Peter interrupts. He already knows Ned wouldn't be down for something this underhanded and passive-aggressive. It has MJ written all over it. To MJ, he asks, "Can I talk to you?"
"Sure." MJ smiles, thin-lipped and ominous, and points for Harley to step into the apartment. Hesitantly, he does so, then MJ closes the door, leaving her and Peter alone in the hall.
Peter pulls MJ away from the door and hisses, "What is this? You said emergency. I thought—"
"Ned thinks you're not best friends anymore. He thinks Harley's your best friend now."
"That's not true!"
"That's how you act. Think about it, Parker. Are we important to you or not?"
"You are. You're my—"
"Then prove it. I'm done waiting around for you to pull your head out of your ass. This isn't how friends treat each other. If you don't go with us right now, I'm done. Lose my number. Don't talk to me anymore. Don't bother apologizing later when you're out of your honeymoon phase and decide you want to have friends again. I'm not joking."
Peter gapes at her. He knew. He knew he was being an ass, but he just…he…
"You're right. I'm sorry. We can go, okay? I'll…" He winces. "I'll talk to Harley."
"I want him to come too. It's ridiculous that you two act like we can't all hang out together. Sure, me and Ned can't go zinging around the city with you, but you do more than that. I know you do."
Peter flushes. She's not talking about their most recent activities, but that's where his mind goes.
"Oh, Christ, Parker. He's not taking advantage of you, is he?"
"What? No! We—we— I— Very enthusiastic, and—"
"I mean, he's not the one cutting you off from us, right? That's been your own boneheaded decision?"
"Oh, yes. That's… That's all on me. Sorry."
She shakes her head. "You have a lot of explaining to do."
"I know, and I will! I promise."
She eyes him for a long moment, weighing his sincerity. "I don't forgive you yet, but let's see where today goes. Do not flake on us. I don't care if the building next door explodes. This is your one chance."
He nods rapidly. "One chance. Got it."
"Good. Let's get the others. Ned is probably having an aneurysm."
"Right. What movie are we going to?"
"I don't remember what it's called, but it looked good. It's a blip movie about a guy who blipped back and his family is missing. He goes on the road to find them and meets a lot of other people affected by the blip. It's heavily implied that his family is dead, which, you know, is the selling point. We’ll see if they wimp out."
Peter closes his eyes. "Can we please watch literally anything else?"
~*~
They end up with tickets to some blockbuster superhero action movie that none of them are enthused about, but it's a safe choice. Peter smiles awkwardly at Ned and says they can laugh at all the stuff the movie gets wrong. He's relieved when Ned perks up and agrees. Then he uses the last of May's emergency money on a giant popcorn for them all to share and sits in the back of the theater between Ned and Harley. He peeks at Harley several times throughout the previews, but he just looks bored and not at all like he's fighting the urge to hold Peter's hand. Pity.
When the movie starts, Ned doesn't hesitate to lean over and whisper about the goofy hero poses and costumes. Peter snickers with him and points out the over-the-top soundtrack trying to make stopping a simple mugging seem like peak heroism, and together they boo softly when the "heroes" beat the hell out of the mugger.
It feels good. He hadn't realized how badly he missed this.
Then, thirty minutes into the movie, Harley gets up and walks out.
Peter sits up, spilling popcorn. "Harley?" he calls after him, not bothering to keep his voice down. The audience is mostly teenagers on break away.
Harley ignores him and exits the theater.
Peter curses and passes Ned the popcorn bucket. "I better check on him."
"Are you his nanny?" MJ demands.
Ned isn't making eye contact, instead frowning down at the popcorn.
"I wouldn't go if it wasn't important, Em. I swear I'll tell you everything, okay?" He pleads at her with his eyes, but Harley is getting farther away with every second that passes. He shoots an apologetic look at Ned and then turns and hurries after Harley.
Outside the theater door, Peter nearly runs Harley over.
"Harley! Where are— Are you okay?"
"Fine." Harley stands from where he was slouched against the wall and angles his shoulders toward the exit. He tips his head. "Coming?"
"Coming where? I thought we were watching the movie."
"It's a bad movie. I don't want to watch it."
"But that— My friends are important to me."
"Okay? So go hang out with them. I don't need to be there for it."
"But…"
All of Peter's thoughts tangle. But I thought we were something. I thought my friends would become your friends. Because I thought we were becoming something more.
Harley takes a step back. "I'm gonna go do something meaningful, but by all means go watch military propaganda with your pals." He turns.
"Wait! Are you— Are you sure you're okay?"
Harley stops but doesn't turn. "Peter, when have you ever known me to be okay?"
Peter feels like he should have an answer to that, but he doesn't.
Plain of the Lost
"Have you seen Harley?" Peter asks.
Margot shakes her head, her beaded braids clinking prettily. "I always assume he's wherever you are, hun."
Peter grimaces. That's been the resounding reply from everyone he's asked. "If you see him—"
"I'll tell him you're lookin'. I'm sure he's okay. Probably just wandered farther than usual."
That's what Peter's afraid of. It's astoundingly easy to get lost here. With no reference points, the moment the group is out of sight, any direction looks like it could be the way home.
Trying not to panic, he thanks Margot and walks the perimeter some more. If Harley wandered off, that's the best way to spot him. Soon, the chatter of the group falls behind him. He walks until they become foggy silhouettes and then begins his usual circle around camp. There's no curvature to this place to hide people, but the atmosphere is thick enough that they can't see infinitely in any direction—regardless of how good anyone's eyesight is. It makes him think of open-world video games. A cheap trick to avoid rendering more than a handful of blocks around the player character without having to actually develop scenery. He's not sure if he'd like this place better if he could see all the way out until his eyes fail, but at times like these he wishes he could.
His feet carry him on autopilot as he cups his hands around his mouth and calls out into the fog, "Harley!"
It sounds like it barely gets past his lips before the air swallows the vibrations, but he keeps going—walking the perimeter and calling for Harley. He's halfway around when his breath starts coming short.
"Harley!"
What if Harley did wander too far? What if he can't find his way back and he's lost out there? Alone? What if Peter never sees him again?
"Harley!"
"Peter!"
Peter pivots toward the voice. It's not coming from out in the vast emptiness of the plain, but from the camp. It's Margot waving at him.
"Peter, he's back!"
Peter exhales in relief and jogs to her. "Where the hell was he?" he demands when he's close enough that they can speak without shouting.
"He found someone."
Like that excuses it. "He shouldn't be going out on his own."
"I think you'll want to see who he brought back before you go criticizing him," Margot says with a funny little smile.
Peter grunts. "Is it Iron Man or something?" It better fucking not be. If Harley's coma-verse theory turns out to be right and Tony also got snapped, he—Peter—is fucked.
"Go see," she says. "They're waiting for you."
Grumbling under his breath about surprises and not being all they're cracked up to be and his right to be worried and right to be annoyed—Peter strides off to go find Harley and this mysterious newcomer. He knows who he wants it to be, but he battles back hope. It's better to be pleasantly surprised than to get his hopes up and be devastated when it's not—
The crowd parts. Peter spots Harley first, too tuned into that dark green hoodie and that hair—a little beach, a little skater, a little mullet—to miss him in a crowd. Beside him is—
"May!"
Peter's arms are around her waist before she’s fully registered his arrival. Tentative hands on his shoulders firm and becoming a constricting hug.
"Oh, Peter. I found you."
A laugh gets caught in his throat. "You found me." Pressure builds behind his eyes. Pressure, but no relief. He hasn't been able to cry since he woke up here. If he could, tears would be streaming. "I was so worried about you."
"You? The last I saw of you was the news showing you pulled up into space by a string. You were worried?"
"Oh no, I'm so sorry. Tony was there. He took care of me. Got me this awesome new suit. And we— There was this big purple alien guy, and he was collecting these super powerful magic stones, and we tried to stop him, May, we did. But we lost." His throat closes and he chokes on the admission. "We lost. I'm— I'm sorry."
He's somewhat aware of people drawing in close around them. He's never talked about this with the group before. Never shared that—while he knows just as much about this place and how to get out of it as they do—he knows exactly what led to this. He had that gauntlet. He held it in his hands. For one bright, infinitesimal moment, it was free and in his hands. And he lost it. He'll never do enough to make up for it. He lost it for everyone.
"And that's how this happened?" she asks. "The… The purple alien did this?"
"Thanos. The universe's population, he said he was halving it." He pulls back and looks up at her. "We must be the unlucky half."
She cups his face and searches his eyes. Her expression is so familiar, and the feel of her skin against his is so soft, he can't help but lean into it.
"I don't feel so unlucky," she says.
Peter sniffs. "I was so worried. I kept imagining you here—wandering all alone—or back at home wondering what happened to me." He laughs, and his voice is rough. "I should've stayed on the bus."
She kisses his forehead. "I've been saying that for years. Now maybe you'll listen." She straightens up and looks around. She smiles at the people who meet her eyes. "Well? Are you going to introduce me?"
"Oh." He wipes at dry eyes. "Right. Uh, well, first off, this is Harley."
May's smile turns bemused. "Yes, I met Harley. Hello again, Harley."
He's barely two steps away. Definitely heard all of that. He waves awkwardly, avoiding Peter's eyes. "Hey, Mrs. P."
"Okay, but he and I— We— Uh…"
"I'm his boyfriend," Harley says, even though they never talked about labels.
Relief sweeps through Peter. Boyfriends. That's something May can understand, even though it sounds so much shallower than it feels. Most people measure a relationship's depth in terms of months or years, but they have no way of knowing how long it's been. They have no choice but to look inward, and what Peter sees is Harley inextricably tangled around everything vital. To tear him out would tear Peter apart.
"This is Harley. He's my boyfriend."
Saying it aloud in front of everyone elicits a little thrill of pleasure.
"Oh." May turns to regard Harley with a tilt of her head. "That's right. You knew I was looking for Peter."
"You introduced yourself, and Peter talks about you a lot. I rolled the dice on you being the same May Parker, ma'am."
May's nose wrinkles. Behind her back, Peter makes a slashing motion across his throat.
Harley jumps. "Oh, uh, I mean… Miss?" He winces.
"Call me May." A sly smile tugs at her lips. Her eyes glitter. "Or Aunt May, if you prefer."
He grins—slow and crooked and bright in that way Peter loves. "Aunt May, it is."
It takes some time to get through all the introductions. Some folks drift away rather than socialize, and that's okay. No one is forced into the thick of it, but many revel in May's arrival—partly because anything new in this place is a blessing, but mostly because she's related to Spider-Man. They hardly see him as a leader anymore. Others more qualified in social and societal leadership have taken to providing guidance for the others, but Spider-Man is still special to them. Something like a cross between a founder, a guardian, and a mascot. Which makes May a delightful novelty.
Peter stays glued to her side until he looks up and notices Harley has vanished on him again. He stands from their relaxed ring of people sitting and lounging on the ground and looks around.
"That way, honey."
Peter looks down and finds Margot pointing off into the distance and… Yes. There, nearly swallowed by the fog but near enough to keep their group in sight, is a familiar silhouette. Harley.
"Thanks. I'm just gonna check on him."
"Uh-huh." Margot smirks. "Take your time."
Peter glances at Aunt May. "I'll be right back."
"No hurry." She looks out towards Harley. "Is he okay?"
That's what Peter wants to know. It's not like him to wander off on his own.
"I'm sure he's… I'm just gonna check on him."
He bids his goodbyes and hurries toward the figure alone on the outskirts. Just before leaving earshot of the group, he overhears Margot stage whispering, "Attached at the hip."
Peter slows as he nears Harley. He doesn't want to come across as panicked, even though he's a little worried.
"Hey," he says. Harley's just standing here, his back to the group, staring off at nothing. "Are you okay?"
Harley lifts his arm as Peter gets close and—relieved at the familiar gesture—Peter wills the top half of his Iron Spider suit to migrate lower, then steps forward. Harley's arm settles around his shoulders as Peter leans against his side and tucks his thumb into the waistband over Harley's opposite hip.
"'Course I am," Harley says. "What could even happen to me here?"
Peter doesn't bring up his fear of Harley getting lost and never finding his way back. "You seem a little off."
He shrugs as he turns his face away. "I'm… May seems awesome and I'm glad she found us, but..." He stares out into the distance with a frown. "I wish it'd been Mama or Abbie. Sorry, but I do. I miss them. I miss them all the time. It's like this…" His fingers form a claw over his chest. "This weight. I wish I knew if they're okay. It's— I know I put on a big show of being optimistic or whatever, but when I let myself think about it, I…I get this feeling. This impatience. I wanna run. I want to do something and get out of here. I'm so sick of waiting." He leans into Peter. "I'm glad you've got May, really I am. I just hope my family's okay, too."
Peter squeezes him with both arms and rests his cheek against Harley's shoulder. Softly, he says, "Maybe they got lucky. Maybe they're not here."
Notes:
Surely nothing can go wrong from here ( ͡° ͜ ʖ ͡° )人
Thank you all for reading and commenting I'm having SO much fun with this story!
Chapter 7: The last infinitesimal detail
Summary:
New Tags Added:
⁕ Time Travel ⁕ Time Travel Fix-It ⁕ Tony Stark ⁕ Peter Parker & Tony Stark ⁕
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter tells Ned and MJ everything.
With Harley being all distant and…well, kind of a dick, Peter is suddenly terrified of losing his friends. He and Harley ad been growing closer and closer, but now it all feels precarious. He never really considered before that they might fall apart. In his mind, it was only a matter of time until Harley became fully integrated into Peter's life, and he never imagined his friends would be the breaking point.
So, to justify his behavior, he tells them.
He tells them about how Harley lost his family and how he'd been living alone in that depressing apartment until a couple months ago. He tells them about patrolling being an outlet and a lifeline, and how Peter is scared that time alone will make Harley worse, so he tries to make sure he's rarely alone.
"That's it?" MJ asks. "No other reason for spending every waking minute with the guy?" She raises her eyebrows in a pointed expression.
"Well… I mean, it's not all of it, but it's the big—"
"Just say it. Say it aloud. Say it for Ned."
"For Ned?"
"Just say it, Parker!"
"Fine! I have a huge, embarrassing crush on him, okay? Like, completely obsessed with him for more reasons than just trying to help him deal with losing his family. I already feel like a dirtbag about it, but yes, I want to jump his depressed, traumatized bones, okay?"
"Ohhh. So…he's not your new best friend?" Ned asks.
"No! Of course not. You'll always be my best friend. Some stupid crush can't change that."
MJ says, "You stopped talking to us, so apparently it can."
"That's…" Peter extinguishes the heat in his voice with a sigh. "That's my fault, but it's not only because of Harley. I can't stand being in school." He looks from Ned to MJ and back. "I fought in a war, traveled to a different planet, fought an alien fascist, and lost. I'm sorry I've been such a dick, but I literally can't stand being treated like a kid anymore. I just can't."
"What about graduation?" Ned asks, expression dour.
"My grades are passing. I'll graduate."
"And then what?" MJ asks. "How will you get into MIT? They're not good enough for that."
Peter shakes his head. "I'm not going to college."
Ned gasps. "But Peter—"
"I can't!" Peter exclaims. "I can't do all of that. It's just— It's not important. It's not meaningful."
"Are you saying we're wasting our time and talent by—"
"No, Em. I'm saying I can't pretend anymore. The blip ruined that. The Battle of Earth ruined that. I need to be out there. I need to make sure nothing like that ever happens again, and I need to be ready to stop it before things get bad. I can't— I can't be in Boston. I can't be on another school bus playing make-believe that I'm just like everyone else, or that I've got a future outside of the mask."
"You need therapy," MJ says blithely. "I'm serious. You need to talk to a therapist."
"About what? Boy troubles? Or are you suggesting I tell some random person that I'm Spider-Man? I can't talk about anything that matters without revealing my identity. Unless you know of an anonymized therapy service, I can't. I have to figure it out on my own, and I'm not going to do that at MIT."
MJ looks disappointed, but Ned looks crushed.
Peter’s heart aches. He tells his best friend, "I'm sorry. If I could make it so none of this ever happened, I would. If I could put everything back how it was, I'd do it."
It's not until two days later, on the first day back from break, that he remembers he can.
~*~
"Why does your friend keep looking at me like that?" Harley grumbles under his breath as he stirs together his mashed potatoes and gravy. He tried to convince Peter to leave with him an hour ago, but Peter pleaded for him to at least stick out lunch. Begrudgingly, Harley agreed.
Peter glances at Ned across the cafeteria table and shoots him a, stop that, look. Ned ducks his head and picks up his chopsticks.
"I don't know what you mean," Peter says.
"It's like he expects me to burst into tears any moment.” Harley flicks a sideways glare at him. “Did you tell them something about me?"
Peter winces and ducks his head over his tray, and that's enough.
Harley shoves back from the table. "I need to talk to you."
"Well, can it wait until after—?"
"Right now," Harley snaps, and then stomps away.
"I'll be back," Peter tells the table, unable to look his friends in the eyes, and hurries after him. MJ’s voice carries after him, calling him back, but Peter ducks his head and keeps pace with Harley’s furiously long strides.
Outside, Harley slips out of the fence and into an alley, then turns on Peter and shoves. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Peter holds up his palms and steps back. "Listen, listen. I know it looks bad, but I only told them because they were really upset with me and they needed to know why I've been ignoring them and spending so much time with you. And I didn't— I wouldn't have told them if it wasn't important."
"Important?" Harley parrots, his eyes narrowed into slits. "You think fixing your fuck-up by sharing my private personal information is important? Are you shitting me?"
"I— Look, I'm sorry. They won't spread it around, though. You can trust them. I trust them."
"You trust them with my privacy? That's a fucking joke, Peter."
"They needed to know that I'm not just fucking around with you! That it's important that I—"
Harley throws his arms out. "I'm not a charity case! You don't have to ruin your friendships just to keep an eye on the suicide risk!"
That brings Peter up short. "Have you been thinking of—of killing yourself?"
Harley laughs darkly. "Only every day for the past six months."
"But…but it's getting better, right? I thought living with me—"
"I killed them! I killed my family, Peter. And there's nothing I can ever do to take that back. It's not a question of whether I can live with myself—it's how long. It's not getting better, and it never will. And I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore! I want to be done! I wanna see my family again. They can't come back, so maybe it's time I joined them wherever the fuck they are."
"Don't say that."
"Don't tell me what I can and can't say! Fucking hell, Peter! Can't you tell I'm miserable? How can you stand being around me? Who wants to be saddled with a depressed piece of shit for the rest of their life? I certainly don't."
"You're not like that. You're smart and funny and you— you make me like myself. I feel good when I'm with you, Harley. You just… You make everything easier. You— Just being around you makes me feel like— Peaceful. You feel like peace."
Harley looks at him as if he's lost his mind. "Well, bully for you. I don't get to feel at peace. Ever. I'm— There's this feeling. Always there." His fingers hook into claws over his chest. "It's always there. So, sorry, but I don't wanna live for you, Peter. Sorry making you feel good isn't enough of a reason to stick around and be miserable every fucking minute of my life. Fuck you, actually. Fuck you for making this about how you feel."
Harley makes for the sidewalk, and Peter hurries on his heels.
"Wait. I didn't mean—"
Harley stops and whirls on him, his expression a storm. "Don't tell your friends anything I just said and, for the love of God, stop acting like you've given me a home. I don't have one anymore, and you will never be enough to change that." He looks him up and down and then spits, "Never."
This time, Peter doesn't follow him when Harley sweeps out of the alley and turns the opposite direction of the school. He watches him go—bewildered and hurt and scared. More scared than he's been in a long time. Since the battle, except worse because as scared as he felt that day, he never felt helpless.
~*~
Peter bursts into Harley's apartment with no care for the window screen he just mangled beyond saving. It topples off the naked mattress and clatters to the floor.
Harley's not here, but Peter didn't expect him to be. He scrambles inside and makes for the kitchen. He opens the cupboard, reaches up under the sink, and rips away the duct tape.
Into his hands falls the time travel harness.
"Doctor Strange said it would work. He said it would be fine. He saw it. He saw it would work and be fine. He ordered me a happy ending, and this—this is how I get it."
He feels sick. Is this really what Doctor Strange foresaw? Harley unable to live with himself after losing his family? What if this isn't it? As devastating as it feels to Peter, is this really something Strange would send him back in time to prevent? That doesn't seem right, but there's a force inside Peter—a distant voice screaming for him to do something, anything to fix Harley. To fix everything he caused by letting the blip happen in the first place.
Plain of the Lost
"You can't fix everything, Pete." Harley's arm settles around Peter's shoulders and, almost without having to think it, the nanobots retreat so Peter can feel it.
"I couldn't figure out the right words to make it better. If I just had more time…"
"Nobody could, darlin'. Sometimes you just gotta let people…do as people do. Make bad choices, wallow in the mess of it, and then, when they're ready, maybe you'll get lucky and they'll let you help them back onto their feet."
Peter says nothing as, together, they watch a small group of his settlers strike off on their own into the vast plain—no longer content to wait for something to change. Determined to search for a way out. He doesn't think Harley's wrong exactly, but he thinks there's something to be said about irrevocable choices. The ones people can't come back from. There's something to be said about the fact that, because he couldn't talk sense into them, he's never going to see any of those people again, and the chances they'll be able to find a way out of this place are slim to none.
He curls his fingers into his palms and leans against Harley. He's no good at letting people go. Never has been. Never will be.
Present
Peter arrives at the Sanctum Sanctorum at the tail end of the lunch rush hour with the time travel harness looped over his shoulder in plain sight. As panicked as he is about Harley, he doesn't trust himself to make the right call. This thing he's considering is huge, and the consequences are even bigger. He can't go off the word of some random mask in a laundromat. He needs to hear it from the wizard in the cloak himself that this is what Strange wants, he's seen that it works out, and it's all part of some grander plan to fix the world that Thanos broke. Peter needs to know that by doing this—going back, changing it—he’s creating the version where they won.
Then, only if it's all bigger than Peter, he'll do it. Even though the thought twists his gut with nerves. Even though he's not sure he's the right spider for the job. He'll do it.
He was there with Thanos on that planet. And they got so close. Peter had the gauntlet in his hands. Without even having to think, he knows what he'd do differently to make sure they never lost. He feels as if he's been planning it for years. Down to the last infinitesimal detail.
Plain of the Lost
"What are you thinking about?"
Blinking, Peter retreats from thoughts of planets and gauntlets and stones and returns to Harley's side. They're with the group for once. Now that May's here, Peter has made more of an effort to avoid sequestering himself on the sidelines, lest she worry. He also just enjoys being close to her. Knowing he can look and find her nearby whenever he wants soothes a lot of old anxieties.
He looks now and finds her singing with Margot and Devon. They do a lot of singing and storytelling here. Stories and songs are two things they can never run out of because they can always make more. Peter’s stories are a hot commodity. He doesn’t tell anyone that he makes up just as many as he tells true, but he thinks they know.
"Nothing," Peter says far too long after Harley asked the question. "Nothing productive."
What if what if what if. So many he could drown in them. It still feels like his fault. Quill was overtaken by grief and shock, but Peter's mind was clear and he had it in his hands. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to let it go. That moment replays in his mind constantly. Everything could have been avoided. They could have stopped Thanos and prevented all of this if only he'd been better.
He tries to set aside his morose reflections and instead focuses on Harley, the one good thing to come from all of this. Harley is lying beside him, as he so often is. Peter thinks, no matter how this turns out, he'll always remember him like this. Arms folded behind his head, eyes up, mouth curled in a half-smile even when there's no reason for it. Just… Harley.
"What are you thinking about?" Peter asks.
"I have a question."
Harley is always coming up with questions. Peter makes up stories. Harley makes up questions. "Alright, let's hear it."
"Can you spit?"
"Can I— What?"
"Well, we can't cum so I wondered, and I can't. Can you?"
"What do you mean you can't?" Peter demands, but then he tries to summon a mouthful of spit and…it doesn't come. It's like a mental block. It just doesn't happen. Suddenly, he's aware of how dry his mouth and throat are. Not dangerously so, but definitely less moist than he's used to. "I hate you," he says. "Why did you make me aware of this?"
"I didn't want to be alone like this," Harley says. He works his tongue against the roof of his mouth with a grimace. "I can't stop noticing it now."
"I hate you," Peter repeats. He glances around, but it doesn't seem like anyone overheard them. "Don't tell anyone else."
"Of course not." He turns his head to look at Peter. "I don't love any of the others enough to torment them."
Peter whips to look at Harley so fast his neck pops.
Harley bursts out laughing—loud and unabashed, snorting and inelegant. Then, he rolls onto his side and kisses Peter in front of everybody. Clutching his green hoodie, Peter kisses him back and thinks he's never been happier.
Someone wolf whistles. Peter is 99% sure it's May.
Present
Peter straightens his shoulders. As his foot hits the bottom step leading to the twin doors of the sanctum, the pile of refuse and cardboard heaped beside them comes to life.
Peter drops into a defensive crouch and—
—and Deadpool emerges, stretching with an enormous yawn as crumpled fast food wrappers shower off of him.
Tentatively, Peter stands. "'Pool? What are you— Have you been sleeping here?" Under all the garbage is a slab of cardboard with the distinct imprint of a large body in the fetal position sunken into it.
"Oh! Hey, baby boy. That was fast."
"Are you homeless?"
"Don't be silly! I just can't get to it right now. Waiting for you, sugar bear! Thought it would be a lot longer, tbh. Usually you drag your feet about these things unless it's a do or die, heat of the moment kind of thing."
Right. Different universe. But still?
"Why are you sleeping on cardboard?"
Deadpool snorts and slaps companionably at Peter's shoulder. "Because concrete is uncomfy. Duh."
"But—"
"But the real question is, why are you here when I told you Doc said not to talk to him about this whole secret side gig? Hmm? You trying to get him busted by the time keepers or whatever?"
"I— No, I just— I need to talk to him and make sure—"
"You can't! That's the beauty of it, Spidey-kins! You gotta leap of faith it, just like that other spider kid in that other universe. It's like, a theme for you guys."
"Well, I don't do leaps of faith, so if I'm not allowed to talk to Doctor Strange, then I'm— You can have this back and just go home." He holds out the harness. "I'm not going to blindly mess with time, even if…even if the worst happens."
Deadpool laughs. "See? I told you. You never do big shit for yourself. Step into my office and I'll show you what you don't know, baby boy." He beckons Peter to step off the stairs and join him amid his garbage.
With a defeated slump to his shoulders, Peter does so, but he doesn't expect to be swayed.
"I've been researching since I got here. The librarians in this universe are so nice. Didn't even care when I used Doc's address for my library card."
"What's this about, 'Pool?"
"This." Deadpool sits cross-legged in the center of the cardboard and pulls a creased and stained sheaf of papers out from under the corner of his makeshift bedroll. "Here are all the reasons you're going to fuck with the time stream. The first reason, like I already told you, is called Guy Torres. Read it and weep. Let me know if you need a tissue. I'm pretty sure I have a hankie somewhere in all this."
He starts slapping around and kicking through his garbage, but Peter doesn't have much difficulty ignoring him because the top page of the papers Deadpool hands him is an obituary.
"He died?"
"They all did. Hence the weeping. Gruesome stuff in there. Where the fuck is that hankie? I stole it special just for you."
Peter turns to the second page and finds a news article featuring a picture of a bridge. "Wait." He brings the page closer to his face and skims. "He killed himself?"
"Sure did, kiddo. Same night you met him, in fact."
He flips back to the obituary and, sure enough… Peter sits heavily on the cardboard. "This is my fault. I should have walked him home. I should have—"
"Are they all your fault, or just him?"
"Excuse me?"
"Torres is only Exhibit A."
Peter's stomach turns. He holds the papers away, towards Wade. "I don't want to read this."
"I know you don't, you're gonna. You've never been any good at looking away from this stuff, Webs. It's your kryptonite. Lucky for you, I'm manipulating you with your best interests at heart."
Peter narrows his eyes. "You knew. You told me that night that he'd be the reason I go through with Strange's plan. You knew, and you let him walk away."
Deadpool stops ransacking his stuff and looks at Peter with his head cocked to the side. "Of course."
"You're a murderer."
Deadpool laughs. "Shit, kid. You've got me all figured out." He sits cross-legged across from Peter. "I am, but not this time, because you're going to save him." He points at the stack of paper. "You're going to save all of them and your lover boy. You and Guy are going to get your happily ever after just as soon as you quit waffling about ethics and do what you know in your gut is right. The Defenders defend. The Avengers avenge. The Thunderbolts… Well, no one really gets what they're doing yet. But you. You're the people's hero. You help in whatever way people need, no matter the cost. You put your ass on the line and you do all the good you can, no matter how hard it is, no matter what rules or authority you have to defy to make it happen. That's why Strange gave this to you. He knew you'd see it through."
Peter stares unseeing at the weight of paper in his hands. It's gotta be two hundred pages at least. Three hundred, maybe.
"These are all suicides?"
"Oh, psh, no! A hearty chunk, yes, but the rest are just regular blip-related deaths and tragedies. I even got the Keener family in there somewhere. I meant to move them up to the top for you, but—"
Peter sets aside the papers, his skin crawling. He does not want to read those. "What happens to this timeline if I go? My aunt…"
"It would never have happened. She won't lose you. She and your friends won't know the difference."
"I'll remember."
"Yes, you'll be the only one. Even Doctor Strange won't remember. He'll have looked at the possibilities and he'll have seen this one, but it won't be a memory."
Peter closes his eyes and lets the loneliness of that settle on him. Harley won't remember him. They didn't meet until Tony's funeral—another thing Peter would prevent—but he won't remember losing his family either. He'll be…
A hazy memory of a dimpled grin and a warm laugh washes over Peter. Gold and blue and bright.
Tony wouldn't have had to sacrifice himself. Natasha. Steve Rogers. They'd all be back. The Avengers would be whole and strong again.
It's not just for himself. Or for Harley. It would be better for the entire world—the entire universe—if they never lost to Thanos.
And all he would need to do is…
With the tips of his fingers, Peter picks through the papers to make sure Deadpool isn't playing him, but he's not surprised to find they're all different articles, obituaries, and social media posts mourning lost loves. On and on and on. He knew some of how bad it's been from May's work with F.E.A.S.T.. Sometimes she comes home impossibly low. In fact, right now she's at a conference learning how to help people deal with blip-related grief and loss.
The people have done all they can to shoulder the burden and keep going. The Avengers did what they could to help, but now it's Peter's turn to try his hand. Fix it, ass on the line, no matter the cost.
He drops the papers, and they land on cardboard with a heavy thwack. The time travel harness slips from his shoulder into his fingers, and he holds it up in front of him. There aren't any discernible dials or buttons or a touchscreen or anything. Just smooth metal and harness.
"How do I use this thing?"
"It's all in the mind, baby. The better you can visualize the exact time and location you want to return to, the closer you'll end up. Don't guess with it or you'll end up splattered across the time stream like a popped zit. When you've got it, slap the circle, and off you pop."
"Gee, thanks."
"I have complete faith in your super noodle," he says, and he seems to mean it.
Peter takes a steadying breath and stands as he fits the harness over his shoulders. He isn’t worried about the zit thing because he can see the exact moment he needs to return to without even closing his eyes. He still dreams of it. He knows what he needs to do.
"You said you're a murderer."
Warily, still seated, Deadpool replies, "I am."
"And how's that?"
"What? How's murder?"
"Like… How is living with it? Yourself, I mean. Being a murderer."
Deadpool's mask squints at him. Slowly he asks, "Why are you asking? What's going through that super noodle of yours, baby boy?"
Peter snaps the harness together over his chest and tightens the straps as he breathes out. "I guess it doesn't matter. You were right, by the way. No matter the rules, regardless of cost, if it's the right thing—if it helps—I'll do it." He doesn't wait to see if Deadpool will try to stop him.
Peter slams his palm against the metal ring on his chest, and the world floods toward him like a burst water hydrant—all rush and roar. The moment it hits him, he's gone. And the world goes with him.
~*~
Peter drops back into his skin like he never left it. He doesn't have to look to know he made it. The Iron Spider is a comforting weight on his skin. Alien dirt is hard and lumpy underfoot. Around him are the sounds of a struggle. The time harness has vanished from his chest, but it doesn't matter.
Peter is ready. He has imagined this moment a million times. He knows exactly what to do.
Thanos wakes as the gauntlet in Peter’s hands slips over his wrist and off.
In another time, a different universe, Thanos snatches it back and takes into his hands the fate of billions.
This time, in this universe, in the split-second before Thanos can grab it back, Spider-Man rips the gauntlet upward and shoves forward, crashing into Thanos in the same instant his Iron Spider legs burst from his back. They hit their target—Thanos's skull—with all the force Peter can muster.
Even so, they meet resistance.
A huge hand grabs at the gauntlet hugged against Peter’s stomach with both arms. Peter screams—terrified. No, no, no, no, no. He can’t lose again. No, no, no, no, no.
Then, just before Peter gives in to panic, all four legs pierce through bone and Thanos's head ruptures in a gory explosion.
The titan’s hand falls away from the gauntlet, and then the body follows and collapses to the dirt with Mantis still on its shoulders. Peter finds himself hunched, hugging his entire body around the gauntlet while his spider legs drip with purple viscera.
Everything is still and quiet, except for Peter panting in his helmet. He can't look. He can't. What if—
"Kid?"
He starts to shake.
"Holy shit. Kid, are you— Someone check and make sure The Chin down there is good and dead, would you?"
"I don't think he's getting back up, man. He doesn't have a—"
"Quill, just shut up, check, and thank your lucky stars my kid went and— Kid, are you alright?"
Peter straightens up and sucks in a deep breath before turning around. And there he is. Not two steps away. All gleaming red and gold despite the fact that they were just in the fight of their lives. Despite the fact that he's been dead for six months.
"Mr. Stark?" he croaks.
Iron Man's helmet dissolves, and suddenly Tony is staring back at him with worried eyes. "Kid. Pete. What was—"
"Oh yeah. He's dead, dead."
Mantis starts to wail, flicking purple sludge out of her eyes and staring down at herself in horror. She's slimed from the top of her head down to her knees. Drax comes to her aid and bats at the brain matter, effectively pummeling her back down to the dirt while Quill stares down at Thanos with a complex expression.
Peter is too overwhelmed to feel more than a pang of grief that he wasn’t able to save Gamora. Instead, he drops the gauntlet and kicks it in his haste to throw himself at Tony. He crashes against him and locks his arms tight around his dead mentor's waist.
"Woah, okay." Tony pats Peter's shoulder, then his back, and then finally hugs him. "Jesus, kid, where did that come from? You saved half the universe, so I'm not complaining, but holy shit. Strange, did you see that? The kid just saved us all. I'll be honest, I thought we were fucked."
Strange. Doctor Strange. Peter forgot that he's here too. That he can ask.
He pushes out of Tony's arms and snatches up the gauntlet before Quill can grab it. Then he shakes it at Doctor Strange. "Is this right?" Peter lets his helmet dissolve. The air is cool on his wet cheeks. "Is this what you wanted? Did I do the right thing?"
Strange raises his eyebrows and turns his head. To Tony, he says, "I don't know what he's talking about."
"The timeline!" Peter snaps. "You said there was only one where we won. Is this it?"
Coolly, Strange eyes Thanos's corpse and says, "It certainly seems so."
That's such an infuriating non-answer Peter nearly hurls the gauntlet at his head. Instead, he gives it to Tony. "What do we do with this?"
Tony turns it so the Infinity Stones catch the light. Purple, red, blue…and orange. The Soul Stone. Five years Peter spent in that tiny little rock? He's tempted to touch it. To learn from it. Is that where he and Harley met?
In another life, maybe it was, but not this one. He stopped it. He won. It doesn't feel real. None of this feels real.
"Let's get it home, and we'll decide from there." Tony looks to Strange. "Please tell me your wizard powers can get us back to Earth."
"Of course." Strange flicks out his sleeves and prepares to do the circle thingys with his hands.
Tony spins and points at Quill, Mantis, and Drax. Drax is now attempting to clean Mantis's face by scrubbing it with a clod of dirt.
"You all need a ride, right? Where do you wanna— Stop doing that to her. Can't you see you're only making it worse? Where do you wanna go? Say the word and we'll drop you." He turns and points at Nebula. "You. Blue girl. That monster raised you? Treated you like shit your whole life?"
"Yes," she says stiffly.
"Great, you're coming with us. Strange, three for Earth and make it snappy."
Nebula pulls out a blade and snarls. "I won't be your prisoner!"
"Sweetheart, the only prison you're going to see is the inside of a food coma. You ever had ice cream before? Doesn't matter. You're gonna love it. We're gonna spoil you so rotten you forget all about Papa Genocide. Are you good? You wanna put that away? Great, thatta girl.
"And you." Mr. Stark puts his arm around Peter's shoulders. Without thinking, Peter retracts the Iron Spider's nanobots down so he can feel it. Mr. Stark gives him a shake. "You're with me. Let's get you home, Underoos."
Peter's heart constricts. In part because Tony is here and alive and Peter missed him so much, and partly because he doesn't think he'll ever feel at home again.
Home is splintered now: a piece here, where he left May in their old apartment with his bunk bed and all the things they lost in the blip; another splinter in a time he can never go back to, where he fell in love with a broken boy; and one more in a strange place he can't remember but can almost see in the shape of the ripples created by him and the boy he just erased. Gone. A person he'll never see again, replaced by one that doesn't know Peter exists, and doesn't remember any of what Peter can never forget.
End of Part One
Notes:
HERE WE GOOOOO (∩^o^)⊃━☆*:･ﾟ♡
This has been in the cards since the very beginning and was why I couldn't let this fic idea go but also had such a hard time starting it bc guh it's so complicated and who wants to write three beginnings?? My overambitious ass apparently <( _ _ )> Thank you thank you for everyone who kicked my butt to get me this far! One william peaceful sunrises upon you <333
See you all in part two where we get an even more traumatized Peter who is determined to be better than his best self, a not at all traumatized Harley who can not for the life of him figure out why this guy is so fucking weird around him, and alive Tony. Yay!
Chapter 8: Wrong
Summary:
New Tags Added:
⁕ Peter Parker Needs a Hug ⁕ Peter Parker Needs Therapy ⁕ Angst and Humor ⁕ Harley Keener's Sister ⁕
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter stands outside the Avengers’ compound with his backpack on his shoulder and stares up at the pristine concrete and glass. It’s the first time he’s been back since the Battle of Earth when he left it smoldering and shattered, and now… Now, that never happened. Now the only thing in the universe that got fucked up by Thanos is him.
Well, and Peter Quill. And Nebula. And— okay, maybe he’s being selfish and needs to chill out.
The point is, he put this off as long as he could, but Tony wouldn’t be placated any longer. Peter has been the goodest boy since they got back to Earth. He saved the universe, debriefed with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, and was sitting in class again two days later. He spends time with his friends, eats dinner with May every night, finished his junior year with good marks, and successfully convinced Tony Stark that the brutal murder he did had zero effect on his psyche.
All-in-all he’s a fucking pro at hiding his inner turmoil—miles better than Harley ever was.
Don't think about him.
He wouldn’t say he’s been avoiding Tony, and he doesn’t count lies of omission as actual lies, so it’s fine. Really, it’s all fine. He’s doing everything he’s supposed to be doing, and he’s acing it. The only reason he didn’t want to come to the compound is that he didn’t want to have to sit in the car with Happy for two hours. Really, that’s the only reason. The only one he told Tony, anyway.
Apparently, Tony has a special surprise for him. He literally wouldn’t let Peter say no. He shifted into Billionaire Mode™ over it. Meaning, he made it his mission to resolve or remove any obstacle Peter tried to throw out as an excuse for why he couldn’t go. He’s even got Nat and Clint patrolling the city for him. It got bad. So Peter had no choice but to come.
Even though there’s no reason for him not to want to.
Sam, who Tony conscripted to chauffeur Peter in Happy’s stead, already went inside without him minutes ago. So, alone, Peter walks through the doors as though they weren’t blown to smithereens last time he saw them.
F.R.I.D.A.Y. greets him first.
“Hello, Peter. Welcome back.”
He swallows thickly and only sounds a little shaky when he replies, “Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y. It’s… It’s good to hear your voice.”
He thought he never would again.
The entryway is cavernous, intimidating, and devoid of people. Peter appreciates it for a minute as he grapples with his emotions. They’ve been all over the place lately. Ping-ponging from relief at having succeeded with seemingly no disastrous consequences, to devastation at the cost, to outright joy upon discovering all the things he and May lost while blipped are safely at home in their apartment with his old bunk bed. He’s started drinking his morning coffee exclusively from Uncle Ben’s old Doctor Who mug—freshly returned and never lost all at once. If May finds it strange, she hasn’t said anything, except to comment on his sudden coffee habit.
He forgot he started drinking it after Harley moved in. Harley used to have a cup every single morning—no matter how late they already were for school. He always sat at the table—never the couch or Peter’s desk—and when he finished, he would swirl it under the faucet twice, then set the mug to the left of the sink for the next morning.
Stop thinking about him.
They don’t have that mug in this time. It was one Peter found at a picked-over thrift store after the blip. It had a chip in the handle right where you rest your thumb. Blue ceramic stamped with a teddy bear telling anyone who paused to read it that a beary good day starts with a beary good drink.
I said stop!
Peter holds all of it in his arms—the wins, the losses, and the big unwieldy feelings that stem from both—and pushes it down.
Since he saved the universe, he has been the goodest of boys, and good boys don’t have emotional breakdowns.
He heaves a stabilizing breath—in and out—and plants his left foot on the bottommost step of a wide, curving staircase with glass railings.
Somewhere behind him, an elevator dings. He takes his foot off the stair, knowing in his bones who he’s about to see. Tony has never been known as a patient man, especially when he has an agenda.
Peter’s pretty sure he knows what this “surprise” is. After defeating Thanos and returning to Earth, Tony took the Iron Spider suit. Okay, technically, he didn’t take it, but he had Peter put it away in its special fancy storage case and, hours later, when Peter left the compound, it was without the suit. It’s been long enough since then for Tony to tinker. Really, give him a few hours and he can do a lot, but months? Yeah, Peter is fully expecting this surprise to be a suit upgrade at minimum. At maximum…
Well, Peter hasn’t really been sure whether Tony considers him an Avenger. He knighted him on that spaceship, but was that just to make him feel better? Peter was pretty freaked out by the whole impromptu being in space thing, and Tony declaring him as part of the team eased that. But was Tony serious? Now that Peter was the one to kill the bad guy, will Tony insist he join up for real? Insist he allow the Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. and anyone and everyone else to keep tabs on him? Make sure he doesn’t turn into a loose cannon now that he’s gotten a taste of killing? Come down hard with the guardrails and surveillance?
Peter half expects it. Fully expects the suit. Half-expects to have to fight for his right not to be an Avenger.
He braces himself as footsteps echo through the massive space—making one man sound like many.
Tony strides out of a hallway and says, “There he is! Sam said you were stuck in a stupor outside. You really need to sleep more, kid. Growing boy, growing body, growing brain, et cetera, et cetera. Anyway!” He claps his hands. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” He steps aside and sticks out his arm. “This is the other pubescent pain in my ass, freshly arrived from Podunk, Nowhereville.”
Peter knows the way he knows his web-shooters (frontward, backward, and inside out) who is going to be standing behind Tony, but he has no time to prepare, so it hits him like a ton of concrete. Like a rocket-powered steel wall.
Harley steps past Tony into the foyer. His hair is sunlit wheat, shot through with shades of brown and tan and gold. Longer than Peter is used to. Flared like it’s normally smothered under a hat, and curled where it gathers up at the back of his neck. He’s wearing simple jeans, yellow leather boots, and a forest green hoodie. He looks Peter up and down twice. Then he smiles—eyes bright, mouth crooked more to the left than the right, dimple in his cheek.
Wrong. The feeling crawls over Peter's skin like slime. Wrong, wrong, all wrong.
“Ahem.”
This new Harley steps aside, and the first words he says to Peter are, “And this is the pubescent pain in the ass’s sister.”
A girl, fourteen-years-old, steps up beside Harley with an elbow to his ribs. She has his nose—wide and freckled. Her hair is dark and cropped short, pulled back in a spiky half-ponytail. Her eyes are brown and lively, and when she smiles, there’s a dimple in her cheek.
“Abbie,” she asserts.
The floor falls out from under Peter.
The Keener siblings stare at him with matching bright-eyed, curious expressions, and he wants to be sick. Wrong. It’s all wrong. This—this stranger isn’t Harley. And this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Peter was going to meet Harley’s sister and his mom, and they were going to— They…
He can’t do this.
He’s too stunned to feel bad as he turns his back on all three of them and climbs the stairs.
“Wh— Hey!” Tony shouts. “Underoos, what— What the hell, kid?”
Peter doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t run, doesn’t look back. He climbs until he runs out of stairs. Until he can’t hear Tony making excuses for him anymore.
“He’s probably sleep deprived. Half-delirious. You heard Sam. Sleepwalking, maybe. Let’s let him get settled, and in the meantime I’ll take you on the grand tour. We have a ping-pong table. You kids like ping-pong?”
Peter doesn’t know how many landings he passes. All he knows is, when the stairs take him as high as he can go, he finds himself in an empty, unfamiliar hallway. He doesn’t care. He wanders until he finds a dark corner to put his back to, then puts his head in his hands.
Good boys don’t have emotional breakdowns.
Peter prides himself on not shedding a single tear. He really has this whole thing on lock. Too easy.
~*~
Peter finds his room eventually—two floors lower than his hiding spot—and when he arrives, Tony is waiting. He freezes in the doorway.
“Heya, squirt. Where ya been?”
With effort, Peter muscles past the initial shock of seeing him alive and in the flesh, and slings his backpack into the corner beside his desk. It’s a small room compared to the rest of the compound, which means his entire apartment could fit snugly inside it rather than with gobs of space to spare. The walls are blue, the comforter is red, and the half-empty case of energy drinks he brought with him last time is still sitting on the desk. It’s been so long he can’t remember when that was.
In his mind’s eye, they roll through the rubble that Thanos and his lackeys reduced the compound to last time.
Stop it.
In this time, for this Tony, it was probably only a few weeks between the last time Peter was here and the showdown with Thanos. For him though, for Peter, he hasn’t seen the inside of the compound in almost a year. Were they working on something? Will he be able to step back into it without Tony noticing something’s off?
And Harley… How is Peter going to stay in the same room as him without having a meltdown? He’s too tired to figure it out tonight, but his presence here is seared into Peter’s awareness. He can’t turn it off.
With Tony waiting for an answer and nothing else to do with his hands, Peter tucks his fists in his armpits and faces just to the left of Tony. “You ask as if you don’t know.”
Tony claps his hands between his knees. “I don’t.” His legs are hanging off the bed, feet suspended off the floor. He looks so different from the hero that was plastered across the city for six months.
This is the Tony Stark that Peter missed, but now that he has him back, he can't stand to look at him.
In response to Peter’s most skeptical eyebrow, Tony continues, “Pepper made me stop using F.R.I.D.A.Y. to spy on people. She said it’s creepy.”
“It is creepy.”
“Well I wouldn’t have to resort to it if people would answer my questions! Where ya been, sport? What was with the stone face and the cold shoulder earlier? How come you’re not bouncing off the walls and babbling about how honored you are to be here? What gives?”
Peter shrugs. Harley’s out there somewhere. Wrong Harley. Harley he doesn’t know, and who doesn’t know him. “Just tired. Long week.”
“Uh-huh. So listen, I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ll respect your privacy since that’s a new thing I’m trying—”
“—should have been doing all along.”
“—but I want you to know, you can tell me about things that are bothering you, alright? Breaking the cycle? Remember? Whenever you wanna talk, I’m all ears.”
Peter feels like throwing up. “Sure, Mr. Stark.”
Tony hops to his feet and straightens his slacks. “And— I didn’t think you’d be the one I had to say this to, but here we are. I want you to be nice to my other adoptee tomorrow, alright? I’ll give you a pass for today since you so obviously have something going on that you won’t tell me about even though I didn’t go snooping, and I asked really nicely.” He pauses. Then, when Peter doesn’t fill the silence, he sighs and continues. “I think the pair of you together could make something great if you give him a fair shake. My little proteges, taking the world by storm, shaking things up—there, I’ve said it. I’ve been cooking this for years and if you shit in the pot, I’m going to be— No. I won’t say it.”
“Disappointed?”
“It was too far. I realized it before I said it, so I don’t have to apologize.” He talks louder. “You can do whatever you want kid, be who you want to be, be friends with who you want to be friends with, but… Well, I think you two have a lot in common and unique perspectives that could come together like lightning.” He puts up the palms of his hands. “And that’s the last I’ll say about it. Just— Fair shake. That’s all.”
“Okay.” The single word is ash on his tongue.
“Anything you wanna get off your chest?”
“No,” Peter lies.
Tony’s shoulders sag the most infinitesimal fraction of an inch, but Peter notices.
“Suit yourself.” He squeezes Peter’s shoulder as he passes him, making for the hall. With his other hand on the door frame, he pauses and asks quietly, “Is it because of what you did on Titan? This…this mood you’re in. Is it because of that?”
Peter suppresses a groan. Is Tony ever going to stop searching for signs that he’s being plagued by his conscience? “I told you, I did what I felt was right. The universe was on the line, and we almost lost. He never would have stopped.”
“I know that, Pete. Can you blame me for checking though? We all know you’re going through something, even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
Peter turns and meets Tony’s evaluating stare with a frown.
“What?” Tony asks. “You think we didn’t notice the overnight personality transplant? What happened to the babbling, happy-go-lucky teen that hitched a ride with me into space? Did you know your aunt calls once a week to check if you’re talking to me?”
That surprises him. “She does? Why?”
“Because you’ve gone quiet, kid. She’s worried. We’re worried.”
“Well, don’t be. I’m fine. I’m just…growing up.”
Tony looks sad at that. “Well, slow it down, bambino. Us old farts are having trouble keeping up.” He squeezes Peter’s shoulder once more, then steps into the hall. “Get some sleep.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”
“‘Night, Pete.”
The moment Tony shuts the door, Peter collapses onto the bed. Horizontal, he wiggles out of his pants and shirt, then burritos himself in the blanket and lies very still.
For the rest of the night, he oscillates between mulling over everything Tony said, wondering how near Harley’s room is, feeling bad for worrying May, and dozing fitfully. The thought that he keeps cycling back to over and over is the realization that Tony’s right—Peter is a lot different than he was when he first went up in that spaceship. It was two months ago in this time, and nine months ago by his time, but nine months is still a short time to change as much as he has. He feels old. Far older than seventeen or eighteen—however you want to count it.
As moonlight creeps across the carpet, he lies there, curled in the fetal position, and he thinks back on Harley’s theory that they were all conscious and able to communicate in the Soul Stone. What if the reason he’s so changed in nine months is actually because it’s been five years and nine months? What if, mentally, he’s more twenty-three than teen? How does that work if he can’t remember it?
He wishes he could talk to Harley about it. He wishes he could look online for anyone talking about coming out of the blip beyond their years, but he can’t. Peter is the only one who remembers what happened because he’s the only one who lived it. One of a kind. The only one.
~*~
Peter hovers outside the kitchen. The Keener siblings are inside arguing about coffee or something, and he’s afraid to interrupt. After talking to Tony last night, he wants to make things amicable at the very least, but he can’t help the way his heart races just thinking of Harley. And the sick feeling in his stomach when he has to reckon with the ways he’s all wrong. If this Harley smiles at him again, he’s gonna ralph and it’s gonna be mostly Red Bull and that’s gonna sting.
Then again, after he was such an asshole yesterday, what reason does Harley have to smile when he sees him? He’ll probably scowl at him and…and that’ll be worse. It’ll mean looking him in the face after he erased him from the universe.
No, that’s stupid. This is a different Harley. Completely different. It’ll be fine. Peter will go inside and the Keener siblings will glare at him, and it’ll be awkward and stilted until one of them leaves or Mr. Stark comes to get them to go to the lab. And that’ll be good enough. He can do it. He’s done worse.
Peter almost has himself convinced when a laugh carries through the open doorway—inelegant, snorting, and cackling.
Harley.
Peter turns on his heel and marches back to his room. He’ll eat later.
~*~
He avoids “meeting” Harley a “second” time for nearly seven hours. Then his avoidance ends in betrayal. Accidental betrayal, but still.
He and Dr. Banner have had a lovely day running chemistry experiments in the fifth floor lab, so when Dr. Banner asks Peter to run across the hall to grab another Bunsen burner to use for the control, Peter doesn’t question it.
Then, he steps into the hallway and nearly smacks into the very person he never wants to see again. Wrong Harley.
Peter freezes as the lab door slams on his heel.
Wrong Harley looks up from his phone and stops. “Oh,” he says.
He’s wearing a ratty pair of jeans, falling apart at the hems and dragging on the floor, filthy with stains and tears. Peter can see skin just below his left pocket where a battered pair of work gloves are hanging out. His shirt is less dirty but far from unmarred, and overtop it is a red flannel, rolled to the elbows. To complete the whole, horrible, wrong picture, he’s got his mullet pulled back in a low ponytail at the base of his skull.
Peter wills his heart to stop beating and put him out of his misery. Despite his distress, he can’t help but notice the way Harley looks him up and down—same as he did yesterday. Then Harley does the worst thing in the world and smiles. A-fucking-gain.
“I was looking for—”
“Stop checking me out,” Peter interrupts, waspish.
Harley’s smile evaporates, and he goes taut. “I wasn’t—”
“You were. Twice now. Stop.”
Harley’s teeth bare in a tense grimace. Dangerous and aggressive. Familiar. Peter wants to die and throw up and die again.
“I thought you Yanks were supposed to be accepting.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” Peter snaps, mostly to tell him he’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Even in the ways he’s right. Especially in the ways he’s right. “I’ll work with you for Mr. Stark’s sake, but outside the lab, stay away from me.”
“No problem,” Harley responds with shuttered dislike evident on his face. Not far from the hatred on it the last time Peter talked to him. To his Harley.
Without another word or a backward glance, Harley turns and walks away.
Peter waits, chest heaving, until he rounds the corner out of sight. Then he sinks to the floor and sits with his forehead on his knees and tries not to cry.
Good boys don’t cry. Or puke. Or hyperventilate.
A dry sob bursts from his lips, but he takes care of that by forcing his fist between his teeth and breathing harshly through his nose until he calms down enough to get to his feet. There are teeth marks on his hand, but they’ll heal soon enough.
Peter packs up the bleeding pieces of his heart and retreats to his room. Dr. Banner will have to make do without him.
~*~
Peter lasts half an hour in his room before his aching gut and pounding head remind him he skipped breakfast and it’s well past lunch. Red Bull may give you wings, but they’ll only carry you so far before your measly mortal body succumbs to the limitations of its humanity.
Cautiously, Peter leaves his sanctuary and makes a late lunch.
He’s in the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches—#2 slowly being hoovered hands-free into his mouth as he finishes constructing sandwich #6—when a girl walks in.
Peter startles and inhales some breadcrumbs. Coughing and hacking, he lets the second half of sandwich #2 fall out of his mouth and onto the plate, except it bounces and lands on his foot.
“Oh”—he hacks and heaves—"c’mon,” he wheezes. Still coughing, he picks up the soiled sandwich and puts it on the plate with the others. Then he grabs the kitchen towel to wipe the mayonnaise off his foot before returning it to the oven’s handle.
The girl—Abbie, he realizes—just stares at him. Repulsed.
“So you’re not just a homophobe; you’re a disgusting homophobe.”
“That”—cough, cough—"sums me up.” He doesn’t look at her as he caps the mayo and quickly sets about returning the ingredients to their proper places, but he can feel her staring. “What?” he demands and shoves the mustard too hard in the fridge.
“Just tryin’ to figure you out. Stark talks about you like the sun shines out your ass, you know that?”
Peter shrugs and tosses the cheese and lunchmeat into the fridge without care for where they land. “He just likes to talk. Sometimes he runs out of things to say and makes stuff up to fill the void.”
“Uh-huh. And he keeps you around because…?”
Peter grabs a bottle of water. “You’d have to ask him.”
“Trust me, sweetie, I did. ‘N he was gobsmacked to learn what you said to Harley.”
Peter’s stomach drops, and he can’t help but flinch at Harley’s name spoken aloud. “Only a matter of time before he kicks me out then.” He tucks his water into his armpit and collects his plate. It’s for the best, he assures himself. He can hardly stand to be around Tony anymore, anyway. He’s too big a reminder of what Peter did.
“That’s what I was hopin’. Then he started laughin’.”
That surprises Peter enough that he forgets he’s avoiding looking at Abbie. “He what?”
She half-grins, eyes narrowed, watchful. “Right? Asshole move. But then I got to thinkin’…” She trails off, waiting for something.
Peter racks his brain for what Tony could find so funny about—
“Oh no.” Horror paralyzes him. “He doesn’t think…”
“That you have a hard-on for my brother so bad you can’t even be in the same room with him? Yeah, he does.”
Heat floods Peter’s face. “Tell him that’s not true. I can’t stand— Tell him I’m a huge dick when he’s not around. Like grade-A right winger hell-bent on—”
“He showed us the pictures you sent him from pride last year.”
Peter’s heart rate accelerates to the speed of light. Which pictures? The ones of him as Bider-Man? With the cape flag? Or—
“You looked real cute with your little bi flags painted on and rainbow glitter in your hair.”
His panic attack wanes before it can finish forming. Harley already knows he’s Spider-Man, but does Abbie? The fewer people that know, the better, and he really doesn’t want Mr. Stark to go around flaunting his secret identity to people he doesn’t know.
“I’m only a homophobe about full gays,” Peter says, stone-faced. “Full straights, too. It’s not natural to limit the human experience based on something as nebulous as gender.”
Abbie’s smiling now, dimple in her cheek. “Uh-huh. You sure you don’t have a huge, embarrassing crush on my brother?”
Tone-dead, he says, “I’m sure,” but it’s too late. Abbie’s mind is made up, and he knows Tony well enough to know his is too.
He holds out his plate. “You want? I just lost my appetite.”
Abbie regards his meager feast with a wrinkled nose. “How many have touched your feet?”
“Will it make a difference if I say only one?”
“No.”
“Fair.” He shoves the foot sandwich in his mouth even though he doesn’t feel like eating anymore and says, “‘El ‘isser ‘ark ah ‘ad ‘oo ‘oh ‘ome.”
“What?”
He sighs out of his nose. “‘Eh-er-ine.”
“What?”
He swallows painfully. “Nevermind. And don’t set me up with—with your brother. It’s a bad idea.” He slumps past her as she laughs.
“Don’t tell Harley that. He loves bad ideas.”
She doesn’t know the half of it.
~*~
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“It’s my God-given right as a red-blooded American to be ridiculous. It’s in the Constitution.”
“Get your ass in the lab, Parker.”
“No.”
“Do it, or I’ll take back the suit.”
Peter narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“I’ll do much worse if you don’t get over this silly crush and figure out how to work together.”
“It’s not a silly crush!”
“Get. In. The. Lab.”
Peter makes a sound of frustration, but stalks forward anyway. The doors register his approach and slide apart with a whoosh. In the lab, Peter glares at Abbie where she’s playing Tetris on the big hologram display, and steadfastly ignores the other presence over by the Thermo Cycler. He goes to his usual desk and rifles through the drawers—partly for something to do and partly to remind him what the hell he was doing last time he was here.
He sifts through various Spider-Man schematics for web-shooter upgrades and other fun gadgets and gizmos—none of which he can work on with Abbie in the room. Did Harley tell her? Did Tony? It’s not like he can ask.
He opens a different drawer, and a thumb-sized metal ball rolls forward.
Peter smiles his first genuine smile of the weekend. Maybe longer.
“Hi, sweetheart. I missed you.”
He plucks up the ball and holds it between his finger and thumb. It’s smooth, shiny, and silver—the weight of it comforting in his hand. He holds his thumb against the surface, and three seconds later, eight thin legs uncurl from the ball and a little head with blue LED eyes pops out and looks around as she settles in his palm.
“You wouldn’t have to miss her if you’d come by more often,” Tony says.
“I’m not talking to you.”
Spinneret looks up at Peter, and her eyes flash orange.
“Aw, you need a charge? I have just the thing.” He flicks on the grow light atop his desk and holds his fingers against the tabletop like a ramp so she can scuttle off his palm toward the light.
Peter rests his chin on the desk and watches her hunched there, her minuscule solar panels soaking in the light. Slowly, her eye color bleeds back to blue. Once it’s as bright as a cloudless sky, he’ll know she’s fully charged.
“You can’t sit there all day watching your toy crab.”
Peter refuses to rise to Tony’s bait. He knows she’s not a crab, and she’s far from a toy. “Yes, I can.”
Tony sighs. “Well, could you at least take a couple minutes to come help me with this?”
More bait. He knows. He can smell it. He won’t rise to it. He won’t. “Can’t. Busy.”
“Oh, okay. I call Shuri back and tell her you were too busy to—”
He swallows the bait and looks over. “More Wakonda tech?”
Tony shifts so his body is blocking what he’s working on. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Harley and I will handle it. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with you being so busy and all.”
Peter makes an annoyed sound in his throat and goes back to watching Spinneret while the bait squirms in his stomach.
Her eyes are a muddy teal when he asks, “Is it more kinetic tech?”
“Not this time.” Tony doesn’t elaborate.
Peter squirms in his chair.
When Spinneret’s eyes are pale sea glass, he asks, “Communication stuff? I know she had her eye on seamless satellite transmissions the last time we—”
“Nope.”
Peter’s chin hits the desk, and he grinds his teeth while Tony crosses the lab and joins the Other Presence by the thermo cycler. Together, they speak in soft tones that Peter is torn between eavesdropping on, or tuning out. He wants to know, but having Harley near hurts and, at the very least, he wants more time to wallow.
“What’s she do?”
Peter jumps and finds Abbie seated on the stool beside him, peering down at Spinneret.
“What doesn’t she do?”
Abbie shoots him a judgmental sideways look. “Well, I dunno, do I? That’s why I asked, dufus.”
“Oh. Okay, well, uh—” He pauses. “Are you afraid of spiders?”
“Nope.”
“Good! Hold out your hand to her like you’re letting her sniff it.”
“What? Like this?” She holds out her hand, fingers lightly curled down into her palm.
“Yeah. Hold that. Spinneret, play nice.”
Spinneret scuttles forward, her thin legs nearly silent as they plink-pa-pa-plink-plink up to Abbie’s hand. She leans forward, baring her neck (if she had one) and goes still.
“Now, lightly press the pad of your thumb against the bulby part of her body. Yeah, like that.” Spinneret’s eyes flash three times. “Now tell her, ‘Good girl’.”
Abbie shoots him a look like she’ll be pissed if he’s messing with her, but dutifully says, “Good girl.”
Spinneret’s eyes flash one more time.
“There you go! Now you’re friends. She can help you with your homework, or if you misplace something she’ll go find it. She’s linked to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s network, so everything Fri knows, Spin knows. Watch. Spinneret, fetch.” Her eyes blink twice in acknowledgment. “Pencil.”
Two more blinks and then she scuttles off, descending from the table with a line of web that will dissolve on its own in ten minutes. She scurries across the floor and up the leg of another desk. Atop it she stops and the bulb of her body glows blue as her right front legs snap up to a forty-five degree angle and she leans forward, toward the mechanical pencil sitting atop a sheet of graph paper, as though pointing like a hunting dog. She beeps, not very loud, but enough to help find her if you don’t have line of sight. She beeps again every five seconds.
“That’s not fetching,” Abbie says.
“So? It’s still cool. Call her back. Tell her to come.”
“Seriously?”
“She’ll know it’s you.”
Abbie shakes her head, then says, “Spinneret, come.” There’s a look on her face like she feels goofy, but it’s replaced by a delighted smile when Spinneret comes back and scuttles into Abbie’s waiting palm and nuzzles against her thumb. “It is kinda cool,” she admits.
“She’s always learning, so you can train her to do other stuff.”
From across the lab, Tony says, “I still can’t believe you trained her like a dog.”
“You’re just mad she listens better than Dum-E.”
“Hey.” Tony points a multimeter at him. “You have way nicer stuff to use than I did at your age. I paved the way for you, you ungrateful brat.”
“Yeah, yeah. I feel real bad for you, Mr. Billionaire. Really, I do. Truly an uphill both ways childhood.”
“Okay, mouth, since you seem to be feeling more yourself, why don’t you get over here and help me with this? Shuri’s got us stumped.”
Peter perks up and looks over, then goes statue-still as he makes eye contact with the person he’s been trying so hard to ignore.
No hateful sneer this time. No smile either. Instead, Harley is looking at him, meeting his eyes, head cocked like Peter is a surprising puzzle. A mystery to solve.
It’s the worst one yet.
Peter bangs his knee as he leaps to his feet and turns his back. “You know, I had a bad sandwich earlier. Foot germs. Nasty stuff. Abbie can vouch for me. I gotta shit, like, now.”
And then he runs away.
~*~
The weekend finally ends. The Keeners are apparently staying most of the summer, so Peter tells Abbie she can play with Spinneret as much as she wants as long as she takes notes for him so he can review Spin’s progress and fix any hiccups.
He avoids Harley. It’s not too hard since Harley seems to have gotten the hint and is keeping his distance. Still, just to be safe, Peter decides the best way to get to the car in the drive where Happy is waiting to drive him home, is through the window. He’s tapped out on awkward encounters. He can’t take another one.
Unfortunately, Tony is waiting for him in the grass.
Peter finishes scaling the wall, turns, and comes face-to-face with Mr. Stark’s disappointed eyebrows. “Ack!”
“What are you doing?”
“I— I was just—”
“Harley’s in his room waiting for you to be gone before he comes out. This”—he gestures at the wall and the fifth-story window Peter climbed out of—”was unnecessary.”
“Okay, well, I didn’t know that.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “What about him has gotten you so twisted up? This weekend was supposed to be about—”
“—bonding. I know.”
“No,” Tony says, “It was supposed to be about assuring me and your aunt that you’re okay and dealing with your trauma from what you did on Titan.”
Peter flinches. “I am not traumatized.”
Not for the reasons Tony thinks, anyway.
Tony snorts and holds out a business card. “Tell it to your therapist, kid. First appointment is Tuesday. Please, for the love of God, call. You don’t want to know what drastic measures I’m prepared to take to make sure you’re taken care of. Capishe?”
“Thera— What? I can’t talk to some random person about—”
“Not random. Carefully selected and vetted by yours truly and trial tested for the past two months by Cap himself. Feel free to get a rec from him if you want.” He reaches down and picks up a case, then holds it out to Peter. “Wear that when you call. I added some special security features to scramble your audio and make the call completely untraceable and keep it from being recorded.”
Peter accepts the case. His Iron Spider suit. He feels oddly emotional to be reunited with it.
Tony holds out the business card more insistently. “You need to talk to someone, bambino. It hasn’t been me, it hasn’t been May, and I’d bet my bank account it hasn’t been your friends.” He steps forward and folds the card into Peter’s hand. He cups it in both of his as he says, “Many people love you. We just want you to be okay. Please do this small thing. Do it for us if you can’t do it for yourself.”
Peter’s throat hurts. Softly, he rasps, “Okay, Mr. Stark.”
Notes:
PART TWO! PART TWO! PART TWO!
How are we feeling folks?
Chapter Text
Peter stares at the business card between his fingers.
Avery Stone. He looked them up online, and he’s not sure whether or not it’s encouraging that he got so few hits. No social media. Not even LinkedIn. An award ceremony in which they received an award for “Outstanding Service,” but no pictures, and no explanation of what kind of “service” was provided. The business card itself is simple and no-nonsense. Name and phone number on gray cardstock. White serif font, and today’s date and time scribbled on the back in Tony’s handwriting.
Peter is five minutes late and has been waiting to call for over an hour. Or not call. He hasn’t decided yet.
He walks through the apartment, making sure it’s empty even though May is going to be out late with her girlfriends and there’s no reason for anyone else to be here. His stomach plummets at the thought. Two months, and he still looks for Harley. It’s weird. Harley didn’t live with them long, but it felt right. Like a return to normalcy. A something off-kilter, then corrected. He can’t explain it. Which brings him back to this phone call. What’s the point of calling someone he can’t explain things to? What’s the point of trying if he can’t even explain it to himself?
The flip side is that he’s sick of walking in circles. Not calling isn’t going to ease the guilt over May and Tony being so worried about him, and not calling won’t let him exist in the same room as this new Harley.
His pacing leads him back to his bedroom. He shuts the door, sucks down a deep breath, and starts the call before he can overthink it anymore. While it rings through the Iron Spider helm, he shuts himself in his closet, hunkers down, and waits.
“Stone.”
Peter jumps at the voice. There’s nothing particular about it. It just…is.
“Oh, uh, it’s Spider-Man?” He winces. He sounds like such a loser. To his ears at least. He has no idea how he sounds to Avery Stone, but he trusts Tony’s tech to protect him.
“Hello, Spider-Man,” Stone says in a cool alto. Or is it a tenor? “Thank you for calling. Shall we get started?”
“Um, sure, I guess. I don’t really know what I’m doing though.”
“No worries. We’ll take it a step at a time. First, I want to assure you that anything you share with me is completely confidential, and I do mean anything. I’m not bound by any laws requiring me to report confessions of crimes. Considering being a vigilante is, in and of itself, illegal, it’s critical that you understand you can be frank with me without fear of consequences.”
“Frank? But I only know how to be—” He coughs. Mark that down in the Guinness World Records as the stupidest way to reveal his identity. “Sorry. Is, uh…that normal? That you’re like, outside the law? Is that a therapist thing?”
“No.”
A beat of silence hangs on the line. Then Peter asks, “What about Tony? Mr. Stark, I mean. He arranged this so…”
“Completely confidential,” Stone repeats. “Mr. Stark’s involvement ceased the moment this appointment was scheduled. From here out, I have nothing to say to him about our appointments, or whether I’ve taken you on as a client.”
His heart jumps. “Is there a chance you won’t? Accept me as a client, I mean.”
“That’s entirely up to you. If you want to talk, we will. If you don’t, we won’t.”
“And you won’t tell Mr. Stark if we don’t?”
"Correct."
He has a wild urge to hang up and flush the business card. No explaining, no relieving heartache, just done. There’s a fraught pause, and he gets the impression they’re both waiting to see what he’ll do.
We just want you to be okay.
He releases a shaky exhale.
“Still with me?” Stone asks. Their tone is absent of emotion. No judgment or even expectation. It’s…nice. Refreshing.
“Yeah. I’m with you. What else?”
“Excellent. Next, I’ll go over my qualifications. I have a Psy.D. in Clinical Psychology, a Master’s in Ethics, and a Bachelor’s in Anthropology, specializing in sociocultural anthropology. But most of what I’ve learned has come on the job. I spent fifteen years as a traditional therapist with a standard list of clients ranging from stay-at-home moms to Olympic athletes to Fortune 500 CEOs. In 2013, I became aware of a significant opportunity to help a new and, thus far, neglected group—heroes, vigilantes, and villains.”
“What? Villains?”
“I don’t discriminate in my client base, and when I say one hundred percent confidential, I mean it. If someone comes to me for help, I help them. I don’t vet them to see if they deserve it first.” Stone’s voice is as placid as ever, but there’s a current of passion underneath it. Just below the surface. Close enough to be felt, but not heard.
“I understand,” he says, because he’s the same. Most often when he stops petty crime on the street, the culprit is a New Yorker who needs help and isn’t getting it. He can’t always provide that help, but he tries. He does what he can. The world isn’t split into heroes and villains, and he sees that more than most.
“As I was saying, I saw the niche opening up, so I made preparations and moved into the space. My practice is well-established now, and I’ve been serving the super community for three years. There’s still a lot to learn, as with anything, but my processes are refined and they work well to protect both myself and my clients. Any questions?”
“No. It sounds like you— You’re helping a lot of people.”
“I hope so. That’s my goal. Now,” Stone pivots, “I have a sampling of anonymous reviews that I’m texting to this number now.”
Peter perks up. “You text?”
“Yes, I text.”
He detects an iota of humor.
“Can I text you? Like, if I—if I wanna talk? Between appointments, I mean.”
His phone buzzes. He scrolls through the reviews without really reading them beyond a few snatches of text:
Fantastic
Respectful
Privacy
Helped
“I won’t promise to be available immediately, but yes, you can text me whenever you like. However, I must strongly caution you to be careful about what you put in writing. I delete conversations when they conclude, and I suggest you do the same. If you don’t already have an off-network device, I suggest you acquire one before sending anything.”
“I’m all set. Mr. Stark, you know? Can we start now? Or is there more?”
“There’s more regarding how I safeguard my notes and such. Are you interested in learning about that?”
“Mr. Stark said he vetted you.”
“Thoroughly, yes. I can send the technicals for you to review on your own if you don’t feel the need to go over them together.”
“That’s fine. I trust Mr. Stark. I’m sure he was pushy and annoying, so I’m sorry about that.”
There’s a brief pause, and then Stone says, “I’ll send you the documents and then we can start.”
Peter smiles. It takes strong character to refrain from bitching about Tony when given a window, and Peter knows Tony was overbearing and obnoxious to Stone. It’s his way.
His phone buzzes. He sees the documents but doesn’t open them.
“Okay,” Stone says, “normally, I would start by establishing what you’d like to get out of our meetings and ask for some basic facts about yourself to give me a starting point.”
“I just need someone to talk to,” Peter admits. “Like, really bad. Someone who isn’t going to hover or try to fix things or think I’m crazy. Can I tell you about myself later? I just need to get everything out so I can stop obsessing over it.”
“I’m listening.”
Peter takes a deep breath and presses his back into the corner of the closet. “I guess I better start with Titan. The first time. You heard about the fight with Thanos, right? For the Infinity Stones?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the first time we lost, and I’m the only one that knows.”
~*~
Peter gets a running start and leaps. As he falls past the traffic on the bridge, the river rushes to meet him. He fires a web and eases into a swing. His toes skim across the murky depths, and then he rises back up. He fires another web, and another, pulling himself faster, farther, until he can’t tell the difference between falling and flying.
The bridge runs out. He releases his last web and flips through the air—heels over head—then slams onto the end car of the J train on his toes and fingertips. Inside, a few people scream and one slams her fist on the window, cussing and hurling insults at him. He ignores them and scurries onto the roof.
He feels good. He feels loose. He feels like tigers are chasing him. Like, eep! Like, flee! Like, help!
No, no help. He’s had plenty of help today. What he needs is a distraction so he doesn’t overthink the way he spilled his guts to Stone.
Why did I talk so much about Harley?
No, don’t think about it.
“Karen, what’s happening in Brooklyn today? Any police activity?”
Peter sprints the length of the train, then jumps, curling into a front flip. As he unfurls, he launches a web at a streetlight on the road above and pulls. Rapidly, he fires another and another—launch, pull, release, launch, pull, release—until he’s above the street with the setting sun on his back. He chases that flying feeling from before.
“There have been three calls in the past hour about attempted burglaries.”
“Really? What’s the pattern?”
“I ran a calculation based on timestamps and locations. They’re heading west. Should there be a fourth attempt, it will likely occur in the next ten minutes in this vicinity.” A map pops up on his HUD with a red circle around the heart of Brooklyn.
He adjusts his course to travel southeast. “What kind of attempts are we talking? Clubs? Residences?”
“Two bodegas and a street vendor. The suspects have been described as around five feet tall with dark hoods and no weapons.”
Peter groans. It sounds like kids. He doesn’t wanna talk sense into some wanna-be thugs! He wants to hit things. He wants a fight.
“Highlight the most likely locations to be hit next, please. Focus on easy street access and low pedestrian traffic.”
The map in his HUD transforms, zooming in and popping up a half dozen glowing cubes labeled with the name of the establishment.
Half paying attention to where he’s webbing, Peter reviews the options. “No. No. N— Yes.”
It’s another food cart, and it sits on a weird corner where trash bins and an old row of newspaper boxes block it almost entirely from sight until you’re on top of it. The lady who runs it is small and timid-looking, but she keeps a crowbar and she’s not afraid to use it when she feels threatened. And it doesn’t take much to make her feel threatened—ask him how he knows.
He closes the map and focuses on speed and stealth as he gets close. Instead of coming in swinging down the street, he transitions to scaling and leaping from building to building until he arrives at the food stand.
Options for lying in wait are extremely limited, so he does as spiders do and crawls onto the underside of the fire escape directly above the cart and tucks himself into a shadowy corner. In the five minutes it takes for the kids to show, his stomach growls twelve times. He loves noodle rolls, and perching above them is torture. By the time the teenagers—preteens, maybe—come skulking around the corner with their hoods up and cinched around their noses, he’s feeling even punchier than he was when he fled the apartment.
A glance below at the noodle roll lady reveals she’s already reaching for her crowbar.
Well, there’s nothing else for it.
Peter drops from his hiding spot and lands between the kids and the noodle roll lady as she brings the crowbar out for everyone to see.
“Alright, everyone. Let’s— Agh!” His Spidey-sense twinges just as the crowbar comes down hard on the junction of his neck and shoulder.
“I’m sorry!” Metal rings as the crowbar hits the sidewalk. “Oh, not again! I’m so— You scared the shit out of me. Stop with the lurking and appearing out of nowhere!”
Peter massages his poor aching shoulder. “I was trying to hel— Hey!” He shoots a web from each wrist and catches his teen—maybe preteen—wannabe thugs as they turn to run. “You two,” he says, “need to stick around. We need to have a talk.”
~*~
An hour later, the kids—thirteen-year-olds—have been fed, educated, and returned home, and Spider-Man is back to swinging through Brooklyn. They were just hungry. Maybe a little angry. Nothing Peter is unfamiliar with. With hot, delicious noodle rolls in hand, he walked with them to the nearby food pantry and talked them through how to get food, what to bring to make sure they get their fair share, and what time to show up—tomorrow, of course. It’s way too late in the day for free food.
It’s a reminder of one of the few great things to come of the blip: F.E.A.S.T. Aunt May’s brainchild, born from how hard she struggled to track down their stuff and get housing and a job after they blipped back to nothing. F.E.A.S.T. was bigger than a food bank or a homeless shelter or a job placement service. It was somewhere anyone could go at any time and find someone who cared with the resources to help. New York doesn’t feel like New York without it.
He could plant the seed. It wouldn’t be difficult. He could tell her about these kids tonight—hungry and alone and making bad choices because they were hungry and alone. He could tell her about any number of people on any number of nights. But would it be enough? Without the first-hand experience, without the global catastrophe that the blip wrought on billions of people, could it bloom?
There’s only one thing he knows for sure. He needs to do something to work off his nervous energy. Helping a couple of teenagers was not the distraction he came looking for tonight.
“Karen, give me something hot. I don’t care where.”
“There’s a stand-off between police and approximately eleven assailants in Queens. Gunfire was reported over an hour ago.”
Peter twists mid-swing and hauls ass north. “Queens? Why didn’t you say so!”
“You asked about Brooklyn.”
Damn AI.
~*~
Peter adjusts the balled-up hoodie under his neck and stares up into the folds of the clothes he never wears—as evidenced by their location hanging in his closet rather than crammed in a laundry basket or strewn about his room. On his back, he crosses his ankles and sticks his left foot to the door to keep it from slipping down. Comfortable.
“Sure, what’s the advice?” he asks. He keeps his discomfort out of his voice. Or, well, he assumes he does. It’s difficult to know how he sounds since the Iron Spider suit is adjusting how Stone hears his voice.
They’ve had a handful of calls over the summer, but until now all Stone has offered him is a listening ear. He’s not sure how he feels about this so-called “advice”.
“It’s something my grandfather used to say.”
Peter’s foot slips. “Really? It’s not something from psychology school or whatever?”
“It’s not. In fact, most things I’ve learned and pass on didn’t come from psychology school.”
“Or whatever,” Peter adds.
There’s almost a smile in Stone’s voice as they say, “Or whatever.”
Peter counts it as a victory. “What’s your grandfather’s advice, then?”
“Never make a life-changing decision because of a bad day.”
Peter goes tense all over. What are they trying to say? Slowly, he asks, “Why else would you make a major change?”
“Because the good days fail to meet your standards, or because the bad days are so frequent—or so potent—that they overtake the good. Make sense?”
Begrudgingly, Peter says, “I guess. Are you saying you think I messed up? You think I should have waited for more bad days, or for him to actually—”
“No,” Stone interrupts.
Peter goes silent immediately. Stone never interrupts.
“No, I’m simply sharing some advice that I’ve found to be valuable. My hope is it can help you make difficult decisions in the future, and save you some angst from second-guessing those decisions.”
“Oh.”
A sticky silence descends. Peter knows he should fill it—historically, he has—but he doesn’t want to talk about Harley today, and there’s little else on his mind. Did he make the right call? Was he too rash? Too quick to change the entire universe to assuage his fears? What if Harley was only having a bad day?
“Can I give you some homework?” Stone asks.
Peter forces away the melancholic thoughts and drums up some of the ole Spider-Man wise guy act. “But school doesn’t start until next week, teach.”
More silence. It takes precious seconds for Peter to—with a start that has him rocketing upright—realize he just gave away a huge piece of information about himself.
“College school, I mean. Re-education. Never too old for learning—that’s what everyone says. Yep.” He puts his face in his palms. College school. There’s no saving this epic blunder. “Can you just…forget I said all that?”
Another beat of silence, and then, in the same unruffled tone as always, Avery Stone says, “We can ignore it for now.”
For now. Fuck. Peter fights the urge to hang up in a panic.
“Homework,” Stone says. “If you’re amenable and have time, I think it would be helpful for you to write down all the good things that have come from your choice to prevent the loss to Thanos. From our conversations this summer, I’ve noticed you have a tendency to dwell on what has changed—as you perceive it—for the worse. I’d like you to get a more balanced view of how the world has changed. Note the negative changes if you like, but I want you to put special effort into thinking through the positive outcomes. It’s important to write them down so you can see them and quantify them. Brains are sometimes silly things. What do you think?”
“I guess I can try it,” he says without bothering to hide the doubt in his voice. He very much doesn’t want to do this exercise. The way he figures it, the less he thinks about how everything has changed, the better. Asking him to dwell on it? Assigning him homework to make him think about it all? It just seems cruel. “If I have time,” he hedges.
“If you have time,” Stone agrees. “I’m looking forward to our next conversation.”
They always say something like that at the end of the call. An un-subtle hint that Peter should call again. They haven’t bothered with appointment dates and times since the first. He’d rather text Stone when he has something in mind to chat about. If he only calls at appointment times, he’s afraid he’ll just sit there with an empty head, everything he wanted to talk about forgotten until he hangs up and it all rushes back. He’s no good with appointments, even when he manages to keep them.
A call pops up on his HUD. Ugh. Tony.
“I, uh— I gotta go. I’ll think about your homework.”
“Thank you,” Stone says. “Talk soon.”
“Bye.”
Peter hangs up quickly and answers Tony’s call before he can force it through. “Hey, Mr. Stark.”
“Woah, is that you, kid? Wearing the Iron Spider, huh? I did a damn good job with the voice anonymizer. Damn. You sound like a man.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes, it’s me, yes, I’m in the Iron Spider, and yes, you did. What’s going on?”
“To the point. I like this new leaf. Come to the compound this weekend,” Tony says. “I’ve hardly seen you this summer, and your little crush went home last night so you don’t have to worry about any awkward encounters. I still think the whole thing is ridiculous, by the way. In case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” Peter says. Then he winces. “But I can’t come this weekend. School starts next week.”
“So? That means this is your last homework-free weekend. What better time is there?”
“I just can’t. I’ll come by soon though!” he promises.
Silence. Stomach turning. Silence.
Tony takes an audible breath, then says, “Pete, I thought you were staying away because of Harley, but it’s not me you’re avoiding, is it?”
“What?” Peter squawks. “No!” he lies. “No, no, no, no. Of course not! I’m just— I’m just busy. You know, Spider-Man, and it’s my senior year and college and— and— I just need to lock in, you know? This is my year to do it right. I don’t want to screw it up.”
The truth (crouched within a lie). Because the truth (full truth and nothing but the truth) is that Peter is avoiding Tony. It’s hard to be around him without remembering losing him, and moving on without him. How the city mourned a version of him that was both real and nothing but a glamor at the same time. It’s hard, but that’s not all. The main reason—the big one—is that Tony and Pepper announced they’re expecting a baby—due in January—and Peter can’t remember if that’s right.
The thought that he erased Morgan has had him in a panicked stasis for weeks. Did they conceive before the fight with Thanos? Or did Peter’s time gambit rewrite their only child? There’s almost a one hundred percent chance they’ll end up with an entirely different kid unless Morgan was already a bun in the oven when he changed things. Too many variables. Impossible to recreate perfectly.
It’s haunting him. The kid is going to be born in a few short months, but how will he know whether it’s the same Morgan? If it’s a girl, it’ll be years before she’s developed enough to even start comparing her to the little girl he only met once. Unless it comes out a boy or strawberry blonde, he’ll likely never know, but he’ll always wonder.
It’s easier to stay away.
Besides, he is busy. With his Spider-Man duties, Ned and MJ wanting their senior year to be unforgettable, and Aunt May picking his brain for non-profit ideas after he planted the seed for F.E.A.S.T.—his schedule is jam-packed and only going to get worse when school starts. He can’t disappear upstate for an entire weekend.
Tony sighs. Loudly. Displeased. “Alright, I’ll give you a pass this time, but I am going to hold you to this “soon” you’ve promised. Eat, sleep, and keep your buggy little nose clean, will you, kid?”
“Always, Mr. Stark.”
He snorts. “Try the other one, Underoos.”
Peter hesitates, then asks, “The other what?”
“Forget it.” Tony sighs. Louder than a moment ago, somehow. “Sometimes I forget you’re an infant.”
“Rude.”
“But not wrong.”
“Title of your memoir.”
Tony barks a laugh. “I miss you, you little shit. Call me if you need anything. I mean it. Call.” When he hangs up, he’s still laughing.
Peter’s HUD dims, and his attention returns to the dark interior of his closet. “I miss you, too,” he whispers.
~*~
Peter forgot what hell school is when you actually bother to go.
“I’m not gonna make it,” he says into his pillow.
Then he forces his sore, aching body upright anyway. He has purposefully not been counting how much sleep he’s been averaging since school started over two months ago, but he knows it’s not enough. Still, he can’t bring himself to cut patrols short, and he swore that this time around he wouldn’t take his friends for granted. Three priorities: 1. Aunt May, 2. His friends, and 3. Staying away from Harley. Upholding priority #2 means showing up for class even when he feels like death. He won’t be an unreliable, self-absorbed flake this time around, even if it kills him.
He takes a tepid shower, dresses, grabs a banana, kisses May’s cheek, and arrives at Midtown Tech ten minutes before the first bell. MJ and Ned are waiting in the alcove where they always wait, and the moment he’s in range, they pull him into a debate about bottled water and whether its benefits outweigh its harm.
They walk together to biology, and then MJ splits off on her own to get to speech class. Peter sits beside Ned and, as every day, tries not to feel weird that Harley isn’t sitting in front of him. He’s in Tennessee with his family, where he belongs, and that’s a good thing.
By some miracle, Peter keeps his head off the desk until the bell rings, but he couldn’t tell you a single thing that was taught. He moves to the next class on his list.
~*~
The months pass. Days feel long, but weeks are over before he knows it. Peter patrols and tries not to resent May, Ned, and MJ for asking more of him. It mostly works. Sometimes he thinks, maybe once, he could say no to whatever inane thing they ask of him, but then he remembers the look on MJ’s face when she confronted him outside of her apartment. He never wants to give her a reason to look at him like that in this time. He made the jump for Harley and everyone else whose lives were shattered by the blip, but that doesn’t mean he can’t grasp this second chance with both hands and put everything he has into doing it right this time.
He thinks about Stone’s homework, but doesn’t do it. Peter doesn’t need to tally the points. He succeeded in his primary goal—stopping the blip, saving Harley—who cares if he lost something irreplaceable in the process, right? Count your blessings, Peter. Think of the people, Peter. Be grateful. Move on.
He doesn’t call Stone again, but Tony calls all the time now. Peter answers…maybe once a month? Maybe less?
He doesn’t want to go to the compound, but Tony is no good at taking no for an answer, so it’s easier not to answer. He also doesn’t want to answer Tony’s questions or hear that he’s being unhealthy and his schedule isn’t sustainable. It doesn’t need to be.
It only needs to get him through high school, and then he can pull back. Probably. Maybe. He’s going through the motions like he’s going to go for MIT with MJ and Ned, but he can’t imagine himself there. In Boston? What about Spider-Man? Spider-Man can’t relocate to Boston. New York would never forgive him. And what about his secret identity? If he transplants Spider-Man for four years except holidays and weekends, people will notice. They’ll know how old he is, what year he’s in, where he’s from, and where he goes to school.
The only solution he can see is to not be Spider-Man at all in Boston, and he knows himself well enough to know he could never hack it. He’d break, and then everyone would know. Who is he when he’s not Spidey? Just some kid waiting for the chance to escape his own skin and be somebody bigger.
~*~
Peter takes the hit from the baseball bat right in yesterday’s bruised rib. It makes a sickening crunch before pain explodes like a fireball in his chest.
“Home run,” he wheezes, then spins and roundhouse kicks the carjacker in the head.
They both drop to the asphalt, gasping and clutching at their injuries, but the carjacker gets to her feet first and, amazingly, staggers toward the car she was trying to jimmy her way into when Peter stumbled upon her.
He badly wants to crack a joke about a dog that just won’t learn, but he doesn’t have the air.
From the ground, he fires a web that plasters her hand to the door handle. “Not yours,” he gasps. As she tries to wrench off the webbing with her free hand, he webs that one down too. “Can’t have.”
She rips back on the webbing, twisting and yelling. While her hands don’t budge a millimeter, her thrashing does succeed in setting off the car alarm.
Shrill, piercing, and painful, it blares through the night, reverberating off of buildings until it’s echoing from every angle.
Peter claps his hands over his ears. “Bad dog. No,” he mumbles. He awkwardly climbs to his feet while stabbing, shooting, white-hot pain reminds him he’s been flying way too high for far too long.
Hunched and miserable, he stumbles away. His work here is done.
Thanks to the car alarm, he doesn’t hear the thrusters until it’s too late. He bumps nose first into a metal chest. Ridiculously, his first thought is of Harley. His teammate, his partner, his shadow. But when Peter looks up, the faceplate flips back, and it’s most definitely Mr. Stark and his angry eyebrows glaring out at him.
Peter keeps his hands over his ears and glares back.
“Fri, give me a read on Spider-Man’s injuries.”
“Hey,” Peter protests weakly, “those are mine. I thought you were respecting my privacy now.”
“Tried it. Hated it. Pep gave me permission to make a special exception for you. Broken ribs, sprained wrist, and a torn ligament in your knee? Seriously, Underoos? What are you doing out here?”
“In my defense, my ribs were only bruised until, like, thirty seconds ago.”
Mr. Stark’s eye twitches. “That’s not the glowing defense you think it is. Let’s get you home.”
“I can get there myself.”
“Not your home, bug brain. I also got special permission from your aunt to abduct you. Your bags are already in the car.”
“What!”
“She wanted to go to bed and I was tired of waiting for you to get home, so she raided your clothes basket. I’m parked just around the corner. Let’s get a move on. That alarm is not getting turned off anytime soon, is it?”
Peter has a million objections to this, but if May gave her blessing, packed his bags, and Mr. Stark is here and prepared to drag him bodily away, he doesn’t have a chance of fighting it.
“It’s not even the weekend,” he grumbles as he limps after Mr. Stark, blessedly away from the car alarm.
“Nope, better. It’s spring break.”
Fuck. He’s fucked.
He doesn’t realize how fucked until he’s inside the car and Tony is in a t-shirt, wrinkled blazer, and jeans beside him in the driver’s seat. “By the way, my other protégé is in town, and I expect you to behave. Remember, Pep gave me an exception for you. No more Mr. Nice Pushover. Nut up, grow up, and act like a mature young adult or I will stuff you both in a get-along shirt made of vibranium for the entire week. Do not test me.”
~*~
Peter doesn’t see Harley that first day at the Compound. Maybe because he and Tony arrive at two in the morning. Maybe because Peter goes to his room immediately upon arrival and sleeps for thirty-two hours straight. Really, it could be that Harley is avoiding him now. Impossible to say.
~*~
Peter wakes in his Iron Spider suit, disoriented. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. The blue of the walls is as confusing as the walls themselves. He reaches out and is surprised when he doesn’t find a body beside him. The ground is upsettingly soft, and there’s a weird lump under his—
He rips his pillow out from under his head and blinks at it in abject confusion.
Reality slowly sinks back in.
It’s been a long time since he’s woken up confused like that: expecting to be somewhere else. Expecting hard ground and an orange sunset and…
He reaches for the memories, but they fade to mist and vanish before he can grasp them.
Peter lies in bed and takes stock of his injuries. His knees and wrist feel fine when he flexes them, and he’s only getting the barest echo of pain from his ribs. The Iron Spider suit is great at holding stuff where it’s supposed to be so it can heal correctly. It’s the only reason Mr. Stark didn’t send him to the med bay.
He sits up—meaning to test his ribs more—but becomes aware of the pressing state of his bladder instead. Ribs forgotten, he scrambles for the bathroom.
Once his bladder and bowels are relieved, two things captivate his attention: 1. his yowling stomach and 2. he can smell himself, and it’s not good. But which to solve first?
“Hey, Fri,” Peter asks. “Is anyone in the kitchen?”
“Hi, Peter. No one is presently in the kitchen.”
“Can I get there without being seen?”
“Yes.”
“Great, thanks.”
Still, he tiptoes through the halls in only a pair of ratty shorts and an oversized t-shirt, all the way to the kitchen. He slips inside quickly and—
—and comes face-to-face with Harley of all people preparing a bowl of leftovers to go into the microwave. They make startled eye contact and freeze.
“Hello,” Harley says after a tense moment. He looks Peter up and down, then snaps his gaze back to his face. “Sorry.”
Peter can’t move. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., what the hell? Did you seriously just lie to me?”
“No. At the time you asked, the kitchen was empty.”
“Okay?! And then after that when you said I wouldn’t be seen??”
“You weren’t seen. I ran a calculation that determined Harley would arrive before you and thus you could get to the kitchen without being seen. I answered you honestly, Peter.”
Peter stabs an accusatory finger at the ceiling. “You know what I meant. You sound like Tony. Sometimes your maker comes screaming out.”
“If you’d like some tips on asking better questions to get the results you’re looking for, I can—”
“No, no, never mind. I want to eat before my stomach digests itself. I don’t care about anything else.” He eyes Harley at the microwave. He’s got a constipated look on his face like he’s amused but not sure if he’s allowed to be.
Under Peter’s attention, he holds up his bowl. “D’you want—”
“Pete!” Tony breezes into the kitchen. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. told me you’re up.”
“F.R.I.D.A.Y.!”
“Hey, woah. Don’t yell at her for doing what I told her to. How are you feeling, kid?” He presses the back of his hand against Peter’s forehead. “Chest okay? You reek, by the way.”
Peter swats him away. “I’m fine, and I know. I only came in here to eat before I shower because nobody else was supposed to be here, but since everyone’s here, F.R.I.D.A.Y., do you wanna invite Pepper to join us so she can comment on my poor hygiene too?”
“Of course, Peter.”
“If you’re hungry, I’ll cook!” Tony says, and practically skips to the cabinet full of pots and pans. “We’ll do a full spread and kick off the week right.”
“I don’t want a full spread! I want to gobble random ingredients over the sink like a caveman so I can go shower.”
“Then go shower, kid. I’ll have food ready when you’re done.”
Peter throws his arms in the air. “That’s not— I need—”
“Peter, Miss Potts thanks you for the invitation, but regretfully declines and asks for a similar opportunity to reconnect once your hygiene issues have been resolved.”
Peter puts his face in his hands and screams.
The microwave dings.
“Here.” Harley's voice comes from right in front of him.
Peter’s head pops up so fast his neck spasms. Harley is holding out a steaming bowl of soup. It smells like ambrosia, and Peter’s stomach responds before he does, letting out a loud, insistent rumble that even Tony hears, judging by the way he snickers into the fridge. Harley mutes his amusement so only his lips twitch, but Peter knows him too well and his eyes shimmer with barely contained mirth.
Peter drops his gaze. “Thank you.” Then, with soup in hand, he flees.
~*~
The soup is the greatest thing Peter has ever tasted. It’s barely a drop in the bucket of his hunger, but it gives him enough energy to get cleaned up and linger fearfully outside the kitchen. He’s dressed in his cleanest, least wrinkled jeans—dark wash—and the only t-shirt in his bag that didn’t have a dorky science pun on it. He almost put on his black denim jacket to complete the look, but decided that was too transparent and would only result in mockery from Mr. Stark.
He fluffs his hair and takes a deep breath. Then he steps into the kitchen.
Not two steps into the room, he’s embraced in a cloud of rose and cedar. “Peter!” Pepper ends the one-armed embrace and says, “Here,” before depositing something weighty in his arms.
He looks down and blinks several times as his stomach drops to the floor with a splatter.
“Oh,” he breathes as his heart rate kicks up. “I shouldn’t— Will someone else please—”
He looks up and finds Tony at the stove wearing an apron, smirking at him, and Harley sitting at the table with a cup of coffee between his hands. He has his head tipped curiously, but isn’t making any move to jump up and get the baby out of Peter’s arms.
Pepper in particular seems smug. “I heard you have a running away problem. That baby doesn’t leave this room, understand?”
Peter feels sick. “Okay, but— I promise I’ll stay forever if you just—” Harley saved him last time. He turns beseeching eyes onto him. “D’you want to hold—”
Pepper laughs. “Are you kidding? Harley has changed more diapers this week than I have. He needs this break just as much as we do.”
“Oh, I’m super not qualified for— Someone please take this baby from me.”
“Sit down.”
Peter sits at the table where Pepper indicates.
“Are you supporting her head? It should sit right in the crook of your elbow.”
“I— Yeah. Her? It’s a girl?”
“She is. Her name is Morgan, after my—”
“Your uncle,” he whispers. “I remember.”
Peter forces himself to look down at the lumpy little thing in his arms. She looks like every baby ever. He only met the Morgan of before once. The weekend following Tony’s funeral was all the time he spent with her, and then six months later he...
There’s no way he’ll ever know if this baby is the same as the original Morgan. How old was she? Six? Four? He never asked. He doesn’t have enough experience with kids to tell. And she was Tony and Pepper’s kid. She had to have been way advanced for her age. He’ll never know.
Overwhelmed tears push at the back of his eyes. He blinks them away frantically.
“You do?” Pepper looks confused. “I don’t recall talking about him before.”
Peter sniffs. His voice only wavers a little as he says, “Uh, well, you must have.” He might have heard that from someone at the funeral, actually.
A gentle hand caresses his shoulder. “Pete, honey, are you alright?”
“Oh, you know me,” he says, too loud and a hint manic. “Just— The miracle of life. Gets to me. Can someone please take this baby?”
“Do you promise to stay seated and have lunch with us?”
“Can I be excused?” Harley asks before Peter can answer.
“No,” Tony says. He puts a steaming plate of ravioli smelling of basil and garlic in front of Peter and a more reasonable portion in front of Harley. “Peter needs to get used to you being around, considering you live here and all. I’m through with this avoiding-me crap, and you’re not making it better by making avoiding you easier. We’re resolving it right now.”
Harley sounds worried. “Okay, but look at him. He’s—”
A sob bursts out of Peter despite his best efforts. He snorts snot back up into his nose before it can drip on Morgan, but a few tears dribble onto her blanket.
Pepper quickly takes Morgan from his arms.
Tony says, “Harley, you’re excused.”
Harley takes his plate and books it out of the room. Peter doesn’t blame him one bit. He’s kind of envious, actually. God I wish that were me.
Tony sits beside him and puts his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “This is about Thanos, isn’t it?”
Of course it’s about Thanos. Everything is about Thanos. Why did the chicken cross the road? Because Thanos was there.
But not in the way Tony thinks.
“Sort of,” he says in a quaking voice.
Tony squeezes his shoulder. “Have you been talking to that therapist?”
“I was.”
“Was? Well, you need to start again.”
“They gave me homework.”
“Oh, well, God forbid it takes some work to fix a traumatic—”
“That’s the problem, Mr. Stark. I don’t think I deserve to be fixed. I think I… I think it’s right that I feel like this. For a while at least. It would be… It’d be wrong if I didn’t.”
“I get it. You took a life, but Peter—”
“That’s not it, though. I keep telling you—” Peter mops his face with the nice cloth napkin that Pepper hands him. “It’s not about killing Thanos.”
“Then what is it?”
“I… I can’t tell you.”
“Why the hell not?”
Because you might hate me forever for erasing your kid.
It strikes him then. For the first time, sitting in the Starks’ kitchen with bouncing baby Morgan Stark not two feet away cradled in her mother’s arms, Peter considers that the reason the Avengers did the time travel fix the way they did may have been for selfish reasons. It might not have been because they knew something Peter didn’t. They might not have known of some huge, mysterious consequence that would come from stopping the blip in the first place. They might have made the call that they did without regard for the destruction and loss of life caused by their initial loss to Thanos, not to spare the world, but so Tony Stark could keep the little family he cobbled together in the aftermath.
It sobers him on the spot. Peter keeps the napkin pressed to his face and vaguely registers that Tony and Pepper are still talking to him, but now that he’s had the thought, he’s sure of it. He didn’t miss something. He just…made the hard choice that the Avengers squirmed their way around.
I just wanted to be like you.
And I wanted you to be better.
The words from years ago, when he was first getting his feet under him—finding out who he was and who Spider-Man was going to be—ring through the room as though freshly spoken. It was Peter’s first big blunder. He bit off way more than he could chew, and Mr. Stark came down on him hard.
I wanted you to be better.
Tony could never have made this choice. Living with it—having known his daughter and knowing he erased her forever—it would have destroyed him. It had to be Peter. Peter who was gone during the blip, who wouldn’t know all the particulars he’d be undoing, but who felt the full jarring impact of how much damage had been done that even five years after the fact, the world was still struggling to recover. It could never have been Tony.
I wanted you to be better.
Peter wipes his face and sits up.
“I’m okay,” he says, cutting across Tony’s ramble about something to do with…plants? Some tortured metaphor, probably. “I’m okay. This… This helped. Thank you.”
“Really?” Tony seems skeptical. “I don’t feel like I did anything.”
You stopped me from running away. You forced me to think about it.
“You did. You both did. I, umm”—he pinches his damp napkin between his finger and thumb—”I’ll go pitch this in the laundry hamper and then we can eat. You can even tell Harley to come back if you want.”
They stare at him. Even baby Morgan, her bright blue eyes watching him with rapt attention.
“Will you call your therapist after?” Tony finally asks.
Peter thinks about it, then nods. “Tomorrow, I’ll call. I have to do my homework first.”
Pepper hugs him. “Any time you need a good cry, you just let me know. I have a list of good crying movies.”
Tony nods. “She really does. Puts one on, cries her heart out, and moves on. Back to polished and professional Pep in under an hour. It’s freaky.”
Pepper whacks his shoulder. “It’s healthy.” To Peter she says, “I mean it. Any time, okay?”
“Okay, Miss Potts. Thanks.”
She grins and holds her left hand out. “In a year, it’s going to be Mrs. Potts-Stark.”
~*~
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were going to propose.”
“Why would I tell you? You’re like, twelve, and you suck at keeping secrets.”
He doesn’t know the half of it.
“Well, you should have told me after.”
“I tried, kid. You didn’t answer your phone, just like you didn’t answer when I called to tell you my kid was born. You wanna be upset, be upset with yourself.” Tony winces. “But not too upset. Like, a healthy amount of upset. No more of this deserving to be fucked up stuff.”
“Please never bring that up again. It was a moment of weakness. I shouldn’t have said it.”
“Too late. I’m glad you said it. It’s gonna give me nightmares, but I’d rather know where you’re at. And now I’m going to be letting you know you don’t deserve to feel like shit from now on. I’ll learn cross-stitch so I can embroider it on all of your clothes. You don’t deserve to be miserable.”
Peter points a pair of pliers at him. “This is why I don’t tell you things.”
“That’s because you’re weak. Harley still tells me things.”
From across the lab, Harley says, “I tell you literally nothing.”
Tony puts down his blowtorch. “That’s not true. What about the time you had to fight a roadrunner for your lunch?”
“Made it up.”
“And that time you were late to school because there was a crocodile in the road and your mother didn’t believe you and you got grounded for an entire weekend?”
“I lied.”
“I vouched for you.”
“Yeah, it was hilarious. To this day, she thinks you’re a little coconuts. “
“Wait. Are any of these animals even in Tennessee?”
Harley sighs. “No, Tony, they’re not.”
Tony narrows his eyes. “Did your dad even leave you for lotto tickets?”
Harley grins—crooked with a mischievous light in his eyes and a dimple in his cheek. “You’ll never know.”
Peter lies on the floor.
“Hold— And what are you doing?” Tony demands.
“Recovering,” Peter says.
“From what?”
“I’m not saying.”
“Why do you need to be on the floor for it?”
“Because this is the recovery position. It’d be even weirder if I did it standing up.”
“Do I need to call medical?”
Peter thinks about it. It’s tempting, but then he imagines being trapped in the med bay and the appeal slips away. “No. I just need a minute.”
Tony sighs. “I don’t get paid enough for this drama.”
Peter pops upright. “Be so for real,” he demands at the same time Harley says, “I did not just hear you say that.”
Tony laughs. “Look at that, you’re fine after all. Get up and help me with this, would you?”
Peter grumbles, but gets to his feet. As he crosses the lab, he feels Harley watching him and considers ignoring him, but then he’s already looking before he decides.
Harley rolls his eyes for Peter to see, and then shakes his head at Mr. Stark. Then, when Peter works up a responding smile, Harley’s smile is blinding.
~*~
The compound is quiet. The windows in the lab show only black night and a sliver of moon. A shaft of silver light cuts across the lab, illuminating Harley’s face as he approaches. Peter can’t breathe as Harley keeps coming closer, far closer than they would ever be with Mr. Stark in the room, but it’s just the two of them.
Harley presses him against the wall—chest to chest, hips aligned—and then he stops. He ducks his head, and their lips brush once, twice, and then Harley kisses him so sweetly. A sip of nectar from the heart of a rose. Peter’s blood stops to feel every moment.
Peter chases the kiss with his eyes closed. He can’t look at him. He knows which one he’ll see.
“How come you’re so weird around me, Pete?”
“Because you’re dead,” Peter says. “I killed you.”
He opens his eyes and he’s alone, staring up at the textured ceiling above his bed. The curtains are drawn and dark, but he can hear crickets and a distant owl, so he knows it’s far from morning. Peter gets up anyway and brushes his teeth, scrubbing away the lingering tingle on his lips. His heart hurts.
~*~
After the dream, Peter wanders the compound rather than lie back down. It doesn’t help. The night outside the windows. The moonlight against the floor and inching up the walls—it reminds him of the dream. All that’s missing is Harley.
The delicate way Harley kissed him, the heat of him, even the sound of his voice and speech pattern all felt extremely real.
You’re dead. I killed you.
Also real. The simple, ugly truth Peter has been trying to bury under work and exhaustion for months, but no matter how hard he tries it’s always there, in the back of his mind: the Harley he knew and loved is gone forever, and he did it.
With the dream haunting him, Peter slips outside and pulls in a lungful of pine air, heavy with the yet to be broken promise of spring. No snow this year.
Visages of his last spring break hover just outside the dream—he and his Harley keeping warm in the flames of Peter’s burning bridges.
He focuses on the ground under his bare feet. Cold and damp. And the air—cool on his skin but far from freezing. A soft breeze curls past, and he shivers.
He makes for the trees, hoping that in their depths the memories won’t be so heavy. Later, he’ll cite his durable skin and enhanced nature as why he thought a walk through the woods in March with no shoes or coat was a good idea, but the truth is he never considered that he could be hurt, or that he’d mind if he was.
Peter turns his back on the plain where the Battle of Earth didn’t happen and makes for towering pines instead. The needles are soft underfoot, with only the occasional sharp poke to keep him alert. The trees swallow the white noise of the night—the wind, the industrial sounds of the compound; air moving through ducts, fans, and motors. It all goes quiet, and finally, Peter can breathe.
A weight slaws off his shoulders as he walks.
Vaguely, he’s aware of his feet going numb and his fingers aching with cold, but mostly he revels in the peace that comes with the quiet. The birds come awake and begin calling to the new day, while the owls and bats wrap up their night and hunker down for the sunlit hours. Somewhere nearby, crickets go quiet and only resume their chirping tones after Peter passes. It’s not silent by any means, but it’s different on every level from the noise of the city. It takes him out of his head and puts him firmly in a world of pine and a million unseen creatures.
Peter finds the pond after…
He’s not sure how long he’s been walking, but the sun is cresting the horizon, so he assumes it’s been hours.
Among the reeds and tall grass, he sits and lets the world turn around him. The grass trembles and sways in the breeze. Birds flit overhead. Geese land and take off from the pond. The dirt under his feet gathers between his toes. The sun rises and rises until it’s directly above him.
It’s then, when he realizes that means it’s noon, that he thinks to worry about Tony. F.R.I.D.A.Y. would have ratted him out the second he left the compound, right? Or would she have kept mum until Tony asked after him? It all depends on what Mr. Stark asked of her, and how he asked it. Regardless of when or how, by now F.R.I.D.A.Y. has definitely told Tony that Peter wandered out into the woods in naught but his pajamas. It’s been a few days since his big breakdown, but it’s still at the top of everyone’s minds. Disappearing in the middle of the night will not reflect well on his mental state.
With a sigh, Peter resigns himself to returning. He’s mostly okay with it since he’s getting really hungry, but he’s not at all looking forward to explaining this one, and Tony is going to expect something.
He attempts to stand, but immediately topples over. He can’t feel his feet at all, and his legs are achy and stiff. When he wraps his hands around his feet, they don’t feel particularly cold, but trying to curl his fingers makes him notice how stiff they are. He tucks them under his armpits and flinches.
Goosebumps ripple across his arms. His hands are very cold, and his feet are colder.
Notes:
Hey he's fine, right? What's a little frost bite and hypothermia to Spider-Man?
Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments!!! They mean the world to me!
Chapter 10: Hy-po-thermia
Summary:
Added the tag: hypothermia
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
After several minutes of careful stretching and some jumping jacks to get his blood moving, Peter tries to figure out which way he came from.
He’s in a clearing with the pond in the center, and all around are identical pine trees. The opposite side of the pond and most of the woods to his right and left are definitely not right. He knows he made a pretty straight shot for the nearest shore, but how straight? Vaguely, he recalls going around some shrubs, so he makes for a likely stand of bushes, and from there he follows a trail of depressed grass to the tree line where all trace of where he came from disappears under a bed of pine needles.
That’s okay. He just needs to go straight, and eventually he’ll run into the compound or the huge plain beyond it. No problem. He sets out walking.
It’s colder under the canopy than it was under the sun. He shivers and withdraws his arms into his t-shirt to hug against his chest. Then he shivers again as his cold arms contact warm flesh.
There’s nothing he can do for his feet but keep walking.
Where before he was in something of a peaceful fugue state, Peter is achingly aware of each step of his journey back to the compound. The day goes on. Did he walk this far the first time? He didn’t even check the time when he woke or before he left. How long did it take to reach the pond?
The sun seeks the horizon, and still he walks. Stiff with cold, hunger gnawing at his empty stomach—his thoughts are getting fuzzy. Freeze or starve? Which way is he gonna go? It’s not dangerously cold. They’ve been averaging in the low 60s this week, but that’s during the day with the sun. He hasn’t paid attention to the overnight low. That he left in the middle of the night and didn’t balk lends him some small measure of comfort, but that measure shrinks with the sunlight as goosebumps turn to full-bodied shivers he can’t quell.
His stomach is a hollow void of misery. He wasn’t built to go this long without food before the spider bite set his metabolism on fire. His head aches.
When the sun kisses the horizon and the woods flood with golden, dying light, he begins to panic. He should have reached the compound by now, right? What time does the sun set this time of year? Seven? Five? Did he walk this long last night? He doesn’t remember.
Peter breaks into a jog. The compound will come into view just after these trees.
Okay, no, these trees.
These trees?
Through chattering teeth, he mutters, “I’m n-not dying in the woods like some kind of-of-of-of lumberjack.”
He doesn’t have his web-shooters, but he’s got sticky fingers and toes. He doesn’t even have to kick off his shoes. Perks of not wearing any. Ha.
He scales the tallest tree in his immediate vicinity. The higher he goes, the more it sways in the wind—far more than buildings do. He stops a few times and hangs on until the movement subsides. Then, when he’s as high as he dares, he looks out at the world.
The woods are painted orange to match the sunset on the horizon, and the trees go for miles, as far as he can see. The compound is nowhere in sight.
~*~
The sun is long gone and Peter is too cold and tired to keep going. In the dark, he keeps tripping, falling asleep on his feet. He stopped to take inventory a while back and was shocked at the state of his feet. Ripped and torn and purple with cold, but he can’t feel any of it. They’re completely numb.
There’s a steady fear somewhere under his hunger, cold, and exhaustion. One that warns there’s no guarantee he’ll make it out of these woods. He should have made a shelter forever ago, back when he had light to see by and could feel his fingers, but he really thought he’d be able to find his way back. Walk straight. Simple. How could he screw that up?
Too tired to keep his head upright and shivering so badly he can barely control his arms, Peter shores up something of a nest made from pine needles, old leaves, and sticks under the dubious shelter of a leafy shrub. He curls up with his arms and knees tucked under his shirt, then gives in to the exhaustion pulling him under.
~*~
“Peter!”
Peter stirs, but immediately stops doing that. Everything hurts. His bones ache throughout his entire body. A machine without oil. Seized and rusted and stuck.
“Peter Parker!”
Who is that? What do they want? Don’t they know he’s sick? He feels like death warmed over, minus the warm part. At least the shivering finally stopped. Wait. Was he shivering?
“Peter!”
The voice is fainter, moving away. He’s relieved for a fraction of a second, but then panic kicks in so hard he sits up. Why is he scared? He’s fine. It must be that other person. Where is he going? Doesn’t he know how easy it is to get lost in this place?
Peter tries to stand, but topples over immediately. His arms are stuck. Pinned against his sides by— by— His shirt? And what’s this stuff doing here? He spits out a leaf and wriggles around until he can get his arms through their holes. It’s ridiculously difficult. But the time he manages it, he’s ready to lay back down and go to sleep.
“Peter Parker!”
Right. Focus.
“Harley,” he attempts to shout, but it comes out garbled. He reorganizes his tongue and shouts, “Harley!”
“Peter?”
He tries to stand, but his legs aren’t working and his feet look weird. Where’s his suit? Something’s not right. It’s not supposed to be like this. Scared now, he shouts, “Harley!”
“Peter! Where are you?”
Something comes crashing through the underbrush toward him. Peter scrambles to stand with renewed effort, but only manages to fall and cut his hand on a rock. Why are there rocks? That’s not right either. There should be nothing. He shouldn’t feel like this either. Something’s wrong.
But then Harley comes running around a mangy bush, and things like rocks and missing suits don’t matter so much. It feels like forever since Peter’s seen him, but he knows that can’t be right. Joined at the hip. That’s what they all say.
“I’ve got him,” Harley says, his voice choked with emotion. “Sending our coordinates now.” He does something with his watch, but Peter doesn’t have the patience for whatever game Harley is playing.
“Where did you go?” Peter demands. He tries to stand a fourth time and fails again. His damn legs. Something’s wrong. “What if you couldn’t find your way back?”
“Are you seriously cracking jokes right now?” Harley demands. He sounds mad.
“Jokes? You scared me, Harley.”
“I scared you?” Harley drops to his knees in front of Peter and grabs his hand to look at the cut on his palm. “Jesus, you’re freezing. He pulls a walkie-talkie clipped to his backpack strap over to his mouth and says, “Hurry with that chopper. I think he’s got hypothermia. He’s not talkin’ any sense.”
“Copy,” a familiar voice says in return, but Peter’s head is too fuzzy to place it.
Then, Harley takes off his backpack and starts pulling things out of it.
“Who are you talking to? Where’d you get all this stuff?”
Harley shoots him a weird look. “That was Nat. This is from the compound. Once F.R.I.D.A.Y. finally told Tony you disappeared into the woods in your PJs, it was all hands on deck to track your suicidal ass down.”
That word almost trips something. A memory. An emotion—an ugly one. Peter doesn’t want to know. He pushes it all away. He doesn’t want to remember.
"I'm gonna bandage that hand for you."
"Okay."
He sits still while Harley holds his hand and Peter leeches all the warmth from that point of contact he can muster. He's tempted to lean down a press a kiss to Harley's thumb, but Harley's motions are quick and efficient as he wipes the cut with an antiseptic wipe and wraps it with gauze.
Then Harley shoves a long-sleeve shirt into his hands. The texture is weird and grabby. “Put that on.”
“I don’t like it,” Peter says.
“I don’t care. You’re freezing. Put it on.”
“I have my suit. I don’t need—” With a start, he remembers his suit is missing. Panic rips through him. Heart thundering, strikingly close to tears, he says, “I lost my suit. I must have dismissed it when I was sleeping. It left me here.”
Harley shakes his head, confusion writ all over his face. “Just put on the shirt, Peter, please.”
“You don’t understand! It’s all I have.” Peter’s voice cracks. “I need it.”
Harley holds out his hands placatingly. “Alright, okay. I’ll help you get your suit back.”
“You will?”
“Of course, but first, put on this shirt. You can’t wear a suit over nothing, right? PJ’s just won’t do, and this shirt is special-made, did I tell you that? Tony designed it. It’s meant for layering.”
That makes sense. “Okay. Will you help? My hands aren’t working right.”
“Yeah. C’mere.”
Harley puts the shirt over Peter’s head and helps him work his arms through the sleeves. When Peter’s fingers splay all weird and he gets stuck halfway, Harley reaches in through the wrist to untangle things and guide his hand out.
Peter snorts and smiles at Harley, only a scant few inches away.
“What’s so funny?” Harley asks as he adjusts Peter’s collar. Immediately, heat sinks into his skin like he’s wearing a heated blanket. Peter shudders. It’s just on the edge of being painfully warm, but he curls into it anyway.
“We usually do this the other way around.”
Harley stills. “Do we?”
Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah.”
Harley lifts his hands away from the back of Peter’s neck and sits back on his heels. There’s a curious look on his face as he searches Peter’s. “Who d’you think I am right now?”
“You’re Harley,” Peter says slowly. “My boyfriend?”
Harley’s eyebrows spring into his hairline. “And how many Harleys do you know?”
“Just one. Wait. Two?” He makes a face and shakes his head. Too confusing. “Just you, I think.”
“And how did we meet?”
Peter’s head spins. Orange and tears and polyester and a cavernous room and—
“You… You introduced yourself—Harley Keener—and I said, ‘The potato gun kid’.”
Harley’s expression is all concern now as he feels Peter’s forehead with the back of his hand. Peter leans into his touch and closes his eyes. He’s so tired. The adrenaline rush from before is fading fast now that he’s sure Harley is safe and he’s going to help him find his suit.
“Can we lie down?” When uncomfortable silence meets his question, Peter adds, “We don’t have to do anything. You can tell me more about your armor if you want.”
Harley goes stiff. “My— How do you know about that?”
Peter cracks open an eye—or he tries to, but it doesn’t do that. Harley’s hand is still touching his face, and Peter never wants it to go away.
“How could I not? It’s your number three thing you talk about—after your mom and Abbie. We were talking about, uhm…” He can’t remember. It feels like so long ago, but it can’t have been that long, can it? “Non-lethal restraints, I think.”
“What?”
“It was your idea! Spider-Man and Iron Lad, a crime-fighting duo. You can’t exactly repulsor blast petty thieves. I mean, you could, but I’d stop talking to you at minimum.”
Harley laughs and, tragically, he moves his hand. “This is crazy. Do you even know what you’re saying? Who you’re saying it to? You’ve never talked this much before. Not to me.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been kind of depressed about the end of the world and everything. I feel better now, though. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Sure, Pete. Me too. Let’s get these socks on you. Your feet are grossing me out. How’s that shirt feel? Warm?”
“Super warm,” Peter confirms as Harley manipulates his leg. His head falls back, and then his upper body follows until he’s lying in the leaves again. “You sure you don’t wanna lay down a while? I’m really tired.”
“Let’s get you warmed and fed, and then we’ll talk about it. Alright?”
“Fed?” Peter wrinkles his nose. “But there’s no food.”
“I brought some with me. Water and fancy electrolyte powder too. You want some?”
“Depends on the flavor. If it’s black cherry, no, absolutely not.” He tries to sit up, but he has no strength. He gives up as Harley picks up his other leg and does whatever he’s doing. Peter doesn’t remember. Something about being grossed out. “I can’t believe you hid food from me this whole time. What do you think mastication will be like without functional saliva glands?”
“What?”
“I guess that’s what the water’s for,” Peter continues, answering his own question. “What food do you have?”
“Uh, a few power bars and—”
“Power bars? I haven’t eaten in years, and you want me to pop my mastication cherry with power bars? I think we should break up.”
“You’re adorable when you’re delirious, but you are going to eat one of these at minimum, and you’re going to drink a bottle of water before Nat gets here with the chopper.”
Peter snorts. “That’s ridiculous. We aren’t even on Earth. How would she get a helicopter?”
“Are you hungry?”
“We don’t need to eat.”
“Not what I asked. Think about it. Do you feel hungry?”
Peter thinks about it and finds he’s not hungry; he's starving. He’s so famished he’s dizzy and nauseated. It’s weird enough to send a fresh spike of adrenaline through him. His eyes pop open. Harley is crouched beside him, wearing a beanie low on his forehead, hiking boots, thick canvas pants, and a windbreaker layered over a cable-knit sweater. Wrong. Worse, above him the sky is bright, clear blue.
Peter gasps and scrambles to his feet. “Something changed. We need to get the others. We need to be ready. This might be our chance to—”
“Peter, Peter, stop." Harley looks almost as panicked as Peter feels, but he's looking at the ground under Peter's feet rather than the sky where the actual problem is. "Sit back down. Your feet— You really shouldn’t be on them. You wanna lie down? Let’s lie down.”
“What? Now? This could be our chance to go home, Harley. Don’t you wanna see your mom and sister again? We—”
Something tickles his memory. A warning. A trill of fear that whispers going home will break Harley beyond repair. That going home is the end of everything.
“C’mere, Pete. Let’s just take it easy, okay?” Harley’s first touch is tentative, but grows firm and sure when Peter leans into it. He wraps his arm fully around Peter’s waist and squeezes. “Let’s sit. This spot is good, right? We can lean against this tree.”
Peter goes along with it, sits when Harley bids him sit, and when his ass is firmly on the ground and Harley’s arm is still around his waist, he tucks his face against Harley’s neck. He sighs at the warmth and the familiar smell of him.
For a heartbeat, Harley stays perfectly still, then he hugs Peter with both arms.
“It’s okay, Pete.”
“It’s not,” Peter mumbles. He’s tired again. “Something’s wrong.”
“Yeah, it’s pronounced hy-po-thermia. Tony’s gonna have your ass for this.”
“I miss you. All the time. I’m not supposed to think about it, but I do.”
Somewhere in the distance, the rotating whop of helicopter blades catches Peter’s ear. It grows louder by the second.
“If you miss me so much, you’d think you’d quit avoiding me and talk then, wouldn’t you?”
“It hurts. You’re not the same. You don’t remember. I’m the only one who remembers how it was.”
There’s a long pause, during which the walkie-talkie on Harley’s chest squawks something about having to hover and winch them up, but Harley doesn’t stand or release his hold on Peter.
“Remember what?” he asks under the steady beat of the helicopter that has finally caught up to them. “Does this have something to do with you knowing about my suit? I haven’t even told Tony about that.”
“I think so,” Peter mutters. Everything is so muddled. Thinking is difficult.
“What do you remember?”
He lets out a long, shuddering breath and says, “Losing.”
~*~
The helicopter ride is a blur of anxiety and pain. Something about being hoisted into the air jars his memory and, abruptly, he recalls his walk in the woods and getting lost. Once he's inside and belted into a gurney, a medic on board immediately starts checking him over. She fiddles with the collar of the shirt Harley made him put on and it turns a little warmer.
As feeling returns to his feet, Peter learns how badly he tore them up. They hurt. And when Harley points them out to the medic and she peels off the socks, she sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth and grabs a pair of tweezers, a bottle of some clear fluid, and a million gauze pads.
Through it all, Harley sits beside him and doesn't let go of Peter's hand. Then, when the helicopter lands on the pad atop the compound, Harley is still holding his hand as Tony rushes to meet them. And he stays with him all the way to the med bay, where the doctor on staff tells Harley and Tony they’ll have to wait outside.
“They’ll take good care of you. You’ll be alright, Pete,” Harley assures him. “I’ll be out here with Tony the whole time.”
Peter looks Harley in the eyes—bright, often playful, but right now serious and concentrated on Peter—and knows he’s wrong. Deep in his gut, he knows Harley was never his to keep. It was always going to end in leaving—one way or another. This is just another way.
He’s never said goodbye before, so he doesn’t say it now, but he feels it in his heart when Harley lets him go and the doctor wheels Peter through the double doors and into the med bay.
~*~
The thing about having a healing factor and getting hypothermia is, as soon as you warm up you're like, fine. But no one wants to believe that. They want to baby you, and lock you away in a medical facility until they feel better. Which is to say, the only thing stopping Peter from climbing out the window and scuttling back to his room without having to get past Tony and whoever else is in the waiting room, is F.R.I.D.A.Y. He can hear her echo down the hall, announcing his every move the second he makes it.
“Peter has left his bed.”
“Peter has entered the bathroom.”
“Peter did not wash his hands.”
“Peter has returned to the bathroom.”
“Peter is washing his hands.”
He’s tempted to do it anyway just to spite them all. It’s better than listening to Tony rant.
“We flew the chopper over that area three times, but he didn’t wake up until he heard Harley calling for him. Explain that to me.”
“I can’t, Tones. Maybe you should ask—”
“—the kid? Why bother? He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He’d rather walk into the woods and succumb to the elements than say two words to me.”
“I understand your feelings are hurt—”
“Hurt? My feelings? He’s aging me, Rhodey. Look at this! My youthful splendor? Gone. Wiped out. It was there yesterday, but after this stunt, ten years! I guarantee it. In one day, he cost me ten years.”
“You should talk to—”
“I’m going to invoice him. I’m going to bury him in so much debt he’ll have to move in and labor for at least ten years before he can hope to break even.”
“Somehow I don’t think indentured servitude is the answer here.”
“Well what do you know? You don’t have kids!”
“I have you.”
“Not the same! Not even close!”
“Listen, Tony, go talk to him. I’ll be out here for emotional support when you’re through.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk to him. Maybe—”
With a great heaving sigh, Peter gets up and makes for the window.
“Peter has left the bed and is approaching the window.”
He leans his butt against the sill, crosses his arms, and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long.
Tony crashes through the door, already shouting for him to get his ass back inside while his Iron Man armor crawls over his skin. It stops at his neck as Tony, seeing Peter waiting for him, jerks to a stop.
Rhodes slams into his back a half-second later.
“Hey, Colonel Rhodes,” Peter says cheerfully, “Good to see you. I’ll take him from here.”
“Thank Christ,” Rhodes mutters. “Glad to see you’re still kickin’, Pete. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Peter says, but Colonel Rhodes has already snapped the door shut, and his footsteps are fading down the hall.
Reluctantly, Peter turns his attention to Tony. Thankfully, he already has his suit put away. Peter has been yelled at by Iron Man enough, thanks.
He takes a deep breath. “Mr. Stark—”
“You’re crashing out, Peter.”
Peter. Oh it’s bad.
“Who taught you about crashing out?”
“Nobody. I’m the crashing-out king. Nobody needed to teach me shit, and I know my kind when I fish him out of the woods starving and frozen half to death.”
“Technically, Harley and Nat fished—”
“Oh, you wanna talk about Harley? Let’s talk about him then. What the hell is up with you two? True version only, please.”
Peter’s words dry up in his throat. He clamps his mouth shut.
Tony throws his hands over his head. “Come on, Pete. Talk to me. Give me something.”
“I…I can’t about…him, but I— I wanted you to know I didn’t mean to get lost or go so far. I just—”
“You know that’s more concerning, right? Normal people, healthy people, okay people—don’t wander barefoot into the woods on accident! I’m scared, kid. May’s scared. Nobody knows what’s going on with you. You won’t talk to us about any of it. Do your friends even realize how bad it is? How come there hasn’t been an intervention yet? I know that little spitfire you run with wouldn’t put up with half this shit if she knew about it. What would she do if I told her about last night, huh?”
Peter goes pale. “Look— I know I’m not being as open as you want, but I am talking to someone.”
“Who?” Tony demands.
“Stone. My therapist. I mean, I haven’t called them yet like I said I would—I still need to do my homework—but—”
“That’s not good enough! You haven’t talked to them in months, Pete. This homework can wait. Call them. Call them right now.”
Peter flinches back. “No.”
“Do it. I’ll wait for the call to connect, and then I’ll leave the room and have F.R.I.D.A.Y. shut down surveillance. Right, Fri?”
“Of course, boss.”
“No,” Peter repeats. “I’m not— I don’t have my suit for one thing.”
“I’ll have someone get it. F.R.I.D.A.Y.—”
“No! I don’t— I’m not doing it here. You can’t bully me into this, Tony. I won’t do it.”
Tony’s voice turns pleading, and his eyes shine. “Then give me something, kid. I don’t know how to help you, and you so obviously, desperately need help. Please.”
Peter curls forward and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I… I had a dream, okay? That’s why I went outside.”
“You’re telling me you tried to kamikaze yourself because of a bad dream?”
“No. It was… It was almost a good dream. It just… I couldn’t— There’s something I did that I feel a lot of guilt about. It affected a lot of people, and they have no idea. They never will. And I didn’t exactly get their permission before I completely, irrevocably changed their lives. I’m…” Hesitantly, Peter lifts his face and takes in Tony’s concerned expression. He clasps his hands. “I’m having a hard time figuring out how to live with it.”
Tony frowns at him for a long time. Finally, he says, “This isn’t about killing Thanos.”
Peter shakes his head harshly. “It’s not. No.”
Tony considers him some more. “I’m one of them, aren’t I? And May, and your friends. That’s why you won’t talk to us.”
“I don’t know if you’ll forgive me,” Peter says, voice wavering.
“Of course I’ll forgive you, kid. Lay it on me. What is it?”
Peter shakes his head. “I can’t, I can’t, I— I just got you back.”
Tony shakes his head and hazards a half-smile. “Back from what? I’ve been here the whole time.”
Tears burst into Peter’s eyes before he can look away, and his throat goes raw in an instant. He tucks his chin and struggles to keep it all back.
“Aw, c’mon, kid,” Tony says all hushed and soft like he never is. He steps up to Peter and wraps both arms around him like he’s been doing it since they met. “I’m here, bambino. I don’t know where you think I went, but I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. You can trust that.”
Peter presses his face against Tony’s chest and wishes that were true.
~*~
Showered, shaved, and seated between Tony and May on the couch, Peter is quickly overheating. He tried coming out of his room in a pair of shorts and they sent him back for something more “weather appropriate” for the living room. When he came out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, he was swiftly given a hoodie with MIT embroidered across the chest and a pair of fuzzy pink socks with rubber ducks on them. He put it all on rather than complain, at the time not knowing he’d be strong-armed onto the center cushion and buried in blankets and shared body heat.
“I’m really hot,” Peter says.
May hushes him. “You’ll stay right where you are if you know what’s good for you, Peter Benjamin Parker.”
The full name triple threat. He knows better than to talk back to that, but…
“Okay, but I’m really hot.”
There’s a movie playing, but he can’t focus on it. He shimmies out of the socks at least and breathes a sigh of relief at the instant temperature drop.
“What was that?” Tony demands. “What did you do?”
“I came.”
A bark of laughter from the doorway turns Peter’s head, and he loses the relief as a furious blush rushes into his cheeks. Harley.
It’s the first time Peter’s seen him since Tony shepherded him out of the med bay past Harley in the waiting room looking exhausted and grungy. They only had a moment to get a look at each other before Tony jabbed Peter out the door, insisting he clean up and eat and spend the evening doing “family time”.
May slaps his shoulder, but Peter barely feels it through all of his insulation. “Behave.”
Peter jerks his chin down. “Yes, May. Sorry, May.” In his periphery, he watches Harley enter the room and settle in a rocking chair adjacent to the couch Peter is currently imprisoned upon. It’s only when the bundle in his arms squawks that Peter realizes Harley’s holding Morgan.
“Where’s Pep?” Tony asks and makes grabby hands at his baby.
Harley huffs and rolls his eyes. “Couldn’t have said before I sat,” he grumbles as he stands and returns baby Morgan to her father.
“You’re young. You’ll manage.” Tony tucks Morgan into the crook of his arm and coos at her.
“She’s getting changed. Said she’d be out in a few.” Harley hovers after the hand-off, uncomfortably close to Peter, frowning at the floor. No, not at the floor. At Peter’s feet. “What’d they do to your feet?” he asks after a beat. “They look way better.”
Peter opens his mouth, but before he can attribute the change to his healing factor and the million pounds of food the medical staff forced him to eat before they would clear him to leave the med bay, Tony and May freak out.
“Why can he see your feet?”
“Peter Benjamin Parker, you put those socks back on right this instant.”
“But— You’re cooking me!” Peter protests. “I’m sweating through my underwear. There’s going to be a puddle on the couch!”
Pepper steps into the room then. “No puddles on my couch.”
“Save me, Pepper,” Peter begs. “They’re trying to reverse-hypothermia me to death.”
“Out of love,” May says and tucks the blanket higher under his chin.
He’s just about to start screaming when Harley and Pepper finally decide he deserves saving.
“Alright,” Pepper says, “you two have done your mother-henning. Let him up.”
“Thank you.”
“No!” May protests.
“He deserves this!” Tony argues.
“We’re just trying to make sure he’s fully recovered.”
“He—”
“He’s turning maroon,” Harley interrupts. He pulls away the blanket only to reveal six more under it. “Jesus.”
With Harley’s help, Peter squirms free from his cocoon and flops to the floor, sprawled on his back like a starfish. They only manage it thanks to Morgan’s presence in Tony’s arms and Pepper’s no-nonsense stare pinning May to her seat.
With no capacity left for shame, Peter hikes his sweatpants up to his knees and lifts his sweatshirt so expose his midriff. With a sigh, he finally relaxes.
That’s when he opens his eyes and finds Harley standing above him, watching him with an amused little curl to his lips.
The need to run spikes, but before Peter can make good on it, Harley moves, and what Peter thought was only a shadow on the underside of his jaw reveals itself to be something very different.
Heat and the need to run forgotten, Peter rocks to his feet. Something dark and dangerous in unfurling in his gut.
“Is that a bruise?” he demands. Without a thought and with no resistance, he turns Harley’s head with a finger on his chin. And it is. It’s mottled purple and green and looks like Harley took a hook to the jaw. Something cold and dark plunges over him. There’s no reason for Harley to be taking punches. None.
Peter meets Harley’s eyes and asks, “Who did this to you?”
Harley’s eyes flick to the side and then, gently, he brushes Peter’s finger from his skin. “It was an accident.”
“An accident?” Peter echoes. The fury within him reaches a crescendo. “How the hell do you accidentally get hurt here? You're supposed to be safe."
Harley ticks his head to the side like a curious dog. Peter's fingers twitch, but he doesn’t touch him again.
“We were sparring.” He glances to the side again. “Me and Tony.”
Peter rounds on Tony and finds him watching with calculating expression that makes Peter want to break things.
“Honest accident, Pete. I had him get it checked, and the nurse said he’s fine. Just bruised.”
“Why were you sparring?”
Tony raises his eyebrows. “He wanted to. What’s this about, kid?”
Slowly, Peter’s anger drains enough to make him aware that he’s holding the room’s undivided attention because he’s acting fucking weird. He’s nothing to Harley. He shouldn’t be acting like he’s— He shouldn’t be acting like this.
Mortified, he steps away from Harley. “Forget it. Never mind.” Harley is studying him—sharp eyes missing nothing. Peter needs to get out of here. He rubs the back of his neck and angles for the exit. “I’m gonna—”
“Peter Parker,” May says sharply.
It stops him in his tracks. He looks back, pleading. “I was just—”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
He blinks. He hadn’t even considered May wouldn’t know Harley. How could May Parker not know Harley?
“I, uh, I didn’t think… Sorry, May.” He gestures. “This is Harley.”
May smiles at Harley. “Yes, I’ve heard of Harley from Tony.” She looks at Peter pointedly. “But I haven't heard who he is to you.”
Right. Of course she would want to know after his little fit over a bruise. And it’s a great question. Who is Harley to him? Everything. Nothing. Peter forgot that it’s only in his head that the name “Harley” is filled to bursting with meaning. In his head, this is Harley is all the explanation anyone could ever need and the most insightful one he could hope to give. This is Harley.
“He’s— He’s—” Who the hell is Harley to him now?
Harley steps forward and holds his hand out for May to shake. “Harley Keener. Your nephew and I are lab partners. He’s been warming up to me since I rescued him in the woods, I think.”
May smiles and shakes his hand. “It’s a pleasure. Tony speaks of you highly. And thank you, of course, for saving him. He's my whole world.”
Harley smiles all charming and awkward and tucks his fingers in his front pockets. “I was happy to, Mrs. Parker.”
May makes a face. “Please, call me May.” She shoots a sly look at Peter, then adds, “Or Aunt May, if you prefer.”
Harley grins, crooked, with a dimple in his cheek. “May works for now.”
Peter is going to be sick. Harley and May lived together for six weeks and never once did they act like strangers. Not until today. He says nothing this time as he makes for the door, and when May and Tony call him back, he doesn’t slow.
~*~
The next day, Peter goes home with May and spends the rest of break trying to put his time at the Avengers Compound behind him. How could a few days change so much, and yet nothing at all?
May tries to pry about Harley, but Peter keeps his mouth shut and eventually she backs off, mussing his hair and telling him she loves him no matter what. She thinks he’s being shy about his crush, but he’s mourning everything he lost, and everything he never had. It hurts.
It all hurts.
~*~
School starts again on Monday. In seven more weeks he’s free from high school, hopefully forever. If he has to do his senior year a third time, he's gonna McFreakin' lose it. Full super villain. Never look back.
He disassociates through the day, but he’s not the only one. Some teachers accept it, keeping coursework light and easy to account for the number of seniors who are mentally checking out in anticipation of graduating in May. Others crack down, giving lengthy assignments with quick turnarounds, telling them they’ll need to get used to the heavier, faster-moving workload because that’s how it’ll be in college.
Peter still hasn’t told Ned and MJ he’s not going with them to MIT. He applied over the summer like they all did, and got his acceptance letter in December, but he’s not going. He needs to tell them. It can’t come out in a big explosion like it did last time. He needs to handle it with care, to show them he cares. He just has no idea how to do that.
That’s where his thoughts are stuck when he walks through the doors at the end of the day with Ned on one side and MJ on the other.
It’s Ned who asks, “Who is that?”
“I think he’s waving at you, Peter,” MJ says.
Peter looks up, and there on the curb sits a red, vintage sports car with Harley behind the wheel. His hair is tied low on the back of his neck, and he's got a banged-up ball cap on his head. He’s wearing a light wash denim jacket, cheap sunglasses, and a smile. He beckons Peter over.
Peter walks toward him as though pulled, vaguely aware that Ned and MJ are walking with him. The window is down when Peter steps onto the curb. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, obviously. You hungry?” He smiles at Ned and MJ and reaches across the passenger seat with his hand outstretched. “Hey, I’m Harley. I work with Peter and Tony.”
Ned shakes his hand first, then MJ. They both give their names: Ned and Michelle.
“Nice car,” MJ says with a wooden expression. “Present from Mom and Dad?”
Harley laughs. “God, no. Granddaddy left her to my daddy, who left her to fall apart and rust in the garage. Tony fixed her up for me as a thank you.” He squints at Peter. “They know Tony, right?
“Yeah, we know Tony!” Ned chirps. He stares admiringly at the interior of the car, all brown and white leather. “Sweet ride.”
“Thanks,” Harley says with a bemused smile. That’s the M&N (Michelle and Ned) whiplash hitting, guaranteed. “You guys hungry and mind doing a little charity for an out-of-towner?” He looks to Ned, then MJ. “I could use a bite, but I keep fallin’ for those damn tourist traps.” His eyes find Peter. “I paid eight dollars for a hot dog the other day, Pete. Eight. I need you to save me from myself. I’ll buy if y’all lead?”
“I could eat,” Ned says. He and MJ look at Peter, waiting for his decision.
When Peter hesitates, MJ’s eyes narrow. To Harley, she says, “We need a second.” Then she grabs an elbow of boy each, and tows them away from the open window toward the tailpipe. “You do know him, right?”
“You’ve literally never mentioned him before,” Ned adds.
“I— Yeah,” Peter admits. “He, uh, he works in the lab with Tony. Another intern, I guess? We sort of— We don’t really talk though. This is… This is new.”
And it is. The car especially. Where was it last time? A family heirloom from the father who walked out when Abbie was a baby. Did Harley leave it behind? This is the first Peter’s seen or heard of it, but Harley looks right behind the wheel. Comfortable. At home.
MJ’s eyebrows lift. “He must be desperate for friends if he’s hunting you down hours away from the compound.”
That gives Peter pause. He hadn’t considered how lonely it must be staying in the compound with the Avengers and the Stark family. No one his age anywhere close. Step out the front doors and instead of a city full of novelty, it’s just the miles-long driveway, the woods, or the grassy plain.
“Maybe,” Peter says. “D’you guys… Do you wanna do something else, or—”
“Do you like him?” MJ asks, and Peter’s heart trips all over itself before she follows up the question with, “Is he a douche or something?”
“Yeah, why didn’t you say when Tony got another intern?” Ned asks. “Especially one our age.”
“I—I don’t know,” Peter lies. “He— I hardly know him. But he’s not— He’s not a douche. He’s funny and nice and—”
And a million other things his Harley isn’t…wasn’t.
“Well, let’s get to know him then,” Ned decides. “He seems cool.”
MJ hums, eyes narrowed at the cherry red paint job. “At minimum, we should vet him to make sure he won’t cause problems. Especially since he’s not shy about hunting you down in the city.”
And that’s when Peter realizes he’s pinched. He gave himself two primary objectives after he killed Thanos and saved the universe: 1) Prioritize May, Ned, and MJ above everything else—do whatever they ask—and 2) Stay away from Harley.
Now, he needs to choose.
Notes:
About now you guys should be figuring out this is the fic where I give me everything I want lol I'm FINALLY free to write more of this. I left off at such a tantalizing spot but I really needed to use the November writing community's energy to finish the first draft of my latest book-book. IT'S DONE which means I get to continue chasing my whims in this parkner wonderland I've concocted. Hooray!
And fear not! I have another 5 chapters locked and loaded so we're good for a good while still. Thank you thank you as always for the wonderful comments!! I'm glad you're here with me 🥰
Chapter 11: New
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
They end up in Brooklyn. After five minutes of Ned and MJ in the backseat debating what counts as a tourist trap, Peter quietly gives Harley directions to the best diner he knows. It’s one they—he and Harley (his Harley)—never went to. Although, not for lack of trying. Peter’s Harley never wanted to sit down and eat anywhere. He lived on street food and bodega-bought groceries, and refused every attempt Peter made to get him inside a building for longer than it took to load a basket or order a pizza. Part of Peter is curious whether this Harley will balk when he sees where Peter is leading him, but mostly he wants to avoid anything that might remind him of what he used to have.
In Brooklyn, Harley feeds a parking meter and then the four of them set off on foot. They round the corner and, a block away, the diner comes into view in all its gleaming chrome glory.
Harley snorts and glances sideways at Peter. There’s a little amused curl to his mouth that Peter wants to stamp with his thumb. See if it springs back.
“Is that where we’re going?” Harley nods at it. “A diner?”
“Is that okay?”
He shrugs, still smiling. “Yeah, sure. Sorry if I’m a bit of a snob though.”
“Not good enough for your palate?” MJ asks.
It's the third unsubtle dig MJ has made at him and, like the others before, it bounces off Harley without effect. Of course, Peter could just tell her that Harley isn't the nepo-billionaire-intern she's worried he is, but he doesn't want to color her or Ned's impression of Harley. Last time, he cut them out of his and Harley's relationship, and everything suffered. This time, he wants their unfiltered opinions without all of his baggage muddying things up.
Over his shoulder, Harley says, “I practically grew up in a diner. After dad walked out until I was old enough to work, the diner was my after school care. Mama’s worked there as long as I can remember.” He faces forward and narrows his eyes at the building as they approach. “We’ll see what the big city Yanks thinks diner food is, but if I spot a single ‘low fat’ menu item I’m walkin’ out.”
He gets to the door first and holds it for the rest of them.
The waiter is quick to seat them in a booth and slap down plastic menus while asking their drink orders. He’s gone before they’ve even sat. Peter goes first, sliding against the wall. MJ betrays him by sitting on the opposite bench, and then Ned betrays him too by sitting beside her.
At the end of the booth, standing next to the only open seat—directly beside Peter—Harley looks at him as though asking permission. When Peter finally shrugs, Harley sits beside him, blocking Peter's only means of escape.
There’s a beat of nasty quiet.
“First impression,” Ned says, saving them.
Harley looks away from Peter. “Of?”
Ned gestures around them.
“Oh.” Harley barely looks. “Busy. Weirdly clean.”
“They just remodeled,” MJ says.
“No one likes it yet,” Ned adds.
“But this is not busy,” MJ protests.
“True,” Ned agrees. “Nobody even bumped me on the way in.”
Peter can’t help but add, “Max capacity’s 175 and this is only about half that.”
MJ and Ned nod.
“Y’all are actually insane. There’s only five open tables left.
“That’s five open tables,” Ned points out.
“No wait,” MJ says.
Ned points at her like, see?
Harley sits back with a shake of his head. “Let’s just agree the city is not my speed.”
“Agreed,” Ned and MJ chorus.
Peter is barely paying attention. Most of his mental activity is buzzing like flies over what Harley said about his mom and growing up in the diner back in Tennessee, while the rest is tuned into the inch and a half of space between them in the booth and the way Harley’s sleeve brushes his when he moves. He laughs at something Ned says and his elbow knocks into Peter’s. It’s the sweetest agony he’s ever experienced and he can’t even run away.
~*~
They laugh. They eat. Harley begrudgingly rates the diner with a seven out of ten—taking points off for the lack of grease on the tabletops, having pancakes and french toast but no waffles, and the “unnecessarily bougie” variety of syrup flavors. He says he might adjust his rating if they come back sometime and get dinner food instead of all day breakfast. He says people think it’s the breakfast that makes the diner, but really it’s an even split between that, dessert, and sharable appetizers.
Somehow, after Harley pays, they end up in Prospect Park, milling about the walking trail, talking about school and such.
Peter keeps his chin to his chest while MJ and Ned talk about MIT next year and their scant few weeks left at Midtown. Then Harley shares that he graduated a semester early—he couldn’t stand another six months going through the motions and for what? Prom? With the kids who’ve been calling him a fag for half a decade? Pass.
MJ and Ned both look at Peter when he says that and it takes him precious seconds to realize it’s because Harley just casually outed himself and they’re checking to see if he knew. Which, obviously he did, but this Harley doesn’t know that. Or, no. Maybe he does with Peter's whole disgusting homophobe bit last year.
“Makes sense,” Peter says before the silence can root. He has literally no idea what else he could say. “You going to college next?”
“Meh,” Harley shrugs. “Haven’t decided. Whatever I do, I can’t go home. Abbie terraformed my half of the room into a sewing studio the day I left and if I try to take it back there’s gonna be a revolt.” He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and sniffs. “Why does it smell like cow shit?”
In unison, they all stop and sniff.
“Oh, that’s the zoo.”
“There’s a zoo here? What are we doing? Let’s go to the zoo!”
“It’s expensive,” Peter protests.
“I’ll buy,” Harley says.
“You just bought dinner. We can’t ask you to—”
“Nobody’s askin’. I’m offering. Insisting.” He starts walking at a clip, looking for a path or a sign to point him in the right direction. “I’ve got more money than I’ve ever had in my life and dammit, I’m spending it. Say what you will about working for Tony, but he pays well.”
“He pays you?”
Harley careens to a stop and swings to goggle at Peter, the careful veneer of Polite But Not Uncool Young Man™ gone for the first time. “He doesn’t pay you? What the ever-loving— What are you even doing?! He’s a billionaire, Peter!" He taps the backs of his fingers against his open palm. "You have to tap into that. It is your sacred duty as a working class American to redistribute the wealth by any means necessary.” He sucks in a breath like he’s got more to say, but just blinks in astonishment for several seconds before finally releasing his breath and saying, “I have no choice. I’m calling him.”
“What? No, don’t! I’m— It’s fine. I—”
“It’s not fine! He has no reason not to compensate you for your time and—”
“I’m hardly ever there and when I am I just fuck around with my own stuff. It doesn’t make sense to—”
“It makes every kind of sense," Harley says, poking his finger at Peter as he brings his phone to his ear. "He’s richer than God. He could sneeze out a thousand bucks an hour for a week straight and he’d only complain about the quality of the tissue.”
MJ snorts a laugh that she hides behind her hand.
Oh no, he won over MJ. Peter is fucked. This is it. He has to figure out how to live like this now. Last time he flew too close to the sun, and this time he tried to play it safe by staying low, close to the waves, but they’re lapping at him. Threatening to pull him under. Fly or die.
Fuck.
He hears the call connect and leaps forward. He plucks the phone right off of Harley’s ear.
“Hey!”
Peter dodges Harley’s wild grab and says into the phone. “Butt dial! Wrong number! Sorry, have a good night!”
“Pete? Why are you calling from—”
Peter hangs up and stuffs Harley’s phone into his pocket. “Let’s go to the zoo.”
Harley is making a valiant effort to frown, but it’s spoiled by the way his eyes dance. “You know I live with him, right?”
“I’m choosing to believe that you’ll respect my choices and not confront him over this, as I’ve requested.”
Harley's lips twitch. “Not a chance.”
“I’m choosing to believe it anyway.”
Despite Harley's best efforts, his smile breaks free. “Can I have my phone back then?”
“Nope, it’s confiscated. The zoo is this way.” Peter marches off and pretends not to hear MJ and Harley conspiring behind him as his heart beats and beats and beats.
~*~
When they arrive, the zoo closes in thirty minutes, so they’re let in for free. Harley—distraught that they won't let him pay for admission—empties all of the cash in his wallet into the donation slot, and then they make a valiant effort to speed-run the exhibits.
Peter and Ned tear through a funnel cake and Peter laughs at Harley’s jokes and joins in when MJ pretends to be secret service escorting Ned through the aviary to assuage his fear of birds and wins their impromptu skipping race to get to the sea lions before they get kicked out.
He feels lighter than he has in months. Longer. Today started as an obligation, but he had fun. For the first time in a long time, he had fun.
When it’s over and they’ve walked Harley back to his car and given him directions on how to get back across to Manhattan, Peter digs Harley’s phone out of his pocket and gives it back.
Harley doesn’t hesitate to unlock it and hand it back. “Put your number in.”
Peter freezes and stares, but Harley doesn’t notice.
“All of you. This was the best time I've had in months.”
“Yeah, I want yours too,” Ned says, and pulls out his phone.
And the next thing Peter knows they’re all passing phones and putting in numbers and he puts his into Harley’s phone and then Harley’s waving as he pulls away from the curb, having failed at convincing them to let him drive them all home even though that would be way slower than just taking the subway as they usually do.
Peter, Ned, and MJ start down the sidewalk.
When Harley’s out of sight, MJ slings her arm around Peter’s waist and squeezes. Ned, never one to miss a hug, wraps both arms around Peter’s shoulders and they all stumble and laugh.
MJ’s head finds his shoulder and she says, “We missed you.”
“A lot,” Ned adds.
Guilt swallows Peter’s light mood. “I’m sorr—”
“Don’t you dare apologize, Parker.”
“Yeah, we know you’ve been dealing with a lot,” Ned says. “We just had to wait for you to get through it.”
“And we don’t expect you to be one hundred percent normal again just because you had one good day.”
“Right.”
“But it was good to see you let loose again.”
“And hear you laugh,” Ned says.
MJ nods. “And hear you laugh.”
“We’re here for you, Pete.”
“Highs or lows,” MJ agrees.
Peter battles through emotion that chips at his composure. “You’re not mad? I know I’ve been…distant. Things haven’t been the same.”
“Of course not!” Ned says, sounding almost offended.
“We’re your friends,” MJ says. “We can see how hard it is for you just to keep showing up, but you keep showing up anyway. We see it. We appreciate it.”
“The least we can do is weather the storm with you. We’re going to see you out the other side, don’t even worry about it.”
Peter swallows a lump. “I need to talk to you guys.” He takes a deep breath and says, “It’s about MIT.”
MJ pulls away, but links their fingers together. On his other side, Ned does the same.
“You’re not going,” MJ says for him.
Shocked, Peter looks at her. She looks sad, but forces a close-lipped smile for him. “We wondered. You’ve been…quiet when we talk about it.”
“It’s okay,” Ned says. “Boston’s not that far. We already take the train to get around and see each other. It’s just a longer train is all.”
“You’re not mad?”
“No, dummy.”
“We want you to be happy.”
“We’re not going to flake on you just because we’re going to be in different cities for four years.”
“Yeah, we’re friends of Spider-Man and that means—”
Peter and MJ both shush Ned. Together, they resume their walk to the subway.
“That means we’ve got your back,” Ned finishes.
“Even when you turn all moody and gloomy,” MJ says, then smiles so he knows she’s teasing.
“Thanks, guys. Sorry, I—”
“No apologizing!” they shout, and their hand holding dissolves into play fighting all the way to the train station where Peter departs north for Queens, and Ned and MJ head back across the river.
His heart stays light all the way home.
~*~
That night, Peter gets his first text from Harley.
Harley | 10:39 PM
I like your friends
Peter doesn’t reply.
He brushes his teeth and takes a shower. Then he puts on his suit and stands in the middle of the room with his phone in his hands.
Finally, he taps out a simple, me too.
It’s all the encouragement Harley needs to text him every day after, and Peter can’t find it in himself to be upset.
~*~
After that, Harley is everywhere. He learns quickly not to text Peter before showing up. Peter will make excuses. Peter will figure out a way to be somewhere else and unavailable. But Ned? Even MJ? They welcome Harley with open arms. The easy acceptance makes him queasy. Pleased, yes, but queasy. Pleasy, if you will.
Two or three times a week over the next month, Peter steps out of Midtown Tech and finds Harley parked at the curb, waiting. Ned and MJ are never surprised to see him so Peter knows they're conspiring, but he can't be upset. Not when his heart jumps every time.
The first week of this, Harley takes them to an artist street festival that MJ has been anticipating for months. He sticks to his line that he has more money than he knows what to do with and wants to make sure it gets back to the common folk of the world, not some yacht club or whatever hoity-toity people spend money on.
And spend he does. MJ goes home with several pieces and Ned picks out enough to cover Christmas gifts for his whole family. Harley gets a necklace for himself and a couple things to send home, then he insists Peter pick something too. Eventually, he settles on a glass bead necklace for May, and a small key chain for himself.
"A key chain? I'm offering you the world, Peter."
"I'm not really an art guy." He holds up the key chain. It's a stained-glass pine tree on a brown leather strap. "It'll remind me not to go wandering in the woods."
New appreciation lights Harley's eyes. "In that case, I'll buy you a dozen."
The following week, they tour various shops in SoHo that Ned's mom recommended. Odd places that sell knickknacks and trinkets. Hidden stores the size of closets that sell homespun and indie-designed clothes and unique home goods.
Harley loads up on gifts to send home to his mom and sister and insists they get whatever they want. Peter picks a little clay cowboy for no reason whatsoever. Harley raises his eyebrows at it, but doesn't ask.
The following Saturday, Harley texts him.
Harley | 11:24 AM
Your turn. Decide where we're going this week. Let me know by Monday.
Peter has no idea. He's not really a spend money guy either. His idea of a good time in the city is punching assholes and begging for free street food in return for his services. If he's feeling extravagant, he'll buy himself a pizza and eat the whole thing in one sitting from a rooftop overlooking the river.
But—this time—that's not what Harley's looking for, so he asks May.
She looks up, haggard, from the stack of legal documents she's reviewing along with her lawyer's notes, and removes her glasses. "What did you say?"
"Uhm, Harley wants to know some places he can blow a lot of cash? Somewhere local and small? He wants it to go to a good cause."
"A good cause?" May parrots. She's got a wild look in her eyes. Peter probably could have timed this better. "Yeah, I know some good causes. Give me that paper— No, that one's important. The other— Yes, thank you."
She scribbles a list on it. Peter shifts from foot to foot as the seconds tick by and the list grows. Finally, she throws down her pen and holds out a sheet filled from top to bottom with bullets. "Give him that," she says.
"Yes, May." Peter folds the list without reading it. "Thank you, May." He pauses and looks at the spread she has across the kitchen table. It's all for F.E.A.S.T. It's coming together much slower than before—a mix of a lack of resources (this time the city isn't hurting so bad that the government is throwing money at anyone willing to get organized and help) and a lack of time (this time May has a full-time job). "Do you need help?"
She stabs her pen toward the door. "Get that list to your bored, money-laden friend."
"Yes, May. Love you, May."
~*~
That Monday, they don't see Harley on the curb after school. Instead, when Peter gets home, he finds him at the kitchen table pouring over documents.
Peter stops in his tracks. "What are you doing here?"
Harley half-glances up, then back down to the paperwork he's frowning at. Is that a checkbook?
"The list," he says absently.
If Peter is fully honest, he'll admit he didn't read it. He took a picture, sent it to Harley, and waited for him to tell the rest of them how they'd be actioning it. Or for Harley to tell him to pick something more like what Ned and MJ did. But he didn't, and now here he is. In Peter's home. Helping May.
"How long have you been here?"
Harley shrugs. "I dunno. Ten? Didn't really check. May said she'd leave a key under the mat for me."
"That's…not safe."
"It was only for a couple hours, I think. She told me not to put it back."
And that's how Peter learns Harley has a key to his apartment.
"Cool. I'm gonna…" Peter inches away lest he be roped into helping with what looks like deary, miserable administrative work.
Harley doesn't even notice. He grunts and picks up a pen and remains oblivious when Peter suits up and slips out of his bedroom window for some light patrolling before dinner.
~*~
The table is clear when he returns. May and Harley are deep in a discussion about nonprofits, funding, and government red tape while May cooks dinner and Harley keeps things from catching fire.
Peter sets the table and receives a kiss to his temple when May passes him with a pair of tongs and aluminum foil, but Harley doesn't even notice him until he's setting a lightly smoking dish of asparagus on the table beside a perfectly edible looking shepherd's pie.
"Oh, hey Pete."
"Hey. Good job."
"Good— What?"
Peter doesn't get a chance to answer before Harley darts away to keep May from putting the aluminum foil-covered carrots into the microwave to heat back up.
It's impressive. Dinner is actually good and through it all Harley keeps up with May's non-profit talk. Peter doesn't add much. He just eats his dinner and watches May speak animatedly and Harley listen attentively, and falls and falls and falls all over again. But for once, when the feeling hits him, even though there's nothing stopping him, he doesn't run.
~*~
At the end of the week, Harley picks them up from school and announces, "Good news, everyone. I'm broke again!"
"Hooray!" Ned says as he climbs in the backseat.
"Do you feel better?" MJ asks.
"At home in my skin," Harley confirms.
Peter pulls the passenger door shut. "Does this mean we have to buy our own food now?"
"Yes."
They all boo but none of them mean it and Harley smiles the whole way to the city's cheapest hot dog stand.
~*~
Harley | 10:49 AM
OKay im officially breaking
I've protected you from this as long as I could
Abbie is pissed
She wants to know whyyou haven't made the upgrades she recommended for spinneret
Im sure you have perfectly good reasons but she's been bitching for months and wants an explanation
If you want me to make something up I will just say the word
Not the first time ive lied to her face
But 'idk we dont talk' isn't holding water anymore and now she wants your number so she can pester you directly
I strongly advise against that approach.
I…just remembered youre at school
Special surprise onslaught of texts for when you get out of class :)
Sorry
Sent | 11:26 AM
o fucc i forgor she ws doin tha
-_-
Idk when ill be able to but ill get up there asap and look at her notes
Wanna come up today? I can pick you up. No pressure. Just saying.
I have literally nothing going on
I have school tomorrow
No big I'll bring you back tonight
Before it gets late
Thats 6+ hours of driving
I like driving
Harley | 12:15 PM
And again I have literally nothing going on
Harley | 1:38 PM
If I leave in the next 20min I can be there when you're out of school
Harley | 1:50 PM
10 minutes
Harley | 1:57 PM
I'm not above begging
I'm so bored
Maybe I'll just drive down anyway
Ok fine pick me up
omw B)
~*~
After school, Peter bids MJ and Ned goodbye outside the door and goes alone to meet Harley at the curb. The lock pops up as he reaches for the handle. He opens the door and slips in.
"Hey."
Peter is weirdly nervous. Or maybe it's not weird at all. It's normal nerves. They're alone and he's going to be trapped in the car with Harley for the next hour and a half. Maybe more depending on how long it takes to get out of the city. The last time they were alone was when Peter was delirious in the woods, and he barely remembers that. The time before that was when he was pretending to be homophobic in the— No, it was when he was filthy and starving in the compound's kitchen and Tony and F.R.I.D.A.Y. were harassing him. The time before that was when he pretended to be a homophobe.
The point is, his track record isn't great.
"Hey," Harley responds. He flashes a smile, then goes back to fiddling with his phone. "I have a deal for you. I'll spare you the tirade about all the shit Abbie's been slinging that I've been shoveling on your behalf if you take the metaphorical AUX. I'm sick of literally all my music."
"Oh. I mean, I can but I don't know if you'll like—"
"I'll take it. You wanna connect to the bluetooth or are you okay using my phone? If you use mine I can get driving."
"Won't that mess up your algorithm?"
"I would kiss you on the metaphorical lips for screwing up my algorithm."
Heat fills Peter's cheeks, but luckily Harley is looking in the side-view mirror for a break in traffic.
"Okay," Peter says.
Harley hands him his phone and shifts into first gear.
Peter pulls up the first song that pops into his head and spends the next hour and forty-five minutes making sure the queue stays loaded with songs that—he at least—thinks are good. If Harley doesn't like any of them, he doesn't say.
They leave the crush of city traffic and a relaxed smile curls the very corners of Harley's lips. Whenever Peter catches him tapping along to the beat on the steering wheel or humming along, he screenshots the song. Over the course of the trip, Peter collects a dozen or so new songs for Harley.
Halfway to the compound, Harley pulls over at a lonely gas station where they load up on snacks for a fraction of what they would have cost in the city, and then continue on their way. It's so very different from hanging out with the group. There's no laughter and teasing. Hardly any conversation at all, really. But it's nice to, for once, just be.
Bittersweet, but nice.
~*~
Harley perches on a stool adjacent to Peter's workbench and works his way through the remainder of a bag of dill pickle chips while Peter encourages Spinneret under the grow light to charge, then dives into Abbie's notes. There's a full summer's worth. Not every day, but near enough, and some bits go on for quite while. In a separate notebook, Peter begins his own log of little fixes as they come up in her notes.
Then he gets to her final entry—a summary of her thoughts on Spin and real-life uses she envisions for the little spider bot—and he sits up straight.
"Have you read this?" he demands.
"Yep," Harley answers from far closer than Peter was expecting. His stool has migrated to be directly beside Peter so he can read over his shoulder. "I keep telling her the sciences could use her imagination, but she's dead set on killing the fast fashion industry from the inside. Too many inventor-scientist types get caught up in the if and how, they forget all about the why. She's really good at the why. Oh, no offense."
"No off— Why would I be offended?" Peter asks, offended. "You think I don't have reasons for the stuff I make?"
Harley's expression folds into one of pity. "I've literally never seen anything you designed outside of a lab."
Peter opens his mouth, the reminder that he designed his web formula and countless Spidey gadgets hot on his tongue, when the doors open with a whoosh and Tony steps in.
He freezes on the threshold as he spots them. Or rather, Peter.
"When— How did you get here?" Tony demands.
"Teleportation," Peter says in dry chorus with Harley's, "He flew."
"Oh, har-har," Tony says sardonically. "I suppose Harley just went and picked you up then?"
"He's going to take me back in an hour or two."
Tony shakes his head. "When did this start happening?"
Tentatively, Peter says, "It's new."
Tony looks at Harley and something unspoken passes between them that Peter pretends not to notice. What have they said about him when he's not around? What have they said about how he is around Harley, specifically? Something, surely. He'd rather not know.
"Alright, neat," Tony says after a beat. "Well, I'll just be over here." He takes a step toward his side of the lab. "Working."
Then, miraculously, he leaves them be without further complaint or demands for them to stop what they're doing and help him.
"So what do you think?" Harley asks. "I thought the human rescue one had merit."
"They all have merit," Peter says. "I'm imagining a fleet of Spinners, each with a specialty. We'll have to develop an AI though. Maybe one for each type, but F.R.I.D.A.Y. can't be the link if we go commercial."
"Yeah?" Harley asks. He's got a weird look on his face. A hesitant pleasure. Like he's not sure he should let himself be happy about something.
It's then that Peter realizes he said we. And now Harley is watching him with something like a fragile hope in his eyes.
Peter drops his gaze to his notebook. "I mean, yeah. If you want. I'm sure you have other stuff—"
"Not really," he interjects.
"—and I'm kind of busy with the end of the year and prom is next weekend so—"
"I can wait 'til summer. If…if that's what you want."
"Sure, yeah, that's—that's good."
"Good," Harley says, then he chances a smile. "So," he nods at Abbie's notes, "what are you thinking?"
Peter jumps at the chance to change the subject to one he can dive into with abandon. It feels good to plug in to a project again, to let his mind race along as quick as it can and see if his mouth and his note-taking hand can keep up. For now, maybe just for the night, he lets go of the guilt and lets himself fall in love with his old life again.
Notes:
You guuuyyysssss I really love this fic. And this chapter is SO *holds it tenderly in my palms then swallows it whole*
Thank you thank you amazing commenters! I adore you all! As a reward, next week I'm taking you all to prom!
Chapter 12: Boysenberry
Summary:
New tags added:
⁕ Prom ⁕ Drowning ⁕
shhhh normal prom activities don't even worry it's fiiiiineeee
Notes:
I FORGOT TO POST AFTER I INVITED YOU ALL TO PROM I STOOD YOU UP I'M A MONSTER I'M SORRRRRYYYYYYY
Excuses in the end note. Anyway, here's prom!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter's suit is blue, like the night sky, with a tie to match. His dress shirt is maroon, and his shoes are his same old filthy beat-to-hell Converse knock-offs because he's not made of fucking money and dress shoes are expensive.
May tweaks his tie for him and tucks a curl back into the gelled swaff atop his head. She smiles. "You look so handsome."
"Thanks, May." For once, he's not in a hurry to get anywhere. Sure, he's supposed to be meeting up with Ned, MJ, and MJ's mystery plus-one in ten minutes, but this, here, with May, is where he wants to be. He pulls her into a hug.
With a laugh, May hugs him back. "Are you feeling okay, kiddo?"
Peter exhales. "Sentimental, I guess." He swallows. "I miss Ben."
"Oh, sweetie. Me too."
"Every day?"
She squeezes him tight. "Every single one."
"What would he say if he were here tonight?"
"He'd tell you how proud he—"
"Nah, c'mon." He pulls out of the hug and fixes May with a playfully stern look. "Real answer, please."
May rolls her eyes, and they sparkle with the start of tears. "Alright, well, first he'd make fun of your color scheme. He'd say, 'Really, Pete? There are other colors, you know that, right?'"
Peter laughs. "And then he'd give me the prom night speech. Make good choices, all that."
"Yes, and he'd give you three condoms."
"Three?" Peter echoes.
"Three," May confirms. "One for the deed, the second as a backup in case the first gets damaged, and the third because, and I quote, 'With the natural Parker charisma, you'll need it.'"
Peter laughs through the heartache.
May kisses his forehead, and neither comments on the tears that leak free.
"He would be proud though," she says softly.
"Yeah?"
"Yes. I know I am."
May dabs her cheeks with her sleeve while Peter palms his tears away. Then, she pulls open the topmost drawer of her dresser and takes out a thin sheaf of papers.
She sniffs. "Then he'd give you this." May hands him an application for Empire State University.
Peter sucks in a startled breath through his teeth as he stares at the logo at the top of the application and his name penned neatly beneath it in Aunt May’s handwriting.
"Tony may be naïve enough to believe MIT is still happening after this year, but that doesn't mean we all are. It doesn't have to be Boston or nothing, Peter. There's a lot of good you can do for the world, but much of it has to be done outside the suit. Don't fool yourself into thinking the mask can do it all." She ducks until he looks up and meets her eyes. "Balance," she says, "in all things. There is no Spider-Man without Peter Parker. Remember that for me, please."
"Okay," he chokes out. "I'm sorry." He isn't sure what he's apologizing for. All of it. Everything he is and can never be. Every single thing.
"Sweetheart," May cups his cheeks in her palms, "you have nothing to apologize to me for. You're my boy, and I love you. You'll always be my boy."
"And you'll always be my home," he says, even though there's a secret part of him that whispers part of it is missing. Left behind. Erased.
May smiles. "I'll be reminding you of that after you graduate and discover there's a whole wide world outside your dowdy Aunt May."
"Impossible. I don't believe it. No one could ever think you dowdy."
She turns away, laughing. "Flatterer." She clears her throat and dabs her cheeks again. Then she releases a puff of air and straightens her spine. "You leave that," she gestures at the application, "on your desk and take care of it tomorrow. Your friends are waiting. Take lots of pictures. I'll see you in the morning."
"I will. Love you, May."
"I love you too, Peter. So much."
He kisses her cheek, does as he's told. He leaves through the front door.
~*~
Peter is the last to arrive at the pizza parlor where he, Ned, and MJ agreed to eat before the dance. The lights are low, and the floor is tiled black and white. He waves at the girl behind the counter and heads for the corner where he can hear Ned's exuberant tone.
He's expecting MJ to have a date, so it's a shock when he spots them and finds Harley sitting on MJ's left. Harley looks up and waves. His hair is back, teased into a little bun on the back of his head while a curl hangs loose in front of his ear. Harley's suit is of a more casual style—no tie, light tan blazer, white shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest where a necklace sits in a dusting of chest hair. Peter recognizes it as the one Harley bought at the art festival—a simple gold circle pendant engraved with a rose.
In a daze, Peter sees Harley's lips form the words, "Peter's here."
Peter forces his feet to move, carrying him the last few steps to the table. "What are you doing here?" he asks instead of sitting down. There's a boutonniere pinned to Harley's lapel that matches the pink rose on MJ's wrist, and the sight makes a sickness churn in Peter's gut and horror pump through his veins.
No no no no no no no he can't do this he can't he can't
"He's my date," MJ says with a thin, close-lipped smile. She watches Peter over the top of her pop like she's enjoying a show. "Like my flower? He bought it for me." She leans across the table to shove her corsage under Peter's nose. She's wearing dainty black lace gloves that disappear against her black lacy dress. "It's soooo pretty."
Stone-faced, Peter says, "It's very nice." But on the inside he's devising a plan to get out of this and all future anything and everything that may involve seeing Harley and MJ together or hearing them talk about each other or—
"Alright, that's enough," Harley says. To Peter, he says, "We're going as friends."
"Boo, you're such a fucking wimp. He was going to cry, I know it." MJ digs in the satchel beside her on the bench and pulls out her crisis journal and a pencil. "Hold that expression, Peter. I only need a minute. I want you to be the first face in my prom collection."
"You— What?" He's still reeling from the emotional highs and lows of the past thirty seconds.
"Perfect," MJ says. "Don't move." She sketches, glancing at him every few seconds as she gets the general lines and shapes down.
Ned says, "You missed her rant about roses being cliché to the point of meaninglessness."
"Oh, yeah, her favorite flower is—"
"Black dahlia," Ned and Harley say in unison.
"We heard," Harley drolls.
"You look nice, by the way," Ned says. "I like how you did your hair."
Peter touches the gelled waves atop his head. "Oh, thanks. May deserves all the credit. She picked my suit too, except she let me decide colors. I like your new hat. It suits you."
Ned brightens and adjusts it. "Thanks! I thrifted it." The brim is narrower than his last party hat and circles the low, somewhat squared off head zone without tapering. Dove gray with a purple ribbon, it clashes horribly with his burnt orange suit, blue tie, and black dress shirt.
"Done!" MJ flips the notebook around so they can all see Peter's likeness squinting queasily up at them. "Tonight is gonna be so awesome."
Ned nods. "Looks just like him."
"That's impressive," Harley says, and sounds like he means it. He gestures to the side of his own face. "You got his jaw, cheek thing perfect."
"Thanks." MJ makes a show of tucking a curl behind her ear. To Peter, she says, "You didn't compliment my appearance like you did Ned's, by the way."
Finally, Peter sits beside Ned. "Well, you were psychologically warfaring me, so I think I deserve a pass. You look great, though. Very noir."
Her hair is loose for once, curling beautifully down her back and pinned away from her face on one side with bronze pins adorned with—if you can believe it—black dahlias. She has smudgy black eyeliner under her eyes and liner on her lips. Her dress isn't the usual fluffy, sparkling prom type. Instead, its intricate lace and beading give MJ's already slender form a slimming effect. Her lace gloves end around her wrists with a small ruffle.
She smiles, a genuine one this time. "That's exactly what I was going for. I'm going to lurk in the shadows and document so much drama. This is cramping my style, though. Here," she pulls the corsage off her wrist and tosses it so it hits Peter's chest, "you wear it."
Flustered, Peter tries to pass it to Ned. "It doesn't really go with my outfit."
Ned balks and pushes it away. "You think it goes better with mine?"
Privately, Peter thinks one more color couldn't hurt, but begrudgingly puts the corsage around his own wrist, over the top of his suit jacket. "Fine. Done."
"Y'all sure know how to make a guy feel part of the group," Harley says, his eyes on the corsage.
~*~
Iridescent decorations shaped like palm trees and birds of paradise lead Peter and his friends from the front doors of the riverside hotel, around a corner, down a hallway, to the ballroom. The doorway is swathed in flowers and vines, and when they push inside, they find a tropical paradise. Pillars turned into trees are ringed with coconut balloons. Vases filled with sand, seashells, and fairy lights adorn each table, and shimmering streamers spotted with suspended paper fish designate where the beach ends and the ocean begins. And all of it—from hidden lights dotted throughout the room—is lit perpetual sunset orange.
Peter staggers as his brain goes funny at the sight. Like a tug telling him to remember. It’s right there, just on the edge of his memory, but he can’t see it. Can’t grab onto it.
"Oh, heck yes," Ned crows. He detaches from Peter's arm and makes for the dance floor, where a DJ booth is decorated to look like a Tiki bar. "I love this song!"
It could be the funniness in Peter's head, but all he's getting at the moment is bass.
MJ creeps past him next, whispering, "Subject two, spotted," as she makes a beeline for a girl tearfully pressing napkins against the punch stain on her dress.
A presence steps up beside Peter. One he would recognize anywhere.
"And then there were two," Harley says. "You feel like dancing yet?"
"Uhm…" He feels like he's simultaneously dreaming and has just woken up. He looks up at Harley, and the feeling intensifies. The light shades of Harley's outfit are grabbing light and holding it, giving him a glow. He shifts closer to Peter and the light behind him positions perfectly to give him a halo. "Uhh…"
Harley raises his eyebrows. "So, that's a no. Punch?"
Yeah, he feels like he's been punched.
"Sure," Peter says faintly.
He follows Harley's glowing figure without trouble. They're early, so the worst of the crowd isn't here yet.
They awkwardly pass the punch-stained girl who asks if they have a Tide pen (they do not), and Harley grabs two cups before taking them to a table where they can see Ned kicking off the night alone on the dance floor and MJ surreptitiously sketching. Peter sits where he can see Ned, MJ, and Harley.
Then Harley ruins it by cocking his head at him and switching seats so he's directly beside Peter—far too close for watching, so close their knees knock as Harley sets Peter's punch cup in front of him. Peter can smell him now—or rather, his cologne. Spice and woods. He'd have to get much closer to smell Harley himself.
"You runnin' from me today?" Harley asks with a nonchalance Peter could never hope to affect concerning such things.
"I don't think so." If anything, he feels rooted. Slow and stuck. This place. Harley. He couldn't leave if he wanted to. He knows it's something to do with the blip. If his Harley were sitting beside him, would he feel it too? This…missing piece? Something important. Forgotten. Left behind. Reminders all around, but never enough to breach whatever is locking the memories away. He knows they're there. He can feel them. In a million tiny ways, he feels them.
"Well, I was thinkin'," Harley sucks his lip then releases it and Peter watches the white marks from his teeth flush back to pink, "we should have a safe word."
"A what?" Peter glances around to see if anyone overheard, but there are only a smattering of people so far and most of them are chaperons and teachers hovering along the walls.
Harley looks at him. "I'm not gonna run you outta your own prom, Pete. If you need space, just say, uh... Say 'boysenberry' and I'll make an excuse and leave."
"Boysenberry?"
"Wow, that was fast." Harley makes like he's going to stand.
"St— No." Peter pinches his sleeve and tugs him back down. Harley drops into his seat with a grin. "I'm not kicking you out. You're MJ's date."
"On a technicality. She and Ned wanted to surprise you, but if it comes down to you or me, I want it to be you that stays. Now," he picks up his punch, "drink and then we have to go save Ned."
"What? He's fine." Ned is smiling and chatting with the girl in the DJ booth as he boogies down.
"He's alone out there," Harley says. "He needs backup dancers at minimum."
"I am not starting a boy band."
MJ plops down on Peter's other side and steals his punch. "Why not?" She downs the cup and then eyes him critically. "You're cute enough."
"No, I'm not."
"She's right. You've got the eyes."
"And the hair."
"Ned!" Peter stands. "Help!"
Ned turns until he finds him. "What's wrong?"
Peter abandons the table. "They're saying I could be in a boy band."
"Oh, well, that's just blatantly untrue. You've got no rhythm."
"Thank you."
"Specifically, what was said," MJ says as she and Harley join them, "is he's cute enough to be in a boy band. No one mentioned skill."
"Oh. Sorry, Peter." Ned makes a sad face. "You could for sure be the untalented frontman who puts butts in seats. It's all in the hair and eyes."
Peter throws up his arms and turns to Harley. "What's the safe word to make everyone leave except me?"
"Maple."
"Maple," Peter says.
MJ sways her hips, feeling the beat as a new song starts. "I don't consent."
"Me neither," Ned says. Then he throws his arms over his head and dances with MJ, who, like many, can't resist a smile when faced with Ned's exuberance.
Peter pouts at Harley, who only shrugs, bobbing his head. "You know what to say to get me to leave."
Defeated, Peter sighs, then joins them to the best of his ability—hands in loose fists, elbows bent and feeling the chorus as it comes on.
MJ laughs. "Woo! Dance, white boy, dance!" She takes his hand and spins him.
They spin and dance and shout along to the songs they know. Ned introduces them to Melanie, who is DJ-ing her way through nursing school, and from there they have the DJ's favor. Even as more and more of their classmates arrive and pour onto the dance floor, their shouted song requests get honored more often than not.
Then Taylor Swift comes on over the top of a remixed dance track.
Harley groans at the first note. "My sister had this album on repeat for months after it came out." Mockingly, he sings, "I. Don't. Like this stupid song."
With a laugh, Peter joins in, "Don't. Like to sing a-long."
Surprised, Harley meets his eyes as, together, they sing, "Fuck. It's stuck in my head. Like a groove. No I don't want to."
"What's happening?" Ned shouts to MJ.
Harley grins at Peter and steps closer as they match each other lyric for made-up lyric. "I. Don't. Care for Taylor Swift. Don't. Want to cause a rift. You. Said the song was fine. What a crime. And I'm doing the time."
The chorus drops and the entire ballroom screams along while Peter and Harley smile at each other. Harley watches him, bemused, like he wants to ask, but Peter just smiles and sings along—the real lyrics now. He doesn't know where the made-up ones came to him from, and that tells him everything he needs to know.
For a moment, he wishes he could tell his Harley he was right; they did know each other before the funeral; they did meet in the soul stone. But here, surrounded by friends with music blaring and this Harley smiling at him like he's something special, it's hard to stay morose for long.
MJ leaves them on the dance floor first—whether to sketch the timid wallflowers, bored chaperons, or jealous losers, she'll let her pencil decide. Next, Ned is captured by Abe, who drags him to the punch table just as a slow song comes on.
Peter smiles awkwardly at Harley. He has slow danced with both MJ and Ned already, so this, he feels, was inevitable.
Harley doesn't seem so sure. "Boysenberry?" he asks.
Peter shakes his head. "Unless you don't want to."
Harley holds out his hand, and Peter barely hesitates before taking it. A grin takes the place of Harley's unsure expression. Dimple in his cheek.
"At least I'm a better dancer than you," Harley says as they step together.
Peter puts his arms around Harley's neck, MJ's corsage now buddied up beside its matching boutonniere, while Harley's hands settle warm and solid on his waist. "You say that as if it's an accomplishment."
Harley laughs, and for a bright, shining moment, it replaces the music.
Then Flash elbows Peter as he squeezes past them. "Hey, you actually pulled a date, Penis! Miracles do happen!"
Peter tenses. He doesn't realize he's pushing down on Harley's shoulders as though to hold him in place until Harley squeezes his sides, drawing Peter's attention away from Flash's retreating figure.
"He's harmless," Peter explains quickly. "Really. Just mouthy and obnoxious—nothing I can't handle."
Harley doesn't even glance at Flash. He watches Peter nervous babble, amused. "I'm not gonna turn all aggro boyfriend over some grad-school name calling, Pete." He blanches. "Not that— You know— I'm your…anything."
"Right," Peter agrees, with a new fissure in his heart. "I know you're not."
Harley's eyebrows crush together, and his eyes flick over Peter's face. Peter has no idea what he sees, but he hopes it's not the truth.
Harley stops swaying. "Can I talk to you?"
Peter's heart rate punches up. "About what?"
Harley licks his lips, winces like he's prematurely regretting what he's about to say, and then says, "Stuff? Things? Important things? Don't run off on me."
Peter stays rooted to the spot. Like prey.
"Yes or no, Pete. Can we? Talk, I mean? Somewhere…less…here?"
"I don't know," Peter says. "I'm not ready."
He doesn't know what he expects Harley to glean from that statement—he barely knows what he means—but Harley nods like it's what he anticipated. "I know, and I'm not pushin' for anything. I just wanna talk. Can we?"
Fear keeps Peter frozen. He has no idea what to expect.
Softly, Harley says, "I've been wanting to since spring break, but with F.R.I.D.A.Y. always listening and then your friends…" He searches Peter's face. "I feel like…we can handle it now."
"Oh," Peter says. That. He's not sure how prepared he is to handle anything, but he sort of figured this would happen eventually. He looks around, but the whole place is packed with soon-to-be alums.
"Outside, maybe," Harley suggests.
Peter nods. "Outside, sure."
He follows Harley through the crowd, smiling wanly when Betty bumps into him to murmur, "Ooo, Peter, he's cute," and out into the open air. More of his classmates are milling around the boardwalk, making out between street lamps, and getting nudged apart by unlucky chaperons when they get too heated.
Harley points across the street at the parking garage where he left his car after driving them all from the pizza parlor. "You mind? We could sit."
"Sure." Whatever Harley has been itching to ask him is going to be best received well away from witnesses, anyway. Peter doesn't remember much, but he knows he and Harley were alone in the woods for a chunk of time before Nat could get to them. He was pretty out of it, but he knows he did a lot of talking. Whatever he said, it has to be what Harley wants to discuss.
The parking garage is much quieter than the street, and inside Harley's car is doubly so. He parked along the exterior wall, so they have a view—albeit a limited one—looking down on the river. Peter focuses on it rather than look at Harley.
"What's up?"
"I've been wanting to ask how much you remember. When I found you, you were—"
"None of it," Peter says shortly. "Not a thing until midway through the flight back to the compound."
"Okay, well, you said some things," Harley continues, undeterred, watchful. "I've been thinking about them a lot."
"Like what?" Get it over with.
"Like, you seemed pretty convinced we were dating." Harley attempts a little snort laugh, like he's inviting Peter to laugh too.
He doesn't. That's humiliating. They weren't dating before Peter went and changed everything. Why would act like they were? Oh God, did he do anything? Was he all over poor Harley, who just wanted to keep the idiot from dying in the woods? He’s too mortified to ask. He sort of feels like crying.
Tone-dead, Peter says, "I was delirious."
Harley hesitates to respond. Peter feels his eyes on him in the pause, but he keeps his resolutely on the river.
"Right," Harley finally says. "And then you brought up my suit."
Peter almost looks at him, but his humiliation is too strong. "What about it?"
"Well, it's a secret. Tony doesn't even know about it, so how do you?"
"Lucky guess," Peter lies with a stone face. "You're his protégé. It makes sense that you'd attempt your own version."
"Maybe, but you were convinced we'd— That I'd talked to you about it before. Extensively."
"Delirious, remember?"
"You said non-lethal restraints were what we'd been discussing last."
"That's…specific." Weirdly specific. Peter strains his memory for any scraps of rooftop or Central Park conversations about Harley's suit's restraints, but comes up blank. Harley already had his magnetic restraints designed and implemented when he got to New York. In fact, Peter saw him use them the very first time he saw Harley in his suit, before he even knew it was Harley piloting it.
Harley—this Harley—is watching him closely, but for this question at least, Peter has nothing to hide. He really doesn't know why his scrambled, dying brain would concoct a false memory of something Harley figured out on his own. Unless…
Harley draws a deep breath and releases it. "Okay, fine." He sounds frustrated, like he suspects Peter is holding things back. And why wouldn't he? None of this makes sense. "One more, and I want you to know I can handle the truth, whatever it is, okay?"
"Sure," Peter hedges. He tries not to squirm. "What is it?"
"What's the thing that only you remember?"
Peter's stare snaps to Harley's face. "What?"
Harley's eyes rake over him, taking in all the details Peter has been trying to hide. "You said you're the only one who remembers—that I don't remember. And when I asked you was it was, you said, 'losing'."
Peter feels sick. His stupid ass really just threw it all out there, huh? Everything Harley would need to sniff out a puzzle and not let it go until he'd identified all the pieces and fit them together.
"It's nothing," Peter croaks. "Delirious."
Slowly, Harley shakes his head. "I don't believe that. It's the reason, isn't it? Why you're self-destructive? And it's why you're so weird around me. Isn't it?"
Why're you so weird around me, Pete?
"I have to go." Peter kicks open the door and stumbles out into the garage.
Harley is swift to follow. "You can tell me," he says, voice echoing through the garage. "I swear I won't tell Tony, no matter what it is."
Peter quickens his pace.
"I can keep a secret. You and Abbie are the only ones who know about my suit, and I've been working on it for years. Hiding it from my own mother."
Peter skips the elevator and hurries down the stairs.
Harley bangs into the stairwell. "I can handle it!" he insists, hot on Peter's heels.
Peter reaches the street-level door and pulls it open, but a hand reaches past him, over his shoulder, and shoves it closed.
"Stop running away from me."
Peter falters. It would be easy to open the door, despite Harley's hand holding it shut, and return to the dance where Harley won't be able to question him anymore; if only it didn't require ignoring Harley. He's never been able to manage it. Not really. He's always there. Peter is attuned to his presence like F.R.I.D.A.Y. is tuned in to Tony's.
He closes his eyes and soaks in the line of heat against his back like water to a sponge. Like a lizard on a sunbaked rock.
"You can tell me, Pete," Harley says, directly behind him. Close enough that if Peter were to just lean back… "I swear I won't spaz out like Tony. You can… I wanna be in your corner. Just…just let me."
Peter opens his eyes and meets Harley's in the reflection on the glass. Still watching him.
Harley says, "You can trust me."
"I know."
Harley frowns—another puzzle piece pressed into his hand. He searches Peter's reflection—searching for where this new piece fits into the whole. He asks, "How do you know that, Peter?"
Peter opens his mouth. He's going to tell him. He's going to spill everything in this public, piss-soaked stairwell. Ignoring Harley has never been possible. Not for him. Not even when it was destroying his life—alienating his friends, distressing Aunt May, tanking his GPA. He could say, “boysenberry,” and see if Harley will honor his promise, but he won’t. He’s going to tell him.
A scream pierces the night. A flash of light follows—violet.
Peter looks through Harley to the crowd outside. People are running away from the boardwalk. Away from the hotel where Ned and MJ and all of his classmates are celebrating.
His heart palpitates and everything else—everything except helping—falls away.
"Stay here," Peter orders, then pulls the door open and sprints across the street.
In hindsight, he wishes he had stripped off his suit—the formal one—before rushing out of the relative privacy of the stairwell, but he’s wholly focused on getting eyes on the problem before committing to a costume change.
He barely avoids a collision with a rushing Lift driver and jumps up onto a bench to see above the heads of his fleeing classmates.
There. A middle-aged man wearing a tracksuit and waving a ray gun. He's shouting, spittle flying, and seems to be looking for someone.
Peter leaps over the back of the bench into a well-manicured stand of bushes and evergreens.
When he leaps out the other side, he's wearing a different suit of red and blue, and his mask is hiding his face. "Hey!" he shouts at Ray Gun. "Hey, man, can I help you with somethin'? This event is invite only."
Ray Gun looks at him and does a double-take. "Spider-Man," he says in a way that makes it sound like he's found what he was looking for. "What do you look like under there, Spider-Man? Handsome? I bet you get all the girls."
What the fuck?
"Uh," Peter makes a show of scratching the side of his head, "not lately, but my friends did just tell me I could be in a boy band. I have the right hair and eyes, apparently." He's not sure if that's too much information, but he needs to keep this guy focused on him until the boardwalk clears. Peter slowly circles, trying to fix the angle so that if Ray Gun takes a shot at him before Peter can restrain him, he can dodge and it'll sail harmlessly out over the water. He's near the boardwalk railing now, and Ray Gun looks twitchy.
"What color?" Ray Gun demands and levels the ray gun at Peter's chest.
Peter halts his slow approach. What color? That's definitely TMI. "Why? Not to sound full of myself, but usually when people meet me for the first time, these aren't the questions they ask."
The man's lip curls. He's got patchy stubble and an unkempt appearance. Like he peeled himself off the couch away from the big game to come here and terrorize some school kids. "Just answer the question. Skin, too. What color?"
"Ohhkay so this is some white supremacist bullshit? The fuck, dude? Don't you have something better to do on a Saturday night?"
This seems to hit a sore spot. "No!" he screams, spit flying again. "I don't! Some of us got fucked by our genetics. Some of us went from hot and promising and cool and ended up bald, sagging, losers. Well, I refuse." He positions his finger over the trigger. "I won't let my life end like this. So, what do you look like, Spider-Man? Are you fair and fertile?"
Peter had just been about to make his move—the boardwalk is as clear as it's going to get—but the question trips him up entirely.
"You can't just— Dude, that's so weird. Genuinely, I don't think your appearance is the problem."
Ray Gun's attention shifts, past Peter down the boardwalk. He smiles. "Oh, you'll do." And aims the gun.
Peter fires a web and hauls a trashcan into the trajectory of the laser that zings out of the barrel. Dammit, he was supposed to fire at—
The laser connects, and trash bursts everywhere while, in the midst of it all, the bin falls unharmed to the ground. As it lands, the domed top pops free and rolls in a dizzy circle.
Weird. The gun transferred the trash to the outside of the bin? What kind of ray gun is this? And what does it have to do with Peter's appearance? He doesn't have time to parse it.
He glances over his shoulder to see who Ray Gun is targeting and goes cold all the way to his core.
Harley.
He's against the railing, crouched behind a potted tree, but it's hardly any cover, and Ray Gun has a direct shot if Harley tries to make a break for it to escape into the city.
Peter moves, hurrying backward toward Harley, and fires dual webs at Ray Gun, but he dodges in a surprising display of athleticism.
"Seven years quarterback, bitch." He fires again.
There's nothing close enough to throw to block the laser in time, and Peter's mind is a whirl of panic.
Harley Harley Harley Harley Harley
He knows he won’t make it in time, but he turns his back on Ray Gun and dives for Harley anyway. Peter gets an arm around his waist and is leaping to pull him out of the way when the beam hits Harley’s shoulder. In the same instant, something hot—like a beam of energy—hits the middle of Peter’s back.
His stomach twists, and for a moment everything compresses and his vision goes black. For a heartbeat, the world is gone, all sensation lost.
Then it snaps back. Peter crashes into the railing and over it—plummeting toward the river far below. Wind scrapes his cheeks and tosses golden hair in his eyes. Beside him, Spider-Man has one arm around Peter's waist and is pinwheeling his free arm—yelling.
“Wh—” The river is coming up quick, and Spider-Man is just flailing. Peter scrambles for one of the web-shooters on Spider-Man’s wrist. “Thwip! THWIP!”
He triggers a web the instant before they slam into the water.
WHAM!
It hurts. More than anything has hurt him in years. All of his breath crushes out of him and he locks up, sinking quickly as pain pulses through him and freezing water closes over his head. He doesn't remember the last time he felt pain this acutely. It's all-consuming. And he's sinking.
A jolt of alarm jars Peter from his shock, and he manages a clumsy kick that does nothing but draw his attention to the dress shoes on his feet, the water-logged suit jacket restricting his arms, and the way the water is pulling, sucking him downward.
A hand clamps onto his wrist hard—too hard—and pulls. Something creaks. Then, the crack of breaking bone echoes through the river as pain cuts into Peter so sharply he gasps instinctively and draws in water.
He spasms, trying to cough, but finds only more water. He rips at the grip around his wrist, but it tightens, making the pain travel like fire up his arm. Kicking and flailing and drowning, Peter is dragged through the river. He convulses, and his eyes roll back. Still, his lungs try desperately to replace water with air.
He's going to die. The surety of it settles on him. Not a fear, not a question—an absolute. He's dying. This is what it feels like to die.
Peter's head breaches the surface. Water spews from between his lips. There's air on his face, but none in his lungs. He vomits and chokes. Everything goes fuzzy. Then dark.
Notes:
RE standing you up on prom night: from the bottom of my heart, My Bad <3 In my defense I had a really busy (social) weekend (Thanksgiving Thursday, last-minute unplanned snowblower shopping with sister Friday (black friday sister WHY), hosted a dinner Sunday after all day cleaning and decorating, DOT appointment Monday). By the time I finally got home Monday afternoon I was barely a person and when I cleared my cache I accidentally deleted all memory of posting fic, prom included. I'm sorry. Feel free to stone me in the village square if it eases the pain.
Anyway, what a fun chapter! I promise to resolve that pesky little cliffhanger next week. On time, this time 🙂 Yell in the comments!
Chapter 13: Fucked up therapy shit
Summary:
New Tags Added:
⁕ Bodyswap ⁕
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"No, no, no, no, no."
The steady mantra is coming from someone who is clearly having an easier time breathing than Peter. There's gravel under him. He's lying on his side—the recovery position—and is moving air, but with a great deal of coughing that wracks through his body in great heaves that make his face prick with dozens of tiny but sharp jabs of pain. Everything hurts: his lungs, his chest, the side he’s lying on feels bruised as rocks dig into his poor, abused flesh.
"Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay."
Once his breath is sufficiently caught, and he seems to be done vomiting, Peter looks up.
It's a mistake. The world warps and every hair on his body stands on end because kneeling in front of him, is him. It's his suit, his tech, and his face—big brown eyes full of panic and tears. Staring down at him, scared shitless.
Peter closes his eyes and groans. What the fuck did that ray gun do?
"Are you okay?" Not-Peter shouts. "I don't— I don't know what the hell happened, but you're wearing my fucking face and I feel weird. I think… I think I'm Spider-Man."
Peter laughs. The situation is officially fucked. He goes into another coughing fit.
"Harley?" he asks when his lungs are through with their latest bid for freedom. He tries to sit up. "That you in there?"
Peter looks around. They're barely out of the river, laid out on the rocky shore below the boardwalk above. Something red is lying on the rocks, just out of reach of the lapping river. There's trash piled up farther away from the water like someone's been sleeping down here. Most importantly though, they're hidden. Hesitantly, he looks down at himself. He's wearing Harley's suit—filthy and soaked now, but he recognizes the bedraggled pink rose barely clinging to his lapel, and of course the gold necklace with the rose-stamped pendant.
"Yeah," Harley says with Peter’s mouth—still more shout than speech. "How'd you— Let me help—" He reaches for him.
"No!" Peter flinches away and draws his broken wrist protectively against his chest. His own face looks down at him, shocked and confused. "Dude, you broke my wrist. Your wrist. No more grabbing until you learn to control yourself. Myself."
Harley sucks his hands back and holds them like claws in front of his stomach. "I what? How did I— I didn't mean—"
"I know. You have to be careful until we can get this reversed, okay? And stop yelling."
"Yelling?" Harley yells. He puts his hands over his ears, then springs them away like he's afraid of crushing his own skull. "Why is everything so loud?"
Good grief. This is going to be a whole thing.
"Look," Peter says, "you're in an enhanced body right now. Everything is going to be a little strange. You're way stronger than a normal human, and you’re taking in a lot more sensory detail than you’re used to. You're also more durable, so you don't have to worry about hurting yourself, just other people. Alright? It's gonna be fine. I'm going to help you."
Harley shakes his head. His breathing is coming in gasps now, and he's staring at Peter's hand as it hangs unnaturally from his wrist. "How do I make it stop?" Tears spill down Harley's cheeks—Peter's cheeks. “I hurt y—” Air whistles as Harley gasps in a breath. “I can’t—” He digs his fingers into the collar of the Spider suit and he pulls it away from his throat, and Peter gets a front-row seat to how he looks at his lowest—succumbing to a panic attack.
"Hey, okay. It's okay." He crawls toward Harley, but Harley panics and lurches backwards. His elbow strikes a boulder and cracks it in two.
"Oh Jesus. Christ alive, I'm fucking— Oh God." Harley grabs both halves of the rock and tries pressing them back together.
"Just stop," Peter says. "Hold still. I'm coming to you, and I'm going to help."
"But you said—!"
"Hands on your thighs. I'll touch you. You don't touch me. Okay?"
Harley does as instructed and sits as still as someone panting through a panic attack is capable of. He's dripping wet—Peter's carefully gelled locks spoiled with river water—and suited up from the neck down, leaking water everywhere. Thoroughly pathetic, and completely useless for anything resembling chasing down Ray Gun. The web-shooters should still be functional, but Harley doesn't know what the hell he's doing, and Peter's in Harley's normie body with a broken wrist, and whenever he breathes too deeply, he goes into a coughing fit. He hopes someone else is nearby to take care of the asshole who zapped them because they're in no state for it.
Peter approaches slowly, crawling over gravel and rocks. He puts a hand on the back of Harley's—his own—neck and squeezes. Then, when Harley doesn't freak out, he puts his arm around Harley's—his own—shoulders and wraps him in a hug.
They sit like that while Harley's breathing slowly shifts from labored to relaxed. It feels like an eternity. Peter tries to be patient, but one half of his mind is imagining the chaos Ray Gun could be causing right now, and the other is having a hell of a time remembering that—despite appearances—it’s Harley he’s comforting. Not himself.
After enough time for Harley’s breathing to return nearly to normal, Peter says, "I hate this." He doesn’t drop the hug, though. He’s been through enough panic attacks to know how fragile you feel afterward. But his feelings won’t be restrained any longer. "This is like, some fucked up therapy shit. D'you think my therapist is in on it? They must have hired that guy."
Harley sniffs. "At least you didn't have to give yourself mouth to mouth. It's just as weird on this side, I promise."
Peter's eyes go wide. He hadn't realized… He must have lost consciousness. Something zings under his skin at the idea that his and Harley's lips have touched in both times now. Then he remembers that he'd just been puking river water, and it loses some of the romance.
Harley shifts uncomfortably. "Okay, you can stop comforting myself now."
"Gladly." Peter drops his arms and crawls away, toward the wrinkled, wet, red lump he spotted near the shoreline. His mask. He hands it to Harley. "Cover my face back up, would you?"
"Oh, sorry." Harley accepts it gingerly and frowns down at it. "This thing is horrible, by the way."
"You're only saying that because it hasn't glommed onto your psyche and made you redefine who you are as a person and whether you're worth anything outside of it yet."
Harley is still and silent for a beat. He lifts his gaze to Peter. Then, delicately, he says, "You said something about a therapist."
"Unrelated."
"It shouldn’t be." Using only his fingertips, Harley lifts the mask over his head, then looks up and freezes.
Peter jerks his head up, expecting the worst—to be under attack or spotted or both. Instead, he finds an old holographic sticker stuck to the underside of the boardwalk above them. Whatever it used to be has long peeled away, leaving only a mirror-like square behind. It's maybe as big as his thumb, but it's enough for Harley to glimpse his reflection, and for recognition to crash down on him.
Harley rips the mask down under his chin, then curls toward him and hisses, "Peter?! What the fuck! Holy shit."
"What's your…" Peter trails off, mind chugging. He assumed. This whole time, he thought… But there's only one explanation for this reaction.
Harley didn't know.
But his Harley knew. From the moment they met at Tony's funeral, Harley knew Peter was Spider-Man.
I think I’ve known for a long time. I don’t remember when I figured it out.
Peter's stomach lurches like he missed a step going down the stairs. This Harley clearly didn't know "for a long time". Harley—his Harley—had to have learned Peter was Spider-Man sometime in the five years they were in the soul stone that this Harley never lived. It's the only explanation.
"Don't," Harley says with sudden intensity. "I swear to God I will hunt you down and end you if you run and abandon me like this. Side note, it's fucking weird seeing your expressions on my face. I don't like it."
"Sorry," Peter says. His voice is faint. There are memories of Harley—his Harley—that he'll never have. They're locked away in his head, and he can't get to them. Harley—his Harley—was the trigger. Being around him was what brought them to the surface. In a trickle with fits and starts, but he was close to remembering. They both were. And that's over now. Now he'll never know. They met, the first time, and he doesn't remember it. Five years. How much of it did they spend together? It must have been a lot, right? To feel this strongly. To know Harley in his gut, somewhere in his bones—they must have had so much time, and Peter will never know. He'll never get that back.
Peter sits roughly, and the pain from his wrist jars all up his arm. He gasps at the strength of it, but it's not enough to cut through his grief. He puts his head between his knees and stares at familiar hands—Harley's. Harley's suit is soaked and leaking and clinging, and it's only making everything worse that he's inside his body while grieving him.
"Look, I'm sorry," Harley says. He's still wearing the mask. It's unsettling to have Spider-Man talking to him. Like his mind finally broke and constructed Spidey into his own separate person. "I won't tell anyone, okay? Not even Abbie. I swear. Your secret's safe with me."
"I know," Peter whispers.
"It's gonna be fine. I won't—"
"I know, Harley." Peter breathes through the ache in his chest. "I trust you."
That stops Harley entirely. He peels up the mask and holds it so he can see Peter without the filter of the lenses. Under it his expression—Peter's expression—is intense. It doesn't matter that it's Peter’s own face looking at him like that because, suddenly, they're back in the stairwell.
"You trust me," Harley echoes.
"Of course I do."
"What do you mean, of course you do? Since when?"
Peter chokes out a strangled laugh. "I don't remember." Tears leak free. "I don't remember."
"Shit. You can't be having a breakdown when I can't touch you without hurting you. Stow it for later, would you? Have some fucking decency, Parker."
Peter laughs. Wet and tearful. He sniffs, then coughs. His throat is so fucked up. "Sorry. I'll work on my timing." He wipes his eyes with his good wrist, then his nose. Then he heaves a sigh and forces himself to his feet. He's sore all over. Dull but persistent pain. His whole body—Harley's body—has been through the wringer. He groans. "Don't be too eager to get back to normal. My little joyride in your wheels has fucked you up good."
"How do we even get back to normal? Do we need the gun?" Harley looks at the web-shooters on his wrists. "I don't have the first clue how to work these things. I mean, I get point and trigger, but—"
"You are not chasing down any bad guys."
Harley sighs in relief. "Okay, good. Should we call Tony?" He eyes Peter's—his—suit. "I used to have a phone, but I fear it's lost to us one way or another."
Peter takes a moment to envision Tony's reaction to this. Panic, maybe. Mockery, undoubtedly. Solutioning would come eventually, but only after a good freak out and would be followed by a lifetime of teasing. Best to avoid all that if you ask him. Besides, he already knows the first person Tony will turn to for help.
"Let's try someone more local first. There's this wizard—"
"Doctor Strange?" Harley asks.
"You know him?"
Harley shrugs. "No, but he drops by the compound every now and again. Hard to miss with the cape and the—" He holds out his arm, two fingers extended, and makes a circular motion.
"Yeah, that’s him! Have Karen tell him we're stopping by and it's an emergency."
"Karen? Oh, AI?"
"Yeah, Tony's. A little too motherly, maybe, but she's good. Have her check in with Ned and MJ too. Make sure they're okay and tell them to go somewhere safe. I'll call later." He pauses. There's a villain about and no way for Peter to stop him. "First though, tell Karen to text Red. Tell him there's a loose bogie and I'm fine but incapacitated. Last known location: the riverside boardwalk. Non-lethal weapon but fucking inconvenient. Don't get hit."
Harley's head is tipped curiously, and, ugh, suddenly Peter can see the merit to the boy band commentary. Fuck his baka life.
"Who's Red?"
"Daredevil."
Harley lights up, lips forming an "o", and there it fucking is again. Peter has to look away before he develops a complex even Avery Stone can't bring him back from. As he thinks of his therapist, he feels a pang of guilt. He still hasn't called, even though he said he would after the spring break debacle. He needs to be in the right mental space to do that homework, and with the end of senior year scramble and Harley's sudden presence in his life, that just hasn't been possible.
With the mask tucked back under his chin, Harley relays all of Peter's instructions to Karen while they walk—stumbling with unfamiliar legs on the shifting gravel and tripping on rocks in the dark. He gets immediate texts back from Ned and MJ, who were worried and searching for Harley, but are unharmed. They didn't see which way Ray Gun went, but confirm he's nowhere nearby. Harley doesn't tell them about the body swap, and Peter's relieved by that. Some things are better left unrevealed until they've been resolved.
Or maybe there won't be a solution. Maybe they have to live like this now.
The thought shoots an icy spout of fear up Peter's spine. That would mean no more Spider-Man. It would mean being normal again. He doesn't know whether he can go back to that. He genuinely doesn't. To stand by when danger arises and not put himself in the middle of it? He doesn't think he could do it.
It takes a while to find a way back up to the boardwalk, but they do. Then it's just a matter of walking to Doctor Strange's Strangatorium, or whatever it's called. Which would be simpler if Harley wasn't suited up like Spider-Man.
"Let's go find my suit," Peter suggests after a woman points at Harley with a loud cry of awe. "My…other suit.
"Good idea," Harley mutters behind the mask. Then quickly follows Peter away from onlookers. "This is weird."
"You get used to it. It's not so bad when you can swing away. Or climb a building. Oh, that's the other thing to watch out for. You stick to stuff now. All of you, but you'll notice it in your hands and feet the most."
"That's not the suit?"
"Nope. That's all you now, pumpkin."
"I can't believe you live like this."
"Yerp. Every day, all the time. Well, except tonight, apparently."
"God. This puts so much into perspective."
They find the remnants of Peter's prom suit scattered on the sidewalk. His jacket, of course, is missing. As is his tie, but there are enough pieces to cover the Spider-Man suit. The corsage is, somehow, completely unharmed and lying on a bench. Harley picks it up so incredibly gingerly you'd think it was made of dandelion fluff. Peter collects what's left, and they retreat to the parking garage stairwell to cover up.
After the first button pings away never to be seen again, Peter insists on doing up Harley's clothes for him and it's not the least bit sexy because 1) his goddamn wrist is broken and it hurts and have you ever tried doing a button one-handed from the opposite side of things than you're used to? It's fucking difficult. And 2) it's his own face looking back at him.
"This is weird," Harley says.
"Tell me about it," Peter mutters as he pins his pant leg still with his forearm and yanks up his fly with his good hand. "There. Let's go. Hopefully, this is an easy fix for a wizard."
"I don't know how you can stand all the noise. I thought the city was bad before I got superpowers."
Peter shushes him. Harley's still talking louder than he realizes but thankfully isn't shouting anymore.
"Sorry," Harley whispers.
"You're wearing my face. No more super talk," Peter tells him. Then adds, "It helps if you pick a quiet sound nearby and focus on that. You can filter out the worst of it."
Harley nods, a look of concentration on his face, then presents the corsage to Peter in the palm of his hand. "Will you help me with this?"
Peter huffs, but takes it and painstakingly stretches the band one-handed and fits it over Harley's hand and shirt sleeve until it sits—somewhat crooked—atop his wrist. "I don't know why you bothered with that thing. You could have left it."
Harley opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it and just shrugs. "I like it," is all he says.
Peter can sense the unspoken monster lurking under that statement and avoids it with a ten-foot pole. He exits the stairwell first, and Harley follows. Side-by-side, they walk in silence for a time. But as Peter goes over the fight in his head, he has to know.
"What were you doing on the boardwalk?" he asks.
Harley looks at him as if it's obvious. "Looking for you. I saw you rush in, but I didn't see you come back out. I didn't know…you were you."
"Right." And Peter thought he did know, so he didn't even try to hide what he was doing. Harley must have thought he was insane.
"You scared the fuck out of me, by the way."
"Sorry."
"I take it Ned and MJ know and that's why you didn't think anything of ditching me like that?"
"Yeah," Peter says. "They've known for a while now."
Harley hums, and they walk the rest of the way to the sanctorium in silence. For the first time ever, Peter sneaks no peeks at Harley. The less he has to see his body walking and talking outside of his control, the better.
~*~
"Should we knock?" Harley asks.
Before Peter can reply, the door swings open, and Doctor Strange himself stands in the doorway with his cape on over his pajamas. "Well, look who it is. I knew I'd be seeing you two eventually. Can I just say: finally. I hate loose threads." He steps aside and gestures for them to come inside.
Peter avoids meeting the confused look Harley sends his way and hesitates before stepping over the threshold, but what else can he do? Where else can he go? Unless he wants to hunt down Ray Gun and take the time to reverse engineer a body-swapping ray gun—which could take months or even years—Strange is the option. If magic can’t fix this, Peter is going to be the one having the next panic attack.
"We ran afoul of a ray gun," Peter says the moment the door is closed, before Strange can bring up anything else. Peter didn't consider that he might think they were here for time travel reasons. Especially since he was so coldly deflective when Peter tried to talk to him about it on Titan. His heart is thumping hard, nervous about what Strange might give away, not knowing Peter has secrets he wants to keep. There are some things Harley should never have to know.
"Oh?" Strange says. He squints. "I can see you ran afoul of something. You're flip-flopped."
"You can see that?" Harley asks.
"In the Astral Dimension, yes. There's clearly been a mix-up. Easy enough to fix."
Peter sighs in relief. "Great. I love easy fixes."
Strange cocks his head and looks directly at him. "There's nothing else you want to ask for? Nothing that it might be prudent to request while Harley has easy access to your brain, perhaps?"
Peter goes stiff all over. "No," he says. "That's not what we're here for."
Strange frowns. "I don't think you understand what I'm—"
"I understand perfectly," Peter snaps, shifting so he's between Harley and Doctor Strange. "I don't want it. It won't be the same."
"What are you talking about?" Harley whispers.
"Oh, Peter," Strange says. "Nothing is ever the same. Sometimes that's a blessing." His hands glow as he steps closer.
Harley steps back, shooting Peter a concerned look. His back hits the door. There's nowhere to go.
Peter moves with him, his back pressed against Harley. "Stop it! I said no!"
"Let me show you."
Peter tries to stop him from touching Harley, but his reflexes are only human, and he forgets his broken wrist. He connects with Strange, but flinches back in agony as pain bursts up his arm. Then, too slow, he watches in horror as Harley shouts, raising his arms, but Strange gets a glowing finger on Harley's forehead.
With a cry, Harley collapses, clutching his skull.
"What did you do?" Peter demands. He stops himself at the last second from shoving Strange and instead cradles his hurt arm against his chest. "Undo it! Undo it right now!"
"This isn't something that can be undone," Strange says as he watches Harley, hunched on the floor, moaning as he holds his head.
Peter drops to his knees and grabs Harley's shoulder. "Harley? What's happening? Are you— Are you remembering?"
"It's not really remembering," Strange muses. "Only you remember, Peter, you know that. I'm simply letting him see what you remember. Everything you remember."
Tears spring into his eyes and his voice frays. "Well, stop! I didn't ask you to do this!"
"This is the last step. You'll see, as I have seen, that everything works out for the best, but only if you both remember." His stare stays fixed on Harley as Harley calms—head still in his hands, but seemingly no longer in pain. "Good. Now, we switch."
That's all the warning Peter gets before Strange goes vacant in front of him. One moment he's there and present and speaking, and the next he's a frozen husk. Then Peter feels an almighty tug that rips him off his knees. Except he doesn't move. He's tugged out of his body—out of Harley's body. There's a moment when he's suspended and he sees a world shaped like the one he knows, but washed out, translucent. Below him are three bodies, frozen and empty, and beside him is a form, a presence—one he'd recognize anywhere. He looks and Harley glows radiant. Their eyes meet.
Then there's another form—Strange. He slams a hand into Peter's chest, shoving him toward his body. There's a pull, and then he snaps back into the shape made for him. The world is solid again.
He has only a moment to feel relief, to pat his arms and crush the pink rose around his wrist. Then a cool digit presses against his temple, and he's lost in a tide of forgotten memories.
The Plain of the Lost
If expelling bodily fluids worked in this place, Peter is sure he'd have puked by now. He clutches his middle and tries to breathe through his laughter while May and Harley keep up their charade of bumbling incompetence—miming props and scenery to the delight of the crowd.
Finally, they end the bit with Harley getting laid flat by May's imaginary two by four.
The audience—those who can breathe—hum a few bars of the funeral dirge, as is customary when a character dies in a comedic performance.
With her two by four on her shoulder, May takes a sweeping bow as everyone breaks into applause. Then Harley leaps to his feet, and clasps hands with May. They bow together.
Once they've soaked in enough of the limelight to make all the practice worth it, they exit the imagined stage and make their way off to where Peter is wheezing on the ground, slightly away from the group.
Harley sits beside him, cheeks flushed with exertion and pleasure. "Liked that one, did ya?"
Peter nods. "W-when you fell down the s-stairs and M-May—" He can't finish and dissolves into breathless giggles.
Harley kisses his cheek, seemingly because he can't resist the temptation.
May sits on Harley's other side and stretches her legs out in front of her. "We could hear you over everyone else."
Harley nods. "Almost broke me when you busted up after the mallet got stuck in my pocket."
"I saw that," May says, "and your almost break almost broke me."
Peter gets a hold of himself enough to ask, "It was a mallet? I thought it was a two by four."
"What would I be doing with a two by four in my pocket, Peter?"
"What would you be doing with a mallet in your pocket?"
"That's the humor!"
"Exactly!"
"Boys, boys. It's all in the theater of the mind. The audience sees what they expect to see. You," May grabs Harley's ankle and gives him a rattle while he grins, "were fantastic."
"Says the most phenomenal actress of the troupe," Harley counters.
She smiles coyly. "That's how you know it's high praise when I say you're my favorite partner." She stands and kisses the tops of their heads. "I'm going to socialize before the next act. Try not to sneak away until everyone's finished?"
"Yes, May," they chorus. "Love you, May."
"Love you, boys."
~*~
Peter finds Harley lying spread-eagle on his back some distance from the group. Peter gave him some space after he wordlessly drifted out here to lie by himself, but it's been long enough; he thinks it's okay to intrude.
As he draws near, he can hear Harley softly singing.
"—don't. Care for Taylor Swift. Don't. Want to cause a rift. You. Said the song was fine. What a—"
"You know," Peter interrupts. He sits beside Harley's head, "with how often you sing that song, I don't think you hate it as much as you claim."
Harley glowers up at him. He blows at his hair, but it flutters stubbornly back over his eyes. "It's an earworm. I'm helpless in the thrall."
"Uh-huh. You've sung it so much I don't remember the real lyrics."
Harley's expression turns sad. "Yeah. Me neither."
The Iron Spider retracts from Peter's hand as he reaches out and cards his fingers through Harley's hair. "You miss her. Abbie."
Harley closes his eyes and leans into Peter's touch. "Like I'd miss a toothache."
Peter snorts and smooths the hair from Harley's forehead. "You miss her."
"Like a piece of myself," Harley admits without opening his eyes. "I'm going to see her again." He doesn't sound as sure as he used to. Before he proclaimed it. Now, it sounds almost like a plea.
Softly, Peter sings, "But I get smarter, I get hotter, baby, all the time."
Harley joins.
"And me, I'll rise up from the dead just in the nick of time. I've got a list baby just try but you can't un-der-mine. I'll crush it once. I get home. I ain't rollin'. The. Dice. Oh!"
Peter falls forward and kisses him. Against Harley's lips, he murmurs, "Ooo, look what you made me do. I fell in love with you—"
Harley opens his eyes. "Those aren't the words I made up."
"I'm remixing your remix, babe."
"Illegal. You can't do that."
"I'm sorry, the old Peter can't come to the phone right now. Why?"
"I'm suing."
"Because he's getting it on with his boyfriend!"
"That doesn't even fit the structure of the piece! You're a hack. You don’t know anything about art. You—"
The rest of his protests are smothered as Peter kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.
~*~
"Take this off."
Peter does as he's told and migrates his nanobots south so he can free his upper half from his normal suit. Harley doesn't waste time getting his lips and hands to flesh. Peter threads fingers through golden strands and guides Harley up his neck to where he wants him.
Harley scrapes teeth over Peter's Adam's apple. "I'm sorry I've been so morose. I feel like I'm letting you down."
"You're not."
Harley sucks a mark onto the side of Peter's neck. No covering that up. He says, "It's getting to me."
"I know."
"It's been too long."
"I know."
Harley pulls back. "What do we do?"
Peter doesn't have the heart to tell him they're already doing everything they can. Gather. Keep the peace. Keep spirits up. Wait. Hope.
Instead, he says, "Kiss me."
And Harley does.
~*~
Harley's head fits perfectly under Peter's chin. It's something he's known for a long time, but never fails to appreciate whenever he's reminded.
"Pete?"
Peter freezes, his hand midway up Harley's back. "I thought you were asleep." He resumes his long, slow strokes up and down Harley's bare skin. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of this. Touching him.
"Can't," Harley says. "Thinking."
"About?"
"You. Us. This place." Harley shifts, and then he’s straddling Peter's waist and staring into his eyes with solemn intensity. "You know I love you, right?"
"You've said many times—"
"But you know it's not contingent, don't you? It's not here. It's not because we're outside the world or because there's nobody else. It's you. It's… It wouldn't make a difference. I'll always love you. Anytime, anywhere."
Peter loops his fingers around Harley's wrist, grounding him. "Where's this coming from?"
"I just— I want you to know."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"I mean, why now? Why— Why this urgency?"
Harley’s expression folds into an unfamiliar anxiety that dredges Peter’s old instincts out of hibernation. Protect. Fix. Help. Act.
"Because I'm scared, Pete. I've gone this whole time so sure that at some point things will set themselves back to right and now… Now I've got something to lose here and there. I'm scared I won't get to have it all." His voice frays. "What if getting my family back means I lose you? What if keeping you means I never see them again? I've never had this much to lose before. It's always been so simple: me, Mama, Abbie, and fuck everybody else."
"You won't lose me," Peter swears.
"You don't know that."
Peter grabs both wrists. "I know I would do crazy things for you. World changing things. When we get out of here, I'm finding you again."
"My optimism finally rubbed off on you, I see."
Peter shakes his head. "It's realism. There isn't a universe where I wouldn't find my way back to you. You're part of me. There's no weaseling out now."
There are unshed tears in Harley's eyes. "Do you promise? Promise you'll find me? No matter what?"
"No matter what.” Peter holds his wrists and his gaze and promises, “I'll bend the universe if I have to. I swear."
~*~
Peter is lost in the crowd, but he doesn't mind. They're singing and stomping their feet. Some have their hands held toward the sky like they're in church, while others are focused on their feet and the rhythm of the group—the beat in their bones. Everyone is close and bumping and celebrating. Nothing specific, just celebrating. Dancing and singing because it feels good to dance and sing. Together, because the only other option is alone.
It's then that the first crack erupts across the sky with a sound like thunder.
Singing turns to screaming as the ground shudders and a thousand cracks branch from the first.
Terrified, Peter rips his eyes away from the horror in the sky and searches the crowd. He finds May at the same time May finds him. They clutch each other.
"Harley!" Peter screams. He's useless. What's he supposed to do? Web the sky back together? Completely useless.
The ground cracks beneath their feet, and he pulls May away from the worst of it, but it's growing, expanding. The sky is falling. The ground is breaking underfoot. And there's nothing Peter can do.
"HARLEY!" Peter and May scream together.
And then Harley is there, face white, gasping and shaking as he puts his arms around Peter and May. They all hold each other, squeezing tight, panting with fear.
“Stay with me. Stay with me.”
“Don’t let go.”
“I love you. I love you both so—”
The ground disappears from under them as it shatters, sending them all screaming into the abyss.
The world is saved.
Notes:
Welcome to a new week and a new chapter! Sorry for wrapping up the body swap plot so quickly. I was tempted to let it linger but I had ulterior motives that I was excited to get to so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ sorry.
Okay I have to log on to work now but I PROMISE to catch up on responding to comments. You guys are the best <3
Chapter 14: Peter Loves Harley
Summary:
New Tags Added:
⁕ Dissociation ⁕ Hurt/Comfort ⁕
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Slowly, the world comes back into focus. A sob wracks Peter's body. Judging by the raw feeling in his throat and eyelids, it's far from the first. There are flagstones under his hands—cold and worn smooth with time. Slippered feet pace past him; a deep voice is speaking. Something about tears and Stark and "far more wearisome than the vision made it seem."
And there's Harley—this Harley—startlingly in his sudden familiarity. Peter thought he was so different, so alien from the Harley he fell in love with, but that's not true at all. The Harley Peter remembered was only a damaged piece of the whole Peter has loved all this time and recognized in the broken Harley that emerged from the soul stone.
It's horrible. Remembering is horrible. Seeing with clarity, the before and after of Harley losing his family is horrible.
Another sob tears out of his throat and fresh tears wet his cheeks.
Strange has his hand under Harley's uninjured arm and is helping him to his feet. In front of him is a golden circle slicing through space and time. Through it is the foyer of the Avengers Compound.
Peter struggles through the emotional devastation wrought by the new old memories tumbling through his head of a Harley just like this one. A version not devastated by the loss of his family. A version that Peter was falling in love with all over again. All he wants is to hide away and lie with all of his memories—sift through them until he's sure he remembers everything, every tidbit of the world inside the soul stone and the love of his life that he unwittingly forgot.
But Harley—this Harley, the only Harley that matters—is hurt. There are tears running unchecked down his face. He's holding his broken wrist against his chest, and there's a thousand-yard stare in his eyes as Strange guides him through the portal. Peter knows firsthand how much pain he's in. Peter knows firsthand how heavy all the things in his head are.
He can't let him go alone.
"Wait," he croaks. He pushes upright and staggers to his feet. He's exhausted, his legs like lead. "Wait, you can't— He's hurt."
"You want to go with him?" Strange asks. He waves at the open portal, through which Harley is standing, looking lost. "Be my guest. Less work for me."
Peter hurries through, and behind him, the portal fizzles closed. He and Harley are alone in silence. The foyer is still huge and empty, but tonight it's also dark. Peter's footsteps echo no matter how lightly he places them.
"Harley?" he asks.
Cautiously, he reaches out, half-expecting Harley to slap him away, or flinch, but when Peter wraps his fingers in Harley's damp jacket sleeve, he doesn't react. Peter gets a moment of relief until Harley's glazed stare slowly stutters to him and then stops. Harley looks at Peter like he doesn't know who he is.
What did Strange do?
He slips his fingers down to Harley's hand. "Harley? Are you hearing me?" He threads his fingers between Harley's and squeezes his hand. "Say something."
Harley looks down at their joined hands. When he looks up, there are fresh tears on his cheeks. He stares at Peter with confusion written on every inch of his face.
"Okay,” Peter breathes. Anxiety beats against his ribs like a drum. “It's okay. It's a lot, I know. I'm sorry. I— Let's get you fixed up. I'm going to take care of you. It's okay."
Harley walks with him without prompting and without seeming to realize where they are or where they're going. Peter gets him into the elevator where F.R.I.D.A.Y. greets them. For a moment, Peter considers asking her to get Mr. Stark, but then he'd have to explain, and he doesn't— He can't do that. Not while Harley still needs him. There is going to be a breaking down, soon, but not yet. He needs to get through this—to get Harley through this—and then he’ll have to let himself feel it. If he has to talk to Tony, that’ll be it. It’ll be up to Tony to take care of Harley and Peter.
Peter guides Harley into the med bay, and he finds it just as dark and deserted as the foyer. Luckily, he knows where to go, and he's familiar with the tech they need. The future of triage care, at his disposal—so advanced a child could use it.
Lights come on as they step into an exam room. Peter encourages Harley in his filthy, damp suit to sit on the exam table, then digs through drawers and cabinets in search of anything that to help get him clean and dry. He finds the exam gowns first and sets one aside. Then he finds all kinds of first aid supplies—gauze and bandages and antiseptic—and puts them on the counter too. Then he finds what he's looking for—primarily pants and underpants. A thick pair of socks.
In another drawer he finds the mother lode: wet wipes.
"Good news," Peter says, "we don't have to brave a bath."
Harley doesn't smile. He only watches—blue eyes unfocused, but following Peter's every move.
Peter pops open the wipes. "Boysenberry's still our safe word, right?" Prom feels like a hundred years ago. Was it really just today? Only scant hours ago? "Can you say it? Just as a trial run. I don't know… I don't know how present you are right now." He searches Harley's face as unease creeps up his spine. What if Strange gave him brain damage? What if it was too much all at once? What if Peter saved him only to lose him again in such a horrific way? What will Peter tell his family? He's going to be sick.
"Harley?"
"Boysenberry," Harley whispers.
Relief sweeps through Peter like a cool breeze after a storm. "Okay." His relief is so strong, before he realizes it, he's palming Harley's cheek and pressing their foreheads together. He springs back. "Sorry."
Harley moves with him until they part and then settles back, a frown tugging at his lips.
Peter pauses. Experimentally, he reaches out and brushes the backs of his fingers across dried tears. Harley leans into it and closes his eyes.
Peter's heart squeezes hard in his chest. A million memories swirl through his head—five years of memories—many of them centered on this very person.
He clears his throat and lowers his hand to his side. When Harley's eyes are open again, he holds up the wet wipes. "I'm going to get you out of those wet clothes and clean you up, okay? If you need me to stop, say ‘boysenberry’ and I'll stop."
Harley just stares.
"I really need something from you, Harley. A nod would work."
A slight hesitation, and then Harley nods.
"Good." He's really in there. Peter sets aside the wipes. "Let's get you out of this suit first. F.R.I.D.A.Y.? Can you boost the temp in here like five degrees?" He doesn't want Harley to get cold while he's sitting here in his underwear getting wiped down.
"Sure thing, Peter."
A moment later, heated air rushes out of the vent in the ceiling.
"Okay." He tries to psych himself up, but doesn't really get there. "Jacket."
Harley keeps his hurt arm against his chest, but follows Peter's instructions of where to move it as he unbuttons Harley's jacket, and then his dress shirt. He's careful removing both and is grateful Harley isn't wearing anything that would need to go up and over his head.
Next, he unclasps his necklace. The moment Harley sees it, he makes an unhappy sound.
Peter pauses. “I'm going to clean it and give it right back," he says. “I know it's important. The rose. Like Rose Hill, right? Like your mom and Abbie?" He doesn't need Harley to nod. He clocked it the moment Harley picked it up in the artist's tent and held it up to the light. "But it's got the Hudson all over it. Trust me, you want it clean."
He sets it on the counter—far from the sink—where Harley can see it.
"Shoes, socks, then pants."
They all come off easily, even the pants, and then Harley is left standing on pruned feet, shivering in his wet boxers. His side where he hit the water is bruised a blotchy purple and green, and his broken wrist is swollen.
"Another five degrees, F.R.I.D.A.Y."
"Yes, Peter."
He grabs a pair of clean cotton briefs from the cabinet and faces Harley. "Did you…want to do this part yourself?"
Harley just looks at him, broken wrist cradled to his chest, frown on his lips.
Peter breathes out. "Okay. I'm just going to— I'm going to be professional and quick, and you'll have to clean that, uh, zone on your own later." He nods, course decided, and gets on with it.
Once the cotton briefs are secure around Harley's hips, Peter gives the exam table a quick wipe, then bids him sit back down. He pulls out a fresh wipe and starts at the bottom, working his way up. He cleans Harley's feet well despite the way Harley jumps and flinches—ticklish.
That's something he knew. The memories bubble up, choking him and turning his vision blurry. He remembers Harley complaining that Peter could just Iron Spider up at a moment's notice while he, Harley, was always vulnerable. He remembers Harley making a game of trying to catch Peter unawares to see how much tickling he could get in before the suit made it impossible. Peter remembers retaliating without mercy until Harley was writhing and begging on the ground.
He pulls a fresh wipe and moves to Harley's ankles and shins. There, on the inside of his calve, a burn scar from the exhaust pipe of a motorcycle. And the white nick in his knee where he caught himself while whittling when his knife slipped. The gray pinprick in his thigh where Abbie stabbed him with a pencil for stealing the last of her cereal.
"I'm Harley?"
Peter jerks his chin up, dread washing through him and wiping out any self-consciousness he might have otherwise felt about the silent tears coating his cheeks.
"Yes," he chokes. "You're Harley."
"Wow." Harley seems to sit with that for a minute. Quiet. Thoughtful. Then he asks, "The Harley?"
Kneeling at his feet, Peter says, "The only Harley."
It's clear now. There's only ever been one, and the Harley sitting in front of him is it. There are possibilities branching ahead of him—roads leading to growth or decline or a million other possibilities—all Harley. This is a starting point—the base Harley that all the others spin off of. His Harley. The only Harley.
"Wow," Harley says again. "Wow."
Peter drops his wipe and stands. "Are you okay? Do you… Do you know where you are?"
Harley nods. He's watching Peter with more focus than he was before. Eyes sharp where before they were distant. He seems to be taking in detail, rather than just the shape of Peter and the gist of what he’s doing. Peter understands when Harley reaches out with his good hand and brushes a fingertip through the tears on Peter's cheek.
Peter sniffs and turns away. He spotted tissues somewhere in his rummaging, but he uses a wet wipe instead and scrubs his entire face. Harley isn't the only one covered in river water. "There." He drops the wipe in the growing pile on the floor and sniffs. "I'm okay."
Possibly the biggest lie he's ever told, but he'll deal with his feelings later. First, he needs to take care of Harley.
He makes quick work of the rest of him, trying not to think or linger. Get him clean. Get him covered. Get him a cast. The pain can't be helping Harley process the huge information dump that he had no warning about and no context for.
Peter rolls the socks onto Harley's feet. The one-size fits all pants from the drawer are huge on Harley, but the drawstring cinches them in place and they stay. He wipes down his stomach, his chest, his back, his neck, behind his ears, and tries not to think. Tries not to let the memories surface.
I've seen all of this before.
He tries.
Peter wipes Harley's face last, taking care to remove the evidence of his tears, the grime of the river. Down the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbones, below his lips. All while Harley watches him—blinking when Peter gets close to his eyes or it tickles, then resumes his observation. He makes it difficult because he keeps trying to fall into Peter's touch, when all Peter needs is a quick wipe here or there.
Finally, Peter tosses the wipe onto the mound on the floor. "You're beautiful again." He resists the urge to kiss Harley's forehead, to hug him and tell him he missed him even though he’s been avoiding him for months, that he’s sorry. He’s sorry it happened like this. Peter can’t be sorry that it happened, though. Despite what he told Strange, now that Peter has his memories back, he’s clinging to them. He wants them. They’re his.
Peter considers Harley's hair next. It's mostly in its bun, but it’s ragged. Aside from washing it, he's not sure what to do. Does he want to take that much time? Every minute he spends playing dress-up with Harley is another that Harley spends in pain.
Then again, if he doesn't wash it now, Harley's going to have to wash it on his own with a cast on. The wet wipe bath isn't by any means going to do Harley any long-term favors, but at least his entire bed won't need new sheets.
"How do you feel about me washing your hair? Get the river out. Make sure you sleep well and don't have to do it in the morning. It'll probably be uncomfortable."
Harley just watches him.
Peter sighs. "Harley, please."
Something flickers in Harley's eyes. He sits up straighter.
"Yes or no to washing your hair. To me, specifically, washing your hair for you."
"Okay," Harley says.
Peter frowns. "Are you sure?"
Harley cocks his head. "Yes. Trust you."
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes," Harley says. "You."
Peter’s stomach sinks. "What's my name?"
Harley's eyebrows lower into a serious slant as he thinks. Seconds tick by and then, finally, he says, "Peter." He looks at him as though to check.
Peter swallows the lump in his throat and nods. "That's right. I'm Peter."
Harley's posture relaxes. "Good," he says. He holds out his hand.
Unsure what else he could want, Peter laces their fingers. It seems to be the right call when Harley squeezes his hand. "Why's that good?"
"You're the one."
"The one what?"
"The one…" He brings their joined hands up and presses them against his forehead. "The one… The one that loves Harley." He lowers their hands so he can meet Peter's eyes. He smiles—not his dimpled grin. Not his sharp, mischievous smile. Not the broad, snorting laugh. Simple and lovely and earnest, he looks at Peter and smiles. Then, like it’s a special privilege, he says, "I'm Harley.”
Tears fill Peter's eyes. "Yeah. You're Harley."
"And you're Peter."
"Yes."
"And Peter loves Harley."
In a croak, Peter says, "Yes, Peter loves Harley."
Harley closes his eyes, face turned up as though to the sun, that smile is still on his lips, and says, "Good."
~*~
They get through washing Harley's hair in the sink, and then Peter puts the medical gown around Harley's shoulders and leads him to the room with the triage machine.
"It's important to stay very still, okay? The machine is going to take some X-rays to analyze the damage. Then, it'll probably manipulate your arm and hand to get the bones lined up right, and apply the cast. If it says you need surgery, then we'll have to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to call the physician. I don't want to risk screwing that up, but if it's just an alignment and cast, the machine does it all. Okay?"
"Okay," Harley says.
Call and response is an improvement, but Peter's still not sure how much Harley is comprehending. "I'll be here the whole time," he says.
"I know, Peter."
Well, can't argue with that.
The machine is the size of an MRI machine, but instead of Harley laying inside it, he lies on a table beside it with only the limb in question resting inside a cylindrical opening. Peter presses a button and a lead-filled silicone curtain emerges and molds around Harley's shoulder to keep him in place and protect the rest of him from exposure.
Peter sits beside him on a little rolly stool where he can hold Harley's hand and see the screens. One of them shows Harley's arm in the flesh, while the other is black. In a moment, it will show the X-ray results.
"This is the part where you need to hold very still. It won't hurt."
"Okay."
Peter watches Harley's arm to make sure he's doing as instructed, but on the edge of his vision he can see Harley's face turned toward him, watching not what's being done to him, but Peter.
Peter hits the start button, and the machine hums to life. "Here we go. Round one. Very still."
He feels Harley's eyes on him the entire time the machine scans him and takes its X-rays.
"Okay, you can relax for a little bit while it creates the images and analyzes them."
"Peter."
Peter looks down and meets Harley's eyes. "What?"
He shakes his head. "Just checking. There's… It's a lot."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Is it real? It feels real, but…" He frowns and shakes his head, just a twitch. "It's a lot."
"It is. I mean, it was. For me, it was real."
"And you're Peter. Peter who loves Harley."
"Yes."
"Okay. It's…confusing."
"They're my memories," Peter explains. "So you're seeing them from my perspective."
"And feeling," Harley says. He moves as though to gesture at his chest, but Peter is holding his free hand. "Big. Feels like— It's a lot. Hard to explain."
"You can feel everything I felt?"
"I think so. Say my name."
"Harley," Peter whispers.
He smiles, a loose, dopey thing. "I like it. It feels good. Like— Like pops. Fizzles. It's nice. Way better than…" His expression darkens and his smile slides away. He's quiet for a moment before he requests, "Say it again?"
"Harley?"
"Like you did before."
Peter tucks a mostly dry lock of gold behind his ear. "Harley."
He smiles and closes his eyes. "Yeah. Like that."
His heart is going to fall out of his chest and rupture like a popped water balloon if he's not careful. Peter checks the machine and finds it has returned an X-ray image with a red rectangle identifying a fracture in Harley's radius.
"You're in luck. It's recommending we slap a cast on you and call it a night. You ready?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
"Okay, hold still. It'll hurt a little because it's going to move your arm, but it shouldn't be excruciating. If it is, say the word and I'll shut it down."
"Boysenberry," Harley says. "That's you too?"
His hand is hovering over the "Accept" button, but Peter turns and looks at Harley with renewed concern. "Yes. I'm Peter, remember?"
"Peter who loves Harley?"
"Yes."
"And Peter, Peter?"
"What?"
"You're Peter who… Peter who remembers losing? Wait." He sucks in a breath, and his gaze goes distant. Almost pained. He scrunches his eyes closed.
Peter’s heart is in his throat. "Harley? What's going on?"
"I'm just— I'm okay. It's—" He releases a breath and opens his eyes. He seems dazed. "You're…all the Peters?"
"I think so? I don't know how many Peters are in your head right now, though."
"You did all of that? It was all you? You're the— I'm the only Harley."
"Yes."
"And you're the only Peter?"
"Yes."
"Oh, wow."
His chest aches. "We really need to get this cast on you, Harley. Can you hold still for me?"
"Yeah. Sorry, yeah."
"Do you remember what I said? It's going to hurt, but it shouldn't be bad."
"Right. Yeah, boysenberry. I'm good."
Peter presses the button.
It's over in two minutes. When Harley pulls his arm out of the machine, a pristine white cast is wrapped around his thumb and up to his elbow.
"Will you sign it?"
"I need to go home, Harley." He feels fragile. At any moment, he’s going to shake apart and be useless until he can summon the strength to pull himself back together. He doesn’t know how long that will take. With how heavy everything feels, Peter suspects it’s going to be a long time. Far longer than Harley can afford to spend sitting around half-dressed and half-delirious waiting for him.
Harley lowers his cast-covered arm, frowning. "You're not staying?"
"Tony will be here. He'll help. I have to… I have to go."
"Right. You have, umm…." He's thinking hard. "You have… Is it school in this one?"
"I think I'm done with school."
"Oh. So you're just… You're going."
Peter takes a deep breath and releases it. "Yeah. I…I need some time. It's a lot, right?"
Harley nods. "It's a lot."
"Let's just finish this, okay?"
Harley frowns. "What's left?"
Peter leads him to the medicine cabinet. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., I need access to get painkillers for Harley."
"Sure thing, Peter."
The cabinet pops open. "Do you have any allergies?"
"I don't think so."
"Have you had prescription painkillers before?"
"No."
"Okay, we're playing it safe then. You get ibuprofen. If you need something stronger, you'll have to wake up Tony. Thoughts?"
"Fine."
Peter reads the instructions three times to ensure he's giving Harley the right dose for a normal human, not an enhanced one. He puts the pills in Harley's hand.
He points at the sink. "Water. I'll make sure Tony is there when you wake up, and he'll know when you're allowed more."
"Sure," Harley says down to the pills in his palm.
Peter can tell he ruined something, but he can't deal with it. There's a trembling under his skin. It's all catching up to him, and he needs to be away from Harley when it arrives in full. Peter can’t take care of him anymore, and he already knows far too much.
He hasn't taken his pills.
"You trust me," Harley says. It's not a question, but he waits for an answer.
"I— Yeah, I do."
Harley looks up and meets his gaze. Gone is the haze and the distance. He's fully present as he asks, "Before, you said you didn't remember. Do you remember now? When you started to trust me?"
Peter pulls in a slow breath. The memories are there. He can feel them battering against his walls. Demanding to be seen. Felt. He hasn’t let them overwhelm him, but they’re seeping through. Some more demanding than others. It’s all coming back.
"Yeah,” he says, his voice raw. “I remember now."
Harley nods and says down to the pills in his hand, "Me too."
~*~
After Peter sees Harley to his room, he retreats to his own and tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to call May.
She picks up and utters a groggy, "Peter? What's wrong, buddy?" and that's all it takes for the tears to start.
"May?" he warbles, "will you come pick me up?"
~*~
Peter is sitting on the front steps an hour later when May arrives. She parks and scrambles out of the car in her bathrobe.
Tears had been coming and going while he waited, but when she sits on the step beside Peter and wraps her arms around him as tight as she can, they start anew. He sniffles disgustingly.
"You're okay, you're okay," she murmurs, rocking. "You stink and you're damp, but you're okay."
There's a scuff on the concrete.
Peter lifts his head and blinks away his tears, ready to spring May out of harm's way, but it's MJ and Ned, hovering—the back doors of the car standing open behind them. Seeing his friends, Peter cries in earnest. He missed them. It’s only been a few hours since he saw them last, but there are memories in his head where he missed them for years and they’re potent in their newness.
"They showed up as I was leaving," May explains.
"You said to go somewhere safe," MJ says.
"Is Harley okay?" Ned asks.
Peter nods and sobs. May tucks his face against her neck, and he goes willingly. Ned and MJ sit with them—arms all around each other.
"Sweetheart, what happened?"
Peter grabs onto a piece of each of them and tells them everything to the best of his ability. He has no idea how intelligible it is, or how much they believe. It doesn’t matter. He needs to say it. This is a secret too big for him to keep. He wants it gone. Out. Exposed.
When his words dry up and he's back to weeping, May asks, "What can we do to help?"
"I want to go home."
May doesn't know what that means. He told her she was his home, and that’s true, to a point, but what she doesn't know is that "home" is this broken, splintered thing he can never have back. She does her best. She bundles him into the middle of the backseat with MJ on one side and Ned on the other, and drives him back to Queens.
~*~
Peter doesn't go back to school. He finishes the last few weeks of his senior year by taking his final exams at the kitchen table under May's supervision. Then he crawls back into bed for a long, long time and remembers.
He receives some messages from Daredevil, cussing him out mostly for dropping Ray Gun in his lap, but also confirming he's been taken care of and asking how Peter dealt with the...effects of the ray gun. Peter gives him Strange's address and tells him he owes him big time. Any favor, any time. Just ask.
Harley doesn't text him, and he doesn't text Harley.
Tony calls a lot. Mostly, he talks without expecting much in response. Since Peter spilled everything, he hasn't felt much like talking. May, naturally, passed on to Tony everything Peter told her, and it seems like they accept something happened that may or may not have involved time travel, but they haven't been pressing for details. Ned and MJ come over every day. They hang out in his room while he lies in bed with only his face peeking out of his blankets. They always hug him before they leave, and that's nice.
At some point, he learns Harley is back in Rose Hill, and that hurts. It's not unexpected, but it still hurts. Harley finds out Peter is in love with him, and the first thing he does is leave? Okay.
In the first week, Peter only goes out as Spider-Man a handful of times. He wants the outlet, but he doesn't trust his judgment right now. People get hurt when he's not in control, and he's never felt more out of it. Mostly, he swings. He pushes himself faster and farther and stretches and reaches and flies. And when it’s all used up, he crawls back into bed.
Sometimes he thinks it's stupid that he's reacting so strongly to having his soul stone memories returned, but they're so present. So fresh. He closes his eyes and he could be there: stupidly in love and trapped and sick with worry about what's going to happen next while simultaneously, secretly, hoping nothing changes. Waiting for something to give, but hoping he gets to keep what he found.
And then he opens his eyes, and he's a teenage boy in a messy bedroom with a college application on his dresser waiting for him to mail it.
And Harley knows about the soul stone, but doesn't remember it.
And he left.
But Peter left first.
Notes:
Hellooooooooo welcome back! I have one more chapter locked, loaded, and ready to share with you all, and then you are back into waiting mode while I write to replenish the stock in the backroom so to speak. I have 13k written so it's far from an empty barrel, but I don't want to get ahead of myself and chapter 15 is a good place to pause for a bit.
I have a tentative goal to finish writing this fic by the end of the year? Or more likely the end of January. I'm still plotting out the last stretch so we will see what wild tangles my muse leads me into. I know the emotional beats I want to resolve but there are some dangling plot threads that I need to tie up that could maybe possibly blow up into a whole nother thing. We will see 🙂
One million thank yous to everyone who has read and commented!!! I am going to dive into replying tonight. I am sooooo far behind but I adore every comment and I squeal and kick my feet whenever a new one comes through. I'm just Not Good at keeping in touch and this is an extension of that unfortunately. I'm trying to be better! I'll say here though that some of you were asking what all Harley "remembers" and that will be more clear in the next chapter. Hang tight!
Chapter 15: ...and I get to be Harley
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Peter finally does Stone's homework. He gets out a ratty notebook and a pen and starts with the negatives—as is his way—Morgan being first on the list. His fear that she's not the same. The stomach-clenching thought that he stole a child from existence.
F.E.A.S.T. is the second, but he hesitates after including it. May has a realtor now and they're looking at locations in various neighborhoods throughout Manhattan. He has a feeling New York won't be lacking F.E.A.S.T. for much longer. He puts an asterisk next to it.
He struggles after that.
Surely, there are other people, other kids like Morgan, that he erased that he doesn't know about. It feels like a repeat though. He adds an asterisk next to Morgan.
He writes down Gamora, even though she was dead before he ever knew about her and his decision changed nothing regarding her murder. He still regrets that he couldn't save her.
He writes huge, unknown consequences for altering the time stream. He doesn’t know what those are—or if they exist—but that doesn’t mean it isn't worth worrying about.
After several minutes of indecision, he puts Harley on the list. It's purely a selfish addition. Even though Harley knows some things now, he doesn't remember. It's a lonely feeling. Peter can tell Harley—he can let Harley see and feel everything he, Peter, saw and felt—but it's not the same as Harley having his own memories. His own perception of events, and of Peter.
Begrudgingly, Peter moves on to the positives.
Harley and his family are first on the list. Harley never has to know how it feels to lose his family like that. Abbie gets to grow up and try her hand at changing the world for the better. Mama Keener gets to live and watch it all and run her diner. The Keeners—whole, intact, alive. Check.
The Starks are next. Tony lived. Pepper gets to keep her love and father of their child—even if that child isn't the same one as before. Morgan—whichever Morgan—gets to have a father for more than a few short years. Check.
Then the Avengers. They aren't shattered and scattered. They have all of Tony's resources at their disposal, and facing down Thanos and winning brought them even closer as a team under one uniting goal—to protect Earth. Check.
After that, he struggles—not because he can't think of anything, but because the changes for the better are so all-encompassing; it's difficult to distill them into things he can list.
Blip families, he writes. Not torn apart by five years. Not rendered incomplete by death. Not mutated and changed by those who blipped versus who stayed behind. Irreplaceable family heirlooms weren't lost while the blipped were gone. Homes and jobs and everything that makes up a life—undisturbed.
Civilization, he writes—for lack of a better way to capture it. No sudden and immense housing crisis or food shortage or unemployment or any of the million other nightmares caused by the blip and then by the blip being undone. Everyone was affected, whether or not they lost someone. Everything changed twice, only five years apart. It had an effect.
Peter doesn't bother to keep going after that. The point, he feels, has been made.
He sits back from his desk and stares at it. Not even a full page, but looking at it all laid out, he breathes easier. He still doesn't know if his decision to rewrite history can be considered "right," but it's a choice he can stand having made.
He calls Stone, and they answer as though it hasn't been ten months since they last spoke. He shares what he gleaned from his homework, and they say they're glad it helped. Then Peter tells them what happened with Strange and Harley.
When Peter hangs up two hours later, he feels better. Time, Stone said. Give Harley time. And Peter is to give himself time, too. They both need space to process, and processing takes time. Be gracious, Stone said, but don’t avoid him forever.
~*~
At the end of the second week, Harley calls while Peter is halfway through a bowl of cereal.
With his spoon frozen in midair, leaking milk onto the table, Peter watches his phone buzz until it goes to voicemail. He waits. He waits a full minute, but he doesn't get a voicemail notification.
Don’t avoid him forever.
With a shaky hand, he puts the spoon back in the bowl and picks up his phone. He opens his and Harley's chat history and sits for another minute while everything he could say rotates through his head. Finally, he decides on simple and straightforward.
Harley's response is immediate.
Sent | 11:53 AM
im not ready to talk yet
Harley
Me neither just answer the phone
His phone buzzes again in his hand. Peter's heart races. Is something wrong? Why would Harley call if he doesn't want to talk? It must be an emergency. Peter answers.
"What's wrong?"
A relieved breath is the only response for several seconds. Then, "Peter?"
"Yes?"
Harley sniffs. "What are you doing?"
"I'm…eating cereal?"
"What kind?"
"Honeycombs."
"Are they good?"
"They're… I mean, yeah. They're a little big for my mouth, so they're not my favorite, but the flavor is good. What's going on?" Harley did not call to talk about cereal.
"Nothing. I don't know. I got myself all panicked. Got scared you were going to do something stupid."
Peter breathes deeply in and out, then forces himself to relax the death grip on his phone. Harley's okay. His family is okay. He was just worried about Peter for some reason.
"Why would I do something stupid?"
"Everyone says you've been really quiet and you haven't been going out as Spider-Man. I just… I over-thought it, and I needed to hear your voice. Sorry."
"I'm fine, Harley. I just…need some time."
"Okay. Okay, good. Me too."
They stay on the line together, just breathing, and Peter's heart rate slows to something bordering calm.
"Are you eating your cereal?" Harley asks.
"You want me to eat on the phone?"
"You can."
"What are you doing?"
"Just sitting. I'm in my room."
Peter closes his eyes and sifts through all the new memories in his head. "I don't know what your room looks like," he says after a moment.
"Oh." There's a thoughtful pause. "Eat your cereal and stay on the line. I need a couple minutes."
"Uh, okay."
Peter grabs his spoon, but waits, listening. He can hear Harley shifting around. A creak of springs. Something brushes against the phone's speaker. After a handful of seconds, Peter sets down the phone, so the speaker is away from his mouth but he can still hear. He spoons up a mouthful of Honeycombs.
He eats and listens to the faint sounds that the phone picks up. At one point he hears a faint, feminine voice say something. It sounds like a question.
Harley responds, "I'm showing Peter the house." And then, "It's not a video, Ma." And then, "Well then you shouldn't be in your jammies this close to noon." And then, "Sorry, Mama. I'll delete it."
Peter is smiling as he dumps his milk down the sink. He feels sort of like crying, but this time from relief. Maybe happiness? Like, things might be okay. Not now, but maybe soon.
He wipes up his milk mess on the table and then sits in the couch's corner with his knees against his chest as he waits.
Through the phone, a door closes.
"Peter?"
"I'm here."
"Okay, I'm almost done."
Springs creak. Something brushes against the speaker. Tapping against Peter's ear.
"Okay," Harley says.
Peter pulls the phone from his ear and watches the screen, waiting.
The first three pictures ping through together.
"I got— Oh." Five more pictures come through. Then a flurry that all pop in at once, too many to count. "How many did you send?"
"Twenty-seven, I think."
"Harley."
"Yes?"
Peter's heart is beating curiously hard as he taps a picture. He knows it's Harley's room without having to ask. It's cluttered and messy and lived-in—nothing neatened in anticipation of sharing it with Peter. There are pictures stuck haphazardly on the walls and an effort to put up string lights that ended with one end fixed in the corner above the bed but about halfway through they collapse in a heap on a baseball cap sitting on the dresser.
"I thought you and Abbie shared a room and she took it over when you left."
"She did, but Mama'd been clearing out the room in the attic and me comin' home meant it needed finished. Abbie called dibs."
Peter pokes through a few others and sees he's been given a photo to cover every angle of Harley's bedroom, and then a tour of what looks like the entire house—bathroom and laundry included.
"Thank you," Peter says. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I know. I want you to have something too. It's not much but… You know."
Peter flips to a new picture, and his heart leaps. There's a person in this one. A woman with Harley's hair and wide mouth and squashy nose. She's sitting in an armchair with one barefoot on the seat and the other hanging to the floor. Her toenails are painted pink. There's a book in her lap and reading glasses in her hand as though she just pulled them off. Her mouth is open as if she's asking a question. And she's wearing pajamas patterned with sprigs of lavender.
"I thought you were supposed to delete this one?"
"Oh, of my mom? You heard that?"
"I heard you."
"I liked it too much to delete it. That's my mom. Like… That's her."
"She's pretty."
"Try telling her that. How come you sound so distant? You didn't earlier. Quiet, I mean. The volume."
"Oh, sorry. I guess I could put you on speaker. I just don't need it."
Harley snorts. "Yeah, I know. It's crazy."
And with a start, Peter remembers that Harley knows exactly what he means. Harley may not have been in his body for long, but he got a crash course in nearly all of Peter's peculiarities.
"You don't have to though," Harley adds. "I can hear you fine."
"Okay."
It becomes moot as they lapse into silence. Peter looks through the pictures and scans them for every little detail, lingering on some for multiple minutes before moving to the next.
"What are you doing?" he eventually asks. He's almost out of pictures.
"Nothing," Harley says. "Just…sitting. Listening to you."
"But I'm not saying anything."
"Yeah. It's still nice."
"Oh. Okay."
Again, silence.
Then Harley says, "I know I said I'm not ready to talk, but uh, the weirdest part of all this has been every time I catch my reflection my heart jumps. It's like I have a crush on myself." He chuckles, but it sounds forced.
Peter's fingers freeze as his cheeks burn. "That's humiliating."
"Really? It shouldn't be. My ego is through the roof."
"I'm so happy for you and your ego."
"If it makes you feel better, Abbie would say the weirdest part is I hug her like thirty times a day now. I think Mama likes it though. She was never happy about my graduate-early-and-move-to-New-York plan."
Peter stares at his phone for what feels like a small eternity but what must be only a handful of seconds. Then he brings it to his ear, and his voice is rough with emotion as he demands, "What do you mean? Why are you— How much did he give you?"
"What do you mean?"
His Honeycombs churn in his stomach. "The memories. I only got the soul stone, so I thought—" His skin is tight with horror. "How much did Strange give you?"
There's a pause, and Peter can hear Harley breathe.
"All of it, I think," he finally says. "It's hard to… It was all out of order—just a jumble of memories with no context or… But I think I've got most of it straightened out now. It starts that day—the day we lost—and it goes through… I think all the way to prom, but it's messy. It's extra confusing when I have my own memories too."
Peter closes his eyes and holds his hand over his mouth. He breathes harshly through his nose.
"Don't hang up. Put the phone down and walk away if you have to, but please—"
Peter puts the phone down on the couch and stands. He needs to go, to move, to run, but his stomach is twisting and threatening an upheaval. He shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes and sucks in a breath through his nose.
"I'm sorry," he says to the room. "You were never supposed to know. I'm so sorry."
Harley's voice is small and comes from far away, but Peter has no trouble picking it up. "Don't be. I'm okay. I promise I'm okay."
Peter sniffs hard. "You shouldn't have to know. I didn't want you to have to— It's supposed to be better. Everything is supposed to be better." A dry sob bursts from his lips.
"It is," Harley insists. "Everything is better, Pete. Please tell me you see that."
In through his nose, out through his mouth. Repeat five times. He recalls his homework with Stone and the lengthy conversation that stemmed from it.
"You saved me," Harley says emphatically. "You saved the world."
In through his nose, out through his mouth. Repeat seven times.
"You left New York," Peter says slowly, "to be with them. Not to…to get away from me."
"Of course. Pete, I… The you and me part of this whole thing does not bother me. It's… I'm going to say something kind of cringe and I need you to stick with me, okay?"
"Okay."
"Okay. I was… I was already on that path. This—the memories, seeing me as you see me—it's like a sneak preview of everything I want. Being loved by you is the easiest thing in the world. Peter loves Harley, and I'm Harley. I get to be Harley. It's huge. That's huge. That's not a problem."
Peter lowers his hands. That's from their conversation in the med bay. He didn't think Harley would remember any of hat. He takes a step toward his phone. "How much do you remember? You were really out of it that night. I was scared there'd be permanent damage."
"I'm okay, I swear. After Tony got the story from May, he went off the handle at Strange and made him do a whole brain scan and 24/7 monitoring to make sure. There was an unusual amount of activity, even when I was sleeping, but it slacked off after the first few days, and they gave me clearance to go home."
"How much do you remember?"
"Of what? I already said—"
"Of that night. After Strange gave you the memories, how much do you remember?"
"All of it," Harley says.
Doubtfully, Peter says, "You could hardly speak. You didn't know who you were."
"I remember," Harley insists. "I was… I couldn't stop watching you. I…I wasn't sure who you were. All the memories— There were so many I sort of lost myself in them, but they were your perspective. I never saw you in them because I was you, but I recognized you from them—your mannerisms, your voice, all the little nuances—and I recognized you as the Peter I already knew. At first, I couldn't reconcile the two into one person who also wasn't me. I wasn't brain dead. I just… I had too much going on to add communication to the mix, and taking in new information was almost impossible until I sorted out the base facts."
"That sounds horrible."
"It wasn't that bad."
"It sounds terrifying."
"It wasn't. I had you. Even before I knew who you were, I knew you would take care of me. Thank you, by the way. For taking care of me."
"I wasn't— I couldn't leave you like that."
"You could have woken up Tony and let him deal with it."
"No, Harley, I couldn't have."
There's a drawn-out, thoughtful pause. Then Harley says, "I guess I know that."
"You know me better than I know you now."
Harley doesn’t disagree. "Is that…uncomfortable for you?"
Peter sits on the floor and rests his chin on the cushion holding his phone. "I don't know yet. Maybe a little, but I don't think it'll be bad."
"Will it be weird that I know how you feel about stuff?"
"No, that'll be a relief. Finally, I don't have to say it."
Harley laughs—snorting and inelegant—and the sound brings a smile to Peter's face.
"You might still have to say it sometimes. I can make a go of being the Peter interpreter, but I'm not a mind reader."
"Boo," Peter complains, "up your game." He's rewarded with another laugh.
"Can we stay on the phone for today? We don't have to talk. I just… I have so much of you in my head, but you're not here and it's like this glaring hole and I…" Harley trails off.
"Yeah," Peter says. "Yeah, I'll stay on the phone."
Harley breathes out like he was holding his breath. "Okay, cool. And after today, can I text you? I don't know how much space you need."
The less, the better, Peter thinks. He's already forgotten why he was avoiding Harley. He wants all of this and more.
"Are you going to spam me?"
"Absolutely," Harley replies without missing a beat. "And when I send you thirty texts, I want thirty responses. No skimping. And I'm going to send you pictures, and I want pictures back."
"Should we use Snapchat then?"
"No, fuck Snapchat. I want them for keeps."
"You can save them to your—"
"I said fuck, Snapchat, Peter."
He smiles. "Well, okay, if you insist."
No response. Peter's smile wanes the longer the silence stretches.
"Harley?"
"Sorry! Uh… I just, uh… So there's this— I haven't told you, but… I don't know how to explain it, but you feel things a lot stronger than I do? I don't know, maybe it's something to do with the brain dump, but I'm a pretty mellow guy. I'd say I operate at maybe a four most days, but you're at a ten. All the time. Just like, way more emotion than I'm used to processing. Which isn't bad! I'm not— I'm not saying it's anything other than what it is. It is what it is, you know? It's actually kind of fascinating, but anyway. There's this bleed-over. Sometimes. Little bursts of Peter-sized emotions. Like a firework. Intense, but over quickly. Are you following?"
"I— Yeah. I'm sorry th—"
"No, don't apologize. Like I said, it is what it is, and I'm… I'm not upset about it. It's kind of cool."
"Okay."
"You're okay?"
"I'm okay."
"Good. So all that to say, I just got blasted with like, insane levels of jealousy over you saying you'd fuck Snapchat."
Despite everything—the embarrassment of learning he's overly emotional compared to Harley, of the situation as a whole—Peter laughs.
"Huge green-eyed monster over you saying you'd metaphorically dick down an app."
Peter laughs harder. It's hysteria, he thinks, an emotional release after so long being stressed and quiet, but he can't stop it. He laughs until there are tears leaking from his eyes.
"Peter," Harley says as he's hiccuping himself down from the high.
"Yes, Harley?"
"I miss you. There's a lot of stuff in my head that I need to untangle and figure out what's mine and what's yours before I come back, but that one's mine. I'm sure of it."
"You're coming back?"
"Of course I am. Did you think you could weasel out of me owing you a million dollars that easily? I'm— This is a sabbatical, not a permanent move. I'll be back."
"Don't rush." Peter wipes his eyes on the back of his arm and rests his cheek on the couch. "Not because of me. I want… I would have given anything for you to have this back. To have them back. Both in the stone and after. Take care of yourself and soak them in. Give Abbie a thirty-oneth hug."
"Thirty-oneth? And they say the boy is going to MIT."
Peter winces. "Well, the boy was thinking about staying local and going to ESU instead."
"Oof. Well, the boy should tell the man sooner rather than later."
"I'm going to," Peter says without an ounce of conviction.
"He's been bragging you up left, right, and center. This is going to devastate him."
"I know. I feel bad."
"He whined and moaned for months when I told him I wasn't going. He still does when the mood strikes."
"That's why I've been putting it off. That and because I wasn't sure what I'd do instead until recently."
"You didn't change your mind because of this, did you?" Harley asks, then answers his own question before Peter can get a word in. "No, that's right; you've been thinking it for months. Or was that before? No, because you told Ned and MJ—"
"Both," Peter says before Harley can twist around again. "Since the blip, really. I just…"
"You've been depressed," Harley says matter-of-factly. "The things you love haven't been making you happy or fulfilled."
Peter blinks several times. Not even Stone has laid it out that succinctly. "Well… I was going to say school hasn't been a priority."
"Oh, sorry. I'll shut up for a while. Sorry."
"It's okay," Peter says, but he can hear the stiffness in his voice, and Harley must too because he stays quiet.
He's not mad or even upset, not really. But it's strange talking to someone who has been in his head and can see past all of his bullshit. Suddenly, he's out of places to hide.
As the hours pass, they chat off and on, but never as deeply as they did for the first. Peter learns Abbie is prone to barging into Harley's room without warning to gab his ear off for half an hour, and then disappear just as abruptly. He discovers Mrs. Keener has a lovely singing voice when she walks past Harley's room and a line of song carries through the door before fading as she moves through the house. And he learns a million little things about their family and their town when they all sit down together for dinner and the ramble of conversation carries over the sound of clinking silverware.
During dinner, he also learns that Mrs. Keener and Abbie don't know what happened. He supposes he should have wondered whether Harley would tell them the truth or lie, but he didn't. Harley told them he got caught up in an accident at prom. Some guy knocked him into the river, and he broke his wrist and injured his head, so he came home to rest and heal. Almost all of which is technically true.
Afterward, Harley must go back to his room because a door closes and suddenly it's quiet again.
"Harley?"
There's a shuffle of fabric and then Harley says, "Yeah?"
"May and I are going to have dinner soon."
"Oh? What's eatin'?"
"Thai."
"I love Thai. Wait. No, I don't. That's you, I think."
"You don't like Thai?"
"Umm…" Harley sounds embarrassed. "I've never had it, actually."
Peter smiles. "So you're saying I love Thai so much it just jumped out ahead of your own preference?"
"It's like that sometimes, especially with things you feel strongly about."
May is in the bathroom fixing up her hair and makeup, so Peter sinks down into the couch and asks, "Like what?"
"Well…sometimes there are other memories, older ones, that come attached to a memory. Like there's one where you and May were at a thrift store and you found your uncle's old university sweater. And then there's this—this hint of a memory where you spilled something and it stained the hem. Just a vague echo. But, umm, I saw him. Your uncle. In a memory within a memory. That's kinda crazy, right?"
Peter can't speak through the knot in his throat. He blinks and is surprised to find his eyes are dry. The thought that Harley can see through time to someone dead long before he and Peter ever met… All because of how strongly Peter feels about Uncle Ben.
"You okay, Pete?" Harley asks gently.
Peter swallows thickly. "Uhh—" His voice trembles. "What are— What are the others? The ones that jump out, I mean."
"Every time I hear my name, I feel how much you loved me. It's like a physical weight. Full of meaning and emotion. All tied up in my name."
"It's not past tense, Harley."
There's a pause. "Oh. I mean, I knew that. I know that."
"I thought I wasn't gonna have to say this stuff anymore," Peter jokes weakly. May is going to pop out of the bathroom any moment, and he needs to not be a weepy mess about Harley and Uncle Ben when she does.
"I definitely said the opposite of that." Harley pauses, then asks, "After dinner, will you take me swinging?"
"What? You mean you want to patrol with me?"
"Yeah. You know, over the phone. You can call me through the suit and— You don't have to talk to me."
"I like talking to you, Harley."
"Yeah? That's good. It's crazy how much I miss you."
"I can imagine."
"You're not going to say it back?"
"What, that I miss you? Harley, I've missed you for longer than I've remembered you. If I ever don't miss you, I'll probably die of shock. Just take care of yourself, okay? And…" He tries to hold back the selfish thing that comes to his lips, but, like always, he caves to it. "And come back."
"What if you come here?" Harley blurts.
"What?"
"I mean, I was thinking— Okay, full disclosure, it's an idea Tony floated to me, and I thought it was stupid at first because you—" His voice drops to a whisper, "You're Spider-Man." At normal volume, he continues, "So I didn't think— I mean, I figured you wouldn't want to leave New York, but Tony says you haven't been going out much and when you do, you just swing, and he thought maybe it would be good for you to get away for a while. Like a vacation. Somewhere new. Somewhere you can make new memories. And I thought— Like I said, at first I thought it was stupid, but now… I don't know. What do you think?"
Biting his lip, Peter stays rooted to the couch, staring at his reflection in the TV. He looks small and tired. He wants to refuse on principle. Because it's something he's never done before. Because the last time he left New York, he was carried off into space. And the time before that, he fought Captain America at a German airport. He's never just…gone for the sake of going.
But there's a pull in his chest. A line of string connecting him to a small town in Tennessee and a family he, once upon a time, wanted desperately to know.
"Can I think about it?"
"You want to?"
"I… I mean— I just need to think."
"Okay."
"Do you mind if I hang up while May and I are at dinner? We're going out, so…"
There's a long pause. Finally, Harley asks, "Do you promise to call me back?"
"Yes."
"Do you swear?"
"I swear."
"I'm gonna be pissed if you ghost me because I got you all freaked out. My feelings will be hurt. I'll be mad."
"I promise I will call you back as soon as we get home."
"And then you'll stay on the phone with me all night?"
Peter exhales a laugh. "Harley, do you remember—"
"Yes."
"Shut up, I'm asking a question."
"Okay, okay."
"Do you remember after I got back from Titan the second time, what two promises I made to myself? One was to put May, Ned, and MJ above everything else. Do you know the other one?"
"To stay away from me."
"And how well did I keep that promise?"
"Oh, you fucked it up completely."
"Exactly. You don't have to worry about me shutting you out. I've never…" Memories from within the soul stone flash across his mind—Harley persistently tagging along despite Peter's insistence on being left alone. "I've never been any good at it."
"So is that a no to staying on the phone tonight?"
"No, it's… It's whatever you want; tell me and I'll do it."
"I want you to call."
"Then I'll call."
"And I want you to stay on the line until I fall asleep."
"Then I will."
"Okay. Okay, good."
Peter hangs up a few minutes later, and it's in that moment he realizes he's going to Rose Hill. Harley wants him there, so he's going. It's as simple as that.
Notes:
Sorry this is a wee smidge late! Yesterday changed from being my day of rest post-first Christmas to grocery shopping with my sister and helping her make hot pot for the whole fam, which was delicious!! But two very active and social days in a row took me OUT. But anyway
They're taaaaalkiinngggggg and yes, I'm dangling Rose Hill in front of you like a carrot on a fishing line right before taking a break from posting :O) sorry not sorry! I have 13.6k written. Peter needs to graduate, he and Tony need to have a heart-to-heart, and then ( ͡° ͜ ʖ ͡° ) Rose Hill. Where I'm at in the draft they're still in Rose Hill but I think will be coming home soon. I need to make a little outline for how I want post-Rose Hill to go and then we will be (pardon the phrase) in the endgame. I might wait until everything is written and dunzies to post again and just do it all in weekly chapter drops, or if I hit a snag (as I usually do in the home stretch (endings! BLAGH!)) I might drop some chapters randomly as I work through it. We will see.
Thank you thank you for reading and commenting! You guys are the best 🥰
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