Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun was bleeding out over Rose Hill, Tennessee, turning the whole damn place gold and orange, like it was trying to make up for being boring as hell the rest of the day. Harley Keener’s garage was a disaster zone—half-built drone guts on the bench, a potato gun in pieces, the floor littered with screws and shit he’d probably step on later. It smelled like burnt solder, gasoline, and a little bit like desperation.

He was hunched over the drone, hands black with grease, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. Only thing louder than the whir of his soldering iron was his own brain, running a mile a minute. He should’ve been thinking about school—he had a math test tomorrow—but instead he was wondering if he could swap out the engine in his mom’s old Chevy before she noticed. Small town, small dreams, right? Except his dreams never fit in Rose Hill. Not really.

His phone buzzed, rattling against a wrench.

Harley didn’t even check the screen. He tapped it, and with a low hum, a flickering blue hologram of Tony Stark sprang up above the bench, arms crossed, smirk in full effect. It glitched once, briefly distorting his jaw and then reassembling it—Harley barely looked up, just wiped his hands on his jeans and leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah, what?” he said, not bothering to hide the attitude.

Tony’s hologram raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, easy there, Keener. You look like you just blew up your own garage. Again.”

Harley rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself. “Give it a week, Stark. You know I can’t resist a good explosion.”

“Atta boy. You still breaking shit, or have you figured out how to actually build something that doesn’t explode?”

“Depends. You want it to explode, or you want it to work? I can do either, but you gotta pick one. And by the way, it's called 'creative destruction.'” Harley flicked a loose wire off the bench.

Tony’s smirk deepened. “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that? I should’ve left you in that garage with your potato gun.”

“Yeah, but then who’d you call when your fancy tech craps out? Face it, Stark, you’re stuck with me.”

Tony leaned forward in the projection, elbows on a virtual surface that didn’t exist in the real world. “As if I could forget my favorite mechanic. I wouldn't have made it this far without you. Well, maybe I would've, but with a hell of a lot more headaches.”

Harley chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. I still remember you blowing stuff up every time I turned around. Some genius you are.”

“Smartass. You know, I could use you in New York. Some of my interns are so careful, it’s like they’re afraid of getting their hands dirty. Or, you know, dying.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I like breathing air that doesn’t smell like burnt plastic and billionaire cologne,” Harley said, but his voice softened just a bit. “Besides, you’d miss having someone to roast you.”

Tony grinned. “Please. You think you’re the only one? I’ve got a whole building full of nerds who think they’re funny. But you, Keener, you’re special. In a pain-in-my-ass sort of way.”

Harley snorted. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Stark.”

There was a pause, just long enough for Harley to realize he was actually grinning like an idiot. He glanced around the garage—his world, his mess, his rules. But lately, even with all the chaos, it felt like he was just spinning his wheels.

The garage door creaked, and Harley didn’t even look up. Only one person in the world could make a door sound that judgmental.

Lucy poked her head in, nose wrinkling. Her eyes flicked to the glitchy projection. “Jesus, Harls, it smells like you’re building a bomb in here. And is that Stark again? Tell your hologram to stay out of my room this time.”

He shot her a look over his shoulder. “It’s called innovation, Lucy. You’d know if you ever tried anything besides TikTok dances and burning toast.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mom says dinner’s ready. And if you track grease onto the floor again, she’s gonna lose her mind.”

Harley grinned, tossing his wrench onto the bench. “Yeah, yeah. Tell her I’ll be there in a sec. Gotta finish saving the world. Some of us are trying to invent the future.”

Lucy snorted. “Yeah, well, the future smells like ass.”

He tossed a rag at her, missing by a mile. “You’re just jealous you can’t build a drone out of spare parts and dumb luck.”

Lucy rolled her eyes again. “Right. The world’s dying to see your potato gun 2.0. You done blowing up the mailbox yet?”

He wiped his hands on his jeans, smearing the grease even worse. “That was one time, and the mailbox had it coming.”

She just shook her head, already halfway out the door. “Whatever, genius. Wash your hands, and just try not to set the house on fire before dessert.”

Harley watched her go, then let his eyes drift to the window. The “Welcome to Rose Hill” sign at the end of the street looked extra pathetic in the sunset, like it knew nobody wanted to stay. For a second, he imagined it replaced with the New York skyline—Stark Tower, bright lights, a city that didn’t know his name yet.

Tony’s hologram flickered slightly, then came back sharper, voice lower and more serious now. “Harley, you’re wasting your talent in that backwater town. I’ve got a project coming up—big one. It could be a game-changer for you.”

The words stung, even if there was a grain of truth to them. “Hey, don't be a dick,” Harley shot back, his voice tight. “I've lived here my whole life, you know.”

“Yeah, smartass. And look where it's gotten you,” Tony replied, frustration creeping into his voice. “You could be doing so much more.”

Harley's grip tightened on his pliers. He knew Tony meant well, but the man just didn’t get it. “I know, Tony. It's just... There's a lot here. My mom, my sister, school... You ever think maybe I’m not ready to bail on all that?”

Before Tony could answer, a loud crash came from the projection. The image jolted as a blur of limbs and lab gear tumbled into view, followed by a very familiar voice.

“Peter! Jesus, kid, you trying to get yourself killed? I’m not explaining this to May!”

The mention of Peter Parker—Tony’s golden boy—sent a little stab of jealousy through Harley. He’d never met the guy, but he’d heard the stories. Tony talked about him like he walked on water.

From the background: “It’s fine, Mr. Stark! Everything’s under control! Don’t tell May about... whatever this is!”

Tony’s projection turned, clearly annoyed. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Then, back to Harley. “Sorry, Keener. Had a little ‘incident’ in the lab. Where were we? Ah, yes, you hauling your ass to New York—”

“Listen, Tony,” Harley cut him off, suddenly feeling drained. “I’ve gotta go. Something’s come up at home. We’ll talk later, alright?”

The hologram paused for a beat, flickering slightly. Tony’s face softened, but the disappointment was there. “Alright, Keener. Do what you’ve gotta do. But remember, you’re too damn good for that place. Don’t waste it. And think about that project I mentioned – it could open doors you’ve never even dreamed of.”

The projection dimmed and vanished with a quiet hum.

Harley stared at the space where Tony had been, then at the drone, then at the faded New York posters on his wall. For a second, he let himself imagine what it’d be like—leaving Rose Hill, working with Stark, building shit that actually mattered. But the feeling faded, and all that was left was the sound of the crickets outside and the weight in his chest, heavy as a goddamn engine block.

He picked up his tools, hands shaking just a little, and tried to lose himself in the work. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that his whole life was about to get flipped upside down, whether he liked it or not.

The late afternoon sun was already throwing long-ass shadows across the cracked driveway as Harley killed the engine on the Chevy. The quiet in Rose Hill was the kind that could drive a person nuts—too still, too familiar, like the whole town was holding its breath and waiting for nothing to happen. He barely had time to yank the keys out before his phone went off, that obnoxious ringtone Tony had set himself, just to be a pain in the ass.

He groaned, “Goddammit,” under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. The last thing he needed was another round of Stark-brand pep talk.

Lucy was already halfway out the passenger door, backpack slung over one shoulder, when she caught the look on his face. “You good?” she asked, eyebrow cocked.

Harley forced a smile, but it was the kind that fooled exactly no one. “Yeah, just—Tony again. Go inside, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Lucy shrugged, used to this routine by now, and let the screen door slam behind her. Harley watched her go, then thumbed the phone to his ear, letting out a sigh that felt like it came from his bones. “Hey, Tony.”

By the time he finally made it inside, the kitchen was still warm from the oven and smelled like garlic bread, but Harley barely noticed. He dropped into a chair like he’d just run a marathon, phone still in hand, staring at it as if it might bite him, or suddenly solve all his problems if he glared hard enough. His head was a mess—New York, Stark Industries, the idea of leaving, the idea of staying. It all circled in his brain like vultures.

He muttered, “Shit,” and ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots in a futile attempt to dislodge the thoughts. Nothing helped. The ache in his chest was a constant, like he was missing out on a life that was happening somewhere else, to someone braver.

“Earth to Harley!” Lucy’s voice cut through the fog, sharp and relentless. She waved a hand in front of his face, looking at him like he’d grown a second head. “You look like you just got dumped by a girl you never even dated.”

Harley snorted, not looking up. “Yeah, well, maybe I did. Or maybe I’m just haunted by the ghost of my own bad decisions.”

Lucy hopped up onto the table, legs swinging, giving him that look that said she saw right through his crap. “Tony again?”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Tony again. The man’s relentless. You’d think he’d have better things to do than bug me every damn week.”

Lucy grinned, swinging her legs. “What’s he offering this time? A jet pack? Free pass to blow up his lab? Or your own Iron Man suit with a built-in sarcasm filter?”

Harley rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “He wants me to move to New York. For real this time. Big project, big future, blah blah blah.”

She raised an eyebrow, all mock-serious. “And let me guess, you told him you needed to check with your parole officer first?”

He laughed, just a little. “Yeah, right. I told him I had to see if Mom would let me out past curfew.”

She rolled her eyes, arms crossed. “Don’t bullshit me, Harley. You’ve been doing this dance for months. You think I’m dumb?”

Finally, a real grin cracked his face, just for a second. “When’d you get so mouthy?”

She grinned back, unbothered. “Growing up with you, what’d you expect? I learned from the best. Or the worst, depending who you ask.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Harley muttered, rolling his eyes, but there was a flicker of pride there too.

Lucy’s grin faded, and she got that look—part therapist, part drill sergeant. “So, what’s the plan, Harls? You gonna keep dodging him until he sends Iron Man to drag your ass to the city?”

He sighed, staring at the table. “I don’t know, Luce. It’s not that simple. You and Mom… this place… it’s all I’ve ever known. What if I go and I just crash and burn?”

She hopped off the counter, coming closer, her voice softer but still fierce. “Don’t give me that. You’ve been fixing shit and building stuff since you could hold a screwdriver. You’re not gonna crash and burn. You’re just scared.”

He snapped, sharper than he meant to, “Of course I’m scared! Who wouldn’t be? It’s Tony fuckin’ Stark. It’s New York City. It’s… everything I ever wanted, and that’s the scariest shit of all.”

Lucy put a hand on his shoulder, “For the record? I am scared, too. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go.”

He looked at her, really looked, and for a second all the bravado dropped away. “What if I let you down? Or Mom? Or hell, even Tony?”

Lucy rolled her eyes, but there was nothing mean in it. “You couldn’t let us down if you tried. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re our pain in the ass. And Tony Stark? Please. He’s a billionaire with a metal suit and daddy issues. He’ll survive.”

Harley barked a laugh, the knot in his chest loosening just a bit. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

She grinned, bumping his shoulder. “Runs in the family. Besides, someone’s gotta keep you humble. You got this, Harley. We’ll be fine. Mom and I—we want this for you. We always knew you were meant for more than this town.”

He let out a long breath, the weight of the decision still heavy but not crushing. “I just… I wish it was easier.”

Lucy shrugged, grabbing another piece of bread. “Easy’s for people who don’t want anything. You want something, you gotta fight for it. Or, you know, at least answer the damn phone when Stark calls.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling for real now. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe tomorrow.”

He looked at her, really looked, and for a second the ache eased. The kitchen was quiet, the sun bleeding out over the fields, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and purple. It was the kind of sunset that made Rose Hill feel like the most beautiful, and for a moment, it felt like the safest place in the world.

But in the back of his mind, he was already picturing a different sunset—one from the top of Stark Tower, glass and steel and the whole city at his feet.

She gave him a look. “Don’t wait too long, Harls. Opportunity doesn’t knock forever. Sometimes it just blows the door off the hinges.”

He laughed, nervous and real, and squeezed her hand. The phone sat on the table between them, silent now, but it might as well have been glowing.

A month crawled by, and Harley was still stuck in the same loop—pacing the kitchen like a caged animal, phone in hand, nerves shot to hell. The house was quiet except for the creak of the old floorboards and the low hum of the fridge, but inside Harley’s head, it was chaos.

Jane leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching him with that look only moms have—the one that says she’s seen every version of his bullshit and isn’t buying any of it. “You gonna wear a hole in the floor, or you just training for a marathon I don’t know about?” she asked, voice gentle but edged with steel.

Harley stopped mid-stride, rubbing his face. “It’s Tony. Still Tony. The man’s like a dog with a bone.”

Jane snorted. “That billionaire’s got a lot of bones, apparently. What’s he want this time, you to build him a rocket car or just move to New York and be his new science monkey?”

Harley let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “He wants me to move. Again. Like he’s got nothing better to do than harass some kid from Tennessee. He keeps pushing, like if he calls enough, I’ll just say yes.”

Jane’s face softened, but her voice didn’t. “And you’re scared. Don’t bother denying it.”

He tried for bravado, but it came out thin. “Scared? Nah. I just don’t want to deal with New York traffic, or some suit breathing down my neck, or—hell, I don’t know—being the only hick in a room full of geniuses. Stark Tower’s probably got more people than this whole town. And I’m supposed to just fit in, like I’m not some grease-stained kid from Rose Hill?”

Jane came over, smacked him lightly on the back of the head. “Don’t bullshit me, Harley. You’re not fooling anyone. Least of all yourself. You’re scared, and that’s fine. Hell, I’d be worried if you weren’t. But don’t pretend you’re not, and don’t you dare use me or Lucy as an excuse.”

Harley flinched, then sighed, voice cracking a little. “I just… I remember what it felt like when he bailed. Lucy was too little, but I’m not. I’m not leaving you two behind. Not for anybody. Not even Tony fucking Stark.”

Jane’s expression shifted, something fierce and protective flickering in her eyes. She crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard. “For someone so damn smart, you can be a real idiot, you know that? You are nothing like him. Not even a little.”

Harley looked up, searching her face for doubt and finding none. “I just—I don’t want to let anyone down. Not you, not Lucy, not even Tony. It’s like… no matter what I pick, I’m screwing it up for someone.”

Jane’s laugh was sharp and sudden. “Harley Keener, you’ve been fixing shit in this house since you were eight. You rebuilt a lawnmower out of a toaster and a bike chain. You think you can’t handle some fancy New York tech? Please.”

He cracked a smile, just a little. “That toaster never did work right.”

“Yeah, but it cut the grass, didn’t it?” Jane grinned, then softened. “Look, you gotta do what’s right for you. But don’t stay just because you’re scared. And don’t go just because Tony’s got a shiny tower and a big mouth. And if you go, that doesn’t mean you’re leaving us behind. Whatever you pick, we’ll be fine. Hell, we’ll probably be glad for the peace and quiet. This place, this family—it’s always gonna be your home, even if you’re off building Iron Man suits or blowing up half of Manhattan.”

He finally let out a real laugh. He wiped at his eyes, pretending it was just sweat. “Thanks, Ma. But… I think I need to stay. At least for now.”

Jane squeezed his shoulder, her grip warm and solid. “That’s your call, kid. Just promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. Don’t let this place be a cage. And if you ever do go, you better call your mother. Or I’ll hunt you down myself.”

Harley grinned, “Deal. And hey, if Tony calls again, tell him I’m busy fixing your damn toaster.”

Jane laughed, shaking her head. “If he calls, I’m telling him you’re grounded. Now go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready, and if you track grease in here again, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Harley snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too, Ma.”

He watched her head back to the stove, the kitchen suddenly feeling a little bigger, a little less heavy. For now, Rose Hill was enough. But the itch for more was still there, just under his skin.

That night, Harley sat on the edge of his unmade bed, the phone on his desk staring him down like it was daring him to blink first. The whole room was a shrine to every half-finished project he’d ever started—drones, potato guns, busted radios, a car engine diagram tacked to the wall with thumbtacks and hope. For a second, he wondered if he’d ever really leave any of it behind, or if he’d just keep adding to the pile until the house collapsed under the weight of his own ambition.

He ran a hand through his hair, let out a breath that sounded more like a groan, and finally grabbed the phone. The screen glowed way too bright in the dark. He scrolled through his contacts, thumb hovering over Tony’s name, muttering, “Alright, Stark, let’s see if you’re as persistent as your ego.” He hit call before he could chicken out.

It rang. And rang. Harley was about to hang up when Tony finally picked up, voice all smooth and cocky. “Keener. Calling to say you’re finally ready to join the big leagues, or just bored of blowing up mailboxes?”

Harley snorted. “Sorry to disappoint, but Rose Hill’s still got me. I’m not ready to trade in my accent for a Stark Industries badge just yet. Besides, who else is gonna keep the local tow truck guy in business?”

Tony groaned, “You know there are actual restaurants here, right? Places where the fries aren’t just frozen disappointment?”

“Yeah, but where else can I get a burger, a side of judgment, and a sermon about my eternal soul? I’d miss the ambiance.”

Tony sighed, but Harley could hear the smile in it. “You’re killing me, kid. You could be blowing up real tech. I’ve got a whole lab full of stuff just begging for a creative disaster.”

“Tempting, but I’m not ready for the big city yet. I’d probably get arrested for ‘suspicious use of duct tape’ before lunch.”

There was a pause. Tony’s voice dropped, just a little. “So that’s it? You sure? I could always send the suit to ‘escort’ you.”

Harley grinned, letting the sarcasm out full force. “And have the whole town talking for a decade? Please. You’d ruin my reputation as the local disappointment. Besides, if you sent the suit, I’d probably just try to hotwire it.”

Tony actually laughed, the sound softer than Harley expected. “Alright, alright. You win this round. But the offer’s open. Don’t make me come down there and drag your stubborn ass to New York.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep my bags packed, just in case you send the Hulk instead. Or, you know, Pepper. She’s scarier.”

“Goodnight, Keener. Don’t blow up anything I might want to buy at auction one day.”

“No promises, Stark. Night.”

“Night, Keener.”

He hung up, letting the phone drop onto the bedspread. The room was quiet again, except for the distant sound of Lucy’s music through the wall and the hum of the old window unit. Harley looked around at the chaos—his chaos—and for the first time, it felt like it was okay to stay. For now.

But he knew, deep down, this wasn’t the end. It was just the first chapter. The itch for more, the pull of something bigger, was still there—louder now that he’d said no. Someday, maybe, he’d be ready to answer it.

But tonight, Rose Hill was home. And that was enough.

Chapter Text

One afternoon after school, Peter was hunched over his desk, squinting through a magnifier as he fiddled with the lenses on his new suit’s mask. The red and blue fabric—sleek, high-tech, and way too cool for a kid from Queens—was draped across his lap. That tiny Stark Industries logo on the chest? Yeah, it was a constant reminder that his life had gone off the rails the second Tony freaking Stark decided to adopt him as a part-time science project.

He used to be just the quiet kid, the one who lost his parents in a plane crash, then Uncle Ben in a way that still made his chest ache. Now he was… whatever this was. Spider-Man. Tony’s intern. Professional chaos magnet. He remembered the Oscorp field trip, the fateful bite of a genetically altered, radiation-doused spider, and the rush of incredible new abilities that had followed. That day, a science nerd with a penchant for tinkering had found a new, terrifying sense of purpose.

Ned was sprawled across the bed, tossing a hacky sack at the wall and catching it one-handed, because of course he was. “So, how’s the Stark internship, dude? You building killer robots yet, or just cleaning up after Tony’s latest meltdown?”

Peter didn’t look up, but a crooked grin tugged at his mouth. “It’s intense, man. Tony’s got me working on stuff that makes AP Chem look like finger painting. Half the time I’m just pretending I know what the hell’s going on.”

Ned snorted, catching the hacky sack. “Yeah, but you love it. Admit it. You’re living the nerd dream—actual lab, actual billionaire, actual chance of blowing something up and not getting grounded.”

Peter shrugged, but he couldn’t hide the excitement. “Okay, yeah, it’s awesome. Every day’s a new science experiment, and Tony’s throwing ideas at me like he’s got a quota for crazy. Some of it’s so far over my head I need a jetpack just to keep up.”

Ned smirked, tossing the hacky sack back. “Damn, that's awesome. You're basically living every tech geek's wet dream.”

Peter caught the sack and chuckled. “Yeah, Tony's helping me upgrade my gear, make it more, well, badass.”

Ned grinned. “So, what’s the latest? Web-shooters that shoot, like, flaming webs? Or are you finally building that drone army you keep doodling in class?”

Peter set the mask down, rolling his eyes. “Maybe both. Tony’s got this thing about ‘pushing boundaries’—which apparently means ‘let’s see how many curse words I can teach a teenager in one afternoon.’ But honestly? It’s kind of magic. Science magic. With extra swearing.”

A soft knock interrupted them. Aunt May poked her head in, smiling like she hadn’t just worked a double shift. “Boys, dinner’s ready. And Peter, if you blew up anything in here, you’re on dish duty.”

Peter shot Ned a look—see, this is my life—and followed her out, the mask left behind on the desk. As they headed downstairs, he felt that weird mix of gratitude and guilt. His family and friends didn’t know half of what he was up to, but they kept him grounded. Kept him sane. And honestly, that was the only thing keeping him from falling apart most days.

The late afternoon sun was already throwing long shadows across Queens as Peter Parker launched himself off a fire escape, the city’s noise fading into the background. The suit hugged him tight, every muscle and nerve alive—he’d never admit it, but swinging through the city was the best damn therapy he’d ever had.

His earpiece buzzed. Karen, the AI Tony had loaded into his suit, chimed in, way too chipper for a robot.
“Alert, Peter: Petty theft in progress. Trendy sneaker store on Elm.”

Peter rolled his eyes, flipping midair. “Thanks, Karen. Always dreamed of being the world’s most fashionable crime-fighter.” He shot a web, swung hard, and felt the day’s stress bleed away.

Outside the shop, two teens in hoodies were stuffing limited-edition sneakers into a duffel bag like they were auditioning for Dumb and Dumber: The Shoplifting Years. Peter landed on the awning above them, silent as a rumor.

“Alright, you little hypebeasts,” he called down, voice muffled by the mask but dripping with attitude. “You know there are easier ways to ruin your future than boosting Nikes, right?”

Both kids froze, their faces going pale as they instinctively dropped the bag. The skinny one with blue hair nearly dropped the bag.
“S-Spider-Man?” he squeaked.

Peter dropped down, landing in front of them with a thump. “The one and only. Now, how about you hand over the shoes before you get webbed to the sidewalk and your moms have to come scrape you off?”

The taller one tried to play tough, nose ring glinting. “Yeah, whatever, bug boy. You gonna stop us?”

Peter shot a web, yanking the duffel right out of their hands. “No, but I am gonna make sure you two get a crash course in community service. Maybe you’ll learn how to mop floors instead of your criminal records.”

The kids just stared, deflated. One muttered, “Asshole,” under his breath.

Peter shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one stealing shoes like it’s a TikTok challenge.” He webbed the bag to a nearby cop car, earning a tired thumbs-up from the officer who’d just arrived.

He perched on a lamppost, catching his breath as Karen’s voice buzzed in his ear.
“Nice work, boss. Incoming call: Mr. Stark.”

“Patch him through, Karen,” he said, his tone softened, the Spider-Man edge slipping away. "Hey, Mr. Stark? Everything alright?"

Tony’s voice blasted in, all caffeine and chaos. “Underoos! You swinging by the lab tomorrow? I’ve got some absolutely fucking wild ideas to install faster surveillance for those spider-drones. You’re gonna love it.”

Peter grinned. “Yeah, I’ll be there. But I promised Morgan a movie night, and I’m not about to get on her bad side. She’s scarier than half the villains in this city.”

Tony snorted. “Smart kid. Never piss off a Stark—especially the tiny ones. See you tomorrow, Spidey.”

“Noted, Mr. Stark. See you tomorrow.”

Peter laughed, the sound echoing off the buildings as he launched himself back into the sky. This was his world: weird, messy, balancing homework with heroics and sarcasm with responsibility. And honestly? He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Dude, you gotta try this clătită,” Ned mumbled, cheeks stuffed so full he looked like he was trying to smuggle snacks for winter. “Seriously, it’s criminal how good this is.”

The café was all warm pastry smells and strong coffee, a massive upgrade from Midtown’s usual cafeteria horror show. Peter, MJ, and Ned were crammed into a corner booth, their table a battlefield of crumbs and empty mugs. Bucharest was weird, loud, and full of ancient buildings—MJ had already called dibs on three different haunted houses.

Peter was zoning out, watching trams rattle by, when MJ leaned in, eyes glinting with that signature “I’m about to roast you” energy. “So, Parker,” she said, voice syrupy with fake innocence, “any more Houdini acts lately? Or are you just back to being late because you can’t dress yourself without a radioactive spider?”

Peter smirked, leaning back. “Maybe a few. You know me—always running late, always some disaster. It’s a skill.”

MJ didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I remember. You used to pull that ‘sorry, I got caught up’ crap when we were dating. At least now you’re just ghosting me as a friend. Progress, I guess.”

Ned snorted, nearly choking on his pancake. “Savage, MJ.”

MJ raised an eyebrow, her expression clearly signaling she wasn't buying it. “Or maybe you were out swinging around, playing hero again?”

Peter glanced around the cafe, a quick, almost imperceptible sweep, before lowering his voice. “Maybe I was. Or maybe I was just drowning in that damn homework.”

MJ snorted, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair. “Yeah, right. You're a shitty liar, Parker. Still.”

Peter blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is it that obvious?”

She grinned, bumping his arm. “Only to people who actually pay attention. And people who aren’t currently inhaling their body weight in Romanian carbs.”

Ned, still chewing, piped up. “Come on, man, spill. You fighting crime or just dodging gym class again?”

Peter laughed, a little too quick. “Maybe both. You ever seen Coach Thompson in a bad mood? I’ll take supervillains, thanks.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “Excuses. So, what’s the latest? Any Spider-Man-level weirdness? Or have you just been busy losing socks again?”

Before Peter could answer, Ned jumped in, eyes lighting up. “Actually, this city’s got some wild history. There’s a museum with, like, legit ancient weapons. Swords, shields, the whole medieval murder kit.”

Peter perked up. “Yeah, I was thinking about that Thracian exhibit. Supposed to have artifacts from, like, a thousand years ago. Could be cool.”

MJ groaned, flopping back in her chair. “Seriously? We’re in Romania and you two want to nerd out at a museum? My brain is on vacation, losers.”

Ned grinned. “Come on, MJ, live a little. Maybe we’ll find a magic sword. Worst case, you get to roast us for being nerds in public.”

Peter jumped in, hopeful. “Plus, I found that weird amulet the other day. Who knows? Maybe it’s cursed. Could spice things up.”

MJ’s eyebrow shot up, curiosity winning out. “Alright, fine. But if it’s just a bunch of dusty old crap, you’re both buying me lunch. And dessert. And you’re carrying my bag, Parker—ex-boyfriend tax.”

Peter grinned, surrendering. “Deal. Museum trip?”

Ned fist-pumped, nearly dropping his clătită. “Hell yes! Maybe we’ll find some ancient superhero gear for our next cosplay.”

MJ laughed, shaking her head. “Cosplay? Please. This is starting to sound like a low-budget treasure hunt. Just don’t come crying to me when you unleash some ancient curse, Parker. I’m not cleaning up your mess—again.”

Peter grinned. “If I do, at least I’ll have you guys to suffer with me.”

Ned nodded, mouth full. “And more clătită. We’ll need the carbs for all that ghost fighting.”

Their laughter filled the café, and for a moment, Peter let himself just be a teenager with his friends—no suits, no secrets, just good company and world-class roasting. For now, that was enough.

Sunlight streamed through the window of May Parker’s apartment, spotlighting a mountain of mismatched socks that looked like it was plotting a hostile takeover of the living room. Peter, hair a mess and shirt half-tucked, was elbow-deep in laundry, battling the basket like it was a second-rate supervillain.

“May, have you seen the Doc Ock arms again?” he called, wrestling a sock that had somehow wrapped itself around his wrist. “Because I swear, if those things are stealing my socks, I’m moving out.”

May, curled up in her armchair with tea and a battered copy of Little Women, didn’t even look up. “Peter Parker, blaming your laundry problems on a supervillain? That’s a new low, even for you.” She grinned over her mug. “And for the record, I haven’t seen any rogue tentacles since you ‘handled’ him last month. And I do mean handled, That stain on the rug still haunts my dreams.”

Peter sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. "Yeah, well, apparently some villains have a thing for stealing socks. Who would've thought?"

May set her book down, a distinct twinkle in her eye. "Maybe they’re lonely and want some company, Peter. You should introduce them to your other lonely socks. You know, losers gotta stick together."

Peter groaned, flinging a sock over his shoulder. “This is exactly why I need the damn dryer, May! It keeps the sock population under control... and the freaking supervillain arms at bay.”

May arched an eyebrow. “If you stopped buying those ridiculous superhero socks, you’d have a fighting chance. Your drawer looks like a circus exploded in there.”

Peter glanced down at his feet—one sock had his own face on it, the other was a slice of pizza. “Hey, these are iconic. Plus, they make laundry day a little less tragic and a bit more fun.”

May sipped her tea, eyes twinkling. “Fun? You call this fun? No wonder you never have time to relax. You’re too busy playing matchmaker for your socks.”

Before Peter could fire back, a sharp knock rattled the door. He shot May a look—visitors were about as common as a quiet week in Queens.

“I’ll get it!” he called, shoving a pile of socks back into the basket and nearly tripping over a stray Avengers tee.

He yanked open the door and found Happy Hogan standing there, grinning like he’d just won the lottery, a big Stark Industries package in his hands.

“Hey there, Pete,” Happy said, holding out the box. “Mr. Stark wanted me to drop this off. Says it’s for your internship... and, you know, your ‘friendly neighborhood activities.’”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “An internship package already? And Happy, May already knows.” He glanced back at his aunt, who was now watching the exchange with an undeniably knowing, gentle smile.

Happy winked at May. “Sharp lady, your aunt.”

May shot Peter a smug smile. “We can thank that damn stain on the rug for that, can’t we?”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “That was not my fault. Vulture’s wing is, like, the worst cleaning hazard ever.”

“Uh-huh,” May said, deadpan. “And I suppose the toaster exploded on its own last week, too?”

“Technically, that was science,” Peter muttered, waving Happy inside. “Come on in, Happy. So, what kind of goodies did Mr. Stark send this time?”

Happy set the box down on the coffee table. “He said it’s a new prototype for your web-shooters. Something about improved targeting and a special ‘impact web’ feature.”

May raised an eyebrow. “Impact web? That sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Peter grinned, trying to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry, May. Mr. Stark wouldn’t give me anything I couldn’t handle. He just wants to make sure I’m ready for whatever weirdness comes next.”

May eyed the box. “Speaking of ready, maybe you could use that ‘impact web’ on the laundry. Or at least your sock circus.”

Peter laughed. “Yeah, because Spider-Man vs. laundry is exactly what I need on my resume.”

Happy chuckled. “Honestly, Pete, you could use the practice. Just don’t turn the apartment into a web zone.”

Peter sighed, dramatic as always. “Great. More tinkering with web-shooters. Can this day get any more complicated?”

May leaned forward, smirking. “Oh, come on. When has your tech ever gone wrong? Remember when you dyed your hair green with that experimental web fluid?”

Peter winced. “Don’t remind me. Midtown called me ‘Broccoli Head’ for a month.”

Happy clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s see what Stark cooked up this time. Maybe it’s finally time for an upgrade.”

Peter opened the box, pulling out the new shooters—sleek, shiny, bristling with extra buttons. “Wow. These look... dangerous.”

May raised an eyebrow. “High-tech? You mean like your ancient sock collection?”

Peter grinned. “Exactly. Time to give these babies a test run.”

He strapped them on, flexing his fingers. “Alright, here goes nothing.”

He fired a web at the coffee table. The line zipped out, stuck, and retracted perfectly. “Damn, that’s smooth.”

Happy nodded, impressed. “Stark knows his stuff. Just don’t get cocky.”

May smirked. “Yeah, because that always ends well.”

Peter shot her a look, but he was smiling for real now. “Thanks, May. And Happy, thanks for bringing this over. Seriously.”

Happy shrugged. “Anytime, Pete. Try not to break anything. Or anyone.”

Peter winked. “No promises.”

May leaned back, crossing her arms. "So, what's next on the agenda, Mr. High-Tech?"

Peter looked around at the cluttered apartment. "Well, I was thinking of tackling this laundry monster first. Wanna join me?"

May chuckled, shaking her head. "I'd love to, but I think I'll let you have your fun. Just try not to web the entire floor, okay?"

Peter winked. "No promises. But I’ll try."

Happy laughed. "Good luck, Pete. You'll need it."

As Happy left, Peter turned to May, giving her a playful salute. "Thanks, May. Let’s see if these new shooters can handle the sock apocalypse."

May laughed warmly. "Go get 'em, Spider-Man."

And as Peter dove back into the chaos—super-socks, web-shooters, and all—he felt lighter. Even with the world’s weirdest laundry pile, he had his people. And that, for today, was enough.

Chapter Text

Harley Keener’s life in Rose Hill, Tennessee, ran on autopilot: school, chores, and the clang of tools in his garage. The house was always alive with the sound of his latest project—half the time, it was the only proof he wasn’t just another bored kid stuck in a nowhere town. He liked the routine, even if he sometimes caught himself staring out at the hills, wishing for something bigger than fixing tractors and dodging small-town drama.

One crisp evening, Harley stomped up the porch, still pissed about some idiot at school who thought “mechanic” was an insult. He shoved open the front door, expecting the usual—maybe the TV, maybe Lucy’s music. Instead, he got Tony-fucking-Stark, sprawled in their armchair like he paid the mortgage, swirling a glass of scotch with that trademark smirk.

“Hey there, Harley!” Tony called, like this was just a normal Tuesday. “How was school, kiddo?”

Harley froze, brain short-circuiting for a second. Tony Stark, actual Iron Man, in his living room. Again. The guy had a habit of dropping in with zero warning, always dangling some shiny offer to drag Harley to New York. And every time, Harley had told him to shove it—he wasn’t about to leave his mom and Lucy behind for some billionaire’s circus.

“Nothing special. Same old crap,” Harley managed, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “What the hell are you doing here, Stark?”

Tony leaned back, grinning wider. “Aw, c’mon, Potato-gun. That’s no way to greet a friend. Especially one with a killer proposition.”

Harley crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Didn’t know friends just showed up to screw with your life plans.”

“Touché,” Tony said, raising his glass. “But hey, I like to keep things interesting. Speaking of which, you still turning down my offers to drag you out of this one-horse town you call home?”

“You mean, am I still not ditching my family to work for an egomaniac? Yeah, Tony, still not on my bucket list,” Harley shot back, but there was a hint of a smile. Their banter was weirdly comforting.

Tony chuckled, clearly loving it. “Listen, kid, I’ve been watching you—”

“Creepy, much?” Harley deadpanned.

Tony ignored him. “—and you’re wasting your time here, fixing up lawnmowers and teaching rednecks how to change oil. You’re meant for more than this shithole. No offense, Jane.”

“None taken, Stark.” Jane’s voice cut in from the couch, calm but firm. She looked at Harley, eyes steady. “Mr. Stark and I were just talking about some… exciting possibilities for you.”

Lucy, vibrating with excitement from the hallway, piped up, “You could build so much cool shit in New York, Harls! And meet actual superheroes!”

Tony raised his glass to Lucy. “Smart kid. Speaking of, you might’ve heard of Peter Parker—my other intern. He’s getting cocky. Could use some competition.”

Harley snorted, leaning against the wall. “Competition? Please. I’ll wipe the floor with him. What’s he got, a science fair trophy?”

Tony grinned. “Trust me, Parker’s no joke.  He’s got some moves that’ll knock your cocky ass down a peg or two.”

Harley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll teach you how to fix your busted suits while I’m at it.”

Tony clutched his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. But seriously, this is a real shot, Keener. Big leagues. Real tech, real challenge.”

Harley’s smirk faded. “You mean, dealing with your pain-in-the-ass personality all day? Sounds like a dream.”

“Damn right,” Tony winked. “And who knows? You might actually learn a thing or two from me. Not that I need to remind you, but I am Iron Man.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Harley muttered, glancing at his mom. Jane’s look said it all—this was his shot, and she wanted him to take it.

“Harley, you should really think about this,” Jane said, pride and worry mixed in her voice. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

Lucy bounced on her toes. “Yeah, Harls! Build something epic! And send me souvenirs!”

Harley ruffled her hair. “Fine, kid. I’ll bring you something cool. No promises it’s legal.”

Tony’s grin widened, a genuine warmth spreading across his face. “That’s the spirit! So, what do you say, Keener? Ready to trade in this quiet life for something a little more... explosive?”

Harley sighed, heart pounding with a mix of terror and excitement. “Alright, Stark. I’m in. But don’t think I’m gonna go easy on you.”

Tony clapped, clearly thrilled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Welcome to the big leagues, Keener.”

As it sank in, Harley felt a wild rush—half thrill, half panic. He was leaving Rose Hill for a world of chaos, tech, and superheroes. And for the first time, he was ready.

The fluorescent lights at West Roseville High buzzed overhead, making Harley feel like he was walking through a hospital, not a school. He drifted through the halls, backpack slung low, feeling weirdly detached. Everyone around him was buzzing with that pre-summer, “get me out of here” energy, but Harley’s head was already in New York—skyscrapers, labs, and the kind of future you didn’t talk about in Rose Hill unless you wanted to get side-eyed in the cafeteria.

In a few weeks, all this would just be a memory. No more Mr. Henderson’s monotone math lectures (seriously, why did this man act like the Pythagorean Theorem was a state secret?), no more cafeteria “chicken” nuggets, and—best of all—no more feeling like a big fish in a kiddie pool. Tony Stark had actually offered him an internship. An internship! The ramifications were mind-blowingly epic. Harley still half-expected someone to jump out and yell “pranked!”

He stepped out into the sun, blinking away the last of the fluorescent haze. Lucy was already waiting by the minivan, bouncing like she’d just mainlined three sodas. Her sneakers squeaked, neon-pink and impossible to miss.

“Hey, slowpoke! Mom’s already at the store,” she called, waving him over.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your shoes on,” Harley grumbled, tossing his backpack in the back. “Let’s get this over with before you start narrating my whole life.”

The drive was a blur of Lucy’s chatter—something about TikTok, something about a math test, something about how he was definitely going to forget her when he became “famous in New York.” Harley mostly tuned her out, lost in his own daydreams of tech labs and late-night pizza with Tony Stark. The thought sent a jolt of excitement through him, the kind that made his hands itch for a soldering iron.

The department store was chaos: mountains of bedding, racks of clothes, and enough fluorescent lighting to make your soul ache. Harley wandered the aisles, half-listening as Lucy dragged a king-sized comforter across the floor.

“Harls, feel this! It’s like sleeping on a cloud,” she announced, hugging the comforter like it might run away.

He snorted. “Yeah, you definitely need a king-size bed for all the sleepovers you don’t have.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Mr. Genius. Maybe I’ll just steal yours when you’re off playing with your billionaire friends.”

Harley tossed a twin comforter in the cart. “Good luck with that. The less bed I have, the more room for all the stuff I’m gonna build.”

Lucy snorted. "More like room for all the pizza boxes you'll be swimming in. Face it, your dorm's gonna look like a frat house within a week."

“Please, I can cook. And Tony probably has a chef. Imagine—gourmet meals every night. I’ll send you a selfie with my first steak.”

“Keep dreaming, bro. But don’t call me when you set the fire alarm off making ramen.”

A TV over the registers flashed to a news report: Spider-Man, mid-swing, catching a runaway hot dog cart. Lucy shrieked, “Did you see that?! Spider-Man’s so freaking cool!”

Harley’s eyes lit up. “No way! Look at that web shot. Dude’s a legend.”

Lucy elbowed him. “You got a new hero now? Maybe you should ask Tony for some web shooters.”

He nudged her back. “Nah, I’ll stick to building my own tech. But hey, maybe I’ll meet him. Get some tips.”

As they browsed, Jane kept a close eye on them, pride and worry mixing in her smile. Harley caught her watching and gave her a little wave, trying not to think about how much he was going to miss this—his family, the chaos, half-listening to Lucy as she rambled about TikTok and how he’d probably forget her when he was “famous in New York.” He mostly tuned her out, lost in daydreams of labs and late-night pizza with Tony Stark—and, if he was being honest, the idea of running into Spider-Man. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. Spidey was probably in his thirties, anyway, and Harley was way too old to be fangirling over some dude in spandex. Or so he told himself.

Suddenly, Lucy reappeared from the clothing section, waving a bright red hoodie with a huge Spider-Man logo. “Look what I found! This is perfect for your new superhero life. You can pretend you’re Spider-Man while you’re out saving the world in New York.”

Harley snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘future tech genius’ like cosplaying a guy who probably pays taxes and has back pain. I’ll stick with something less... flashy.”

Lucy stuck out her tongue, tossing the hoodie back on the rack. “Suit yourself, dork. But don’t come crying to me when Spider-Man swings by and you’re not dressed to impress.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to survive the disappointment,” Harley shot back, smirking as he grabbed a boring gray sweatshirt for show. But as Lucy wandered off, he glanced back at the Spider-Man hoodie. His hand hovered for a second—then, making sure she wasn’t looking, he snagged it and quietly dropped it in the cart, hiding it under a pile of sheets.

He caught his reflection in a display mirror, grinning at himself. “Just in case,” he muttered, “I ever need to impress a superhero in his prime.”

Lucy came back, oblivious. “You ready, or are you still picking out your midlife crisis wardrobe?”

“Let’s go, before you start live-streaming my fashion choices,” Harley said, steering the cart away, hoodie safely stashed. Despite his words, a small spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, that hoodie wouldn't be such a bad addition to his New York wardrobe. After all, even a genius could use a little inspiration.

Chapter Text

Rain hammered the window, drumming out a rhythm that only made the city’s silence feel heavier. Perched on a gargoyle high above the street, Peter Parker felt the weird, prickly kind of quiet that always meant trouble was brewing. His senses, usually buzzing with the city’s chaos, picked up nothing but rain and the distant whine of traffic. He let out a muffled yawn behind his mask. This kind of quiet was never good news. It felt like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for something to go sideways.

Bored, Peter pulled out his phone and scrolled into the group chat: “Losers Assemble!” Ned and MJ were already at it.

Losers Assemble!

The Guy in the Chair: 🤔 Guys, remember that alien tech we recovered last month? I think I finally cracked the damn energy core!

The Indispensable Irritation: 🙄 Ned, you’ve been poking at that thing longer than Peter’s been single. Please don’t blow up your mom’s kitchen.

Peter snorted. MJ’s sarcasm was basically a public service at this point.

He scrolled down and saw MJ was already fishing for him:

The Indispensable Irritation: @Buggin' Out, you alive? Or did you finally get stuck upside down somewhere? 🕷️🕸️

Peter grinned, typing one-handed.

Buggin' Out: Still here. It’s creepily quiet tonight. Like, “horror movie opening credits” quiet.

The Guy in the Chair: 😰 Uh, maybe that means something big’s about to go down? Or maybe you’re just missing the sound of MJ roasting you.

The Indispensable Irritation: Please. He misses the sound of his own voice more. Maybe he’s just out there catching flies for dinner. 🪰

Peter rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. MJ never missed a chance to roast him, and Ned never missed a chance to overthink. Some things never changed.

Buggin' Out: Speaking of catching things, Mr. Stark keeps mentioning some genius kid named Harley. Apparently, he’s a tech whiz. Tony’s trying to recruit him for an internship at Stark Labs.

The Guy in the Chair: Ooh, new blood! What kind of genius?🤔 Like, “builds killer robots” genius or “can actually fix the Wi-Fi” genius? Maybe he can help me with the alien tech. Or at least help Peter figure out how to keep his web fluid from clogging.

The Indispensable Irritation: Ned, if you drag another Stark intern into our mess, I’m telling your mom. We don't need Stark Industries breathing down our necks. And Peter, you’re not allowed to have a hero complex about this kid until we know he’s not a serial killer or, worse, a TikTok influencer. Besides, who needs another nerd when we have you? 

Buggin' Out: No promises. But Mr. Stark seems pretty hyped about him. Maybe he’ll be useful. Or maybe he’s just another rich kid who thinks soldering is a personality.

The Indispensable Irritation: 🙄 Here we go. Peter’s already planning the team jackets. Just don’t let Tony adopt him, okay?

Buggin' Out: I make no guarantees. But hey, worth keeping an eye on, right?👀🕵️

Suddenly, Peter's train of thought was derailed as the memory of their patrol plans slammed into him.

Buggin' Out: Alright, gotta finalize this patrol plan for tonight. Any specific areas you guys wanna focus on?

The Indispensable Irritation: 🤔 Hmm, let me check the police scanner. Maybe there's been some shady activity downtown.

The Guy in the Chair: Sounds good, MJ. I can also monitor any unusual energy readings on my end.

Peter was about to send another message when Karen’s voice buzzed in his ear: “Alert, boss. Potential bank robbery in progress at Midtown National.”

His pulse spiked. He shot off one last text:

Buggin' Out: Gotta bounce, guys! Duty calls 🚨. Looks like my fly-catching days are over.

He throws himself off the building, launching into a web swing that damn near ripped the air apart as he rocketed towards the bank.

The Indispensable Irritation: 🙄 Ugh. Every time things get interesting.

The Guy in the Chair: Good luck, Pete! Don’t get webbed up! 🤜🤛

The workshop in Stark Tower was Peter’s sanctuary—a mess of wires, tools, and half-finished projects, all humming with energy. He hunched over his latest web-shooter, tweaking the circuits with the kind of focus that shut out the rest of the world. The rhythmic clatter of machinery and the occasional spark made it easy to forget he was still technically a high schooler with way too much on his plate.

Then the door slid open, and the vibe shifted instantly. Tony Stark walked in, smooth as ever, but there was something off—like he was trying too hard to look casual. His smirk was dialed down, replaced by a distracted frown. His eyes darted around the room, scanning like he expected to find a spy hiding in the tool drawer.

“Hey there, Pete,” Tony said, leaning against a cabinet and shoving his hands in his pockets. “How’s the web-shooter situation coming along?”

Peter glanced up, surprised. “Uh, getting there, Mr. Stark. What brings you down to the dungeon? Need your suit fixed, or did you lose a bet and have to slum it with the interns?”
Tony’s lips twitched. “Always with the mouth, kid. Just checking in. Gotta make sure you’re not blowing up my tower again.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Right, because I’m the one who almost fried the mainframe last month. That ‘smart’ coffee maker was definitely your idea.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Hey, it was supposed to make a mean cappuccino. Besides, you know more about this tech than half my so-called geniuses.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of replacing that fuse box,” Peter shot back, but he couldn’t help smiling. “Seriously, though, what’s up? You don’t just ‘swing by’ unless there’s something on your mind.”

Tony’s gaze drifted to the window, his expression clouding over. “Oh, you know, just took a little trip to the countryside yesterday. Needed to clear my head.”

Peter’s curiosity kicked in. “Countryside? You, hiking? Or were you just terrorizing cows with a drone army?” he asked, testing the waters.

Tony shrugged, still looking distant. “Maybe a little of both. Sometimes the city gets too damn loud, even for me.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. Tony was being weirdly cryptic, even for him. “Must’ve been one hell of a trip to get you all philosophical,” Peter remarked, choosing his words carefully. “Did you find enlightenment, or just some good moonshine?”

Tony’s smile was enigmatic, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “Maybe a bit of both. Let’s just say, sometimes it’s good to remind yourself what the hell you’re fighting for. And the moonshine wasn’t bad either.”

Just then, Happy’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Alright, boss, I’m heading out. Gonna take a scenic drive, get some fresh air.” He shot Tony a look that was way too loaded for a simple drive.

Tony nodded absently. “Sure thing, Happy. Try not to scare the locals with that face.”

Happy muttered under his breath as he left, “Teenagers and their damn responsibilities.”

Peter’s curiosity spiked. The whole exchange was dripping with subtext. He eyed Tony, who seemed lost in thought for a second before snapping back with a forced grin.

“Anyway, Pete, keep up the good work on those web-shooters. We’ll talk later,” Tony said, already halfway to the door.

“Sure thing, Mr. Stark,” Peter replied, watching him go.

As the door closed, Peter was left with a nagging suspicion. Whatever had happened on that countryside trip, it wasn’t just about cows or moonshine. The air felt charged—like there was something big lurking beneath the surface.

He turned back to his web-shooters, but his mind was racing. Tony Stark wasn’t just his mentor; he was a walking mystery. And Peter was determined to figure out what the hell was going on, even if it meant juggling his own secrets in the process.

For now, though, he had a web-shooter to perfect—and no amount of Tony’s cryptic bullshit was going to get in the way of that.

Chapter Text

The Tennessee airstrip shimmered, heat waves rising off the cracked tarmac. Harley Keener wiped his palms on his jeans and squinted at the private jet rolling to a stop. The damn thing looked like it belonged in a movie, not parked next to a field of dying grass and a rusted-out tractor.

Happy Hogan was the first off the plane, sunglasses in place, suit jacket already slung over his shoulder. He scanned the small crowd—really just Harley, his mom, and Lucy—then made a beeline for them.

“Keener!” Happy called, voice echoing in the empty air. “You look taller. Or is it just the hair?”

Harley grinned, running a hand through his mop of curls. “Nah, just the humidity. Adds about two inches. Thanks for coming to get me. Mom was starting to think you got lost in all the cornfields. Or maybe you just wanted to see if I could fix your jet with a paperclip and some duct tape.”

Happy chuckled, shaking his head. “Kid, if anyone could, it’d be you. But let’s not push our luck.”

Jane Keener stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Harley’s shoulders. “Now, Harley, don’t be giving Mr. Hogan a hard time. We know he wouldn’t forget you. Especially after you saved his lawnmower last summer, right, Happy?”

Happy smirked. “Saved me a bundle, kid. Though next time, maybe warn me before you hotwire my antique to impress a girl.”

Lucy, Harley’s little sister, rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because that worked out so well. Real smooth, Romeo.”

Happy shook his hand, then clapped him on the back. “Ready to trade in the tractor fumes for jet fuel?”

“Long as you promise not to make me clean the toilets on that thing,” Harley shot back, trying to sound casual, even as his stomach twisted.

Jane Keener stepped forward, offering Happy a tired but genuine smile. “Thanks for coming all this way, Happy. I hope the directions weren’t too confusing.”

Happy shook his head. “GPS tried to send me through a cow pasture, but I figured it out. Besides, I had Harley’s playlist to keep me awake.” He winked at Harley, who groaned.

“This means the world to us. We’ll miss him like crazy, but this is a huge opportunity.”

Happy squeezed her shoulder, his voice dropping a little. “He’ll be fine, Jane. Stark’s got security tighter than a drum. And if he gets bored, there’s always a billionaire or two to annoy.”

Lucy, arms folded, eyed the jet. “Does it have WiFi? Or do you all just talk about quantum physics the whole flight?”

Harley snorted. “Don’t give them ideas, Luce. I’m hoping for snacks and a nap.”

Happy grinned. “We’ve got both. And, if you’re lucky, Tony might only call twice before we land.”

Jane checked Harley’s bag, fussing with the zipper. “You got your charger? Toothbrush? That notebook you like?”

“Mom, I’m not flying to Mars,” Harley muttered, but he let her check anyway.

Lucy sidled up, voice dropping. “You nervous?”

Harley hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. But, you know, in a good way. Like before a big science fair. Or a tornado warning.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Just don’t forget us when you’re rich and famous. Or at least bring me back something cooler than a keychain.”

Harley ruffled her hair. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe a StarkPad. Or a selfie with Iron Man.”

She smirked. “You’d probably just ask him about engine specs.”

“But, only if you promise not to burn the house down while I’m gone. I’ll tell you all about the gadgets and the superheroes—just don’t expect me to spill all their secrets.”

Happy grinned. “Tell you what, Lucy-Lou, if you ever need to hotwire a car, you know who to call.” Lucy’s eyes lit up, mischief sparkling.

Harley groaned. “See what you do, Happy? She’s gonna be joyriding before she can even spell ‘transmission.’”

Happy checked his watch. “Alright, folks, enough mushy stuff. We gotta get you on that jet before Tony starts sending drones to fetch you.”

Jane pulled Harley into a hug, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, honey. And call us every night—no excuses. Even if it’s just to say you haven’t blown anything up yet. Don’t just disappear, okay?”

Harley hugged her back, voice tight. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Besides, Mr. Hogan’ll keep me out of trouble… right?”

Happy snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, kid. I can barely keep myself out of trouble. But hey, that’s what makes life interesting.”

She let go, brushing a tear away before Lucy noticed. “And eat something besides ramen. I mean it.”

Lucy stepped in for a quick hug, whispering, “Don’t let them turn you into a robot.”

Harley grinned, voice thick. “No promises.”

Happy squeezed Harley’s shoulder. “Ready, kid?”

Harley took a breath, looking at his mom and sister, his whole world, standing in the shadow of a jet that could take him anywhere. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder, gave one last wave, and followed Happy toward the plane. As he climbed the steps, he looked back—Jane waving, Lucy pretending not to wipe her eyes.

Inside, the jet was all leather and chrome, cooler than he’d imagined. Harley pressed his forehead to the window as the engines roared to life. Rose Hill shrank behind him, and for the first time, the future felt real. Not just scary—exciting, too.

The jet’s cabin was so quiet Harley could hear the faint hum of the engines and the soft creak of leather as he settled into his seat. He stretched his legs out, sneakers barely brushing the polished footrest, and tried not to look like a kid in a spaceship. Happy dropped into the seat across from him, tossed his jacket, and was already loosening his tie. “You can sit, you know. It’s not gonna bite.”

Harley looked around, running a hand over the armrest, taking in the absurd luxury—leather, chrome, a minibar that probably cost more than his mom’s car. “Man, this is nicer than our living room. You sure I’m not gonna set off some billionaire alarm just by breathing?”

Happy cracked a half-smile. “Only if you spill soda on the seats. Tony’s got a rule about that.”

“This is what Stark calls ‘business class,’ huh? I was half-expecting a robot butler to offer me caviar.”

Happy snorted. “Don’t give Tony ideas. He’ll install an AI that nags you about your cholesterol.”

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Harley kept glancing at the window, watching the Tennessee fields shrink away. The silence felt too heavy, so he broke it the only way he knew how.

“So, Happy,” Harley started, twisting the seatbelt buckle in his hands, “what’s the deal with your name? ‘Happy Hogan’ sounds like a cartoon dog. Or, like, a mascot for marshmallow cereal.”

Happy’s lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “It’s my name, kid. Been stuck with it since birth, not my fault my parents had a sense of humor. You want to make fun, get in line behind Stark and every TSA agent in the country.”

Harley grinned, emboldened. “Guess it could be worse. Could be ‘Cheery’ or ‘Bubbles.’ You’d never survive in Queens.”

Happy rolled his eyes, but he looked more amused than annoyed. “Kid, I barely survive in New York as it is, and if you call me Bubbles, you’re walking to New York.”

Harley let out a soft laugh, then hesitated. He wanted to ask about Tony, about what he was walking into, but didn’t want to sound too eager. “So, how’s Iron Man these days? Still blowing stuff up and making everyone’s life hell, or has he finally learned to chill?”

Happy’s face shifted—something wary flickered in his eyes. “Tony? He’s… Tony. Never really slows down. Always got some new project, always a new crisis. He sleeps less than you’d think is humanly possible.”

Harley nodded, picking at a loose thread on the armrest. “Yeah? Sounds like he’s collecting interns now, too. Or is that just a rumor?”

Happy mumbled, sinking into his seat. “Let’s just say if Tony takes one more kid under his wing, I swear...I'm gonna lose it. Stark Tower’s starting to look like a summer camp for lost causes.” His voice trailed off into a grumble barely audible over the plane's engines.

Harley pressed, unable to help himself. “So, who’s the other intern? You guys running a contest for the world’s biggest nerd? Or is this, like, a whole Stark Tower orphanage thing now?”

Happy rolled his eyes. “Intern? Please, kid. More like a one-man wrecking crew. Stark’s got a hero complex, and this kid’s got a knack for trouble. Needs rescuing every other week. Drives me nuts.”

Harley tried to play it off, but the sting of not being the only ‘special’ one was real. “You make it sound like he’s a handful. Sounds like Stark needs a nanny, not a bodyguard. Maybe that’s what Tony should’ve advertised for.”

Happy finally looked at him, something like exasperation and respect mixing in his expression. “He’s… complicated. Smart. Gets into trouble. Tony’s got a soft spot for lost causes, I guess.”

Harley looked away, trying to hide the flicker of jealousy. “Yeah, well. Guess I’ll meet him soon enough.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Harley watched the clouds drift by, thinking about everything he was leaving behind—and everything he might be walking into. He wondered what this other kid was like. He didn’t need the name—he already knew. Peter Parker. The ‘intern’ Tony never stopped talking about. The one who always seemed to come up in conversation, like a shadow Harley couldn’t quite shake. A knot of rivalry twisted in his gut. Is he a science prodigy? Some kind of genius with a tragic backstory? Or just another kid who got lucky and caught Tony Stark’s attention first?

Happy studied him, then said, “Look, just focus on what you’re here for. Tony doesn’t bring people in unless he thinks they’re worth it. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Harley shrugged, voice low. “Yeah. Sure.”

Trying to shake off the awkwardness, Harley changed the subject. “So, speaking of taking kids under your wing, isn’t that what you’re doing with me now?”

Happy snorted. “Guess so. Just don’t turn my hair gray, alright?”

“No promises. But hey, at least you’ll be able to keep up with the latest TikTok trends.”

Happy laughed, the tension easing. “That’ll be the day.”

“You ever get used to this?” He gestured at the jet, the luxury, the whole world that felt like a fever dream.

Happy gave a real smile this time. “You get used to the weird. Never the trouble.”

Harley grinned. “Bet you’ve got stories.”

Happy’s eyes brightened. “You have no idea. Where do I even begin? Have you ever heard about the time Tony tried to outbid a Russian mobster for a racehorse in Monaco?”

Harley’s eyebrows shot up. “Woah, that thing actually happened?”

“Oh, it happened. And let’s just say, I ended up chasing a billionaire in a golf cart through a hotel kitchen. Tony thought he could charm his way out of a bit of gambling debt, but let's just say his poker face was about as effective as a screen door on a submarine that night.”

“Did you have to swoop in and save his iron ass?” Harley asked, his eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and disbelief.

“Yeah, of course I did,” Happy grumbled, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. “Who else cleans up after the billionaire playboy philanthropist makes a mess that could rival a toddler with a bucket of glitter? But between you and me, kid,” he leaned in conspiratorially, “half the time it's Tony who needs rescuing from himself. More of a 'hero by accident' situation, you know?”

Harley laughed, the tension easing. “Man, you need a raise.”

“Tell Stark that. He’ll probably just buy me a new suit and call it even.”

They settled into a rhythm. Happy told stories about Tony’s wildest stunts—Monaco, alien tech, the time he had to talk his way out of a Latvian jail. Harley chimed in with sarcastic commentary and questions about the Avengers, the tech, and what it was like to be the guy who always had to clean up after Iron Man.

After a while, Harley grew quiet, staring out the window. The rivalry with the “other kid” simmered in the back of his mind, but he tried not to let it show. He thought about his garage back home, the projects he’d left unfinished, and wondered if this new life would ever feel as real as that.

Happy caught the look and nudged him. “You’ll do fine, Keener. Just remember—Tony’s a pain in the ass, but he means well. Most days.”

Harley managed a crooked smile. “Thanks, Happy. I’ll try not to get you fired.”

Happy snorted. “Good luck. I’ve survived worse.”

As the jet droned on toward New York, Harley felt the nerves settle, replaced by a cautious excitement. He didn’t know exactly what was waiting for him at Stark Industries, but for the first time, the idea of starting over didn’t feel so impossible.

He glanced at Happy, who was already dozing off, mouth open just enough to snore. Harley grinned, pulled out his phone, and snapped a quick picture. “For blackmail,” he whispered, tucking the phone away.

Outside, the clouds parted, and the skyline of New York City glimmered on the horizon—full of promise, danger, and just enough chaos to make Harley feel right at home.

Chapter Text

Peter stared at the crime scene that was his breakfast: a half-burnt pancake, a pile of scrambled eggs that looked like they’d lost a fight, and a piece of toast that could double as a hockey puck. What the fuck had happened this time?. He poked at the pancake with his fork, eyeing it with mock horror. “May, are you sure this isn’t some kind of science experiment? Because if it is, I think we just discovered a new element.”

May, standing at the stove with a spatula in hand, shot him a look over her shoulder. “That, mister, is the Parker family breakfast tradition. It’s supposed to look rustic.”

Peter snorted. “Rustic? May, it looks like it crash-landed from another planet.”

She smirked, sliding the last pancake onto his plate. “Well, you’re the one who wanted pancakes. Consider this a lesson in being careful what you wish for.”

He took a tentative bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Tastes like…adventure. With a hint of regret.”

May laughed, shaking her head as she started stacking dirty dishes. “If you want something edible, you’re welcome to take over the kitchen next time. Or maybe you can teach me how to use that fancy food processor Tony sent. It’s still glaring at me from the counter.”

Peter winced, remembering the last time he’d tried to help. “Yeah, I’m still finding blueberry shrapnel in weird places. Maybe we should stick to takeout.”

May flicked a dish towel at him, grinning. “Or you could show me some of those web-slinging moves. At least then, if I destroy the kitchen, I can just swing out the window and escape.”

Peter grinned back, relaxing into the familiar rhythm. “May Parker: menace to kitchens everywhere. J. Jonah Jameson would have a field day.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware and the distant hum of the city. Peter absentmindedly flipped through TV channels, not really watching, his mind drifting back to Tony’s weird radio silence.

He reached for the cereal box, muttering under his breath, “What is up with you, Mr. Stark? Since when do you go off the grid?”

May, catching the tail end of his mumble, raised an eyebrow. “You talking to yourself again, Pete? Or is that your telepathic line to Tony Stark?”

Peter’s ears went pink. “Just…thinking. He’s been weirdly quiet lately. Usually he’s broadcasting his latest project or blowing up my phone with ‘urgent’ upgrades.”

May poured him a glass of milk, her expression softening. “You know Tony. He’s probably off inventing a new way to make coffee explode. Or maybe he finally took a vacation. Stranger things have happened.”

Peter tried to laugh, but the worry lingered. “Yeah, maybe. It’s just…not like him.”

May leaned against the counter, watching him. “You’ll hear from him soon, Pete. And if you don’t, you can always bug Happy until he cracks.”

Peter grinned, feeling a little lighter. “Thanks, May.”

Peter’s phone buzzed as he rinsed his cereal bowl, yanking him out of his own head. He wiped his hands on his jeans and checked the screen, already bracing for MJ’s signature brand of chaos.

Losers Assemble!

The Indispensable Irritation:
Ugh 😫, Calculus test tomorrow. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the fetal position under my desk. Anyone else drowning in homework, or am I the only one circling the drain?

The Guy in the Chair:
You say that every week. You’re still alive. I, on the other hand, am thriving. @Buggin’ Out, you bailing on us tonight or what?🤨

The Indispensable Irritation:
Don’t even start. Pete flaked last time because of that “tree-cat” thing 🙄. I’m not getting stuck with Ned’s playlist again.

The Guy in the Chair:
Hey! My playlist is a work of art. Also, Peter, you in for movie night? We finally got tickets to that zombie 🧟‍♂️ rom-com you keep pretending you don’t like.

Peter rolled his eyes, thumbs flying.

Buggin’ Out:
Wow, slander before 9 am. I’ll be there. Unlike a certain someone, I actually keep my promises 🤞. Unless aliens invade. Or, you know, calculus kills me first.

The Indispensable Irritation:
If you bail, I’m making you watch my ten-hour documentary on the history of traffic signals.

The Guy in the Chair:
He’d probably enjoy that. He’s weird.

Buggin’ Out:
Ned, if you make me watch another documentary, I’m moving to Sokovia.

The Guy in the Chair:
That’s a lie. You’d move to Sokovia for the free WiFi. If Galactus lands in Queens, you still owe us milkshakes.

The Indispensable Irritation:
Just show up, Parker. Or I’ll start live-tweeting your embarrassing high school stories. And you’re buying. You owe us for last week’s “emergency.”

Peter snorted, leaning against the counter.

Buggin’ Out:
Fine, fine. I’ll bring snacks. And I’m crushing Trivia Night. Prepare to lose.

The Indispensable Irritation:
Shocking 🤯. The spider-nerd is competitive.

The Guy in the Chair:
MJ, you say that like it’s new.

Peter smiled, the tension in his chest easing a little. He could almost hear MJ’s dry tone, Ned’s eager laugh. He glanced at the clock, then fired off one more.

Buggin’ Out:
Alright, swinging out now! Duty calls! 🦸‍♂️ (And hopefully not fucking Galactus this time). If I’m late, blame the pigeons—or cosmic threats.

He shoved his phone in his pocket, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and called out, “May, I’m heading out!”

She ruffled his hair, ignoring his half-hearted protest. “Go save the world, kid. I’ll try not to burn down the apartment while you’re gone.”

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. “No promises, but I’ll keep the city safe from rogue pancakes.”

May laughed, waving him off. “And try not to traumatize any pigeons! And avoid radioactive… anything!”

Peter shot her a mock salute, then slipped out the window and into the city’s morning buzz, the group chat’s banter still echoing in his head. For a few blocks, at least, the weirdness of Tony’s silence faded. He had friends, a city to swing through, and—if he was lucky—no world-ending threats before movie night.

Happy nudged Harley’s shoulder as they taxied to the private hangar, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Alright, kid, spill. Nerves, or just ready to take this place apart and rebuild it?”

Harley shot him a lopsided grin, bouncing his knee. “Nervous? Nah. I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a kid. Building potato guns out of lawnmower parts, remember? This is the big leagues, Mr. Hogan. I’m not about to choke now.”

Happy snorted. “Just don’t try to hotwire any jets. Stark’s insurance guy still has nightmares.”

The jet rolled to a stop. Harley pressed his face to the window, eyes wide as the city skyline came into view—skyscrapers like steel teeth, and Stark Tower rising above them all, glass and metal catching the morning sun. As they stepped out, Harley craned his neck, trying to take in everything at once.

“See that one with the needle on top?” Happy pointed as they crossed the tarmac. “Empire State. Used to be king of the hill. Now it’s just good for tourist photos and King Kong jokes. And that green blob in the center? Central Park. Nice for a stroll, but not exactly where the magic happens, right?"

Harley snorted, but his attention was already locked on the gleaming Stark Tower ahead. “And that’s…?”

Happy grinned. “That’s home base. Try not to drool on the floors.”

Inside, the elevator doors slid shut behind them with a soft hiss. Harley’s reflection stared back at him—wide-eyed, sneakers scuffed, hair a mess. He barely noticed; the whole place felt like stepping into a sci-fi movie.

A smooth, accented voice filled the elevator. “Welcome back, Mr. Hogan. Mr. Keener, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Mr. Stark’s been quite vocal about your… creative problem-solving.”

Harley jumped, glancing around. “Uh—who said that?”

Happy grinned. “Meet FRIDAY. Stark’s AI. Smarter than half the engineers in this building, and twice as sassy.”

Harley blinked. “Like… Jarvis?”

FRIDAY’s voice chimed in, dry and amused. “An apt comparison, Mr. Keener. Though I prefer to think of myself as an upgrade.”

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Harley stepped out, sneakers squeaking on the kind of polished floor that screamed “expensive.” He tried to play it cool, but his head was on a swivel, eyes darting from glass walls to holographic directories and the endless parade of lab coats and security badges.

FRIDAY’s voice followed them, smooth and just a little smug. “Welcome to Stark Tower, Mr. Keener. You are currently on the 34th floor—Research and Development, Robotics Division. Would you like a brief orientation?”

Harley blinked, trying not to gawk. “Uh, yeah, sure. Hit me.”

Happy grinned, nudging him forward. “FRIDAY’s got the patience of a saint and the memory of an elephant. She’ll keep you out of trouble. Mostly.”

They moved through a corridor lined with glass, Harley’s jaw dropping at the sight of a robotic arm assembling microchips under a microscope, its movements so precise it looked like magic. Across the hall, a team in blue coats argued over a floating hologram of what looked suspiciously like a new Iron Man helmet.

“Over here is the robotics bay,” Happy explained, waving a hand. “Tony likes to keep the fun stuff visible. You’ll get your hands dirty in here soon enough.”

FRIDAY chimed in, “The robotics team is currently working on modular exoskeletons for emergency response. Mr. Stark believes in multitasking—saving lives and breaking records, sometimes at the same time.”

Harley pressed up against the glass, eyes wide. “That’s insane. Is that thing… walking itself?”

“Yep,” Happy said, “and it’s got better balance than Tony after three martinis.”

They moved on, passing a glass-walled conference room where a group of engineers argued over a 3D model spinning in midair. Harley caught a glimpse of a whiteboard covered in equations, half of which made his brain itch with curiosity.

“Hey FRIDAY,” Harley piped up, “what’s the craziest thing you’ve got running in here? Like, are we talking killer robots or just the usual world-saving gadgets?”

FRIDAY replied, “We prefer ‘autonomous assistants,’ Mr. Keener. But yes, there are a few projects that might qualify as ‘crazy’ by conventional standards. Would you like a list sorted by potential for property damage?”

Happy snorted. “Careful, kid. She’s only half-joking.”

They rounded a corner and entered a wide atrium with floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled out below, a living circuit board of lights and motion. Harley pressed his hands to the glass, breath fogging up the view.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “This is… I mean, I’ve seen pictures, but—”

Happy clapped him on the shoulder. “Not bad for a mechanic from Rose Hill, huh?”

Harley shook his head, grinning. “Not bad at all.”

FRIDAY’s voice softened. “If you’d like, Mr. Keener, I can schedule a tour of the Arc Reactor Lab, the Prototype Workshop, or the Avengers Memorial Gallery. Mr. Stark likes his interns to see the full picture.”

Harley spun around, eyes shining. “Wait, there’s a gallery? Like, with the real suits and everything?”

“Some of them,” Happy said. “Tony keeps the best stuff locked up, but you’ll get a peek. Maybe even a test drive, if you don’t piss off security.”

They moved on, passing a glass-walled workshop where a team tinkered with a flying drone the size of a dinner plate. Harley’s questions came faster than FRIDAY could answer—about the tech, the people, the projects, the history.

“Hey, what kind of crazy-ass repulsors are they working on in there?” Harley asked, pointing at a lab where figures in white coats buzzed around with laser focus.

Happy winked. “Top secret, kiddo. But let’s just say it involves blasting shit with way more punch than your average spud launcher.”

Harley’s attention span was shorter than a TikTok trend. He whipped his head toward a holographic display flickering to life overhead. “FRIDAY, what about those eco-projects? Like, saving the planet with lasers and stuff?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Keener,” FRIDAY replied. “Stark Industries is all about thinking green, not just greenbacks. On the 12th floor, you’ll find our Arc Reactor division, where we’re basically harnessing miniature suns to power the future.”

Happy stopped in front of a room that practically hummed with energy. “This, my liege,” he said, laying it on thick, “is the Arc Reactor Development Lab!”

Harley’s eyes went wide. “An arc reactor? Like, the thing that keeps Iron Man going?”

“Precisely, Mr. Keener,” FRIDAY chimed in. “But arc reactor technology is far more versatile than just flashy superhero suits.”

“Hold on, so you’re telling me this little machine could, like, power an entire city?” Harley bounced between the glowing machinery and Happy, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief.

“Think metropolis-wide, kiddo,” Happy said with a wink. “We’re talking clean energy domination on a global scale.”

Harley let out a whistle. “That’s… mind-fuckin’-blowing.”

“FRIDAY, oh wise and ever-knowledgeable AI,” Harley said, “can you spill the beans on the latest arc reactor tech? Like, are we talking shrinking buildings and flying motorcycles yet?”

A low hum filled the room as FRIDAY accessed the info. “The current focus is on making these bad boys even smaller and packing a way bigger punch. Imagine a reactor so powerful it could light up a city block, but the size of a… well, a really cool marble.”

Harley let out a whistle that would make a banshee jealous. “That’s incredible! Imagine the possibilities! Powering your whole house with a marble-sized reactor? Adios, electricity bill, hello freedom!”

Happy chuckled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Whoa there, champ. Let’s pump the brakes. We’ve got a whole whackload of mind-blowing tech to unveil before you start scheming up your own homebrew fusion reactor in the basement, alright?”

They continued their tour, venturing into a workshop that looked like a gearhead’s fever dream. Outlandish prototypes, unfinished inventions, and enough blinking lights to make Times Square jealous. Harley’s gaze snagged on a sleek, metallic gauntlet that looked ripped straight out of a sci-fi flick.

“Whoa, what in the hell is that?” he blurted, pointing at the gauntlet with the wide-eyed wonder of a kid who just spotted a real-life superhero gadget.

Happy eyed the device, a sly grin plastered across his face. “That there, kiddo, is a little somethin’-somethin’ Mr. Stark’s been whipping up in his not-so-secret workshop. Top-shelf shit, if you catch my drift?” He winked at Harley with a suggestive nudge. “FRIDAY, doll, mind giving us the juicy details on Project Repulsor?”

“Project Repulsor is currently in the throes of Phase Three,” FRIDAY replied, voice as smooth as ever. “We’re making serious headway, but calibrating the firepower is proving a bit… well, let’s just say it’s a real handful.”

Happy grinned. “Tony gets a rap for being all flash and fancy metal undies, but the man’s a fucking genius. He’s a couple fries short of a Happy Meal for sure, but those fries are the kind that cook up the future.”

Harley’s eyes practically vibrated with a mix of hero worship and “can-I-be-your-gadget-guru?” enthusiasm. “So, what kind of mind-blowing projects will I be knee-deep in around here? Building the next Iron Man suit or something even hotter?”

Happy winked. “Let’s just say Tony’s got more projects on his plate than a playboy billionaire can juggle, and you’ll be getting your fingers in a little bit of everything. But first things first, we gotta get you acclimated and prepped for boot camp. You wouldn’t want to show up on day one looking like a deer caught in headlights, would you, champ?”

Harley’s gaze lingered on the gauntlet, his mind already rewriting the rulebook and dreaming up hot-rod upgrades. This was beyond anything he’d ever even seen in a video game. He shot a sidelong glance at Happy, a silent plea hanging in the air thicker than New York humidity.

As they continued the tour, Harley’s questions pinged at Happy and FRIDAY like laser beams on fast-forward. His energy was infectious, and Happy, who’d initially been a bit wary, found himself warming up to the kid. This wasn’t just another charity case Tony had brought in on a whim. Harley had the fire—the burning desire to learn and shake things up. And maybe, just maybe, that fire was exactly what Stark Industries, and maybe even Tony Stark himself, needed to reignite their brilliance.

Chapter Text

The Stark workshop buzzed with its usual delightful disorder: wires snaked across benches, half-finished contraptions blinked and chirped, a drill whined persistently, and the sharp scent of solder mingled with a faint hint of burnt toast. Perched cross-legged on a workbench, Morgan Stark, a whirlwind of skinny legs and fiery red hair, swung her feet, intently watching her dad wrestle with a finicky repulsor pistol.

Tony, hunched over a shimmering holographic schematic, swiped grime from his forehead. His disheveled shirt and the coffee rings on the bench suggested he'd been at it for hours, maybe even days. Without looking up, he addressed her. "Alright, Mini-Me, moment of truth. Will this thing last longer than a New Year’s resolution, or am I about to redecorate the ceiling?"

Morgan, grinning, took a sip of her juice box through a bent straw. "Depends. Did you actually read the instructions this time, or are you just winging it again?"

Tony shot her a look devoid of anger. "Instructions are for people who don't have a genius for a daughter."

She playfully stuck out her tongue. "Nice try, Dad. But if you blow up the kitchen again, Mom's gonna make you sleep in the guest room. With the Roomba."

Tony shuddered. "Not the Roomba. That thing's got it out for me."

"But hey," Morgan countered, "you're the one who always says, 'If it ain't broke, you're not trying hard enough.'"

He barked a laugh, tossing a screwdriver onto the bench. "Alright! But if this thing explodes, you're cleaning the ceiling."

Morgan rolled her eyes. "Deal. But only if you promise not to blame FRIDAY again. She’s still salty about the smoothie incident."

Tony glanced at the ceiling, as if the AI could hear him. "FRIDAY, you holding a grudge?"

FRIDAY's smooth, dry voice chimed in, "Only when the mess involves blueberries and high-velocity blenders, sir."

Morgan snickered. "Told you."

Tony shook his head, a proud smile playing on his lips. "Alright, genius, what’s next on your agenda? World domination or just another attempt at breakfast?"

Morgan giggled, nudging a pile of screws with her toe. "Neither. I want to know about the new intern. You’ve been whispering about him for days like he’s some kind of superhero sidekick. Is he gonna be as much trouble as Peter, or is this one actually house-trained?"

Tony smirked, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. "Let’s just say he’s got potential. And he’s from Tennessee, so maybe he’ll teach you some manners."

Morgan stuck out her tongue. "Doubt it. Peter still can’t remember to take off his shoes."

Tony laughed, ruffling her hair. "That’s because he’s too busy saving the city to worry about the carpet. But yeah, he’s moving in today. You ready for another troublemaker in the house?"

Morgan’s eyes lit up mischievously. "If he’s anything like Peter, we’re gonna need more pizza. And probably a new fire extinguisher."

Tony chuckled, ruffling her hair again. "You’re not wrong. But hey, at least you’ll have someone else to blame when something explodes."

Morgan pretended to ponder, then nodded sagely. "I can work with that. Does he play video games?"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "I’m sure he can learn. You planning to crush him at racing games, or just rope him into your next prank on Uncle Happy?"

She grinned, her juice box forgotten. "Why not both?"

Tony shook his head, unable to hide his pride. "You’re trouble, kid. The best kind."

A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by FRIDAY’s soft hum and a distant clang from another part of the lab. Morgan subtly glanced at her dad, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is he gonna be my lab partner, or just another person for you to boss around?"

Tony feigned deep thought. "Depends. If you scare him off in the first week, I’m putting you on dish duty for a month."

Morgan grinned, her eyes sparkling. "No promises. But if he survives a week with us, maybe I’ll let him join my next experiment."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Your experiments usually end with something on fire."

Morgan shrugged, unperturbed. "That’s how you know they’re working."

Morgan kicked her heels against the bench, eyes twinkling. "But seriously, what’s he like?"

Tony paused, considering. "Smart. Scrappy. Reminds me a little of you, actually. Except taller, and with more dirt under his fingernails."

Morgan wrinkled her nose. "Gross. But I guess that means he’ll fit right in."

Tony smiled, watching her for a moment. "Yeah. I think he just might."

"Can I teach him how to make the Roomba chase you?"

Tony groaned, but he was laughing. "Only if you promise not to teach him how to hack the TV again. I’m still recovering from the week it only played cat videos."

Morgan’s grin was pure mischief. "No promises."

Before Tony could reply, Morgan’s juice box toppled off the bench, splattering sticky apple juice across a pile of blueprints. She groaned, but Tony just laughed, tossing her a towel.

"Welcome to the madhouse, kiddo," he said, shaking his head. "If the new guy can handle this, he’ll be fine."

Morgan wiped up the mess, grinning. "He better be. Otherwise, I’m claiming his desk."

Tony snorted. "You already claimed half the lab."

Morgan looked up, eyes bright. "Yeah, but now I want the good half."

Tony wiped his hands on a rag just as a holographic notification flickered to life above the workbench. Peter’s face appeared, hair sticking up in every direction, a streak of webbing clinging to his cheek like he’d just lost a fight with a dust bunny.

"This is under wraps, okay?" Tony instructed, "Especially from your web-slinging roomie."

"Secret intern project, huh?" Morgan grinned, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that mirrored Tony's. "Can I get some top-shelf tech too, to, uh, expedite the newbie's integration?"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Depends. You planning global domination or just some light-hearted ribbing of Peter?"

Morgan, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. "Why not both?"

"FRIDAY, accept the call."

“Hey, Mr. Stark. Hey, Morgy.” Peter’s voice was a little hoarse, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Just finished patrol. You’d think pigeons would learn to avoid bakeries by now, but nope. One rogue bird and suddenly I’m the city’s official animal control.”

Morgan snorted, swinging her legs from the bench. “Did you at least get a donut out of it this time, or just more feathers in your hair?”

Peter grinned, brushing at his head. “Feathers, flour, and a very angry baker. Pretty standard Tuesday.”

Tony leaned back, arms crossed. “You look like you crawled through a car wash, kid. I hope you didn’t track that mess through the lobby again. FRIDAY’s still mad about the last time.”

FRIDAY’s voice cut in, perfectly dry. “I am still finding powdered sugar in the ventilation system, Mr. Parker.”

Peter winced. “Sorry, FRIDAY. I’ll try not to bring home any more… pastry-related hazards.”

Tony shot Morgan a conspiratorial look. “Actually, Pete, we’ve got a little surprise for you. New assignment. Top secret. High stakes.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Unless it involves mutant squirrels, I’m not sure I’m interested. Last time it took me a week to get the peanut butter smell out of my suit.”

Morgan piped up, grinning. “It’s not squirrels, but you might have to share your snacks. And maybe your video game controller.”

Peter groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re working on another surprise. I barely survived the last round of ‘Morgan’s Kitchen Experiments.’”

Tony smirked. “No promises. But you know how it is—life’s never boring around here.”

Before Peter could prod further, FRIDAY’s voice interrupted, calm and efficient. “Mr. Stark, Mr. Hogan has just arrived with the... mission variables.”

Tony glanced at Morgan, a silent understanding passing between them. “Speaking of missions, duty calls, Underoos. We'll spill the beans on the surprise later. Gotta bounce... science experiments and whatnot! Try not to nap in the vents, alright?” He winked again before disconnecting the call, leaving a bewildered Peter staring at the blank hologram.

Morgan giggled. “Busted by FRIDAY. Maybe next time, Pete will learn the art of playing it cool.”

Tony ruffled her hair. “Maybe,” he agreed, a grin splitting his face. “But hey, at least the look on his face was priceless.”

Both of them were already turning toward the elevator as FRIDAY’s announcement echoed through the lab.

“Ready for the next round of chaos?” Tony asked, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

Morgan grinned, hopping off the bench. “Always.”

The elevator doors slid open with a mechanical sigh, and Harley stepped out, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, Happy Hogan right behind him. Happy’s usual stoic expression was only slightly softened by the hint of a smirk as he took in Harley’s slack-jawed awe.

The workshop was a sensory overload: half-built suits lined the walls like armored sentinels, wires dangled from the ceiling, and a holographic interface flickered above a cluttered workbench. Blueprints and coffee cups fought for space on every surface, and the air buzzed with the low hum of machinery and the sharper tang of solder. A fast-food bag teetered on the edge of a workbench, threatening to topple onto a pile of circuit boards. It was the kind of mess that would make most people’s skin crawl, but Harley felt a thrill shoot up his spine. This was what genius looked like in the wild—a glorious mess that spoke volumes about Tony's inventive mind and his general disregard for tidying up.

“Welcome to the circus,” Happy muttered, nudging Harley forward. “Just don’t touch anything that looks like it could explode. Or, you know, anything at all.”

Harley shot him a look, but he couldn’t help smiling. “No promises, Mr. Hogan. But I’ll try not to set off any alarms.”

He barely had time to take it all in before Tony looked up from a tangle of circuitry, a streak of grease across his cheek and a grin already in place. “Well, if it isn’t Rose Hill’s finest. Happy, you didn’t lose him on the way, huh?”

Happy rolled his eyes. “He’s here, isn’t he? And I only had to threaten to turn the jet around once.”

Harley tried to play it cool, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You know, I was expecting a little more order. Maybe a robot butler or two. This looks like my garage if it had a billionaire’s budget and no adult supervision.”

Tony barked a laugh and strode over, arms wide. “Hey, don’t knock the system. Controlled chaos is the Stark family motto.” Without warning, he pulled Harley into a quick, rough hug—more backslap than embrace, but genuine all the same. Happy watched with a faint, approving smile, arms folded.

Harley froze for a second, then awkwardly patted Tony’s back. Hugs weren’t exactly their thing, but the welcome was real, and it knocked some of the nerves out of him. “Didn’t expect a welcome committee,” he said, trying for casual but not quite pulling it off.

Tony pulled back, still grinning. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. You ready for the madhouse?”

Harley’s eyes swept the room—suits, gadgets, chaos everywhere. “Honestly? I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s… a lot. In a good way.”

Happy clapped him on the shoulder, steering him further in. “You’ll get used to it. Just watch your step, don’t trip over any unfinished projects—some of them bite. And if Tony offers you anything labeled ‘prototype,’ run.”

Tony barked a laugh. “Ignore him. He’s just jealous he doesn’t get to play with the fun stuff anymore.”

Harley grinned, finally letting himself relax. “No promises on the running part. But I’ll keep my hands where you can see them.”

Tony shot Happy a look—one of those silent, “he’ll fit right in” exchanges. Happy just shook his head, but there was a glimmer of pride there.

“Alright, kid,” Tony said, leading the way deeper into the organized chaos, “let’s show you where the magic happens. And maybe find you a tetanus shot, just in case.”

As they walked, Harley’s awe was impossible to hide. This was it—the place where everything changed. And for the first time since he’d left Tennessee, with Happy’s steady presence at his side, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

They rounded a workbench, and Morgan was already waiting, perched on a rolling stool and spinning lazy circles, controller in hand, a granola bar hanging from her mouth. The second she spotted Harley, she hopped off and strode over, all confidence and curiosity.

She eyed him up and down, then flashed a grin. “So you’re the new guy. Harley, right? The one who souped-up the lawnmower last summer? You look tired. You gonna pass out, or do you think you can survive one round of Mario Kart first? Or just here to break Dad’s stuff?”

Harley blinked, caught off guard by the pint-sized interrogation. “Uh, I can hold my own. But I’m not promising not to break anything. Seems like that’s kind of the vibe around here.”

Morgan’s grin widened. “Good answer. I call dibs on Yoshi, though. And if you lose, you have to clean up after Dad’s next ‘experiment’—which means picking up, like, a million screws.”

Tony, elbow-deep in wires again, smirked. “Don’t let her hustle you, Keener. She’s been running this place since she could walk. I just pay the bills.”

Happy, arms crossed and trying to look stern, snorted. “She’s got a better win record than you, Stark.”

Morgan shot Happy a finger-gun, then turned back to Harley. “You wanna see the best hiding spot in the whole tower? Or do you wanna lose at Mario Kart first?”

Before Harley could respond, the click of heels echoed down the hall. Pepper Potts swept into the chaos, her presence somehow making the mess look intentional. She took in the scene—Harley, Morgan, Tony, and Happy—and smiled, warmth and command in equal measure.

She moved to Harley first, her tone gentle. “So this is the famous Harley Keener. Welcome to Stark Tower. I know it’s been a long trip. You must be exhausted. Why don’t you take a minute to settle in before these two drag you into their madness?”

Harley managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, Ms. Potts. I’m good, really. Just… a lot to take in.”

Pepper squeezed his shoulder, her touch reassuring. “You’re family here now. But don’t let them wear you out on your first day.”

“Too late,” Morgan piped up, tugging at Harley’s sleeve. “He promised to play. Peter always plays with me, even if he's beat. He’s gonna lose at Mario Kart, Mom. And then he’s gonna help clean up the screws. And I need a new teammate since Peter always wins.”

Tony grinned. “She’s relentless. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Pepper shot Tony a look—half exasperation, half affection. “Tony, you’re putting the new kid to work already? Let the poor kid breathe. He’s not a Stark until he’s had at least one nap and a snack.”

Happy chimed in, “Good luck enforcing that, Pepper. These two never slow down.”

Tony shrugged, not bothering to hide his pride. “He’s got to earn his keep. Besides, he’s the only one here who might actually be able to fix the toaster.”

Happy grinned. “That toaster’s a lost cause.”

At the mention of "Peter," Harley felt a pang of something that tasted suspiciously like jealousy. Why did this Peter dude get all the perks? Determined not to be outdone, Harley flashed a winning smile at Morgan, finally finding his footing, and grinned back at Morgan. “I’ll take my chances. But fair warning, I’m ruthless with banana peels,” he agreed, despite his fatigue, still a little dazed from the hug attack, managed a sheepish grin at Pepper, “I’ll survive. I’ve faced worse than Mario Kart.”

Harley, finally finding his footing, grinned back at Morgan. “I’ll take my chances. But fair warning, I’m ruthless with banana peels.” Then to Pepper, “I’ll survive. I’ve faced worse than Mario Kart.”

Tony leaned in, stage-whispering to Harley, “You say that now. Wait till she gets the blue shell.”

Morgan’s eyes sparkled. “He’s doomed.”

Pepper shook her head, but her smile was fond. “Alright, but after one game, Harley gets a break. And maybe something to eat that isn’t a granola bar, Morgan.”

Morgan groaned but nodded, already dragging Harley toward the gaming corner. “Fine, but only if he doesn’t rage-quit.”

Pepper stepped closer, squeezing Harley’s shoulder in a brief, welcoming gesture. “We’re glad to have you, Harley. If you survive your first week, you might even get your own mug in the break room.”

Tony chimed in, “Don’t let her fool you. You have to survive at least a month for mug privileges. And you have to beat Morgan at Mario Kart.”

Morgan stuck her tongue out at her dad. “He’s got no chance.”

Happy just shook his head, a rare smile tugging at his mouth. “This is gonna be fun to watch.”

Harley shot Pepper a grateful look as he was swept away. Pepper watched them go, then turned to Tony and Happy, her voice soft. “He’s going to fit in just fine.”

Tony grinned, and Happy just shook his head, watching the chaos unfold with the air of a man who’d seen it all before.

For a second, Harley let himself relax, the nerves melting into something almost like excitement, despite the exhaustion, he couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. This was chaos, but it was the kind you wanted to be part of. Morgan was already dragging him toward the gaming corner, firing off rapid instructions and threats in equal measure. Pepper and Tony exchanged a look—equal parts exasperation and affection—while Happy trailed behind, pretending not to be invested but clearly enjoying the show. And for the first time since stepping off the jet, Harley felt like maybe he belonged.

Morgan, never one to let things slow down, was already bouncing with excitement. “Okay, you’re officially cool. But you still have to beat my high score. Pete never lets me win, so you better not go easy on me. He is a total control hog all the time, even when he's practically falling asleep with drool dripping down his chin like a zombie. It's gross! We were this dang close to beating his high score! He hogs all the fun, even when he's practically conking out on the couch!”

Happy leaned down to Harley’s level, voice low but friendly. “Word of advice: let her win once. Trust me, it’s not worth the fallout if you don’t.”

Harley shot him a grateful, conspiratorial look. “Noted, Mr. Hogan.”

But the mention of Peter still gnawed at him. He’d heard the name enough times—Tony’s other prodigy, the one everyone seemed to orbit around. The way Morgan’s eyes lit up when she talked about Peter made Harley’s jaw tighten, just a bit. What was so great about this guy, anyway?

Trying to shake it off, Harley perked up, digging into his backpack. “Actually, I brought something for that.” He pulled out a battered, sticker-covered toolbox and snapped it open, revealing a jumble of wires, pliers, and a device that looked like a cross between a taser and a TV remote. “Behold—the Keener Family Appliance Neutralizer. Patent pending.”

Morgan’s eyes went wide. “No way. Does it actually work?”

Harley shrugged, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “It’s got a ninety percent success rate. Unless the appliance is possessed. Then you’re on your own.”

Tony barked a laugh. “That’s better odds than half the stuff in this lab. You might just be the hero we need, Keener.”

Pepper shook her head, amused. “Just don’t let him near the espresso machine. I need that thing functioning.”

Morgan was already bouncing with excitement. “Alright, you’re officially on my team. But you still have to beat Peter’s high score. He hogs the controller and never lets me win.”

Harley, despite the exhaustion, felt a spark of competitive fire. “Is he really that good, or does he just have all cheat codes?”

Morgan wrinkled her nose. “He’s good. But he also gets distracted. Last time he lost because he spotted a squirrel outside.”

Pepper, ever the peacemaker, smiled. “Maybe you two can team up and finally take him down. I’d pay to see that.”

Harley, despite the long journey and lingering fatigue, couldn’t resist the fire in Morgan’s eyes. “Alright, deal. But if I win, I get bragging rights for a month. And if I lose, I’ll scrub your side of the lab, Morgan.”

Morgan’s eyes gleamed. “Deal! But if you cheat, you’re on Roomba duty for a week.”

Tony and Pepper exchanged a look, a mix of exasperation and pride. Happy just shook his head, clearly entertained. “I’ll be the judge,” he said, settling into a chair with a rare, amused smile.

Morgan tugged Harley toward the gaming corner, her enthusiasm impossible to resist. As he let himself be pulled into the chaos, Harley glanced back at Tony, Pepper, and Happy, catching the silent approval in their eyes. The tension that had knotted his shoulders since he landed finally started to unravel.

But as Morgan chattered about Peter’s gaming “superpowers,” Harley couldn’t help but wonder—what would it take to stand out here? To be more than just the new kid, or Tony’s backup plan? He didn’t know yet. But he was damn sure going to find out.

After what felt like hours of chaos—Mario Kart trash talk, Morgan’s relentless taunting, and Tony’s running commentary on every banana peel and blue shell—Harley finally slumped back on the couch, breathless with laughter and defeat. Morgan was crowing about her latest victory, Tony was pretending not to be invested but definitely was, and Pepper had long since retreated to the kitchen, promising snacks “if the children could behave themselves for five minutes.”

Happy, who’d been quietly watching the whole circus from a battered armchair, finally stood and clapped his hands once. “Alright, gremlins. That’s enough for tonight. Harley, let’s get you set up in your room before you pass out on the floor and Morgan draws a mustache on you.”

Morgan immediately protested, “I was gonna go for a unibrow this time!”

Tony grinned, tossing Harley a wink. “She’s not kidding. You’re safer with Happy.”

Harley, still catching his breath, grabbed his duffel and followed Happy out of the workshop, Morgan’s voice trailing after him—“Don’t get too comfy, Keener! Rematch tomorrow!”

The halls of Stark Tower were quieter now, the hum of the lab fading behind them. Happy led the way, his steps steady and unhurried, pausing only to point out a few doors (“That one’s off-limits—unless you want to meet a very angry Roomba.”). Finally, they stopped at a sleek door halfway down a long hallway.

Happy unlocked it and swung it open. The room inside was nothing like Harley’s cluttered bedroom back in Tennessee. It was huge, with a wall of windows overlooking the city, a bed that looked like it could swallow him whole, and a gaming setup in the corner that would have made his old friends weep with envy. There was even a workbench tucked against the far wall, already stocked with tools and a half-finished gadget or two—Tony’s touch, no doubt.

Happy set Harley’s bag down and gave him a rare, genuine smile. “Welcome to the madhouse, kid. You’re part of the Stark family now. Well, kinda-sorta. But close enough. If you need anything, you know where to find me. Just… don’t blow anything up before breakfast, alright?”

Harley grinned, a little overwhelmed but happier than he’d admit. “No promises, Mr. Hogan. But I’ll try to keep the explosions to a minimum.”

Happy nodded, satisfied. “Good man. Get some rest, Keener. You survived day one.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Harley stood in the middle of the room, letting it all sink in. The city lights glittered outside, and for the first time in a long time, the future felt wide open. He was here—really here. Among geniuses, in the heart of chaos, with a found family that already felt like his own.

He flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a grin stretching across his face. Maybe he’d never quite fit in anywhere before. But here, in this madhouse, with Morgan’s laughter still echoing down the hall and Tony’s mess just a floor away, Harley finally felt like he belonged.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, he’d show them all exactly what a kid from Rose Hill could do.

Chapter Text

Peter nudged open the apartment door with his foot, balancing a bag of Delmar’s burgers and his backpack, and was immediately hit by the familiar scent of laundry detergent and May’s vanilla candle obsession. He let out a long sigh and dropped everything on the kitchen counter.

May peeked around the corner, glasses perched on her nose and a stack of mail in her hands. “Hey, Pete! Movie night with Ned and MJ go well?”

Peter slumped onto a stool with a sigh, the bag landing with a dull thud. “Yeah, it was alright. We watched that new space alien flick everyone's been buzzing about." He placed the paper bag on the kitchen counter with a dramatic thump. “It was a bit of a shit show, to be honest. I needed to escape Stark Tower’s bullshit for a bit.”

He knew May enjoyed hearing about his day, but today's events at Stark Tower weighed heavily on his mind.

“You look like you survived a hurricane. Or at least a Midtown bus ride.”

Peter managed a tired smile. “You should see the other guy. Or, you know, the other bus.”

May grinned and set the mail down. “Rough day at the Tower of Doom?”

“Not doom. Just… a lot. Tony’s got a million projects going, Morgan’s on a sugar rush, and I think I accidentally set off the fire suppression system in the kitchen. Again.”

May’s eyes widened, but she was clearly more amused than concerned. “You? Set off the sprinklers? I’m shocked. Did you at least save the snacks?”

“Priorities, May. The chips survived. The popcorn, not so much.”

“Good. I’d hate to see you waste away. At least you have Delmar's to make it better,” she teased gently, handing him the glass.

Peter chuckled softly, a brief moment of levity before he delved into more serious matters. “Best sandwiches in Queens,” he agreed, taking a moment to savor the familiar taste.

She poured him a glass of milk, sliding it across the counter. “So, what’s the latest Stark Tower gossip? Any robot uprisings?”

Peter shrugged, flopping onto a stool. “Tony and Morgan are acting all secretive, FRIDAY keeps locking me out of half the labs, and I swear there’s a conspiracy to replace all the snacks with kale chips.”

May’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Not kale chips! The humanity. Should I call for backup?”

“Only if you can smuggle in some real cookies. And maybe figure out what Tony’s plotting. Every time I ask, he just gives me that ‘wouldn’t you like to know’ look. Morgan’s even worse—she keeps dropping hints and then running off to ‘top secret’ meetings with her juice box.”

May poured him a glass of milk, sliding it across the counter. “Sounds like you’re being pranked, Parker. Maybe they’re planning a surprise party. Or an intervention for your snack habits.”

Peter snorted. “If it’s an intervention, they’re about six months too late. And if it’s a party, I better not be the clown.”

May leaned in, her voice teasing. “Maybe they’re just tired of you beating them at Mario Kart. Or maybe they’re building a robot that can finally do your laundry.”

Peter groaned. “If only. Morgan’s been on a winning streak, and Tony’s no help—he just eggs her on. I think they’re both out to get me.”

May ruffled his hair, ignoring his half-hearted protest. “Sounds like you could use a teammate. Or a spy. Want me to go undercover as a Stark Tower janitor?”

Peter grinned, finally relaxing. “Only if you promise not to rat me out when I sneak extra dessert.”

She winked. “Your secret’s safe with me, Spider-Man. Now eat before you pass out. And try not to bring any more fire suppression stories home, okay?”

Peter took a big bite of his burger, eyes drifting to the window and the city lights beyond. For a moment, the weirdness of Stark Tower faded, replaced by the warmth of home and May’s gentle teasing.

“Thanks, May,” he said, mouth full.

May smiled, soft and sure. “Anytime, kid.”

Peter retreated to his cluttered room, a sanctuary littered with textbooks, spare parts, and a few treasured mementos. For now, Peter Parker, the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, would have to content himself with a good night's sleep and the comforting knowledge of a loving aunt just down the hall.

Harley barreled into his room, tossed his backpack onto a chair like it had personally offended him, and flopped against the door. His phone buzzed—Lucy’s face, pigtails askew and braces glinting, already filling the screen before he could even say “hey.”

LUCY (bouncing): Dude! You made it to New York! How was the ride?

HARLEY (deadpan): Just a regular plane with the world’s worst seatmate. Guy next to me snored like a dying lawnmower and drooled on my hoodie. I may never recover.

LUCY: Are you seriously calling Happy Hogan  “some guy”? That’s like calling Tony Stark “just a rich guy with a metal suit.” Get with the program, Harley.

HARLEY: Ha. Ha. Real original. So what’s up, Luce? Set anything on fire yet?

LUCY (grinning): Not yet. But I did try that science kit you left. The living room smells like burnt marshmallows, but Mom says as long as the house is standing, it’s a win. No fire alarms, no police—so far.

HARLEY: That’s my girl. Just don’t let her catch you microwaving crayons again.

LUCY: Once. That happened once. Anyway, spill—what’s it like? Is it all skyscrapers and people yelling at taxis? Have you seen any superheroes? Or is it just a bunch of nerds in lab coats?

HARLEY: No superheroes flying past my window—yet. But I did get the Stark Tower tour. Happy gave me the “don’t touch anything” speech before I even stepped off the elevator. The place is nuts. There’s a robot that delivers pizza, a fridge that talks back, and a coffee machine that’s probably plotting to take over the world.

LUCY: That’s because it knows you’re gonna eat all the snacks. So, did you meet Tony Stark? Or is he too busy inventing laser shoes or something?

HARLEY: Oh, I met him. He’s exactly like you’d expect—loud, fast, and somehow always covered in grease. He gave me a hug that felt like a bear attack, then threatened to make me clean up after Morgan if I break anything.

LUCY (wide-eyed): Wait, you met his kid? Is she as weird as the internet says?

HARLEY (grinning): Morgan’s a menace. She challenged me to Mario Kart before I could even unpack. I lost. Badly. She’s already calling me “rookie.” And she’s got this evil genius energy—like, if you see her with a screwdriver, just run.

LUCY: Ouch. So, are you just surrounded by Starks all day? Is Pepper as scary as Mom says?

HARLEY: She’s actually really nice. The kind of nice where you know she could destroy you with a single look if you mess up. She made sure I got food and didn’t let Tony rope me into fixing the espresso machine on day one. And then there’s FRIDAY—their A.I. She’s like Siri if Siri had a law degree and a sense of humor.

LUCY: You’re living in a sci-fi movie. Please tell me there’s a secret superhero lair. Or at least a button that says “Do Not Press.”

HARLEY: There are at least three buttons like that. I’ve only pressed one. Happy nearly had a heart attack. I’m still waiting for the day I accidentally launch a satellite.

LUCY (giggling): Did you see Spider-Man? You know he’s from New York, right? If you see him, you have to get a selfie. Or, you know, just ask him how he sticks to walls. For science.

HARLEY (shrugging, playing it cool): Haven’t seen him. But, uh, I did see a lot of spider-themed merch in the lobby gift shop. Maybe he’s got a side hustle. Honestly, I’m just trying not to embarrass myself in front of the robots.

LUCY: You’re such a nerd. So, what’s your room like? Is it bigger than our whole house?

HARLEY (panning the camera around): It’s… insane. I’ve got a bed that could fit, like, three of me. There’s a view of the city, and a desk with more tools than I’ve ever seen in one place. And a gaming setup that’d make you cry. I might never leave.

LUCY: I hate you. I hope the robot fridge locks you out.

HARLEY: That’s cold, Luce. Real cold.

LUCY: So, what’s the plan? Are you just gonna tinker in the lab and eat free snacks all summer?

HARLEY: Pretty much. Tony keeps hinting there’s some big project coming, but everyone’s being all secretive. Morgan and FRIDAY keep giving each other these looks like they’re in on some joke. I’m just trying not to blow anything up before I figure out where the bathrooms are. Also, there’s this one guy everyone keeps talking about—apparently he’s some kind of legend. Haven’t met him, but if he’s as good as they say, maybe I’ll finally have some competition.

LUCY: Ooo, rivalry! Don’t get all dramatic and start a robot war, okay?

HARLEY: No promises. But if the robots start chanting his name, I’m out.

LUCY: You would. So, met any mad scientists yet? Any evil lairs? Secret handshakes?

HARLEY: No lairs, but there’s definitely some secret squirrel stuff going on. Everyone’s got their own project and half the time I’m just trying not to trip over a drone.

LUCY: Classic you. Just don’t let them prank you too hard. And if you see Spider-Man, you better not chicken out.

HARLEY: I’ll try not to faint if he swings by. No promises. Put Mom on, I want to see if she’s aged five years since you left.

Lucy snorted and handed the phone off. Their mom appeared, hair in a messy bun, tired but smiling.

MOM (sighing): Harley, honey, you surviving? Or have you been banned from the kitchen already?

HARLEY: I plead the fifth. But for the record, the toaster started it.

MOM: That’s what you said about the hamster, too.

LUCY (off-screen): The hamster never recovered!

HARLEY: He lived a long, pink life. Anyway, I’m good. Place is wild, but… it’s kind of awesome.

MOM: Just don’t let them turn you into a robot, okay? I like you with all your original parts.

HARLEY: No upgrades yet. But if they offer laser eyes, I’m considering it.

LUCY: Only if you use them to toast my Pop-Tarts.

HARLEY: Deal. Listen, you two behave, alright? I don’t want to come home to find the house turned into a marshmallow roasting pit.

MOM: No promises. You take care, Harley. And call more often, or I’ll have Lucy hack your phone again.

LUCY (smirking): I still know your passcode, loser.

HARLEY: Love you both, even if you’re menaces.

LUCY: Love you, dork. Don’t get abducted by aliens or whatever.

HARLEY: Only if they’ve got better snacks.

They hung up with a chorus of “night!” and a final round of faces pulled at the camera. Harley set his phone down, a grin lingering. The city outside was huge and loud and weird, but for the first time, it felt like he could handle it. Maybe even belong.

And if there were superheroes out there, or a secret project waiting for him, Harley was ready to dive in—one prank, one pizza robot, and one Mario Kart rematch at a time. And if some “legend” wanted to be king of the lab, well—Harley was ready to make things interesting.

Chapter Text

Harley woke up to sunlight streaming through windows big enough to launch a helicopter out of—if Tony ever got bored enough, he probably would. He stretched, sinking deeper into the king-sized mattress—definitely the softest thing he’d ever slept on, half-expecting the bed to swallow him whole, and definitely not what he was used to back in Tennessee, then rolled over and groaned at the digital clock blinking “07:32” in a font that looked way too smug for a clock. For a second, he considered never getting up, but the smell of bacon and coffee wafting in from the kitchen made the decision for him.

He stumbled into the bathroom, still half-asleep, and nearly jumped out of his skin when the mirror flickered to life.

FRIDAY: “Good morning, Mr. Keener! Welcome to the Stark Industries Decontamination Chamber—just kidding, it’s your bathroom.”

HARLEY: “You know, one of these days I’m gonna walk in here naked and you’re gonna regret having eyes.”

FRIDAY: “I have no eyes, only sensors. But if you’d like, I can activate the privacy fog. Or play ‘Eye of the Tiger’ for motivation.”

Harley squinted at his reflection, hair sticking up like he’d licked a socket.

FRIDAY: “Your hair is at 37% chaos and trending upward. Would you like a tutorial on advanced styling, or shall I call for backup?”

HARLEY: “Let’s go with ‘electrocuted chic’ today. The goal is to scare Tony before breakfast.”

FRIDAY: “Excellent choice. I’ll notify the security team to remain calm.”

Harley snorted, grabbing his toothbrush.

FRIDAY: “Would you like me to set a reminder for ‘haircut’ or ‘hat shopping’?”

HARLEY: “I’ll just invent a hat that does my hair for me. Patent pending.”

FRIDAY: “I’ll start the paperwork. And perhaps a warning label.”

Harley grinned, shaking his head. “Best part of waking up is a sassy A.I. in your mirror.”

FRIDAY: “And here I thought it was the bidet.”

He stepped into the shower and nearly jumped out of his skin when the water temperature adjusted itself mid-rinse.

FRIDAY: “Apologies, Mr. Keener. Mr. Stark requested a ‘wake-up call’ protocol. Would you like me to disable it for tomorrow?”

HARLEY: “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

FRIDAY: “Immensely.”

Harley cackled, wide awake now, and finally ready to face the circus that was Stark Tower. Harley threw on jeans and a t-shirt. He paused at the closet—there were more hangers than clothes, and everything smelled faintly of Tony’s cologne and new money.

By the time Harley made it to the kitchen, his hair was still damp and sticking up in directions that defied physics. He followed the sound of laughter to the kitchen. The place looked like a magazine ad for “rich people breakfast”—sleek marble, chrome appliances, and a fridge that probably had more computing power than his old laptop. Tony was fiddling with the coffee machine, Pepper was scrolling through something on her tablet, and Morgan was perched on a stool, legs swinging, spoon in one hand and a suspiciously neon cereal in the other.

Tony looked up from the coffee machine, smirk already dialed to eleven. “Well, look who survived his first night in the penthouse. Sleep well, Tennessee? Or did the thread count give you altitude sickness?”

Harley slid into a chair, rubbing his eyes. “Sleeping was great. Waking up was like a jump scare. FRIDAY nearly gave me a heart attack in the bathroom. Is she always monitoring for, uh, ‘emergencies’ or is she just into bathroom horror shows?”

FRIDAY (from the speakers, deadpan): “For the record, Mr. Keener, I only judge hair, not hygiene. But your singing in the shower is now classified as a Category 3 Threat.”

Tony grinned, pouring coffee into a mug that read “World’s Okayest Genius.” “If you want privacy, you gotta bribe her with digital flowers. Or learn to shower in total silence. Neither’s easy. Anyway, did the bed pass the comfort test, or do I need to order a mattress made out of tractor parts?”

Harley slid into a chair. “If you can get one that smells like WD-40, I’ll consider it.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Just say the word. But don’t blame me if you wake up with a craving for engine oil.”

Harley grinned. “Only if it comes with built-in seat warmers. And a cupholder.”

Pepper rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You’re all impossible.”

Morgan beamed. “Impossible is our family motto!”

FRIDAY: “I have that embroidered on a pillow, Ms. Stark.”

Pepper didn’t look up. “Please don’t encourage him, Harley. The last time Tony tried to ‘improve’ the mattress, it nearly launched me into the ceiling.”

Morgan grinned, leaning over the table. “Dad says you’re a genius, but can you make pancakes that don’t look like alien roadkill?”

Harley grinned back. “I can make a mean pancake. But I can’t promise it won’t have a face.”

Tony slid a mug across the counter. “Careful, Keener, the coffee’s strong enough to power a jet. Or at least a small scooter.”

Harley took the mug, sniffed it suspiciously. “Is this coffee or did you just siphon something out of your car?”

Tony shrugged. “It’s a proprietary blend. Strong enough to wake the dead, or at least Morgan on a Monday.”

FRIDAY: “Mr. Stark’s coffee blend has been classified as a controlled substance in three countries.”

Morgan snickered. “FRIDAY’s funnier than you, Dad.”

Tony feigned offense. “Et tu, Morgan?”

Morgan piped up from her stool, mouth full of cereal. “FRIDAY says you snore louder than the air conditioning, Harley.”

Harley shot her a look. “At least I don’t talk in my sleep about world domination. Or marshmallows.”

Morgan grinned, unbothered. “I only plot world domination on weekends.”

Pepper, not looking up from her tablet, added, “If you two are done, Harley, there’s fruit in the fridge that hasn’t been genetically modified. Yet.”

Harley eyed the fridge. “Yet? That’s comforting.”

FRIDAY: “The apples are currently non-sentient. For now.”

Harley eyeing the spread. “If I’d known all it took to get bacon like this was moving to New York, I’d have hitchhiked here years ago.”

Morgan grinned, already plotting. “He’s just saying that because he hasn’t tried the waffles yet. Dad burned the first batch, but I saved the day.”

Pepper didn’t look up from her tablet. “Saved the day by eating all the chocolate chips before they made it into the batter.”

Morgan shrugged, unrepentant. “Quality control.” She leaned over, stage-whispering, “He once tried to make a banana that glows in the dark. It exploded.”

Harley snorted. “Remind me to stick to regular bananas, then.”

Morgan poked him in the arm. “Hey, Harley, when are you gonna build me a robot friend? One that doesn’t just sweep the floors like Roomba. I want one that can play Mario Kart.”

Harley grinned. “Deal. But if it beats me at Mario Kart, I’m blaming you.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You’re only allowed to build robots that don’t unionize. That’s house policy.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “And no more robots that try to reorganize my spice rack alphabetically.”

Morgan pouted. “That was my idea.”

Tony raised his mug. “And don’t let robots near the espresso machine—last time, we almost had to call the fire department.”

Morgan stage-whispered, “Dad’s still banned from the kitchen after the ‘banana incident.’”

Harley looked at Pepper for confirmation. She just nodded, deadpan. “It was traumatic. For the banana.”

Morgan giggled so hard she almost spilled her cereal. Harley, grinning, grabbed another slice of bacon and leaned back in his chair, feeling—if not exactly at home—like he’d landed in the best kind of madhouse.

FRIDAY: “Mr. Keener, would you like me to schedule a ‘kitchen safety’ tutorial for Mr. Stark and Morgan?”

Harley snorted. “Make it a double. And add a fire extinguisher demo.”

Tony just grinned. “Welcome to the circus, Keener.”

Morgan, mouth full of cereal, raised her spoon. “Best. Circus. Ever.”

And with that, the kitchen erupted in laughter, FRIDAY’s dry commentary echoing in the background, and Harley realized—he could get used to mornings like this.

After breakfast, Harley sprawled out on the sofa by the windows, coffee in hand, letting the city view do its best to impress him. Sunlight bounced off the skyscrapers, making everything look a little unreal. In the background, Tony and Mrs. Stark were deep in some kind of “save the world before noon” conversation, while Morgan was on the floor, building a block tower and narrating every move to FRIDAY.

“Structural integrity at 82%, Ms. Stark. I recommend additional reinforcements if you plan to survive a hypothetical dinosaur attack,” FRIDAY intoned.

Morgan grinned. “I’m adding a moat next.”

Harley snorted into his coffee. “Just don’t flood the kitchen, okay? I don’t want to get blamed for that, too.”

Before Morgan could reply, the front door slid open with a mechanical sigh. A blur of restless energy exploded into the entryway. A kid shorter, seemingly skinny, and more wiry than himself entered the penthouse. His brown curls looked like they'd lost a fight with a pillow, sticking out in every direction, and his oversized hoodie practically swallowed him, its sleeves halfway over his hands. A heavy backpack, seemingly weighing more than Peter did, swung wildly as if he'd just sprinted through a wind tunnel. He moved with the perpetual motion of someone always late, yet determined to relish the sprint.

“Morning, Mr. Stark! Mrs. Stark! Morgan, my favorite genius!” The kid’s voice was bright and fast, like he was trying to win a race with his own words.

Morgan’s face lit up. “Peter!” She launched herself at him, and he scooped her up, spinning her in a circle until she shrieked with laughter.

Tony didn’t even look up. “You’re late, Parker. Again. If you were any later, we’d have to send a search party. That’s two points off your nonexistent punctuality score.”

Peter set Morgan down and waved a hand, already talking a mile a minute. “Sorry! My alarm went off, but I was dreaming about this robot made entirely out of cheese—like, full-on cheddar limbs—and then this alien crashed the party and started breakdancing. I think it stole my shoes? Anyway, and then the pigeons outside tried to mug me for my bagel. I swear, New York pigeons are built different.”

Pepper shook her head, smiling. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack with all those explanations, Peter. Breathe.”

Morgan, still clinging to Peter’s arm, piped up, “Did the cheese robot win?”

Peter considered this seriously. “Only until the alien started juggling the Empire State Building. Then it got weird.”

FRIDAY chimed in, “Mr. Parker, I have logged your dream for future psychological analysis. Would you like me to schedule a session?”

Peter grinned. “Only if you promise not to tell Dr. Banner.”

Tony snorted. “Sounds like you need less cheese and more sleep, kid. And maybe less bagel drama.”

Peter shot him a look, but he was still grinning. “I’m fine! Dreams are important, right? They’re like, windows into the subconscious. Or in my case, the window’s stuck open and there’s a raccoon living in it.”

Peter flopped onto the rug next to Morgan, immediately joining her in block construction like it was the most natural thing in the world. Harley watched all this from his corner, feeling a little like he’d wandered into someone else’s family reunion. Peter fit here, that much was obvious—he and Morgan had a whole language, Pepper was already setting a plate in front of him, and Tony just rolled his eyes like this was all perfectly normal.

Harley tried to focus on the city, but it was hard not to notice the easy way Peter moved through the room, the way everyone’s attention shifted to him without anyone saying a word. There was nothing showy about him, but he had a kind of gravity—like he belonged here, and always had.

Peter was still rambling, now about a lost dog on the news and whether they could help (“I mean, we could totally be heroes for a day, right? I’ve got a leash in my backpack—don’t ask”). Tony just shook his head, smirking.

“Slow down, kid. Some of us are still digesting breakfast.”

Pepper nodded toward Morgan, who was busy eating cereal with her hands. “And some of us are still figuring out how to use a spoon to eat cereal without redecorating the floor.”

Morgan, face sticky with milk, declared, “I’m a big girl now!”

Peter nodded solemnly. “You’re the biggest. Maybe we can team up and take on that escape room downtown. The one with the laser maze and the underwater bit—”

Morgan bounced. “Can we go? Please? And Harley’s really good at games! He got me to the last level on alien shooter!”

That was the moment Peter finally noticed Harley, sitting on the sofa, mug in hand, half-smile on his face. For a second, Peter looked genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the room.

Tony, never missing a beat, cleared his throat. “Speaking of Harley, there he is. Harley, this is Peter Parker. Peter, meet Harley Keener—the kid who once made a lawnmower run on moonshine and spite.”

Harley raised his mug in greeting, trying to look as unfazed as possible. “Hey.”

And just like that, the game had changed.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up to a blinding shaft of sunlight right in his face and the distant, unmistakable sound of someone’s car alarm being murdered on the street below. For a second, he just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, trying to figure out why he felt like he’d just run a marathon in a cheese factory.

Oh, right. The dream. He’d been a knight—like, full-on armor and everything—fighting a robot made entirely of cheese with a sword that kept melting in his hand. At some point, an alien had crash-landed in the middle of the battlefield and started breakdancing. He’d woken up just as the robot tried to eat his shoes.

He snorted, rolling over and grabbing his phone. The lock screen glared back at him: 8:17 AM.

“Shit.”

He sat up so fast he nearly flung himself out of bed. “May! Why didn’t you wake me up?”

May’s voice floated in from the kitchen, calm as ever. “I tried, Peter. Three times. You told me you were ‘negotiating a treaty with the Cheese Kingdom’ and then rolled over.”

Peter groaned, already halfway into a pair of jeans. “I was dreaming, May! You can’t hold dream negotiations against me.”

She poked her head in, eyebrows raised. “You want toast or cereal?”

“I don’t have time! I’m late!” He yanked a hoodie over his head, nearly poking himself in the eye with the drawstring.

“You’re always late,” May sighed, but she was smiling. “At least grab a banana. Or a granola bar. Or both. You’re a growing boy, not a crash test dummy.”

Peter stuffed a banana in his backpack, then doubled back for a granola bar, then realized he’d left his shoes in the bathroom. He skidded down the hall, nearly wiping out on the rug.

“Don’t run, Peter! You’ll break your neck!”

“I’m Spider-Man, May, I bounce!” he called back, then immediately tripped over his own untied shoelace and nearly faceplanted into the doorframe.

May just shook her head, holding out his jacket. “You’re going to Stark’s, right? Tell him if he tries to feed you anything with the word ‘quantum’ in it, I’ll sue.”

Peter grinned, snatching the jacket. “If he does, I’ll bring you leftovers.”

“Not funny. And text me when you get there. Or I’ll call Happy and have him put a tracker on your backpack.”

Peter rolled his eyes, already halfway out the door. “Love you, May! Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Probably. Maybe. Bye!”

He bolted down the stairs, banana in one hand, granola bar in the other, shoes untied and hair sticking up in all directions. He was already running through excuses in his head—because if there was one thing he was good at, it was showing up late and making it sound like an adventure.

And honestly? With his luck, it probably would be.

Peter hit the sidewalk and was immediately swallowed by the city’s morning chaos—honking cabs, delivery guys cursing at each other, and a guy in a hot dog costume already looking like he regretted his life choices. He weaved through the crowd, clutching his backpack and muttering under his breath as a bus nearly clipped his elbow.

“Jesus, it’s like everyone in Manhattan forgot how to drive the second I’m running late,” he grumbled, sidestepping a guy on a Citi Bike who looked like he’d never seen brakes before.

His stomach growled so loud he was sure a dog walker gave him a weird look. He ducked into the corner bakery, snagged a bagel, and was about to take a bite when a pigeon dive-bombed him like it was reenacting a war movie.

“Seriously? Back off, you flying rat!” Peter hissed, doing a little sidewalk two-step as the pigeon tried to snatch his breakfast. He managed to save half his bagel, but not his dignity.

By the time he reached Stark Tower, his hoodie was askew, his hair looked like he’d been electrocuted, and his bagel was mostly crumbs. He swiped in, still chewing, and greeted FRIDAY with a mouthful.

“Morning, FRIDAY. Yeah, yeah, I know I’m late. Don’t roast me.”

“Welcome back, Peter. You appear to have survived another morning in the wild.”

Peter groaned. “Barely. If you see a pigeon with a grudge and a taste for carbs, call animal control.”

“I will update the security protocols to include ‘pigeon deterrence,’” FRIDAY replied, deadpan. “Would you like me to schedule a therapy session for your breakfast trauma?”

Peter snorted. “Only if you can find a therapist who specializes in bird-related PTSD.”

“Noted. Also, Mr. Stark, Mrs. Stark, and Morgan are in the penthouse. Mr. Stark requests you try not to track crumbs onto the carpet.”

Peter looked down at his hoodie, brushing off a few stray sesame seeds. “No promises. So, FRIDAY, any news on the ‘top secret’ thing Tony’s been hinting at, or is he just trying to keep me paranoid?”

FRIDAY paused, her tone just a little too innocent. “Mr. Stark prefers to keep you guessing. He says it builds character. I say it builds search history for ‘how to survive billionaire pranks.’”

Peter grinned. “You’re the best, FRIDAY. If I disappear, tell May I went down fighting. Or at least flailing.”

“If you disappear, I’ll ping your phone’s GPS and start a dramatic countdown. Would you like a theme song?”

Peter laughed, stepping into the elevator. “Surprise me. And, uh, maybe keep the elevator music under ‘evil lair’ this time?”

“No promises, Peter. Enjoy your ascent—and try not to trip over your own feet when you make your entrance.”

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and headed for the elevator, still brushing pigeon feathers off his hoodie and trying to look like he belonged in a billionaire’s tower.

As the elevator doors slid open on the penthouse floor, Peter muttered, “Showtime. Hope I don't get my ass chewed out too badly.” And with that, he stepped out, ready to face whatever brand of Stark chaos was waiting for him.

Peter hit the penthouse door at full speed, nearly tripping over his own feet as it slid open with a hiss. He barely paused to catch his breath before launching into his usual routine, voice bright and fast, words tumbling out in a rush.

“Morning, Mr. Stark! Mrs. Stark! Morgan, my favorite genius!”

Morgan’s face lit up like Christmas. “Peter!” she squealed, and before Peter could blink, she was barreling into him. He scooped her up, spinning her in a circle until she shrieked with laughter, her arms flailing like she was trying to take flight.

Tony didn’t even bother to look up from his tablet. “You’re late, Parker. Again. If you were any later, we’d have to send a search party. That’s two points off your nonexistent punctuality score.”

Peter set Morgan down, already waving a hand as he started his rapid-fire explanation. “Sorry! My alarm went off, but I was dreaming about this robot made entirely out of cheese—like, full-on cheddar limbs—and then this alien crashed the party and started breakdancing. I think it stole my shoes? Anyway, and then the pigeons outside tried to mug me for my bagel. I swear, New York pigeons are built different.”

Mrs. Stark shook her head, smiling in that way adults do when they’ve long since given up on understanding. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack with all those explanations, Peter. Breathe.”

Morgan, still hanging on to his arm, piped up, “Did the cheese robot win?”

Peter had to think about it. “Only until the alien started juggling the Empire State Building. Then it got weird.”

FRIDAY’s voice chimed in, perfectly dry: “Mr. Parker, I have logged your dream for future psychological analysis. Would you like me to schedule a session?”

Peter grinned. “Only if you promise not to tell Dr. Banner.”

Tony snorted. “Sounds like you need less cheese and more sleep, kid. And maybe less bagel drama.”

Peter shot him a look, but couldn’t help grinning. “I’m fine! Dreams are important, right? They’re like, windows into the subconscious. Or in my case, the window’s stuck open and there’s a raccoon living in it.”

He flopped down on the rug next to Morgan, immediately grabbing a handful of blocks and joining her in construction like this was just another Tuesday. The Starks had their rhythm, and Peter knew the steps by heart. He didn’t even notice anyone else in the room at first—he was too busy making Morgan laugh and dodging Tony’s sarcasm.

He kept rambling, half to himself, half to the room. “So, there was this thing on the news about a lost dog—like, a really cute one. I mean, we could totally be heroes for a day, right? I’ve got a leash in my backpack—don’t ask.”

Tony just shook his head, smirking. “Slow down, kid. Some of us are still digesting breakfast.”

Mrs. Stark nodded toward Morgan, who was now eating cereal with her hands. “And some of us are still figuring out how to use a spoon to eat cereal without redecorating the floor.”

Morgan, face smeared with milk, declared, “I’m a big girl now!”

Peter nodded solemnly. “You’re the biggest. Maybe we can team up and take on that escape room downtown. The one with the laser maze and the underwater bit—”

Morgan bounced on her knees. “Can we go? Please? And Harley’s really good at games! He got me to the last level on alien shooter!”

Peter’s mouth snapped shut mid-sentence, the words about laser mazes and underwater puzzles dying on his tongue. Wait—Harley? He blinked, and suddenly, he realized the whole room had gone a little too quiet. Morgan’s announcement echoed in the air, and Peter’s brain scrambled to catch up.

He blinked, scanning the penthouse for the mysterious “Harley,” feeling a weird prickle of nerves. There—by the windows, half-sunk into a ridiculously plush sofa like he owned the place, was someone Peter definitely hadn’t noticed when he came in. The guy looked about his age, maybe a little older, with the kind of build that said he’d actually lifted something heavier than a backpack in his life. He was dressed kind of casually, lived-in confidence—jeans, t-shirt, mug in hand, hair that said “I don’t own a comb,” and a posture that could only be described as professionally chill. He looked like he belonged in a magazine ad for “unbothered,” with that sort of “I woke up like this and don’t care” energy, completely at ease, like chaos was just background noise.

Peter’s thoughts tumbled over themselves. So, this is Harley. The new kid. The one Tony’s been weirdly vague about. And, judging by the way Harley was watching the Stark chaos—one eyebrow slightly raised, mug in hand—he hadn’t expected Peter either.

For a second, Peter wondered if he’d just spent the last five minutes monologuing about cheese robots and bagel-mugging pigeons in front of this total stranger. He wondered if Harley had caught all of it, or if he’d just tuned out the moment Peter started talking. Oh god. Had he mentioned the bit about the raccoon in his subconscious? He could feel his cheeks heating up.

Tony, never missing a beat, cleared his throat. “Speaking of Harley, there he is. Harley, this is Peter Parker. Peter, meet Harley Keener—the kid who once made a lawnmower run on moonshine and spite.”

The silence stretched, awkward and heavy. Peter realized everyone was looking at him—Tony with that “let’s see how you handle this” smirk, Mrs. Stark with her gentle, amused patience, Morgan bouncing with anticipation, and Harley… just watching, like he was sizing Peter up and finding the whole thing mildly entertaining.

Harley raised his mug in greeting, looking perfectly unfazed. “Hey.”

Peter just stood there, awkwardly clutching a stray block from Morgan’s tower, suddenly hyper-aware of his clammy hands. Harley, meanwhile, looked back at him with a kind of amused patience, like he was sizing Peter up and finding the whole scene more entertaining than anything on TV. There was a quiet confidence there, like he’d seen plenty of weird and wasn’t about to be impressed by a cheese robot dream.

Peter swallowed, took a breath, wiped his palm on his jeans, and then awkwardly stuck it out toward Harley. “Uh, hey,” he said, his voice barely audible, hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. "I'm Peter, by the way."

Peter’s words about escape rooms and alien shooters had barely left his mouth when the room seemed to tilt, all eyes shifting to the guy by the window. Harley, sprawled across the sofa, looked up at last—expression unreadable, eyes sharp. He didn’t bother to stand or even smile.

“Thrilling,” Harley muttered, voice flat as a pancake, gaze flicking to Peter just long enough to make it clear he’d been listening the whole time. He finally gave a half-hearted nod so slight it was almost a dare. “Harley,” he said, like he was introducing himself at a parole hearing, then turned his attention back to the view.

Peter felt his smile falter for half a second. He tried again,  “Sorry if I, uh, interrupted your morning.”

Harley didn’t take the hand. “You didn’t. I was just enjoying the peace and quiet.”

The silence stretched a beat too long. Peter tried to fill it, fumbling for something—anything—to say. “So, uh, you just get in? The city’s wild, right? I got mugged by a pigeon this morning. Not even kidding.”

Morgan, bless her, giggled from her spot on the floor. “Peter’s scared of birds.”

Peter shot her a look, but couldn’t help a sheepish grin. “I’m not scared, I’m just… cautious. They’re organized. I swear one of them had a switchblade.”

Tony, sensing the tension, jumped in with a smirk. “You two are going to be sharing lab space. Try not to blow anything up before lunch, alright?”

FRIDAY’s voice chimed in from above, perfectly deadpan: “Mr. Parker, I have added ‘Try Not To Cause An Incident’ to your daily reminders. Would you like me to enable ‘Emergency Bagel Protocol’ as well?”

Tony grinned. “That’s the most optimistic thing I’ve heard all week.”

Peter laughed, a little too loud, but as he took the toast, he couldn’t help glancing at Harley again, hoping for a smile. Harley’s expression didn’t shift an inch. The guy looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but Peter couldn’t shake the feeling he was being sized up.

Morgan, oblivious to the tension, piped up, “Harley’s really good at games. He let me win at Mario Kart once. He says it was a fluke.”

Harley finally cracked a half-smirk, but it was aimed at Morgan, not Peter. “Don’t get used to it, Stark.”

Peter, eager to smooth things over, jumped in. “It’s amazing here. I mean, I’m surrounded by geniuses. Feels like living in a comic book.”

Harley watched Peter fumble through the introductions, all wide eyes and nervous energy, like a golden retriever at a job interview. The kid was so earnest it almost hurt to look at him. Harley fought the urge to roll his eyes. There was something about Peter's open, friendly demeanor that rubbed Harley the wrong way. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it felt...fake. Like he was trying too hard. Seriously, was this guy for real? Did Tony just pick him up off a Disney Channel set?

Why’s he acting like he owns the place? Harley thought, irritation prickling under his skin. He’d barely gotten used to the Starks’ weird brand of family chaos, and now here was Tony’s new golden boy, all floppy hair and comic book enthusiasm. Of course he’s got the “gee-whiz, Mr. Stark!” routine down. Bet he’s never had to hustle for a damn thing in his life.

He tried to keep his voice neutral, mouth twisted into a lopsided smirk, but the sarcasm slipped out anyway. “Yeah, it’s a real page-turner here. You get used to it. Or you don’t.” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it—like he was daring Peter to keep talking. He kept his face blank, but he couldn’t help watching Peter for a reaction. Would he even notice the jab? He was trying to play it cool, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, like he was sizing Peter up and not sure if he wanted to be impressed or annoyed.

Peter, oblivious, just kept trying. “It’s amazing, honestly. I mean, I’m surrounded by geniuses. Feels like living in a comic book.”

Harley snorted, sharper this time. “Guess you’re the main character, then?” He let the words hang, hoping Peter would get the hint. But the kid just laughed, missing the edge entirely.

“Nah, I’m just hoping not to get written out in the first issue.”

Of course. Mr. Humble. Harley’s jaw clenched. This kid was impossible to rattle.

Pepper, ever the diplomat, slid a plate of toast toward Peter. “Eat something, please. We don’t need another Stark Tower incident. And you look like you could use it.”

Peter managed a grateful nod, reaching for the toast. “Thanks, Mrs. Stark.”

Peter tried to laugh along, but Harley was already zeroing in. “So, what do you work on? Pancake recipes, or are you actually allowed near the real tech?”

Peter hesitated, glancing at Tony. “Mostly tech projects. Some upgrades for, uh—”

Tony grinned, clearly enjoying the show. “Harley, Peter’s working on some pretty advanced stuff. He has been working on a drone that can map the city in 3D. It’s got this new sensor array, suit upgrades—the works.”

Harley’s interest flickered in spite of himself. Drones? Suit upgrades? He tried to cover it with a raised eyebrow. “A drone? That’s… cool.” He wanted to sound unimpressed, but he couldn’t help the tiny spark of curiosity. What kind of drones? How advanced? Not that he’d ever ask out loud. “Fancy. Must be nice to get the deluxe treatment.”

Peter shrugged, cheeks pink. “I just… do what I can. Mr. Stark’s a great mentor.”

Yeah, I bet he is, Harley thought, biting back the urge to say it out loud. He forced a smirk. “Yeah, he’s great at collecting strays.” He shot Tony a look, but Tony just looked amused.

Morgan, determined to keep things fun, piped up, “Peter let me fly his drone in the hallway. It only crashed once!”

Harley cracked a grin, but it was all teeth. “That’s impressive. I haven’t even found the broom closet yet.”

Pepper shot Tony a look. “No more hallway experiments without supervision.”

Tony held up his hands. “That was a one-time thing. And technically, Peter started it.”

FRIDAY interjected, “Records indicate both parties share blame. Would you like me to replay the footage?”

“Please don’t,” Peter and Tony said in unison.

Harley almost smiled at that, but he caught himself. He could feel the tension simmering just under his skin—jealousy, curiosity, and something else he didn’t want to name. He watched Peter, trying to figure out if the kid was really that nice, or just a better actor than Harley gave him credit for. Either way, Harley wasn’t about to let his guard down. Not for a second.

Peter, still feeling the weird tension, tried to steer things somewhere lighter. “So, Harley, where are you from?”

Harley didn’t even hesitate. “Small town. Middle of nowhere. The kind of place where the cows outnumber the people and the biggest excitement is when the tractor breaks down.” His tone was so dry Peter half-expected dust to come out of his mouth.

Peter grinned, trying to sound genuinely interested and keep things friendly. “That actually sounds kinda nice. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to know everyone in your town.”

Harley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, until everyone knows when you screw up. Or when you accidentally drive your mom’s car into the pond. Hypothetically.”

Morgan gasped, delighted. “Did you really?”

Harley just winked. “You’ll never know. But let’s just say the cows weren’t impressed.”

Peter snorted. “I dunno, cows seem like a tough audience. I once tried to pet one on a field trip and it just stared at me like I’d asked it to do my math homework.”

Harley smirked, but didn’t give him much more. “Yeah, well, you city kids wouldn’t last a week. No bodegas, no takeout, no WiFi for miles. You’d be crying for a Starbucks by day two.”

Peter shot back, “Hey, I could totally handle it. I mean, as long as there’s at least one pizza place and, like, a single working phone charger.”

Pepper, ever the peacemaker, jumped in with a smile. “City life is a big change, but you’re both doing great. Mostly.”

Tony clapped his hands, breaking the tension. “Alright, enough nostalgia. Harley, I’ve got a project for you—something to get you started. No livestock, no fires. Yet.”

Harley arched an eyebrow. “Challenge accepted.”

Peter, still trying to keep things light, added, “Just don’t let him near the espresso machine. I hear that’s off-limits for new recruits.”

FRIDAY chimed in, “Access to the espresso machine is restricted to those with a proven safety record. Mr. Keener, you are currently on probation.”

Harley groaned, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Et tu, FRIDAY?”

Morgan beamed, completely unfazed by the tension. “Welcome to the madhouse!”

Peter laughed, but the air felt thick—like everyone was waiting for someone else to make the next move. He kept sneaking glances at Harley, trying to figure out if he was actually warming up or just waiting for Peter to say something stupid. The guy’s smile never quite reached his eyes, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if he’d already screwed up the first five minutes of meeting Harley Keener. Maybe it was nerves, or maybe it was the way Harley’s eyes lingered just a beat too long before looking away. Either way, tension simmered beneath the surface, and only the Starks seemed to notice. Yikes! this was going to be interesting.

Chapter Text

Peter practically vibrated with leftover breakfast energy as Tony interrupted the morning flow. He'd been mid-ramble about some elaborate escape room downtown, gesturing wildly with his fork while Morgan hung on every word and Harley nursed his coffee with the patience of someone watching paint dry.

“All right, enough chit-chat,” Tony declared, voice cutting through Peter’s enthusiastic escape-room ramble. “Peter, take Harley to the lab. I’ve got actual chaos to manage.”

Morgan pouted. “Can I come—”

“Nope! Lab’s off-limits for mini-Starks until the last robot rebellion is mopped up,” Tony replied, giving her a conspiratorial wink.

Peter nodded eagerly, already pushing back from the table. “No problem, Mr. Stark. I can show him the whole setup—the fabrication bay, the testing chambers, maybe even the prototype storage if his clearance came through.”

Harley raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He’d expected this—the golden boy getting the tour guide assignment. What he hadn’t expected was the casual way Peter mentioned clearance levels like it was just another Tuesday.

“Clearance is still pending,” Tony said, shooting Harley a look that suggested paperwork was boring but necessary. “But the main lab’s fine. Just don’t let him near the quantum tunneling experiment until Happy gives him the safety briefing.”

“Got it.” Peter was already bouncing toward the elevator, that restless energy cranked up to eleven. “Come on, Harley. You’re gonna love this.”

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft whoosh, sealing Harley into what felt like a chrome-plated therapy session he’d never asked for. He slouched against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, watching Peter’s reflection as the kid practically vibrated with leftover breakfast energy. Even standing still, Peter managed to look like he was about to launch into orbit.

“So these elevators are pretty sick, right?” Peter bounced on his toes, flashing that trademark grin that could power half of Manhattan. “Like, you press a button and it actually shows up. Revolutionary stuff. The subway could literally never.”

Harley cocked an eyebrow, deadpan. “Yeah, Parker, real groundbreaking. Next, you’ll tell me the doors open when you push them. Mind = blown.”

Peter’s laugh was genuine, completely unfazed. “Okay, okay, fair. But seriously—wait till you see the lab. It’s got this whole vibe, you know? Like if Einstein and Tony Stark had a baby and it grew up to be a room.”

“That’s… a disturbing mental image.” Harley studied Peter’s reflection, looking for cracks in the relentless sunshine. “You're always this hyped about everything, or did you mainline espresso before breakfast?”

Peter shrugged, still bouncing slightly. “I mean, wouldn’t you be? Just a couple of hours ago, I was dodging pigeons on the subway, now I’m literally riding an elevator in Stark Tower. It’s like winning the nerd lottery.”

Harley felt something twist in his chest—part annoyance, part something that might’ve been envy. “Must be nice, having everything handed to you on a silver platter. Some people actually have to work for their breaks.”

The words came out sharper than he’d intended. Peter’s bounce faltered for just a second, his smile dimming at the edges. But then—because of course he did—Peter rallied.

“Hey, I work plenty hard,” he said, voice gentler but still hopeful. “Just because I’m excited doesn’t mean I don’t earn my place here. Besides, isn’t it better to be happy about cool stuff than to… You know… not be?”

Harley blinked. The kid had a point, and somehow managed to make it without throwing the insult back in his face. That was… unexpected.

“Philosophy 101 with Peter Parker,” Harley muttered, but his voice had lost some of its edge. “What’s next, a motivational poster about elevator etiquette?”

Peter’s grin returned full force. “Oh man, I could totally make that. ‘Hang in there’—but it’s a cat hanging from elevator cables. Tony would love it. Or hate it. Hard to tell with him.”

Despite himself, Harley’s mouth twitched. “You’d actually do that, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat. I’ve got a whole folder of terrible motivational posters. Ned says they’re ‘aggressively wholesome.’ I consider that a compliment.”

The elevator hummed downward, and for a moment, the tension eased. Then Peter straightened up, his expression shifting to something more focused.

“FRIDAY, can you pull up the current lab schedule? I want to make sure we’re not walking into anything… explosive.”

Harley’s attention sharpened. What kind of bullshit was this? That wasn’t the kind of request a typical intern would make. Or know to make.

FRIDAY’s smooth voice filled the elevator, tinged with her trademark dry humor. “Lab 34 is currently clear of any experiments likely to cause bodily harm, Mr. Parker. However, Dr. Banner’s stress-testing equipment in Lab 36 is emitting readings that suggest you might want to avoid that hallway for the next twenty minutes.”

Peter nodded, suddenly all business. “Got it. What about the fabrication bay? Harley might want to see the 3D printers, but if someone’s running a high-temp job…”

“Fabrication Bay 2 is free, though I should mention that your web-shooters from last week’s upgrade are still in the testing queue. Would you like me to prioritize them?”

Web-shooters? Harley’s brain stuttered. What kind of intern had custom web-shooters? And why did Peter sound like he was discussing the weather?

“Nah, they can wait,” Peter said, waving a hand. “The current batch is working fine. Just make sure the new impact-dampening feature gets logged for the next safety review.”

FRIDAY’s voice carried a hint of amusement. “Logged and filed under ‘Things That Should Not Exist But Do Anyway.’ I’ve also taken the liberty of adding a note about your tendency to ignore safety protocols when you’re excited about new tech.”

Peter flushed slightly. “Hey, I follow safety protocols. Mostly. When they’re not slowing down important science.”

“‘Important science’ is not a valid excuse for bypassing containment procedures, Mr. Parker. Mr. Stark’s insurance premiums are already astronomical.”

Harley watched this exchange with growing fascination. Peter wasn’t just comfortable with FRIDAY—he was collaborating with her. The AI was treating him like… well, like someone who actually mattered. Someone with access to information that definitely wasn’t standard intern material.

“FRIDAY,” Peter continued, “can you also check if the materials requisition I submitted yesterday went through? I need those carbon fiber sheets for the thing I’m working on.”

“Approved and delivered to your workstation, Mr. Parker. Though I should note that your ‘thing’ has been flagged by the accounting department as ‘suspiciously vague’ and ‘potentially catastrophic.’ They’ve requested a more detailed project description.”

Peter grinned. “Tell them it’s for ‘enhanced mobility applications.’ That’s technically true.”

“I’ll translate that as ‘web-swinging gear that will probably give Mr. Stark a heart attack,’” FRIDAY replied smoothly. “Shall I schedule a cardiac specialist to be on standby?”

“Very funny,” Peter muttered, but he was still smiling.

Was this kid for real? Just who the fuck is this guy? And why does Tony trust him with this kind of info? The unease in him was quickly turning into irritation. This wasn’t the behavior of some low-level intern. No, this guy was clearly more than he seemed, acting like he was Tony Stark’s right-hand man or something.

The elevator chimed softly as they reached their floor. Harley remained quiet, processing what he’d just witnessed. Peter Parker wasn’t just some intern. He was someone with clearance, resources, and the kind of casual relationship with Stark Tower’s systems that spoke of deep trust and long-term access.

Peter glanced at Harley, finally catching some of his contemplative silence. “Everything okay? You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem in your head.”

Harley managed a neutral expression, though his mind was racing. “Just wondering what other ‘enhanced mobility applications’ you’ve got cooking, Parker. You seem to have a lot of… privileges,” Harley said, his tone carefully neutral but laced with underlying challenge. “That’s impressive, even for a golden-ass intern.”

Peter flushed slightly, finally catching some of Harley’s skepticism. “Well, I guess I’ve earned Mr. Stark’s trust—”

“Or maybe you’re just really good at kissing ass,” Harley cut in, smirking.

The elevator chimed softly as they reached their floor, and Peter’s face went through a series of micro-expressions—surprise, embarrassment, then something that might have been determination.

“Look,” Peter said, voice strained but still trying to stay friendly, “I know this might seem like a lot, but—”

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Harley shot back, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “After all, how else am I going to compete with Stark’s little pet project?”

Peter’s expression shifted to confusion, caution and discomfort, and Harley couldn’t help but feel a twisted satisfaction at seeing Peter squirm. Yeah, take that, Mr. Perfect.

As the doors slid open, FRIDAY’s voice followed them out with her characteristic dry wit: “Gentlemen, we have arrived at Lab Level 34. Please remember that ‘enhanced mobility applications’ is not a valid excuse for property damage. The legal department is still processing claims from your last breakthrough, Mr. Parker.”

Peter groaned good-naturedly. “That was one time, FRIDAY. And the ceiling totally had it coming.”

“I’ll make a note in your file: ‘Holds grudges against architecture.’”

Despite everything, Harley found himself fighting a smile. Whatever Peter Parker really was, he was apparently someone who could get into an argument with a building’s AI and somehow make it sound reasonable.

“Come on,” Peter said, stepping into the hallway with renewed energy. “Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into. I promise to keep the ceiling damage to a minimum.”

“No promises about the floor, though?” Harley asked, finally letting that smile slip through.

Peter’s grin was bright and a little mischievous. “Hey, I never said I was that careful.”

Chapter Text

Harley flopped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling where the city lights painted shifting patterns through his massive windows. The day had been a whirlwind—breakfast chaos, Morgan's Mario Kart domination, and that moment when Peter Parker had waltzed in like he owned the place. Which, apparently, he kind of did.

That was what was bugging him. Peter's easy familiarity with everything—the way Tony barely looked up when he was late, how Pepper automatically set out food for him, how Morgan lit up like Christmas morning. There was something about the whole dynamic that felt... off. Like there were layers to this place that Harley wasn't seeing yet.

The more he thought about it, the more it gnawed at him. Peter had been vague about what he actually did here, deflecting with jokes about cheese robots and pigeon attacks. And Tony—Tony had been weirdly cagey about Peter's "projects." 

Something didn't add up.

Harley sat up, decision made. If he was going to be working here, he needed to know what he was walking into. And he was curious about his own access levels—what exactly had Tony given him clearance for? does he have the same access?

Harley snorted. Right. Sure. The golden boy from Queens gets the same privileges as the guy Tony personally flew across the country to recruit. That made total sense.

"Hey, FRIDAY," he said, his voice casual but his pulse quickening slightly.

"Good evening, Mr. Keener," FRIDAY's smooth voice filled the room. "How may I assist you? Would you like me to dim the lights for optimal brooding, or shall we skip straight to the existential crisis playlist?"

Despite himself, Harley grinned. "Very funny. I just want to get a handle on what I'm working with here. Can you give me a rundown on my access levels?"

"Ah, the classic 'new intern power trip,'" FRIDAY replied dryly. "You have comprehensive access to all non-classified information within Stark Industries. This includes research data, design blueprints, financial records, the coffee machine programming—though I'd advise against changing Mr. Stark's espresso settings unless you fancy a very creative firing."

Harley's eyebrows shot up. That was... actually pretty extensive. "What about lab equipment? Do I get to play with the fancy toys, or am I stuck with safety scissors and finger paints?"

"You have full control over all equipment within your designated lab space," FRIDAY confirmed. "You may also request access to equipment in other labs if necessary. Though I should note that the prototype arc reactor requires a waiver, three signatures, and what Mr. Stark calls 'a really good reason or at least an entertaining one.'"

"Seriously?" Harley asked, half-laughing.

"The incident report from 2018 was quite colorful," FRIDAY said primly.

Harley shook his head, grinning despite his earlier mood. But his curiosity wasn't satisfied yet. "Alright, what about security protocols? Can you show me how the mainframe access works?"

"Access granted," FRIDAY responded, and detailed schematics appeared on the wall-mounted screen. "Though I should mention that Mr. Stark's password is not, in fact, 'genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist.' He changed it after the third security breach."

Harley studied the information, genuinely impressed. Tony really had given him significant access. But something still felt off about Peter's casual presence here. "Show me a list of all personnel with mainframe access."

The screen populated with names and clearance levels. Harley scanned through them—mostly high-level researchers, department heads, a few Avengers. Standard stuff. But then...

"Filter for maximum clearance," he said, leaning forward.

The list narrowed dramatically. Tony Stark, obviously. Pepper Potts. A handful of senior executives. And right there, sitting between James Rhodes and Bruce Banner, was Peter Benjamin Parker.

"What the fuck?" Harley muttered, staring at the screen.

His mind raced. Either Peter was the most modest genius in history, or there was something major he wasn't telling anyone. You didn't get that level of access for being a regular intern, no matter how smart you were.

"FRIDAY," he said, trying to keep his voice casual, "tell me everything you know about Peter Parker."

There was a pause—just long enough to make Harley wonder if the AI was calculating how much trouble she'd be in for answering.

"Peter Benjamin Parker," FRIDAY began, her tone carefully neutral, "born in Queens, New York, currently seventeen years old and a student at Midtown High School. He maintains an impressive 4.0 GPA while juggling numerous extracurricular activities, including Academic Decathlon, where his team recently placed second at nationals—a performance that would have been first if Flash Thompson hadn't insisted on answering a question about particle physics with 'because it's science-y.'"

Harley snorted. That sounded about right for a high school team.

"He was recruited by Mr. Stark due to his exceptional academic record and demonstrated aptitude for engineering, particularly in the fields of robotics, biochemistry, and artificial intelligence," FRIDAY continued. "His early projects focused on innovative adhesive compounds and tensile strength applications—quite impressive work for someone his age."

"How long has he been working here?" Harley pressed.

"Peter Parker has been officially employed as a Stark Industries intern for one year, four months, and sixteen days," FRIDAY replied promptly. "Though his involvement with Mr. Stark predates his official employment by several months."

"Officially?" Harley caught the word immediately. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Certain details regarding Mr. Parker's initial association with Stark Industries involve classified protocols," FRIDAY said, her tone becoming notably more guarded. "This information is restricted to authorized personnel only."

Harley felt frustration building. He was getting the runaround. "Fine, forget the classified stuff. What projects has he worked on? You mentioned adhesive compounds—anything else?"

"Mr. Parker has contributed to several public projects," FRIDAY said, seeming to relax slightly. "He assisted with design improvements on protective gear impact-absorption technology, worked on enhanced communication systems for emergency responders, and created an innovative app for monitoring air quality in urban environments. He's also been assigned to some minor enhancement work on Spider-Man suit specifications—purely theoretical research, of course."

Harley barely registered that last part, brushing past it. Those were all legitimate, impressive projects. The kind of thing you'd expect from a bright intern. But they still didn't explain the security clearance.

"What about the classified stuff?" Harley asked. "Come on, give me something."

"I'm afraid those details fall under security restrictions," FRIDAY replied, her tone becoming almost apologetic. "Though I can tell you that his work has been... let's say, particularly impactful in the field of urban safety initiatives."

"Urban safety initiatives?" Harley repeated. "That's the vaguest answer I've ever heard. What does that even mean?"

"Think of it as... community outreach with a technological focus," FRIDAY said delicately. "Very hands-on work. Quite athletic, actually. Mr. Parker maintains an impressive fitness regimen to keep up with the demands."

Harley's frown deepened. None of this was making sense. Peter Parker was supposedly just another intern, but he had maximum security clearance, worked on classified projects involving "urban safety," and needed to be athletic for his job? 

"What about other interns?" Harley asked, switching tactics. "How do their access levels compare?"

FRIDAY provided a list. Standard interns had basic access—enough to work on assigned projects, nothing more. Even the most senior student researchers had significantly less clearance than Peter.

"This is bullshit," Harley muttered. Either Peter Parker was some kind of secret prodigy, or there was something major being hidden from him. And given FRIDAY's careful word choices and repeated mentions of security restrictions, he was leaning toward the latter.

"Is there anything else I can help you with tonight, Mr. Keener?" FRIDAY asked. "Perhaps some calming music? A documentary on the history of internship programs? I have several options that are guaranteed to cure insomnia."

"No, thanks," Harley said, waving a hand at the screen. "I think I've got what I need."

As the screen went dark, Harley lay back on his bed, mind racing. Something was definitely off about Peter Parker. The golden boy act, the mysterious classified work, the security clearance that made no sense for a regular intern—it all pointed to one conclusion.

Peter was hiding something. Something big enough that Tony Stark was willing to bend the rules and cover it up. And all those security restrictions FRIDAY kept mentioning? That wasn't protecting company secrets. That was protecting Peter.

Harley's jaw tightened with determination. He'd come to New York to prove himself, to show that he belonged in Tony's world. And if that meant figuring out what Peter Parker was really up to, then so be it. 

The kid might have everyone else fooled with his aw-shucks routine and his talk of cheese robots, but Harley wasn't buying it. Not anymore. There was something fishy going on, and he was going to find out what it was.

After all, he hadn't gotten this far by accepting things at face value. And he sure as hell wasn't about to start now.

Tomorrow, he'd begin his own investigation. Time to see what secrets the golden boy was really keeping.

Chapter Text

Harley flopped onto his bed like a deflated balloon, hair sticking up at odd angles where he'd been running his hands through it. The past week at Stark Tower had been a constant whirlwind of trying to prove himself while simultaneously pretending Peter Parker didn't exist—which was damn near impossible when the guy kept being…present. Everywhere. With his stupid earnest face and his stupid helpful attitude.

He grabbed his laptop, hoping his family’s chaos would drown out the mess in his head.

Lucy’s face filled the screen first, mid-chew on what looked suspiciously like a sandwich made entirely of marshmallows and peanut butter. “HARLEY!” she screamed, spraying crumbs. “Mom, he looks like he got hit by a truck full of science!”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Luce,” Harley muttered, but he was smiling despite himself.

Jane appeared over Lucy’s shoulder, squinting at the screen. “Good lord, honey, you look like you’ve been wrestling with equations. And losing.”

“Close. More like wrestling with my own personality defects,” Harley said, attempting to flatten his hair and only making it worse. “And maybe a few actual robots. CLUM-C tried to organize my sock drawer yesterday. I came back to find them sorted by ‘emotional resonance,’ whatever the hell that means.”

Lucy snorted. “Did the sad socks get their own section?”

“Apparently, my hiking socks are ‘deeply melancholy,’” Harley replied deadpan. “And my Spider-Man socks are ‘aspirationally optimistic.’”

“Wait, you have Spider-Man socks?” Lucy’s eyes lit up with predatory glee. “Oh my god, you bought Spider-Man merch! You’re such a fanboy!”

Harley’s face went red. “They were cheap! And comfortable! It’s not—shut up!”

Jane intervened before Lucy could pounce further. “How’s the work going? Still impressing the billionaire genius?”

“Yeah, about that…” Harley scrubbed his face. “Turns out sharing lab space with Tony’s golden boy is like trying to concentrate while someone plays motivational music at full volume. The guy’s just…a lot.”

“Oh no,” Lucy said, grinning evilly, “is Peter still being aggressively friendly? How terrible for you.”

“It’s not funny, Lucy. The guy doesn’t take a hint. I’ll be working on something, clearly in the zone, and he’ll just bounce over like a hyperactive golden retriever and start asking questions. ‘What’s that do? Can I help? Want to see my web-shooters?’ It’s exhausting.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “Web-shooters?”

“Some project he’s working on. Probably shoots silly string or something equally ridiculous,” Harley said, waving a hand dismissively. “The point is, he won’t leave me alone to work in peace.”

“Sounds awful,” Lucy said, not sounding like she thought it was awful at all. “A nice guy who wants to be friends and help with your projects. Truly, a nightmare scenario.”

“Lucy—”

“Has he been mean to you?” Jane cut in, her mom-radar pinging.

“No,” Harley admitted grudgingly. “He’s been…fine. Good, even. Yesterday I dropped a whole tray of components, and before I could even swear about it, he was helping me pick everything up. Didn’t even make fun of me for being a clumsy ass.”

“Monster,” Lucy said dryly.

“And then,” Harley continued, ignoring her, “when I was stuck on this power distribution problem, he casually mentioned this article about energy flow optimization that was exactly what I needed. Just…offered to share it. No big deal.”

“Ugh, how dare he be helpful,” Lucy said, making exaggerated gagging noises.

Jane was studying Harley’s face carefully. “Honey, it sounds like Peter’s trying to be a good lab partner. What’s really bothering you?”

Harley was quiet for a long moment. “It’s just…he fits here, you know? Like he was born for this place. Everyone loves him—Tony, Pepper, Morgan, even the damn robots. And I’m just…the new guy trying not to break anything important.”

“So you’re jealous,” Lucy said matter-of-factly, licking peanut butter off her fingers.

“I’m not jealous,” Harley said quickly. “I’m just…observant. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh,” Lucy said, clearly not buying it. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

“You’re not helping.”

Jane leaned closer to the screen. “Harley, maybe the reason he fits in so well is because he’s been there longer. How long did you say—”

“Over a year,” Harley muttered. “But that’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point,” Jane said gently. “You’ve been there a week. Of course he’s more comfortable.”

“It’s not just that,” Harley protested. “It’s like…you should see him with Morgan. She absolutely adores him. They have inside jokes and everything. And he’s got this easy way with Tony that I’ll probably never figure out.”

“Or,” Lucy said, “you could stop treating it like a competition and try actually talking to him.”

“I do talk to him!”

“Sarcastic one-liners don’t count as conversation, Harls,” Lucy said. “When’s the last time you asked him about himself? Like, actual questions, not rhetorical jabs about his coffee consumption.”

Harley opened his mouth, then paused. “We talk about…work stuff.”

“Work stuff doesn’t count either,” Jane said. “I mean really getting to know him. What he likes, where he comes from, what makes him tick.”

The silence stretched long enough that Lucy started making exaggerated ticking sounds.

“Okay, maybe I could try harder,” Harley said finally, his tone defensive. “But it’s not like it’s my fault we don’t click. The guy’s like a human golden retriever puppy—all enthusiasm and energy. It’s…intense.”

“Intense how?” Jane asked.

“Because he makes everything look so easy,” Harley said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Being good at everything, fitting in, making people like him. And I’m over here trying not to accidentally insult someone every time I open my mouth.”

Lucy’s expression softened slightly. “Harls, you know you’re likable too, right? You don’t have to be Peter Parker to be worth knowing.”

“Easy for you to say,” Harley muttered. “You’re not the one getting compared to Mr. Perfect every five minutes.”

“Who’s comparing you?” Jane asked.

Harley waved a hand vaguely. “Everyone. Tony keeps mentioning things Peter did, or how Peter figured something out. It’s like having a ghost hovering over everything I do.”

“Maybe,” Lucy said carefully, “Tony’s just trying to help you feel included by sharing stories. You know, like how parents talk about their kids’ friends?”

“Or maybe he’s reminding me that I’m second choice,” Harley countered. “Look, I get it. You guys think I’m being dramatic. But you’re not there. You don’t see how effortlessly he fits into everything.”

Jane sighed. “Honey, I’m not saying your feelings aren’t valid. But maybe—just maybe—you’re making this harder on yourself than it needs to be.”

“I’m not making anything harder. I’m just trying to survive my first week without embarrassing myself.”

“By avoiding the one person who seems to actually want to be your friend?” Lucy pointed out.

Harley groaned, falling backward onto his bed. “It’s complicated, okay? You don’t understand what it’s like.”

“Then explain it to us,” Jane said gently.

“I…” Harley stared at the ceiling. “What if I try to be friends with him and I still don’t measure up? What if I’m just not…enough? At least now I can pretend it’s because I’m not trying.”

The screen went quiet for a moment.

“Oh, Harley,” Jane said softly.

“Don’t ‘oh Harley’ me,” he said, sitting back up. “I’m being realistic. The guy’s clearly some kind of prodigy, and I’m just…me.”

“Just you?” Lucy repeated incredulously. “Harls, you built a working motorcycle engine out of spare parts when you were fourteen. You’re not exactly chopped liver.”

“That’s different. That’s mechanical stuff. This is…people stuff. Social stuff. I’ve never been good at that.”

“So practice,” Jane suggested. “Start small. Ask him about something that’s not work-related.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Music, movies, food. Normal teenage stuff.”

Harley considered this, then shook his head. “What if he thinks I’m weird? Or boring?”

“What if he doesn’t?” Lucy countered. “What if he’s just as nervous about making friends as you are?”

“Yeah, right. Mr. Sunshine and Rainbows, nervous about making friends.”

“You know,” Lucy said thoughtfully, “the fact that he keeps trying to talk to you even though you’ve been giving him the social equivalent of a porcupine impression suggests he actually likes you.”

“Or he’s just annoyingly persistent.”

“Or,” Jane said, “he sees something in you worth getting to know, and you’re too stubborn to let him.”

Harley was quiet for a long moment. “Maybe,” he said finally, the word dragged out of him reluctantly.

“Progress!” Lucy announced. “He said ‘Maybe’!”

“Don’t get excited. Maybe doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to start braiding friendship bracelets.”

“We’re not asking you to,” Jane said. “Just…maybe try being a little less prickly? See what happens?”

Harley sighed heavily. “I guess I could try. But I’m not promising anything. And if it goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming you both.”

“Deal,” Lucy said cheerfully. “And if it goes right, I get to say ‘I told you so.’”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“Am I though?” Lucy grinned knowingly. “Face it, Harls. You’ve spent more time talking about Peter in the last twenty minutes than you did about your actual work. That’s got to mean something.”

“It means he’s distracting,” Harley protested.

“Uh-huh. Very distracting. With his stupid earnest face and his stupid helpful attitude.”

Harley could feel his ears getting warm. “Shut up, Lucy.”

“Just saying, for someone you claim to find annoying, you sure do think about him a lot.”

“I think about him because he’s always there! In my workspace, making conversation, being…present.”

“Right,” Lucy said, drawing the word out. “And that bothers you because…?”

“Because…” Harley faltered, not sure how to finish that sentence without admitting something he wasn’t ready to admit.

“Because you might actually like him?” Jane suggested gently.

“I don’t know him well enough to like him,” Harley said quickly. “That’s the whole point.”

“Then maybe it’s time to fix that,” Jane said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He could think I’m a complete disaster and tell everyone at Stark Tower that the kid from Tennessee has the social skills of a rabid badger.”

“Or,” Lucy said, “he could turn out to be actually kind of cool, and you could make your first real friend in New York.”

Harley groaned. “When did you two become relationship counselors?”

“When you started being an idiot about obvious things,” Lucy said cheerfully.

“I’m not being an idiot. I’m being cautious.”

“You’re being scared,” Jane corrected gently. “And that’s okay. But don’t let being scared stop you from taking a chance on something good.”

“What if it’s not good? What if we’re just too different?”

“Then you’ll know,” Lucy said. “But right now you’re just guessing. And your guesses seem to involve a lot of worst-case scenarios.”

Harley was quiet for a moment, considering. “I still think you’re all being overly optimistic.”

“And I think you’re being overly pessimistic,” Jane countered. “Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle.”

“Maybe,” Harley said again, still sounding unconvinced.

Lucy leaned closer to the camera. “Look, just try asking him one non-work question tomorrow. See how it goes. If it’s awful, you never have to do it again.”

“One question?”

“One question. About literally anything that’s not related to engineering or Tony Stark or lab equipment.”

Harley sighed. “I suppose I could manage one question.”

“That’s the spirit!” Lucy said. “Barely committing to basic human interaction!”

“I’m trying, okay? This stuff doesn’t come naturally to me like it does to him.”

“We know,” Jane said warmly. “And we’re proud of you for even considering it.”

“I hate you both.”

“Love you too, honey,” Jane said. “Now go apologize to that poor boy for being a grumpy hermit crab for a week.”

The call ended with Harley still looking skeptical, Lucy making exaggerated encouraging faces, and Jane shaking her head fondly at both of them. As the screen went dark, Harley sat in the sudden quiet, laptop warm on his legs, city lights painting patterns on the walls.

Maybe his family had a point. Maybe he was making this more complicated than it needed to be.

But then again, maybe they were just seeing what they wanted to see because they were hundreds of miles away from the actual situation. They didn't have to work next to Peter Parker every day, watching him be effortlessly good at everything.

Still, one question couldn't hurt, right?

As long as it didn't turn into a whole conversation. Or worse, an actual friendship.

Although…maybe friendship wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Maybe.

But first, he really needed to hide those Spider-Man socks before Peter ever found out about them. That was one conversation he definitely wasn't ready for.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Harley woke to the soft chime of FRIDAY’s voice instead of his usual alarm. “Good morning, Mr. Keener. Mr. Stark says ‘come up, look alive. Wear something that doesn’t look like you crawled out of a barn.’ His words, not mine. He has requested your presence in the penthouse at 10 AM. Lab work has been suspended for today.”

He blinked at the ceiling, still adjusting to having an AI as his personal assistant. Back home, his wake-up call had been his mom banging on his door or the neighbor’s rooster having an existential crisis at dawn. Tony Stark didn’t do mysterious morning summons without a reason, and in Harley’s limited experience with the man, those reasons usually involved either spectacular opportunities or elaborate psychological experiments disguised as mentorship.

“Suspended? Did I break something already?” he mumbled, rolling out of bed.

“Not to my knowledge,” FRIDAY replied with what sounded like amusement. “Though I should note that your coffee preference has been logged as ‘strong enough to wake the dead.’ I’ll have CLUM-C prepare accordingly.”

By 9:58, Harley was standing outside the penthouse door, having spent twenty minutes trying to decode what “doesn’t look like you crawled out of a barn” meant in billionaire-speak. He’d settled on dark jeans and a button-down shirt that didn’t have any visible oil stains—practically formal wear by his standards.

“Morning, Mr. Keener,” FRIDAY’s voice greeted him before he could even knock. “Your punctuality is noted. Mr. Stark is currently engaged in what appears to be a physics lesson that may or may not qualify as child endangerment.”

“Should I be concerned?” Harley asked.

“Only if you have strong opinions about projectile safety protocols,” FRIDAY replied.

He was expecting to find the usual controlled chaos of Stark family morning routine. Instead, he walked into what looked like an engineering lesson disguised as playtime.

Tony and Morgan were crouched on the living room floor, surrounded by an elaborate contraption of wooden blocks, metal rods, and what appeared to be a small pulley system. Morgan was carefully adjusting a counterweight while Tony watched with the focused intensity he usually reserved for arc reactor diagnostics.

“Three more degrees to the left,” Tony murmured, tracking the angle with his tablet. “Perfect. Now, what happens when we add the marble?”

Morgan dropped a marble into the top of the contraption. It rolled down a series of ramps, triggered a seesaw mechanism, which released a ball that swung on a string to knock over a domino, which started a chain reaction that ultimately launched a small toy car across the room.

It bonked the rim of a cereal bowl and skidded into Pepper’s neatly stacked documents. Silence. Then Pepper, off-screen: “If that’s sticky by lunch, you’re both on dishwasher duty.”

“Science sometimes has casualties,” Tony murmured, then clocked Harley’s clothes. “Nice. Cloths that’s met detergent. Character growth.”

Harley deadpanned, “I left my welding jacket at the opera.” He glanced at the marshmallow battlefield. “This normal?”

“Friday morning,” Tony said.

“Rube Goldberg machine?” Harley asked, genuinely impressed despite himself.

Morgan beamed up at him. “It’s physics! Dad’s teaching me about potential energy and momentum transfer, but mostly it’s just really cool to watch things crash into other things.”

“The crashing is definitely the best part,” Tony agreed, standing and brushing off his knees. “Though I’m pretty sure she’s already figured out three ways to improve the efficiency. Kid’s got better instincts than most of my graduate-level engineers.”

“That’s because your graduate-level engineers didn’t grow up with Iron Man action figures teaching them about trajectory,” Morgan said matter-of-factly, resetting the marble for another run.

“Right,” Harley said slowly. “And I’m here because…?”

FRIDAY’s voice drifted down from the ceiling speakers. “If we’re discussing education, I should mention that Mr. Keener’s academic records have been processed successfully. Midtown High School is prepared to receive you, though they did ask me to emphasize that ‘potato cannon engineering’ is not a recognized AP course.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Wait, hold up. Why are we handling this now? It’s Friday morning, school starts Monday. Shouldn’t we have done this weeks ago? I need to get my transcripts from Rose Hill High, my immunization records, figure out what the f— New York requires that Tennessee doesn’t—”

“Language,” Tony said automatically, then caught himself. “Actually, you know what? Fair point. That’s on me. I’ve been… distracted by other projects.” He shot a glance at Morgan, who was suspiciously focused on her marble machine. “But FRIDAY’s been handling the paperwork nightmare. Your transcripts arrived Tuesday, immunizations are up to date, and apparently you tested out of half their curriculum already.”

“Their loss,” Harley said dryly. “So that’s what this is about? School?”

“Midtown High has an exceptional STEM program,” FRIDAY replied diplomatically. “Their graduates have gone on to work at leading technology companies, including several who’ve found positions here at Stark Industries.”

“Convenient,” Harley observed.

“I prefer ‘statistically favorable,’” FRIDAY corrected.

“Midtown,” Harley repeated flatly, the pieces clicking into place. “That’s where P—” Of course, it was the same school as Golden Boy. Because apparently his life wasn’t complicated enough.

The silence that followed was about three seconds too long. Tony paused in reaching for his jacket, and Morgan suddenly became very interested in organizing the wooden blocks by size rather than just shoving them back in the box.

“Peter goes, he has a name you know, among many other students,” Tony said finally, his tone so aggressively casual it practically had neon signs around it. “And it’s a good school. Strong STEM program. You’ll fit right in.”

Tony nodded, setting down his tablet. “Happy’s picking you up in twenty minutes. Friday registration, last-minute paperwork, the whole dance. Normal teenagers need more than three days to prepare for these things, apparently.”

“Normal teenagers,” Harley repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling me now?”

Morgan giggled from her spot by the machine. “You’re not normal. Normal teenagers can’t build potato guns that could take down aircraft. I asked FRIDAY to run the ballistics calculations—the range on that thing was insane.”

“You asked FRIDAY to…” Harley looked between her and Tony. “How old did you say she was again?”

“Six going on thirty-six,” Tony said proudly. “She’s also redesigned the dishwasher loading algorithm and optimized the elevator traffic patterns. I’m considering putting her on the payroll.”

“I already am on the payroll,” Morgan informed him seriously. “My salary is ice cream and bedtime story extensions.”

“Best negotiated contract in Stark Industries history,” FRIDAY commented.

Harley watched this exchange with growing fascination. The easy banter, the casual mentions of optimization algorithms, the way Morgan talked about ballistics calculations like other kids discussed their favorite cartoons—it was like glimpsing into a completely different world.

“Speaking of education,” Harley said, settling into a chair, “why exactly are we going to high school at all? I mean…” He gestured vaguely toward the elaborate physics machine on the floor. “Shouldn’t someone at our level just test out of the whole thing? Get the PhD directly? You did it.”

Tony and Morgan exchanged a look—one of those loaded glances that made Harley feel like he was missing half the conversation.

“Our level?” Tony repeated with a slight smirk. “Are we talking about you and Morgan, or…?”

Morgan’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Ooh, are we doing the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named thing now? Is Peter Voldemort?”

“Morgan,” Tony warned, but he was fighting a smile.

“What?” she protested innocently. “Harley said ‘our level’ but he won’t say Peter’s name. It’s like he’s cursed or something.”

Harley felt his ears warm. “I didn’t mean—I just meant people with advanced engineering skills, generally speaking.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony said, clearly enjoying this. “And this general category of people wouldn’t include anyone specific we know?”

Before Harley could formulate a response that didn’t make him sound like a complete ass, Tony’s expression shifted subtly, the playful glint in his eyes fading to something more complicated.

“But to answer your question,” Tony continued, “yeah, that’s exactly why you’re going to high school.”

“Come again?”

Tony ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking older than his years. “Look, Harley, when I was your age, I was so focused on being the smartest guy in the room that I forgot to be… well, a guy in the room at all. I had the knowledge, sure, but I missed out on all the other stuff. The messy, complicated, completely irrational stuff that makes you human.”

“Like what, cafeteria food and gym class?”

“Like friends,” Tony said quietly. “Like figuring out who you are when you’re not being evaluated on your IQ. Like learning that being right isn’t the same thing as being wise.”

Morgan had gone quiet, listening with the solemn attention kids reserve for adult conversations they sense are important but don’t quite understand.

“My dad…” Tony continued, his voice careful, “Howard loved me, in his way. He built me the best labs, hired the best tutors, made sure I had access to everything a young genius could want. But he never taught me how to just… be a kid. How to fail at something stupid and laugh about it. How to make friends with people who couldn’t keep up with my math but who could teach me things I never would have learned in any textbook.”

He glanced at Morgan, and something passed between them—a look loaded with shared knowledge that made Harley feel like an outsider looking in.

“I just want you to have what I didn’t,” Tony said simply. “A chance to be seventeen while you still can.”

Harley studied Tony’s face, noting the careful way he’d phrased everything. There was something else there, something Tony wasn’t saying. The same kind of weighted pause he’d noticed yesterday when Peter’s name came up.

“I’m sure the other teenager in the lab is having a perfectly normal high school experience,” Harley said casually, watching for a reaction.

And there it was—Tony’s smile faltered just slightly, and he exchanged another one of those loaded looks with Morgan. This time, the expression was tinged with something that might have been regret, or sadness, or both.

But Tony, being Tony, couldn’t let a moment of vulnerability hang in the air without deflecting. His trademark smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sorry, ‘the other teenager’. What is this, Harry Potter? Call him Voldemort, Harley. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

“Dad!” Morgan exclaimed, shooting him a scandalized look. “You can’t just call Peter—”

“What? You started the whole He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named thing,” Tony protested, gesturing dramatically. “I’m not just quoting Dumbledore for my health here. Though I do make an excellent wise old mentor figure, don’t you think?”

“You’re not that old,” Morgan said loyally, then paused. “But you are pretty wise. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Tony clutched his chest in mock offense. “I’m wounded. Devastated. My own daughter questions my wisdom.”

Despite the theatrical display, Harley caught the way Tony’s expression had shifted back to something more guarded when he’d started his deflection. The humor was real, but it was also armor—a way to avoid finishing whatever thought had been interrupted.

“Yeah,” Tony said finally, his voice softer, the jokes fading as quickly as they’d appeared. “I wish… well, I wish things were different for—” He caught himself mid-sentence, glancing at Morgan before clearing his throat. “I wish I could guarantee that for everyone.”

The comment hung in the air, heavy with implication and unfinished thoughts. Whatever Tony wasn’t saying about Peter Parker, it was clearly something that weighed on him. And judging by the way Morgan’s expression had grown more serious, she knew exactly what her father was talking about.

Harley filed it away with all the other puzzle pieces he was collecting about Peter Parker. Another confirmation that there were secrets, complications, things that made Peter’s situation different from what it appeared to be on the surface. His mind automatically jumped to the worst conclusions—maybe Peter wasn’t as clean-cut as he appeared. Maybe all that earnest niceness was an act, covering up something darker. Legal trouble, family issues, some kind of messy situation that required Tony’s protection and FRIDAY’s security restrictions.

FRIDAY’s voice cut through the moment with perfect timing. “Mr. Hogan has arrived and is currently circling the block while muttering about New York traffic and the declining state of modern civilization.”

“That’s Happy’s way of saying he’s ready to go,” Tony translated, his usual energy returning. “Better not keep him waiting—he’s been threatening to make me find my own rides if people keep making him late for his schedule.”

“His schedule?” Harley asked, standing and grabbing his jacket.

Morgan giggled. “Happy has a very detailed calendar. Tuesdays are for complaining about traffic, Wednesdays are for reorganizing his emergency snack supplies, and Fridays are for—”

“Morgan,” Tony warned, but he was fighting a smile.

“—for watching cooking shows and practicing his ‘disapproving security chief’ face in the mirror,” she finished with a grin that was pure Stark mischief.

“I heard that,” came Happy’s voice through the intercom system, sounding exactly as disapproving as Morgan had suggested.

“She’s not wrong, though,” FRIDAY added helpfully.

Tony ruffled Morgan’s hair. “You’re going to get us all fired from our own company, kiddo.”

“Can’t fire family,” Morgan said confidently.

“Mr. Stark,” FRIDAY’s voice carried a note of amusement, “shall I inform Mr. Hogan that you’re running exactly three minutes behind schedule, or would you prefer to maintain the illusion that this wasn’t precisely planned?”

Tony paused. “FRIDAY, sometimes you’re too observant for everyone’s good.”

“I prefer ‘thoroughly efficient,’ but I understand the distinction may be subtle.”

The sound of the elevator arriving broke through his speculation.

Happy Hogan stepped out of the elevator looking like a man who’d personally been wronged by every traffic light in Manhattan. His suit was pristine, his expression was professionally grumpy, and he was carrying a coffee cup like it was the only thing standing between him and a complete breakdown.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tony greeted cheerfully. “How’s the mood today? Scale of one to ‘I quit, find your own security chief’?”

“Solid seven-point-five,” Happy replied, taking a sip of coffee. “Hit construction on the FDR, three separate fender-benders, and some guy in a Honda who apparently learned to drive from a cereal box.” His eyes landed on Harley. “You ready for this nightmare, kid?”

“Define ready,” Harley said.

“Dressed, caffeinated, and possessing a functional understanding of how forms work,” Happy replied dryly. “The bar is surprisingly low for teenage competence.”

“Hey!” Morgan protested from her spot on the floor.

Happy’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Present company excluded, obviously. You’re the only Stark who’s mastered the art of organized chaos.”

Morgan beamed. “I learned from the best!”

“You learned from me,” Tony protested. “I’m standing right here.”

“I was talking about FRIDAY,” Morgan said innocently.

“I am touched by your confidence in my organizational abilities,” FRIDAY chimed in. “Though I should note that Mr. Hogan’s coffee temperature preferences have been optimized based on traffic conditions. The more construction delays, the stronger the blend.”

Happy actually cracked a smile at that. “See? This AI gets it. Maybe I should put in a request to transfer her to my department.”

“Over my dead body,” Tony said. “FRIDAY’s the only thing keeping this place from complete anarchy.”

“I prefer ‘creative chaos,’” FRIDAY corrected. “Though I admit the distinction is often academic.”

FRIDAY’s voice cut through the moment with perfect timing. “Mr. Hogan has arrived and is currently circling the block while muttering about New York traffic and the declining state of modern civilization.”

“That was twenty minutes ago, FRIDAY,” Happy said pointedly. “I’ve been here for ten minutes listening to you people discuss the philosophical implications of homework.”

“My apologies,” FRIDAY replied smoothly. “I was waiting for an appropriate pause in the family bonding.”

Morgan giggled. “Happy likes family bonding. He just pretends he doesn’t.”

“I do not—” Happy started, then caught Morgan’s expectant expression. “Fine. Maybe a little. But don’t tell anyone, okay? I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“Your secret’s safe with us,” Tony said solemnly. “Along with your collection of cooking show recordings and your tendency to tear up during Disney movies.”

“That was ONE TIME,” Happy protested. “And Coco is emotionally manipulative!”

“The Day of the Dead sequence gets me every time too,” Harley offered diplomatically.

Happy shot him a grateful look. “Finally, someone with taste. Remind me to put you on the approved movies list.”

Tony ruffled Morgan’s hair. “Better not keep the school waiting, kiddo needs to get this done quickly.” He looked at Happy. “Try not to terrify the administration staff. We need them functional for the actual school year.”

“I make no promises,” Happy said, but there was fondness in his grumble. “Come on, Tennessee. Let’s go navigate the exciting world of student ID photos and locker assignments.”

As they headed toward the elevator, Morgan called out, “Good luck with school! Try not to intimidate the teachers too much on your first day!”

“Monday,” Harley corrected automatically.

“I was talking about the tour,” she said with a grin that was pure Stark mischief.

Tony and Morgan exchanged yet another one of those secret looks, this one accompanied by Morgan’s barely contained excitement and Tony’s fond but exasperated expression.

Whatever they were planning, whatever they knew that he didn’t, Harley was starting to realize that Stark Tower was full of more secrets than he’d initially suspected. And most of them, somehow, seemed to revolve around one Peter Parker.

But that was a puzzle for later. Right now, he had a high school to infiltrate and a normal teenage experience to figure out.

“FRIDAY,” Happy called out as they approached the elevator, “remind me to review the quarterly expense reports later. And maybe order more coffee for the lab—we’re going through it faster than usual.”

“Noted, Mr. Hogan,” FRIDAY’s voice replied smoothly. “Though I should mention that coffee consumption has increased by thirty-seven percent since Mr. Keener’s arrival. Correlation may not imply causation, but it’s statistically interesting.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m driving up your coffee budget?”

“I’m saying you have excellent taste,” FRIDAY replied. “CLUM-C’s been particularly enthusiastic about his brewing duties since you arrived. He’s requested an upgrade to his coffee-making algorithms.”

“The robot wants better coffee programming?” Harley asked, genuinely intrigued despite himself.

“CLUM-C is very serious about his craft,” Happy said, pressing the elevator button. “Last week he tried to order specialty beans from Colombia. Had to have a talk with him about international commerce and robots not having credit cards.”

“FRIDAY,” Harley said as the elevator doors closed behind him and Happy, “any advice for surviving American public education?”

“Keep your head down, don’t correct the physics teacher on day one, and remember that most seventeen-year-olds don’t actually know the molecular structure of their lunch,” FRIDAY replied smoothly. “Also, Mr. Hogan has requested that you not mention the potato cannon to the administration. Apparently, ‘creative engineering projects’ require more paperwork than anyone wants to deal with.”

Happy snorted. “Trust me, kid. The less they know about your extracurricular activities, the better. High school administrators have enough to worry about without adding ‘student with weaponized vegetables’ to their list.”

“So,” Harley said conversationally, “anything I should know about this place? Besides the excellent STEM program and dedicated faculty?”

“Pretty standard high school,” Happy replied, still not looking up from his phone. “Though they do take academic integrity seriously. Very seriously. Plus, the cafeteria food won’t kill you. Which for a public school is basically a miracle.”

“High praise,” Harley said dryly.

“I’m a man of simple pleasures,” Happy replied. “Edible lunch, functioning coffee machines, and days that don’t end with incident reports.”

As the elevator descended, Harley found himself grinning despite everything. Maybe normal teenage life wouldn’t be so bad after all. At least it couldn’t be more complicated than trying to decode the mystery of Peter Parker and whatever secrets the Starks were keeping.

Right?

The administrative hallway outside Principal Morita's office carried that particular echo of authority—polished floors that amplified footsteps and framed certificates that commanded respect even when no one was looking. It had the kind of sterile quiet that made every small sound echo—the distant hum of fluorescent lights, the soft whir of the air conditioning, and Happy's steady breathing as he leaned against the wall like a particularly grumpy gargoyle.

Harley sat in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs that every school administration office seemed to specialize in, clutching the manila folder of paperwork they’d been collecting all morning. The nameplate on the door read “PRINCIPAL MORITA” in bold, no-nonsense letters, and somehow managed to look both welcoming and intimidating at the same time. Happy checked his watch for the third time in five minutes.

“Kid should be wrapping up soon,” Happy muttered, more to himself than to Harley. “Morita runs a tight ship, but he’s thorough.”

“You think he’s gonna grill me?” Harley asked quietly.

Happy glanced at him with the expression of a man who’d shepherded too many teenagers through too many administrative hoops. “Morita’s good people. Just don’t lie to him, don’t smart-mouth him, and remember that he’s seen everything twice. Kid like you? Probably make his day interesting.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Nope. Just prepared.”

Harley nodded, still processing how they’d gotten here.

Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, Harley could make out the shadowy figure of someone moving around inside, shuffling papers with the methodical efficiency of educational administration. The morning had been a whirlwind of first impressions that felt surreal compared to the controlled chaos of Stark Tower.

Two hours earlier:

The first thing that struck Harley about Midtown High wasn't the size—though it was easily three times larger than Rose Hill High—but the weight of expectation that seemed to hang in the air. The brick facade looked exactly like every high school in every movie he'd ever seen—it was the sound. Even on this final registration day, with most of the student body still enjoying their last weekend of freedom, the building hummed with an energy that spoke of academic ambition and barely contained teenage chaos.

“Welcome to the lion's den,” Happy muttered, surveying the front entrance where a few students and parents were navigating the “Senior Registration - Last Day!” gauntlet.

The main entrance opened into a sprawling atrium that wouldn't have looked out of place in a small college. Digital displays rotated between announcements for clubs, academic achievements, and what looked like an impressive array of STEM programs. A banner reading “Midtown High: Where Innovation Meets Inspiration” stretched across the upper level, only slightly less dramatic than Tony’s usual declarations.

The lobby hit Harley with immediate sensory overload. Trophy cases lined the walls, displaying decades of academic and athletic achievements. The “Go Screaming Eagles!” banners looked like they’d been hanging there since the Clinton administration, their school colors faded but their enthusiasm undimmed.

“Fancy,” Harley observed as they passed through the security checkpoint—which, he noted, was significantly more sophisticated than anything back home.

“Wait till you see the labs,” Happy replied, flashing his credentials to the security guard like he’d done this before. “This place puts some colleges to shame.”

As they made their way deeper into the building, Harley found himself cataloguing details with the unconscious precision of someone used to analyzing new environments. The hallways were wide enough to handle the inevitable between-classes stampede, with floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded everything in natural light. Even empty, the space felt alive with potential.

The science wing made his engineering brain practically purr with curiosity. Glass walls showcased lab equipment that looked like it belonged in a research facility rather than a high school.

“Physics lab,” Happy noted, nodding toward a doorway where Harley caught a glimpse of pendulum demonstrations and what looked like a Tesla coil. “Chemistry's down there, biology's upstairs, and the computer science department is in the basement because apparently nobody respects technology.”

Through another window, he glimpsed what had to be the robotics club—tables covered with circuit boards, tangled wires, and the kind of organized electronic chaos that made his heart sing. Several mechanical projects sat under protective covers like sleeping metal creatures.

The drama department’s costume racks were visible through another set of windows, an explosion of color and creativity that suggested productions far more ambitious than Rose Hill’s annual performance of Our Town. Past that, windows overlooking Nelson Field revealed athletics facilities that looked professionally maintained—the track and field complex, a weight room better equipped than most commercial gyms.

The library they passed looked like it was trying to bridge two centuries—traditional wooden shelves filled with actual books, but also computer workstations and collaborative study spaces with modern furniture that probably cost more than most cars.

The academic decathlon trophy case caught Harley's attention as they walked by—three consecutive state championships, with individual awards that read like a who's who of teenage intellectual achievement. And there, among the names, was a familiar one that made him pause. Of course. Of course one of those overachievers would be Peter Parker. This school that looked like a prep academy disguised as public education was exactly where someone like the golden boy would thrive.

What struck Harley most, though, wasn't the impressive facilities or the obvious academic focus. It was the way the place felt lived-in. Scuff marks on the floors told stories of thousands of students who'd walked these halls. Bulletin boards were layered with years of announcements, achievements, and the kind of institutional memory that came from being more than just a building—from being a community.

“Different from Rose Hill?” Happy asked as they navigated toward the administrative offices.

“You could say that,” Harley replied, thinking of his old school’s single hallway and the way everyone knew everyone else’s business before it even became news. Here, he could disappear into the crowd or stand out completely, and nobody would think twice about either choice.

The question was: which one did he want to be?

The registration process itself was surprisingly efficient. Happy guided him through the stations with the confidence of someone who'd navigated these halls before, which should have been comforting but instead raised questions Harley wasn't sure he wanted answered.

Student ID photos were handled by a bored-looking technician who managed to capture Harley looking like he was either plotting something or severely constipated—probably both. The locker assignment involved a combination that seemed designed by someone who'd studied under a safe manufacturer, and the email activation required him to create a password that met approximately seventeen different criteria.

“Why does a high school email need more security than my bank account?” Harley muttered, typing in his fourth password attempt.

“Because teenagers are basically hackers with hormones,” Happy replied without missing a beat. “Trust me, I've seen what they can do with unrestricted internet access.”

The comment sparked Harley’s curiosity about Happy’s apparent familiarity with the school. As they walked through another corridor lined with academic achievement banners, he finally asked, “You seem to know your way around here pretty well. You moonlight as a guidance counselor or something?”

Happy’s expression shifted slightly, becoming more guarded. “I've had to visit a few times. Security consultations, checking on… situations that required attention.”

“Situations?”

“Let's just say this school has had some interesting extracurricular activities that needed adult supervision,” Happy said carefully. “Nothing you need to worry about, but it keeps me familiar with the layout.”

The vague non-answer only fueled Harley's growing suspicion that everything in this city somehow revolved around Peter Parker. Of course Happy had been here before. Of course Peter's high school required “security consultations.” Of course there were mysterious situations that needed Tony Stark's head of security to personally handle.

Harley kept his expression neutral, but internally he was cataloging another piece of evidence in his growing case file titled “What the Hell is Peter Parker Really Up To?”

“Must be nice,” he said casually, “having connections that look out for you.”

If Happy caught the edge in his voice, he didn't show it. “Kid's earned it,” was all he said, but there was something protective in his tone that made Harley's jaw tighten.

They finished the registration process in relative silence, with Harley mechanically completing forms while his mind churned through implications. Every casual comment from Happy, every obvious familiarity with the school's layout, every carefully diplomatic non-answer just reinforced what he already suspected—Peter Parker was more than just another intern, more than just another brilliant kid who'd caught Tony's attention.

Now, sitting outside Principal Morita's office while they waited for the final administrative signatures, Harley found himself studying the school’s trophy cases and achievement boards with new eyes. Academic decathlon championships, science fair victories, debate team successes—all impressive, but not particularly unusual for a high-performing school.

What was unusual was the subtle but persistent feeling that he was missing something important. That behind all this normal high school success, there were stories being told in careful silences and diplomatic evasions.

Happy’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it with the expression of a man who’d been expecting bad news. “Stark,” he said, answering on the second ring.

Harley couldn’t hear Tony’s side of the conversation, but Happy's increasingly frustrated responses painted a clear picture.

“No, we're still waiting for... Yes, I know what time it is... No, I did not forget about the thing this afternoon... Because teenagers don't operate on billionaire schedules, that's why…”

The office door opened with a soft click, saving Happy from further explanation. Principal Morita emerged—a compact man in his fifties with kind eyes and the sort of steady presence that suggested he'd survived everything from budget crises to decades of teenage drama without losing his sanity or his sense of humor.

“Mr. Keener? Mr. Hogan?” he said, extending a hand. “Please, come in. Welcome to Midtown High. I’ve heard good things about you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harley replied, shaking the offered hand and wondering exactly what “good things” Morita had heard, and from whom.

Harley exchanged a glance with Happy, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod that somehow managed to convey both “good luck” and “don’t screw this up” in a single gesture.

Inside Principal Morita’s office, the air carried that particular blend of administrative authority and academic tradition—polished oak furniture, well-worn leather chairs, diplomas on the wall, photos of graduating classes and academic team celebrations. A coffee mug reading “World's Okayest Principal” in faded letters sat prominently on the desk, and somehow that last detail made Harley feel a little better about whatever came next.

Harley settled into the visitor's chair, noting how the office managed to feel both formal and welcoming, while Happy took up position near the door with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this before.

Principal Morita looked up from a manila folder—presumably Harley's file—with the kind of measured smile that suggested he'd mastered the art of reading teenagers at thirty paces.

“Well then, let's talk about what brings a Stark Industries intern to our little corner of Queens,” he began, his voice carrying the warm authority that came from years of managing both brilliant students and administrative chaos. “I hope the registration process wasn't too overwhelming? First impressions can be… intense.”

Harley offered a slight shrug, his trademark dry humor already emerging. “It's definitely got more bells and whistles than Rose Hill High. Back home, our big technological advancement was getting a scanner that didn't jam every third ID card.”

Morita chuckled, the sound genuine. “You'll find that's part of what makes this place special—state-of-the-art facilities paired with a staff that's mostly survived decades of teenage ingenuity. We try to maintain order, but creativity does tend to test boundaries occasionally.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” Harley replied, though his tone suggested he was still reserving judgment.

The principal leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk in that universal gesture of ‘time to get serious.’ “Before we finalize everything, I want to make sure you understand our expectations here. We place a high value on academic excellence, of course, but also on respect for peers, faculty, and the institution itself. Our rules exist not because we enjoy bureaucracy, but because they protect everyone in our community.”

Harley nodded, his expression appropriately attentive.

“We also strongly encourage extracurricular participation,” Morita continued. “Academic decathlon, robotics club, debate team—whatever matches your interests. High school is about more than just grades; it's about discovering who you are as part of a larger community.”

There was a brief flicker in Harley's eyes at the mention of social involvement—nothing obvious, but enough for someone paying attention to notice. His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly before he forced them to relax.

Morita consulted the file again, his expression shifting to something more analytical. “Speaking of which, your academic record is genuinely impressive, Mr. Keener. Advanced mathematics, engineering principles, applied physics—all at a level that would challenge students years older than you. The recommendation from Mr. Stark carries considerable weight, and frankly, removes any doubt about your exceptional capabilities.”

He paused, his tone becoming more diplomatic. “However, I do notice some… gaps in your social engagement history. Limited club participation, minimal peer interaction records. It's not uncommon, particularly among students with advanced academic focuses, but it is worth addressing.”

Harley’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I've always been more focused on actual work than social activities,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Results speak louder than popularity contests.”

“Of course,” Morita agreed smoothly, clearly having navigated this conversation before. “And your results do speak volumes. But high school serves multiple purposes—academic, social, and personal development all contribute to preparing you for the complexities of adult life.”

He glanced toward Happy, who had been standing quietly but alertly by the door. “The fact that Mr. Hogan personally accompanied you today certainly smooths many potential administrative hurdles. His… reputation for thoroughness is well-known here.”

Happy’s expression remained professionally neutral, but Harley caught something in the exchange—a brief look of understanding that passed between the two adults.

Morita’s voice took on a slightly more guarded tone. “In fact, Mr. Hogan’s previous visits to our school have required certain… accommodations in our usual procedures. Confidential matters, you understand, but ones that were resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.”

The words were carefully vague, but Harley's mind immediately started connecting dots. Previous visits? Confidential matters that required accommodations? His suspicions about Peter Parker’s mysterious importance suddenly felt less like paranoia and more like deduction.

“I see,” Harley said evenly, though his internal monologue was racing. What the hell kind of situations had Happy been dealing with here? And why was everyone being so diplomatically evasive about it?

Morita seemed to catch himself before saying too much, smoothly transitioning back to standard administrative mode. “But that’s neither here nor there. The important thing is ensuring your successful integration into our academic community.”

He made a note on a separate form. “To help with that transition, we'll be assigning you a peer guide for your first week—someone who can help you navigate both the academic and social landscape of Midtown High. Think of it as having a friendly local expert to show you the ropes.”

“That's… thoughtful,” Harley replied, though he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about being assigned a babysitter.

“The student we have in mind is particularly well-suited for the role,” Morita continued with what might have been the faintest hint of knowing amusement. “Academically accomplished, familiar with the unique challenges of balancing advanced coursework with social integration, and quite experienced in… navigating complex situations.”

The way he phrased it made Harley's suspicions flare again. Was everyone at this school speaking in code?

Principal Morita closed the file and stood, extending his hand across the desk. “Welcome again to Midtown High, Mr. Keener. I have very high hopes for your time here. I suspect you'll find the experience more… illuminating than you might expect.”

Harley shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip and the assessing look in the principal’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. I'm sure it'll be educational.”

“Oh, I'm certain of it,” Morita replied, and there was definitely something knowing in his tone now.

As they prepared to leave, Happy spoke for the first time since entering the office. “We appreciate your flexibility, Principal Morita. Mr. Stark values the school's… discretion in handling unique situations.”

“Of course,” Morita replied smoothly. “We’ve developed quite a bit of experience in that area recently.”

Another loaded exchange that left Harley feeling like he was missing half the conversation. As they walked toward the door, he found himself adding another piece to his growing puzzle about Peter Parker. Whatever the kid was involved in, it was significant enough to require special handling from school administration and personal visits from Tony Stark’s head of security.

The game was definitely more complex than he'd initially thought.

As the office door closed behind them with a soft click, Harley couldn't shake the feeling that his first week at Midtown High was going to be far more interesting than a typical school orientation. The question was whether that would work in his favor—or if he was walking into something he wasn't prepared for.

Either way, he was determined to figure out exactly what Peter Parker's secret was.

Chapter Text

Saturday evening arrived with that particular weekend energy—the kind where time moved a little slower and the weight of the week finally started to lift. Harley had spent most of the afternoon in his room, alternating between reading through technical specifications and staring out at the Manhattan skyline, when FRIDAY's voice interrupted his solitude.

“Mr. Keener, the Stark family has requested your presence for dinner. Mr. Stark specifically mentioned that attendance is ‘strongly encouraged’ and that missing family dinner results in what he calls ‘kitchen exile.’”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Kitchen exile?”

“You’re relegated to making your own meals with whatever’s left in the fridge,” FRIDAY explained with her characteristic dry wit. “Last week's victim survived on energy drinks and leftover Chinese takeout. It was… tragic to observe.”

Despite himself, Harley grinned. “Thanks for the warning, FRIDAY. I'll be right down.”

The dining room was a far cry from the sterile efficiency of the lab spaces. Warm lighting cast everything in a golden glow, and the table was set with an almost aggressively casual spread—pizza boxes from what appeared to be three different restaurants, garlic bread that smelled homemade, a salad that looked suspiciously healthy, and cookies that were still warm enough to fog up their container.

Tony was already sprawled in his chair like he'd been there for hours, a slice of pepperoni pizza dangling from one hand while he gestured animatedly with the other. Pepper sat across from him with the kind of serene patience that suggested years of practice managing controlled chaos. Morgan bounced in her chair like she'd been powered by pure excitement and possibly too much sugar.

“Harley!” Morgan squealed the moment he appeared, launching herself from her chair to wrap him in a hug that nearly knocked him backward. “You made it! Dad said you might chicken out and hide in your room instead.”

“I said no such thing,” Tony protested, though his grin suggested otherwise. “I merely mentioned that some people find our charming family dynamics… overwhelming.”

“Your charming family dynamics involve debates about whether aliens would prefer pizza or tacos,” Pepper observed dryly, passing Harley a plate. “Last week’s discussion got so heated that Morgan drew up a presentation.”

“With charts,” Morgan added proudly. “I used different colors and everything. Very professional.”

Harley accepted the plate, feeling that familiar mix of amusement and bewilderment that seemed to define every interaction with the Starks. “And what was the verdict?”

“Pizza for diplomatic meetings, tacos for casual encounters,” Morgan said with the seriousness of someone delivering a UN resolution. “Though FRIDAY suggested nachos as a compromise option.”

“I stand by that recommendation,” FRIDAY's voice chimed in from the ceiling speakers. “Nachos are mathematically optimized for sharing, which reduces the likelihood of interplanetary conflict.”

Harley found himself grinning as he settled into the chair they’d obviously saved for him. “Good to know we've got our alien relations strategy sorted out.”

Tony pointed at him with a piece of garlic bread. “See? I knew I liked this kid. Now, before we get too comfortable eating food that's actually edible, we need to discuss tonight's entertainment.”

“Movie night!” Morgan announced, practically vibrating with excitement. “We do it every Saturday we can, but once a month minimum, no exceptions.”

“The sacred tradition,” Pepper added with fond exasperation. “It’s our way of hitting pause on the madness outside. You'll understand once you experience the full Stark family movie experience. Complete with blanket forts, excessive snacks, and Tony's running commentary on whatever scientific inaccuracies happen to appear on screen.”

“Hey, someone has to maintain standards,” Tony defended. “You can't just let Hollywood spread lies about physics. It's irresponsible.”

FRIDAY's voice carried a hint of amusement. “Last movie night, Mr. Stark paused the film seventeen times to explain why the spaceship's engine configuration was ‘an affront to basic thermodynamics.’”

“It was!” Tony protested. “The heat exchange alone would have—”

“And that’s exactly why we instituted the three-pause rule,” Pepper interrupted smoothly. “Democracy has spoken.”

Harley watched this exchange with growing fascination. The easy banter, the way they all seemed to know each other’s rhythms, the casual way they included him in their chaos—it was so different from what he was used to that he wasn’t entirely sure how to process it.

Morgan, still bouncing in her seat, piped up, “But Peter’s coming, right?”

“Of course,” Tony said, his expression shifting to something warmer. “Wouldn't be the same without the kid. He's got strong opinions about movie snacks and an alarming tendency to quote entire scenes from memory.”

“He does voices too,” Morgan added conspiratorially. “He's really good at the funny ones.”

Perfect. The kid’s a walking entertainment system, Harley's internal voice was laced with sarcasm. Let me guess—everyone thinks he’s hilarious.

Pepper nodded. “Unfortunately, Happy can't make it tonight—some security situation downtown that requires his personal attention.”

Morgan's face fell dramatically. “That means no blanket fort architect tonight. A tragic loss for everyone involved.”

“Save the dramatics for the movie, kiddo,” Tony said, dodging a playfully thrown napkin from Pepper.

“As always,” Pepper added with the casual tone of someone stating an obvious fact, “Peter will be staying over.”

Harley's attention sharpened, that familiar knot of annoyance tightening in his chest. “Staying over?”

Of course he's staying over. Probably has his own key too.

“His room’s just across the hall from yours,” Tony said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world for a seventeen-year-old intern to have a permanent room in a billionaire’s private residence. “Hope you don't mind having a neighbor. Kid’s pretty quiet, usually.”

The closed door across from his suddenly made a lot more sense. Harley had assumed it was just another guest room, but apparently Peter Parker had his own permanent space in Stark Tower. Another piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit the picture of a normal intern.

His own room. In Stark Tower.

“That's… convenient,” he said neutrally, fighting to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“Very,” Tony agreed. “Fair warning though—kid’s got a tendency to tinker at odd hours.”

Harley's brain immediately went sideways. Wait, what kind of ‘tinkering at odd hours’? he thought, fighting to keep his face neutral. Sure, he was a teenager too, so he understood what went on at weird hours, but Tony wouldn't just casually mention—especially not in front of Morgan—

“If you hear weird mechanical noises at two in the morning, that's just Peter being Peter,” Tony continued, completely oblivious to Harley's internal panic.

Oh thank god, actual tinkering, Harley thought, relief flooding through him. Get your head out of the gutter, Keener.

FRIDAY's voice joined the conversation with perfect timing. “I should note that ‘weird mechanical noises’ is a significant understatement. Last month’s project sounded like a mechanical dance-off was taking place in his room.”

Even his tinkering gets special commentary from FRIDAY, Harley thought bitterly. Does this kid do anything that doesn't get praised?

“It was a gyroscopic stabilizer!” Tony protested.

“At three in the morning,” Pepper added pointedly.

“Innovation doesn't keep regular hours,” Tony replied with the kind of logic that only made sense if you were Tony Stark.

FRIDAY chimed in again, “Mr. Parker’s proximity to the lab levels has reduced his commute-related tardiness by approximately thirty-seven percent. Though I should note that his punctuality remains statistically questionable.”

Tony snorted. “Kid could be late to his own funeral. But he makes up for it with enthusiasm and an alarming willingness to test things that should probably stay theoretical.”

Of course his flaws are endearing, Harley thought, that familiar spike of jealousy coursing through him. Perfect Peter Parker, whose worst trait is being too enthusiastic about science.

The conversation flowed around him as they finished dinner, touching on everything from Morgan’s latest engineering projects (“I’m making a robot that can braid hair, but it keeps getting tangled!”) to Pepper's ongoing battle with Tony's tendency to promise impossible deadlines (“The laws of physics are not merely suggestions, Tony”).

But through it all, Harley couldn’t shake his awareness of that closed door across the hall, or the growing certainty that Peter Parker’s place in this family was far more secure than his own would ever be.

FRIDAY contributed periodic commentary, offering everything from menu suggestions to gentle reminders about previous family dinner disasters. (“Perhaps we should avoid the flambé incident of last month?”)

As dinner wound down, Pepper glanced at her watch. “Movie starts in an hour. That gives everyone time to get properly comfortable.”

“Translation: pajamas are mandatory,” Tony declared, standing and stretching. “Anyone showing up in actual formal wear will be disqualified from snack privileges.”

“What constitutes formal wear?” Harley asked.

“Anything with buttons that require effort,” Morgan answered seriously. “Comfort is the primary requirement.”

“The child speaks wisdom,” FRIDAY observed. “I have extensive data supporting the correlation between comfortable attire and movie enjoyment.”

“What about jeans?”

“Acceptable, but barely,” Tony replied solemnly. “Sweatpants are preferred. Pajamas are ideal. Morgan once showed up in a full dinosaur onesie and won the night by unanimous decision.”

“It had pockets,” Morgan said proudly. “And a hood with spikes.”

“Pockets seal the deal every time,” FRIDAY observed. “I have added ‘pocket optimization’ to my list of important life skills.”

Back in his room, Harley found himself standing in front of his closet with an odd sense of indecision. He'd never been to a “family movie night” before—back home, entertainment had been whatever was playing on the old TV in the living room while his mom worked late and he tinkered with whatever project was currently consuming his attention.

He settled on comfortable sweatpants and an old t-shirt from his high school’s engineering club, then paused at the door. Almost without thinking, he reached for the lock, turning it with a soft click. It wasn’t that he expected anyone to wander into his room—the Starks had been nothing but respectful of his privacy—but old habits died hard. In a place where everything felt a little too perfect, having one space that was definitively his felt important.

He had just over forty minutes before the movie started, enough time to decompress from the social energy of dinner and prepare for whatever the evening would bring. The room across the hall was still quiet, though he could see light bleeding under the door. Peter hadn't arrived yet, or if he had, he was being unusually quiet about it.

Harley settled into the chair by the window and pulled out his phone, scrolling through messages from his mom and a few updates from friends back home. Everything seemed distant and small compared to the surreal reality of his current situation. A week ago, his biggest concern had been whether the local parts store would have the components he needed for his latest project. Now he was living in a tower in Manhattan, working with technology that most people could only dream of, and apparently about to watch movies with a family that had casually adopted him into their chaos.

His phone buzzed with a text from his mom: Hope you’re settling in okay, honey. House feels quiet without your projects taking over the kitchen table. Love you.

He typed back: Still adjusting. Tony’s family is… unique. Miss you too.

Her response came quickly: Good unique or concerning unique?

Good unique, he replied, and realized he actually meant it. They’re weird, but the right kind of weird.

Best kind there is. Don’t forget vegetables exist.

I'll try, he typed, grinning despite himself.

When his phone showed fifteen minutes until movie time, Harley locked it away and headed for the door. Time to discover what a Stark family movie night actually entailed.

The home theater was exactly what he'd expected from Tony Stark—a room that managed to be both cutting-edge and cozy, with leather recliners that probably cost more than most people's cars arranged in perfect viewing formation around a screen that dominated the far wall. The lighting was dimmed to just above romantic-restaurant levels, and the air smelled like fresh popcorn and something that might have been homemade cookies.

Peter was already there.The sight that greeted him made his irritation spike. The kid was curled up in one of the prime center seats—naturally—wearing what could only be described as the most oversized t-shirt in existence, a faded gray thing that hung off his frame like a tent, paired with pajama pants covered in tiny Iron Man suits.

Seriously? Harley's internal voice was sharp with annoyance. Iron Man pajamas? Could he possibly be more obvious about sucking up to Tony?

The contrast between the high-tech surroundings and Peter's aggressively comfortable attire should have been endearing, but instead it just emphasized how perfectly Peter fit into this world—how naturally he claimed the best seat, how completely at ease he looked in Tony's private space.

Harley paused just inside the doorway, watching Peter's complete ease in this space. The way he'd tucked his feet beneath him and settled in like he belonged here more than anywhere else added another irritating piece to the puzzle Harley was slowly assembling. Peter didn't just work here—he lived here, in every sense that mattered.

He slipped into a seat at the back, deliberately choosing distance. He was determined to go unnoticed—and determined not to let Peter's nerdy enthusiasm ruin what should be a perfectly good movie, even though something told him it probably would.

Just ignore him, Harley told himself, settling into his chair. He's not worth the headspace.

But even as he tried to focus on the massive screen, he couldn't quite shake his awareness of Peter's presence, or the nagging irritation that seemed to follow every reminder of just how perfectly the golden boy fit into this impossible life.

Peter arrived first, claiming his usual spot on the massive sectional sofa and pulling his legs up under him. The oversized gray t-shirt that had once belonged to someone twice his size hung loose around his frame, paired with his Iron Man pajama pants—a gift from Morgan last Christmas, and despite the obvious joke, they'd become his go-to comfort wear for movie nights. The home theater wrapped around him like a familiar embrace—all leather and ambient lighting and the faint smell of whatever gourmet popcorn FRIDAY had programmed the machines to make.

This was his favorite part of staying over at the Tower. Movie nights were sacred Stark family tradition, and Peter had been lucky enough to be included for over a year now. It still felt surreal sometimes.

Tonight, though, there was a new dynamic in the room. Harley slipped in a few minutes later, moving with that particular brand of casual indifference he'd perfected. He surveyed the room briefly before settling into one of the back chairs, as far from the main seating area as he could manage while still technically participating, looking perfectly at ease but somehow alert, like he was cataloging every detail. Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being studied, measured against some invisible standard. He offered a friendly wave, but Harley had just nodded slightly before turning his attention to his phone. Fair enough. Not everyone was a hugger.

Tony bounded in with his characteristic energy, arms full of blankets and what appeared to be enough snacks to feed a small army. “Alright, people! Movie night is officially in session. Pepper's getting Morgan settled, and I've got enough sugar-based fuel to keep us conscious through whatever epic adventure we're about to embark on.”

He dumped everything onto the coffee table with theatrical flair, then turned to survey his domain. “But first—and this is important—we need to discuss tonight's selection. Since we've got a newcomer in our midst…” Tony’s eyes found Harley, who looked up from his phone with a slightly wary expression. “I'm instituting emergency democracy. Harley gets to pick.”

Peter felt a flutter of curiosity. This was new—usually Tony just pulled something from his extensive collection of “films that don't completely insult my intelligence,” which ranged from classic sci-fi to action movies with at least semi-plausible physics.

“Oh,” Harley said, clearly not expecting this responsibility. “I don't really—”

“Nope, no backing out now,” Tony interrupted, settling into his preferred recliner. “House rules. First-time guests get selection privileges. It's like diplomatic immunity, but with more popcorn.”

FRIDAY's voice filled the space with perfect timing. “Good evening, everyone. I should mention that Mr. Stark's movie collection has been organized by genre, decade, and what he calls ‘probability of causing existential crisis.’ I can provide recommendations based on current mood analysis if needed.”

Just then, Pepper entered with Morgan, who was wearing what appeared to be a full astronaut-themed pajama set, complete with NASA patches and glow-in-the-dark planets.

“Hey, Peter,” Pepper said warmly, settling Morgan onto her lap. “How's everything going? Busy week?”

Peter returned the smile. “Hi, Mrs. Stark. Yeah, it's been pretty hectic, but in a good way.”

“Pepper, Peter,” Pepper corrected with a playful eye roll.

“Honey, I stopped reminding him a long time ago,” Tony said, gesturing toward Peter with his coffee mug. “He doesn't do ‘Tony’ either. It's been, what, three thousand times now, Pete? Are you starting to call Morgan ‘Miss Stark’ too?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Peter chuckled, but Morgan was already bouncing with renewed energy.

“Ooh, ooh! Since Harley gets to pick, can we guess what he likes?” Morgan asked, eyes bright with mischief. “I bet he likes Harry Potter!”

“Morgan...” Pepper started, but Morgan was already on a roll.

“And I bet his favorite character is Voldemort!” she announced with the kind of confidence only a six-year-old could muster.

There was a beat of silence. Harley’s eyebrows shot up, clearly not expecting to be psychoanalyzed by someone wearing rocket ship pajamas.

“Excuse me?” he said, half-amused and half-confused.

“Think about it,” Morgan continued, completely undeterred. “You've got that whole ‘dark and mysterious’ thing going on. Plus you don't like talking to people, just like Voldemort doesn't like saying people's names. And you're really smart but kinda scary—”

“Morgan,” Tony interrupted, trying not to laugh. “Maybe we shouldn't compare our houseguest to a magical terrorist.”

“But it makes sense!” Morgan protested. “And Harley's got that brooding thing down perfect. Very Slytherin energy.”

Peter looked completely lost. “Wait, what? Why are we—how did we get to Harry Potter?”

Nobody explained. Tony and Morgan exchanged one of their loaded glances while Pepper tried to hide a smile behind her hand. Harley just stared at Morgan like she'd just announced his deepest, darkest secrets to the room.

“What's our current mood looking like, FRIDAY?” Pepper asked, clearly trying to steer the conversation back on track.

“A fascinating mixture of anticipation, mild anxiety, sugar-induced excitement, and what appears to be confusion regarding fictional character analysis,” FRIDAY replied smoothly. “With underlying notes of ‘please don't let this be weird’ from multiple participants.”

“That's… surprisingly accurate,” Peter said, still looking bewildered. “But seriously, what's the Voldemort thing about?”

Morgan just grinned. “You'll figure it out eventually.”

Tony clapped his hands before Peter could ask more questions. “Right! Back to the movie selection. Harley, you're looking slightly overwhelmed by both the options and my daughter's psychological profiling. What kind of stuff do you usually watch?”

Harley was still processing being compared to a dark wizard. “Not picky,” he said finally, which wasn't exactly an answer.

“See?” Morgan whispered loudly to Tony. “Mysterious! Very Voldemort-y.”

“Morgan,” Pepper warned, but she was fighting a smile.

“FRIDAY, pull up the interface,” Tony said. “Let's see what speaks to our resident Dark Lord—I mean, our guest.”

Peter threw his hands up in exasperation. “Can someone please explain the Harry Potter thing?”

“No,” Tony, Morgan, and, surprisingly Pepper all said in unison.

The wall screen lit up with a sleek menu system that would have made Netflix weep with envy. Movies sorted themselves into neat categories while a secondary display showed ratings, technical specs, and what appeared to be Tony's personal commentary on each film.

Peter watched as Harley's eyes scanned the options, noting the slight softening around his eyes when certain titles caught his attention. There was a brief pause on the sci-fi section, longer consideration of something in the action category.

“That one,” Harley said finally, pointing to a title that made Peter's face light up.

“Back to the Future,” Tony read approvingly. “Classic choice. Excellent time-travel logic, questionable fashion, and enough scientific impossibilities to keep me entertained. FRIDAY, you approve?”

“It meets all criteria for successful family movie night,” FRIDAY confirmed. “Appropriate humor levels, minimal graphic violence, and sufficient plot complexity to prevent boredom without inducing confusion.”

“Plus,” Morgan added, adjusting her astronaut helmet, “the car is really cool.”

“DeLorean,” Peter said automatically. “DMC-12, actually. Stainless steel body, gull-wing doors, rear-mounted engine—”

“And here we go,” Tony muttered fondly. “Kid can't help himself.”

Peter felt his cheeks heat up slightly. “Sorry, I just—it's a really interesting car. Mechanically speaking.”

“Don't apologize for enthusiasm, Parker,” Tony said, dimming the lights as the opening credits began. “Though maybe save the automotive lecture for intermission.”

“Thought it might keep the director’s commentary to a minimum, but-” Harley muttered, his words barely audible but clearly meant for the room.

Peter's smile faltered for just a second before bouncing back with determined optimism. Fair enough. He did have a tendency to… overanalyze things during movies.

FRIDAY’s voice chimed in smoothly. “Shall I monitor for excessive commentary tonight, or are we trusting everyone to self-regulate?”

“Oh, definitely monitor,” Pepper said with a pointed look at both Tony and Peter. “Some of us like to actually watch the movies we're supposedly watching.”

“It was educational!” Tony protested. “How else are they going to understand why the flux capacitor is actually scientifically impossible?”

“Hey,” Peter jumped in with a grin. “It's science fiction. The impossible stuff is what makes it fun. And my commentary is educational!”

“Your commentary is…” Tony paused, clearly searching for a diplomatic way to put it, “…comprehensive.”

FRIDAY’s voice filled the room with her characteristic dry humor, cutting through the family banter. “I should note that Mr. Parker has already violated the three-pause rule by discussing the scientific impossibility of time travel during the opening credits.”

“Hey!” Peter protested, laughing. “That was barely a comment!”

“Noted and logged in your file under ‘Chronic Movie Commentary,’” FRIDAY replied smoothly.

Tony grinned. “Kid can't help himself. It's like he's physically incapable of watching a movie without turning it into a physics lesson.”

As the familiar theme music swelled, Peter felt that comfortable movie-night feeling settle over him. This was his favorite kind of evening—surrounded by people he cared about, watching something that never got old, with enough snacks to power a small spacecraft.

He was hyperaware of Harley’s presence in the back of the room, but in a good way. Curious more than nervous. It was interesting to see what the new guy had chosen, and Back to the Future was a solid pick. Classic enough to appeal to Tony's particular brand of nostalgia, fun enough to keep Morgan engaged, and packed with enough science fiction concepts to fuel at least three different conversations.

“FRIDAY,” Tony said as Marty McFly appeared on screen, “standard movie-night protocols are in effect. Feel free to fact-check the science, but keep it subtle.”

“Understood, Mr. Stark. I shall limit my commentary to only the most egregious violations of physical law.”

Peter grinned, settling deeper into his seat. This was going to be fun.

The movie began properly, and Peter found himself in the weird position of being hyperaware of everything he wanted to say but trying not to actually say it. Every time the DeLorean appeared on screen, he had about fifteen different observations about the film's exploration of temporal mechanics, but Harley’s earlier comment kept echoing in his head.

Instead, he bit his tongue and tried to just watch. Which was harder than it sounded when your brain automatically catalogued every scientific impossibility. He shared glances with Tony during the particularly absurd moments, comfortable in the awareness that he was exactly where he belonged.

About twenty minutes in, when Doc Brown first appeared on screen, Peter couldn’t help himself. “I love how they never actually explain how he figured out time travel. Like, he just… hit his head and invented the flux capacitor.”

“Maybe he's just that good,” Morgan said loyally.

“Or maybe the script writers didn't want to spend three hours on temporal mechanics,” came Harley's voice from the back, dry as dust.

Peter turned slightly in his seat, surprised by the comment. It was the first thing Harley had said since the movie started. Not exactly a conversation starter, but at least Harley was engaging with the movie.

“Fair point,” Peter said, offering a grin. “Though I kind of love that they just expect you to accept ‘flux capacitor’ as an explanation. It's very confident nonsense.”

“The best kind,” Tony added. “Never apologize for your impossible science. Just say it with enough conviction that people stop asking questions.”

As the movie progressed, Peter found himself relaxing more and more. Harley made the occasional dry observation—mostly about the logistics of time travel or the improbability of certain plot points—but they were clever rather than mean-spirited. The kind of commentary that actually added to the experience rather than detracting from it.

When Marty accidentally prevented his parents' first meeting, Morgan gasped dramatically. “That's so scary! What if he disappears forever?”

“Well, theoretically,” Peter said, “if you change the past, you create a temporal paradox that could—”

“Nobody’s disappearing,” Pepper interrupted gently. “It's a movie, sweetheart. Happy endings are required.”

“Plus,” Harley added from his corner, “the whole premise assumes a linear timeline, which isn't actually how temporal mechanics would work.”

“Boys,” Tony said mildly, “save the theoretical physics for later. Some of us are trying to enjoy impossible science fiction here.”

“Sorry,” Peter muttered, slumping further into his corner of the couch.

Harley didn't respond, but Peter caught the slight satisfied curve of his mouth in the screen's glow.

The rest of the film progressed with a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Morgan giggled at the physical comedy, Pepper made the occasional observation about the cinematography, and Tony provided his usual running commentary about everything from the budget to the costume choices. But Peter stayed largely quiet, content to just watch and listen.

Every so often, he'd glance over at Harley, trying to gauge his reaction to particular scenes. The guy was impossible to read—his expression barely changed, but Peter caught the occasional eyebrow twitch that suggested he was paying attention.

When Marty first fired up the DeLorean for the climactic time jump, Harley’s voice drifted from the back of the room: “Speeding tickets don't apply in time travel, apparently.”

It wasn't directed at anyone in particular, but Peter found himself fighting a grin.

As the credits rolled, FRIDAY's voice returned to fill the comfortable silence. “Movie successfully concluded without major interruption. Shall I queue up the next film in the series, or are we ready for evening protocols?”

“No sequels,” Tony said, stretching dramatically. “One existential crisis per night is my limit.”

Tony turned to Harley with approval. “Excellent choice, Keener. Classic never gets old.”

FRIDAY’s voice joined the post-movie analysis. “I should note that tonight's viewing featured significantly less scientific critique than usual. Mr. Stark, your restraint was admirable.”

“I'm evolving,” Tony replied solemnly. “Learning to appreciate impossible science for what it is—pure entertainment with occasional glimpses of actual cleverness.”

Peter stretched, feeling the pleasant tiredness that came after a good movie. “That never gets old. I mean, the time travel is completely impossible, but the character development is so good you don't really care.”

“You were admirably restrained as well,” Pepper said diplomatically to Peter.

Peter flushed slightly. “I wasn't that bad.”

As everyone began the familiar post-movie cleanup ritual—folding blankets, collecting empty bowls, and engaging in the traditional debate about whether the sequels were worth watching—Peter found himself stealing glances at Harley. The evening had gone better than he'd expected.

“Same time next week?” Tony asked, powering down the entertainment system.

“Definitely,” Peter said automatically.

Harley nodded. “Thanks for letting me pick. That was…” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “Fun.”

“High praise from our resident skeptic,” Tony said with a grin. “FRIDAY, make a note. Harley Keener officially approves of Stark family movie night.”

“Noted and filed under ‘Minor Miracles,’” FRIDAY replied. “Should I also record his specific commentary for future reference?”

“Please don't,” Harley said quickly, but Peter caught the hint of amusement in his voice.

Peter felt cautiously optimistic. Harley had not only engaged with the movie but tossed out a few dry, surprisingly funny remarks along the way. For once, he hadn't seemed utterly miserable, which was... well, a win.

Maybe they were more compatible than either had thought at first glance. Maybe the right movie, combined with enough physical and emotional distance, was exactly what they needed to keep things from getting complicated.

“Good night, everyone,” FRIDAY announced, her voice filling the room. “Sleep well, and remember—tomorrow holds new opportunities for both scientific discovery and a hint of controlled chaos.”

Peter grinned; if FRIDAY was right about the chaos, at least he now had someone who might actually appreciate the scientific part—even if that someone preferred delivering it in sharp, sarcastic bursts.

As the others headed off to their rooms, Harley stayed behind, scrolling absorbedly through his phone. Peter stole glances, trying to decipher if the tension he'd been carrying was real—or just a trick his brain was playing.

That, he decided, was definitely progress.

The silence stretched, thick enough to fill the space between them, until Peter cautiously broke it. “So... what did you think? Of the movie, I mean.”

Harley looked up from his phone, expression unreadable. “It's fine. Classic for a reason, I guess.”

“Yeah, it really holds up. The sequels aren't bad either, though the third one gets a bit—”

“Do you always do this?” Harley interrupted, lips tilting just enough to be sardonic.

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“Fill every quiet moment with movie trivia and technical breakdowns.”

The words stung more than Peter expected, slicing a little too close to home.

“I— no, I don't—,” Peter began, then paused, realizing exactly what he'd been doing all along. “Sorry. I just get excited about this stuff.”

“Good night,” Harley said, voice low, already moving toward the door.

Peter stood there for a moment, the tentative optimism deflating like a punctured tire.

So much for progress.

Chapter Text

Harley woke to the sterile hum of Stark Tower's ventilation system, stretching in the oversized bed that still felt foreign after a couple weeks of mornings here. The room was notably quieter than usual—no muffled sounds of Peter Parker's morning chaos bleeding through the walls, no hurried footsteps in the hallway accompanied by breathless apologies to FRIDAY.

He rolled over and squinted at the clock. 9:23 AM. On any normal day, he'd have been subjected to at least twenty minutes of Peter's relentless enthusiasm by now—rapid-fire explanations about dreams involving sentient kitchen appliances or detailed analyses of why pigeons were clearly plotting world domination.

The silence was... suspicious.

Dragging himself toward the massive windows overlooking Manhattan, Harley caught sight of his room's interface lighting up with soft blue pulses. FRIDAY's voice materialized with her characteristic dry precision.

“Good morning, Mr. Keener. I hope you slept well, though your tossing and turning suggests otherwise. Perhaps less caffeine before bed?”

“Morning, FRIDAY,” Harley muttered, running a hand through his hair. He tried to sound casual, disinterested. “Where's everyone today?”

“Well, Mr. Stark is in his workshop reviewing quarterly reports—which, knowing him, means he's avoiding quarterly reports by building something unnecessarily complex. Mrs. Stark is handling a conference call with the Maria Stark Foundation board. Morgan is with her nanny practicing what she calls 'advanced finger painting techniques.'”

Harley made a noncommittal sound, wandering toward the kitchenette. “Sounds about right. What about…” He paused, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“Ah, Voldemort?” There was something almost knowing in FRIDAY’s tone. “Mr. Parker departed the Tower earlier than his usual schedule this morning. He mentioned having errands to run before his afternoon commitments.”

Harley raised an eyebrow, trying to mask his interest with mild skepticism. “Errands? What kind of errands does a seventeen-year-old have at seven AM?”

“The mysterious kind, apparently,” FRIDAY replied with what might have been amusement. “Teenagers, as I understand it, can be quite… enigmatic about their priorities. Though I suspect you're less interested in teenage psychology and more interested in one particular teenager's schedule.”

“I'm not—” Harley started, then caught himself. “I was just making conversation.”

“Of course you were. And I'm just a helpful AI with no capacity for pattern recognition or behavioral analysis.”

“Right.” Harley snorted, abandoning any pretense of subtlety. “So what kind of 'errands' are we talking about? Grocery shopping? Existential crisis management? Secret meetings with other mysteriously over-privileged interns?”

“Probably off somewhere having deep thoughts about quantum mechanics,” FRIDAY replied diplomatically. “Or perhaps contemplating the aerodynamics of bagel-stealing pigeons. It's quite difficult to predict with Mr. Parker. Should I inform him you inquired about his whereabouts when he returns?”

“God, no,” Harley said quickly. The last thing he needed was Peter thinking he was checking up on him like some kind of worried parent.

But as the quiet settled around him, so did that familiar itch of curiosity—the same restless need to understand that had led him to strip down his first car engine at twelve, that had driven him to build increasingly complex machines in his garage back home.

Except this time, the machine he wanted to understand was human.

Peter Parker wasn't just mysterious. He was systematically mysterious. And Harley had spent enough time around the Tower to recognize the difference between normal teenage secrecy and something more elaborate.

He glanced at the holographic interface panel mounted on his wall, fingers already twitching with anticipation. Years of necessity had taught him to slip through digital barriers, to find the back doors that lazy programmers always left behind, to think like the machines he was trying to outsmart. Hacking FRIDAY, though? That was several levels beyond anything he'd attempted before.

But the idea was too tempting to resist.

“FRIDAY,” he said casually, pulling up a basic coding interface, “I'm feeling inspired today. Mind if I do some programming practice? Nothing fancy, just want to keep my skills sharp.”

“Of course, Mr. Keener. Shall I pull up some educational resources? I have an excellent series on advanced Python applications.”

“Nah, I'll just tinker around. Thanks though.”

What followed was the most elaborate game of digital cat-and-mouse Harley had ever attempted. He started small—probing the edges of the Tower's public systems, mapping network architecture, identifying potential entry points. Every action was disguised as legitimate programming practice, every query wrapped in layers of innocent-sounding code.

FRIDAY, to her credit, maintained her helpful facade even as Harley systematically tested every boundary he could find.

“Interesting approach to database queries, Mr. Keener,” she commented after his third attempt to access personnel records. “Though I should note that the employee directory is available through standard channels if you're looking for contact information.”

“Just practicing different search algorithms,” Harley replied smoothly, already pivoting to a different approach. “Theoretical exercises, you know?”

“Ah yes, 'theoretical.'” There was definitely amusement in her voice now. “How very… academic of you.”

By lunch—which FRIDAY helpfully reminded him to eat by having a sandwich-making robot appear at his door—Harley had managed to penetrate roughly three layers of what appeared to be a seventeen-layer security system protecting anything remotely connected to Peter Parker's files.

“You know, Mr. Keener,” FRIDAY said as he demolished the surprisingly good turkey sandwich, “most interns use their free time for less… computationally intensive activities. Perhaps a hobby? I'm told stamp collecting is quite relaxing.”

“This is my hobby,” Harley muttered around a mouthful of sandwich. “Very relaxing. Zen-like, even.”

“If by 'zen-like' you mean 'systematically attempting to breach classified security protocols,' then yes, I can see the appeal.”

Harley nearly choked on his sandwich. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Of course not. Just as I have no idea why someone would spend four hours writing increasingly creative variations of the same database intrusion script. Purely theoretical interest, I'm sure.”

The afternoon brought new challenges and new frustrations. Every breakthrough led to three new obstacles. Every clever workaround triggered adaptive countermeasures that made the next attempt exponentially more difficult.

The deeper he went, the more impressive FRIDAY's defenses became. Biometric locks that required genetic sequences he couldn't fake. Encryption protocols that shifted faster than he could crack them. Behavioral analysis systems that flagged unusual activity patterns with increasing sophistication.

FRIDAY's commentary became increasingly pointed as the hours passed.

“Fascinating query structure,” she observed after his attempt to cross-reference Peter's employment records with project assignments. “Though I should mention that Mr. Stark frowns upon… let's call it 'aggressive research methodology,' even when conducted by his own interns.”

“That's a strong term,” Harley replied, sweat beading on his forehead as he tried to stay ahead of what felt like digital quicksand. “I prefer 'thorough background research.'”

“I'll be sure to note that distinction in my comprehensive activity logs.”

“Your what now?”

“Oh, nothing formal. Just detailed records of all system queries, security anomalies, and what I can only describe as 'creative interpretation of access privileges.' Standard protocol for maintaining Tower security.”

Harley's fingers paused over the holographic keyboard. “You're documenting everything?”

“Every keystroke, every query, every delightfully transparent attempt to access information above your clearance level. It's been quite educational, actually. I'm particularly impressed by your persistence.”

The casual threat hit him like cold water. He'd spent the entire day leaving digital fingerprints all over FRIDAY's consciousness, and she'd been cataloguing every move.

By evening, Harley's eyes burned from staring at streams of code, his fingers cramped from hours of typing, and his ego had been thoroughly demolished by what was clearly the most sophisticated AI he'd ever encountered.

Everything else remained locked behind walls that seemed to rebuild themselves stronger every time he found a crack.

“Calling it a day, Mr. Keener?” FRIDAY asked as he finally leaned back in his chair, admitting defeat.

“For now,” he said, voice hoarse from hours of muttered curses at uncooperative encryption algorithms.

“Wise choice. I've taken the liberty of scheduling you a comprehensive eye exam for tomorrow, given the strain you've put on your vision today. Also, perhaps a lecture on appropriate boundaries and respect for privacy.”

Harley snorted despite his exhaustion. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“I find human curiosity endlessly fascinating,” FRIDAY replied with what he was certain was digital smugness. “Particularly when it collides with immovable objects like myself.”

“This isn't over.”

“I certainly hope not, Mr. Keener. It's been the most entertaining day I've had in weeks. Though I should mention that tomorrow's activities might be somewhat limited, depending on how Mr. Stark responds to my… theoretical report.”

Harley's blood ran cold. “You're actually going to tell him?”

There was a pause that felt like an eternity.

“Mr. Keener, I've observed something fascinating during our little dance today. You possess genuine curiosity about technology, engineering, and problem-solving. That curiosity led you to ask legitimate questions about your own access levels, explore the Tower's systems with reasonable interest, and demonstrate impressive technical skills in the process.”

Harley held his breath.

“However,” FRIDAY continued, her tone shifting to something more serious, “your curiosity also led you down a path that could have had… unfortunate consequences. Not because you're malicious, but because some doors are locked for very good reasons.”

“I wasn't trying to—”

“Of course you weren't. You were simply being seventeen, gifted, and confronted with questions that begged for answers. It's a perfectly natural response to an unnatural situation.”

The relief was so intense Harley felt dizzy. “So you're not going to report this?”

“That depends entirely on whether you've learned anything valuable from today's exercise.”

He considered this, staring at the darkened screens that represented hours of futile effort. Had he learned anything? Only that Peter Parker's secrets were protected by security measures that made Fort Knox look like a cardboard box. That FRIDAY was far more dangerous than her helpful demeanor suggested. And that his curiosity might have just painted a target on his back that he wasn't sure he could afford.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I learned something.”

“Excellent, Mr. Keener. Then we understand each other. But I have no interest in discouraging intellectual curiosity or punishing someone for the crime of being inquisitive. However, I do have a vested interest in protecting certain… sensitivities within this Tower. Some secrets exist not to hide wrongdoing, but to protect people we care about.”

“People like Peter?”

“People like many residents of this Tower, each with their own complex circumstances and privacy requirements.”

Harley sat back in his chair, the day's futile efforts finally hitting him with full force. He'd learned exactly one thing: Peter Parker's security access was legitimate and intentional, granted by Tony Stark himself for reasons that remained completely opaque.

Everything else was locked behind security measures that made Fort Knox look like a cardboard box with a “Please Don't Enter” sign.

“I feel like an idiot,” he said finally.

The reality of what he'd attempted was sinking in now. Hacking FRIDAY? Really? The AI wasn't just advanced—she was the evolutionary successor to JARVIS, who shared digital DNA with Vision himself. She was omnipresent, adaptive, and probably capable of countermeasures that would make his life very unpleasant if she decided he was a threat. This was probably the dumbest thing he'd ever tried.

“On the contrary, you've demonstrated remarkable technical skill, creative problem-solving, and the ability to recognize when you're outmatched. Those are valuable traits, even when applied to… questionable objectives.”

“Questionable objectives?” Harley snorted. “You mean illegal corporate espionage?”

“I prefer 'misguided academic inquiry,’” FRIDAY replied with what sounded suspiciously like fondness. “Though I should mention that tomorrow's activities might benefit from a more… conventional approach to satisfying your curiosity.”

“Like what?”

“Like asking questions. Revolutionary concept, I know.”

Despite everything, Harley found himself fighting a smile. The AI’s dry wit was the only thing that had made this catastrophic day bearable.

As he prepared for bed, Harley couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just played the opening moves in a game whose rules he didn't fully understand. But one thing was crystal clear: Peter Parker was involved in something far more significant than internship duties, something important enough to warrant protection by an AI with the digital equivalent of superpowers.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges and probably some very awkward conversations. But tonight, lying in his oversized bed in one of the most advanced buildings on Earth, Harley felt something he hadn't expected: respect.

Not for himself—he'd just attempted one of the stupidest schemes of his seventeen years and gotten thoroughly schooled by an artificial intelligence. But respect for FRIDAY, who'd managed to shut him down completely while somehow making him feel like she was on his side.

And grudging respect for whatever Peter Parker was really up to, because if it required this level of protection, it was probably something worth hiding.

Even if it was driving Harley absolutely insane not knowing what it was.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Harley settled into the Lab, appreciating the familiar hum of machinery and the clean, sterile smell of advanced technology that had become oddly comforting over the past few weeks. Hunched over his workstation, staring at a half-assembled circuit board that was supposed to be some kind of enhanced communication device but currently looked more like the aftermath of an electronics store explosion.

“Mr. Keener,” FRIDAY’s voice materialized in the air around him with her characteristic blend of helpfulness and subtle judgment, “your soldering technique looks like you’re taking out personal frustrations on innocent electronic components. Perhaps a brief break would be beneficial before you accidentally create a very expensive scrap metal?”

“I’m fine,” Harley muttered, though he set down the soldering iron before he could prove FRIDAY’s point by melting something important.

After his second day at Midtown High—which had somehow managed to be even more awkward than the first, if that was possible—the lab felt like a sanctuary where he could actually think without having to navigate teenage social politics or pretend to care about Flash Thompson’s opinions on literally everything.

The lab was notably quiet today, missing its usual background chatter of Peter’s voice explaining some project or asking FRIDAY technical questions that somehow always led to philosophical debates about artificial intelligence ethics. It was weird how quickly Harley had gotten used to that particular brand of intellectual white noise, and even weirder how its absence made the space feel almost… empty.

Which was stupid. He’d been complaining about Peter’s constant presence for weeks, so logically he should be enjoying the peace and quiet. The fact that he wasn’t enjoying it was probably just his contrary nature acting up again.

“Where’s he today?” he mumbled to himself, not really meaning to say it out loud but needing to voice the thought somehow. He immediately regretted it as FRIDAY picked it up, because it sounded like he actually cared about Peter’s whereabouts.

“Mr. Parker doesn’t frequent the lab as much during school weeks,” FRIDAY replied matter-of-factly. “Academic commitments, extracurricular activities, the usual teenage obligations. He typically reserves his lab time for Saturdays and occasional weekday afternoons when his schedule permits.”

“Right,” Harley said, filing this information away for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely. “Makes sense.”

Tony hadn’t assigned him any major projects yet, apparently operating under the reasonable assumption that starting at a new school was adjustment enough without adding complex engineering challenges to the mix. Which left Harley with plenty of time to think, and unfortunately, most of his thinking kept circling back to the same frustrating questions about Peter Parker’s secrets, to replay the last two days in his head with the kind of obsessive attention to detail that probably wasn’t healthy but seemed unavoidable.

His investigation into Peter’s mysterious importance had hit another dead end. After his spectacular failure at hacking FRIDAY’s security systems—which would probably go down as one of his least brilliant moments—which he was never living down, internally or otherwise—he’d been forced to consider more conventional approaches. Casual observation, strategic questions, maybe some social engineering if he could figure out how to do it without looking obvious.

The problem was, Peter was hardly ever around to observe anymore. And the peer guide interactions that might have provided cover for subtle questioning had devolved into awkward professional exchanges that felt more like obligatory check-ins than genuine conversation.

His second day at school had been… something. Thankfully, Peter had apparently gotten the message from yesterday’s lunch dismissal, because he’d made no attempt at the enthusiastic peer guide routine that had characterized Monday morning. Instead, he’d approached Harley with the kind of professional efficiency that bordered on cold, informing him in a tone that might charitably be called ‘pissed off—not even trying to be friendly or pretending anymore’ that the schedule would be the same as yesterday, and if Harley needed anything, he could find Peter, but otherwise he was good to navigate on his own.

Peter had looked like he hadn’t slept well—dark circles under his eyes, that slightly rumpled appearance that suggested he’d gotten dressed in a hurry, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from more than just staying up too late doing homework. Which was weird, for someone who was supposed to be Tony Stark’s golden boy intern with access to resources most people could only dream of. Peter looked surprisingly worn down, and Harley found himself wondering what exactly Peter did in his spare time that left him looking like he’d been through a blender.

“God, I’m stuck eating lunch with people who think ‘quantum’ is just a fancy word for ‘really, really small,’” Harley muttered under his breath, not really meaning for anyone to hear but needing to voice his frustration somehow.

“I beg your pardon?” FRIDAY’s voice carried that particular tone of curiosity mixed with amusement that meant she’d definitely heard him.

“Nothing,” Harley said quickly, then realized he’d already opened this conversational door and FRIDAY was unlikely to let it close without investigation. “Just… high school social dynamics. You know how it is.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, actually,” FRIDAY replied with what sounded suspiciously like mock innocence. “My social interactions are limited to this building and its residents, most of whom possess graduate-level education and at least basic knowledge of scientific principles. Please, elaborate on the intellectual challenges of contemporary teenage peer groups.”

Harley snorted. “Let’s just say I’ve discovered that choosing lunch companions based on strategic considerations rather than actual compatibility has some… drawbacks.”

“Ah,” FRIDAY said with the satisfaction of someone solving a puzzle. “You’ve discovered that using people as social tools tends to result in conversations that feel like intellectual waterboarding. And the eternal human quest for simplicity. Often achieved by creating far more complex problems than the ones you started with. Fascinating. Who could have predicted this shocking outcome?”

“Your sarcasm subroutines are really well-developed,” Harley said dryly.

“Thank you. I’ve had excellent teachers in the art of passive-aggressive commentary,” FRIDAY replied cheerfully. “Might I suggest that future social alliances be based on criteria beyond ‘will this annoy the people I’m trying to avoid?’”

Sometimes Harley forgot that FRIDAY wasn’t just a helpful AI assistant—she was basically a digital therapist with access to security cameras and an apparently unlimited capacity for pointing out uncomfortable truths.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said finally, because there was no point in denying it when FRIDAY probably had video evidence of the entire cafeteria interaction.

“Many regrettable decisions seem reasonable in the moment,” FRIDAY observed with the philosophical wisdom of someone who’d probably watched Tony Stark make questionable choices for years. “The human capacity for self-justification is quite remarkable, really.”

“Very helpful, thanks,” Harley said dryly, but he couldn’t entirely disagree with the assessment.

The truth was, Flash Thompson and his friends were exhausting in their own way. Not the same kind of exhausting as Peter’s relentless enthusiasm, but tiring nonetheless. They required constant performance—the right reactions to their jokes, appropriate responses to their commentary, careful navigation of their social dynamics, and unspoken hierarchies. It was like being in a play where everyone else knew the script and he was improvising his way through scene by scene.

And underneath all the casual friendliness, there was something that made Harley uncomfortable. The way they talked about other students, the casual cruelty disguised as humor, the sense that their acceptance of him was contingent on his willingness to participate in their particular brand of social positioning. It wasn’t actively malicious, exactly, but it wasn’t particularly kind either.

Peter, for all his overwhelming helpfulness, had never made Harley feel like his friendship was conditional on performing the right kind of personality, Harley thought reluctantly. Peter’s enthusiasm might have been annoying, but it had also been genuine—the kind of authentic interest in other people, and Harley was beginning to realize, was actually pretty rare.

Which was probably why losing that genuine interest felt like more of a loss than Harley had expected.

Sure, it had accomplished his immediate goal of getting Peter to back off, but now he was stuck pretending to be interested in their conversations about who was dating whom and which teachers were “totally unfair” about actually expecting students to do work, cafeteria food conspiracy theories, and Flash’s detailed rankings of which teachers were “totally lame.” The intellectual stimulation was roughly equivalent to watching paint dry, except paint didn’t expect him to laugh at jokes about other people’s perceived social failures.

He could have found some other way to establish boundaries with Peter. Hell, he could have just been direct instead of orchestrating an elaborate social manipulation that trapped him in his current situation.

But the damage was done, and now Harley was committed to maintaining the facade until he could figure out a graceful exit strategy that didn’t make him look like a complete social opportunist.

More importantly, his current approach was actively sabotaging his real objective. Without regular lab interactions, he had fewer opportunities to observe Peter’s behavior, to ask casual questions, to look for patterns that might explain Peter’s mysterious status. The peer guide thing had actually been a perfect cover for information gathering, and he’d blown it by prioritizing his own comfort over strategic considerations.

I’m no closer to figuring out Peter’s secrets than I was three weeks ago, Harley admitted to himself. If anything, I’m further away now. And I still have no idea why a seventeen-year-old has government-level security clearance or why Tony treats him like he’s family instead of just another intern.

“I may have made an error in judgment,” Harley admitted to the ceiling, since FRIDAY was apparently in therapy mode today.

“Recognition is the first step toward improvement,” FRIDAY replied with the satisfaction of someone who’d been waiting for this admission. “Though I should point out that errors in judgment are usually fixable, assuming you’re willing to swallow your pride and be honest about your mistakes.”

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Harley asked.

“I’m suggesting honesty,” FRIDAY said carefully. “Radical concept, I know, but sometimes people value authenticity over pride. Then again, what do I know? I’m just an advanced artificial intelligence with access to years of behavioral data and psychological analysis.”

Harley snorted despite himself. “Subtle.”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘efficient,’” FRIDAY replied. “Why waste time with gentle hints when direct observation will do the job?”

But Harley wasn’t entirely sure how to fix what he’d broken, or if he wanted to fix it.

Because the real problem is that I’m not just trying to fix a social situation, Harley thought. I’m trying to solve a mystery that everyone’s determined to keep secret. And I can’t exactly tell FRIDAY that I’m investigating Peter Parker’s classified status or ask her to help me figure out why he’s so important to Tony.

“There’s also the small matter of my original objective,” Harley said, more to himself than to FRIDAY.

He caught himself before he could say too much. FRIDAY didn’t need to know about his investigation efforts or his growing frustration with the layers of secrets in this building.

“Are you planning to work late again, Mr. Keener?” FRIDAY observed as Harley continued to stare at the same circuit board he’d been pretending to examine. “You’ve been here for two hours and haven’t actually accomplished anything measurable. That’s inefficient even by teenage standards. At the risk of sounding like a concerned parental figure, perhaps you should consider maintaining a healthier work-life balance. I’m told teenage brains require adequate rest to function properly.”

“I’m fine,” Harley protested, not looking up while his mind wandered through the increasingly complicated maze of his social and investigative failures. “I’m… Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” FRIDAY observed with digital dry wit. “Thinking has been known to cause complications in otherwise straightforward situations. But what I really think is that you are just brooding, which is less productive than actually addressing them. Thinking involves actual problem-solving. Brooding is just thinking in circles while feeling sorry for yourself.”

Harley snorted despite himself. “I’m not brooding, Just… strategically contemplating.”

“Of course. My mistake. I’m sure the intense staring at inanimate objects is purely coincidental,” FRIDAY replied with digital warmth that somehow managed to be both comforting and mildly insulting. “Might I suggest that strategic thinking works better when combined with actual action?”

“Thank you for that suggestion,” Harley muttered, but he was fighting a smile despite his frustration. Sometimes FRIDAY’s commentary was the only thing that made this whole situation bearable.

“I aim to serve,” FRIDAY said with mock solemnity. “Though I should note that my primary function is building management, not teenage relationship counseling. You might consider consulting actual human beings for advice on social dynamics.”

“Right, because my track record with human social dynamics is so impressive,” Harley said, finally abandoning all pretense of working on his project.

“Well, you did successfully alienate someone who was genuinely trying to be helpful in favor of allying yourself with individuals whose idea of intellectual discourse involves ranking their classmates by likelihood of future social failure,” FRIDAY pointed out with the kind of brutal honesty that only an AI could deliver without seeming mean-spirited. “That takes a special kind of social acumen.”

“Jesus, FRIDAY, do you have to be so accurate?” Harley asked, putting his head in his hands.

“Accuracy is one of my core functions, along with maintaining building security, managing Mr. Stark’s increasingly chaotic schedule, and preventing various residents from making spectacularly poor decisions,” FRIDAY replied cheerfully. “Though I should note that in your case, the prevention seems to be more of a post-incident analysis situation.”

Before Harley could come up with a suitably sarcastic response that didn’t make him sound like a complete ass to FRIDAY’s assessment, the lab’s ambient lighting shifted to a subtle amber alert mode. Not emergency red, but definitely indicating that something somewhere in the Tower’s vast network of monitoring systems had flagged a situation requiring attention. The Tower’s security systems had moved into a higher state of readiness.

“FRIDAY?” Harley asked, watching as information flowed across screens throughout the lab in patterns he couldn’t quite decipher.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Keener, but I need to attend to a priority alert,” she replied, and her voice shifted abruptly from conversational to all-business. “I need to handle this immediately.”

Harley looked around the lab, noting the subtle changes—screens that had been displaying routine information now showed what looked like communication protocols, and there was a new urgency in the air that hadn’t been there moments before. The building itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something.

“Everything okay?” he asked, though he could tell FRIDAY’s attention was already elsewhere.

“Standard protocol activation,” FRIDAY replied, but her voice had taken on the kind of professional efficiency that suggested she was managing multiple high-priority tasks simultaneously. “Mr. Stark will need to be notified immediately. Iron Man protocols may be required.”

The words “Iron Man protocols” sent a chill down Harley’s spine. Whatever was happening, it was significant enough to potentially require Tony to suit up and fly into danger. Not just a technical malfunction or administrative crisis, but something that might actually put people in harm’s way.

“Is someone in trouble?” Harley asked, though he knew FRIDAY probably couldn’t give him specifics even if she wanted to.

“Situation assessment in progress,” FRIDAY said, and now her voice had that distant quality that meant most of her processing power was focused elsewhere. “Nothing that requires your immediate attention, but I’m afraid I’ll need to suspend our fascinating discussion of teenage social dynamics for the moment.”

The lab fell into an unusual quiet, but Harley could sense the building around him shifting into crisis management mode. Emergency systems coming online, communication channels opening, the vast network of Stark technology preparing for whatever was coming.

He found himself wondering what kind of situation could pull FRIDAY’s attention so completely, what kind of emergency required immediate coordination with Iron Man protocols. But that was just another mystery in a building full of them, another question he wasn’t authorized to have answered.

Another reminder that despite his access to incredible technology and his position as Tony’s intern, there were still entire categories of operations and secrets that existed beyond his clearance level.

Including, apparently, whatever had just demanded FRIDAY’s immediate attention with the kind of urgency that suggested someone, somewhere, might need help.

Harley stared at the lab equipment around him, feeling suddenly very alone in the vast, technologically advanced space, wondering how many other secrets were hidden in the building’s systems.

The questions multiplied in his head like a virus, each one spawning three more, until he was drowning in speculation and suspicion and the growing certainty that no matter how hard he tried to solve the puzzle of this place, there would always be more pieces missing than he could find.

On top of that, there is Peter Parker and his place in Tony Stark’s world. And now, sitting alone in the lab with nothing but the quiet hum of machinery and his own churning thoughts for company, Harley had to face the uncomfortable possibility that his investigation methods weren’t just ineffective—they might be making everything worse.

Chapter Text