Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I refuse to have Stark breaking down my door to find you bleeding out on my sofa, Peter.”

Peter grimaced, managing a weak smile. “Oh, he doesn’t know I’m here. Ned took out the tracker and I stopped FRIDAY from snitching, so...” He shrugged, trying to downplay the gravity of the situation. 

MJ wanted to throttle him. 

“I just want you to know that I appreciate the risk you’re taking,” he continued obliviously, while she tried to steady her hands as she began sewing him up.

It looked like a small stab wound (god, Peter was such a bad influence on her. Why was she saying that it was just small? It was a stab wound-), and it was bleeding sluggishly. But MJ would fix it - or at least, she’d try.

He winced as the needle pierced his skin, but she tried to block the noise out. “You better, Parker.”

“I am. I’m eternally grateful,” Peter said, his voice tinged with that annoying earnestness that made MJ’s irritation flare. “And I pinky swear not to die in your living room, because I know your parents probably won’t be chill with that.”

She tried not to think about all the cleaning up she’d have to do after this.

“You’re so thoughtful,” she sniped, jabbing him a little harder than what was probably necessary with the needle. “You’re so damn lucky my dad’s working late tonight. So that’s not gonna be an issue, though.”

“Well, I’m glad at least one of us is confident,” Peter hissed through clenched teeth, his face contorted in pain.

She tried to ignore the sound of the pained wince, but it was hard to. Instead, she clenched her jaw and bit at the inside of her lip. Count to ten. Take a breath. Try not to strangle this stupid idiot, despite the fact that he absolutely deserves it.

“Oh, no, not me,” she said slowly as she reached over for an alcohol wipe to clear away some of the dried blood. “I’ve already identified a couple of spots to dump your body if this goes south.”

“I’ve always enjoyed Central Park,” Peter mused with a wry grin, trying to distract himself from the searing pain.

“Bit of a hike if I have to wheel your body down there. But,” she hummed thoughtfully, “It does have nice access to the lake.”

Peter just let out a strained laugh as she continued. Jesus, this asshole owed her so much for putting up with this shit. MJ wasn’t a vigilante; while she respected - admired, even, although she’d die before she let Peter hear that come from her - she wasn’t used to the cost that came with it. 

She wasn’t a nurse, either, and fuck if it didn’t show right now. Although Peter was probably more cockroach than Spider, so she was sure he’d be fine.

“Almost done,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her hands were steady - or, stead ier, now, that the initial tremor was gone. She finished the last stitch and tied it off with a firm knot, sitting back to admire her work. “There. That should hold.”

Peter exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. “Thanks, MJ. Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, though the tension in her… everything eased a bit. She sat back, rolling her shoulders, tense from leaning over at such an awkward angle. She hoped it wouldn’t be too sore tomorrow, but at least she wouldn’t have to go to the gym with a stab wound. 

Peter would, though. He was just built differently.

“Just... try not to get stabbed next time, okay?”

“I’ll do my best,” Peter promised, giving her a tired smile. He gingerly touched the newly sewn wound, wincing slightly.  He stood, tentatively stretching and twisting as he turned as if to test the pain. He grimaced but gave a grin. “Good to go! Don’t worry, MJ. Thanks again!”

He slowly pulled open the window to her room, gave her a two-fingered salute, and then promptly fell out of the window.

MJ pressed her hands to her face with a slow, deep inhale. Count to five, then back down. When she reopened her eyes, the sight of half-used medical supplies and bloody gloves met her.

If midterms didn’t kill her, the stress of just being in Peter’s general vicinity sure would.

—

By the time Peter slunk home a little after two in the morning, he knew he was in trouble.

He pulled his window open, fingers wedging where he left it slightly ajar before crawling back inside. Peter dropped down, feet padding against the carpet as he dropped down onto his bed with a wince that he stifled into a sigh. 

Fuck, he was exhausted.

He took a breath, tentatively tracing a finger over his - newly bandaged - side. It still ached; a dull, throbbing that felt a little like an echo of a phantom pain from another lifetime ago. Subconsciously, his hand dips a little lower to trace the twisting scar that trailed from his ribcage to just above his hip. Painless, and long healed. But still there.

At least his healing factor had kicked back up now that his metabolism was finally being fed to reasonable contentment. Before he could sink too deep into his thoughts, however, there was a sharp knock on the door that had Peter shooting up.

He let out a strangled yelp, head snapping towards the doorway before tumbling out of his bed with a thunk . How had he not heard the footprints? Jesus, he must’ve been more tired from patrol than he thought.

“Peter?” Tony’s voice came from behind the door - muffled and light, but Peter could hear tension in it regardless. “You alright?”

“Yeah!” Peter called back, hoping Mr. Stark didn’t hear that he was as strangled as he sounded. “Just, um, gimme a sec!”

He reached up behind him, grappling half-heartedly to grope at a clean T-shirt to toss over his head. As he stumbled over to the doorway, he snagged a pair of sweatpants and yanked them up over his hips to somewhat cover the suit. It wasn’t great, but it’d have to do.

Peter reached for the doorknob, cracking it open a sliver. “Um, can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Tony said flatly. “Where were you?”

“Oh,” Peter bit his lip, momentarily floundering as the pause stretched out. “I, um, I had a nightmare…? I was - down on Bucky’s floor. But I’m back, now, and I was sleeping, actually.”

That was believable. That wasn’t even out of the norm, either; Mr. Stark knew that he still had nightmares, despite the fact that it was as humiliating as it was. And if he didn’t sneak up to the man’s lab, he was probably on Bucky’s floor watching dumb movies from the early two thousands in an effort to ‘catch up.’

“Nice try, punk,” came a voice, low and gravelly and incredibly pissed off. “You wanna try again?”

Oh. Shit.

Mr. Stark pushed the door open, and Peter took a step back reflexively. The low light from the hallway spilled into his room, and the towering silhouette standing in his doorway still made him feel a little uneasy.

But then Bucky’s metal arm pushed into his field of view, and he focussed on the familiar glint of the grey material.

“So,” Mr. Stark began again, waiting until Peter’s eyes came up to meet his before continuing, “Where were you, Peter?”

He gave a careless shrug, gaze flicking back down to the carpet. “Out.”

“Out?” Bucky repeated, lips downturned. Peter tried a little desperately not to shrink under the man’s gaze. Bucky wasn’t intimidating, usually; it was hard to see the guy as intimidating after the first few weeks of living in the same building as him and all the little quirks that had come along with that.

“Yeah,” he nodded again, desperately wishing to get this over with. “Out.”

“Peter, I know we haven’t really set a hard curfew or anything, but this is ridiculous.” Tony’s brows drew together, and he stared down at Peter in a way that kind of made him want to step out of the man’s line of sight. It had nothing against Steve’s ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed,’ but it felt like a pretty strong second. “You can’t be crawling back to the tower at nearly two-thirty on a Tuesday. You have school tomorrow!” Tony paused then, looking a little like he’d just lost ten years off his life. “I can’t believe you just made me say that.”

“Fine!” Peter snipped, “But it’ll be fine! That’s still like, five hours of sleep. Which I would be getting if I wasn’t getting told off right now like a four-year-old!”

“I wouldn't have to lecture a four-year-old about curfews!”

Ugh. He was so tired. Peter just wanted to sleep at this point. He could feel the headache coming on, and he still hadn’t finished that stupid essay that was due tomorrow and this week was going to suck. But as much as he’d like it to already be over, that didn’t change the fact that he was being scolded in his doorway like a toddler.

“Oh my god,” Peter muttered, tiredly rubbing a hand against his cheek. “I’m getting fucking tag-teamed by a super soldier and Tony Stark. What the hell is my life.”

“Shut up,” Bucky squinted at him in the dark, eyes flitting over his form briefly like he was watching him for something. “You hurt?”

Usually, the thought of someone being really, sincerely worried about him would be a little heartwarming. It came with a healthy dosage of guilt, too; but mostly just stirring something warm in his chest. Now, it was just a little annoying - he wasn’t a fan of being ambushed the second he’d gotten home. (He ignored the part of his chest that warmed at the thought of them caring enough to check up on him.)

“I-”

“No, I don’t want to hear it, of course he is,” Tony cut him off. “FRI?”

The men standing across from him fell silent as they waited for the AI to respond. Peter huffed, head angling upward while he silently stewed about the stupidity of it all. He was fine. He was being responsible. He even went to MJ for help instead of reaching across the aisle and stapling his side shut from the robbery gone wrong at a local corner store.

“Peter seemed to have sustained a minor stab wound, but it has been sterilized and bandaged. No further action is needed, boss.”

Peter let out a relieved sigh, sinking a little more of his weight against the door. He wasn’t really worried, to be honest; it was only a small stab wound that had (thankfully) missed everything vital and was only an inch or two deep. But MJ had done a pretty good job cleaning it up and stitching it shut, so he knew it was probably fine.

“Told you,” Peter grouched, turning to walk further back into his room. “Anything else I can help you with, or can I actually sleep now?”

“Watch the attitude,” Tony shot back, and he caught Bucky's snort before he pushed the door shut with a gentle click. He waited to listen for the sound of their retreating footsteps before flopping into bed tiredly - spider-suit still sticking to his skin uncomfortably - only to hear Mr. Stark’s muffled, “Jesus Christ, I sound like my father.”

—

“I think I liked it more when you were still too scared to let us know about Spider-Man,” MJ said, face in her hands. They were crowded around the lunch table, and Peter raised an eyebrow. She glared flatly at him. “I didn’t have to worry about you breaking into my room, bleeding out of… everywhere.”

He winced.

Ned, on the other hand, just nodded sagely. “Yeah, I get that. The hero worship dies real quick once you have to learn how to do stitches at three in the morning.”

“Dude,” Peter hissed, “it was one time. Let it go, already. "

Ned just sniffed as he moved to unwrap his sandwich. “That’s not the thank you that you know I deserve.”

“That’s because I’ve already thanked you, like, fifty times already.”

“But why can’t you just go to Mr. Stark, though? I’m sure he has his own medical setup or something considering the Avengers live there too, now.”

“The Medbay, yeah,” Peter nodded, before shrinking a little in place. “And… I could, I guess, but I don’t want to bother him that late - or, early, I guess - in the morning.” He huffed, “And technically he’s given me an eleven o’clock curfew. Which I don’t always follow. So if I start knocking on his door at two in the morning he’s gonna be a little mad I’m not listening to him.”

Mr. Stark had been taking the whole ‘Responsible Adoptive Parental Role’ (Peter refused to call him his dad or anything like that because it felt weird, still) really seriously. He’d locked down on the curfews, and he freaked out more than Bucky did when he’d wound up injured. Peter wanted to say that was just so if his caseworker stopped by to check on him he wouldn’t be covered in bruises and bandages - but another part of him figured it was the residual guilt from the last year or so.

“Go to Bucky, then,” MJ shrugged.

Peter scoffed. “Have you ever been given the ‘not mad, just disappointed talk’ by someone who’s been friends with Steve Rogers for over a hundred years?” Ned winced, and Peter narrowed his eyes at him. “Yeah. It sucks. You’d cry, and you know it - but him and Tony Stark? Dude, the first time that happened I almost did. It was horrible.”

“Well how about you just don’t break curfew, then?” MJ snarked like that was the obvious answer.

Peter frowned, looking up at her for a moment before as he mulled the idea over in his head. He wanted to say that it was just the residual urge to go where he wanted when he wanted from his time living alone. The thought of his previous fosters setting curfews and deadlines made him queasy, and he didn’t want Mr. Stark and his previous… ‘carers’ anywhere near each other - even if it was just a loose connection in his head.

Sam would probably say he should talk to Mr. Stark about this. Peter did very much not want to talk to Mr. Stark about this, so he’d continue to keep his mouth very firmly shut.

“I thought you were all about rules being made to be broken?” he asked instead, pivoting the focus back to MJ.

“Not when breaking that rule gets you stabbed and grounded.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but Ned butt in, “And giving me a literal heart attack, dude! The last time you did that, I honestly thought I was dying. Seriously, dude, you’ve taken at least ten years off my life.”

He felt a little bad - because it wasn't really fair to them; they didn't need to be learning the above basics (or rather, a horrifying crash course in first aid) at an ungodly hour on a school night.

“Sorry,” Peter winced. “I won't do that again.”

“Nuh uh, not what I meant,” MJ corrected with an exasperated tone, “I don't mean that I'd rather have you bleed out in an alleyway because you're too stubborn to ask for help. I mean you'd be better off getting help from, you know, a trained professional?”

“Oh,” Peter breathed. “Right.”

“Yeah, oh, dumbass. but if you're too proud to visit the Medbay, by all means. My window is always open.”

Peter looked down, shuffling his feet awkwardly underneath the table. He knew they were right, but the idea of burdening others always felt like too much.

“I swear to god, Peter,” Ned groaned, “you're the only one who'd literally rather die than ask for help sometimes. You're smart, but you're an idiot, you know that?”

MJ’s head shot up, gaze fixating on Peter for a moment, “speaking of idiots,” she started.

“Okay, ouch-”

“Why aren’t you freaking out about the field trip more?” Ned blurted, gaze flicking between the two of them. He was missing something. He was clearly missing something. “I thought you’d be freaking out over that.”

Peter… hadn’t been paying attention much, to be honest. He’d been barely conscious for science: awake but not quite functioning, yet, after the night before. He was so focused on making it back to the tower and not missing a swing and plummeting a hundred or so feet that he was exhausted by the time he’d crawled into bed.

But despite the fact that (after courtesy of a lecture from Bucky and Mr. Stark) Peter had managed to get changed and crawl into his bed more exhausted than he had ever been in recent memory - he still hadn’t been able to fall asleep. He figured it was probably his spidey sense ( his Peter Tingle, he mused in a voice that sounded suspiciously like May’s. There was a pang of painful fondness, but he buried it quickly) keeping him awake to make sure he didn’t die in his sleep or something despite the (albeit amateur) medical treatment he’d received. 

The tower was safe, he knew that now, but it was like his body was still running on an echo of the last year or so. And as annoying as that was, all it did was make it hard to sleep sometimes. Moreso when he was injured, which tended to be a double-whammy.

“The… field trip?” Oh shit. He mustn’t have been paying attention at all.

“The field trip,” MJ repeated, looking more and more unimpressed with each passing second. Ned looked like he was ready to burst. “To Stark Industries.”

Peter paused. Blinked. Took a moment to think about every choice in his life and how it had led up to this moment.

“To…” Peter swallowed, “To the Tower? Where… uh, where I live?”

“Where you live!” Ned hissed excitedly, “dude, this is going to be awesome! I would literally kill to get a look inside the actual labs in that place. Do you think we’ll get to see Mr. Stark’s personal lab? What’s it like?”

He put his head in his hands and gave a low, pained moan. God, this was going to be terrible. MJ laughed like it was funny, and Peter had a fleeting feeling that she’d pull out her sketchbook if he wasn’t careful. Ned looked like he was trying to be supportive, but was too excited to commiserate with Peter.

There was a scoff from a table or so other, and when Peter looked up he wanted to just close his eyes.

Flash was sitting a ways away, gaze firmly planted on him. “What, scared we’re gonna find out about that fake internship, Penis?”

As silly as it was, Peter didn’t actually have the official “intern” badge. Or pass, or card or whatever it was. Mr. Stark had been pretty understanding of Peter’s heavy-set paranoia that came with moving to the tower: so since he’d lived there he’d only ever come in through the window or the back entrance that FRIDAY controlled save he accidentally got recognized. Or, worse: the actual employees realized that he very much didn’t work there. He didn’t even think he was registered as an intern anymore, either; although he’d been listed officially while they’d been trying to get the adoption process, he figured it was probably just a temporary thing.

Despite the fact that it was probably temporary, that hadn’t stopped Mr. Stark from registering him as an intern with the school for extra credit. And despite the strict student-school privacy codes they had set in place, it didn’t stop the office ladies from gossiping with the teachers. Who were then overheard by the students. Who told everyone. 

“Yeah, Flash,” Peter said exhaustedly. “You’re right. I did all this to trick you specifically. Because I really, desperately care what you think.” Flash’s scowl deepened. “I crave your approval, really.”

“Fuck you,” the boy spit back with a snarl, gaze flickering over to MJ for a moment before his expression faltered and he muttered something under his breath. School had seemed to be going well, for the most part. It (read: Flash) wasn’t quite as bad as before he’d left - probably thanks to MJ’s general aura of… scary-ness.

But Peter had the horrible creeping feeling that this field trip would change that.

—

“What are you doing?” 

Peter let out an undignified yelp as the container of food was sent tumbling out of his hands, barely catching it in time. Spinning on his heels, he stood there, wide-eyed and caught off guard.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he squeaked, barely making out her still, silent form at the counter. “What are you, um, what are you doing?”

“Call me Nat,” Peter could barely see her face, the light from the open fridge bathing one side of the kitchen in a soft blue glow. Her lip quirked, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “And I asked you first.”

“I’m, um,” he paused, gaze flicking back to the half-emptied fridge, two of the shelves in the sink, the wet washcloth in his hand. “Cleaning?”

It wasn't a bad habit to develop, of all things. He could be doing drugs or something. Mr. Stark did have that really fancy expensive alcohol cabinet - although he doubted that it would work on him and his advanced metabolism. (And it was probably locked. And he’d get murdered for even trying to break into it.) The only thing that had worked was when he’d been smacked over the head with that brick of weird spliced cocaine. Ugh, he shivered. That was horrible.

But anyway.

Cleaning was relatively calming; it was repetitive and gave him something to focus on, too. And FRIDAY had promised she wouldn't snitch as long as his heart rate wasn't in worrying territory.

He had a sneaking suspicion that that dumb protocol was set up for Tony, anyway; it seemed like something Pepper would do. It was too… responsible for Mr. Stark to create himself. (He was also silently thankful that FRIDAY would give him an exception every now and then. Maybe it was because she'd realized forcing him to seek out another person on bad nights seemed to do more harm than good.)

As the silence stretched out when he failed to elaborate, Natasha merely hummed, her elbows leaning against the countertop with her chin propped against her fists.

“Why are you awake?” Peter asked after a few beats of silence stretched out between them.

“Why are you awake?” she asked, eyes boring into his. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Peter’s face flushed a little, glad it was swallowed up by the darkness. But , he thought a little miserably, Natasha probably just knew somehow. He felt exposed in a way - like he’d been caught doing something wrong rather than standing here in the dark with a wet rag over the sink. 

“Yeah,” he shrugged, trying to play it off casually. “I just… can’t sleep. Is… is that why you’re awake, too?”

Natasha didn’t answer immediately; she just angled her neck a little in the darkness of the room. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft splashing of the soapy water in the sink as Peter continued to scrub the shelves.

“Yeah,” Natasha responded after a while, her voice quiet but still the loudest thing in the kitchen. “I can’t sleep, either.”

Peter glanced up at her, surprised by the admission. He paused for a moment, soapy water splashing up against his wrists before relaxing and continuing to scrub at a stubborn stain. 

“Must be the cold,” Peter joked, and when Natasha didn’t respond he continued, “You know, because spiders and the cold…?” It was a bad joke; it didn't even entirely make sense, either - the cold usually made him slow and sluggish; but there were also times when the cold was just uncomfortable enough to keep him awake. 

But instead of pointing any of that out or laughing at him, though, Natasha just let out a small but genuine-sounding laugh, and Peter beamed.

—

Before everything had happened with Peter, Tony had a pretty regular check-in schedule with his other problem child. (Harley would probably say he was actually the problem, since Tony had been the one to break into his garage. Tony would probably tell him to shut up in response.)

But after everything with the Accords - and everything after Peter, too, he’d skipped their last scheduled meet-up. It was a nice chance to get the kid out of the heartland and into the city every now and then; and he knew the kid was itching to get a look at his new suits, too. There was a muffled stab of guilt when he realized that it wasn’t the first time he’d left Harley hanging, and he had half a mind to reach for his phone just to check up on the kid, but before his fingertips grazed the phone came a female voice.

“Boss, it appears Peter has been injured,” FRIDAY called down, and that sentence had him jerking back and spinning on his heels straight towards the elevator.

“Status?” He barked, and there was a pause. His heart was in his throat. It felt like he couldn’t breathe.

God, was the kid out on patrol doing stupid, horrible, reckless things again? He had half a mind to take his suit - or at least re-enact the Baby Monitor program that he knew that the kid had somehow disengaged. He was mostly annoyed, but that came with a sort of begrudging pride as well.

“Not major,” she clarified after a moment, and it felt like he could inhale again. “He kicked a wall, and there’s a possible fracture to his toe.”

Jesus Christ, this kid was going to make him go grey.

“Maybe you should lead with that, FRI.”

“Apologies, boss.” 

She didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest.  

“What happened?” The kid was usually pretty good with stuff like that - he certainly wasn’t clumsy. A part of that probably came from his inherent… stickiness that saved him from dropping stuff whenever he wasn’t paying attention. Tony knew it had saved him in the lab more than he’d like to admit. While Peter wasn’t exactly graceful in his movements, it was hard to imagine the kid kicking a wall so hard he might have fractured his toe.

“He tripped on his school bag and tried to catch himself.” She sounded almost amused, and Tony felt his exasperation double. At who, he wasn’t sure. Whatever. At least the kid was fine. Or, probably. Mostly unbroken was what he was aiming for.

He’d have to double-check that the kid was alright. And maybe nag the kid to pick his stuff up off the floor. 

Ugh. Harley would have to wait.

Chapter Text

While Peter had hoped that the field trip to Stark Industries had just been a horrible, terrible nightmare his brain had concocted after too little to eat and a little more than minor concussion, it turned out he’d had no such luck. His Parker Luck continued.

Mr. Harrington was handing out permission slips by the time Peter slid in through the doorway. His teacher looked up with a slight frown at his timing but otherwise waved him in.

“Peter,” he greeted before handing him a slip of paper that seemed to compound the anxiety festering in his gut. “Make sure your guardians sign this.”

It was a surprise that the fact of Mr. Stark being his legal guardian wasn’t what got leaked. Although Peter was sure that that was partly due to both his and Pepper’s threat of legal action if that information wasn’t locked down tighter than most government secrets. He’d be surprised if the office ladies even knew who Peter’s guardians were.

He glanced down at the sheet of paper: NDAs to sign and parental consent forms to be handed directly to the office. His classmates were chattering excitedly around him, and he looked up to catch Ned’s eye. He beamed back, pointing down to his own permission slip, as if Peter wasn’t acutely aware of it.

His gaze slid over a little further, and Flash grinned back at him, all teeth.

—

He wasn’t sure when he’d gotten the idea, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized how much he needed to get his hands on an intern pass. Something official - nothing fancy, even if it was just level one or two access - he just needed it to have his name. It was physical proof that he wasn’t lying, which was a weird thing to want, considering that, yeah, he technically was - but Flash knowing that would end him. It’d be ammo for years to come, and Peter knew he didn’t have the strength or patience to deal with that.

But he’d have to ask Tony.

And while he wasn’t… against asking him, the man would also want an explain as to why. Peter knew why, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to go crying to Mr. Stark about a bully.

So by the time that Pepper walked in, looking every bit as poised and put-together as always. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and she wore a soft, cream-colored blouse that never got stained no matter how much Peter was convinced he wouldn’t last in anything like that for more than a few hours before irreparable damage. She always had an air about her, and found himself sitting up a little straighter whenever she entered the room.

It was a pretty rare occasion that all three of them sat down to dinner - Pepper was busy more often than not. Tony had only pretty recently been trying to fix his atrocious eating and sleeping schedule, and Peter had a creeping feeling that was for him (or at least to set an example for him). 

Besides, half the time he ate dinner with Bucky and Steve, or with the whole team crowded around the dining table. But just the three of them? It was nice.

He took a breath, poking the spaghetti a little half-heartedly. It was kind of stupid to be nervous about - she wouldn’t care. Pepper was nice - and although they didn’t spend all that much time together, from what he’d experienced, she could be as kind as she could be cutthroat. She kind of reminded him of MJ in that way.

“Um, Ms. Potts?” he asked, setting his fork down. Pepper glanced up at him with a small smile.

“Yes, Peter?”

“I…” He opened his mouth, scrambling to find the words, “I was wondering-”

A sharp ring echoed throughout the room, and Pepper frowned, reaching for her phone. “Sorry, Peter,” she apologized. “Keep going, I’m listening.”

He watched her go to deny the call, but he blurted, “No, answer it.”

She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, her cool hand settling on his wrist. “Are you sure, sweetie? I can always call them back later.”

“No, no,” he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve already forgotten what I was going to say. Mustn’t have been important.” Pepper looked unconvinced but gave him a nod before she stood and answered the phone as she made her way out of the room.

He’d just call her later.

—

It was only later when he was in his room and aimlessly scrolling through his contacts, that he realized with mounting horror that he didn’t even have Pepper’s phone number.

—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Before Harley could blink, he felt a pair of hands plant themselves across his chest before shoving. He ended up half-sprawled on the ground, staring up at his friend's swollen lips and flushed face.

Harley's head swung back behind him to find the source of the intrusive voice, an overwhelming feeling of gut-wrenching horror squeezing his throat. Oh, shit. E.B was standing with a surprised, disgusted snarl on his face as he glared at the two of them. He heard his Connor’s breathing quicken, and Harley’s anxiety rose with it.

He reached out a hand, tearing his gaze away from E.B to comfort his friend. “Connor, it’s-”

Connor smacked his hand away, eyes wide and wild. “Get the fuck off me, fag!”

There was this horrible sinking feeling that stirred in his gut, ice shooting through his chest. What? They were - they’d been in this together. They’d been messed up and different and outcasts together. Why was he doing this now ? 

“Connor?”

Connor’s brows lowered, and his fists tightened at his sides. He was scared - Harley would’ve been able to see it even if they hadn’t been friends for years. He was shit scared and horrified; and he had every right to be. Harley knew who his father was, what’d happen to him if he found out. It’s why they’d kept it a secret the first time it’d happened. 

Harley just never thought he’d get thrown under the bus to save face.

There was a heavy swing of something that knocked Harley on his ass, his head spinning. He could hear E.B’s spat insults, but he didn’t really register them. What he was more focused on was the horrible, wrenching feeling of betrayal shooting through every bone in his body.

But then a boot stamped down on his splayed fingers, and he let out a choked cry and a muffled curse because shit that hurt. He tore his hand away from under the weight and pressed the now probably-broken fingers to his stomach with a hiss, but before he could push himself up, there was a blinding pain that exploded in the back of his head.

And ow, that hurt a hell of a lot more. He let out a grunt, teeth clamping down on his lower lip as he tried to blink back tears. His hand comes up to give a feather-light touch along the area of rippling pain, wincing when his non-broken fingers come away wet and sticky.

E.B. said something else, louder, more snarled - and his voice overlapped with others, Harley barely registering that it wasn’t just him anymore, either. Served him right, he thought wryly. Should’ve picked a better spot.

By the time his vision cleared, he spied what E.B. had hit him with through the different pairs of legs standing in front of him: the dented metal drink bottle he’d been hauling around. Huh. No wonder that hurt so much.

Then it happened again, and again, and again.

It was a blinding, searing pain as each blow landed across his head and shoulders. He raised his hands feebly, but he couldn’t see which direction they were coming from so they didn’t shield all that much. After the fifth hit, Harley lost count.

There was a louder shout that had E.B. pausing, and Harley shoved himself to his feet - albeit a little shakily - stepping just out of reach from another one of his swings. Connor said something that he couldn’t quite make out past the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, and E.B. took a step back.

Harley didn’t wait, turning and getting the hell out of there.

—

Harley could hear his mother talking to someone through the walls. 

It sounded like she was on a phone call - he could imagine her fingers looping around the old-timey coils from the antique thing she insisted they keep in the kitchen. It’s retro, his mother had said, despite the fact that Harley thought that was just a fancy word for old. But that wasn’t what was important right now.

What was important was that his mother was definitely completely talking to someone, and Harley had no idea who it was.

He could figure, though, that it was one of the women from church. He’d recognized that shitbag E.B.’s voice almost immediately, snotty and smug and god , Harley just wanted to smack him. His ma, too - although she looked real sweet - all pudgy and soft around the edges - she was a real cow. He saw her in church often enough anyway - all backhanded compliments and sly shit-talking. The whole family was a little rotten. Wasn’t just them, either - it was the whole town.

But the sound of his mother’s hushed conversation spiked a horrible sort of grating fear in his chest - because he didn’t have to know who they were to know what they were saying.

He slid out into the kitchen hallway to hear a little clearer, although the wooden floorboards creaked under his weight and his mother paused mid-sentence. Harley took in a quiet breath, listening as his mother excused herself, the phone sliding back into its place on the table.

“Mom?” he called, stepping into her line of sight. She looked tired - like she’d finished a real long shift at the diner, or had a rough night out before. She looked more exhausted than he’d seen her in a while.

He was tired too.

“Harley,” she greeted quietly, voice a little croaky. She wasn’t looking at him, and it made this horrible snowballing festering knot of anxiety in his chest tighten.

The silence stretched, and he could feel the seconds scraping by. He hedged, “What’s wrong?”

“I-” she started, still not looking quite sure what to say. She still wasn’t looking at him. “Mabel called me. She said-” she paused again, a look of disgust flickering across her face before she smoothed it over. “It was about something her boy said.”

“Oh.” 

So she knew, then. So it was over. 

“It’s wrong , Harley,” she burst out, eyes watery and face red and puffy like she’d been crying. His heart ached, stomach twisting uncomfortably because he had made her cry.

While she hadn’t been the best parent - or even a good one - she’d loved him. She’d loved him and taken care of him when his dad had left. She had bandaged his scraped knees. She’d held tissues to bloody noses and never told him they were struggling, even when she gave him those horrible baloney sandwiches for lunch and they had cereal for dinner. (He’d never minded those meals, anyway.)

But he loved her. Why didn’t she love him? (He knew. He knew she’d hate him. Deep down, he’d always known. It’s why he’d never told her. He just didn’t want to accept that his own mother would disown him over something so stupid.)

“Mom,” he choked, but she just shook her head, pressing her wrist to her mouth as if that would cover her sobs.

“No, baby,” she shook her head, taking in a steadying gulp of air. “No. I can’t - you know I can’t let you go down this path. Not under my roof, Harley,” her lips wobbled, like this was unfair for her. “I raised you better than this, baby.”

“You’re-” his stomach dropped, face falling further. You’re kicking me out. He couldn’t bring himself to actually say it. His mother’s face twisted, and if possible, she looked even more devastated. But it wasn’t fair - she was the one who was doing this. An ugly, hot rage swelled in his stomach. 

Maybe she wasn’t kicking him out; but it sounded like she was giving him a choice. An impossible ultimatum that was like tearing a limb off of himself. It was like passing him a handsaw and asking, ‘how much are you willing to sacrifice to stay?’ 

It wasn’t a choice. Not really.

“Fine,” he spat, storming past her. He stalked to his room, white-hot rage roiling in his gut as he slammed the door behind him, the bang rattling the walls of the house.

His whole goddamn neighborhood would probably hear this screaming match at this point. Well, who even gave a shit now? It wouldn’t be the first time.

He grabbed his backpack, jamming in an extra sweater and pulling out his savings - all rubber-banded together at the back of his underwear drawer in his dresser, the one place she’d never think to look - and shoved that in his bag too. He looked around wildly, vision blurring with hot tears that threatened to spill over his cheeks, but he tried to just focus on how angry he was.

If he didn’t, he’d just lose it.

He scrambled a little more wildly as he heard his mother’s footsteps approach a little closer; reaching for his wallet (bus pass, train timetable, nearly-empty debit card) and his phone. It wasn’t dead yet, but it was sure as hell on its way.

“Harley, baby,” came his mother’s blubbering, but he cut her off.

“No,” he snarled like a feral animal. Maybe he was. Maybe they were right. Maybe there was something wrong with him because surely this couldn’t be right. Surely it couldn’t be normal to feel so horribly awful. It felt like he was rotting inside out; like an apple festering with maggots in his heart and lungs. He had a tapeworm winding around his spine and decaying flesh holding his bones together. His control was snapping, and that was terrifying.

He wasn’t normal. Maybe he did need help. He knew that.

But he still couldn’t stay.

“We can fix this!” she tried again, reaching out to grab at him like she did when he was a child crying over falling off a bike. He almost wanted to give in, to lean into her warm, bony hands and feel her fingers run through his hair even as that stupid fake-gold ring that she insisted on wearing caught on the scar under his hairline. “We can talk to Father Thomas! We can get you help, and-” And you can be normal again.

“Fuck you,” he spat instead.

“Harley Keener,” his mother snapped, “What the hell did you just say to me? You watch your mouth!”

“Get the hell outta my way,” he growled. She was blocking the doorway, but he couldn’t bring himself to shove her. He’d never lay hands on her - not even after this. Even if leaving meant that she probably wouldn’t even be his mother anymore.

Something in his tone must have startled her, because she blinked up at him. He pushed past her and out towards the doorway. By the time his hands wrapped around the door handle, she spoke up again - although this time it was more exhausted, more resigned. There was an undercurrent of something else he couldn’t place; probably that swirling miasma of misery and disappointment and every expectation he had failed to fulfill.

“You’re sick , Harley. I’ll be praying for you. I hope you get well soon.”

He slammed the door shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Harley knew that Tony was probably just busy.

He knew that more often than not, he didn’t call because he was busy. Really, seriously busy, even by his standards. Last time, Harley had spam-called him twenty or so times out of spite, and it had turned out the whole Accords shit show had gone down while he wasn’t looking. Harley had missed it because his mom hadn’t paid their electricity bill.

Tony had just about bitten his head off when he finally picked up, half-blind with worry that something had happened to Harley only to realize he was just wanting to see what was going on. Tony clearly felt bad, though, because there was a new car parked in front of his trailer when he got home from school the next day. (It didn’t last. His mom had sold it the next week to the highest bidder because she’d blown all their money on booze. Again. But it was the thought that counted, he supposed.)

So he knew that Tony clearly wasn’t ignoring him on purpose or anything. Something had probably just come up; last he’d heard, there was a clip of one of Tony’s interviews splashed across the page with something about an heir to Stark Industries. Tony had waved it off. Besides, it was a hell of a stretch; Harley found it hard to believe that the guy would adopt a kid or that someone had actually come forward with a biological child - but that didn’t stop shitty gossip rags from running with it. It had been a little over eight months since he’d seen him. What the hell could Tony have really gotten up to in that time?

Considering his options, he glanced back down at the phone in his hand. He didn’t have any family he could call in town - and apparently, no friends he could trust either. There wasn’t anything left for him here anyway; it was just him, his mom, and his - God, his sister. He didn’t know how he’d explain it all to her. She deserved better than a father who walked out on them and a brother who ran away.

But now, Harley was very much desperate. He had one call left on his mobile - his credit expired tomorrow - and ignoring that, even, his phone had ten percent left. The red light blinked up at him.

He tried Tony again. The call didn’t go through.

He glanced around the suffocatingly familiar streets and felt a little ill at the sight of it all. When he’d left, he’d just picked a direction and walked. It wasn’t like he didn’t know where he was; Rose Hill was incredibly, achingly small; he knew the place like the back of his hand.

There was nowhere for him here, now.

He looked up again, gaze landing on the bus timetable next to him. He had money - maybe enough for a ticket. Maybe enough to get to New York, if he stretched it. Hell, he could hitchhike if he figured it was worth getting stabbed. Or maybe just take a really long walk.

The streetlamps began to flick on, humming with bugs as the sun started to slip below the horizon. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere to be. The coins sat limply in his unbroken hand.

Maybe he’d catch the next bus after all.

—

When Peter woke up - blankets clinging uncomfortably to his skin and a horrible, writhing feeling in his gut - he knew that it was not going to be a good day.

He blinked, glancing toward the still-darkened windows. Even though the curtains were drawn, it was still dark; or as dark as New York City got. His gaze slid a little downwards towards his bedside table at the alarm clock that blinked up at him angrily. It was just a little after two in the morning. Too early to actually get up, but too late to do anything productive. Even Queens was relatively quiet around this time, so it wouldn’t even really be worth a patrol.

Or, it wouldn’t be worth weathering the disappointed talks from Mr. Stark and Bucky again.

“Good morning, Peter,” FRIDAY’s voice was quiet, and he appreciated the lowered volume. “Would you like me to notify Mr. Stark or Mr. Barnes that you are awake?”

Peter clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He was angry. Tired and angry and not in the mood for anyone’s pity, especially not from an AI. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the way they trembled.

“No,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t bother them.”

“Of course,” she replied gently, but the calm neutrality of her voice grated against his raw nerves.

He felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. Going back to sleep wasn’t an option. He could do homework - catch up on the godawful amount of essays and textbook questions that he still hadn’t completely finished. But he didn’t feel like it. He needed to get up. He needed to do something, or else he’d go insane.

With a sigh, he slid out of bed and left the warmth of his blankets as he made his way to the elevator and down to the kitchen.

He’s angry and tired and bleary - but he still has enough awareness to notice Natasha’s figure in her usual place at the kitchen counter. (It wasn’t her seat, not really; but it was the place she sat often enough that the rest of the Avengers kept it empty for her. It was sweet, in a weird sort of way.) She didn’t say anything when he dropped the few dishes lying around into the sink or when he began aggressively scrubbing at a stain on the countertop.

“Why are you awake?” he asked a little tiredly, snapping on the yellow rubber gloves he’d kept under the sink. The feeling of wet food scraps on his skin made him feel more than a little sick - he had a feeling that that was probably exaggerated by his enhanced senses - and Clint had a horrible habit of filling up used bowls with water and leaving them to soak in the basin.

“Same as you,” she responded, and Peter let out a puff of air.

While he normally loved Nat’s simple, straightforward responses, tonight it only seemed to pile on the already festering anger that pulled at him from underneath his skin. The three words didn’t feel like enough. They felt like they were mocking him. And that wasn’t even her fault, really - it was just a shitty night, and he’d rather be alone.

He could hardly kick her out of the kitchen in her own home, though.

Instead, he scrubbed a little harder at the stubborn stain on the glass bowl in his hand. The silence stretched out, and his blood hummed in his ears. He should’ve gone on patrol. He needed to do something, he needed to hit something - although that was a dangerous thought. He’d made the right choice. He could hardly control himself like this.

He felt his grip tighten on the bowl in response.

That seemed to add another suffocatingly thick layer of misery on top of everything. He remembers the sickeningly sweet satisfaction that curled in his gut from the dream (the nightmare) that had woken him up. The expression on Skip’s face, his bare hands around the man’s throat, tightening and tightening and tightening until-

The bowl shattered in his hand, and he felt glass slice through his glove and into his palm.

“Ow,” he hissed, gently pulling the shard out and placing it on the counter next to him. His palm was sluggishly bleeding, and he peeled off the yellow rubber with a muffled wince.

The gloves are ruined, he realized distantly with a strange sense of detachment.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha’s voice came from across the room, and it almost startled him out of his skin. She didn't ask ‘are you okay?’ because it was obvious - even if it wasn’t someone trained in body language - that he wasn't.

“I don't know,” Peter muttered, voice tight as he turned the tap on again to rinse his hand under water. The blood trickled down the drain in winding red ribbons, and he watched it with an odd sort of satisfaction.

Silence stretched out across the kitchen.

Natasha stepped into the kitchen, placing her mug on the counter before grabbing a dish towel. She moved with a practiced grace, wrapping the towel around her hand as she began to gather the glass shards.

“You don’t have to do that,” he murmured, but Natasha didn’t respond. She just kept working until the sink was free of glass and the weight of guilt had solidified in Peter’s gut. He couldn’t do anything right, today. He couldn’t even clean the kitchen, he thought miserably.

The quiet stretched, the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the running water. Natasha dropped the broken shard in the bin below before she slid a roll of bandages across the counter in his direction before sinking back into her usual space. He took them gratefully. Peter knew he would heal quickly enough, but he’d feel awful if he got blood on everything. But he would need to remember to take them off or else Bucky would freak out in the morning. It should be healed by then, anyway.

The words are on the tip of his tongue, still angry. Natasha sat at the counter, silently watching.

He was so angry and wound up and tense that it felt like if anyone said the wrong thing or looked at him funny he might just explode at them. And although he doubted he could even hurt Natasha’s feelings with passive-aggressive comments said out of petty teenage bullshit, he still didn’t want to unload on her. It wasn’t fair, because it wasn’t even her fault.

He could feel the horrible swell of anger start to sink into the bottom of his stomach. Heavy and unpleasant in ways that made him feel guilty over something that he hadn’t even done, only something that might have been.

As much as he loved Sam, it felt like therapy hadn’t been working.

Not that it was completely useless - but more like it was just so slow-moving that he couldn’t see the progress from where he was standing. Like he was moving at a snail's pace, or maybe even sinking backward.

“I keep having these…” he trailed off, a little uncertainly. He squeezed what was left of the unused roll of bandages in his hands as he stared down at them, unwilling to meet Natasha’s eyes. Slowly, carefully choosing his words, he continues. “Do you think having… bad thoughts makes you a bad person?”’

He thought of Skip’s expression, wide-eyed and horrified. He thought of what it felt like to clasp his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze; the feeling of a righteous vindication pulsing through him. His hands were soaked red and warm, and there was the sharp scent of copper in the air and on his tongue. Something in him purred at the thought of the man suffering. Suffering because of him.

It had never happened, obviously. But he - subconsciously or not - enjoyed the thought, nonetheless.

“How pious of you.”

He glanced up at her, a little surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Thinking that your thoughts alone make you a good or a bad person,” she rolled her shoulders, glancing down at the mug in front of her, gaze a little distant. “Just don’t act on them, and you’re fine.” She shot him a sort of blank look, but Peter could see the quiet understanding - or something like it - that lingered below the surface of the expression. “Or do,” she shrugged, the only sign that she was joking was a barely upturned corner of her mouth. “Who am I to judge?”

“That’s not very responsible of you,” Peter shot her a wry grin, and the corners of her lips pulled up in kind. The anger and horrible heavy pit of guilt lessened a little.

“Good thing I’m not responsible for you, then,” she shot him a small grin, and he returned the expression gratefully. Maybe it wouldn’t be that long of a night after all.

Chapter Text

Tony… was a smart man. A genius. But he was so, so stupid.

He stared down at the scrawled handwriting across that dumb sticky note he’d found buried under sketches for suit upgrades, and tried not to panic. Because panicking wouldn’t help anything. Wouldn’t make it any easier of a pill to swallow to remember that he’d forgotten about the kid.

Not his legally adopted one, for a change. That was probably why it had slipped his mind so easily - he’d been so incredibly overwhelmed with the fugitive-to-adopted-child pipeline that when he’d seen Harley’s missed calls he’d simply written a reminder to call the kid back when he wasn’t inundated with other paperwork. God, this is why he shouldn’t write things down anymore. He had FRIDAY to remember this shit for him.

By the time he flicked through his phone log, the four missed calls from Harley stared back up at him. When he pressed call, the line was dead and went straight to voicemail. He frowned, tried calling again, and got the same result. The frustration began to bubble up and his hand tightened around the phone as he glanced at the screen, willing it to connect.

He for a fourth time, but it was the same result - straight to voicemail. “FRIDAY?” he called, his voice clipped.

“Yes, Boss?”

“Track Harley’s phone for me, sweetheart.”

There was a pause before FRIDAY replied, her tone a shade more cautious than usual. “His phone appears to be turned off, Boss. I’m unable to pin down its location.”

Tony’s frown deepened, the gnawing worry warping into something sharper, more insistent as his fingers drummed on the edge of the table. He knew Harley could take care of himself, but the kid wasn’t exactly the type to go dark without a reason. And the fact that his phone was off? That wasn’t a good sign.

“FRIDAY, pull up the last known location of his phone,” Tony ordered, his voice tight.

“His phone was last pinged near his house in Rosehill, Boss,” FRIDAY reported, “security camera footage shows him catching a bus out of town and then in a convenience store in a different city.”

Tony’s mind raced as he tried to piece together the information. “How’d he look?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, to not let the panic seep through. Peter had already aged him fifty years, and now Harley was going to finish the job.

“He was alone, purchased some food, and left. No signs of distress.”

Tony’s fingers paused in their drumming. “And then?”

“And then, nothing,” FRIDAY replied. “He got on a different bus, and there are no further sightings of him on public cameras in the area.”

But the uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away. He stood back from the desk, suppressing the stupid urge to pace the length of the lab as he considered his options. One missed call? Not unusual. Two? A little worrying. But four? And now the phone was off? That was… worrying. But the kid was probably fine.  

“When was the last sighting?” 

“Roughly two weeks ago.”

So the kid hadn’t been reported missing or anything in that time, so Tony assumed that Harley was where he was supposed to be. 

It’ll be fine, Tony tried to reassure himself, though the words felt hollow. He’d give him a week, then he’d track him down. Maybe hack a satellite or two - but if he overstepped while Harley was just hopping state lines to see a boyfriend on spring break or something again, the kid would murder him for the massive invasion of privacy. He’d give Harley a week to get back to him, then he’d act. Besides, Tony figured, he was a smart kid.

—

By the time Harley reached New York, he was exhausted - physically, mentally, emotionally. He’d spent too much time on buses, and in train stations, and if he had to try to read another horrible graffitied public transit timetable he might just lose it. It was at least two weeks of traveling; granted, he’d taken a three-day detour accidentally after falling asleep on a bus and crossing over to the wrong state. Never again. And in all that time, his phone had remained frustratingly silent. No messages, no missed calls. 

Not a single word from Tony.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, really. Before, Harley had somehow managed to convince himself that Tony was just busy, that he was caught up in something big, something that demanded his attention. But now, he was exhausted. Tony wasn’t just busy. He didn’t care. (Sure, his phone was dead now, but it hadn’t been three weeks ago. Or the months before. He still hadn’t gotten that call back.)

There was a horrible sort of spite that rose up in his chest, because Harley was so sick of being upset. He didn’t want to grieve what had happened with his mother or the fact that he wouldn’t get to see his sister for god knows how long. He wanted to be angry. So if Tony was going to ignore him, Harley was going to make his way to the tower to yell at the man himself. 

Besides, Harley mused wryly, he needed to find somewhere - anywhere - that felt safe. But New York was a sprawling, unfamiliar concrete jungle whose expanse sort of made Harley feel a little queasy to think about. It was nothing like Rose Hill, and he hadn’t felt so far from home in a long time. It was different being here now that Happy wasn’t waiting to pick him up to take him to the Tower, or that Tony wasn’t expecting him.

But he knew where Stark Tower was. He’d been there more than once, and he’d damn well get there again. He didn’t have money for a cab, and the subway had only gotten him so close. So he set out and tried to ignore the fact that it was way too late to be out alone - especially with no phone or any sort of protection. He was pretty sure the sharpest thing he had was probably the nearly empty pen he’d found on the first bus he’d gotten on.

And, because the universe couldn’t give Harley Keener a single break, he felt a rough hand catch his arm and pull him against the side of a building. 

“Give me all your money,” a man growled, his voice a low, guttural snarl, and Harley wrinkled his nose at the smell of the man - but his stomach dropped at the sight of the knife glinting in the low light. He was going to die. This was it.

But before the fear could fully take hold, there was a blur of red and blue, and suddenly the man was gone, knocked to the ground as something - someone - landed between them. The knife clattered to the pavement in front of Harley, and he stared at it, dumbfounded.

“Hey, man, I don’t think you should be around here,” a voice said, light and almost amused towards the direction of the man who’d been knocked to the ground. “I think we’re within two hundred feet of a school.” Harley looked up, his eyes widening as he took in the figure in front of him. The red and blue suit, the white eyes that seemed to shift with expression - he’d seen dumb YouTube compilations of the guy, but Harley couldn’t remember his name. Spider… something. Spider-Man?

Before the Spider… person could finish restraining the would-be mugger, Harley ducked down without a second thought to snatch the knife off the dirty alleyway ground. By the time Spider-Man turned to face him, Harley raised the knife in a way he hoped looked threatening.

“Um… you’re welcome?” Spider-Man tilted his head, the mask’s eyes narrowing in a way that somehow conveyed confusion. “You… okay, there?”

Harley blinked at the question. “What do you want?” he demanded, his voice wavering slightly, but his grip on the knife tightening.

“Uh, nothing? Just saved your life, man. You’re not gonna stab me, are you?” Spider-Man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, though his tone remained light before he glanced at the knife, then back up at Harley. His head tilted, the whites of his mask’s eyes widening like he’d realized something. “Hey, look dude, I know the Bugle isn't the nicest, but they're not exactly a shining beacon of journalistic integrity either, okay? I’m not gonna like… rob you, or whatever they said I’d do.”

“The Bugle?” Harley repeated dubiously, the Tennessee twang coming out a little more in his confusion. He also raised the knife a little higher at the mention of being robbed again. “What the hell is even that?”

Spider-Man’s mask eyes widened. “I don’t know if you’re from around here or not, but… it’s probably not super safe to be wandering the streets at night.” The vigilante hesitated at his flat expression. “But, uh… where are you headed? Maybe I can help.”

Spider-Man took a step back at Harley’s unimpressed snort as he lowered the knife slightly without letting go of it. Although the guy just saved him, he sure as hell knew better than to accept a ride from strangers, super-powered or not.  “No thanks. I’m not looking to hitchhike, even if they’re wearing fancy tights.” 

“But where are you going this late at night?” the vigilante asked after turning to shoot some adhesive thing out of his wrists to make sure the mugger from earlier was definitely stuck. Harley didn’t know what it was to stick the guy down - he almost didn’t want to know, either. Was that stuff coming out of him?

“Stark Tower,” Harley answered stupidly before he could think to keep his mouth shut.

“Stark Tower?” Spider-Man repeated a little dumbly and tilted his head again, clearly surprised. “You know it’s not open to visitors right now, right?”

“No shit,” Harley muttered, feeling a flare of irritation as he turned and stalked out of the alleyway. This guy didn’t seem like a threat, but Harley knew better than to trust appearances - even if the Spider-guy was a little short and sounded like a twelve-year-old, and was the vigilante following him? “Why are you still following me?” Harley snapped, glancing over his shoulder.

Spider-Man replied casually. “Just making sure you don’t get mugged again.”

“Well, don't,” Harley huffed, annoyed but too tired to argue further as he started back onto the street, hoping the vigilante would take the hint and leave him alone. He had the sneaking suspicion that the guy was still following him from the rooftops or something, but he didn’t say anything else and Harley couldn’t exactly see him in the dark, so maybe he was just paranoid.

He didn’t let go of that knife, though.

The streets were quieter now, and it was almost worse because the closer he got to Stark Tower, the more this horrible nausea twisted through his stomach. This is a bad idea, echoed through his brain. What if Tony really didn’t want to see him? What if he was just pushing his way in where he wasn’t invited? What if this was all a horrible idea, and he should have stayed home and kept his mouth shut?

By the time Stark Tower actually came into view, Harley was almost ready to turn around and leave. The Tower was, unsurprisingly, not open; the doors were locked shut with only the green glow of the emergency signs visible inside. But he tried the doors anyway, and they didn’t budge. There was a horrible bitter frustration that bubbled up inside him, and he clenched his fists while fighting the urge to just start banging on the glass.

“You trying to get in too?” a voice said from behind him, and Harley turned to find a skinny teenager standing there, looking almost as out of place as Harley felt. He looked… like he’d just crawled out of bed, honestly - wearing a baggy T-shirt and shorts that had to be too cold for the weather. He was barefoot, too - but his hair was windswept like he’d just fallen fifty stories. Shaking off the… oddness of the kid, he turned back to the locked doors.

“Yeah,” Harley replied, his voice flat. “But it’s locked, obviously.”

The teenager next to him shifted awkwardly on his feet, pale in the light of the tower.  “Uh, we can go around to the back entrance? FRIDAY - Mr. Stark’s AI  - will let us in if you’re supposed to be here.”

“Of course I’m supposed to be here,” he resisted the urge to snap at the kid. “And I know FRIDAY. I’m not gonna get mugged or anything if I go into the dark shady alleyway behind here, will I? I got a knife, just so you know. But… I also don’t think a twink like you’d give me too much trouble.” 

The teen’s brows knit together, and his jaw dropped a little something like offense. “I’m not a-”

“What’s your name?” Harley interrupted with a shrug, glancing over at the kid who looked a little ruffled.

“Peter,” the other boy grit out, before retreating down the steps. “The elevator’s around here.”

“I’m well aware,” Harley drawled as he followed behind. “It’s not my first time here, by the way.”

The back entrance was as shady as Harley had expected, but the door was unlocked so he wasn’t complaining. Besides, he was sure FRIDAY would just, like… laser anyone who wasn’t supposed to be there, anyone.

“Mhm,” the other boy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s why you’re standing out in front of Stark Tower at…” he pulled out his phone, glancing at the time, “one-thirty on a Wednesday?”

Harley huffed, “It’s been a while, alright? I forgot about the elevator, my bad. At least I’m not in my pajamas - and barefoot.” Peter glanced down, as if surprised by his own lack of shoes. Seriously, what was with this guy? “Seriously, dude, what the hell?”

“You can’t talk!” Peter shot back as he jammed the elevator call button a little too hard, “You sound like you’re from Ohio or something and you didn’t even have a way of getting in the tower! What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see Tony,” he snapped, before there was a sudden wave of bitter exhaustion and his voice dulled, “If he’ll even see me.”

Peter regarded him, face softening a little bit and Harley felt stupid. The elevator doors opened with a ding, and he pushed inside, gaze refusing to leave the floor. The other boy gave a small smile, and Harley felt so much dumber for snapping at him. “I’m sure he will. I’m, um, going up to see him too. We can go together.”

Harley frowned. “What the hell are you doing here so late?”

“I… work for him,” Peter replied, his tone a little defensive.

Before Harley could interject how incredibly suspicious and entirely unbelievable that lie was, FRIDAY’s voice cut him off. “Hello, Peter. Welcome back, Harley. How can I assist you both today?”

Hearing FRIDAY’s voice again after so long was… weird. It almost felt like a normal visit and not like he was dropping in unanounced at some ungodly hour in the night. For a moment, Harley almost felt like he was home - but the feeling was fleeting, quickly drowned out by exhaustion. He still wasn’t there yet; he still needed to flay Tony for not getting back to him, first.

“Mr. Stark’s lab, please, FRIDAY,” Peter said politely, doing a little head-dip that Harley found both a little dumb and slightly endearing. Who was this kid? No way he actually worked for Stark, right? The clothes, the lack of shoes - everything about him screamed out of place. Harley couldn’t wrap his head around it. The guy wasn’t carrying anything from home, so why the hell was he trying to get into Tony’s lab so late at night? What had happened while he was gone?

The elevator ride was quiet, and before feeling like he was going to explode if he didn’t at least ask, Harley broke the silence. “It’s like two in the morning. Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”

Peter hesitated, his eyes darting away. “Well, what are you doing here, huh?”

Harley was about to call him out on how dumb that deflection was, but the elevator doors opened and cut him off. Peter walked out first, heading straight into Tony’s lab like he belonged there. Harley followed, a growing sense of unease settling in his gut. Even the senior interns weren’t supposed to be up here; Harley only figured there were like five people who had access, and yet here this kid was, strolling in like he owned the place. 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter called out, glancing back at Harley, who was trailing behind.

The lab was just as he remembered it, if not a little messier. Tony’s usual workbench was cluttered with new projects, but his usual bench was… different, though. There was more stuff all over it, and he assumed it was probably just Tony’s project bleeding across one table to another. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, anyway.

“Peter?” Tony’s voice called back, oddly familiar with the intrusion. “What are you still doing up? It’s like two in the morning, you should be in bed -”

​​“Mr. Stark!” Peter interrupted, a flush of pink coloring his cheeks. “That’s not - there’s, uh, someone here to see you.”

There was a pause, then Tony’s head popped up from behind one of the workbenches, eyes widening in surprise. “Harley!” Relief and something else - something like guilt - bled into Tony’s voice as he quickly made his way around the bench. “Where have you been?”

Harley blinked, the question catching him off guard. “Where have I been?” he echoed faintly. “What the hell d’you mean, man? I tried calling you!”

Tony winced. “Yeah, I saw those missed calls. I was-”

“-Busy,” Harley finished flatly. “Yeah, I figured.”

“I tried to call you back, though!” Tony defended, but Harley was not in the mood for this. He was tired, hungry, and probably didn’t look - or smell - the greatest. After weeks on the road, hopping from one grimy public bathroom to another in a vain attempt to stay clean, there was only so much cleaning you could do in the dirtiest public spaces available. The last thing he wanted was a lecture.

“Phone’s dead,” Harley muttered, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had flared. “Long story.”

Something shifted in Tony’s face, like it had softened a little. Which, Harley was thankful for, but again - weird. Normally, Tony would push just out of curiosity, but if he did right now? Harley might bite him. Or cry. Fifty-fifty shot either way, and neither outcome seemed particularly appealing.

“Right,” Tony said after a moment. “Well, how about we get you set up in your own room? I bet a shower would be good right about now.”

“A shower would be great.”

Tony clapped his hands. “Well, Pete - why don’t you take him down to your floor? There should be a room across from you, or next to you. Can’t remember. But there’s a spare room on that floor, FRIDAY’ll show you where. Harley, you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Harley replied, his fingers curling tightly around the straps of his backpack. The emptiness in his stomach gnawed at him, and he would’ve eaten just about anything put in front of him at that moment.

“I’ll order us a couple of pizzas, then,” Tony said, already pulling out his phone to place the order. “Now shoo and go shower, you gremlin.”

Harley couldn’t help but crack a small smile at that, even if it was fleeting. He followed Peter out of the lab, the other boy leading the way with a familiarity that Harley found unsettling. The kid walked through the tower like he belonged there, like he was at… at home.

Once the elevator doors slid shut behind them, Harley turned to Peter, his voice rough with disbelief. “What the fuck ?” he asked hoarsely. “Wait, what - you have a room? You live here? What the hell kind of intern are you?”

Peter hesitated, his face paling as his eyes widened unexpectedly, and Harley almost felt bad for cornering him like this. Almost. “It’s, uh-” Peter stammered, clearly scrambling for a response. “It’s just, co-”

“If you say it’s complicated, I’m gonna maul you,” Harley snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Don’t lie to me. What the hell happened? I was gone for six months!”

The elevator dinged softly, and Peter all but scrambled out of there like he’d been stuck in the small space with a wild animal. Harley watched him go, a sinking feeling settling in his gut as the pieces started to fall into place. This wasn’t just some intern. This was the kid Tony had adopted. The one Harley had heard gossip rags talk about but hadn’t wanted to believe was real.

“So, uh, here’s your room,” Peter gestured a little lamely to a door near the end of short hallway. He shuffled his feet, looking like he was bracing himself for Harley to explode at him again. Which, to be fair, wasn’t an unreasonable expectation given how things had gone so far.

“Thanks,” Harley muttered, not trusting himself to say anything more. He pushed past Peter and into the room, slamming the door shut behind him right in that stupid Peter kid’s face with a little more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway, and for a moment, Harley stood there, staring at the empty room, breathing heavily.

He dropped his backpack onto the floor and flopped onto the bed. The mattress sank under his weight, enveloping him in a softness that should’ve been comforting but it only seemed to made the anger burn hotter. He’d thought that Tony would be glad to see him and - naively - hoped it could be like an extended summer vacation visit. But instead, he’d walked into something he didn’t recognize and now he was left with an angry thrumming that burned underneath his skin. Six months. He was gone for six months.

He’d been replaced in six months.

Chapter Text

“So,” Bucky began as he popped open the jam jar. “What’s he like?” 

Peter glanced up from his half-buttered toast, momentarily taken aback by the question. His brow furrowed slightly as he tried to find the right words. “I don’t… really know,” he admitted, his tone uncertain. “He seemed kinda stressed? Which makes sense, I think. He said he’d been traveling or something.” 

That felt like it barely explained what Harley was actually like. ‘Stressed’ was putting it mildly. He had seemed wound up so tightly that Peter half-expected him to snap at any moment - or more than he already had on that elevator ride down. And honestly, who pulled a knife on Spider-Man after being saved? Who calls someone a twink before getting their name?

If MJ found out about that, she'd never let him live it down. Ned, too.

“Where’s he from?” Steve asked as he slid into the seat at the counter. He reached over to steal some strawberry jam despite Bucky’s noise of protest and a slice of toast. Steve ignored him, focusing on the conversation as he spread the jam over his toast.

Peter shrugged, taking a bite of his breakfast before responding. “I don’t know,” he tilted his head a little, remembering the Southern twang in the other boy’s words. “He sounds like he’s not from here, though.”

Steve hummed in thought, a look of mild concern crossing his features. “Maybe you should check up on him,” he suggested. “Sounds like he’s having a rough go of it. Maybe he could use a friendly face.”

The image of Harley’s angry snarl and the way he’d slammed the door right in Peter’s face made him wince. The guy didn’t seem like someone who wanted company, much less a friendly check-in. 

“I… don't know if that's a good idea.” The last thing he wanted was to provoke Harley any further. Besides, it was Wednesday, and school would start soon. That gave him a convenient excuse to steer clear of Harley for the time being - the whole stranger in the room opposite him would be a later problem. 

He wasn’t… intimidated, exactly, but he’d rather give Harley some space for now.

—

Tony didn’t bother looking up from his work when the Harley pushed his way inside. He hadn’t need to think too hard about where the man would be, and if he spent any more time wallowing in his room, he’d go insane. Besides, he wanted to know what Tony was working on now - last time he was here Tony was still stuck on the self-reparing nanites.

“Let yourself in, why don’t you? Who even needs to knock anymore, when you act like you own the place," Tony snarked, glancing up to catch Harley leaning over his shoulder to stare down at the scattered electronics littering the desk. "What happened to respecting authority figures?”

Harley didn’t miss a beat. "I feel like my sole purpose is to be an asshole to any and all authority figures. That includes you." 

“What happened to that little nerd who-” Tony rolled his eyes before he paused. His gaze flickered back to Harley, a wry grin forming. "No, you were always such a shit."

"Feelings mutual," Harley huffed, his gaze drifting down to the cluttered workbench across from Tony’s. The sight made his chest tighten. His workbench. Or, at least, it used to be. Now, it was covered with someone else’s stuff - little metal bracelets and notes scrawled in handwriting so loopy that almost reminded him of his sister’s. 

That same muted anger bubbled up in his chest, simmering just beneath the surface. Who the hell did this kid think he was, taking his space like that?

"So, who’s the kid?" Harley asked, his voice dripping with bitterness as he tried to keep his tone nonchalant. He failed spectacularly.

“Peter?” Tony’s head tilted as he looked up from his work.

Harley’s eyes narrowed. “What, you have any other surprises I should know about?”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Tony said as he tossed a sticky note in his direction, but missing spectacularly.

“Not fair?” Harley wanted to explode. His voice rose, the horrible swirling frustration he’d been holding back finally seeming to spill over, and he was torn between wanting to punch someone and storm out of the lab. Instead, though, his feet were rooted in place. “You wanna know what’s not fair? I’m here instead of at home. I miss my sister. I blew the last of my cash to get here because when I called, you didn’t pick up.” Tony looked like he wanted to say something, but Harley wasn’t done. “And when I get here, it turns out you have a kid now? What the hell’s up with that?”

“That-” Tony opened his mouth, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Something flashed across his face that Harley couldn’t decipher; but for once, Tony Stark looked like he didn’t know what to say. Harley let out a huff, turning away from Tony to rat through the drawers of his old workbench. He needed something to do with his hands, something to focus on other than the boiling anger and the irrational sense of betrayal gnawing at him. 

He dug through the draws trying to catch a glimpse of any of his old projects, anything Tony might have bothered to keep from the last time he’d been in the lab. Other than the sound of half-finished projects being sifted through, the silence stretched on between them, heavy and uncomfortable.

Tony, thankfully, didn’t push. He just watched for a moment before turning back to his own work. There was a horrible wave of exhaustion that seemed to deflate his energy. He hadn’t felt like this in so long - it was like he was when his father had first left; snapping and angry and looking for a fight. He was defensive and bitter from feeling abandoned, and despite the fact that he knew he was being cruel, he couldn't seem to stop it. 

So, for now, the man let Harley work in silence while Tony stayed nearby, a silent, uneasy presence in the lab. Maybe he should go back downstairs. Maybe brooding in his room was a better alternative than this.

He was about to make a quiet exit when the lab doors slid open again, and Peter came bounding in, with his backpack still in hand.  “Hey, Mr. Stark, you know how a while ago I was technically an intern? I was wondering if-” Peter started, but he cut himself off abruptly when he saw Harley standing there. “-Oh.”

Harley turned slightly, just enough to glance at the kid who had apparently taken over his bench. He was shorter than Harley remembered, kind of scrawny, and definitely too cheerful for Harley’s current mood. 

Peter hesitated for a second, shuffling his weight from foot to foot, “Um, Harley, right? I don’t think I ever found out why you’re here - not to be rude or anything! I just, um, Mr. Stark hasn’t mentioned you before.” Peter had stepped forward and slid into Harley’s usual seat by the lab bench while he was busy rummaging through the drawers, adding insult to injury.

“He hasn’t,” Harley repeated flatly, still not turning around. He didn’t need to see Tony’s face to know that he probably looked guilty as hell.

“No,” Peter said, frowning slightly. “So, no offense, but who are you?”

“Harley,” he answered curtly, ignoring the fact that that clearly wasn’t the answer that the other boy was after, but whatever. That was the only explanation Peter was getting from him right now. “I’m here because I got kicked out.”

Harley’s gaze finally caught a familiar project buried in the third draw. He pulled it out, glancing at it and running a finger over the familiar scrape in its side. The half-finished mimic of the Iron Man gloves that he’d been working on last time he was here wasn’t… working, but it wasn’t wholly broken. It just… caught fire whenever it began to overheat. He could fix that, though. 

He just needed to get a place to set up shop, first.

“Oh,” Peter breathed, clearly taken aback. He looked like he was trying to muster the courage to ask something else, and Harley could see the wheels turning in his head. “What happened? If I can ask? Sorry if that’s like, insanely rude or anything, you don’t have to answer-”

“Got kicked out because I’m gay. Is that a problem?” Harley asked, voice still deadpanned. He wasn’t in the mood for sympathy or judgment - he just wanted to get this conversation over with.

Peter’s eyes widened and for a moment, he just stared at Harley, frozen. There was a moment that passed, then two, and the silence stretched out, uncomfortable and heavy. Jesus, this was painful. Harley narrowed his eyes, and the silence and Peter’s awkward reaction made him wonder if maybe he had a problem with it after all. Or maybe… something else. Harley didn’t trust it, whatever it was. Harley let out a breath, and that seemed to jolt Peter back into reality.

“Oh, I wasn’t-” Peter blurted, waving his hands a little like that could cover his earlier deafening silence. “Sorry, I don’t-”

Before Peter could keep muttering, Harley cut him off. “Hey, can you stand up for a sec?”

“Oh, yeah, sure!” Peter’s eyes widened as he jumped up from the chair, standing back for a moment. 

Harley simply took the chair from under him and sat down a little closer to the edge of his desk. “Thanks,” he said, offering nothing more. Peter stood there, blinking in confusion, as Harley made himself comfortable in the seat as he reached over for a tool to start cracking open the glove again. Peter's face shifted from surprise to confusion to a flicker of hurt before he smoothed it down, glancing over at Tony - like he was going to do anything. The man only watched the exchange with mild amusement, not stepping in. 

“So, what are you doing here? He’s not actually your dad, is he?” Harley asked, as he shot a glance at Tony who just snorted.

“Nope,” Peter answers after recovering with a wry smile, popping the ‘p’. “Not biologically, just legally.”

“Do I want to know?” Harley paused, squinting at Peter and then at Tony. “Actually, how did you guys even meet? You told me interns needed to be graduates, at least.”

Peter paled a little, eyes widening as he glanced at Tony for support. The man just shrugged nonchalantly. “We made an exception. He was my intern, and I adopted him to help him out of the system.”

Harley’s disbelief was palpable. He stared at Peter, then back at Tony, clearly not buying it. “You… interned for him. Tony had a personal intern?” Harley asked disbelievingly, his voice laced with skepticism. “I’m pretty sure the only personal intern that lasted more than a week was Pepper. And I’m also pretty sure she wants to strangle you half the time.”

“Kid was smart,” Tony shrugged again, while it was looking like Peter was getting defensive. 

Harley… was not convinced. “Huh,” was all he said before turning back to look over his old project, effectively dismissing the conversation. Peter looked like he was trying not to bristle at the lack of acknowledgment and Harley felt something akin to a smug sense of self-satisfaction at the expression. 

—

Despite the fact that neither Bucky nor Mr. Stark were particularly impressed with Peter's late-night patrols, there was something undeniably freeing about getting out of the house. 

He was wandering across some of the familiar rooftops around Queens, doing laps around his usual patrol route. It felt familiar - because in a way, no matter what seemed to be happening to him, no matter where he moved throughout the city, nothing seemed to change in the way that it was always everchanging. Advertisements and flyers on posts and shopfronts were torn down and reposted. The people were all so different that they seemed similar. And, most of all, there was always some sort of crime.

But not tonight, it seemed.

While he loved the tower, it was nice to get out. Peter had never been super into rules and schedules or… anything like that but after his time at the warehouse, it had sort of ingrained a lack of schedule into him. He was used to being independent and relying on himself - and while he didn’t exactly have to follow a lot of rules, if he wanted to get up and leave to wander across random rooftops at four am? He would. Tony and Bucky could hate it as much as they wanted, but Peter hated feeling trapped even more.

Tony specifically - while he hadn’t exactly talked a whole lot about his own childhood, the man was nothing if not overbearing. It was sweet; it showed that the man cared and Peter was appreciative of it - but god, it could be a little exhausting.

So he just had to not get stabbed or else FRIDAY would rat him out. Again.

With a sigh, he hopped down and walked along the edge of the roof; one foot in front of the other, a little like a tightrope walker. He wasn’t sure where he was going. There was no aim, and he’d strayed from his regular patrol route just… walking. Thinking. 

Maybe he should visit May, the thought came abruptly, and with it was that familiar heavy ache in his chest. She was buried next to Ben, but it was in a cemetery halfway across the city. FRIDAY had told him when he’d finally worked up the courage to ask , but for some reason he still couldn’t bring himself to actually go. It made him feel a little stupid, but actually seeing her headstone and her name engraved right next to Ben’s would make it real.

Which was dumb. It was already real. It had been real for the last two years.

But for some reason he just… couldn’t. She was always so smart, though. She was rational but understanding and just seemed to know how to figure everything out with this sort of ease that Peter just… didn’t have. She’d probably be a little disappointed in how he treated Harley, too - avoiding him when he was clearly here for help. He wondered what she would think of him. 

He wasn’t sure what to think about Harley, either.

Chapter Text

From the second that they stepped out of the car, Peter knew that this was a horrible idea.

Once Mr. Stark had realized that Harley’s situation at home was somewhat… permanent, the man had immediately enrolled him at Midtown, too. Which was fine. Peter was fine with that. But sometimes Harley was so damn annoying that he kind of wanted to tackle him to the ground, and he was a little worried about what he’d do at school. Not that Peter even had much of a reputation to uphold, anyway; but it was more the fact that he really didn’t want attention being drawn to him. And Harley was… attention-grabbing, with a nice face like that.

His face flushed at the though, before staring down stubbornly at the tiles below him. “I - some of the people here can be a little… much,” Peter winced, thinking of Flash’s snide face. “Just… maybe keep your head down for a little bit just to figure things out.”

“It’s a fancy city school, it can’t be that bad,” Harley shot back, gripping the straps of his new backpack a little tighter as they made their way back from the office, Harley now clad with his class schedule and a locker assigned. “And for the last time, stop telling people I’m from Texas.”

He hadn’t been too impressed when Steve had made a comment about coming from the Lone Star State. Peter had only laughed as he watched the confusion stretch across both of their faces.

Peter snorted, not bothering to hide his laughter. “Why not? You sound like you’re from there. Or was it Idaho? Oh wait, maybe Ohio-” Harley’s jaw tightened, but before he could snap something Peter cut him off. “Don’t. Just… don’t do another impression. You’re no good at it.”

Harley scoffed as they made their way inside the building. “Tony seemed to think it was pretty funny.”

Peter didn’t even blink. “That’s because you were making a fool of yourself. You can only say, ‘Hey, I’m walking here!’ so many times while sitting in the seat next to me, unmoving. You’re not funny.” They walked through the corridors and stopped by Peter’s locker, catching Ned and MJ’s attention from down the hall. Peter silently hoped that Harley would behave himself, but at this point, it felt like he should know better than to expect it. 

MJ raised an eyebrow. “Oh, is this your friend?”

“Guys, this is Harley. He’s from Idaho.” Harley’s eyes narrowed, and Peter could practically feel the heat of his glare burning into the side of his head. 

“Oh, that’s so cool! What are you doing in New York - isn’t that ages away?” Ned asked.

Harley opened his mouth, probably to correct Peter, but Peter cut him off again because he could feel the horrible New York accent Harley was going to do. “Don’t, Harley. Don’t do the thing.”

Harley ignored him, instead still fixated on Idaho, “Actually, I’m from-”

“-nowhere important,” Peter finished, quickly steering the conversation in a different direction. “Anyway, he’s new - and stupid - so be nice.”

MJ nudged Peter. “Yeah, he’s definitely your friend.”

“Not by choice,” Peter muttered, though there was no real heat behind his words. He turned to open his locker when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a rising tension wound through his chest. He heard Flash’s annoying voice and knew what was coming.

A hand shot out behind him, barely grazing his head, before it grasped his locker door and slammed it shut with a loud thud . There was a heavy, throbbing pain that ran through Peter’s head as Flash’s friends laughed while they passed by.

“Hey!” MJ called sharply. Flash turned to glare at her, but his gaze quickly shifted to Harley before his eyes widened in something like curiosity.

“Who’re you?”

Already. Flash had already spotted Harley - Peter shouldn’t have even bothered telling him to keep his head down because Flash would’ve come to him anyway.

“Hey, new kid,” Flash called when Harley didn’t bother to respond. “I haven’t seen you before, have I? What’re you doing with Penis Parker over here? He’s not a good introduction to the school, man - he’ll beeline for the bathrooms and try to sell you crack or something.”

Harley raised an eyebrow as he glanced at Peter, who was studiously avoiding both his and Flash’s gazes, instead choosing to rummage through his locker to pick out the books for his next class.

“Sorry, are you saying you’re a good introduction to the school?” came Harley’s voice underlined with a layer of sarcasm. “I did just watch you slam a locker into his head, man.”

Flash’s grin faltered for a second, but he quickly recovered, trying to play it off. “Tch, you’d do it too if you had to put up with him all year.”

“Nah,” Harley said after a moment. “I don’t think I would.”

There was a moment of tense silence before Flash finally scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, man. Your loss.” He turned on his heel, muttering something under his breath as he walked away.

“Did you just…?” Peter began, glancing over at Harley.

Harley shrugged. “Don’t get used to it, Parker. I still think you’re annoying as hell.”

Huh. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad to have Harley here after all.

—

That was a lie. A complete and utter lie because letting Harley and Ned within five hundred miles of each other was the worst idea he’d ever had.

“Oh!” Ned shot up like he had just remembered something. “You're just in time for the field trip!”

Peter let out a pained groan at the reminder of that particular looming problem and pressed his forehead to the cafeteria table. Harley just let out a ‘huh?’

“It’s at Stark Tower! Isn’t that so cool? Aren’t you excited? Or, I dunno since you probably live there or whatever, knowing Peter. But its not fair that you guys get to just see the Avengers all the time. What do you think about them?”

“I dunno, they’re alright, I guess.” Ned’s eyes widened at the blase answer and Harley, with his usual smugness, leaned back in his chair while looking entirely too pleased with himself. Peter kind of wanted to kick him. 

“Wait, dude, super important question,” Ned started, looking like he was about to burst from holding back his excitement.  It was clear he’d been dying to ask this question since the moment Harley sat down - and a part of Peter felt like he knew what was coming. “What do you think about Spider-Man?”

Peter’s body reacted nearly by himself and he immediately stomped on Ned’s foot under the table, trying to cut off whatever else he was about to say. Ned’s knee jerked up, smacking into the underside of the table with a loud thud that rattled the table. The sound echoed through the cafeteria, drawing the attention of a few nearby students.

“Ow!” Ned hissed, his face scrunched up in pain. Harley glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised in a mixture of shock and maybe a bit of concern. Ned winced, “Uh, there was just... a bug. Really big. Huge, right on my foot.” 

Harley’s eyebrow arched even higher, clearly unimpressed. “You’re scared of a bug?” 

“Mhm, super scared. Terrified ,” Ned blurted before side-eyeing Peter like he was begging for an intervention that would never come.

“Is that why you’re asking about Spider-Man?” Harley continued, skepticism dripping from his tone.

Peter was unamused. MJ, however, was a sadist. She grinned at him from over Harley’s shoulder, and he was half tempted to slam his head into the table if knocking himself out meant escaping the following situation.

“Yeah,” Ned replied, now grasping at straws. “He scares the shit out of me. I heard he’s got like... eight arms or something. Super bug-like.”

Peter couldn’t help but interject, “He’s not-”

Harley cut him off smoothly, “Spiders are arachnids, not bugs.” Peter is simultaneously relieved that someone finally seems to understand that spiders aren’t bugs. But he’s also incredibly annoyed that the one person seems to just be Harley. “He seemed normal enough. Kinda sounded like a twelve-year-old, though.”

At MJ’s snort of laughter, Peter’s fleeting relief evaporated completely. He scowled at Harley - and at MJ, the traitor - while he silently regrets not letting Harley get stabbed in that alleyway.

“Oh, you met him?” Ned questioned, voice falsely innocent as he lit up with this horrible, incredibly familiar gleam in his eyes. Peter knew where this is going.

“Yeah, he saved me. I almost stabbed him, though. Didn’t recognize him,” Harley said with a shrug. MJ laughed outright this time, while Ned’s eyes widened. Peter could see the muscles in his neck straining from the effort of not glancing over in his direction.

Ned leaned in, “What do you think about him?” he pressed, practically vibrating with curiosity as if Harley’s opinion was the most important thing in the world.

“What about him?” Harley asked, unfazed and still annoyingly nonchalant.

“What was it like?” 

Harley paused, drawing out the moment like he knew everyone was on the edge of their seats. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and looked thoughtful, though Peter knew better than to trust that expression. “Well,” Harley began, his tone teasing, “he’s shorter in person than I expected. And he’s got this weird habit of tilting his head when he’s thinking. He’s kind of cute if you’re into that masked vigilante sort of thing.”

Peter’s face flushed with embarrassment. This was a nightmare.

“He’s quick, though,” Harley continued, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And sharp. Doesn’t miss a beat. He fly-tackled the dude who was trying to mug me and made some dumb joke while doing it. I would've laughed if I wasn’t so damn confused.”

Ned was leaning in even closer, practically hanging on every word. Peter wanted the ground to swallow him whole. MJ, on the other hand, looked like she was enjoying the show, a smirk playing on her lips. “So he’s good, then, huh.”

Harley raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What, you’re making it sound like I fucked him or something.”

MJ, without missing a beat, asked, “Would you?” 

Peter was suffering. His soul left his body. Why was this happening?

The table fell into stunned silence. Harley actually seemed to consider the question for a moment, before shrugged. “I mean, sure.”

Ned’s eyes practically sparkled as he turned to Peter, who was now fully regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. “What about you, Peter?” Ned asked, trying and failing to stifle a grin.

Peter struggled to keep his voice even as he gave what he hoped was a dismissive response. “I don’t know. He’s fine, I guess.”

Harley wasn’t satisfied, turning to look at him with a small downturn of his lips. “What, you don’t like him? Why not?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Peter floundered, glancing at Ned for help but finding none. “I just think he’s a little overhyped, that’s all.”

Harley frowned, and suddenly, he was more passionate than he’d been a minute ago. “How? He’s a good guy,” the boy stressed, leaning forward slightly. “Dude saves people for nothing. What’s not to like?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Peter repeated again, but it looked like whatever he was saying didn’t have much effect.

“You’re an ass,” Harley dismissed, before looking straight at MJ. “You know what? Yeah, I’d fuck him. He seems sweet. God knows he needs someone to appreciate him.”

Ned was now desperately trying to smother his laughter with his hands, while MJ just nodded sagely. Peter was half-tempted to pull the fire alarm just to get out of this conversation a little sooner. Introducing them to Harley had been a terrible, horrible idea. He should’ve convinced Harley to attend online classes - or maybe go to a different school altogether.

“Yeah, Peter reads the Bugle,” MJ added as she glanced back down at her sketchbook nonchalantly. “He’s a hater. Has no respect for journalistic integrity.”

Peter could kill someone right now. He could actually, honest-to-god reach across the table and strangle one of his friends with his bare hands, and they would completely deserve it. Instead, he gritted his teeth and silently plotted his revenge.

Harley, apparently, did not seem to notice. “Well, I still don’t know what the Bugle is, but I’m not a fan,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Spider-Man deserves better, even if Peter doesn’t appreciate him. Besides,” he adds with a wicked grin, “he’s not too hard on the eyes either. I mean, it was dark when I met him, but that suit leaves nothing to the imagination, anyway.”

Ned was trying not to laugh so hard that he started crying while Peter, on the other hand, buried his face in his hands. Maybe he should switch schools instead.

—

He still couldn’t sleep.

He blinked up at the ceiling and the little glow-in-the-dark stars that he’d taped up in the shape of the constellations above New York. The Big Dipper hovered above his bed. The lack of total darkness was comforting, in a way - and the stars reminded him of the view of the sky from the broken window of the warehouse. Even if he couldn’t see all that many of them because of the light pollution, he knew they were there. It was a little weird that the thought of the familiar view from the warehouse window was so comforting, because just about everything from that period of his life sucked - but he was still at least able to sleep properly. 

Usually, staring up at the little plastic bioluminescent stars made him feel a little more tired, or at least a little better. Every time he glanced up at them, he thought of Bucky handing them over as a little ‘welcome home’ gift after his first month in the tower. He thought of getting Ned to help him project the New York City constellation patterns on the roof, and watching him ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ as he crawled across the roof before pointing ‘a little to the left’ - barely a centimeter - before letting Peter stick them in place.

And it did make him feel a little better, a little warmer, to blink up at them from his nice, warm ( safe ) bed. But it didn’t make him any more tired, and it didn’t change the fact that he still couldn’t sleep.

Sam was back on deployment or called out to some military thing that Peter wasn’t told the specifics of - not that he’d bother the guy at three in the morning even if he was here, now - but he missed their weekly sessions. While it didn’t feel like much was getting… better, or that it was noticeable or anything, Peter knew that they were making a difference. He felt a little more comfortable in his skin, in the tower. Maybe that was just time passing, too. Peter didn’t mind either way.

But he still couldn’t sleep, and that was a problem.

With a huff, he shoved the covers off and made his way back down to the kitchen. Natasha was in there again. She had a glass that looked like it was more ice than water, and she was tracing the rim of it with her finger. He didn’t bother to knock against the wall or make his entrance a little louder because he knew she was already aware of his presence.

He moved to wipe down the counters - careful to avoid her glass and her idle gaze - before loading the dishwasher as quietly as he could.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha’s voice caught him by surprise, and he turned to face her.

Did he want to talk about it? She probably knew why he was up; a mix of insomnia or nightmares, and she’d be right either way, but he didn’t know if he was willing to spill his guts to her. She was nice and some sort of steadying solid presence in the room, even if a little scary. They didn’t talk much one-on-one, either, so it would make him feel a little bad to dump his problems on her.

“You sound like Sam,” he settled for instead.

The corner of her mouth quirked upwards into a small grin. “In a good way, or in an annoying way?”

“I feel like you’re going to ask me about my feelings and guilt me into doing a breathing exercise next.” That did get an earnest smile out of her, and he felt something warm in his chest. He shut the dishwasher, started it, and then piled all the other utensils and cooking pots that didn’t fit next to the sink so he could wash them properly.

“So I shouldn’t ask you to name five things you can see, then?”

Peter paused, pointing a now-soapy hand - courtesy of his broken rubber gloves - in Natasha’s direction. “I’ll throw something at you if you do, Ms. Widow..”

He wouldn’t. She knew that too, but it didn’t stop her from smiling at him. “Call me Nat.”

Peter beamed.

Chapter Text

Harley wanted to throw something. 

No matter what he did, no matter how much he tweaked this damn tech, no matter how long he spent agonizing over what was causing the stupid gauntlet to overload, nothing seemed to work. He'd replaced the wiring with a cooling agent. He’d lowered the electricity output as much as he could without fragmenting the blast. His last idea for now would be rerouting some of the major wiring to disperse the heat. If this didn’t work, he’d let it catch fire and watch it burn.

He gingerly slid the still-opened gauntlet onto his right hand, fingers flexing while carefully avoiding the exposed compartments and wires. Then, he pressed down on the trigger by his thumbpad, and-

“Ow!” he yelped, angrily yanking the burning tech off his hand before dropping it onto the desk with a frustrated groan.

Tony, seated nearby and only half paying attention, looked up to check that Harley hadn’t fried himself or, worse, his tech. “You okay there, kid?”

“No,” Harley growled, wiping his burned hand on his pants before reaching for the half-finished packet of cookies on his desk. His desk. He’d moved all of Parker’s crap off his workbench and onto the table across from it. 'Moved' was a generous word - it was more like he’d swept everything across the table in one motion, not bothering to pick up anything that had fallen onto the floor.

“Anything I can help with?” Tony asked, raising an eyebrow, though his focus remained on the tablet in front of him.

“You could get me more of these damn cookies,” Harley muttered, shoving one into his mouth. “You’re almost out.”

There was a pause, before Tony asked, “Did you get into Rogers' stash? I’m pretty sure he puts like four cups of sugar in those things. A whole stick of butter, too. Someone needs to tell the man we’re not in the Great Depression anymore. He doesn’t need to gorge himself like that.”

“Nah, these are the ones I like. Thought you said everyone else hates them, but I definitely left some last time I was here. You were out, so I had to go buy my own,” Harley scoffed. “I knew you were lying. I have great taste.”

Tony’s face scrunched in thought. “...What cookies were those again?”

“The best ones? The ones I literally always have?” Harley raised an eyebrow at the odd question. “The double chocolate mint ones I can’t get in Rosehill for some godforsaken reason-” Tony suddenly stood, startling Harley into cutting himself off mid-sentence at the sudden movement. “Are you okay, dude?”

“The mint ones?” Tony demanded, eyes wide.

“Yeah?” Harley said slowly, holding up the half-empty package. “Should… should I not have bought the cookies? What’s your deal?”

“You cannot let Peter see those,” he pointed at Harley, lowering his voice to a hiss although his face was white and eyes wide, “Oh my god, Harley, I’m so serious right now. That kid is going to give me a heart attack one day, I swear to god-”

“What?” Harley frowned, pushing the packet aside as he fully turned to face Tony. “Why not? They’re just cookies. What the hell is going on?” Harley demanded, shoving the packet aside and fully swiveling his chair to face the man. “Why are you so freaked out over some cookies?”

Tony rubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted. “Peter’s super allergic to mint. But the kid loves mint chocolate. He’s obsessed . When he found out he was allergic to them he actually cried.” Harley frowned a little at that. How do you suddenly realize you’re allergic? If he’d eaten them before, wouldn’t he have known? Tony either doesn’t catch the confused face or doesn’t care enough to stop. “And then - get this - he still eats them. We had to deep clean the entire tower because he kept sneaking them and getting sick, like a stupid little rat.”

Harley glanced at the packet of cookies, then back at Tony, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

“I’m serious,” Tony continued, his voice drained of energy as he collapsed back into his chair. “I’m not gonna stop you from eating them, but do not let Peter see them. He’ll sniff it out like a dog and he’ll eat the whole pack if you don't stop him. Bucky had to physically restrain him at one point.”

Harley snorted and popped another cookie into his mouth, but Tony didn’t look impressed. A few minutes later the door to the lab slid open, and Peter stepped inside. "Hey, Mr. Stark!" 

Tony looked up from his work, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Hey, kid. What’s up?”

Peter hesitated, his fingers fidgeting at the hem of his shirt. “Not much. I actually wanted to ask…” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing nervously between Tony and Harley. “Can I have the rest of the week off? I’m, um, not really feeling well.”

Tony snorted, clearly not buying it. “We both know you don’t get sick, smartass.” He paused, realizing the implication, and his gaze shifted into concern. “Unless - wait, are you actually sick? Is it-” Tony’s eyes narrowed as they darted toward Harley for a second. He raised his hands in mock innocence, confused by the sudden attention before the man’s gaze flicked back to Parker. “Did you eat something you shouldn’t have? Did something happen?”

“No, I’m fine,” Peter muttered, shuffling his feet. “But can I maybe stay home for a couple of days?”

Tony’s brows furrowed in confusion, but before he could respond, Harley jumped in. “But you’ll miss the field trip,” he said without thinking, then immediately winced when Tony’s eyes snapped toward him again. 

“The field trip?” Tony asked dumbly, still looking at Harley before he shifted his attention back to Peter as a flash of recognition seemed to cross his face. “Oh! The one on Friday? The one I still haven’t seen that permission slip for?”

“What - how do you even know about that?” Peter hissed, looking a little shocked and exhausted at once.

“Who do you think signed Harley’s?” Tony shot back. “I’ve got temporary custody of him, and at least one of you brings home permission slips like you’re supposed to. And while I may not be the most responsible guy, I’d like to think I’m not hopeless when it comes to acting like a parent.”

Peter’s expression softened for a moment. “You’re not.” But after a beat, he quickly added, “So... can I skip the field trip then?”

“Nope,” Tony answered flatly, not even looking up from his work. “It’s a good experience.”

Peter let out an exaggerated groan. “What’s there to experience? I live here!”

“You don’t see the actual labs down there all that much.” Tony glanced up, unimpressed. 

Peter scoffed. “I’ve seen the labs up here! This is much cooler than whatever they’ve got down there,” Peter shot back, folding his arms.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me you’re not interested in any of the R&D labs down there? You don’t wanna see any of the biochem projects? The stuff they’re doing down there is pretty groundbreaking, kid.” Peter faltered. Before he could open his mouth, Tony raced to cut him off again, “So you’re saying you don’t care about my company, basically. Wow. Didn’t know I was housing a traitor.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re really gonna guilt-trip me into going?”

Tony grinned. “Who said anything about guilt? I’m just reminding you of your moral obligation.”

“You owe me more than I owe you,” Peter countered with a raised eyebrow. “We both know that.”

“Tch,” Tony let out a puff of air, tossing a crumpled piece of paper toward Peter. It missed spectacularly. “You almost kill a guy once and he never lets you live it down.”

Harley, completely lost, blurted, “What?”

Peter and Tony both froze, their gazes snapping toward him as if they had forgotten he was still there. The silence was deafening for a moment before Peter and Tony spoke at the same time. “Lab fire!” Peter blurted, at the same moment Tony called, “The suit malfunctioned!”

There was another awkward pause.

Tony was the first to recover. “You’re going on the trip, Peter. It’s mandatory, and you’ve already missed too much school.”

Peter scowled, crossing his arms. “Because you make me stay home!”

“That’s because you’d go with a bullet in your stomach if you could,” Tony shot back and Peter let out an aborted noise that sounded a little like a snort. What the hell is up with these two? Tony quickly tacked on when he saw Harley’s panicked expression, “Figuratively! Metaphorically, whatever.” Peter did laugh, then, and Tony pinched the bridge of his nose with a long, suffering sigh. He leaned back in his chair, “I need a drink.”

“Pepper won’t let you,” Peter chimed in with a knowing grin, and Tony’s face soured further.

“I’ll drink all her crappy kombucha health drinks as payback,” Tony muttered darkly as he pushed himself up from his chair and left the room.

After Tony left, Peter begrudgingly settled at the opposite end of the table, clearly still not used to his desk being moved as he shot a bitter look at Harley’s place. He sighed heavily, but he didn’t argue. 

It started innocently enough. At some point, Peter’s scribbles had spilled over onto the multicolored sticky notes he’d fished out of one of the drawers with a pile of rejected ideas and notes accumulating beside him. He let out a frustrated growl before he tossed another idea he’d been working on into the trash. Or, at least, he tried. The balled-up sticky note sailed through the air and smacked Harley in the face instead. 

Without hesitation, Harley grabbed it and threw it back. 

It bounced off the top of Parker’s stupid little head, and his gaze snapped up to stare at Harley angrily.

“What are you, a child?” Peter grit out, peeling the sticky note off his cheek and crumpling it further in his fist before throwing it back at Harley.

He spluttered. “You’re the one who threw it at me first!” Harley snapped, balling up a note of his own, ready to retaliate. He tried to dodge, but Peter’s stupidly good aim - or luck - came in and it smacked Harley in the face again. He let out a growl grabbing one of the papers next to him, balling it up, and throwing it as hard as he could. Peter caught it easily, batting away the offending scrap of paper before thinking twice and scrunching the yellow paper in his hand. With precision that annoyed Harley to no end, Peter tossed it across the room, and it landed neatly in the small trashcan. Harley’s eyes narrowed, gaze flicking back to Peter with an incredulous gape.

“I didn’t mean to, asshole!” Peter shot back, his tone sharp.

“You seemed to have a pretty good aim two seconds ago.”

“That was because I have a habit of throwing trash at other garbage that sits across from me!” Peter retaliated, glaring at Harley who just shrugged nonchalantly.

“You could have sat literally anywhere else.”

“You stole my seat, you dick!” Peter simmered, mouth opening to bitch more than what Harley thought was necessary over a seat until the crinkling sound of a cookie wrapper caught Peter’s attention and his complaints died in his throat. His eyes snapped to Harley, who had his hand deep in the bag of mint chocolate cookies. 

Peter’s eyes widened dramatically, his whole body going rigid as his gaze locked onto Harley with a sudden, burning interest. Harley stared back, raised an eyebrow in amusement as he watched Peter with mild interest. The sudden intensity was intriguing - the guy kind of looked like a big, dumb golden retriever staring at someone with a bag of treats. 

Harley, without missing a beat, pulled out the last cookie and promptly shoved it into his mouth.

In a blur, Peter lunged across the table and snatched the bag with frightening speed before ripping it open and staring down with an intensity Harley hadn’t seen before. The bag tore open, and he stared down at the inside - but when he realized the bag was empty, Peter physically wilted. He glared at Harley, who was happily chewing on the last bit, wiping the chocolate off his fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Peter made a face before he huffed, scribbling something down on a sticky note. He got up, pegged the scrunched paper ball at Harley’s head, then stormed out of the lab without another word.

Harley blinked in surprise before turning to snap his teeth like a wild animal at the retreating figure,  “You’re dead, Parker!” he called after Peter, but the door was already swinging shut behind him. For a moment, Harley stood there, fuming. Frowning, Harley reached for the crumpled sticky note and - for some reason he couldn’t decipher - uncrinkled it to find Peter’s familiar loopy handwriting.

eat shit, cowboy.

Harley… was going to get him back for this.

—

The next day in calculus class, Peter was digging through his backpack when something fluttered out of his textbook. A mint green sticky note slid across the floor, coming to rest beside Ned’s foot.

“Hey, dude, you dropped this,” Ned said, leaning down to pick it up. As he straightened, his brow furrowed, and he squinted at the messy scrawl. “Ha ha, allergic, ” Ned read as he raised an eyebrow, looking at Peter in confusion. “Uh, what the hell does this even mean?”

Peter’s heart sank as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He snatched the sticky note out of Ned’s hand, his jaw clenching. “It’s nothing,” Peter muttered through gritted teeth, quickly stuffing it into his pocket.

 He was going to strangle Harley.

—

At lunch, Peter sat across from Harley while doing his best to ignore him. Harley, however, had just unwrapped a bar of mint chocolate, eyes flickering toward Peter with a smug grin. He knew exactly what Harley was doing - and it was working. 

“That class was so boring,” Ned moaned, face in his hands. “I swear, dude, I nearly fell asleep. I could have actually just passed away and died, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Harrington wouldn’t have even noticed. He just kept talking.”

“Tell me about it,” Harley said glibly, hand leaning behind him before he shoved the stupid mint chocolate down his throat. Peter kind of wants to kill him. “I'm this close to dropping out, cutting my hair, and hitchhiking across the country but my mama didn’t raise a quitter.”

He should be the bigger person. What would Spider-Man do? “Don't do that! Studies show-”

“Studies show I literally did not ask,” Harley cut him off as he raised an eyebrow, breaking off another piece of the chocolate with exaggerated slowness. MJ snorted. Peter glared at her, the traitor. Ned snorted so hard it looked like it physically hurt, immediately devolving into a coughing fit. He clutched the edges of the table, wheezing uncontrollably as MJ’s grin widened.

“Why are you like this?” Peter groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. “We have to live together, you could at least be tolerable. Maybe we could even be friends? We should find something to bond over. Like, what did you recently listen to?”

​​

Harley eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Well, for one, we don't have shit in common,” he said dryly. “And for another, I doubt you listen to Blink 182.”

“Oh, wait, really?” he perked up a little, because Mr. Stark had done nothing if shit on his music taste. Now, he practically had the man’s playlists memorized after all the time he’d spent in the lab.

“No,” Harley’s face immediately hardened, voice flat. “No, we’re not connecting over this.” Harley’s flat, abrupt response sent a wave of irritation rippling through Peter’s chest. It wasn’t like he was trying that hard to make friends with the guy, but every time he made an attempt, Harley shot him down without even the slightest hint of civility. What the hell was this guy's problem? 

Peter's expression shifted, his brows furrowing in frustration. “Makes sense,” he shrugged to hide the bitterness that swirled in his stomach. Harley had been acting like an ass from the moment they’d met, and now Peter had had enough. “I couldn’t relate to someone who sounds like they still haven’t evolved from whatever backwater gene pool you crawled out of.”

Ned choked, and the air around the table stilled. Harley’s eyes flickered with something as he stared Peter down, the empty wrapper crunching in his hands. “What, just because you were born in a big city, you think that makes you a better person?”

Peter clenched his jaw, the muscles ticking as he could feel a childish frustration swirling. “Nah,” he replied flatly. “Just smarter.”

“Eat shit,” Harley leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice dropping low. “I helped Stark when I was eleven. What the hell were you doing? Collecting Pokémon cards while I was taking apart engines?”

Peter leaned in too, not backing down even if he could feel his face flush at the very on the nose Pokémon remark. Ned snorted, and Peter shot him a glare before turning back to Harley. “So? Go fix a tractor or something, redneck.”

“Like you could even drive a tractor, asshole,” ​​Harley’s expression didn’t shift, but his voice was deadly. “No one in this fucking city can drive at all, apparently.”

Peter huffed. "Sorry we don't all ride horses to school. How’s life with three teeth and a cousin-wife?”

For a second, Harley didn’t respond. He just stared at Peter, blinking once, twice. Then his lip curled. “I’ll fucking bite you, and you can see how good these teeth are, you-"

“Kinky,” MJ said monotonously.

Both Harley and Peter paused, genuinely shocked into silence. Even Ned, still trying to recover from his coughing fit, seemed at a loss for words before peeling into more hysterical giggles.

“Careful, MJ,” Peter said with a faux caution as his gaze flicked between her and Harley warily. “I don't think they had internet access out there in the cornfields. If you burn his pure little ears with your sex talk, his head might actually explode-”

Harley slammed his hands on the cafeteria table with a loud bang, making the trays rattle and Ned nearly choked on his drink. His finger jabbed toward Peter like he was calling down judgment. “Now listen here, you little ankle-biter-”

“You’re like an inch taller than me!” Peter shot back immediately, indignant. 

“So?” Harley bristled, puffing out his chest like that inch was the most important thing in the world. He crossed his arms defensively, leaning back in his chair as if he’d just won some grand battle. “That’s a lot.”

Peter blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. “What?”

“That’s a lot,” Harley repeated smugly. “I mean… for someone like you, I’d think an inch would matter. But I guess it’s not the size, it’s what you do with it, right?” Peter stared at him for a second, unsure if he should laugh or throw something at him. His fingers twitched toward his tray, but before he could decide Harley was already talking again while riding high on whatever ridiculous logic he had going. “ And I’m stronger than you,” Harley added, throwing the words out like they were a challenge. “I guess your fancy city-folk soybean GMO-free almond-oat milk lattes actually cooked your brain, and you’ve forgotten what it’s like to lay eyes on the ultimate male specimen and all that.”

“Sure,” Peter rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair, arms stretching lazily behind his head. “You just listed three types of milk for one latte, but yeah, real peak of the male form here.”

Harley scoffed, glancing over Peter’s lean frame with a dismissive snort. He tilted his head, sizing him up with a slow, exaggerated once-over. “I could snap you in half with one hand.”

“Wanna bet?” The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched, his eyes narrowing with a sudden, evil glee. There was a glint in his eye that Harley didn’t quite catch - but Ned did, by the look of sudden concern. 

Harley laughed, loud and carefree, clearly not taking him seriously. While Peter would usually rely on being underestimated in combat or by the other Avengers during training, now it just pissed him off. Harley leaned forward, a smug grin plastered across his big dumb face. “Absolutely,” he said, his voice dripping with cockiness. He made a show of stretching his arm out, flexing it in an exaggerated motion. “Arm wrestle. Right now.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up, and for a second, he looked genuinely amused. He gave a slow, exaggerated nod, as if he were indulging a child. 

“Sure,” he shrugged, cracking his knuckles as though this was some grand competition. He shifted his chair closer to the table with a loud scrape, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was preparing for something monumental. Harley had practically forced him to do this, anyway - and Peter was more than ready to abuse his Spider-Man strength for this. He didn’t care. Harley had asked for it.

Across the table, Ned blinked at them both, eyes flicking nervously between the two like he was unsure whether to intervene or encourage it. “Uh, is this a bad idea?”

“You can referee,” Peter offered, and Ned immediately brightened. 

Harley smirked, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. He slapped his elbow down on the table with a thud, palm open and waiting for Peter to meet it. “C’mon, Parker,” he goaded, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

Peter matched his movements, their hands clasping tightly. For a brief moment, their gazes locked - Harley’s full of reckless confidence, Peter’s filled with an easy calm that bordered on amusement. Ned, caught between them, raised a hand awkwardly. “Uh, okay. Three, two, one - go.”

It wasn’t even close.

In less than a second, Peter slammed Harley’s arm down so hard it bounced off the table, the sound echoing across the cafeteria. Harley’s eyes widened, his jaw going slack in disbelief. He stared down at their hands, still locked together, before wrenching his arm free with a scowl. “No way,” he blurted, shaking out his hand like he hadn’t really been trying. “Again.”

Peter just shrugged, resetting his position like it was nothing. “Sure,” he said, voice light and indifferent, because he’d already expected this reaction. Harley bristled.

The second round went exactly the same. Peter’s grip tightened around Harley’s hand, and once again, Harley’s arm was slammed against the table in less time than it took for Ned to blink. Harley winced, shaking out his wrist more vigorously this time. His brow furrowed in frustration, a flash of anger sparking behind his eyes.

“Again,” Harley growled, his voice lower now, full of simmering irritation and visibly frustrated. He didn’t look like he was used to losing - especially not to someone like Peter, who, in his mind, shouldn’t have had the strength to back up his cockiness.

Peter sighed, clearly getting bored, but he didn’t complain. “Harley,” he started, but before he could finish, Harley cut him off sharply.

“Again.”

Peter gave a half-hearted shrug, resting his elbow back on the table. He wasn’t even trying to hide how much of a formality this had become. The third round ended the same way as the first two. Harley’s hand was once again pinned to the table, his fingers probably nearly numb from the repeated slams. He yanked his hand away, massaging his wrist with a deep frown etched across his face. Harley leaned back in his chair, glaring at Peter like he’d somehow cheated. 

“What the hell?” he snapped while frowning deeply, rubbing at the sore spot on his wrist. “How are you doing that? Are you cheating?”

Ned made a noise between a laugh and a sneeze while Peter snorted, wiping his hands on his jeans. “How do you cheat in an arm wrestle?” he asked innocently, glancing up at Harley with a grin.

“I don’t know,” Harley grumbled, still massaging his wrist like it had betrayed him. “But this feels like cheating.”

“I’m just stronger,” Peter replied casually, leaning back in his chair and his arms stretching lazily again as if he hadn’t just humiliated Harley three times in a row.

Maybe that spider bite was worth it, he thought with a bolt of satisfaction. Maybe it was worth all the problems that came after it, if not just for this one moment. MJ looked unimpressed, but Peter completely ignored her.

“Yeah, it’s all the lead in your damn pipes,” Harley muttered darkly, his scowl deepening as he flexed his fingers as if that would somehow improve his chances next time.

Peter smirked, leaning back and resting his arms behind his head. “Keep telling yourself that, cowboy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harley snapped, “I’m from Tennessee.”

“Boys, boys. You’re both pretty,” MJ said, waving a hand dismissively in their direction. Her voice was dry, laced with that signature indifference she always carried, but her eyes flicked between them, clearly annoyed. “Now, if you’re done having a catfight, can I finish my lunch without you two shaking the table, please?”

Peter instantly flushed, a rush of embarrassment crashing into him. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck as he glanced at MJ. She didn’t even need to raise her voice to make him feel like an idiot. “Sorry,” he muttered, eyes darting away from her and focusing on the sandwich he had been poking at for the last few minutes.

Next to him, Harley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his usual cocky demeanor cracking ever so slightly under MJ’s disapproving glare. He at least had the decency to look ashamed, avoiding her eyes. Good. Peter thought bitterly, stabbing at his lunch a little harder than necessary. Maybe Harley should arm wrestle her, too, just to be humiliated again. Peter glanced sideways at him as he still seemed to be sulking. He definitely deserved it. Twice over. 

MJ rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed by both of them. She didn’t say anything more, just picked up her sandwich and took an exaggerated bite with a flat and unimpressed look.

Peter sighed. Maybe at least now the table would stop shaking.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure I have to go on the field trip?” 

Tony frowned, setting down the welding tools in his hand and pulling off the safety goggles. He squinted at Peter. “You’re being especially weird about this. It’s not that you’re just bored. What’s wrong?”

Peter grimaced, looking away. The man would figure it out soon enough, anyway. Besides, he really did need something to prove that he did have an internship or Flash would never let him hear the end of it.

"I - it's just... some people don't really think the internship is real?" Peter started, looking down at a newer version of his web shooters. "Or, it’s just mostly one guy. But he's sort of convinced most of my classmates that I’m lying about it just to ditch school and... Like, not that it really matters or anything, and it's a stupid thing to panic about and all, but I guess they’re also kind of right? Because I don’t really have an internship, I guess. So when they get here, everyone’s gonna think he’s right and I’m a huge liar, and-"

Tony blinked over at him dumbly. He set his tablet down with a small thud, leaning back in his chair. "You… do know that you’re actually an intern, right? We filed so much paperwork, kid. You remember that? Because if I have to open up one more email from HR, I swear to God, kid, I'm going to burn this building down.”

Peter faltered, shifting on his feet as he glanced anywhere but Tony’s eyes. "I mean… yeah, I guess. But like - sure, you know, and the Avengers know, and Ms. Potts and Happy know, and… I guess HR too, but…” he hesitated. “No one else does? If that makes sense? Like, the regular intern people aren’t gonna recognize me. I haven’t exactly got my name on a seat or a sign that says, ‘Peter Parker, official intern that does, in fact, work for SI,’ or anything, you know?”

Tony’s expression didn’t change. “Do you want your name on a seat?”

Peter sighed, shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. "I just want to prove that I actually did intern here, even if it’s a lie," he shrugged, feeling the weight of the situation settle on him. "Because you can’t tell me that screwing around and setting fire to your lab is actually interning with you, right? And I don’t have, like… a card or anything physical to prove that I do actually work here. And that’s a stupid thing to want, isn’t it? Because I never even actually worked here.”

Tony paused, tilting his head. Peter could tell he was thinking or that he maybe wanted to say something, but he powered on.

“And the worst part is that we’re probably gonna be going around all the R&D labs where all the actual interns are, and Flash is totally gonna go around asking all of them if they recognize me and they really obviously won’t, and I’m gonna just crawl under a rock and die, actually. You aren’t even allowed to intern here if you’re still in high school, anyway, and if no one recognizes me, that’s actually just gonna seal my fate 'cause I’ve got no way to prove I do.” Peter's voice hitched, frustration leaking through. “Even Harley didn’t believe I was an actual intern! What the hell, why is it so hard for people to believe?”

“His name’s Flash?” Tony sat forward, his expression somewhere between amused and concerned. Peter groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Sorry, I know it’s not relevant, but you’re letting a kid called Flash make you think your life’s over?”

“His real name’s Eugene,” Peter muttered into the table, elbows around his face. Tony barked out a sharp laugh. “And it’s not funny, Mr. Stark. I’m actually going to die of shame. I’m so serious. What do I do?”

Tony scratched his chin, clearly not feeling the gravity of Peter’s situation. “I could send out an email?”

“No.”

“Pepper could send out an email?” Peter’s frown twisted and Tony’s mouth snapped shut.

“Sorry, Mr. Stark. I don’t think there’s anything that could convince him, save a giant poster with my face on it labeled 'Peter Parker, Official Intern' over every doorway, and you coming down and shaking my hand in person.”

Tony blinked at him.

“That was not an idea,” Peter warned quickly, leaning forward, his voice rising. “Don’t do that, or I’ll throw you out of the window.”

Tony raised his hands defensively. “Fine, fine. Just trying to help, kid. Sheesh.” He paused, glancing back down at his tablet with an amused glint in his eye. “But, you know... the poster would be kinda funny.”

Peter shot him a glare that could melt steel. “No.”

Tony’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. He leaned back in his chair, giving Peter a long, scrutinizing look. “Alright,” he said with a nod, “I’ll fix it.”

Peter felt a wave of anxiety crash over him. Fix it? Oh, God, the last thing he needed was Tony embarrassing him in front of his classmates. “Hey, no, I meant like, a little SI intern card or something, not whatever ominous-” he started, but the words died in his throat when the door to the lab slid open.

Harley dropped into (Peter’s) seat like he owned the place. “Hey, old man," he greeted Tony before squinting at Peter who stuck a tongue out in response. 

“You guys are children,” Tony muttered, and Harley snorted. 

“Like you’re any better.”

Peter wanted to strangle the two of them, but Mr. Stark just shot him a thumbs up when Harley wasn’t looking. Peter was so, incredibly fucked.

—

“Alright, everyone, on the bus.” He moved to hop on after Ned but his teacher caught his arm for a moment. “Peter, can I have a word?” Mr. Harrington asked, his tone low and measured. Peter shifted nervously as he watched the other kids filter in, glancing up at the bus and then back to the teacher. Had he done something wrong? 

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Mr. Harrington began lightly, crossing his arms. “And look, I’m not going to feed into them or deny them either way. It’s not my business. But, Peter, please - don’t bring up your internship at Stark Industries during the tour. If one of the employees overhears you and it turns out you’re... not being truthful, we could all get into serious trouble. And… Sometimes it’s better to come clean rather than doubling down, you know?”

Peter blinked, stunned. “I - I’m not lying,” he said, his voice faltering in shock. From Flash, and maybe his classmates he could expect the disbelief. But did his teachers really think he’d make something like that up?

Mr. Harrington’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not accusing you of lying, Peter. But you have to understand, Stark Industries doesn’t take high school interns. I know. I applied when I was your age. They only take a handful of top students from the best schools in the country. So, you understand why I have doubts, right?”

Peter swallowed, his throat dry. “Yeah, but - the paperwork was all sent through. The school should have it, that should prove-”

“I don’t have access to students’ personal files unless necessary,” Mr. Harrington explained, his voice softening slightly, as though he wanted to believe Peter but couldn’t shake the skepticism. “Look, either way, I’m not saying you’re lying. I’m just asking you to keep the internship to yourself today. Okay?”

“Okay,” Peter muttered, already feeling utterly miserable as he turned and stepped onto the bus. He clenched his fists, forcing down the urge to argue further, but what was the point? If his teacher didn’t believe him, who would? Today was going to suck. He should have just refused to leave his room. Or maybe gotten a stab wound the day before and forced Tony to give him the day off.

Peter was really, desperately trying to keep a low profile as he filed onto the bus. He spotted Ned waiting near the back, waving him over. “What was that about?”

“He thinks I’m lying about the internship,” Peter said flatly, staring at the seat in front of him.

Ned raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely baffled. “Dude.”

“I know,” Peter muttered. “What am I supposed to do? Show him a Stark ID card I don’t even have?” 

Ned frowned sympathetically but didn’t have time to respond before MJ and Harley sat down across the aisle from them. MJ threw them a quick nod in greeting, earbuds already in, while Harley shot Peter a look that clearly said, ‘What’s your problem?’

Peter sighed. “Don’t ask.”

But any moment of peace was immediately shattered when there was a ‘pst!’ that came from behind him. Stupidly, Peter turned on impulse and was met with a familiar smug, punchable grin.

“Hey, Penis,” Flash called, clamoring over Cindy’s seat behind Peter to get his attention.  

Peter rolled his eyes, too tired to muster any energy for a comeback. “What, Flash?”

“I’m surprised you’re even showing your ugly face today,” Flash continued with a nasty smirk. “You do know what’s going to happen when everyone finds out you’ve been lying about your internship, right?”

Peter sighed, glancing out the window as if it could somehow transport him far, far away from this conversation. “Looking forward to it, Flash,” Peter muttered, staring out the window, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. “I’m sure Stark Industries is really invested in exposing me.”

Flash’s grin widened, as if he was already savoring some imagined victory. “Maybe they’ll sue you or something for dragging their name through the mud.”

Before Peter could respond, Cindy chimed in as she shoved Flash off her seat. “Hey, Peter, do you know everyone who works there?”

“Um, no, not really,” Peter replied, thankful for the distraction. “There’s… a lot of people working there every day and I only work afternoons, so I probably don’t know most of the day staff. And… I’m only in one specific lab, not the general R&D labs.”

“Yeah, right,” Flash snorted, cutting in again. “You probably work under Tony Stark himself, huh? Funny how you’ve already got excuses for when no one recognizes you.”

“Did anyone ask, Flash?” Harley snapped from across the aisle, his voice cutting through the tension. Peter glanced over, grateful but unsurprised. Flash scowled at Harley but didn’t press further, sinking back into his seat and pulling out his phone. 

The rest of the bus ride was miserable. Not for everyone else - Ned was vibrating in his seat so hard Peter thought he was going to explode and his classmates where chatting excitedly. Even MJ seemed to be a little more awake than usual.

The tour guide waiting by the front doors was too bright and happy for Peter’s taste. She’s standing with a clipboard in hand and a bright smile, and he could barely muster up enough energy to keep his eyes open let alone tolerate this level of enthusiasm because it was way too early to be up and he still didn’t want to be here. He doesn't have a badge and he doesn't even really recognize this place because he never uses the front entrance because he's so damn paranoid. 

“I thought you’d be our tour guide, Penis,” Flash called out loudly, gaining a few laughs from the class. “I mean, since you totally work here and all.”

Peter’s jaw clenched, but before he could fire back, MJ’s voice cut him off. “Are you seriously dumb enough to believe STEM interns give tours instead of, you know, a proper tour guide?”

Flash glared at her. “Shut up, Watson.”

MJ bristled, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Call me that again, Eugene. I dare you.”

“Tch,” Flash muttered before turning away, wisely deciding to keep his mouth shut as the woman in front of them began to speak.

“My name is Beatrix and I’ll be your tour guide today! Before we get started, please place your bags on the tray and step through the scanner,” Beatrix gave a smile. “You can keep your phones on you, but once we make our way up the elevator all photography and video recording is strictly prohibited, as outlined in the NDAs you all signed. Please line up and step through one by one. I’ll be waiting for you on the other side with your temporary passes.”

He watched as his classmates lined up and stepped through. Flash puffed out his chest like he wasn’t just going through a scanner.

“Will the security guards recognize you?” Ned murmured from behind him.

“Probably not,” Peter shrugged. “I don't exactly go through security all that often.”

The line disappeared before Peter dragged himself toward the scanner, hoping no one noticed how anxious he felt about this. As soon as he stepped through, FRIDAY’s voice greeted him warmly.

“Welcome back, Peter.”

“Hi, FRIDAY,” Peter replied quietly, throwing a quick glance around him. Thankfully, Flash was too busy annoying the tour guide to hear the AI. 

Ned stepped through after dumping his bag by the x-ray machine. “Woah,” he breathed, glancing around. “This is so cool. It's like fancier than the stuff at airports. At least we don't have to take our shoes off and stuff.”

Once everyone had made it through, the tour guide distributed the badges with a cheery smile. “Here are your badges! Please keep them on at all times.”

Flash stuck a hand up. “Why is yours different?” he asked, pointing at Beatrix’s badge.

“The guest badges are simply back and white with your name, and the tour guides have a light blue outline. People working on higher floors have badges marked with darker blue. This shows they have access without drawing attention to their security clearance, as they aren’t marked with specific floor numbers or their range of access. It’s a safety thing.” the tour guide explained smoothly. “All of this information is stored in your badges. Your access will expire at the end of the tour, so don’t try to come back later. We've had people try, and trust me, FRIDAY will know. You’ll be trespassed immediately.”

Peter barely contained an eye roll. Of course, they’d have some elaborate system for security. Flash turned to glance at Peter’s plain white badge and grinned.

“Okay!” Beatrix clapped her hands in front of her. “Now that thats all established, lets go.”

As everyone followed behind the tour guide, someone elbowed him in the back. “I swear, Parker, if you so much as pretend to know where we’re going, I’m calling bullshit right here.” Peter bit down on his tongue, his hands clenching into tight fists. This was going to be a disaster, and he knew it. Hell, he knew it before he even stepped foot in the damn building. He should have just stayed in bed this morning.

Ned must have seen the miserable look on his face and he elbowed him lightly. “Come on, man, it’s not that bad.”

“Quit bitching,” Harley added. Peter wanted to tackle him. “Worst case scenario, you just ditch and take the elevator back up to your room.”

“Yeah, and get suspended for ditching the school trip. It’d be DC all over again,” Peter replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ned groaned, shaking his head. “Dude, I love you, but never again. That was painful.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” MJ said as she brushed past them.

—

As much as Peter loathed to admit it, Mr. Stark was right. The R&D labs were really, really cool. Sure, they weren’t as good as the man’s lab upstairs, but watching people working on so many different things was awesome. Not that the Iron Man armour or the nanites weren’t cool or anything, but it was nice to see some variety every once in a while. 

“Man, I couldn’t make anything like this,” Ned said in awe as they passed one of the interns working on what looked like robot hands - prosthetics, maybe.

Harley shrugged from his place next to them. “Eh. It's cool, I guess,” he said casually, “But it’s not that impressive. You should see what’s on my bench upstairs.”

“Shut up, Harley,” Peter said tiredly. He didn’t have the energy for this. “Don’t act like you’re too cool for this. You probably think a Cracker Barrel with a clean bathroom is impressive. Besides, I’ve seen the abomination you’ve made upstairs, you should be taking notes.”

“Fuck you, the first thing I incinerate with that thing when it’s working is gonna be you,” Harley bristled.

Before he could say anything more, Ned grabbed his arm, his eyes wide with excitement. “Hey, dude, look at this!” Peter let himself be pulled away, following Ned’s gaze to some kind of advanced tech on display - it looked like a weirder, more advanced 3D printer, but half-finished. Peter squinted at it, trying to make sense of the complex design. It was cool, sure, but it didn’t exactly look efficient.

The lab felt too big, too foreign. Despite the fact that it was still in the Tower, it didn’t feel like Tony’s lab at all. The hum of machinery, the low chatter of scientists, the sterile scent of disinfectant - it made him more uncomfortable than interested. Maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t looking forward to the day and the general feelings of uneasiness that compounded everything.

Peter drifted towards the far side of the lab when a voice came from behind him that grated on his nerves. “Bet none of these guys have ever seen you here before, huh, Parker? Think they even know your name? Course not. Because you’re a liar,” Flash sneered at him. “Didn't your mom ever teach you that lying’s bad? Oh, wait.”

Peter wanted to hit him. He very wisely didn’t.

Flash, oblivious or uncaring about how close he was to getting punched, turned to one of the lab workers nearby. “Hey, do you know everyone who works here?” he asked, his voice dripping with fake curiosity.

“Uh, there are thousands of people who work here, kid,” the man, clearly caught off guard, blinked in confusion. He glanced back at his work as if hoping to be left alone.

Flash, of course, didn’t pick up on the hint. “No, I mean, like - in this lab,” he insisted, waving a hand to gesture around him.

“I don’t work in this lab, Flash…” Peter shifted uncomfortably, but it didn’t matter. Flash wasn’t listening; he was too focused on pressing the poor intern.

“You’re asking me if I recognize my coworkers?” The lab tech raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. 

Flash rolled his eyes, his patience thinning. “No, I just want to know if you’ve ever seen this kid here before,” he said, jerking a thumb in Peter’s direction.

“Never seen him. Why?” The man shrugged, looking increasingly annoyed by the interruption.  

Peter’s jaw clenched, and Flash’s head swung over to stare at him with a chin-splitting grin. It's crazy how you guys find enough time to do your job and fuck me over at the same time, Peter wanted to snap. Instead, he just rubbed at his eyes and withheld a groan.

—

By the time they had gathered by the cafeteria entrance, waiting for the tour guide to give them the okay to grab their food Peter was exhausted. And hungry, but mostly exhausted. Sure, some of the stuff in the labs was cool, but he didn’t think it was worth the pain of sharing that breathing space with Flash. Peter stood awkwardly at the back, keeping his head low while the other boy had, predictably, positioned himself front and center with his arms crossed over his chest like he owned the place. 

The tour guide, Beatrix - still chipper, despite Peter’s soured mood - clapped her hands together to get the group’s attention. "So, after taking those short looks through the labs, did anyone have any questions? Anything about the arc reactor or the history of Stark Industries? Maybe something about Tony Stark himself?"

Predictably, Flash’s hand shot up before she even finished speaking. “Yeah, so... how do you even get into this place? I mean, besides internships.” He threw a glance back at Peter, his smug grin practically radiating across the room. Peter felt the heat of Flash’s stare burning into the back of his head but didn’t turn around. Instead, he stared at the floor despite feeling the weight of the group’s stares shift toward him and the familiar heat of embarrassment crawling up his neck. He didn’t look around. He didn’t need to. He knew Flash was waiting for a reaction. So he stared down at his shoes, willing himself to stay calm, though his fists clenched at his sides.

“You need to be at least university level to apply,” Beatrix replied, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Other than that, it's up to higher ups. They have scouts to see who's developing interesting technology and who would be useful to have working at SI.”

Flash grinned wider, clearly enjoying the moment as he turned around to stare at Peter with an obnoxious smirk that stuck out in the corner of Peter’s vision. Several other students glanced Peter’s way with low chatter, but he didn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting; instead trying to push down the knot of irritation building in his chest.

A hand shot up from the crowd, and Peter recognised Cindy’s voice. "Can we see the Starkphones coming out soon?" she asked, her tone innocent but laced with excitement.

A few students perked up at the question, but Beatrix, to her credit, maintained her polite smile. "That’s a bit above my pay grade, I’m afraid," she said, not missing a beat. "But it’s an excellent question!"

"What about souvenirs?” Abe called. “Is there a gift shop or something?"

A couple of the students laughed, but before Beatrix could respond, MJ muttered under her breath, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, "I’m ashamed to be in the same class as you." Abe’s face reddened as he muttered a half-hearted ‘Hey!’ in response.

Beatrix, seemingly unbothered, continued with her practiced smile. "No gift shop, I’m afraid," she said with a chuckle. "But you will get to leave here with a bit of Stark Industries history and experience under your belts."

“Will we get to meet Tony Stark?” Betty called after a moment.

The room collectively seemed to hold its breath for a moment. Peter could feel the buzz of anticipation that question brought. Beatrix, ever the professional, smiled but shook her head. “Probably not,” she admitted with an apologetic tilt of her head. “He’s a very busy man. I’ve never even met him myself, personally.” 

There was a mutter of disappointment that ripped through the class, and Beatrix let out a chuckle. “I know, I’m sorry. But if that’s all for now, feel free to enjoy the cafeteria food. You’re free to wander the floor, too, but please don’t stray too far. Toilets are to the right. We’ll move on in half an hour.”

Harley had wandered off to try to buy out the vending machine nearby, while Peter dropped onto a nearby bench. “I’m gonna do something drastic, dude. Maybe I actually do just ditch for the rest of the trip.”

“Peter, it’s not that bad,” Ned bumped his shoulder while sliding into the space next to him. Peter didn’t believe him. At all.

Peter raised his head to squint at him, and Ned just offered an apologetic smile. MJ raised an eyebrow. “It is that bad. Literally no one believes you about the internship.”

He groaned.

“MJ!” Ned hissed, “You’re supposed to be helping me!”

“I’m not supposed to do anything,” she sniffed. “The truth hurts. But, if it does make you feel any better I don’t think anyone, like, hates you for it or anything. I think they mostly pity you now, because no one really likes Flash, even when he’s right.”

“I don’t want to be pitied,” he moaned, face down on the table. 

He could feel MJ’s unimpressed stare. With a sigh, he raised his head to stare out at the rest of his class scattered around the cafeteria. Harley was losing a fight with the vending machine. Maybe - if Peter had any luck - Harley would rock it a little too hard and it would fall on him.

“Well, I mean, it’s not that bad,” Ned said hesitantly, trying to find the right words to soften the blow. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Peter from the corner of his eye. “They just sort of think that you’re...”

“That I’m a liar.” Peter finished the thought for him, his tone dripping with sarcasm. It was ironic for him to be so annoyed by the whole thing because, to an extent, Flash was right.

The silence spoke volumes. Peter stared at the ground, kicking at the linoleum with the toe of his sneaker. Ned cleared his throat awkwardly, trying again. “Maybe... maybe something else will happen, man. You can’t just give up yet.” 

“I doubt anything will, Ned.” He gave a wry grin. “I mean, sure, I was technically written in as an intern, but... the internship wasn’t real.”

Ned just shot him a crooked, comforting smile.

—

In the biology labs, Peter had hoped that at least by that point Flash would have been distracted by some of the tech. He was, at heart, a nerd just like everyone else. And who didn’t like looking at stuff through microscopes?

But because the universe hated Peter Parker, Flash didn’t let up. 

Whenever he got too comfortable his spidey sense would tingle in warning and there would be an elbow in his side. At one point, Flash swiped a glass slide and petri dish off the table and would have shattered if not for Peter’s reflexes. Flash glared at him. Was he seriously trying to get Peter kicked out of the lab because of property damage? Like the interns here hadn’t dropped anything before - but not only that, FRIDAY had eyes everywhere. If anyone was going to get kicked out of the lab, it was going to be him. 

The constant hovering was stressing him out, and Peter slipped away from the group for a quick breather into the small bathroom down the hall. As he splashed some cold water on his face, the door swung open with a bang. Flash walked in, grinning. Peter scrubbed his eyes and let out an exhausted sigh.

 “You think you’re something special, huh, Parker?” His voice dripped with venom as he stepped closer, backing Peter into the corner. “You really think you can keep up this Stark internship lie forever? What happens when they figure you out? You’ll be a bigger loser than you already are.”

Peter clenched his fists, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m not lying,” he muttered, though even he knew how tired he sounded.  

“I bet your parents would be real disappointed to see how you ended up. Your aunt, too. I mean, you get them killed and now you’re lying at school for attention?” Flash grinned. “Pretty pathetic.”

“Shut your mouth, Flash,” Peter snapped.

Before Flash could spit another insult, the bathroom door creaked open again. Harley stepped in, his expression darkening the moment he saw the two of them. “What're you guys doing?”

Flash whirled around, eyes narrowing. “None of your business. Mind your own shit, farm boy.”

Harley stepped closer, his face hardening. “I’d rethink your attitude, jackass.”

Flash hesitated for a moment, glancing between Peter and Harley. For the first time all day, his confidence wavered. But it was enough for Peter to finally catch his breath, though the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. 

Flash scoffed, muttering a quiet “Tch,” before stalking out of the bathroom, leaving them alone. 

Harley turned to Peter, his expression relaxing a little. “What’s that guy’s problem with you, anyway? What’d you do to him, man?”

Peter rubbed his temples, feeling a headache forming. “He got benched at Decathlon because I stole his spot.”

“So, he’s mad because of… nerd shit?” Harley raised an eyebrow.

“Nerd shit,” Peter repeated tiredly. “Welcome to Midtown Tech.”

—

By the time they reached the final stop - a larger assembly room where they were set to meet a few engineers - Peter was just about ready to disappear under a table and stay there until it was all over. 

That was when Tony Stark showed up.

Tony strolled in like he owned the place (which, to be fair, he did), casually glancing around with his usual air of confidence. His presence immediately shifted the energy in the room. “Hey, everyone.” The murmurs of excitement rippled through the class - Abe looked like he might pass out, eyes wide, and Peter was pretty sure Mr. Harrington was on the verge of a heart attack. The man’s face had turned a startling shade of pale as he tried to compose himself.

“I’m here to see you all because you’re supposed to be the best and brightest,” Tony continued. Harley snorted, and Peter elbowed him. “Also, Pepper told me I had to show up.”

The students gawked, most too shocked to speak. Even the tour guide seemed a little taken aback, and Mr. Harrington nearly tripped over his own feet trying to step forward and greet Mr. Stark properly. 

“Uh - Mr. Stark! It’s - uh - an honor, sir,” he stammered, his hands fumbling nervously as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

Tony offered him a polite nod before turning his attention back to the students. “I’ll answer some questions, if anyone has anything they're desperate to know,” he shrugged with a little grin, gaze sweeping over the crowd of rabid kids. To anyone else, they’d think he was admiring a fan base. Peter knew better, though - he knew the man was looking for him. He ducked behind one of the taller kids to hide from view because no matter what Tony was doing here, it couldn't be good. Sure, he didn't want everyone to think he was a liar, but the last thing he needed was Mr. Stark embarrassing him.

The floodgates opened.

“What’s it like to be an Avenger?” one kid blurted out, and Tony let out a laugh in response.

“Is Captain America hot?” someone else asked, earning a collective gasp and a few scattered laughs when Mr. Stark Tony raised an eyebrow, amused, and waved a hand before he called ‘next.’

MJ chimed in from the back of the room, her tone deadpan as ever. “When the revolution comes, where will you hide?” 

“MJ, shut up,” Peter hissed a little hysterically, shooting her a half-exasperated, half-grateful look. She, of course, ignored him and kept her eyes on Mr. Stark.

Tony, for his part, grinned, clearly entertained by the chaotic bombardment of questions. But then his expression shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of something else crossing his face. “Although,” he began, his voice dropping a bit, “I must admit, I came down here to be selfish.”

Peter’s stomach flipped, dread pooling in his gut as Tony’s gaze swept over the room before landing squarely on him. He knew what was coming before Tony even said it, and he fought the urge to sink into his seat.

“I needed to steal Peter for a second,” Tony announced, eyes locked on him. There was a stunned silence that descended upon the room. Every head in the room turned, all eyes on Peter now. He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the effect of pretty much every pair of eyes in the room on him burning into his head. Mr. Harrington looked like he might faint.

Peter, on the other hand, felt like he was going to faint. “Uh… what?”

“Oh, you found out he was faking?” Flash called out with a grin, turning to stare at Peter with a look of unfiltered glee. “Told you not to lie about that shit, Parker, especially when it’s so unbelievable.”

Mr. Harrington looked completely floored, caught between trying to form words and telling Flash off for cursing in front of Mr. Stark or openly gawking.

“Faking?” Tony asked, his gaze flicking between Flash and Peter. “Peter, why didn’t you tell me the internship was a lie? That would’ve saved me a lot of paperwork.” Tony’s grin widened. “Anyway, I need his help with something up in the lab. Just for a minute - having a little tech trouble, and I could use an extra set of eyes.”

Flash made a noise like he was choking. The excited mutters that surrounded him had completely died off leaving only silence. After a few moments, Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow. Mr. Harrington coughed.

“I… I can’t let you take him,” Mr. Harrington stammered, face paling at having to turn the man down. “He’s a student - I’m not allowed to let him leave with - you're not - I'm not able to just leave him with strangers, Mr. Stark, even if you do intern with him.”

Tony turned to Peter, who was silently pleading with his eyes not to mention anything about the fact that he was, in fact, Tony’s adoptive son. He could see Ned and Harley barely containing their laughter.

“Okay, sure.” Tony shrugged nonchalantly, giving the class a little wave. “Well, thank you all for coming. I hope you all enjoyed the tour, and I’ll leave you in-” he squinted at the tour guide’s name badge, “Beatrix’s very capable hands. See you later, Pete.” 

He could feel Flash’s gaze burning into his back, and he didn't need his spidey sense to know that he was in trouble.

Chapter Text

Ned’s tray clattered onto the lunch table, and he slid into the seat next to Peter, his eyes wide with excitement. "Dude, did you hear about that security breach at Oscorp? A ton of tech got stolen last night. It's all over the news." 

"Yeah, I saw something about it,” Peter glanced up from his half-eaten sandwich, furrowing his brow. He had heard about the breach, but he hadn’t paid it much attention - there was always something shady going on at Oscorp. “Why, do you have any idea who did it?" 

Ned shrugged, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. "No clue, but it's gotta be big. Like, maybe it was some corporate espionage. You think it could've been Mr. Stark, taking out a competitor?"

 "Oscorp is not a competitor,” Peter snorted. “Stark Industries is way out of their league."

“I feel like you’ve got a bit of a bias, man, not gonna lie.” Ned opened his mouth to say something else, before his gaze to someone behind him. “Hey, dude, is it just me, or is Flash staring at you?”

“No…?” Peter blinked, glancing over to where Flash was sitting a few tables away. Sure enough, Flash was glaring daggers at him. "Maybe he’s looking at something behind me. Maybe that vending machine ate his cash or something."

"Nope. He's definitely staring at you." MJ said blandly, not even bothering to look up from her book.

“You’re not even paying attention!” Peter huffed in annoyance. “How would you know?”

MJ raised a single eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Peter muttered begrudgingly. “But you could be. What happened to holding the truth above everything else?”

MJ finally looked up, fixing him with an unimpressed stare. "What happened to looking out for yourself? Did you recently fall off a building tall enough to break your neck and stop you from looking fifteen degrees to the right?” Ned made a noise like he was choking, and Peter tried not to react. Although Harley probably wouldn't even notice, too busy scrolling through Twitter and shoveling his face full to notice anything.

"I didn’t-” Peter sucked in a surprised breath, puffing his chest out indignantly. "I didn’t fall off a building! What’s your problem?"

Before MJ could respond, Harley cut her off. "What’s his problem?" Harley asked, gesturing shamelessly toward Flash, who was still staring. Harley waved exaggeratedly in Flash’s direction, who responded by flipping him off. Harley just shot him a thumbs up, completely unbothered. “He’s bringing down the vibe, and I’m trying to enjoy my lunch.”

Peter groaned, dropping his face into his hands. Ned answered, “He’s still mad that Peter’s internship was real.”

"Real stupid,” Harley smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You can hardly call sitting in a lab doing your calculus homework while everyone else does the work an internship."

Peter shot him a glare. "It was more productive than almost melting your own hand off."

Harley's smirk faded, and he bristled, leaning forward. "I'm going to melt you when that thing’s done, Parker. Watch your back."

"I’m not too worried," Peter shrugged, his tone blasé. "I watched you drink motor oil, Harley. You've lost the ability to be scary."

 "That was DUM-E's fault!" Harley crossed his arms defensively, “You know he poured that into my coffee! He’s done it to Tony so many times, and you never make fun of him.”

“I always make fun of him,” Peter corrected. “And that’s why you need to watch your own shit first before you start threatening others, then.”

"Watch your mouth, Parker."

Peter leaned back, feigning nonchalance. "Why? What are you gonna do, arm-wrestle me again? Ooooh, so I’m so scared -" Before Peter could finish his sentence, Harley slammed one hand down onto the table, the other reaching for him. But Peter ducked out of the way just in time, grinning mischievously. "Are you okay, man? You’re looking a little... slow. Unevolved. Inbred. Quick, Ned, I’m running out of insults. What’s something-"

Peter’s words died in his throat as Harley, grinning that infuriatingly smug smile, reached into his pocket and unrolled a stick of gum. He held it out to Ned. “Hey, you want some gum?”

Ned blinked, caught off guard, unwrapping the stick a little wearily. "Uh, sure."

“It’s mint,” Harley said, his eyes sliding over to Peter, still smug, still punchable.

Peter stared at him for a beat, narrowing his eyes. "I'm going to strangle you."

Harley leaned back, popping a piece of gum into his own mouth. "Try me."

—

Peter loved his friends, but with every new thing they said he could feel his eye twitching.

“By the way,” Ned started casually, as if Peter wasn’t currently dangling from the side of a building, trying to find the best way into the heavily guarded warehouse nearby, “How does Harley not know you’re Spider-Man? Like, no offense dude, but-”

“Full offense,” MJ cut in. “You suck at keeping secrets.”

“I do not!” Peter shot back, indignant, as he tried to maneuver his position against the wall. “I kept it from you for months!”

“That’s because you weren’t in school for a year, Parker,” MJ said flatly. “And, do I need to remind you of the time you climbed out of a two-story window? How else were you supposed to stick that landing if not for freaky spider powers?”

Peter huffed. “... Parkour ?” he offered weakly, cringing as he tried to glance over the outdated building plans Karen had pulled up for him. 

She had caught sight of the same truck that had been an unscheduled arrival at Oscorps’ main string of warehouses, and had, unsurprisingly, followed it to one of the shadier locations alongside the docks. The warehouses felt familiar in every awful, horrible way, but at least it wasn’t too close to his old burnt-down hideout. Small mercies, he supposed.

He had a feeling that it was part of the reason Ned and MJ were so insistent on staying on call with him through the mission. While it wasn’t uncommon for them to sometimes chat while he was on a particularly slow patrol, this was new. He was thankful for the company; it kept him focused on the moment and the warped nostalgia of the area at bay, even if he was a little annoyed at their constant chattering.

“I give it three months,” Ned laughed, ignoring him completely. Before he could even let out an offended noise at that very un-guy-in-the-chair sentiment, MJ cut him off.

“One,” she retorted confidently.

Peter groaned. “You guys are betting on me? I can’t believe this!” He tried to block them out, focusing on scaling the old structure without snagging a stuck-out nail and getting tetanus along with whatever intel he was trying to track down.

“Five dollars?” Ned asked, his voice already sounding hopeful.

“Ten,” MJ countered.

“Seven and my subway coupon,” Ned bargained.

“Deal.”

He let out an offended noise, hoisting himself a little higher to get a better vantage point. He could see a couple of sprawled trucks, but it mostly looked to be quiet. He could hear people talking inside the building, though, even if he couldn't make out exactly what they were saying.

“Can you believe them, Karen?” he huffed as he sat on the tallest point of the roof opposite the main building, “You’d never treat me like this.”

“I don't have any money or physical belongings to wager, but according to my calculations, I believe it would take roughly-”

“Traitor!” Peter cried quietly, while Ned laughed and MJ let out a snort. Peter only sighed heavily, rolling his eyes behind the mask. “I’m hanging up now.”

“No, you’re not,” MJ shot back swiftly.

Peter growled under his breath, shooting a web before silently swinging over to the main building. He caught the cold bricks with a grunt, rolling over onto the flat rooftop. “You’re probably not even paying attention! I know you’re probably just watching anime right now.”

“Watch it, Parker,” MJ warned, the sound of her TV show still audible in the background.

“Well you can’t hang up on me, Peter,” Ned added with a smug tone. “You need your guy in the chair.”

“I need you two to stop talking so I don’t get caught!” Peter hissed, scaling the side of the building while pressing as low as he could to the roof.

The trucks were plain and unmarked. He doubted the license plates were real, and if they were they were probably just from stolen cars. The guns were definitely real though. God, he hoped they weren’t holding out with any secret Chitarri weapon stashes - Oscorp tech alone was going to be a nightmare to deal with.

“We can talk all we like,” MJ responded, unconcerned. “No one said you had to talk back.”

“I can hear the Death Note intro from here, MJ. I’m not going to do recon with that being the soundtrack to my life.”

The talking from inside the building was slowly getting louder the closer he got, but he couldn't exactly hear well enough from his place right now. He just had to figure out how to get inside somehow without catching anyone’s attention. There were a couple of armed guards manning the doorway, so that wasn’t going to work. Maybe if he could get in through the roof somehow…?

“You’re a nerd for being able to recognize it.”

“It’s blaring in my ear,” Peter hissed, and she let out an affronted noise in response. “And you're the one watching it! I’m literally going to hang up now,” he threatened, though his voice lacked any real conviction.

“Don’t even think about it, dude,” Ned said. “Mr. Stark would murder me if he knew I was helping you with this. I need to make sure you don’t bleed out in an alleyway or something.”

“I’m so glad you’re looking out for me, Ned,” Peter huffed sarcastically, pulling himself further up over the rooftop of the warehouse. The place was crawling with people on the inside - and while he didn’t know exactly who they worked for, from the quick facial scans Karen had run, it sounded like most of them were recruited after one of the Vulture’s buddies had gotten out of jail on parole. 

Yay.

“Anytime, dude,” Ned chirped back, and Peter let out an exhausted sigh.

He cautiously pressed a hand against a window pane and after feeling it give a little under his weight, he shifted it to the side quietly before dropping down to hide in the rafters in order to get closer to the conversations going inside.

The whole place was filled with stolen tech. It didn't look like it was all Oscorp’s either - but there was plenty of his logo stamped across the boxes that piled across the floor. Some of it had the same logo that the Department of Damage Control had in DC, back when he had managed to get stuck inside the facility.

“It looks like a storage center for the stolen tech,” he murmured to the others, and Ned made a noise of surprise. It wasn't all that shocking to Peter, though; he knew what these docks were for. He doubted that there were many legal operations going on in this area of town at all.

“That makes sense,” Ned replied, “If it's by the docks, then they might be shipping it elsewhere, right? That would make it harder to track and probably mess up whose jurisdiction it's in, too. Do you know where its headed?”

Peter squinted down, but he doubted there was an address on illegal shipments of stolen tech.

 “You sure this place is secure?” one man asked, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “We can't afford any more fuck-ups.”

“Wasn't planning on any,” the other responded blithely before muttering something into his phone and sliding it back into his pocket. “So, I heard you didn’t get everything we were after.”

The other man scoffed. “I got enough.”

“What are they saying?” Ned asked in Peter’s ear. “Can you hear them?” Peter ignored him.

“You’re good with the next run, then?”

“Sure, as long as I get paid.”

“When have I ever not paid you?” The other raised a dubious eyebrow. “Oh, fuck me. You can’t seriously hold that against me.”

The man scoffed. “You told me that would be an easy hundred.”

“Yeah, as long as you kept your mouth shut.”

He threw his hands up, making a noise of anger. “How was I supposed to know we had a mole?”

Peter ignored the arguing, pulling up facial recognition on the two of them. They seemed like the main guys at least; the others just looked like hired help. “Hey, Karen, could you stick a tracker on that guy for me?” She gave him the affirmative, and he moved to get closer. 

The rusty raft creaked, and he froze in place. The two men cut off their bickering and glanced up sharply. While Peter doubted they could see him through the darkness, he figured they wouldn’t be stupid enough to keep talking after being spooked.

“What the hell was that?”

He let out a breath, sensing his cover had already been blown. “‘That ?’” Peter echoed, offended, as he peered down at them, “That's a person, dude. That's rude .” Both men jerked back, startled by the sudden voice from the darkness, and Peter could see their eyes widening, trying to figure out where it came from. “So, anyone want to tell me where exactly are you planning to ship all this stuff? Asking for a friend.”

He was answered with the sound if gunshots rattling the building. Peter twisted out of the way, ducking behind a larger post. “Hey Ned, you've got the dampener in the suit working, haven't you?”

“Yeah…?” came the dubious answer back. “I mean, it should be working but i haven't exactly-” Peter ducked as a bullet whizzed by his head, “-tested it or anything, dude.”

“That's fine,” came Peter’s gritted response. 

Ned let out a noise of alarm. “Why, you're not dying or anything, are you? Because if you are I will deactivate it and FRIDAY will know immediately. I'm totally willing to sell you out if it means you're not dyin-”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet? like, you're not hurt yet or you're dying and you don't want me to turn it off yet?”

“Don't turn it off at all! I’m not hurt, but if I do get hurt FRIDAY will know as soon as I get into the tower, and-” he let out a muffled string of curses as he ducked a slew of incoming bullets, cursing louder as he felt something knick his right webshooter with the sizzle of angry electricity, “- then I'm actually dead, dude.”

He swung around, webbing a couple of armed guards to the floor and flicking one out of another man’s hands. 

There were too many. Sure, he had a little bit of an ego when it came to crime fighting, but he knew that this was biting off way more than he could chew. They'd upped their security since his last run-in at the docks.

He webbed the few men standing near him to the ground, spidey sense blaring before he felt something sharp slice through the side of his suit. Slice through his suit. Like a knife. He flipped the man over, disarming him and webbing him to the floor before he retreated back to the higher areas of the rafters, shadowed by at least the darkness of the roof.

Aside from the sharp pain that ran through him, there was a more overwhelming sense of confusion. That…. shouldn't have worked. His suit was supposed to be pretty resilient when it came to any sort of blade and most of the smaller bullets - if not completely resistant then at least somewhat impact-absorbing - other than a few weak points. So what…

His eyes raked over the floor before settling on the discarded weapon lying near the man. Hammer Tech. While he hadn't seen much of the company's weaponry up close before, they didn't exactly produce knives. it didn't look quite like an ordinary blade, either; like it was a mishmash of the different aspects of several different weapons in one. That weird sort of back-alley black market meddling that was upsetting in pretty much every way.

It was familiar. It reminded him of Toomes.

It was dangerous.

Another bullet whizzed past his head, and he jerked backward into a support beam in order to avoid it. “Oomf,” he grunted, clutching his side as he scrambled for cover upwards. He dodged more bullets and firmly ignored the shouting that followed him before sliding out of the broken skylight.

“Oomf?” Ned echoed. 

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Will you two shut up?” Peter groaned, feeling the blood trickle down from the graze. He glanced at his busted web-shooters, now completely fried. He was stuck, dangling from the side of a building like some kind of spandex piñata with armed men swarming the area looking for him. Great. 

Why did he do this to himself? On a weekday, too. He had Spanish homework due first period tomorrow. Damn. Maybe MJ would let him copy. Probably not. Maybe, if he begged hard enough.

“I’m going to let that one slide because I know you’re stressed out right now,” MJ said, sniffing.

“Jesus, you sound like my parents,” Ned muttered.

“You live with your Lola!” Peter pointed out.

“I still have parents, Peter!”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“Jesus Christ,” MJ muttered again, the volume of her show increasing in the background. That was a fair reaction, he supposed.

—

It had been a long night.

So, safe to say, by the time he had crawled into Mr. Stark’s lab, Peter's night had already been rough. He had to improvise his way home, swinging with only one functional shooter and a bum leg. God, he hoped nobody managed to film his wonky swinging. They’d probably all think he was drunk. So by the time he managed to actually jerk open the window, he could feel a growing frustration bubbling up inside him.

He hadn’t really gotten much out of that, other than some light bruising to his ego and the knowledge that Oscorp was obviously not involved with their own break-in. Nice. Very useful. That’s why, instead of heading straight to his room to give up and wallow in self-pity before going to bed, he pried open the window to the lab to fix the damn thing.

The window to the lab creaked slightly as he pried it open. His suit was scuffed, his leg ached, and he had a mild headache brewing, but he ignored it all as he slid into the darkened room. He didn’t need anything fancy tonight. Just a few tools to tinker with his web-shooter. A few wires had shorted out after a bullet had caught part of the conductor, no big deal. He could patch it up and do a full repair later.

The lab was dark and relatively quiet when he entered, save for the soft glow of the dimmed lights and light from the city seeping in from the windows. He beelined for his workbench, barely noticing the faint sound of shuffling coming from the other side of the lab.

It wasn’t until he was about to drop into his seat and reached for a screwdriver that something flew across the room, narrowly missing his head and crashing into the wall behind him, that he froze.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Came the shocked voice from across the lab. Peter turned slowly, a horrible knot of regret forming in his stomach as he came face to face with a wide-eyed, wrench-wielding Harley standing across the room.  

Fuck.

“Um,” Peter stammered, his hand instinctively going to the rim of his mask, fingers tracing the edge just to make sure it was still securely in place. Thank God. The last thing he needed was to blow his cover to Harley, of all people. 

“Well?” Harley demanded, not lowering the wrench. His arm was still cocked back, ready to aim and miss, probably damaging some of the other tech in the lab. Honestly, Peter had half a mind to snitch on him right now. Harley’s arm twitched as the silence stretched, and Peter raised his hands in surrender, eyes darting between Harley and the dangerous-looking tool in his grip. 

“Wait!” Peter winced, completely expecting to be beaten over the head with a wrench. “I, uh… I’m here for, you know, um, friendly neighborhood stuff.”

​​Harley raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I just-" Peter felt his brain short-circuiting as he scrambled for an excuse before ultimately deciding that it wasn’t worth being caught in a bad lie. By this point, anything would sound better than ‘friendly neighborhood stuff’ in the middle of what looked like a break-in. “I just... needed to fix something. My web-shooter broke,” he said quickly, gesturing vaguely at the pile of half-disassembled tech on his desk. “I didn’t think anyone was here, so I figured... I’d just drop by and patch it up. You know. Not stealing your stuff or anything.”

“And FRIDAY just… let you in?” Harley asked slowly.

“I work with M-” Peter bit his tongue. “-Tony,” he corrected himself hastily. “He lets me use the lab sometimes.”

“Huh…” Harley didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he lowered the wrench slightly, his wide-eyed expression morphing into something closer to mild irritation. “Dude, you scared the shit out of me,” Harley huffed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Peter let out a breath of relief, leaning against the desk, glad the tension was dying down. His spider-sense, however, flared to life at the last second, just as Harley’s wrench sailed through the air again. Peter jerked to the side, narrowly avoiding getting clocked in the face while watching the wrench that was in Harley’s hand fly past his head.

“What the hell?!” Peter snapped, eyes narrowing at Harley. “Why are you always throwing shit at me?”

Harley shrugged, completely unbothered by Peter’s indignation. “Just wanted to make sure you were the real Spider-Man.” His tone was almost casual, as if lobbing tools at people was a normal way to verify their identities.

“I scaled the building!” Peter hissed, flinging an arm wildly toward the window he had come in through, his frustration biting through his tone. “What normal person does that?!”

“I don’t know,” Harley drawled, waving a hand dismissively. “Maybe a really determined cosplayer or something.” 

“You’re insane,” Peter muttered, already feeling the migraine in his head intensifying. 

Harley smirked, leaning back against his own workbench with a satisfied grin. “In a fun way.”

Peter let out an incredulous laugh, because despite himself, he couldn’t help the slight twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. Because Harley was kind of… entertaining to be around, even if Peter wanted to throttle him half the time. 

Maybe the exhaustion was catching up to him. That didn’t sound like a normal thought.

“So, Spiderman, huh?” Harley drawled, leaning back against his workbench with his arms crossed, eyes scanning Peter like he was trying to figure him out. 

“Yeah,” Peter blinked behind his mask, “Uh… yeah. With a hyphen,” he said, unsure of where this was going but already sensing the danger. His spidey sense wasn’t exactly going off, but something about Harley’s tone made him feel like he was being pulled into a trap. 

Harley gave him a slow, unimpressed look, but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Huh. You’re a weird dude, Spider-Man.”

“Look, I just need to fix this and-”

“So, where’re you from? Queens?” Harley cut him off, circling around Peter with far too much interest. “Or… wait, lemme guess. Jersey? Nah, you seem like you’ve got that local flavor, you know?” Peter couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped him. Harley took that as a sign to continue  “You’re giving me strong Brooklyn energy, though. You from Brooklyn, Spidey? Nah, that accent isn't right, though…”

Peter shifted uncomfortably, tightening the grip on his web-shooter, praying that Harley could be as dumb as he hoped, just this once. “I’m from, uh… nearby.”

“Nearby,” Harley echoed, clearly not satisfied with the vague answer. 

“Yep, nearby,” Peter repeated, trying to keep the strained note of panic out of his voice. “What about you?” he blurted, desperate to change the subject.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” he tried to sound casual, before an idea hit him. “You sound like you’re from Indiana, right?”

“Wrong,” Harley said flatly. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Spider-Man, because that is one hell of a turn off right there.”

Peter choked, head swinging around to face Harley. Where the hell had that come from? “Maryland, then?”

“You’re not actually all that smart, are you?”

“So I'm getting closer then?”

“Closer to the grave, maybe. I’ve got three more wrenches where that came from, man.”

Peter held up his hands in defense, a laugh escaping despite the threat. “Hey, watch it!” Why wasn’t Harley this nice when he was Peter? And, he thought a little desperately, why was he saying he was cute? He couldn’t even see his face under the mask!

“You’re in my section of the lab!” Harley shot back, crossing his arms.

“It’s not your section of the lab,” Peter corrected thoughtlessly, turning back to his desk.

Harley paused, looking up at him with a quirked lip. “And how would you know that?”

“Um, you know.”

“I very much do not know.”

“I have my ways,” Peter shrugged, going for blasé while being completely desperate to get out of this conversation.

Harley’s smirk widened, and Peter felt an unfamiliar heat rise to his face under the mask. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re mysterious.” He tilted his head, leaning in slightly. “I like a guy with secrets.”

Peter swallowed hard, trying and failing not to react to the sudden shift in tone. Was Harley… flirting with him? No, no way. He was just being annoying. That was it. Definitely. Right?

“Well,” Peter managed, trying to stay composed, “I’m full of ‘em.”

“Bet you are,” Harley murmured, eyes flicking over him with just a little too much interest for Peter’s liking. “You got that whole mysterious vigilante thing down pat. Bet all the girls in Queens are into it.”

Peter's mouth went dry. He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears. Nope. Definitely flirting. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out more like a strangled cough. “Um, I guess?”

Harley grinned, clearly amused by Peter’s sudden awkwardness. “You ever, like, get numbers while you’re out saving people? ‘Cause, no lie, if I was just a little bit less sober right now, I’d definitely give you mine.”

Peter nearly choked on air, his brain short-circuiting at Harley’s casual tone. He desperately searched for something to say, something that wouldn’t give him away or make him sound like a complete idiot.

“Uh,” he stammered, “I - I think I’m good, thanks.”

Harley snorted. “Sure, sure. Gotta stay focused on the mission, right?” He leaned in a little closer, voice dropping just enough to make Peter’s skin prickle. “But, y’know, the offer’s always open.”

Peter was dying. This was it. He was actually going to pass away. He needed a distraction, something he could point to and get harleys stupid beady eyes off him so he felt like he could breathe again-

“Uh, what’s that?” he blurted, pointing to something on Harley’s desk, desperate to change the subject. “That gauntlet thing? It looks pretty cool.”

“Oh, this?” Harley perked up, completely shifting gears. He picked up a small, sleek gauntlet and held it out for Peter to see. “It’s a prototype I’m working on. Finished it earlier tonight. Or, today, I guess. Works like a charm.”

Peter leaned in, curiosity momentarily overriding his panic. “How does it work?”

Harley grinned wickedly. “Check this out.” He reached over to a small plastic wheel on the desk, placed it in front of him, and pressed a button on the gauntlet. In seconds, the wheel sizzled and melted into a warped, gooey mess.

Peter raised an eyebrow behind his mask. “Impressive.”

“I’m aware,” Harley shot him a grin.

Peter pressed his palms to his face, seething. “You’re the worst.”

Harley just winked, looking way too pleased with himself. “You love it.”

Peter’s heart was still racing, and he could feel the flush creeping up his neck as Harley gave him a once-over, the flirtatious edge to his gaze still very much present. Oh God, how was he supposed to face him tomorrow?

"Spider-Man?" Harley called as Peter backed toward his workbench, more than a little desperate to escape.

"Um, I should probably go," Peter managed, glancing up at the put-out expression across Harley’s face.

“But you didn’t even finish fixing your shooter things!”

“It’s late,” Peter forced out, standing and grabbing the faulty web shooter, slowly making his way back to the window. “You know. Stuff to save, people to do and all that.”

Harley raised another, more unimpressed eyebrow.

Peter could have cried. Instead, to stop himself from saluting, he shot Harley some finger guns before falling out of the window. It was only when he was back in his bed, mask off, that he pressed his face into his pillow and screamed.

—

He blinked up at the ceiling, exhausted. Empty. Bitter.

He tried not to think of Harley’s watercolor-blur face in the dream, of Skip’s hands and their joint shock-horror-disappointment as he stumbled into the room, unmasked but still suited up. Harley had hated that it was him. Skip had laughed.

He wouldn’t have blamed either one.

—

Surprisingly, he was the first one in the kitchen that night.

Peter slid onto the countertop, his legs dangling over the edge as he let out a long, tired sigh. The cool countertop chills him and he presses the palms of his hands into his eye sockets hard enough to see starbursts in his vision. He allowed himself a moment or two simply to wallow in the misery of insomnia - but then he got to work.

By the time Natasha joined him, he’d already cleaned and dried the dishes, scrubbed the oven grills, and even purged the fridge of anything close to expiring. When she found him, he’d run out of things to keep his hands busy.

“Why do you clean the kitchen?” her voice broke the silence, soft but curious. Her voice didn’t startle him this time, but the question did. 

He blinked, glancing over at her, still perched on the counter. “What?”

“The kitchen,” she repeated, moving to stand across from him. “Why not focus on the living area? Or your room? Or the bathrooms? Why the kitchen?”

He paused, frowning as he considered it. “I... don’t know,” he admitted, realizing that he hadn’t picked the kitchen for any real reason. It just felt… natural. Maybe it was because the kitchen always felt like the center of the Tower. Even though that wasn't remotely true - and each Avenger had their own bathroom and bedroom there were several kitchens the different floors, the common room kitchen felt like a gathering ground. It felt comfortable.

Maybe it was just the fact that he’d grown up in a shoebox apartment in Queens, but the kitchen felt like the center point of their home. Maybe it was because of the memories of the three of them cleaning up and washing the dishes each day, bickering over little things and enjoying each other's company.

Maybe he chose it because it reminded him of home.

Instead of saying any of that, though, he shot her a wry grin, “It’s because it’s the one we use the most. It makes sense to keep it clean, right?”

Despite his lack of real answer, Natasha hummed in acknowledgment as she leaned against the counter, watching him with a small, knowing smile. Peter’s gaze dropped to his hands, which were still fidgeting. 

Natasha moved to sit after pouring herself a glass of water. She never drunk it, really, Peter had noticed distantly. She just watched it in front of her as the ice slowly melted, fingers tracing the rim of it while the silence stretched. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It just… was.

After moments, minutes, hours pass, he asked, “Do you ever get sick of not being able to sleep?” 

A pause.

“Sometimes,” she shrugged lightly.

His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He was exhausted. His side still tingled, although it had since closed over. He felt achy and cold and tired, like he was about to get sick. But he didn’t get sick, anymore. Just had those miserable in-between feelings that felt just as awful. “Do they ever go away?”

“...Sometimes.”

A brief silence settled between them, comfortable but heavy in its own way. Peter could feel the weight of it pressing against his chest, something crawling into his throat. He swallowed thickly but the frustration was bubbling up, threatening to spill over in unsuppressed angry tears that bit at the corners of his eyes. 

“I never had nightmares while I was there,” he murmured, voice low. It felt like a horrible, shameful confession that he’d already made a thousand times before, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Natasha’s hand stilled for a second before she resumed her rhythm, fingers continuing to slide around the rim of her empty glass near silently. “But now I get them all the time. I hate it.”

“That makes sense,” she said simply, her voice calm and measured, offering no judgment. 

Peter let out an exhausted and relieved breath. “Now that you're out, your brain is trying to make sure you don’t forget it happened so it won’t happen again.”

Peter let out a scoff, ducking his head slightly. “You sound like Sam,” he muttered, ducking his face a little lower, like the darkness would hide him from the world.

Natasha’s lips quirked up. “In the good way or the bad way?” she asked, glancing at him with a knowing look.

Peter smiled faintly, though his eyes were still tired. “The good way.”

“You should listen to him more often,” she hummed, undeterred.  

Peter just let out a puff of air and gave a nod despite the fact that it was dark and she probably wouldn’t see it. He had a feeling she’d just know regardless, somehow. 

The cold air seeped through his short pajamas making him shiver, and he curled into himself sluggishly. There was this heavy, pressing weight of exhaustion that seemed to weigh his shoulders down, and with a sigh, he rested his head on his folded arms.

When Peter stirred, eyes cracking open to catch the view of the ceiling, he was disoriented. He blinked blearily, realizing he wasn’t on the counter anymore. Somehow, he’d ended up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that definitely hadn’t been there before. The sound of low voices from the kitchen drew him in, and he strained to make sense of the conversation.

“…It should be easy enough, now that you’re sixteen. Besides, I know plenty of good lawyers.” That was Tony’s voice.

“It’ll really be that easy?” came a lower, hesitant reply. “So I won’t even have to see her or anything?”

“Only if she refuses to sign, but if she does I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry, kid.” There was a pause like Tony was thinking, and the sound of something being moved around in the kitchen. “Unless… Do you want to see her?”

“I don’t know. Is that bad?”

“Not at all,” Tony responded, and Peter could hear the shrug in his voice. “I’d probably feel the same if I was in your shoes. I couldn’t exactly go no-contact or anything with my parents, but God knows me and my dad would’ve killed each other if the Terminator hadn’t gotten to him first.” 

Peter sat up, groggy, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before he jumped at the surprised shout that came from the kitchen. “You’re going to give me a fucking heart attack one day, kid, I swear,” Tony’s voice called, one hand over his chest, and Peter froze. “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?” 

“Uh... I don’t know.” Peter glanced around, still trying to process how he ended up on the couch. Did he fall asleep at the barstool? He didn’t remember moving to the couch, though. Did… did Natasha carry him? His face flushed. God, he hoped not. That would be humiliating. He didn’t know how he was going to look her in the eye the next time he saw her. He shifted to stand and stretch his stiff neck before there was a rustle of fabric below him, and - oh Jesus, she gave him a blanket and tucked him in like he was a child, he was going to die of embarrassment.

Tony raised an eyebrow, holding a spatula in his hand. “Well, whatever it is, I’m making breakfast.”

“Pancakes?” Peter’s eyes lit up, his stomach growling as he perked up at the idea.

Harley, who had been leaning against the counter, suddenly looked more awake too. “Pancakes?” He echoed, a hopeful note in his voice. “I haven’t had pancakes in so long.”

Tony turned sharply, pointing the spatula at Peter like it was a weapon. “Not the pancakes you’re thinking of. Absolutely not.”

Peter let out an indignant noise of protest, “What do you mean? My pancakes are great! Bucky likes them!”

“He’s lying,” Tony responded flatly.

Harley snorted. “How do you even mess up pancakes?”

Tony’s expression darkened. “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

—

Later that day in the lab, Peter sat hunched over his project, his fingers fiddling with the delicate wiring of his web-shooters. He desperately tried to focus on something - anything - other than Harley, who seemed to be on a mission to test his patience.  Tony, who had developed an impressive ability to tune out the sound of general annoyances after months of practice with Peter’s Bullshit, firmly ignored him. 

(Peter thought he was lying about that being his fault. He had the feeling that Tony had always been like that.)

“Tony,” Harley called, and Mr. Stark didn’t look up from his work. “Tony. I need help with this thing.”

Peter, unable to resist, piped up, “What is it? Maybe I can help?” He'd offered partly out of genuine helpfulness but also for a chance to prove he was smarter than Harley. Peter always felt a little satisfaction whenever he managed to one-up him. Why wouldn’t he, when Harley was so damn annoying?

Harley, however, didn’t agree. His nose scrunched up in disdain. “Hard pass.” The dismissiveness made Peter let out a sputtered noise of offense, but Harley was already back to pestering Tony. “Tony. Hey, Tony. Tony!”

“He’s not hearing you. Repeating it isn’t going to help,” Peter muttered under his breath, trying desperately to filter out the sound of Harley’s voice as he returned to focus on his work.

Undeterred, Harley continued, “Tony! Tony. Tony! TonyTony TonyTony-”

Peter grit his teeth. “Harley, shut up-” 

“Hey, Tony Stank!”

Peter snorted, the sound catching in his throat as Tony's head shot up indignantly from the nanotech he’d been focused on. He burst out laughing at the man’s offended face, unable to help himself. "Tony Stank?" Peter repeated through giggles, "Really?"

"Shut your mouth, Country Roads," Tony shot back at Harley, ignoring Peter’s sputtered noises.

"Hey!" Harley protested, but that sound was overshadowed by Peter’s laughter.

Peter’s laughter only intensified. "Country roads!" he guffawed, an evil sort of glee erupting in his chest. Harley was never living this one down. He’d make sure of it.

“Shut your mouth, Parker,” Harley shot back, eyes narrowing in irritation.

"You’re just mad I’m the favorite," Peter teased, sitting up a little straighter from his place on top of the desk, criss-crossed legs swinging over the side.

"I'm mad because I’m stuck in the lab with a goddamn teacher's pet." Harley retorted, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. "You’re unbearable."

Peter shrugged, unfazed. "You’re just mad because you can’t make fun of my name. Because you’re unoriginal ." He gave Harley a smug look.

" Penis ." The word slipped out of Harley's mouth without hesitation, and Peter's smirk immediately disappeared, his expression souring as Harley smirked victoriously.

Mr. Stark, despite trying his best to stay focused, glanced up again, amused. "That’s not even a good nickname," he remarked. “Like, Pepper’s nickname is good. It has to be completely unrelated to their actual name for it to work."

“Wait,” Harley said, suddenly intrigued. "Pepper isn’t her real name?"

Peter snorted, leaning back again. “No? I thought you knew everything, Harley.”

Harley was now standing, hands planted on his desk. "No, what? What’s her real name then? I’ve known her for years and you’re telling me I don’t know her first name?"

“Virginia,” Tony replied, sounding far too pleased with himself.

“Pepper’s name is Virginia ?" Harley exclaimed, eyes wide. "Like the state ?"

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “What, you thought she was named after a seasoning?”

Tony chimed in from across the room, not looking up from his work. “Her middle name’s Salt,” he added, unhelpfully.

Peter snickered, moving from his seat on the desk to slide into his chair to get a closer look at the connective wiring for his web shooters. Before, he would’ve been worried about working on them anywhere around anyone who didn’t already know his identity, but luckily for him, Harley was so focused on his own issues that he didn’t have that general sense of self-awareness that everyone else seemed to have.

That was why it surprised him when he stood up and moved to sit back in his chair - only as soon as he sat down it tipped over, and he went crashing to the floor with a loud thud.

"What the fuck?" Peter exclaimed, scrambling into a sitting position and glaring at the ruined chair.

Harley doubled over laughing, barely able to breathe as he clutched his sides. "Oh, man! I told you, Parker - you gotta watch yourself!" he wheezed, utterly delighted with himself. One of the wheels had snapped off clean off; but when he held it up to see what was wrong with it, he was met with the familiar sight of the melted bubbly wheel Harley had fawned over while showing Spider-Man the other night.

Peter seethed, his fists clenching as he fought back the urge to lunge at him. Calm down, he told himself. Stay calm. You can’t maul him. Mr. Rogers would be disappointed in you.

"Real mature, Harley," Peter grumbled, dusting himself off and righting the chair, glaring daggers at the other boy.

Harley only grinned wider. "You’re just mad because you didn’t see it coming. I’m always two steps ahead of you, Parker."

Not for long. Peter would make sure of it or die trying.

Chapter Text

Peter was not a morning person.

Whether it was the late-night patrols messing with his sleep schedule, the nightmares and insomnia keeping him up, or the myriad of other reasons that had screwed up his sleep schedule, he didn’t know. Mornings had become his least favorite time of day - he didn’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point, he lost the ability to function in the early hours altogether. 

What he did know, however, was that he was now no longer a morning person at all.

So, when he trudged toward his locker with Ned talking about something he was only half listening to and his Spidey Sense flared up, Peter was too slow to react. The locker door swung open, and all of a sudden, it felt like he couldn’t breathe. His throat and lungs burned , and the attempt to draw in a wheezing breath turned into a coughing fit that rattled his chest. His eyes stung, and he instinctively scrubbed at them with the back of his hand, slamming the locker shut in a desperate attempt to escape the noxious fumes. What the hell was going on? Was he having an asthma attack? Was he dying?

But he didn’t get asthma anymore. So… what the hell?

“Harley, what the hell!” Ned snapped, sounding genuinely angry as he spun around to confront the boy standing nearby. Peter barely registered what was happening around him, too focused on trying - and failing - to suck in oxygen. “I get that it’s funny that he's got an allergy and all, but this is too far, dude!”

“It wasn’t me!” Harley defended, and Peter could see his hands raised in defense out of the corner of his watery eyes.

“Well who was it, then?” Ned demanded, his normally calm voice rising with frustration.

A snort from across the hallway answered him. Flash.

Peter looked up blearily to see what it was that had set the reaction off - his eyes and throat still burned, and it hurt to inhale - and as he looked over the state of the inside of his locker, the cause of his misery became apparent: mint incense sticks and car air fresheners shoved through the slats in his locker, along with a rag soaked in something that reeked of mint. Even the thought of touching it made Peter’s skin tingle with the imagined burn.

Fuck, his locker was going to set him off for days .

“You okay?” Ned asked, giving Peter a concerned thump on the back. Peter tried to nod, but when he opened his mouth to speak he sucked in another lungful of minty fire. Another violent coughing fit tore through him, and for a second, it felt like his throat was closing up completely.

MJ, already annoyed, began pulling the offending items out of his locker, her face scrunched up in disgust as she tossed them aside. Meanwhile, Ned turned Peter away from the locker, trying to shield him from any more exposure. Harley stood there awkwardly, watching with uncertainty before his face twisted into a scowl as he glared at Flash.

“What the hell’s your problem?” Harley snapped, his voice sharp.

Peter thought that Flash was going for a look that was innocent and guileless, but he missed and it came off more like a grimace. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Harley looked like he was about two seconds away from throwing a punch when MJ called over to him. “Harley,” she said, her voice cool. “Help me with this.”

He hesitated for a moment, glancing between Flash and Peter, before ultimately deciding to help MJ clear out the locker. Peter silently hoped there wasn’t anything in there that would give him away. There shouldn’t be. It wasn’t like he was hiding Chittarri tech in his locker. Well. Not anymore, at least.

“How’d he find out about your mint allergy anyway?” Ned asked once Peter could finally breathe again. It was still a little labored, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of passing out anymore.

“He’s probably been watching you two eye-fuck over your mint cookies,” MJ muttered dryly, pulling out Peter’s books and shoving them into her own bag to save them from the mint-soaked mess.

Peter let out a wheeze.

“Do you need to, like, go to the nurse’s office or something?” Ned asked, frowning. “Man, I don’t think I’ve had a spare inhaler since your asthma went away, so…”

Peter waved him off. “I’ll be-” He wheezed again, mouth clicking shut because it was easier to breathe without talking.

MJ wasn’t convinced. “You can use one of my notebooks since yours is covered in whatever the hell that rag was soaked in.” She stuffed a notebook into his backpack and gave him a look. “Go to the nurse.” Peter glared at her. She just shrugged nonchalantly. “Fine then. Suffer. Be a martyr.”

“I’m not-!”

His protest was cut short as he dissolved into another coughing fit, his eyes watering all over again. By the time he regained control, he decided it probably wasn’t worth arguing anymore.

—

Harley sold out Spider-Man within a day.

They had barely sat down for lunch when Harley slid into his seat with a smug grin. “I was gonna tell you guys this morning before this loser nearly inhaled a car deodorizer-” a thumb was jerked in Peter’s direction, “-but Spider-Man was in the lab last night.” Ned promptly choked on his sandwich. Peter let out an agonized sigh, his eyes sliding shut as he rested his head in his hands. Harley seemed to mistake the reaction for disbelief. 

“You don’t believe me,” he said flatly.

Peter considered steering Harley away from the Spider-Man topic by provoking him into a different argument. It was worth a shot, right? “I dunno,” Peter shrugged. “I feel like Mr. Stark would’ve mentioned something.”

“He wasn’t there.”

“Convenient,” Peter muttered.

Harley gaped at him. “Spider-Man was there!” he insisted, leaning forward in his seat. Peter simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Lying, Harley, really?” Peter asked flatly, but before he could continue, a warning tingle went off in his head. Suddenly, someone stomped on his foot. “You’re a child.”

“ You’re a child,” Harley shot back, his voice bitter as he stomped once more for good measure. Peter raised an eyebrow in challenge. “He was there. Not my fault you’re a delicate baby that goes to bed at ten on the dot.”

“Just because I’m not in the lab doesn’t mean I’m asleep, Harley. I do, in fact, have a life outside of Mr. Stark’s lab, contrary to popular belief.”

Harley snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Not my fault you’re such a suck-up that you can’t bear to part with Mr. Stark’s tech.”

“What?”

“You do that thing where you pretend to be all cool and confident, but you can never ask him something directly. So you hide in the lab until he’s there, and then you try to steer the conversation around to your question in some really roundabout way. It’s exhausting, dude. He’s not gonna bite your head off - he might make fun of you a little, but it’s no biggie, though.”

Harley gaped at him, “What the hell.” Ned snorted from across the table, and Harley immediately retaliated by stomping on Peter’s foot again.

“I wasn’t even laughing at you!” Peter protested.

“Shut up, you’re worse around Bruce,” Harley shot back. “ ‘Dr. Banner, I read your report on Structural Modifications in DNA Under Gamma Radiation, Dr. Banner, can I see what you’re working on? Oh, Dr. Banner, how would you solve-’ ” His mocking was cut off when Peter stomped on his foot, this time a little harder than necessary. Harley let out a hiss of pain. “Don’t play your weird fucking footsie with me, Parker.”

Peter sniffed, looking down at his sandwich innocently. “Your foot was in my space.”

“It was not.”

“It was the last four hundred times. Who’s gonna believe you? Ned, who you also brutalized?” Harley bristled at the accusation, slamming a hand down before digging his other through his bag. Peter didn’t even need to see what he was going for before the familiar green packaging came into his sight. 

Peter twitched.

Do not jump across the table. Do not jump across the table, Parker. You will get suspended. Worse, you’ll lose. Ignoring his inner monologue, he watched as Harley snidely unwrapped it and promptly shoved the whole thing in his mouth, mint chocolate still lingering on his fingers and lips. Peter wanted to kiss him just to taste it. 

Woah. He blinked, rearing back a little at the shock of it. Where the hell did that thought come from? He needed to fix this. Now.

He could poison the cookies, maybe. The thought rose unbidden, but Peter welcomed it all the same. He was pretty sure that Harley kept his stash in his room somewhere; he had raided the other boy's workbench and found it depressingly empty of chocolate. That made it easy enough to narrow down the space - maybe if he was lucky enough the bag would already be opened and he could smear them in whatever cultures were currently growing in Bruce's lab. Or he could just douse them in some insane laxative, just to be a little meaner. If it wasn't open, that would be fine too. He'd just melt the packaging back together with something from Tony’s lab - he doubted Harley was observant enough to notice.

He just needed something that gave him a horrible stomach bug. Something maybe that would put him off eating them. something that put him through what Peter had to deal with everyday, now.

“What, that finally shut you up?” the moment broke, and Peter wanted to tear him apart all over again. He was a teenager from the middle of nowhere, why did the sound of his voice incite more rage than actual criminals he’d dealt with?

“Oh, you think you’re so funny,” Peter growled, his voice low with irritation. “Whenever you can’t win an argument, you eat something I’m allergic to. Isn’t that hilarious and original?” Harley crunched the wrapper in his hands, licking the spare chocolate off the tip of his finger with an exaggerated ‘mmm,’ and Peter's glare intensified. “I’m going to skin you and keep you as a carpet, you backwater inbred piece of-” 

Before Peter could finish, Ned wrapped an arm around his neck and tugged him back down into his seat. Peter went willingly, but he continued to glare at Harley the whole time.

“Sorry for yelling at you earlier, by the way,” Ned said a little guiltily, once Peter was settled.

Harley blinked, seeming to take a second to remember what had happened. “Oh, that? Don’t even worry about it. I’d’ve done the same thing, probably.” Ned relaxed, the tension finally easing out of his shoulders.

“Don’t apologize to him,” Peter growled, glaring at Harley. “He’s just mad no one believes him about Spider-Man visiting him.”

“It happened,” Harley gritted out. “He was cool.”

“Sure, he signed your cowboy boots and everything. Maybe dropped his number, too,” Peter shrugged with a disbelieving huff.

Ned snorted.

Sure, maybe it was a little low of him to purposefully rile Harley up. He knew that Spider-Man had obviously been in the lab; that they’d talked a little and that Harley very obviously wasn’t lying. But pissing him off like this? Sure, maybe it wasn’t the most friendly neighborhood vigilante activity. Right now, though, he wasn’t a vigilante. He was Peter Parker, and Harley Keener was pissing him off.

“I wish,” Harley muttered under his breath. Peter’s jaw clicked shut with regret. “I mean, have any of you met him before?” Harley asked, glancing around.

“Once or twice,” MJ said nonchalantly, while Ned opened his mouth as if to speak but no words came out.

Peter’s gaze flicked up to them sharply. Why were they encouraging this? He thought a little desperately. Why were they not helping him out? He knew, though. He saw Ned’s barely suppressed glee and MJ’s upturned lip that she thought was hidden behind the corner of her book.

Traitors.

“You’d ask for his number if you could,” Harley shrugged, unbothered.

“Maybe he’ll come back sometime,” Ned finally managed, though his voice was a bit too high for comfort. Peter wanted to smack him.

Never again. He’d be dying or concussed and brain-damaged before he ever came back to Harley willingly, let alone in his suit. Jesus, after the god-awful Southern flirting last time? He’d rather bleed out in an alleyway, actually.

“Maybe,” Harley said, sounding far too wistful for Peter’s liking. “Would be kinda cool, huh? Dating a superhero?”

“You don’t even know what he looks like,” Peter interjected.

“He probably looks better than you,” Harley snipped back. “Why, jealous, Parker?”

Peter actually wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe tackle Harley across the table. It would be deserved at this point. He was practically asking for it. Begging, even.  “Not at all. I think if I had to date anyone like you, I’d rather step in front of a bus, thanks,” Peter retorted, eyes narrowing.

“Aren’t you two so romantic,” MJ muttered sarcastically, not even bothering to look up from her book.

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but his gaze fell past her face and to a face that was glaring at him from across the room. Flash.

He wasn’t eating. His friends were talking amongst themselves around him, but he didn’t seem to be listening, just… staring, with an untouched sandwich in front of him.

The sight of his steady gaze and downturned lip was different from usual. It wasn’t… calmer, but it was almost more calculating, in a way? Or maybe more observant. Thoughtful. It wasn’t an expression he’d seen on Flash many times before, and it was unnerving - especially when directed at him. 

But suddenly there was a foot stamping on his and his attention was torn away.

—

“Hey Karen, it’s not breaking and entering if you’re after a bad guy, right?”

He was perched outside of a shoddy-looking apartment complex in Queens, glancing through the darkened windows a little uncertainly. This was where the tracker had led him, but…

He had no problem breaking into Jarrod’s place when he was tracking down the drug shipments. This was basically that. Except the last time he’d done that, he didn’t have Mr. Stark threatening to ground him every time he did something stupid. And this wasn’t stupid, but he doubted the man would approve.

 But following the tracker was his only lead right now.

“It is, Peter. But you would be unable to be prosecuted by the police without your name or identity,” came the sly response. He grinned. He’d taught her well. “There is one heat signature inside of the building right now, but vital signs show they are likely sleeping.”

The house was quiet, aside from the click of the window latch as he pushed it open. “So who is this guy, Karen?”

“James Johnson, with a history of charges related to theft, trafficking in stolen goods, money laundering, weapons violations, intellectual property theft-”

“Jesus,” Peter muttered, sliding inside quietly. 

So this guy was definitely involved. Not just in whatever boxes of stolen Oscorp tech he’d found before, but it looked like he was a big player. Maybe he was the one who figured out which places to target, too - if that was the case, maybe he could find something that would give away their next location. Maybe he could stop them.

If guys like James were going after high-level tech, this was bigger than just one heist. It was starting to look like a full-scale operation. What if this wasn’t just about isolated thefts? What if they were targeting places Damage Control hadn’t fully locked down yet - snatching up pieces of alien or advanced tech to sell to the highest bidder? It was eerily similar to what had happened with Vulture years ago, with villains like him picking at the scraps left over from battles, grabbing whatever they could and weaponizing it.

And if they were bold enough to go after smaller stashes now, how long before they set their sights on somewhere bigger, like Stark Tower? If they were willing to hit that level of tech, it could mean a full-on black market war brewing, with high-tech weapons as the prize.

“Okay, bad bad guy, then,” Peter murmured, mostly to himself as he glanced around the room.

It was surprisingly… normal.

It was plain, if a little dirty. There were dirty dishes piled up in the kitchen, and there was papers scattered across the desk. Upon closer inspection, though, they were nothing useful. It was a mess of old receipts, notes, and magazines, but nothing that seemed to be obviously related, so he skimmed past them. Still, he planted a bug just under the desk, just in case.

The rest of the place wasn’t much different - an unremarkable living room, a slightly grimy kitchen. Nothing screamed illegal activity or gave him any leads. Still, Peter stayed because there had to be something useful. 

“The vital signs have changed. He's awake and moving around now, Peter,” Karen warned.

Shit.

Panic flared, and his eyes darted around desperately to find something, anything that would make this worthwhile before his gaze landed on the kitchen counter, where a burner phone lay forgotten. Bingo. He snatched it quickly and rounded the corner toward the window as he heard shuffling from the hallway behind him. In a rush, he leaped out the window, smacking his head a little on the doorframe in a rush, extending his hands, and jamming the button on his webshooters before a spike of warning flared. His webshooters weren’t working because his right one still hadn’t been fixed yet. 

Double shit.

The landing was sloppy. His foot hit the ground at an awkward angle, and he felt a sharp, sickening crunch from his ankle. Pain shot up his leg, and he bit down a curse, gritting his teeth as he tried to stay quiet.

From behind him, Peter heard the movement of footsteps making their way closer to the window and he froze, pressing himself against the wall outside, barely breathing. The guy was peering out, no doubt trying to figure out what had made the noise. There was a horrible, stretching pause of silence, before the man retreated back further into the house and he let out a quiet breath of relief. He glanced down at the phone in his hand, at his broken webshooter, at his still throbbing ankle.

Worth it.

—

peter parkour: So can you crack it??

After taking a quick look at the phone and realizing it was very much encrypted with some fancy code Peter didn’t know all that much about, he dropped the phone off at Ned’s on the way back to the tower. Peter had knocked on the window once after he couldn’t get the other boy’s attention because of his headphones, and when he finally did see Peter, he’d screamed and almost given him a heart attack. But it was worth it. Peter had only laughed in response.

‘I’m never gonna get used to this, man,’ Ned had said, clutching desperately at his chest. ‘Seriously. I’m going to just keel over and die one day, and it’s gonna be your fault.’

‘Please don’t,’ Peter had said in response before handing over the phone. Ned’s eyes had lit up after Peter had asked him to see if he could get inside.

And sure, it had only been a day but Peter was impatient. His fingers tapped along his workbench as Ned read his message and started typing. He shifted excitedly, but his leg was stretched out stiffly, and every time he moved, a bolt of pain laced through his ankle. It probably wasn’t broken or anything, but it definitely hurt.

“So what’d you do this time?” came Mr. Stark’s unimpressed voice.

“Huh?” Peter asked distractedly as his phone chimed in response and Ned’s name popped up on the screen.

chairguy: Dude. ofc i can this is EASY

peter parkour: ty bro you're a lifesaver

“Harley’s not here, cut the shit. You only make that face when there’s something wrong.” He didn’t look up from his tablet, but Peter quickly straightened up. The sudden movement sent a sharp pain through his leg, but he gritted his teeth and tried to brush it off. 

"I, um… hurt it on patrol the other day. There was a robbery and some guy was shooting at me-” he cut himself off, lying lying lying, don’t tell him about the break-in - “Anyway, the point is I went for a cool superhero landing and landed on my leg wrong."

Tony’s tablet landed on the table as he slowly turned in his chair to face Peter, eyes narrowing as the words sank in. "What?"

"It’s okay, though!” he blurted, “It happened a while ago and it’s basically fixed itself. I think i just slept on it funny and it’s made it a little worse." Peter waved it off quickly, hoping to avoid the impending lecture. But the intensity of Tony’s stare didn’t ease, his expression hardening as he processed what Peter had just said. “But it’s fine!”

"When did this happen?" Tony asked, his voice cold and clipped.

Peter swallowed, feeling the weight of the question. He shifted slightly, his eyes flicking to the floor as if the cold, metallic surface would offer some kind of escape. "Tuesday," he shrugged, rubbing at the phantom pain on his forehead and trying to ignore the man’s eyes narrowing at him. He rushed to fill the silence. “But! Before you say anything else, all the other injuries I got have already healed so there’s no point scanning me or anything.”

Tony’s expression didn’t change. His face stayed perfectly still, his eyes never leaving Peter. “Other injuries?" Tony asked, his voice slow and dangerous. 

“What?” Peter felt his heart rate spike, standing and running his hands through his hair a little nervously. "Um, sorry, I didn’t hear that. I’m gonna go and finish the other homework that I left in my room, actually.”

Tony’s chair creaked as he sat up straighter, his entire posture stiffening. "No, you don’t. Get back here right now," he said firmly, his voice low. "What other injuries?"

Peter’s throat tightened. He could feel Tony’s gaze burning into him, the weight of the question almost unbearable. Finally, he said lightly, "Oh, just… the usual. Just, uh, some bruises. My wounded pride and all that.” 

Tony’s jaw clenched. "What happened to the part where you tell me when you get hurt on patrol?"

“Oh, you know. FRIDAY said you were asleep and I didn’t want to bother you…”

“Why didn't FRIDAY wake me up?” he asked sharply, and Peter steadily ignored the question. “What time was it?”

“Time to get some rest!” he chirped, abandoning the tech in front of him and turning to leave, “Wow, has it already been three hours? I’ve got to get started on that essay!”

"Peter," Tony said, a warning in his voice, but Peter was already at the door, shooting him finger guns. He winced as the door slid shut, blocking out Tony’s angry expression. Yikes. That probably could have gone a little better. Whatever. It'd be fine, probably.

Chapter Text

There was a single mint green sticky note on his physics book.

He didn’t put it there. He knew who absolutely without a doubt did. Harley was nowhere to be seen, but Peter wasn’t stupid. He knew that he probably ratted through his bag the second Peter had let his guard down. Harley had the stupid sticky note ready. Waiting.

The sticky notes had been escalating. They’d been appearing slowly in different places - mostly textbooks, but it varied. He found one in his shoe this morning. Every time he caught a glimpse of it, Peter was sure he was at least a little bit closer to an aneurism.

The mint green caught his attention again, and his eye twitched.

“What’re you staring at?” Bucky’s voice came from across the room, and Peter turned to see the man staring at him, brows furrowed. Not like he was cross, or annoyed. Bucky just made that face most of the time. It was a ‘what’s wrong why do you look like that’ face . Made sense. The stupid sticky note was still there, staring at him.

“There’s something on his book,” Steve responded after Peter forgot to speak. “It looks like a little square note, sticking to it.”

“A sticky note,” Peter managed. “It's from Harley. I think I'm going to kill him,” he said evenly.

Steve turned to stare at him a little wide-eyed, and Bucky snorted. “Why?” he asked, grasping his cup of tea a little tighter.

“It's character building,” Peter answered back, scrunching the thing up. “He deserves it, anyway.”

“Why, he look at you funny?” came Bucky’s amused drawl, and Peter threw it at his face. Bucky uncrinkled it to glance over Harley's chicken-scratch writing, face falling into an unimpressed expression when he finally read whatever variation of ‘haha mint allergy’ that Peter’s sure was on there.

Bucky let out an unhappy hum, crunching the note in his palm. Steve glanced over his shoulder curiously. “What’s wrong? What did it say?”

“That Texas kid doesn’t know what he’s messing with,” Bucky said a little darkly, exhaustion ringing around his eyes. Peter, despite completely agreeing, snorted. Bucky glared at him. “Don’t laugh, smartass. You put me through too much shit when you first found out you couldn’t have those goddamn cookies.” Steve just let out an, ‘ah.’ Bucky continued. “Jesus, you made it sound like someone was dying or some shit.”

“It was upsetting!” Peter defends, “I was brushing my teeth and suddenly my mouth is on fire and I can’t breathe!”

“Yeah, yeah, cry harder,” Bucky says, completely unempathetic. “It’s so traumatic, and then the second you get your hands on those chocolate-”

“They're worth it,” Peter stressed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve press his non-tea-clad hand to his face. “If you had any taste, I'm sure you would agree.”

“I have plenty of taste,” Bucky said, affronted.

“You grew up on depression food,” Peter pointed out, and while Bucky looked like he wanted to argue Peter cut the man off. “Don't even argue. Steve told me all the horrific recipes you guys tried. Seriously, peanut butter-stuffed onions? Milk and popcorn?”

“You’ve eaten worse,” Bucky said flatly, and Peter just shrugged.

“Probably. But it's good for you. It's why I’ve got such a good immune system - I'm pretty sure there's like, a direct correlation between the amount of worms you ate as a kid and how healthy you are.”

“You're healthy because you're probably so radioactive it kills most bacteria.”

“Bruce says I'm not actually at a high enough level to be considered radioactive - sort of like how bananas are technically radioactive and all. But it was just the short-term exposure effects of the spider bite that made me a Mutate. Not the same thing. If I was that radioactive, my skin wouldn’t block the radiation from reaching other people and everyone I know and love all die just by being close to me.” There was a pause. “Huh.”

Bucky let out an exhausted noise. “I'm not doing this again,” he stood, hands covering his face. “I’m not doing this again, Stevie. I’m still not over having to fucking babyproof the house for a sixteen-year-old. From cookies. I didn’t sign up for this shit.”

“You didn't sign up for anything,” Peter corrected, “Tony’s the one that adopted me.”

“Thank god,” Bucky muttered, and Steve choked on his tea. Bucky ignored him. “I know you’d eat those fucking things out of spite. I saw you eat half a tube of toothpaste because you wanted to see what would happen.”

“It was the kid's toothpaste! If it’s strawberry, there shouldn’t be mint in it!”

“I hate you. Get out of here, go bug Harley.” Peter laughed, but Bucky shot him a glare. “Go. Get .”

Peter stood, giving an exaggerated groan before grabbing his books. “Fine. I can’t believe you’d kick me out like this. Alone. Desolate. Not a single dollar to my name.” The mint sticky note was hurled at him, and he didn’t bother to duck. It bounced harmlessly off the side of his forehead. “Child abuse.”

“I’m gonna show you child abuse if you don’t-”

The door closed, cutting Bucky off mid-sentence. Peter lingered in the hallway for a moment, one hand dug into his pocket as he thought about what he could do next. He could go back up to his room, or…

He could get Harley back for that stupid sticky note.

He dumped his books back in his room, before ratting through to find his own sticky note stash. He left one jammed in Harley’s empty drink bottle. Maybe he’ll fill it up without noticing. Maybe, if Peter was really lucky, Harley might just choke, too.

—

They start appearing everywhere, after that. He found one in his sock drawer, bundled up in a pair with an angry face scrawled across it. Peter left one in Harley’s phone case, folded up so many times that the case bulged out dramatically. Harley shoved a couple in his locker, and they tumbled out in a dramatic, highlighter yellow wave when Peter opened it.

Peter stuck another in his half-drunk lab coffee as payback. Harley shoved a handful in his pillowcase.

It was only when he started pulling them out of the sofa cushions in his place on the couch on Bucky and Steve’s floor he was completely and thoroughly stumped. He tried to stick one in the cereal that Harley always ate, but ended up dropping a couple in the cups in the cupboard instead.

When Tony found one his coffee cup with the words "I'm going to eat your toes just so you feel pain" on it, they didn’t hear the end of it for hours. It didn’t stop either of them from escalating it, though.

—

“Pst,” comes from somewhere behind him. “Hey, Peter.” He turns around to see Ned side-eyeing him, before holding out the phone. “I had a look. And I found a couple of places that might be important too. And people. And their phone numbers, maybe.” At Peter's excited look, he stressed, “ Maybe. I'm not sure if they're real numbers or if they're like, re-routed through different servers and stuff. But we have their contact info, which is cool.” 

Peter took the device from him, fingers running over the back of it before he pocketed it. “It didn’t happen to have a list of all the bad guy’s bosses with their names and addresses, would it?”

Ned ignored him. “Maybe we can do like, recon. Pretend to be the guy you took it from.” 

“Sure,” Peter said flatly. “I dunno how he talks. Should I do like… a voice?”

“I meant text him, dumbass.”

“Oh.” That made a lot more sense. It was too early for this. “Right.”

Harley moved around behind Peter somewhere, but he didn't look behind him. There had been pencils and erasers and scrunched-up paper balls thrown at him all first class, but Peter had avoided every one of them. Harley was just in a mood today, he guessed. Whatever. At least Flash hadn’t bombed his locker again.

Ned perked up suddenly. “Are you gonna go on pa-”

“ Ned.”

“...are you gonna go out tonight?”

Peter looked down at the phone in his hands. “Yeah, probably.” He ducked out of the way as a pencil sailed overhead. 

“How do you keep dodging?” Harley cried, frustrated and offended. Peter ignored him, and instead glanced down at the phone in his hand. He’d get more info tonight.

—

By the time Peter finally crawled back into his room and hopped down from the windowsill, he was bleary and in pain. His entire body felt heavy, and the world around him seemed to tilt and warp slightly, a watercolor blur fading around the edges of his vision. The room was tinted in a warm glow that filtered in from the windows from the light pollution and reflections of the city.

It was also incredibly hard to think around the throbbing headache that was trying to claw his brains out behind his eyes.

His suit needed more work, though, he noted sluggishly as he pushed open the door to the bathroom. His thigh was still bleeding steadily from whatever insane hybrid weaponry bullshit they had going on. He was just so excited that he probably hadn't done as much recon as he should have. At least the cut wasn’t too deep - but it was deep enough to need stitches. Not that he’d go to the Medbay to get stitches, ha.

Peter flicked on the bathroom light, wincing a little at the brightness as he stumbled over to the countertop. It was a little messier than he remembered leaving it - he could have sworn his toothbrush was more red than orange, too, but maybe that was just the concussion speaking.

His dental floss, however, was nowhere to be found.

“What the hell,” he muttered angrily, rummaging through a pile of unfamiliar… hair products? He didn’t own these. What the hell were these brand names, too? Had Tony been dropping fancy hair treatments in his bathroom while he wasn’t looking to drop a hint that his bedhead looked like shit? Thanks. Real nice. 

His leg throbbed angrily, and his attention fell from the bottles he’d been examining earlier. Right. “Ow,” he said to himself, just remembering that his leg was, in fact, still cut open and bleeding. But the annoyance over his missing dental floss overtook the pain. “Where’d the dental floss go? What the hell.”

“ What the fuck,” came a strained voice from behind him, though the words were thick with an accent and sleep. Peter shot around to face the door, arm extended with his fingers pressed to his webshooter in anticipation. There, face pale and eyes wide with the familiar mop of brown hair was-

Oh shit. Harley.

“What the fuck,” Harley repeated, accent a little less strong now that he looked a little more awake. Peter slowly glanced behind him to take in how overwhelmingly different the bathroom he was standing in compared to his own, and there was a horrible sinking realization that he’d missed his window by one. He’d crawled into the wrong room.

Harley looked shocked, though a little less scared than he did a second ago. It looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. He probably had. Because Peter had just crawled into his room. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Um,” Peter’s brain stuttered, lowering his webshooters slightly.

“You're bleeding,” Harley realized, eyes widening a little more and taking a step forward. “What happened, man? You sound like shit.”

Peter blinked as Harley slipped into the space beside him, holding his breath a little as the other boy leaned down to examine the gash on his leg - definitely healing, but still bleeding sluggishly. Harley glanced up to look at him, shooting him a concerned look, and for a moment, Peter was thankful he still had his mask on. Then he remembered that Harley asked him a question and his jaw finally unhooked itself. “Lost a fight with a knife,” he offered lamely, and Harley squinted up at him.

Harley raised an eyebrow, glancing up at him. “That doesn’t explain what you're doing here, though. Y’know, in my room and all?” 

“Wrong window,” he responded blearily, before freezing. Shit.

“Where were you trying to go?” Harley asked, baffled. “Parker's room?”

He wanted to deny it, but there was literally nothing helpful on the surrounding floors. The Medbay was lower, while the Avengers rooms were much higher. And Spidey wasn't stupid, so he doubted Harley would believe anything else. “Yeah,” he forced the word out. “He, uh. Helps me out after patrol sometimes. Hey, do you have any dental floss?”

Harley blinked up at him incredulously. “Why?”

“To stitch up my leg?” 

“No, why do you go to - why are you stitching up your leg with dental floss.”

“Because I'm not about to steal stitches from the Medbay from people who need it,” Peter shrugged. “Not very Friendly-Neighbourhood-Spider-Man of me to do that.”

“ You need it,” Harley said, looking a little bewildered. “Why are you using dental floss? Why doesn't Parker get you actual stitches? Why are you going to him at all?”

“I don't need them, I heal quick enough,” he shrugged, before feeling the childish urge to defend himself. “And why not? He's cool.”

“Peter? Peter Parker? We’re talking about the same guy, right?”

“He’s cool,” Peter defended. “And smart. Dental floss, please?”

Harley hesitated before opening a cupboard and pulling a roll out. Peter took it before cutting a strand free and asking, “You wouldn't happen to have like, a sewing needle would you?”

Harley made a face, before disappearing back into his room and handing him one.

Then, after Peter slid down to sit on the cold tile, he began the slow and tedious process of threading the needle and beginning to stitch himself up. Harley made a pained hiss when he watched the needle begin to puncture skin.

“Why are you like this,” Harley stressed, as he watched in horror as Peter continued to use the makeshift stitches to close the wound, a mix of disbelief and stress clouding his expression. “Aren’t you supposed to be this cool, smart vigilante who beats up bad guys? You were cool when I met you last time.”

Peter opened his mouth in offense as he glanced up at Harley, although he doubted the mask showed his expression all that much. “I’m cool now!”

“No,” Harley said flatly. “Breaking into someone’s bathroom in the middle of the night while they’re sleeping to steal dental floss is not cool. Did Peter ever tell you that?”

“Peter thinks I’m cool,” he shot back, desperately trying to focus on not screwing up his stitches while ignoring that he was literally complimenting himself. “And he’s smart, so he can’t be wrong.”

He tried to ignore the rising flush of humiliation crawling up his shoulders. If Ned or MJ was here to see this, they'd never let him live it down.

“Oh, so you’re just leeching off his smartness?” Harley shot him a slightly hysterical look. “Makes sense, considering you can’t even swing into the right room.”

“Hey!” Peter protested, looking up from the needle for a moment to glare at him.

“Does he know who you are or something?” Harley asks, firmly avoiding watching as Peter continues on with stitching, “Is he blackmailing you?”

“No?”

“Are you dating him?”

Peter choked. “No.”

“Huh.” Harley paused. “Do you want to?”

“Why are you asking me this,” he asked desperately.

“Dunno,” Harley responded, “I’m still trying to figure out what's up with you and Parker.”

He finished his stitches, tying the edge off before he leaned against the cabinets with an exhausted sigh. His head tips back to rest against the wood, and he glanced up to see Harley staring down at him with an exhausted, horrified expression.

“You really just… did that,” came the flat, empty words from the other boy. “I mean, you said you needed dental floss, but I didn't…. I just watched you do that.”

“You did,” Peter agreed, blinking up at him tiredly.

Harley made a face that Peter couldn’t quite place before he jams a finger in his direction. “You're gonna come back. Just so I know you're still alive and all.”

“I've had worse,” Peter breathed with a grin he knew Harley probably couldn't see.

Harley frowned more. “I don’t - I don’t want to know. Whatever. Just come back so I know you’re not dead. I’m serious. You owe me a roll of dental floss. And a new sewing needle.”

Peter gave a little salute, pushing up off the floor and wincing at the movement. Harley’s eyes widened, but he wasn’t looking at Peter, he's looking past him. Slowly, Peter glanced down to follow Harley’s line of vision and he understood why he had reacted like that. 

It looked like a scene from a horror movie.

There was blood smeared across the tiles, in the shape of handprints from where he braced himself on the floor. There was blood on the countertops, too, from where he'd been ratting through trying to find the dental floss. The fancy hair products were all covered with bloody red fingerprints.

Oh.

“What the hell,” Harley breathed.

Peter didn't know what to say to him. “...sorry?” Harley put his hands over his face and let out an exhausted noise. “Sorry, sorry. I'm leaving now.” He checked his feet to make sure he wasn’t going to track blood across the carpet, and when they're clean he stepped past Harley and made his way over to the window, carefully unlatching it - even more careful not to leave bloody fingerprints on the frame.

“Come back to let me know you're OK,” Harley said again quietly from the bathroom doorframe. “I know you’ll be, but it's just… a lot of blood.”

Peter gave a short, sharp nod before he slipped out into the night.

—

The next morning, he barely made it three feet out of his room before Harley cornered him, slamming a hand against the wall to hold him in place.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Spider-Man?” Harley demanded, and Peter blinked.

“Uh,” he said, dumbly. Harley stared at him, unrelenting. “Um, I don’t.”

“Don't lie to me, Parker, I know you do. I didn't just spend two hours scrubbing my damn floors clean for you to lie to my face about this.”

Peter winced, before recovering. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he responded, shoving Harley’s arm out of the way. He barely caught himself in time from crashing headfirst into the wall. Peter ignored him, breezing by him as he made his way to the elevator.

“I'm going to wring your stupid little neck, you lying piece of-” Peter ignored him and the pain in his thigh, running to the elevator and jamming the ‘close door’ button, before watching with satisfaction as the doors shut in Harley’s face.

—

Later, when Harley finally stepped into his room after school, there was a sticky note taken from his desk with a tiny spider drawn on stuck to the window frame.

Chapter Text

Unknown Number: James Baxter, 432 Riverroad Lne. Check the backroom for weapons stock.

Peter stared down at the message on the burner phone. He… didn’t know who this was. Should he answer? Should he go? It was definitely a trap, right? Did they know he was Spider-Man? Did they know that Spider-Man had the burner phone?

They probably did. Peter wasn't sure how but… he just had a feeling. It was pretty obvious that the guy who owned the phone managed to let people know that he had it now. No one had responded to any messages, despite his and Ned’s various attempts at baiting people into replying. So the sudden text felt a little… unnerving.

Before he could respond, his phone buzzed in his hand again with another message.

Unknown Number: I like what you’ve been doing. 

Unknown Number: I figured I’d throw you a bone.

That was… ominous. Peter twitched, shifting a little from his place in bed. His fingers tapped along his thighs, legs crisscrossing under the covers. It was getting colder. At least he had thick blankets, now.

He frowned back down at his phone again. The person seemed to know that Spider-Man clearly had the burner phone. And ‘throwing him a bone’ seemed… like a good thing? Giving him a name and an address was a good thing, right? It felt weird taking it without a grain of salt, though. He doubted anyone good was on the other end.

burner02: who is this???

The response pinged a couple of moments later.

Unknown Number: A friend. 

burner02: do you have a name?

He couldn't help but ask. He doubted it would work, but he wanted to see if he could get any other info out of the mysterious number on his phone. Maybe this was one of the numbers Ned had managed to trace? He had said that there were a few other encrypted ones he couldn’t get into, though…

He could go. It was an address, and a name, and a motive. It was literally everything he’d been searching for. But it seemed like an obvious trap. He could go, but it could end badly.

Unknown Number: I do. Maybe I’ll tell you, eventually. 

Unknown Number: For now, though, you should get on those arms dealers before they send off their next shipment.

Or, he could risk the weapons getting out and innocent people getting hurt. Last time, the place he’d raided was full of Hammertech and Oscorp weapons.

There was more stuff missing, too. There were more recorded break-ins across the country, but plenty of those were in New York. Whoever was in charge of this was stepping up, and their organization was spreading. There was so much going on, too - but not all of the break-ins seemed organized. There was no pattern that Peter could recognize. Not all of them were successful, either.

It was hard to get solid leads like this. Maybe it was worth the risk. He could divide and conquer. James Baxter or whoever the hell could be a stepping stone to that. Maybe, though, he should ask Ned first. Peter dropped the burner onto his bedside table, and reached over for his actual phone, before snapping a photo and sending it to Ned. 

peter parkour: is it a trap???

There was a few moments before his phone lights up in response.

chairguy: seems sus

chairguy: idk man. I mean if you get ambushed ill send stark if that makes you feel any better

peter parkour: it does not. he’ll kill me

chairguy: youll die anyway

peter parkour: Thanks for the vote of confidence

chairguy: we need someone smarter. older. wiser. 

He let out a sigh, shifting again. His stomach growled angrily, and he made sure the burner phone was buried in his bedside table under the spare packets of food. (He still had his food stash. He knew, rationally, he didn’t need it - and to be fair, it was dwindling. But it was still there, just for his peace of mind.)

He stood, stretching, before making his way towards the kitchen to raid it for snacks. As he stepped into the elevator, his phone vibrated and he glanced down at the new message.

chairguy added MJ to the Spidey Squad groupchat

chairguy renamed MJ to m&m

m&m: Why am I called m&m?

chairguy: bc youre sweet

m&m: i prefer skittles

chairguy renamed m&m to skittles

“What are you smiling at?” Mr. Stark asked from across the kitchen. He looked like he was half awake, half-drunk coffee cup still in hand. “Teenagers and their phones these days.”

“Like you’re any better. Pepper complains about your screen time more than anything else.”

skittles renamed chairguy to chair

chair: why

skittles: Seemed apt.

chair: What does that even mean

“Psh. I’m creating. Bettering the world. Not looking at TickTacks or whatever,” Tony shrugged, pouring another three spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. Peter grinned to himself. Back when he first moved to the tower, the man only drank black coffee. Peter had screwed up his taste buds so badly that he was used to the sugar, now.

“You're saying that to sound like a boomer on purpose.”

“I take offense to that.”

Peter ignored him, and continued to rat through the cupboard before settling on a packet of chips. He couldn't be bothered to actually cook anything right now, anyway. And , he thought a little bitterly, he was still probably banned from using the oven after what happened last time.

“I’m sure you do,” Peter muttered, glancing back down to his phone.

skittles: You’ll learn when you’re older. Speaking of, did you call me old?

chair: huh

skittles: I can see the previous chats, genius.

chair: oh

chair: yeah

peter parkour: and wise. 

chair: like in a cool way. shakespearean. like emily bronte or smth

skittles: she died at 30

chair: 30s old

peter parkour: thatll get you the senior discount at the canteen i think

skittles: I can’t believe you two are top of our classes.

peter parkour: rude

skittles: Peter I’ve watched you swing straight into a moving truck because you were texting and swinging.

chair: that’s fair shes right dude

skittles: Of course I’m right. Now why did you guys add me? To a different groupchat with the exact same people? Why do we have two separate grouchats?

chair: its for spidey stuff. Spidey squad

peter parkour: its to separate work and pleasure

chair: which is which?

peter parkour: i dont know sometimes

skittles: Ok so we’re just enouraging Peter to do stupid stuff here? 

peter parkour: enouraging

chair: enouraging

skittles: I hate you both.

skittles changed the group chat name to The Enablers

chair: ok point is, we got a burner phone from a guy

peter parkour: which i stole

chair: which he stole

chair: and now someone is sending him addresses and names and stuff

chair: and we THINK they might be helping us? Because it’s helpful info??

chair: BUT we also dont wanna just trust the phone guy

peter parkour: its a conundrum

skittles: You’re both stupid.

skittles: You’re actually considering going to a strange address that some guy sent you, and you don’t even know who he is. This is a joke, right? 

peter parkour: how mad would you be if i said no

chair: very

skittles: Not mad. Just disappointed.

peter parkour: thats worse actually

skittles: Good. You should feel ashamed. This is a bad idea.

peter parkour: probably

peter parkour: im gonna do it anyway tho

skittles: Don’t die please.

skittles: I better see you on Monday, Parker. I’m serious.

peter parkour: will do boss 

—

It was late. He couldn’t sleep, again.

He wanted to go to the address the phone guy sent him. He also knew that it was an awful, terrible, horrible idea. He knew that it was probably a trap, but he couldn’t seem to dismiss the idea. It was why he had done the most rational thing he could think of, and given himself twenty-four hours to think about it. If it was still an awful idea by tomorrow, he would try to figure out a workaround. If he couldn’t think of anything better? He’d go in blind.

So, now, he still couldn’t sleep.

He was staring at the ceiling. He had practically memorized the bioluminescent stars that were mapped out on his ceiling, and to be honest, they were starting to drive him a little crazy. He saw them every time he closed his eyes, now. It seemed like the insomnia wasn’t getting much better. At least wasn’t getting worse.

At least he didn’t swing into the wrong room again. With an embarrassed moan, his hands press into his eye sockets. He couldn’t believe he did that. He cannot believe he crawled into Harley’s room instead of his own. How stupid was he? And he said he’d come back, too. He was so, so screwed.

He should go back and apologize. He still didn’t want to, though. Maybe it would be better to stare at the ceiling for another hour. With a resigned sigh, he dragged himself from his (-warm warm so so warm-) bed and made his way down to the kitchen. 

Natasha was there, as usual.  Peter shifted by her and began the slow process of clearing the counter, as usual. It was like clockwork at this point; both were used to it and completely unphased by each other’s presence. To be honest, it felt a little lonely when Natasha wasn’t in her usual space at the countertop, now. He used to be scared of her. I mean, who wouldn't be - she was intimidating enough just to see carrying about her day. If you weren't at least a little bit afraid of her, you had a death wish.

“You look stressed,” Natasha said from her place on the bench.

“Thanks,” Peter answered wryly instead of answering, turning away and stacking dishes that wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher next to the sink.

There was a silence that stretched out before he could feel her gaze on him burn into his back. He couldn’t tell her about the phone guy. He doubted that she’d rat him out, but he didn’t want anyone knowing who didn’t have to. If he lied to her, though, she’d know. Maybe he could stick to a half-truth then.

“I made a mistake the other day,” he admitted, a flush of embarrassment already crawling up his neck in the low light. Natasha said nothing, still listening. “I crawled into the wrong room. Harley’s room. I nearly got caught, it was horrible.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’d make a terrible spy.”

“I know,” he said miserably. He turned the tap on, running two fingers under the stream of water to test the temperature. Another silence stretched out.

“What else?” Natasha asked idly, her chin resting on her hand.

“Huh?”

She stared at him, unwaveringly, “There’s something else. You’re leaving something out.”

Peter winced, hands wringing around the sponge. “...I said I'd come back because he wanted to make sure I was okay,” he admitted when he couldn’t think of a better excuse than the truth. He wouldn't get out of it, not really. All Natasha would know was that he was lying and that would be worse than flat-out refusing to tell her.

“And did you?” she asked, fingers drawing patterns on the countertop.

Peter shrunk a little in place. “...I left a note.”

Her silence was telling.

“It's not enough, is it,” he moaned a little pitifully, dumping the dishes in the sink like scrubbing hard enough would manage to take his focus away from the situation. It wouldn’t. 

“You should keep your word,” she said instead.

Peter sighed. "I could… but I’m not sure when to go back."

“Why not now?”

Peter paused, a horrible idea forming in his mind. Natasha seemed to read him perfectly. It would be such a bad idea. It would be such a bad idea to go see Harley. It was stupid enough to see him in the suit more than once, and actively seeking him out? Braindead. Moronic. 

Peter was both.

He had promised to see him, after all. Besides, Harley hadn’t recognised his voice or anything, yet. Maybe it was the fabric of the mask muffling his voice and hiding his face. Maybe it was just because Harley had very little self awareness and was thicker than a brick. Peter kind of hoped it was the second one.

With a resigned groan, he finished cleaning the dishes and stacked them inside the cupboard before bidding Natasha goodnight. She merely shot him a knowing grin which he firmly ignored before catching the elevator back up to his room and disappearing inside. He couldn’t hear Harley in his room, but that was probably just the sound-proofing. He shot a quick glance toward the window.

"Hey, FRIDAY? Is Harley in his room?" Peter asked, already pulling on his suit.

"He is," the AI answered smoothly. "Would you like me to tell him something?"

Peter hesitated for a second, but then shook his head. "No," he said, slipping his mask over his face, "I got it."

He takes a breath before pulling his window open and crawling out and a little upwards. It’d look suspicious if he was crawling over from next door… although Harley probably wouldn’t even notice. Besides, half the city was to Harley’s right side. He let out another puff of air, sticking a web to an overhanging support beam and dropping down to glance into Harley’s room.

Maybe he was asleep? Nope. There he was, lying in bed, hair mussed and phone screen lighting up his face. Before he could think any harder, he wrapped his knuckles on the glass and held his breath.

Maybe he shouldn’t do this. This was still such a horrible idea, he shouldn’t have come-

Harley’s head shot up and he glanced towards the window, eyes locking onto Peter. He said something, mouthing words that Peter couldn’t hear through the glass. Harley seemed to realize this and yanked the window up a little. Blustering wind swept over Harley’s face and hair and clothes, the chill of the night seeping into his room. Harley just blinked confusedly. 

"Spider-Man? What - you're not dying again, are you?" Harley asked, his southern drawl heavy from sleep and suspicion.

"Not dying," Peter assured him, one hand pressing against the glass window while the other grasped the web he was hanging from with practiced ease. His feet folded together midair, and he tilted his head a little to get a better look at Harley through the glass. Something about the position just felt... right. Spidery. Even if being upside down did have the blood rushing to his head. "Can I come in? It’s kinda cold out here."

Harley stepped back and opened the window wider, and Peter crawled inside. "Sure. Come on in. How's your leg? It’s not, like, insanely infected or anything, is it?"

Peter shrugged, stepping inside. "All better. No amputations, yet."

The silence stretched out.

"I, uh… came to say I’m sorry for barging in like that the other night. I honestly didn’t realize it was your room," Peter started, stumbling over his words. He raised a halfhearted hand to rub his neck again. "And... I’m sorry about bleeding everywhere. That was very uncool of me. So, uh, yeah. Sorry again."

"You should be," Harley sniffed, crossing his arms. "It’s significantly less attractive when you’re bleeding out on my floor, y'know."

Peter choked, his head snapping up to look at him, eyes wide behind the mask. "What are you - what is wrong with you?"

"What’s wrong with me?" Harley echoed, looking offended. "What’s wrong with you?"

"I’m not the one flirting with strangers!" Peter shot back, his voice an octave higher than usual.

Harley let out a scoff, rolling his eyes and leaning back onto the bed, legs sprawled in front of him. Peter could barely believe his ears. Why was Harley like this? Why was he so different around Spider-Man? Harley ignored Peter’s gawking beneath the mask and shot him a look. "You’re not a stranger,” he corrected like it was obvious. “You’re Spider-Man."

"You don’t even know what I look like!" Peter protested, his hands gesturing wildly.

"So?" Harley shrugged, completely unbothered. "That suit leaves nothing to the imagination. I’m sure you’re plenty attractive."

Peter let out a strangled groan, his face burning beneath the mask. "You’re killing me. I'm dying, and I'm blaming you this time.”

"What, you wanna lie down in my bed to take a breather?" Harley asked with a smirk, leaning against the wall.

"I’d rather fall out of the building, I think."  

Harley made a hurt noise. “Surely I can’t be that ugly.”

"You're not ugly!" Peter threw up his hands, face hot. "You just don’t know me! I could be thirty! I could be a sex offender! I could be literally anyone! I could be straight!"

That seemed to make Harley pause, the teasing grin faltering for a moment. "Are you?"

“Well, no,” Peter acquiesced, face burning under the mask. “But the point is you don't know that. Hell, I only started figuring that part out about myself like a month ago! And besides, this feels a little like catfishing.”

Harley snorted, clearly not taking any of this seriously. "I’m sure you’re plenty attractive. Probably easier on the eyes than Parker, too."

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the comment. "What is with you and Peter?"

"I dunno," Harley sniffed, his nose scrunching up slightly. "He just annoys me on a molecular level."

Peter let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his temples through the mask. "I don’t even want to know why. I just came to apologize for bleeding all over your floor. I’ll be going now."

"Wait!" Harley called out as Peter turned back to the window. There was an urgency in his voice that made Peter pause, one foot already on the windowsill. "I’ll stop flirting with you if it makes you uncomfortable. That’s my bad. But, I, um..."

Peter turned back, eyebrows raised behind the mask. "…What?"

“Will I see you again?” the boy forced out, kicking his foot against the carpet. "Like, you obviously don’t have to come back if you don’t want to, but… you seem kinda cool. And I know I can be a little pushy, but-"

“I can,” Peter tilted his head. "But no promises I won’t be bleeding out again."

Harley shot him a wry grin. "It wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t."

Peter shook his head and as he began to crawl back out of the window, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Bye, Harley."

"See you, Spider-Man," Harley replied with a lopsided smile, watching as Peter gave him a casual two-fingered salute before falling out of the window and into the city below.

—

The next day, he still hadn’t come up with a plan. He stands across the street from the address - a small pawn shop in harlem. He glances back down to the burner phone he’d brought with him. It was the right address, but it looked… quiet.

“Hey, Karen,” he asked quietly, slinking across the rooftops and webbing across the road to the rooftop of the building. She hummed an affirmative response. “Can you see how many people are in there this time? Using like, heat signatures or something?”

“I can,” she responded brightly before a pause. “There are currently four people in the main room. I’m unsure whether three of them are armed, but one of them has something on them that is exuding a powerful heat. I’d be wary of it exploding, Peter.”

He hummed. Maybe it was one of those weird, Frankenstein-ed weapons. “Is there anyone else in the building?” 

“I’m sorry, but I’m unable to tell. The walls for the room behind are reinforced with something that blocks my signal,” she responds, a note of apology in her voice.

“That’s okay,” he smiled even though she wouldn’t see it, landing alongside the roof line and cracking open the door leading to a stairwell further into the building below. It was dark and incredibly quiet aside from the murmuring of conversation through the walls below.

By the time he reaches the bottom, he almost can’t breathe. The conversation is louder, but still muffled enough that he can’t really make out the words exactly. The end of the stairway leads him to a hallway - one to a door that looks… reinforced, to say the least. He could probably open it, but not without the other people hearing him. The other side is brighter - artificial lights filtering in and shadows of figures he can’t see moving around. He strains his ears a little more.

“It’s how much?” there was a scoff of disapproval. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“It’s his price,” came the bored response, before a snort. “What, you’re telling me you’re gonna piss off Diamondback?”

Peter inched his way closer to the opening, and he finally got a glance at the room. A man sat at the counter, frowning while looking at something on the table in front of him. A man stood across from him, unimpressed. Two men loitered behind them. The ‘closed’ sign hung by the doorway.

“I wanted market value! You told me you’d cut me a deal!” the man by the desk argued, smacking a hand down to the counter.

The standing man barely blinked, his disinterest palpable. "Market value changes," he shrugged. "Besides," he continued with a blasé wave of his hand, "I made the trip out here, didn’t I? Be rude to turn me down now. Right, boys?" He twisted around, addressing the men behind him, who straightened up at the sound of their cue. As they shifted to stare up at the man, Peter's neck tingled, and - oh.

They were armed. Unsurprisingly.

Moving slowly, Peter angled himself to get a better view of the table. The closer he got, the clearer the items on display became, and with that clarity came a sinking feeling in his gut. 

Weapons laid out that looked like a mess of wires and motors. Hammertech and half-burned away Oscorp logos. Hammertech obviously was a weapons manufacterer, but Oscorp was more bio-chemical and robotics, right? But that would mean-

He stepped froward and the wood creaked under him. Oh shit.

All hell broke loose. There was shouting and suddenly four guns were turned on to him. He threw one of the loitering men into the other, sending them into a sprawling pile onto the floor and their weapons scattering. After webbing them down, he turned to the other two.

The shopkeeper had a pistol in hand but Peter webbed his arm before he could even raise his weapon. The man thrashed, but Peter yanked hard, slamming him into the counter with a sickening thud. He kicked the handgun that went skittering out of his hand out of reach as he ducked, knocking the seller onto his ass and restraining him to the floor, too.

“So, who’s Diamondback?” Peter asked casually, glancing over the men. No one answered. “Really? Nothing? Then what’s the vault code? I bet there’s something worthwhile in there, at least.” He tore away at the webbing holding the shopkeeper in place on the desk and marched him down the corridor. After a few seconds, the man let out a frustrated noise and input the code.

Weapons. Lots, and lots of weapons. Before Peter could even reach for one off the shelf, he saw the shopkeeper lunge for one. He smacked him into the wall with a thud, out of reach of any of the stock hung on the walls and presumably in the crates below, too.

But as he pressed the man up against the wall his senses shrieked in warning and a searing heat grazed through his side. He cried out smacking the man away with a little more force than was necessary. The knife dropped to the floor, clattering in the empty space, and Peter's stomach dropped as he stared down at the small puncture wound in his side. He quickly sealed it with webbing and gritted his teeth at the burn of the chemicals before rounding on the shopkeeper.

With an angry cry, he held the wide-eyed man against the wall by the collar of his shirt. "Who is Diamondback? What are you doing with these?” he snapped, frustration rising. He had nothing but horrible DIY tech around him and the rising horror that there was more going on than he thought there was. The man gritted his teeth, clearly trying to avoid answering, but Peter’s patience was already thin. He held the man up higher, pushing him further up the wall.

"Selling it," he choked out, the words clipped. "I don’t make it, okay?! I just buy it!"

That much was obvious. “From who?”

The man paled even further, sweat beading on his forehead. “I-I can’t - look, I can’t give you names, alright? You don’t understand. They’ll kill me if I talk!”

Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. His side ached with that familiar, throbbing pain. “If you don’t tell me what I need to know, they’ll kill you anyway. So either you start talking, or I test out what this stuff actually does.”

“Okay, okay, fine!” the man snapped. “He gets it from Hammer Industries! I don’t know who, but he knows a guy - Diamondback, Stryker, whatever his name is, he has some guy on the inside to get him info and he uses that for the break-ins!”

“What about Oscorp?” he asked, gesturing to the vault around him. “This isn’t just Hammertech.”

“It’s not just him who’s doing the break-ins,” the man wheezed. “There’s others, too. It’s fighting for terf. The biggest weapons help with that.”

“Who else is involved?”

The man opened his mouth, before his eyes widened and he looked past Peter. Then, the sound of a bullet firing. Peter spun, dodging out of the way and ducking into the alleyway, pulling the shopkeeper with him. The man let out a pained noise, that Peter barely heard over the sound of another round of gunfire as he turned to look at him sharply. 

It was only then that he noticed the blood coating his hands.

The man was bleeding through his shirt steadily, sprawled on the staircase. Peter sucked in a breath, hands hovering uselessly for a moment before he tore the shirt open and webbed it shut. The shopkeeper made another pained noise, and Peter winced in sympathy of the thought of still-too-acidic web fluid on open wounds - but there was no other option. It was this, or bleed out.

“You fucking traitor!” came a roar from the hallway, followed by another round of gunfire that made his ears ring. He could maybe try to wait until the man was out of ammo before restraining him, but it was risky. He didn’t know how much ammo that thing held, and he didn’t know what kind of gun it even was.

He poked his head out into the hallway, trying to ignore the pained groan of the shopkeeper behind him. He just needed to restrain this guy, then he could get help quicker, and-

A bullet whizzed past his head, and he ducked back into the cover.

There was another pause, before the man let out a scoff. “You’re a coward,” he crowed. “Hiding behind a wall instead of coming at me? It’s just one gun, Spider-Man. Show me what you’re made of.”

He took a sharp breath, jumping out into the hallway and aiming for the gun but the man jerked back, and the webbing plastered against the wrong arm. He let out an angry shout, firing away blindly while trying to yank his arm free.

He ducked under cover again. “Peter, the weapon is exuding more heat than what is safe,” Karen’s voice jerked him back a little further as he tried to ignore the horrible, nauseating pain in his hip. The rounds of bullets continued. “I’d recommend vacating the premises before it overloads and ex-”

There was the sound of something shattering and a firework going off followed by a pained scream. Peter waited for a moment before glancing out into the hallway, only to be met with the sight of bloody shrapnel and the stench of burned, charred skin. The man was moaning in pain, hands fisted in the blood-soaked material of his shirt. He was curled, hands scrabbling desperately as a horrible pained noise escaped him.

“Karen, call for help,” he blurted a little desperately, ears still ringing. His side was burning, and his hand was wet when it came away from pressing against the wound, but he firmly ignored it and the rising nausea and lightheadedness. The stab wound burned in a way that they normally didn't. It made him feel sick. God, what was on that blade?

He webbed the man up, covered so much to stop the bleeding and to prevent him from moving that he only stopped to check there was enough of an airway for the man to keep breathing before he stumbled out of there.

Chapter Text

“This song? Again?” Harley asked from across the lab. 

Tony set down the welder and pulled down his face shield with a frown. “I didn’t just hear you say that. I know you didn’t just say that.”

Harley shot him an unimpressed look from across the lab, dropping his own tech. “You can barely even hear me over the sound of your shitty music and that fucking equipment. And your old man hearing. Why don’t you let me pick the music for once?”

“Over my cold, dead body.” Harley looked like he was considering killing him, for a moment. Tony very firmly ignored it. “It’s ACDC , it literally doesn’t age. Sorry I’m not listening to Taylor Swift or whoever, whippersnapper.”

“Psh,” Harley snorted, lowering his head back down to focus on whatever he was working on. “You’re just saying that because you like to sound old and wise when you’re only one of those things.”

“Don’t make me ship you back to Tenessee, smartass.”

Overall, it had been a nice evening.

Tony had managed to get some pretty solid work done on the new suit. Harley was tinkering nearby pretty peacefully; there hadn’t been any fires yet. He’d even gotten around to some of the paperwork Pepper had forwarded him for the seventh time. It had been peaceful. Productive. Relaxing .

He should have known that it wouldn’t last.

“Boss, Peter is in the Medbay,” FRIDAY’S voice called suddenly from above, and his tools were dropped to the bench with a clang. 

“What?” he barked, glancing up at the roof and already scrambling to his feet. “FRI, is he okay? Give me a rundown.” Harley startled too, looking over with an expression that he couldn’t really name. Tony, though, couldn’t be bothered to use the brain power to dwell on it because Peter was probably bleeding out somewhere like the idiot he is. 

“He has a… puncture wound,” she paused - probably covering for whatever stupid mess Peter’s made - “It’s not life-threatening, but medical treatment is advised.” Without missing a beat, Tony shot up from his seat, leaving Harley mid-sentence. “What the hell-” the boy started, but Tony was already halfway to the door, muttering under his breath.

If he dies, I'll kill him. 

Peter needed medical treatment, but… if it wasn’t life-threatening and FRIDAY said he was fine, his identity was important. “Shut the Medbay off from anyone who isn’t authorized and isn’t nailed down with every NDA on the face of the planet. Is Cho around?” Please, please let Cho be here.  

“No, she’s currently in Singapore, boss.” Fuck .

He ran his hands through his hair, jamming the close door button in the elevator like pressing it harder would make it move faster. “Why didn’t Karen alert me?” he growled, “is he fucking with my tech again? What the fuck, FRI?”

“I’m sorry boss, I’m not sure.”

Tony was going to fucking strangle that kid. The elevator door finally opened after what felt like hours of waiting, before he finally slammed the Medbay door open and saw Peter, sprawled lazily across one of the beds. His usual bed. Before Tony opened his mouth, Peter blinked up at him.

“It’s fine,” he said before Tony could rip him a new one. “It’s been like, twenty minutes now, and I’m not dead. Don’t worry.” Tony bit his cheek so hard he could taste blood.

"Are you allergic to self-preservation?" Tony hissed, barely containing the anger and panic in his voice as he stormed over to Peter, dropping down in front of him to get a better look at whatever he’d managed to do. “I’m going to ground you.”

“You can try,” Peter snorted from his place on the Medbay bed, one hand buried in an emergency pack while the other was pressed to a bloodied gauze on his side.

Tony’s eyebrow shot up. “Oh, I can do more than try. I’ll stop buying that godawful, cheap imported candy you love to put in your pancakes.”

“No!” Peter shot up in alarm, eyes wide. 

“Sit back down,” Tony hissed, gently pressing on the kid's shoulders to get him back into a more reclined position. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He slowly pulled off the soaked gauze on Peter’s side, the boy letting out a pained hiss in response. Tony almost winced sympathetically. Almost. Because people who did stupid shit like this didn’t get sympathy, they got better.

“Do you want the full list?”

“No,” Tony gritted out, sending a quick text to Bruce. The man should hopefully still be floating around somewhere in the labs upstairs if he was lucky. “I want you to get better at taking care of yourself on patrol.”

“I was!”

He ignored the complaint and turned to rat through the cupboards. He knew he had the usual pack around here somewhere, he just needed to find it. Damn Cho for keeping the place so meticulously organized instead of just leaving his shit where he left it.

“Peter,” Tony rounded on him, dumping the small, but more-equipped Medkit on the bed next to him angrily, “you finished the rest of your patrol with a stab wound.”

“It was a small knife,” Peter interjects, feeling compelled to point that fact out.  “So it’s just a small stab wound. No biggie.”

Tony stared at him, incredulous. No biggie? This kid was going to kill him. He felt his chest tighten, his patience slipping. “No biggie?” he repeated, his voice rising with each word. “No biggie? Peter, you’re going to be the reason I pass away. Slowly. Painfully.”

“Just make sure you leave your credit card lying around somewhere, please,” Peter sniffed, “I’m almost out of Happy Bears.”

“Just buy Haribo like a normal person!” Tony growled, “I have the money! You’re eating lead, Peter!”

“And it tastes delicious,” comes the hissed response, strained as Tony began the slow, meticulous process of stitching him back up. 

Peter leaned back, pulling the suit back a little more so Tony had better access. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to do this. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. Each time, though, he tried to ignore the horrible, twisted scar that laced itself up Peter’s side. Now it was faded to a soft, silvery pink; but it speared a bitter burning guilt in Tony all the same. He couldn't believe he’d actively hunted the kid down, once, while now he was sitting here and trying to put him back together again.

“I swear to god,” Tony muttered, standing back up again before yanking open a drawer and ratting through it to pull out some alcohol wipes. “If I wake up tomorrow and you’ve made more of those godawful pancakes-”

He cut himself off as the door cracked open. “Hey, I heard FRIDAY say something about ‘puncture wounds,’ whatever the hell that means. What the hell is wrong with you two?” Harley’s voice called from the entryway.

Peter’s head shot up in alarm, and Tony let out a string of muffled curses before he yanked the privacy curtain across to hide the spider suit. "Harley,” Tony gritted out, “not now."

"I’m just saying,” Harley shrugged, leaning against the wall. “If you do need me to confiscate candy for leverage, I’m available.” 

Tony didn’t even glance at him, turning behind the curtain to stare Peter down. ‘This is your fault,’ Tony mouthed at him. Peter just sniffed disdainfully, already leaning back over to dip his hand back into the goody bag of medical supplies.

“Hey, Harley,” Peter said, tone falsely light, “not sure if you heard or anything, but it’s actually a bad time-”

“I’ll consider it,” Tony cut in, still glaring at Peter. “Maybe I’ll start there. See if a sugar detox will fix your complete lack of self-preservation.” Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Tony cut him off. “But Harley, get out. I’ll deal with you later.”

“What did I do?”

“Did anyone not teach you to knock?” Peter drawled, taking the discarded needle and thread and beginning to stitch himself back up. Tony pressed his palms to his eyes. God, what the fuck was wrong with this kid?

“Did anyone not teach you to shut the fuck up?” came the snippy reply.

Tony caught sight of the sloppy stitches and paled. “Peter, put that down.” The boy glanced up at him with a wry smile, “And Harley, get out. No complaints. Last chance.”

There was a silence, and Tony could practically feel Harley stewing with anger. “Fine,” he snapped, and the door slammed shut.

Peter shot him a grin. “What's his deal? He’s acting like he’s the one that got stabbed.”

“Peter,” Tony gritted out. “Shut up.” Peter blinked up at him, looking a little caught off guard with that stupid needle still grasped in one hand. If he wasn’t still currently bleeding, Tony would be half tempted to strangle him. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” Peter asked, frowning up at him. “I dunno what Harley’s problem is or who pissed in his cheerios this morning, but-“

“No,” Tony wanted to throttle him. “What the hell did you do? You’re being stupid again on patrol! You’re fucking with my tech! You’re bleeding all over the Medbay!”

Peter’s frown deepened. “I’m working on it,” he muttered.

“Peter,” he said again, voice lowering but still taught. “I’m just-” Worried. Scared. “Pissed off that you ignore your curfews and do stupid shit like this. I can’t have you bleeding out in an alleyway.”

He knew he'd said the wrong thing as he watched Peter's fists clench around the bedsheets, as he watched his hand bend the needle in anger. “I’m away from any alleyways for now. Go check on Harley,” Peter responded bitterly.

“You still need help finishing your-”

“I’ve got it,” Peter snapped back at him angrily. “I’ve done it before. Don’t touch me.”

“That’s not what-” Peter glared up at him, and Tony let out an exhausted sigh. Great. He had two pissed-off teenagers at once. Jesus, this is why he never had kids. “Fine,” he said after a moment, before raising a finger and pointing at Peter seriously. “But stay here. I’m checking those stitches before you go to bed to make sure you don’t irrevocably fuck them up. I’ll send Bruce down to help you with them.”

Peter didn’t relax, but he shifted a little in place and firmly avoided eye contact with him. Whatever. If he wanted to be a child, he’d be a child. It wasn’t Tony’s problem.

He let out a tired puff of air, suppressing the urge to throw up his hands and complain more. Instead, he was going to be the bigger person and walk out to deal with Harley - and if he closed the door what was maybe a little harder than necessary, that was no one’s business but his own.

Harley was lingering in the hallway, staring down at his phone with a frown. “Harley,” Tony called, and the boy's attention snapped up to him.

“Tony, what the hell?” Harley looked up at him, brows furrowing. “What the fuck was that? What’s going on?”

It had been such a nice afternoon. It had been so relaxing and peaceful, and now it had turned into this. Tony was sick of it - he’d told Peter to be careful. He’d given him so much tech to try to keep him safe; and here he was, still doing stupid shit and purposefully putting himself in danger by disarming his safety protocols. He wasn’t sure how he kept doing it, either. 

He’d need to fix them. 

Again .

“Peter’s fine,” he said tiredly instead of answering Harley’s question. “He just did something stupid, but he’ll be okay.”

“Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Harley asked, standing a little straighter and glancing towards the Medbay door. “Why’re you all being so damn secretive? Why are you so normal about him getting stabbed? What the fuck is going on?”

“Harley-” he started, before the elevator doors opened and Bruce stepped out. “Oh, Brucie, thank god you’re here. Peter’s being a-” he cut himself off, glancing at Harley and closing his mouth before sucking in a breath. Be mature. “Peter’s... needing some assistance right now. Would you be able to help him for me?”

Bruce frowned, opening his mouth before glancing over at the boy next to him. “...Sure,” was all he said before he slipped through the Medbay door and clicked it shut softly behind him.

After a moment, Tony turned back to the boy in front of him. “Look, Harley, I’m sorry that our lab time got interrupted again. I know it’s been different with Peter around, and you two are… coping with the change, but-”

“I’m not-” Harley cut him off, eyes darkening. “It’s not some fucking… childish attention thing, asshole! I’m mad that people are keeping things from me! Do you think I don't notice that when I walk into the lab you two stop talking suddenly, or you say shit that I don't understand? It’s like you’re talking around me, not to me, and I fucking hate it!”

There was a sort of rising frusteration that swelled in his chest, because he didn’t want to deal with this right now. He wanted to go upstairs and have a drink. He didn’t want to have to deal with stupid identity bullshit because Peter didn’t care enough to keep himself out of harm’s way.

“Harley,” Tony gritted out, a hand rubbing at his forehead, “It’s because it doesn’t involve you. If you needed to know-”

“Whatever,” Harley spat, and Tony wanted to tear his hair out. Now that the initial panic and adrenaline had warn off, he was just mad. He tried to think of something to say, but before he opened his mouth his phone pinged.

Pepper’s name lit up his screen, and she’d forwarded him a clip of a news reporter. The thing was on mute, but the subtitles were easy enough to read. Spider-Man Flees Scene of Shootout - One Dead, Another Critically Injured. Another text followed.

Pep: Is he alright?

Tony’s eyes narrowed as he skimmed the press release, firmly ignoring Harley's unimpressed scoff. He didn’t know what the hell Peter had been doing tonight, what he’d been screwing around with - but someone had died tonight. Peter nearly could have. 

Anger, sharp and hot shot through his chest. That kid was going to get himself killed.

“That stupid-” he muttered, cutting himself off before shoving his phone into his pocket and rounding back to the Medbay door. Before he could reach out to open it, though, Harley’s voice came from behind him.

“Leaving again. Very on brand,” came a muttered response before Harley turned away and stalking down the hallway.

Tony twisted around, ready to call down the hallway after him. There was so much he had to do, he couldn’t deal with petty teenage bullshit right now. “You-!” He inhaled sharply and ignored the jab as he turned and slammed the door open. Bruce startled from his place where he was half kneeled, half-leaning on the bed beside Peter to get better access to his side. Peter’s jaw clenched from the sound of it, but Tony couldn’t bring himself to care. He was just so damn angry.

“That was dangerous and reckless and what the fuck, Peter?” he began, voice raised a little higher than what was probably necessary.

Peter just blinked a little sluggishly, hand coming up to hold the unfinished stitches at his side. “What?”

“I saw what happened,” he snapped. “I saw the reports. What the hell were you doing? You could have died. Someone did die.”

Peter sucked in a sharp breath and looked a little paler than he already was under the ugly fluorescent Medbay lights. A moment passed before he steadied himself. He squared his shoulders, face pinching a little at the movement as he turned to face Tony more directly. “I was doing what I had to do. There was an arms deal, and I had to stop it.”

“You did what,” Tony hissed, standing a little straighter. “You’re telling me you sought out a weapons merchant to pick a fight?”

Peter shrugged, glancing down at his fingernails for a moment. “I did.” 

“And on a school night!” Tony exploded. Peter just blinked at him again. 

Tony wasn’t impressed. Not at all. Jesus, after all the shit he’d done, he hadn’t put his mother through anything like this - he didn't deserve this either. What the fuck was wrong with this kid? Why didn’t he understand that charging headfirst into danger is a bad idea? Why didn’t he get it?

So Tony did the only thing he could think of.

“You're grounded.”

“What?” Peter asked, glancing up at him with shock painted across his face. “You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will. You're not going to school tomorrow, or the day after.” He tried to ignore the betrayed look that twisted Peter's face. “Not until whatever the hell you did healed. No spider-manning for the next week.”

“No!”

“Yes!” he snapped, maybe a little louder than necessary. “Keep arguing, Pete! Go ahead, see where it gets you!”

“Don’t call me Pete,” the boy growled, eyes wide and feral like a wild animal. He stood sharply, every muscle in his body taught like a wire ready to snap. “This is bullshit! I was helping people! I’m keeping people safe!”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

Peter stepped forward, hand still pressed to his side. His eyes were wide and angry in a way that Tony’d never seen before. He’d seen scared. He’d seen exhausted and injured and beaten down and miserable. But he’d never really seen this white-hot anger. “So what ?” Peter asked, voice hard and sharp despite sounding so incredibly detached.

It was horrifying. Tony didn’t know how to deal with this shit. He took a breath, a quick inhale, before staring down at Peter calmly.

“Go to your room,” he said quietly.

Peter’s face twisted again into something hurt and angry and Tony didn’t want to see it. He didn’t break eye contact, though. Peter let out a shaky breath before storming out of the room, door slamming behind him. After a couple moments of silence, he put his hands up to his face and heaved an exhausted breath.

“FRI, sweetie,” he started, something sick swirling around his stomach, “make sure he gets to the right place, please.”

“Will do, boss.” When Tony did look up again, Bruce was still in his place, half-on kneeled on the floor and shooting him a sympathetic look. 

Peter hadn’t even finished his fucking stitches.

—

By the time Pepper called, he could have actually cried.

“Parenting is so hard,” he groaned, leaning back on his swivel chair and kicking his feet up on the desk. “This is why I never wanted kids. I’ve got two angry teenagers. None of them are talking to me.”

“Did you try to talk to them?” she asked lightly, and Tony doesn’t have to see her to hear a smile curling at the corner of her lips. 

A moment passed. “...No,” he admitted after a moment, somewhat petulantly. “I don’t want to talk to them either, to be honest.”

She let out something akin to a hum, and although it was light he could tell that she wasn’t impressed. “What are they mad about?”

“They’re mad about completely different things!” he threw his arms up before forgetting the chair and standing up. He needed to move, or he’d explode. “They’re ganging up on me, this is such bullshit!”

“I’m sure you’ll cope,” she said mercilessly. “Maybe try talking to them like a responsible adult.”

He dropped back down into his chair, betrayed. “You were supposed to take my side.”

“I’m always on your side,” she says without a hint of honesty in her voice. “Is Peter okay?”

“Ok as he can be,” Tony felt a little petty. “Since when do you do surveillance on him, too?”

“Surveilence?” she laughed, “No, it’s not surveillance, Tony. FRIDAY just pings me whenever something important with Spider-man comes up.”

Tony snorted. “That’s surveillance. Entry level, but surveillance none the less, Pep. Nice try.” She mades an amused sound, and the phone was muffled for a moment as she moved around in the background. “You’re such a mother hen, you’re still watching over him from another country.”

“Someone has to,” she scoffed, before she quieted. “I am worried, though, Tony.”

Oh no.

“Peter… I knew that it’d be difficult having him here. For both of you. It’s completely different from what he’s used too - he used to be able to go anywhere anytime, and he didn’t have to answer to anyone but himself. He’s independent, and I admire him for that.”

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“There’s not. I do admire him. He’s been through a lot.” She said simply. “It’s you I'm worried about.”

Tony choked, sitting straight up and slapping his hand on the table. “What?”

“You’re opposites,” she said, significantly gentler. “I don’t mean that you’d make a bad parent. I think you’re doing great so far.” He swiveled on the chair, already dreading wherever this conversation was going. She only used that tone of voice when she was breaking bad news or trying to talk about his childhood. “But I also think you’re struggling to separate yourself from your father so much you’re going in the opposite direction.”

So childhood, then. Nice . “I'm not.”

“You are,” she said, ignoring him. “You track him whenever you can. I know you have a hundred different protocols that measure his heartrate and blood count and everything else.”

“He keeps disabling them, somehow,” Tony said flatly.

“Thats not the point,” she interrupted. “It shows you care.” She shuffled around again as Tony pressed his palms to his eyes. Maybe he could hang up. He didn’t want to sit through this conversation now  - or ever . Pepper continued regardless, and she spoke again more honestly, “But to someone who’s been alone for so long, it would be overwhelming.”

“I just…” 

I just don’t want to be like my father. The words hang in between them despite the fact that he’d never spoken them at all.

“You’re not,” she said gently, and Tony released a breath he hadn’t known he'd been holding. “It’s just that for people who are so similar, you're also very different. You have different ways of showing you care. It's a clash, but you two will work through it.”

Tony let out an exhausted puff. “That doesnt solve Harley's problem, though.”

“What's Harley’s problem?”

His eyes slid shut. He was too tired to care, at this point. “I let him down.”

It was an easy way to say it. It was a cop out. Tony knew that. He knew that it was a shitty couple months of accidentally ignoring Harley when he was distracted by Peter, he knew it was because he let Harley down when he was scared and alone and forced to hitchhike cross-country. He knew it was because he was a little envious of Peter - and that he was very pissed off when he found out his bench had been taken over. It felt like he was being replaced. Tony knew that. He just wasn’t good at talking about it.

Lab time was supposed to make up for that, and Tony had ran out of there like a bat out of hell because of Peter - again . It was fair that Harley would be pissed off. Tony would be pissed off too, if he was in his place.

“Admitting it is the first step, at least,” came Peppers' response. She sounded tired. She would be. It was late - or maybe early - where she was now. Somewhere in Asia? South Korea, or Japan. One of the two.

He puffed out a breath, kicking back far enough to stare up at the ceiling, feet dropping back up to sit on his desk. “I'm glad you have confidence in me.” 

“You'll work it out,” she said lightly again, a smile creeping into her voice. “You always do, somehow.”

Chapter Text

There was a knock on his door. Peter rolled over, trying to ignore it and closing his eyes a little firmer as he wriggled under the blankets. It was so warm. Maybe if he just ignored the person knocking they’d go away. Maybe he could finally sleep a little longer.

“Peter,” Bucky’s voice called through the door. “You’re gonna be late for school.”

“Not going,” he huffed out, pulling the pillow over his head like it would smother him. Fuck, if he was grounded and couldn’t go to school he should at least be able to sleep in.

Bucky paused on the other side, his presence heavy even through the door. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Peter replied, sniffing as he rolled over to stare blankly at the ceiling. He knew Bucky would hear him, even without raising his voice. “Tony said I’m not going anywhere. Guess I'm just staying here today.”

A beat of silence passed before Bucky’s voice softened. “Can I come in?”

“I can't stop you,” Peter muttered.

There was an exhausted sigh that even he could hear through the door. “That's not what I asked.”

Peter hesitated, then sighed. “…Sure,” he exhaled slowly, pressing his lips together.

The door creaked open as Bucky stepped in, arms crossed. “What do you mean you’re not going anywhere? Why would he keep you from going to school?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” Peter grumbled, barely moving his head from under the pillow. “Can I just go back to bed?”

“No,” Bucky replied, stepping forward with a raised eyebrow. “You’re coming to eat breakfast with us. Steve made waffles.”

Peter turned and groaned into his pillow. Through slitted eyes, he could see Bucky raise an eyebrow. “Whine any harder and I’ll carry you downstairs. You know I will.”

“Fine,” Peter huffed. He rolled over, sliding out of under the covers before dragging himself out of his (warm comfortable safe) bed. His feet swung over the side before he stumbled to his feet, wincing as a sharp pain shot through his side. He recovered - barely even fumbling - but Bucky stared at him in a way that had Peter already realizing that he’d lost.

“What’d you do?” the man asked flatly, rubbing his flesh hand to his jaw for a moment. 

“How did you know?” Peter asks instead, stretching gingerly and sliding past the man and out into the hallway. “It’s only been a minute, no fair.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, unamused. “I lived with Steve,” he replied dryly, then paused, squinting. “What the hell d’you mean, no fair?” Peter just snorted in response. Bucky remained unamused. “Let me see how bad it is, at least.”

“Tony already saw,” Peter muttered, his mood souring as he brushed past. Couldn’t he just crawl back to bed? Why did he have to go downstairs right now? “Bruce helped me stitch it up. It’s fine.”

Bucky hummed, “Is there a correlation to this and why you’re not in school?”

Peter just glared at him.

The elevator door dinged, and they stepped inside. Despite Peter feeling the familiar bubble of irritation stir in his chest every now and then, he didn't argue too much. The only other alternative was his room, really - the lab would have Tony. The kitchen would raise questions about why he wasn't home. It might also have Tony.

Besides, Bucky and Steve’s floor was cozy. And right now it smelled like food.

He settled into his usual space at the table next to Bucky while Steve slid more food in front of him. His stomach rumbled a little at the sight of it, and Bucky shot him a smug look. Peter stuck his tongue out at him in response.

The food was good. He was still half-asleep for most of it, so instead of following whatever conversation they were having Peter was focused on not choking on the food he was eating. Which worked. It was just too damn early to be up and moving around, despite feeling pleasantly full now.

"I haven't seen you down here this much in a while," Steve remarked mildly, handing Peter a wet dish to dry.

A bolt of something uncomfortable laced through his gut, though he just shrugged and dried the dish before putting it away. “What, should I not be here?” he asked a little sarcastically, although he felt a little sick.

“That’s not what he said,” Bucky cut in, nudging him with an elbow as he reached over to turn on the kettle. “He said you’re acting weird.”

“He didn’t say that either,” Peter replied flatly, pointedly ignoring the pointed look Bucky shot his way.

“Okay, smartass,” Bucky said, giving him a long look. “I’m asking what’s wrong. Why are you avoiding the lab?”

“It’s not like we don’t want you here,” Steve added from behind him, glancing over his shoulder. “We’re glad to see you.”

“Yeah, you just like me doing the dishes,” Peter shot back, though he bit back a smirk. Steve just shook his head, pretending not to notice.

“Is it the new kid?” Bucky cut in, steering the conversation back to his original question. “Did he do something? Still being an ass?”

Peter shrugged, a vague scowl creeping across his face. “No. Well, yes, but it’s not him.”

“Did Stark do something?” Bucky pressed.

Peter let out a resigned sigh. “When does he not ?” he muttered under his breath. He’d spent the whole night with Ned, trying to undo whatever Tony had managed to code into FRIDAY's surveillance system. If Tony did any more, Peter thought that they might need to actually just lock FRIDAY out of his room entirely when he was injured. Maybe they'd do that if they wanted to be extra safe.

Bucky frowned, tilting his head. “What’d he do?”

Peter’s shoulders tensed, but he kept his tone even. “Nothing. He’s just… being annoying again.”

“In what way?” Bucky asked it lightly, but Peter knew better.

Peter didn’t meet his eyes. “The usual way.” He shifted uncomfortably. Bucky doesn't look satisfied. Peter doesn't particularly care. bucky would probably take Tony's side, anyway. they seemed to like curfews, apparently.

“I get that,” Steve snorted as he passed another dish. Bucky tossed a napkin at him, shooting him a glare.

“You’re not being a supportive co-parent right now.”

“You’re not co-parenting me,” Peter muttered, burying his face in his arms.

Steve raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk creeping over his face. Peter groaned, sinking deeper into the table. He was too exhausted to deal with any of them right now. Steve just raised an eyebrow. Peter buried his face in his arms. He was too tired for this.

—

It was a long seven days. 

He mostly spent time in his room and in the gym, steadily avoiding Tony and Harley, but it finally passed. The only useful thing that he’d actually done was beg his way into Bruce’s lab to analyze whatever the hell was on that blade that had stabbed him.

Normally, he wouldn’t care how messed up or how dirty everything was whenever he got knifed in an alleyway. But it wasn’t healing.

It was, technically. But just… really, really slowly. It scared him. It hadn't taken so long for anything to heal like this since he was half-starved and dying on the street. So, after finally managing to get access to some of Bruce’s incredibly cool tech, he’d managed to analyze samples of the infected tissue in his side.

He’d assumed it was probably something that Oscorp was working on, if the sick feeling creeping through his limbs was any indication - they were a Biochem company at heart, after all. 

Whatever it was, it’d done a number on his healing abilities, and every inch of his side felt raw and inflamed whenever he moved too fast. After getting Bruce’s help without giving too much away, they’d settled on an altered, more extreme form of a nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug. It was an anti-proliferative - so instead of trying to stop the healing ability of mutates, it merely slowed the accelerated healing factor by restricting blood vessels and halting the regrowth of skin cells. 

So… it was healing, actually. Just… too slow for his taste. It was what made school so sucky when he finally got back.

“Ned!” he called once he caught sight of his friend hovering by his locker idly. He whipped around at the sound of Peter’s voice, face splitting into an excited grin.

“Peter! Dude!” Ned called, before his eyes widened, “Dude, what happened? You only stay home when something bad happened, what’d you do?”

Peter scoffed, distractedly rubbing against the bandage under his shirt. “Nothing too bad. Mr. Stark’s just being super overprotective again.”

Ned side-eyed him. “I wanna believe you, man, but you crawled into my room with a stab wound before going to him. I feel like he’s being the normal amount of protective.”

Peter just scoffed in response.

—

It wasn’t until gym that everything really fell apart.

The exercises weren’t even that hard, either - but by the time they got to the crunches, Peter was breathing a little more heavily than normal. Ned was looking at him with an expression Peter couldn’t name, but he knew that he wasn’t exactly impressed.

“What did you do, man,” Ned hissed when Peter finally made it upright again. Peter gave a lousy shrug, and tried to focus on moving slow enough that the butterfly stitches wouldn’t tear.

“Just normal stuff,” Peter gritted out.

He pointedly ignored the lingering ache in his side and the memory of Tony marching into the Medbay to tear him a new one. He also ignored the lingering resentment that came with the memories that followed. He still couldn’t believe he’d gotten grounded. Spider-Man didn’t get grounded.

“You look like you just got run over by a bus,” Ned whispered angrily at him. “ I can do sit-ups faster than that!”

“They’re not sit-ups,” Peter corrected, hoping to derail the conversation and failing spectacularly.

“I don’t care,” Ned shot back. 

By the time the teacher called for them to swap, Peter felt like shit. He was sure he looked like shit, too. Mr. Wilson had been looking at him like he was half-expecting him to fall over, and honestly? Peter didn’t feel like he was that far off.

“You look terrible,” came Harley’s flat voice from behind him.

“Thanks,” Peter replied, completely unimpressed. Seriously, what was this guy's problem?

But when Peter turned to face him, he didn’t find quite as much of the general annoyance on Harley’s face because of him as usual. Sure, it was still there - but there was a mix of something else, too. Something that Peter hoped was concern, but could have just as easily been confusion or curiosity.

“Yeah, he, uh, pulled a muscle the other day,” Ned interrupted, gaze flicking over to Peter with a nervous laugh. “You know how Peter does those crazy workout routines and stuff, right? And-”

“Ned,” Harley interrupted, “I know he got stabbed. I’d rather you didn’t lie to me, actually.” Ned’s jaw clicked shut. “Are either of you gonna actually tell me what’s going on? Why’re you guys being so weird and secretive? Why’re you guys lying to my face?”

“Look, it’s none of your business,” Peter shot back. “You don’t need to butt into stuff that doesn’t concern you.”

Harley’s head snapped up, eyes flashing and any semblance of concern melting off his face as he muttered, “I’m going to murder you, Parker.”

Peter clenched his teeth, inhaling sharply. "And you wonder why I avoid you," he spat back.

Harley bristled. Peter was a little too tired to care, to be honest. “Fine,” he muttered, stared at the two of them for a moment or two more before turning and stalking in the other direction. Peter let out a tired puff of air, half-heartedly thumbing the stitches through the outline of his shirt.

“Well,” MJ said from next to them, slamming her locker shut, “that went well.”

“What’s his deal?” Ned asked, turning to look at Peter a little. “Like, I get it, sort of? But what did you do to him, dude?”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like having people lie to him?” MJ suggested a little sarcastically, and Peter ignored her.

“It’s an attention thing I guess,” Peter shrugged, bitter, while feeling like an asshole the second the words left his mouth. Ned frowned at him, and MJ’s brows flattened into an unimpressed expression. Peter ignored it. He knew it was a mean thing to say but he was pissed off that Harley was being so damn childish.

It sucked. The whole situation sucked. But he’d been rude since day one, and Peter was more than a little sick of it. 

“Whatever,” Peter brushed it off, turning to face Ned and lowering his voice a little. “There was actually something I needed your help with,” he whispered, “I’m gonna get Karen to run through security footage and flag anyone who could access or sell information to Diamondback. But… I think Hammer Industries has a mole. And like, I could tell the higher-ups, I guess, but I need the info and we’d lose it if we reported it, y’know?”

Ned’s lips turned downwards. “I guess? But - if it’s weapons, wouldn’t it be better to stop it and go backwards? Like, safety first then info later?”

Peter shifted, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I mean, sure. But if I can find out who it is before they can do any harm, it’d stop them from getting away. I could deal with it myself.”

“What are you saying?” Ned’s voice was lower, a little more hesitant.

“I think we need to break into Hammer Industries.”

Ned winced. “I don’t know if that's a good idea, dude,” he whispered. “I feel like it’s a bad idea. Maybe you should ask Mr. Stark for help?”

“And get grounded?” Peter scoffed, “ Again? No way. I can deal with this myself. Then Mr. Stark will realize that I’m not a child. He’s treating me like a baby, dude.”

“He’s just worried,” Ned offered. “And he’s right to worry, man. I worry. And what you want to do is so, so illegal. If we get caught breaking into Hammer Industries that would start like, a brand war or something, dude.”

Peter grinned at the ‘we.’ “Then we just don't get caught.”

—

The door to the lab slid open near-silently. Tony didn’t glance up, because maybe Harley or Peter was finally coming in to get one of his projects and he didn’t want to scare either of the kids off. Peter was easy to startle. Harley was stubborn. Both were annoying.

But Tony wasn’t great at apologies, so maybe if he just kept his mouth shut everything would just work itself-

A pair of hands slammed down on the desk next to him and he startled, letting out a surprised yell with his chair swiveling as he caught the table to stop himself from falling onto the floor

“What did you do,” a low, graveled voice snarled in his ear, and he was startled to look up at the figure standing over him. The second he caught sight of the metal arm he knew he was completely and utterly fucked.

“What?” he blurted, kicking the chair back a little to get some breathing room between the two of them.

“Don’t play dumb,” Bucky gritted back at him. “With Peter. He’s all moody now. I dunno what you did, but he’s acting weird and it sure as hell wasn’t me or Stevie.”

“What about school? Why’re you blaming me?”

“Because you're not denying it.”

Tony paused, tilting his head a little and ignoring the feeling of his chest tightening. This was stupid. Barnes was being fucking stupid, storming in here and getting on his case. He was being responsible, for once. He should be thanking him.

“Fine,” Tony shrugged and tried to sound blasé and act like this didn't annoy him to his very fucking core. “Kid was being stupid, and I grounded him for it.”

“That's not it,” Bucky frowned. “There's something else you're not telling me, Stark. I’m not an idiot.”

“Could have fooled me.” Bucky bristled, but Tony continued. “But that's not the point. The point is, it's my responsibility to keep him safe. And he doesn't want to get grounded? Tough. He’s gotta listen to me. I’m sorry if you don't agree with that, but I’m the one who adopted him, not you.”

“Are you turning this into a fucking pissing contest? Do you think I give a single shit that you signed that paper, not me?” his voice rose increasingly loud. “I don’t give a shit, Stark. And the sooner you realize that the better, because right now somethings wrong with Peter and you need to fucking fix it.”

“He’s just not used to authority. It sucks, but he needs to learn.”

“You’re such an idiot!” Bucky snapped, releasing the desk with a crunch. Tony stared down at the finger marks on his desk, unimpressed. Bucky continued, uncaring, “What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you remember how hard it was to get him here? He’s gonna leave again and I’m going to kill you, Sta-”

Tony threw up his hands, tossing the tool in his grip down onto his desk roughly. “Fine!” he called, exasperated. “Fuck you!”

“Fuck you,” Barnes snapped back in response. “Now go apologise.”

Tony fucking hated Bucky.

Chapter Text

Unknown Number: You're on the right track.

Peter frowned as he stared down at the message that popped up on his phone, before looking back up at the projected security footage Karen had singled out. There wasn’t all that much - or at least nothing that looked like a huge red flag if you weren’t looking for it. Now that he was, he could see a few discrepancies as a man loaded a normal-looking supply truck for an unscheduled departure.

“I still don’t know if it’s a good idea to go out so soon,” Ned said a little unsurely, voice filtering in through Peter’s phone. “Like, we still haven’t even tested out if we actually fixed FRIDAY’s code or not. If you go out too fast Mr. Stark might know immediately.”

Peter huffed out a breath, zooming in on the guy’s face. He was just an incredibly average-looking guy, looking so bland Peter thought he might not even have a name. “I can’t just wait .”

“I’m not saying wait, I’m just saying… maybe later?”

“They’re smuggling weapons, Ned,” he shot back, inhaling sharply. “I can’t do it later. The longer I wait the more weapons get out onto the street and the more people die- ”

“-Peter. Dude. Stop. You're no good to anyone if you go in guns blazing, dude. You need to think this through.”

“Fine,” Peter let out an unhappy puff of air, sinking back into his chair a little. “Okay. I'll go tomorrow, I guess.”

He hung up after saying his goodbyes, plugged in his phone, and rolled into bed as he stared up into the fluorescent stars stuck on the roof. He sighed, closing his eyes and trying to sleep. Sleep didn’t come.

It felt like seconds passed, then minutes, and then when Peter was sure it had been at least two hours he rolled out of bed unhappily. It felt like he was antsy - like he was just waiting to leave and put on the suit and do something worthwhile. He could be out helping people, and instead he was sitting and staring at the ceiling. He needed to do something, even if he couldn’t actually put on the suit.

He let out a frustrated noise as he shrugged off his covers and pulled a jumper over his sleep shirt. If he couldn’t sleep, he could at least be useful. 

He tiredly slips out of his room, the door clicking shut behind him. The elevator chimes before he steps inside. For a moment he hesitates, fingers hovering over the button to the lab. Maybe it would be good to see Tony. After a moment, his finger drifted downward and he made his way down a floor.

Natasha wasn’t in the kitchen. Peter tried not to let it bother him.

He hadn’t seen her in a while, now that he thought about it - she wasn’t always out at the same time he was, and that shouldn’t be surprising. She never stuck to routines. 

What would Sam say about that? Probably something stupid like talking about those feeling, or maybe about developing codependency or even make some annoyingly knowledgeable comment about how defaulting to cleaning during insomniac episodes said something about him. He didn’t want to talk to Tony, though, and he didn’t want to think about him being clingy - especially not to Natasha, of all people. He shuddered. She’d kill him, maybe. 

Probably not, but still. He didn’t want to annoy her.

He let out a quiet huff, starting the slow process of clearing the counters and stacking the dirty dishes to be washed. It was routine at this point - comfortingly familiar in it’s monotony.

His gaze slid over the darkened kitchen, landing on the closed pantry doors for a moment. He was kind of hungry. Maybe he'd get something to eat after the place was clean, just as a little reward to himself. Mr. Stark had made it abundantly clear he should help himself to anything in the kitchen, even if he was still a little hesitant to, still.

The countertops were wiped down and clutter cleared. Peter continued to clean a little mindlessly until he moved the cereal containers back to where they were supposed to be - but before he could close them, his hands slipped across the pantry doors, slowly pulling them back open to peek inside. The brightly colored packets of snacked looked back at him. He turned to the entryway to make sure no one was looking, but before he could turn back his gaze rested on a bowl of fruit sitting on the countertop. Apples were stacked, and browning bananas sat idly. He looked back at the probably unhealthy snack packets, fingers itching, but he couldn't help looking at the fruit again. The little brown spots on the bananas blinked at him, and his fingers caught in his shirt. 

He resisted the urge to grab more than he needed as he crossed the kitchen in three strides - he had to go for fresh food first, he thought as he grasped at an apple - it went bad the fastest, so he needed to eat it ( now now now)-

The light flicked on and he startled, dropping the fruit with a thud as he whipped around to find Harley blinking up at him tiredly before shock colored his features. “What’re you doing up?”

“Um,” Peter glances down to the rag in his hand. “Cleaning?”

Harley regarded him for a moment, head tilted and brow flattening disbelievingly before his gaze settled on the rag in one hand and the now-cleaned kitchen.

Slowly, Peter turned to pick up the apple that had rolled across the floor before setting it back on the counter. Harley scoffed. “I'm not gonna jump across the counter to maul you, dumbass.”

“I'm not - I know you're not going to,” Peter gritted out, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting something to eat?” Harley answered back like Peter was stupid. He ignored the jab, watching as Harley poured himself a bowl of cereal - leaving it out on his freshly-cleared countertop - and made his way to leave.

“Where are you going?”

Harley paused, turning back to look at him with surprise colouring his features before he glanced down to the bowl in his hand, then back to Peter. “Leaving…?”

“In your room?” Peter asked, tilting his head. “You don’t, um… you don’t have to leave, y’know. Like, I know I’m here and you’re… not happy with me right now, but like, Mr. Stark gets kinda pissy when you eat in your room - or, he did after I did because I took all the cereal and spilled the whole thing over the floor when I ripped the box open, accidentally.” He paused to take a breath, embarrassed at the ramble but more nervous to let the silence overtake the room. “Well, not mad, but you know how he does that sort of frowny face that isn’t quite a ‘not mad, just disappointed’ but also kind of like, ‘I’m going to silently judge you for a couple of days because I’m not sure how to deal with this without making it into a Big Thing, so I’m just gonna keep my mouth shut’ sort of look. So… I mean, you can take that with you, but-”

“I’m not mad at you,” Harley interjected, frowning a little.

Peter paused, glancing up at him a little surprisedly. “What?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Harley repeated. “I’m mad at the whole… situation. I… uh, I know I didn’t handle it properly. I mean, you weren’t helping, but it’s kinda on me, too. I’m mostly mad at Tony because he’s a dick sometimes and doesn’t know how to use his words like an adult.”

“Words are hard,” Peter tried to defend, but it fell a little flat. If anyone was awful with words, it was Tony. 

Harley set down the bowl of cereal on the counter with a click, and his hip bumped against the counter. “Words are hard,” he repeated with a nod, blinking a little. It was late. Harley looked tired.

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Peter asked a little cautiously. He didn’t see how he could have - the floors were mostly soundproofed, but maybe he was too loud closing the door or making his way down the hall. God, he hoped not.

“No,” Harley shrugged a little. “Just couldn’t sleep. What are you doing, though? Why’re you cleaning at like, four in the morning?” Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. How was he supposed to explain it without sounding like an insane person? The other boy squinted at him, mistaking his silence for something else. “This isn’t Tony making you do this, is he? Because it’s his damn kitchen, and if he wants to keep it clean then he can hire a maid.”

Peter snorted, “No, it’s a se-”

“No, Harley, it’s a security risk,” Harley parroted, a little high-pitched, before he let out a breath. “Tch. You’d think the richest guy alive could afford to have someone wipe down his sink without having them be a secret assassin or something. Can’t believe he’s stooped to child labor while I was gone.”

“No-” Peter made an amused sound, relaxing a little bit. “It’s not - Mr. Stark’s not making me clean his sink. It’s just a thing I do sometimes, I guess.”

Harley pulled this face that Peter couldn’t quite decipher, but it didn’t look bad, just… confused. That seemed like progress.

“Is this why you always look so tired in the morning?” Harley asked as he slid onto one of the barstools and started to eat his cereal. “I always just assumed you were reading Wikipedia articles all night or something.”

“You thought I was what?”

“I don’t know what nerds do,” Harley shrugged.

“You’re a nerd!” Peter pointed a finger at him accusingly, “You’re a bigger nerd than me!”

The other boy didn’t seem to care. Despite that, the usual frustration that bubbled up when he was around Harley hadn’t seemed to show itself just yet. They were just… talking. Talking like normal people. It was nice.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harley shoveled a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Besides,” he began, mouth open, “You’re-”

“Ew.”

“You’re the one - rude - the one sucking up to Stark by wiping down his counters in the middle of the night.”

Peter’s jaw dropped open as he swung to face the Harley indignantly. “Technically it’s four in the morning.”

“‘Technically it’s four-” Harley mimicked again sarcastically before he snorted, “Nerd.”

“Shut up. And I’m not doing it for Mr. Stark! It’s just something I do when I can’t sleep.”

Harley looked up at him. “You have trouble sleeping?” Peter averted his eyes then, back down to the sink before unplugging the drain and watching the water swirl away. “I mean, I ain’t judging. If anything, I’m jealous. At least you’re productive when that happens. I just stare at the ceiling for six hours.”

“Or hide out in the lab.”

“Or hide out in the lab,” Harley acquiesced, pointing a spoon at him. “Point, I guess. But that’s more like procrastinating. You could hardly call anything I do up there productive.”

Peter just shrugged. “I can’t judge. Not like much I do up there is super useful, anyway.”

Harley narrowed his eyes at him. “Now I know that’s not true. You have Spider-Man on speed dial, apparently. You wanna explain how that happened? And don’t even try to lie about that, Parker.”

“Um… it’s confidential?” Harley frowned, and Peter sighed. “He, um, works with Mr. Stark sometimes, and I get to work on Avengers tech if I’m lucky. And he’s not technically an Avenger or anything, but… I fixed his web-shooters once?”

“He said he sees you after patrol sometimes.”

“He said that, did he,” Peter thought a little desperately, kicking himself for not being able to keep his big fat mouth shut. “He meant, like, to make sure he doesn't die or something.” Harley’s eyes widened a little. “But it’s not often! It’s only happened, like, once. You shouldn’t listen to anything he says. Spider-Man’s a huge liar.” Keep talking, Parker. Dig yourself a little deeper, see what happens. I don’t think you’ve got any more feet to shoot yourself in.

Harley’s brow flattened, and Peter could feel what fleeting sense of joy he’d had through their somewhat cordial conversation falling into his stomach. He wrung the rang a little tighter, before dropping it into the sink with a sigh.

“I mean… Yeah. I see him sometimes,” Peter muttered after a moment, and Harley’s face lit up. “But it’s not - it’s not a thing.”

“That’s absolutely a thing,” Harley corrected, “That’s the coolest thing I’ve heard in a while.”

“You live in Stark Tower! You know the Avengers!”

“You know Spider-Man!” Harley shot back, the cereal abandoned by his side. “Do you know what he looks like? Under the mask? Is he hot?”

“He’s incredibly ugly,” Peter says flatly, turning back to finish stacking the dishwasher before clumsily jamming the button to start it up. It was only when Harley shot up from his seat that Peter had realized his mistake. “I don’t know what he looks like! That was a joke.”

Harley slumped back down into his seat. “Man, you suck. You got me all excited for a second.”

Peter snorted, turning back to him and leaning against the counter. “Your cereal’s getting mushy.”

“I like it mushy,” Harley shrugged. “That perfect middle ground between crunchy and soggy. It’s the way it’s supposed to be eaten.”

“It definitely is not. I don’t know what they teach you in the cornfields, but you’re supposed to eat it when it’s still crunchy. You sound like a grandma.”

“I didn’t live in the cornfields,” Harley responded flatly. “It was more of a glorified trailer park, to be honest.”

Peter tilted his head. “Where are you actually from? I don’t know if I asked you.”

“Rose Hill,” Harley said a little wistfully, head resting on his elbow. “Small town. A little too small, but it was homey.”

“I’ve never really been out of New York City,” Peter said. “Well, except for-” Germany. Don’t say Germany. Shut your mouth, Parker. Harley blinked up at him at the sound of his voice abruptly cutting off. “Um, school trip out of state. But never to like, travel or anything.”

“Rose Hill isn’t somewhere you really travel to,” Harley shrugged a little idly. “Besides, it’s pretty cool here. There’s a lot more to do, and the people are nicer, I think.”

Peter blinked up at him. “Nicer?” He echoed a little dubiously.

“Less nutjobs,” Harley shrugged again, gaze flicking back down as he stirred his spoon around his cereal bowl. “I mean, like, there’s nutjobs here too, but there’s a lot of normal people to kind of balance it out.”

Peter just nodded like he understood. 

“What about you?” Harley asked from his place on the countertop. “Where’re you from? Like, New York, I guess, but whereabouts?”

“Queens,” Peter said with a wry grin. “Born and raised.”

“That’s a while from the Tower. Long way to go for an internship.”

“To Stark Tower? I’d’ve walked an hour just to get here a year ago,” Peter snorted. “Besides, it’s half an hour on the subway.” 

Harly made a face like he didn’t quite believe him. “So… how’d you meet again? Like, how’d you get an internship here? I still dunno how that works, man. Not gonna lie, you’re both being kinda weird. It feels like you’re not telling me the whole truth, which like,” Harley raised his hands surrenderingly, “I get it, not my business, but like… c’mon, man, throw me a bone or something.”

“I… won a competition after I submitted a project to the September Foundation. And it got promoted to Mr. Stark, who contacted me and offered me an internship,” Peter said slowly. Harley didn’t look satisfied, so he continued before the other could push. “What about you? How do you know Mr. Stark?”

Harley shot him a nonchalant grin, “He broke into my garage when I was eleven.”

“What,” Peter glanced up at him sharply, and Harley snorted.

“It was after his house got blown up that one time, I think,” he shrugged, glancing downward with a small frown. “He… didn’t seem too good? I mean, I think he’d just fallen out of the sky or something, but I shot him with a potato gun. Then I helped him with his suit and he crashed in my garage. It was weird. But cool, though. Nothing like that ever happened in Rose Hill. Most exciting thing to ever happen to kid-me.”

There was a moment of silence, thick and heavy in the early hours of the morning.

“I mean, Rose Hill was nice. But it’s a small town with backwards people,” Harley’s face twisted for a moment and something flashed across it that Peter couldn’t quite identify. Grief and loss and longing all in one - but it was gone in a moment, and Harley raised his head to glance up at Peter. “What about you?” he asked after a moment.

“Me?”

“Why’d Tony adopt you? Really ?” Harley asked, pointing his spoon at Peter accusingly. “That guy swore to me he’d never have kids, and he signed up for it legally? How’d you convince him to do that?”

Peter bit his lip so hard he could taste copper. “It’s… a long story.”

“It’s a long night,” Harley replied flatly.

“Well, it starts with my parents dying,” Peter said a little dryly, and Harley winced, looking like he was already regretting pushing the conversation. “Then my uncle. Then my aunt. I ended up in the system, caught Tony's attention, and he adopted me out of it. I, um,” Peter thinks of sleepless nights and the empty warehouse, “I don’t really want to… talk about it, much.”

“Ah,” Harley replied, sounding not-quite strangled but definitely out of his depth. “Gotcha. Sorry about your… everything.”

Peter shot him a tired smile. “You too.”

The kitchen seemed to still and unwind all at once; Harley went back to eating, Peter went back to idly tidying, although it felt like more of an excuse to exist in the presence of another person rather than actually cleaning. He’d pretty much tidied all there was to tidy.

Then, Harley’s cautious voice; “What were they like?”

“Huh?” Peter asked, turning to look at him a little confusedly as he blinked tiredly.

“Your family,” Harley clarified, but he hesitated after a moment. “If you wanna talk about them. Tell me to shut up if I'm pushing.”

“I… don't really remember my parents, to be honest.” There was guilt. Guilt, or something like it. He’d forgotten what his father’s face looked like, his mother’s voice, the way their home had smelled. He blinked away the empty sort of feeling to distract that he couldn’t recall what his mother’s arms felt around him, anymore. “But Ben and May were like my family. They were my family.” He took a breath. “Then it kinda all went to shit after they died, y’know?”

Harley nodded like he understood, even though Peter was sure that he didn’t. He appreciated the sentiment regardless.

“I… um, I haven't visited them recently,” he said, pointedly ignoring Harley and staring into the countertop. He didn’t even know why he was telling Harley this. 

He didn’t need to know about his stupid guilty feelings and his general problem avoidance. He hadn’t seen Mr. Delmar since Peter had gotten him shot, but what could he do to Ben and May now? It’s not like he could double-kill them. “It feels stupid. And kind of mean, y’know?” Peter’s mouth twisted downwards, bitterness welling in his throat. “Like, she did so much for me and I haven't even seen her… grave, yet.”

“I don’t think it's stupid,” Harley said a little gently, spoon resting on the ceramic bowl. “You’re just… coping. And coping sucks, but she’ll be there when you wanna see her. Ain’t no rush.”

Peter felt something in his chest unwind a little at that, leaning against the countertop a little heavier. “Thanks,” he breathed, looking away from Harley and into a spot on the ground he’d missed.

There was another moment of peace, and Peter blinked tiredly. Maybe he should go back to bed. He’d done all he could in the kitchen, anyway. His stomach still rolled with something like hunger, or maybe even nausea - but as he opened the cupboard, before he could reach in to grab something he saw a shadow standing by the entryway, and his heart lept into his throat.

“Just me,” Tony raised his hands as he meandered into the kitchen, looking as awake as Peter felt. “What’re you guys doing up so early? Don’t teenagers sleep in instead of waking up at five in the morning?”

“Oh,” Harley said flatly at Tony’s appearance. “It’s you.”

Tony raised an eyebrow as he walked over to the coffee machine. That was probably why he was down here in the first place, Peter realized. Pepper had moved it out of his lab after FRIDAY had given up his sleep schedule despite Tony’s protests. “Yeah, it's me. I do, in fact, own the building.”

“Don't remind me,” Harley muttered while staring down into his cereal bowl before he grabbed it with one hand, pushed off the counter with the other, and ducked past him to steer back towards the elevator and to his own room.

Tony already looked worn out, his shoulders sagging slightly as he turned to Peter. His gaze flickered briefly to the direction Harley had disappeared, then back to the teen standing awkwardly near the counter. “What’re you two doing up so early, anyway?” 

Peter opened his mouth, scrambling for something that sounded plausible, but the excuse died on his tongue. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, a little lamely. The silence between them stretched out.

Mr. Stark was the first to break, rubbing a hand over his face like he was gearing up for something. “Hey,” he started, and Peter gave an almost grimace. “Look, I wanted to… apologize.”

“What?” Peter blurted, caught off guard as he blinked up at Tony.

Tony gave a weak half-smile, looking almost sheepish. “I’m not great at this,” he admitted, his hand waving vaguely in the air. “But I feel like I might’ve been - what’s the word - overbearing? The grounding thing, the whole keeping tabs on you thing… I didn’t mean to come down so hard. I just-” He hesitated, as if looking for the right words. “You scare the hell out of me sometimes, kid.”

Peter’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. “Oh,” he managed finally. “I mean… It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine , not entirely, but the effort in Tony’s words was enough to take the edge off his irritation that had been building over the last week or two. Tony nodded, like he was grateful Peter hadn’t immediately bitten his head off and he realized with a twisting sort of guilt that this was Tony trying . 

Peter hesitated, feeling a pang of something complicated - gratitude, maybe, or guilt - settling in his chest. He gave a small, awkward nod. “Thanks.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked him over. “You doing all right? You seem more tired than normal.”

Peter shrugged, burying his hands in his hoodie pocket. “It’s just the cold.”

Tony snorted. “It’s not even that cold.”

“Maybe not outside,” Peter shot back, sticking his tongue out like a petulant kid, “but you keep this building like a walk-in freezer.”

“I do not!” Tony objected, though his expression softened a little.

Peter snorted. “You’ve never even been in a walk-in freezer once in your life.”

Tony’s mouth opened and closed. “Point.” He sighed, turning around to mash the button on his coffee maker, and Peter took the chance to grab a protein bar and silently jam it into his pocket before Mr. Stark swung around, jabbing an accusatory finger, “Actually, no. Point is that you look tired.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Thanks…?”

“Shut up, I'm being nice. Are you okay? I know we had a little…” He waved his hand vaguely. “…not quite fight, but y’know. I know we’re all still figuring it out, but you can talk to me. You know that, right?”

Peter felt the weight of Tony’s gaze, and for a moment, he thought about telling him everything - the weapons smuggling, the bad guys, the unknown phone number that sent him addresses - but instead, he forced himself to smile. 

“Yeah,” he said, turning to shrug off the conversation and burying his face further into his hoodie. “I know.”

His hand slid into his pocket to trace the outline of the protein bar as he ducked out of the kitchen and back towards the safety of his room. It weighed heavier than it should have. He told himself it was just for later, but a part of him knew he wasn’t going to eat it anytime soon.

Chapter Text

The next day was relatively tame. 

School was boring - though Peter couldn’t tell if it was the lessons themselves or just the fact that both he and Harley were fucking exhausted. He hadn’t gone back to sleep after last night and judging by the way Harley slouched into his desk with his head nearly colliding with the surface, Peter figured he hadn’t, either.

The silence between them carried over into the school day, which was unusual enough for Ned and MJ to notice. Ned shot Peter a few curious glances but ultimately just shrugged and used the quiet to launch into a detailed recap of the TV show he’d been watching. Peter spaced out for most of it, catching snippets here and there, though he nodded along like he was paying attention.

It wasn’t until his Spidey sense prickled that he snapped back to reality - just in time to sidestep Flash barreling through the hallway like he owned the place. Flash shot him a half-hearted insult that Peter barely heard, his mind already wandering again.

Last night… Harley had made him feel a little better about the guilt that had been festering in his chest about never visiting May. And while he knew he did need to visit her eventually, he’d start small. 

Mr. Delmar seemed like a good place to start.

He hadn’t seen the man since he’d been shot - and he felt that horrible pit of guilt settle in his stomach once again. He’d gotten the man shot and hadn’t even bothered going back to check to see if he was okay. (That wasn’t quite true. Peter just didn’t know what he would do if he went back and Mr. Delmar wasn’t okay.)

After steadying his resolve and deciding that he would definitely go back to the bodega after school, Harley, to his mild surprise, ended up trailing after him. “Where’re you going?” Harley had asked, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets as they walked.

“Mr. Delmar’s,” Peter said simply.

Harley arched an eyebrow. “The bodega guy?”

Peter shot him a look, feigning offense. “The bodega guy,” he corrected. “He’s got the best sandwiches in New York.”

“Sure,” Harley replied, the sarcasm in his voice clear. “Whatever you say.”

Peter ignored him, leading the way down the familiar streets. When they finally rounded the corner to the shop, Peter felt a strange flutter of nerves in his chest. The shop looked exactly the same - welcoming, warm, safe. Mr. Delmar was hovering by his usual place near the register, and a burst of recognition shot through his chest. But as his eyes scanned the interior, he spotted Carlos behind the counter, chatting with a customer.

Peter froze.

Harley stopped just behind him. “What?” he asked, glancing between Peter and the shop. “We’re not gonna go in?”

Peter frowned, glancing into the shop again and ducking away once Carlos turned and nearly caught his eye. He'd been here before. He'd been in this exact stupid place, and he'd chickened out. He couldn't chicken out again - he owed Mr. Delmar more than that. 

The man had given him a job when he'd needed it; even after he'd dipped last time without giving any notice. And now he'd done it again, after getting the man shot. Mr. Delmar at least deserved an explanation or something; but whenever he thought about stepping through the bodega's door, he wanted to be sick. He didn't want to step back inside. God, he was such a coward. What would May think of him now?

He was a horrible, awful person. 

"What, we’re not gonna go in?" Harley asked from next to him. "I'm hungry."

He should go in. To say thank you, to say sorry, to try to make it up to the man. He still had a bandage peeking through his shirt, but he looked well, other than that. Maybe it was a good thing Peter had left.

"Nah," he said instead. "They look busy today. Let's come back next week."

—

“It’s too cold in here,” Peter moaned pitifully, arms wrapping around his stomach as he put his head on the desk and ignoring the half-aborted sketches of new suit upgrades abandoned on his table. He didn’t care as much about doing it in the open now - Harley hadn’t been up in the lab for a week, at least - so he was sure he was in the clear.

His brain felt sluggish, like someone had poured thick molasses through his thoughts. Mr. Stark kept the lab so cold all the time, and it made it hard to focus. He needed to reinforce parts of his suit, desperately. With the weirder and stronger grade tech floating around, the reinforced spandex wasn’t going to cut it. But trying to redesign his suit was so difficult.

 “Just put a jumper on,” came Tony’s disgruntled reply from across the room. He didn’t even bother lifting the welding goggles perched on his face as he worked.

Peter groaned again, louder this time, as if sheer volume would somehow warm him up. “What’re you even doing?” he asked when he realized that Mr. Stark was completely ignoring him, finally pushing away from his desk and trudging toward Tony. He stopped mid-step, his face lighting up as a wave of blissful warmth hit him. “Oh, it’s warm over here.”

“That would be because of the incredibly hot temperatures, yes,” Tony said flatly, finally taking off the goggles to level him with a stare. “And I’m working on upgrades for the nanotech compartments in the suit.” Peter leaned a little further into him to peer over his shoulder to blink down at the progress, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of what Tony was working on. Despit the fact that he was tired and frustrated at the fact that it felt like his brain wasn't working, he rarely got to see the inner workings of Tony’s suits up close. Past Peter would have died at the thought of this proximity. “What is it?” he asked, blinking down at the tech as if his sluggish mind might kick into gear with enough staring.

Tony finally slid his goggles up, leveling Peter with a stare. “Upgrades for the nanotech compartments,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Keeping it streamlined, flexible, blah blah blah. And yes, it’s warm. You’re welcome.”

“ You’re warm,” Peter muttered, leaning in closer without a second thought. His head lolled against Tony’s shoulder for a brief moment as he peered over at the tech. 

“I’m a completely normal temperature,” Tony deadpanned. “Not my fault you’ve got freaky anatomy.”

Peter ignored the jab, his thoughts briefly flicking to his own suit. Maybe he could use nanotech to reinforce the joints without messing up its flexibility. He squinted at the designs, mentally cataloging details and figuring out how much of the design he could borrow. Or steal. Both. Both was good. Maybe he could use it to prevent more of that weird hybrid tech from damaging his suit, too. He’d rather not get stabbed again, actually.

“But it’s cold,” he whined after a moment, brain finally kicking up a response although the words were muffled against Tony’s shoulder.

“Again, put a jumper on,” Tony shot back, gently nudging him upright.

Peter groaned dramatically, dragging himself back toward the desk to slump against it like a rag doll. “But they’re itchy ,” he moaned, his eyelids already drooping. He hated half of the sweaters he had. Sure, he was incredibly grateful for the clothes that Tony had paid for - he was ninety percent sure FRIDAY had bought them on his behalf - but sometimes wearing them was more miserable than not. And although Mr. Stark thought he was just being stubborn and would rather freeze, that wasn’t entirely right.

Any sort of sensory overload had always made him picky about what he wore - plain T-shirts were the best - but being cold all the time was a new kind of misery. Besides, Tony was warm, and Peter would rather stick to warm people than scratchy fabric any day.

He’d never admit that, though.

“I don’t want to. You should just turn up the heat, god knows you can afford it.”

Tony huffed, clearly unimpressed. “And enable you to be even more of a baby about room temperature? Not a chance, kid.”

Peter didn’t respond, already half-folded into himself as he stared over the stupid blueprints he’d abandoned as he blinked down at them with a frown. Maybe nanotech was the way to go. Maybe he’d have to re-do all of his plans for the suit. Ugh. The joints in his suit needed reinforcing, and while his previous designs weren’t bad, they didn’t hold up against the kind of hybrid tech circulating on the black market lately. Still, the thought of scrapping and redoing everything made his stomach twist. He rested his head against his arm, staring at the lines until they blurred.

He’d do it later. There was no rush.

—

The tap on his shoulder startled him so badly that he nearly fell out of his chair. “What the hell!” he yelped, snapping upright and clutching the schematics for his suit upgrades protectively to his chest. He spun around to come face to face with Harley, who merely raised an eyebrow in response. “Oh, it’s you.” 

What was the point of having a spidey sense if it didn’t work half of the time? What the hell? (Probably because it knew he wasn’t in any real danger. Either way, it annoyed Peter to no end.)

The other boy raised an eyebrow, looking entirely unrepentant. “What’re you doing?”

Peter squinted at him suspiciously. “I could ask you the same thing. What’re you doing here?”

“I’m allowed in the lab, aren’t I?” Harley shot back, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Peter frowned, folding the schematics and sliding them into a drawer in his desk while his shoulders relaxed a little. He didn’t need Harley getting too curious about what he was working on. “I didn’t say you weren’t,” he responded with a small frown. “You just, um… haven’t been up here much lately.”

“Yeah, well, all my stuff’s up here,” Harley said, shrugging. “Besides, I think Tony dipped to answer a phone call or something.”

It was only then that he noticed how quiet the lab was. Did he - did he fall asleep? Harley was right; Mr. Stark’s usual place was abandoned, and the man was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh,” he muttered, straightening a little in his chair and stretching, wincing at the crick in his neck for sleeping at his desk like an idiot. Served him right, he guessed.

He opened his mouth to ask Harley what the other boy was actually in here for, but the sound of the lab doors opening cut him off. Tony reappeared a moment later, stepping into the lab with a distracted air. His expression was… off. Not frowning or angry or anything like that, but like it was a carefully schooled neutrality. It reminded Peter of seeing Mr. Stark in interviews; unnatural. A little fake, too, but only If you looked hard enough.

The man did a did a double-take when he saw Harley, but didn’t comment - probably as to not accidentally push any buttons. Instead, he headed straight back for his workstation. “Did you finish your call?” Peter asked, watching him closely. There was a tension in his movements, his shoulders a little too stiff. Something was wrong. He had a bad feeling.

“Yeah,” Tony said shortly - like he was going for something casual but missing - fiddling with a piece of equipment that Peter couldn’t quite see. “Just boring business stuff.”

“Normally Pepper doesn’t bother you with boring business stuff,” Peter pointed out. “And you seem…”

“Weird,” Harley finished for him, crossing his arms. “You’re pulling a face.”

The man frowned, and Harley and Peter glanced at each other slowly. Something was definitely wrong, the feeling rising with each passing minute.  “I’m not pulling a face,” Tony muttered, not looking up.

“You are,” Peter countered immediately.

“You’re both ganging up on me!” Tony said, throwing up his hands in mock indignation, trying to change the subject in a way that was too obvious for Peter. Even Harley looked a little unimpressed.

The other boy narrowed his eyes. “You’re hiding stuff.”

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony waved them off, his tone slipping into that practiced nonchalance. “Just some problems at a storage facility. Pep’s on it. Don’t worry about it.”

The horrible sinking feeling in his stomach dropped further, because that sounded like a bigger deal than Tony was letting on. It sounded like a security breach and stolen tech and probably a bigger problem with the weapons dealers on the streets, too. He didn't think they kept anything too dangerous at somewhere that wasn't armed to the teeth, but the fact that there was a problem at all was... unnerving.

Peter exchanged an uneasy glance with Harley. He wanted to press, but he let it go for now even as the uneasy feeling in his chest refused to settle.

—

Peter couldn’t sleep.

It was currently two thirty-three in the morning, and he was staring up at the stars on his ceiling and mulling over what had been happening. He didn’t regret the weapons raid - even with the consequences that had followed it. (He tried not to think about the burned and mutilated man under his gloved fingertips as he’d webbed him up and left him for the police. He tried not to think about the people who’d died because he was too slow or stupid or impatient. He tried not to think of Ben that often, either.)

He was thinking about it even more than usual now, that usual sense of restlessness and uselessness itching under his skin because Mr. Stark was hiding stuff from him now. HammerTech and Oscorp were bad enough - old Stark weaponry was not something Peter wanted to add to the mix; but now some rogue gang probably had Stark tech on their hands, and wasn’t that an awful thought. Throwing stolen Stark tech into the mix felt like pouring gasoline onto an already blazing fire, and that was almost worse than the Chittari tech - because at least the people who were involved were horrified enough at the violence of it all.

Now, though, everything seemed to be snowballing before Peter could contain it all.

But he couldn’t do anything right now; he was still waiting for Karen’s report back on the suspicious guy and see where the shipments had ended up. They seemed to be changed over with different license plates at different stopovers, so it wasn't worth tracking them in person - they moved too fast and were way too easy to lose when they split into different vehicles.

Karen would figure it out. She always did, somehow. But for now, all he could do was wait. 

But that awful sense of helplessness sat heavy in his gut, and it was why after another hour or so of staring up at the ceiling he rolled out of bed and into resignedly made his way back down to the kitchen.

Natasha was there this time - and Peter would never say it out loud, but he was happy to see her.

She tilted her head in a wordless greeting, and Peter ducked past her to put the kettle on. Maybe he’d try some of Bruce’s tea. Maybe it’d finally help him sleep. As he waited for the kettle to boil he glanced around to see what he could tidy but it was for the most part clean. Which made sense, he supposed - he’d just done a pretty solid deep clean yesterday.

It was only after quietly stealing a teabag from the closet (while pointedly ignoring Natasha’s glittering eyes boring into his back), pouring himself a cup of steaming tea and settling in beside her that she actually spoke.

“You’re up to something.”

Peter only paused for a moment, the teaspoon clinking against the mug - but it was a moment too long. He forced himself to recover, resuming his stirring with a casual air he didn’t feel. “I’m always up to something,” he quipped, keeping his tone light.

How did she know? What the hell, seriously?

Her unimpressed expression said otherwise. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying him with those sharp, calculating eyes that could probably see straight through him. “Don’t bother denying it,” she said smoothly, tilting her head a little in a way that reminded him of a bird of prey. “You’ve got that look.”

Peter shrugged, keeping his focus on wiping down the already-clean counter. “Just restless,” he muttered, careful not to meet her gaze too long. The less she knew about the weapons trafficking, the better. The last thing he needed was another Avenger stepping in and making things messier, let alone telling Mr. Stark.

“You’re tense,” she eyed him, and he pointedly ignored her gaze while raising his mug to blow on it.

He just gave a loose shrug. “It’s been a long week,” he muttered, looking away. This was beginning to feel a lot less relaxing than he’d originally thought. Maybe it would be better to toss and turn upstairs than to be interrogated by a super-spy downstairs. At his tight-lipped responses, she didn’t push - but she didn’t back off either. Instead, she lingered, watching him work in silence. For a moment, Peter thought she might let it drop. Then she spoke again, her voice softer, almost hesitant - something he rarely saw from her. 

“Just…” she paused, something he hadn't seen her do often. She always seemed so sure of herself, of her words and posture and the way she carried herself. It seemed so well rehearsed and confident that it was odd to see her hesitate. “Be careful,” she finished after half a beat.

He looked up, meeting her gaze briefly. She held his gaze with something undecipherable there, because Natasha was nothing if not unreadable unless she wanted it to be. Peter just offered her a quick, lopsided grin, in a pitiful attempt at reassurance. “Always am,” he said lightly before excusing himself back to his room.

It was only when he was back in the safety of his room that he remembered he’d left his tea untouched on the counter.

Chapter Text

Harley slid into the seat beside Peter at the lunch table, his tray clattering onto the surface with little regard for the noise it made. “Don’t look now,” Harley muttered under his breath, leaning just close enough to nudge Peter with his elbow and nodding toward Flash’s flat glare from across the room. “But your secret admirer is staring again.”

“He’s not-” Peter started to protest, but Harley interrupted with a snort. Peter didn’t even to look to know who Harley was talking about - because it was obviously Flash who was sitting a few tables away, his tray untouched as he glared flatly in their direction. Peter could practically feel the hostility rolling off him. He groaned, keeping his head down as he poked at his food. “He’s not my secret admirer.”

“Oh, he totally is. Look at him. That’s pure longing.”

Peter made the mistake of glancing over, only to catch Flash’s gaze for a split second. The other boy’s expression immediately turned into something harder, more scathing. Peter quickly looked away, heat creeping up his neck. “He’s just… miserable, I guess.”

“Or jealous,” Harley said casually, shoving a fry into his mouth.

Peter sighed, “He’s just trying to figure out how to kill me in the most painful way possible, probably.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” Harley drawled, taking a loud bite of his sandwich. “You should let him know you’re into him soon, though. Loveboy’s putting me off my lunch.”

“I’m not-!” Peter choked, “I’m not interested in Flash! I don't like him!” MJ snorted from across the table, and Peter just glared at her in response.

Harley just blinked. “You do, though.”

“No, I don’t!” Peter said, his voice rising.

“Do so!” Harley shot back, smirking.

“Do not!”

“Do so!”

“Do! Not!”

In the midst of their argument, Harley leaned back and stretched his leg out just enough to nudge Peter’s shin with the toe of his boot. Peter barely dodged the follow-up kick, scrambling out of the way with a yelp. He toppled off his chair and landed on the floor with an unceremonious thud. “Oof!” Peter winced, rubbing his shoulder as Harley loomed over him with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Deserved,” Harley said smugly, holding out a hand to pull him up.

Peter reluctantly took the offered hand, glaring as he dusted himself off. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Harley replied brightly, already reaching into his pocket. “Wait until I-” Peter cut him off with a groan as he watched the other boy pull out a stick of mint gum with a grin.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna choke on that someday.”

“Better than listening to you whine all the time,” Harley retorted, popping the gum into his mouth and beginning to blow a bubble. Peter watched with growing horror as Harley reached for the rest of the packet, clearly intending to shove all of it into his mouth like a freak, what the hell? The bubble popped in Harley’s face, and Peter’s glare intensified. It was at that moment when he decided he would in fact definitely poison anything and eveything mint related in Harley’s room later on. Not enough to make him seriously sick, but enough for him to regret it.

He watched as Harley reached to grab another stick, and without thinking Peter snatched the rest of the packet right off Harley’s tray. In one defiant motion, he shoved a handful of gum into his own mouth, chewing aggressively as he locked eyes with a stunned Harley. With an exaggerated gulp, Peter swallowed it all in one go.

The reaction was immediate.

Peter’s eyes went wide as his throat seized up, his face flushing red. He began coughing violently, the sound drawing attention from nearby tables. Harley’s jaw dropped as Peter stood abruptly, clutching his throat.

“Dude!” Harley shouted, half-panicked and half-incredulous as Ned let out a concerned shout and MJ let out a panicked noise that he hadn’t heard from her before. “What is wrong with you?”

Peter didn’t respond, instead stumbling toward the bathrooms, his coughing intensifying with each step. Harley remained at the table, too stunned to follow, as Peter disappeared through the door. Once he stumbled inside the bathrooms, eyes still watering he clung to the sink, sputtering and heaving until the offending gum finally dislodged itself. He barely made it to one of the stalls before throwing up.

“What the hell is wrong with you, man?” came Ned’s familiar voice, concerned but also more than a little pissed off. “You good? Do I need to call Mr. Stark and tell him that you're-?”

Peter groaned weakly in response, taking another minute or two before he finally emerged. Ned stood nearby, his expression equal parts concerned and disgusted. Ned threw him a wad of paper towels at him when Peter finally opened the doors, pale and clammy. “What’s with you and Harley?” the other boy asked. “You’re getting… not closer, but tolerating each other a little more. Aside from trying to kill yourself via menthol.”

“Eh,” Peter shrugged weakly, leaning over the sink to splash his face with water. Then, to Ned’s horror, he leaned down and drank straight from the tap to get the taste of bile out of his mouth.

“Dude, ew!” Ned exclaimed, recoiling.

Peter snorted. “If this scares you, you’d be horrified at some of the shit I pulled last year then, man. And yeah, he’s kinda growing on me. Like a weird, ugly teddy bear or something. I dunno,” he paused, ignoring the fact that his mouth still burned like hellfire. "He's... not as annoying. I mean, he is, but he's like less of a screaming baby and more an annoying four year old that wants your phone now."

Ned snorted, pausing when his phone buzzed suddenly. The other boy dug into his pocket before he frowned at the screen, his brow furrowing. “What’s that?” Peter asked, wiping his face with the towel.

“Okay dude,” Ned hesitated, voice lowering in a way that raised Peter's blood pressure. “Don't freak out.”

“Why would I freak out?” he asked, straightening as panic locked into his joints, “what happened? Ned?” The other boy passed his phone over, the headline enough to make Peter's stomach sink into something awful. The title flashes across the screen and Peter slowly takes the phone from him: Gang wars escalate with stolen tech: shoot out leaves innocents caught in crossfire with fatalities rising.

Peter’s stomach dropped, all traces of previous humor evaporating. He stared at the screen, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He waited too long.

Peter’s fists clenched, his mind already spinning with what he’d have to do next. Whatever progress they’d made that day didn’t matter now - not when the consequences of his hesitation were staring him in the face.

“Peter,” Ned started, but he couldn't look the other boy in the eye.

“It's okay,” he muttered. It wasn't. Nothing about this was okay. He needed to fix it.

He would.

—

Peter pulled open the drawer in his bedside table, his fingers brushing past an assortment of odd trinkets and scattered sketches until he found the granola bar, slightly squished but still edible. He unwrapped it mechanically, despite still feeling a little sick from earlier.

He thought he’d moved past the food stashes, the late-night hunger pangs, the instinct to hoard whatever he could. But here he was, chewing on a granola bar he’d hidden away weeks ago like it was some kind of lifeline. He shoved the wrapper into his pocket, rubbing at his face to clear his thoughts. He didn’t have time for this - didn’t have time for stakeouts, or hesitation, or any of the endless second-guessing that had been spiraling in his head. Karen had narrowed down the most likely time and place for the next shipment, and it was up to him to deal with it. He needed to focus.

He needed to go, and soon.

He hadn’t meant to let things get this bad. People had died - and it had been his fault. He’d waited too long. He’d gotten an ego. He’d waited for the results of his AI’s stakeout instead of acting. There was blood on his hands.

He could have made a difference.

Before he leaves, he grasps the powder baggie that was lying in his bedside drawer and holds it up to his face. He'd saved it for Harley: enough to make him sick, but not enough to hurt him. He knocked on Harley’s door, and after no answer slid inside to raid his stash. Cookie crumbs scattered across the desk, and the boxes were in his drawer. “Let’s see how you like going mint-free for a while,” he muttered under his breath, shaking some of the powder inside and shoving the container back into place.

With that petty victory secured, Peter suited up and slipped out into the night.

—

Karen pinged the location to Peter’s HUD as he swung across the city, his body moving on autopilot. The intel was solid: a shipment linked to Diamondback - or Stryker, or whatever his name was - was scheduled to go down soon. Worse, the weapons being moved weren’t just small-time - this was tech sourced straight from Hammer Industries and it was actively killing people. Peter’s stomach churned at the thought, but he pushed it aside. Focus.

He jumped onto the roof of the truck filled with stolen tech, crouching low as the engine started. Besides, Karen had only managed to track them so far; the locations differed each time. The best way to do this was letting them bring him with the tech.

When the truck finally arrived to it's location (a stereotypical dingy plot of land), he slid down and webbed the driver to the steering wheel and seat, covering his face and mouth. He made sure to twist the metal locks on the truck shut so they couldn’t force it open, either, before he silently crawled up to the roof of the warehouse. A group of armed men loitered below  - Karen highlighted their positions in soft red outlines on his HUD - as they gradually made their way out into the open space at the sound of the vehicle’s arrival.

Another man trailed behind them, but he looked different from the surrounding men. He was wearing a suit; nothing fancy, but not tactical bodyguard-type gear that the surrounding men had on. He looked important.

One of the men approached the car, before rearing back at the sight of the driver webbed to the car. “Boss!” the man called, “there’s someone here!”

The men straightened, guns aiming up in each direction. The warehouse was dimly lit, the low light silhouetting the street with the faint hum of machinery echoing in the background. Crates of weapons were stacked haphazardly along the walls front of the building while others moved them inside.

“Well, well, Spider-Man,” the suited man drawled, turning to face him once they inevitably catch sight of him. Peter assumed that the man - the boss, whoever he was - was Stryker. Diamondback. The guy who was running at least a section of the turf war going on. “You’ve got guts showing up here.”

“Yeah, and you’ve got terrible taste in weapons suppliers,” Peter shot back, dodging the first round of gunfire. After another moment, he launched himself off the roof and swung around a lamp post, knocking a few men and sending their weapons scattering. He moved fast, webbing one thug to a crate and disarming another with a swift kick. But the moment his web connected with one of the weapons, an electric jolt surged through his suit, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“That’s new,” Peter wheezed, shaking his head to clear the stars dancing in his vision.

The man holding the weapon laughed, hefting one of the modified weapons. “Like it? Your old boss left some real nice toys lying around, Spider-Man.”

Peter’s Spidey sense flared, giving him just enough time to duck as a plasma bolt sizzled past his head, melting a hole in the wall behind him. Another one fired off and heat singed his suit, the edges curling and fusing to his skin. A strangled shout escaped him as white-hot pain seared his side.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed out, swinging around to face Stryker. The man was grinning, the gun resting on his hip. It looked… familiar. Peter’s stomach sank.

“My databases likely show that it’s one of Mr. Stark’s previous repulser models, although I’m not sure how they have access to it, Peter.” Shit shit shit shit-

“Definitely not a fan,” he gritted out in response to the man, webbing the weapon from the his hands and swinging it across the room. He could still feel his skin sizzling from where the blast had hit him, and he’d never regretted not taking a closer look at Mr. Stark’s blasters than he had at this moment.

He ducked again, his spidey sense blaring, ducking out of the way and narrowly avoiding the butt of a gun aimed at his head - only to have another man swing and a solid thunk as the weapon collided with his head.

His sense blared again, but it wasn’t as precise; it was loud and warning but Peter couldn’t tell where it was coming from. His head ached and he ducked but missing as white-hot pain grazed his side, just above his hip as he grunted, biting down hard on his inner cheek to stifle a pained shout. Each warning was hazy, imprecise. He stumbled, and pain flared in his hip as another plasma shot grazed him.

“Peter!” Karen called, but her voice sounded like it was underwater. “I strongly recommend-” her voice cut off, and copper filled his mouth as he bit down hard to stifle a pained shout. His vision blurred, but he forced himself to move, swinging around and webbing the man behind him. Everything was getting hazier and darkening around the edges. All he could focus on was the men in front of him.

They were going down, though. Slowly, but it was working.

He webbed one of the crates, flinging it and knocking Stryker flat. The man let out a startled cry, but Peter kept moving and securing him tightly to the brick wall behind him. His sense screamed one last time, but he ignored it, too focused on making sure the man couldn’t move, because if he got away this would all be in vain, and those people would have died for nothing-

Then, a shot seared through his back.

Peter acted on instinct, tearing away from Stryker and launching the man holding whatever it was that had shot him through the nearest wall. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt, vision darkening around the edges and pain pulsing through his chest.

“Peter!” Karen’s voice crackled through his HUD, distant and distorted. “I strongly recommend retreating and receiving medical intervention. Your suit shows-”

“It’s fine, Karen,” Peter snapped, cutting her off as the searing agony tore through his lower back when he shifted too quickly. He would feel bad for snapping at her if he wasn't so high-strung. “Make sure the authorities get here, please.”

He took one final moment to glance around, hazy and tired and vision blurring - but no one was moving and everyone who was was restrained under layers and layers of thickened webs. He needed to get out of here. “Just… make sure the authorities get here, okay?”

There was a pause, then her hesitant response. “...If you say so, Peter.” He let out a shaky breath, shifting on his feet and sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth at the pain. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. His work here was done. 

Peter scrambled up the side of the building, scaling it with trembling limbs before crawling onto the open rooftops. His side burned, the wound raw and oozing beneath the torn, melted edges of his suit. This wasn’t his first gunshot wound - or even his first plasma burn - but it hurt just the same.

Looking around, he realized with a start that he didn’t even know where he was. The sight of old warehouse blocks was somewhat familiar, but he recognized none of the surroundings. This didn’t even look like the right side of town.

His side burned. This wasn't his first puncture wound - it wasn't even his first gunshot wound, but it hurt just the same. He let out a hiss as he glanced down at the torn material of the suit, one of the edges half burned and melted from whatever plasma energy type weapon Stryker had fired.

 He would be fine. Everything would be fine. 

He crawled away across the rooftops, sucking in ragged breaths, ducking into the shadows as the sirens closed in below. But as he crawled farther into the night, each movement sent fresh spikes of pain shooting through his body. 

Deep down, he wasn’t so sure this time.

—

By the time the tower came back into sight, Peter was half-convinced that he was actually going to die. Not really. But maybe. The whole city seemed to be tilted and blurry, the lights blending into each other. He didn’t even remember the trip back - awareness only greeting him the moment the tower came into view. Each breath came in shallow gasps, nausea rolling through his gut in sickening waves.

“I’d strongly recommend medical attention,” Karen’s voice echoed in his ears for the seventh time, but now it sounded mumbled and underwater.

“Thanks,” he slurred back as he scaled the building, groaning through his teeth at the movement. Fuck, his back was killing him. He wasn’t… aware enough to fix this himself, right now. He wasn't sure how he was going to fix the half-melted suit that had melded to his side. He also didn’t particularly like the idea of waking up with a bullet wound healed over, either.

He needed help. The thought brought a new wave of misery; because he really was pathetic. He couldn’t do anything himself anymore, even with his fancy new reinforced suit and-

-and it was his fault. He’d waited too long. He’d let Stark Industries get broken into in the first place.

Ignoring the exhausted tears that burned the corner of his eyes as he reached up again. Just two more floors, he thought half desperately.

By the time he hauls himself up, head knocking against the window, he’s exhausted. He pressed his forehead against the thickened glass panes to catch his breath - barely hesitating for another second - before he tugged the window open so hard it almost broke.

Peter didn’t realize where he was heading until he landed on Harley’s bed with a painful thud, his limbs weak and uncoordinated.

“What the-?!” Harley cried, flailing under Peter’s weight as the other boy groaned, barely conscious.

“Don’ scream,” Peter muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow he was half-smothering himself on. “Hurts my head.”

“Spider-Man?!” Harley shoved him off, his face pale as he took in the blood-soaking Peter’s suit. “What the hell, dude?!”

Peter winced, clutching his side as he sat up and let out a ragged breath. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted, his voice faint and trying to ignore the fact that the world was spinning even as he lay flat. “I,” he paused, eyes sliding shut, “I think I need some help.”

 Harley froze at that, torn between panic and concern. “You’re bleeding everywhere! What happened?”

Peter waved a shaky hand. “Fight,” he breathed before wincing at the movement.

“What?” Harley blurted, shooting upright, “Jesus, dude, I - oh my god.” Harley’s hands hovered over him, unsure what to do or how to help without making everything worse. Peter might have pitied him if he wasn’t in so much pain. “This is insane. You’re insane. Why didn’t you go to the Medbay?!”

Peter let out a miserable noise.

“Okay,” Harley breathed, a frantic hand tearing through his hair, “Okay, can you move? Can you get to the bathroom?”

“Ugh,” Peter said eloquently, one hand moving to prop himself up before letting out a pained cry. Harley paused, frowning, before stepping a little bit closer.

“I’m - I’m gonna help you up, okay?” 

“No, I-” Peter tried to shake his head, but the movement made him nauseous. He tried to sit up; to move himself - he didn’t need help walking - but his whole body was enveloped in a fresh wave of agony. 

After a few moments of ragged breathing, Harley’s tense voice finally filtered back into Peter’s awareness. “-ell me if you want me to stop.” An arm slowly slid across his shoulders while cautiously avoiding his lower back, which, thank god, he might actually cry if Harley jabbed him accidentally. It took a moment, Peter gritting his teeth as Harley helped him off the bed and they hobbled to the bathroom.

Each movement jostled the bullet or whatever was embedded in the muscle of his back; it wasn’t deep into his stomach and hadn’t hit any major organs - he hoped - but it still really, really hurt.

Harley flicked on the light as they made their way in, Peter wincing at the bright light before sliding down to the space on the floor in between the cabinets and the shower wall. Harley turned, squinting to try to figure out what needed fixing first. “You look… awful,” he said.

“Thanks,” Peter muttered under the mask, pulling it up just under his nose to suck in ragged breaths. Everything seemed to hurt more, now that the adrenaline was wearing off and he wasn’t scaling a hundred-floor building. “Please tell me you have dental floss,” he slurred a little desperately. If he couldn’t get this wound to stop bleeding soon then it might actually be a real problem.

“I do,” Harley said, digging through the drawers under the sink as Peter watched sluggishly. “But I had a bad feeling so I bought actual stitches, too.”

He reached up to press the spider symbol on his chest, suit loosening and pooling around his hips - except for the area of the suit that had been hit by the energy blast, still tacky and half-melted into his side. He didn’t want to look down. It was stupid, but he didn't want to see the wound, despite the fact that he could feel the blood slick across his side. Harley let out a sharp gasp at the sight of the old twisted scar across his other side - or maybe the amount of blood across his stomach, too, but Peter just shut his eyes a little tighter in response.

Harley slid down in front of him, his hands trembling slightly. “Okay,” he breathed, trying to squash the shake in his voice. “Okay. How do I… what do I do? Should I get Peter? Should I - I can’t do this on my own,” Harley hissed, voice rising.

“Don’t,” he gritted out sharply. 

“Why not?” the other boy asked a little hysterically. “Did you guys fight? I thought he helped you with this!”

“No, we - I don't know!” Peter hissed, too tired to think as the blood loss sluggishly drained his ability to string together sentences. “I got it,” he forced out through gritted teeth. “D’you have the…” He trailed off as Harley passed him the stitches pack that Peter assumed he’d taken from the Medbay.

With trembling hands he tried and failed to thread the needle, pain radiating through him. Please, he begged some higher power. Please let me get this thread through this hole for the love of god. By the time he finally does, after several failed attempts from shaky hands and blurry vision, he could have cried in relief. He took a quick breath before peeling the tattered suit off his side. He let out a strangled moan as the still-hot fabric came away and the sticky, torn, and burned skin came into view while firmly pressing down on the wound that had grazed his hip. It wasn’t too deep, but it hurt. And it was bleeding. A lot.

It took another few moments before he finally worked up the courage to press the needle to his skin; it was difficult because it was burned and thin - but he needed to go deeper to close the wound properly. If it was too shallow, the sutures would tear, and it would be worse than when he'd begun.

He tried to will his shaky hands away - he grasped at the edge of the torn skin and pushed the needle in, resisting the urge to cry again and ignoring the tears in his eyes. He wanted to gag - his head was killing him and he was nauseous and tired and - 

“Stop,” Harley interrupted, voice weak as he moved to steady Peter's hands a little. “Stop it. You’re not - you’re shaking too much.”

“I need to stitch it up,” he said miserably, not even caring how pathetic he sounds now. He was too tired to stop his voice from warbling or fix the tremor in his hands.

Harley tensed, mouth twisting before he sucked in a breath. “I can do it.”  

Slowly, Harley took the needle and thread. Peter tilted his head back, knocking against the wall behind him and screwing his eyes shut at the sound of the other boy shifting in front of him. There were cold hands on his stomach and he froze, trying to stay still and breathe.

He sucked in a sharp breath as Harley worked, wincing a little and eyes screwing tighter as needle pierced skin.

“Sorry, sorry,” Harley hissed, sounding just as tense as Peter felt. “Shit, sorry-”

“S’okay,” he murmured, fists clenching by his sides until the hands retreated.

After the stitches were finished, there was a blissful moment of soft bandages being pressed to his stomach and wrapped in place. He exhaled slowly, eyes still shut as he savoured in the feeling of there no longer being a needle in him. “Anything else?” Harley asked faintly, his eyes flicking to Peter’s pale, clammy face under the mask with bloodied hands.

“I got shot,” Peter said lightly, head tilting back to rest on the cabinet behind him, eyes sliding shut as if that would help the throbbing pain in his side dissipate.

Harley’s hands froze. “You got what?”

“Bullet. In my lower back,” he gasped out as he shifted slightly.

“Fuck,” Harley hissed out. “Let me see. I don’t - I don’t know how to fix a bullet wound! I should call Tony, he’d know what to-”

“Don’t,” Peter said, strangled. He’s pale and shaky and he's actually going to die but Mr. Stark will hate him more if he found out about this. He couldn't let Mr. Stark find out. He couldn’t. “I can do it. Pass me-” he waved a shaky hand to the cluttered countertop.

Harley let out a noise after seeing what he was pointing to. “The tweezers?” He let out a miserable sound but reached for them nonetheless and dropped them into Peter’s shaky hand. 

“It’ll be fine,” he muttered, taking a couple of quick breaths to prepare himself. Slowly, he felt his way around his lower back - it had missed his spine, thank god - and tensed up as his fingers brushed the entry wound. 

He continued to sluggishly bleed. With trembling hands, he peeled off the blood-soaked suit until he was hunched over, both hands behind him; one tweezer-clad, the other braced against his back.

He hesitates again, taking a few breaths as Harley stares at him, horrified. Peter looks up at him for a moment, trying to ignore the miserable pinpricks of tears that tug on the corners of his eyes but thankful that they’re hidden by the mask. He hated this part. “Can you-” he started, glancing up at Harley, “can you pass me the towels?”

After a moment, Harley does. Peter shoves one behind his back, and another in his mouth to stop him from biting off his own tongue.

Then, he began.

It’s awful - the tweezers aren’t even cold anymore because he’d been gripping them so tightly for so long - and there’s only an awful horrible sense of burning pain. He couldn’t keep going like this - it needed to come out. Peter tried to calm his breathing to a semi-normal pattern as he watched the blood seep around the fresh bandaging of his stomach. His fingers readjusted themselves, he took another sharp breath before looking away when another wave of nausea washed over him.

Okay. Deep breaths.

Peter sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, his trembling fingers brushing against the lodged bullet. It sent a jolt of pain through his back that made his vision swim, and for a split second, he considered leaving it where it was. But he knew better. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself.

He cried out once he brushes the bullet, breathing in sharply through his nose - before firmly grasping it and yanking.

Onetwothree -

The bullet came free with a sickening tug, and Peter’s muffled cry tore through the room. His vision darkened at the edges as he bit down hard on the wad of fabric stuffed into his mouth, the pain sharp enough to momentarily knock the air out of his lungs. His eyes are watering and if he moves an inch he’s going to be sick but it was out. Harley looked pale and a little sick at the sound of the bullet dropping onto the tiles and Peter sagged against the shower wall, barely holding himself upright. His breathing was shallow, and his hands trembled as he clutched at his spandex-covered thighs.

He dropped the tweezers and bullet down to the tiles with a metallic clink, a sound far too small for the sheer agony it had caused. Peter sagged against the wall, his breathing shallow as he tried to ground himself. Harley looked horrified. 

“That’s-” Harley’s voice cracked. “Those are my tweezers. I’m never going to look at them the same way again. Now I have to get new ones.”

Peter let out a weak, almost delirious laugh, his body trembling as the adrenaline started to fade. “They’ll still work,” he muttered, resting his forehead against the cool tile. He could never move again and he’d be fine. “I’ve used Mr. Stark’s more than once.”

Harley stared at him, horrified. “What.”

“What?” Peter blinked.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by Peter’s uneven breathing. Harley shifted eventually, his voice quieter now. “Can you move?” He asked quietly. “I should bandage your back.”

Peter barely moved to shake his head but a wave of nausea hit him at the movement. He didn’t even want to try to move right now. His limbs felt like lead. He shook his head faintly.

Harley sighed and got to work as he moved behind him; Peter rested with his side leaning up against the cabinets. The feeling of soft hands and butterfly stitches taping the wound shut so carefully that in his blood-loss-fueled delusion, it almost reminded him of May bandaging his scraped knees, of home and the overwhelming relief made him want to sob. Then horrifyingly, he felt his eyes begin to water. The world melted around him through the mask, Harley’s form blurred and he was so tired that he couldn’t find it in himself to stifle a sob. He brought a tired hand to wipe at his eyes, his blood-smeared hand pawing at his mask as he hiccuped.

“Hey, whoa, don’t-” Harley paused mid-bandage, his voice tinged with panic. “Don’t cry, okay? You’re fine, you’re not - oh, god, you’re bleeding everywhere, stop moving.”

Peter’s laugh was watery, a shaky exhale that sounded more like a sob. He let Harley finish, and when the last bandage was taped down, the two of them sank into silence.

“You’re really messed up,” Harley murmured finally, his voice softer now but it made Peter want to let out a miserable snort all the same.  “You should stay here tonight. You can’t... you can’t swing around like this, man.”

Peter nodded weakly, eyes fluttering shut and his head lolling back against the cabinet. The cool surface pressed into his skin, grounding him just enough to stave off the overwhelming haze threatening to pull him under. His time in the tower had made him soft. It had dulled his edge; he wasn’t used to this anymore - the real, visceral fear that pulsed through his veins like a living thing. For the first time in a long time, he’d been genuinely terrified that he might not make it. He’s been so close to dying - to actually, really dying that it really scared him.

And now, sitting here in Harley’s bathroom, pale and shaky and barely clinging to consciousness, he realized just how close he’d come.

“Crash here,” Harley suggested softly, breaking the silence. Peter doesn’t want to admit it, but… it sounded nice. The dim yellow light overhead flickered slightly, casting their shadows unevenly against the tiled walls. Harley shifted where he sat, but his presence alone made him feel better. He couldn’t imagine stitching himself up and cleaning the bathroom before bed alone; the thought alone made him want to keel over. “You can take the bed,” Harley continued, his tone casual but edged with concern. “I’m not gonna like... take your mask off while you sleep or anything.”

Peter cracked open an unamused eye - he doubted Harley could see it under the mask, but he assumed Harley felt the vibe shift all the same. “That’s - not what I meant,” he rushed to clarify, his words tripping over themselves. “I meant like, if I wanted to take off your mask, I’d have done it when you were bleeding out and helpless…?”

“Are you stupid?” Peter croaked a laugh, his voice cracked and thin despite the grin that crossed his face.

“I’m-!” Harley cuts himself off with an exasperated huff before standing abruptly, rinsing his hands under the tap to remove the drying blood and unconsciously running a hand through his hair. “Don’t move. I’m gonna go get un-bloody sheets.”

The bathroom door creaked open, then clicked shut behind him. Peter tilted his head, listening as Harley’s footsteps padded down the hall, muffled by the walls. The faint hum of the air conditioning filled the silence; the quiet was calming, giving him a moment to catch his breath and will the shaking in his hands to stop.

Then the door opened again - although instead of one set of footsteps, there were two - Peter’s stomach plummeted at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Harley, hey, could I talk to you?”

Peter froze, his heart hammering against his ribs as he frantically pulled himself further into the shadows of the bathroom. The bloodied towels on the counter and the faint, metallic scent of copper hanging in the air made him feel dangerously exposed.

“Not really the time…” Harley muttered, his tone clipped but not angry.

“You’re up,” Tony said after a pause. “Are you… changing your sheets?”

“Yeah,” Harley replied quickly, the tension in his voice noticeable even through the walls; his voice was higher than usual, strained. Peter could almost picture him standing in the hallway, awkwardly holding the clean sheets, his back stiff and his expression guarded. “They’re just. Dirty.”

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable.

“I just wanted to apologize,” Tony began softly. His voice was quieter now, but Peter heard it all the same despite his heart hammering in his ears. “I know you’re upset with me, and… that’s fair. I didn’t handle any of it well. I was stressed, and - that’s no excuse.”

“It’s fine,” Harley said, his tone strained.

“No, it’s not.” Tony’s sigh was audible, heavy with regret. The faint scrape of his shoes against the hardwood floor filled the pause. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you what was going on. I still can’t, but I… I care about you.”

“Tony,” Harley interrupted, his voice tight.

“No, I do!” Tony insisted, his tone picking up slightly, like he was trying to push through the awkwardness. “And I never say it enough because I’m not great at talking, but I don’t want to fight. I-”

“We’re not fighting,” Harley cut in again, his tone weary and quiet now. “I’m sorry too. I’m just tired. Can I… are you done?”

“Yeah.” Tony hesitated, the weight of his silence pressing through the thin walls. “I just… are we okay?”

“Peachy,” Harley replied, his sarcasm thinly veiled by exhaustion.

“You sure?”

“It’s okay,” Harley said again, this time more firmly. Peter could picture him shifting awkwardly, trying to hold his ground. “I’m just… tired. Not feeling good right now.”

“Okay,” Tony murmured, sounding reluctant. “I’ll… leave you to it.” The door clicked shut again, and Peter exhaled the breath he’d been holding, his body sagging further against the cabinet.

Moments later, Harley reappeared, fresh sheets in hand. He didn’t say much - or maybe Peter didn't really process it as the world melted together and darkened around the edges. The boy just kneeled before him, gingerly wrapping an arm around his waist and lifting. It took a moment for him to let go of his iron-clad grip on the countertop before leaning into Harley as he limped out of the bathroom. A second later, the other boy helped Peter into the bed, his movements gentler than he would have expected.

Peter knew Harley was still moving around somewhere across the room, but as soon as his head hit the pillow exhaustion finally dragging him under as the distant sounds of the house melted away.

Chapter Text

Peter stirred groggily, the faint light streaming through the window causing him to squint. His body ached all over, but for once, he didn’t feel like he was actively falling apart. He took in a slow breath before the mass underneath him shifted, and Peter jerked with the realization that he wasn’t alone.

He shifted back, glancing up and meeting Harley’s exhausted face. Peter swallowed, “Did I stay here the whole night? What-”

He was sprawled on top of Harley. What the fuck.

“You wouldn’t let go,” Harley muttered, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks as he fiddled with the edge of the blanket. His tone was almost defensive, but Peter didn’t miss the flicker of amusement beneath it.

Peter blinked, glancing down to see his hand gripping Harley’s hoodie. He let go immediately, his own face heating up. “Sorry,” he mumbled, but can’t bring himself to make any effort to move away. “You’re warm, and… I don’t thermoregulate well.”

Harley rolled his eyes, though his lips twitched into a smirk. “Nah, it’s fine. Mr. Stark probably thinks I pissed myself or something after creeping around to raid the linen closet at two a.m. Totally worth it.”

Peter snorted at the mental image, the sound easing some of the tension in the room.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward, just heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, Harley broke it.

“So… what happened? Do you wanna talk about it?”

Peter closed his eyes, grimacing. He didn’t want to think about last night - the flash of sizzling pain, the half-wild movement of flinging a man through a wall - but Harley deserved an explanation at the very least.  “It was… a weapons deal went bad,” he started, his voice low and raw. “I think I managed to get one of the gang leaders taken out, but… I think I killed a man.”

Harley froze, his breath catching audibly. “What?”

“I-” Peter’s voice cracked, and he shook his head, his fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket. He could feel his chest tightening, teeth clamping down on his inner cheek. “It got so out of control, and-”

“Spider-Man-”

“He shot me, I think. I just… acted . I didn’t mean to. I never wanted -”

“Hey,” Harley interrupted gently, his voice firm but not harsh. “I know. I trust you.”

Peter felt tears sting his eyes and didn’t bother to hide them as they slipped down his cheeks, though they were hidden by the mask. “Sorry,” he choked out, swiping at his face.

He didn’t know why he was crying so much. Maybe it was just the stress of the last couple of weeks building up and overflowing. Maybe it was the genuine fear of dying last night, the pain and fear and everything that came with it. It felt like his exhaustion boiling over. It felt like everything was spiralling out of control.

Harley waved it off, his expression softening. “Are you feeling a little better? Other than, y’know.” He gestured vaguely to Peter’s general state of disrepair.

“I’m not bleeding out anymore,” Peter said weakly, managing a small, wry smile.

“So less bad,” Harley replied with a faint grin. “I’ll take that win.”

They lapsed into silence again, Peter’s head unconsciously resting against Harley’s collarbone. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Harley’s breathing, and it was oddly… grounding. Maybe it was the pattern, like counting each breath. It was relaxing nonetheless, and after a minute he felt the tension in his shoulders unwind again.

But then, panic jolted him awake. “Shit, what time-” Peter shot upright, instantly regretting it as a strangled moan escaped his lips. Pain flared through his side, making him clutch at his stitches.

“Stop! What’s wrong with you?” Harley snapped, pushing him back down with surprising care. “You’re gonna tear your stitches, idiot.”

Peter winced, letting Harley guide him back into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Uh…” he leaned over to grasp at a phone lying on his bedside table. “…nine? Why?”

Peter froze, his mind catching up. It was Saturday. Relief washed over him, though he masked it quickly. “I should go,” he said instead, already brushing a hand against his face. The thick fabric of his mask was still rolled up over his mouth but hadn’t been pulled up any further. The warmth in his chest returned.

“Are you sure?” Harley asked skeptically. “Can you, like… move properly? Please don’t fall out of my window. I might actually cry.”

“I won’t,” Peter chuckled faintly, dragging the rest of the mask back down over his face and forcing himself to move out of the bed. “Thank you,” he said softly, pausing by the window. “I, um… I really owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” Harley replied, his grin crooked and lopsided. His hair stuck up in odd directions, and the dark circles under his eyes made Peter feel a little bad for stressing him out and keeping him up so late.

He hesitated for a moment, then climbed out the window, his movements slow and deliberate. The chill of the morning air bit at his skin, but he didn’t stop until he was back in his own room.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Once he pulled his own window open again and slunk inside, he was about ready to crash. But despite the immediate urge to crawl back into his own bed and never move again, he forced himself to get up and shower. 

It was awful. He had to gingerly unwrap the layers of bandages, wincing at the still singed flesh and deep ache of his back whenever he shifted too quickly. The water was too cold, but if it was anything above room temperature his sides burned.

By the time it was over - bandages re-wrapped and freshly sterilized - Peter sat on the edge of his bed, water dripping from his damp hair and soaking into the collar of one of the three oversized hoodies he’d pulled on. He did feel a little better, but an aching weight pressed down on his chest and a larger part of him demanded he curl up and let the world spin on without him. 

Still, his stomach had other plans, twisting and gnawing with a ravenous hunger that refused to be ignored.

He rubbed at his eyes, the skin under them tender and raw, before shoving himself to his feet. Everything felt so far away, and by the time he reached the fridge he was already leaning against the counter for support.

Peter grabbed the first thing he could find - a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter - and ate standing there in the kitchen, barely bothering with a knife. The simple act of eating, the steady rhythm of chewing despite the nausea that rolled through Peter grounded him slightly, though it didn’t stop the jittery panic bubbling beneath the surface. It felt like a long-buried instinct now, a leftover from his time in the warehouse with his body hoarding every calorie like it might be the last.

He needed to eat, sleep, heal. In that order. Now that he had easy access to food without dumpster diving, he was going to gorge himself even if he felt like it was going to make him sick.

Once the worst of the hunger faded, exhaustion threaded itself through his muscles and dragged him down. He shuffled to the couch, and dropped down onto it. He’d move back to his room in a minute. He just needed to sit down, he thought as he sank into it with a sigh.

He sprawled out, limbs dangling off the edges and his hood pulled halfway over his face. Just for a minute.

—

Harley was exhausted.

His limbs felt like lead, and his head buzzed with the static of too little sleep and too much adrenaline. He slumped back against his bed, staring at his hands. They were still faintly stained, the creases of his knuckles betraying the evidence of his late-night panic.

For a terrifying moment, he'd genuinely thought Spider-Man was actually going to die in his bathroom. He wasn't a doctor. Hell, his medical expertise was based off of binge-watching House MD a couple of years ago. That was not, as it turned out, a reliable guide for stitching up a bullet wound.

The memory made his stomach churn. The vigilante’s blood had been slick and warm on his hands, soaking into his clothes and staining the floor tiles. Harley scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake the image loose. God, what had he gotten himself into? He’d patched him up as best as he could, but what if it wasn’t enough? What if something went wrong while he was making his way home? What if he was dying in an alleyway somewhere?

And that scar on his side. It was horrible; and sure, it was healed, but Harley didn’t even want to think about what caused it.

Ugh.

After an hour of staring into the ceiling and trying not to think too hard about what it felt like to have the vigilante’s arms wind around his waist and his head on Harley’s collarbone in an exhausted state, Harley dragged himself to his feet. 

Reluctantly, he shuffled toward the kitchen, telling himself that food would help, even if nothing else seemed to. But when he made his way out to the kitchen, he saw a leg dangling over the edge of the sofa. He moved forward, only to see Peter sprawled out on the couch, a tangled heap of limbs swallowed by baggy sweatpants and an oversized hoodie. His face was mostly obscured by the fabric of his clothes, only the curve of his jaw and a few stray curls peeking out. He looked... peaceful.

He moved away with a sigh, going to raid the kitchen. But before he left he glanced back at the sound of shuffling on the couch. Moving closer again, Peter had tucked into some new, impossibly awkward-looking position like a cat with no concept of personal space or comfort. 

Harley should probably wake him up. His neck was folded over in a way that couldn’t be good for him. He’d wake up feeling miserable. 

He let out a tired noise. It’d be the good thing to do.

“Hey, Peter,” he said softly, waiting for any kind of reaction. Nothing. Harley rolled his eyes and leaned closer, poking Peter’s arm. “Dude, wake up. You’re sleeping like a freak. You’re gonna destroy your-”

The next thing Harley knew, he was airborne. A loud, startled yelp escaped him as he was flipped clean over the back of the sofa. He hit the ground with a thud, and before he could even process what had just happened, Peter was on top of him, pinning him to the floor with a hand pressed firmly against his chest. His face was pinched like he’d pulled a muscle or something, but Harley couldn’t care because he was currently being pressed into the floor.

“What the hell ?” Harley snapped, his voice cracking with shock.

Peter blinked down at him, dazed and still half-asleep though his face was scrunched with something that Harley couldn’t read. “Uh… you…” He scrambled for an excuse, his face heating with embarrassment. “You scared me?”

“That’s not scared ! That’s ninja assassin moves! What the hell was that ?” Harley sputtered, trying to sit up, only for Peter’s hand to instinctively press him back down.

“I did gymnastics when I was a kid?” Peter offered weakly, finally letting Harley go and scrambling back to put some space between them.

Harley sat up, glaring at him. “They don’t teach you that in gymnastics! What the hell kind of gymnastics class flips people like pancakes?”

Peter scratched the back of his neck, sheepishly avoiding Harley’s eyes. “Um… advanced gymnastics?”

“Advanced-” Harley cut himself off with an incredulous laugh, throwing his hands in the air. “You’re unbelievable.”

Peter stood, offering him a hand, which Harley ignored in favor of getting up on his own. He grumbled under his breath, rubbing his back. “Here I am trying to wake you up before you wake up with the worst pulled muscle of your life - doing a nice thing, here - and you body me. Jesus Christ, dude.”

Peter gave him a sheepish smile. “Sorry! It’s just… a reflex. I don’t do well with people standing over me when I’m sleeping.”

“No kidding,” Harley deadpanned, still eyeing him warily. 

Peter let out an amused noise, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Next time, just… like, talk loudly or make a noise or something. Or throw a shoe. Don’t just… stand there.” Peter snorted. “You look like a creep.”

“I do not!” he hissed, but Peter flopped back onto the couch with a sigh, pulling his hoodie back over his face. “Fine, break your neck, then.”

“I’m plenty capable of sleeping normally, Harley.”

“Fuck you, Parker.”

—

After he was sure the other boy had disappeared, Peter groaned, pulling his hoodie down over his face for another few moments before resignedly pulling himself up off of the sofa. He should get back to his room.

It took a couple of minutes - after moving back to the kitchen and shoving his pockets full of small chip packets - but once he was back inside he slipped back into bed immediately. Everything still hurt, although it was more of a dull, full-body throb that drained him at a base level. He could just sleep for the next week.

His eyes slid shut, the comfortable weight of blankets and his layered hoodies and the feeling of full pockets leaving him feeling satisfied on a baser level. He pressed his face further into the pillow, letting out a peaceful sigh, before-

-a knock on the door.

It was measured, controlled. “Peter.”

Mr. Stark.

He groaned, rolling over and pressing his face into the pillow as if he could smother himself. He’d just pretend to be asleep. It was Saturday. He was allowed to sleep in.

Tony rapped on the door again, louder this time. “Peter, open up.”

He groaned louder, pulling the sheets over his face. “What?” he called bitterly.

“Don’t-” Tony cut himself off, frustration bleeding into his tone. His voice was muffled through the barrier, but Peter could still him better than he wanted to. “I thought we talked about this.”

“Talked about what?” Peter muttered, his voice hoarse and muffled. “I’m not talking. I’m sleeping.”

“Peter,” Tony snapped, sharp enough to cut through the boy’s grogginess. “I’m serious. Get up.”

There was a heavy silence before Peter reluctantly shuffled upright and made his way to the door. By the time it opened, he already regretted it. Tony barely held back a grimace at the sight of him - he was sure he looked awful; pale, tired, and avoiding eye contact.

“What do you want?” Peter asked, voice defensive, already bristling.

“Take off your shirt,” Tony said flatly.

Peter blinked, the words not registering at first. “What?”

“I need to see how bad it is,” Tony said firmly, his jaw tightening. “Take it off, or we do this in the Medbay. Either way, you’re going there. I already know about it. Don’t even try arguing.”

“No,” Peter said immediately, his arms crossing over his chest protectively as ice shot through his stomach at the thought.

“Yes,” Tony shot back. “Now let me see.”

“It’s not-”

“Peter!” The sharpness in Tony’s voice made Peter flinch, his resolve cracking. With a defeated sigh, Peter tugged off his hoodie, then his shirt, wincing as the motion pulled at his bandaged side. The bruises that mottled his torso were bad enough, but when Tony’s gaze landed on the bloodstained wrappings around Peter’s hips, his expression hardened.

“It’s not that bad,” Peter tried to argue, his voice tired but defensive as he pulled the fabric back over his head.

“Not that bad?” Tony repeated, his voice dangerously low. “You’re shitting me. Peter, you could’ve died. I don’t know what you pulled last night, but from what I got from FRIDAY it doesn’t sound not that bad . You look like shit. What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you come to me?”

“Because I knew you’d be like this!” Peter snapped, his voice rising despite his exhaustion. “You’re making it into such a-”

“A big deal?” Tony cut him off, stepping closer. “You don’t think a bullet lodged six centimeters from your spine is a big deal ?”

Peter froze, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The room was too small, Mr. Stark was too loud, his heart was beating too fast, and - “I don’t want to do this right now,” he said, his voice cracking, tears threatening to spill.

“Tough,” Tony bit out. “You should’ve thought about that before lying to my face and screwing with the suit again.”

Shit.

The dampener in the suit made it so he could move in the tower freely and FRIDAY wouldn’t be able to scan him for injuries until he took it off. His room was also immune, thankfully, after a week or two of trying to break through her firewall with Ned - it was enough because normally he’d heal by then and it would be fine. It worked for small-time stab wounds and cuts and grazes; they’d heal overnight to a scratch, and by that point it wouldn't be enough of a big deal to flag FRIDAY’s system.

This time… not so much.

“I’m gonna-” Peter moved toward the door, trying to duck around Tony, but the man’s hand shot out, slamming the door shut. The sound reverberated in the room, and Peter flinched hard, his breath hitching. “Let me out,” Peter said quietly, his voice trembling.

“Peter-” Tony started, his tone softening slightly.

“ Please. ” The word came out as a plea, raw and desperate.

Tony hesitated, his hand lingering on the door before he finally stepped back, giving Peter the space he needed. “Go to the Medbay,” Tony said after a moment, his voice strained. “I’ll call in Bruce or Cho or whoever’s available.” He paused, his shoulders sagging slightly. “We’ll talk later.”

Peter’s mouth twisted before he slipped out of the room without another word. 

The Medbay smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone, and he hated it just as much as every time he’d visited beforehand. Peter shuffled in, his movements stiff. Cho glanced up from a monitor, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing as she looked him over. “Peter,” she greeted, her tone gentle but firm, a mix of professionalism and concern. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter muttered, lowering himself carefully onto one of the beds, “fashionably, right?”

Cho didn’t rise to the bait, instead rolling her stool closer. “Take off the shirt,” she instructed, already reaching for gloves. Peter complied, wincing as the motion pulled at his side. She didn’t say anything as her gaze swept over the wrappings and the mess of red-tinged stitches beneath. Her expression didn’t betray much, but the faint downturn of her lips spoke volumes.

“This should’ve been handled sooner,” she murmured, carefully peeling back the bandages. Peter hissed as the cool air hit the raw skin, his hands gripping the edge of the bed.

“I’ve been busy,” he tried to joke, but the waver in his voice betrayed the pain.

Cho didn’t answer immediately, instead cleaning the wound with deft, practiced movements. “Busy getting shot,” she said dryly. “Hold still. These stitches need redoing, and I don’t want to have to sedate you.”

Peter let out a soft laugh, though it was strained. “You can try, but I don’t think it’d stick.”

Cho’s lips twitched slightly, the faintest shadow of a smile. “You’re lucky you’re resilient. A lot of other people wouldn’t be sitting here cracking jokes.”

She stopped speaking once she began working, and the room faded into quiet other than the rhythmic sound of her tools and Peter’s occasional hisses of pain filling the room. She re-stitched the worst of the damage - completely removing and redoing Harley’s stitches. 

When she finished, she stood, stripped off her gloves, and gave him a look that made him avert his eyes. “Don’t make a habit of this,” she said. “I don’t want to see you again anytime soon.”

Peter gave her a sheepish smile. “No promises.”

Cho shook her head but didn’t press further. She collected the used wrappings and removed stitches before tossing them into a biowaste bag and taking them with her as she slipped out of the room, door closing softly behind her and leaving Peter to settle back against the bed for a moment. He let out a tired puff of air, sinking back against the uncomfortable metal headboard.

There was a sharp knock, and Peter cracked an eye open because that didn’t sound like Cho. She wouldn’t knock like that.

He was right.

After a moment, the door cracked open and Bucky strode in. His expression was neutral, though the slight furrow in his brow already had Peter tensing. He had that expression on like he was going to give him a lecture, and he really wasn’t in the mood for that.

Bucky paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over Peter before he crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest wall.

“Was gonna see if you wanted to do some training in the gym,” Bucky said, his voice low and steady. “But you weren’t in your room.” His sharp blue eyes locked onto Peter’s, sharp but not quite unkind as he stared down at him. “Stark filled me in.”

 Peter groaned, tilting his head back against the bed. “Great. Is there a team newsletter about my terrible decisions, or do you all just talk behind my back?”

Bucky’s lip quirked up, but he didn’t answer. Probably because he didn’t want to give Peter the satisfaction. After a moment, Peter sat up straighter, wincing as the motion pulled at his bandages. “Okay, I get it. Sure, I probably should have gone to Mr. Stark. I’m already hearing it from him; I don’t need you to pile on and pick sides.”

“I’m not piling on,” Bucky said evenly, pushing off the wall to take a seat across from him. “And I’m not picking sides.”

“It feels like you are,” Peter snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He hadn’t meant to sound so sharp, but his raw nerves made it hard to bite back the bitterness in his tone. “This is why I didn’t go to him in the first place, he makes a big deal out of everything.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, unbothered by Peter’s outburst. “I’m just saying,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “Stark’s not wrong. You can’t keep pulling this lone-wolf crap, kid. It’s gonna get you killed.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists in his lap. “I can handle myself.”

“Sure you can,” Bucky said dryly, gesturing vaguely to the Medbay. “That’s why you’re here.”

“I was just fine before I met you and Stark,” Peter glared at him, but the heat in his expression didn’t last. The fight drained out of him as quickly as it had flared up, leaving him slumped in his uncomfortable bed. “I don’t need another lecture,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost defeated.

Bucky studied him for a moment before standing. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not giving you one.” He headed for the door, his metal arm catching the faint light as he reached for the handle. “But maybe think about why you’re so pissed off. Is it ‘cause Stark’s wrong, or ‘cause he’s right?”

Peter didn’t respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. Bucky lingered for a moment like he was waiting for a retort, but when none came, he nodded to himself and stepped out. Peter let out a miserable huff of air, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes. Maybe he’d go to bed after he rolled out of the Medbay and never wake up.

His phone vibrated and he paused, before forcing himself to flick it on. A message blinked up at him.

Unknown Number: You did good.

He didn’t feel good.

Chapter Text

The air outside the Tower was thicker, but Peter barely felt it. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his head bowed as he moved through the city streets. He hadn’t grabbed the suit. He just needed space to breathe, without the added baggage the mask inherently brought him. He had needed to get out. The Tower was too small, his room was too small, nowhere was enough space and he just couldn't breathe. So, logically, he snuck out again.

Although it technically wasn't sneaking out. it's not like Tony had actually said the words, ‘you’re grounded’ explicitly or anything like that. And it wasn’t like he was doing anything dangerous. No suit, no patrol, no fighting crime. Besides, he was just going out for air. By the time he’d made his way out of the back entrance to the tower and got onto the main street, he had just picked a direction and walked . He didn’t have a destination in mind. He just moved, his sneakers scuffing against the pavement as he ignored the twinge in his side and moved in whatever direction his feet decided to take him.

Still, the bitterness simmered under his skin, an old, ugly feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t fair that they treated him like he couldn’t handle himself. He’d been fine before them, hadn’t he? The warehouse had sucked, sure, but he’d survived. He’d always survived.

Really, he could have rebuilt and done fine after losing it all, too.

What had screwed him over the most out of all of it was them tracking him down and trying to hunt him like an animal. He tried to ignore the resentment that bubbled below the surface of his skin, the ugly old feelings of distrust and bitterness rising again, but it was difficult. 

He thought he'd moved past this. He cared about them. About Bucky and Tony and Natasha and Harley, and everyone else who’d become a part of his life since moving in. He liked being a part of the team. And everything would be fine if half of them weren’t so insistent on treating him like a kid. 

He hadn’t been a kid in a long time.

And it was hypocritical, too. What had Tony been doing at his age? He was probably high out of his mind on all sorts of drugs and sleeping with everything in sight. Natasha was almost definitely killing people by then. Bucky, he was sure, was in the war just a year or so older than he was.

He could manage just fine.

By the time he glanced around, Peter realized his feet had carried him to a few blocks away from Central Park. His body had probably moved on autopilot, walked him through to the more familiar streets; to his bench in Central Park, to the surrounding suburbs. The familiar streets around the park tugged at something soft and nostalgic in his chest, despite the miserable time of his life that it came with. 

He tiredly flicks on his phone to find that he’d been walking for a little over an hour, as well as a handful of missed messages from Ned staring back at him. Peter blinked blearily, his anger cooling and leaving exhaustion in its wake. He felt a pang of guilt as he scrolled through the texts - Ned checking in, asking if he was okay, and slowly devolving into panic once the forwarded news article on Stryker came through.

He hadn’t answered the night before, too out of it to form a coherent response. He sighed, dropping onto his old bench that sat just off the main path. The wood creaked slightly beneath his weight, but it was familiar. His thumbs hovered over the screen.

He should probably text Ned back. He owed him that much.

peter parkour: Im alive

It only took a couple of moments for his phone to buzz in response.

chair: THANK GOD

chair: HOWD IT GO

chair: ARE YOU IN ONE PIECE

peter parkour: Unfortunately

He rearranged himself and slouched a little further back. He didn’t know why he’d come out here. He didn’t know why he did anything anymore. It was better than the Tower, at least. Central Park would always be a comfortable place.

chair: Did mr stark find out??

peter parkour: Yep

chair: Damn

Damn was right. He didn’t know how long it would take for it all to blow over - the man had seemed pretty mad. Bucky had seemed less so, but more of an ‘I told you so’ sort of pissed off than anything. Maybe Mr. Stark would forget in a day or so. Probably not, but at least he hadn’t been grounded yet.

chair: Maybe thats a good thing tho

peter parkour: Its not

chair: Idk man i feel like you’d rather bleed out than go to him

Peter frowned. This… felt like Bucky. Why was everyone so insistent on him crawling back to Mr. Stark the second anything went wrong? He handled it fine. He handled everything fine. He didn’t need Ned telling him what to do, either.

peter parkour: Are you on my side or not??

chair: Im not picking sides!!

peter parkour: Why does everyone say that??

That familiar warmth of frustration festered in his chest, and Peter let out an unhappy huff. A mother walked by with her children in tow, and he watched them go with something he couldn’t identify swirling in his stomach. It felt like nothing was in his control anymore. It felt like everyone was against him, but in a more petty, spiteful way that you’d treat a kid you don’t like.

chair: Dude

peter parkour: Sorry

peter parkour: Just tired

chair: Im glad ur ok

peter parkour: Me too

He let out another tired huff, bitterness fading back into exhaustion. He wasn’t angry at Ned. He wasn’t angry with any of them, not really. But it didn’t matter. Maybe that was just how he felt about himself, projected onto everyone else. 

Either way, he needed to breathe, and the Tower wasn’t the place to do it. Talking to Ned wasn’t helping much, either.

peter parkour: Tell you about it later

chair: Ok ill just be waiting super impatiently

chair: But like.

chair: No pressure

chair: Take ur time

He needed to move. He doesn’t know where the sudden, vicious urge comes from, but he couldn’t just sit here anymore or he’d go stir crazy.

Peter shoved off the old wood, flicking his phone off and sticking it into his pocket again. Where else could he go around here? There was the library nearby, he remembered. The chemist, too. And-

-Delmar's.

Chest tightening, his feet carried him without thought until the familiar sight of Delmar’s bodega came into view. He hesitated, heart thudding in his chest as he lingered just outside the door. His stomach twisted, part of him wanting to keep walking, to disappear back into the city, but another part - a louder, more insisted and hungrier part - urged him inside.

After one final glance through the windows to check that Carlos out of sight, he pushed in.

The bell above the door jingled softly as Peter stepped in, the smell of freshly baked bread and warm spices washing over him like a wave of nostalgia. The bodega was quiet, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt normal for a change. It felt like before he’d lost May, before the warehouse and the Tower. He hadn’t been back in months. Not since he’d gotten Delmar shot.

Which, the man looked alright. Peter spied him over by in one of the aisles and the sound of the bell had him turning, his face lighting up in recognition he saw him. “Peter!” he greeted, his voice warm and familiar.

Peter smiled weakly, tugging off his hood. “Hey, Mr. Delmar.”

​

“You disappeared on me, huh?” The man snorted and Peter winced. “Shame. I could use hands like yours around here,” Delmar said, gesturing to the half-stocked shelves with a teasing grin. “You were good with the customers. Except for that one guy, but, eh. He’s gone now.”

Peter ducked his head, guilt creeping up his spine. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he muttered. “And sorry about just… leaving. I, uh, should’ve given notice. Twice.”

Delmar waved him off, his tone light. “Life happens. You’re still a kid. Besides, I figured it was something important. Or even if it wasn’t, I get it,” he frowned. “Couldn’t have been easy watching that happen. I wouldn’t’ve blamed you if it scared you off.”

Peter grimaced again, trying not to remember the sound of the gunshot, the flurry of panic. 

Delmar continued on anyway. “Carlos didn’t say much after you left - just that you were busy.”

Peter’s chest tightened. He’d been so sure Carlos would’ve told Delmar everything, would’ve called him a thief or a liar or worse, even if none of it was true. 

“Actually, uh...” Peter hesitated, his palms suddenly clammy. “If you need someone... I could come back? Help out? I’m better now - more reliable.” He didn’t know why he was offering. He didn’t need the money, now. He wasn’t starving, he didn’t depend on work to survive. A larger part of him knew that it was just that deep, sinking feeling of guilt and the urge to make up for it.

Delmar just shot him a sad sort of smile. “You don’t mean that. You look…” he tilted his head a little, as if scrutinizing Peter. “Tell me if I’m being an ass, but you look better off. Not to be rude or anything, but you’re wearing clean clothes. You got a haircut. You got new shoes.”

Peter flushed, glancing down at himself.

“Again, tell me if I’m wrong, but… Are you offering because you think I need the help, or you do?”

Peter sucked in a short breath. “...No, you’re right.” Delmar smiled, and Peter felt himself returning the gesture. 

“Tell May to come around sometime,” the man said, turning back to the shelves. “Haven’t seen her in ages. You Parkers are so hard to keep track of.”

His smile faded a little. 

The thought of telling Delmar flickered briefly in his mind. He could say it - just let the words fall out. He wasn’t at risk of being taken in from CPS, now, and it wouldn’t be the first time someone heard it from him, and Delmar wasn’t a stranger. He’d known Peter and May for years. 

But the idea of seeing the pity in Delmar’s eyes, of watching the lighthearted warmth dim as the words landed made Peter hesitate. What would be the point? Delmar didn’t… he didn’t see them often. Not knowing wouldn’t hurt him. All telling him would do was ruin his day.

Besides, a more selfish part of him whispers, this is normal. Telling him about May would change that. It would ruin it.

Peter forced a brighter smile and lifted his hand in a casual salute. “Will do,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. As he turned to leave, a faint pang of guilt settled in his chest. Maybe he should’ve said something. Maybe not. Either way, it was too late now. 

“Ay,” Delmar called, and Peter turned back to see the man ducking behind the register before pulling something out of the food cases, bagging it, and throwing it over to him. Peter grabbed it out of air, and Delmar gave him a grin. “Still got those reflexes,” he snorted. “It’s not a number five, but you’ll live without the pickles for once.”

Peter’s chest warmed at the gesture, and his smile returned. “Thanks,” he grinned, and ducked out the door.

—

Surprisingly, he hadn’t been grounded by the time Monday rolled around.

That was partly from specifically avoiding Tony at any point possible to even bring up the idea of it, but it worked regardless. He’d felt a glimmer of petty victory or something like it once he’d managed to step through the gates.

That glimmer quickly disappeared.

Harley had been jumpy the whole morning. He’d been side-eyeing Peter but not saying anything, but he hadn’t ultimately paid that much attention because he was still tired and sore. But the second he slid into his seat at the lunch table, he took a breath and blurted, “Spider-Man slept with me!”

Ned choked on his sandwich and MJ’s jaw dropped a little, gaze flicking over to Peter, who’s face was suddenly burning.

“What?” Peter hissed, turning to look at Harley.

“Yeah-” Ned forced out, eyes watering as he took a shaky inhale, “What?”

“I mean, like-” Harley paused, hands flattening on the table. “Not like that. But, dudes-” he side-eyed MJ, who nodded approvingly before he continued, “He was like… I was sleeping, right?”

“Right,” Ned wheezed, pushing his food aside.

Harley nodded, “and then he’s just on me.” Peter put his head in his hands. He couldn’t interject. He couldn’t save this. He had to sit here and listen to this, because if he corrected him then Harley would know.  

“Was he?” MJ asked, lips quirking.

“Yeah!” Harley gestured, “Like, he must’ve just fallen through my window or something, because he’s suddenly there and bleeding all over my bed!”

“Lower your voice,” Peter pleaded a little desperately, and Harley mostly ignored him.

“Anyway, so I have to basically carry him to the bathroom because this dude can’t walk. And then get this, I have to sew him up ,” Harley continued, looking a little sick at the memory. Ned just nodded sagely, but thankfully didn’t say anything else. MJ just watched Peter with an expression that he couldn’t decipher. “And then I find out he’s got a bullet in his back? That he just, like, didn’t say anything about? So he pulls it out with tweezers.”

MJ’s expression twists slightly, and Peter wants to disappear. “Tweezers?” she asked lightly.

Harley just looked a little haunted. “My tweezers…” he made a forlorn sound. “But anyway. He gets it out. He’s like, dead on his feet. I was half-convinced he was gonna die in my bathroom, because he was super serious about me not getting Tony. But I didn’t and he’s alive and I help stitch him up and everything, right?”

Peter closed his eyes. He didn’t want to feel MJ’s - and Ned’s, now - unimpressed gazes on him. 

“Right,” Ned said after a moment. “But Harley? No offense, dude, if you think he’s gonna die you should a hundred percent go to Mr. Stark.  Spider-Man’s, like, a huge idiot.”

“You know him?” Harley demanded, leaning a little more forward. “I thought you said you hadn’t met him!”

“I only saw him once,” Ned responded, before his expression flattened. “But I saw him break his nose on a truck after texting and swinging, so…”

MJ snorted, and Peter resisted the urge to stamp on her foot underneath the table. “But continue. I want to hear the rest of this, now.”

“He was like, so out of it. Probably all the blood loss and everything but he couldn’t swing home, right? So I told him to stay the night. An​​d he does. So I’ve gotta change the sheets and everything and I help him out of the bathroom and everything, but when I go to move away he just-” Harley paused, face flushing a little. “He just grabbed me. And he’s super strong! And sticky! So I can’t get his hand off me!”

Peter wants to die. This is his low point. He’s actually, truly ready for the world to swallow him whole.

MJ looked victorious.

“I’m pretty sure he was asleep by that point or something, though. So anyway. He stays over. And I sleep in the bed,” Harley paused, before adding, “with him.” 

“You slept with Spider-Man,” MJ said, expression solemn.

“I did,” Harley breathes. “Do you think he’ll come back? Do you think I’ll see him again?”

Ned side-eyed Peter. “Well he can’t not, now,” he said with a grin. “I mean, I think he will. It’d be rude not to. Besides, he clearly liked you enough to find you when he was injured, right?”

“And he trusted you enough to not take off his mask while you were sleeping,” MJ added seriously, before turning to Peter. “What do you think? It’d be rude not to go back, right? What would you do if you were Spider-Man, Peter?”

“I’d rather bleed out in an alleyway,” he muttered.

“You’re just jealous,” Harley shot back. “What’d you do to him? Are you guys fighting?”

“We’re not-” he sucked in a tired breath, palms pressing into his eyes. “We’re not fighting.”

“Why didn’t he go to you, then?” Harley pressed.

Peter gritted out, “I don’t know.”

MJ just grinned at him, before the expression slipped back into a fake sort of neutrality. She turned to Harley, “He’s just jealous,” she said with an air of confidence, and Peter wanted to throw something at her.

Maybe being grounded wouldn’t have been that bad.

—

This was an awful idea, but Peter was going to do it anyway.

The knock on Harley's window startled him enough to send his chair rolling backward. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as Peter blinked at him through the mask. Letting out a sharp breath, Harley pushed himself up before stumbling over to him and sliding the window open. “You scared m-”

The first words out of Peter’s mouth before he even touches down on the carpet are,  “Stop telling people I slept with you!”

 Harley froze mid-step, his face instantly flaming red as he threw his hands up. “I didn’t mean it like that! Who told you I said that?” he hissed, his voice barely controlled. “Fucking - Peter, probably, ratting me out like that!”

“Dude!” Peter snapped back, glaring.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Harley muttered venomously, stalking back to his desk. “Watch a snitch.”

“It’s not snitching! And it’s important for me to know!” Peter shot back.

Harley scowled. “It’s hardly important to know. Why is he even telling you that? I thought you guys were fighting! Go back to that.”

Peter raised an eyebrow as he shut the window behind him. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Harley stopped mid-step, his pacing halting as abruptly as it started. He stood still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor before slowly turning back to Peter. His shoulders slumped slightly, and his face twisted into something between embarrassment and reluctance.

“I don’t hate him,” Harley admitted, his tone quieter now. He ran a hand through his hair, still avoiding Peter’s masked gaze. “I think it’s just… I don’t know, competitiveness or something?” Harley finally glanced over at him, his expression almost apologetic. “I didn’t really have a dad growing up, y’know? And suddenly there’s this kid at my bench, talking with Mr. Stark like they’ve been best friends forever, and I’d never even heard of him. It was like I didn’t exist for a second there.”

Peter blinked, his initial irritation melting away. He opened his mouth to respond, but Harley cut him off with a self-deprecating laugh.

Harley frowned. “Wow. Sorry. That’s a lot to dump on you.”

Peter shook his head quickly, suddenly grateful for his mask. “Not more than me nearly bleeding out over your sink,” he muttered, shrugging lightly.

Harley snorted, the sound breaking through the tension before he dropped back down in his desk chair. “Fair.” 

For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint hum of Harley’s monitors. Peter’s eyes flicked to the desk, landing on a box of mint cookies sitting open amidst the clutter of wires and tools, and Peter felt a little guilty at imagining Harley stress-eating his way through the aftermath of the weekend.

“You’re bad luck, y’know,” Harley said abruptly, crossing his arms as he eyed Peter.​​ “I got really sick after you left.”

Peter tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harley shrugged. “Maybe you gave me, like, a super stomach bug or something.”

Peter’s eyes flicked to the desk, lingering on the sight of the open box of mint cookies, before-

Oh.

Oh.

“Maybe it’s the radioactive blood?” Peter offered, a sly grin tugging at his lips and trying to ignore the much, much heavier guilt now that he eyed the spiked cookies a second time. Damn. Maybe he shouldn’t have used as much powder? But it shouldn’t have made him too sick, unless - unless he was stress eating them all.

Because Harley couldn’t eat just one serving. He’d eat a box in one sitting out of spite if he could.

Harley froze. “The what ?”

“Kidding!” Peter said quickly, throwing up his hands, and Harley relaxed slightly. “Relax, dude. You can’t get a stomach bug from blood on your hands.”

Harley let out a long sigh, sinking deeper into his chair and pushing his palms into his eyes. “Why are you not kidding about the radioactive blood? Please tell me you’re kidding about the radioactive blood.” Peter just grinned underneath the mask, and Harley took his silence as an answer enough. “You’ve got some freaky, messed-up DNA, man.”

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered, flicking his gaze away from the desk and back over to Harley as he leaned against the bed. Maybe Harley deserved it, anyway. Really, it was payback for ratting him out today. God, Peter wasn’t going to be able live that down - he’d been very firmly ignoring everything Ned and MJ had been texting him.

Harley leaned forward again, his elbows resting on his knees. “So, you’re doing better now? Like, you’re all healed?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

He was, to be honest. Sure, his side still hurt and the stitches weren’t completely healed (he’s been also ignoring Dr. Cho’s requests to come back down to the Medbay for a checkup), but he was functional, now. He could walk, he could swing, he could probably go out on patrol again if he wanted to. He wouldn’t yet, but he was healed enough that he probably could, at this point.

He still wasn’t sure how to deal with Mr. Stark, though.

“That’s insane,” Harley muttered. “I wish I healed that fast.”

Peter quirked a lip. “You’ll never need to, hopefully.”

“Yeah, but, like…” Harley huffed, spinning in his chair. “if I stubbed my toe, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Peter laughed softly. “It still hurts when I stub my toe. I mean, I can avoid it sometimes if I’m paying attention, but my spidey sense doesn’t work on stuff that isn’t dangerous.”

“Huh?”

“Like a stationary pole,” Peter explained. “It’s not a threat, so I might walk right into it. But if someone picks up that same pole and throws it towards me at a hundred miles an hour…”

“Huh.” Harley looked at him with something a little like awe and exasperation. It reminded him of Bucky. “Is that what happened the other night? Were people throwing lamp posts at you?”

“No,” Peter huffed. “Just bullets. And stolen tech.”

That night… should make him feel better than it did. He did a good thing. He took out the leader of a relatively large, relatively powerful gang. Karen had followed up on loose ends and sent all relevant info to law enforcement like she usually did. It was a good thing. But why didn’t he feel good?

After another pause, Peter shifted. “Hey, I need your advice on something.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

“There’s this… guy,” he started off, shifting a little on the bed

Harley leaned back, folding his arms. “Are you seriously asking me for relationship advice? Like, not to be an asshole or anything, but… Dude.”

Peter groaned, his face flushing slightly. “No, it’s not - ugh, it’s a guy on the phone.”

“On the phone,” Harley repeated flatly.

”It’s on a burner. He’s the one who’s been giving me info on different illegal weapons rings and stuff, and…” Peter hesitated, his mouth twisting. “I don’t know if I trust him. He helped me take down those guys, yeah, but… he’s got a burner phone, and he’s connected to criminals. It’s sketchy.”

“Has he done anything wrong so far?”

“No, but…” Peter trailed off, frowning. “I just don’t know.”

“That’s fair,” Harley shrugged. “Maybe meet up with him and suss him out?”

Peter snorted. “That’s a horrible idea. Meeting up with strangers connected to criminal rings?”

“You’re Spider-Man,” Harley shot back in response. “If he’s a bad guy just beat him up.”

“Thanks,” Peter said flatly. “I should have just thought of that. But meeting up with him feels risky.”

Harley shrugged. “Maybe it is. But what if he’s legit? Could be helpful. You won’t know unless you try.”

“Great,” Peter deadpanned. “If I die, I’m blaming you.”

Harley snorted, pushing the mint cookies toward him. “Deal.”

Peter waved him off. “I should go.” He said, pushing away the offer of the cookies despite the incredible urge to eat them. Maybe… maybe he should tell Harley to stop eating them. Just to give him a hint. “And… maybe you should lay off the cookies?”

“Why?” Harley frowned, taking the box back and shoving another in his mouth out of spite. “You’re just jealous. They’re the best cookies around here.”

“I’m not!” Peter shot back, “I’m just - ugh. Fine. Eat your cookies. Your choice.”

He stood and stretched, before making his way back over to the window. “See you later?” Harley called from his chair by the desk.

Peter softened a little, before hoisting himself up and turning around to give the other boy a salute. “See you later.”

Chapter Text

Peter stared down at the burner phone resting on the desk. 

There was an uneasiness he couldn’t shake, and he couldn’t figure out why. The unknown number had been useful, sure. Every piece of intel they'd given him so far had checked out. He'd shut down one of the trafficking rings two weeks ago, intercepted a new weapons deal last Friday, and all of it had been thanks to the texts he’d received. He’d done good work because of the intel he’d received from this number. He’d been useful.

But then there was the other side of it. He didn’t know who this person was, or why they were doing this. Sure, the intel was solid, but what if it was a setup? What if the next lead sent him walking into a trap? He also had that awful, permeating bad feeling. The last one wasn’t a fact-based point. He was biased, but sue him. His life was on the line, and he liked to trust the people who he was getting his intel from. 

The truth was, Peter hated this blind trust. He liked knowing who he was working with. Karen, for example. She’d never lied to him.  Ned, too - he always double-checked everything before Peter acted, and he always did whatever he could to make sure Peter wasn’t going to actively bleed out and die.

This? This was a faceless voice giving him orders.

He frowned, picked up the burner, and tapped out a message before he could second-guess himself.

Burner02: I want to know who you are. 

He waited, and the moments ticked by as his foot tapped impatiently against the desk. A full minute passed, and Peter started to think he’d blown it. Maybe he’d scared the person behind the number off. Maybe they were done feeding him tips. Maybe this whole thing had been a mistake, a product of his paranoia getting the better of him.

He let out a sharp exhale, leaning back in his chair, when the phone buzzed in his hand. His eyes snapped down to the screen.

Unknown Number: One more gang, then we can meet. Find the boss + deal with him.

Peter frowned, the knot in his stomach tightening. He did want to meet them, but there was something off about the tone. The way that they were talking put him on edge.

Burner02: I'm not taking orders from you.

The response was almost immediate.

Unknown Number: Sure you’re not. 

Unknown Number: I'll send you the address later on.

Peter groaned, rubbing his palms over his eyes. Whatever. He had a new lead. And this time he might finally get to meet whoever was behind the texts. That had to count for something, right? This was progress.

But as he placed the phone back on the desk, the uneasy feeling lingered. It didn’t feel like progress. Not really.

—

Peter swung lazily between buildings, the cool night air rushing past him. His movements were slower tonight, less the usual effortless, acrobatic flow and more cautious, deliberate swings. He wasn’t wholly healed, but he felt better - enough to patrol, at least.

So far, it had been a quiet night. He’d caught a couple of sketchy characters loitering near an ATM, their heads ducking as soon as they caught sight of him perched on a nearby streetlamp. Later, a guy had been trying to steal a bike, fumbling with the lock like he had no clue what he was doing. Peter had let him go after dropping down and scaring the shit out of him.

He hadn't handed him off to the police. He hadn’t been handing non-violent people to the police in a while. 

He knew what it was like to be so hungry that he would steal to eat. He still thought about the loaf of bread from the woman he’d taken during his first months in the warehouse. Now that he knew what it felt like to be truly hungry, desperate for something as simple as a meal, he wasn’t sure he could stomach it.

“Peter,” Karen’s calm voice broke through his thoughts. “You have an incoming call from Ned.”

Peter landed softly on a rooftop, crouching near the edge and glancing up at the stars that barely peeked through the city haze. “Patch him through, please.” 

“Hey,” Ned’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “You in the suit again?”

“Patrolling,” Peter replied, glancing down at the quiet street below. “Why?”

“Is that a good idea?” Ned asked, concern threading his tone. “I mean… Harley seemed pretty shaken up after last week. And you’re out so soon?”

Peter’s brows furrowed. “Are you getting updates every time I put the suit on again?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ned said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your guy in the chair, dude. It’s like, a legal requirement at this point.”

Peter huffed a laugh, leaping down to a lower rooftop and walking along the ledge. “Does this ‘legal requirement’ also include getting notifications every time Mr. Stark messes with the suit code again?”

He wasn’t surprised that Mr. Stark had already been in the code so quickly after what happened last time. But it was exhausting - it was a petty way to try to one-up each other without tipping the other off; Mr. Stark would put the Baby Monitor program back in, more invasive with upgraded software in the suit while Peter and Ned would continually disable it. Or try to, at least. 

“It does,” Ned muttered. “Funny you mention that. But dude, at this point this is kinda on you.”

“Me?” Peter squawked, nearly missing a step and windmilling his arms to stay balanced. “How is this my fault?”

“You got caught last time, remember? And, like, it’s happening more often. You’re getting sloppy, man.” Peter fell silent, and Ned paused. “Wait, that’s not, like, advice. Don’t hide injuries, okay? If you’re dying tell someone, dude.”

Peter snorted, the sound echoing in the quiet. “Sure, sure. But could you maybe help me out with the code thing? You’re better at this than I am.”

"Okay, dude," Ned yawned. "I'll fix it."

“Same shutdown code as last time?” Peter asked.

“Same one,” Ned confirmed. “I'll probably have to lock out FRIDAY from your room completely, though. FRIDAY's code looks like a mess now." Peter grimaced. Probably the results of Mr. Stark's pissed off, coffee-fueled night of working. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Thanks. Night, dude.”

“Goodnight, Peter,” Ned replied before the sound of him disconnecting came through.

Peter leaned back on his heels, taking in the cityscape. “Hey, Karen,” he murmured, as he settled down on a rooftop edge. The faint glow of the skyline stretching before him, and this - these quiet moments and the view that came with it - was his favorite part of being Spider-Man. “All quiet tonight? I can’t see anything happening. It’s been nice.”

Another moment passed, and Peter frowned at the lack of response. “Karen?”

For a moment, there was no response. Then Karen’s voice crackled faintly, softer than usual. “Yes, Peter. The area appears secure.”

“Are you okay?” Peter frowned at the odd tone. She’d been more quiet than usual lately, too - he didn’t think that the suppressors in the suit should have altered any of her personality or anything; it was a completely different compartment. “Are you sick? …Can AI get sick?”

There was silence. No witty comeback, no reassurance, just a lingering void that made Peter’s stomach churn.

“Karen?” he prompted again, his voice tinged with worry. Before she could - or would - respond, his focus snapped to the sound of a panicked yell somewhere below. “Hold that thought,” Peter muttered, standing and leaping across the rooftop and sliding into the alleyway below.

—

The knock at Harley’s window was hesitant, almost shy. Harley glanced up from where he was half-sprawled in his chair, feet propped on the desk as he lazily scrolled through his phone. He raised a brow but didn’t bother masking the surprise in his voice as he called out, “It’s open!”

Peter knew he shouldn’t be here. This was a bad idea - coming back and seeing Harley in the mask was only inviting trouble. Peter knew he’d probably say something stupid or give away more than he should. Really, he knew there was no benefit to coming back.

But he wanted to, and he didn’t know why.

The window slid up, and Peter slipped inside with practiced ease, landing lightly on the floor. “Hey, look at you. Not bleeding out this time,” Harley remarked, spinning lazily in his chair to face him.

“Impressive, I’m sure,” Peter quipped, brushing some invisible dust off his suit.

“You’re always impressive,” Harley shot back, and Peter let out an amused huff, shaking his head.

“What’re you doing?” Peter asked, nodding toward the mess of papers and a textbook on the desk.

“Homework,” the other boy said miserably, his head falling back dramatically against the chair. “You’re not any good at Spanish, are you?”

Peter smirked. “ Soy un experto, ” he replied smoothly, his Spanish accent passable enough to earn an unimpressed look.

Harley planted a hand right into Peter’s face, shoving him back with zero effort. “Show-off,” he muttered, glancing down at his workbook. “If you’re gonna be a smartass, then help me with this.”

Peter slid closer, leaning over to scan the page. “What’s the problem?”

“All of it,” Harley deadpanned, pointing at a particularly page of questions.

Peter plopped down onto the empty edge of his desk with one leg swinging idly, pulling the workbook closer to face him. Harley perched his head on an elbow from his place next to him before he leaned forward to watch Peter work.

Ah. He remembered finishing this.

“So what’s tripping you up?” Peter asked, scanning the page. His finger stopped under a line of text. “This one? ‘¿De dónde es tu amigo?’”

“Yeah, that,” Harley admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “The articles are messing me up. Like, when do you use el versus la ? And I don’t get why chairs are apparently girls and desks are dudes. Is there a pattern? Or is it random?”

“There are some patterns,” Peter shrugged, reaching down to grab Harley’s abandoned pencil and spinning it between his fingers. “Like depending on the nouns that end in ‘o’ verses ‘a’ and a couple other things. There are exceptions, though. But objects don’t actually have genders - it’s just grammatical. For la silla - the chair - you use la because it’s a feminine noun. El escritorio - the desk - is masculine, so you use el. ”

Harley squinted at him, his lips quirking up in mock suspicion. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, but okay. What about amigo ? Why’s that not la if it’s a girl?”

“Ah, because it’s not about the noun there. It’s about who you’re talking about.” Peter tapped the workbook. “If it’s a male friend, you use amigo. For a female friend, it’s amiga. Gendered endings like that only apply to people or animals, not inanimate stuff.”

Harley groaned and slumped forward theatrically, his forehead hitting the edge of the workbook. “I hate this. I do engineering. Math . I’m bad enough at English.”

Peter nudged him with his elbow. “It’s not that bad. Look, let’s just break this down. What’s this question asking?”

Harley read it slowly, his tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth. “Uh... ‘Where is your friend from?’ Right?”

“Yeah!” Peter confirmed, tilting his head a little. “Now you just answer it. If your friend’s from Alabama, you’d say, Mi amigo es de Alabama. If she’s a girl, change it to Mi amiga. Easy.”

Harley nodded slowly. “Okay, okay. I think I get it. This is still dumb, though,” he huffed, and Peter kicked him. 

“Quit whining. What’s next?” Harley pointed to the next question, which was even longer. “Oh, you’re gonna love this one.”

Harley groaned, tossing his pencil into the air and catching it with unnecessary flair. “I already regret asking you to help.”

Peter laughed, leaning back in the chair. “You brought this on yourself.”

“You suck,” Harley muttered.

“I’m leaving,” Peter declared suddenly, closing the workbook with a dramatic snap.  “You’re just using me for homework.” He started to push back from the desk, but Harley reached out to grab him. 

“Nooo, stay,” Harley whined, pulled at Peter’s arm and tugging him back down. Peter, caught off guard, stumbled a bit, his chin knocking lightly against Harley’s head.

“ Ow, ” Peter muttered.

Harley just grinned. “Leave when you finish this question,” he bargained, sliding the workbook back in front of him, and Peter heaved a dramatic sigh. Harley elbowed him in the gut.

“Fine,” he muttered, pulling the chair toward him. “Swap,” he ordered, nudging Harley off the seat. “Let me sit down if I’m gonna be stuck finishing this for you.”

Harley leaned over Peter’s shoulder, watching as Peter scrawled something in the margins. His head hovered just close enough to make Peter aware of every breath.

“Okay,” Peter said, pointing at another question. “Your turn. Give it a shot.”

“I don’t know it,” Harley replied instantly, sitting back with a groan.

“You do,” Peter pressed, tapping the workbook as Harley let out an unhappy huff. “Think about it for a second.”

“I think I’m an idiot,” Harley grumbled, but there was no venom in the words. Peter didn’t have time to retort before he felt Harley’s arms snake around his waist, the movement slow, almost tentative. Peter froze as Harley rested his chin on his shoulder, a soft hum escaping him.

Something inside Peter twisted. This could be normal, couldn’t it? He could sit here, maskless, without hiding. This could be normal. Would it really be so bad for him to know?

Of course it would be.

And yet, when Harley brushed too-soft lips over his shoulder through the fabric of his suit, Peter’s thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. The warmth of Harley’s chest pressed against his back, and Peter felt himself faltering, overwhelmed.

“Harley-” he began, his voice shaky as he gently untangled himself and stood. “I’m should head back.” 

Harley frowned, but his expression was more resigned than surprised. “ Boo ,” he muttered, flicking a pencil at Peter as he slipped back into the chair. “Fine. Go. Leave me to figure out the gender of chairs or something.”

“You’ve got a fifty percent chance to guess it right.” The pencil bounced harmlessly off Peter’s ribcage and he resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at him solely for the fact that it would be hidden by the mask. “I’m sure you’ll survive,” Peter said, shooting Harley a mock salute before stepping toward the window.

“Come back soon,” came Harley’s voice, half-muffled from where his cheek was pressed against the desk. He’d already given up on finishing his homework, Peter figured with a wry grin.

As he pulled the frame open, he glanced back. Harley was watching him, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. Something about it made Peter’s chest ache, but he shoved the feeling down, slipping out into the night before he could think too hard about it.

—

“I dunno, I think he's good for you man,” Ned said as they watched Harley struggle with a vending machine at the other end of the cafeteria. 

“What,” Peter muttered back, exhaustion creeping up on him. Ned shot him a look , and Peter very much did not appreciate it. “I'm not - I don't like Harley like that. That's not how-”

Ned raised his hands in mock self-defense. “I never said that. I just said-”

“I know what you said. I feel like it's implied at this point,” Peter grumbled back, eyes turning to fall back onto Harley, who looked about a second or two from hitting the thing. “Anyway, did you fix the suit again? And my room? Like, I don’t want to be paranoid or anything, but…”

“I did,” Ned says before taking a bite of his apple. “But like, are you still sure that this is a good idea? Harley said he thought you were gonna die the other night. And to be honest, I can totally see you pulling something like that,” he frowns. Peter opened his mouth to object, but Ned cut him off. “No, dude. Don't even lie to me." Ned frowned. "I’m not gonna lie, I still get nightmares about that time you called me while you were dying on that random rooftop, man.”

Guilt pierced his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Ned just gave him a sad sort of smile.

“You’re not,” he sighs. “If you were, you wouldn’t be asking me to hide serious injuries from Mr. Stark.”

Peter slouched further into his chair, his head dipping low as guilt settled heavily in his chest. He picked at the edge of his sleeve, unable to meet Ned’s gaze. “You don’t have to live with him, dude,” he muttered, his voice defensive and weary. “He’s so overprotective and controlling. It’s-”

“That’s what parents are like, Peter,” Ned interrupted, his tone flat but firm. “If my Lola knew I was sneaking out to beat people up in spandex at night? She’d never let me leave the house again. Grounded for life . That’s what parents are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be crazy overprotective.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he could without the words coming out jagged and defensive. He didn’t want to admit that maybe Ned had a point. He couldn’t admit that he wasn’t sure what being parented like that was supposed to feel like anymore, and that every overstep from Tony felt like something he should fight tooth and nail every step of the way.

Beside him, Ned sighed. He leaned back, his gaze softening as he watched Peter. “I think you’re not used to it after… last year, and that’s fair. I get it. But he’s looking out for you, dude.”

Peter bit his tongue, his gaze flicking back to Harley, who was now letting out a string of accented swears and Peter couldn’t help the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I just-” Peter hesitated, his voice dropping lower. “It doesn’t feel like looking out for me. It feels like I’m being watched. It feels like he’s waiting for me to mess up.”

“Maybe,” Ned said, shrugging as he took another bite of his apple. “Or maybe he’s just worried about you.”

Peter clenched his jaw, his gaze still locked on Harley. He didn’t want to talk about this - didn’t want to admit that maybe Ned had a point. He couldn’t, not when everything in him felt like Tony’s overprotectiveness felt like suffocation more than care.

“It’s not that simple,” Peter muttered, more to himself than to Ned.

“Sure it is,” Ned replied, taking another bite of his apple. “You’re just making it complicated.”

Peter shot him a glare, but it lacked any real heat. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his messy hair. “I don’t want to talk about Tony.”

“Fine,” Ned said, though his tone suggested he was anything but. “We’ll talk about Harley, then.”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, come on. ” Ned leaned forward, his apple momentarily forgotten. “You’re staring at him like you’re waiting for the perfect moment to make a dramatic confession. It’s very ‘TV high school romance,’ dude. Very cliché.”

“I’m not-” Peter started, his voice rising, but Ned raised a hand to cut him off.

“Relax. I’m just saying he’s good for you, man. He keeps you grounded. And yeah, maybe he’s a little… extra sometimes,” he said, nodding toward Harley, who’s frustrated muttering was almost drowned out by the hum of the vending machine, but Peter caught enough of the accented curses to know that Harley was seconds away from either breaking it or getting himself electrocuted. Peter’s lips twitched in something resembling a smile, but it didn’t last long.

“I don’t like Harley like that,” Peter muttered, the smile dropping from his face as he crossed his arms. “That’s not - he’s just-”

“Your friend. A really good friend, who you sometimes visit in spandex and have slept with at least once,” Ned snorted. 

“Dude.” Peter’s eyes darted back to Harley, who had apparently given up on brute force and was now aggressively shoving coins into the machine. The sight tugged at something in his chest, something warm and uncomfortable and absolutely not romantic.

It wouldn’t work, anyway. He could hardly date anyone while he was swinging around in spandex, and it wouldn’t be fair of him to hide that from them, either. He’d be risking death without telling them. He’d be risking them if he did.

He was already enough of a burden on Mr. Stark and Ned and MJ. He wouldn’t force that burden on Harley, too.

His gaze flicked over to the other boy as - with one final shove - the bag of chips he was after finally fell. Harley snatched it out of the machine before turning to catch Ned and Peter’s eye, a triumphant grin on his face as he held up his prize.

Peter couldn’t help it - he laughed. 

“See?” Ned said, nudging Peter’s arm. “Good for you.”

Peter rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He just watched as Harley tore into the chips with a satisfied grin, the warmth in his chest refusing to fade.

—

He did it again.

He found himself dangling by a support beam above Harley’s room, tapping on his window after another uneventful patrol. The other boy glanced up from his place where he was sprawled across the bed, hair mussed and face half-pressed into his pillow while he idly scrolled through his phone.

Peter knocked, and Harley glanced up and smiled once he saw Peter's masked face. He tilted his head back in invitation, and Peter pulled open the unlocked window and climbed inside as he dropped down onto the carpet with a little wince. The stitches were healed, but he was pushing his luck with hand-to-hand combat.

“Jesus, Spidey,” Harley snorted, pushing himself up on the bed. “You look like you lost a fight with a dumpster.”

“I’ve never lost a fight in my life.” Harley leveled him with an unimpressed stare. “Not with a dumpster, at least. But it was in an alleyway,” he shrugged. “Besides, I thought you said you wanted to see me again!”

Harley snorted, scooting over to make room on the bed. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d actually listen, though. I'm impressed.”

Peter crossed the room and sank onto the edge of the bed, clearly exhausted. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the mask twisting in his fingers. For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence as whatever Harley watched filtered in the background.

“No more homework this time?”

“Are you offering?” Harley quirked a lip as he turned to face him.

Peter just shrugged in response. “I've got all afternoon."

“Come lie down,” Harley said, scooching over and leaving the space open beside him. Peter did, gratefully sinking down onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh.

“What’re you watching?” he asked.

“Brainrot,” Harley replied lazily, turning the screen to show Peter whatever garbage he was watching.

Peter craned his neck to glance at it, but it pulled one of the muscles in his back. Or, not the muscle, but it aggravated the old half-healed bullet wound, and he winced.

“Relax,” Harley said quietly, his voice a touch amused. His hand moved slowly, hesitating at the edge of Peter’s shoulder. “You feeling okay?”

 Peter’s heart pounded so loud he was certain Harley could hear it. “I…” His voice failed him, and all he could focus on was the feeling of the space where Harley’s fingers met his upper-arm, feather-light. Why? What was his problem?

“You’re not fine,” Harley said softly, his tone almost teasing but laced with concern. He didn’t move away, though. If anything, he seemed closer now, his knee brushing against Peter’s. “You look like you’ve been run over by a truck. Twice.”

Peter managed a weak laugh, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. “Three times, actually,” he joked, though it came out more breathless than he intended.

“Impressive,” Harley's lips twitching into a half-smile. “You’re holding up okay, though?”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded. “Just tired.” His voice barely registered above a whisper, the proximity making his throat feel tight. He wanted to shift, to move away, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He didn’t want to.

Harley seemed to notice because his hand finally rested lightly on Peter’s shoulder, fingers warm through the thin fabric of his suit. “Then stop pushing yourself so hard,” Harley murmured. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, dummy.”

Peter’s breath hitched. He swallowed hard and, before he could second-guess himself, nodded slightly, just enough to break the tension hanging in the air. “Okay,” he managed, his voice soft.

Harley stayed there for another beat, then leaned back, the intensity easing just enough to let Peter breathe properly again. “Good,” he said, breaking into a grin. “Now shut up and watch this trash with me.”

Peter exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, you keep coming back,” Harley shot back, already shifting over to position his phone in a better space between the two. “So what does that make you?”

“Hopeless,” Peter muttered, and this time, it was Harley who laughed.

After a few moments passed, Harley broke the silence again. “I do have, like, actual medical supplies now if you need them. I’ve got painkillers. And numbing gel, whatever that does.”

“Numb things, probably?” Peter tilted his head with a wry grin, before it fell away into exhaustion again. “And don’t worry about it. I don’t think they’d work on me, anyway.”

Harley turned to look up at him again, from that position of his face half-pressed into the pillow. He was still so close, and for some reason it felt like he just couldn’t breathe. Not in a way that was stifling, either, and that was the weirdest part about it. He’d never really felt like this before in a way that wasn’t usually accompanied with that awful rising panic.

Peter let out a shaky breath that sounded embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. “I’m fine,” he said again quietly after a few moments of Harley squinting at him distrustingly - though his voice betrayed him, cracking slightly at the end. He swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Harley was. He didn’t trust himself to say anything without tripping over his own words. The other boy leaned in slightly, his expression softening, and Peter’s breath caught. The air between them felt heavy, but not in a way that made him uncomfortable. It just felt… different.

“You sure?” Harley breathed as he shifted, tilting his head and staring at Peter that has him biting his cheek. There’s a moment of silence, then two, and Harley slid in closer so that they’re face to face. Peter’s sure he’s stopped breathing by that point.

Harley moved again, slower this time, and his hands fell on the space by his neck where the mask met the rest of his suit. Peter froze, watching him carefully, but didn’t pull away. He wasn’t sure if it was trust or something else entirely, but he didn’t move when Harley’s fingers gently tugged at the edge of the mask, pulling it up to expose the pale skin of his neck.

Peter’s hands instinctively moved to rest over Harley’s once the mask was pulled back just enough to expose the curve of his jaw. Harley stopped, but only for a moment. “You trust me, right?” Harley asked, his voice barely above a whisper with a look that Peter didn’t have the brain power to identify right now. 

“Right,” was the shaky response he gave back. Peter couldn’t feel his face.

When the mask was pushed up to the bridge of his nose, Harley paused, searching what he could see of Peter’s face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he leaned in and suddenly Harley’s lips were on his. 

The kiss was soft, almost hesitant, but Peter felt like his entire body had short-circuited. He melted against Harley without meaning to, leaning into the touch as the kiss deepened, the other boy’s hand finding its way around Peter’s waist and the other resting on his shoulder pushing him down. Their teeth clacked together awkwardly but neither of them cared. It was overwhelming in the best way, and for a moment, Peter forgot about everything else.

It felt soft and overwhelming but he needed more of it at the same time, and when Harley pulled away for air ice pierced his stomach. His heart sank as guilt clawed its way to the surface, cold and sharp. He couldn’t do this. Not like this.

This had gone way too far.

“I-” Peter broke the kiss, his hands coming to rest on Harley’s shoulders as he pushed back gently. “Wait, stop.”

 Harley froze, his expression shifting into something between hurt and confused. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Peter reached down, fumbling to pull his mask back over his face. “I can’t,” he said, his voice muffled and his heart hammering in his chest. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Harley let out a mournful noise, but he pulled back and blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Oh,” he said softly, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

“It’s not-” Peter started, struggling to search for the right words and against feeling the weight of his own inadequacy.  “It’s not you.”

“Yeah, no, sorry,” Harley interrupted him, waving a hand away dismissively. “That’s my bad.”

“No - I liked it. I just-” He blurted, and Harley’s eyes flicked back up to him. “It’s not you. I promise. It’s me.”

“Doesn't sound like it,” Harley muttered, settling back on the bed with an unhappy puff of air.

“It wouldn’t - this wouldn’t work,” Peter tried to explain as he turned to face Harley. “You don't even know who I am!”

“I don’t care,” Harley murmured, turning his head to stare at him with a look in his eyes that made Peter’s chest ache. “You’re Spider-Man. That’s enough for me.”

“It’s not enough for me,” Peter said quietly, standing. “I’m sorry. You deserve better than half a person. You deserve better than someone whose name you don't even know.”

Harley forced himself upright, frown twisting his lips. “Then tell me!” He snapped. “Tell me your first name! Or don’t! I don’t care. It doesn’t matter!”

Peter shook his head, a horrible feeling of guilt and misery swirling in his stomach. “It does,” he said softly, sadly, while refusing to meet Harley’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Without another word, Peter turned, pulling the window open and stepping onto the ledge. Harley stood frozen, watching as he climbed out. Peter hesitated for the briefest of moments, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back. He disappeared out of the window, leaving Harley alone in the empty room.

Chapter Text

The next day, Peter was miserable. 

Understandably so, he felt like - this was why it was such a bad idea to visit Harley in the mask in the first place. Peter knew that something awful was going to happen, that there was no real qualitative upside to stopping by and helping with Spanish homework or any of the other stupid shit he'd been doing. That wasn’t what Spider-Man was. He wasn’t a party trick Peter used to hide behind, and that's what pissed him off the most - the fact that he'd let himself fall into that.

He was so distracted over that fact the whole morning that Flash managed to slam a locker into his head because he was so focused on watching Harley walk down the hall. The worst part? He’d recognized the sense. He just hadn’t even cared enough to move.

He deserved it, anyway. Any black eye or bruise would fade over an hour, so who even cared at that point.

So as Peter sat at the lunch table, he couldn't even muster up the ability to do anything other than stare blankly at his tray as if the secrets to fixing his entire mess might be hidden beneath the pile of greasy fries. He poked at them half-heartedly, as if rearranging them like it might somehow get rid of the miserable feeling in his chest. He wasn’t sure what was worse - the ache every time Harley caught his eye, or the fact that Harley was barely looking at him at all.

“So,” Ned said, breaking the awkward silence. “Anyone do anything fun last night?”

Peter wanted to slam his head into the table. Instead, he glanced up just in time to see Harley tilt his head slightly, his face remaining unreadable. MJ sipped her water, and her expression was deadpan. “I re-read War and Peace,” she said flatly.

“Liar,” Ned snorted, pointing at her with a fry. “When I called, I could hear anime in the background.”

Peter exhaled slowly, muscles loosening a little. Ned and MJ’s familiar bickering created a buffer, giving him a chance to stew in silence without drawing too much attention. He didn’t have to think of something clever to say, didn’t have to deal with Harley’s piercing gaze - or worse, his complete lack of one. He knew, logically, that Harley wouldn’t be mad at him. Or, mad at Peter. (He’d be fucking furious with Spider-Man, and Peter wouldn’t blame him for that at all.) But just sitting at the table, Harley’s jaw clenched from the second he dropped down next to him was miserable enough.

Jesus, was this what a breakup felt like? Peter’s chest tightened at the thought. It wasn’t, obviously.  But God, it felt like one. His chest ached, and it was impossible to shake the thought that this - this weird distance, the unanswered questions, the overwhelming sense that he’d screwed up something precious despite never really having anything at all.

MJ raised an eyebrow at Ned in an expression that usually accompanied an uncomfortable flush of shame or humiliation. “You just heard Japanese and assumed it was anime,” she sniffed, delicately taking a swig of her water bottle.

“Because you never watch anything Japanese in any other context,” Ned argued back.

MJ rolled her eyes. “What am I supposed to do, watch it dubbed?” she asked, her expression twisting as if the very thought offended her. It probably did. The one time Peter had mentioned it, she’d blocked his number for a week.

Ned threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine,” he said resignedly, before muttering, “... But dubbed isn’t even that bad.” 

MJ’s head snapped back up to glare at him, but Ned pointedly ignored her. “Peter?” Ned’s voice snapped him out of it. “What about you? Do anything stupid? Watch any anime?”

Peter let out a strangled laugh, staring at his tray. “Nope,” he said quickly, his voice cracking slightly. His ears burned.

“Completely unrelated,” MJ cut in, her tone as casual though her lip quirking upward made him brace himself. “But I did see something about Spider-Man falling off a building or something the other night. Jumpscared by a cat.” MJ glanced up to him with a wry grin.  He barely noticed the sound of Harley’s sharp exhale.

“That was a month ago,” Peter corrected tiredly, scrubbing at his eyes. Jesus, he didn’t even want to think about Spider-Man right now.

Beside him, the sound of Harley’s sandwich being crushed in his fist broke through the chatter. Peter glanced over, but before he could say anything, Harley shoved his chair back with a sharp screech and stormed off.  The table fell into stunned silence. Ned blinked, his gaze darting between Peter and the retreating figure of Harley. “What was that about?” 

Harley must have felt the same way, clearly.

Peter didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He swallowed hard against the lump and forced his gaze back down to his tray, willing the cafeteria’s noisy chaos to swallow him whole. If he ignored it - ignored the knot in his chest, the way Harley’s shoulders had been stiff as he stormed off - maybe it would stop hurting. Maybe it wouldn’t feel like the air had been sucked out of the room.

The burner phone in his pocket buzzed, and he nearly jumped. Peter grabbed it, grateful for the excuse to shift his focus.

Unknown Number: 250 West 48th Street, Midtown. Apt 35. Get proof of who he works for, and you’ll take out the Stokes crime family.

Peter’s lips pressed into a tight line as he saved the address for later. “Don’t ask,” he muttered to Ned belatedly, shoving the phone back into his pocket before Ned could crane his neck far enough to read over his shoulder.

Ned raised an eyebrow. “Dude, what did you do?”

Peter shot him a sharp look, the words spilling out before he could think. “I didn’t - it was him! ” he sputtered, gesturing at the direction Harley had stalked off in, then immediately regretted it when MJ’s skeptical gaze locked onto him.

MJ frowned, tilting her head. “So what? Harley did something and now you’re sulking about it?”

Peter flushed, the heat creeping up his neck. “I’m not sulking,” he said firmly, though the defensiveness in his voice made the denial ring hollow, and he purposefully avoided their gazes. “I’m not taking shit for doing the right thing.”

“Dude,” Ned muttered.

Pushing his tray back, Peter sighed heavily. “I don’t wanna hear this.”

MJ leaned forward, her frown softening into something almost thoughtful. “Maybe it’d be good for you,” she said, her voice quieter now, like she was treading carefully.

Peter’s head snapped up. “What?” He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “In what world would this be good for anyone?” He started ticking points off on his fingers, his words coming faster now, sharper with every syllable. “I’d be risking his life. It’s a selfish decision. He’d hate me more than he already does after what I-” He stopped abruptly, his voice cracking a little. He swallowed hard and repeated, firmly this time, “I’d be risking his life. No. That's not fair of me.” 

“His life’s already at risk,” she pointed out, her tone dry. “He’s living in Stark Tower. That’s, like, villain central. If I wanted an infinite money glitch, that’s the first place I’d break into. Stark’s loaded, and I’m willing to bet you could steal all sorts of weird tech from there. Step two... profit.”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said, his voice muffled. “Dragging him into my mess could get him killed.”

“You’re being a martyr again,” Ned said bluntly, crossing his arms. “You always do this, dude. Cut it out.”

Peter’s hands dropped to the table, his frustration bubbling over. “It’s a bad idea,” he snapped, the sharpness in his tone making Ned wince. He softened slightly, taking a deep breath. “Sure, it’d be nice,” he admitted quietly, the words tasting bitter. “But there are more risks than benefits. I’m trying to be responsible.”

MJ shrugged, taking a sip from her water bottle like they weren’t talking about life-or-death stakes. “You’re the one who keeps saying he’s smart,” she said casually. “Maybe trust him to make his own decisions?”

Peter didn’t respond. He just sat there, frowning down into the half-finished mess on his lunch tray, the ache in his chest settling in like it had found a permanent home.

—

Peter crouched on the edge of the building, his lenses narrowing as he focused on the man pacing back and forth in his living room, uncovered by curtains. The guy was big, burly, he clutched a phone in one hand, his voice too muffled by distance to make out words, but his agitated gestures gave away his frustration. Peter adjusted the angle of his web shooter and swung silently to a lower vantage point.

The guy wasn’t saying anything useful. Or, nothing useful that he could make out . Peter’s patience was wearing thin, his day had been shit, the unknown number kept buzzing him and he was ready to punch someone and then go to bed. Ideally in that order.

“Focus,” he hissed to himself, silently hopping onto a fire escape and sliding up to the window frame. 

The man inside stopped pacing, leaning against the wall as he barked something lower into his phone. Peter crept closer, clinging to the shadowed side of the brick wall and straining to hear. The words were still too garbled. Frustration festered underneath his skin, and he shifted further. It was probably a bad idea to push himself so close to the open window, but he needed to get this done. He needed to find out who the number belonged to before he got in too deep. He needed to get these weapons off the street before everything spiraled further out of control.

Peter stepped out a fraction too far. 

The man’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Peter. "Shit," he muttered under his breath as the other man’s hand went to his waistband. The first shot rang out, and Peter dodged, the bullet ricocheting off the metal fire escape he clung to.

"Hey, can you not?" Peter called, his voice edged with a mix of frustration and exasperation as he flipped onto the alley wall, before using it as a springboard and launching himself back through the window. He barreled through the glass, and his elbows came up to shield his face from the shards as he rolled across the floor. He raised his hands, and the man stared down at him, heaving. "I just wanna talk. Maybe ask a few questions?"

"Get the fuck away from me!" the man snarled, firing again. 

Peter’s Spidey sense tingled at this point he didn’t even care. All of this dodging and bouncing around would only prolong everything - this room was too small and his patience had long worn out. He surged forward, letting the shot fly past a little too close for comfort. His chest tightened with anger, that deep sort of adrenaline-fueled kind that made it easier to ignore the warning signs screaming at him.

The man didn’t let up, and Peter didn’t bother dodging the next shot. The bullet grazed his upper arm, the burn of it sharp and immediate - but it gave him enough time to rush the man and knock him over.

"Seriously?" Peter hissed, kicking the gun out of his hand and ignoring the cry. "I’m trying to be civil here."

There was another rising cry of his sense but he ignored it, gritting his teeth and pushing the man down harder and webbing his now-unarmed hand to the floor. He just needed to subdue the guy, get the info and get this over with. Now, he was too focused on getting the job done to care about the consequences.

The man shoved himself upwards, un-webbed hand ripping a knife from a pocket and sinking it deep into Peter’s thigh in a sharp, fiery pain that nearly took his breath away. He gritted his teeth, grabbing the guy by the wrist and shoving him back hard enough to send him sprawling.

"Big mistake," Peter growled, yanking the knife out with a hiss and shooting a web over the wound. It burned like acid and fire and hell, but he ignored the burning pain and bit so hard on his lips that he tasted copper. Before the man could make another move, Peter webbed him by the shoulders and slammed him down onto a dining table nearby.  The impact cracked the wood, and the guy let out a strangled yelp.

Peter slammed the knife down on the table next to the man’s head, the blade embedding itself with a loud crunch that sent pieces of wood splintering across the surface.  "Last chance," Peter gritted out, his voice low and menacing as he leaned in close to the man’s panicked gaze. "I’m having a real shitty day, man. Don’t test me."

The man’s wide eyes flicked from the knife to Peter, and then back again. That was when Peter knew he’d won.

—

Ultimately, it had been a pretty miserable twenty-four hours.

He’d managed to finally - finally - peel a date and an address out of the guy, but by then he was too tired and in pain to really get any satisfaction out of it. He’d just told Karen to forward through any incriminating info to the cops and left the man tied up. The trip home was slow and agonizing - the makeshift web bandage barely holding. And by the time he crawled through his window, he was bleeding through the suit.

This had just been a painful, and the cherry on top of an already shitty day.

Peter collapsed onto his bed, tugging the mask off with a groan. He stared at the blood soaking into his suit, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Sure, he shouldn’t have gone straight to his bed. He should have gone to the bathroom and begun the slow process of fixing everything up. He ignored the feeling of blood slowly sinking into his sheets - he could throw them into the shower later on and dry them out before anyone noticed the blood stain. It’d be fine.

He just needed a breather. The universe could give him five minutes.

—

The universe could not give him five minutes.

“Peter?” came a short knock and a muffled voice from behind the door. He barely had time to catch his breath and shove himself up before it creaked open. He needed to call out, needed to hide the suit, needed to hidehidehide. “Peter, I need to talk to you,” Harley’s voice was tense, and the light from the hallway filtered into his room. “I think I screwed up yesterday with-”

Peter bolted upright, grabbing a blanket to hide the suit and tugging it over himself. "I’m getting changed!" he called, his voice cracking.

“Peter?” Harley’s voice was sharp now, almost a bark.

"Yes?" Peter replied, too quickly.

"I’m not a fucking toddler, Parker. I have object permanence!" Peter pressed the blankets to his face and inhaled sharply, eyes screwing shut. Please, universe, just give him this one thing. Please, for the love of God. “I can see the fucking suit, you stupid fucking idiot, Parker!”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuuuck. “I - this-” Peter stammered, scrambling he gripped the white blankets higher in an effort to hide the suit clinging to his frame. “Harley, I can explain-”

“Explain?” Harley cut him off, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind him. His voice was tight, laced with something raw that Peter couldn’t quite place. “Dude! What the fuck is - you’re Spider-Man? You’re - what the fuck. You’re Spider-Man?”

Peter let out a frustrated noise, hand pulling at the fabric of his suit. This was fine. This was okay. This was manageable.  He just needed to get to the bathroom. He just needed to drop the blanket and stop bleeding. He just needed to get Harley to chill the fuck out.

“Harley,” Peter started, pressing the symbol on his chest and feeling the suit loosen around his chest. It felt better. It felt like he could breathe, aside from the uncomfortable stickiness of blood that lingered - but part of the suit was off, and that was an improvement. “Look, I can explain. I just - not right now, please. I-” 

“Peter,” FRIDAY’s voice sounded from above, and a white-hot panic shot through his chest. Fuck, he’d taken off the suit too early, he wasn’t fucking paying attention because Harley was just standing there, staring, “I detect several injuries that require medical attention. I’ll need to infor-”

"Override code snitches get stitches!" Peter blurted, interrupting her. Immediately, the lights flickered out as FRIDAY’s voice cut off, plunging them into darkness aside from the dim lights of the city outside. 

Fuck. He forgot it did that.

Harley blinked, incredulous. "What the hell did you just do?"

"Stopped her from ratting me out," he muttered in response, already feeling the stress migraine kicking in. Or maybe the post blood-loss migraine kicking in. He sighed, “but I keep forgetting that it locked out her access to the room, so now we don't have any lights.”

 "You what? " Harley echoed, and Peter reached blindly for his phone in the suit’s pocket before flipping on the torch and wincing at the light. “My room - I don't have this.”

“Mr. Stark gets mad when I hide stuff from him,” he shrugged, sticking a leg out of the bed to test weight on his thigh. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, this was going to suck. “And I’m sure it's because he cares, but that caring comes in the form of being way too overprotective and increasingly invasive protocols.” Peter can practically feel Harley’s gaze burning into his forehead. “So each time I just come up with a more drastic solution. This time, I just needed to cut all of FRIDAY’s access to my room. No biggie.”

“Every time you say that, it's always a biggie,” Harley hissed, raking a panicked hand through his hair. “I can’t fucking believe you!”

Peter winced, his shoulders hunching like he wanted to disappear. “Harley, I-”

“No, don’t even.” Harley’s voice rose, sharp and unsteady. “You’re Spider-Man. You’re Spider-Man. And you didn’t tell me?”

Peter flinched. “It’s not that simple-”

“Not that simple?” Harley’s laugh was bitter, almost incredulous. He raked a hand through his hair, pacing a short, tight line across the room. “I’ve been living here with you for months, Peter. Months. And not once did you think to mention that you’re a literal superhero? I-” Harley’s eyes widened and he glared down at him with a snarl. “I kissed you! Oh my god, what the fuck. Why did you let me do that?”

“I wasn’t thin-” Peter tried, but Harley steamrolled over him.

“Yeah, no kidding! You clearly weren’t thinking!” Harley snapped, his voice rising. “Because this?” He gestured wildly to Peter’s mask lying on the floor next to him. “This is not normal! This is not okay, Peter!”

“Harley, it’s not-” Peter pushed himself up on one elbow, face twisting at the pain that shot through his side. 

Harley froze, his expression softening just slightly, but his voice remained firm. “Peter, you’re bleeding.” Peter blinked, confused, then glanced down. The bloodstain on the blanket had spread and soaked through, crimson dripping onto the floor in slow, rhythmic drops.

Oh.

“Oh my god,” Harley muttered, his tone flipping from angry to alarmed in an instant. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? You’re literally bleeding out, you idiot!” He scrambled for his own phone, flicking on the flashlight as he moved closer.

“I didn’t-” Peter tried to protest, but Harley was already moving to lean over him.

“Shut up, Parker,” Harley snapped, his voice now tight with worry. Peter slumped back against the bed, biting his lip as Harley pulled the blanket away to assess the damage.  Most of it was still covered by the suit, but as Harley began to peel it down it made him feel sick. He looked away, up at the bioluminescent stars on his ceiling in a pitiful attempt at a distraction.  “Jesus, Pete,” Harley murmured, pressing a wad of his blankets firmly into Peter’s thigh, and he made a miserable little groan. “Shut up,” he hissed before standing. Peter let out a pathetic noise at the thought of him leaving. “And stay here. I’m gonna go get - God, I hope you have medical supplies in your bathroom somewhere.”

“Second drawer,” Peter slurred, and by the time his eyes had re-opened (when did they close?) Harley was back in front of him, kneeling in the space beside his bed with a tension in his jaw, and a tight line of his lips.

“This is deep,” Harley said quietly, his hands steady even as his voice betrayed the worry roiling inside him. “Where you just gonna band-aid it shut and walk it off?”

Peter managed a weak smirk despite the searing pain. “I was gonna use duct tape, actually.”

Harley shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Not funny.”

“Little funny,” Peter breathed, but his head lolled back against the bed's headboard, face pale and clammy. “You’re... not mad anymore?”

“Oh, I’m still mad,” Harley replied tersely, not looking up from what he was doing. “But I’m putting a pin in it because apparently someone has to make sure you don’t die tonight.”

“Great,” Peter muttered, his head falling back against the pillow. “That’s comforting.” He gritted his teeth as Harley propped his phone’s flashlight up on the pillow next to him, and kneeled by his thigh. The needle pierced his skin once then again, the thread tugging at torn flesh, with Peter sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Well, now I know why you were adopted,” Harley muttered, and Peter’s chest ached. Because he was right, wasn’t he? It was so obvious - he’d tried to ignore it, to deny it, but it was so clear that even Harley had figured it out five minutes after the mask came off.

No one wanted him for Peter Parker. That much was clear enough.

Peter swallowed hard, trying to focus on the rhythmic pulse of pain in his side instead of the storm brewing in his chest. He didn’t trust his voice, didn’t think he could say anything without breaking.  “Were you even ever an intern?” The other boy’s voice came again, laced with something Peter couldn’t quite name. His throat tightened, and he opened his mouth to respond or to defend himself, but he couldn’t actually form the words.

The story might’ve been bullshit, but was it so hard to believe that Mr. Stark actually liked him enough to keep him around?

Peter bit down harder on the inside of his cheeks, a horrible rising heat behind his eyes threatening to spill over. “Harley, it’s not-”

“Don’t,” Harley snapped, his hands pausing mid-motion as he turned his glare on Peter. He opened his mouth, but Harley wasn’t done. “Those times you ended up in the Medbay? Or those times when you and Tony would just stop talking the second I walked in? And then you’d give me those half-assed excuses about tripping over your own feet or walking into walls or whatever, and I believed you! Like an idiot!" Harley’s voice cracked on the last word, and Peter couldn’t meet his eyes. He stared at the ceiling instead, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “And the whole time,” Harley continued, his voice rising, “you were-”

“I couldn’t tell you!” Peter’s voice broke, raw and desperate as he cut Harley off mid-sentence. His chest heaved, his breaths shallow and uneven as he forced himself to look at the other boy despite the fact that his face was flushed, and his eyes blurred with this horrible sense of rising panic and desperation. “You think I didn’t want to? That I didn’t want to tell you the truth?”

Harley’s jaw tightened, his glare unwavering. “Then why didn’t you?”

“Because it’s not that simple!” Peter shouted, his voice cracking. The words felt like glass in his throat, jagged and painful. “I didn’t tell anyone. Not you, not Ned, not MJ - no one. Not until they found out themselves. It’s not like I wanted to keep it from you. I had to.”

Harley dropped the half-finished stitches, thread dangling idly from Peter's thigh before his head turned up to face him fully. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous!” Peter snapped, his voice rising. “Because the people I care about get hurt when they know! Because if someone finds out, if they find you -” His voice broke, and he shook his head, looking away. “I didn’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for Peter’s ragged breathing. Harley stared at him, his expression unreadable, until finally, he spoke. “Peter.” His voice was quieter now, steadier. “I get that. I do. But you’re my friend. Don’t you think I should’ve had the chance to decide that for myself?”

Peter looked up. “I just… I thought I was protecting you.”

“Yeah, well.” Harley's voice soft but still tinged with frustration as he picked up the needle and resumed stitching. “Next time, maybe trust me enough to let me decide if I want that protection. Okay?”

Peter let out a pained breath as Harley tied off the last knot, but he bit his lip at the sharp rising feeling of rage in his chest. “I don’t - I don’t owe you my identity,” he gritted out, avoiding Harley’s gaze and staring down at the bloodied sheets. “Last time someone found out they dropped a parking garage on me. It’s for your safety, but it's for my own as well.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not about trust!" Peter seethed. He wanted to tear his hair out, because he still didn't get it. "It’s life and death, Harley. This isn't some stupid-” Peter cut off as he gritted his teeth, “You don’t get to act like I’m the bad guy here for trying to protect you.”

Harley’s eyes narrowed, his arms still crossed. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it.”

“No? Then what are you saying?” Peter shot back, sitting up straighter despite the fact that the movement sent a wave of pain across his left leg. “I don’t want to be standing in front of your grave someday wondering if you’d still be alive if I’d just kept my mouth shut.” His voice cracked at the end, and he turned away for a moment, trying to breathe through the lump rising in his throat.

Harley didn’t move. “So, what? You think I’m too fragile to handle it?”

“It’s not about you!” Peter exploded, spinning back around to face him. “It’s not about trust or how ‘fragile’ you are or whatever crap you think this is. It’s about staying safe. Minimising risk. It’s people with guns and bombs and vendettas who will go after you just to get to me!”

“Oh, come on,” Harley snapped, his voice rising to match Peter’s. “You don’t think I get that? You don’t think I’d take that risk for you? You didn’t even give me the choice, Peter!”

Peter’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he was silent, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I didn’t give anyone the choice. Everyone who knows now knows because they found out whether or not I wanted them to. I didn’t want to spend every day wondering if the people I care about are going to die because of me. But here we are. And you think you’re entitled to my secrets just because we’re friends?”

“Entitled?” Harley took a step closer, his voice low and biting. “You think this is about me? Dude, I’ve seen you dragging yourself to school and to the lab half-dead, making up excuses that are clearly bullshit. I just-” He stopped, shaking his head. “I just wanted to help, man.”

Peter’s lip curled in frustration. “You’re not helping. And if you’re not gonna help, get out.”

Harley’s expression twisted into a snarl, before he stood, stalking across the room to yank the door open. “You’re an asshole, Parker. I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me.”

“It’s not about trust,” he muttered hoarsely, barely audible. “It’s about surviving.”

And then Harley was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a heavy thud.

Chapter Text

Peter groaned as the sharp knock on his door echoed through his room, and he pressed his face further into the pillow. Maybe whoever it was would go away if he didn’t say anything. He pulled his blanket tighter around him and ducked underneath it all, cutting the morning light out of his field of vision.

“FRIDAY said you were up,” came Bucky’s voice from the other side of the door, calm but firm enough to let Peter know he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. “I figured we should... talk.”

Peter pressed his palms against his eyes, the sting of exhaustion and emotional turmoil from the night before still weighing heavily on him. “Can we just... not?” he croaked, his voice rough. “For a while? Can we just be normal again?”

There was a pause, long enough that Peter thought Bucky might actually leave. But then came the quiet reply. 

“Okay. Normal sounds good.” The door opened a crack, and Bucky leaned in, his expression unreadable but less guarded than Peter expected. “Steve made breakfast, if you’re hungry?”

Peter let out a breath. He wasn’t hungry. He’d be perfectly content to just rot away in bed for the rest of time, but he knew deep down that he should probably get up and interact with other people. He hadn’t really sat down with Bucky for… a while.

That thought made him a little more miserable than before.

They ended up in the kitchen, Peter sitting at the counter with his chin propped on his hand while Bucky rummaged through the cabinets. A plate of pancakes sat on the table, courtesy of Steve, who was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, sipping coffee.

The atmosphere was... easier than it had been than over the last few days. Steve turned to grab something from the cupboard as Bucky slid a steaming mug across the table toward Peter. “You’re quiet,” he remarked, settling into the chair opposite him.

Peter shrugged, his gaze fixed on the  steam curling from the surface from the mug. “Just tired,” he muttered.

Bucky didn’t push, but he settled into the seat across from Peter, his expression softening. “Long night?”

Peter sighed, his shoulders slumping as he lowered his head to the table. “Harley hates me,” he admitted, his voice muffled against the wood. “He’s… really mad.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed slightly, though he didn’t interrupt. Steve, who had been quietly listening from his place buried in the kitchen pantry poked a head out to glance over at them. “What did you do?” 

Peter dragged his hands down his face before answering, his tone heavy with guilt. “He found out about Spider-Man,” he confessed, his words tumbling out like a reluctant admission. “He walked in on me while I was wearing the suit.” His hands covered his face again, memory flicking over the sequence of Harley’s expressions - shock, disappointment, and then rage. He wasn’t sure which one had stung the most. “He says I should’ve told him.”

“Can you blame him?” Steve asked, though his tone wasn’t harsh. He leaned against the counter, his head tilting slightly as he studied Peter. “It can hurt when someone you care about is keeping something important from you.”

Peter let out a bitter laugh, lifting his head just enough to shoot Steve a tired look. “I know, okay? I get it. I just-” He paused, his words faltering as he struggled to articulate the mess in his head. “I didn’t want to drag him into this. I didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t just about me. It’s... complicated,” Peter murmured, his voice barely audible. “And he deserves better than… than this .” 

Bucky took a sip of his coffee, then set the mug down with a soft clink. “Sorry, kid,” he said with a small shrug. “I never really had a secret identity. Or not really an alter ego to balance it with, at least.”

Peter slumped in his seat, dragging his fork through the pancake on his plate without taking a bite. “So, no advice?”

“Not much.” Bucky’s lips quirked in a faint, self-deprecating smile as he sipped his coffee, watching Peter carefully. “But now he’s already in it, so you might as well talk it out. You can’t undo what happened, but you can fix what comes next.”

“He’s so mad, though,” Peter groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.

“If it helps, people usually come around,” Bucky shrugged. “Probably just needs time to cool off.”

“And some pancakes,” Steve added with a grin, earning a weak chuckle from Peter. His gaze flicked down to his pocket, and he thumbed the familiar outline of the burner phone in his pocket. The other men were focused on eating, and he flicked it on.

Burner02: I want to know who you are.

Burner02: I’m not doing anything else until I’ve met you at least once. 

There was a moment that passed, then two. He had a sinking sort of feeling that yeah, he was definitely pushing it now, but fuck it. He was tired and angry and bitter and at this point he didn’t even care. He wanted to know who this idiot was, and if he burned a bridge or two, he’d survive. He could live without the cryptic intel and random addresses.

A napkin bounced off of his head, and he glanced up to see Bucky’s flattened expression. “No phones at the table.”

It clicked off, and that was that.

—

Peter trudged up to the lab, his footsteps heavy and a little nervous. He couldn’t stay in his room - if he stayed, he knew he wouldn’t leave for the entire weekend, and the thought of stewing in his own misery didn’t sit well especially when it was his own fault. He should probably talk to Mr. Stark, too; though the man probably wasn’t thrilled with him right now either. The idea of both Harley and Tony being mad at him made his chest ache with painful, twisting guilt.

When the lab doors slid open for him, Tony was hunched over his desk with papers spread out before him. The room was unusually quiet, save for the low hum of machinery and the faint scratch of pen against paper. Tony didn’t even glance up at the sound of Peter’s arrival; his shoulders were shoulders rigid with tension and his brow furrowed in concentration.

It wasn’t a great sign.

Peter hesitated, lingering in the doorway, unsure if he was even welcome. Finally, he tentatively asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“Paperwork,” Tony muttered, his tone clipped and his eyes glued to the document in front of him. The pen in his hand moved with sharp, deliberate strokes, each one betraying his irritation.  It was probably due to the break-in, Peter figured. It’d be a big enough deal that it would blow back onto Mr. Stark, too - and it probably only added to his stress.

Peter nodded, though Tony’s curt reply stung a little and he decided not to push any further. If Tony wasn’t yelling, that was good enough for now. Harley was already furious; Peter didn’t need to add another person to the list of people pissed at him.

Not wanting to draw any more attention to himself, Peter drifted toward a workbench, pretending to sift through random parts he had no real use for. His fingers fidgeted with a stray bolt before his phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He hesitated before pulling it out.

Unknown Number: Fine. Let’s meet.

Peter’s pulse quickened, and he typed a quick response before hitting send.

Burner02: when and where?

He stared at the screen, willing a reply to come through, but none did. The message hung in the air like a weight, and Peter slipped the phone back into his pocket with a sigh. He didn’t get an answer.

He fiddled with a few more bolts and screws, stealing a glance at Tony who still hadn’t looked up from his desk.

“You okay?” Peter asked quietly, before regretting it.

Tony finally glanced up, expression unreadable. “Fine. Just busy.” 

Peter hovered for a moment, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Need help with anything?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, his pen pausing mid-air. “You offering to do paperwork now?”

Peter shrugged. “Better than fighting.”

Tony’s face fell a little, his gaze searching Peter’s for a moment and he knew immediately he’d made the wrong choice. But before Tony could respond, however, the lab doors slid open again. Harley stepped inside, and the second his eyes landed on Peter, his frown deepened into something sharp.

Peter froze, his breath catching in his throat. “What are you-?”

“I’m not here to see you,” Harley interrupted sharply, his voice cutting in a way that made Peter half want to cry. He turned his attention to Tony, his expression softening just slightly, brushing by his desk to stand in front of the other man. “Where do I need to sign?”

Tony leaned back in his chair, gesturing to a folder on the desk. “This,” he said simply, sliding the folder toward Harley. “Can’t sign it until my lawyers get here, but you should look it over in the meantime.”

Harley grabbed the folder without hesitation and dropped into the chair opposite Tony. His focus was sharp, his demeanor all business, and he didn’t spare Peter a single glance.

Peter stood frozen for a moment, gripping the edge of the workbench. His frustration bubbled beneath the surface, but he swallowed it down, not wanting to make things worse. He quietly gathered his things, stuffing tools into his bag with more force than necessary.

“Peter, you’re stewing,” Tony said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He stiffened, glaring at Tony. “I’m fine.”

Tony’s gaze flicked between Peter and Harley, who was still buried in the paperwork. “You two fighting?”

“No,” Peter said quickly.

“Yes,” Harley replied at the same time, not even bothering to glance up.

Tony sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples. “Great. Love that for me. Just what I needed today.”

Peter slung his bag over his shoulder, his voice tight. “I’m going on patrol.”

“Great idea,” Tony said, his sarcasm heavy. “Go bleed out somewhere else. Perfect solution.” Peter shot him a glare before heading for the door. Harley didn’t even look up. “Don’t stay out too late, kid,” Tony called after him, his voice softer but no less weary.

Peter didn’t respond, the door sliding shut behind him with a muted hiss.

—

Harley was scowling at the stack of cookies in front of him like they’d personally betrayed him. And in a way, they had. Mint chocolate chip cookies had always been his go-to. They were his favorite thing. 

But lately, every time he ate one, it gave him a horrible twisting stomachache and the awful nausea that lingered for hours, or worse.

The fact that it was mint wasn’t the issue. It couldn’t be. He’d eaten mint his whole life. He loved mint toothpaste, mint gum, mint ice cream. But these cookies? It was like they’d been cursed. He could eat each ingredient and be fine. It wasn’t the eggs or flour or sugar or what else. He’d done some googling, too, only to be horrified at the possibility of an allergy developing later on in life.

But it couldn’t be the mint.

And it wasn’t just the physical discomfort - it was the principle of the thing. Half the fun of eating the cookies was making a show of it in front of Peter. Harley loved the way Peter wrinkled his nose with a jealous snarl before he crammed them down his throat in an effort to deprive the other boy. God knows he fucking deserved it, after all the shit he put Harley through.

After finishing the last pack in his stash and spending the afternoon throwing up in the bathroom, Harley finally broke down and went to see Dr. Cho. He didn’t mention the cookies at first, of course. Instead, he danced around the topic with vague questions about allergies.

“...Yes,” Dr. Cho said after a moment, her tone cautious as if she were trying to gauge where this conversation was going. “It is possible to develop an allergy or sensitivity after repeated exposure, though it is rare. Allergic reactions can manifest in various ways, including skin irritation, respiratory issues, or gastrointestinal symptoms.” She paused, frowning slightly. “Typically, repeated exposure alone does not lead to an allergy unless there is a pre-existing sensitivity. Why do you ask?”

Harley stiffened. “No reason,” he said too quickly. “Just curious.”

He refused to risk her finding out and telling Peter. That would just be the cherry on top of this entire situation: Peter finding out Harley was literally getting sick because he’d eaten too many mint cookies trying to annoy him. He could already hear the lecture. Or worse, the teasing.

Dr. Cho raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Are you experiencing any symptoms you’d like to discuss?”

“Nope. All good.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing toward the door. “Anyway, thanks for the info. Super helpful.”

“Harley-”

He’d ducked out of the room despite her obvious disbelief, but she hadn’t followed him. Thank God.

Still, as Harley stared down at another unopened package of cookies later that day, he sighed heavily. He wasn’t ready to give them up just yet. Maybe if he paced himself - ate them slower, or fewer at a time - it wouldn’t be so bad.

For now, though, he tossed the package onto the counter with a groan.

Fucking cookies. Fucking Peter.

—

Peter stared down at his lunch tray, poking at the gelatinous mound that was supposed to be mashed potatoes. He didn’t even have the energy to make his usual half-hearted complaint about the cafeteria food. Across the table, Ned was watching him like a hawk, his expression a mix of concern and barely concealed curiosity. Peter could feel it, the weight of Ned’s stare boring into him, but he kept his eyes firmly on his tray, hoping if he ignored it long enough, it would go away.

It didn’t.

“You’ve been acting weird,” Ned said finally, breaking the tense silence.

Peter shrugged, still prodding at his unappetizing lunch. “I’m not acting weird.”

The words came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t help it. Harley wasn’t there - eating lunch somewhere else, probably with a different group of kids. Peter didn’t know, and the thought made him feel miserable. Still, it was probably for the best. Things had been... tense between them lately. Harley’s absence should’ve been a relief, but instead, it left a hollow, uncomfortable ache in Peter’s chest that he couldn’t shake.

“You’re totally acting weird,” Ned pressed, undeterred. “You and Harley have been avoiding each other like the plague. Did you guys, like, break up or something?”

Peter froze. His fork clattered against the plate as his head snapped up, his face already burning. “We weren’t even dating!” he hissed, his voice just loud enough to draw the attention of a few nearby tables. He ducked his head again, cheeks flaming as he tried to ignore the curious glances.

Ned didn’t look convinced. In fact, his eyebrows shot up even higher, giving him an expression of exaggerated disbelief. “You sure? Because it kinda feels like you two had a really messy fight, and now everyone’s stuck in the middle of your custody battle.”

Peter groaned, slumping forward and burying his face in his hands. “We’re not dating,” he mumbled into his palms, his voice muffled and pathetic. “He knows that. Everyone knows that.”

“Sure,” Ned said, dragging the word out in a way that made Peter’s skin crawl. “So, what’s the deal, then? Why’s it so awkward between you two?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Peter said finally, his voice a little too quick, a little too defensive. “We’re just… not talking. That’s all.”

Ned tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “How many times have you accidentally climbed into his room?”

Peter’s stomach dropped. “What?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat quickly. “That’s - that’s not a thing. It was an accident. It doesn’t count.”

Ned leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, and raised an eyebrow. “How many times, Parker?”

Peter squirmed under his best friend’s relentless gaze, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “Twice,” he muttered, barely audible.

“Twice?” Ned repeated, his tone somewhere between incredulous and delighted.

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Okay, fine. Three. But one was on purpose. Or - actually, that’s a lie. Two were on purpose.”

Ned’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut again. His expression was a mix of shock and something that looked suspiciously like amusement. “Peter…”

“I was doing him a favor!” Peter blurted, his voice pitching higher in his panic. “Not like that! It’s not like that.”

Ned blinked at him, his lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh. “You climbed into his room. On purpose. Two times.”

“It wasn’t weird!” Peter protested, heat creeping up his neck and settling on his face. “I mean, okay, maybe it was a little weird. But it wasn’t ugh, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Oh, I’m thinking a lot of things right now,” Ned said, finally grinning. “Mostly that you’re really bad at this whole ‘we weren’t even dating’ thing.”

Peter groaned again, letting his head thunk against the table with a dramatic sigh. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Ned replied cheerfully, leaning back in his seat with the air of someone thoroughly enjoying himself. “But you do have a thing for Harley.”

“I do not!” Peter snapped, lifting his head just enough to glare at Ned.

 “Sure,” Ned replied, his tone dripping with mock agreement as he leaned back further, crossing his arms and wearing a smug grin that made Peter’s skin crawl. “Keep telling yourself that.”

 Peter scowled, shoving a forkful of potatoes into his mouth to avoid responding, though they tasted like glue and regret. Across the table, Ned just watched, his expression far too entertained for Peter’s liking.

“It doesn’t even matter now, anyway,” Peter muttered after swallowing hard, his stomach churning for reasons that had nothing to do with the cafeteria food. “He hates me.”

Ned raised an eyebrow, sitting up a little straighter. “Why?”

Peter’s jaw tightened. He stared at his tray, unwilling to meet Ned’s gaze. “He knows.” 

Ned froze. His cheerful demeanor vanished in an instant. “ What? ” he hissed, leaning forward.

“Shut up,” Peter whispered harshly, shooting a panicked look around the crowded cafeteria.

“No, you shut up,” Ned shot back, his voice a frantic whisper. “Now tell me everything. What do you mean he knows? Like, he knows knows?”

Peter groaned, his head dropping into his hands. “He caught me in the suit,” he admitted miserably, his voice muffled.

Ned stared at him, blinking rapidly. “I mean… it can’t be that bad, right?” Peter let out a sound that could only be described as a cross between a groan and a whimper. “Okay,” Ned said, backtracking quickly. “So it is that bad. But, like, it’ll get better. He’ll forgive you. Eventually. We all did.” He shrugged, trying to sound casual. Peter didn’t feel any better. “I’m not gonna lie, dude, when MJ first found out she was pissed. But she didn’t even try to smack you or anything, because, you know, she cared about you more.”

“This is your pep talk?” Peter asked incredulously, glaring at Ned. “‘Well, we were all mad, but at least we didn’t beat you up?’ That’s what you’re going with?”

“No!” Ned said defensively, waving his hands. “What I mean is, we all got used to it. Harley will too. You just gotta, like, give him time or something.”

Peter slumped in his seat, poking at his potatoes with his fork. “That’s what everyone’s saying,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. “Give him time, let him come around. What if he doesn’t?”

Ned shrugged, clearly unsure of how to answer. “Then… that’s all you can do, I guess. It sucks, but what else is there?”

Peter sighed, staring down at his tray. This was going to be a long lunch.