Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To be completely fair, Peter hadn’t meant to arrive at the battle just as the Avengers did. In fact, he usually did everything he could to avoid it. He didn’t want to have to deal with the snide remarks and the absent-minded attacks that they always sent his way. Didn't want to have to fight off two sources of attacks at once: one set of attacks coming from the guys who were supposed to be on his side, and the other from the actual enemies. He especially didn’t want to miss the appointment he had made with the homeless shelter down in Queens. They were only serving Thanksgiving dinner from five to seven, and that was one of his favorite meals they offered. And yet, according to the giant, yet rather helpful clocks displayed on one of the glowing billboards surrounding him, the time was approaching 6:30. With the vicious way both of his enemies were attacking him, he knew he wasn’t getting out of this any time soon. 

When Peter had arrived on the scene, he could hear the various expletives coming from the team of heroes on the other end of the street—a sure sign that the team had clocked his presence. 

“Howdy, folks!” he greeted amicably, though he knew it was pointless. “Anyone wanna explain why we’re currently fighting an army of weaponized and rather overgrown Sea Monkeys?”

Much to his chagrin, he only received exasperated grumbles in response. Which made sense, seeing as the team of heroes didn't particularly favor him.

The Avengers had been trying (and failing miserably) to get a hold of him for almost a year now. From what he could gather, SHIELD had deemed him such a perilous threat that they had sent the Avengers to bring him in. Of course, by “bring him in," they meant “beat him so far down into the ground that eventually he is so near death that you are able to take him to us so we can interrogate and perform experiments on him.” Or something. And while he couldn’t help but think that being such a high level threat to SHIELD was something of a compliment, he didn't really want to get tortured. Again. 

Tony Stark’s order of, “Nat, handle Spider-Man, would ya?” brought Peter back to the present.

“On it,” Romanov replied. In an instant, she was at Peter’s side delivering barely-avoided kicks to his relatively (read: extremely) frail body.

He hadn't always been this frail, but since May died about a year and a half ago, Peter had been relatively on his own. Well, that was if you didn't count the hell that was his first and only foster home. He got out of that shit shack a little too late for comfort, but it was hard to develop an escape plan with his foster father, Richard, constantly breathing down his neck. Once he was on the streets, it was even harder to find a source of food for his stupid insane metabolism than it was in that house. His body and health deteriorated way too quickly for his liking, and that was before he had injuries inflicted by the Avengers to heal alongside his nightly patrol injuries. Peter’s survival was fueled purely by the need to help others—and spite, of course.

Spider-Man might've been frail, but at least his Spidey Sense was still intact; it was pinging like crazy, forcing him to constantly turn between Romanov and the weird-ass alien like some sick form of hokey pokey.

“You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around,” Peter mumbled, “that's what it's all about! Hey!” He delivered a particularly hard kick to the shrimp fuckhead on his final shout and sent it flying into the street, where it bounced once, twice, three times before it came to a rest and promptly shattered like broken glass. “Oh, God, that's so weird, why do they do that, what the hell.”

As soon as the alien was gone, New York's miniature version of Iron Man replaced it, jumping in with, “I know right? Freaks me out every time."

Iron Lad wasn't much of an improvement if Peter was honest, because this kid had blasters. Blasters that would be pretty damn painful and at least a little difficult to avoid, if Peter's experience with Iron Man was anything to go by. Why make the already dangerous blasters more dangerous by giving them to a teen?

(Of course Peter knew Iron Lad was a kid, specifically one 17-year-old named Harley Keener. Stark's A.I., which had been just as hard to hack as Peter had anticipated, told him that Harley had moved into the Avengers tower close to six months ago from his home in Tennessee. The teen was currently enrolled in Midtown. Maybe he knew some of Peter's old classmates.) (Also, the dumbass had Lad in his name. If Harley wanted to maintain any form of a mature hero persona, he shouldn’t blatantly state that he was a literal child. Come on, didn’t Harley learn that in How To Be A Teenage Superhero 101?)

Iron Lad aimed a repulsor blast at Peter’s head, which he dodged just in time for it to only hit his right shoulder. He made no sound, despite the intense searing pain that would've knocked anyone else off their feet. Peter couldn't show weakness in front of his attackers, he couldn't show them that they actually affected him. Giving that away in turn meant giving them hope that they could capture him. So Peter made no sound. 

“Iron Lad,” Romanov chastised, refusing to use his real name, “we all told you to keep away from Spider-Man. You know he’s dangerous.”

She threw three knives at Peter in rapid succession, all but one he dodged before rolling away from her next attack. One of the knives had lodged itself into his side, and boy, Peter was not jazzed about that. He let out a quiet hiss before he composed himself, ready for the next attack. 

Iron Lad flew to the other side of Peter so that he was fighting next to the ex-spy as he groaned, “Nat, come on! I am in a literal suit of armor. I’m fine, and I will remain so.”

Romanov rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen what he’s done to Tony’s armor. The same thing could happen to you,” she told him, saying it like she'd said it a million times before. Peter smirked when he thought about how that meant they must've talked about him often. That smirk stayed on his masked face as he flipped over Romanov so he could web her to the stop sign they had been fighting near. She didn't even struggle, knowing from experience that it was impossible to get out of his webbing.

He turned back around to see Harley running, rather slowly might he add, towards him. Seriously, why would Iron Lad run when he could just fly a little?

“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you guys?” Peter shouted over his shoulder while trying to find the weak spots in Harley’s armor that wouldn’t cause him any pain. “I don’t want to hurt any of you! You’re the ones hurting me.”

That seemed to be a common theme in Peter's life.

Harley hesitated slightly before he told Peter, “We are under orders from SHIELD to bring you in.”

Great. It's not like Peter had heard that a million times before.

Peter jumped and spun through the air over Harley to rip out a panel on his neck, effectively powering down his suit in one fell swoop. The move was addmittedly based in luck; Peter had simply hoped that Iron Lad's control unit was in the same place as Iron Man's. Sometimes Parker Luck played in his favor.

He quickly webbed him to the side of the building close to Romanov, and began a slow approach towards the other teen. He totally did not revel in the sound of Iron Lad's quickening heart rate.

“And what fine lap dogs you guys are,” Peter retorted, Harley's words still itching at Peter's sense of logic. “Maybe if you thought for yourselves for once, you'd notice how we're both fighting against the same villain of the week? But no, you guys have to bring in one of the most valuable assets New York has to protect them from whatever fuckers decide to torment this godforsaken city.”

Peter took a breath, gathering his composure, and started to back away from where he'd gotten rather close to Harley. “I don't even know why I try to explain this anymore. It won't ever sink in with you guys.”

He let his webs grab hold of a building across the street, and flung himself away before the boy could respond. 

Peter swung to a building where his own A.I., Karen, detected several heat signatures. Karen had been a valuable asset in battle ever since he created her back when he was trying to figure out the inner workings of being a random arachnid-themed superhero. He was a bit lonely at the time because he hadn’t told anyone about his alter-ego quite yet. He made her to be a sort of confidant for him, along with actually being able to help him in battle. He could rely on her not only for the intricacies of vigilantism, but as something of a friend.

Was that sad? That was kind of sad, wasn't it.

“Karen, show me where my new friends are,” Peter instructed, not taking the time to debate the level of self-pity he deserved.

“There are currently four heat signatures on the second floor, so I would recommend getting up there as fast as you can,” she replied.

He was already in the building. This posed an awkward question not many people thought about: should he use the stairs or the elevator to get to the civilians? Like seriously, which was faster? He knew that the stairs were safer during a fire, but what about an alien invasion? He decided on the stairs, if only because of the mental image of listening to elevator music on the way to get civilians out of a building that had a small chance of surviving the battle.

Peter ran up the stairs to get to the second floor and allowed the four people he found to stick to him in any way they could. Since it was only the second floor, he figured it was easiest to just jump out one of the windows. There were yelps of shock and fear as they quickly flew through the air, but they quieted by the time he landed and sent them off to go in the opposite direction of the fight. He could only hope he would not later find one in the midst of battle—sometimes civilians had hero complexes to rival Peter's own.

Once he saw that no civilians were coming back, he climbed up to and slipped into one of the third story windows to repeat the process.

By the time he was on the final floor, Karen had warned Peter that the structural integrity of the building was, as he had predicted, not doing so hot. He ran through the halls of the last floor, throwing anyone he saw over his shoulder. In the end, it was only three people, all of whom had apparently been watching him rush out of the building with the other civilians. Why they hadn’t made his job easier and gone down at least a floor, he didn’t know. Civilians could be insanely clueless.

Since he was currently on the 10th floor of the building, he had to get down to a lower level to safely get them out of one of the windows. He all but flew down the stairs until he could feel the building shaking. He looked up to see that they were on the fifth floor. That would have to do.

He jumped out of the first window he saw, and deployed one of his web bombs below him. He heard the fwump that indicated it had exploded into what was essentially a huge mattress made out of webs.

They landed on the sticky cushion and looked up to see the structural supports of the building finally give up. It slowly crumbled to the ground, and Peter heard one of the civilians he was holding onto start crying. That was pretty valid. He set them on the ground and turned to face all of them.

“Go to an open area far away from here,” he instructed, “and wait until you don't hear the tell tale sound of aliens getting their asses kicked to come back.”

They all nodded and sent a few grateful acknowledgements his way. 

Peter heaved a deep sigh, and looked at the ground surrounding the dilapidated building. There were dozens of shattered aliens on the ground, and he startled when he saw Captain America fling yet another towards the mess. Rogers was the demise of the poor building—Peter should have seen that coming.

Peter reentered the fight, but it was coming to a close. There were only a few handfuls of Sea Monkeys left, and thank fuck for that. The shoulder wound from Harley was still aching, and the blood loss from, you know, being stabbed was starting to get to him as his adrenaline wore off. He really missed when his super healing was up to par. If it were, his blast wound would have been healing over by now. Something about not eating for a couple days really messed with his metabolism, but seeing as he was missing Thanksgiving dinner to be here, he'd have to struggle with these wounds for a while longer yet.

As Peter’s current sparring mate shattered, he looked around to see that the Avengers were quickly overpowering their own battles. That meant that in a few minutes, he was going to have to fight the adults once again.

Instead of putting up with that bullshit, he chose to launch himself into the air towards home, wary of jostling his injuries.

As he passed the spot where Romanov and Harley should have been, there was only melted webbing. He wasn't going home quite yet, then.

He landed to inspect his mess of webs, trying to ignore the rancid smell of burned webs. Stark must have come by to free his teammates. God only knows how long it took him to melt through Peter's webs, but knowing himself and his inventions, it must have been pretty damn long. 

He once again departed the battlefield, only to be stopped not a minute later. There was a boy leaned up against the side of a building about a block down. But he knew it wasn’t a civilian—Harley Keener was slumped over, with the parts that composed his helmet on the ground next to him. He looked exhausted, and Peter didn't think that he was the one who caused that. After all, the only thing that he did was disable the weaponry on the other's suit.

Peter landed and approached the boy silently, not quite knowing what his plan was. Harley had his eyes closed, and oh God was he dead, but no, Peter could hear the boy’s pulse beating steadily. Harley didn't notice the vigilante’s presence until he was squatted right beside him. 

Harley flinched slightly, and his eyes shone with fear. The sight made Peter’s heart ache. And his shoulder. And his torso. Holy fuck, he was in so much pain. But another look at Harley’s undeniably attractive face told him to ignore his own blaster wound from the boy, and let go of the words that had bothered him so much not 15 minutes ago, because Peter could handle himself. Harley needed help.

“C’mon man,” Peter chuckled quietly, “I told you I wasn't in the business of hurting people. Not really my style. I’m here to help.” 

Harley looked skeptical to say the least, and he still didn't say anything. So, while he waited for Harley to realize that he couldn’t help himself in his state, Peter sat on the ground a few feet away from him.

Every now and then, Harley would shift slightly, and with that came a groan. Peter internally cursed the wounded boy, because fucking hell, he was trying to help! Peter himself had cuts lining his legs from whatever weapons those Sea Monkeys had, along with a blast wound and a goddamn knife in his side that he was resolutely ignoring. 

Peter sighed as he watched another bead of sweat drip down Harley’s face, despite the chill in the air. He came to a decision and slowly crept forward, with his hands held up by his face. It felt like approaching a wild animal, and it didn't hurt any less the second time Harley flinched. His hands came to a stop right above the arc reactor, and he froze. Peter didn’t want to do anything further without Harley’s permission. Harley saw him as the enemy, no matter what Peter was going to do to help him. But when he looked up, a question of consent on his lips, Harley’s face had become infinitely calmer. His eyes were still wary, his expression still guarded, but he gave a reluctant nod for Peter to remove his suit. Relief flooded Peter’s body. Finally.

When he tapped the arc reactor, the suit fell off Harley’s body to form a neat little box on the ground. Peter looked at the other teen's body and came to the conclusion that Harley must not have been very used to getting hurt (which was fair, seeing as Harley was just a teenager. No, Peter was not a hypocrite.) His visible injuries didn’t look that serious, just bruising on his arms. Of course, the injuries underneath his clothing could have been a bit worse. 

Before he began his first-aid, he listened for the Avengers a few blocks down, and noted that it still sounded like they were fighting. There must have been more Sea Monkeys than he saw before he left. Whatever, the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes could handle a few more glass-like shrimp bitches while Peter took care of one of their own. 

“Karen, run a scan,” he mumbled. He could see the confusion in Harley’s eyes before a light from his mask briefly shined on Harley’s battered body. 

“Iron Lad has one bruised rib, a minor concussion, two minor lacerations across his torso, several small cuts on his face, and light bruising across his body,” Karen replied.

Peter nodded and looked up to Harley in a silent question to take off his shirt, to which Harley nodded hesitantly. He produced a small first-aid kit he kept nestled in his suit—don't ask him how, a magician never revealed their secrets—and got to work.

While he was patching Harley up, Peter thought about how many times he had done so on himself. The last time was not even two days ago, from when he had to spare some of his limited sewing materials in order to stitch up a stab wound he received that night on patrol. Not a very kind gift, he had to say.

Peter was used to having to put himself back together, seeing as he'd been doing so for years. His best friend, Ned, had never done so because Peter hadn't let him. Peter knew it'd probably be traumatic to see your friend's blood on your hands. Actually, it was definitely traumatic—he would know. But soon after the Homecoming Fiasco, Ned had moved away. To Colorado. Where he wouldn't be stitching Peter up any time soon.

A bit after Ned left, there was...an incident. Peter wasn't able to—Peter couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save MJ, didn’t make it fast enough couldn’t save her couldn’t get her blood off his hands couldn't save—

May was killed in a car accident three months after MJ died. And then it was into the foster system with Peter, where he met Richard. And, well. 

Here he was, finishing cleaning the cuts on Harley’s face. 

Peter was thankful for the mask because when he realized he was almost sitting on top of Harley to reach his face, all his blood immediately rushed to his cheeks. He hurriedly jumped up, an apology and goodbye on his tongue when his wrist was grabbed and he flinched on instinct. The hand was then pulled away, with a single word uttered with it.

“Stay?” 

Peter finally looked down to see Harley Fucking Keener, Iron Lad, the boy who had caused his shoulder to be throbbing all night, looking away with a slight tint to his cheeks. Peter opened and closed his mouth, no sound coming out.

And he sat back down.

And they sat in silence for who knew how long. Long enough for the Avengers to finish fighting, apparently, because Peter eventually heard them approaching quickly, calling out Harley’s name.

Peter moved to get up again, recognizing his time to escape, but hesitated. Then, mindful of his own injuries, he idiotically swooped down to wrap his arms around Harley.

Why? Who's to say. Peter could say the hug was for himself as much as it was for Harley's injured state.

The other boy froze, but before Peter could pull back to apologize, he felt arms slowly reach up and around him, and he could have cried. Scratch that, Peter totally cried. Iron Lad's ginger hold was Peter's first hug in...too long. The first time he had non-violent physical contact in just as long.

His skin was ablaze.

But as soon as he had started the completely unprompted hug, Peter ended it—the yells of the Avengers were getting closer, and he knew it was time to go. So, ready to depart for what felt like the sixth time, he nodded at Harley, who just stared back with the most confused (and slightly concerned?) expression one could manage.

Peter flung himself through the air to escape both the Avengers and Harley's eyes, and ow ow ow shit why did I do that what the fuck holy shit I hugged him why the fuck did I hug him shit shit ow there is still a knife in my body ow.

Peter rounded the corner of a storefront a few buildings down and watched as the hoard of Avengers surrounded Harley, bombarding him with questions and concerned badgering.

Harley ignored the clamoring and looked straight at Peter, as if he could see through Peter's mask. Peter held his gaze once more before he swung away into the cold November night.

Chapter Text

If there was one thing that Peter had learned during his time of superheroing, it was that you never take the thing that stabbed you out of your body. Duh. Blood loss was a bitch, and Peter didn’t especially favor it.

However, not taking out a knife meant there was always a chance of his skin healing around the offending object. As he landed on the roof of his home and slipped in through the fire escape, he cursed his irrational super healing. It had decided that his stab wound was more important than his shoulder wound, which was just plain favoritism. Since he was stabbed by Romanov several hours ago, the skin around the admittedly cool-looking knife was well into the healing process. He could have definitely done without that, because now he had to put one of his previously collected knives to use.

He grabbed a relatively small knife from the corner of the room he was in. This room was what he called the Avoiding Death Room. It used to be the In Which Peter Suddenly Becomes a Doctor Room, but that didn't roll off the tongue as well.

The Avoiding Death Room was where he kept all of his first-aid supplies. He had several half-used kits, along with a few new ones. There was a bowl full of tap water he acquired from the bathroom of a bakery across the street, with several water bottles from the homeless shelter set to the side. One was for washing the blood off his body, one for hydration. In the corner, there was a collection of knives that people had so kindly gifted him laying on a towel he may or may not have stolen from the laundry mat. It was his surgery station, and it was where Peter was carefully slicing away at the skin surrounding the blade. He breathed deeply and evenly, which was the only sort of pain medication that he had. Not only could he not afford any form of medication, none of it fucking worked. Stupid. Metabolism. 

Peter grimaced as he haphazardly removed enough freshly-healed skin for him to dislodge the knife. This process was always fucking disgusting (and painful as shit), but he didn't have any other options. He tossed it out the window because he knew there was a dumpster right below it. It wouldn’t end too well if he missed one day, he imagined. On the other hand, this was Queens. People should expect that sort of thing.

For the first time that evening, Peter let out a hoarse shout in pain as he pulled the knife out. He had another Romanov Knife to add to his collection. Peter grabbed an old rag (he didn't want to steal from people’s laundry, but it was either that or bleeding out) and rushed to staunch the fresh flow of blood. He let out a few quiet whimpers as he struggled to reach his bottle of antiseptic. It was a bit harder to acquire, but also quite the step up from the vodka he had been using for months. Peter doused his side with the antiseptic, and a tear slipped down his cheek silently. 

This was the part of being a vigilante most people didn't see, or even consider. As he stitched up the laceration, he couldn't help but wish he had accepted help while he could. May had been a nurse, she could have helped if he ever revealed his identity to her. Ned and MJ couldn’t have helped him, but it might have been nice to not be alone. The back of his mind whispered that he could always go to Daredevil for help. But the majority of him believed that he couldn't, at least not for everything, not for an injury so small. Matt didn't even know Peter ever left his foster home. He might've had his suspicions, but Peter figured that if he revealed that he was too weak to even handle Richard, Matt would probably get fed up with him—Matt would probably leave. Peter couldn’t have his last person leave him, his only source of human comfort. No, he couldn’t rely on Matt for everything. He had to be strong. 

Peter didn't realize that growing up meant losing the majority of his friends, all of his family, and having enough trauma to support the weight of the world, but whatever. 

He ripped the string he was using to sew himself back together, threw it and his needle near the knives, and promptly passed out. 

-

Harley sat in silence on the Quinjet. He could feel everyone’s worried eyes on him, but he waved them all off. To be completely honest, he was in shock.

Spider-Man helped him. What the fuck. 

Spider-Man hugged him. What the fuck, but even more so. 

Harley often prided himself on being fairly observant, and thought he could figure most things out for himself. But he simply could not wrap his mind around the fact that not only did the man act as his nurse, he had hugged him. 

Harley thought he deserved another What The Fuck.

He thought back to their fight, taking his self-declared quiet time to truly consider what he just experienced.

Spider-Man had been right, he hadn’t hurt Harley at all. The most damage Harley had seen the vigilante inflict on Nat was knocking her down so she couldn't punch his throat. On the other hand, the damage against Spider-Man had been immense. Harley himself gave him a pretty hefty shoulder wound, while Nat had stabbed him and most likely did a lot of damage to his ribs. Even when the man had both Harley and Nat webbed up, he did nothing except share a few harsh truths. And yes, Harley knew they were true. He didn’t even really like SHIELD, but when your family followed them, it was more than implied that you had to do the same. 

By the time Tony came by to get him and Nat out of their binds, Harley had decided that he regretted fighting with Spider-Man. His family could still work to bring him in, that was their decision. But Harley wasn’t going to hurt the vigilante again.

Tony had helped Harley power his suit back on, and then left to go back to the team. Harley had made to follow, but he'd been immediately knocked off his feet by a random alien, and, honestly, that was fair.

Except maybe the alien wasn’t so random. It was slightly larger than its friends, and had a red hue, unlike the clear form that the others took on. Harley had rushed to fly over to the new guy, but the fucker had other plans. The thing’s tail, which thus far had not been in use, quickly whipped around and slapped Harley out of the air. He was launched into one of the buildings several blocks away, where his short battle met a rather embarrassing end.

His head hit the wall, and he blacked out.

Honestly. Downright embarrassing.

When he awoke, the pounding in his skull prompted him to remove his helmet. He took a second to gather his bearings, because ow, before he remembered why he was sitting against this building in the first place. Harley frantically looked around for the weird red alien thing, but it had apparently moved on to bigger, better enemies. He figured that his teammates would handle it, and he chose to rest his eyes. 

The rest didn't last long though, because he soon felt a presence right beside him, watching him. He opened his eyes, and proceeded to jump right on out of his skin.

Spider-Man. 

Harley had to force himself to remember that he'd decided not to hurt the vigilante. It wasn't like he could even if he wanted to. He could feel a deep ache set into his bones, and his suit was most likely out of commission. 

Spider-Man didn't look any better than Harley felt. His suit was torn where Harley’s blast hit him, exposing charred skin, and the cloth was stained red where he still had a knife in his side. From his waist down, small rips littered his suit, and blood dripped out of each one. The man had probably seen better days. Said vigilante was talking to him, and Harley zoned back in. 

Spider-Man was trying to convince him that he was here to help. Harley wanted to believe him, he truly did. But there was a difference between not wanting to harm someone and trusting them. At the moment, he couldn’t trust the man.

Spidey appeared to realize this, and chose to lower himself carefully onto the ground off to Harley’s side. For some reason, Harley was grateful. He was in pain, with a man he didn’t trust (stranger danger), and yet it felt better than being alone.

When he turned oh-so slightly, he let out a soft groan. Apparently, wounds on his stomach had decided to announce their existence. Harley guessed they were from the sharp pieces of his broken armor that were currently poking at his stomach. Huh. Maybe his suit wasn’t as safe as he made it out to be.

Suddenly Harley heard a sigh, and looked up to see Spider-Man slowly getting up. The man raised his hands, and Harley flinched—hey, an enemy’s raised hands usually indicated a strike, right? But it turned out that Harley was wrong, because the other man froze, leaving his hands exactly where they were. He then gently maneuvered his body towards Harley. Harley honestly didn't know what the vigilante's plan was. Was Spider-Man going to attack? Rationally, no, he wouldn't; however, Harley was still vulnerable, so he had to think of everything.

But, on the other hand, Harley also had to consider that the masked face would prove to be truly kind and take pity on Harley's battered body. If Spider-Man had been telling the truth earlier, then he'd be merciful.

Spidey’s hands coming to a stop inches away from Harley's suit's generator proved the latter theory correct. The man was waiting for permission. Therefore, when the white eyes of the masked face looked up to him in a silent question, he gave a mute affirmation.

Spider-Man immediately deactivated the suit and pulled a first-aid kit out of god knows where. Harley heard the man mutter to himself, and balked when a bright light seemed to scan him. Did the vigilante have his own A.I.? FRIDAY could do that sort of thing, but she was Tony's baby. Damn, this dude had to be smart...which led Harley to be slightly less hesitant to pull up his shirt when the man asked. 

His temporary nurse’s hands were steady as Spidey's hands methodically slathered bruise cream on the marks covering his body. He held no hesitation in his form when he pulled out some antiseptic and bandages for Harley’s stomach injuries. His posture was sure when he performed the standard checks for the state of his ribs and head. All of these things remained true as he absent-mindedly climbed onto Harley’s lap to clean several small scrapes on his face.

Harley choked.

Internally, he was screaming. Externally, he didn't say a word. 

Harley decided to cut Spider-Man some slack because despite the confident and sure way he was nursing Harley, the teen knew the vigilante’s mind was elsewhere. In fact, it may have been the robotic way he moved that pointed to that. 

That and the fact that as soon as he realized the compromising position he had put himself in, Spidey’s eyes on his mask widened and jumped off of Harley. 

Before he could get too far or say anything, though, Harley’s hand flew up to grab onto the hero’s (hero’s?) wrist. He regretted doing so when the other man shuddered a violent flinch, and Harley quickly removed his hand.

Suddenly feeling immensely less brave, Harley averted his eyes as he spoke for the first time in this interaction.

“Stay?”

Harley didn't know what it was, but the hero’s presence was comforting. And he was only a little ashamed to admit that he was afraid to be alone again. Relief flooded his body when he saw the man settler back down in his peripheral. 

Harley guessed that they must have been sitting there for about 10 minutes when the vigilante became tense. He tilted his head slightly in the direction of where Harley knew the battle had been taking place. If he had to guess, that meant that his family was making their way over here. He was proven correct when he heard a very faint yell for his name about 30 seconds later. Spider-Man had gotten up again, this time his posture not as sure. He stood for a few seconds, before suddenly gathering Harley in a hug. 

What the fuck?

Before Spidey could pull himself away, Harley slowly brought his arms up to wrap around the man’s body. Spider-Man was extremely tense, and when Harley made contact, he could feel the hero’s body shake minutely. Harley thought he heard a sniffle, and—was the vigilante crying? Who hugged a stranger, then cried?

There was something wrong with all of this, and Harley was left in the dark.

The hug ended just as quickly as it had begun, with Spidey pulling away with a terse nod, and flinging himself away just as Harley saw the Avengers approaching. They ran to him, all clamoring to help; Tony started asking about his suit, Steve was asking about his injuries, Nat interrogated him about Spider-Man, and Sam and Clint were trying to lighten the mood with a few cracks about how he missed most of the battle.

But Harley ignored them all in favor of staring at the vigilante around the corner, who gave him one final look before he vanished. 

Harley shook his head, and staggered to his feet. Tony rushed to help him, but the teen waved him off. Spider-Man may not have given him any pain medication, but just having his wounds cleaned helped a bit. Plus, it was a lot easier to walk without his suit on. He bent down to pick up the box that was his suit, and started the trek back to the Quinjet. His family seemed to have accepted his silence, and they just walked with him. 

Harley sighed, drawing a few looks from his teammates. He didn't care—he'd had too much confusion in his day to care.

Currently, the jet was landing on top of the Tower, and Harley rushed to depart. He didn’t feel like dealing with the anticipated interrogation quite yet, he could do that tomorrow. He rushed to his room, where he was able to finally examine his suit. It was dented and had sharp pieces sticking out in inconvenient places, so Harley knew he would have to work on it tomorrow as well. Right now though, he was just unbelievably tired. It was so inconvenient for aliens to attack on Thanksgiving.

He let himself flop onto his bed, his final thoughts before unconsciousness occupied by Spider-Man.

Chapter Text

Peter was, as the kids say, making his way downtown. Or really, to Matt’s apartment. Today was Sunday, which was the one day a week Matt was guaranteed to not be working, in order to attend Mass. Therefore, Peter tried to make his visits on Sunday to make sure he got his Matt Time in. If not on Sunday, then he usually barged into Matt’s law firm to annoy him. When he did that, the man made Peter do some work, which Peter didn't mind at all. Hell, Peter would do it without him asking. The only thing was, Matt always forced him to use the copies of papers that were in braille, the little bitch. The first time Peter was put to work in Matt’s office, he explained that he couldn’t read braille.

“Then learn,” Matt had told him. 

And so he did. Submersion technique and all that. When he went to the public library, he googled braille studies and whatnot. And of course, he made Matt answer a lot of his questions. Matt needed his paperwork done correctly, after all.

(Peter wasn't fluent by any means, but he knew enough financial terms and numbers to organize account statements, which was usually what Matt had him doing.)

Peter passed the bakery across the street and the smell of fresh bread reached his nose. God, he was hungry. He had already spent his begging-money on new first-aid kits because he got hurt more often than he ate. He would have to go without food for a little while longer, and deal with a few more injuries than usual. First-aid kits lasted longer than food anyway.

He was approaching this block’s tourist trap when he heard a scream. It was fairly distant, but definitely there. Sometimes Peter donned his suit during the day, and it looked like today was going to be one of those days. Peter heard the same woman scream again, and decided Matt would have to wait.

Peter watched out for security cameras as he made his way into an empty alleyway, waiting for a buzz at the base of neck to indicate he was being watched. When he determined that the coast was clear, he stripped his sweatshirt and jeans that were covering his suit. He shoved the civilian clothes in his backpack and webbed it to the adjacent wall.

Peter could say he was rather proud of his suit. Contrary to what the newspapers believed, his suit was not produced by Stark. The man tried to give him a new suit when he intercepted Peter on patrol (way back when the Avengers’ “Civil War” was happening), Peter just didn’t think it had the same charm as his own, so he'd rejected it. Peter had already built Karen into his mask, and he had put a lot of work into her. He did have to revamp his suit a bit in order to be on his best game at the battle Stark brought him to, but that process was simple. He managed to recreate some basic nanotech, and infused it into the workings of his suit. He had to ditch the hoodie, along with his goggles. In the end, his suit wasn't what it used to be, but it was still his.

He took note of exactly what street he was on before he left the alleyway so he could come back for his backpack. He started swinging in the direction of the scream he had heard, hoping he would get there in time, wherever there was. Luckily (or unluckily), Peter heard the scream once more, and went in the definite direction of it, finally coming to a stop right next to a warehouse. 

“I detect four heat signatures, one of which seems armed” Karen told him before he could ask.

Peter listened to all of their heartbeats, their volume made fainter because of his distance, and determined that none of them were enhanced. He couldn’t hear any speaking, which was weird, but he decided to roll with it. Only one of them was armed, and Peter figured it was unlikely to be a sniper since there appeared to be only one victim. That meant that there was a large chance that all of them were on the ground level. Therefore, he thought the best approach would be to enter through the actual entrance, rather than any windows. That way, he would be able to get to the attackers quickly. He jumped off his current roof and landed in front of the double doors.

His Sense was going a little crazy, sending a few waves of pain throughout his head. Then again, it usually did so before he entered any warehouse with a screaming woman inside.

He swung open the doors, taunting words on the tip of his tongue, but he never got the chance to say them.

Rows and rows of obnoxiously large LED lights clicked on, more than the warehouse should be able to maintain. As Peter slammed his eyes shut, a droning pitch got louder in his ears, louder and louder, almost like a screech.

Fuck.

Peter dropped to his knees, a scream breaking out against his will.

His hands reached up to claw at his ears and his squeezed-shut eyes didn’t do shit because he could still feel the burning from the lights and he could feel his ears start to bleed and the blood was dripping down his face but god he could definitely still hear the sound and he could definitely still feel the burning in his eyes and he’d never felt pain like this before how was this a new kind of pain and his knees gave out and his face hit the ground and he didn’t even know if he was still screaming and he wanted to cover his eyes but he couldn’t remove his hands from his ears and fuck this hurt—

Peter passed out. 

-

They watched as he started to scream. They watched as he tried to claw at his ears through his mask. They watched as he fell to his knees. They watched as his face hit the ground. They watched as his voice went hoarse, and then became a whisper. They watched as he went limp.

That was the goal, but damn if it wasn’t horrific to see. 

They just tortured him, didn't they?

Natasha snapped out of her stupor first, and rushed to click off the controls. She turned to face her teammates as they shook themselves off. She pulled out the earbuds she was wearing and took off her sunglasses, seeing the others do the same. Clint put his hearing aids back in. 

“That was…intense,” Clint whispered, afraid to break the silence. 

Tony nodded as Sam slowly approached the body that was laying on the warehouse floor. Natasha followed him, standing behind Sam as he knelt down to tap the vigilante's head a bit. When there was no reaction, he checked the man’s pulse, which was beating steadily, if not faster than he expected. 

“He’s out cold,” he reported to Tony and Clint as they crept closer. 

“As predicted,” Tony reminded them. “We should probably get him loaded onto the jet so we can head back.”

“We should probably call Bruce, too, right?” Clint spoke up. “Spidey doesn’t look too good at the moment.”

Bruce always said he was not that kind of doctor, but he was still the team’s resident doctor. If things ever got too bad for Bruce to handle, then they called in Dr. Cho. 

“I’ll call him to let him know that we’re coming back with an unconscious Spider-Man,” Natasha said as she started to walk back to the jet. “Sam, will you carry him?”

“There’s no way I could carry him by myself,” Sam chuckled, already moving to pick the man up. “Hey, dude, do you think you could—” Sam cut himself off when he picked up the vigilante with ease. 

Clint startled a little, having been on his way to help Sam. “That’s, uh, probably not the best.”

“We can worry about it later,” dismissed Tony. “Right now, I just want to get back to the Tower.”

“I'm way ahead of you,” Natasha called from the Quinjet. “Seriously guys, what’s taking so long?”

After two calls of “Sorry, Nat”, the men hopped onto the jet, and deposited the unconscious body. They laid him out on a row of seats, and Sam and Tony sat across from him. Clint switched places with Natasha so that he was piloting instead. Spider-Man had yet to move at all.

This time, Tony was the first one to break the silence. “So should we, uh, take off his mask? For educational purposes.”

Immediately, Natasha shut down the idea. “At the very least, we should wait until we’re with the whole team,” she explained. “Maybe when Bruce looks him over.”

“And we're gonna hand him over to SHIELD once we look him over?” Sam asked her. 

“I’d like to ask him a few questions before we do.”

The rest of the flight to the Tower was quiet. No one quite knew what to do with themselves now that they finally had Spider-Man. It had taken them way too long to figure out what the best way to capture him would be. Steve had pointed out his obvious super-hearing, claiming it had to be better than his own. He suggested that they utilize that strength, and turn it into a weakness. If the vigilante’s senses were stimulated enough, then his defenses would be considerably lowered. The team would consist of Tony, Nat, Clint, and Sam. None of them were enhanced, like Steve and Bucky were, so they wouldn’t be harmed in the process. Wanda, like usual, had opted to stay out of it; she had never been one for the attempts at capturing Spider-Man. Vision would stay with her. Bruce would stay back as well, seeing as he seldom came on missions unless it was absolutely necessary. Harley was with some of his friends from school, having left when they started to plan.

The plan went smoothly. They found a good warehouse to use near where they knew Spider-Man was often out and about. Tony got his hands on a load of high intensity discharge lamps, along with as many speakers that could fit within the box where Spider-Man would be trapped in. The team was to remain outside of the box in order to have some protection from the noise. They also wore earplugs and sunglasses just in case. Clint opted not to wear any ear protection, claiming that his deafness offered him a good amount of protection. Natasha was to be the bait because she had some experience playing the victim while doing undercover work. Natasha was also the only one with an actual weapon, just in case the plan didn't unfold smoothly. She never went anywhere without one anyway, so it worked out.

They just didn’t expect Spider-Man to go down so easily. He screamed for almost two minutes before they saw him collapse. If they had just figured out this method earlier on, they could have avoided months and months of humiliating defeats. 

At least it was over now. The jet landed on the roof of the Tower where Bruce was waiting for them. He had a stretcher by his side.

“I don't really think that’ll be necessary, Bruce,” Sam explained as he walked off the jet, Spider-Man resting easily in his arms. 

Bruce warily eyed the body. “Well, I have it here anyway, might as well give your arms a break. God, he should not be that light,” he muttered the last part under his breath. 

Sam laid Spider-Man on the stretcher, and the team began the trek back to Medbay. The vigilante still hadn’t moved at all, which was starting to be concerning. All they did was overload his senses a bit, so why was he still completely knocked out?

When they arrived at Medbay, Sam dismissed himself to let the rest of the team know that Spider-Man was in custody. Tony opted to wait in his lab and work on a few projects. He asked FRIDAY to pull up some designs for a shield upgrade for Steve as he left the room. That left Bruce, Natasha, and Clint alone with the vigilante.

Bruce cleared his throat. “So, since you guys used his senses against him, I’ll start with checking his ears and eyes,” he told the ex-spies. He slowly approached the unconscious man, and set his hands on the mask. He looked up at the two others, who were watching with anticipation, creeping closer and closer. Bruce looked back down at the man, and peeled the mask off his face.

Three gasps were heard in the otherwise silent room.

Bruce backed away from the man, no, boy.

That was a teenager.

“What the actual fuck,” Clint let out.

Natasha slowly recoiled from the bed, a haunted look in her eyes. 

Laying on the bed, dressed in the oh-so recognizable red and blue costume, was a battered up teenager. His cheeks were sunken in, his face pale and tear-stained. Dark bags resided underneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. His lips were chapped, with cracks in them that showed hints of dried blood. His dirty and unkempt brown hair was almost past his ears. His ears—

Well, his ears had a horrific trail of blood dripping out of them.

“Shit,” Bruce hissed as he rushed forward, pulling a wet towel out of nowhere. “Shit, shit, shit!"

He quickly wiped the blood from Spider-Man’s ears. As soon as the towel hit the boy’s face, he shifted. Bruce stilled, as did the fidgeting Clint. The boy’s breathing began to pick up as he worked himself out of unconsciousness. His eyes flew open.

-

Where. The fuck. Was Peter?

He gathered that he was laying down on a bed. Why would he be in a bed? He hasn’t slept in a bed for over a year.

Also, he was blind.

He couldn’t hear, either. 

Well, to be fair, neither of those statements were completely true. He could technically see, but the only things that occupied his eyesight were unidentifiable blobs of different shapes and shades of grey. He squinted, as if it would help him out at all. It did not, and his breaths began to quicken. As for his hearing, it was a constant ringing, and he wanted to cradle his ears as though it would protect them from the screeching.

Not to mention, his skull felt like it had been split into two. 

Safe to say, Peter was Definitely Not Panicking.

He was calm, cool, and collected. He was Spider-Man, and Spider-Man didn't fold under pressure. Spider-Man didn’t freak out because he was apparently deaf and blind now. No siree. Spider-Man definitely was not flipping the fuck out right now. Spider-Man was not having a panic attack.

Wait—

Shit, Peter was having a panic attack.

No, he was dying. He was blind and deaf, and he was dying, his lungs wouldn't work. He tried looking around to figure out how to not die, but that only sent him spiraling further into this godforsaken doom because he couldn't see. He couldn’t breathe either. Why? He felt a weight on his chest, yeah, that was why he couldn’t breathe. There was something on his chest. What was it? Why couldn’t he breathe?

Oh, it was a warehouse.

Shit, it was a warehouse. There was a warehouse on top of him, and he couldn’t lift it. He couldn’t do it again, he couldn’t fucking lift it. There was a building on top of him, and he couldn’t breathe and holy fuck. He couldn’t hear the constant dripping of water, but at least he was able to explain the darkness now, he couldn't see because of all the wreckage.

Peter flailed out, hoping to escape the rubble, when his arm came into contact with something.

Someone?

Yeah, that was a person. Why was a person underneath the rubble with him? He had to get them out, it was dangerous under here, he—

The person took hold of his hand and squeezed, and Peter flinched back. But they kept their hold, and they squeezed again. And squeezed again. And they kept squeezing. The pressure on his hands slowly became more demanding than the pressure on his chest. He…he wasn’t under a building. He was with someone. And he was on a bed.

And he was still deaf and blind.

Okay.

Right. No big deal. Matt was blind, Peter could do blind. Wait, but Matt had his hearing. How…Peter had to communicate with his captors somehow. 

(But he couldn't see them. Or hear them. And could he talk? He doubted it.)

(Peter's breaths started to speed up again, too overwhelmed for comfort. The person starting squeezing his hand again, and he forced himself to calm the fuck down.)

Calm the fuck down, and think.

Peter’s heart ached with the memory of MJ convincing him to learn sign language with her. He had readily agreed, wanting to spend more time with his then-crush. It also couldn’t hurt to add another language to his list of fluency. They both picked it up quickly, and soon it became one of their methods of communication. The uses ranged from wanting to silently talk in class to when he went nonverbal during a panic attack. 

He was still fluent in ASL, but he wouldn't be able to see the response, because, to reiterate, Peter was fucking blind.

(The person squeezed again. Why were they still holding his hand, and why was the contact burning his fingertips?)

Peter then dredged up another memory, this one from middle school. His class had learned about Helen Keller, who learned to communicate by feeling things, including gestures. He might be able to do that? He figured that if one of his captors was able to help him out of a panic attack, then they might help him communicate.

He didn't trust himself to talk, didnt even know if he could talk, so he was relying a little on the chance that one of his captors understood ASL.

-

Bruce was holding the panicking teen’s hand in attempts to calm him down, and it seemed that it worked. They learned quickly that he could neither hear nor see them, the glaze over his eyes and blood trailing from his ears acting as evidence. The boy's breathing had increased speed and shortness until he reached the stage of hyperventilating within 30 seconds. After five agonizing minutes of trying to calm the boy, Bruce had come within close enough proximity to be hit with one of the boy’s flailing arms. Despite his obvious poor condition, the teen packed quite the punch. Bruce stumbled before he latched onto the vigilante’s hand, enclosing it in his own. He squeezed it, and only then did the teen begin to calm down. It was a long process, about 10 minutes of squeezing before his hand was shaken away. The three heroes were all looking at the boy with rapt attention as he raised his shaky hands. 

He started to sign to them.

Clint was fluent in sign language for his own sake, and Natasha knew it so that she could relieve some pressure from Clint while communicating. Sam knew a small amount, but he was the only other person on the team who spoke it. It was a slight surprise that the teen in front of them knew it as well, but really, what did they know about him?

“Who are you?” the boy signed, before holding out his hand, palm up, pointing at it.

Clint knew what that meant. He was supposed to allow the boy to feel his signs as he finger spelled. It was a technique often used in the deaf and blind community that some deaf people adopted in order to communicate in the dark. He himself had used it multiple times with Nat during missions, or even just in dark rooms when he didn’t have his hearing aids.

His stomach sunk when he realized that he would have to use that same method with Spider-Man.

He gently set his hand in the waiting palm, and spelled out, “A-V-E-N-G-E-R-S.” Clint flinched back when he heard a loud groan coming from the boy, who began to sign again. 

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

Clint's face shadowed with guilt as he began the long process of telling the teen that they used his senses against him and captured him. Spidey became more distressed as Clint went on. He reached up to touch his face.

“Where’s my mask?”

Clint translated to Bruce, who then took the mask off the counter and handed it to Clint. Clint explained that they had taken it off in order to give him a check up. The teen just scoffed scoffed, and reached out for his mask. The way he acted made him seem calm, but Clint didn't quite believe that his nerves were under control. His breaths were still not quite even. His hands shook as he signed. Clint thought he saw sweat beading at the boy's forehead.

“I’ll heal. Why am I not at SHIELD right now?” Spider-Man asked.

Clint furrowed his eyebrows, and restated that they were making sure he wasn’t too badly hurt. He paused, looking up at Natasha, and asked her if he could tell the boy that she wanted to ask him questions. She gave permission, and Clint translated to the teen. 

“Well obviously, I’m pretty badly hurt. But as I said, I’ll heal on my own. I always have. Tell Black Widow that she should get on with her questions. No guarantees that I’ll answer.”

Natasha rolled her eyes; she could get him to answer if he didn’t give up information willingly. She stepped in Clint’s place, set her hand on the teen’s palm, and asked for his name.

“No.”

She had expected that, so she simply asked again, to which his answer was the same. She then made it clear that she had the means to get anything she wanted out of him. Again, the boy scoffed. 

“What, you mean torture? Interrogation? Been there, done that,” the teen signed, his hand motions large and angry. Natasha's face twitched, and her eyes took on the haunted expression once more. 

Clint sucked in a breath, mumbling, “Who…But he’s so young." 

Bruce, who had been resigned to the fact that he wasn’t a part of the conversation, jumped in with, “What? What did he say?”

“He said that he’s been tortured before,” Natasha told him over her shoulder. She hesitated, then added, “I believe him.”

Before she could resume asking Spider-Man questions, she heard the door opening. The rest of the team had decided to make their entrance, Steve leading the way. 

“Hey, Sam said you caught…” Steve trailed off.

“Is that a fucking child?”

Chapter Text

It was a testament to how shocked the group of heroes were that none of them jokingly hissed a Language! in response to the profanity. Instead, they all stood stock-still, until they, too, began to interrogate Spider-Man. Questions of his age, identity, family, and abilities overlapped each other. When the teen responded with nothing other than a slight head tilt, Clint jumped in. 

“He can’t hear or see right now,” he explained lowly. Guilt saturated his tone. “We...might've gone overboard in our methods of bringing him in. We’re talking to him with sign language.”

“Well, not all of us can understand that,” Steve reminded him after the newcomers had processed the news. “How will we know what he’s saying?”

Tony looked up from the boy to glance at Steve. “You know FRIDAY can interpret sign language, right?” he asked the man. “She’s got cameras everywhere, so she can see the signs.”

“Indeed, boss. I suppose you would like me to interpret what Spider-Man is saying?” the A.I.’s voice rang out through the room.

“Please and thank you, baby girl.”

-

Peter felt a buzz at the base of his skull, his Sense alerting him to new arrivals in the room. A light warning hummed through his body, but it didn't spike to indicate a legitimate threat.

(Thankfully, Peter didn't think anyone could deprive him of that sense.)

He didn't know what the Avengers were talking about, but soon enough he felt the same feminine hand fall back into his palm. Romanov, then.

He shivered at the contact, his nerves burning with sensitivity. All she was doing was resting her hand in his palm, but it just felt so different, so unfamiliar.

Romanov began spelling.

“A-G-E” 

Oh, they weren't going to like this one, but Peter reveled in the chance to shock them.

He signed that he was 17, and waited a few moments to let the group realized what this meant—they'd been beating on a child.

Though Peter didn't trust them in the slightest, he felt no reason to lie to the Avengers about the harmless facts about him—they had him in custody, they'd seen his face. What was worth hiding at this point? Hell, maybe by being as truthful as possible, he'd get them to finally realize the error of their ways.

He felt the hand that he was holding begin to spell again, this time asking about his abilities. Here, Peter debated the line between what could be revealed and what should be kept hidden. The real line, he thought, might be how petty he could be with his answers. He felt he deserved to mess with the group, what with his current hostage situation.

Annoying ass it was, then.

It was about damn time. 

-

Natasha admitted that she might have been too harsh on the boy—that’s what he was, she reminded herself. A boy. She had been fully expecting to be dealing with an adult in custody, but she should have also expected this plan to go completely haywire.

She had threatened a teenager, a teenager upon whom she had inflicted many injuries. Of course she felt like shit. The only way she could have made it worse was threatening more harm, and that was precisely what she did. 

Her threat might have worked on anyone else, but the teen had decided to throw an absolute curveball at her. Tortured? What kind of kid were they dealing with?

Natasha decided to turn the conversation away from his name, since she quickly realized she wouldn't be able to get that information willingly. So, she went to age.

That was a mistake, apparently.

The room went ten degrees colder when FRIDAY relayed the boy's response. 17 years old at least matched his youthful appearance, but it didn't match his fighting ability, or the way he took the Avengers' attacks, or the vigilante role he had assumed. Something in her felt hollowed out, scraped clean with a spoon twisted in her gut.

She was quick to move on, since they had more important business than wallowing in their own self-pity: What was Spider-Man capable of?

He started signing after a moment of apparent deliberation.

“I have a good enough healing ability to recover from a stab wound within a few days.”

Dammit.

Natasha cursed her past self. She knew that he was talking about the one she had dealt to him just a few days ago, but he could have been talking about several weeks ago, or a couple months ago, or any of the other times she had been lucky enough to land a hit on him. 

She didn't think herself to be too lucky now.

Clint’s voice came from where he was standing behind her chair asking, “Did you stab him? A couple days ago?” 

“Yes, I did,” she admitted, the hole within her gut growing. “We were trying to bring him in, so I was doing my part by trying to incapacitate him."

“Wait, were?" Steve questioned. “We were trying to bring him in? Did we just decide to not do so?”

They all turned to glare at him. 

“Come on, man, he’s 17!” Sam chastised. 

“We should at least figure out if he’s actually a risk before we make any decisions to disobey SHIELD,” Steve firmly said.

Wanda spoke up for the first time, saying quietly, “We should have investigated that from the beginning, right?”

Wanda had always been against bringing Spider-Man to SHIELD. She had confided in Natasha that the whole situation hit too close to home for her, reminding her of her past with HYDRA. She didn’t like the idea of depositing someone that appeared innocent to an organization that might cause him harm.

Natasha had felt sympathy for the young woman, but Fury's orders continued to ring in her head. 

“You’re right, Wanda,” Natasha told her. “We should've questioned SHIELD more before this whole thing started.” She had heard what the vigilante told Harley once he webbed the two of them up, and now, she couldn't help but think he was right.

If Natasha was feeling this guilty, then she knew the rest of them were too. Sure, it was too late for that, but they could still stop future harm to the teen. The teen in question was still staring into space silently, still waiting for the next question.

Natasha hesitated before spelling out, “A-R-E Y-O-U O-K”

Spider-Man looked genuinely shocked, which she supposed was fair, seeing as she had threatened him just several minutes ago. He closed his eyes for a moment before responding. When he opened them again, they had reverted back to the emotionless mask that had been there before. 

“I mean, I would be better if I had a bit of food in me. Didn’t eat yesterday or today, and I’ve got a stupid fast metabolism.”

Natasha looked up after FRIDAY was done translating, and gestured for someone to grab him a bite to eat. Sam readily volunteered, claiming that he probably had a few things ready to go. Once he left the room, Natasha told the teen that food was coming soon. After he gave his thanks, she asked him why he had not eaten.

(Purely for interrogation purposes. Not because the statement had troubled her, and certainly not because she was feeling overly concerned for the boy.)

Again, he wavered before answering. She could see the internal conflict in his unseeing eyes about how much he should reveal to them. 

“I’m poor. Not all of us have a billionaire to fund our food supply.”

She allowed a wince to cross her features. She knew he was right; the Avengers were fortunate to be able to afford the cost of feeding two enhanced metabolisms, along with the rest of the team. There were plenty more vigilantes in New York, and even more enhanced people who just weren't utilizing their powers. There were bound to be many people who couldn’t keep up with their metabolisms, and apparently Spider-Man was one of them. 

Natasha needed to get back on task. They had to determine that Spider-Man was conclusively not a threat in order to reasonably disobey SHIELD. She knew that she would be directly dealing with Fury once he found out, but that was a problem for another day. So far, it seemed like they had been harming this teenager for nothing, just like the vigilante had always said.

(God, why couldn't they have looked into this more? Why had they been so blinded? What happened?)

She signed to him that they needed to prove that he wasn’t a threat. He asked why, his face a picture of bewilderment. She looked back up to the group still surrounding the hospital bed. 

“Should we tell him that we might not bring him in?” Natasha asked them.

“It would give us a chance to sort of prove ourselves to him,” Sam commented.

“Yeah,” Steve interrupted, “but are we really serious about just giving up a year's worth of work? I mean, what if SHIELD is right about this? What if this guy really is a threat?”

Natasha frowned. Steve seemed especially hung up about disobeying SHIELD, but to tell the truth, so was Natasha. On one hand, they were the organization that provided her with a new life after leaving the Red Room—they gave her a second chance. On the other, they seemed to be pretty fucking wrong about this. Spider-Man was a teenager, a poor and most likely deeply traumatized one at that. What harm could he have possibly wanted to inflict, and why would he have not done so already?

“Like I told Spidey, we would need a way to truly know he's not dangerous,” Natasha reminded him. 

“How do you suggest we do that?” he asked. And, alright, that was where she was stumped. Other than this boy’s word, they had no evidence. Fury would kill them all if they just let him go based on their gut.

As she was trying to work it out, Tony cleared his throat.

“Purely spit-balling here,” he started, “but what if we sent Wanda in to check out his mind?”

-

Peter was getting tired of waiting. Romanov would ask one weird question, then go silent for a good few minutes. It was getting annoying, especially when he knew there was a conversation going on about him that he couldn't hear. Well, he was getting a little better. Maybe. His vision hadn't improved, but the ringing in his ears had dimmed ever so slightly. At least he knew his senses would return a bit faster once he got food and his healing would start to kick into gear. 

Though he couldn't stop himself from wondering...why did the Avengers agree to giving him food in the first place? He was definitely sure that they all hated him, as shown by hunting him for sport for a year, not to mention their groans that welcomed him to battles or their impatience with his typical playful attitude.

But then Romanov asked if he was okay, and that had shaken him. They had been absolute bitches to him, following SHIELD's orders to a T, and now they just…weren’t? God, Peter was confused. He wanted to hate them, oh, how he wanted to. 

But that wasn't who he was, who Ben and May raised him to be. Everyone who was willing to change deserved the chance to do so

If they were willing to try, then...

Peter was still allowed to dislike them, and they did not deserve his trust. Of course Peter was angry. The Avengers had beaten him around for ages, stagnantly unsympathetic to his pleas. Yet the second they actually had him in custody, they were changing their entire tune. Did they have a game, giving Peter this food and asking about his well being? Were they not aware that they had caused a good amount of his current problems? 

Peter wondered if Harley was in the room with them. Not because he cared, or anything, but he needed to know—was he involved in Peter's capture? After Peter fixed him up the other day? After he stayed when he was asked to? After they had hugged? Peter figured that might have been a bonding moment. That fight was the first time they had ever interacted, and the only thing Harley did was blast him a little. Sure, that sucked, but it was typical in Avenger encounters. Harley didn’t seem too bad, and maybe he trusted Peter a little bit now. Maybe Peter could have an ally through this.

A hand fell into his own once more, interrupting Peter and his thoughts.

The hand wasn’t Romanov this time, though, it was Barton. Peter had kind of missed Barton's hand, seeing as he didn’t associate the man with an interrogation. Barton was a lot more hesitant with his signing this time, and fuck, now Peter knew why.

Seriously? A mind-reading session?

How could the team’s resident witch be the only way they could think of proving him innocent? While Peter was thankful that they were trying to go against SHIELD for once, the whole invasion of privacy thing was still completely fucking weird. They waited to change their minds until now? They couldn’t have realized that they were being stupid several months ago? It took a fucking face reveal for them to reconsider?

If Peter had said he was 21, what would they have done?

They gave him a choice, at least, about Maximoff and the morality of mind-reading. He had never fought the witch through SHIELD's directive, and to be honest, he had no idea why. She was obviously the Avengers’ most powerful member—in addition to Vision, whom Peter had never encountered either—so why wouldn't they use her? 

Barton had explained that in order to have some solid-ish proof that he was not a Harm To Society, they thought it might be a good idea to let Maximoff have a go at it. Why they thought that was a good idea, he didn’t know. This was his mind they were talking about. There was a bunch of shit going on in there, a lot of which related to his identity. It didn’t seem like such a good idea to him. He told Barton so.

The man apparently agreed. (Odd.) However, Barton then said they truly did not have any other ideas. That seemed unreasonble, if Peter was honest. These were the goddamn Avengers, how could they have no other options? Unfortunately, Peter realized that he couldn’t really think of a way to truly prove that he wasn’t a good person, either. There was video evidence of him getting cats out of trees and stopping a bus load of people from crashing into a building, but those instances could be considered either a cover, or just more evidence pointing to the fact that he was powerful. And it wasn't like he could get anyone to vouch for him, seeing as a mere opinion wasn’t really dependable.

(Perhaps, in Peter's paranoid and doubtful brain, video evidence and witness testimony held as much weight as they would in the eyes of SHIELD.)

(Just because Peter couldn’t think of any other method didn't mean he had to approve of this idea in the slightest.)

Barton started signing again, evidently realizing they had to explain themselves a bit more. Apparently, he was translating what Maximoff was saying: She didn’t like the idea either. She had a bad past with infiltrating people’s minds, and didn’t want to do it without his consent. She apparently hadn’t been fighting him because she never believed that he was a criminal.

Which, wait. Not fighting him was an option? Peter was glad Maximoff had a bit of decency, and even more disappointed in the Avengers for not sharing that thought process.

She seemed to be "one of the good ones," if she had enough decency and free will to not go on a mission to capture him. The bar was on the floor, but perhaps he wouldn’t mind her presence so much.

He could try to strike up a deal with the Avengers. Only because Maximoff didn't like the idea any more than he did.

“Okay,” he signed, “I need to make a deal with Ms. Maximoff. I doubt I’ll be able to hide information about my identity from her, so she’ll know all about me and more. She has to promise to keep that shit to herself. Ms. Maximoff, please just give them confirmation that I’m a nice guy. It’s your own word, so maybe they’ll believe you.” 

A few seconds of silence.

“D-E-A-L.”

Peter let out a sigh, feeling some of his apprehension slip away.

Though hadn’t Sam been gone a while? Peter kind of wanted to eat before his privacy was invaded.

-

Harley had spent his last day of Thanksgiving break at his friend’s house, since he was getting slightly exhausted with his family. That happened, even when your family was the Avengers. Especially when your family was the Avengers. 

After a few hours of video games with his friends, he figured it was about time to head home. Harley had left the Tower in the first place because the Avengers started talking about another plan to capture Spider-Man. He had left the room shortly after they began. He didn't really care for thinking about the fact that the man would eventually be caught. This couldn't go on forever, could it? It was one (albeit very powerful) vigilante against most of the strongest heroes in New York. Spider-Man would be caught someday, and Harley was starting to feel a little sick about it. 

(The man had healed him, hugged him, and left. What kind of villain could he possibly be?)

Harley went around to the back of the Tower to enter through the hidden door saved for the residents of the building. He didn’t even need a key card back there, FRIDAY just conducted a facial scan and a voice recognition check. He entered, and decided to head up to the kitchen on the main floor. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he hoped to find a snack of some sort. 

What he did find was an anxious-looking Sam moving about in the kitchen. Now, that occurrence was actually pretty common, because Sam was a Stress Chef™. What was Sam worried about this time though? Had something happened to one of the team members while out on the Spidey mission? If something had happened, and it was because of the vigilante, then Harley might have to reconsider his stance. 

“Something wrong, Sam?” Harley asked.

Sam jolted, and he spun around.

“Oh, Harley,” Sam sighed, before turning away again, returning to his meal prep. "Spider-Man is here, we got him. It's just that...he's. He's 17."

What.

“What?”

“Spider-Man is 17,” Sam reiterated. “He may also be blind and deaf. Currently.”

“He’s what?”

“Spider-Man is a teenager. Who is blind and deaf at the moment. Because we only got to him by overloading his senses. And now he's here.”

Harley's breath caught in his throat, and a hand came to rest on the back of his head. His sick feeling returned tenfold.

“That...sounds extremely stupid, actually. Why aren’t you down there with him? Is everyone else down there?”

“I was sent to grab him some food,” Sam explained. “Said he hadn’t eaten in a while, and if I had to guess, he might recover faster if he had some food in him.”

“Can I go down to see him too?” Harley implored. He definitely wanted to see and thank the man teen who had helped him. And he wanted to apologize for injuring him. The hero at least deserved that.

“Well…” Sam hesitated.

“Come on man, I’ve fought the guy before. Can’t I see who it is? I think I’ll survive.”

“Got me there,” Sam relented. “Lemme just finish up this sandwich real quick, and I’ll take you down to Medbay with me.”

Harley beamed, and rushed to open the elevator door for Sam.

The man was holding a rather large plate of food, including two sandwiches that were loaded with turkey and cheese, at least three protein bars, a bundle of grapes, a bag of chips, and two chocolate chip cookies. He was cradling a bottle of Gatorade between his arm and his chest. 

“Enhanced metabolism?” Harley guessed, rocking his weight back and forth.

“Most likely,” Sam affirmed.

They stood in anticipation for the few seconds it took for FRIDAY to deliver them to the Medbay. Harley was filled with nervous energy. He didn’t expect Spider-Man to be caught so soon after their last encounter with him, but today was apparently the day they had finally caught up to him.

Harley's mind frantically ran in circles around the vigilante's age. How the fuck was Spidey 17? Hadn’t he been doing the hero gig for at least a year before SHIELD wanted him? Harley was 17 too, but he had the Avengers on his side. Besides, he had only started being Iron Lad a few months ago. How long had Spider-Man been Spider-Man? How long had he been dealing with burglars and murderers and rapists by himself? How did he have enough experience to nurse Harley with ease? He was 17 years old.

Sam led the way to Spidey’s room, and waited for Harley to open the door for him. The man walked inside, and Harley followed. Indeed, there was a crowd of Avengers surrounding the vigilante, so Harley couldn’t get a good look. They all turned to look at who entered, but Sam ignored them and split the sea of people to maneuver his way to the hospital bed. He handed the food to Nat, who was standing behind Clint. Clint sat in a chair next to the bed, and it looked like he was allowing Spider-Man to feel what he was doing with his hand.

Harley’s eyes slowly roamed up the body of the vigilante; the teen was skinnier than he remembered, and his suit had a few more patches than he'd thought. Harley reached the teen’s face, and—

Oh.

Was Harley crazy, or was Spider-Man hot as all shit?

Chapter Text

Harley immediately cursed himself for thinking that. The boy on the bed was in extremely poor condition, and all Harley could think about was if the hero was interested in men. Wow, Harley, way to be insensitive. Don't get him wrong, Spider-Man was definitely gorgeous, it just may not be the very first thing someone noticed about him. Everything about Spidey screamed unhealthy. The vigilante’s stomach was concave in a way Harley had never noticed before. His face was gaunt, cheeks hollow, definitely a sign of malnutrition. There were blood stains running down his jaw. Probably from his ears, Harley guessed. The teen’s unseeing eyes were pretty unnerving. The boy was simply looking straight ahead, with no evidence of actually being present other than the way his hands moved around Clint’s signing hand.

Harley was more than slightly ashamed to admit he didn’t know sign language. He had been wanting to learn for a while with hopes of surprising Clint, but he had just been pushing it off, and it showed when he couldn't decipher what Clint was telling Spider-Man. By the blank looks of the others in the room, Harley figured he wasn’t the only one. He watched carefully as Clint finally stopped signing, and the teen raised his hands to respond. Harley startled when he heard FRIDAY’s voice ring out while the teen was signing. 

“Ms. Maximoff can do her thing after I eat, if that’s alright with her,” the A.I. interpreted. Harley didn't know she could do that, actually. He had never heard the feature used before, but it was coming in handy now. 

As Natasha set the tray of food on the boy’s lap, FRIDAY continued, “And would anyone like to tell me who just entered the room?”

Clint raised an eyebrow, turning around to face Harley. He nodded at him, and turned back around to sign to the teen in the bed. The room was silent, as FRIDAY didn’t interpret what Clint was saying, and it seemed that all of the Avengers were dwelling in their own thoughts. Harley knew them well enough to notice that the look in their eyes resembled ones of concern and guilt. He would be shocked if they felt anything other than that. They beat up a fucking teenager. For a year. It wasn't like they would have done so if they knew Spider-Man was a kid, but Jesus Christ, man. They caused him pain to the point of cutting off his senses. Harley wasn't crazy, right? That was pretty shitty.

The pit in his stomach grew tenfold as he associated those actions to the people he considered a second family.

His spiraling musings were interrupted by FRIDAY’s interpretation.

“I could sense more people come in. Part of my powers. Also, don’t be offended when I don’t eat all of this. This is an insane amount of food.”

Sam spoke up, “Wait, I thought he said he had a wild metabolism?”

Clint must have started to sign the same thing to the teen, because he responded, “I told you guys I haven't eaten in a while. That’s a pretty consistent thing in my life. I don’t know what’ll happen if I eat more than a sandwich or two.”

“If his stomach has shrunk,” Bruce began, “then it would be impossible to eat his recommended amount of food without feeling extreme nausea. But a shrunken stomach only comes after ages of not eating the appropriate amount of food…” he trailed off, looking specifically at Spider-Man’s concave stomach. Bruce shook his head. “Clint, tell him to eat just one of the sandwiches, and see how he feels after.”

The teen did as instructed, and reported that he could probably eat a little more before he got fully sick. 

“Are you sure that your metabolism is enhanced?” Steve asked, doubt lacing his voice. Clint rolled his eyes, but translated to Spidey anyway.

The hero let out a scoff, saying, “Of course I’m sure. I used to eat more than I eat now, and even that wasn't nearly able to satisfy my appetite.”

“Tell him that no one here is judging him, Clint,” Bruce intercepted. “See if he can eat a protein bar.”

He did, and then immediately pushed his tray away. “That was probably my limit for now,” the vigilante told the group. “That was a lot of food though, thank you.”

Even Harley, who was not enhanced whatsoever, could eat quite a bit more than what the super-powered teen just ate. They were going to have to work on that. That is, if he could get his family to not turn him in. Speaking of which, Harley decided it was time to share his thoughts. 

“Hey guys,” he tentatively said, “we aren’t taking him to SHIELD, are we?”

A chorus of rejections rang out, including the so-far silent Bucky. Huh. Interesting. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard. However, Harley noticed that Steve hadn’t said anything. 

“Steve?” he directed the people’s attention to the man. 

“Guys, we still have to follow through with the plan,” Steve reminded the team. “He said he wanted to eat and then we could do it.” 

“Wait, what plan?” Harley questioned, furrowing his eyebrows. He thought there was just the one where they, you know, caused extreme damage to Spidey’s maybe most important senses.

Wanda was the one who answered him. “He gave his consent for me to check his mind,” she explained. “I’ll have to report whether or not we can trust him before we can go against SHIELD.”

“And why would he trust you?”

“Because I never fought him,” Wanda told him indignantly. Harley thought back, trying to remember if that was always the case. In his six months of being with the Avengers, he couldn’t think of a time Wanda went out to capture Spider-Man. Sure, that was only half of the time they spent trying to bring him in, but Harley doubted Wanda would just stop. He nodded at her, though his unease still soared. 

“If he’s not going to eat anymore, then we may as well get this over with,” Nat suggested. Nat’s suggestions were usually not actual suggestions.

Wanda nodded, and took a deep breath as she stepped closer to the bed. Clint began signing. 

-

To be completely honest, Peter was already feeling a bit sick after his sandwich. But God he wanted some food, so he figured the well-fed people in the room didn’t have to know that tiny little detail. And perhaps some of his sickness was a result from the anxiety thrumming through his veins at the thought of someone being in his head. Out of all the Avengers he knew were in the room, Ms. Maximoff might have been the one he liked the most. Maybe he’d add a bit of Dr. Banner and Harley in there as well. Peter never fought the witch or the Hulk, so kudos to them, and Harley had only fought him once. That was fine. If his life were perfect, he wouldn't have battled it out with him at all. But it sucked to suck, he supposed.

But yeah. Even if Ms. Maximoff seemed alright, she was still going to be digging in his brain. It’d be a goldmine of extremely personal information. He'd just have to rely on her word to not share that stuff with the class.

God, he was stupid.

According to Barton, though, he needed to go along with it if he wanted to avoid SHIELD—but realistically, were the Avengers actually going to let him go? Highly doubtful. Peter well and truly did not know their plan. If he could fucking hear, he would. He was so out of the goddamn loop.

It was fine, this was fine, he was fine.

He ate a whole sandwich and a tasteless bar, that was going to give his healing a boost. It’s fine. Peter was fine guys, he swore. 

Barton interrupted his self reassurances to tell him Ms. Maximoff was up to do her part.

Alright. Okay. Barton said that Peter might have to see some of his own memories as the witch looked through his mind a bit. That was the gist of it at least. And oh, boy, this wasn’t going to be good. Maybe Ms. Maximoff would only see the happy ones. There was a chance, right? He had plenty of happy memories. May making them baked pasta for dinner, and burning the ever-loving fuck out of it. Ned ranting about how cool Han Solo was while they built a Lego Millennium Falcon. MJ inviting him to her house to watch true crime shows. Ben taking him to a Mets game. Building his first pair of web shooters. Faint memories of his mother’s angelic voice singing an Italian lullaby. 

Yeah. He could do this. 

Barton started to count down.

5.

May taking time out of her work schedule to show up to parent-teacher conferences. May and him watching Say Yes to the Dress, laughing at the idiocy of the brides, yet still marveling at their beauty. May helping him get ready for Homecoming. May coming into his room at night when she got off work to say goodnight, no matter the time.

4.

Ned and him fanboying about Captain America when they first met. Ned and him working on a drone for the middle school science fair. Ned shedding a few tears every time they watched Up together. Spending hours inventing and perfecting their handshake. Ned sharing his lunch with him at school.

3.

MJ telling him that he liked her, before letting him know that she was free that Friday to go to a Thai place a few blocks from her house. MJ standing there with open arms when he sneaked into her room after a hard patrol. MJ taking him to human rights protests of all kinds. MJ defending Peter after Flash’s snide remarks. MJ giving him permission to practice braiding her hair, and the nod of approval he earned when he had finished.

2.

Ben hanging up any form of art Peter made on the cluttered fridge door. Ben buying him an Iron Man mask before they went to the Stark Expo. Ben succeeding in making all forms of Italian dishes, laughing as he teasingly rubbed it in May’s face. Ben getting him a set of quality art supplies for his birthday that must have taken ages to save up for. Always being able to find Ben in a worn and stained blue rocking chair, reading any book he could get his hands on. 

1.

Free-falling for the first time as Spider-Man. Programming Karen, not even hesitating before naming her after the robot from SpongeBob. Getting a small girl’s cat out of a tree, and her running up to hug his legs as a thanks. Petting every homeless dog he could find while out on patrol. His first team up with Daredevil, who then told him that he was going to train Peter in basic self defense. 

All happy memories. 

Peter felt something overtake his mind, a sizzling sensation taking the place of any previous thoughts. His mind went blank, and with it, a message was projected through his skull.

“I'm sorry.”

Colors flashed behind his closed eyelids, and suddenly he was looking out across a sea of fiery plane wreckage. He spotted the shiny tip of a mechanical wing. 

Shit.

-

Deep breaths, Wanda. Deep breaths. Don’t hurt him.

She was knelt next to the teen’s bed, her hands coaxing her magic into his mind. First things first: she needed to apologize. She didn’t want to do this, that was for sure. She hadn’t looked into people’s minds much since Ultron, the action racking her with guilt. Occasionally some of her teammates would ask her to calm their minds after an especially bad nightmare, but that was about it. If they needed to get information out of someone, Nat was always up for the job. No need for Wanda’s powers.

She sighed, and pushed the message into the canvas of his mind. In and out, Wanda. 

A memory popped up quickly. Wanda was faced with what appeared to be a crashed plane, fires engulfing wooden crates and lighting up the surrounding sand.

Did Spider-Man do this?

She looked around for the red and blue costumed teen. She spotted him collapsed on the beach near part of the plane’s wings, groaning. He started to sit up, but quickly maneuvered backwards when someone approached him. Another person?

A victim?

No, this guy had weaponry. Wings resembling Sam’s protruded from a machine on the man's back. Before Wanda could blink, The man charged at the vigilante, using some type of claws to slam him into the ground, and Wanda almost lost hold of the memory in her shock.

She watched as the man slammed Spidey into the sand once more, and, okay—this guy sucked. The hero in front of her had his mask off, he was very obviously a teenager. The winged man ignored that fact and continued to repeatedly attack him, pushing the boy’s body deeper into the sand. Wanda didn't want to watch this, it was probably a form of torture.

She manipulated the memory, thumbing through the timeline, going forward until she saw the knockoff Falcon start to fly off with a crate. The boy shouted out a warning, but the man apparently ignored it as he crashed back to the sand, his wings exploding. Wanda could have laughed at the karma. Spider-Man did not laugh, instead choosing to run over to save the madman. What was wrong with this kid?

Oh, wait, look at that—Spidey saved him.

Spidey saved him, but before he walked away, he...wrote a note? Get closer, Wanda. What did the note say—oh. He left the man for the police. Sorry about your plane?

Whose plane?

Another man approached. Familiar, confident... Was that Happy?

Yes, this newcomer was Happy, frantically searching the area. Happy's presence drew Wanda's attention to the logo barely visible on the plane as he bustled about. Oh. Stark’s plane.

Spider-Man was involved, but the crash seemed like it wasn’t really his fault, more likely the winged guy’s fault.

She felt as though she had missed some of the story, and questioned why Spidey's brain had thrown her into the memory at this particular point.

Time to dig a bit more, she supposed. She didn’t want to have to watch the boy get pummeled again, so she would have to purposefully look for a pleasant memory, hopefully one that revealed more of his character. 

Wanda floated through the boy's mind, searching for a hot spot of peace.

Ah, there. He was with a girl. This was the first time Wanda had seen him in civvies, actually, and it just made him look so much younger. Or, more his age, she supposed. The two were laughing, looking at the girl’s sketchbook. Wanda looked as well, and noticed it contained mostly portraits. A lot of them were of the boy, actually. Said boy groaned.

“MJ, why do you draw me like I’m always freaked out?” 

The girl, MJ, responded, “Dude, you’re always freaked out. I just draw what I observe.”

The boy groaned again, falling back onto the bed, hands covering his face. MJ snickered. 

“Peter, don’t mope,” she chuckled. “It’s not a diss.”

Peter.

Spider-Man’s name was Peter. 

Pietro. Peter. She knew something about the vigilante put her off a bit. The way they interacted with others was so similar, always teasing, trying to make people feel better. The connection hurt, sparking the grief deep within her soul for her twin. She forced herself to focus on the memory again, ignoring the burning sensation in her nose and the tears welling up in her eyes. 

“If you don't get that pout off your face,” MJ continued, “I’ll have to draw it.”

The teen—Peter—shot up, a mock-serious look on his face. “Okay, okay. I was just joking, no need to threaten me with murder.”

Wanda chuckled. She thoroughly enjoyed the way they interacted, care-free and used to each other. It was almost like they were—

MJ laughed as she pulled Peter back down. She gave him a small kiss on the nose before burrowing her head into the crook of his neck.

—a couple.

The odd part about this memory was that while it was ultimately happy, Wanda could feel an underlying sense of melancholy. What was that about? Peter’s brain seemed to immediately respond to her question.

Flashes of a memory flew by Wanda’s eyes and filled her ears. They weren’t complete thoughts, instead rushed and somewhat distorted. MJ’s smiling face. Peter dropping her off somewhere. Peter smiling as he walked down the street. A gunshot. The run back to where MJ last was. Her body now laying on the ground, surrounded by a pool of blood.

Oh.

О ні. Не Пітер.

Wanda could feel tears dripping down her cheeks. She didn’t mean to find this. She just needed to know if they could trust Spider-Man. She could feel Peter’s anguish coursing through her: it washed over her like she was dunking her head in a pool as a little kid, gulping in water instead of air as she struggled to surface. This was not the first loss he had felt, either. She could sense it, the bitter taste of familiarity, resignation.

With a deep sigh and a pulse of energy, she cleared his mind of all other memories, leaving it a blank slate. She put all her energy into transmitting her message to Peter.

“My friend, it was not your fault. I feel your pain. My comfort for your loss, Peter. I will leave now, I had no intention of seeing that.”

She ripped herself away from his mind, and was brought back to reality. She opened her eyes to see, through the blurriness of her vision, that Peter had quiet tears of his own. Seeing him now, so different from the Peter she had just witnessed, made her start to cry all over. Not only was he recovering from injuries of their own doing, she caused that horrid memory to resurface, and witnessed trauma that he had probably wanted to keep to himself.

Dammit, Wanda. In and out, remember? What ever happened to that?

She could feel her teammates' eyes on her. She slowly turned her head to look over her shoulder to catch their eyes. Their perturbed faces held concern, and she hoped it was not just for herself. 

Wanda mentally recapped everything she had learned about Spider-Man, setting aside her feelings for a moment. His name was Peter. He had the opportunity to leave a man for dead, yet he did not, even after the man was about to do the same to him. He'd had a girlfriend named MJ. MJ was presumably dead, and Peter had not been able to help in time. His entire being was filled with constant guilt and pain and despair, yet he held himself to the responsibility to always help others.

There was only one conclusion she could come to.

“He’s good,” she quietly sniffed out.

Chapter Text

“‘He’s good’?” Steve repeated. “That’s it? Wanda, you’re crying. What happened in there?”

“I said he’s good, Steve,” Wanda huffed. She lifted her hands to swipe at the tears on her face, but they were soon replaced with fresh ones. “We agreed that I wouldn’t talk about what I saw, so I’m not. Do you not trust me?”

Steve grimaced. “Of course I trust you. It’s just…why are you crying?”

“He’s crying too, Steve! Do you not see that? I saw a painful memory, that’s all.”

Vision came towards her slightly. He hadn’t spoken at all yet, simply standing by the door. “It’s alright, Wanda. What matters is that we can trust him, yes?”

Wanda let out a breath. “Yes. We can trust him.”

Someone cleared their throat. “If you guys are done,” a hoarse voice began, “I would like to know what time it is.”

-

Of course his mind would betray him like that. Sure, just lay out all of your trauma for the nice Avenger, why don’t you? It wasn't like—

Wait.

Peter heard voices. Incredibly muffled voices, sure, but voices.

How long had he been under? How could his hearing possibly be recovering already? He'd been unconscious, had suffered through a tedious interrogation, and has his mind picked apart. He supposed that during that time, Peter had slowly been coming to his senses. Infinitesimal, barely noticeable changes in his hearing and eyesight. They were hardly anything, and Peter had apparently been able to ignore them. How long did it all take? It was a little hard to analyze his super healing when he couldn't tell what was going on.

Peter tuned back into the conversation, straining to understand what was happening. 

“—are you crying?” A male’s voice floated towards Peter’s ears. It sounded like Peter was underwater, maybe with earplugs in as well. He had never experienced that feeling, so maybe that was an unfair comparison.

“He’s crying too, Steve!” That was a woman. Peter assumed that the he she was referring to was himself, and he flushed with embarrassment at the realization that he was crying in front of the Avengers. “Do you not see that? I saw a painful memory, that’s all.”

An understatement, but a fair assessment. That indicated that Ms. Maximoff was the owner of the feminine voice. 

Another man’s voice filtered in, saying, “It’s alright, Wanda. What matters is that we can trust him, yes?”

Moment of truth. Had it all been for nothing? Maybe Ms. Maximoff was scared off by the plane crash. Peter had kind of fucked up there, but how else was he supposed to handle a plane catapulting straight for the city? But…he was the one who let Toomes get to that point in the first place. At the same time, though, he'd done all that he could, and maybe Ms. Maximoff would understand that. But she had also seen the death. Did she think that was his fault? Peter wouldn’t blame her, even he knew that it was his fault. If he had just been faster, if he had just stayed slightly longer, then…

Hopefully Ms. Maximoff wouldn't hold it against him too much. 

“Yes. We can trust him,” the woman declared. 

Oh? Oh. Oh!

That meant he didn't have to be sent to SHIELD, right? Holy shit, Ms. Maximoff was on his side! Another 10 points to Maximoff. 

Perhaps now would be a good time to speak up. Peter wasn’t used to signing all the time, and he had been doing so for hours. He kind of missed using his voice, especially considering how often he used it as Spider-Man. He assumed that he probably would not be able to hear his voice amazingly well, so he just hoped it wouldn’t be uncomfortably loud on the others’ ears. If it was, they could deal with it. 

He cleared his throat, wet with tears, and interjected, “If you guys are done, I would like to know what time it is.”

His words were followed by silence. Unless the Avengers were whispering, which Peter thought to be an odd response to his interjection.

A few more seconds passed, and a male’s voice questioned, “Spider-Man?”

“No, it’s the gingerbread man.”

The room erupted. Peter had no idea what the fools were saying; all of their muted voices were overlapping, and he couldn’t pick just one to focus on. Safe to say, he got a bit overwhelmed. This was the most sound he'd heard in hours, and while it was still muffled by that god-awful ringing, it was still a few steps up from the pure ringing. He resisted the urge to cover his ears, and instead crossed his arms. He tucked his hands in between his torso and arm, so he could hide his fidgeting fingers.

When they must have realized that Peter was still silent, they slowly quieted down.

“I can barely hear, idiots,” he told them. “Only one of you talk at a time, and try to be louder than your normal speaking level.”

It was quiet once more, before the same voice who asked if he was Spider-Man spoke up again. “You, uh, said you wanted to know what time it is?”

The voice was fairly close, so based off of that and his previous interactions with the Avengers, he guessed it was Barton. Greatest deductive mind of the century.

“Yeah, man, time flies when you can’t see a clock.”

If Barton laughed, Peter didn't hear it. “It’s getting close to 9. At night, that is.”    

Peter gave a sharp exhale. Christ, the whole kidnapping thing took up his entire day. That sucked. Additionally, he really didn’t know when he’d be able to see Matt now. Who knew what the Avengers would want to do with him. 

“Pretty near quitting time, yeah?” Peter hoped that his implication of can I please sleep was clear enough.

There was a hesitation, then a, “Well…”

“Didn’t Ms. Maximoff say that I’m all clear?” He hoped his agitation didn't show.

“She did,” Barton assured, and Peter could picture him holding out his hands as if to calm him, “but I’m not quite sure we should leave you alone.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, hoping it would convey his thoughts. What was he going to do, escape? He was still missing 1.5 senses, so that would be a fairly difficult task. Did they think he would he wreak havoc? Would a Trusted Vigilante™ do that? (He was pretty damn close to it, but probably no havoc-wreaking tonight.)

This time, a woman’s voice answered, “Because if SHIELD finds out that we had you, then simply released you? They would have our heads.” Peter was quickly able to place her as Romanov. She just had a recognizable prowess.

Peter sighed. Fucking SHIELD. He didn't have to like that, but it could be worse. “Okay, then what’s the plan?”

It went quiet once more. Maybe people were talking, just not loud enough for him to hear. Or they might have been farther away. Peter wouldn’t know. 

Another new voice. “So, uh, what if you just stayed here? Under the Avenger supervision?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me, or telling me?” he challenged. 

“Kinda both,” the voice told him. “It just doesn’t seem fair if we make you a prisoner here, but it’s also the best we can think of right now.”

“Alright. Um. Who are you?” Peter could sense the familiarity of the voice, but he wasn’t able to identify the speaker as easily as he had everyone else so far.

“Right, sorry,” the guy sputtered. “Harley. Um, Keener. Harley Keener.”

Right. Harley. He had forgotten the other teen was there. Harley's suggestion didn’t sound too bad, to be honest. Sure, being surrounded by the Avengers wasn't ideal, but it was a place to live. And it had heating, as well as running water. And maybe he could eat more. And maybe he could have an actual bed to sleep on. Yeah, the Tower sounded like a bit of an upgrade from his dilapidated apartment complex.

Peter recognized his own priorities.

And anyway, it wasn't like all residents of the Tower had caused him grief. Ms. Maximoff kept getting better and better, and Peter would be lying if he didn't want to get to know Harley a bit more. It might be nice to have friends close to his age again. That is, if he didn’t fuck it all up again.

Which led him to: what if Peter fucked this all up? He had a track record of Fucking Things Up. Any sort of relationship he's ever had—platonic, romantic, or familial—had gone down the drain. Exceptions being Matt, who couldn’t die to save his life, and Ned, who might want to reconnect at some point, if Peter tried. However, Peter had to lose his phone a while ago so no one could track it, and since he hasn’t been able to get a new one, he hadn't spoken to Ned in a long time, so maybe that relationship was inching towards to drain as well.

Everyone else, though? His entire family? MJ? Whatever had been going on with Liz Allen? Down. The. Drain. Because of Peter. Who was to say the same thing won’t happen with these people? God, what if one of them died? Parker Luck always ensured an increased chance of death. Maybe all of the benefits wasn't worth staying here, wasn't worth bringing harm to these people. Peter could probably escape soon enough. He could just—

Through his spiral, Peter felt blood begin to seep beneath his fingernails. He suddenly became aware of the burning sensation in his inner elbow—he accidentally broke skin. He felt for the bit of exposed skin, and got more blood on his fingers. There must have been a rip in his suit there, which provided an area for his fingers to work. Maybe he needed to start wearing actual gloves, instead of his current fingerless gloves. They didn't even look cool.

The action was enough to pull him out of his spiral, and allowed him to think rationally. These were the Avengers he was talking about. They could protect themselves if Parker Luck became an issue. It'd be fine.

(Tell that to everyone else who was faced with Parker Luck, Peter. See what they have to say.)

Peter ended up shrugging. “Okay,” was all he said.

“‘Okay,' what?” Harley asked, and Peter could almost feel the way Harley's eyebrows were definitely furrowed.

“Okay, as in, okay, that arrangement works. I can stay here, and you guys can watch over me.”

Before anyone could say anything else, yet another new person spoke. Except this voice was the easiest to identify. 

“Great!” Stark exclaimed. “If that’s all settled, should you call your mom or something to say you’re not coming home tonight? It shouldn't take us long to sort it out with SHIELD, just say you're with a friend, or something.”

Guess again, Stark.

“I don't have one," Peter countered, knowing that this topic had to come up eventually. "A mom, I mean.”

“Okay…your dad then?” Stark suggested.

“Nope.”

“...Siblings?”

“Nada.”

“Uncle?” Stark tried once more, and yeah, okay, that one stinged.

“Do you want to keep digging this hole, or can we move on?” Peter snapped. 

It was quiet once more. Maybe Peter shouldn’t have gotten short with him. But, honestly. Take a hint.

“Okay, no one to call, that’s fine,” male voice number 784 said, trying to defuse the situation. That one would be Rogers, with that weird air of righteousness he always had, even when he was hesitant. “Bruce, you still have to do a check up, right?”

Peter assumed that the man who answered was Dr. Banner. “Yeah, I wasn’t able to get that far earlier.”

“What would this check up entail?” Peter asked, suddenly feeling way more off-balance. 

“Well, I would probably start with getting the blood off of your face,” the doctor started, and Peter's stomach rolled at the reminder. "Then, if you’re alright with it, I’ll see if you have any other injuries. Might take a blood sample, do a test.”

Peter stopped him there. “No blood samples. My blood is radioactive and filled with spicy DNA, and I don’t tend to allow people to get their hands on it.” That happened once. Not willingly of course—one couldn't prevent much when they were kidnapped by an international terrorist organization. 

“Your blood is—” Dr. Banner interrupted himself. “Okay, nevermind. That’s alright.”

“If you’re going to have to take off my suit, then I want the others to leave. Doesn’t seem like they all need to examine my body, right?”

Rogers took over once again, announcing, “We can leave. We’ll just…Yeah, we’re leaving. Bruce, we’ll be on the common floor when you’re done.”

“Alright. If he’s alright, I’ll bring him up with me. Yeah. Yep. Go on out, guys. No, I’ll be fine. Come on, out the door. Closing the door now, Tony. Bye.” 

Peter heard the door slam, and he let out a harsh exhale. “Hey, Dr. Banner. How do you do?”

“I’m alright, Spider-Man, thanks. How are you?”

“Not so stellar, doc, if I’m being honest,” the teen chuckled. He decided then that if he trusted Ms. Maximoff, then he could probably trust the good doctor, who he had never fought. “You can, uh, call me Peter. If you want.”

To his credit, Dr. Banner only paused for two seconds before he calmly went on, “Okay, Peter. You can call me Bruce.”

Bruce seemed a bit too informal for Peter. The only reason why he wasn’t geeking out at the moment was because he had gotten scarily good at masking his emotions. If Peter'd had this exact conversation with the doctor even a year ago, he’d have been a blubbering mess. This was the Dr. Robert Bruce Banner. Peter used to spend his free time reading his papers on gamma radiation and biochemistry. Later on, when he had to utilize it in his extracurricular activities, he read up on the man’s physics research. Dr. Banner had seven doctorates, for Christ’s sake. Midtown had posters of him in the majority of its science classrooms. 

But Peter didn’t say any of that, instead going with, “Bruce. Cool. Should I, like, take off my suit? I have a shirt and stuff on underneath.”

“If you’re alright with it, then yes, go ahead. I want to clean off your face first, though.”

As Bruce must have been gathering some water or antiseptic, Peter took off his suit. At that moment, he realized that his backpack was still in an alleyway on 16th street. Shit. Maybe he could go back out sometime and get it. If he was lucky, maybe the team would let him drop by his estate and collect his other belongings. He wanted to keep his knives and his first aid supplies. Aside from those, though, he had some more personal things that he needed to pick up. May and Ben’s wedding rings on a chain, along with his parents'. A picture of him with his parents when he was a toddler, framed. There was a small bag with a few Legos from his and Ned’s favorite set. MJ had given him a few crystals for his birthday two years ago, and he kept those as well. He had a collection of written notes from Matt, ranging from reminders about their sessions, to simple Have a good day, fuckwad messages. He wanted to keep all of those things, especially if it seemed like he was going to be living with the Avengers for a while.

Bruce snapped him out of his thoughts, saying, “You can just put your suit on the floor next to the bed. Is it alright if I touch your face?”

When Peter gave his affirmation, he tensed as he could sense Bruce getting closer. It was fine, Peter. Bruce was a doctor, he was just trying to help. Don’t move, don't move, you know what’s coming, don’t move—

Thank fuck. He didn’t flinch backwards.

Bruce was methodical, yet very gentle, in his movements, wiping across his face in smooth strokes. They were both silent until Bruce pulled back once more. Peter’s face felt much more clean, so he thought this little meeting was going great.

That was until Bruce said, “Uh, Peter? Why is there blood on your fingers?” 

Right. The blood. He subconsciously moved his hand to cover up his arm, which must have drawn the doctor’s attention to it. 

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“I, uh…I accidentally scratched it a bit too hard. Don’t worry, it stopped bleeding a while ago.” 

“You did this?” Peter didn’t pick up the concern lacing the man’s voice, just the accusation.

“Yeah. Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t—” Bruce paused. “Don't apologize, Peter. We’ll just have to…work on not doing that.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Sure.”

There were, again, a few moments of silence, except this time you could cut the tension with a knife. It didn't even have to be a Romanov Knife. 

Bruce was the one who broke it. “Could I lift up your shirt to inspect your torso?”

Peter tensed even further, and threw his hands out to prevent Bruce from moving his own. “I’d, uh, prefer if I did it.” He hesitantly lifted up the hem of his shirt. “And could you keep telling me before you touch me? That’s been pretty cash money of you.”

“Yeah, of course. If you…” Bruce trailed off once Peter fully removed his shirt. "Oh, Peter."

Right. Peter was used to his scars, but he always forgot how bad they looked to fresh eyes. His entire body was marred with scars, including his face. He didn’t know why people always thought the scarring would end there. There was a faint scar on his neck from a knife (one he didn't get to keep), but you had to be looking for it to see it. His back had burns and stab wounds and etched whiplash scarring, and the story was no different on his chest. PROPERTY OF HYDRA had been branded onto his upper back—it was easily the scar he hated the most, an insistent reminder of the worst few weeks of his life. His arms held the typical crime-fighting scars, including some that were self inflicted as well. There were some of those on his thighs, too. His wrists and ankles showed signs of being rubbed raw from restraints.

Peter meant "marred with scars" quite literally. 

Peter knew his body wasn't a pretty sight, and hiding it with the suit and hoodies was his go-to. He couldn’t very well explain all his medical history to Bruce, so while it was embarrassing, he figured he could suck it up. It wasn't like Bruce would be the first—Ned and MJ had seen him without a shirt, and Matt knew the shape of certain scars well.

Bruce seemed to be a generally chill person, so despite his discomfort, Peter reckoned he needed to let Bruce continue to study him. 

“Let’s not talk about the glaring issues here, yeah?” Peter suggested, resisting the urge to curl into himself slightly. 

All Bruce allowed him was a warning that he was going to touch him. This time, Peter couldn't help the slight flinch.

Bruce worked in silence, and even though Peter couldn’t see the man, he turned his head away. Trying to release some of the nervous energy that had built up, he fidgeted in any way he could without disturbing Bruce. He wiggled his toes, drummed his fingers on the side of the bed, cracked his neck, bit the inside of his cheek. 

“You know,” Bruce started amicably, “I’ve tried to kill myself several times.”

Peter blinked in surprise.

“Hated the Hulk. Blamed myself for all the times he wreaked havoc, of course. And really, it’s still my fault if I can’t control my emotions properly. But every time I tried to put a bullet in my head, the Hulk spit it back out.”

“Oh,” Peter muttered. "I...Me too."

He surprised himself with the lack of restraint, but something about Bruce's casual approach made Peter feel like it was okay to admit his own attempts.

(He wasn't ready to admit that the only reason why he had stopped trying was because it never seemed to work, his healing ability just seemed to be dead-set on not letting him die.)

“Eventually, I realized that I was stuck with the Hulk. So, I resorted to self harm. Seemed like a better solution than repeatedly killing myself. When I became an Avenger, though, things changed a bit. Nat helped me learn to love myself a bit more. I found a best friend in Tony. I got a support system. Slowly but surely, I started to heal. Went to therapy, and when Sam joined, I talked to him, too. The Avengers are my family, and they were able to pick me up when I fell. That sounds cheesy, but I’ve been clean for over a year now. I still go to therapy, too. I needed to learn that it was okay to get help, and when to utilize it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” There was a bit of a waver in Peter’s voice. 

“Because I want you to know that there’s hope, Peter,” Bruce told him, sincerity emanating from his entire being. “You might be here for a while. Maybe you could come to one of us if you need help. I know that may not feel like an option to you right now, but those guys are good people. They didn’t mean to hurt you that badly. If you don’t want to go to them, you have me. I promise.”

“Thank you, Bruce. I appreciate it.” And he did. If Bruce hinted at a longer-term stay, maybe he had a friend here.

Maybe he could have more. 

“Well!” Bruce exclaimed, and the tone change jolted Peter slightly. “Seems like your healing ability is truly something else. You’re extremely malnourished, dehydrated, and probably due for a long night’s rest, but you don't have any dire injuries.”

Peter was grateful for the change of topic. “Could’ve told you that, doc.”

“So,” the man went on, “that means that I can take you up to the common floor, if you’re up to it. I can lead you since your eyesight is still in poor condition. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat, yeah?”

“Sure,” Peter breathed out. “Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter Text

“You sure you don't need any help?” Bruce asked. 

“Absolutely not, but let me try it first,” Peter told him as he attempted to get up. Bruce was going to take him to the kitchen, but first Peter needed to get out of bed. Maybe relearn how to walk, depending on how this went. His body gets a crumb of rest, and suddenly it shuts down. He was feeling around his surroundings for something to grab hold of to help him up. All he felt was the corner of the nightstand next to him, so he stuck to it and pulled himself up. It was easier than he thought, but his legs still wobbled slightly. “Alright. What’s the plan, man?”

He could feel Bruce shuffle closer as he said, “I’m holding out my right arm, so you can use it if you want me to lead you.” Peter nodded, and slowly reached out his left hand until he made contact. He had never been on the other end of this move. Occasionally, when Matt didn’t have his cane and they were in civvies, Peter would allow the man to hold onto his arm. Peter assumed that it would take a lot of trust to just let someone lead you around, so he would have to have a bit of faith in Bruce. Thankfully, their impromptu therapy session allowed Peter to feel more comfortable around the doctor.

“Do you want your suit?” Bruce questioned. “I just remembered.”

“Nah, I’m good for now. I’m covered up enough, and they all just had several hours of screen time with my face.”

Bruce might’ve nodded, but Peter still couldn’t see well enough to make it out. “I’m going to start walking now,” he warned. Peter gave an acknowledgement and they started a slow pace towards the exit. He wanted to hold out his other hand to feel around his surroundings, but that might just look weird. He heard the door open, and they stepped out into a hallway. “We’re going to the elevator, by the way.”

“I figured,” Peter mumbled. 

It was quiet once more until they reached the elevator, and stepped inside once it arrived. 

“So,” Bruce started, with an air of false casualness, “will you tell the others your name?”

Question of the hour. Ms. Maximoff and Bruce were the only ones who knew it, and Peter figured they had earned their knowledge. But was a name something to be earned? The way Peter thought about it was that it was one aspect of his secret identity that he could still keep from the Avengers, without it being revealed to them without his consent. They had taken off his mask, seemingly without any hesitation, so it could be nice to actually hide something from them. But then again, it was only his first name—it wasn't like Stark could find anything on him based off of that. Peter had made an effort to remove all records of him from all online platforms to avoid Stark finding him, but he had been found anyway. What was the true harm in revealing his name? He was going to be living with them for a while, and they were bound to figure out more things about him.  

“I’m not sure, man” he told the doctor after a few seconds of silence. “Probably at some point.”

It was quiet, and then, “Oh, sorry. I nodded.” Peter allowed himself a chuckle. “We’re almost there, Peter. You feeling okay?”

“Yessir. I’m hyped up, ready to go. Go, uh, get another dinner.”

“Always a special occasion,” Bruce affirmed. “You can take hold of my arm again, the elevator stopped.”

Peter neglected to mention that he, too, felt the elevator stop. Peter did as the man said, and proceeded to move out of the elevator with Bruce. His footsteps were naturally light, but Peter made a conscious effort to make them even more silent. He didn’t want to bother any Avengers that were on the floor. What if they got mad? Kicked him out, started attacking him again. Peter just got done with that, he didn’t want to start the process all over. 

“Hello, Spider-Man.”

The voice jolted him out of his thoughts. “Ms. Maximoff. Are you the only one here?”

“Only one in this area. The others are a few rooms over, so they can’t hear us” she replied. “You can call me Wanda, you know. We’re not that far apart in age.”

“Wanda,” he nodded. “Uh, you can use Peter, if you want to.”

“I…I didn’t want to be disrespectful,” she told him with some hesitation. “I invaded your mind. I figured that since you didn’t actually tell me your name, you wouldn't want me to use it.”

“Wanda,” he quietly said, carefully adding comfort into his tone, “I gave you permission to look around. It’s fine. Call me Peter.”

Before he could hear her response, Peter was pulled in closer to Bruce, who told him, “I’m going to meet up with the team, get them settled with your presence. Take your time with Wanda.”

“Thanks, Bruce,” he acknowledged as he dropped his arm. At the same time, he stopped walking, having no idea which way was what. 

“Here,” Wanda popped in. “Take my arm, I’ll lead you.”

“Thanks. We were heading to the kitchen.”

They started moving, walking in comfortable silence. Peter liked Wanda’s presence. It was a relief that she still wanted to talk to him after seeing the shit within his mind. He didn’t think many people would do that. Yet she did, and even apologized for it afterwards. Yeah, Wanda was nice. Hopefully Peter wouldn’t fuck up this relationship.

Wanda broke the silence. “So, how good is your hearing right now?”

“A huge improvement from a few hours ago,” he explained. “Nowhere near my usual hearing ability, though. If I remember correctly, it’s still a bit quieter than what my hearing was like before I got my powers.”

“You weren’t born with your powers?”

Fuck it, Peter would trust Wanda. “No, I got them when I was 14. Bitten by a radioactive spider on a field trip, scared my teacher shitless, proceeded to have agonizing pain and sickness for a day, and then I woke up with abs.” An oversimplification, to be sure.

“Oh.”

Shit, did Peter say too much? He kinda dumped all of that onto her. He thought it would be okay, seeing as she had already figured out so much from his mind. He generally didn’t talk much about how he got his powers, only glossing over it with Ned, MJ, and Matt. What made him think that telling all of that to Wanda, someone who he just fucking met, was alright? Apparently, Peter’s only hobby was oversharing.

“I wasn’t born with my powers, either.” Oh, she just wasn’t done. “I got them from the mind stone when I was a teenager. My brother and I volunteered to be experimented on by HYDRA.”

It was always fucking HYDRA, wasn’t it? “Those fuckers,” he seethed. “Sucks that they did that to you. I’m sorry.”

“We signed up for it though!” she argued. “I’m not defending them, but we were stupid children as well.”

“Maybe, but you guys were still children. HYDRA shouldn’t have experimented on children in the first place. They do that a lot, actually,” he added, stupidly oversharing once again. “Quite the bad habit.”

Thankfully, Wanda chose to move past his small slip up. “I suppose that’s true,” she agreed. “Uh, we’re in the kitchen now. Is there anything you would like to eat? I would like to think I’m a pretty good chef.”

Peter’s stomach growled, despite eating not even a few hours ago. He supposed a shrunken stomach was still bound to digest food quickly with his dumbass metabolism.

“I’m fine with anything,” he told her. “If there’s something that’s quick to make, you could just do that if it’s easier.”

“It’s alright, I like to cook. How about some pasta? We could share it, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s getting rather late, and I myself haven’t eaten since lunch.”

Peter’s body went cold with guilt. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about that. God, I took up your guys’ whole day, and I was the only one who ate. Fuck, Wanda, I’m sorry.”

“Peter, relax,” she soothed. “First, it was not your fault. You obviously didn’t choose to get kidnapped. Second, some of the Avengers ate while you were still with Bruce. I just chose not to because I wanted to wait for you.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “That’s good. Pasta would be great, Wanda, thank you.” Peter couldn’t remember the last time he had pasta. Certainly not while he was on the streets or at Richard’s house, so he and May must have gone out to have it. There was no way May could have made a successful pasta dish. She had attempted it, but failed miserably the three times she tried. Ben could always make a bomb carbonara, though. Peter knew he couldn’t be picky, but he still hoped Wanda was more like Ben than May.

As Wanda clambered around the kitchen, they made small talk. They chatted a little bit about Peter’s old school, and Wanda was shocked to learn that Harley was going to the same one. They did a few ice breakers, which only reminded him of his days in said school. As it turned out, they had about the same music taste. That is, hardly anything specific. They could agree that country music was shit, excluding Taylor Swift and Dolly Parton. Everyone always hated on country until “Jolene” came on. They both liked Tyler, the Creator, and Peter recommended Childish Gambino to her. They both said that they liked Mother Mother, and they did that little thing where they gave each other mute looks, which said “Are you...?” “Are you?” “I am, what about you?” “Yeah, I am.” Then they fist bumped, grinning. It was a good ol’ fashioned coming out.

Peter smelled the dish as she set it down in front of him. He felt around for the fork he knew she put down, and took as large of a bite he could manage once he found it. 

“Wanda, this is like nectar of the gods,” he moaned. It was borderline obscene, but what was he if not dramatic?

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she easily returned. Maybe it was because they were close in age, or maybe it was because she had seen some of the worst parts of him right off the bat, but they were getting along as though they had known each other for years.

Their meal was accompanied with idle, comfortable conversation spliced between hasty mouthfuls of their pasta. Peter still had to stop himself from eating too much, despite his desire consume every bit of his pasta, and then some. She had given him a smaller plate on purpose, but seeing as pasta was loaded with carbs, he couldn’t eat much without feeling nauseous. 

“So,” Wanda began as she was finishing up her meal, “would you like for me to take you to the team?”

“It’s not like I have a choice, right?” he raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, you could just… Yeah, you don’t really have many other options,” she said ruefully.

Peter nodded. “Then I’m alright to go see them again. It’s not gonna be another interrogation, right?” Peter was fucking tired. He didn’t want to have to deal with another onslaught of questions.

“I doubt it,” she assured. “I think Tony’s just going to take you to your room.” Peter nodded, and she hesitantly went on, “I was thinking I could ask him to let you have the guest room on my floor? If you don’t want to, that’s fine, I’m sure Tony could—”

“Wanda, I’d love to,” he interrupted. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

“Of course, Peter. Just letting you know, Harley and Vision are also in the same area. We’re technically the youngsters of the team, so Tony clumped us together.”

“Right, cool, that’s fine.” Would he be next to Harley? Could he finally talk to the other boy? Apologize for the fight? Maybe they could be speedy friends too, like him and Wanda were. Unless Harley hated that Peter was going to be invading his living space. But Harley was the one to suggest the plan, right? 

“I can hear you thinking,” Wanda laughed, but then abruptly stopped. “Not actually, though. You know, the saying? That’s what I meant. I wasn’t using my powers, I swear!”

Peter shook his head, smiling. “I know what you meant. Guess we should get going before I pass out from exhaustion?”

“That would be ideal.”

Peter reached out for her arm, and she moved into his hold. They walked at the same slow pace as before, ensuring that Peter didn’t run into any walls.

“Bruce probably briefed them on being nice,” Wanda told him. “Not that they’re not nice, but sometimes they’re a bit too curious.”

Peter snorted. “I’m a curious person too, but I don’t go and kidnap someone when I want to know who they are.”

“Can’t say I have, either,” she chuckled. “Okay, we’re almost there, you ready?”

What he said was, “Of course”, but the only thing that was going on in his head was screaming. Like just, legit screaming. It was loud and panicky and filled every corner of his mind. It was a distracting background noise to his conversation. 

Peter could barely hear the very faint conversation inside the room, which came to a halt as soon as Wanda pushed open the door. They stepped inside, and Peter refused to immediately break the silence. He could feel their eyes on him as Wanda led him to a seat near the door. He sat down, and only then did anyone say anything.

“Hey, Spidey,” Bruce said casually, refraining from saying his name. Another point to the doctor. “How was dinner part two?”

Peter tried to tilt his head in the direction of the voice. “It was good; Wanda makes a god tier carbonara.”

“Oh man, she made you carbonara?” Barton jumped in, apparently getting over himself. “Lucky.”

“Very lucky to have the metabolism five times faster than yours, but be unable to satisfy it.” It was a petty comment, but let Peter have his fun.

When Barton went quiet once more, Bruce asked, “Five times?”

“Give or take,” Peter shrugged. 

“Impressive,” Rogers declared.

Peter’s voice took on an innocent lilt, and fake fawned, “Oh my goodness! Thank you so much, Captain! I work very hard to digest substances quickly.” He finished with a blinding grin, which he immediately wiped from his face for dramatic effect. Wanda laughed from beside him, before she muffled herself.

“Oh, I like this kid,” Stark said, but Peter had to strain to hear it. Don’t make your comments under your breath, sir. “Alright! I can take you to your room now if you want to get any semblance of rest.”

“Stark, if you wouldn’t mind, could you let him have the spare bedroom in my hallway?” Wanda asked, like the godsend she was.

“I guess, if you want him with you. And if Harley’s alright with it.” He paused, then added, “I’m assuming you don’t mind, Vision.”

Peter guessed that the one who responded was Vision. “Of course not,” he assured.

“I’m fine with it!” Harley excitedly agreed, before he corrected, “I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t mind.” Nerd. He wanted to be roomies with his one-time nurse.

“Well, Spidey, you seem quite popular this evening,” Stark commented. “I’m sure Wanda will be able to handle your move. There’s already toiletries and some clothes in your new room, seeing as we kind of made it one of our guest rooms. Go get settled in.”

As Wanda and Peter stood up, him latching onto her arm immediately, Peter felt Harley walk over to them. “I’m tired, so I’ll head up to the rooms with them,” he explained. 

“Thanks for the constant updates, kid,” Tony snorted. “Really appreciate them.”

 Harley didn’t respond verbally. Wand started walking, but now they had Harley by their side. He went the same pace as them, accidentally or on purpose, Peter didn’t know.

When they were out of the room, Harley cleared his throat. “So,” he began. “How are you?”

Peter shrugged. “Tired. Can’t see. Have a major headache. But other than that, I’m all good,” he told the other teen. Before he could ask Harley how he was doing, Wanda jumped in. 

“You have a headache? Why didn’t you say something? We can get you some medicine.”

“It’s fine, Wanda. Not the worst thing ever. Plus, I’m fairly sure that you guys won’t have any drugs that’ll work on me.”

“We have medicine made for Steve and Bucky,” Harley suggested. “Maybe those can work?”

“By the sound of it, it seems like my metabolism is faster than Mr. Rogers’s. I don’t think the medicine will make a dent,” he shot the idea down.

“Well, you know your body best.”

Peter laughed. “Hardly. This thing is an enigma.”

“I bet Bruce would be willing to do some tests to figure you out a little bit more?” Harley suggested.

Peter froze. Tests. On him. What kind of tests? The kind HYDRA did? They were trying to figure him out, too. They wanted to know what his body did, how it worked, so they used any means necessary to figure it out. Peter didn’t want to know if it meant more tests. Bruce probably wouldn’t torture him like they did, but he’s a scientist. He would enjoy some experimentation. Peter’s body would be a lovely test subject.

“No tests,” he whispered. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” Wanda assured. “No tests. Hey, there won’t be any tests, you hear me?”

Peter shook himself. “Yeah. Sorry.” Only then did he realize that he was no longer attached to Wanda. He reached out, and she moved into his grasp once more. “Thanks.” 

“Sorry I brought it up,” Harley quietly apologized. 

Peter sighed, “Not your fault. I’m just an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. I was being insensitive.”

Peter waved him off. “It’s fine, I swear. I’m just tired.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Well, we’re at the elevator now,” Wanda told him. “You’ll be in your room and sleeping soon enough.”

They stepped into said elevator, and were quiet as they went up to the rooms. Peter could feel the awkwardness exuding from Harley. Peter wondered if he was always like that, or if it was because of Peter. Now that Peter thought about it, when they had that quick fight, Harley couldn’t really be described as awkward. If anything, he was confident. He jumped right into the fight, a quip on his lips, and was comfortable with himself and the situation until he was ultimately webbed up. That meant that his behavior was probably Peter’s fault. Oops. 

Wanda pulled him out of the elevator and started talking once more. “This floor is our floor. We’ve got a small kitchen that we’re passing, a small living room, and a small version of Tony’s lab.”

“That’s for me,” Harley explained, “but if you’re into it, we could share.”

“I wouldn’t want to invade your privacy,” Peter mumbled.

“It’s not an invasion of privacy if I invite you.” Peter just nodded. 

“And here we have our rooms!” Wanda tried to show him. It didn’t work. “Uh, Vision’s room is on the end, mine is next to his, Harley’s next to me, and you’re across the hall. There’s a bathroom in each room.”

“Livin' the high life, I see,” Peter commented. “You guys got a lot up here.”

“Well, Tony Stark is the one housing us, so…” Harley cleared his throat. “Wanda, I bet you’re exhausted. I can get Spider-Man settled, if that’s alright?”

She leaned in closer to Peter. “Is that okay? I kinda am pretty tired.”

“Get some rest, Wanda,” he nodded. “I’ll be fine with him.”

Wanda squeezed his hand, and called out a goodnight as she went to her room. 

Peter turned to Harley, but before he could ask for help, Harley offered, “You wanna take my arm?” Peter nodded gratefully, and Harley led him to Peter’s room. “So this is the bathroom, there’s a cup and an unopened toothbrush in the right hand drawer, towels in the left. The closet is next to the bathroom, there’s just some generic clothes in there. Sweatpants, a hoodie, some shorts, T-shirts, you know. I'm sure we can take you out shopping at some point if you want more clothes.”

“This is more than enough.” Peter hadn’t had this many clothes in over a year, not even at Richard’s place. He wasn’t able to take much of his belongings when he went into the system.  “Thanks, Harley.”

“No problem. Think you can make it to the bed okay?”

Oops. “Hell no. Could you help?” 

“‘Course.” Harley proceeded to deposit him on the bed, after pulling the covers back. Peter felt like a little kid. At the same time, it was nice to have someone take care of him. Bruce, Wanda, and now Harley have helped lead him through the past few hours, and Peter couldn’t help but feel warm inside at the thought.

He felt Harley’s arm leave him, and he immediately missed the contact. He got a bit used to having to constantly touch someone to walk around, but his eyesight would be better in the morning, so he would have to deal with being alone again. It wasn't like he could ask for touch, he would seem needy. And he never liked it when people touched him without him saying that they could, so if anyone did that he would freak out. That would lead to people not wanting to initiate contact with him. See his predicament?

“Goodnight, Spider-Man.” Harley called out.

“Call me Peter.” He was treating his name like an initiation into a cult at this point. 

A pause. Then, “Goodnight, Peter.”

-

Harley let the door shut behind him, then he all but ran to his room. But then he stopped, and decided to run to Wanda’s room. He knocked, and she opened the door with a wisp of bright red. He ran in and jumped onto her bed, landing face first. 

“Harley,” she mockingly rebuked him, “I am very tired. I’m currently asleep right now, if you couldn't tell.”

She was nowhere near asleep. Although Harley knew that she had to be tired, his comment indicating her exhaustion allowed her to leave so he could be with Spidey a little longer. (Peter. His name was Peter.) Wanda had her hair in the braids she wore before bed, but Harley knew that she never went to bed without saying goodnight to Vision first, and he had yet to come up. She was sitting on the floor with her back against her bed, going through a magazine.

“Sorry about that,” he breathed out, turning his head towards her. “But Wanda, his name is Peter. He told me his name!”

She gave a knowing smile. “Oh, you’re in deep.”

He groaned, “I can’t help it. No one told me Spider-Man’s hot!”

“No one knew,” she shrugged, struggling to keep a straight face.

“And he's funny! He’s hot, he’s funny, do you think he’s smart? I bet he’s smart.”

“You gonna lay on the charm?”

“I’ve already made a fool of myself, being an awkward mess. How can I be redeemed?”

“Continue to be an awkward mess,” she advised. “Maybe showing that he makes you flustered will hint at something.”

“I hate that word. Flustered.”

“It’s true! You, Harley Keener, are a gay mess for a teenage vigilante.”

He covered his face in his hands, and muttered, “I know.”

“You know,” she said as she set down her magazine, “you might actually have a chance with him. He’s bi.”

Harley shot up. “He is? Wait, did you just out him to me? Very rude of you.”

“Don’t worry, we talked about it while I made dinner for us. He doesn’t mind people knowing. Apparently, he showed up to pride like two years ago as Spider-Man.”

“Bider-Man type beat,” he nodded.

“Exactly.”

“Well, I’m gonna go panic to myself in my room,” he told her as he moved to get up. “See ya tomorrow.”

“I’ll be your wing-woman!” she called out.

“You’re a godsend, Wanda.”

He closed her door, and this time actually went to his room. He quietly shut his door and slid down against it. Peter. The name suited him.

Chapter Text

Peter drifted awake to the sounds of the busy street below him. Car horns and the barks of dogs filled his ears. The smell of bacon made it his way, and he grinned. He loved Saturday mornings. He took his time getting ready, knowing that the bacon wasn’t ready to be eaten yet. He changed out of his pajamas since he and Ned had made plans to go to the arcade today. 

He left his room and quietly padded to the kitchen. When he rounded the corner, Ben was at the stove top making bacon and pancakes, as expected. May was sitting at the table, face hidden by the opened newspaper in front of her. That was odd; she usually stuck to her magazines. 

“Morning, May,” he announced his presence. “Something special in the news?”

She pulled the newspaper down, and Peter flinched backwards. There was blood dripping from her temple, nose, and ears. Her face was severely bruised, and as his eyes trailed downwards, he could see the rest of her body didn’t look much better. Her arm was bent unnaturally, and he could see a bone poking through her marred skin. She said nothing, just looked at him with empty eyes and a straight face. 

“M—uh, May?” he stammered, breathing heavily. He backed up more, moving towards Ben. “Ben, what—what happened to May?”

“You tell me, Peter,” the man demanded, and oh, God his voice was terrifying. Hollow. Echoing.

Ben turned, and Peter shrieked. His uncle was no better than May. His face was pale, with dark eyebags, but otherwise unscathed. But his chest…his chest had three bullet wounds in it. They were still bleeding, the deep red slowly taking over the light blue of his shirt. 

Peter stumbled in his maneuver backwards and he collapsed in a pile of trembling limbs on the floor. May slowly stood up, unhindered by the crookedness of her legs, and matched pace with Ben as they sauntered towards him. They halted a few inches away, looming over him. He could see every detail of the massacre that made up their bodies. Ben’s blood dripped onto his leg and he yanked it away, whimpering. 

“We wouldn’t be like this if it wasn’t for you.” They spoke in unison, their voices ringing out together. 

“You could have saved Ben,” May droned.

“You could have saved May,” Ben echoed. 

“I tried,” Peter whispered. “I didn’t mean to let you die.”

“You’re a curse!” they screeched. “You kill everyone you know. It’s all your fault, your fault, your fault.”

He sobbed, grief coursing through his veins. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it—”

Peter gasped, pulling himself out of his nightmare.

They weren’t here. They weren’t mad at him. It was fine. It was fine. It was fine.

Tears slipped down his cheeks and pooled at his jawline. He reached his trembling hand up to swipe them away. His quick breaths were the only sound in his otherwise silent room.

Wait, not his room.

Where was he? It was so dark, why? Where was he? Where was he?

Deep breath.

He was at the Avengers Tower, in one of the guest rooms. Right. Okay. 

Deep breaths, Peter. That wasn’t the worst thing your mind had cooked up for you.

He ran a hand through his hair, contributing to the existing oiliness of it. Maybe he could take a shower. It might help calm him down, and he could finally get clean with something other than a bowl of water and a towel. He didn’t know what time it was, but it probably some time in the wee hours of the morning, so he just hoped he wouldn't wake anyone up with the sound of running water.

He ripped the blanket off of him, but then hesitated—how was he going to get to the shower? He didn’t know if he could see yet, seeing as it was pitch black in his room, but he'd probably improved a bit with a few hours of sleep. He could definitely hear better because he was able to hear the shifting of his sheet loud and clear. Eardrums didn't take too long to heal by normal people standards, he figured, so he was likely well on the way to full health.

His ears would hardly aid him in getting to the bathroom, though. He wasn't Matt, after all.

Peter sighed and decided that the first step to taking a shower would be getting out of bed. He stood up and shuffled forward slightly. There was nothing blocking him presently, so he took another step hesitantly. He probably looked like an idiot, flailing his arms around to make sure he didn't hit anything and taking small, cautious steps forward.

“Good morning, Spider-Man.” Despite the softness of the Irish woman’s voice, Peter startled. 

“Who’s there?” he quietly called out, making sure he wouldn’t wake up any of his hallmates. 

“I am FRIDAY, Tony Stark’s A.I.”

Oh. No reason for panic. His Spidey Sense hadn't alerted him to any danger, and the voice was friendly. He knew FRIDAY. Well, he knew her system. It had been a difficult thing to hack, but one could do many new things when bored.

“Oh, right. Sorry about that.”

“It’s no problem, Spider-Man. I realize that my disembodied voice can be a difficult thing to get used to,” she acknowledged. “Would you like for me to turn on the lights for you?”

He looked up, despite not being able to see anything. “You can do that?”

“I control most things in the Tower, yes.” 

“Then that would be great, thanks.”

The lights flicked on, and, oh, Peter could very much see. In fact, he saw a bit too much. For almost a day, his vision had been consistently dark and practically non-existent. The sudden onslaught of bright light hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, not even looking around the room. 

“Would you like for me to dim the lights?” came the soothing voice of the A.I. He nodded, not even thinking about how there was a chance that she couldn't see the movement. However, he apparently got lucky because the burning in his eyes lessened slightly as some of the light disappeared from his eyelids. He slowly opened them, squinting to see the warm glow that now lit up his room. The light didn’t burn against his retinas, and Peter let out a sigh of relief.

Now that he could actually see, he needed to test how well. He could make out all of the objects in the room. The bed next to him, the handle of the door to the bathroom, a lounge chair in the corner. The lines of everything were still a bit blurred, but he would be able to guide himself around the Tower today. The thing was, the rest of the building wouldn’t have dimmed lights. 

“FRIDAY, could you please raise the lights by 10 percent?”

She did as he asked, and the change didn’t hit Peter too hard. He sat down on the floor against his bed, seeing no use in standing if his legs were still shaking. They repeated this process together, allowing Peter to slowly get accustomed to the usual brightness of the Tower. By the time the lights were at full power, about 15 minutes had passed, and Peter heaved himself up for another attempt at showering.

He couldn’t avoid the mirror in the bathroom no matter how hard he tried. The thing was huge, and once he caught sight of himself in it, he couldn’t look away. Christ, he looked terrible. His face was pale, which made sense; he could feel the current lack of blood in his cheeks. His dark eyebags stuck out like sore thumbs, no matter how blurry his face was. The eyebags combined with the paleness and gauntness of his body made him look like a zombie. He probably wouldn't need much makeup if he was cast as an extra on The Walking Dead.

Peter shuddered and ripped his eyes away from his reflection. To say he looked unhealthy would be an understatement—horrific was more like it.

Peter turned to face the shower. It shouldn't have seemed as ominous as it did. 

He needed to get the clammy sweat off of his skin. He had never been able to do that when had his almost nightly nightmares on the streets; he had to conserve water. Because of that, his hair was a disgusting level of greasy and the crevices of his skin were caked in dirt. Bruce had done a simple cleaning when he performed his examination, but obviously it was just a once over with a washcloth, and Peter could still feel the grime clinging to his skin.

Peter turned the shower knob and winced at the sudden sound—it was louder than he'd anticipated. He stuck his hand under the flow of water and was surprised to see it was already hot. He’d been used to poorly heated water his whole life, and he was about to take advantage of this seemingly unlimited hot water.

Having already stripped, he stepped into the shower and immediately relished in the pressure of the water. The warm water pounding against his back almost felt like it could be a tight hug if he imagined it hard enough. He took his time lathering and rinsing his hair, attempting to get every bit of dirt out of it. When he was done, he let himself marvel at the softness of his hands. His callouses seemed to melt away beneath the hot stream, and he couldn't remember the last time his hands actually felt soft. From constantly using tools, to frequently patrolling, his hands collected a wide array of callouses.

Peter scrubbed away the clamminess of his skin with the loofah that was so kindly provided. It was rare that he felt fresh after a nightmare, so to seemingly wash away all of the thoughts that haunted him at night felt amazing.

He rinsed his hair once more, before deciding he should wrap it up. He’d probably been in there for 30 minutes. Besides, he was getting hungry.

He stepped out and yanked one of the incredibly soft towels towards him. He quickly ran it over his body, ignoring the glimpses of bright red skin he caught, likely from the overheated water. He carefully crept out of the bathroom and collected clothes for the day. Long sleeves and sweatpants, both gray. Except the shirt had a small A on the left breast—the Avengers logo. When he squinted, he could make out the blurred shape of Captain America’s shield on the waistline of the pants. Cool marketing, guys.

Despite the cool marketing, he'd much rather be putting on his suit before his clothes. He hardly ever went without his suit layered beneath his civilian clothes (always be ready, always be prepared), but it was still in the Medbay. He didn't know when he'd be allowed to go down there to get it back, but he hoped it was soon. He was uneasy. He wasn't ready, nor was he prepared.

Regardless, he pulled on the generic clothes and tried to ignore his missing suit.  

“Hey, FRIDAY,” he whispered. “What time is it?” 

“It is 3:41 in the morning,” she answered, matching the volume of his voice.

That wasn't too bad. What was it, maybe four hours of sleep? Restless sleep, sure, but it was still sleep. Maybe he could sneak to the kitchen. Wanda said that they had one on this floor, right? A little early morning snack could be good. He didn't even need to turn on any lights—he could remember the path well enough.    

He padded over to the door and slowly opened it. He carefully stuck his head out the doorway, as though he were in a cartoon, looking left to right with raised eyebrows. Nothing. He sighed and crept out into the hallway, softly shutting the door behind him. He moved quickly and silently, mimicking the way he snuck around while on patrol, running his hands against the wall to help lead him through the dark hallway. Eventually, thanks to his trusty Mental Map, he spotted a faint glow from around the corner. When he turned said corner, he was faced with this floor's kitchen.

Instead of being sleek and modern, like he'd expected, the kitchen looked homey. Warm. He'd been imagining metal everywhere, spotless surfaces, and boring colors like Wanda had described the common kitchen to be. Instead, everything looked a bit mismatched. The cupboards were wooden, as was the table in the middle of the room. The earthy green of the cabinets complimented the whiteness of the unoccupied walls. The fridge was metal, but on it hung various papers. When he moved closer, he could make out some small drawings. The other papers had text on them, but all of the words blurred together. He could also make out a few stains on the countertops, resembling his poor old kitchen whenever May would get a hold of it. 

Peter didn't know what was where, so he moved towards one of the sets of cabinets. The first one he opened had a bunch of tupperware in it. His eyes widened when he saw a sudden shift in the pile, and slammed the door shut just as he heard the mountain of containers collapse. That wasn’t his fault. Tupperware stacks were always bound to tumble. 

He grinned when he opened the next cabinet. It contained an inhuman amount of bread products. Loafs of (homemade?) bread, muffins, turnovers, bagels, everything. Wasn’t all of this bound to expire soon? He reached for one of the boxes of muffins just as he heard the elevator ding paired with a spike from his Spidey Sense.

He let go of the box, spinning around with his webshooters already activated, his body slightly lowered. Heels clicked out of the elevator.

“Someone's a bit on edge.”

Peter shook himself, and straightened. “Ms. Romanov. What, uh, what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she shrugged. “Also, FRIDAY told me you left your room.”

“Snitch,” he muttered. “Am I being monitored, or…?”

“Technically, it'd be responsible for us to do so. But, no. I'd just asked Fri to alert me when you left, so we might have a chance to chat.” she explained. Peter just nodded. “Speaking of which, what are you doing?”

Peter turned his head towards the cabinet. “I woke up and felt hungry, so I figured I could scrounge in here.” He felt a twinge of worry, and moved to shut the cabinet door. “Am I not allowed to?”

“Nah, you’re fine. It’s kinda your kitchen now, too." She paused, presumably in thought. "I gather you can hear a bit better?”

“Yeah, and I’m able to see now.” He looked around the dim kitchen, and elaborated, “Everything is pretty blurry and my hearing isn’t at its best, but I can see and hear you alright.” He could tell that she was wearing heels and a black outfit, hair up in a ponytail. That was all he could really make out from this far away.

“Have you eaten yet?” He shook his head. “Why don't you come with me? Bucky and I made a midnight snack. Or a four a.m. breakfast, really.”

He didn’t say anything, simply closing the cabinet door behind him and walking towards the woman, despite slightly preferring to eat by himself. She nodded, and they walked into the elevator. Only then did he ask what she and Barnes were doing awake. 

She kept her eyes facing the door. “We couldn't sleep. Nightmares for him, insomnia for me.”

He nodded, but didn't say anything in return. Peter had never heard anyone else talk about their nightly troubles as openly as Romanov just did. If asked why he looked so tired, he'd just responded with the basic excuse of homework. MJ, Ned, and Matt were the only ones who knew about his shit. Ned was the first he would go to when he had a nightmare, and MJ had dealt with a bit of insomnia of her own. Of course, Matt had just as many nightmares as Peter did, so Peter hadn't been able to keep them secret from the man for long. Nonetheless, Peter's first instinct was never to be outright truthful about the things he saw at night. Maybe that was just an Avengers thing—being able to talk openly about problems with each other. 

The elevator stopped, and he followed Romanov out into the hall. They walked the path to the kitchen, except now Peter could see the area he'd walked through earlier. In the kitchen (which matched Wanda’s description perfectly), Barnes was found leaning against the island, forgoing one of the several stools. He bit into a waffle, and tilted his head slightly to face Peter. He set down the half-eaten waffle on a plate and brushed himself off. He was without his metal arm. 

“Spider-Man,” he greeted. “I don’t believe we’ve actually met.”

“Nope, I don’t recall fighting you.” Peter slid his eyes over to Romanov, who looked away. 

“I suppose I was a bit more focused on actual targets.”

“As was I,” Peter agreed. “Ms. Romanov brought me down here to eat with you guys?”

Said woman stepped forward once more, and pulled a plate of waffles out of the fridge, explaining, “I can heat these up in the toaster for you.”

“That sounds great,” he started, “but I could have done that on my own upstairs. I’m sensing there’s another reason I’m here with you guys?”

“Well,” Romanov sighed, “you probably have belongings that you need to bring back here. I was thinking that it’d be easier for us to take you out now so you have all your stuff sooner than later.” She tried to hide the hesitancy in her voice, and for the most part, she did. Key word being most. Peter thought it odd that the ex-assassin would feel hesitant to offer to Peter, but he was probably overthinking it.

He looked towards Barnes and asked,  “Are you coming, too?” The man nodded. Preventative measures should he try to escape, he supposed. Peter could technically take them both on, but he didn’t feel like being a pain this early in the morning. “Alright. When do we leave?” 

The toaster beeped, and Romanov pulled out his waffles. “After you finish these, if you’re okay with that.”

He took the plate, and squinted his eyes at her. “These aren’t, like, poisoned, right?” He didn’t smell anything, but the Avengers probably had access to some undetectable toxins.

She grimaced, shaking her head. He nodded and sunk his teeth into the hot waffle. Oh, God, he had forgotten how good waffles were. He struggled to eat them at a normal pace rather than shoving the whole thing into his mouth. Barnes had gone back to eating his own waffles, eyes averted and making no moves to further the conversation.

Once Peter had finished eating his waffles (like a normal person, mind you), he carried his plate over to the sink. When he began to wash it, Romanov spoke up again. 

“Why don’t you use the dishwasher?”

He looked down at his hands, and continued to scrub his plate. “Habit, I guess.”

She didn’t say anything in response. Peter searched for the kitchen towel and dried off his plate. He gave it to Romanov, who put it away, and Peter noted which cabinet she put it in for future reference. Barnes chose to place his plate in the dishwasher. 

“We ready?” the man asked, turning to face Peter and Romanov. 

Peter nodded. “How are we getting there?” 

“Well, you’re gonna need to lead us. I was thinking you could just swing and we’ll follow you from the road,” Romanov suggested. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried I’ll escape?”

She fixed him with a glare. “Please don’t.”

“Chill,” Peter chuckled. “I'd be a little dumb to pass up this housing arrangement. I’ll stay here, thank you very much.” He started walking towards the elevator once more. “I’ll get my suit. It’s still in the Medbay.”

Barnes waved his hand in acknowledgement. “FRIDAY’ll take you to the garage once you’re suited up.”

Peter hummed as the doors shut. It was complete silence without anyone to keep him company. The elevator probably had some basic soundproofing. He didn't like it; he could hear the ringing in his ears more with the blaring silence. He sighed, hoping the ride down would be quick.

It was. The doors opened, and he rushed out into the Medbay. He went into what he thought was his room, but it was empty. Furrowing his eyebrows, he went into the one across the hall. In it, there was an unmade bed, his suit still crumpled up on the ground. He picked up the suit, rushing to put it on. Once he had, he couldn't help his sigh of relief.

As soon as he got the old thing on, he got into the elevator once more. He had probably used an elevator more times in the past 24 hours than he had in two years. He didn’t push any buttons, or ask FRIDAY to take him anywhere. The elevator just immediately started moving downwards. When he got out, Barnes was in the passenger seat of a Ferrari, Romanov leaning on the hood. 

“So I’ll just head out, and you guys will follow?” he called out.

Romanov nodded as she got in the car. The garage door quietly cranked open, and Peter walked out, clicking his wrists together to expand his web shooters before latching onto a close street light. He flung himself into the air, following his Mental Map to 16th street to get his backpack. When he looked behind him mid-swing, he spotted the red of Romanov’s car hot his trail. He turned back around, embracing the cold wind whipping past him. Then he remembered he should probably keep his eyes open so he wouldn’t slam into a telephone pole. That shit hurt, he knew from experience.

He couldn’t make out the street sign for 16th street, but he remembered that he put his backpack in the alley next to the small Mexican joint. When he saw the red banister, he swooped down. Checking behind once more, he saw the red car slow to a stop. He rushed into the alley and moved the dumpster forward a bit, revealing his web-covered backpack. He ripped the day-old webs from the bag and turned to the waiting car to hold the bag up victoriously. He walked over to them and Romanov rolled the window down.

“Is that…everything?” she asked with trepidation.

Peter snorted. “Nah, we’ve gotta make another stop. Not much left, though.” He didn't stick around for her response, instead launching himself into the air once more. He made a quick turn, smirking as he heard Romanov’s tires screech down below.

When he reached his abandoned building, he dropped onto the roof on instinct. Romanov and Barnes both got out of the car, and he noticed their blurry selves waving at him from the ground, so he jumped down to join them. Rising from his squat, Peter walked over to them.

“Is this where you live?” Romanov questioned, looking over his shoulder to check out the rundown building.

“Yeah, man, you want a fucking tour or something?” She looked over at Barnes, who shrugged with a quirk in his eyebrows. She nodded at Peter. “Oh, you actually do. Okay...well, I always come in through one of the windows, so…” 

Romanov waved him off. “I can probably climb up. There’s enough openings between the bricks.”

“Uh, yeah, I can’t.” Barnes gestured to his missing arm. 

Peter stepped closer to the man. “You okay if I carry you up there?”

“Is that even safe?”

“Sure. Used to do it with my friends all the time.” Well, he'd only scaled buildings with MJ a few times, but he'd swung with her a lot, so it would be fine. “Ms. Romanov, it’s the fourth window up.”

She nodded and walked over to the building, jumping up to the ledge of the first window. Peter looked towards Barnes again, who was observing the situation bemusedly. 

“Mr. Barnes, if you don’t want to, then you don’t have to,” Peter assured. 

“No, no. It’s fine. Just not what I thought I’d be doing at five a.m. on a Monday morning.” 

“If you’re sure,” Peter shrugged. “Alright, so just hop on my back, yep, like that, and now try to move away.” He felt Barnes try to shift, and failed to do so. “Evidence that I won’t drop you. I can stick to anything, including people, so you're all good.”

“God, this is so fucking weird,” Barnes muttered as Peter jumped onto the wall. Romanov was about halfway to the window, but Peter passed her quickly. Once he reached the familiar window, he dropped Barnes off and moved down to help the woman speed up a bit. She gave him a grateful look, and took his hand. He shoved her through the window and jumped in afterwards. Barnes was standing awkwardly, staring at the commodities of the room. 

Peter brushed himself off, and did a little bow. “Welcome to my humble abode! We shall now begin the tour." He gestured to the space around them. “This is the first room, or as I like to call it, the Avoiding Death Room.”

“Why…would it be called that?” Romanov quietly asked. 

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” Peter snorted. “But here is where I attempt to avoid death, hence the name.” He bustled around, collecting his pile of food. “First-aid, surgeries, passing out, the works. That's my collection of knives, over there in that corner, all of which have been forcefully given to me. Ms. Romanov, I think you might recognize a few.”

She moved closer, bending down to look at the pile of knives of all sizes. “You've kept my knives?” 

“You betcha! I’m not giving them back, either. If you wanted them that badly, you shouldn’t have stabbed me.”

She snapped her head up, eyes wide and ponytail bouncing. “Sorry.”

“No harm done,” he brushed her off. He walked past her, picking up the towel and using it as a bag for the knives.

“Kid, don’t say ‘no harm done’ if there was very obviously harm done,” Barnes advised. 

Peter didn't look up. “Mr. Barnes, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me a kid. Super condescending, y’know? I think I’ve moved past that title.”

“Right, sorry,” Barnes cleared his throat. “Then I don’t really think you need to call me Mr. Barnes, yeah? Bucky’s fine.”

Romanov stepped in. “Same for me. You can call me Natasha.”

“I see we've leveled up, then, huh?” Peter smiled, not unkindly. “Alright Bucky, Natasha. There’s another room.” He led them into a room across the hall, directing them to step over a fallen beam. The door was hanging off its hinges, so he just scooted past it like usual. He walked straight to the small pile of clothes, allowing Natasha and Bucky to wander around. 

“What is this stuff?” Bucky asked. 

“Momentos, you could say. Don’t touch anything, let me handle it.” He shoved the few clothes into a garbage bag that laid next to them, and turned around to face the pair. 

Natasha was looking at the picture of him and his parents. “Who are these people?”

Peter walked over, picking up the frame and placing it in his backpack. “Baby is me, the man and woman are my parents.”

Natasha looked up at him, her eyebrows furrowed. “Your parents...what happened to them?”

“Dead.”

He moved to pick up his collection of notes from Matt. 

“Ah,” she murmured.

He was allowed to finish collecting his things in peace. Whether the pair was being silent out of respect, pity, or pure awkwardness, he didn’t know.

Peter figured he would probably be back in the apartment at some point, seeing as he wouldn’t stay at the Tower forever. He just didn’t want to leave his only reminders of his old life in an empty dilapidated building. His backpack was now stuffed full, and he threw the bag of clothes over his shoulder. 

“I’m done here, so I’ll just hop down and drop these off on the ground. Bucky, should I carry you again?” The man nodded, looking away slightly. Peter moved to the window, and jumped out, landing in a squat. He set his stuff down before shooting a web at the window ledge. He allowed himself to be pulled up and dove through the window. “Natasha? You want me to take you too?”

“I’ll be alright,” she dismissed as she made her way to the window. She stepped out, and Peter watched as she climbed down with more familiarity than he thought was warranted. Peter walked over to Bucky, who assumed the position on his back. Peter went out of the window as well, once again quickly passing Natasha. He was almost to the ground when she flew past him, having jumped off at the halfway mark. He looked down as she landed in a roll. 

“As much as I’d love to be on the ground again,” Bucky quietly said, “please don’t jump off with me on your back.”

“Oh, no, I think it’s a stellar idea. I’ll do the roll, too.” 

Bucky snorted. “Test my durability, eh?” 

“Someone’s got to.” Peter reached the ground and allowed Bucky to unstick from his body. He grabbed his bags, and followed the man to the parked car, where Natasha was waiting. “Shotgun!” he called out.

Running past Bucky, he dove into the open door of the passenger seat. Natasha grinned at him, having been the one to open it. 

“Alright, Spidey. It’s been a lovely adventure,” she told him, walking around to the driver’s seat. Bucky grumbled as he got into the back seat. 

“Call me Peter.” 

(His cult was growing.)

Chapter Text

“Foggy!”

“What is it you require, darling?”

“Fuck off,” Matt grumbled as he strode towards Foggy’s desk. “Not in the mood.”

“Then maybe you should be more polite when yelling my name, yeah?” Matt could sense the other man set his head in his hands mockingly.

“Pete didn’t come by yesterday.”

Foggy straightened. “He does that sometimes though, doesn’t he?”

“Rarely,” Matt stressed. The teen tried his hardest to come on Sunday's, and if he couldn’t, he stuck a sticky note explanation on the coat hanger in the firm. Matt would run his fingertips across the ink, letting himself feel the words written in pen. There was no note this time, and Peter didn't have any event going on yesterday, to Matt’s knowledge. 

“I’m sure he’ll barge in today,” Foggy assured, trying to keep his voice light, but Matt was able to pick up on the undercurrent of worry. Good. Matt wasn’t alone in this. Usually, he didn't let himself be concerned with such small matters, but this was Peter they were talking about. Matt was fond of the kid, as were Foggy and Karen, and seeing him during his personal time was often the highlight of his week.

“I didn’t see him on patrol last night, either.” Technically, he didn't see Peter any night, but luckily Foggy didn’t comment on his slip.

“Wha—Well, uh, maybe he was just, y'know, taking a small break,” Foggy stammered, even though they both knew the statement had little truth in it. Peter hardly ever took breaks, the little shit. If he wasn’t constantly working to help everyone he could, guilt weighed down on him like he had to shoulder the weight of the world. Missing a patrol was a big deal when talking about Spider-Man. Something bad must have happened if he opted out on swinging through the air at night.

“Logically,” Matt started as he paced around the room, waving his cane through the air, “I know that we didn’t schedule to meet or anything. But I couldn't hear his heartbeat.” He snapped his head towards Foggy. “Fogs, he wasn’t out at all.”

Foggy inhaled sharply. “It’s fine,” he frantically said, though it sounded like he was reassuring himself more that he was Matt. “It’s fine. He may have just been busy.”

“Maybe,” Matt sighed, knowing full well that he didn’t agree with Foggy whatsoever. Matt knew Peter. He wasn't an idiot, he was well aware the boy had some shit going on. He almost regretted teaching Peter how to control his biological reactions to lying; it was now difficult to tell if Peter told the truth when he claimed he was fine. But Matt didn't need to analyze the teen’s biological tells to know that something was up. Peter had been extremely underweight for ages, even though the boy swore up and down that he got enough to eat. His breathing picked up when someone offhandedly mentioned his home. His figure was constantly tense, whether it was during patrol, or just hanging out in Matt’s apartment. He often flinched if someone got too close.

Peter was struggling, and Matt didn't know what to do.

Matt gave a short wave to Foggy as he walked into his own office. He threw down his cane, and landed heavily into his chair. Like a child, he thumped his head down into his crossed arms that rested on his desk. Pete had to come today, or Matt was going to lose it. 

-

FRIDAY’s voice filtered through the darkness of his room. “The time is 6:15 a.m. It is Monday, November 27th. You need to wake up for school.”

Harley groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. Nonetheless, he pulled himself up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He ripped the sheets off of him, the sudden chill causing him to shiver. Nothing like a good ol’ spike to his system to wake him up.

Speaking of which.

Harley jerked up from his slouched position, suddenly remembering what all had happened yesterday. Spider-Man was here. Peter was in a room just one down from his. Holy fuck.

He jumped out of bed, first thought being to check on Peter. But then he looked down at his ragged appearance and winced. Clothes lined with wrinkles, sleep lines on his bare arms, evidence of drool running down his chin. Not the best look for trying to romance a superhero. He could at least brush his teeth, put on a pair of actual pants. When he looked in the mirror of his bathroom, he decided that his hair needed a once over as well. It was getting too long, the edges curling up past the tip of his ears. 

After rushing through his morning routine, which did not include a shower (he was a night shower kind of guy), he left his room to creep up to Peter’s. He didn’t know why he was sneaking, it was his own home. Plus, Peter would need to get up if he had to go to school. If he was even going to school, that is. Harley didn’t know the extent of the other teen’s freedom here. 

He knocked rhythmically on the door to Peter’s room, and was met with silence. He waited a few more seconds, before calling out Peter’s name. No response. Maybe his hearing was still too impaired to hear him. Harley shrugged, slightly put out, and shuffled down the hallway to reach the kitchen.

He turned the corner, and let out a small shriek. A manly one, of course. 

Peter, who had been previously sitting on the floor and staring up at the ceiling, whipped his head around towards Harley. Spidey clicked his wrists together, and Harley watched as the slim metal bands on his wrists unfolded to reveal familiar web shooters. Said web shooters were aimed at him before he could even blink. 

Harley stiffened, and took a small step back. He slowly raised his arm and gave a small wave. “Mornin’.”

Peter blinked, face lighting up in recognition. The teen took a step back, hastily lowering his arms as he spewed apologies.

“Harley?” he squeaked, somewhat adorably. “Holy shit, I am so sorry! I really didn't mean to do that, I was just kinda distracted 'cause it's still kinda early, and I didn’t think you would be up so when I heard you I just went on instinct, I guess, but then it was you so that was a mistake and, God, I'm just so sorry.” He took a sharp inhale and held it, panic written all over his features.

Harley just blinked, processing what Peter just threw his way. Did he say all that in one breath?

“Peter, s'fine,” Harley assured. "Not what I expected upon wakin' up, but hey, not the weirdest thing that’s happened at six in the mornin’ ‘round here.” Harley felt his face heat up, suddenly all too aware that his good ol’ fashioned southern accent flared in the mornings. He cleared his throat. “Was just lookin’ for you anyway.”

Peter tilted his head to the side like a puppy. Hey, why were boys allowed to be this cute?

“How come?”

“Just wanted to check in,” he explained as he walked over to the fridge. “See how your first night went here.”

“Oh. It was fine.” Peter looked like he was contemplating something, then shrugged. “Got up a bit early, and Natasha and Bucky took me to get all my stuff to bring here.”

Harley bent down to search in the fridge. “Yeah, what time didya get up? You have school or somethin’?” He grabbed one of the oranges from a lower compartment and stood to face Peter once more.

“Or something,” Peter answered, running his fingers through his hair. The teen’s hair was fluffier than yesterday, with soft curls reaching down over the tips of his ears in an uneven cut. He must have showered. “Got up ‘round three, I guess. And I graduated early a couple years ago, so no school.”

Harley’s eyes widened, fingers pausing in their quest to peel the orange. “You’ve been up since three? How are you okay?”

Peter chuckled dryly. “Who said I was?”

Warning lights flashed in Harley’s brain, letting him know that Peter was Probably Not Okay. Though, he had been doing this superhero gig for a few years. And, as Harley learned while the team was interrogating him, it didn’t seem like Peter had much family left, if any. That thought left a sour taste in his mouth, but what did he expect from the teenage vigilante? For him to not have a tragic backstory? Unlikely. Peter was dealing with his own shit, and Harley wasn’t about to dig.

“Fair,” was what he ended up saying. “You said you went to get your stuff, yeah?”

Peter nodded as he stepped backwards to lean on the counter. “Yeah, swung by my li'l apartment to gather all the moving boxes. Made Natasha and Bucky carry ‘em for me.”

“Really?”

“‘Course not,” Peter raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk. “What I own probably wouldn’t fill up a whole box anyway.”

Harley shoved an orange slice in his mouth to prevent his growing concern from spilling out. Peter was saying all of this stuff like it was normal. Harley thought his life wasn’t really…the Best. His father left him, his mom, and his sister when he was seven. It left a lasting impact on him—not only did he have to grow up without a dad, but their financial situation tightened more than a bit. Between that and the rampant homophobia of Rose Hill, Tennessee, his time spent growing up was a little rough. But the longer he spent with Peter, and the more he learned about this hero the same age as him, he was growing more and more thankful for the many good aspects of his life.

“So,” Peter went on, interrupting the lull in the conversation, “you have school today, yeah?”

“Yeah, Monday 'n all,” Harley affirmed as he swallowed the orange slice. “You said you graduated early?”

“Yep,” Peter said, popping the p. “Went to Midtown, so I know a lot of people in your grade.”

Harley’s eyebrows shot up. “Dude, you graduated early from Midtown? How the fuck is that even possible?” It was literally a STEM school for advanced teens. Harley kept up fairly easily, keeping a near perfect grade (damn that art history requirement) among his classmates. But that was because he could also keep up with Tony Stark in the lab. Peter had to be on a completely different level.

A light pink dusted Peter’s cheeks, and if that wasn’t the cutest shit Harley had ever seen. “I, uh, worked pretty hard, I guess,” he explained, running a hand through his hair once more. Nervous habit? “Being on the Academic Decathlon helped speed things up a bit. Y'know, practice.”

“Oh man, I love the AcaDec team. Well, ‘cept for this one dude,” Harley commented with a grimace. “Flash Thompson, you heard of him?”

Peter let out a full on laugh, which was the first of which Harley had heard. “That idiot’s still around?”

Harley raised an eyebrow, attempting to ignore the warm feeling Peter’s laugh sent coursing through his body. “I take it you know him.”

“Unfortunately. The bastard bullied me for years.”

The corners of Harley’s mouth tilted downwards. “He’s always been like that?”

“Always,” Peter nodded. “We went to the same middle school too. Shoved me down the stairs in the first week.”

Harley’s face twisted in disgust. God, he hated bullies. He had a few unsuccessful bullies back home; they were unsuccessful because they soon learned that Harley wouldn’t hesitate to beat them to the ground.

“Why didn’t you fight back? You're clearly, uh, capable.”

Peter shrugged. “I can’t hurt a civilian. Especially if he’s a kid.” Peter’s eyes unfocused slightly, any brightness in them dimming. “What if I lost control? I could have killed him with a flick of the wrist.” He shook himself. “Wasn’t worth it. If he focused on hurting me, then he wouldn’t go for other people. According to you, he’s still being a shithead, and I’m betting that’s ‘cause I'm not there to take the fall.”

Harley popped another slice into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “That was a really selfless thing to do, but christ, pretty stupid, too.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter smirked as he pulled himself up to sit on the counter, “it’s not like he could ever do much damage. Any physical evidence from our little altercations were gone by the end of the day.”

“Shoo. No scars or nothin’?” Harley winced as soon as the words left his mouth. “Sorry. Insensitive. You don't gotta answer.”

Peter waved him off, but he ran his fingers through his hair yet again. “Nah, it's alright. ‘Course I’ve got scars. I get scars from all of my injuries.” He pointed out a long-since healed notch on his forehead. “Edge of a table sliced me on the way down.”

“All your injuries, huh?” Harley murmured. Everything from a small burn from a hot pan to stab wounds. That meant that the evidence of the repulsor blast injury from Harley was still there. It probably covered most of his shoulder, laid over many other scars. Peter’s long sleeves and sweatpants covered the majority of his body, but even as Harley looked at his hands and feet, he noticed scars running across the surface of his skin. He lifted his eyes to the other teen's neck, noticing for the first time a long, thin white line running from one side of his neck to the other. Harley wondered what scars lined the rest of his body. Was there any bit of skin that wasn’t marred with scarring? Peter had been doing this gig for at least a year. In fact, Harley could remember catching a glimpse of him on TV when he was still in Rose Hill maybe two years ago, so there were bound to be just...so many goddamn scars. 

Harley belatedly realized that he was hardcore staring, while Peter was just staring at him with a slightly amused look. Heat rising to his face once more, he cleared his mind and scratched at the nape of his neck.

Peter tilted his head at him. “Don’t you have to go to, like, school?”

“I—” Harley turned to look at the analog clock on the wall of their kitchen. Wanda had picked it out—the face of the clock held an artistic depiction of two little cartoon frogs dancing together on it. It was nearing 6:45. “Shit!”

Harley quickly shoved the last two orange slices in his mouth, and rushed over to the trash can to dump the orange peel in the trash. Peter watched him with a quirk in his eyebrows, the slightest hint of a smile showing on his face. 

“What time do you usually leave?” Peter asked as Harley dried his hands off. 

“In about eight minutes.” Peter gave a light snort. “May be specific, but it’s consistent.”

“Doesn’t school start at like, 7:40? Or have they changed that since I’ve been there.”

Harley shook his head. “It's still 7:40, but I like to be early. Me and a friend like to hang out on one of the benches. Plus, New York traffic is a bitch.”

Peter hummed low in his throat. “Got me there.”   

Harley stopped in his tracks, very suddenly remembering an important detail from the past day.

“How, uh, how’s your vision?”

Peter shook his head, laughing. “Blurry. I can tell when you blush, though. That part’s pretty clear.”

“I—” Harley didn’t know what to say to that. The residual red in his cheeks felt to still be fading away. Yikes. “Alright!” He turned, his voice crack causing him to exit the kitchen as fast as he could. 

“Have a good day at school, Harls!” Came the lighthearted mocking voice of Peter. That boy had no idea that Harley would be thinking about the nickname for the rest of the day.  

-

Hey everyone, Peter would just like to say that he was a complete idiot.

Harls? What the fuck, Peter. You barely even know him.

Peter didn’t really mean to call him that. It just kind of slipped out. Teasing Harley felt a bit natural after their conversation. The other teen was awkward, but no worse than Peter himself. Like, who hears someone coming and immediately aims a (non-lethal) weapon at them? Awkward vigilantes, that’s who.

To be fair, Harley had startled him. Peter was doing perfectly fine just staring into space on the kitchen floor. He must have been like that ever since he got back to the Tower and put his stuff away. Not away away, really. All of his clothes were still in his bag, and the only things he took out of his backpack were his knives and the picture of him and his parents. He didn’t want to get too settled here—who knew how long he’d actually stay. This wasn’t his home. He hadn't had a home since May died. That small apartment in Queens was his home, and it felt like he was betraying May and Ben if he thought of anywhere else as home. 

Not like that mattered. What mattered more was that he probably overshared once again. Seriously, what had happened to his filter? Harley didn't need to hear about Peter's stupid scars. 

Peter jumped off of the counter, hesitating before he left the kitchen. Technically, he was a bit hungry. But the amount of food he was eating was starting to make him uncomfortable. The thought of eating another breakfast made him feel a bit selfish. He kind of had two dinners yesterday, too. Did he really deserve to eat again? He would sometimes go more than a full day without eating when he was on the streets. It wasn't like he’d die if he was a bit hungry. He could just wait until the team ate again. 

He didn’t know what to do now. His normal daily routine just involved the average New York homeless stuff. He had a corner that he sat against hoping to gain some pity from some tourist. It was shameful, sure, but did he really have any dignity left? Probably not. Sometimes, if he was really lucky, some random small business gave him a small job to do. Take out their trash, run to the store for them. It wasn’t common, but it happened. They gave him a few dollars to do so, so he would often get some clearance food. Close to the expiration date, but not harmful to consume. One time he saved up enough to get a blanket from a second-hand store. When he wasn't doing the classic homeless kid things, Peter patrolled. It was a simple life for a simple lad.

But now? What was there to do? He probably couldn't go out unsupervised. Hanging out with the Avengers would be awkward. What did they even do during the day, anyway? Work out? Scheme? Discuss the day's plans of kidnapping random vigilantes? Peter might have to pass.

He’d just go to his room for now. Maybe Wanda could visit him later, but staring into space was a nice pass time until then. It was almost seven, so it was a long day ahead of him.

He started walking down the hall, but was interrupted by a familiar tingling on the back of his neck and a less familiar…foot?

Yeah. Foot through the wall. There was a foot, just, moving through the wall. What the fuck. And now it was a leg. Peter started stepping away from the leg, as it was too early in the day for this sort of shit. But he couldn't get away soon enough, and a whole ass…person came through the wall. Except the person was red. 

“Mr...uh, Vision?”

The android turned his head towards Peter. “Hello, Spider-Man.”

“What’s, uh, with the wall? Door too inconvenient for ya?”

“Ah, apologies. A habit, I suppose.” Vision’s lips quirked up. “Plus, it’s fun to scare people sometimes.”

“The Avengers are probably used to it, right?” If this was a habit for Vision, Peter couldn’t see how much satisfaction he got from scaring them. 

“They should be. But occasionally, Tony will be too occupied to notice my presence until I’m right next to him. Steve and Clint still think it’s weird.”

“I don't blame them,” Peter muttered. “Where’re you headed?”

“Nowhere, actually,” Vision explained. “I just heard you coming. I figured I would see if I could scare you.”

“Nah, just weirded me out a bit. Already felt that something was going to happen.”

“A precognition ability?” the android asked, sounding almost curious. Were androids capable of being curious?

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Sort of? I can’t really explain it.”

Vision nodded. “That is fair. Well, Spider-Man, tell me if you need anything.” He started to move back through the wall.

“Oh!” Peter exclaimed, and Vision turned his head. “Would you happen to know of anything I could do around here?”

“Well, several of the Avengers are usually awake by now. You may go down to the common floor to see what they are up to.”

Peter held in a sigh at the news that bonding with the Avengers was his only option. “Alright, thanks Vision.”

“Of course, Spider-Man.”

Peter walked to the elevator, thinking about what it'd be like to hold a normal conversation with an Avenger. He was only on good terms with a few of them, Natasha and Bucky being the newest additions to his cult. He still didn’t feel totally comfortable around Natasha, like his body just wouldn't accept that she wasn't about to hurt him. But she was working to show her regret, he could tell. Peter had faith in her. 

“FRIDAY? Could you take me to the common floor, please?”

“Of course,” came the Irish-accented voice. 

“And could you also tell me which of the Avengers are down there right now?”

“It seems to only be Ms. Romanov, Mr. Barton, and Mr. Wilson. Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, and Boss are also awake, but the former two are out on their morning run, and Boss is in his lab.”

Peter nodded, preparing himself to face the small crowd. “Thanks, Fri.” He paused, thinking. “Can I call you Fri? Sorry, it just seemed natural.”

“Of course, Spider-Man. That is what the team calls me.”

Oh, look, something he had in common with the Avengers...besides the saving the world gig and the trauma that came with it. And probably an enjoyment of waffles. 

The elevator doors slid open to reveal an empty hallway, but if Peter strained his still impaired ears, he could hear the sounds of laughter echoing throughout the floor. He stepped out of the elevator, walking past the empty kitchen. As he moved down the hall, the laughter only got louder, so he assumed he was heading in the right direction. The path felt vaguely familiar, and Peter soon realized this was the way Wanda took him to the living room. The door leading to it was wide open already, revealing a sickeningly domestic scene.

Barton and Wilson were on the floor, propped up against the huge couch, with gaming controllers in their grips. Natasha was actually on the couch, using Barton's shoulder as a footrest. She was staring directly at Peter, but her eyes held no accusation in them. Instead, there was a gentle smile on her face, her eyes glinting with mirth. 

“Hey, Natasha,” he announced his presence. 

As she gave a small wave, both Wilson and Barton startled, the latter accidentally dropping his remote. They turned to look at where he was leaning up against the door frame.  

“Hey, паук,” she greeted. “Care to join us?”

Peter slid his eyes between the two men, who were glancing up at Natasha. “I don't see why not.”

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t ask for a controller. Instead, he just walked over the couch, quietly sitting himself down next to Nat. He refused to meet the gazes of Clint and Sam.

It wasn't like Natasha expected him to. In fact, she was slightly shocked that he took her up on her offer in the first place. She knew he must have been getting slightly overwhelmed with the constant introductions to new team members. Proper introductions, at least. Better than just showing up to fight him on one of his patrols.

Nat felt the tension radiating off of Peter. She felt it when they were collecting his minimal belongings, and she felt it in the car, regardless of the fact that he told them his name. It was like he was constantly anticipating something, never feeling completely safe. He tried to hide his fidgets, but Nat picked up on them. His bare toes wiggled slightly. He would scratch lightly at his inner arms occasionally, rubbing the fabric of his long sleeves against his skin. He blinked a lot, but Natasha felt that had more to do with his quality of vision rather than his apparent anxiety.

Peter continued to stay silent even as Sam and Clint resumed their game of Mario Kart. They had never paused it, letting themselves fall behind as they ogled at Peter. Now, they were trying to catch back up from 11th and 12th place. The race ended with them in the top five, and they had a silent agreement to set down their controllers.

Sam cleared his throat. “So, what brings you here this early in the morning?”

Peter turned his head slightly to look at Sam. She tracked his line of sight, and noticed it didn’t quite reach Sam’s eyes, instead landing on one of the man’s ears. Bad at eye contact. 

“Mr. Vision told me I could probably find something to do down here with you guys. I was bored.” He gave the illusion of answering the question fully, but Nat caught on to the fact that he didn’t say anything about the earliness of the day.

Clint snorted. “‘Mr. Vision.’ Seems a bit too formal, yeah?”

“He was like that with Bucky and me, too,” she jumped in. “Called me Ms. Romanov and him Mr. Barnes.”

Peter glanced at her, his lips teasing a grin. “Would hate to be disrespectful.”

“Oh, does that make us Mr. Barton and Mr. Wilson, then?” Clint asked, though not completely teasingly. It was Clint’s way of trying to understand Peter a bit more. 

At the teen’s nod, Sam’s face twisted. “Oh god,” he groaned. “That makes me feel so goddamn old.”

Peter raised a single eyebrow. “Dude, you are old.”

“This is slander. Call me Sam, I’m begging.”

“All you had to do was ask, man,” Peter shrugged. “You guys make a big deal out of first names.”

And you don’t? Natasha immediately thought, before she realized that no, the situations weren't quite the same. Peter’s name was the last semblance of his secret identity. It was perfectly expected that he wouldn’t want to tell everyone immediately. And yet, that had been the first question Nat asked him. Her brain was never going to let go of the memory of her threatening to torture a teenager, and it had all been because he wouldn't tell her his name.

“Whatever,” Clint said as he picked up his controller once more. “Drop the formality, yeah? I like Clint.”

“He likes Birdbrain too,” Sam grinned, nudging the man beside him. 

Clint gasped. “Says the dude who calls himself ‘The Falcon.’ You actually fly around, you nerd.” 

“That just means I actually deserve a birdy title. You just shoot shit with arrows, Hawkeye.”

Clint's face morphed with feigned outrage. “It's because I have the eyes of a hawk!" 

Nat swore these two dumbasses could argue about anything. She turned to say something about the idiocy of it all to Peter, but stopped short when she saw the fond look in his eyes and his small grin. His toes had stopped their movement.

“Whatever,” Sam scoffed. “Coconut Mall again?”

“Sure, just, uh, one question.” Clint twisted to look back at Nat and Peter. “When did Spidey here get on a first-name basis with you?”

Nat glanced towards Peter, who shrugged. “Me and Bucky took him out this morning to get all his stuff,” she answered. 

Clint furrowed his eyebrows. “But you were here when I woke up. That was around six.”

Peter spoke this time. “We may have gone out around four.”

Sam’s eyes widened slightly. “Jesus, man. Do spiders not need sleep or something?”

“Yeah, well, why’re you guys up so early?”

“Habit,” they answered in unison.    

“I would always have to get up early in the military. Couldn’t break out of that routine when I got back,” Sam explained. 

“I’ve gotta leave early for missions a lot,” Clint told him. “Eventually, it just became the norm.”

“Well, let’s just say doing shit at four is the norm for me, too,” Peter shrugged. “It all worked out, seeing as Natasha and Bucky were awake.” 

Natasha narrowed her eyes. She and Bucky were up because of the shit cards that life had dealt them. She had a rather distinct feeling that Peter didn’t just “wake up” like he had said. 

“Whatever you say, man,” Clint said, finally turning back to the screen. He pressed the play button, and it started to count down. Sam gave one last look at Peter, before turning away as well.

Nat knew that they were the best at the Coconut Mall course. They hardly had to try in order to place in first and second. Sam might not have been a spy, but that didn't mean he didn’t know how to navigate certain situations. He could play this course in his sleep, which also meant that he was able to tactically ask Peter questions while still playing the game. 

“So how’re you feeling, Spidey?” he asked, eyes still glued to the screen. Nat slid her eyes over to the boy once more and watched as he carded his fingers through his hair. 

“Alright, I guess,” the teen sighed. “I think the ringing in my ears will be completely gone by the end of the day. I have no idea about my vision, but it’s getting better.”

Sam nodded. “And how’s your stomach doing? Are you good with the amount of food you’re eating?”

At this, Peter inhaled sharply, but quietly. Nat furrowed her eyebrows slightly. Was it that bad?

“Good, good,” Peter said casually, the complete opposite of his immediate reaction. “Still pretty small portions, but I can control myself enough.”

He wasn’t lying. So what caused the slight gasp? Was Nat just reading too much into his reactions? Maybe, but she still wanted to make sure he was doing okay.

“You last ate when you had waffles with Bucky, yeah?” she asked.

“Sounds about right.” His toes were wiggling once more. 

“Sam, wanna make breakfast for me and Spidey?” Nat proposed, ignoring the look Peter gave her as he opened his mouth to say something.

“Sure. I’ve gotta eat, too,” he affirmed before Peter could get a word out. Nat wondered if the man was picking up on her strategy, or if he was genuinely hungry. She was trying to make Peter more comfortable with eating by saying she was hungry as well. If her suspicions were correct, he was trying to restrain himself from eating his appropriate amount of food. That should make sense, seeing as he was trying to not get sick. But something about his reaction wasn’t sitting well with her. It’d been three hours since he last ate. For someone with an extremely enhanced metabolism, three hours was more than it sounded. Steve and Bucky had to eat that often, and Peter had been implying that his metabolism might be faster than theirs.

Clint crossed the finish line first, letting out loud whoops. Sam finished almost a second later, and shoved Clint over as some form of payback. Natasha’s cross legs fell off the man’s shoulder as he went down. Sam sped out of the room seconds before Clint ran after him, yelling threats.

Natasha yawned, and stood up as well. She looked at Peter, who had yet to move.

“Come on, let’s eat, yeah?” She held out her hand, hoping for some reason that he would take it. He did, and she felt a shiver run through his body. His eyes fluttered shut for the shortest millisecond before they flew open once more as he stood up—odd. She started walking, not dropping his hand. She wanted to test something.    

Peter didn’t drop her hand, either. He kept glancing at their linked hands as they walked, but never looking at her. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw that he was biting the inside of his cheek. He had the slightest smile, though, so she doubted the action was negative. 

Right before they entered the kitchen, she let go of his hand, a quick apology leaving her lips to act as though she hadn’t meant to hold on. The teen yanked his hand away, shoving it in his pocket, but otherwise showed no outward emotion. Nat was thinking there might be something going on with Peter’s frequency of physical contact, but she'd look into it more later. For now, she had to focus on getting some more food in the kid. 

“Are you sure I can eat with you guys?” Peter asked, showing a small amount of hesitancy for the first time since they've met. Other than when he asked if she was going to poison him, that is. But she had a feeling that line had been at least a little sarcastic.

She raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Why wouldn't you?” She nodded to Sam as she sat on one the stools. The man was pulling out strips of bacon from their fridge. 

“I mean, it’s not like I’m an honored guest here. I’m only living with you guys because you’ll get in trouble with SHIELD otherwise, right?” He took a seat down next to her, his leg beginning to bounce before it calmed almost immediately. 

“Well, yeah,” she allowed. “But it’s not like we were gonna throw you in a prison cell. We aren't enemies anymore.”

The teen shrugged. “That's kinda what I expected. It’s what usually happens when someone gets kidnapped,” he nonchalantly commented. 

Jesus. This guy was relentless in making them feel bad about that, which shouldn't have surprised her as much as he did. As much as she was glad that he wasn't letting them froget their piece-of-shit actions, a part of her didn't know how to balance her guilt with trying to build a friendship with him.

“Sorry,” she offered, trying her hardest to express her genuinity. “We were doing what we thought was right, and that...wasn't right.”

Peter waved her off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Still sucks a bit, but I’ll drop it.”

Clint suddenly dropped himself down on the other side of Peter, and the teen turned his legs away slightly. Clint drummed his fingers against the edge of the island to a tune only he heard. 

“So, kid, what’re the plans for today?” he asked, not interrupting the rhythm of his fingers. 

“Please don’t call me kid,” Peter sighed, as if he’d had to say it way too much. Seeing as he'd said it to Bucky just a few hours ago, she figured he probably did. “And I guess I don’t really know. I figured I could just hang with Wanda if she isn’t busy.”

“Good plan, good plan,” Clint allowed. “But Monday is one of our team training days. I think it’d be cool if you joined us.”

Peter knit his eyebrows. “If it's a team training day, then why would I be invited? In case you couldn’t tell, I’m not an Avenger.”

Sam jumped in from where he was cooking bacon on the stove. “Maybe not, but you’re a superhero. It makes sense for you to train with us.”

“Moving up from real fighting to play fighting, I see,” Peter muttered. Natasha’s lips quirked up slightly. He wasn’t wrong. “Well,” he said louder, “I don’t really see why not. I didn’t have any big plans going on.”

“Cool!” Clint exclaimed, slapping his hands on the surface of the island. Peter’s head ticked towards Nat slightly, avoiding the sound. “We usually meet in the gym around four so we can shower and have dinner afterwards. See you then!” Clint pulled himself up, walking towards the elevator. 

“Don’t you need to eat?” Peter called after him, and Nat caught his fingers curling into fists in his lap. He released them as soon as the fists were formed. 

“Nah, I already ate!” Clint responded as the elevator started to close. At Peter’s slight frown, she berated Clint in her head. That man had no tact sometimes. 

“Well I’m still hungry,” she made sure to say, “so Sam? Better make enough for all three of us.”

“That’s what I was planning on,” he called over his shoulder. “There’s gonna be a bit extra because Clint doesn’t tell me anything, apparently.”

“Fine with us,” she nodded, nudging Peter slightly. Her eyebrows shot up when he flinched away. There were only two sides of this kid, apparently. He quickly corrected himself, not saying anything. 

She chose to not mention it, seeing as Peter obviously didn’t want to talk about it. But in her head, she was theorizing, as was her habit. Touch starved, yet touch averse? No, touch aversion didn’t seem quite right—Peter was perfectly willing to grab hold of her hand. But she’d never seen him initiate any contact. Did the contact have to be explicitly offered? Consent needed to be explicitly given? That was likely, especially if his past contained trauma, which it definitely did. Her mind echoed with the memory of him nonchalantly mentioning his experience with torture. The amount of family members he’d lost bounced around in her head, along with the reminder that he was only 17. There were bound to be lasting effects that came from those experiences, and it was likely that issues with touch would be one of them.

Natasha would have to make sure to ask to touch him from now on. The Avengers were like a family, and with that, they all know that communication was key. Everyone knew everyone else’s triggers, from simple phrases, to where and how they got touched, to hearing a certain song. She had gotten used to being familiar with the boundaries of her friends, and forgot that she would need to learn Peter’s.

She blinked as a plate filled with bacon was set in between her and Peter, one loaded with scrambled eggs soon following it. Sam sat down across the island, setting the final plate down, this one having a stack of toast on it. 

“I didn’t even see you make this stuff,” Peter commented. 

“I am a man of many talents,” Sam smirked with a slight hand flourish. 

Nat hopped out of her seat. “You forgot to get extra plates, birdman.” She walked to one of the cabinets and pulled three large plates out. She slid open the drawer below it, gathering forks as well.

“Oh, so I have to do everything around here?” the man called, mocking frustration.

“You know what they say,” she said as she set the plates down. “Men belong in the kitchen.”

“Shouldn’t I be cooking something, then?” Peter asked.

“If you really want to,” she shrugged. “But I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Peter just shook his head, a light smile gracing his features. But he still hadn’t reached for any food. Sam was loading his plate up, and Nat had already picked up a few pieces of bacon herself. 

“Can you not reach the plates?” she asked, looking pointedly at the last plate not even a foot away from him. Why was he waiting? Was he really not going to eat?

“Oh, sorry,” was all he allowed as he reached for a plate. Nat nodded, and checked the amount of food he was picking up. He had a little less than her, but it was an adequate breakfast for someone getting accustomed to eating again. “Thanks, Sam.”

They chose to eat in silence, the quiet only being a little awkward. It was a little different from the chatterbox Spider-Man she had come to know, but she guessed it would be exhausting to be on all the time. She realized that having a secret identity must form a divide between the two identities. Spider-Man was the chatterbox, the slightly cocky one, the one to always have a quip on his lips. That left Peter to be the reserved one, or at least the one with multiple facets—his quietness, his anxiousness, his defensiveness, and, even without the mask, his wittiness.

The quietness allowed for the sound of the elevator arriving to cut through the air loudly. They all looked up from their plates to see who had just arrived. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Peter reach for one of his wrists where she knew his web shooters laid.

His hand drifted away when the doors opened to release a frantic looking Wanda. When her gaze landed on Peter, the tension drained out of her. 

“O слава богу,” she breathed out, slipping into Ukrainian for a brief moment. “P—uh, Spidey, I was just looking for you.”

The boy in question grinned. “Seems like a common theme this morning.”

Wanda bustled forward, blurting, “You weren’t in your room like I thought you’d be so I just got scared because I thought you had left or something because it’s still pretty early and I just expected you to still be sleeping but you weren’t so I panicked.” She quickly drew in a breath, looking like she was working to control her heart rate. 

“Sorry, Wanda,” Peter sheepishly apologized, taking her word vomit in stride. “I just got up pretty early. I’ll tell ya about it later.”

She sighed. “No, no, it’s alright. Just thinking irrationally.” She stepped closer to him. “Could I have a hug?”

Peter startled, as Nat expected him to. “I, uh. Why? I mean, sure, yeah, but why?”

Wanda wrapped his arms around Peter, and the teen immediately closed his eyes, burying his head in her shoulder. It looked like it wasn’t a conscious act, but he was soaking in the contact like a sponge. Nat saw his hands tremble ever so slightly as they reached up to lay on Wanda’s back. Nat glanced at Sam, who had begun to distractedly fiddle with his fork, and saw him looking on with his eyebrows furrowed. He turned to meet Nat’s eyes, a question gleaming in his own, and she just shrugged. He nodded, and looked down to eat once more. She could explain her theory to him later. 

Wanda released him after a second, and Peter untangled his arms from her. When Nat looked into his eyes, she noticed they shone slightly. Did…did the boy have tears in his eyes? Concern bubbled in her gut, along with a feeling she thought got locked away long ago. (Nope, she wasn’t feeling protective over this kid who probably hated her. That wasn’t going to happen.) 

“No reason really,” Wanda finally answered, moving away from Peter. “I was just worried, and I’m glad you’re still here.”

“Ah,” Peter breathed, before he straightened himself, staring at his food. He shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. 

Wanda walked over to one of the cabinets to pull out her own plate. “Is it okay if I have some too?” she asked, gesturing to the food laid out. 

Sam nodded his head, quickly swallowing. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Made extra.”

She smiled at him and snatched a few spoonfuls of eggs and a piece of toast. She dropped down into the seat next to Peter and took a bite out of her toast. 

“So, uh, Spidey,” she started, before Peter interrupted her.

“Sorry, sorry, lemme just make this easier,” he apologized, before turning to Sam with a slight upturn of his lips. “Hey Sam, my name is Peter, so go nuts.” Peter turned back to Wanda when Sam choked on his food. “You may go on.”

“Well, Peter,” she began once more, glancing at the still recovering Sam with a grin, “I was just wondering if you wanted to do something with me in a little while.”

At Peter’s small smile, Nat remembered how Peter had said he had wanted to hang out with the young woman later. It seemed that Wanda read his mind. Figuratively.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, swallowing his last piece of toast. 

She shrugged. “Nothing special. You’ll see.”

Peter shook his head, a slight smile teasing his lips. “Well damn, you mysterious bitch. I guess I will.”

Nat finished off her last piece of bacon as she observed the two. They seemed to be getting along nicely. She knew that Wanda had always felt a bit out of place here because of her age, seeing as she was the youngest of the team. It was why she quickly formed a bond with Harley when the teen moved here, and it was probably why she was doing the same with Peter. It was nice to see the young woman get along with someone so easily, besides Vision. 

Natasha allowed herself to block out their conversation as she struck one up with Sam. They chatted about their plans for the day: Sam wanted a chill day, so he planned on playing more games with Clint, and to maybe work on a few poems. He always said it was one of his coping mechanisms, seeing as it allowed him to calm down and just write whatever he pleased; Nat could see the appeal. For her own day, she wanted to do a yoga routine after breakfast, and her weapons were probably due for a deep cleaning. Similar to Sam and his poems, she could easily say that cleaning her weapons was therapeutic. The methodical motions of cleaning the mechanisms brought her comfort, giving her something stable to lean on. 

Their conversation came to a halt when Peter reached between them for their empty plates. He stacked them onto what must have been his and Wanda’s plates before grabbing the larger plates in the center. He balanced those on his forearms like a waiter. 

“We could have gotten those,” Nat told him, moving to get up to help him. 

He shook his head. “Nah, Sam cooked and you got them out, so I’ll clean them.”

She glanced at Wanda, who was out of her seat and leaning on the counter. The younger woman just shook her head, signalling that Natasha should just let Peter take care of it. Nat nodded at Peter as he turned to begin washing the dishes in the sink. 

Sam’s eyebrows knit together, and he opened his mouth to presumably ask about Peter’s insistence of washing them himself. 

“It’s just what he likes, I guess,” she explained before the man could ask. 

“I think it’s calming,” Peter called without looking at them. “Plus, I can’t remember the last time I had a working dishwasher, so I’m just used to washing them. I don’t see why you guys are so bothered by it.”

Sam looked at the boy’s turned back. “It’s not that we’re bothered by it, it just seems a bit odd seeing as there’s a dishwasher right there.”

Peter sighed, and latched onto the handle of the dishwasher. He quietly placed all of the plates on the racks, and slotted the silverware into their places. 

“Your wish is my command,” he said with a bow, and he closed the dishwasher. Natasha couldn't help but feel bad that they had disrupted his habit. 

“Thanks, Peter,” she called to him as he started to walk with Wanda to the elevator.

“Don’t mention it.”

-

“So,” Peter said as the elevator doors closed, “wanna tell me what we’re gonna do?”

“Alright, jeez. Mr. Impatient,” Wanda mocked. “I was just wondering if you wanted to, maybe, let me teach you Ukrainian? I don’t know, no one else here but Vision knows it, and if you were interested, you could learn so we could chat in it.”

Peter noticed that she had a habit of constantly explaining her reasoning for her actions, like she was afraid someone would call her out on her ideas or suggestions. He wanted to help her feel a bit more comfortable.

“Oh boy, I feel like I should be honored you want to teach me,” he grinned. “That would be fun. I like picking up new languages.”

Wanda's nervousness seemed to melt off her face as they exited the elevator on their floor. “Oh yeah, you know sign language too. Do you know anything else?”

“Oh, man.” He held out his hand and began to count on his fingers. “So there’s English and ASL. I learned ASL with MJ, you’ve seen her.” A wince crossed Wanda’s features, but Peter chose to ignore it. “Uh, then there’s Italian ‘cause my mom, my aunt, and my uncle all had Italian blood. I learned Spanish in school, and Russian on my own ‘cause I wanted a challenge. There’s also German, and I learned that, like, back in January. Oh! And I know some braille ‘cause my blind friend is a conniving little bitch."

“Holy fuck,” Wanda muttered. “That’s a lot. You’re fluent in all of those?”

“All except for braille, learning that one is a bit tough. But, like, Italian rivals English as my mother tongue ‘cause I was learning both of them at the same time.”

“Well then,” Wanda said as she opened the door to her room. “This’ll be easier than I thought. I was gonna teach Harley, but he has a hard time picking up languages, and I guess Ukrainian isn’t an amazing one to start with. But that’s alright, because now it’ll just—Peter? Don’t you wanna come in?”

Peter’s feet were planted at the entrance of her room, all of his instincts telling him he wasn't allowed to go in there. Another person's room was their own space, and that space was not to be breached without explicit permission, Richard had taught him that. Of course, Richard had been allowed to go in Peter’s room whenever he liked. But there was no entering Richard’s room. Peter didn’t want Wanda to get mad at him for going into her room. It was her space. He didn't know if he was allowed in.  

“Peter?” 

He kept his head down. “Can I please come in?” Permission. He wouldn’t get punished if he had permission.

“Of course. I thought that was kinda implied.”

Peter let out the breath he was holding. “Right. Sorry. Just didn’t wanna invade.” He looked up at her and noticed the concerned quirk in her eyebrows. “Sorry.”

She adjusted her expression, a soft smile taking over her features. “No need to apologize. You were just being polite. You can come in my room whenever, even if the door is closed, as long as you knock first.”

“Thanks,” he said as he stepped into her room. He looked around, taking the space in. She had a bathroom off to the side like he did. Her bed had maroon-colored sheets on them, and it was neatly made with several embroided pillows resting on it. There was a stack of magazines on the floor next to the bed. Her desk had stationery supplies and a pile of opened letters, the size of which paled in comparison to the stack of unopened letters. There were boxes on shelves in the corner of the room, but they were closed and unlabeled. There was a large bulletin board hanging above her desk, and Peter took in the items hung up on it: pictures of her and the team, even more pictures of her and Vision, what looked like a meal receipt, movie tickets, and a piece of unrecognizable fabric. “Nice room.”

“Glad you like it,” she called from where she was pulling out a box from one of the shelves. She walked over to sit on the bed, then patted a spot in front of her. He climbed onto her bed as he opened the box. 

She pulled a small whiteboard out of the box, along with markers and two books. If one were to make a quick glance, the titles of the books would appear to be in Russian, but altered enough that it looked pretty jumbled. Ukrainian. That made sense, given the context of what he was about to do with Wanda.

“This is what I used when I tried to teach Harley Ukrainian,” she explained. “It’s a process of being able to write, speak, read, and listen. I’ll be your example for listening and speaking, the whiteboard is for writing, and the books provide some more advanced reading examples. But I can also just pull sentences from it and pick those apart with you. Sound good?”

He nodded, eyes trained on the books. “Don't Russian and Ukrainian have, like, almost the same alphabets? I’m pretty sure there’s only a few differences.”

“Yeah, they’re both Slavic languages, so there’s a lot of similarities. That’ll make it easier for you to learn, since you apparently know Russian, you overachiever. But they’re still different languages. Like, you know how English and German are both Germanic languages? Learning Ukrainian while knowing Russian will be a bit like learning German while knowing English.”

Peter neglected to mention that his German lessons took place during a four week stay at a HYDRA facility, so his learning Ukrainian may go a bit smoother. They may have fucked him up a bit, but at least they allowed him to broaden knowledge of language. That was probably the only plus, though. He would rate his stay a 0.5/10 on TripAdvisor, wouldn’t recommend.

“Get fucked, Harley,” he muttered, to which Wanda gave a snort. “Gonna learn a freaking language. Stupid monolingual Southerner.”

“You show him, Peter,” she said with a grin as she picked up the board and marker. “Ready for your first lesson?”

“Oh, goody, I'm back in school. Have at it, Professor Maximoff.”

Chapter Text

“No, but see—don’t interrupt, Wanda, this is important—what I’m saying is that the International Astronomical Union is just a group of cowards.”

Wanda was full-on laughing at this point. “I just don’t see why you care this much!”

“They just stripped away Pluto’s planetary status for no reason!” Peter exclaimed, gesturing wildly up at the ceiling. He was splayed out on Wanda’s bed, with the young woman sitting next to his legs with her ankles crossed. She had her knee rested on his thigh. It felt nice.

Their Ukrainian lesson materials laid discarded on the ground. The lesson had gone well, but at some point, their conversation drifted away from the topic of language. Naturally, that was how they ended up here, with Peter ranting about the planetary status of Pluto to an extremely amused Wanda.

“Well, they must have had a reason if they were able to do it,” Wanda commented.

“It’s because their definition of a planet is bullshit! It’s too fucking narrow, Wanda. They were like, ‘Blah blah, Pluto can’t clear its zone, so it can’t be a planet, blah blah blah,’ but guess what? It’s impossible to clear a zone within a planet’s orbit. No planet in our solar system can satisfy the zone-clearing regulation since new small bodies are constantly injected into planet-crossing orbits. It’s not like everything that enters Earth’s orbit is thrown out immediately! If the IAU definition of a planet is to be taken seriously, then technically, no planet in our solar system is actually a planet.”

“Peter, my friend, I really need you to understand that I can’t comprehend a word you’re saying,” Wanda sighed, exasperation lacing her voice. Peter felt a twinge of worry at her words, but it dissipated when he lifted his head to see the grin on her face and the twinkle of mirth in her eyes.

“Sucks to be you, I guess,” he muttered, calming down from his rage rant. “What time is it?”

FRIDAY answered before Wanda. “It is 3:42. I would like to remind Ms. Maximoff that she has training in the main gym at 4:00.”

“Make that two of us,” Peter grunted as he pulled himself up. 

“You’re coming to training?” Wanda hopped off her bed and walked over to her closet. She pulled out a tank top and a pair of leggings. 

“Yeah, Clint wanted me to come. I’ll just, uh, wait in the hall, yeah?”

“I’d invite you to stay, but Mama didn’t raise no cheater.” She tossed her hair over shoulder and winked. 

“Oh, darling, am I not worth it?” he asked, lifting his hand to rest over his heart. 

“Don’t let Vision hear you say that, you skank!” Wanda called out as he swung open the door and rushed out.

He chuckled as he leaned against the wall just outside her door. Wanda was making such an effort to welcome him.With her wanting to teach him Ukrainian, he felt like he was being quietly let into her world, like she felt it was safe to open up to him. That’s what friends were supposed to do, right? Open up to each other?

Peter hoped he would be able to reciprocate eventually.

Her door swung open once more, and she stepped out. When she laid eyes on him, her eyebrows knit together.

“You’re not gonna change?”

Peter looked down at his long sleeves and sweatpants. “Nah. I get cold easily.” He got warm easily too, but he was quite used to an excessive amount of layering—he wore his suit under his clothes every single day anyway. Avoiding putting his scars on display for the team was simply an added bonus to his long sleeves and suit.

“Whatever you say,” Wanda shrugged, before starting down the hallway. Peter followed her as she made the turn into the kitchen. She grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge and tossed it at Peter, who caught it with ease. She took one for herself and shut the door with her foot. “We ready?”

“Just waiting on you," he said, turning to walk to the elevator.

“You shut your mouth,” she mumbled, and Peter caught a glimpse of a red glow twirling in her hands. 

“What are you gonna do, f—oh shit!” Wanda launched herself into the air, flying past him quickly and landing in the waiting elevator. The moment she left the ground, Peter’s ears picked up an oh-so faint twinkle of wind chimes. He ignored the sound of Wanda’s laughter, and looked around for a source. No wind chimes in sight. 

“Peter?” Wanda called. “Oh my god, did I scare you? I wasn’t gonna hurt you, I thought you would know. I’m so sorry!”

“No, no, don’t worry about that,” he dismissed. He turned towards her again and saw that she was walking his way. “Wanda, would you mind flying over here instead? I wanna test something.”

She furrowed her eyebrows, but shrugged anyway. Once again, a red glow bounced around her body, and she hovered towards him. The wind chimes were back. She was about to land in front of him, but he motioned for her to stay where she was. He stepped closer, and the chimes got louder. 

“Is something wrong?”

“No, but I…I think your magic has a sound?”  

“My magic has a sound?” she asked, a bit bewildered.

“That’s what I said, yeah. Uh, stop flying for a sec?” She did. The chimes stopped. “Yeah. It’s you. It’s like…wind chimes clanking together. But, like, the small and dainty kind.”

“Is it loud?” She held up her hand, examining the ball of red it carried. 

“No, it just surprised me.” He closed his eyes, focusing more on the sound. It didn’t grate against his ears, either. It was a pleasant sound, reminding him of spring and a gentle wind blowing past him on nice afternoons. “I’m even more surprised that you can’t hear it. Guess my hearing’s back.”

When he opened his eyes once more, he was greeted with a soft smile from Wanda.

“Cool,” she breathed. 

This time, they walked to the elevator together, ignoring the fact that they were probably going to be slightly late to training. The doors shut, and Peter was met once more with the muted silence of the elevator. Except now, he picked up on more sounds to keep him company. There were the soft whirrs of the elevator’s mechanics and the quiet static of what he assumed to be FRIDAY’s speakers. Then, a more familiar sound, one he hadn’t heard in a hot second: a heartbeat.

A smile tugged at Peter’s lips with the realization that he could now hear Wanda’s heartbeat. The steady thump thump thump of a familiar person’s heartbeat was always soothing to him. Sometimes he hated his enhanced senses; they often did him more harm that good. But after experiencing the loss of them, he was looking forward to being at full functionality once more. Heartbeats were a consistent comfort he had missed. 

The elevator dinged, and they stepped out directly into what Peter assumed to be the “main gym.” He looked around, noticing that the rest of the Avengers were already there. Peter was faced with the scene of the most powerful people in New York taking turns stretching each other. They all turned to face the new pair, and a smile lit up Clint’s face from where he was helping Sam stretch his arm. 

“Spidey! Welcome to Avengers training!” he yelled. 

“What am I, chopped liver?” Wanda scoffed as she made her way to Natasha, Peter trailing after her. 

As soon as they reached the spy, Natasha turned to him. “When was the last time you ate?” she said quietly, though it felt like a demand.

Natasha kept bringing that up. She seemed slightly obsessed with what he was eating for breakfast, but maybe Peter was reading into their interactions too much. What was she, concerned? He was perfectly fine, thank you very much. He was eating more than he ever did on the streets, yet the woman still wanted to make sure he “got enough.” Sure, his appetite was growing now that he was getting used to eating more, but he shouldn’t be getting used to eating more. Eventually, he’d have to return to his routine of having no routine, so couldn't allow himself to get accustomed to feeling full. Nonetheless, there was no way he could turn down a meal when he didn’t know when his next one would come. So, when Wanda had suggested they take a lunch break, he had gone along with it. 

“Uh, probably around 12? Right, Wanda?” She nodded. “Yeah, 12.”

Natasha pulled a package out of her legging pockets and tossed it at Peter. He reached up to catch it and saw that it was some type of protein bar. He raised an eyebrow at her, but opened it anyway.

“Bruce managed to manufacture a nutrition bar meant for Steve and Bucky’s metabolisms, so that should at least supplement you,” she explained. 

“Thanks,” he nodded, taking a bite out of the bar. 

“Don’t you need tennis shoes or something?” Natasha asked, looking pointedly at his bare feet.

Before Peter could respond, Wanda snorted. “Did you walk all the way here without shoes on?”

He shrugged. “What can I say, I’m not a sock kinda guy. Plus, it feels more natural without shoes on. I can somehow still stick to shit through layers, but I still think it works better if I’m barefoot.”

Occasionally, if he wore socks, the feeling of the fabric overwhelmed him. He didn't mention that.

“If you say so,” Natasha said, giving her own shoe a tap against the floor. 

“So do you guys have a routine or anything? Or can I just do whatever?” He was a bit unclear on what Avengers training entailed. Trust exercises?

Rogers walked over to them, apparently sensing that he had an opportunity to take on a leadership role. “We start out with stretching, then the team has the opportunity to split up and work on their individual goals. Like today, I’ll be sparring with Buck. Clint and Sam will probably team up, Bruce’ll do yoga as usual, and I think Nat’s going to work on cardio, right?” At her affirmation, he went on. “So really, you can do whatever.”

“It’s leg day for me, baby!” Stark yelled from a squat position. 

“You listening in on our conversation?” Peter replied, not looking at the man.

“What can I say, Capsicle’s a pretty loud dude.” 

“Alrighty then,” Peter nodded, putting the bar wrapper in his pocket. “So I guess I’ll do a quick stretch?”

He took a few steps away and proceeded to begin with some basic stretches, touching his toes and stretching out his arms. As he went on, though, he felt a few more pairs of eyes on him. When he slowly bent backwards to wrap his arms around his calves from behind, one of them decided to speak up.

“Woah, hey, you fucking contortionist,” Wanda laughed, walking up to him. “Can I see if you can go further?” she asked, and she moved her hand down to his line of sight so he could see what she was suggesting.

“Go ahead,” he allowed, and her hand moved to lay on his back. He resisted a shiver at the contact—he needed to get better at suppressing his reactions to people touching him, positive or not. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? You could hurt yourself,” Natasha pointed out. 

“It’s fine, my bones are stretchy.”

Wanda applied pressure to his position, and Peter slowly began to thread his upper body through his opened legs.

“And this is where I exit the conversation,” Rogers muttered, and Peter heard the man make his way back to Bucky. “His bones are stretchy. What the hell.”

Natasha walked to his other side and knelt down to meet his eyes. “Peter, I’m gonna need you to elaborate on that a bit.”

“So like, you know the name Spider-Man? Not for nothing.” Wanda didn’t ease up on her maneuvering of his position, and he was able to thread his arms through his legs to wrap around them from the front. “Spiders don’t have bones, we know this. Well, since I’m not completely spider, I still have bones. But my DNA is fucked up enough that even though my bones are, like, super strong, they’re, uh. Bendy.” That’s the way he thought about it, at least. It made sense in his mind that the spider bite would affect more underlying DNA as well as his strength, senses, and sticking ability.

“Right.” Natasha stood back up and returned to her stretching mat. “That’s fucked.”

Wanda released her hold on him as he laughed, “Oh trust me, I know.” Peter unwound his body in one fluid motion, straightening with ease. His back had lost much of the tension he'd just been carrying. 

“For the moment,” Wanda started as she took a step away, “I’ll just focus on how cool that is rather than the creepy factor.”

“Good choice,” he agrees, and he started to walk over to the racks of weights against the wall. “Hey, what’s the heaviest weight you guys have?”

Peter heard Stark’s knees crack as the man jumped up to join Peter at the weight rack. As the man walked over, he swooped down to grab hold of a full water bottle resting near his mat. He came to a stop next to Peter and took a swig.

“Traditional weights? Our heaviest allows for 1500 pounds. That’s just for the old men over there, though,” Stark explained. He eyed Peter, then advised, “It’d probably be a good idea to start out lower than that.”

Peter had to physically restrain himself from facepalming. This guy thought that 1500 would be too much for him? The fuck? 

Peter raised an eyebrow and pointed to the large weight that read 0.75 tons. “That’s the 1500, yeah?” Stark’s eyebrow quirked, but he nodded. Peter reached for it, and the man took a step back. 

“Kid, I don’t think you should do that without a spotter, it might—”

Peter lifted up the weight with ease, his lips set in an unimpressed straight line. Stark looked on as Peter took a small step away and tossed the weight from his right hand to his left. The weight was minimal to Peter; he already knew he could lift near 20 tons without overexerting himself—armored cars were heavier than they looked. Buildings were about as heavy as they looked, but he’d grown a lot stronger since that first warehouse a couple years ago.

Peter had a love-hate relationship with people underestimating him. On one hand, they were underestimating him—it was annoying. On the other hand, Peter loved to see their faces when he proved them wrong.

Peter allowed a sly grin to cross his face as he lightly set the weight down. “Don’t call me kid.”

Stark cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah, okay. Fri? Could you get MACHO up from the lab?”

“I’m guessing that MACHO stands for something,” Peter bemusedly commented. The man loved his acronyms.

The giddy smile on Stark’s face told Peter all he needed to know, but Stark still explained, “Machinery Aptly Constructed to Help Overachievers.” 

“Right,” Peter sighed. The man loved his acronyms.

The elevator door dinged, and a boxy machine rolled out, pretty unassuming. There was a control panel on it, but it was otherwise plain. Behind the robot trailed a confused looking Harley, and oh. School must have ended a while ago. 

“Why’d MACHO join me in the elevator?” Harley asked, looking up at his teammates, who had paused their exercises. “Did Thor stop by today?” 

“Shoo, not even a greeting,” Stark whistled. Harley’s eyes drifted over to the man, and they widened slightly when he noticed Peter. “Nah, apparently Bug-Man is an Overachiever.”

Rogers walked over to them, with Bucky trailing him, wiping sweat from his brow. “Really? How much more does he need?”

“Well, he decided to give me a heart attack by tossing the 1500 pound weight around, so I guess we’ll see,” Stark said as he approached the now resting machine. Whistles chorused through the gym as the others made their approach to surround Peter and the robot.

Peter ticked his head towards Harley and asked, “Why’d you ask if Thor was here?”

“The dude can lift at least 100 tons, seein’ as he’s the Asgardian God of Strength ‘n all, so Tony made this bot for him to mess around with on trainin' days,” Harley explained. “He’s usually the only one to use it, but sometimes Steve and Bucky use it for the lower settings.”

“I couldn’t quite get it to 100 tons, but I’m working on it,” Stark told them. “100 tons is, like—It’s, uh. Anyone know a good reference for how much 100 tons is?”

“Cloud Gate,” Natasha suggested.

“The fuck is that?” Sam muttered, and everyone ignored Rogers’s comment on his language.

“Chicago Bean,” Peter said. “Now I’ve just got the mental image of Thor picking up the Bean and just launching it at a baddie.”

While the team assumedly pondered the situation, Stark jumped in once more. “Anyway, it’s up to 75 tons right now. You can control the weight using the control pad on the front, and the weight of the robot will adjust.”  

Peter crouched down to punch in his starting weight. He could hear mechanisms shifting within the robot, and Peter watched as the shape of the robot shifted to form a rod of about three feet in length. Clint leaned over his shoulder to see what weight he set it to and inhaled sharply.  

“Dude, 10,000 pounds? There are lower levels, y’know.”

Peter tilted his head up at him so the man could clearly see his eye roll. “That’s how much an average ambulance weighs, idiot. It’s not that much.” He demonstrated this fact when he bent down to lift up the robot. It was definitely heavier than the 1500 pound weight (duh), but still on the lower end of Peter’s capacity.

Sam turned away from the group, walking back to his sparring mat. “It’s too early for this shit.”

“It’s 4:30, dumbass,” Bucky mocked, but he left as well once Peter gently put the weight back down. He switched to walking backwards as he told Peter, “Tell me what number you end up at!”

From there, each member of the team returned back to their original spots. Rogers went to join Bucky after commenting on Peter’s impressive strength. Natasha held out her hand towards Peter with a question in her eyes, and, with some hesitation, he nodded. She simply placed her hand on his shoulder and gave him a pat before walking away. Clint groaned as Peter upped the weight to 10 tons and left to rejoin Sam. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Wanda advised as she and Bruce left to resume their yoga routine.

“What she said,” Stark said, waving in Wanda’s direction.

Then it was just him and Harley, who watched as Peter did a few reps with the increased weight. It put strain on his muscles, but not nearly enough to prevent Peter from moving up. As he adjusted the weight once more, Harley stepped away.

“I’m gonna acquire a set of those normal people weights. Alright if I join you?” he asked.

“‘Course. Don’t hurt yourself,” Peter said with a wink.

Harley rolled his eyes, but Peter took note of the slight red tinting his cheeks as he walked to the rack. The other teen hadn’t even begun exercising yet. Why did he blush so much? Maybe Harley just had rosacea and Peter didn’t know.

Peter switched the weight to 20 tons as Harley came back with a set of 60 pound dumbbells. The other teen had also removed his flannel to reveal a short-sleeved shirt. Which meant his arms were on display. At that moment, Peter realized he hadn’t seen Harley without some form of long sleeves or armor. Peter didn’t know if 60 pounds was a lot for the average athletic teen, but it was enough to give Harley some, uh, impressive muscles.

Harley began his reps and Peter averted his eyes down to his own weight because Harley did not need to see the blush Peter felt rise to his cheeks. It shouldn’t even be there. What the fuck. Alright. Harley just had some muscles. He lived with the Avengers, of course he had muscles. No need to freak out about it. Jesus. Alright.

Ignore, ignoring, ignored.

At 20 tons, Peter was definitely feeling it. No, it didn’t hurt, but in a casual setting like this, it was probably near the upper range of his strength. In an actual dangerous scenario, where adrenaline was the only thing pumping through his veins? He could definitely go higher. For now though, since he was training (and not catching glances of Harley’s arms, mind you), he decided to continue his reps in one ton increments. Sweat formed on his back at the 22 ton mark, and once he reached 30, he figured he could call it a day.

Maybe after his health was fully restored, he could really test himself.

He set down the weight and reset the robot to its original form. Harley was just about finishing his reps as well, and as Peter looked around the gym, he could see that some of the team was starting to tire out. Harley joined him as he picked up his water bottle and walked over to the sparring mat Rogers and Bucky were occupying. They had concluded their fight, dripping sweat as they hydrated themselves.

Bucky caught sight of them, and tipped his head at Peter. “How much didya lift?”

“Stopped at 30,” he shrugged, lifting his bottle to take a swig. He heard Harley’s breath catch in his throat at the same time the two men’s eyebrows shot up.

“30 thousand?” Rogers asked.

Peter struggled to keep his face neutral as he shook his head. “30 tons.”

Suddenly Wanda popped up next to him with a gasp. “Did I hear you say 30 tons?”

Bruce followed her, his eyebrows raised. “Is that your max?”

“Nah,” Peter shook his head. “But I can test my max some other time." 

If they allowed him to stay at the tower for that long.

Rogers tilted his head at Peter, seemingly working something out in his head. “So you have massive amounts of strength, and you can fight.”

“Look at that, he connected the dots!” Peter joked. “What, you thought it was luck every time I kicked your ass?”

A look crossed Rogers’s face that let Peter know that the man definitely thought it was just luck. “Well, no,” he sheepishly replied. “But I just have a quick question. The worst I’ve gotten from you was a few bruises, maybe a cracked rib. Why?”

“Gotta stay true to my beliefs, Cap’n. Can’t hurt the good guys, even when they’re hurting me. Really don’t rough up the baddies much, either.” His only exception was a rapist. He accidentally punched them harder than usual. Oops.

“Oh, man, we’re idiotic,” Rogers groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “This past year...Gods. I apologize.”

Peter nudged Wanda with a smile. “Got an apology out of Mr. America! Would ya look at that.” Nonetheless, he smiled at the man. “It’s okay—I mean, it’s not okay, you fuckers—but I digress. I appreciate your realization and the apology.” 

Wanda nodded. “Inching towards some character development, I see.”

Peter stepped closer to the captain, smiling as he said, “Call me Peter.” Then he turned to Wanda and whispered, “We gotta fucking zoom, come on,” as Rogers’s eyes widened and he tried to stammer out a response. Wanda giggled as they walked briskly to the elevator. 

“Are you doing that with everyone?” Wanda asked. 

“Anyone I deem to be not-an-asshole,” Peter said. “It’s fun. It’s like I’ve got a little cult.”

“Are we the only ones in it?”

“Just in the Avengers chapter. Four other people know.”

She tilted her head. “Who? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He began to count on his fingers. “A friend of mine that moved away, MJ, and these two random guys I hang out with sometimes.” He was slammed with the reminder that he hadn’t talked to Matt in days. Fuck. “Fuck.”

“What?” she asked, her heart rate spiking slightly. 

“Those random guys? I was supposed to meet with one of them yesterday, but I got kidnapped before I could.” He inhaled sharply. “Oh my god, what if he’s mad? Or worse, worried?”

“You could call them?”

He shoved his fingers through his hair as the elevator doors opened on their floor. “No, can’t. Ditched my phone a while ago.”

“Gods, you can be an idiot sometimes,” she sighed. “Stark makes phones.”

“I can’t just ask for a phone!” You don’t deserve it, it’s a luxury you can’t have, someone can track you, you can’t have a phone, you can’t ask for that, you can’t ask for anything.

“Peter, he literally wouldn’t care. He’s a billionaire.”

Peter shook out his hands, trying to get himself to listen to her reasoning. It didn’t work. “Wanda, I just can’t. Mr. Stark wouldn’t want to anyway.”

“Then just use mine,” she shrugged. 

“That’s your phone! What if I, like, accidentally fuck it up?”

“I’m offering. I think you’re making this harder than it has to be.”

He sighed, feeling slightly bad for dragging this out. “A phone is a big thing to me. It’s expensive and overall just—”

They both turned as the elevator sounded its arrival.

Harley walked out and caught up with them on their walk down the hall. He held out a box to Peter.

“Tony wanted to give this to you, but you left right before he was gonna talk to you,” he explained. 

“Oh my god, is that a phone?” Wanda excitedly asked. “Please tell me that’s a phone so I can beat Peter’s ass.”

Peter took the box and opened it. It was, indeed, a phone. 

“The timing is immaculate,” Wanda grinned as she side-stepped Peter to stand in front of him. 

“Are you sure?” he asked Harley. Why would Stark give him a phone?

Harley raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? He said that he figured you didn’t have a Stark Phone and that anyone who doesn't have one is a ‘complete loser.’”

Wanda cackled in response. 

“Shut up,” Peter muttered, waving a dismissive hand at his friend. “Well. Guess this means I’m making a call.”

Chapter Text

It was six o’clock. The kid didn’t stop by.

Matt wasn’t panicking because it’d be dumb to panic when you haven’t heard from someone in almost two days. 

(41 hours, 22 minutes. 41 hours, 22 minutes. 41 hours, 23 minutes.)

Matt didn’t do as much work as he should’ve; he was too busy anticipating Peter’s arrival—one that never came. He lamented the fact that he was so worried about such a seemingly small thing, but to his credit, Peter had only disappeared a few times before. Each time, something devastating had happened. Peter was such a constant in Matt’s life at this point that the second something deviated from the norm, Matt was on edge.

That wasn't to say he was panicking, though. Matt wasn’t panicking.

He sighed as he pulled himself out of his desk chair and cracked his neck. He snatched a few papers that he could busy himself with at home until it was time to suit up. He would search for the kid more tonight. If he couldn’t find Peter, then all rationale would be tossed out the window, as well as what remained of Matt’s sanity.

As Matt walked out of his office, he could hear Foggy beginning to pack his things up as well. Karen had probably already left. Matt reached the coat hanger near the entrance, and once more searched for the nonexistent note on it. When his hand landed on his coat, one of the office’s phones began to ring. Ignoring it, Matt put on his coat and made his way to the door. His work day was over, thank you very much.

Foggy sighed as he picked up the phone. “Nelson and Murdock, how can we help you?”

Matt heard the familiar sigh of, “Hey, Foggy,” through the crackle of the phone receiver. His hand froze in its place on the door handle, and he whipped his head towards Foggy.

“Peter?” Foggy questioned, his voice timid.  

“Uh, what’s up?” 

Matt barely registered the sound of his briefcase thumping onto the floor when his hand lost its grip. In an instant, he was at Foggy’s side ripping the phone out of the other man’s hand, pulling its cord taut.

“Peter,” Matt breathed out.

“Hey, Matt.” He could hear the smile in the boy’s voice. 

“Did you just say ‘what’s up?’ after going radio silent for two days?” Maybe not the best first thing to say to someone you thought might’ve been dead, but cut Matt some slack. The kid was kind of an idiot.

Peter laughed, and Matt felt some of the tension he'd been carrying roll off his back. “Maybe. What, did you want a long and gushy greeting? I actually have a backup speech written out, so if you wanted—”

“No, no,” Matt interrupted, “I think we’re good. But you’ve gotta answer a few questions, Parker.”

“I figured,” Peter replied, resigned. “Hit me.”

“Are you okay? Where have you been? Where are you now? How are you even calling me right now? I thought you didn’t have a phone.”

“Right, uh…you want me to answer them in that order, or…”

Matt cleared his throat, not having meant to spill all of his questions out at once. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Peter assured, and before Matt could call bullshit, he went on, “Like actually fine. Not hurt.” Matt heard a woman whispering in the background, though he didn't feel like focusing on her voice. Peter hissed, “Wanda, you’re insufferable. Yes, okay, I’ll tell him, shut up. So like, I’m fine, right? But I may have been deaf and blind for a little while.”

Matt flinched back at the admission. “Peter, you better elaborate on that immediately.”

“Guess that brings me to questions two and three. So yesterday, I was walking to your apartment, like I do.” Though he was completely aware Peter couldn’t see him, Matt nodded. “I heard this woman screaming, right, so I suited up and went to go find her. ‘Twas a trap, and the woman screaming turned out to be Romanov. She and a few of her teammates fucked with my senses until I passed out and they took me.”

“So, just to make sure I’m hearing this correctly,” Matt ground out, “you were minding your business before the Avengers tricked you into walking into an elaborate trap that ended up making you deaf and blind so they could kidnap you.”

“That about sums it up, yes.”

Of course Matt was fully aware that the Avengers had been aiming to take Spider-Man into custody for a while. He’d always been surprised that the entirety of New York didn’t realize this, but sometimes civilians couldn’t put two and two together in the midst of all their hero worship. The team’s efforts were a common topic of discussion between Matt and Peter, but Peter had always told Matt not to get involved. Now, he was wishing he hadn't listened to the kid. The bastards had finally caught up to him.

“I’m going to kill them,” Matt decided. 

“Matt, you don’t kill,” Peter reminded him.

“I’m going to maim them very intensely,” he corrected.

“In the middle of my story? Rude.” Matt grunted, signalling for Peter to go on. “Anyway, I woke up at the Avengers Tower, they interrogated me, then they—”

“Hold on, how did they interrogate you if you couldn’t see or hear them?”

“A sign language technique. I could just sign to them, and one of them would let me feel what they were signing,” Peter explained. “Then they decided they were gonna try to ignore SHIELD for once, but to do so, they needed to prove that I’m not a threat.”

“I really feel like that should be clear enough,” Matt interjected. “You’re…you.”

“Thanks, I think. But there needed to be substantial proof, so Wanda Maximoff popped in my brain for a sec to scope things out—Wanda, I said it was fine—and she decided that I could be trusted.”

“So she’s the one with you?” he asked. It seemed like the two were friends, and Matt couldn’t recall ever hearing about the two fighting each other. Sure, hearing that she went inside the kid’s mind put him off a bit, but he guessed he couldn’t really judge her when Peter obviously felt safe enough to have this phone call with her around.

“Yeah, and—can I tell him?—this kid named Harley. He lives at the Tower, he’s cool. Don't be mad at him, Matt. You can’t maim a teen.”

Matt had never heard of the kid, but he didn’t think it was too important. As long as Peter trusted him. “Anyone else you wanna protect?”

“Uh, Bucky and Vision are cool. They never tried to kill me.”

“If you’re sure,” he muttered, checking his mental list of Avengers to hate. “So why are you still there?”

“Ah, well, it’s so the Avengers don’t get into trouble with SHIELD. Apparently, they’d get a stern talking-to if SHIELD discovered that they had me, then let me go.”

“So…what? You’re their prisoner now?” Matt might be willing to bend his No Killing Policy.

“I—well, I guess. But they’re pretty nice captors, as far as I’ve seen. I’m getting fed and everything!”

“Not helping your case, kid,” Matt warned. Matt felt the urge to ask about what Peter told his foster father, if he had even explained anything about his absence. But he had a suspicion that Peter wasn’t that close with Richard. In fact, he wouldn’t even be surprised to learn that Peter hadn't had contact with him in a while. It would certainly explain many things. But Matt would rather not think about that because that would mean that Peter would be on his own. The mere idea stung Matt. Of course he knew that the kid could handle himself—that wasn’t even a question. The thing was that he didn’t have to. But in order to avoid thinking about that mess, Matt was still holding out hope that Peter had a home. In the meantime, however… “I’m coming over there.”

“Fucking pardon? Why?”

“I’ve gotta put one of your knives to use.” Matt hung up the phone and started towards the door once more.

“Are you gonna explain what’s happening, or…” Foggy called.

Matt picked up his briefcase from the floor as he replied, “The Avengers kidnapped Peter, so now they’ve gotta deal with me.”

-

Peter pulled the phone away from his ear, a slightly blank look on his face. That look changed to one of urgency as he quickly set the phone on the floor and jumped up.

As he rushed over to his desk, Harley asked, “What’s goin' on?” He had only heard Peter’s side of the phone call, and though he got the general gist of the conversation, he apparently missed out on some new development.

Peter didn't turn to him as he started messing with something on his desk. “I’ve gotta hide my knives.”

“I’m sorry, your knives?” Harley turned to Wanda for an explanation, but all she allowed him was a shrug.

Peter pulled a knife from what Harley now realized was just a towel acting as a carrier for at least a dozen knives, varying in size. Still refusing to look away from the towel, Peter spun the rather lengthy blade to point at Harley behind his back. 

“My knives,” he casually restated. 

“Right,” Harley sighed, though still fairly intrigued. Peter laid the blade to rest once more, and wrapped the towel to secure the pile. “Why do ya need to hide your knives?”

Peter picked up the package and quickly searched for a hiding place in his room. “‘Cause Matt just threatened to use them against the team, and I don’t take his threats lightly. Oh, I know!” Peter exclaimed before he quickly activated his web shooters. He tossed the collection of knives into the air and shot a web at them to secure them onto the opened closet door. He shut the door with a sigh, successfully removing the weapons from sight. 

“Quick question,” Wanda interjected. “Why is your friend coming to attack us?”

“‘Cause he’s a protective little bitch who doesn't like the Avengers, and they just gave him a reason to be violent.”

Harley shrugged. “I guess that’s valid, seein’ as we did fuck with your entire life for a while.”

Peter turned to him, a slight furrow in his brows. “Don't say ‘we,’ Harley. You and I only fought once, and I told Matt that the both of you were cool.”

Harley wanted to fight back more, but Wanda jumped in. “You told Matt that we were good, but what about the rest of the team?” 

“They can handle whatever's coming to them,” Peter dismissed. “Honestly, it's more like they deserve it." He frowned at that. "What, are you gonna try to stop Matt? I wouldn't recommend it."

“God, no,” Harley shuddered. His family had made severe mistakes. Mistakes had consequences, and sometimes those consequences came in the form of a raging friend of the teenager they kidnapped. “He’s comin' now, I assume?”

“Oh yeah, definitely on his way,” Peter nodded, not looking the least bit regretful.

“Should we warn the team?” Wanda asked. "They could go all-out on your friend if they think he's an intruder."

Peter shrugged. “I guess.” He got up, and Harley and Wanda followed him out of his room. “What do ya figure they’re up to?”

“Usually, we use this time for showers, post-gym 'n all,” Harley explained, “but we called your friend instead. At this point, Sam’s probably makin' dinner.”

Peter froze, which Harley had come to recognize as a sign he said something to upset Peter. “Shit,” the other teen hissed. “I didn’t mean to make you guys miss your showers. You didn’t have to sit in with me. I’m sorry.”

“Idiot, I’m the one who suggested you call him,” Wanda playfully rebuked him. “Plus, like you said, we didn’t have to be with you.”

“It was our choice to join you and miss our showers,” Harley continued, pressing the button on the elevator. “And we can just take them after dinner. All’s well that ends well.”

Peter sighed, deflating. “Whatever you say.” 

The trio entered the elevator, and Peter immediately slumped against the wall. He seemed tired, the exhaustion radiating off of him palpable. Harley remembered this morning, when Peter mentioned he had awoken close to 3:00. Peter had said it so unconcernedly, so nonchalantly. Harley, on the other hand, had many issues with his statement. Fuck, why was Harley this worried about him? He met the hero just a few days ago, and he’d only been interacting with him for two days. He needed to leave Peter alone. Sounded easy enough. 

Harley glanced at Peter once more, whose closed eyes cracked open once the elevator stopped. He caught Harley’s eyes on him and grinned, the bastard. Harley cleared his throat and looked away, ensuring that he was able to put one foot in front of the other.

Leave Peter alone, his brain mocked him.

Bullshit.

Like hell he could do that. 

They turned into the kitchen, where they found Sam chatting with Clint and Nat while he cooked. Steve and Bucky were having their own conversation in the next room over, their soft voices making for a calm background noise.

Wanda sat down at the island first, Peter sitting next to her, and Harley sandwiching the teen between Wanda and himself. The three older heroes paused their conversation, and Nat turned to face them.

“What’s up?” she asked, an eyebrow raised. From that, Harley could tell that she immediately noticed that something was off. How she always knew, he could never figure out.

“We’re gonna be getting a visitor soon, hope you don’t mind,” Peter casually told her.

“Who?” she questioned. 

Wanda took over, saying, “His friend, Matt.”

Clint looked over, confusion written across his face. “Whose friend? Spidey’s?”

“Yeah, mine,” Peter answered. “And just call me Peter.”

Wanda gave a chuckle when Clint’s eyebrows shot up, and he slowly raised his finger to point at Peter. Harley was noticing a pattern.

“Why is he coming?” Natasha continued, ignoring Clint.

“I called to check in with him,” Peter explained, “and told him where I was and how I got here. He’s, uh, kinda upset with you guys.”

Harley, having seen the seriousness Peter held while hiding his weapons, snorted. Kinda was an understatement. 

“Hold up,” Clint interrupted, this time pointing his finger at everyone other than Peter. “How are you guys so chill about this?"

"Which this?" Natasha wondered.

"Peter! He just said it so casually! We’ve been calling him Spider-Man for a year!”

Harley shrugged. “I knew already.”

Wanda, Nat, and Sam gave similar sentiments. 

“We know, too,” Bucky told Clint as the supersoldier pair walked into the kitchen. “Tony’s the only one who doesn’t, right?”

Peter nodded. “Him and Vision, but I’ll just tell them tonight. I doubt Vision would even care.”

Wanda’s eyes crinkled up as she smiled and ignored Clint's grumbling. “You’ve talked to Vis?”

The two had been together since the Civil War, maybe even a bit more before then. Harley knew that they were close and extremely well-matched, but they tended to keep their relationship a bit private. That wasn't to say that they weren’t comfortable with the team, of course. That was just the way they were, he supposed. 

“Yeah. Dude decided to scare me this morning, I liked his attitude.”

Wanda gave a single nod in approval. “I'm glad.”

“Can we get back to the person who’s barging in?” Steve redirected the conversation. “Should we be worried?”    

Peter shrugged, and Harley noted the slight smirk on his face. “Nah. I’m pretty sure it’ll just be an aggressive lecture.”

“You know, we could just not let him come up.” Steve was trying to assert his dominance. Harley wasn’t having any of that, thanks. 

“Oh, what, you guys can’t handle a little rebuke?” He tilted his head at the man, eyebrows raised challengingly. “I kinda feel like you can handle Peter’s friend if Peter can handle being kidnapped by y’all.”

While Harley relished in the paleness of Steve’s face, he caught Peter’s small nod of approval.

“I say we just go with it,” Nat suggested. “Harley’s right, and we should've seen this coming.”

“I doubt he’s even gonna do much,” Peter reminded. “He did threaten to maim you guys, but he does the same to me all the time.”

Bucky was getting out the plates and silverware when he called, “We’ve had worse.”

“If you guys are done deciding whether or not we’re getting maimed,” Sam chimed in, “you could get Tony and Bruce for dinner. It’s almost ready.”

Sam, for his part, did not seem too concerned. Maybe he just recognized the inevitable.

Harley pushed back his chair and hummed, "I'll get 'em," as was the routine. He had taken up the mantle of being the one to coax Tony from his lab, especially when Pepper and Rhodey weren’t there to help. Pepper was at the Stark Industries location in California, and wouldn’t be back for several more days. Harley had no idea when Rhodey would be back from D.C., but he was usually around for holidays.

As Harley got into the elevator, he heard Wanda excuse herself to go collect Vision, who, even though he never ate, still liked to be a part of family dinners. He got a final look at Peter before the doors closed. Peter didn’t look completely uncomfortable, but he wasn’t talking either. He sighed when his view was blocked by the closed doors. 

“Take me to Tony, please, Fri,” he requested, and the elevator started moving to Tony’s lab. Harley figured he was probably working on those upgrades for Cap’s shield he had been meaning to do.

When he came to the doors of the lab, however, there was no shield in sight. He laid his hand on the scanner and was let in immediately. He raised his watch and tapped in a few commands to FRIDAY to shut off the blaring ACDC. 

Tony’s head whipped up, but before he could get a word out, Harley said, “Time to eat, old man.”

Tony scowled, but got up anyway. “If you call me ‘old man,’ I have the right to call you ‘young child.’” 

“Keep tellin' yourself that, old man,” Harley hummed. “I’m gonna be an adult pretty darn soon.”

“Sheesh, if that doesn’t make me feel old, I don’t know what will.” Tony joined him on the walk back to the elevator.

“Probably the condition of your back.” He laughed as Tony shoved him into the elevator. “What're you workin’ on?”

“Hearing aids for Spidey.”

Harley furrowed his eyebrows and looked at the man. “Uh, I think his hearing is pretty much back.”

A smirk rose on Tony’s face. “They don’t have to improve his hearing to aid him.”

“What does that even mean,” Harley muttered, squinting his eyes. 

Tony just waved him off. “I guess you’ll just have to wait till I explain it to Spidey.”

Harley rolled his eyes as the doors opened on Bruce’s floor. He spotted Bruce reading one of his books on his couch. 

“Bruce!” he called, and the doctor looked up. “Time for dinner!”

Bruce nodded, and set down his book. Tony started rapidly pressing the button to close the doors, which Bruce caught sight of. He scoffed, and upped his pace to a brisk walk to slide into the elevator.

“You know,” the man raised his brow at Tony, “it seemed like you were trying to keep me out of here.”

Tony grinned. “Aw, Brucie, you know I would never do that to you!”

They bickered with each other while Harley quietly observed until the elevator returned to the main floor. The doors opened to reveal the almost-full dining table, laden with Sam’s meal of the night. Harley spotted the bowl of macaroni, and caught Sam’s eye to smile his thanks. He fucking loved macaroni. 

Several people were dishing up as Harley took his seat next to Peter. Those people did not include Peter, who was just sitting and listening to whatever Nat and Clint were talking about. Harley grabbed his plate from the pile, and took one for Peter as well. The other teen’s eyes snapped towards Harley when the plate landed in front of him. Harley nodded at the plate, and gave Peter a look that said, Eat, you stupid enhanced teen. Peter replied with a small smile, and began taking a little bit of everything on the table. That fool needed to eat more, and Harley would certainly make sure that he did.

(He wished that urge came a little less naturally.)

Idle conversations began, and for once, Harley wasn’t talking with Peter. He caught glances of the other teen, and he was talking with Bucky and Nat (something about a car?). Every time Harley looked at Peter, Peter tilted his head in Harley’s direction slightly. He stopped looking at a point because Peter's action probably indicated that he noticed Harley's glances. That dude noticed everything—a mini Nat, if you would.

Conversations came to a halt when FRIDAY alerted, “There is a man in the lobby claiming to have a meeting with the Avengers. His name is Matthew Michael Murdock. Would you like more identification factors?”

Tony looked confused, and Harley remembered that he wasn’t here for the warning of the visitation. 

“Friend of mine,” Peter told the man, looking between Tony and Bruce. 

Natasha twisted slightly to meet eyes with Tony. “He’s okay to come up,” she explained, and Tony nodded. Harley knew that Nat’s approval influenced many decisions in the Tower, so Tony readily gave the go-ahead for Matt to come up.

Peter stood up, having finished his meal, and collected Wanda’s plate as well. As he did so, he explained, “You’ll hear me call him Matt, but you guys are gonna have to call him Mr. Murdock. He kinda hates your guts.”

“Should Harley leave for this?” Tony asked, and Harley recognized the familiar look of concern in his eyes. 

“He’s fine,” Peter assured, glancing at Harley. “I told Matt that he shouldn’t be mad at Wanda or Harley. Or Bucky, or Vision.”

“I feel special,” Bucky murmured, nudging Nat. She just rolled her eyes. 

“Throwing us under the bus, then?” Sam accused. 

Peter threw a glare at the man. “Dude, you literally kidnapped me.” 

Sam grimaced, and Nat muttered, “You had it coming.”

Suddenly, Peter jumped up with a grin on his face. “He’s close.” 

As if on cue, the elevator door opened to reveal a brown-haired man, whose eyes were covered with a pair of dark red sunglasses. He tapped a walking cane in front of him, the edge rarely ever touching the ground as he moved. He was wearing a suit to fit his lanky body, but Harley could recognize the muscles hiding underneath the jacket. A grin lit up Mr. Murdock’s face when his cane made contact with Peter’s leg. 

“Kid,” he sighed, relief coating his voice, and Harley tensed, waiting for Peter to rebuke Mr. Murdock.

Instead, Peter beamed. “Look at you, Matt. Made it here all by yourself,” he teased. Mr. Murdock attempted to whack Peter with his cane, but Peter jumped over it, as if anticipating the attack. Mr. Murdock, apparently also anticipating Peter’s move, whipped his cane around to hit the teen’s other side. This time, he made contact, and flipped Peter off. 

Steve cleared his throat, and Matt tilted his head at the man. “Mr. Murdock?”

Mr. Murdock snorted. “Oh look, he’s polite. I’m assuming you briefed ‘em, kid?” Peter nodded, and Mr. Murdock copied the gesture. That threw Harley off a bit. Was Mr. Murdock not blind? “And who are you?” he continued, waving his cane in Steve’s direction. Yep—visually impaired. (How did he know Peter nodded?)

“Steve Rogers,” Steve answered. When the only reaction he got out of Mr. Murdock was a raise of his brow, Steve went on, “Captain America?”

“I know who Steve Rogers is.” Mr. Murdock stepped closer, and shoved his cane in Steve’s chest. Steve frowned, and took a small step back. “You broke three of Spidey’s ribs a couple weeks ago.”

“Matt,” Peter groaned. “Don’t bring that up!”

“Shush, you,” Mr. Murdock dismissed. “This fucker broke a teenager’s ribs. A teenager who didn’t come to me to patch him up, by the way.”

“You were busy!” Peter said under his breath, in an attempt to justify himself.

“Whatever. You lot have injured this kid more times than I can count, and trust me, I've tried to keep count. But there's one, little, glaring injury that needs a little chat. Would anyone care to share on how you bastards lacked so much self awareness that you fucked with his senses so thoroughly that he lost his sight and hearing?”

“To be fair,” Tony called, and Harley watched as Mr. Murdock’s grip on his cane tightened, “we didn’t know that would happen.”

“What the fuck did you idiots think would happen?” Mr. Murdock hissed. “He would just be a little distracted? You could catch him off balance?” 

“I mean, yeah—”

“Idiots,” he seethed, before turning to Peter and asking, “You seein' this shit?”

“Yeah, but you’re not seeing anything,” Peter quipped.

Mr. Murdock groaned. “I will disown you, and that is not a threat.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Peter stuck out his tongue in an incredibly childlike manner that just made Harley even more attracted to him.

“And now you have him imprisoned here?” the man continued, ignoring Peter. “Is he even allowed to leave?”

“Of course,” Nat assured. “Bucky and I took him to get his stuff this morning.”

At this, Mr. Murdock paused, like he was thinking about something, before shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. “So he needs a supervisor. Right, like that's not invasive. And what about patrol? You know, his nightly life-saving activities? Are you just going to stop him from helping people?”

Peter jumped in, saying, “Yeah, uh, already getting antsy about that one, folks.”

Nat winced. “We don’t know yet.”

“How could you not know yet?” Mr. Murdock asked incredulously. “This is his life you're fucking with.”

“We understand that, but—” Steve tried, but Mr. Murdock cut him off with a sharp bark of a laugh. 

“No, you don't understand. You didn't have to witness the effects of your actions on the kid’s daily life. You never saw his tiredness, or the limp that one of you bastards gave him that lasted far longer than it should've. And now he's supposed to just act like it's fine? All while he's not able to go out there and do his fucking job?”

Harley looked to Peter. He was looking a little bit smaller now, but made no move to step in. This was a retribution that was a long time coming.

“I—” Sam swallowed. His usually small wrinkles seemed to have deepened by ten years’ time. “I'm really sorry, uh. Spider-Man.”

Mr. Murdock’s jaw noticeably clenched, but Peter offered Sam a small nod.

“As long as this shit’s worked out with SHIELD sometime soon, I think we'll be good.” Peter tapped Mr. Murdock's hand that was gripping his cane, and the tight grasp loosened slightly. “Besides, it's pretty nice here. I just wanna get out as Spider-Man again.”

“Of course, man!” Clint hopped out of his seat and walked over to Peter. “But, see, Spidey loves it here, he’s not in prison.” Clint ruffled the teen’s hair.

Peter froze, and Harley knew what was coming: an excessive amount of apologies, justifications for everything he had ever done, a small rant dripping with unfounded guilt. 

But none of that happened. When Clint noticed Peter hadn’t reacted, he stepped away with a confusion blaring across his face.

“Shit,” Mr. Murdock swore, and he whipped around to face Peter.

Peter, whose eyes had glossed over, and was visibly shaking.

Mr. Murdock took a step forward, and Peter’s feet remained planted on the floor. Harley could see the rise and fall of his chest quickening. He looked across the table at Tony, who sensed Harley’s eyes on him and turned away from Peter. They made eye contact, and Harley affirmed his suspicion. Peter was, for some reason, having a panic attack.

Harley watched as Mr. Murdock took another step towards Peter, his hands held out in front of him. The man had ditched the cane. 

“Peter,” Mr. Murdock quietly called, and Harley heard Tony suck in a sharp breath at the name. “Can you hear me?”

Peter remained still, so Mr. Murdock tried again, this time slightly louder, but still with a calm voice.

A few seconds passed, and Mr. Murdock called his name once more. This time, Peter gave a slight jerk of his head. Mr. Murdock sighed in relief, somehow being able to sense Peter's recognition.

“Peter, whatever you’re seeing is not real.” Peter shook his head minutely. His chest movement was still rapid and irregular. “It’s not real. You’re at the Avengers Tower. My name is Matt, I’m here with you.” 

A single tear rolled down Peter’s cheek, his expression unmoving.

“You’re in the kitchen. Someone just ruffled your hair.” Mr. Murdock turned from Peter slightly, and whispered, “Who touched his hair?”

“I did,” Clint quietly said, ashamed. “Clint Barton.”

“Clint Barton just ruffled your hair.” Mr. Murdock was facing Peter again. “You know him, he’s Hawkeye. Peter, come on, you’ve gotta breathe for me. You know my heartbeat, Peter, listen for my heartbeat.”

Peter’s eyebrows twitched, pushing together, and Harley caught sight of Peter’s first movement from the neck down. His left pointer finger tapped against his left thigh. It was in a steady rhythm, and Harley put two and two together to realize that Peter was moving his finger to the beat of Mr. Murdock’s heartbeat.

“Good, good,” Mr. Murdock praised, and Harley once again was stumped on how the man knew what Peter was doing. “Focus on my heartbeat, good. Peter, can I touch you?”

Peter blinked hard, and hoarsely whispered, “Yeah.”

He spoke. That was good. Good.

Harley felt like no one should have been watching this. At the same time, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

“I’m going to take your right hand,” Mr. Murdock narrated as he did exactly that. Peter gave a full body shiver at the contact. Mr. Murdock pulled Peter’s hand to lay on his chest. “Do you feel my breaths?” he asked, to which Peter nodded, blinking once more. “Good. Breathe with me, okay?”

Peter took a sharp breath in, and proceeded to choke on the exhale. He convulsed slightly as he coughed, though his hand remained on Mr. Murdock’s chest. The man coached Peter through his breaths, and whenever the teen stuttered in his breathing, Mr. Murdock would refocus him. It was a bit different from the attacks Harley usually saw around the Tower, but everyone was different, he supposed. The method seemed to be working for Peter, because his eyes had lost their far-away look, and he could breathe consistently with Mr. Murdock.

More tears started to drip down Peter’s face as he quietly said, “Matt.”

Harley saw Mr. Murdock squeeze Peter’s hand that still resided on his chest. “I’m here. You’re alright.”

“I'm sorry—” Peter tried to say, but Matt quietly shushed him and continued to reassure him, too softly for Harley to hear. Peter's body started to fold, leading him to crouch on the floor. Eventually, Peter's eyes slipped shut, and his hand loosened its grip on Mr. Murdock's, instead coming to rest on his own chest. Harley would bet money that the boy had fallen asleep, yet somehow, his face was still ridden with stress.

Mr. Murdock sighed, giving Peter's slumped form a gentle pat, and he got up from his crouched position to turn to the silent team once more. 

“I’m—I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Clint stammered, but he didn't finish his sentence. 

“You didn’t know. I learned that you can’t touch Peter’s hair the hard way, too.” Mr. Murdock bent down to pick up his cane, and it physically pained Harley to see how the man seemed so accustomed to the situation.

“We, ah, we don’t treat him like a prisoner, you know,” Tony told him, in an awkward attempt to set the conversation back on course. “He trained with us today. Didn’t know he was that strong.”

“Yeah. He’s strong.” Harley got the sense that Mr. Murdock didn’t just mean physically. “Look. I realize that you guys are a group of heroes, and that you can take care of a fellow hero. Just don’t…don’t make the same mistake twice. Peter is a gift. Work to redeem yourselves.” He nodded his head to conclude his speech, and started walking to the elevator. “Someone get him in a bed, and I better see him on patrol soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam mumbled as the elevator doors closed on the enigma that was Mr. Matthew Murdock. 

“I can handle that,” Wanda softly offered. Nat nodded, and Wanda coaxed her magic to envelop Peter and lift him into the air. Vision solemnly joined her in the elevator up to their floor.

Harley turned to Nat, who was still seated with a look of slight concern on her face. He blurted, “Was that guy blind, or not?”

Nat shrugged, saying, “I have a feeling he’s actually blind. He did some pretty weird stuff, though. See him on patrol soon, he said. What does that even mean?”

"I have no idea," Harley murmured, though, to be fair, he was more focused on Peter's state. He would check on him in the morning, and until then, he'd have quite a few things to mull over.

Chapter Text

Peter was drowning.

He just woke up, and already, he was drowning.

He was drowning, in some familiar body of water, unable to get air, unable to swim because he was bound tightly by his parachute. His arms flailed, but he couldn't get anywhere. His legs kicked, but his body remained where it was. Not again, not again, not again not again not again—

Peter was no longer drowning. He knew he wasn’t drowning because he had landed on the startlingly hard bedroom floor. The bottom of a river was often sandy, not bruisingly hard. He looked down to see that what he had assumed was his parachute was actually the sheets from his bed wrapped around his body. He rushed to untangle himself from the mess, launching the offending fabric away from him.

Peter wasn’t drowning. This was a well established fact, a fact that should have calmed him. But the remnants of his nightmare still haunted him, and the only thing (or, person, rather) blaring in his mind was one Adrian Toomes. Adrian Toomes, who dropped him into the freezing cold of the Hudson. Adrian Toomes, who dropped a warehouse on him, letting Peter’s pleas for help land on deaf ears. Adrian Toomes, who apparently had a habit of dropping things.

Peter wasn’t drowning. But the walls? The walls looked suspiciously closer together. And closer together. And closer togeth—wait, were the walls closing in? 

No. That wasn’t a thing that could physically happen. Walls couldn’t move closer together, except for that one scene in A New Hope when the gang got trapped in a garbage compactor, and the walls were literally closing in on them. 

But in reality, walls couldn’t close in on someone.

Unless an arms dealer with a shitty set of wings knocked out rows of supports, and the walls and ceiling of a random warehouse in New York came crashing down. And he had just seen that, felt like he had lived through it once more, in his sleep. And boy, oh boy, the bedroom was looking a bit tiny. But it was a bedroom, not an empty warehouse that contained only a small workbench and a lamp.

It was fine.

Peter startled when his back landed against the door. He was actually beside the bed, not the door, last time he checked. (The bed. The fucking bed, not a gargantuan support beam.) Either he had been moving subconsciously, or the walls were closing in. And fuck, he didn’t want to take the chance that the latter theory proved to be correct.

Peter wasn’t drowning. And he was highly grateful for this fact when it meant that he was free to quickly escape his shrinking bedroom. And then he was in the hall, but the hall was just as dark as the bedroom and there were no fucking windows and the tall walls towered over him and it felt like they were tilting like an unstable card tower until he caught a glimpse of light coming from the kitchen and there wasn’t any light in the remains of that fucking warehouse so light was safe.

So he slid into the safety of the kitchen’s warm glow, sighing as he finally caught a breath. Peter wasn’t drowning, and he wasn’t about to be crushed by tons and tons of hard stone slabs.

He then heard soft breaths, and he realized he wasn’t alone, either. 

“Peter?” came Harley’s voice, slightly hushed. “You alright?”

“‘Course,” he answered automatically, slightly surprised at the hoarseness of his voice, and shoved his shaking hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. He looked up to see Harley sitting at the table, his bright phone screen lying face up on the tabletop, a bag of Twizzlers ripped open next to him. “You?”

Harley shut his phone off as he dismissed, “Fine. Uh, but you sure you’re good?”

Peter stepped further into the kitchen to grab a glass and fill it with water. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, for one, you’re sweatin'. Two, what’s the last thing you remember before fallin’ asleep?”

Peter hadn’t realized that he was sweating, but wiping it away at this point seemed pointless. What did he last remember? He forced himself to think past his nightly horror show. Dinner. He had dinner with the team, then Matt had come to chew them out. Then…

He felt his eyes widen, and he carefully set down his glass with trembling hands. “Oh.” He lifted his eyes to look at Harley, who was now out of his seat, and was horrified to see the concern written all over his face. “Shit, Harley. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

Now it was time for Harley’s eyes to widen, and his entire body jolted towards Peter in an aborted attempt to step closer. “No! No, that’s—no.” The other teen shook his head. “Don’t apologize, it was a panic attack. I see ‘em all the time, which is why I was just a bit worried ‘bout you.”

“It’s—” Peter sighed. Panic attacks weren’t embarrassing, really. People who had panic attacks were valid. Peter knew this. But… “God, Harley, it was just such a stupid thing to lose my shit about. Didn’t need to happen, especially in front of everyone.”

“Sometimes triggers are ‘stupid,’” Harley shrugged, air-quoting Peter. “Sometimes Clint gets freaked out by blue light. Wanda panics whenever she sees those plain wooden blocks that kids can play with. Personally, I don’t think it’s too odd to be triggered over someone touchin’ your hair.” He tilted his head. “That’s what it was, right? Just wanna make sure I don’t do that.”

Peter cleared his throat in an attempt to choke down the bile that had just made its appearance.

Hands. In his hair. 

“Yeah, uh, it was mostly that.” He ran his own fingers through his hair in an attempt to reset his perception. “Um. I also don’t really like it when people touch me when I can’t see them. And it’s better when they ask first.”

Harley just nodded, and the judgement Peter had expected simply wasn’t there. “Alrighty, thanks for tellin’ me.”

Peter let out a harsh exhale, a small smile crossing his features. Harley didn’t judge. Harley was used to seeing panic attacks. Harley didn’t think he was stupid or weak or cowardly or childish or faking it.

Harley…was awake at one in the morning on a school night?

The other teen had sat back down, his leg bouncing. He hummed a tune that Peter didn’t recognize. There was no coffee in sight to keep him awake.

Well.

Peter had never been one for getting much sleep, not since his parents died. As a newly traumatized child, his nightly thoughts were filled with the worries that the loss of his parents brought him, and he was haunted by the idea of losing Ben or May. But, at some point, those fears faded with the safety and security that his aunt and uncle offered him. Even then, his mind frequently kept him awake at night with a flurry of theories and random topics he had fixated on. It was incessant, yet Peter didn’t often tire of entertaining himself with a seemingly never-ending stream of knowledge. But soon enough, he met Skip. And even sooner, the reasons for his lack of sleep were no longer focused on STEM subjects. It then became increasingly evident that Parker Luck was a truly damning thing because Ben died in Peter’s arms before Peter had even gotten time to move past the monstrosity known as Skip. Ben haunted both his and May’s dreams, and Peter’s memories of his parents’ deaths came back full force. After that, it was just a flurry of events that did jack shit for his sleep schedule. Homecoming. MJ. May. Richard. Pick your poison. 

So, it was completely safe to say that Peter had pulled all-nighters on school nights. That didn’t matter, he was used to it. With his own hypocrisy in mind, he couldn’t help the creeping concern that came with seeing Harley bent over a bag of Twizzlers like it was a bottle of alcohol in the wee hours of the morning. 

Peter took a gulp of his water and sat down next to Harley at the table. “So now that we’ve gotten through my shit,” Peter started, and Harley raised an eyebrow, “wanna explain what you’re doing up so late?”

Harley sighed, and Peter had the visceral fear that he had overstepped. Instead, the other teen’s mouth twisted into a smile as he suggested, “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Sure,” Peter agreed. Of course he recognized that Harley was deflecting; that was alright, though. If he didn’t want to talk about it, it wasn't like Peter was going to force him to. “You better be alright with watching a Disney movie.”

Harley grinned, and stood up, bag of Twizzlers in hand. “Which do ya have in mind?”

Peter followed him into the common room, the lights automatically turning on to a dimmed setting. It was cozy—two couches, one larger than the other, and a comfy-looking armchair. Fluffy blankets were strewn across the couches, along with a couple throw pillows. There were two bean bags stacked in the corner, ready to be used. There were a few gaming systems, and the giant flat-screen TV topped it all off. Didn’t this floor only belong to three people?

“I was thinking Mulan. God-tier cinema right there,” he suggested, taking a seat in the corner of one of the couches. Harley plopped down next to him, and nodded.

“You’re not wrong. Fri?” At Harley’s call, the TV turned on, immediately displaying Mulan. When he gave a nod, the movie started playing. Harley pulled a blanket from beside him to cover himself, then tossed one to Peter. Peter’s blanket was a cream color with green dots speckling it. Once they were situated, Harley held out the Twizzlers bag and offered, “Want some?”

Peter wanted to say no, but both Harley’s and Wanda’s voices reminded him that if they were offering, it was fine to take. Plus, Peter’s growling stomach didn’t help any. He nodded, and pulled two from the bag. He noticed that his hands weren’t shaking anymore.

Peter was watching an animated Disney movie at close to two in the morning with a guy he met met two days ago while they shared a bag of Twizzlers. That was…odd, right? Not your usual rate of friendship. Then again, the first stage of a friendship didn’t usually involve: a blast wound from a high tech weapon, an impromptu nursing session, becoming temporarily deaf and blind, a panic attack, and light discussions of trauma. Maybe they were moving at a fast pace (and maybe that scared him a little). But maybe, possibly, Peter appreciated the fast pace. Harley was nice and supportive and smart and could put up with him; who wouldn’t want to get in on some of that? Peter wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to make friends when the only friends he’d had for a while were twice his age. 

“I’ll Make a Man Out of You” was playing when Harley finally broke the comfortable silence.

“I had a nightmare,” he said, and Peter didn’t dare interrupt him. “Tonight, I mean. ‘S why I was in the kitchen so late. I actually went to bed pretty early, believe it or not. ‘Round 10:30, I think. Woke up near 12, sweatin’ bullets. I’ve had ‘em before, of course, what with me being surrounded by people that constantly get hurt. I don’t get ‘em that often, though, so it rattled me a bit.” He blinked, tears forming in his eyes. “Tony died.”

Peter knew all about those kinds of dreams. He had never comforted anyone after a nightmare, though, except for May. But he had certainly been comforted, so he’d pull from those strategies.

“Can I touch you?” he softly asked, and Harley gave a nod. Peter laid his hand on the other’s shoulder, putting weight behind the touch. Warmth radiated from Harley’s body. “It’s over, Harls. I know it seemed like it really happened, that you were really there and everything moved in slow motion, but it didn’t. It was just some bullshit scenario that your mind cooked up for you.”

“I know. It’s just—” he groaned, and bent over to lay his head in his hands. Peter moved closer, laying his arm further on Harley’s back. “It’s just that it might happen. Anyone I love could die at any moment. There’s always a chance that they won’t come back from a fight, and that scares me, Pete.”

Pete.  

“That’s the thing—you don’t know what’ll happen. Take comfort in the chance they will come home. You’ve gotta have hope.” Was he quoting MJ at this point? Maybe. 

“I’ve gotta have hope,” Harley mumbled, and raised his head from his hands to give Peter a watery smile. “Who knew young Peter could be so wise?”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, well, I’ve had a bit of experience.” He began to remove his arm from Harley, no matter how much he relished in the contact, but stopped when Harley’s hand jolted towards Peter’s. He didn't make contact.

“Your, uh. The hand is fine. Grounding,” Harley stammered. Peter’s lips quirked up, and settled his arm back on Harley. (Cute.)  

“You know,” Harley began after another 10 minutes of Mulan, “we never touched on why you’re up too.”

“I’m not the one with school tomorrow,” he shrugged.  

“Spider dudes still need their sleep, right?”

Peter pulled a face, and chuckled, “I wouldn’t know.” At Harley’s unimpressed expression, he sighed. “I feel like I’ve gotten enough sleep already. I slept since dinner, didn’t I? Long time.”

“And you needed that sleep, Pete,” Harley emphasized, back at it with that damn nickname that made Peter feel warm inside. “You’re just…so tired all the time.”

“I’m sorry,” he offered. Harley was worried about him, and that was the furthest thing fron Peter's intentions. Peter knew that he was exhausted all the time; it was a constant ache set deep into his bones, one he couldn't ignore if he tried. He was used to it. He was fine.

Harley’s eyes lost their fire at his response. “Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he assured. “I just feel like you should be getting more of that beauty sleep right now, instead of watchin' a movie down here with me.”

“I think this is a very valid use of my time,” he said indignantly, gesturing towards the TV. But Harley really seemed to care about this. Plus, Peter kind of felt like he should continue Harley’s efforts to make conversation. He talked about his nightmare, so maybe Peter could reciprocate. “Thing is, I’m not too pumped for going back to sleep. I had a nightmare, too.”

Shock colored Harley’s expression, as if he hadn’t expected to actually get an answer out of Peter. That was fair—even Peter didn’t expect opening up about this. Harley’s eyes just made it so difficult to refuse. 

“I get them all the time, so don’t worry ‘bout that,” Peter assured, before he realized that his statement was very not assuring. “What I mean is, I know how to handle them. I just don’t really like to go to bed again afterwards, ‘cause I might have another one before I get up.”

“Is that why you were up at three this morning?” Harley hesitantly asked, and Peter was left to marvel at how and why Harley remembered such a small detail from their earlier conversation.

“Yup. They’re no joke.”

Harley cleared his throat and asked, “You wanna…talk about them?”

Peter snorted, which he did not mean to do. Why would anyone want to hear about what haunted him at night? But Harley didn’t relent, the concern in his eyes palpable, so Peter gave in.

“The menu for tonight was a delectable replaying of the time this guy tried to drown me, then dropped a warehouse on me. They weren’t in that order in my dream, I don’t think, ‘cause it was all pretty jumbled.”

Peter felt Harley tense underneath his arm.

“Wh—um. Holy fuck.”

Peter laughed, shoving down the uneasiness that came with sharing his trauma with someone. “That’s certainly a way to describe it.”

“Pete. How are you just…so fine with this?”

Oh, man. He—well, he was fine. But not…fine with that fact that it happened? Yeah. It was pretty shitty. But Peter himself was fine. It happened years ago. He’d gotten over it, he just couldn’t handle tight spaces or cold water and sometimes he got freaked out by parking garages and warehouses and leaky faucets reminded him of the water drips he heard when he was underneath the rubble and he couldn't go to the brach without seeing it on fire and he’d had plenty of nightmares and attacks because of that goddamn man, but. He was fine. Peter was fine.

“It was a while ago,” was what he ended up saying. “I’ve gotten over it.”

Now it was Harley’s time to snort, and before Peter could be affronted, he said, “Right. ‘Over it.’ Not to be insensitive or anythin', but that’s bullshit, Pete.” Peter went to interrupt him, but Harley turned to face him and held up his hand. “That’s the kinda traumatic event that someone doesn’t just move past. You’re allowed to feel shitty about that happenin'. In fact, I’d be pretty concerned if you didn’t. Don’t just dismiss it or wave it off or anythin'.”

He sighed, before continuing, “Look. I know that we’re not super close yet, but for Pete’s sake,” he smirked, letting Peter know the pun was fully intended, “come to me if you ever wanna talk. I can’t just have you dealin’ with this shit on your own.”

Peter let out a long exhale, and refrained from mentioning that he had been “dealing with this shit on his own” for quite some time. Instead, he just gave a small smile. 

“You got it.”

Harley smiled, too. “Great. Sucks that we both had a rough night, but how ‘bout we finish this movie?” 

“I mean,” Peter said as he reached for a pillow, “it’s been playing this entire time, so might as well.”

Peter let his tension fall away as they watched the rest of the movie, this time the silence only being broken by small quips. They were still digging through the seemingly endless bag of Twizzlers, and the strawberry scent was almost overbearing for Peter. Better than cherry, he supposed.

His arm was still resting on Harley, and it would remain that way until Harley indicated that he wanted it to be removed. Peter was soaking up the affectionate contact, letting the firmness of Harley’s back ground him. Harley being physically affectionate with Peter—it was like an intense itch was finally being scratched. And dull fingernails weren’t doing the scratching, no, it was like those godlike extendable back scratchers that were able to reach the toughest places. Peter should start a blog about the most effective scratching methods.

Harley fell asleep halfway through Mulan II. The absolute bastard had the audacity to let his head fall on Peter’s shoulder. What the fuck. Didn’t he realize that would completely shut down Peter’s brain? How could Peter focus on the movie when he was hyper-aware of this pretty goddamn intimate position? What the fuck. This was the kind of thing that you see in movies when two corny-ass protagonists are pining after each other.

What the fuck.

Right.

Okay. Peter needed to get out of there. He didn’t need to be in the same position when Harley woke up and then need an excuse as to why he was fully comfortable with the situation. Extraction time.

Peter began the tedious maneuver of inching his way out from under Harley, carefully removing his arm (his arm was there for, like, an hour, Jesus Christ), and gently setting Harley’s head onto the pillow Peter was clutching. He stepped backwards to admire his work, but frowned at the mess that was Harley’s blanket. He grabbed the edges and positioned it carefully to spread out across Harley’s long body. The boy was about the same height as Peter, he noticed, if not one inch or so taller. Interesting. 

Satisfied with his efforts, he turned to look around for the TV remote so he didn’t have to deal with General Shang’s bitchass behavior anymore. ‘Twas a foolish effort, as he soon remembered that FRIDAY controlled everything in this Tower, and Harley had used her to turn on the movie.

“Fri?” he whispered, carefully watching and listening to ensure Harley wouldn’t wake up.

“Yes, Spider-Man?” came her soothing voice, which was also considerably softened.

“Could you please turn off the TV?”

In lieu of a response, the TV shut off with a soft click, one which Peter was pretty sure was meant to be completely silent, but Stark didn’t design the Tower with Peter’s hearing in mind, of course. 

Peter snatched the Twizzlers bag off of the ground, sealing it as he went into the kitchen. He set it on the table, before grabbing his forgotten glass of water and heading towards the bedroom he occupied. 

He slipped in, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room immediately. He picked up his phone, which he forgot he had, to see that it was 3:57 a.m. He sighed. Long fucking night to go.

He was considering attempting to sleep once more when his breath caught in his throat at the realization of something he should have realized far sooner. 

MJ called him Pete.

Chapter Text

Peter was knitting with Wanda.

One of the most powerful people on the planet was resting her feet on his lap while he was fiddling with a mess of yarn. Kind of surreal when he thought about it.

See, Wanda could knit, crochet, embroider, everything. She explained it as having a near natural knack for the art. She had shown him her many pairs of jeans, all of which had quaint little designs embroidered onto the pockets, or just running down the side. She had crocheted several stuffed animals for herself, and explained that she had a habit of gifting them to members of the team. As for knitting, she had a collection of beanies that she had made for herself, and presently, she was making a shirt. It was red and white, red being the main color, white providing for accents along the edges. If Peter had to guess, it wasn’t her first time knitting a shirt.

If Wanda was good with needles, Peter was good with his hands. Braiding, for example. He took up braiding when May always made a mess of her hair while attempting to style it. Ben was never of any use, but not for lack of trying. No, he certainly tried, but it was more of an “A for effort” type of thing, rather than an “A for being good at the thing” type of thing. And so seven-year-old Peter went to the library (because he hadn’t gotten around to entirely fixing up that old computer he had found) to collect books on hairstyling. His young, lithe fingers were perfect for the task, and his ability to work with hair improved even further after the spider bite. Something about spiders having amazing dexterity for working with their webs, or whatever. When he had gotten close to MJ, she had let him practice braiding her hair. It was an honor, to be sure, to be allowed to touch her curls. As far as he knew, he was the only one outside her family to be permitted to touch them. She could manage braiding her own hair, of course; she had been doing it for years. But she figured that Peter could use some experience with a more textured substance than May’s long and straight hair. 

Braiding wasn’t all, though. He typed like a god, thank you very much. That talent was one he could attribute to Ned, who was a fierce competitor in their speed-typing competitions. And sure, maybe that didn’t sound all too exciting, but they were dorks, and they knew it. Plus, for two young boys who were very much into coding, the ability to type quickly came in handy.

He could also tie and untie knots like the most well-trained Boy Scout to ever exist because fuck you, that’s why.

So let it be known that Peter was good with his hands. This, unfortunately, did not translate into his knitting abilities.

“I swear to God, Wanda,” he groaned, releasing his hold on the needles Wanda let him borrow. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“You’re too dramatic for your own good,” she commented, not looking up from her work. “It’s only your first day; you’ll get better.”

He supposed she was right—he shouldn’t expect to be amazing at something on his first try. Hell, he had loads of experiences to assure him of that. Plus, it wasn’t like he was going to reject an offer from Wanda to spend more time together. She had come knocking on his door soon after she woke up, offering to teach him how to knit. Harley had already left for school, gracing Peter with a quick goodbye, so it wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

(Harley didn’t bring up anything that had happened last night. Peter wasn’t going to either.)

Peter just hummed noncommittally as he flopped backwards, letting his head fall over the side of the bed slightly. He closed his eyes, and almost wished he could feel the rush that came with blood flowing to his upside down head. The spider bite changed how his blood circulated, of course, because why the fuck would anything about Peter stay the same. It allowed for him to casually sit on the ceiling without having to worry about poor blood circulation. But maybe feeling his face get red and hearing the blood rush past his ears would make him feel more…grounded? Whatever, Peter was only poetic when he was repeating MJ.

“You tired?” Wanda’s voice floated towards him, accompanied by the clacking of her needles.

He cracked his eyes open, and responded, “When am I not?”

She gave a light chuckle, and reached down to pat his leg. He let her do so, having given her blanket consent for touching him at the beginning of their knitting session. It was a thing he had only done with a few people, all of whom he was extremely close with. He basically allowed them to touch him without having to incessantly ask, unless he suddenly changed moods and decided that he would very much like to not be touched. For some reason, though, he felt comfortable enough with Wanda that he allowed her the same type of consent he offered May. And even though Harley hadn’t gotten to know him by seeing his darkest memories right off the bat, Peter had the growing sense that he could grant him the same treatment. Of course, it could be taken away at his will, and he made that very clear to Wanda. She was understanding, and was still very mild in her touches. She even needlessly asked if she was allowed to lay her legs across his lap, which he affirmed with a warm feeling in his chest.

“Well, you could just take a break while I work on this shirt a bit more,” she suggested. “Once I make more progress, we can get back to learning Ukrainian, if you want. But you could also just relax, I’m not saying that you should be spending all your time with me.” Her voice had taken on an undercurrent of panic as she began to rush her words. “I’ve just been trying to think of things that’ll be fun and will make you feel more comfortable here, you know? Gah, I’m sorry, you can do whatever you want with your time, no one even said you wanted to learn to knit or something in the first place.”

Once she had concluded her rant, Peter pulled himself up a little bit and reached for her hand. “Don’t worry, Wanda. I enjoy spending my time with you.” He gave her hand a squeeze and allowed himself to fall back once more. “You really are helping, you know. Not to be a sappy piece of shit, but hanging out with you is really fun.” Heat rose to his cheeks at the sheer vulnerability he was showing, but he didn’t give a shit about that. Peter needed her to understand what she was doing for him. 

She shot Peter a bright smile as she resumed her knitting. “Well, make that two sappy pieces of shit, ‘cause I like hanging out with you too.”

-

“He’s waiting,” Natasha reminded them, standing in the open elevator.

“Well, if he’s already waiting, then he can handle a few more minutes,” Tony scoffed. “Tuesday meetings are stupid.” He started walking towards the elevator anyway, trailing behind Steve and Bucky.

The elevator doors closed, and Nat continued, “We’ll pick up the birds on our way down. Bruce’ll meet us in the conference room.”

It was quiet until the elevator reached the floor that Clint and Sam were on. They must have heard the approaching elevator because they were already walking over to it when the doors slid open. 

“Everyone always talks about how they hate Mondays,” Clint huffed, leaning his back on the wall of the elevator. “It is in my very professional opinion that Tuesdays are the literal worst.”

“We know, Barton,” Nat sighed. “You remind us every week.”

“No one will ever dare dispute me, though, so why not keep mentioning it?”

“I think your logic is flawed,” she commented, rolling her eyes as the elevator started moving down a couple floors. 

“I, personally, like to be reminded that I am not alone in my beliefs,” Tony stated. “So keep up those reminders, Robinhood.”

Clint’s face grew smug, and he gave a two finger salute at Tony, only for Nat to immediately kick him in the shin. She was surrounded by idiots. 

The elevator dinged, and the group filed out to see Bruce wringing his hands by the door of the conference room. Nat walked up to him to give him a light pat on the shoulder. 

“You don't have to talk to him, Bruce,” she soothed. “Tony, Steve, and I will do most of the explaining.”

He gave her a slight smile. “I know, I know. I just really don’t like being with him.” 

Nat heard Tony mutter, “You’re not the only one, Brucie,” but she ignored him in favor of entering the passcode on the keypad mounted to the wall. At the confirmation that they were, in fact, the Avengers, the door slid open, and she strode in.

The chair at the head of the table was turned away from them, but as she pulled out a seat for herself, it spun around so the man could greet the team. 

“You’re late,” Fury noted, infuriatingly monotone. 

“You know, just one of these days, you could have a little fun with that and say, ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ as you turn around,” Tony quipped, seating himself next to Nat. Bruce sat next to him, followed by Steve and Bucky. Sam took his spot across the table from Bucky, and Clint settled in next to Sam. It was their usual position for these meetings.

Every Tuesday, the team, bar Wanda, Vision, and Harley, had to sit through a meeting with Fury to give him updates. The meetings were usually centered around their attempts to catch Spider-Man, which was why the aforementioned trio often sat out. They had other, more sporadic, meetings that focused on their actual missions, which Wanda and Vision joined them for. Occasionally, Harley was invited to those briefings as well if the mission was deemed mild enough for him to join. There had been a recent uptick in the amount of times Harley sat in with them. Of course, they were all concerned for his safety, but that boy was relentless, and, well, he had been getting better at the whole Iron Lad thing. 

Fury didn’t dignify him with a response, just a roll of his eyes (well, eye). “Let’s get started.”

The others seemed hesitant to start, even Steve, who usually led these meetings. To put them out of their misery, Nat directed Fury’s attention to her by needlessly clearing her throat. 

“We have Spider-Man.”

In an unusual display of emotion, Fury’s eyebrows shot up. Nat caught some members of the team wincing, obviously having hoped to ease into the topic more gently. Natasha didn’t really see the point, seeing as they were going to have to talk about it anyway. At least this way, they could immediately start presenting their argument against detaining Peter. 

“Well, I must say,” Fury started, getting over his apparent shock quickly. “This is a development I wasn’t really expecting. More than a year’s worth of efforts, I believe. When did you catch him?”

“Sunday. Steve came up with a plan to overload his senses in order to subdue him, and it worked.” A little too well, she wanted to add. She could still see the hero’s cowering form in that warehouse, but now she had a person to match the image with: a kind, clever, and somewhat traumatized 17-year-old boy. 

“Sunday.” Fury’s tone was utterly unimpressed. “It’s currently Tuesday. I believe an explanation needs to be given on exactly why the enhanced person is not in SHIELD custody.”

“You see,” Tony began, “we thought about it, and then made the executive decision to not give him to you.”

Fury narrowed his eye. “Why.” It was supposed to be a question, but his tone indicated that it was more of a command. 

“Because Spider-Kid would be a whole lot more accurate than Spider-Man,” Clint blurted. “He’s 17 years old!”

Fury’s mouth set into a firm line, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. He didn't say anything.

“We thought it’d be better if we kept a hold of Spider-Man instead of letting SHIELD detain him,” Steve explained, and Natasha felt herself relax slightly. Steve was fully on their side, and he was willing to defend their position to Fruy’s face. A united team was a team that could get shit done. 

Before Fury could release his fury on them, Nat continued, “He’s a teenager, Fury. He’s not some madman who’s going to use his enhancements to destroy society. We got Wanda to look into his mind to determine his intentions, and she said, and I quote, ‘He’s good.’ This wasn’t some random act of insubordination—we met the kid, questioned him a bit, actually looked in his mind, and determined that we could just keep track of him for a little while.”

It was quiet for a few seconds, and then, “Where is he now?”

“Most likely with Wanda,” she told him. “They must have bonded or something over what she saw in his head, and they’ve gotten close. We gave him one of the guest rooms on Wanda’s floor.”

Fury considered this, then said, “I want to see him.”

A fair request, and yet… “We’ll be sitting in.” She felt several of her teammates’ eyes on her at the demand, and Fury raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure if you’re in a place to make demands.”

“And I’m not sure if I trust you to not shoot him with a tranq dart,” she countered.

Nat caught his lips quirking up slightly, and she knew that he would give in. “A valid concern,” he allowed. “Bring him in here, then, and you guys can ensure no child abuse occurs.”

“Fri?” Tony called. “Ask Spidey to come down here, will ya?”

She didn't respond until a few seconds later, saying, “Spider-Man will be down momentarily.”

Fury started humming, cutting through the quietness of the room. Nat recognized it to be some song from the 90’s. The tune stopped when they all heard a knock at the door, and Nat remembered that Peter didn’t know the passcode to get in. Sam rose from his seat to let Peter in.

His eyes immediately landed on Fury, and he laid a hand over his face with a sigh. “See, if I had known that Mr. SHIELD Director over there was going to be here, I woulda worn my mask.”

“Too late for that, hm?” Fury shrugged. “So! You’re the kid who’s been giving the team hell, eh?”

Peter took a seat next to Clint as he hummed. “I would say it was the other way around, personally, but to each their own.” Natasha would have to agree with him.

“Probably would’ve been easier to just let them bring you in,” the director commented.

“Ah, but see, I don’t much enjoy people knowing who I am. Plus, who knew what you assholes were going to do with me?”

Fury scoffed. “It’s not like we were going to torture you.”

“That’s what they all say,” Peter hummed, and Nat was left to wonder who “they” was.

“I have a feeling this is getting us nowhere,” she intervened. “So Fury, could you get to the part where the conversation has substance?” 

“What did Maximoff see that had her so sure that you’re good?” he asked, straight to the point. 

Peter’s eyes hardened, but he answered casually. “An interaction between me and my girlfriend. Super wholesome, you shoulda seen it.” 

Natasha had been pretty curious about what Wanda had seen as well. The team had just been quietly standing there while Wanda dug around in the teen’s mind, and by the time she was out, they were both crying. That led Nat to believe that Wanda saw a bit more than Peter’s girlfriend. Which, hang on. Peter had a girlfriend? He lived in a condemned apartment (concerning), he didn't have a cell phone until yesterday (odd), and he had never mentioned her before (understandable). She just couldn’t see how he would be able to maintain a relationship like that, but really, there was just so much about the kid that she didn’t know.

“And that led her to determine that you’re trustworthy?” Fury asked, his monotonous tone amplifying his incredulity. 

Peter shrugged. “Hey man, I don’t know what her thought process was. You can ask her, if you want.”

Fury nodded to Tony, who requested Wanda, and they awaited the arrival of the witch. When she arrived, there was no knock, seeing as she knew the passcode already. She hesitantly sat down next to Peter, eyeing Fury. Her hair was laid in a braided bun, a look that Nat had not seen her wear before.

“I need you to tell me what convinced you that Spider-Man is to be trusted,” Fury ordered her. 

Wanda stole a glance at Peter, who sighed. “Tell him whatever you want.”

Natasha wasn’t sure that his statement bode well for the upcoming conversation. 

Wanda’s eyes focused on her hands as she began her explanation. “The first thing I saw was Spidey fighting against this man who was apparently trying to steal from Stark’s plane. It was the time it went down on Coney Island a couple years ago, remember? Anyway, this guy had some high tech weaponry, and he was fighting to kill. I didn’t see all of the fight, but I saw the guy trying to leave with a few crates of what was on Stark’s plane. There was an explosion, and Spidey saved the criminal from the wreckage. He pinned the man down with his webs, left a note, and left the scene.” The woman sighed, slightly weary, but her eyes were soft. “He saved the man that was trying to kill him, and to me, that was a pretty big indicator of his moral values.”

Natasha remembered when Tony’s plane went down. She just…didn’t know that it was Spider-Man who handled the situation. Contrary to popular belief, she didn't know everything. Tony didn't talk much about the incident, just mentioned how the guy who was trying to steal from him was detained, and his stuff was safe. Maybe he knew that it was because of Peter, maybe he didn’t. 

“While that may be true,” Fury said, “Spidey here told us that you saw an interaction between him and his girlfriend.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows up on the table. “Did he lie to us?”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “No, he didn’t. I mentioned that the fight was the first thing I saw. It was brutal seeing a kid get beat up by a full grown man, so I went in search of a happier memory. The one I found was just a nice conversation between Spidey and his girlfriend.”

“And how did that aid in your conclusion?”

“Well, it didn’t, really. It was just a cute thing, but it led me to another memory that solidified my beliefs of Spidey.” She looked at Peter, who Nat noticed was slightly more tense than when she had last seen him. The teen just nodded at Wanda, and she gave his hand a squeeze. “Um. I watched as he found out that his girlfriend had died.”

Oh. 

That answered a few of Natasha’s questions.

“My condolences, Spider-Man,” Fury offered, and Peter gave a nod. “And where did this discovery lead you, Maximoff?”

Wanda looked up at him, tears welling up in her eyes. “I was in his mind. I felt the emotion that coursed through him at the memory. It was pure guilt, yet he had nothing to do with it.” At this, Peter shook his head slightly, but Wanda went on. “There was guilt, and there was a sense of familiarity. This sort of loss had happened to Spider-Man before, yet he keeps fighting to keep everyone safe. He’s just that good.”

Nat knew Fury well enough to be able to notice that he was still trying to check off all of his mental boxes. “As I understand it, strong emotions caused by a loss can lead an enhanced person down the wrong path.”

Peter looked up at that, his eyes sharp, and Natasha was reminded that this was the kid who took down the Avengers on every occasion.

“I’m an orphan, Fury,” he started, his voice eerily even. “Parents dead at the age of five, so I already had enough ‘strong emotions.’ My uncle was killed in front of me when I was 14, but instead of going down the ‘wrong path,’ I became Spider-Man. I continued to be Spider-Man when my girlfriend and my last living relative died within four months of each other. My losses have fueled me, but not in the way you think. I go out every night to make sure no one ends up in the same situation as me, and every time I fail to do that, it wrecks me. I’m not one of the statistics you read that convinced you that everyone dealt with their emotions in the same way. Just fucking take Wanda’s explanation, and leave it at that.” He turned away from Fury to flash the silent team with a too-cheery smile. “Sorry for unloading that shit in front of you guys, but it seemed that the pirate needed a deeper explanation.”

Peter was shaking minutely, Nat noted with mounting horror.

“Every hero has a tragic backstory these days,” Fury muttered, cutting through the silence Peter’s spiel had induced. “Alright, kid.” Peter narrowed his eyes. “I won’t detain you. You’re a good kid with an obnoxious attitude. However, you’ll have to start pulling your weight more as a hero. Live here, and go out on missions with the team. You can patrol without SHIELD or this bunch of jokers breathing down your neck. Dismissed.” With that, Fury pulled himself up and swiftly left the room. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “There wasn’t even a Q&A session.”

The team, sensing that Peter didn’t want to talk about what he had spilled, let Peter change the topic.

“What question did you want answered?” Clint asked.

“Does this mean I’m an Avenger now?”

“You are in my books,” Tony affirmed with a grin. “Is that what you want?”

Peter's lips began to quirk up. “I mean, you guys have been my heroes for a while, not including the way you’ve fucked my shit up recently. I’d be cool with fighting with you guys, rather than against.”

Steve stood up, and held his hand out for Peter to shake. “Well then, Spider-Man, welcome to the Avengers.”

Peter shook his hand with what Natasha believed to be a genuine smile.

-

Peter had commitment issues. It was just a fact about him, and who could blame him?

But maybe, just maybe, he could take this step towards stability.

It was too early to tell, of course, but maybe, just maybe, he could fit in here.

(The idea scared him, but what was life without a little fear?)

Chapter Text

By the time Harley got to the Tower, Wanda and Vision were making dinner for the team in the common kitchen. It was mainly Wanda, who peppered in little comments directed at Vision to explain what she was doing. Peter was sitting at the island, happy to just watch them do their thing.

Harley walked into the kitchen, setting down his backpack and taking a seat next to Peter. He smelled of graphite, and Peter looked over to notice the remnants of pencil shavings scattered across Harley’s shirt.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, not that it was any of his business. The other teen was just back later than the day before, so sue Peter for being a little curious.

“AcaDec practice,” Harley explained, smiling to Wanda and Vision in greeting.

Peter’s head tilted slightly. “Isn’t the season already over?” Peter thought it ended in September, usually, because that was when the Nationals took place. He knew that their team had a few practices in the summer as well in order to kickstart their lead at the very beginning of the school year. Competitions started the first week of August, whether or not school was in session.

“Yeah, but Betty was onto us for not doin’ so hot at Nationals. She was on the team back when they won in D.C. Betty’s our captain, by the way.”

“Oh, good for her,” Peter chuckled. She deserved the spot. Peter didn’t think she ever missed a practice, very much unlike Peter himself. Hey, he was there, okay? It was just that sometimes there was a random bad guy disrupting the peace while the team had practice. It was almost like they didn’t care about the hobbies of the poor teen trying to defeat them. “Yeah, the old captain was the same way. Except, even when we won Nationals, she would still get us to come to postseason practices.”

“Oh, Michelle, right?” Harley asked, and Peter realized he hadn’t heard someone talk about her since a bit after her death, while he was still in school. “Mr. Harrington talks about her sometimes, and I hear a few of the kids mention her. The ones that were on the team back then, that is. They talk about you, too, but till recently, I never knew who they were talkin’ about.”

Peter decided then that he didn’t really want to delve into an MJ-related conversation, so he focused more on the second part of Harley’s response. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure they’re always talking about the kid who dropped off the grid as soon as the school year ended.”

Harley shrugged. “Eh. Sometimes they wonder where you went, but most of the time, it’s just a thing like, ‘I don’t know, that was more Peter’s specialty,’ when they miss a question.” Harley eyed him meaningfully. “I’m pretty sure they miss you.”

“Probably because Flash gets to actually be on the team now,” Peter dismissed, rolling his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what his teammates thought about him or his disappearance. He didn’t want people to be concerned about him, and it wasn’t like they should be concerned anyway. He was a quiet kid when he wasn’t with Ned or MJ, and he didn’t feel like he had left too big of a mark on his teammates. 

Harley hummed skeptically, but let it drop. “Whatever you say.” He then turned to Wanda and asked, “Were you at the meeting?”

She nodded, then tilted her head towards Peter. “He was there, too. Fury told him that if he stayed here and went on missions with us, he wouldn’t throw Peter into a SHIELD facility.”

Harley turned to Peter, his face morphing into a shocked, yet happy expression, and Peter gave him jazz hands. “Surprise, Spidey’s an Avenger now.”

“I believe it was a fair compromise to come to, even if it took to long to reach this point,” Vision commented. “This way, Peter can continue his work, and then some.” He paused, then added, “May I call you Peter?”

“Oh!” Peter jolted, having not realized that he forgot to tell Vision his name. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course.”

Harley was still looking at him. “Dude, I cannot believe that you’re already an Avenger.” He chuckled slightly, shaking his head. “I went on my first mission after, like, five months of livin' here.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been doing this since I was 14. Did you have any experience before you got here?”

“You’ve been Spider-Man since you were 14?” Harley stressed, his face blanching. “No man, I’m 17. ‘Course I don't have any prior experience to put on my résumé.”

“Sounds like a you problem.” Peter shrugged, forcing the grin off his face, and continued, “All I’m saying is, we’re not really in the same situation. I was in their little airport argument when I was 14, and I’ve been in worse situations since then.”

Wanda’s head whipped up at his words. “I didn’t think about that. Shit, Peter, you fought against us when you were just starting out.”

“Kinda my fault, I think,” Peter sighed. When he was 14, he was still over the moon about the fact that he had powers. He took any chance he could get to be able to gain experience with fighting, so when Iron Man confronted him on patrol asking for help in Germany, Peter’s only hesitation was his school workload. He had only heard about the Accords in the news, but at the time, he didn’t realize that they had anything to do with him. Now, Peter knew that he should’ve looked into the situation more, or just let the Avengers talk out their feelings by themselves. But he used to be naive, and he'd thought it'd be an amazing idea to fly to Berlin to deal with what would almost certainly become an all-out battle. At least he gained the experience he so desperately desired. 

“That sure gives me a bit to think about,” Wanda muttered. Then, louder, she said, “You shouldn’t have been involved.”

“Trust me, I know. Can’t change it now, I guess.”

“When I was 14, I was still braggin’ to people that Tony Stark broke into my garage a few years earlier.” It seemed that Harley may have been having an existential crisis over Peter’s age. “Meanwhile, you were up here throwin’ yourself around in the air, punchin’ baddies.”

“Harley, shut up,” Wanda scolded. “You still brag about that.”

Harley squawked indignantly. “I don't talk about it anymore!”

“You brought it up to Stark last week, liar.” 

Harley groaned, thumping his head down to lay in his arms. “I cannot believe you’re exposin' me like this.”

At that point, Vision left the kitchen to collect the rest of the team while Harley and Wanda continued to bicker. Wanda seemed to be finishing the dish, allowing it to rest in several covered pots while they waited for everyone to show up. Peter took that opportunity to collect plates and silverware, working out how many people would be eating. 10 people, including him and not including Vision (the android wouldn’t need a plate). Then there was also Colonel Rhodes, and surely Miss Potts, though he didn't really know where those two were. A large crowd, one he was certainly not used to.

As the team filed into the room, Peter helped Wanda set the table with the dishes laden with food. Chicken Paprikash was the main dish, she had told him. She and Vision had been practicing making it for quite a while, and it was routine for them at this point. There were other things, of course, including freshly baked bread that he had no idea she had been making. 

He took a seat at the table, with Harley sitting on his left side, and Natasha on his right. Knowing that he might receive comments from both of them if he did otherwise, he filled up his plate almost immediately. The fact that there was still enough food for leftovers after everyone had dished up soothed his guilt. He still probably took more than he needed, but he was patrolling that night, so he tried to justify his action with that. He apparently pleased Harley and Natasha by eating without them asking because neither of them swooped in with their usual comment and/or look indicating for him to get food. 

“So,” Natasha began, turning to face him slightly, “am I correct to assume that you’ll be patrolling tonight?” 

Peer felt a few pairs of eyes on him while he answered, “Duh. I’ve been gone a bit too long for my taste.” People could be dead simply because he had been on house arrest for two nights. He had to get back out as soon as he could.

“Would you mind if I joined?” she asked innocently.

Huh?

“What’s the catch?” She was probably trying to find out more about him, it came naturally to her. Maybe she got a secret order from Fury to supervise Peter while he was out working.

“No catch,” she assured, taking another bite of her meal. “I just wanted to get a more personal look at what you do every night. I can help, if you want.”

Matt had given Peter a rundown on how to tell if someone was lying based purely on hearing while he was teaching Peter to lie. Admittedly, Peter’s hearing wasn’t as good as Matt’s, but he could still hear heartbeats loud and clear. The whole human lie detector thing revolved around someone’s heart rate, and Matt was a pro at it. Peter himself was getting better at both ends of the spectrum: the detecting of lies and the telling of lies. A heart rate was certainly a difficult thing to control, and he had to focus if he ever wanted to lie to Matt. But being able to tell if someone was lying? Quite a bit easier.

And Peter thought Natasha was telling the truth.

Of course, she was a spy—a damn good one at that, notoriously so. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d be terrified of her, but lucky for him, he had the privilege of escaping her a multitude of times. There was a chance that she was able to control her heart rate enough to be able to lie to an enhanced person, but why would she put that much effort into lying about something as simple as patrol?

“Alright,” he decided, and her lips folded into a smile. “You can come, but fair warning—probably no aliens for tonight. And I’ll be working with Daredevil ’cause it’s been a while since he’s seen me.”

“Sounds good to me,” she agreed.

“Can I come with?” Rogers asked from where he was sitting across the table. 

Peter sighed, running his hand through his hair. “What’s with it with you guys? Why so hot and bothered to go fight some unfriendlies with me?”

Rogers grimaced at Peter’s words (no, Peter wasn’t smug about that), but soldiered on. “No malicious intent, I swear,” Rogers told him, but Peter just raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Look, I just want to learn more about how you fight in your natural element. If you’re going to be on the team, we’ll have to learn to work together. I’m just offering my assistance, just like Nat.”

“You make a fair point,” Peter allowed. The man was right, Peter generally fought differently while on patrol. He was more comfortable, that was for sure, and when he teamed up with Matt, they were like a well oiled machine. “Fine. But I’m gonna lay some ground rules.” 

At that point, the rest of the table had quieted their own conversations, and were listening more intently to Peter. He resisted the urge to shift underneath their watchful gazes. 

“Shoot,” Rogers said.

“Like I told Natasha, I’m working with Daredevil tonight. We know each other, and we work well together. Respect him, don’t anger him. He can and will hit you. We don’t use comms, seeing as we can hear each other from blocks away, so you two will need your own set of comms. Yes, Captain, I’m aware that you have good hearing as well, but it’s not nearly as good as mine or Daredevil’s, so suck on that. You guys will not be in control here—this is not your usual wheelhouse. If either me or Daredevil tell you to do something, do it. If we tell you not to do something, don’t do it. I get that you guys are used to being in control, but when was the last time you’ve roamed the streets of New York basically looking for danger? We know what goes on around here.”

Peter paused, eyeing them both to make sure they were paying attention, which they were.

“Moving on: let’s talk about transportation. Sometimes, the key is to be silent, so no motorcycles or anything. I usually swing, but sometimes I’ll take Daredevil’s approach, which is jumping across rooftops. I’m assuming you guys can handle that. Oh! Another thing is that we don’t kill. Maiming is permitted by Daredevil’s rules, and occasionally encouraged, depending on how shitty the baddie is. I guess you guys can bring guns or knives, but for the love of God, don’t do any fatal damage. It’s not what we do."

Natasha nodded warily, and Peter took that to mean that she was definitely bringing weapons, but she'd abide by his the "aim to injure, not kill" rule.

"One more thing. You might get hurt if tonight isn’t too mild. That’s not meant to be an offense against either of you, me and Daredevil get hurt all the time. I have a very small med-kit that I store within my suit, but it doesn’t have too much. No painkillers. If you get shot or something, it’s not too likely that you’ll want me to swing you to safety. If we’re near a safe location, you can be carried. But you should have your phones on you or something in case it’s not possible to get you aid soon enough and you need to call the Tower. Remember kids, safety third.”

No one responded immediately, but then Stark asked, “What comes before safety?”

“Petting dogs, and churros.”

“Makes sense.”

“Quite a hefty list of regulations,” Natasha commented, though not in a critiquing manner.

“I’m just surprised no one interrupted,” Peter responded, before shoving a forkful of chicken into his mouth.

-

Patrol.

It wasn’t exactly an Avengers-level ordeal. Though he didn’t know what it truly entailed for Spider-Man, he figured that New York crime rates were low enough that the vigilante seemed to have a good handle on it. Sometimes they'd gone out to try to capture Spider-Man while he was patrolling, but to be completely honest, they'd never really focused on what all he was doing. Well, Steve hadn't, at least. He'd been focused on his orders, and hadn't really considered that Spider-Man didn’t need to be brought in.

So no, Steve didn’t really know what he signed up for when he requested to join Spider-Man (Peter, a teen with a smart mouth who just wanted to do good) on his patrol.

Natasha and Steve had talked about it before dinner. She mentioned that she was just curious as to what Peter really did every night, and Steve had to agree. He wondered how much it was like when Peter fought the team. He'd noticed that every time he and Spidey had gone one-on-one, the vigilante’s style of fighting changed slightly. Peter was completely unpredictable, and the only thing Steve could rely on was coming home empty handed, his pride being the only casualty of the fight. Seeing how Peter functioned in his element would definitely aid Steve in figuring out where the teen would fit in on future missions.

The conversation went better than Steve had expected. He didn’t know how likely it was that Peter would let either of them come along, but he agreed after a few seconds to think. Steve was left to question what he would really be doing tonight when Peter made sure to explain what to do if they were injured. No matter; he’d had worse, definitely. 

Soon after dinner, Peter announced that he would suit up and be waiting for them in the common room. Steve and Nat hurried to their separate floors, and it was by sheer routine and habit that they ended up returning to the elevator at the same time. Nat tossed him a comm as she put her own in, though they didn’t even know if they would need it, and they stepped out to face the waiting vigilante. He already had the familiar mask on.

“Alright, noobs,” he announced, and Steve resolved to not question what that word meant. “We’ll meet up with Daredevil once we’re already out there.” He sighed, then went on, “I’ll swing with one of you, if that’s alright. Probably you, Natasha, ‘cause the Captain’s the one with the enhanced speed. We’ll get there faster if he’s the one running around on rooftops.”

Natasha winced, but nodded. “You do something new every day, I guess.”

“I believe the phrase is ‘learn something new every day,’ but I suppose you’ll be learning what it’s like to catapult through the air at 30 some miles per hour.”

Steve didn't envy Natasha.

“Some of these windows open, if that works,” Steve offered, gesturing to the large windows on one side of the room. “We can just leave through one of them.”

“That works for me,” Peter agreed, “but how will you get down?”

Steve walked over to the window, looking out. “It’s not too high up from that building right there. I’ll just jump onto the roof.”

While Peter snorted, Natasha requested FRIDAY to open the window closest to them. It receded into its slot in the ceiling, allowing for the freeze of November air to rush into the room. He glanced at Peter’s suit, which was an odd combination between a type of cloth and what looked to be spandex. Steve didn’t know anything about Spidey’s suit, but he hoped it was a bit more insulating than it looked. 

Peter turned to him, ticking his head towards the open window. “Go ahead and get a head start while I get Natasha situated. Look out for the bright red and blue blob and follow it.”

Steve nodded, glancing at Nat as Peter directed her to wrap around his torso and rest on his hip. She cast him a withering glare, but it was one he was used to, so Steve simply resisted a chuckle at her strife.    

This floor wasn’t too high up, considering. There was a rather tall building nearby, and if Steve aimed it right, he could launch himself out and safely land on the roof. Not giving it any more thought, he threw himself out of the window, pushing off the ledge of the Tower with his toes to give himself a more horizontal fall. The air rushing past him was exhilarating, and an experience he would never grow tired of. 

Though, he would admit to getting tired of slamming into concrete roofs. 

No, he didn’t slam, he landed elegantly in a roll, protected by the thick kevlar of his suit. That wasn’t to say that hurdling down onto a building didn’t rough him up a bit, though. 

Like Peter had warned, a bright red and blue blob passed him, illuminated by the constant onslaught of light provided by New York City. Steve ran and catapulted himself across the alleyway below him, continuing to run as soon as he landed on the next building. It might’ve been an odd sight, seeing Captain America jump from building to building when there was no danger in sight, but Steve was only concerned with tracking Peter. 

He followed Spidey until the boy finally landed on a nondescript building, possibly having been closed down. They had been heading west, and currently, they remained just outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Steve leapt across the final break in buildings to reach Peter just as the teen was removing Nat from his hold. 

“That was the worst roller coaster I’ve ever been on,” she muttered, trying to brush through her tangled hair. 

“You’re the one who wanted to patrol with me,” Peter reminded her. “You probably won’t have to swing with me again ‘cause we’ll be working mainly in this area, so you can just run and jump like a loser.”

“I’m sorry,” a deep voice said, startling Steve, “did I just hear you call me a loser?”

Steve whipped around, mimicking Nat. He was faced with a well-built man in a deep red costume, with some sort of billy club resting on his hip. A horned helmet covered the top half of his face.

“We can’t all be winners,” Peter teased the newcomer, walking forward to greet him. Steve stepped to the side to allow Peter to pass through and hold up his hand, fingers in the shape of an “L.”

“Why are they here?” the man demanded, gesturing vaguely at Steve and Nat. Steve tried not to feel offended.

“‘Cause they live to torment me, I don’t know,” Peter casually replied, before turning to Steve and Nat like an afterthought. “Kidding. They wanted to help out, I guess.”

If Steve could see Daredevil’s face, he was certain he’d see an eyeroll. “Sure.”

“It’s true,” Nat confirmed as she stepped closer to the duo. “We just wanted to see what he does out here, maybe help out if you guys need it.”

The older vigilante was quiet for a moment, before letting out a groan. “Dammit. Fine.” He pointed sharply at Steve. “One thing first.”

“DD, no—” Peter tried, but before Steve could wonder what the boy meant, a rock solid leg knocked into his side.

Caught by surprise, Steve yelped, stumbling back a step or two. The shock of the attack was just as evident as the pain it had caused. It was an impressively a well-executed kick, and Daredevil had a lot of power in behind it. If Steve wasn’t built like a brick, the kick would've be enough to knock him down, maybe break a rib. 

Before he could react, Nat had whipped out a taser, aiming it at the vigilante, who was back in his original position, calm and collected as ever. Spidey’s head was in his palm, exasperation radiating from his form.

“If I had done any more than that, Spidey would’ve been mad,” Daredevil explained. “That was for what you idiots did to my partner. Hopefully I can get you alone some other time.”

“Aw, Devil! I’m your partner?” Peter fawned, seemingly recovered from the situation.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Natasha, taser down,” Steve ordered, even as she was putting it back into the holster. “I deserved that,” he said, this time towards Daredevil. From what Steve had heard about the man, he was kind of glad that Peter was there. 

“Damn right,” the man huffed. “You guys are lucky that there’s a planned deal going on tonight. Might not have been able to handle it on my own.”

Here, Peter jumped in, his tone slightly more serious. “Brief me.”

“That gang we’ve been knocking out has a drug and weapons deal planned for tonight. Apparently, this deal is one that fuels at least three other branches of the group. I’ve got intel that says that there’re crates of opioids ready to be distributed. It’s set to happen about a mile west from here in an old machinery factory.”

“What weapons are we talking here?” Nat asked.

 Daredevil’s lips pulled into a tight line. “Not entirely sure. Most likely not your average Joe machine guns.”

“God, I hate creative weapon dealers,” Peter grumbled, kicking dirt around on the roof. “What’s wrong with a good ol’ fashioned glock?”

“You can trace the bullets,” Nat answered, monotone. 

“Then just don't shoot people! Not that hard.”

“Why don’t you tell them that when we get there,” Daredevil suggested, and started to walk to the edge of the roof.

“You know they never listen to me,” Peter complained, but followed the other man anyway. 

Steve glanced at Natasha, who shrugged, and they began walking towards the duo as well. Without warning, Daredevil ran the rest of the distance to the edge and jumped off. Doing what Steve had done not 10 minutes ago, the vigilante latched onto the ledge of a window on the next building over, and quickly pulled himself up. Peter shot one of his webs onto the corner of that same building, and swiftly followed the other man. 

“Guess we’re patrolling,” Nat concluded, and pulled the same move as Daredevil. Steve sighed, and followed suit.

Though Steve was the enhanced one, Daredevil kept a quick pace, his obvious familiarity with the setting showing in his every move. He jumped and climbed with expertise, nimbly landing onto lower buildings and speeding up the taller ones. Spidey didn’t act as if he was following the other vigilante anymore, clearly having an idea where the location was. They didn’t banter with each other, not while they were on the move. Or maybe they usually did, and Steve and Nat were just putting them off from their usual routine. 

Peter arrived at the building first, proving that he did, in fact, know exactly where Daredevil was talking about. The latter pulled himself up a few seconds later, Steve and Nat close behind him. Peter was crouched down, quiet, before he abruptly stood up to face the group. Well, mainly face the Avenger half of the group, seeing as the other vigilante was next to Peter.

“24 people,” Peter told them, and Steve wondered how he knew that from just standing on the roof. “20 on the main floor, four on the second. Devil?”

“The four on the second floor are snipers,” Daredevil continued immediately, and how did they know this? “One in each corner. There are eight people near the center of the place, unarmed, surrounding the crates of weapons. The drugs are off to the side. 12 people are scattered around the warehouse, all armed.”

“How do you guys know?” Natasha questioned, reading Steve’s mind.

Daredevil’s mouth opened to respond, but Peter cut him off with, “A magician never reveals their secrets.”

“You fucking nerd,” the older vigilante sighed.

Okay, then. “Right. Natasha and I can go in through the windows and take out the snipers. Spid—” Steve was cut off by a short noise of disagreement from Peter.

“Nuh-uh,” Peter denied as he wagged a finger. “Remember the ground rules, Captain. We’re the ones in charge.”

“Oh, I like that rule,” Daredevil hummed. “You tell ‘em about the No Killing Policy?”

“‘Course, who do you think I am?” Peter shook his head. “Alright, Devil, I’m gonna go seal the exits. I’m leaving the window right below us open so you guys can get in, and I’ll enter on the other side. I’ll be listening, so go ahead and explain the plan.” With that, Peter hopped off the side of the roof, and Steve heard the unmistakable sound of Spidey’s webs firing.

“So,  Captain,” the remaining vigilante began pointedly, “if we had gone with whatever you were about to say, the doors and windows would be wide open, and the shitheads in there would be able to get out once the attack began. Excellent strategy. Other than that, we’ll start like you said. Spidey can handle the snipers on his side, and I’ll get the ones on this side. Then we’ll jump down from the second floor and you and I will take out the armed men over here. You, Natasha, can get over to the other side of the factory and help Spidey with his men. We’ll probably be noticed by that point, so we’ll have to take out the men in the center quickly. Any questions?”

Both he and Nat shook their heads mutely. It was a good plan for on-the-spot thinking, and as long as they did everything silently, it’ll work fine.

“Rogers, don’t bring your shield,” Daredevil ordered, and before Steve could object, he explained, “Stealth. If you fling that thing and it comes in contact with the loads of metal in there, it’ll be so loud that Spidey might become deaf again. Leave it here.”

Steve conceded, and pulled his shield off his back to gently rest it in one of the roof’s corners. Daredevil gave him a curt nod. 

“Alright, Spidey, we’re heading in,” Daredevil quietly said. 

Peter must have responded just as quietly because soon the man nodded at them and slipped over the edge of the roof and through the window. It wasn’t exactly well lit in the old factory, but so far, everything that Peter and Daredevil had picked up seemed to be correct. It was dark enough that the snipers, both aimed at the small group in the center of the warehouse, didn't notice them come in. Steve assumed they were there in case someone tried to pull one over on another group. He could hear the members of whatever gangs were present negotiating their deal, but decided not to focus on them.

Across the building, he caught sight of Peter making quick work of the two snipers. He had opted to cover their mouths with webs right off the bat, and one of them was already down for the count, propped up against the wall.

Steve, on the other hand, was strangling his current victim, his hand pressed tightly to their mouth. He had to remember that he was aiming for unconsciousness rather than death, and was suddenly very guilty for the way he didn’t usually think about that. Of course, it wasn't really his goal to kill the guys he fought, but he…didn’t really mind if he did. That sounded awful. 

He let go of the person the second their eyes shut, and snuck up on the closest person to hit them with one swift knock across the head. It wouldn’t kill them, just cause them to wake up with a nasty concussion. He looked up to see that Daredevil had silently taken out three of the men. Steve looked around for the final person on their side, and his mind blanked when he heard shuffling behind him. He quickly turned, and watched as the man raised his gun to point at Steve and cocked it.

The factory fell dead silent at the unmistakable sound, and from across the floor, he heard Peter let out a curse.

And suddenly, everyone was scrambling. Daredevil ran past Steve and threw himself at the baddie before he had the chance to shoot. Steve started running towards the center of the building the same time Peter and Nat did, trying to take down the men in the middle. 

They were too fast, immediately cracking open the crates between them, whipping out weapons at random. Steve paused when he saw the guns they pulled out. The glowing guns.

“Goddammit!” Peter hissed, narrowly missing a beam of energy shot at him. “I take it back, these fuckers aren’t creative at all.” Steve watched as the boy expertly dodged another blast, before quickly yanking the gun out of the man’s hands with a web. “Where do you guys keep getting Chitauri guns? Chitauri ‘R’ Us? And why am I the one who always has to deal with it?” Before the man pulled another gun from the crate, Spidey ran forward and kicked the backs of the guy’s knees to force him to the ground, where he was soon covered by webs.

“Save all the questions until after we have them all beat,” Daredevil called, fighting off one of the guns as well.

And then Steve joined the motley crew, as he now was faced with a revamped version of what he had fought all those years ago.

“You seein’ this, Nat?” he yelled over to her, where she had knocked out a guy and was fighting a second. 

“Of course I am, Cap,” she huffed as she danced around the man trying to shoot her down. “I’m more curious about what Spidey said.”

“Which part?” the teen called, quickly making his way to the opened crates of guns. After Steve knocked his own attacker out, he watched as Peter latched onto the lid of a crate with a web, and pulled it just right so that it landed back on the crate. It was immediately webbed shut, leaving two more open crates.

“The part where you said you had to deal with these before!” Steve grunted, crouching down low in order to kick a new guy’s legs out from under him. He walked forward and gave a harsh punch to the nameless man’s face, knocking him out cold. He looked up, and noticed that the only men left were those in fights with the rest of the team.

“Oh, yeah! Sophomore year was rough, man.” As Daredevil was handling his situation, Peter moved over to help Nat knock out her third guy. They finished him off quickly, which caused Steve to notice how well their styles of fighting blended together. They were both graceful, acting as though sparring was some form of dance. Nat had kicked the baddie’s chin up, causing him to start to fall backwards, which Peter had countered with the same sweep-the-leg move Steve had pulled earlier. The man slammed onto the ground with a hard thud, and Nat stepped back to allow Peter to coat him with webs. It was an impressive team-up, and Steve made sure to remember that those two would match well on missions.  

Steve checked on Daredevil (the man had just delivered his final K.O.) before making his way over to the crates. He looked in one of the open ones to see stacks of modified Chitauri weapons. Nat made her way over to him, Peter by her side.

“What happened sophomore year?” she questioned, looking into the crates as well. 

“That guy Wanda told you about? The one who took down Mr. Stark’s plane? Name’s Adrian Toomes, and he made a hobby of dealing Chitauri weapons. A real pain in my ass, really. I wanted to go to Homecoming.” He heaved a deep sigh as he looked into the boxes, before turning to help Daredevil pick up the rest of the guns. 

“Why didn’t we know this happened?” Steve asked. The Chitauri were what brought the team together in the first place, their first battle. He thought that if something about them resurfaced, they would know about it. 

“The only things wrecked were a ferry, an empty school bus, and Mr. Stark’s plane. Other than that, I kept it pretty under control.” Steve imagined that Peter was eyeing the knocked out gang members underneath his mask. “Or so I thought.”

“You did good, Spidey,” Daredevil told him, his low-pitched voice taking on an undercurrent of fondness. 

“I thought so too!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Spent weeks going around New York and cleaning up all leads to the weapon distributors I could find. Looks like I missed a spot.”

Steve gently set a lid back on its crate before he made his way over to Peter. “Well, that spot’s been cleaned up. We’ll let SHIELD know about this stuff, and they can take care of it. What do you say we head back to the Tower? It’s been quite a night.”

Peter and Daredevil glanced at each other, before they both let out an incredulous laugh. Confused, Steve looked at Nat for what seemed like the 80th time in search for an explanation. She just shook her head, a small smile forming on her face. 

“Cap, come on now,” Peter said once he had recovered. “It’s been, like, what? An hour? Two hours? You think we just head home after one fight?” At Steve’s silence, Peter let out a snort. “It’s not even 10 o’clock yet, man. I’ve stayed out all night before. You guys can head back if you want, but I’ll check some more stuff out, thank you very much.” With that, Peter turned away, and made to shoot a web at the second floor’s ledge.

“Spider-Man,” Daredevil sighed, and Peter stopped short. “We’ve got to tip off the police.”

With a groan, Peter turned back around. “On it.”

“Hold up,” Nat intercepted. “SHIELD’s gotta handle this alien shit. I’ll call my contact.” She pulled out her phone from a side pocket on her pants, and quickly dialed a number before turning away to talk to an agent. 

“SHIELD,” Steve heard Daredevil grumble. “They’re always involved, aren’t they?”

“Too true, my man,” Peter nodded. He then turned to Steve, asking, “Are you staying with us, or not?”

Steve looked around the room, taking in the amount of men Peter had taken out all on his own. Peter definitely didn’t need to prove himself to the team, but if he had to, he just did. They didn’t really have a need to stay out with Peter and his aggressive devil friend, but at this point, Steve wanted to know more and more and more about what it was like for Peter out here. This was already a huge step from what Steve had imagined vigilantes dealt with, and he wanted to see the extent of it. 

Nat turned back to Steve slightly to catch his eye, and nodded. In turn, Steve nodded at Peter. Daredevil heaved a sigh. 

(They stayed out until 3 a.m.)

Chapter Text

“Natasha, c’mon, just drop me off on my floor,” Peter begged. “It’s fine.”

“Do you even have a med-kit up there?”

“I have some stuff!” 

“Humor me, then,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We need to check on Steve’s poor shoulder, and if it makes you feel better, I’ll bandage my hands. You’ll just be down there with us, and you’re welcome to the supplies we use.”

Peter sighed, looking first at Natasha’s raw knuckles, then at Steve’s obviously dislocated shoulder, then at his own hole in his suit. The hole extended to his undershirt as well, which revealed a slowly healing…burn? He didn’t know what the wound should be referred to as. He had gotten nicked by one of the alien guns earlier, and the feeling could be best compared to a severe burn. Healing was slow going because the alien injury almost seemed to want to encompass his body, and his healing was trying to counteract it. The fight was at a standstill, and Peter knew that if he just gave himself some medical attention, it would be enough to give his healing that extra kick. 

His only hesitation for accepting the aid was simply that he knew that the materials in the Medbay were approximately 20 times the quality of his own. He didn't want to get used to the exceptional treatment, seeing as he would soon be back out on the streets and would have to—

Wait.

No, he was an Avenger now, wasn’t he? His stay at the Tower was a little less temporary now. That meant he could let himself get used to the supplies, right?

“Fine,” he agreed, pretending to be a bit more begrudging than he was—he did need more tools than he possessed, after all. “But only because I am truly concerned for the Captain’s shoulder,” he teased. 

“You said you would call me Steve,” the man complained. “And stop bringing up my shoulder, guys. I said I was sorry.”

“One, it’s more fun to call you Captain when I’m making fun of you,” Peter grinned as they began to move out of the elevator into the sterile white of the Medbay. “Two, just because you apologized to DD doesn’t mean I will ever stop bringing that up.”

Steve had made the mistake of mentioning that he was impressed with Matt’s skills, and he suffered the consequences. Peter thought Steve would have to write the phrase “Daredevil does not exist to impress Captain America” on a chalkboard 50 times. 

“Fair’s fair,” Steve sighed, and pushed open the door to one of the exam rooms, immediately moving towards a cabinet next to the sink. Peter held back a snicker as the man attempted to open it with his bad arm, but quickly halted with a hiss of pain. 

Natasha huffed out a breath of laughter, but nonetheless moved forward to help Steve gather whatever materials he was aiming for. She pulled out a box filled with thick rolls of medical wrap tape. She calmly pushed him down on the small bed in the room, giving him a small warning before she gently rolled his shoulder back into place. Steve grimaced, but otherwise kept his expression of pain to a minimum as Natasha quickly and expertly wrapped the widest tape around the affected area, temporarily securing the shoulder in place. Peter assumed that Steve didn’t need a splint because whatever enhanced healing the man had would take care of the injury soon enough. 

As Natasha began to pull some tape for her knuckles, Peter started bustling around the room for the needed medical supplies. He could smell the antiseptic somewhere, so he found that first. He gathered several cotton pads, and figured he could start there. 

Leaning against the counter, he stripped down the top half of his suit, his mask already pulled off and set to the side. He carefully peeled his shirt up, biting his cheek as the action pulled at some of the dried blood. At closer inspection, he knew he would need to debride the wound, seeing as it was sort of resembling a third-degree burn. The charred skin probably should receive a skin graft in order to heal a bit better, but Peter usually got by with sewing what little remained of his skin shut and letting his healing do most of the work. 

Both Natasha and Steve were watching him closely as he began to douse the burn with the antiseptic he had found. When he could feel the tears rising in his eyes at the sensation, Natasha spoke up.

“You want any pain meds?”

He clenched his teeth in pain rather than frustration. “Nah,” he grunted. “Probably wouldn’t work on me.”

“We could get some of Steve and Bucky’s?” she suggested, slowly inching towards Peter as he picked up a cotton pad and cleaned the blood off from around the area. 

“I’m fine for now,” he dismissed, ignoring the conflicting voices in his head that either begged him to try the meds, or avoid them at all cost for fear of malicious intent. “Just about done anyway. Could you find me a surgical knife? Or, hell, even a normal knife, so long’s it's clean.”

They both paused long enough for Peter to look up at them, blinking away the blurriness in his vision. Natasha’s eyebrows were furrowed, and Steve looked like he wanted to object. And, knowing the Captain, he would certainly object. 

“You’re going to debride the wound by yourself?” he objected. (Called it.) “We can get a doctor down here, or Nat or I could do it.”

Peter rolled his eyes and moved away from the counter. “I’m good,” he hummed. “Just kinda wish I wasn’t on a search for knives at the moment.” He winced as he pulled on his wound while reaching for a random cabinet door.

Natasha sped in front of him to open a drawer containing a neat row of surgical knives. He smiled, and plucked one of the smaller ones out.

“Anesthesia?” she offered, apparently still trying to make this easier for him. Too bad Peter was already used to this dance.

“Won’t work on me,” he repeated, moving back to his spot by the counter. “I’ve had to do this before, and sometimes it was because of you. You’re the one who wanted me down here, so let me do my thing.” He emphasized his point by beginning the delicate process of removing some of the damaged skin mucking up his wound. 

Natasha finally conceded to his plan by pulling over a trash can so he could get rid of the tissue he removed. Steve got up to pull a needle, thread, and a pair of scissors from yet another drawer. He set them down next to Peter with a grim look on his face. Peter jerkily nodded his thanks.

No matter how many times he had to do this, no matter how much his pain tolerance had improved over the course of his vigilante career, it still hurt like hell. But even then he decided that having two Avengers silently and awkwardly standing over him was worse.

“This would probably—shit—” the needle pushed through the charred skin “—probably be a bit better if I were a masochist.”

Peter thought he saw concern flit across Natasha’s face before it was replaced with a small smirk. “I don’t think it’d be any better for us,” she commented, gesturing between her and Steve.

“You’re not the one sewing themself together," Peter pointed out. "Let me have this."

“I don’t want to talk about masochism with a 17-year-old,” Steve said, only slightly visibly uncomfortable.

“Sounds like you’re a coward,” Peter countered, deadpan.

A full-out grin twisted itself onto Natasha’s face. “Hearing someone call Captain America a coward has improved my entire standard of life. I can die in peace.”

FRIDAY’s voice cut through the Captain’s indignant sputtering. “Boss is requesting Spider-Man’s presence in his lab.”

“Ooooh, someone’s in trouble,” he mumbled, still focused on his task. Then: “Wait, shit, that’s me.”

“Sure is,” Natasha noted, her careful gaze dead set on Peter as he rushed through his last stitch. “Doubt you’re in trouble though.”

“Bullshit.” He snipped off the excess thread after tying it all together. “Getting called down to someone’s office always means you’re in trouble.” Peter had learned to associate Richard’s home office as a place dedicated to dishing out punishments. Of course, that wasn’t to say that he didn’t receive any spur of the moment lectures or quick slaps across the face anywhere else in the house, but Richard saved his more intense beatings for the office. 

He wondered what awaited him in Stark’s lab.

“Tony’s lab isn’t an office, it’s like a cave,” Steve told him. “Try to avoid stepping on random parts. Those’ll getcha.”

“Noted."

Having done what little he could with needle and thread, he reached for the gauze and wrappings that Natasha had also gotten for him. The rest of the healing would have to be left to his crazy biology, since the burn was still mainly an open wound.

After wrapping himself up, Peter stripped down the rest of his suit, only pulling at his injury slightly. That left him with a long sleeved shirt that had a hole in it and a pair of shorts. The outfit he wore underneath his suit was not always well-suited for the cold, but his suit was insulating. He was in the process of adding heaters to it, but finding parts was slow going. 

Peter bunched his suit up in his arms as he kicked the trashcan back into its original corner, then asked, “Do you guys want me to clean the supplies I used?”

Natasha eyed the bloody surgical knife and needle that laid on the countertop. “We’ll get them. Head down to the lab.”

He nodded at them both and swiftly left the room. He had almost reached the elevator when he heard Steve’s soft voice come from behind the closed door.

“That was probably one of the worst things I’ve ever had to watch,” he muttered, presumably to Natasha.

“He said he’s done it before. I don’t want to think about how often,” she replied, slightly more hushed than Steve was. 

People always forgot about his hearing. Even MJ and Ned talked about him when he left the pair, thinking that he wouldn’t be listening. It was never anything bad, of course, usually just concerned comments. He supposed that it was better that he could hear what others said behind his back, but when the elevator door shut, the sound proofing muffled his surroundings, and he could only hear the mechanics around him. He made no effort to get past the sound proofing, since it wasn't like the pair of Avengers hadn't started to cuss him out as soon as he left the room.

The elevator started moving down without his command, and Peter was once again reminded of how much of a constant presence FRIDAY was in the Tower. And that was when Peter finally realized that her constant presence meant that she knew his name; there was no doubt that she had catalogued it the second he introduced himself to Bruce. But every time she had talked to him, either directly or in passing mention, she had referred to him as Spider-Man. It felt like the A.I. acknowledged that his name was important to him, and mimicked what the Avengers did when they knew his name but were talking to him in front of people who didn’t. Peter’s respect for FRIDAY grew.

Though, if Stark had asked the A.I. for his name, she would have given it to him, right? And the man had definitely asked. 

The elevator doors opened to reveal a short corridor, the entrance to what Peter deduced was Stark’s lab. It had large windows, and the entrance door was transparent, so Peter could see the amount of tech that filled the room. Stark was in the center of it all, a few holograms pulled up around him, fiddling with something on his workbench. Peter heard the sounds of some kind of rock music through the somewhat soundproofed glass. ACDC, he belatedly realized.

He walked up to the door, and with some hesitation, knocked on the glass. The music’s volume quieted, and Stark looked up from his work to glance at the ceiling. Then the man’s eyes fell on Peter’s form in the doorway, and with a quick smile, he turned to tap a control on one of the holograms. The entrance flew open, and Peter was met with an intense amount of sensory input even before Peter entered the room. 

Into the giant space, Peter called, "Can I please come in?"

"Yeah, Spidey, that's why I wanted you down here." Stark stated it as if it were obvious, and maybe it was, but Peter couldn't let go of the itch to ask. But, now equipped with permission, Peter stepped into the lab. 

The music wasn’t all the way off, just softened. Somewhere in the lab, he could hear some sort of robot bustling about. Peter could hear Stark’s heartbeat underneath the more obvious sounds, the pace slightly faster than average, and a tinny echo followed the usual beat. There was the intense smell of metal, and the stench of oil directed Peter’s attention to an older car that Stark must have been working on. Mixing in with that was the smell of expensive coffee floating towards his nose. At least the lights in the lab were dimmed, a warm glow mixing with the blue of scattered holograms.

“Come hither, Spidey,” Stark beckoned, waving Peter over to his workbench.

“You know my name,” Peter said flatly as he walked over, heeding Cap’s warning about the random parts. 

To his credit, Stark only stilled for a fraction of a second. “I do.”

“Did you ask FRIDAY?”

“What do you expect of me, of course I did,” Stark affirmed. “But! That was a few days ago, and she didn’t tell me, the traitor. Something about not wanting to disclose information about a guest in the Tower that was meant to be kept private, blah, blah. ‘Course, I threatened to override her, but then realized that I am not a complete jackass and opted not to. Proud?”

“Certainly am,” Peter muttered, mentally adding FRIDAY to his list of the best things to ever exist. He set down his suit on the workbench in front of him, utilizing the small amount of clear space. “So, if you didn’t learn from FRIDAY, how’d you get my name?”

“Heard your lawyer buddy say it,” Stark explained. “Seems like a good man, by the way.”

Peter internally cringed at the reference to the whole debacle, realizing that Matt must have said his name during his panic attack. “Then I guess you can call me Peter, if you want.”

Stark’s lips pulled at a smile. “I’m honored.” He stood up to offer his hand to Peter. “Tony Stark, call me Tony. Nice to meet ya, Peter.”

Peter took the man’s hand and gave it a firm shake, his own lips quirking up. “I thought you were honored?”

Tony looked like he went through the five stages of grief in the second after Peter’s response. 

“I used to like dad jokes. Then I met Clint, and for some inexplicable reason, I switched to hating them.” Tony huffed, crossing his arms. “I changed my mind, I’m not giving you your gift.”

Peter’s eyebrows rose. “Gift?”

A smirk slipped its way onto Tony’s face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I asked a one word question,” Peter shrugged. “You decide.”

“Fine, you’ve got me, I’m beat, good game,” Tony rambled, already reaching for something set aside on his work bench. He straightened with a small boxy-thing (yes, Peter was indeed a genius) in hand. Tony tossed it to Peter, who caught it with ease.

Peter looked at the man for permission to open it, and Tony waved him on with a crinkle in his eyes. Peter lifted the top of the case and gently pulled out a pair of…hearing aids? Yeah, Peter had seen hearing aids before, and these were definitely them, if not about 50 times more subtle than what he had seen before. The wires were clear, and the earpiece was just a small piece of metal with an even smaller cushion on the inside.   

“I don’t really think I need a pair of hearing aids,” he hesitantly told the genius across from him. He didn’t want to reject a gift of any kind, of course, but it didn’t really make sense for him to own a pair. 

Tony threw his arms up in the air in a dramatic display of exasperation. “That’s what Harley said too! And—I can’t believe I have to say this again—hearing aids don’t have to improve your hearing to be able to help you.”

Peter squinted. “What does that even mean?”

“God, you and Harley are so alike, it’s scary. Can’t wait to see that shit unfold. Here, lemme explain what my genius little mind was thinking. You have enhanced hearing, we all know this, that was a redundant statement. But it’s so much stronger than what I had originally imagined, no offense. So that got me thinking: it’s got to be painful for you sometimes, doesn’t it? Well, obviously it can be, we know what went down in the warehouse. Sorry about that. But besides that, I know what sensory overloads are. You’ve surely had those, right? With hearing as strong as yours, there’s no way you haven't. Now, I don’t know exactly how strong your hearing is, but I figured that I could still help, maybe as a way of saying sorry, who knows. So! These hearing aids don’t improve your hearing, they dampen it. Not by a ton, ‘course, we wouldn’t want your powers to be shut down too much. But you can adjust how much sound your neat little ears pick up, and when things get to be a bit too overwhelming, these can help reverse that. What do ya think?”

No one had ever told Peter how much Tony Stark rambled.

His brain was still processing the rant, if he was honest. Tony, a man who he had yet to have a full one-on-one conversation with, had clocked the severity of Peter’s enhancements, and came up with a way to help him like it was the simplest thing in the world. It was slightly unsettling to Peter, really, just how thoughtful the gift was. The man was right, Peter had had plenty of sensory overloads before; they were like torture every time. And those still happened even after Peter had learned how to block out the smaller things that his hearing had no reason to pick up. On a day to day basis, the amount of effort Peter put into preventing himself from getting overwhelmed was monstrous. And here Tony was, offering him something that could make his life a hell of a lot easier.

In lieu of a response, Peter set down the case, and lifted one of the aids to his ear. It slipped in like it was made for him, and Peter was almost knocked back by the whiplash he felt. 

He took it right back out. 

Because. Holy fuck. 

Peter could have blacked out from the relief he felt with even just one aid in his ear. The sensation of his unbalanced hearing put him off slightly, just because damn, what a difference. 

His hands were shaking as he lifted both aids to his ears this time, the other slipping in with as much ease as the first one had. And suddenly, he couldn’t hear the footsteps coming from three floors above him where someone else was milling about the Tower at four in the morning. He couldn’t hear the sounds of clacking keyboards from the Stark Industries employees that really just needed to go home and get some sleep. He couldn’t hear the couple who had been having a shouting match in an apartment that was half a block away. Even Tony’s heartbeat was softened, and Peter had to focus in order to hear the metallic echo of the man’s arc reactor that had been oh-so clear just moments before.

He took a deep breath, and ripped the aids back out once more. 

He set them down on the workbench, planting his hands down beside them, and allowed the familiar onslaught of noise to wash over him again.

He took another deep breath.

“Is something wrong?” 

Peter lifted his head to glance at Tony, who had an odd look of concern on his face. Everyone was concerned for Peter nowadays. It was weird.

“No, well, kinda? But also God no.” Peter let his head fall back down after stammering out a response. 

“Thank you for the clear answer, I appreciate it,” Tony sarcastically returned. 

Peter took another deep breath. 

“It’s just—” He cut himself off as he gently picked up the aids once more, examining them with a completely unnecessary scrutiny. “It’s so much different. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Is it bad?”

Peter slipped the bastards in once more, this time anticipating the feeling of getting thrown out of his body. “No,” he decided. “Not bad. Just different. Hell, I would even dare to call it good.”

“Thank fuck,” Tony muttered. “How much do they change?”

Peter couldn’t give an exact response to that. “Enough,” was all he allowed.

“Too much? Too little?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Peter replied, gnawing on his lip slightly. 

“Well, if you ever want to adjust the level of ‘em, a tap to the left earpiece lets in more sound. A tap to the right one blocks more sound. Test it out.”

Peter tapped the left one, and the couple’s argument made itself known once more. He set his finger on the right one, and they were gone. 

“Wild,” he breathed. He had never really thought of making hearing aids for himself because even if he was technically classified as a genius, he wouldn’t argue if someone called him an idiot. Hearing aids, man. Don’t knock ‘em till you try ‘em. (Not that Peter had ever looked down on the use of hearing aids. The fuck, who would do that? Oh, no, wait, Flash did.)

“And Pepper says I’m shit at gift giving,” Tony said, a slight smugness coloring his voice. “Boom. Epic gift.”

“You know, I won’t disagree with you.” Peter tapped his right earpiece once more, and the static of FRIDAY’s speakers vanished. But when he realized that Tony’s heartbeat diminished too much for his liking, he quickly reversed his action. Peter didn't think he could go back to a world in which he couldn’t draw comfort from the steadiness of a heartbeat. “Uh. Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I would argue that I did,” Tony sighed. “Maybe make up for the past year a bit, hm? Plus, it wasn’t like it was hard. Think of it as a housewarming gift. A welcome to the team.”

“Did everyone get a set of these?”

It was a joke, but Tony gave him a serious answer. “Clint got a pair, but they’re the typical kind that improves your hearing. Everyone got weapons designed for them, and a place to live. Besides that, they get a few personal things every once in a while, cause I’m sweet like that. Don’t tell anyone that, though. The big and bad Tony Stark doesn’t give his family gifts.”

“You don’t seem too big and bad to me, man,” Peter snorted, resting his fingers on the case for his aids. “Good luck keeping up your public image.”

“Fine, then. No more gifts for you,” Tony huffed, but Peter caught sight of something behind the man. 

“Sure. What’s that?” he asked as he pointed at a hologram that displayed the blueprints for a special-looking pair of glasses. There was a small image of a spider in the corner of the plans, the same spider that was branded onto his hearing aids case.

Tony reached out behind him and pushed away the hologram. “Nothing.”

Peter nodded, smirking slightly. “Keep your secrets, then. I’m gonna head out then, if that’s chill.”

“Go ahead.”

“Right.” Peter picked up the case and his suit and started walking in the direction of the lab’s door. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Anytime, Spidey,” the man acknowledged, once again taking his seat at his workbench. 

Peter smiled to himself as he exited the lab and entered the elevator. He requested to be taken up to his shared floor, and he started moving up.

The tension dripped from his body. Tony’s lab was indeed much different than Richard’s office. 

Chapter Text

Harley got a call from Midtown just a few minutes before he was meaning to leave. No, the number wasn’t saved in his phone, he just recognized it from receiving so many calls from them. Harley wasn’t a troublemaker, so the calls were not meant to inform his guardians about fights and shit. They were meant to inform the household about anything from a generic and ignorable notice about parent-teacher conferences to a closure as a result of an alien invasion. 

This time, it was somewhere in between those two on Yikes Scale. 

“Termite infestation? Seriously?” Peter asked incredulously after Harley hung up the phone.

“Eavesdropper,” Harley accused, no heat behind his tone. He thumped his backpack back onto the ground and slipped out of his shoes, immediately taking advantage of the fact that the school was closed for the day while the exterminators came. 

“I am dropping zero eaves. Even with my fancy little aids, that automated voice on the other line was the loudest thing I have ever heard. Not my fault I overheard a little bit of that.”

Said fancy little aids were brought to Harley’s attention immediately after he had said good morning to Peter that morning. He had found the other in the kitchen, which seemed to be Peter's go-to spot for mornings, though he hadn't been eating anything. As soon as Harley made his presence known, Peter dove into an excited explanation of what Tony had given him and why. It was the most Harley had ever heard Peter talk at once, minus his monologue about the rules of his patrols.

Harley had listened with rapt attention, and no one needed to know that he was cataloguing what Peter’s face looked like when he was infodumping. 

“I believe that the good ol’ U.S. Constitution gave me a right to privacy,” Harley snarked.

“Oh!” Peter smiled, his voice easily taking on the same teasing tone that Harley’s had. “The U.S. Constitution is my favorite conspiracy theory. Did you know some people actually believe that it was written with the intent to give equal rights to all?”

“Darlin’, I’m from Tennessee. Everyone down there thinks that’s true.”

Peter’s expression froze, and Harley watched with mounting horror as a slight blush painted Peter’s cheeks. It was nowhere near the amount of red that had to be in Harley’s own.

Oh of course, Harley. Go right ahead and call the superhero that you find incredibly attractive darlin’.

God, it was too early in the morning for Harley to have a sane conversation with Peter. Though maybe he couldn’t really blame it on the time of day; at two in the morning, he’s stammering out that he would very much like for Peter to keep his arm laid over Harley’s back, and at five in the afternoon, he’s busy eyeing Peter moving through his workout regimen. Why would the story be any different now?

Thankfully, Peter seemed to recover faster than Harley did. “And I thought New York was filled with nutjobs,” he chuckled, the red in his features becoming less and less prominent. “Remind me to never visit Tennessee, no offense.”

Harley cleared his throat and willed himself to calm the fuck down and have a normal conversation. “None taken, I didn’t like it too much there myself.”

“From what I hear, I should hope not.” Peter tilted his head. “New York is quite a bit different than Small Town, Tennessee, yeah? You like it here?”

“For sure,” Harley said without hesitation. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t hate the quietness down there, but city life is fun. Plus, I didn't really wanna make a life out of bein’ a car mechanic. I’ve got more opportunities here, and I can finish off my high school education with somethin’ a bit more advanced, y’know?”

“I get that,” Peter hummed, smiling softly. 

When it felt like Peter wasn’t going to go on, Harley allowed himself to continue. “My mom and my sister are still in Rose Hill. I call ‘em both every day, but I still miss ‘em. They understood that it’d be good for me to get outta there, but I can’t help but feel like... I don't know. Like I left ‘em in the dust.”

Peter’s eyes softened. “Do you ever visit?”

“I’ve gone back down a few times. I see ‘em ‘bout once every other month.”

“You wanna know what I think?” Peter gently asked, seeming like he was genuinely asking for permission to share his thoughts. Harley nodded. “I think that you don’t have to worry about leaving them in the dust. You’re almost 18 anyway, right? Kids go to college at 17 or 18, if they choose to, and that’s just the way things are. I don’t think that it’s too much different if you end up choosing to live in New York. Some kids don’t keep too much contact with their families if they leave—which is their choice, no judgement here—so the fact that you call them every day is doing more than you think for your relationship with them. They’re happy for you, right?” Harley nodded again. “Good. That’s how it should be with family. You’re doing what’s good for you, they’re supporting you, and neither one of you are casting the other into the depths of hell.”

Harley snorted, grateful for the light-hearted quip Peter added. “Did you come up with all that on the spot?”

“Yep,” Peter popped, grinning. “Did it help?”

“Sure did. You’re pretty good at the whole impromptu therapy thing.” Scarily good. Seriously, Peter just pulled that out of his ass? Harley guessed that some people were just naturally good at dishing out comfort.

“Thank you, I’ll be here all week.” Harley lightly applauded as Peter swooped down in a dramatic bow. “Alright, moving past our daily deep conversation. What’re the plans for your day off?”

Harley shrugged, and ticked his head towards the common room. “Mario Kart?”

“I’m game,” Peter agreed, and walked out of the kitchen. He must have realized that Harley didn’t follow him, because he called for him from the next room over. 

“Just a sec,” he responded, quickly snatching a muffin from a cabinet. He lightly jogged into the common room and tossed it at Peter, who reached up to catch it without looking. When Peter caught sight of what was in his hand, he furrowed his eyebrows at Harley. “Eat it, dumbass.”

“Don’t you want me to eat it in the kitchen?” Peter wondered, already moving again to the other room. 

“What? Nah, you’re fine,” Harley assured, and felt his own confusion wash over him as Peter froze in his steps. “We eat in here all the time, so go nuts.”

Peter gave a quick glance towards the kitchen before retracing his steps. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Harley gently reminded, the phrase quickly becoming a commonplace in his conversations with Peter. “Just get your ass over here so I can destroy you at Mario Kart.”

As it turned out, even though Peter tried to convince Harley that he hadn’t played Mario Kart in nearly two years, the other teen was still very capable of embarrassing Harley at literally everything. 

“You’re cheating!” Harley exclaimed, the only evidence behind his claim being that Peter just got first place on the Rainbow Road course while Harley wound up in sixth. 

“Yes, I’m cheating,” Peter said with a grin and a roll of his eyes. “Because I spend all my free time looking up Mario Kart hacks with the phone I just got two days ago.”

“A criminal offense,” Harley muttered, before returning to the course select screen, choosing Moo Moo Meadows. Peter had beat him on that one too, but seeing as Harley had been just one spot behind him, he wanted to try again. 

Peter’s face soon took on his now-recognizable smug I’m beating you at your favorite course smirk when something in his expression shifted. (Maybe Harley could blame his numerous defeats on the fact that he was paying more attention to Peter than he was the game. Who could blame Harley if Peter’s smirk was as cute as it was infuriating?)

“Wanda’s up,” Peter vaguely told him. “Talking to Vision.”

Jesus, that boy could hear everything. “What’re they sayin’?”

Peter shot Harley a quick look and snorted. “I’m not gonna listen in on my friend and her boyfriend having a conversation. I only deem school closure calls important enough to pay attention to.”

Harley blinked, not believing how easily the thought of betraying Wanda’s privacy came to him. It wasn’t like that was what Harley had in mind, but he didn’t consider the rudeness of the idea until Peter rejected it. Self awareness was always like a slap to the face, he supposed. 

“Sorry,” he sheepishly replied. “Wasn’t really thinking ‘bout that.”

Peter gave a light hum as he started his final lap. “Nah, you’re good. A lot of people don’t, so you’re not the first to ask.”

“Right,” Harley nodded. “You said earlier that you always had to block out a lot of sounds. Are you blockin’ those two out now?”

“Yeah. It’s just like background noise, y’know? Same way normal people block out noises when they’re focused on something; it’s like that for me all the time.”

“Which is why Tony gave you the aids,” Harley continued. “So why don’t you just block more sound with ‘em, so you don’t have to be so focused all the time?”

“There’re certain sounds that I’m used to, and not being able to hear them makes me feel weird,” Peter explained, letting himself fall further back on the couch after he crossed the finish line. Harley, being only a few seconds behind him, left his vehicle to move past the line on its own as he joined Peter in the relaxed position. “Like, your heartbeat is super clear to me right now. I can block it out just as easily as voices or footsteps or what have you, so it’s not like it bothers me. But if I do this—" Peter tapped one of his aids “—unimportant sounds are more muffled, but so is your heartbeat. I can still hear it, ‘course, but it—I don’t know. I just feel better if it’s more obvious, y’know?” 

No, Harley didn’t really know, but he nodded anyway as Peter tapped the opposite aid to reset the input. He just had to get used to not understanding all the intricacies and effects of Peter’s enhancements. Sure, putting constant energy into ignoring sounds coming from every direction all the time sounded stressful to Harley, but if Peter had a reason for it, who was Harley to judge?

Harley was about to propose another round of getting his ass kicked (because Peter had stopped talking, but Harley didn’t want him to leave), but he caught sight of Wanda stepping into the kitchen. She was already dressed for the day, and she obviously planned on going somewhere, donning a thick sweater and jeans, shoes on and ready to go. Vision quietly floated in behind her, dressed to go out as well.

“Morning!” he called, drawing the pair’s attention to him and Peter. 

“I thought I heard you guys talking,” Wanda smiled brightly, hopping into the common room. “No school?”

Harley shook his head. “Termites.”

“Midtown’s a bunch of cowards,” she huffed. “Simply make friends with the termites. They have the right to an education too, you know.”

“Then they’ll pay tuition like the rest of us.”

Peter made a noise of objection. “Who says they can’t be on scholarship?”

“Point,” Wanda acknowledged. Then, continuing to hold her attention on Peter: “How would you feel about going shopping today?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up before he looked down to where he was pulling the pockets of his sweatpants inside out. “Well, I’m not too sure how well that’d work out for me.”

“You won’t be paying for anything, nerd,” she dismissed. “Stark pays for everything around here, what with being a billionaire and all.”

Peter’s mouth set into a firm line. “I don’t wan—”

“Nope!” Wanda interjected, lowering herself onto the floor to look up at Peter instead of down. “I am telling you that it is perfectly fine to let someone else take care of everything we do today. No one on the team has actual jobs anyway, so Stark made it clear that part of living here meant that he would take care of everything we need or want. You’re living here now, Peter. You need a few more things than whatever basic clothes are in your closet, hence the shopping.”

“She has a point,” Harley stage-whispered to Peter, trying to relieve the still evident crease in the other’s brows.

“Are—Are you sure?” Peter asked. “‘Cause really, I’m fine.”

“Completely sure,” Wanda assured. “It’ll be fun, I haven’t been out shopping in a while.”

Peter sighed, but to Harley’s relief, a small smile formed on his face. “Alright.”

“Amazing,” Wanda grinned, before turning to point at Harley. “Come with?”

“Duh,” he agreed without hesitation. He’d be an idiot not to. 

“Duh,” she repeated, nodding. “Peter, get dressed. I’m going to have breakfast.” She left for the kitchen, Vision still a quiet presence beside her.

Peter grabbed his controller and set it on a side table before bounding to his room. Harley mimicked his action before joining Wanda and Vision in the kitchen. Wanda was spreading a random jam on an english muffin.

“Are you comin’ too?” he asked Vision. 

“Yes,” Vision affirmed. “I’ll be taking on my human form seeing as we don’t want much attention drawn to us.”

“Oh, Wanda, are you wearin' a disguise?”

“Nah,” she said, words muffled as she chewed. “Just a beanie. You know I’m not the most recognizable on the team.”

Harley hummed as he heard Peter’s door gently close. He stepped into the kitchen wearing an old and worn long sleeve shirt, an even more old and worn pair of jeans, and a pair of Converse that were down-right ratty. To his credit, Peter held a clean and generic jacket in his arms that Harley recognized to be one of the ones provided to guests. 

“We’re taking the subway, right?” Peter asked, looking between the three of them. 

“Unless you guys want me to drive,” Harley shrugged. “Or we could see if Happy’ll drive us.” 

“Subway’s good,” Wanda quickly said. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on one. We can just have a normal day out, yeah?”

They all let out noises of agreement as Wanda shoved the rest of her breakfast in her mouth. Vision procured her purse for her, and Harley laid a hand on his pocket to make sure he had his wallet and phone. 

“I texted Nat that we’re having a day out so they don’t wonder where we are,” Wanda told them as they moved into the elevator. “Lobby, please, Fri.”

The ride down to the lobby was a long one, but soon they were out of the Tower and complaining about the cold as if they weren’t a posse of superheroes. Peter led them to the subway, having been the one to ride it the most out of any of them. Harley certainly didn’t frequent it, preferring to drive himself around, and Wanda and Vision usually just walked places when they went out. Peter didn’t even look at the maps thrown up on the walls to know which trains they would have to take in order to get to the Green Acres Mall. They all chose to stand on the train, though Wanda mumbled something about the griminess of the bars. And when Harley embarrassingly began to fall backwards as the train started moving, Peter’s arm was around his back in an instant, stopping the motion. 

“What a gentleman,” Harley laughed once Peter had removed his chilled hand, to which Peter shoved him back once more, rolling his eyes. 

They filed out of the traincar at their station, and Peter once more led them to fresh air and across the street to the mall.

Wanda stopped them soon after entering the bustling shopping center. “Vision and I wanted to check out a few specific stores, so it might be good if we split up. That okay?”

“It’s cool with me,” Harley agreed, glancing at Peter, who nodded with a smile. “We’ll text where and when we wanna meet up.”

Wanda turned away with a light wave. “See ya!” she called, and Harley did a double take at the conniving nature of her grin. 

A few seconds later, after he and Peter had started walking in the other direction, he felt his phone vibrate with a message.

off brand houdini: have fun on ur date ;)

That explained it. 

Harley blindly typed out a quick response that was either a keysmash or a swear word before shoving his phone back in his pocket. Peter seemed to be none the wiser of neither Wanda’s schemes nor Harley’s reaction to said schemes. But he also seemed to have no idea what he was doing, hesitation in his every move, and it looked like Harley would be taking control of this.

“We’re gettin’ you some new shoes,” Harley decided, once more catching a glance of Peter’s shoes, realizing that the left heel was worn down enough to give Harley a peek at Peter’s sock. 

“Oh? Something wrong with these?” Peter asked, faking obliviousness, kicking his feet out slightly as he walked. 

“Nothin’s wrong with ‘em,” Harley assured. “But am I correct to assume that those are your only pair of shoes?”

“I’m not even sure how you came to that conclusion,” Peter retorted, his voice coated with self-aware sarcasm. 

Harley raised an eyebrow, and recalled their conversation from the other day. “You said that the stuff you owned wouldn’t be able to fill up moving boxes. Plus, I’ve been in your room. Pretty bare bones, man.”

Peter winced, and Harley almost regretted calling him out. “Got me there.”

So they went into the first shoe store they could find, and Peter immediately moved towards the clearance shelves. Harley just sighed, and beckoned Peter over to the regularly priced racks. 

“We told you,” he reminded, “that you don’t need to worry about money. Get what you want, Pete.”

“But shoes can be so expensive,” Peter muttered, eyeing the price tag on a pair of high-top Converse. The ones on the shelves were a nice maroon, a good color deviation from Peter’s current black Converse.  

“Hey,” Harley gently tried, and reached out his hand to hover over Peter’s shoulder. “May I?” Peter nodded, and Harley rested his hand on the other’s tense body. “I get it, man. I wasn’t too well off in Tennessee, and Tony’s custom of buying whatever he lays his eyes on took a while to grow on me. Hell, I’m still not completely used to it. But you deserve anythin’ you want, Pete, and money’s certainly not an issue for us. Now, if you are truly uncomfortable with buying anythin’ here, I won’t make you. But let us treat you, okay?”

Peter groaned, and let his head fall forwards. He was close enough to Harley that his fluffy hair brushed against Harley’s neck, and goddammit now was not the time, Harley.

“Thank you,” he heard Peter softly mumble, and Harley grinned in victory. 

“No problem,” he easily replied. “What’s your shoe size?”

Peter responded by moving towards the maroon pair of shoes and plucking a box from the pile. They drifted around the store, Harley pointing out what shoes he thought would be good for Peter, and Peter returning the favor. In the end, Peter left with just two pairs of shoes, one being the classic maroon Converse, and the other a pair of basic Nikes. Harley himself had a pair of Vans that he wanted to try out. 

Peter offered to hold Harley’s bag for him, to which Harley denied, but called him a gentleman for, and Peter once more shoved Harley a few steps away. 

They wandered around the (frankly too large) mall, neither of them having too much of an idea of where everything was. They passed a store for women’s apparel that was called Rainbow, and Peter, without hesitation, pointed at it and simply said, “Me.”

Harley couldn’t help but bark out a laugh and copy Peter’s action. Peter’s resulting smile was one of relief, Harley noted. 

They were in a Journey’s when Peter told him that Harley didn’t have to ask to touch him anymore. 

“Blanket consent,” he explained. “I’m, uh, comfortable enough around you that I trust you to touch me and not, like, y’know.” (Harley didn’t know, but he certainly wouldn’t do it.) “Yeah. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do anything too extreme, like touch my hair or anything, but like. Everything else is fine. And I need to be able to take this back at any point in time without you disrespecting that. But I don’t think you would do that. So. Yeah.”

Peter trusted Harley. Or, trusted him enough to grant him a rather large step up in the boundaries area. An odd feeling radiated throughout Harley, and though he couldn’t place it, he knew it was good. Harley could finally give in to the urge to lay casual pats on Peter’s back, or nudge him when they’re teasing each other. Peter trusted Harley. 

“Thank you,” Harley said, trying to shake the awe out of his voice. “I wouldn’t do anythin’ to make you uncomfortable on purpose, and I’m happy you know that. Thanks for trustin’ me, Pete.”

Peter’s face flushed, and he gave a curt nod before quickly turning in the other direction to study a baseball hat that he would never wear.

God, he was cute.

They had just walked out of the Old Navy with a single shirt in tow when Harley’s stomach growled, and he was slapped with a realization. “Shit,” he cursed, and Peter’s head quickly turned towards him. “You need food.”

“Everyone does, generally,” Peter replied, completely glossing over the fact that Peter needed food. 

“Pete, it’s a bit after noon,” Harley stressed, eyeing his phone screen. “You haven’t eaten since seven. If I’m hungry, you’re starving, Spidey.”

Peter’s eyes widened almost comically. “Say that a little louder next time, Harls!” he whispered, and no, Harley, now was not the time to think about “Harls."

“I’m sorry, but Pete, you’ve gotta tell me if you start feelin’ hungry. I don’t know how fast your metabolism is, but I’m not an idiot, I know it’s certainly way faster than mine. Come on, we’re acquiring lunch.”

“I was fine,” Peter grumbled, but allowed himself to be pulled along by Harley’s grasp on his hand, his plentiful bags knocking up against his body at the quick pace.

“I’m sure you were.” Harley made sure to roll his eyes very pointedly at Peter.

Harley dragged the dumbass to the Applebee’s he had spotted earlier. The hostess led them to a table near the entrance, just outside the door, where they quickly relieved themselves of their bags. 

“So,” Peter started, picking up the menu they were handed. “Will you be taking the Apple or the Bees?”

Harley looked up from his own menu with a quirk in his brows. “Bees?”

Peter’s face lit up. “He chose the Bees!”

Harley, in his confusion, caught sight of a very tired-looking young waiter letting out a quick laugh as they walked by. 

In the end, he didn’t get the bees, instead choosing a salad, much to Peter’s chagrin. Peter ordered something with an apple listed as one of the ingredients and laughed to himself about it. Harley found himself grinning along, and was reluctant to check his phone when he felt two messages in quick succession.

off brand houdini: [image attached]

off brand houdini: these bitches gay!! good for them, good for them

Harley’s head whipped up, quickly looking around him for the other pair that had to be around somewhere. They had to be close because the picture that Wanda sent was one of him and Peter sitting at their table, Peter laughing as Harley looked on. Neither she nor Vision were in sight. Bastards.

you: i can and will murder you. a promise, not a threat.

“Something wrong?” Peter asked, concern quickly replacing the joy in his features.

“No,” Harley immediately assured. “No, Wanda’s just being a little bitch.”

Peter smirked and his head fell into a deep nod. Some of the tension Peter had started the day with had noticeably melted away, and his eyes were still full of mirth. His cheeks had a nice color to them, and he was quicker to laugh.

Nope. Nothing wrong whatsoever.

Chapter Text

Peter had never been able to call himself extroverted.

It was often difficult to balance his craving for human interaction with his very limited social battery. He used to have a higher tolerance for socializing, back when he saw his best friend and girlfriend everyday. He would still need his alone time to recharge, but their company didn’t tire him out too severely. Plus, they knew him well enough to not be bothered by the fact that he would zone out during conversations or close in on himself.

But for the past year and a half, Peter’s interactions with people were limited to the time he spent with Matt, and sometimes Foggy and Karen, hence the dwindled social tolerance.

He spent a good six hours out and about today, and while it was fun to spend it all with Harley, Wanda, and Vision, he was fucking worn out. They got back to the Tower, his arms full of things that he didn’t need, and Peter knew that he needed to get away for the time being. They would understand, right?

They got out of the elevator on their floor, and Peter made his move.

“Uh, I’ll be in my room if you need me,” he told the other three, rather awkwardly. “If that’s alright.”

There was a twitch in Harley’s brows, but regardless, the boy nodded. “‘Course. Take somethin' from the kitchen with you, okay?”

“Okay,” he echoed, quickly moving into the kitchen and snatching an apple from the bowl that laid on the table. He left the room even more quickly, giving a short wave to his watching friends.

“See you later,” Wanda called after him, and he hoped his responding hum was projected enough for her to hear. 

He entered his room with a sigh, but he frowned when Harley’s voice floated up to his ears. Peter really didn’t want to have to think about any conversations anymore, so he used his hearing aids to his advantage, adjusting them to help him ignore what his friends were talking about. 

He thumped his bags on the floor, then looked at them with a frown, and resolutely picked them back up to deposit them in his closet. Whenever he looked at them, he was reminded of how much he didn’t need any of that shit. And, even more than that, he hadn’t paid for any of it. They were bought for him, by a man whom Peter'd had one (1) positive interaction with. 

Peter didn’t deserve anything in those bags. So, for now, they would reside in his closet where he wouldn't have to think of them, or be racked with guilt every time he was in his room. 

He tenderly sat himself down on the carpeted floor, shutting his eyes with a steady inhale, exhale. Then he was reminded of the shiny red apple in his hand, a solid weight that was cool to the touch. He contemplated it, scrutinized it, but then decided that there was no reason not to eat it. Harley wanted him to. Peter was hungry. Add those two together, and eating the apple seemed like a logical decision to come to. 

The sharp crunch of his bite cut through the quiet of his room, and his chewing was loud in his ears. He tapped his right aid. The sound of Wanda’s footsteps dimmed.

Even though he was exhausted, Peter had fun with his friends. It felt nice to get out of the Tower and be Peter, not Spider-Man. His activities were reminiscent of the good ol’ days. He, Ned, and MJ didn’t frequent malls, but they rode the subway together plenty of times. They always joined Peter in standing up on the trains, and, like Wanda, MJ had a distaste for the amount of grime on the bars. 

Wanda and Vision had left Peter and Harley early on in their adventure, but Peter didn’t find himself minding that all too much. 

Conversations with Harley came easy. Gaming with Harley was relaxing. Shopping with Harley felt natural. Eating with Harley was lighthearted. 

Harley, Harley, Harley.

Peter needed to address this. This, whatever it was. The heat that rose to his cheeks when Harley made a comment that felt a little too much like flirting. The stutter in his heart when Harley fell asleep on his shoulder in the middle of watching a movie with him. The fond feeling deep in his soul that popped up when Harley pouted about getting his ass kicked in Mario Kart. The amount of trust he had in Harley so soon in their friendship. The way that when Peter couldn’t find it within himself to make eye contact with the other, he centered in on the permanent dimple on Harley’s left cheek. 

Peter needed to address this because he knew what this was. This was starting to feel all too similar to the way he felt about MJ. 

And, well. Fuck. Fuck that so hard. 

Peter was confident in his sexuality. This wasn’t about that.

It was about how…how Peter couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He didn’t even know where to start. 

Actually, he did: no fucking way did Harley like him like that. Just because someone was gay didn’t mean that they automatically liked every person of the same gender they laid their eyes on. Peter was this random kid who had moved into Harley’s home after a year of fighting with his family. Peter was lucky that Harley tolerated his presence, much less thought of him as a friend. (That was assuming that Harley thought of Peter as a friend. Peter thought, hoped, he did.) 

Now, Peter wasn’t blind (anymore). He could tell that Harley sometimes slipped up, blushing slightly if he said something a little off-kilter. Like darlin’ from this morning. A slip up, something off-kilter. The red in Harley’s cheeks probably had something to do with the fact that he didn’t mean to call his friend darlin’. 

Don’t even get Peter started on how they physically compared to each other. Harley was fucking built. He had wide shoulders, and though he was only slightly taller than Peter, it felt like the other teen towered over him. Sure, Peter had a toned stomach, and some noticeable muscles in his arms and legs. But he was still skinny, his malnourished body displaying his collarbone a little too prominently, his ribs poking out unnaturally when he maneuvered his body. His body just wasn’t that appealing. And, from what Peter caught sight of in windows and mirrors before turning away, Peter’s zombie-like appearance had only lessened slightly from a few days ago. His face still too pale, his cheeks still too hollow, his eyebags still too dark. Standing next to Harley must have made Peter look like a ghost.

Peter knew where to start. Harley didn’t like him like that. But Peter also knew how to continue: MJ died less than two years ago. 

Yeah.

MJ died less than two years ago, a result of a drive-by shooting that Peter should have been able to stop. She went too quick, and with her went Peter’s everything. Peter may as well have stopped breathing the same time that she did, but no, he still had an aunt to go home to. That changed soon enough, but that wasn’t what Peter was talking about here. 

MJ died less than two years ago. Peter couldn’t just get into another relationship when his last one had ended with his partner dying. 

Shit.  

MJ died less than two years ago, so why the fuck was Peter even thinking about the freckle that dotted the spot right next to Harley’s dimple?

Guilt panged throughout him whenever he added another tick to his mental list of Why Harley Keener Is Amazing. Guilt, so much fucking guilt for the way he was just moving past MJ. Sadness, because then he would be hit with a wave of mourning. Then the burning sense of hate, not for anyone else, no, but for himself, because why would he do that to MJ? Why would he do that to Harley? 

If MJ ended up dead, who was to say Harley wouldn’t end up the same way?

Hot, searing hot tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks. The first was slow. It trickled down his cheek, getting dangerously close to running into the corner of his lip, but it narrowly missed, instead pooling at his jaw. The second was quicker, dropping from the other side, yet drifting far enough to join the first drop in its spot. 

Peter made the mistake of not wiping them away immediately, and his entire back jolted at the feeling of having his tears hanging onto his skin, but not dropping onto his shirt. He swiped at them furiously, and sudden, new, frustrated tears welled up at the feeling of the pads of his fingers against his face. 

And now his fingers were wet with drying tears, and he might as well have been able to feel every water molecule settling into his skin. 

Now this? This was a familiar path, one Peter knew extremely well, which was why he wasn’t shocked when he quickly became hyper-aware of the feeling of his shirt against his back, the dirt beneath his short and ripped up fingernails, the fibers of his socks rubbing up against his feet, the taste of the apple that resided in his mouth, the strands of hair against the back of his neck and over his ears, the weight of his new hearing aids resting in his ears, the feeling of his blood pulsing through his body, the germs on his hands that he had yet to wash away, the puffs of his breaths tickling against the small and light hairs on his upper lip, the feeling of his pulse in his hands, the urge to scrape, scrape, scrape at his skin until every single bit of him was raw, but at least he wouldn’t have to feel everything.  

Fucking hell. 

Peter should have seen a sensory overload coming, what with being so completely and utterly drained, but he didn’t have time to curse his past self because shit, lights were too goddamn bright, and fuck, sounds were too goddamn loud.

He—

Fucking hell.

Too much.

Sounds were loud. Sound were loud and he had hearing aids but shit shit shit, no, those would need to vacate his ears immediately because fuck he could feel everything and shit, he— The earpiece— Fuck—

He ripped out the hearing aids, and shit, goddammit, shit, sounds were loud.

He couldn’t block them out, he couldn't block them out, he couldn't block them out, they wouldn't stop.

Conversations. Heartbeats. Footsteps. Car horns. The sound of him swallowing accumulated spit. All overlapping. 

Peter was in the seventh circle of hell, bordering on the eighth, and there was no end in sight.

Socks. Socks off his feet, now. But fuck—carpet? Carpet was also bad. Need to get off carpet but leaving required opening his scrunched-up eyes and fuck fucking shit no way in hell could he do that.

More tears. Hot, searing hot tears. Down his cheeks, squeaking out behind his closed eyelids. Couldn't wipe them away. Skin on skin was bad. Shit.

Peter regretted eating that apple. The stickiness of it had yet to leave Peter’s tongue, and his mouth was a weird mix between too wet and too dry. Bits of skin from the apple were lodged between his teeth.

He wanted to scream. But screaming would be loud, he would be able to feel his vocal cords vibrating, so Peter didn’t scream.

Carpet. Needed to get off the carpet. Eyes stay shut, just find the door. One painful step in front of the other, find the door, ignore the sound of jeans rustling, the feeling of denim chafing against thighs.

He flinched back when his hand finally touched the door, but pushed through because carpet sucked.

The hallway didn’t have carpet, it had cool and clean floors. But Peter was an idiot, and Peter took no comfort in the hallway, because Peter had a routine with sensory overloads. Find a corner on the ceiling and hide. Curl up in a ball, protect himself from the sounds, the feelings, the light, the world. The hallway was exposed, no good ceiling corners that he was aware of.

Kitchen. The kitchen had hard, clean floors, but shit, Peter could smell every piece of food in that room from where he was. Not the kitchen, then.

The common room had carpet, so that was a no-go. Peter was trying to think of a place, a safe place, but how could he think of a place when his heart was beating in his ears and he truly didn’t know the Tower that well?

Someone just got in a car crash. A pretty bad one, judging by the way it echoed in Peter’s head, a cacophony of metal on metal, a child crying. Peter took about half a second to be concerned before a whine escaped his lips and he resisted the urge to fall to the ground in the middle of the hallway. 

He didn’t know how much longer he could stand. He needed to find a place he could hide, a quiet place, a safe place, a private place—

The elevator.

The elevator had some sound proofing, certainly not enough to block out any important sounds, but it was smooth, clean, private, small. He knew the way to the elevator too, so he could stumble there with scrunched-up eyes. 

It hurt to press the button, and the sound of the doors opening screeched against his ears. But there was no carpet, so it was better than nothing.

The elevator’s sounds were practically nothing compared to the sounds of the world around him, so he allowed himself to latch onto the wall, biting his lip at the contact (and then he could feel the blood flowing to his bottom lip), and scurry up to the corner. The fetal position was familiar and safe, and he folded in on himself, flinching at the way his clothes pressed further at his body. Like habit, his hands came up to cover his ears. They pressed against his skin, the grip almost bruising, but it was familiar, safe. 

His skin itched. Itched so intensely that he was tempted to remove his hands from his ears to satisfy it, but Peter knew better. Stick to the sensory overload routine, and it would all be better soon.

Soon, but not yet, seeing as Peter could hear what felt like every conversation in New York. 

“—old me that she thought they’d ha—”

“—ention, so I’ll have to pick them up lat—”

“—ease have a large iced latte, add extra cr—”

“—on, let me try again, I can’t just let yo—”

“—ight back, I’ve just gotta get something fr—”

“What the fuck?!”

A strangled sound rose from Peter’s throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, the sound grating against his ears. That last one was from a few feet away, and God, fuck, someone was in the elevator with him, and they—they were—

“Oh shit—Peter?”

They were so close, so loud, and Peter didn’t know who it was, just that they were breathing loudly, that they were walking closer, that they just swallowed, that they were wearing cologne that probably would’ve smelled good if Peter couldn’t smell every single chemical in it.

“Peter, you alright there? Harley, c’mere, something’s up with Peter.”

And then there was another person there, Harley, and already Harley was doing 10 times better than the other person because Harley wasn’t wearing cologne. 

“Pete?” Harley whispered, and even though the single word still made Peter want to rip his ears off, it was better than whoever had just been talking. “What’s wrong?”

Peter didn’t really favor responding to that because the idea of his own voice ringing out in his head could probably be classified as a form of torture. Instead, he chose to squeeze his hands closer to his ears because now there were two people in the elevator and he could only hope that no more joined them.

“Are you havin’ a panic attack?”

Was he having a panic attack? He didn't think so, he was having a sensory overload, but the fact that he couldn’t completely control his rapid breathing at the moment certainly made it look like he was having a panic attack. That and the pure panic lacing through his body, but Harley wasn’t able to see that. 

Peter made the effort to acknowledge Harley by shaking his head no, but shit, now his head was spinning and God, could he not just act like a normal person without toeing the line of torment?

“Alright,” Harley said calmly, and Peter listened as the other person walked away. Harley stepped closer to Peter, and Peter couldn’t do anything to stop him. “Can you talk? Tell me what’s wrong?”

Someone, somewhere, was yelling at someone else, a flurry of curse words and insults leaving their lips, and Peter wanted to punch them for more than one reason. 

Peter didn’t think he could talk, but dammit, Harley wanted him to. Harley was worried, Harley didn’t know what was going on, Harley was trying to help him, Harley, Harley, Harley.

“Ev-Ev’rything,” Peter panted, quickly followed by a hoarse whine that he couldn’t resist because wow, he was not wrong about how the sound of his voice would ricochet in his ears.

“Everything?” Harley repeated under his breath, and Peter wished that the teen could just think inside his head. Harley, having apparently heard Peter’s mental plea, was silent for a few moments, until: “Sensory overload?”

Peter had never been more thankful for how much Harley paid attention to their conversations than he was now. Harley was able to put that together extremely well for someone who had never witnessed one of Peter’s overloads. 

Peter nodded, and really, he had to stop moving so much. 

“Okay,” Harley murmured, softening his voice so intensely that Peter questioned how he was able to do it. “I'm gonna try ‘n help, alright? You can hear my heartbeat, right?” Peter could indeed. “I want you to focus on it. Zero in on it, try to ignore everythin’ else.” 

Peter choked on his next rapid inhale. Harley was going to help him?

Of course he was. He was Harley. Harley helped people.

Peter did as Harley asked, pinpointing his heartbeat among the dozens that were rattling in his ears. He somehow caught hold of it after a good few seconds of trying to narrow his hearing down. Harley’s heartbeat was a steady thing, though slightly more accelerated than usual. The familiarity of the sound comforted him, and Peter was just about to let himself get lost in it until his own heartbeat mixed in. He couldn’t ignore his own, not when it was so loud, and not when it was so much faster than Harley’s. The tempos clashed, only syncing up once every four or so beats. Peter had to get his heartbeat to match Harley’s because at this point, Harley’s was almost getting drowned out. Peter’s heartbeat was ruining Harley’s, ruining the calm and ruining the steadiness, but it wouldn’t be ruined if Peter could just get his to match. 

In for four, Ben, May, Ned, MJ, and Matt had told him, through his nose. Hold for seven. Out for eight, they had all said, through his mouth. A recipe for a calmer pulse, a steadier pulse, a pulse to match Harley’s. Breathe in, two, three, four. Hold for seven. Breathe out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Breathe in again before there was time to panic.

Breathe. Listen to Harley’s heartbeat.

Peter’s matched. 

The only sounds to exist were Peter’s and Harley’s matching heartbeats, the only taste to exist was the taste of Peter’s spit, and the only smell to exist was Harley’s, which was a mix between oranges and the faded scent of mint toothpaste.

The only things Peter could see were the bright spots that dotted the eyelids of his tightly shut eyes. Against his better judgement, he slowly opened them, squinting to take in the sight of the elevator. Bright. Not too bright, though. His eyes quickly found Harley, who had his hands seemingly subconsciously extended towards Peter. He looked calm, save for the concerned and focused twist in his eyebrows.

A small smile formed on Harley’s face as Peter tenderly removed his hands from his ears, dislodging his fingernails from his skin. With a quick glance at them, he noticed they were tainted with blood, and he winced. He couldn’t let his mind linger on that, lest he be sent into another overload.  

“Pete?” Harley quietly called, and Peter let his eyes fall on him again. “You with me?”

Peter gave a slow nod with a focused inhale, exhale. “Uh. Yeah,” he breathed, and, though he grimaced at the sound of his own voice, it was so much better than it had been a few minutes ago. “I, um. I need to wash my hands.”

“Okay,” Harley nodded, turning around to manually press the button for their floor, rather than ask FRIDAY. Peter was grateful.

Peter gingerly unfurled his body, toeing down to the ground from his corner. Harley turned back to him, and Peter hunched in on himself at the soft, tender, look in his eyes. Peter didn’t want Harley to pity him, but concern, Peter decided, was different from pity.

Peter flinched minutely at the ding that cut through the quietness of the elevator, and Harley’s hand jumped up from its spot at his side as if to comfort him. He stilled before he came into contact with Peter, and his hand returned to his side. Peter found himself appreciative yet mournful at the same time as they exited the elevator.

Peter quickly turned into the kitchen, urgently turning on the sink faucet and coating his hands with soap that was too scented. He threw his hands underneath the rushing water and once more flinched at the sensation. He braved through it, though, scrubbing at his hands to clean off not only the blood, but the grime and dried sweat that had irked Peter so intensely not long ago as well. 

Peter scrubbed until his hands were a bright red—not the kind of red that blood was—and until Harley murmured a soft, “Pete.”

Harley reached in front of Peter to quietly turn off the water, and Peter turned around to face him. Harley held out a soft-looking towel, though he wasn’t offering it to Peter.

“Can I?” he asked, gesturing to Peter’s dripping hands. 

Peter let Harley gently wrap the towel around his hands, sighing as the other soaked up the water with the towel that was as soft as it looked. The action could only be described as extremely affectionate, and it made Peter feel slightly vulnerable in Harley’s hold. 

When every drop of water was dried from Peter’s hands, Harley reached over to the sink to wet the towel. He returned to Peter and slowly raised the towel to Peter’s eye level, his eyebrows quirked inquisitively. Peter nodded, and Harley tenderly began to wipe the tears and sweat from Peter’s face. Peter felt his eyes begin to water once more at the pure softness of the moment. Harley set the towel down on the counter when he must have noticed Peter’s tears, and slowly laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder. The contact didn’t burn—in fact, it felt so grounding that a tear finally fell from Peter’s eye. Harley used his other hand to wipe it away, and Peter’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the touch. 

Harley, being the perceptive little shit that he was, noticed Peter’s action and swiftly pulled him into a hug. God. Peter immediately nestled his head in the crook of Harley’s neck, breathing in deeply, welcoming the orange scent. 

As soon as Peter wrapped his arms securely around Harley, his legs gave out like they should have quite some time ago. Harley reacted quickly, lowering themselves to the cold kitchen floor, tightening his arms around Peter’s trembling body. 

“Pete,” Harley whispered, not going on.

“I’m sorry,” Peter weakly responded, curling into himself a little more, thereby nestling further into Harley’s hold. “I’m so sorry.”

Harley hushed him, softly, not harshly. “Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he assured, moving one of his hands to lay on the back of Peter’s neck. “You’re okay, darlin’. ‘M right here.”

“I know,” Peter breathed. “Thank you.”

“‘Course,” Harley assured, and Peter let himself drift away to the steadiness of Harley’s heartbeat against his ear.

Chapter Text

Harley’s legs had fallen asleep five minutes ago, but he didn’t really want to get up. 

Peter was a dead weight in his arms, held flush against his body, and since it didn't really seem like Peter would be waking up any time soon, Harley’s reluctance to get up was more for selfish desire than it was for Peter’s benefit. 

Maybe it was bad that Harley was basking in this moment—they were only like this because Peter had had a sensory overload. (Harley was pretty proud of the fact that he was able to identify Peter’s issue, but only due to his research of what Peter had meant when he'd described his overpowered senses.)

Harley kept running his hand up and down Peter’s back, a repetitive motion that might’ve comforted Peter and definitely comforted Harley. Now, Harley wasn’t really in a position to complain about anything, but if he were, he would perhaps talk about how witnessing Peter’s overload was legitimately horrifying. Sue him for wanting to be close to Peter after he had seen the way Peter’s nails dug into his own skin, the way that it seemed impossible for him to draw in a full breath, the way his body flinched at things Harley would never be able to notice.

Peter had said, and Harley quoted, that his “senses overwhelmed him sometimes, and it lowkey sucked.” Here was where Harley would like to make an edit: overwhelmed was an understatement, and lowkey sucked didn’t even begin to describe the amount of pain Peter looked to be in. 

Harley pulled Peter a little closer to his chest, and the small sigh Peter let out might as well have killed Harley. Peter’s face looked peaceful, the crease between his brows smoothed out. With every breath he took, Peter’s body relaxed a little bit more. It was insane to see him so off-guard, his form a different kind of relaxed than it was at the mall. There, Peter had loosened up by choice, a gradual effect of becoming accustomed to being with Harley. Now, Peter’s vulnerability only existed because there was nowhere else to go. He couldn’t have gotten any more tense and frantic than he was during his overload, and the only option was to collapse, exhaustion gripping him like a vice. And though Harley didn’t like how they ended up here, he couldn’t help but feel grateful that Peter was finally getting rest. 

Too bad Harley’s legs were still asleep. It was starting to hurt. 

Harley craned his neck to gaze longingly at one of the couches in the living room. Executive decision: Harley was going to have to transfer themselves. Peter was dead asleep, and they were going to be more comfortable on the couch anyway. Slowly, ever so slowly, Harley shifted away from Peter, leaning the other against the counter as Harley stretched out his legs. Wincing, he shook out his feet, and thought about how weird it would be if someone walked into the kitchen and saw him kicking his legs out on the floor. 

When the pins and needles fled from his legs, Harley gently pulled Peter into his arms once more to scoop him up and sweet mother of Jesus this boy was light. Peter was basically as tall as Harley, and Harley knew that Peter should have more muscle mass than him, but damn—it certainly didn’t feel like the boy had any muscles at all. At least Peter’s weight made it easier for Harley to quickly transfer him to the couch. 

Technically, Harley didn’t have to stay with him; he knew that. But Harley also knew it would be utterly idiotic leave Peter, for more than one reason. For one, Peter fell asleep in Harley’s presence—he might freak out if he woke up alone. Harley did, slightly, when he woke up the other night after watching Mulan with Peter. He understood why Peter would’ve left, but Harley didn’t have any reason to excuse himself right now. For two, Harley wanted to continue to have Peter in his arms. Duh. 

So Harley sat down on the couch and shifted Peter from his lap to instead lean on his shoulder. He then decided that that position couldn’t have been too comfortable, so Harley moved Peter so that his head rested on Harley’s lap. Better. 

“Fri,” he whispered, pulling the green-dotted blanket over to them, “could you put on Moana?”  

As FRIDAY began playing the movie without a response, Harley laid one hand on Peter’s shoulder, and used his other to pull out his phone. He shot Clint a quick text to let him know that Peter was okay. Then, remembering that Sam and Bucky had been in the background, he sent them the same message. Clint responded with a quick thanks, and Sam replied for both him and Bucky, tacking on a notice that dinner would be ready in half an hour.

As soon as Harley put his phone back down, he felt Peter tense underneath his hand. He froze, thinking that Peter had felt him shift and was beginning to wake up. Harley had to reconsider his hypothesis when Peter’s breaths began to speed up.

“Peter?” Harley quietly called, watching as the crease between Peter’s bows reformed.

Peter didn’t respond, but his breathing continued to accelerate and his mouth twisted into a grimace.

Okay. Harley knew how to handle nightmares. 

Harley removed Peter from his lap, quickly but steadily, and got off the couch, away from Peter. The team sometimes lashed out if they awoke from their nightmares to someone they weren’t able to identify touching them. Harley had tried to shake Tony awake, once, and he had a gauntlet aimed at his face before he could blink. If Peter didn’t recognize Harley immediately upon awakening, Harley would probably be faced with the uncontrolled strength of Spider-Man. 

“Peter,” he said, louder, now moving to raise the lights slightly. “Fri, could you turn up the movie just a smidge? Thanks.” It was a risky move, making things louder and brighter for the teen who had just escaped a sensory overload, but a brighter setting mixed with a recognizable movie playing would aid Peter in grounding himself. 

“Pete, it’s Harley,” he added, raising his voice just a tad more, but still being gentle with his calls. “Wake up for me, darlin’.”

That finally got Peter’s attention, evidence being that he jolted awake with a gasp. Harley stayed where he was (five feet apart ‘cause he was gay) as Peter’s eyes darted around the room, locating the exits, scoping out corners, twisting to take note of the windows. Harley recognized the tactic.

Peter’s eyes finally locked onto Harley as he began to take extremely focused breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. The breaths were so focused that Peter’s eyes drifted away from Harley, before squeezing tightly shut. Peter blindly ripped the blanket off of him, and Harley could’ve kicked himself for not remembering to do that. 

The rise and fall of Peter’s chest steadied, and Peter’s eyes remained shut as he said, “Hey, Harley.”

“Welcome back, Pete,” Harley acknowledged, hoping that his immense relief wasn’t noticeable in his voice. “You doin’ okay?” 

Peter gave an incredibly fake, incredibly shaky smile. “‘Course, you, ah, you know me.” He let his eyes fall open, and Harley recognized the far-away look that had been in Peter’s eyes during his panic attack.

Harley was about to call bullshit when Peter muttered a swear, his entire body jolting. Peter wrenched his eyes shut again, a tight squeeze that lasted all of three seconds, before he reopened them with a shake of his head.

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter mumbled, gesturing all around the room, at himself, at Harley. “Fuck, sorry.”

“There will be none of that, thank you,” Harley chastised, itching to move closer as he watched Peter jump up from the couch, only to start pacing. He was taking small, awkward steps, only taking about two or three of them before abruptly turning. At least his chest was rising and falling steadily, if not a bit too quick. “How can I help?”

“I’m good,” Peter dismissed, being the liar he was. “I’m alright.” 

Maybe Harley wasn’t actually helping by being with Peter. Maybe he was even making it worse, and Peter really just wanted to be alone to work out his own thoughts. Peter had mentioned that he had nightmares almost every night, so he must have known how to deal with them. Maybe Harley was fucking up his routine. 

“Do you…want me to go?” 

Peter stuttered in his steps, looking up at Harley with wild, frantic eyes, the far-away quality of them fading away. “No. No, you can stay.”

Harley nodded, relieved. He didn’t want to leave Peter alone, of course, not when the other’s hands were still shaking and he continuously swore under his breath.

“You need a distraction,” Harley decided, because Peter wasn’t in the position to talk about his nightmare quite yet. “Wanna come to the lab with me?”

At that, Peter stopped pacing entirely. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Harley grinned, pleased that he was able to jolt Peter out of his mind. “Grab your suit. You said you wanted to make some improvements, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, nodding vehemently. “You sure I can be in there?”

“Yes, Pete,” Harley sighed. “I’m invitin’ you.”

“Okay,” Peter nodded, then continued to nod, then nodded for another second. “Okay,” he said again, moving out of his reprieve to rush past Harley. Harley heard his footsteps retreat into his room, and emerge just as quickly. Peter sped into the room again, his suit in hand, the wild look still in his eyes, his hands still shaky.

Harley waved Peter on to follow him to the lab, going past the hallway that held their rooms. They turned down another, shorter hallway, arriving quickly at the entrance to his lab. Friday did her cursory scan, and Harley knew that she was cataloguing Peter as a permitted visitor in his lab. Security measures and whatnot. 

He immediately moved to his own workbench, Peter trailing slightly behind him. Harley picked up a piece of the drone he was working on and tossed it at Peter, knowing that he would catch it. True to form, Peter caught it without a blink before holding it closer to him and examining it. 

“Nat needs a new drone for her solo missions,” Harley explained, “and Tony tasked me with makin’ it. I’m tryin’ to work in some improvements ‘cause Tony forgot to make the old drone fire resistant. Dumb mistake, but it just so worked out that Nat had to fly the drone out of a burning building. It didn’t fare so well.” Tony had berated himself for forgetting something as easy as that, but Nat had assured him that it hadn't cost her the mission. 

Peter hummed, setting his suit down on the workbench to handle the half-complete drone. He examined the wiring, shakily thumbing through the bundle of reds and blues. He nodded, and quietly handed it back to Harley. 

“You’ve already got the fire resistance on the wires,” Peter noted. “Just the exterior now?”

“Yep,” Harley nodded, setting down the drone. “So that’s what I’ll be workin’ on. Take the spot across from me, will ya? You’re welcome to anythin’ in here, lemme know if you need help findin’ shit.”

“Okay,” Peter softly acknowledged, scooching over to the spot Harley had indicated. He laid out his suit, centering in on the spider emblem on the chest. Peter turned the suit inside out, revealing some mechanisms where the emblem was. He flipped open a latch that covered several exposed wires, all neatly wrapped in electrical tape. Peter caught Harley’s eyes on him as he hesitantly reached for a pair of pliers. “‘S gonna be a heating system.”

Harley hummed in acknowledgement. Good. Winters in New York were no joke—Harley was surprised Peter had gone so long without heaters. 

He watched as Peter fiddled with the wires, attempting to connect them properly, to slot them into their appropriate places. But his hands had not ceased their shaking, and Peter had to repeatedly pause to take steadying breaths before resuming his struggle. 

Harley wanted to step in, to help Peter either mentally or physically, but he didn’t know how. Peter had told him about his nightmare from the other night, but only with some coercion from Harley and a good portion of a Disney movie. Plus, Peter hadn’t seemed as freaked out then, the wound not quite as fresh. Harley mentally sighed, and resolved to give Peter a few more moments to sulk by himself before asking him about it. 

Peter twitched when Harley’s phone vibrated on the table, muttering an apology when Harley shot a concerned glance at him. Harley just shook his head, murmuring his usual denial as he checked his phone.

not an eagle: get your ass down here for dinner

“Sam says that dinner’s ready,” Harley reported, looking up at Peter. Peter immediately hunched in on himself, freezing in his actions. “What’s wrong?”

Peter blinked, quickly unfurling his body. “Uh, is it okay if I stay up here instead?”

Harley’s eyebrows knit together. “Well, you’ve still gotta eat.” Peter’s lips pressed into a tight line, so Harley went on. “Would it be better if I brought some up here for you? The team would be fine with us eatin’ on our own.”

Peter slowly shook his head. “I don’t really, um.” He didn’t go on.

“Pete,” Harley said softly, though his tone was firm. “Why don’t you wanna eat?”

Peter sighed, finally putting down the pair of pliers resting in his hand. Though Harley believed this would mean that Peter was going to talk to him about it, he was proven wrong; Peter just shook his head again, resigned.

“Okay,” Harley nodded, sending a quick response to Sam to let him know that Harley’d be down soon. “I’ll be back. With food, mind you.”

He quickly left the lab before Peter could object any further. Peter had had a small snack after Applebee’s, a pretzel. Then there was the apple, but that was only assuming that Peter even ate the apple. Harley knew that Peter’s appetite had to be coming back, seeing as he’d been working up his intake of food over the past few days. Peter needed to eat dinner, definitely. Fuck whatever Peter’s mind was telling him—Harley was going to make sure Peter got his fill of food. 

He got to the common floor to find that the dining table was already set, most seats already full, some plates already loaded. Wanda caught sight of his entrance immediately, and her smile quickly dimmed when she couldn’t find Peter.

“Where’s Peter?” she predictably asked, drawing the others’ attention to Harley. 

“In my lab,” he replied simply, moving to grab a plate. “He didn’t wanna come down here, so I’m takin’ food back with me so we can just eat there. That’s okay, right?”

Affirmations chorused throughout the room, topped off with Sam asking, “He okay?”

Harley shrugged, not wanting to lie, but also not wanting to explain everything that Peter had going on right now. “Eh. I’m workin’ on it.”

Understanding flit across Sam’s face, and the man nodded. “Go on, then. Help a brother out.”

Harley mentally cringed at brother being used to describe Peter, even if it was just an expression. (Get your head out of the gutter, Harley.) Still, he obliged, taking his leave with two plates that were equally full. Harley had taken a lot for himself, and a little less for Peter’s usual amount, just in case the reason that Peter didn't want to eat was just because he was nauseous.    

When Harley got back to his lab, Peter was once more distractedly working on his suit, his eyes barely flicking up at Harley when he entered. Hands still shaky, but eyes not as wild. 

“Put that down for a sec, Pete,” Harley softly ordered, and Peter complied as Harley set down their plates on the workbench. Peter didn’t pick up the fork that Harley had placed next to him. “At least eat some of the salad, it’s light.”

“Sorry,” Peter murmured, finally picking up his fork.  

“Peter, there’s nothin’ to be sorry for, you hear?” Peter gave a quiet nod, reluctantly putting a forkful of greens in his mouth. Harley took a bite of his own food, chewing thoughtfully before he spoke again. “What’s eatin’ at you? Can we talk about anythin'?”

Peter’s mouth pulled into a grimace before he shoved his fork into his mouth again. He chewed for a few seconds, emotions that Harley couldn’t place flying across his face while he was quiet. He swallowed hard, then finally responded, “Are you sure it won’t…bother you or anything? ‘Cause, like, it’s pretty shitty, I think.”

Harley immediately shook his head. “Nothin’ you could do could bother me. I wanna try to help you.”

"Right." Peter sighed, and began, "My parents died when I was little. I don't remember much of them, but sometimes I can hear my mamma’s voice. It was soft, I think, but it still sounded strong, She had Italian roots, you know. Would always sing me Italian lullabies.”

“Sounds nice,” Harley murmured, a quiet acknowledgement to encourage Peter, pleased that he was actually talking to Harley about this. 

“She was in my dream. I kinda like it when I see her in my sleep. But, uh, my dad wasn’t there. It was my old foster father instead, who was a total asshole, if I’m being honest.” Peter sighed, putting down his fork again. “It just—it just kinda messed with me a bit. Him being there. Sorry.”

So Harley’s assumption about Peter’s family had been correct—none left. He wouldn’t have gone into the foster system if he had anywhere safe left to go. And he even said his old foster father, even though Peter technically hadn’t grown out of the system yet. Harley could chance a guess as to what had happened there, what with Peter’s luck, but he shuddered at the implications. It was a story for another time.

“I can get that,” Harley said, thinking of his own asshole father, though he might not have been an asshole in the same way that Peter’s foster father had been, given the way Peter had reacted when he woke up. “This probably doesn’t help, but I’m really sorry, Pete. That sucks so hard, and I'm sorry that the guy ruined your sleep.”

Peter let out a long exhale, picking up his fork again to test out one of the roasted potatoes. “It helps more than you think.” When Peter lifted the fork to his lip, Harley noted that his hands weren’t shaking as much. 

“What about a good ol’ fashioned hug?” Harley suggested. “Would that help any?”

Peter hummed in response, moving from his side of the workbench and into Harley’s open arms. Peter wrapped his arms directly around Harley’s waist, clutching to him like a slap bracelet. Harley responded by engulfing Peter in his own arms, trying and failing to cover the entirety of his hunched body. 

Again, Peter was only slightly shorter than Harley, but like this, with his head tucked into the crook of Harley's neck, he just felt so much smaller.

“Sorry for the shit day,” Harley quietly apologized, beginning the familiar action of rubbing his hand across Peter’s back.

“You had nothing to do with the shittiness,” Peter breathed. “Before we got back, my day was actually pretty great. Thanks for that.”

Harley dropped his head onto Peter’s shoulder, a light smile on his lips and cliche butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. “Glad I could help.”

It was a long hug, which Harley was fine with, but eventually Peter gently unwound his arms from around Harley. Harley removed himself from Peter’s hold quickly enough that he didn’t think that his reluctance showed in his actions. 

“Eat a bit more, if you can,” Harley reminded once Peter had landed on his side of the bench again. “Generally speakin', food is pretty good for you.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but picked up his fork once more regardless. His hands weren’t shaking at all anymore. 

Harley finished his meal first, and by the time he was done, Peter had eaten over half of his plate. Surprisingly, he continued to eat even after Harley had finished eating, and Harley prided himself on the fact that he was able to pull Peter back down to Earth. 

Now, with steady hands, Peter was able to properly arrange his wires, letting out a pleased noise when a small green light lit up. He looked up at Harley, his mouth opening to talk, but was interrupted by the lab suddenly being lit by a familiar orange glow. 

“What—” Peter started, his brows furrowed in confusion, but FRIDAY seemed happy to fill him in. 

“Mission assignment,” her voice rang out, a common introductory statement. “Captain Rogers reports that the location of an untapped HYDRA base has been found. Please meet at the loading dock in 30 minutes for take off.”

“Hell yeah!” Harley hissed. “I can come on the HYDRA missions. Wait, oh my God, first mission together!” Harley grinned at Peter, who was beginning to quickly walk around the lab, searching for something. “Dude, that’s so sick.”

“I guess I’ve gotta speedrun these heaters,” Peter replied. Unfortunately, Harley didn’t pick up on the strain in his voice.

Chapter Text

“Peter!”

Peter whipped his head in the direction of Bruce’s voice, immediately locating the man standing in the corner of the Quinjet hangar. Bruce was waving him over, making quick and frantic motions with his hand to get Peter’s attention.

Peter turned back to Harley after he motioned to Bruce that he would be right over. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” he said, and Harley nodded. “Save me a spot.” Peter jogged the short distance over to Bruce as Harley continued walking to the jet.

“I saw your brand,” Bruce immediately stated upon Peter’s arrival, and Peter stilled. “I didn’t tell anyone about it, but I still saw it.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, swallowing hard, because what else could he do? “Yeah, you did.”

“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” Bruce assured. “I just—I just wanted to make sure that you’re alright to go on this mission.”

Fuck no he wasn’t. No, Peter was fucking panicking right now, just internally. He’d had enough external panic for the day, so any and all current and inevitable panic that would take place in the next few hours would stay resolutely inside him.

Easy enough.

Of course his first mission with the Avengers would be a HYDRA base raid. Of course his first mission with the Avengers would dredge up trauma that he’d been ignoring for months. Of course his first mission with the Avengers would follow a sensory overload and a nightmare, a nightmare that Harley had bore witness to. Of course his first mission with the Avengers would be shit, because why would it ever be any other way?

“‘Course,” he lied, like the lying liar he was. “It’s a mission. I’m all good.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Peter. “I get it if you don’t want to talk about it, but I’ve seen that brand before, Peter.” Bucky. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried, if not simply curious.”

Bruce didn’t have any ulterior motives, Peter knew, so there would probably be no harm in explaining why and how and where and when he had gotten the brand. But, considering the mission he was about to go on, there was a chance that the team would find out anyway. Bruce could wait his turn to uncover the load of shit that Peter had yet to unpack. 

“Thanks, Bruce, but I’m alright. You comin’ on the mission?” A jolty topic change, but it was efficient. 

Bruce sighed, but, being the godsend he was, he resigned to Peter’s stubbornness. “Yeah. I’m staying in the jet, though. I’ll just be there in case someone gets hurt and I need to patch them up.”

“You’re not a medical doctor,” Peter blurted before he could stop himself. (A nerd. Peter was well and truly a nerd.)

Bruce raised a brow, a small smile forming on his face. “No, I’m not, but when you have a degree in both health physics and biomedical engineering and work with a group of assholes who get injured all the time, you pick up a few things.”

“Fair point,” Peter allowed. He then noticed that they were the last two in the hangar, catching Natasha climbing into the Quinjet as he finished talking. “Better get going then.”

“After you,” Bruce mumbled, a subconscious statement as he gestured in front of him. Peter made his way to the Quinjet, and found it to be exactly what he’d always pictured: just a jet. He quickly located Harley, who was holding the box that Peter recognized to be his suit, and walked over to take the empty seat next to him. 

Peter had already learned several things about the way the Avengers did missions, one being who actually participated in what missions. Wanda wasn’t coming because of HYDRA-related trauma, and Vision chose to stay with her at the Tower to keep her company. Bucky, on the other hand, was on the jet, even though he had an inconceivable amount of HYDRA-related trauma. Harley, through an excited rant that filled the quiet air while they were preparing for the mission, had explained that Bucky always came on the HYDRA missions. If Peter had to guess, his participation probably had something to do with the guilt complex that came with being an ex-brainwashed-assassin.

Clint was in the pilot’s seat, flipping controls like it was a ritual, even though Peter was sure that this thing had autopilot. Everyone else was scattered around the aircraft, all suited up. Peter realized how much more familiar he was with how they looked in their hero regalia than their casual wear. After all, all of his previous encounters with them had been battles, so it made sense that Peter had come to expect them in their suits. 

Steve, who had been studying something on a tablet, stood up as Clint notified the group that the jet was taking off. Peter felt the aircraft smoothly (and relatively quietly) lift off the ground, and Steve moved to the middle of the group. 

“The base is in Maine,” he started, robotically reciting information. “Upstate, a few miles west of the Allagash River, so not too populated. We’re led to believe that this particular base has been purposed for experimentation, so it’s pretty small, relatively speaking. Highly guarded, hidden within a forest, top notch security system. Our goal is to ensure that they have no captives, download any and all intel, and clean the joint out.”

“Sounds pretty typical,” Natasha muttered, to which there were several quiet agreements. 

“Exactly,” Steve nodded. “So, like usual, Tony’ll work on the tech stuff. Harley, shadow him. Regroup with us once you’re done. Sam, you’re with me, and Clint goes solo. Natasha and Bucky, you’ll be getting the intel. We don’t know exactly where it’s sourced, but check the labs. They’re bound to have a few computers. Spidey, tag along with them, they’ll show you the ropes. We land in 40 minutes.” With that, Steve nodded once, sitting back down to tap away at his tablet.

“37, actually,” Clint corrected, though no one responded. 

Sure, yeah, great. Go ahead and place Peter with the two well-trained spies. They’d have him figured out in an instant. Peter wondered what would happen if he just straight up told the team about his HYDRA experience. It wasn't like he was kidnapped on purpose; they’d understand, especially since they already had two team members with considerably worse experiences with the Nazis. If Peter just told them what had happened, then he could just stay in the jet and not have to do the mission. 

But. Would they be mad at him for lying? For not sharing this detail with them right off the bat? HYDRA was a pretty consistent enemy of the Avengers, so would they feel as if Peter was trying to infiltrate them? 

That wasn’t the only issue, though. This was his first mission with the team. He needed to participate, to do well, to prove himself in order to be allowed to continue his stay at the Tower. He didn’t want to go back out to the streets, at least not during winter, not when he could live in the luxurious home of a crew of international celebrities. If he told them about what had happened and used it as an excuse to sit this mission out, he would appear lazy. Peter was anything but lazy, but skipping his first mission didn’t exactly send the right message. If his Past™ was revealed to them after the mission proved to be successful, then Peter would only have to deal with one of the possible consequences. 

“Here,” Harley said, interrupting Peter’s thoughts by way of thrusting his hand in front of Peter’s line of sight. “Your comm.” Harley dropped the small earpiece into Peter’s waiting hand. “I know you’ll be able to hear us, but we need to hear you, too.”

“Thanks,” Peter replied as he slipped the earpiece into his right ear, his hearing aids having been removed. They helped, and he loved them, but he needed to be at full functionality as Spider-Man. He couldn’t have any of his powers dampened, no matter how much he wanted to shut off his hearing sometimes. 

The ride was quiet, save for Natasha and Clint’s quiet joking, with Tony popping in occasionally. Peter would have joined in (contrary to what his mental health seemed to think, Peter liked to have fun), but he was busy preparing himself for what he was about to willingly walk into.

It wasn’t the same base. Of course it wasn’t—the base that had held Peter was in New Jersey, and they were currently flying to Maine. But Steve had said that this base was experimentation centered, and Peter knew a thing or two about the experimentation bases. Labs everywhere. A good number of scientists (Peter figured about two dozen, maybe even a bit more), and even more guards. Just one electric chair. Only a couple of cells, seeing as HYDRA only took on one or two captives at a time in a single facility. They couldn’t have the experiments ganging up against their captors. Peter was the only one at his base, to his knowledge. He did a speed check of the base when he was making his escape, but his main goal was avoiding the random Nazis that popped up on his left and right, so he wasn’t super thorough. He certainly hoped he was the only one there. 

Rationally, Peter shouldn’t have been that worried. It wasn’t the same base. No one at this base would recognize him. He had a team of heroes to back him up.

Unfortunately, Peter was not a very rational person, at least not when it came to calming his anxiety. Good thing all of his panic was still resolutely internal—he wasn’t even tapping his foot.

Even more unfortunately, Peter felt the jet lower to the ground in a break in the forest. That was quick.

“How fast is this thing?” Peter asked Harley, who was now enveloped by his red and silver suit.

“Max speed is around 1600 miles per hour,” Harley answered, allowing his faceplate to flip up, revealing a bright grin (a grin that maybe, possibly, perhaps made Peter feel a little better). “Fuckin’ wild, right?”

Peter tore his eyes away from Harley’s pearly whites, instead focusing on his dimple. (Shit.) “Fucking wild indeed.” 

“Kid!” Tony called, already out of the jet, and Harley turned to face him. “C’mon, we go in first.”

Harley turned back to Peter, flipping his faceplate back down. “See ya on the other side.” 

Peter gave a single nod in response, and Harley sped out of the jet to join Tony. He heard them shooting the shit, but tuned them out to join Bucky and Natasha.

“I am pumped and ready to go,” he greeted, studying Bucky’s form. He was tense, but based on what Peter had seen, that was normal. At his slight smirk, it seemed as though he was also pumped and ready to go. He turned to point at Natasha. “Are you pumped and ready to go?”

She sighed, closing her eyes for a second, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards almost imperceptibly. “I am pumped and ready to go,” she deadpanned. 

“Nat, Buck, Spidey,” Steve called, and ticked his head in the open door’s direction. 

“Our cue,” Natasha muttered, as if Peter needed clarification. Peter pulled on his mask, Karen making her usual greeting, and they hustled off of the jet. Peter could see Tony and Harley through the trees a ways ahead, both crouched down. The trio were quietly moving towards them, Peter’s nerves growing with every passing second, when Tony’s head suddenly shot up, and his voice rang out loud and clear through Peter’s comm.

“Shit, they—”  is what came through on his comm, and when it abruptly cut out, Peter was able to hear the rest of Tony’s sentence without comm interference: “―know we’re here!”

Peter dove behind a particularly large tree, Natasha and Bucky copying his action without hesitation. Karen’s HUD screen was gone, the comms were down, and Peter could see Harley and Tony struggling with their suits. He reached out with his hearing to pick up Clint complaining about sudden issues with the jet, and Steve realizing that along with the comms, his tablet was no longer working. 

HYDRA found out they were here, and immediately sent out an EMP blast. Good first move on their part, Peter had to say. 

He relayed this to Bucky and Natasha, just in case they hadn’t worked it out for themselves, and they sighed matching sighs. This must have happened before. 

“We better hurry then,” Natasha whispered. “The rest will catch up, we’ve gotta get that intel before they wreck all of the evidence.”

She stood up from her crouched position at the same time Bucky did, and Peter followed their movements. The base was in sight, shielded only partially by the forest, and the trio weaved quickly and easily through the trees, passing Tony and Harley, who both gave them a thumbs up.

Guards were flooding out of the base, all very obviously armed, all very obviously searching for intruders. Maybe Peter’s bright red and blue suit wasn’t the best for these sorts of missions, but he would have to figure that out more later. 

Natasha held up her hand, freezing, and Bucky and Peter stopped as soon as she did. He knew that they weren’t caught because Peter’s Spidey Sense was just a light hum, nothing indicating that they were about to get shot. Then, Peter noticed quick and soft footsteps, coming closer and closer. Peter craned his head back to see Steve running with Sam, though Peter wasn’t even sure that they were running together, seeing as Steve was eternally ahead of Sam. 

Steve passed them, and the HYDRA goons caught sight of him immediately, his recognizable shield now held out in front of him. They fired round after round at him, but he expertly dove behind trees when the moment was right, bullets bouncing off his vibranium shield when he wasn’t launching it at the guards. 

Sam flew overhead, firing his own weapons at the guards, and oh man that was a lot of dead people. Unless Sam was using a nonlethal weapon, but, you know. They were the Avengers, so maybe not. (But you know what? Fuck HYDRA, man. Peter wouldn’t kill anyone in there, but hey, he wouldn’t object if Bucky downed a few Nazis.)

The guards were dropping like flies, and those who were left were starting to filter into the forest, looking for trouble. Natasha finally lifted her hand once more, waving them on to stealth past the distracted guards, and Peter thought that the fact Captain America was acting as their distraction was definitely the best thing in the world. He smirked at the thought, until Natasha knocked down two guards at the entrance with her widow bites so the trio could get inside, and Peter was no longer smirking. 

This base was an exact replica of the New Jersey one. 

Smirk gone, he swore. No more smirking.

A soon as they got past the front doors, more guards were on them, and Peter had to ignore the fact that they were wearing the same uniforms as the ones who handled him. Luckily, these assholes were less well-trained than the ones in New Jersey, so they were down for the count pretty darn fast; Peter didn’t think anyone on his side was injured. 

“Labs are this way,” he breathed, jumping onto the high ceiling to avoid walking through the unconscious bodies. He barely registered Natasha and Bucky following him unquestionably as he mapped out the base in his head. Take the first right, let Bucky handle the frantic scientist, take a left and go straight past the cell that would look exactly like Peter’s if he checked, go left again, wait for Natasha to inspect a pile of dropped papers, and continue straight, stopping at the set of large, reinforced double doors. 

Peter, from his casual spot on the ceiling, indicated for them to go through the set of doors. Natasha walked up to the keypad, setting a device on it that unlocked the mechanism with a quiet click. Bucky pushed open the set of doors, his knife at the ready, and Peter creeped past the entrance into the main lab. 

A single scientist was in there, quickly shuffling around the room, stuffing things into his pockets, threading papers through a shredder. Bucky launched his knife at him, letting it land into the wall right next to the scientist’s head, and the latter stilled. With a violent screech, his Spidey Sense yelled at him to do something, to get away, get away, and no, the man didn’t have a weapon, but get away, this guy was bad fucking news. 

The scientist quickly turned, but Peter was ready, he was always ready. He shot a web at the man’s torso, knocking him back against the table he was in front of, and then shot two more webs to trap his hands in place. Peter finally looked at the guy’s face, trying to figure out what made him so goddamn dangerous, what made his Sense go absolutely apeshit, and—

Peter didn’t fall from the ceiling, but it was a near thing.  

“Dr. Beiermann.” 

Natasha and Bucky’s heads whipped up at Peter, but Peter could only see the cruel grin twisting its way onto the doctor’s face. 

“Willkommen zurück, Spinne.”

This time, Peter did fall from the ceiling.

“Du kannst mich mal,” Peter spat, getting up from where he landed. His movements were so carefully controlled that it felt like he was in slow motion, while his brain was working so fast it felt as if he could hardly keep up with his own body. Fuck.

Shit, shit.

Fuck.

Dr. Beiermann was here. Dr. Beiermann was here. 

Peter’s eyes landed on the row of freezers in the lab, and he sucked in a sharp breath before he seethed, “Oh, you absolute fuckers.” He began walking to the freezers, and resisted the urge to freeze in place when the doctor spoke again.

“Das ist nicht wie du mit deinem Handler sprichst,” he said, the calm phrase smacking Peter in the face with its familiarity. He’d had quite the bad mouth when interacting with his captors. “Du musst—”

Peter webbed Dr. Beiermann’s mouth shut without looking, finally reaching the freezers. “Ich dachte, ich hätte dir gesagt, dass du mich mal kannst.” Then, turning to the silent Natasha and Bucky, he said, “Nazis, amirite?” 

“Spider-Man,” Natasha said, his name almost sounding like a warning falling from her mouth. “Would you like to explain what’s going on?”

He opened the fridge in the middle, and resisted the urge to gag. Bags and bags of—

“My blood,” he sighed, gesturing to the contents of the fridge, before laying his hand over his masked face as if that would protect him from any of this shit. “That’s all my blood.” How could he tell? Besides remembering how many goddamn times they took his blood, and besides the fact that his good old doctor was here as well, the word Spinne was scrawled onto every label on every bag. Never his name, no, just Spinne. Peter was human, he really was, they just didn’t see him that way. Just a spider.

Shit.

Bucky spoke before Natasha did. “You were—” He paused, looking from Peter, to the blood, to the webbed up doctor, and back to Peter before restarting. “You were captured.”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed, and he felt his shoulders begin to hunch up. He quickly lowered them. “Sorry.”

Was he off the team? Were they mad? Would they kill him like they killed those HYDRA operatives? Would they blame him for letting himself get captured? What came next?

“You were captured,” Bucky repeated, and Peter slowly nodded. “By HYDRA.” Another nod. “And these freezers are filled with your blood.” Nod. “And you know this doctor fella.” 

“He was the main doctor assigned to me,” Peter affirmed. “Must’ve transferred from New Jersey.”

“How’d he even know it was you?” 

“They knew my identity,” Peter sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “He could have also recognized the fact that I was climbing on the ceiling.”

“When was this?” Natasha asked, raking her eyes over the row of freezers.

“Almost a year ago,” Peter replied, reopening his eyes. Then, hearing Steve call out a Clear! from across the facility, he remembered that they were actually on a mission right now. “Look, can we talk about this more later? I’ll get my blood n’ shit, you get the intel.”

Natasha gave a curt nod, and Peter was completely unable to read her expression. She scanned the room, eyes landing on the bulky computer in the corner of the lab. She whipped out a USB from a side pocket and strode over to it. 

Bucky, however, stayed with Peter, giving a final glare at the calm Dr. Beiermann (the guy never cracked, Peter had learned) before opening the freezer to Peter’s right. 

“These all have your blood in them?” Bucky quietly asked, and Peter opened the freezer to his left. More blood. He nodded. “How long were you there for?”

“About four weeks.” According to Matt, really. Peter had lost track of the days pretty quickly without a window in his cell, and the only way he knew that time had passed was by the bread and water delivered to him once every three trips to the experimentation room.

Bucky went back to being quiet, swiftly unloading the bags of frozen blood from the freezer. Peter wondered what HYDRA had been using them for. They weren’t too clear with him about that, they just took blood until he passed out, then took more when he had color in his cheeks again. He would’ve died, had his healing not replaced his blood cells as rapidly as it did. Though, it did grow weaker as his body realized how little it was getting fed. He thought his captors started feeding him more when they learned he was slowing down. Not for merciful reasons, of course; they just didn’t want to slow down the blood production. 

This was a lot of fucking blood. All his, all slightly radioactive, all riddled with spider DNA.

Peter’s body gave a hard, involuntary shudder, and Bucky glanced at him. Right. All panic had to be internal.

“Are you alright? With all of this?” Bucky wondered, not looking at Peter, keeping his gaze on the freezers, shooting occasional glances at the doctor. 

No. 

Before he could figure out a way to respond, Natasha called, “Spider-Man, get over here.” (Someone was in trouble, and it was him.)

Nodding at Bucky, he sidled up to Natasha’s side, leaning down with her to examine whatever was on the computer screen. The USB was plugged in, and a bar in the lower left corner of the screen indicated that the download process was a little over halfway complete. The computer displayed a chart. A large chart, and as Natasha scrolled down, more and more rows formed. It went like this:

 Objekt Eins: 17 Februar 2017

Folgerung: Fehlschlag 

Objekt Zwei: 21 Februar 2017

Folgerung: Fehlschlag

Objekt Drei: 27 Februar 2017

Folgerung: Fehlschlag

The last row was for Subject 78, the date being November 28th. Yesterday. Fail. Peter grabbed the mouse from Natasha, scrolling back up and down the chart. Each row had the same result: fail. Fail, fail, fail, 78 times, 78 people. These “subjects” were people, Peter knew. Test subjects. For what? What failed so many times? 

Natasha gently took the mouse back from him, scrolling to the top of the page, where Peter finally saw the title of the chart. 

DNA-Einfügung: Projekt Spinne

“This—” He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “They tried to use my DNA,” he whispered, his voice as steady as ever, unwavering, unfeeling but feeling way too much at the same time, numb. He couldn’t—  

78 people dead. The list of fails running down the chart mocked Peter. They were dead.

Because of him.

Because of his stupid fucking blood, because of the spider DNA that was somehow compatible with his DNA, those people died. His blood, his DNA from his little white blood cells, killed those people.

He killed 78 people.

His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, one hand still planted on the table he had been leaning on. His hand kept sticking to the tabletop because Peter couldn’t really be bothered to be aware of his powers at the moment. He kind of wanted to throw up.

Natasha knelt down next to him, words leaving her mouth, but Peter couldn’t hear her over the static in his brain. He registered Bucky approaching, and Natasha stood back up to presumably show him what was on the computer. Then Bucky was kneeling too, they were both kneeling down with him, and Peter finally looked up at their faces, their concerned faces. No anger in sight. There should have been anger, horror, disgust, pure rage, or even just hesitance painted across their faces, but there was only concern. Soft looks in their eyes that didn’t match the knives planted all across their bodies. Small, sympathetic frowns on their lips that didn’t match the horrificness of the situation. 

Then, above it all, above the static and whatever soothing phrases Natasha and Bucky were saying, Peter heard Steve shout another Clear!

So Peter pulled himself back up, forcing the static out of the way as he looked at the computer screen once more, except this time he was looking at the now completely filled status bar in the lower left of the screen. He quickly ejected the USB and handed it to the now standing Natasha. 

“Peter—” she tried, but he interrupted.

“I still hear Steve. We need to continue the mission, and we can talk about all of this when we’re done.” (Fuck.) “Bucky, can you put the blood—” Fuck. “—in that cart? And I’ll handle the doctor—” Fuck. “—while Natasha does…whatever she needs to do.”

Panic remained internal until further notice.

Bucky stared at him for a second before giving a sniff and a nod, turning to pull out the cart that Peter had mentioned. Natasha slowly turned back to the computer, and, with a quick look at Peter over her shoulder, began typing rapidly. And now it was time for Peter to complete his part of the deal, because he was the only one who could remove the webs from the doctor’s hands.

The static threatened to envelope his mind again, but he warded it off with a deep inhale, exhale, and the kind looks in Natasha and Bucky’s eyes. 

Peter walked over to the doctor, who was still calm as ever, that fucker, and glared at him. He hoped the man could see it through his mask. Peter dug his bare fingers into the crevices of his webs, ripping them away from the man’s hands. Dr. Beiermann lifted his hands, moving one towards the other, but Peter webbed them together before the sound of cracking knuckles filled his ears. Peter didn’t mind people cracking their knuckles; he even cracked his own sometimes (scandalous, he knew). But when Dr. Beiermann cracked his? It was one of the worst sounds to exist.

Peter removed the webs trapping the scientist to the table, though he left the strands that hung on his dark gray lab coat. A freezer door shut with a slam, and Bucky arrived in his peripheral, the small cart loaded with Peter’s blood. At the same time, Natasha and her heels clicked over to them, tossing a glare to the doctor and a nod to Peter and Bucky. 

“Let me walk him to the jet,” she offered, but it sounded more like a  command, so Peter didn’t object when she grabbed the back of Dr. Beiermann’s coat and shoved him forward. 

They retraced their steps out of the facility silently, the only sound being the cart’s creaky wheel and the distant sounds of fighting on the other side of the building. Peter was in a haze, not even leading the way, knowing that Natasha and Bucky would remember the way out. And they did, the group quickly emerging into the cold Maine air, and Peter couldn’t help but be glad that Harley invited him to the lab. His heaters were heavenly, even if they could be improved. 

They stepped over the bodies littering the forest floor (Peter counted what he could see, and there were less than 78 guards outside), and Bucky wheeled the cart over exposed roots, the creaky wheel rattling intensely.  

The Quinjet came into Peter’s line of sight, and he could see Bruce pacing outside of it. Dr. Beiermann tripped over a rock, stumbling before Natasha prevented his fall at the last moment, and Bruce’s head snapped up at the sound. 

Bruce called Clint’s name into the jet, and Clint walked out, giving a broad wave to the group. As they got closer, Clint’s arm stuttered in its wave when he must’ve seen the contents of the cart. He probably noticed the extra passenger as well. 

“Welcome back, welcome back,” he said distractedly, flitting his eyes between the blood and Dr. Beiermann. “Just a few questions: who’s that, and whose is that?” He pointed first to the doctor, and then at the blood.

Dr. Beiermann turned to look at Peter first, then Bucky and Natasha looked at him, and Bruce must have realized something because his sad eyes landed on Peter as well. Then, noticing what everyone else was doing, Clint gazed at Peter with a questioning look in his eyes. 

Peter took a deep breath, repelling the static with an inhale, exhale. “I can explain.”

Chapter Text

The Quinjet was quiet. The worst kind of quiet, the awkward kind of quiet that came with everyone glancing at him, anticipating the words that would soon spill from his mouth.

Well, not everyone was. Dr. Beiermann was an unshakeable man, and he fucking knew it. He never once glanced at Peter from his spot on the floor next to Natasha. Somehow, despite his demeaning position on the ground, he still thought of Peter as something unworthy of his full attention. Something that he could toy with in whatever way he pleased. Something that wasn’t quite human.

Peter wanted to say it didn’t affect him, but that would be a lie, and at the moment, Peter wasn’t a lying liar that lied. 

It affected him in the same way it did when he was in captivity, just a bit more muted. The feeling of being treated as something that wasn’t quite human was familiar, and it was scary how quickly he had fallen into his resigned form of thinking. 

Deep down, Peter knew he was human. He had to be, because he wasn’t actually a fucking spider, so what else could he be? But when one got accustomed to being treated as something that wasn’t quite human, well. It got harder and harder to dispute.

So it was quiet on the Quinjet, the air crackling with expectation while Peter was busy grappling with his internal struggle of Am I nothing but an object, or do I just need to go to sleep?

(It was probably both.)

Their glances all said something different. Clint looked at him with something curious in his eyes, but not just a casual curiosity. He wanted to know what was up in order to settle something in his mind. Bruce was just flat out concerned, his eyes soft with something sad and his lip stuck between his teeth in his worry. Natasha gazed at him in such a way that made Peter feel like she knew his entire story. He knew she knew part of it from what she had heard and from what she had seen in the lab, and she had probably put together a few more pieces. Bucky’s fleeting looks were probably the worst, with so many emotions shuttered behind his eyes. It was hard for Peter to get a good read on him because one muted emotion flitted across his eyes infuriatingly fast before it was replaced by another, then another before his eyes left Peter. His metal arm whirred with shifting plates each time he looked away.

“They’re on their way back,” Peter told them, breaking the awkward silence.

Bruce cleared his throat and nodded. “Thanks.”

They were all waiting on Steve, Sam, Tony, and Harley to return before Peter began his explanation, and he was just now hearing their footsteps and thrusters turn towards the jet. Dread pooled in his stomach as he heard them get closer and closer until the suits landed right outside the jet. 

Sam came in first, groaning, “That took longer than it should’ve,” before he stopped, eyes landing on the things that were slightly out of place. “So there’s an elephant in the room.”

Tony came on next. “What elephant? Oh.” His suit began to fall from his body as he looked around the space.

Then Harley, whose suit was also dissipating as he just began with, “What’s wrong?” He looked from the doctor to the blood to his family members before he finally landed on Peter. “What’s up with the random guy sittin’ on the floor?”

And finally Steve, who warned, “What I’m hearing better just be really out of context.” When he fully entered the jet, he sighed. “It wasn’t.” 

“We were waiting on you guys to get back before Peter explained what was going on,” Clint told them, getting up to move to the pilot’s seat. “I’m gonna get this thing off the ground, so give me a sec.”

The returning heroes hesitantly took their seats, all eyeing Peter now. Their looks mirrored those of Clint and Bruce. It was wigging Peter out. 

“Peter?” Steve quietly beckoned.

“When he comes back,” Peter said, ticking his head towards the pilot’s seat as the jet began to lift off. “Any captives?”

“Uh. No, just a few empty cells,” Steve answered, and Peter felt relief flow through him. Though, right after he lost some of his tension, he gained it back and then some when he thought about why the cells were empty. The last captive died yesterday. HYDRA just hadn’t replaced them yet. 

The static encroached further into his mind, but he shooed it to the corners of his consciousness. Now wasn’t the time. 

“Okay, it’s on autopilot,” Clint called, reclaiming his seat. “Peter, you have the floor.”

God, he was sick. 

With a glance at the unfazed D. Beiermann, Peter jumped right in. “About 11 months ago, I was kidnapped by HYDRA.” 

“Jesus,” Tony breathed, eyes wide, lips parted. His face was nothing compared to Harley’s, whose cheeks had gone pale so quickly that Peter was worried he would pass out. 

Both Natasha and Bucky bowed their heads slightly, eyes closed, taking a deep breath. It was odd that their movements mirrored the other’s, but it was oddly fitting. 

“January?” Steve asked, lips then pressing into a thin line when Peter nodded. “Spider-Man was MIA from January into February.”   

“Yeah,” Peter affirmed. “I escaped in February. I was there for four weeks.” Peter couldn’t tell whether it felt longer or shorter than that. 

“What did—” Harley took a breath. “What did they do? To you, I mean. While they had you.”

“Experimentation.” Static. It was getting harder to ignore, to ward off. “They thought my powers would be useful to them, and they tried to figure out how it all worked. I don’t think they ever really succeeded ‘cause they moved from experimentation to enlisting me in their forces.”

Several people choked on air. Peter couldn’t tell who.

“Did they—” He focused enough to figure out that Sam was the one who spoke.

“I was put in the chair one time, but the brainwashing was meant to be a process, not just a one time thing. I don't even have trigger words, they didn’t get that far. They just gave my brain a shock to start me off, and that was when I escaped.”

“They tried to make you like Buck.” Steve? 

Peter slid his eyes over to Bucky, who was probably as tense as he himself was. Maybe more so, because Peter couldn’t even tell how tense he was anymore. “Tried. I had the advantage of being put through experimentation before they fucked with my mind, instead of just being pulled out of the snow.”

“So you’re…you’re not under their control? Never was?” Who was talking to him? Didn’t matter. He needed to explain. That was priority number one. 

“No.” His eyes finally left Bucky, choosing instead to land on the cart full of blood. “They tried to make more of me after I escaped, I guess. That’s what that blood over there was for. It’s mine. I guess they used up the bone marrow they took.”

“They took bone marrow?” 

“Not a ton,” he said. “They took it during one of the lab sessions, and unless they took more when I was unconscious, that was all they took. I didn’t see any of it in the lab, and I think they would use it first.”

“How were they using it? You said they wanted to make more of you?”

Static.

“They inserted my DNA into test subjects, but all of the trials failed. My blood is too dangerous to be in anyone’s body but mine, and nothing the scientists did to it changed that fact that it would kill anyone it entered.”

“Your blood killed people? Were the test subjects people?” 

Whoever was talking was upset.

He hummed in response. “78 of them. They’ve been testing since February, and the last one was yesterday, according to the files.”

“Oh my God,” someone muttered. “What—”

“Stop,” someone else interjected. “Stop asking him questions. Peter, could you take off your mask for us?”

Peter complied with the order immediately. His hand rose to the base of his skull, and his mask started sliding from his face. It caught on the tip of his nose slightly, and he shivered at the quick and sudden feeling. Then the mask was off his face, and he couldn't feel anything anymore.

The room was quiet, and suddenly, Bucky was crouched in front of him. When had he moved there? 

Peter’s eyes caught Bucky’s lips moving as his name floated up to his ears. Then there was a harsh snap, and Peter flinched backwards. Bucky’s hand was in front of his face, his fingers frozen in the aftermath of a snap. Peter had to concentrate in order to focus on Bucky’s hand, to make the fuzziness clearer.

“Sorry,” Peter said, straightening once more, like someone was pulling at his spine with a string. 

“S’alright,” Bucky’s lips said. “Peter, you’re dissociating.”

“Oh,” he replied, trying to focus his eyes on Bucky’s hand as it moved away. “That checks out.”

“Did you know you were dissociating?”

Peter hummed, blinking slowly as he kept his eyes on Bucky’s hand. “Guess not. There was some static, but I wanted to explain what was going on. Here, I’ll come back.” He, of course, didn't want to come back, but he knew it was bad when he wasn’t in the present. Someone used to tell him that it wasn’t really a good way to cope, but slipping away was so easy sometimes. He couldn’t remember who always told him that, and the thought made him frown. 

** He brought his hand up to the back of his neck, digging his ragged nails into the skin there. He dragged them across the soft canvas, inhaling sharply at the spark of pain it brought. It was a quick, harsh swipe from one end of his neck to the other. But the pain quickly dimmed, like always, and he moved his hand to repeat the action. **

“No!” Bucky scolded, and Peter’s hand was interrupted by another person’s hand, the grip vice like. He jolted, quickly pulling his hand away, ripping it out of the tight grip. “Sorry, sorry. But Jesus, Peter, you can’t do that. I’ll help ground you.”

“Sorry,” Peter repeated, lowering his raised hand down to his lap. Someone had also told him that hurting himself was a bad way to come back down to Earth, but that had been so long ago. He still couldn’t remember who had told him these things. 

“S’alright, Peter.” Bucky moved closer to him, as if in slow motion, also lowering his hand that Peter hadn’t realized was raised. It was the metal one, he registered. “You know the five senses trick?”

“Yeah,” Peter affirmed, albeit slightly hesitantly. “I’m not sure it actually works too well, though, sorry.” 

“That’s okay, you don’t need to apologize. We’ll just do somethin’ different. Could you take off your gloves for me?”

Peter moved to strip his gloves from his hands, watching as they fell to the floor. His mind didn’t seem to catch the hint that he needed to pick those up. He didn’t realize that his mask fell from his hand as well until Bucky was holding it out in front of him. Peter registered that Bucky was holding it out for him to take, so Peter complied.

“Can you try to describe what your mask feels like?” Bucky tried.

“Uh.” Peter ran his fingers over his mask, thumbing the fabric, bunching it up. “It’s kinda thin.” Peter squeezed it, and he thought he heard something tear. When he unraveled it a bit more, he saw that he had made a small rip in a seam by pulling at it too tightly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, you can fix it up later,” Bucky said, and Peter realized that the man had already told him that he didn't need to apologize. “Can you describe it any more?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, studying the hole. “The hole is small. I’ll be able to sew it quickly. Maybe Wanda could help.” Bucky nodded, so Peter went on. “It’s kinda worn down at the seams, but the fabric’s still strong.” Peter squeezed the mask again, and this time, it didn’t rip. 

“Good,” Bucky praised, and he gently pulled the mask from Peter’s grip. “Wanna try somethin’ else?” Peter nodded, feeling his head duck up and down, and found himself becoming slightly dizzy from the motion. “Take my hand.” Bucky offered his left hand up to Peter, but Peter caught some minute hesitation in his movements.

“You sure?” Peter asked, ripping his eyes away from Bucky to distractedly pick up his gloves from the floor.

“What?” 

“You sure I can take your hand?”

“Oh.” Peter looked up again, catching Bucky’s eyes widening and his lips quirking up. Peter’s eyes unfocused again for a second, but he pulled himself back quickly. “Thanks. Yeah, I’m sure, go ahead.”

“Okay,” Peter breathed, moving one of his own hands to take Bucky’s metal one in his grasp. “Should I describe it?”

“Please.”

“Kinda cold,” he murmured, “but not too cold. I can feel the breaks between your plates. It’s kinda cool and—” Peter turned Bucky’s hand in his “—see, look at how many just moved, that’s s-su-s...super... Oh my God.”

The static receded, letting his surroundings finally filter into his consciousness.  

What was he doing? What was he doing?

“Hey, Peter.” 

“Hey, Bucky,” Peter echoed, dropping the man’s hand and looking up at him. “I’m... I'm here.” 

A small smile formed on Bucky’s face. “Welcome back. Can you try to breathe with me for a sec?”

Oh. That was what he was doing.

Peter realized that he was breathing a little too fast for it to be healthy, so he watched the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, listening for the calm heartbeat that resided in that chest. He was able to slow his breathing faster than usual. Looking at his hands, Peter noticed that there were no moon-shaped indents in his palms, no blood on his fingernails. MJ and Ned would be proud. 

MJ and Ned. Those were the ones who had told him that dissociating wasn’t an amazing way to cope, and that he shouldn’t ground himself by way of self-harm. How could he have forgotten?

“Thanks,” he said to Bucky, who got up from the ground to return to his seat with a nod. Peter then finally lifted his eyes to the rest of the team members. “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize, Peter,” Sam gently assured, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “Sorry we didn’t realize that you were dissociating.”

“It’s whatever,” Peter dismissed, clearing his throat. “Was just trying to get out of a difficult conversation. Uh, speaking of which.” He glanced at Dr. Beiermann, who now had his eyes closed, like he wasn’t even paying attention to what was going on. “How much did I explain? I don’t really, uh, remember all too much.”

“You explained enough,” Steve told him, though that wasn’t too clear of an answer. “Nat can handle interrogating the doctor, so you don’t have to talk anymore.”

“I don’t?” Peter wondered, letting his eyes flit from person to person. He caught sight of his bagged blood again and his breath caught in his throat. Jesus. That blood, his blood, killed so many people. He kept getting reminded, and it felt like a stab to his heart, to his gut, to his face every time.

“No,” Bruce softly reassured. “And none of us are upset with you, okay? We’re not mad, and none of what happened was your fault.”

Huh?

Again, Peter eyed each person on the jet, this time looking for a sign of agreement. He found it in their quick nods and hesitant smiles and Harley's pinched eyebrows and his soft eyes—  

“You guys realize that I killed 78 people, right?” Peter inquired, and oh, that was the first time he actually uttered what he had been thinking since he saw that computer. “Fuck. I killed 78 people.” Peter threaded his hands through his hair, tugging slightly, wincing as he did so. “You guys are stupid. I killed 78 people.”

“Stop that,” Bucky quickly rebuked. “You didn’t fuckin’ kill anyone. HYDRA did.”

“You saw the computer!” Peter gasped out, and no, shit, no gasping. Inhale, exhale, he was fine. “You saw the computer. They used my DNA on those people, and all of their goddamn experiments failed. Those people died because of my fucking DNA, Bucky.”

“You had no part in that,” Bucky calmly said, despite Peter’s slight outburst. "You didn't do shit."

The jet began to land automatically, but no one moved to depart.

Bucky continued in the silence, “That was HYDRA. You know how much therapy I’ve had to go through in order to realize that everything the Winter Soldier did wasn’t my fault, but HYDRA’s? You're gonna try to tell me you're not in the same boat? You didn’t kill any of those people. You didn’t even know what they were gonna use your blood for. You weren’t even at the base when they died. Hell, you didn’t even know that that base existed. Jesus, Peter,” Bucky sighed, verging on exasperation, but he still had that soft look in his eyes. “You’re the victim, alright? You were kidnapped, experimented on, tortured, fuck knows what else, and the bastards who abused you decided to milk you for all you had. That was a weird phrase, but fuck it, it’s true.” Bucky paused again, running a shaky hand down his face. “It wasn’t your fault, Peter, and none of us are mad.”

Peter felt like he just had emotional whiplash. He went from feeling so detached from his body that he didn’t register any emotions whatsoever to feeling a little like crying, like he had to fight to survive the flurry of guilt and mourning and anger and panic and gratefulness that was infecting his mind. 

“Dammit, Bucky,” Peter finally sighed. He didn't know what else to say. "I..." 

“I would like to second everything he just said,” Clint jumped in, raising his hand slightly. 

Similar sentiments echoed throughout the jet. Peter sat in awe at the support he was receiving for making it through the mission. It wasn't quite the reaction he was preparing himself for, but he’d take it.

“Thank you,” he said, and he hoped they were able to tell how sincere he was being. It might be a little easier to bear this new source of self-hate if he kept their words in mind. “You guys...are actually pretty cool.”

“Oh, we know,” Tony agreed, flashing him a toothy grin, one that softened quickly. “You deserve it.”

“Corny,” Peter acknowledged, but allowed his own appreciative smile to cross his face because goddamn, being told that he deserved something good kind of fucked with him in the best way possible. “Can we leave now?” 

Steve cleared his throat, standing up. “Yeah. Clint, can you handle the jet’s procedures?”

“Always have, always will,” Clint affirmed, getting up as well.

Peter and the others all copied their movements, shifting to gather their belongings in the quiet aftermath of the jet ride. Peter made sure he had his gloves and his mask, glancing at the doctor (who had had his eyes closed for a really long time, was he asleep?) before habitually looking at the cart of his blood. Like usual, every emotion to ever exist slammed into him, and once again, his breath caught in his throat, gluing him to his spot.

“Let me handle it,” Natasha quietly offered from beside him, speaking to directly him for the first time since they were in Maine. “Bucky’s taking Dr. Bitchass to one of the interrogation rooms for me to deal with in a minute.”

Peter huffed out a quick chuckle, even though it really wasn’t that funny. Maybe he was becoming slightly hysterical, but who could blame him? He gestured for Natasha to move in front of him to allow her to take the cart out of his sight and off the jet. 

Harley replaced her spot on Peter’s left, sidling up to him easily. “Hey. Can I touch you?” 

Peter nodded. “I said that you didn’t have to ask any more.”

Harley hummed as he gently took Peter’s empty hand in his, threading their fingers together. “I know, but you just had an incredibly shitty experience, so I figured it’d be safer to ask.”

Peter squeezed Harley’s hand gently, an action that was new to him, but felt so familiar at the same time. “Thanks.”

Harley gave a deep nod, and they walked off the jet and into the Tower silently until Harley said, “I’m sorry I didn’t realize how uncomfortable you were before the mission.”

Peter almost stopped walking in his shock. “Harls, c’mon. I was making an effort to cover it all up ‘cause I didn’t wanna talk about it yet, or, like, make a huge deal about it. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Well I’m glad you feel that way,” Harley sighed, squeezing Peter’s hand, an action that Peter quickly reciprocated. “I just think I shoulda noticed.”

Peter allowed himself a small smile. “Man, I just hide my thoughts sometimes. Don’t blame anything on yourself.”

Harley squeezed Peter's hand again, and damn, Peter's emotions were all over the place.

And then, several floors away, he heard Wanda’s voice asking some of the team members, “How’d the mission go?” and Peter realized that someone would need to explain to her and Vision what had transpired. He also realized that he really didn’t want it to be him. 

“Harley,” he called, stopping in his place and tugging on the other’s hand slightly. Harley turned around with raised eyebrows. “Will you make sure someone explains to Wanda what happened? I’m gonna go for a walk. As in, leave the Tower for a little bit.”

“Where’re you goin’?” Harley asked, concern shining through his expression.

“Gonna go see a friend, I’ll be back in the morning,” he assured, glancing at the darkness outside of a nearby window. “Just…Can someone else please tell her? I don’t really think I can handle it.”

Harley hesitated, but eventually nodded. “Yeah. We’ll handle it. I’ll tell the team where you went.”

“Thanks, Harls,” Peter said, putting on a warm grin, and let the other’s hand fall from his grasp as he stepped away, moving to retrace their steps out of the building. “See ya later.”

“See ya.”

Peter flexed his fingers, putting his gloves and mask back on, taking a deep inhale, exhale. Seeing Matt always calmed him down, and he hoped it would have the same effect now.

Chapter Text

Through the window, Harley watched Peter swing away from the Tower, waiting until the red and blue suit was a pinpoint in the distance before he slapped a hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. A muffled sob erupted from his mouth, and his shoulders shook with the effort of trying to keep the noises in. He buried his other hand in his hair as he leaned against the wall for support.

He hoped to God that Peter’d had at least a few good times in his life because Harley didn’t know how much more shit he could handle.

(He could and would handle everything Peter threw his way, of course. He wouldn’t stop caring about Peter just because he’d had a shit life. But shit, man, it hurt so bad each and every time something god-awful was revealed.)

When tears started to slip out behind his shut eyelids, Harley removed both hands from his head, shifting to place them flat on the wall, his body now in some sort of sad push-up position. He took a calming breath in through his nose, and let it stutter out past his lips. He’d just needed a quick moment to grieve everything Peter had been through, and that quick moment needed to come to an appropriately quick end. Harley didn’t even think he really deserved to be this upset, considering what Peter had just gone through.

And Harley didn’t even notice anything had been wrong.

He didn’t notice anything especially anxious about Peter’s attitude before the mission, apart from his muted behaviour. Harley had just thought that Peter’s silent company had something to do with the general exhaustion he exuded, what with going on patrol the night before (Harley didn’t even know if Peter had slept), a day out at the incredibly busy mall, a sensory overload, and a nightmare during the 45 minutes of sleep he was able to grab once he collapsed. Little did he know, Peter’s quietness was evidence that his mind was consumed with the dread he was holding for the upcoming mission, the calm before the storm, and Harley didn’t even notice.

So no, Harley didn’t really feel like he deserved anything more than a hasty and frantic breakdown about the disparities of Peter’s life.

He drew in another calming breath, this one more calming than the last, and levered himself up to be able to stand without the support of the wall. Another calming breath, and he resumed the journey to the elevator so that he could join the team. He reminded himself that he needed to explain everything to Wanda, if the others had not already done so. 

Harley reached the elevator, entering it with the request to be taken up to the common floor.

His hand was painfully bare without the presence of Peter’s grip.

The elevator provided a last minute solace in which he could take an excessive amount of calming breaths, adequately wipe the tear tracks from his face, and slowly run his fingers through his hair in a concentrated effort to make it look less haggard. Then, looking down at his obviously empty hands, he realized that he’d left his suit on the Quinjet. He hoped that someone had nabbed it as they were leaving.

Sadly, as he stepped out of the elevator to face the horde of heroes, it seemed like not one of them had taken any notice as to what had been left on the jet. They all carried only their own belongings, their weapons still resolutely in their grasps as Steve robotically explained the details of the mission. Judging by Wanda’s only slightly distressed face, Steve hadn’t gotten to the part where it was revealed just how much worse Peter’s tragic backstory could get.

Wanda’s eyes flicked to Harley as he approached the group, and the slight concern on her face grew. “Where’s Peter?” she questioned, interrupting Steve’s emotionless spiel.

He met her eyes before meeting those of his watching teammates. “He went out to see a friend.”

Natasha squeezed her eyes shut at the same time Clint braced himself against the table and breathed, “Jesus.” Sam ran a hand across the expanse of his short hair, landing in a firm hold on the back of his neck as he sucked in a harsh breath. Bucky, lacking the webbed-up scientist, let out a sigh that was too audible and too strangled and too revealing.

They, too, clearly didn’t see it fitting to fall apart while Peter was still in the vicinity.

“If you guys don’t explain what’s going on right now,” Wanda warned, “there will be hell to pay.”

After only a moment of tense silence, Harley took it upon himself to give a brief explanation. “Peter, Bucky, and Nat came back to the jet with an evil-lookin’ scientist n’ a cart full of blood. Peter had to explain that he’d, uh, he’d been kidnapped by HYDRA back in January, and the scientist was one of the fuckheads who—who abused him. The blood was all Peter’s, and was apparently used to try to give 78 different people Peter’s powers. None of the attempts worked, and they…They all died.” The longer he talked, the more his voice quieted, the more it shook. By the end, it was nothing but a whisper as he looked more at Wanda’s shoes than he did her face.

When he finally looked up to meet her eyes, he saw that they had taken on a familiar red glow, her pupils no longer visible. Magic of the same shade danced across her fingertips, with barely controlled sparks shooting from one finger to the next. It was as elegant as it was frightening.

Harley stepped closer to her, murmuring her name, heartfelt and soft, as he rested his hand on her tense shoulder. She flinched, a devastating action, but Harley knew that he needn’t remove his hand as he watched the crimson disappear just as quickly as it had appeared. She looked at him with sad, sad eyes, eyes that were too sad to be regarding a boy they had all just met days ago, but Harley understood the attached fondness and resulting anguish. His eyes had to be the same way.

Next thing he knew, he had an armful of a shaking Wanda, her head of red hair buried into his chest. Harley wrapped his arms tightly around her as a way to comfort both Wanda and himself as a quiet tear trailed down his cheek against his will.

“Чому?” she whispered, and though Harley didn’t know Ukrainian, he felt that the grief coating her speech and the tightening of her fingers in his shirt told him all he needed to know. “Чому, чому, чому?”

“He’s okay now,” he hoarsely reassured. “He’s alright. He’s outta there. He’s okay.”

A few hushed moments elapsed, Harley passing the time by gently rocking Wanda as she cried out for all that Peter had survived. Harley had figured that she would react like this, given how much she cared for Peter in the brief time she had known him, and Peter probably knew it, too. No wonder he had wanted them to be the ones to tell her; he probably wouldn’t have been able to handle any more intense emotions.

The solemn moment was interrupted by the smooth unsheathing of a knife, and Harley looked over in the direction of Nat, noting the deadly and forced calm in her expression as she studied her blade.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, the hidden rage in her voice chilling Harley to his core, “I’ll start making my way down to the interrogation rooms.” She harshly slid her knife back into its sheath, pivoting in the direction of the elevator, her heels loud against the floor. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

-

Peter’s second trip to Hell’s Kitchen from the Tower was shorter than the last, his movements far more hurried and focused. Without Natasha enveloping his body in the weirdest hug he’d ever experienced, and without having to worry if Steve was still on his tail, he traveled much faster. Good thing, too, because he needed Matt’s solid presence soon before he fell into another sort of breakdown.

They hadn’t planned to meet tonight, but Peter figured that by listening for the tell-tale sound of fists pummeling against some poor soul, he’d find Matt dealing out justice. He landed on the top of a rundown restaurant, taking the time to breathe and close his eyes, reaching out with his hearing. Within seconds, he heard a nearby fight in full swing, and set off in that direction without a second thought. Patrolling the streets without Karen’s voice in his ear was a strange feeling, but he would have to give her system a fix once he got back to the Tower.

As he got closer, he realized that the punches came in a sloppy, unsteady rhythm, and the attacker’s slurred speech was most definitely not the husky voice Matt used to mask his identity as Daredevil. Simply a random street fight, but definitely one that Peter would have to put a stop to.

He was just one swing away from the fight as Peter was slapped in the face by the realization of what the attacker’s garbled insults were actually saying. Slur after slur fell from the man’s mouth, all of which Peter was well-acquainted with, mixed in with the occasional whore. Hot rage washed over Peter, and he was catching a burly man’s fist before he knew what was happening.  

“C’mon, man,” he said to the shocked and red-faced man, putting on his usual nonchalant and carefree tone. “It’s 2017. Let people live, y’know?”

The douche wasn’t given an opportunity to respond before Peter kicked him into the wall, the stench of alcohol floating along with him. Peter quickly webbed his legs and arms in position, landing another web across his twisted mouth with no hesitation. 

Peter then turned to the shivering figure on the ground, who, despite the freeze in the air, was wearing a crop top. At least they had on a long and heavy coat as well, their jeans and boots also adequately protective. A pepper spray laid on the ground a few yards away from them, obviously having been kicked out of the way before it was put to use. The person was bloodied and bruised, but it wasn’t an absolutely horrific scene, and they were still conscious. 

“Hey, everything’s fine now. I’m Spider-Man,” Peter softly greeted, crouching down to their level, and their hazy eyes landed on him. “The dude’s been handled, it’s all okay. Is it alright if I touch you?” The familiar phrases spilled from his lips like it was second-nature, and really, considering how this was how he spent most of his time, it truly was.

Their face broke out into a lazy grin, eyes slipping shut for a quick moment before blinking back open as they nodded, granting Peter consent. “Saw you durin’ Pride las’ year,” they tiredly returned, the smile still resolutely planted on their lips as they brought a hand up to a small gash on their hip.

Peter smiled his own small smile as he leaned down to them. “Yeah? Glad you came.” 

Peter had started going to Pride as Spider-Man a few years back when the tag #NoCopsAtPrideJustSpiderMan had blown up on Twitter. That year, he started the tradition of going to Pride suited up, waving around his Bi Pride flag, Ned and MJ following at a totally inconspicuous distance. May went separately that year; she had usually gone with Peter before he was Spider-Man, but he had told her that he’d be with his friends instead so that he could don the suit without her suspicion. Being without Peter didn’t make her any less of an ally, though, so of course she still went. After Ned moved, and MJ and May died, Peter still went to Pride. Alone. 

“Me too,” they hummed as Peter gently checked their head for any sign of blood, checked their eyes for any sign of a concussion. No brain damage, he concluded. 

“Here, lemme get some tissues,” he offered, twisting away to reach for his small medkit, but he stopped when they grunted out a noise of objection.

“Nah,” they denied, hissing as they began to prop themself up. “I’ve got some in m’ pocket.” They reached into their coat pocket, pulling out a stack of neatly folded tissues, free of the packaging. Peter sat back on his haunches as they wiped away the blood spilling from their nose and lip. As they pulled out another for the gash on their hip, Peter again reached for his kit for a bandage for the wound. They thanked him when he offered a large Band-Aid, slapping it on the cut before it could begin to bleed again.

“I’ll get your pepper spray.” He quickly stood up and attained the small mace before returning to the victim. As he handed it to them, he checked, “Are you alright other than that?”

They gave a humorless chuckle. “Well, I just got hate crimed, so…Yeah, we’re doin’ pretty good.”

“Understandable,” he allowed, holding out his hand to help them as they started to get up from the ground. They moved with growing ease, apparently handling both the physical and mental trauma well enough for the time being. “Could I borrow your phone to call the police? My communications are down.”

They sighed, brushing themself off with one hand, waving Peter off with the other. “I’ve got it. I’ll be able to walk home, too, so you can be on your merry way.” They looked up at Peter with a smile that didn’t quite match the paleness of their face and the shakiness of their hands. “Thanks for your help, Spider-Man.”

Peter, understanding that some victims were able to compartmentalize better than others, nodded in response. “My pleasure. I’ll find ya at Pride next year.”

“Name’s Xander. I’ll be the one dressed like a rainbow,” they said with a wink, and started to walk away, the slightest limp in their step. Peter watched Xander pull out their phone, dialling a three-digit number as they clutched their pepper spray tightly in their other hand. 

He turned away, shooting a glance at the now passed out man before he leaned against the brick wall. He sighed, letting his head fall downwards, and allowed himself to be indescribably furious at the world for just a moment.

Right then. He was looking for Matt.

With a final glare at the unconscious attacker, Peter swung away from the alley. As he moved through the air, he searched for more sounds that indicated Matt’s presence, but it really didn’t seem like there was much more activity tonight. Maybe criminals decided it was too cold for their dastardly deeds, and that single homophobic drunk just hadn’t got the memo.

Peter subconsciously wound up on the roof of Matt’s workplace, trying to figure out what to do. If Daredevil wasn’t out, did that mean that something terrible had happened to Matt? Or maybe Matt had just noticed the lack of general crime, and had decided to hang up the suit for the night. Maybe Peter would be able to find him in his apartment, shovelling forkfuls of cheap Mac and Cheese into his mouth simply because he couldn’t go to sleep yet. (Peter had no idea what time it even was; it was always dark during the winter, and all he knew was that he’d already had dinner. He just figured that by Matt’s standards, it wasn’t time to sleep quite yet.)

Peter was snapped out of his thoughts when his hearing receded back to only pick up the nearer sounds, and he finally became aware of the well-known sound of Matt’s heartbeat. The heartbeat was close, and as if he were in a cartoon, Peter slowly moved his head to look in the direction of the sound, which happened to be directly below him. 

Peter didn’t wait any longer before slipping down to the permanently unlocked window, which happened to lead right into Matt’s office. There, he found Matt sitting in his office chair, foot tapping as he quickly ran a finger across a piece of paper. Peter knew that Matt was already aware of his presence—he’d probably been aware of Peter’s presence long before Peter was aware of his.

“Why are you working so late?” he wondered, wandering over to Matt’s desk.

“This case is kinda putting me through a loop,” Matt murmured, not pausing his reading. “Fogs and Karen forbade me from patrolling till I work it out, so it’s an all-nighter for me.”

“You’ve rarely listened to them when they’ve tried stopping you before, so what’s keeping you here now?” Peter didn’t bother taking a look at whatever Matt was studying. If Matt was having issues with this case, there was no way Peter could figure anything out—he specialized in STEM fields, after all.

“Fogs took the suit,” Matt admitted.

“What about the backup?”

“Karen took the backup.”

“What about the little ski mask blindfold type thing?”

Matt stuttered in his scanning, and Peter heard his heart rate pick up slightly. Matt had apparently forgotten about the little ski mask blindfold type thing, but Peter didn’t really want to upset Foggy, and he especially didn’t want to upset Karen. As he and Matt both jumped to reach for the cabinet drawer they knew the old mask was in, he realized that it was pretty stupid of him to remind Matt of it.

Matt got to it first, seeing as Peter had to jump over the desk in order to reach it, and they fell into a brief scuffle over the mask. After a good 30 seconds, it ended up in Peter’s grasp, and he threw it away from Matt, launching a web at it in such a way that it moved from midair to being secured to a wall.

“You’re tired, man,” Peter noted, slightly weirded out by the fact Matt was a bit easy to overtake. Peter removed his mask and plopped down on the floor against Matt’s desk. He was on Matt’s side of the desk, and as Matt sat back down, it gave Peter the closeness he so desperately craved at the moment.

“Yeah, well.” Matt shifted his papers slightly, and Peter craned his head up to see that he was pushing them aside. “You sound like complete shit, kid.”

Peter just hummed, knowing that Matt didn’t just mean that his voice sounded like shit. It was his heart rate too, he knew, and his breathing that still hadn’t calmed down completely, and Matt could definitely sense the violent shake of Peter’s hands. 

“Spill. What’s going on with you?” Finished with putting away his papers, Matt tilted his head down at Peter, his blank eyes missing Peter’s face by an inch or two.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?"

Matt scoffed, kicking Peter lightly in the thigh. “There’s a reason you came lookin’ for me. You know I wanna help you, right? So spill.”

Peter sighed, thumping his head against the cabinets built into Matt’s desk. Matt was right, of course, because when was he not? Peter knew he came here looking for comfort, but the comfort he wanted would require him to actually talk about shit. 

“Don’t let me dissociate,” Peter muttered, and the memories of Ned and MJ in the back of his mind gave sounds of approval. "I did earlier. Don't have the energy to get out of it again."

“That bad, huh.”

“That bad.” Peter let out a breath, and decided to start with the smaller thing. “I had a pretty shitty sensory overload earlier.” Matt hummed a sympathetic hum—he’d had plenty of experience with not only Peter’s overloads, but his own as well. “Hurt like shit, you know how it is. I ended up hiding in the elevator at the Tower ‘cause it’s kinda soundproofed and has no carpeting.”

“Good and bad decision making on your part,” Matt acknowledged. “Yeah, hiding in a pretty public and frequently used place seems like a great idea.”

Peter reached over to slap Matt in the shin, and Matt allowed the attack to happen. “Hush it, an overloaded brain isn’t the smartest. But you’re right, 'cause eventually I got found out, and Harley had to pull my dumbass out of there.”

“Sounds about right. How’d that go?”

“Well, I ended up falling asleep on the floor while he was hugging me, so what do you think?”

“Eesh,” Matt emphatically responded. “So either really good, or really bad.”

Peter gave a small shrug, paired with a heavy sigh. “I guess it was a nice moment if you don’t account for the embarrassment.”

“No reason to be embarrassed, but continue.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but did, in fact, continue. “So then I got at least 30 minutes of sleep before I woke up and—”

“Did you even sleep last night?” Matt interrupted. He always was pretty bad at just letting Peter talk, but Peter was glad for the interruptions. Usually, it just made him happy that Matt was paying attention, but now, it helped ground him, since the normalcy of their back-and-forth was a great comfort.

“No,” Peter replied, seeing no use in lying.

“And the night before?”

“A few hours.” He’d conked out from after dinner to about one in the morning, so it was a good amount. Matt nodded, and Peter knew that he was holding back a comment about Peter’s general lack of sleep. 

“Alright, well, the overload sucks, but there’s something else. You handle overloads all the time.”

“The overload was just the first thing, and it just shows how drained I was even before the shitshow that’s comin’ up.” Matt winced, but gestured for Peter to continue. “So I woke up from some shitty sleep, ate some dinner, and then found out that my first mission with the Avengers would be a trip to a HYDRA base.”

Matt inhaled so sharply that Peter thought he would choke. “Oh. That bad.”

“Yeah,” Peter softly agreed, studying the shake of his hands; he couldn’t even tell if it was from pure anxiety, pure physical exhaustion, pure mental exhaustion, or simply a mix of the three. 

Matt knew everything about his stay at HYDRA, seeing as he was the only person in Peter’s life at the time. People tend to notice when their buds go missing for four weeks. Peter had needed someone to talk to once he escaped, and Matt had been all ears. He even knew about the brand; he'd solemnly traced over the words burned into Peter’s upper back, and as he did so, the tears that had formed in Matt’s eyes upon Peter’s return had finally spilled over. It was an odd thing to see Matt cry, really, and Peter would only see it a couple more times in the coming months as they grew closer and closer.

“Still with me?” Matt asked, jolting Peter out of his reminiscence. 

Peter cleared his throat and shook out his hands. “Yeah, I’m here. So, yeah, HYDRA mission. It wouldn't have been that bad if everything had gone right.”

“This is some major foreshadowing, kid.”

“I’m a storyteller, what can I say?” Peter was quiet for a moment as he geared himself up to talk about this shit for a second time. He felt grounded enough, though, and Matt was a more comforting presence than the Avengers, so there was that. Peter could do this. “We found Dr. Beiermann in the lab.”

Alright, he got that one out.

“Shit,” Matt swore. “Just by…fucking chance?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just by fucking chance.” The words were aggressive, but Peter knew he sounded more resigned than anything else. He was just so tired. “He recognized me right off the bat. I talked to him and everything.”

“That's unbelievably shitty,” Matt spat, privately fuming, just like he always did when Peter talked about HYDRA. When Peter didn’t respond, Matt was silent for a second as he thought. Then: “There’s more, isn’t there.”

“There’s more, and it’s so much fucking worse.” Matt slowly moved his hand to Peter’s shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze. Matt didn’t touch him affectionately often, so the small touch fueled Peter to go on. “I’ve told you that they took a lot of my blood while I was there, right? They still had some of it, and Natasha found a file of—” Peter accidentally let out a sound resembling a sob, but he wasn’t even crying. Matt squeezed his shoulder again. “The file had experiment results. HYDRA had been using my fucking blood to try to give other people my powers.”

Matt choked. “But—” He swallowed. “Your blood is—”

“Yeah.” Yeah. 

“Did they die?”

“All of them. 78 people. I—” Peter let out a harsh breath that sounded a little wet, but again, he wasn’t even crying. “78 people died, Matt.”

“Let me stop you there.” Matt slipped out of his seat, crouching down to Peter, and attempted to look into Peter’s eyes. His line of sight was above Peter’s head slightly, but the sentiment was there. “First of all, it’s terrible that they died. We know that.” Peter nodded miserably. “But secondly, it wasn’t your fucking fault, Peter.”

Peter pulled his legs up to his chest, and Matt moved to take the place of his legs. “That’s what Bucky said, too.”

“Then Bucky is a guy with loads of common sense because it wasn’t your fault. You can’t just blame yourself for everything bad that happens to your knowledge.”

“Sure I can,” Peter mumbled, and Matt switched from squeezing his shoulder to hitting it. “Hey,” he complained, shying away from the attacks slightly.

“You’re an idiot, Parker.” Matt resumed his comforting touch, this time smoothing over Peter’s shoulder in small motions, and Peter leaned into his hand again, hanging his head. “Such a damn idiot with a guilt complex bigger than your savior complex.”

“Shut up, dickhead,” Peter huffed, and if you could believe it, the words were fond. “I didn’t even say anything about it being my fault.”

“You’re thinking it. I can hear it, and you can’t prove that I can’t.” 

“I’m positive that there’s a way.”

“Silence, nerd.” Matt moved from his crouched position to thump down on the ground, and gently pulled Peter’s legs away from his fetal position. Peter let him. “I want you to repeat after me: ‘It’s not my fault that HYDRA experimented on those people. I was in New York when it happened, not at some random fuckin’ HYDRA base. I did not kill anyone.’ Say it, Peter, and don’t give me any bullshit about not being able to remember it because you have the best memory of anyone I know.”

“What about losing childhood memories because of trauma?”

“You don’t have that symptom, kid, not that I know of.” He didn’t think he did, Peter just wanted to spite Matt a little. “Now say it.”

Peter sighed, but began to tiredly repeat the words when Matt shoved his shoulder slightly. “It’s not my fault that HYDRA experimented on those people. I was in New York when it happened, not at some random fucking HYDRA base. I did not kill anyone.”

“Very good. And whose fault was it?”

“HYDRA’s.”

“There you go,” Matt nodded, pulling away from Peter to lean on the shelf on his opposite side. “Spend some time on that in therapy.”

“I’ll make sure to bring it up,” Peter replied, smiling slightly at the old joke they shared. Matt had always been too emotionally stunted to share anything in therapy, and Peter didn’t like the idea of talking about his shit with a random person. Maybe now that Peter had explained it, the joke wasn’t as funny anymore. Whatever.

“So, do I need to rescue you from the Avengers?” Matt asked, softly drumming his fingers against his thigh. “I’m kinda getting fed up with them.”

“It wasn’t their fault or anything,” Peter explained. “I didn’t explain anything till after the mission.”

“My question still stands: do you want out of there?”

“No,” Peter ultimately said. “They were still kind to me even after they found out about the HYDRA stuff. They’re pretty cool people when they’re not tryna capture me. Plus,” Peter added, shooting a glare that Matt wouldn't be able to see, “I’d be able to get out of there on my own. No rescue mission needed.” 

“I know, I know,” Matt backed off, smirking a little. “So stuff’s been generally okay?”

“Generally okay,” Peter echoed. He was generally okay mostly because of Wanda and Harley, the latter he still had unresolved feelings for. The differing sides of his mind argued; one bullied him about moving past MJ too soon, another told him that he wasn’t worthy of any relationships whatsoever, and the other just really, really liked how it felt to get hugged by Harley. He hadn’t given himself much time to think about any of that since the moments leading up to his sensory overload, but now, it was the only thing on his mind.

Then, an idea popped into his brain: what if Peter talked to Matt about Harley? Peter wasn’t a complete idiot; he knew that it was good and healthy to express any shit that was bothering him—after all, he'd found Matt for that exact purpose. Matt was the only person he had that he trusted enough to talk about anything with (except for Richard—that conversation would have to wait until Peter got over the shame of letting himself get abused). 

So, considering basic logic and his concept of self care, he figured it was time to talk about his crush that he probably definitely shouldn’t have.

“Kid? You with me?” Matt wondered, tapping Peter’s ankle lightly.

“Yeah. I just—” This shouldn’t be freaking him out this much, right? He freaked out enough last time he took a deep dive into how he felt about Harley. “So, um. You know Harley? The kid I’ve been talking about?” Matt nodded slowly, hesitant. “Yeah. I think, uh, I think I like him?”

Matt’s eyebrows shot up, and his face broke out into a grin, which was a better response than Peter was anticipating.

“You like someone,” Matt stated, but he wasn’t teasing. He sounded kind of soft. 

“...Yeah.” Admitting it out loud was such an odd and uncomfortable experience, and the guilt started to creep in. “Is it too soon?”

Matt’s smile faltered in concern. “Too soon in what sense?”

“Any sense.”

“Well, you know how blind dates work. People start dating after just meeting each other if the date goes well, y’know? And dating apps are meant to get people together quickly, so really, it’s not too weird that you’ve started to like him within a few days, especially if he’s attractive on the inside and out.”

The logic checked out. But… “And what about the other sense?”

“Peter, you know she’d want you to be happy,” Matt replied instantly. “I know that I only talked to her a few times, but from what I’ve seen and what you’ve told me, she really cared about you. If she saw that you were denying yourself any happiness because of her, MJ would come down here and deck you in the gut, and you know it.”

Peter huffed out a reluctant breath of laughter. “I know. It still just kind of feels like…I’m betraying her in some way, y’know?”

“I get that, I really do, but kid, finding new love isn’t betraying anyone. Shit, you don’t even love this Harley kid yet, you just have a nice little crush on him. MJ will always be in your heart, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t make room for others.”

“It's just hard, sometimes. Really hard.” Matt hummed in agreement, and Peter scrubbed a hand over his face, taking the time to rub into his eyes until he saw colorful spots. He watched them fade away as he considered Matt’s advice. “Where’d you pull all that shit out from?”

“All knowledge required for dealing with you was bestowed upon me the day I met your sorry ass,” Matt solemnly explained, but Peter could see his struggle to keep his face straight.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter waved him off. “The day that you caught me in the middle of an overload and proceeded to force me to train with you? That day?”

“Yes. That was the day God descended from the heavens in order to share with me the blessings it would take to put up with your bullshit.”

“Asshole,” Peter affectionately countered as he ran his fingers through his hair.

They both let it be quiet for a minute or two, the aftermath of Peter’s off-brand therapy session being a comfortable silence. Peter allowed Matt’s words to run through his head on repeat, trying to get them to stick. He knew Matt had to be right. MJ would, in fact, be furious that he was holding himself back because of her memory. She’d tell him to move the fuck on and get that handsome Southern boy right in front of him. She’d give him a final hug, reminding him to stick to his beliefs, no matter what, and to allow himself to be strong and vulnerable at the same time. She’d shove him forward, whispering to him that it was time to be happy again. 

She’d want him to be happy with Harley, whether or not they ever ended up together. 

“You deserve to want to be with him,” Matt broke the silence, speaking quietly, but sternly. “I don’t see any reason why you would be unworthy of having feelings for Harley, or wanting to do something about those feelings. You deserve happiness, kid.”

Peter actually had plenty of reasons for why he was unworthy of many things, but he decided it’d be best to keep those to himself. Matt had helped him enough already. 

“Thanks,” Peter offered, just as quietly. 

Matt nodded, giving Peter a few more seconds to think to himself. Then he pulled himself up, and offered Peter his hand. “You’ve gotta go back to the Tower, kid. You’re tired as shit.”

Peter grabbed hold of the hand in front of him, getting up with no small amount of effort. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered, picking his mask up from the desk. “I’ll head back, then.”

“Do I need to tell you to call me or something when you get there, or can I trust you to swing safely?”

“I’ve got this, don’t even worry about it,” Peter assured, slipping his mask back on, still put off by the lack of Karen. He started to walk towards the window to make his exit when he paused, turning to look back at Matt, who was blinking tiredly at his stacks of papers. “You alright?”

“I’m livin’ the dream. Just a bit tired,” Matt shot back, settling back into his chair.

“Get some rest soon,” Peter ordered, and Matt made some sort of noncommittal noise, shooing Peter out of his office. “Thanks again for literally fucking everything, man. I really appreciate it.”

“My door’s always open, come by any time, I’m here to help, blah, blah,” Matt distractedly dismissed, and Peter smiled to himself, knowing that Matt was being genuine. “Seriously, get out of here and into a bed as soon as possible.”

Peter ducked out of the window without another word, climbing up to the top of the building once more. There, he breathed, and breathed, and breathed until he deemed himself in good enough condition to return to the Tower. As he swung back, he hoped that he wouldn’t wake anyone up. He still had no idea what time it was. 

Lucky for him, the entrance to the Quinjet hangar was wide open, the jet nowhere to be found. With a pang of worry, Peter wondered if something bad had happened while he was gone. He landed, walking the path to the elevator with an exhausted gait. 

“My floor, please Fri,” he requested, and as the elevator started moving, he wondered when he had begun to think of it as his floor, not just a floor in the Tower.   

The doors opened, and Peter shuffled out to see Wanda sitting on the ground, her back against the wall. That, along with the fact that he could hear Harley bustling around in his room, negated any worries about there being a mission. She looked to him, her tired eyes still wide open, and shot up from the floor. 

Peter pulled off his mask, letting it fall to the floor as Wanda all but collapsed into his arms. She hugged him tightly, and Peter’s exhausted little mind allowed for tears to well up in his eyes at the feeling. 

“Ти пройшов через стільки. Мені дуже шкода,” she whispered against the skin on his neck, her breath hot.

Peter understood a good portion of that, her phrases having been simple, so he replied, “Все добре, Ванда.”

She squeezed him before pulling away, reaching to cup his face in her palm. Peter couldn’t help but lean into her hand, and she smiled gently. A tear fell from his eye, which he wiped away before she could. She made quick eye contact with him, a familiar question of consent in her soft eyes, and Peter trusted her enough to nod. She stood on her tip-toes to reach the top of his head, giving a chaste kiss to the top of his hair. He took a sharp breath in because Jesus, that was rather affectionate, wasn’t it, and they gave each other matching, sad smiles when she lowered herself again.

“Get some sleep, Пітер,” she breathed, removing her hand to grasp his arm, pulling him towards their rooms.

“You too, Ванда,” he returned, and she nodded softly before dipping into her room. Peter turned to enter his own room, but paused at the note stuck to his door.

Going on a short trip to New Jersey, it read. Will be back some time tomorrow. Nat and Bucky.

Peter chuckled quietly, pulling the note from the door, thumbing it through his fingers as he finally entered his dark room. At least now he knew where the jet went. He gently laid the note on his near-bare desk, setting it close to the picture of him and his parents. He then wasted no time stripping his suit, haphazardly laying it over the chair before he all but jumped onto his bed. His head bounced as it hit the pillow, and he was asleep as soon as it settled.

Chapter Text

Peter slept in all the way to eight o’clock before he was rudely awakened by a nightmare. It was HYDRA related, of course, but lucky for him, he’d had this exact nightmare many times before. So. He could deal with the half-spider-half-Beiermann monstrosity that danced around in his dreams on occasion.

(The only new aspect of Peter’s recurring nightmare was the random references to the number 78. It was written on hazy pieces of papers, it spilled from the fucked up Dr. Beiermann’s mouth, and it was the first thing on Peter’s mind when he woke up.)

Peter was sort of grateful, in an ironic type of way, that he’d had plenty of experience with this nightmare; he was able to recover from it simply by hopping out of bed and shaking out his body, calming his speeding heartbeat within seconds. It was his way of ensuring that all of the creepy Spider-Beiermann vibes were gone.

Too bad he was still tired, though. That really sucked. It seemed that even sleeping in till eight wouldn’t do it for him.

Peter’s wake-up time hit the sweet spot in the time between when Harley left for school, and when Wanda woke up. It wasn’t that much of a sweet spot, if he was honest, because now, Peter would have to socialize with the Avengers if he didn’t want to just spend the morning by himself. And, well, he didn’t particularly feel like getting trapped in his mind right now, so no alone time for the old Peter.

Socializing with them wasn’t a bad thing, really. Peter wasn’t lying to Matt when he’d said that he wanted to stay at the Tower. The Avengers were fine, alright? He’d spent a morning with a few of them before, back when he and Natasha (could he call her Nat? The note had said Nat.) watched Clint and Sam play Mario Kart. That felt like it was years ago. It had been three days. 

So Peter had socialized with the Avengers without Harley or Wanda before, obviously. On several different occasions, thank you very much. But now, despite knowing that he needed to talk to people for the sake of his iffy mental health, he couldn’t help but dread the inevitable interaction. Peter hadn’t talked to any of them since the jet, and he just figured that trying to have a normal conversation would be a bit difficult.

Peter hated pity. He was pretty sure that anyone in a rough situation hated pity for the same reasons. He hated how condescending it was to be pitied, like he was being looked down upon and coddled simply because his life sucked a little harder than average. He hated the pity that came with some tourist dropping a dollar into his good ol’ soup can, even though he knew that the fact that he was begging on the street kind of tossed away any dignity that he had left. He hated how their eyes went soft in the mushiest way possible, the type of soft that practically screamed, I have no idea what your story is or how you ended up begging for money on a busy street in New York, but I’ll feel sorry for you anyway because it feels wrong to ignore you! That. Peter hated that.

Peter didn’t hate concern. He didn’t hate when people cared about him, even if it was an unusual experience. He didn’t hate when people apologized for the occasional shittiness of his life, as long as the apology came from the right person, and as long as the apology wasn’t empty. He didn’t hate sympathy, and he didn’t hate comfort. All of those were very far from pity, though, and pity was what Peter thought he might be on the receiving end of if he went down to talk with the team. 

Though, Peter couldn’t predict the future, and he definitely didn’t know the Avengers well enough to anticipate what the coming interaction would be like. Maybe they wouldn’t pity his poor, traumatized, teenage soul; maybe they’d be understanding of his shit, and they could all move on.

Regardless, Peter didn't want to deal with them quite yet, despite his later wake-up time. He was just so goddamn tired, which probably couldn’t be helped with a few more hours of sleep. It probably could be helped with some meds and a therapist and not having to relive trauma and not acquiring more trauma to add to his ever-growing pile, but, well. Too bad, so sad. 

He could stall. He definitely had a way to stall, too, now that he looked around his room. His rather empty room, actually, with the only signs of it being lived in being the picture of him and his parents, his suit laid over the desk chair, and the mussed up blankets on the bed. The corner held his jam-packed backpack, his old pair of shoes were by the door, and he knew that his closet hid several shopping bags and a towel loaded with knives.

Peter’s trashy apartment building both looked and felt more homey than his room currently did, and the thought made him rush towards his backpack, finally unloading it. 

His sentimental belongings went on his desk. He carefully lined up the crystals MJ had given him, arranging them particularly, making small adjustments to their position that didn’t really change anything. He set the small bag of Legos down next to them. The chain with his parents' and May and Ben’s wedding rings was set next to the framed picture, but after a moment’s consideration, he moved it so that it hung from the corner of the frame. His stack of notes from Matt went next to his makeshift altar for dead relatives. 

With a nod, he admired his work before reaching into his bag again. He pulled out the small CVS first-aid kits, of which he only brought two. He set those on the tall and empty bookshelf, and found himself smiling at the thought of being able to fill it with books. He pulled out his few containers of web solvent, along with his last remaining spare cartridge of web fluid. At least now that he lived in the Tower, he no longer had to sneak into Midtown to…borrow their chemicals. His very minimalistic tool kit laid next to his spare Spider-Manning materials.

The final things stuffed into his bag were: a thick zip-up hoodie, a single long sleeve T-shirt, a ratty pair of jeans, minimal undergarments, and—Nope, that was it. Opening his closet, he realized that he decidedly did not have enough hangers for the previously supplied generic clothes, his old clothes, and his new clothes that were still laying on the ground. With a sigh, he quickly folded his older clothes and laid them on the ground in the closet. Then he reached down for the shopping bags, and, with a heavier sigh, slowly hung those up with the spare hangers. 

Suddenly, he was struck with the magnitude of difference between feeling guilty for letting someone else buy him clothes of all things, and the weight of the knowledge that 78 people were dead because of—

Because of HYDRA. His DNA was just what happened to kill them. 

Because of HYDRA. 

He dropped his new Converse to the floor with a small thud, shoving them up against the wall with his bare feet. 

It was because of HYDRA.

Idly, he wondered if he should even bother removing the knives from his closet door. They were safe there, at least, if Matt or some type of intruder came to visit. But Peter knew that eventually (approximately 72 hours total, or in this case, later that day), his webs would dissolve. Webbing his knives to the wall wasn’t a permanent solution, so he decided to rip off the webbing in order to instead place the bundle of weapons in his bedside drawer. Not for self defense reasons, actually, though he did know how to use a knife, thank you very much. 

Walking towards the door, he turned back to survey his room once more. It was still bare bones, but at least it looked like someone lived in it now. It looked less like a guest room, and more like something he could make his own. 

It felt like he had well and truly moved in. Like it was a little permanent. Weird. Uncomfortable. Nasty little feeling that he didn't feel like dealing with at the moment.

Peter then had to face the fact that he couldn’t stall any longer, at least for his own well being. While he wasn’t feeling particularly anxious right now, he knew that could and would change at the drop of the hat. Hence the avoidant strategy of leaving his room to avoid thinking to himself for too long. 

As he walked past her room, Peter found that Wanda was still sound asleep if the pace of her breathing was anything to go by. Good. She was up as late as him last night, waiting for him to come back. Come to think of it, Peter had also heard Harley still awake in his room by the time he was greeting Wanda. Had he been waiting for Peter too? 

Once more, Peter had no idea what time it had been at any point last night, but he still winced at the thought of Harley having to go to school after a mission. Peter had done the same thing all the time with patrol and school, but it was another thing to not only go to Maine and back, but also have to deal with a few emotional revelations along the way. 

Making his usual stop by the kitchen on his way to the elevator, Peter caught a glance at a note on the table. He walked up to it, pulling the sticky note from the table to read it. It was addressed to him, after all. 

Scrawled in pen, almost as messy as Peter’s own handwriting, it was written:

Pete—

AcaDec after school today. Will be home a little later. Have a good day :)

Harley

Harley had signed a quick and small heart next to his name, and a smile quickly wormed itself onto Peter’s face. That fucking boy. 

Well. The note thing seemed to be a theme now, what with Nat and Bucky’s note on his door, and now this. It was a good thing, he decided, and he folded the note to put it in the pocket of his sweatpants. He’d always liked notes, and he enjoyed the idea of knowing where people were, that they were thinking of him. 

He ran his finger back and forth across the paper in his pocket as he took the elevator to the common floor, knowing that that was probably where the team was. Sure enough, Sam was soon spotted cooking in the kitchen, and it looked like he was almost finished. Clint was sitting at the table, his fingers drumming against the table, against his thighs, against the glass of water he had in front of him.

Surprisingly, Steve was sitting as well, a cup of coffee in his hand as he took notice of Peter first. “Good morning,” he welcomed simply, a hesitant smile flashing across his face. 

Clint and Sam’s eyes immediately snapped over to Peter as he nodded in greeting. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

“But—”

“I said, afternoon, gentlemen,” Peter reiterated as he took a seat across from Clint and Steve. His impression of a late 50s Western movie accent was crude and inaccurate, but he was going for a lighthearted mood.

Steve gave a slow, slightly confused nod as Sam snorted quietly, focused on moving his spatula around in a pile of hash browns. The plates were already set out, and Peter grabbed one for himself. 

“Peter?” Clint’s voice came, and Peter hummed in response, looking up at the man. The look in his eyes was dangerously soft, hesitant, but Peter decided that he would let the man talk. “You know we’re here for you, right?”

So much for trying to lighten the mood.

It felt like Peter had been stabbed in the gut by Clint’s sincerity. What made it worse was that no, Peter didn’t actually know that. In fact, he’d been pretty certain that at least a few of them disliked him. There was no actual, solid, legitimate evidence behind that belief, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was burdening the team. That he’d intruded into their lives, despite the fact that they were the ones to kidnap him. But Peter had anxiety for a reason, and it just so happened that because he’d been convinced that he only had a few friends in the Tower, Peter didn’t know that Clint was there for him. 

Peter’s silence must have been enough of an answer because Clint’s brows furrowed, Steve set down his coffee mug with a frown, and Sam stopped fiddling with utensils, turning to shoot a concerned look at Peter.

“To be fair,” Peter chuckled lightly, “I was kinda kidnapped. So. There’s that.”

Clint grimaced at the same time Sam muttered an apology. Steve cleared his throat, saying, “And that was very stupid of us. We’re sorry about that. But you’re on the team now, Peter. You can be a part of our family if you want, and in this household, we have each other’s backs. We’re here for you.”

There was so much to unpack there, and so little time.

You can be a part of our family.

Basically a death wish on their part, but whatever. Peter would figure…that shit out later.

“Okay,” he said softly, because how else do you respond to that? “Thanks.”

They all gave one nod in sync with each other, which was probably some of the freakiest shit Peter had ever seen, but they thought nothing of it as they moved on from the conversation. And then it was quiet. Clint’s fingers kept drumming. Sam moved the pan away from the heat. Steve kept sipping his coffee.

No pity in sight. 

They had offered their support, and HYDRA wasn’t brought up again. Peter didn’t know if that was just who they were, or if they had noticed that Peter didn’t often like to talk about shit, or if they were simply understanding of how much pity fucking sucked. It was probably a combination of the three, and Peter resisted the smile that wanted to form on his face. It turned out that he hadn’t needed to stall in the first place. What was Peter thinking, anyway? The Avengers were responsible adults who understood what it was like to go through a sucky experience, and when they weren’t blindly following SHIELD, they were reasonable, understanding, wise, calm—

“Guys! G—shit, ow, fuck—Guys!”

Nevermind.

“Language, Tony,” Steve sighed, no surprise in his tone or face. 

Tony came hopping into the room, clutching his foot, which Peter assumed he had injured during his rush to get into the kitchen. The look on his face was one easily recognizable as panic, which slightly worried Peter, but none of the other men in the room seemed concerned. Or confused, for that matter. 

“What’s going on?” Peter asked casually, successfully shoving the anxiety out of his voice. 

“Pep texted that she was 15 minutes away,” Tony explained, finally releasing his grip on his stubbed toes, but looking no less panicked. 

“And what’s wrong with that?” Peter could relax a little now that he knew that there was no world-ending crisis or anything, but he was still confused. He thought Ms. Potts was, for lack of a better word, perfect. She looked amazing in front of the press, always put together and extremely professional, no matter what kind of sick questions she was asked. 

“Wait.” Sam turned to point at Tony with his spatula. “You didn’t tell her about Peter, did you.”

“I did not,” Tony groaned miserably. “But it’s not entirely my fault. She doesn’t like to be bothered with Avengers shit while she’s working! I was doing her a favor.”

“You are not shifting this onto her, man,” Sam tsked, turning back to empty the hash browns into a dish. “Peter’s living in her home, so she should probably know about him.”

“She doesn’t even know I’m here?” Peter questioned, slightly in disbelief. It seemed like a pretty big change, at least to him.

“Or your identity, no,” Tony tacked on, making his way to the coffee maker. “So essentially, I’m in deep shit.”

 “Oh yeah, you’re screwed,” Clint commented flippantly. Peter wondered how common it was that Tony managed to upset Ms. Potts. 

“I can…hide?” Peter offered. He didn't really want to be the cause of any domestic disputes, especially when he was so new to the team. He could be kicked off in an instant if Ms. Potts didn’t want him here. “Or I could just leave, if you guys think that she’ll be mad I’m here.”

This, apparently, actually upset them, seeing as they all snapped their heads towards him.

“What? No,” Tony denied instantly, waving his hand aggressively at Peter as he took a giant gulp of his coffee. “She won’t be mad at you, she’ll adore you. She’s gonna be furious with me, don’t worry about it.”

“Sounds like something I probably should worry about.” Adults being angry? Not really something Peter enjoyed. 

“No, you don’t understand,” Steve jumped in. “Tony messes up all the time. They just work it out well, and I’m sure this will blow over sooner rather than later because he’s right, Pepper will adore you.”

“You guys seem very sure about that.”

“Because we are.” Clint grabbed a fork from the pile on the table and pointed it at Peter. “You’ll see, man.”

Sure, alright.

Peter heard Tony’s phone vibrate in his pocket, and he pulled it out with an apprehensive glance at the group before relaying the message to them. “She’s dropping off her suitcase, then she’ll be down here.”

“Couldn't you just go up to her instead?” Peter suggested. “It’d delay our meeting.”

Tony sighed, laying his phone down on the table a little too harshly. Peter supposed he was able to do that with those good ol’ indestructible Stark Phones. “It’d be a bad idea to delay it any longer. Plus, she likes to greet the team when she comes back, so she’s coming down here whether I like it or not.”

“Well, we’re missing a few,” Sam noted, finally laying a few dishes on the table. Again, he seemed to cook things that Peter had no idea he was making, seeing as there was a random bowl of biscuits and plate of omelets sitting next to the hash browns. “But at least she’s just in time for breakfast.”  

“Thank you, Sam,” they all chorused, and Peter waited as Clint, Tony, and Steve reached to fill their plates. He was going to eat, of course, because it felt like it’d been forever since dinner the previous night. But it was probably better to let them take their fill first. His friends weren’t there to rebuke him, and besides, it was polite. And he was still going to eat. So screw you.

Tony was jittery as he ate, and jolted slightly when the elevator’s anticipated ding finally came. He relaxed, though, and set down his fork to paste on a smile to greet his partner. 

Ms. Potts walked out of the elevator, but the click of heels that Peter expected wasn’t there. Instead, her feet were bare, toes painted with a classic deep red. Peter wasn’t staring at her toes, they were just noticeable, and didn’t quite match her pencil skirt, tucked-in blouse, and low ponytail. She walked into the kitchen with a warm smile, and Peter liked her immediately. The grin was wiped off her face when she caught sight of Tony, though, and she raised an eyebrow. 

“What did you do?” she sighed, in lieu of an actual greeting. 

“Hi, honey!” Tony brightly welcomed, chuckling nervously. “How was your trip?”

“Stellar,” she muttered as her attention left Tony and flitted from one person to the next. When her gaze inevitably landed on Peter, she paused.

“Hi, Ms. Potts,” he offered, giving a small wave as he dished up his plate. “I’m Spider-Man.” Casual, casual. 

The grin returned to her face in an instant as she regarded him. “Hello, sweetheart.” She turned back to Tony, the smile fading just as quickly into a scrutinizing glare. “Would you care to explain?”

Tony cleared his throat, looking a bit sheepish. “Pepper, meet Spider-Man, also known as Peter. He’s an Avenger, and has been living here since Sunday.”

Ms. Potts glared at Tony for just another second before sticking her hand out for Peter to shake. “Nice to meet you, Peter. You can call me Pepper.”

Peter grasped her warm hand with a rather shy smile. “Nice to meet you too, Pepper.”

(Peter had listened to her heartbeat the entire conversation, having been anticipating her reaction. The only time it spiked was when she first laid eyes on him, but had remained calm and steady ever since. Peter liked her even more.)

She chose to sit down next to him, accepting the plate Sam had made for her with the same warm smile. “Tell me a little bit about yourself, dear.” Peter liked her names for him; they made him feel incredibly warm inside, almost like his heart combusted into fiery flame each time she regarded him with an endearment. 

“I was bitten by a spider a few years ago, and decided to become Spider-Man. I patrol most nights and some days, so I—”

“Peter, I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I was hoping you could tell me more about who you are as a person. I care more about Peter than Spider-Man, no offense.”

He blinked in shock, setting down his fork. “None taken,” he replied awkwardly. He’d never been good at describing himself. “Uh, I like STEM stuff, but I do a little bit of art, too. I have fun learning languages? Like, I know about seven, and Wanda’s been teaching me Ukrainian. Um. Dogs are pretty cute.” Peter trailed off, not really knowing what more to talk about without bringing up Spider-Man.

Pepper’s smile seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face, but it had brightened even more while he was talking. “Well, you’re certainly not a one trick pony, now are you?” Peter felt himself blush slightly, and he tried to will the color out of his cheeks. “I suppose the only things we have in common so far is our enjoyment of dogs and our ability to pick up a few languages. Though, I don’t know nearly as many as you.”

“Yeah, Jesus, Peter,” Clint jumped in, looking slightly bewildered. “I was an agent for SHIELD for a while, and I only know four and a half languages.” 

All of their eyes were on him, and Peter was once again reminded how much he didn’t like being the center of attention. “Well, I guess I just have a lot of free time, y’know? No big deal.”

“Well, you seem rather talented,” Pepper noted, but only once she had finished chewing, unlike Clint. “How about dogs? Have you ever owned one, or do you just think they’re cute in general?”

As a result of his excited answer explaining how no, he’d never been able to own a dog because they were expensive to take care of and his apartment had never allowed them, but he liked to pet every homeless dog he saw on the street, Pepper and Peter filled the air with small talk. Pepper, ever the sensible and increasingly kind woman, never once brought up his age, his family, or his previous living situation. She tactfully avoided each of those topics, apparently realizing that Peter tended to skirt around them himself. Her calm heartbeat never wavered, and her affectionate expression never fell. Safe to say, Peter was growing incredibly fond of Pepper Potts at an alarming rate. 

It was when Peter carded his fingers through his hair, his fingers getting caught in the tangles of the long strands, that Pepper offered to cut his hair. Another thing he had learned about Pepper was that she was insanely attentive, able to read everything about him, from his slightly guarded facial expressions, to his occasional wavers in his speech. Either that, or she was a mind reader who heard him thinking about how he should probably trim his hair soon. 

“Oh!” Peter let out, quickly removing his hands from his hair like he had been caught. “I mean, you really don’t have to, I usually just do it.”

“It was just an offer. I’m pretty good at that sort of thing, but if you don’t want me to, forget I said anything.”

Now, usually, Peter would have shot her down in an instant. Since Skip, May and MJ were the only ones he let close to his hair, and the only ones to cut it had been himself and his aunt. Since May died, it was just Peter. But there was a simple reason May and MJ had been able to touch his hair: they were women he trusted. With a man touching his hair, it was a lot harder to differentiate their hands from Skip’s. Pepper was a woman. On top of that, Peter was beginning to trust her, which really said something about the power of her smile. On top of that, he didn’t really like to cut his own hair. Despite having done it for years, it always came out choppy and uneven. He wanted his hair to look nice, and, well, Pepper was offering.    

“Are you sure?” he wondered. She was just offering up her services like this, and he didn’t want to take advantage of her.

“I’m sure if you’re sure,” Pepper affirmed.

It was Pepper. It was fine.

“Alright, then. That’d be amazing, thank you.”

-

School didn’t provide enough of a distraction to prevent Harley from thinking about Peter. Every time there was a lull in his thoughts, his mind drifted back to Peter’s blank expression on that plane, and he always had to kick himself out of his mind. His friends noticed that he was distracted, so they tried to keep him occupied, and for that, he was grateful. Sadly, it rarely worked. It seemed that his concern for Peter and his guilt for being an oblivious little shit were permanent fixtures in Harley’s brain.

Therefore, it was safe to say that Harley was looking forward to seeing Peter again, to check in on how he was doing, to talk to him after a long day. And that was exactly what he did, marching into the Tower and into the elevator, asking FRIDAY to ensure that Peter was on their floor. (He was.) 

Harley continued his march to see Peter, exiting the elevator and thumping down his backpack immediately, which was when he finally caught sight of the boy.

Peter looked up from a book he was reading from his seat, a genuine, bright grin on his face. “Hey, Harley. How was your day?”

Holy fuck. 

Peter had gotten a haircut.

And it looked good.  

Harley had thought that Peter’s longer hair had been a nice look for him, but Harley had also never seen how when Peter’s hair was at an average length, his slight, slight curls intensified, forming the cutest goddamn poof on top of his head that spilled over his forehead and just missed his eyebrows. Peter’s hair now only covered just the tips of his ears, the curled strands barely reaching down over them, revealing Peter’s tiny hearing aids.  

And it looked good.

“Harls? You alright?”

Harley cleared his throat, the sudden heat in his cheeks growing evermore. “Yeah, um, all good. Yep, my day was fine, thank ya for askin’. Hey, uh, I like your haircut. Looks nice. You look good.”

That was probably the worst thing that Harley had ever stuttered out.

“Thank you?” Peter’s voice lilted up at the end in obvious concern and confusion. 

“Yep,” Harley nodded aggressively. “Alright, um. I’ve got homework to do, y’know. So. I’ll see you at dinner.” With that, he turned away, walking briskly to the rooms, but froze when Peter called out his name again.

“You left your backpack.”

“Right,” Harley squeaked out, and what the fuck, that had been his first voice crack in literal years. He rushed back to get his backpack for his homework that he didn’t fucking have, and once again set off to the rooms. 

Harley arrived at Wanda’s door on instinct, hoping to God that she was in there as he gave a light, if not slightly hurried, knock. Thankfully, the door opened with a wisp of red.

He stepped in, once again dropping his bag to the floor. He covered his face with his hands, and took an extremely measured breath.   

“You saw his haircut, didn’t you.”

Harley let out a small groan through his hands, murmuring a quiet, “Yes.” 

“Jeez, Harley. You are just so fucking gay, aren't you?” Wanda chuckled, and Harley removed his hands to see her extremely amused face.

“Have you seen him Wanda?” Harley slid down to the floor, back against her door. “He’s just so goddamn pretty.”

“I know, I know,” she replied sympathetically. “If only you could do something about all this teenage pining. If only there was a solution to all of your homosexual troubles.”

“Shut up and let me recover.” He ignored her quiet laughter.

Chapter Text

The door to their bedroom quietly shut behind Pepper as she turned to face Tony, who was standing a few feet away from her. His facial expression was familiar, one that let her know that he knew what was coming next, that he was already guilty for something he did. 

She sighed, gently covering her eyes with a hand for a moment before she said, “When did you guys catch him?”

“Sunday,” Tony answered immediately, but didn’t go on. She’d get the full story out of him in a minute or so.

“Today’s Thursday,” she murmured, more to herself than anything. “A little over four days. He seems pretty well-adjusted here for such a short time frame.” During dinner, she had seen Peter chat idly with Wanda and Vision, share looks with Natasha and Bucky that had been a bit too meaningful to be casual glances, and laugh about something with Harley. 

“We’ve, uh.” Tony paused, letting out a slightly nervous chuckle. “We’ve been trying to make him feel at home here, sorta as a way to apologize.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just to apologize?”

Tony scoffed lightly, shaking his head at himself. “No, no. Of course not. You’ve met him, it’s impossible not to like Peter. Wanda and him became best friends, like, immediately, and I’m pretty sure Nat’s a bit protective over him. Don't tell her I said that.”

“So there’s no ulterior motives here?” she questioned. She knew Tony, and she knew that he always had good intentions, but she just had to be sure. “No ulterior motives for housing a child with superpowers?”

Tony, who had been avoiding eye contact up until that point, snapped his gaze over to meet her’s. “What? No, Jesus, Pep. I mean, he’s an Avenger now, but that’s only because Sir Eye Patch wanted Peter on the team if he wasn’t going to be brought into SHIELD custody. Which we helped prevent, by the way.”

Pepper nodded, holding her hands up in a placating manner. It comforted her to know that Peter was safe here, no longer in danger of being abducted and forced into SHIELD’s care. She had never been one to agree with the route of capturing Spider-Man, but she also tended to stay out of Avengers business. Therefore, she had often stood on the sidelines while the team went out time and time again to make another attempt at capturing Spider-Man, and she was always there for them when they had to inevitably lick their wounds.

Though, that begged the question: how did Peter end up here, anyway? He certainly hadn't come to the tower willingly, especially if it meant turning himself in to SHIELD.

She voiced her question to Tony, and when the guilt in his expression returned tenfold, she had to brace herself for his answer.

Tony sat on the edge of their bed with a sigh, and laid it out for her. And she didn't get the true scale of it, the true horror of it until—

"Peter has the strongest senses any of us have ever seen. He—" A small cough. "He underwent temporary blindness. And deafness."

The rock in the pit of her stomach only grew. 

A mental picture of Peter, the smiling boy she had met that morning, flashed in her mind’s eye, and suddenly she saw him screaming, crying out for help as his eyes and ears were obliterated. She pictured what it looked like when he collapsed to the ground, unconscious, his body finally freeing him from the torment of his senses getting overloaded to an extreme that Pepper could never imagine.

But then she shook herself, and remembered what Peter’s face had looked like when he had animatedly described a Dalmatian that he had seen on the streets just a few weeks ago, and the horrific imagery faded.

“I’m guessing you guys have beat yourselves up enough about that,” she sighed as she gingerly sat herself next to Tony. The solemn tone of her partner's voice told her that much.

Tony gave a dry chuckle, absentmindedly picking at his cuticles. “Not nearly enough. But, if it makes you feel better, Peter has no qualms about throwing it in our faces a bit.”

“Then it means I don't have to. I know that you know that it was awful to do those things to a teenager, even if you guys didn’t know he was a teenager at the time.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to lecture me a bit, Pep, and I think that’s the first time I’ve ever said that.”

“It’s going into the vault to be brought up on future occasions,” she assured him, and he deflated slightly. “Look, Tony. I’m not going to give you a pass, but I’m also not going to recite what’s already been playing on repeat in that brain of yours; it’d do nothing for you, despite how much I’d like to have it out with both you and the rest of the team. I just need you to promise that you bunch of idiots aren’t going to mistreat Peter any further because that boy is a gift and deserves the world.”

“Pepper, you’ve known him less than a day.”

“And?”

“Not disagreeing,” he soothed, taking her hand in his, squeezing gently. She squeezed back. “We all care about the kid. Not me, though. That would be very stupid of me, and would absolutely ruin my reputation. I’m not supposed to care about things, remember?”

“Tony,” she stressed, but her smile matched his teasing one.

“Kidding,” he mumbled, and proceeded to hold up his right hand. “I, Anthony Edward Stark, swear, on the behalf of myself and the Avengers, that Peter will never again be mistreated because of us.”

“Thank you,” she nodded, then pushed herself up from the bed. “I still haven’t unpacked, so you’re free to play in your lab now while I get started on that.” Tony quickly hopped up from his spot, making his quick escape out the door before she stopped him, saying, “And Tony?” He popped his head back in the doorway. “Make sure to talk to Harley about his crush on Peter.”

“Oh my God, yes.”

-

Harley was pacing outside of Tony’s empty lab, going back and forth, back and forth, right in front of the entrance. He never liked to go in there when Tony wasn’t there, seeing as Tony had always liked having his own space. But that meant Harley had to wait for the man until he inevitably made his way down to his lab after his talk with Pepper. Usually, Harley would’ve simply interacted with the others instead of pacing silently outside of the lab, but Harley needed to gather his thoughts, to prepare himself for having a Serious Talk with Tony.

See, Harley needed relationship advice, and who better to ask than the resident father figure?

Currently, Harley’s pacing was slightly reminiscent of a movie scene in which a character was practicing how to greet someone. Instead of the classic variations of Hey in different vocal octaves, though, Harley was trying to figure out how he would say, “I have the hots for the hero who’s been living in our home for four days and could break me like a toothpick if he wanted to, but would never want to because he’s probably literally the best person to ever exist. Thoughts?” 

Maybe that wouldn’t be the best way to start, but hey, that was why he was gathering his thoughts. 

“FRIDAY,” he groaned, “are they almost done yet?”

“Boss is on his way down now,” she replied, and then, like an exasperated mother, she said, “Be patient, Harley.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled, continuing his pacing. He wasn’t nervous, exactly, but talking about a crush with his father wasn’t something he ever really did. But he was comfortable with Tony, and Harley knew that Tony maybe sort of thought of him as his son, so it balanced out. And it wasn’t like the man would have any issues with Harley liking a boy, of course, seeing as he wasn’t an asshole, and Harley had already come out to him. Plus, Tony himself was bisexual, so there was that.

He just wanted some advice, and figured that Wanda, despite her self-declared wingwoman status, was probably getting tired of hearing about Peter. She definitely wasn't mad at Peter himself, more like Harley’s inability to do anything about his own strife. That was what Tony was for. 

Speaking of which.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?” Tony called, walking out of the elevator and towards Harley with a smile on his face. 

“I’m here to interrupt your lab time.” 

“As some sort of punishment?”

“As some sort of bonding time.”

Tony hummed, stepping up to place his hand on the scanner before stepping into the lab, gesturing for Harley to follow him as he went. “Then by all means, go ahead and bond.” Tony immediately moved to one of his smaller workstations, pulling up the schematics for a project that Harley was too distracted to look at. 

Here goes. 

“I’m gay for Peter.”

Shit. 

Tony looked up at him with a small smirk on his face, and he shoved away the schematics as quickly as he had pulled them out. “Oh, yeah, Pep wanted me to talk to you about that.”

Harley had to take a second to process that, before he sighed, resigned to never having a secret ever again. “You guys are fuckin’ impossible.”

“We don't fucking use language like that, shit.”

“Whatever. Alright, so you already knew, then. And Pepper did, too…somehow?”

Tony snorted, waving him off. “Kid, you’ve been living with us for a little over half a year. Of course a few of us will notice when you look at that kid like he hung the moon.”

Then how the fuck had Peter not noticed yet? Harley had come to know him to be incredibly perceptive, so if Harley was as obvious as Tony was saying, Peter should’ve had it figured out in an instant, especially after Harley’s reaction to the other’s haircut. Or maybe Peter had noticed, and he was just gracing Harley with time to work up to asking him out. Or Peter just didn’t like him back. That was also very plausible.

“Are you gonna just bully me the entire time, or will you grant me your sage advice?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. Like, do you want someone to tell you what to do, or do you want me to give you some condoms and lube?”

“Oh my God, Tony,” Harley breathed, exasperated as blood rushed to his cheeks. Harley didn’t even know why he was embarrassed, this was Tony for God’s sake. “The first option, please and fuckin’ thank you.”

Tony shrugged, nonplussed. “Just wanted you to have options, and to be safe, of course.” When Harley made a noise of disapproval, the man chuckled to himself. “Alright, kid. You want me to tell you what to do? I say you just tell him. Be honest. The worst that can happen is that he’ll say no, but really, in a non-weird way, you’re helluva catch, so I’d be surprised if he rejected you.”

“Puttin’ aside that last part for a second,” Harley acknowledged, mimicking moving something to his side with his hands, “the worst thing that could happen is not that Pete’ll say no. It’s that he’ll have a genuine mental breakdown before fleein’ the tower, never to be seen by me again.”

“Why would he do that?” Tony scoffed. 

“Tony, that boy has got some serious trauma,” Harley pointed out, stating the obvious fact. “I’ve got no idea how he’ll react to me showin’ up on his doorstep and professin’ my feelin’s.”

“He doesn’t have a doorstep.”

“For the love of God, Tony.”

“Fine, fine,” Tony soothed, holding his hands up in a placating position. “You’re right, Peter’s got trauma for days, and it might be a bit risky to tell him how you feel. But I plan on sticking to my belief that you should just get it out there. Let him know that you think he’s hot, and let him pick the next moves. You’ve just gotta let him be free to make his own decisions here.”

Harley’s brows furrowed. “Yeah, of course, no shit. Harley’s my name, respectin’ boundaries is my game.”

“What the fuck, you goddamn nerd.”

“But yeah, I’ll let him do whatever he wants, as long as I’m also comfortable.” Tony gave a nod of approval. “So you seriously think I should tell him? Hope that he doesn’t hate me?”

“Harley, Peter doesn’t hate us even after we beat on him for a year—at least I think he doesn’t—so I think it’s basically impossible for him to hate you of all people.” 

Harley groaned, "I guess." He wondered if sharing romantic feelings was always this hard. “Sorry man, this is kinda my first time doing this shit.” Harley had gotten enough flak as it was for being gay in the South, and he knew that dating someone would just make it that much worse. Even in New York, Harley hadn’t dated anyone simply because no one had caught his fancy thus far. Kind of odd that he was almost 18 without having dated anyone, but there were worse things. 

“I know, Harley, which is why I’m telling you what I think you should do. Feelings are rough, and relationships are hard enough as they are without throwing a bunch of superheroes into the mix. That just makes all of this—” Tony waved vaguely at Harley “—a bit more complicated. But you and Peter are both good people who have managed to bond quickly under strenuous circumstances. I’m sure that you’ll be able to work out whatever your future holds.”

“See!” Harley exclaimed, and Tony just blinked. “You can be wise when you wanna be. That’s why I came to you.”

“Thanks? I think that was a compliment.”

Harley shrugged as he backed away from Tony’s desk. “You decide. I’m gonna leave you to your playtime, that was all I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Quality bonding time,” Tony nodded, waving to pull up whatever schematics he was working on again. Harley was almost out the door when Tony called his name, and he turned back. “I’m not gonna give Peter the shovel talk, by the way. He’s a good person, and you deserve each other.”

“Jesus, right in the heart,” Harley melodramatically cried, but he was grinning like a madlad. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah, go confess your love, or whatever.”

“I don't love him,” Harley muttered as he left the lab. At least not yet he didn’t.

-

Peter was staring at his phone, on the floor, in a dark room, as teenagers often did. Peter was staring at his messaging app, in which he only had two threads, belonging to Wanda and Harley. Peter was staring at a message he had typed out minutes before, still unsent, reading it over and over with more distaste each time.

you: hey ned, it’s peter! sorry i haven’t talked to u in forever, i’ve just been a bit busy. u think we could catch up?

Yeah. Kind of sucked, didn’t it? What else was he supposed to say though? He’d been MIA for over a year, no contact with anyone outside of verbal communication. While he’d had to ditch his phone, Peter still remembered Ned’s number for when he could finally talk to him again. He just hadn’t known how long it would take for that to happen. 

Ned was going to be pissed. 

Peter pressed the delete button, watching as the words that had been taunting him disappear. Then he was staring at his phone again, the cursor flickering on and off with anticipation. He had to type something; he’d promised himself that he’d talk to Ned again when he could, and now, Peter was certainly capable. Now, it was the empty message bar that was taunting him. He sighed, typing out a simple message.

you: is this ned leeds?

Simple. To the point. If by some off chance it wasn’t Ned, Peter wouldn’t be giving his name to some random person. Peter sucked in a sharp breath, and mashed the send button. Then, like any sane person would, he launched his phone onto the bed before he curled up into a ball and let himself fall over. 

Peter didn’t know how long it’d been before he heard his phone vibrate on the bed. Ned had always been a quick responder. Peter, in contrast, chose to let himself be dreading the waiting message for just a few more seconds, maybe a minute or two longer. When he finally pulled himself up, reaching for his phone, the quick return message was just as vague as his had been. 

ned?: Who is this?

It was Ned, that much was confirmed. Ned always had a go-to response to unknown numbers that knew his name. He would ask who they were, capital W and everything, as he checked all of his firewalls and safety measures to ensure none of his information had been leaked. Of course, Who is this? was a very generic response, but Peter had memorized Ned’s number. This was just a double check.

you: peter parker

Ned’s reply came in just a few seconds.

ned: what the fuck peter

And then Peter was getting a call. 

Peter was just proud of himself for not throwing his phone again as Ned’s name lit up the screen. Instead, he accepted the call like a normal, functioning human being. 

“Peter?”

Fuck, that was him. That was Ned’s voice, saying Peter’s name, trying to confirm that the person on the other side of the phone was, in fact, Peter. Peter, who was still just silently sitting on the floor of his dark bedroom instead of responding to his best friend. 

“Hey, Ned.”

Nice one. 

“What the fuck. Peter. What—Dude. What the fuck?” 

“I'm sorry, Ned, I'm so fucking sorry.” 

This was what Peter had been dreading. While it would be amazing to have his best friend back, he had always known in the back of his mind that Ned would be furious, confused, incredulous, and other synonyms for “upset.” From years of friendship with Ned, Peter was confident that Ned would be forgiving. That was just who he was, and Peter was lucky to have had a friend like him. But even if Ned forgave Peter of all his crimes, that didn't mean that he wouldn't still be mad at Peter for literally everything. Peter would be lucky to come out of this call without being yelled at. 

“Dude. Holy shit, man, I’ve missed you so much. What the fuck, are you okay? I—Man, I miss you right now, and—and I’ve missed you for, like, ever. Dude.”

Now, that wasn't exactly what Peter had been expecting.

“I, uh, yeah. I'm fine. I've missed you too. Like so much. I'm so sorry.”

God, Peter was so bad at this. How was he supposed to express how fucking sorry he was? Sorry wasn't even enough to make up for anything. He was less than a minute into this call, and it was already a trainwreck.

“Could you just stop apologizing for a sec, man?” Ned’s voice was desperate, verging on begging. “I've missed my best friend. Please just—Please just tell me what happened. I've been so fucking worried.”

Peter almost apologized, but then thought better of it. “Yeah. Yeah, I can explain. Uh, so I left the foster home in, like, late summer of last year—” July 28th “—but then I had to ditch my phone. I didn't want anyone to track me, y’know? ‘Cause I was on the run from the CPS, and well. Other people. So, uh, that's why I couldn't contact you for a while. So how are you?”

Smooth. 

“The home was that bad?” 

“The home was that bad.”

“Okay,” Ned replied, followed by a few seconds of silence that Peter resisted the urge to fill. Ned was sorting through his thoughts. “Okay. I'm glad you're out of there, and it sucks that you had a shitty home. But why weren't you able to call me until now? And if you were on the run from CPS, where were you staying?”

That was the real question, wasn't it? “Well, uh, I was homeless up until a few days ago. I stayed in this old apartment building. Actually had quite the setup, you would've liked it. As for why I couldn't call you, the—”

“What the fuck, Peter,” Ned interrupted, and Peter noticed that he was repeating the phrase like it was the only thing he knew. “I feel like we kinda just moved right on past the fact that you were homeless. That—God, you're hopeless, bro.”

“I mean, what else should I say about it? I was homeless from last August till literally four days ago. It kinda sucked, dude.” Peter had to stop himself from letting words fall from his mouth without restraint. He couldn't just blurt how alone he was every night and every morning, the feeling seeping deep into his bones, a constant weight that he never quite got used to carrying around. He couldn't just rant about how difficult it was to patrol on an empty stomach, how it was nothing compared to the insufficient amount of food that he got when he was with May, or even when he was with Richard. He couldn't just spill about all the times he’d had to restrict himself from repairing his injured body because of his limited medical supplies. He couldn't just tell Ned about how familiar he was with sleeping in an unheated shelter during the winter months of New York, how much he got used to falling asleep shivering. 

Technically, “kinda sucked” was an understatement, but Peter didn't want to unleash over a year’s worth of trauma onto Ned, especially on their first phone call in just as long. 

“Jesus, Peter, alright. We'll revisit that on a later occasion,” Ned decided, and Peter didn't really feel like it was his place to argue. “Now, why couldn't you contact me again? I know you had to ditch your phone, but you and I both know that you're smart enough to evade CPS.”

“Okay, uh, so it was a little bit more than that.” Peter kind of felt guilty for what he was about to explain because now that the Avengers were decent to him, it almost felt wrong to talk about how they treated him for so long. Luckily, that guilt disappeared when he thought about how much medical supplies they made him waste. “The Avengers were tasked with capturing me in order to bring me into SHIELD. That started in November of last year, and also ended four days ago. I needed to be absolutely sure that Tony wouldn't be able to find out who I am, so no phone for me.”

“Wait, so, the Avengers were basically your enemies?”

“Basically.”

“...How the hell are you still alive?”

“Hey!” Peter cried, indignant. “You’ve gotta give me more credit than that, man. I lasted a whole year. While I was homeless.”

Ned let out an audible hiss. “Right. I, uh. Man, that really sucks.”

Peter sighed, threading his fingers through his hair, surprising himself with its shorter length. “I know. Look, dude. I’ve really missed you too, and I am just so fucking sorry. I never wanted to fall off the face of the Earth. You were the only one…like, left. I mean, there’s Matt, but I’m still able to see him. Ditching my phone was one of the hardest things I've had to do, other than, like, watch people close to me die.” Peter trailed off at the end, but the clarification was probably necessary. “Not that I'm trying to shift blame from myself, because the fact that it was hard to do doesn't make up for the fact that I still did it. I'm really sorry, Ned, and you can be upset with me for as long as you like.”

“Peter, I swear to God, stop apologizing. It wasn't your fault that you needed to go under the radar, and I'm glad you did the right thing. I'm not mad, I swear on my life. And my dog’s life.”

“You have a dog?” Peter asked, before internally sighing because that wasn't exactly the appropriate response to Ned’s reassurance.

“Yeah, got her a few months ago. Her name’s Penny.”

“Cool,” Peter murmured. He didn't even know that Ned had a dog now. What kind of friend was he? Certainly not one good enough to be Ned’s best friend. “Does this mean we're okay? I honestly don't see how you're not furious right now.”

“I was at first, back when you first stopped texting me, but then I figured that it had something to do with your whole spider thing; then I was just worried. Now I’m just glad to have my best friend back, so yeah, we’re okay.”

Leave it to Ned to immediately contradict Peter’s thoughts. “Ned, have I ever mentioned that you are literally the best?”

“You could stand to say it more often.”

“You’re the best, and I love you.” Man, that felt amazing to say. Peter hadn’t said it in such a long time, and saying the (platonic) L word set a jolt of something down his spine. Peter had missed Ned, and that was that.

“I love you too, man. So, how are you calling me now? Did you figure out a way to completely block Tony Stark from finding you? And you keep mentioning four days ago. Mind explaining?”

Peter smiled to himself, and pushed himself up off the ground to instead flop down on his bed. “Man, you’re gonna love this story.”

-

Harley had learned that he often fled to his room if he wanted time to himself to think. More recently, to think specifically about Peter. So that was what he was doing: hiding out in his room, thinking about Peter.  

By this point, he had decided that he was going to confess his feelings to Peter. Wanda had been hyping him up to do it, and Tony had just advised that that was what Harley should do. But just because the decision was made didn’t mean that Harley wasn’t filled to the brim with nerves. 

How was he supposed to tell Peter? He shot down the idea of a grandiose reveal pretty quickly—Peter hated being the center of attention. Privately pulling Peter to the side would be a bad idea as well, seeing as it would raise Peter’s nerves like no one’s business. Harley could text him, but honestly, that strategy might end up being a bit awkward, seeing as they literally lived together. A love letter was a classic option, but Harley didn’t feel like getting made fun of right off the bat. 

Fresh idea: what if Harley made a Google Doc, shared it with Peter, and then, after starting up some basic communication on the Doc, Harley told Peter that he liked him in Times New Roman font, size 12.

What the fuck, Harley. No. 

Harley flopped onto the bed, groaning into the pillow. How did people do this so easily? They would just straight up tell their crush that they liked them. Insane.

There was a knock at his door, interrupting his pity party, and Harley called out for them to come in. 

“You’re Harley, correct?”

Harley jolted, whipping his head up immediately to face the door.

“Mr. Murdock?”

“You guessed it,” the man confirmed, gripping his cane as he reached to shut the door. He then moved that cane out in front of himself a few more inches, tapping around the space in front of him. “Is there anywhere I can sit down, person who I assume to be Harley?”

Harley quickly pulled himself up the rest of the way, rushing to move his desk chair for Mr. Murdock to sit in. “Uh, yeah. Here you go. To your left a bit, sir.”

Mr. Murdock’s face twisted as he found the seat and sat down. “Shit, kid, you’re just like how Peter was. Don’t call me sir. Mr. Murdock is fine, though. I don’t get enough of that from teenagers.”

“Alright, then,” Harley nodded, sitting back down on his bed. “Uh, no offense, but why are you here and how?”

“Peter was so kind as to tell the A.I. that I am a welcomed guest,” Mr. Murdock explained with a smile that was a weird mix between a smirk and a proud grin. “I then asked which floor and room was yours. I came here to talk to you about Peter, who just so happens to be out on patrol right now. Lucky us.”

Harley had gone still, not quite afraid of the coming conversation, but certainly nearing it. “What about Pete?”

Mr. Murdock’s expression unfolded into a knowing smile, though it was a small thing. “Nothing bad. Just a small little…warning, if you will. See, here’s the thing: Peter doesn't have many people in his life. You do know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Harley quietly affirmed. Peter had no family, no friends that Harley knew of, other than Mr. Murdock and some kid who had moved away. 

“Well, it has come to my attention that you are now one of his people. Because of that, I now need to make it clear how important Peter is. Not just to me, but to everyone he has ever encountered, and to the whole of New York. You’re very lucky to be able to know him.”

“I know. Peter is genuinely one of the best people I’ve ever met, no doubt.”

“It’s good you know that,” Mr. Murdock said, and adjusted his glasses on his face to move them down on his nose slightly. Immediately, the cloudiness in the man’s eyes made itself known, and any doubts whatsoever about Mr. Murdock’s blindness flew out the window. “Now, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m just a tad bit lacking in the eyesight department. However, that says nothing about my ability to throw a punch.”

Harley blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Mr. Murdock shrugged, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “I think you heard me. Not that I’m threatening to punch you, since punching a minor is considerably looked down upon. Some may even call it illegal.” Mr. Murdock leaned in closer, and Harley subconsciously moved away slightly. “I’m sure you’re nearing 18, though, yes? So it’s not entirely off the table.”

“Mr. Murdock, I feel as though you’re bein’ a bit hostile at the moment.” It wasn’t that Harley was scared. It was just that Harley knew what a person with plenty of muscle looked like, and Mr. Murdock’s suit was certainly tailored well enough to show it.

“Now, now. All of this can be forgotten so long as I never hear a peep from anyone about you causing Peter harm, physical or otherwise.”

“Wait,” Harley said, eyes widening, and he threw up his hand in front of him in a slow your roll motion. “Are you suggestin’ that I’d ever hurt Pete? Because that just ain’t a possibility.”

“No,” Mr. Murdock denied simply. “I’m just suggesting what would happen if you ever did such a thing. Not that you ever would, of course.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Murdock sat there for a moment longer, rapping his fingers against his cane, and if even though the man was blind, Harley felt like he was being scrutinized to the highest degree. Then, in a sudden movement, he stood up from his chair and began to walk towards the door. He tilted his head slightly towards Harley when he spoke again.

“That’s good to know. Treat him well, Harley.”

“I will,” Harley confirmed to a closing door, leaving Harley to once more sit by himself in his room, thinking.

Did Mr. Murdock just give him a shovel talk?

Chapter Text

“So you're saying that you want me to hurt you?”

“Well, on a personal level, I'd like to avoid getting hurt,” Natasha shrugged. “But it's not like any of us will be holding back on each other. Getting injured while sparring is something rather common around here, and I'm just letting you know that there will be absolutely no hard feelings if you injure one of us.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” Peter commented, his voice flat. Peter’s whole shtick was that he avoided hurting people. If he, for whatever reason, lost control of his strength, people could die. That hadn't happened in his whole career, but several people had been way more injured than he had intended, and far more door handles and brick walls had been caught in the fray. Because of that, when he fought in hand-to-hand combat, Peter mostly used a few guaranteed non-lethal tips and tricks that Matt had taught him. Before then, Peter had relied on his webs. Now, Natasha was telling him that the whole point of sparring with the team was to test limits, form a few bruises, fracture a bone or two. 

She rolled her eyes at his remark before moving into the opened elevator, gesturing for him to follow; Peter followed. "Bucky, Clint, and I are all trained assassins. Steve's a super soldier. Sam's been sparring with Steve for ages, and more recently, Clint and Bucky. You won't be paired with Tony, Wanda, or Bruce, so you don't have to worry about hurting Tony, Wanda hurting you, or even Bruce hulking out.” She gave him a classic Romanov Look, which was usually one that screamed you're an idiot. "You're on the team now, Peter. Come to our sparring sessions, and just try not to kill anyone." 

Peter resisted the urge to groan dramatically. Instead, he offered, “If I do, I deeply apologize.”

“Thank you,” Natasha replied with a smirk. “I’m sure everyone will appreciate your sincerity once you've killed one of our teammates.”

Peter laughed a laugh that he had practiced enough to know it was convincing, and just hoped that his face didn’t go as pale as it felt like. 

“I assumed that you didn't need to change,” Natasha continued, ignoring any reaction that Peter might’ve had as they walked out of the elevator into the gym.

Peter looked down at his sweatpants and long sleeve shirt, the same outfit that he had worn for the last training session, and shrugged. “You were correct.”

(He would've normally had his suit on under his clothes, but he had encountered a rather sick child on patrol, and, well. His suit was in the wash.) (Peter was busy trying his hardest to ignore the itch to put his suit back on.) (He'd like to say not having his suit didn't bother him. That would be a lie.)

“Oh, you know me.” Nat waved a small wave to Clint once they caught his attention. She then tossed a wry grin to Peter. "I've never once been wrong in my life."

“Hey, crew,” Clint called, stretching in flippant ways that were definitely not effective before straightening up to walk over to them. Peter amusedly watched as Clint moved down to one knee in front of Nat, holding a roll of hand wrap. “Nat, will you make me the happiest man in the world, and be my sparring partner?”

“Idiot,” she muttered, grabbing the white tape from Clint’s hands as he grinned stupidly. “Yes, I'll be your sparring partner.”

Clint jumped up and pumped his fist in the air like a child. Peter resisted a chuckle as Nat efficiently wrapped her hands, shaking her head with a small smile.

Peter turned slightly as the elevator opened behind him, and nodded a greeting as Steve, Bucky, and Sam stepped out of the elevator, all wearing workout clothes. Bucky’s metal arm was on full display, not for the first time in Peter’s presence, but Peter was no less impressed by the arm each time he saw it. He’d have to ask Bucky to show it to him at some point.

“The others not here yet?” Steve asked, flicking his eyes between Peter, Nat, and Clint.

“Well, Harley’s still at school, for starters,” Nat explained, tossing the roll of wrapping tape to Sam, who had been holding his hand up. “I'm not quite sure where Wanda is, but Bruce and Tony are probably still working in their labs.”

“Wanda’s right there,” Peter told them, tilting his head back to the elevator, from which Wanda walked out not a second later. 

“Sorry,” Wanda offered, removing her jacket and tossing it into the air, where it became encased in red as it floated its way over to a spot next to the wall. “I just got back from a date with Vis.”

“It's fine, Wanda,” Steve reassured. “You're not the last one here.”

Wanda looked around the room, smiling a greeting at Peter and Nat. “Well, I just might be, seeing as Bruce won't be joining us, and I certainly won't be coaxing Stark out of his lab.”

“Don't forget Harley!” Clint shouted from where he was standing on a large, slightly cushioned mat. “Nat! Get over here and punch me!”

Nat sighed, but she walked towards Clint, her steps accented not by the clicking of heels, but instead by the muted sound of her tennis shoes. “Duty calls.”

Peter was drawn back by Steve’s voice calling his name. Peter hummed in response, turning to look at the remaining heroes.

“Would you mind sparring with me?” Steve asked, looking directly at Peter just so Peter was aware that Steve was, in fact, talking to him.

“I would not mind,” Peter told him, no small amount of hesitation in his tone. “But…is there a reason as to why you would like for me to punch you?”

“‘Cause he’s kinky,” Bucky muttered, which earned a laugh from Sam.

“Hush it, you,” Steve rebuked, without heat. Then, turning back to Peter, he explained, “Same reason I went on patrol with you: I want to see your fighting style.”

“But I fought you all the time while you were trying to kidnap me,” Peter commented, rubbing his chin in the most sarcastic way he could. “Remember all that? That year where you broke my ribs once or twice every month?”

Steve paled slightly, and Peter never got tired of that. “No, uh, I remember. Yeah. I’m sorry about that.” Steve cleared his throat, and Peter caught Sam awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I just—I just wanted to, uh. See what it was like fighting you when you’re trying to do more than harmlessly incapacitate us. You’ve never really aimed to hurt us, to knock us out of a fight.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded. “Yeah, that was kinda the point. I don’t really enjoy causing people harm.”

“We don’t either,” Steve made sure to say, “but sparring is genuinely a way to practice our fighting skills. I guess I’m just wondering how much better you’ll be fighting once you don’t have to be so focused on not hurting anyone. When the team has sparring days, we injure each other all the time.”

“No, I know how sparring works. I was trained by Daredevil, and he injured me all the time—” Peter air-quoted Steve “—just like you guys do with each other. See, the thing is, he used our sparring sessions to teach me how to hold back. My goal was never to injure him, because I needed to learn how to control my strength. More often than not, I fight without bringing my opponent near death.” Peter sighed, getting slightly frustrated. This was difficult to explain. 

“So, if you’ve already learned how to control your strength, then you should easily be able to hit us without seriously injuring us, right?”

“Yes,” Peter allowed, “but—”

“Then why is there an issue sparring with us?”

“Steve,” Bucky called, quiet. “Stop pressuring him, punk.”

Peter covered his eyes with his hand, and he felt Wanda gently set a hand on his shoulder. “No, no. I’m sorry, I’m just—I don’t want to hurt any of you. Just, if I lose control, then it could be really bad. I never want that to happen. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t be able to deal.” 

“No, Peter, don’t apologize,” Steve sighed. “This whole conversation was just me digging for something that I wanted. I get that you don’t want to spar, and I’m sorry for trying to get you to.”

Peter could tell he wasn’t lying. Steve was a sincere person, and all Peter was doing was making this whole situation difficult. It was sparring. Peter had hit Matt before, actually. Caused a few concussions, made some blood flow. It was just part of the process for becoming a vigilante. Matt had been fine, and he wasn’t even a supersoldier like Steve. Peter trusted his ability to fight without losing control. Why was he worrying so much about this?

“I appreciate that,” Peter said, and shot a grateful glance at Wanda. Her hand fell from his shoulder as he went on. “We can spar, Steve. Nat was telling me it’d all be fine anyway. I guess I was just making a big deal out of all of this.”

“Oh!” Steve let out, his eyebrows rising slightly. “Uh, if you’re sure.” Steve looked back at Sam and Bucky, who at this point were sharing a look that Peter couldn’t identify. Wanda let out a small breath. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Lead the way,” Peter told him, and Steve stepped to guide Peter over to the same kind of mat that Clint and Nat were currently sparring on. Peter moved his hand to his opposite wrist to rest his hand on his web shooter. “Are we doing this with fists only, or will I be using my webs, and you use your shield?”

Steve looked back to glance at the metal bands clasped around Peter’s wrists. “Hand-to-hand combat only. That’s not just because you have webs either; Nat’s widow bites put anyone out of commission immediately.” When Peter just nodded his understanding, his hand falling from his wrist, Steve’s face twisted slightly in confusion. “Aren’t you going to take them off?”

A small shiver went down Peter’s spine. “Hell no. I don’t take these things off,” he explained as he moved the sleeves of his shirt to fully cover each band. “I’ll just not use them, it’s fine.”

With obvious understanding, Steve’s features smoothed out and he nodded. Peter assumed everyone on the team was intimately familiar with the concept of never feeling completely safe. They knew the unease that came with not carrying their usual weaponry. It was why Matt was never without his cane, even when he was with the small number of people who knew he didn’t really need it. It was also why when Bucky was without his prosthetic the night they went to gather Peter’s belongings, Peter could feel several knives on his person as they moved together up and down the building. They all understood.

(God, Peter wished he had his suit.)

“So how are we doing this?” Peter asked as they settled into stances a few feet away from each other. 

“The opponent has to be down, unpinned, for five seconds for them to be defeated,” Steve explained. “If they’re pinned, they have to yield if they want the fight to end. Otherwise, they can try to get out of the lock. Since we’re both enhanced, breaking bones is allowed. Knocking someone unconscious is also a permitted move. As you know, no weapons other than your own body. That’s about it.”

“Sounds amazing,” Peter replied, taking a deep breath, and slipping easily into his fighting mindset. He was relaxed, but tense and ready for attack at the same time. His Spidey Sense tingled with idle anticipation as Peter observed Steve moving into the same mentality. “On your mark, Captain.”

“No,” Sam interrupted, and Peter didn’t need to pull his eyes away from the captain to know that Sam, Bucky, and Wanda were standing to the side of the mat, observing. “On my mark. Ready, set, fight!” Bucky scoffed at Sam’s quick refereeing, but Peter was too busy leaping over Steve’s incoming body to really be concerned with their conversation. 

“Up high!” Peter mocked, landing a small, light, taunting hit on Steve’s shoulder. Steve turned around just as Peter landed into a squat, and just as Peter said, “Down low!” 

“What the—” Steve mumbled as Peter dove to the side to avoid Steve’s oncoming kick. From this position, Peter could kick his opponent directly in the side of his knee, and Steve stumbled to the ground. 

“Too slow,” Peter finished, kicking the same knee as Steve tried to bring himself back up. Maybe he kicked it a bit harder this time, and maybe he added in a lightning fast punch to Steve’s stomach, and maybe he stepped on Steve’s shoulder once he was down on the ground once more, because Steve had gotten up a little too quickly last time.

“Sparring is not a high five joke that fathers use on their children,” Steve groaned, and Peter’s Spidey Sense spiked a small bit, which didn't give Peter enough information to avoid Steve grabbing onto Peter’s foot with his unpinned hand. Before Peter knew what was happening, Steve maneuvered in such a way that the man was moving back up, and Peter, too, was moving up, up, and up.

As in, Steve just launched Peter into the air by his ankle in the weirdest fighting move Peter had ever been subject to.

Good thing jumping spiders existed, and Peter had been able to perfect his soaring ability.

“Holy shit,” Bucky muttered, which was very justified, seeing as Peter quickly became in control of the situation, adding in a quick flip as he gracefully brought himself back to the ground. 

“Hey, he’s the one who just threw me,” Peter shrugged as he quickly straightened himself. “You guys are just lucky I have experience being yeeted.”

And then Steve was back on the ground, because even if Peter had been tossed up into the air several times in the past, it didn’t really mean that he 100 percent enjoyed it, and he had decided to throw a kick into Steve’s side. Peter had been working up to the amount of strength that he usually used with Steve, and the man had fallen to the ground on impact.

“Jesus, Spidey,” Steve complained, and with some hesitation, Peter landed a precise hit to Steve’s left kidney. Not too hard, seeing as all Peter wanted to do was end the fight, not cause internal bleeding. “Holy—”

Steve curled up on the ground, clutching his stomach, and Peter went pale.

That was why he was so worried about sparring.

But then Sam was there, slapping his hand against the mat with a grin, accenting the loud slaps with counts. When he got to Five!, the man laughed, turning to high five Bucky. Peter, meanwhile, hesitantly walked over to the gargantuan supersoldier still on the ground, still groaning, still in pain because of Peter.

“St—um, Mr. Rogers? Are you alright?” Shit, shit, shit, the hit was too hard, the hit was too hard, Peter hadn’t even lost control, the hit was just too hard. 

Wanda was next to Peter in an instant, Sam and Bucky close behind her. “Peter, he’s fine,” she soothed, pointing at the dismissive wave from the man on the ground. “He’s had far worse.”

“He’s also just a little bitch,” Sam added, and the dismissive wave quickly turned into the middle finger directed at Sam. 

“And there is absolutely no reason to call him Mr. Rogers,” Bucky said with dramatic disgust. “That was the worst part about this whole situation. He’s still Steve, even if you absolutely kicked his ass.”

“I can’t help but agree with Buck,” Steve finally said, and Peter watched as the man pushed himself up from the ground, his hand moving away from his stomach with a grimace. “I thought we had definitively moved past that.”

“That was before I fucked up your kidney,” Peter pointed out, but his companions’ comforting words and relaxed bodies soothed his fears a bit. This was sparring. Nat had said anything was fine, so long as he didn’t kill anyone; to Peter’s relief, Steve was now standing, so there was no killing.

“Don't worry about it,” Steve shrugged, barely wincing as he did so. “Already healing.”

“Now I wanna fight Peter,” Bucky announced, already shoving Steve off the mat. 

“Count me in,” Nat agreed, and Peter looked over to see her nonchalantly sitting on Clint’s back. Clint was in a chokehold. Nat tightened her arm, and Clint started thumping the ground. The woman got off of Clint as he sputtered out a cough, and she was at Bucky’s side in no time. “Maybe the two of us will be more of a challenge.”

Peter huffed out a breath, but he pushed up his sleeves a bit, attempting to cool down slightly. “Jesus, alright. You guys are insane.” 

-

“Hey, Fri,” Harley greeted, stepping into the awaiting elevator.

“Good afternoon, Harley,” she chirped in response. “The team is having a sparring session in the gym. Would you like to be taken there?”

“Uh, sure, but could you take me to my floor first? I’ve gotta drop off my backpack and get changed.”

“Of course,” she said, and the elevator started moving up, as elevators do. He made quick work of depositing his school stuff, giving a quick hello to Vision, and changing into workout clothes. When he reentered the elevator, he was taken down to the gym without having said anything. 

Logically, Harley had known that Peter would be with the team in the gym. Peter was an Avenger, and it was Avengers training. Therefore, seeing Peter in the gym was no surprise. 

What was a surprise was to see Peter combating Bucky and Nat, two highly trained ex-assassins, at the same time, and winning. Harley watched in awe as Peter landed a kick to Bucky’s right shoulder, sending him stumbling back a few steps, and used the leverage from the kick to push himself out of the way of Natasha’s punch. Natasha had been behind Peter, but now both she and Bucky were standing in front of him, quickly gathering themselves. And Peter? Well, Peter just—

Peter just jumped onto their shoulders. 

Just…one foot on Nat’s shoulder, one foot on Bucky’s shoulder. 

The two adults on the bottom of the human pyramid stumbled for a fraction of a second, Bucky letting out a curse, before they attempted to grab at Peter's ankles. But Peter, being the speedy little shit he was, jumped off of them before they could. It was almost like all of this was a game to him, as if he wasn't fighting the top two most fearsome people Harley had ever met. 

Clearly, Peter had put a bit of power into his jump, and Bucky and Natasha were sent to the ground as Peter flew upwards. He landed far too quickly for as high up as he had been, and immediately launched himself at the two who were now standing, sending a flurry of punches and kicks at their bodies. Only a few of his attacks were dodged, and suddenly Bucky was on the ground after Peter had delivered a well-placed kick to the back of his head. Bucky was unconscious, and Harley knew that Peter now only had one opponent.

Peter said something in Russian, a short phrase with a playful and teasing lilt to it, and Nat’s eyes narrowed as she shifted into a defensive stance.

The Black Widow was on the defensive.

The Black Widow’s offense had always been better than her defense. 

Peter had Natasha pinned in just a few seconds, getting her down to the ground with a kick to her legs and a punch to the juncture between her neck and shoulder in quick succession. Then Peter was on top of her, pulling her arms into his grasp, shifting his body so that he could lean down next to her face. They exchanges whispered words before Natasha sighed, and clearly stated, “I yield.”

Peter left her body so swiftly that Harley was surprised there wasn't a cloud of dust in his body shape left behind.

While Nat was getting back up, rubbing the place where Peter had punched her, Peter moved to tend to Bucky. The teen lowered himself to gently tap his face a few times, and Bucky awoke with a jolt. Peter moved back quickly, his arms down by his side and displaying empty hands, his face calm and neutral. Bucky settled.

“Now I don't feel as embarrassed,” Steve chuckled, sliding his eyes over to a grinning Sam. Harley hadn't even noticed that the two of them, plus Clint, had been observing the fight as well. He also hadn't noticed that Wanda was doing her own thing, honing her control over her magic by lifting what Harley knew to be weights that Tony had made, weights that were awfully heavy and shifted form as Wanda moved them through the air.

“And I don't feel embarrassed either,” Nat told them, shooting a small smile at Peter, who returned it. “Peter is quite the formidable opponent.” 

“Aw, Nat!” Peter fawned, jokingly fanning his face before settling into a more serious expression. “You guys were, too. I know I can probably learn a thing or two more from all of you, but that's just how I fight, and Steve had said he wanted to experience how I fight.”

“For now,” Bucky started as he began to push himself off the ground, “I think you're fine.” 

“Thanks, man,” Peter said, grinning a grin too blinding for it to be insincere. Then Peter turned to face Harley, and he felt as though a spotlight had just landed on him. “Hey, Harley! How was school?”

“Oh, y’know,” Harley answered vaguely, because now that Peter wasn't fighting, Harley could more easily focus on Peter’s exposed forearms. Peter had never worn something that displayed his arms in Harley’s presence, so Harley was going to take what he could get. “School’s school.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Peter agreed solemnly, before glancing back at his teammates. “I’m gonna head back up, take a shower before dinner, let you guys recover. Thanks for the sparring session.”

“To us, it was sparring, to you, it was a warmup,” Nat bluntly replied. “But have a good shower, you fucking force of nature.”

Bucky slapped her arm and, in unison with Steve and Sam, chastised, “Language.”

Peter chuckled as he stepped past Harley towards the elevator, and Harley subconsciously followed him. Peter took notice, and turned his steady brown eyes onto Harley. 

“Didn't you come down here to train?” Peter asked, making a show of staring pointedly at Harley’s workout clothes. As he did so, he rolled his sleeves back down to cover his arms. Harley tried not to feel disappointed.

“Uh, nah, it's Friday anyway,” Harley tried. “Tired. Y’know, school.”

Peter just shrugged. “Alrighty.”

Peter didn’t need to know that Harley simply always wanted to be near him. 

“So you fought Steve, too?” Harley asked in the quietness of the elevator, recalling how Steve had mentioned that he had been embarrassed.

“Yeah, right before I fought Bucky and Nat.” Peter shrugged again, looking down. “He said that he wanted to know what it was like when I didn’t hold back as much.”

“And how’d it go?”

Peter bit his lower lip slightly, releasing it from his teeth slowly, and no, it had zero effect on Harley. “I think I went a little too hard on him, but everyone said it was fine.”

“Dude, he’s literally Captain America. He can handle a bit of rough housin’.” 

“I guess you’re right,” Peter allowed, and a smirk promptly took over his face as they left the elevator together. “I did totally kick his ass, though. I’m just cool like that.”

“I like you.”

Hey. What the fuck, Harley.

Peter froze.

Seriously. What the actual fuck.

“What?” Peter breathed, looking directly into Harley’s eyes, his mouth slightly agape.

“Peter, I—I’m so sorry, I just—”

“Say it again.”

Now it was Harley’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“Say it again, Harls.” Peter surprisingly had not dropped eye contact for one second, yet his expression was completely unreadable. “I, I need to hear it, I can't—You gotta say it again.”

Harley cleared his throat. “Um. I like you, Pete. Like, in a romantic sorta way.” What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. “I like you.”

“Oh my God,” Peter whispered, and his eyes squeezed shut for just a moment, before snapping open again. “You’re not—You’re not lying. You’re telling the truth. What—” Peter’s hand rose to cover his mouth.

“You—” Harley was just about to ask about Peter’s apparent lie-detector ability, but then decided that not only was it a conversation for a later time, but that Harley wasn’t too surprised. “Yeah. This…Yeah. I like you. Um.” 

Peter removed his hand for just enough time for him to blurt out, “I like you too,” before he covered his mouth again. At this point, his expression had changed from unreadable to so colored with fear and surprise that Harley was taken aback.

Well, Harley was taken aback for more than one reason.

“You like me?” 

Peter nodded silently.

Harley repeated it another time, trying to get it to set in. Trying to get his mind to make the connection that— “I like you. You like me.”

“That’s gay as hell, Harls.” The words seemed to spill from Peter’s mouth without permission, and his eyes went wide. “Sorry, sorry, uh…” He didn’t finish his apology, however, because Harley had already bursted out laughing.

“You’re right!” Harley wheezed, bordering on hysterical. “It’s fuckin’ gay as hell, Pete. Holy shit.”

Then Peter was laughing a little bit, too. “God, you’re an idiot. You—You like me, you fucking idiot. Your life choices could not be any worse. Oh my god.”

“Hey now, I feel like that was more of an insult to you than it was to me,” Harley pointed out, calming down slightly, but still grinning like an absolute madlad.

“Well, you’re the one who likes me,” Peter chuckled, but then stopped, his expression freezing. “Holy shit. Dude. You fucking like me.”

“Yeah,” Harley nodded vigorously. “Yeah, I really do. Hey, Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna be my boyfriend?” Jesus. 

“God, Harley,” Peter groaned, but to Harley’s immense pleasure, Peter, too, was grinning like a madlad. Just a couple of madlads, grinning. “You’re fucking—You’re fucking insufferable, you know that?”

Harley just nodded.

“I’ll be your fucking boyfriend. Jesus.”

“Insane,” Harley whispered, his mouth starting to ache from his never-ending grin. “Dude, that’s so wild. What the fuck.”

“Hey, you know what I think you should do?” Peter casually wondered.

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should hug me, like, right now. Y'know. Yeah.”

Thank God. Harley wasn’t ready for his first kiss quite yet—a post-confession hug was right up his alley. 

“Yeah,” Harley nodded, and took one step to close the gap between them. “I think I can handle that.”

Peter’s arms reached to wrap around Harley, encasing him in probably the best hug Harley had ever experienced. Harley settled one arm over Peter’s shoulder, the other around his waist. Peter was warm, Peter was close, Peter was breathing puffs of air onto Harley’s neck, Peter was pressing his smiling face into Harley, Peter was tightening his grip on Harley's shirt. It...was perfect.

Harley had taken the risk, and it was perfect.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Peter mumbled into Harley’s shoulder.

“Yeah?” he quietly answered.

“Not that this hug isn’t doing everything for me right now, but we should probably talk about some stuff.”

“Oh.” Harley pulled away from Peter slightly, and Peter found himself missing the closeness immediately. “What, um, what kinda stuff?”

A quick jolt of guilt shot through Peter. “Nothing bad!” Peter hastily assured, subconsciously tightening his hold on Harley. “I just know that healthy communication is the backbone of a good relationship, so…”

Harley’s face relaxed into a smile. “And we are in a relationship.”

“Yeah,” Peter breathed. They were in a relationship. They had known each other for five days, and wound up in a relationship by some sheer miracle. Peter was giddy, he’d admit. But Peter had a lot of baggage, and Harley might’ve as well. They needed to clear the air on some things, set boundaries for the relationship. Peter had done this with MJ, and established an amazing habit of talking about the things that bothered them. Peter wanted to be with Harley, and to do that, they needed to do more than just stand in the hallway, hugging.

“Okay,” Harley nodded. “Healthy communication, that sounds good. Uh, wanna go to my room?”

“Sure.” Peter let his arms fall from Harley, although he couldn't say that there was no lingering. Harley copied his action, but on the way down, he gently took Peter’s hand in his. Their fingers intertwined immediately, and Peter just stared at their joined hands.

“This okay?” Harley asked, and Peter looked up at his face to notice the gentle look in his eyes.

“Yeah.” Peter looked back down at their hands, giving Harley’s a squeeze. He smiled when Harley squeezed back. “It’s great, actually. Some may even call it adorable.”

Harley chuckled, the sound resonating in Peter’s soul, and took a step forward with him. “Can’t say I disagree with you.”

Peter just hummed, the smile still resolutely on his face. 

He had a boyfriend.

A week ago, he would never have thought that he’d end up here, honestly. He hadn’t thought that he would have another chance at a relationship until…Well, he hadn’t thought that he would have another chance at a relationship, period. It was hard to form emotional connections with people when there’s baggage involved, let alone a secret identity. Yet, somehow, Peter wound up finding Harley, who hadn’t taken an issue with anything so far. That was why they needed to talk about some stuff, namely a few aspects of Peter’s past. Then Harley could decide how involved he actually wanted to be with Peter.

It was a terrifying, but nevertheless extremely necessary, talk. 

Harley opened the door to his bedroom, and Peter was about to follow, before he remembered that he needed express permission to enter Harley's room. This was not his own room. This was someone else's room. He could not enter without their permission. That was a rule. He couldn't break it.

Since their hands were still linked, Harley noticed when Peter halted in the doorway to Harley's room. The other looked back, confused. 

"Can I please come in?" Peter hurried to ask, before Harley could get a word in edgewise. 

Peter's question didn't ease Harley's confused expression, but nevertheless, Harley replied, "Of course, Pete. Come in."

With permission granted, Peter allowed himself to cross the threshold into Harley's room. Harley's face now held a mix of both confusion and concern, but Peter waved it off. His anxiety was already calming, so he smiled at the other, and began taking in the room.

The thing that caught Peter's eye first was a little pride flag sitting in a cup of pencils on Harley's desk, and Peter smiled to himself. Besides that, Harley had several decorations plastered on his deep blue walls—most were band posters (Peter recognized Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Queen amongst the collection), but there was an occasional page ripped out from a car magazine, and Peter caught sight of a map of New York City. Harley’s room was a bit messier than Wanda’s, with a few articles of clothing laying over a chair, several books piled on the ground because the bookshelf was full, and a trash can that was overflowing with crumpled up sheets of paper. The desk barely had any empty space, instead cluttered with sheets of paper that appeared to be blueprints and several scattered broken pencils.   

“Hey MTV, welcome to my crib,” Harley said, a grin on his face that looked so intensely proud. He gestured around his room with that hand that Peter wasn't holding.

Peter rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips. “You're a fucking dork.”

Harley agreed with a hum, and pulled Peter over to sit on his bed. “Okay.” Harley let go of Peter’s hand to settle into a criss-cross applesauce position, and Peter mimicked him. “Healthy communication time.”

“Yep.”

“We communicate…healthily.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” 

Harley took a deep breath, his eyes roaming Peter’s face. “Alright, you don't seem very…Yeah. We can start with this: what part about this is makin’ you uncomfortable?”

With that gentle and genuine question, Harley hit the nail on its head.

“Okay, yeah.” Peter cleared his throat, his anxieties for this conversation growing, but he calmed when Harley firmly set a hand on Peter’s knee. “There’s just a few things that, uh, I haven't been too clear with you about, and I think that you deserve to be told about them. Especially if we don't want there to be any misunderstandings going on here. It's just that sometimes—sometimes it can be a bit hard for me to talk about. So. That's what's making me uncomfortable.”

Harley nodded. “Well, first of all, I don't deserve to know everythin’ ‘bout you, Pete. You don't owe me any information that you don't wanna share.”

Peter chuckled slightly, shaking his head. “That may be true, but I do want to tell you about them.” (Kind of.) “It’ll just make things easier for us going forward, I think. It’s just hard.”

“Alright, that's okay. We'll go at your pace, promise.” Harley's hand started to steadily bounce on Peter's knee as he thought. “How ‘bout I start?”

Peter let out a breath. “Yeah, that'd be better. If you're okay with that.”

“Yeah, it's chill.” He gave Peter a small smile before starting. “Alright, I'll just jump right on in. So. I've never been in a relationship before.” He paused, looking at Peter with anticipation, as if expecting a bad reaction. 

Peter shoved down his shock (Harley was a catch, what the fuck), and softened all of his features. “Alright, that's valid. You wanna…Do you wanna talk about the reasons or anything?”

“Uh, yeah.” Harley's other hand was awkwardly fidgeting in his lap, so Peter reached over to grab a hold of it, lacing their fingers together. He heard Harley's heart rate pick up. “Y’know, Tennessee wasn’t the greatest environment for a gay kid to grow up in. Never took an interest in girls, and I didn’t wanna, like, make myself uncomfortable or anythin’ by forcin’ a heterosexual relationship. But that also meant that I had to turn quite a few girls down, and that was when the rumors about Harley Keener bein’ gay started spreadin’. I’ve gotten a few bullies, but I’ve always been a pretty athletic guy, so scarin’ ‘em off wasn’t too much of a hassle. But that all just means that I don't have much experience with this shit, so to speak.”

“And that’s fine, Harls,” Peter soothed when it seemed like Harley was done talking. “It’s not like I’m expecting anything from you. First relationships are hard, and I just don't want any pressure to be on you.”

Peter and MJ had each been each other's first partner. But even if it was their first relationship, both he and MJ knew that relationships could crash and burn if they didn't communicate on a regular basis, especially in high school. Respecting each other's boundaries was on the top of their priority list, right up there next to honesty. It was why Peter told MJ about Spider-Man right after the Homecoming Fiasco, so she would know what was going on whenever something triggered him, or why he got so little sleep. It was also why MJ told him that she was trans almost immediately after they had started dating, which allowed for Peter to have some understanding of her perspective.

What Peter was trying to say was that he knew what it was like to be stumbling through a relationship. Hell, he’d still be stumbling through this relationship. Therefore, Harley not knowing what he was doing didn't bother Peter at all. 

“Are you sure?” Harley asked, still looking a little concerned. “Because I honestly have no idea how to—how to pace anything, man. Like, what's too soon? What does it mean to go too slow?”

“Well, uh, I don't think you have to worry about going too slow,” Peter chuckled. “We've known each other for—” Peter counted on his fingers “—a little over five days. So.”

“Fair,” Harley shrugged.

“And we can let each other know when we go too fast. Like, right now, I'm good with cuddling of any form, but kissing is kinda off the table. We can definitely consider that in a little while, just. You'll have to ask.”

Harley nodded, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Right. Yeah, of course I'll ask. I'm not an asshole, I don't think.”

“No, you're definitely not,” Peter agreed, then hesitantly went on, “But, uh, there—there has been an asshole. A complete asshole, actually, so I just wanna be safe, you know?” Hinting at Skip seemed safe. Eventually, Peter would either have to tell Harley (like he did with MJ), or Harley would have to find out about all of it (like Matt did).

Harley must’ve understood what Peter meant by asshole, because his face went slightly pale and he squeezed Peter's hand. “Well, y'know. I'll do everythin’ I can to make you comfortable, you know that.”

Peter nodded, glad that Harley didn't ask. “Same for me. You tell me you're not comfortable with something, and I'll listen.”

“Nice.”

It was a bit quiet for a moment, and Peter knew it was an awkward quietness because Harley was waiting for Peter to take his turn. Harley had admitted his inexperience with relationships, and Peter had to explain something in return. Healthy communication.

Peter cleared his throat. “Healthy communication,” he muttered, like it was some kind of encouraging mantra. “Okay. So, the previous AcaDec captain, right?”

Harley nodded, visibly slightly confused. “Michelle, yeah?”

“Yeah. Well, I knew her as MJ. She would've liked you, I think. So I just wanted to let you know that I dated her.” For less than a year, actually, but it had always felt so much longer to them. They were just…so happy together.

“Oh,” Harley said, and from his tone, Peter knew that Harley didn't know what had happened. “Uh, that's pretty cool. I’ve heard lots of good things about her.”

“Yeah, she was amazing. In literally every single way imaginable.” Now, it should be noted that in the past two years, Peter had only talked about MJ with May (in the months while she was still alive), Ned (over the phone, both two years ago and last night), and Matt (more than a few months ago). Not a lot of practice to get himself to not cry whenever he talked about her. Peter blinked away tears. “MJ died, Harley.”

“Oh,” Harley said, this time in a much, much, different tone. “Pete, I—I didn't know. Everyone just said that—No one said what happened to her. I just assumed…” Harley took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly, eyes wide. “I just assumed that she moved.”

“It's fine, Harls. No one told you otherwise.” And now Peter was the one who had to tell him. 

“I—” Harley cut himself short. “Can I hug you?”

Peter nodded, a small motion, and Harley gathered him into his arms. Harley’s hold on him was tight, and since Peter had practically slumped into the hug, he was able to bury his head into the other’s chest.

“I'm so sorry, Pete.” Peter squeezed his eyes shut, but a tear leaked out regardless. “I'm not sure if that really helps, but I am sorry.”

“She was shot,” Peter murmured, and he both felt and heard Harley take a sharp breath. “It was just after a date, and I walked her to her apartment before I left. By the time I knew something bad was going to happen, I was too far away to get her away from the shooter. She was dead within a minute.”

Harley tightened his arms around Peter, and he asked, “You're still here with me, right?”

Peter let out a harsh breath and relished in the feeling of Harley's grip. He allowed it to tether him to reality instead of simply floating away from painful explanations and warped memories.

“Yeah."

He was with Harley. 

It was alright.

“Good, good.” Harley moved one of his hands to the back of Peter's neck, and he shivered, but allowed Harley to keep his hand there. “You know it wasn't your fault, right?”

Oh, now this? This was a useless effort. Peter knew that, Matt knew that, Ned knew that. There was no helping Peter's thoughts on this issue.

But he didn't really want to talk about that at the moment, so he hummed noncommittally, and Harley sighed. It was left at that. 

“Believe it or not, I actually told you about all that for a reason,” Peter said, going for a happier tone. It fell flat. “Uh. I've just—A lot of people around me have died. I've kinda gotten used to the idea of my loved ones dying, and I've just been on my own for a while. Suddenly, I have acquired a few new friends, and of all things, a boyfriend.” Peter allowed himself to smile into Harley's chest as he heard the other’s heartbeat flutter. “I guess I just wanted to warn you that I’ll, uh, be a little more worried than most, at times.” 

“Worried about…” Harley continued, hinting for Peter to go into more detail.

“Okay, let's say this. After my uncle died, it was really hard for me to let my aunt out of sight. I was just thinking that the same thing would happen to her.” (It did, so young Peter wasn't too far off.) “After the average grieving period, though, she had to go back to work, and I had to go to school. I just…I just didn't handle it that well.” 

Peter’d had as many panic attacks about Ben’s death as he had about the chance of May dying.

“So, you're sayin’ that because you, um, lost your last partner, some of that behavior will manifest?”

“It won't be the same, really, because I've gotten used to it.” Practice makes perfect. “But just a warning: if we're on a date, there is no way in hell that I’ll leave you alone on the street.”

“That is more than fine, darlin’. Sometimes I don't particularly enjoy bein’ on crowded sidewalks alone anyways.”

“Hey, Harley?”

“Hmm?”

“First of all, you're being really sweet. Secondly, I really like it when you call me darlin’.”

“Oh,” Harley chuckled, and Peter felt it resonate throughout his body. “That's good, ‘cause I really like callin’ you darlin’.”

“Gay.”

“Extremely.”

“Alright,” Peter sighed, and finally lifted his head from where he burrowed into Harley's chest. “One more thing on our healthy communication agenda.”

“And that is?”

“Who do you wanna tell? About us, I mean.”

“Oh,” Harley replied, a little thoughtful. “Well, I'm fine with anyone knowing, but I'd like to tell Wanda.”

“Alright, cool. I'm fine with anyone knowing, too.” Peter was sure that the Tower was an accepting place, and he and Harley would manage homophobes just fine between the two of them. “I'm going to tell Ned and Matt, if that's alright.” 

“‘Course,” Harley agreed. “You wanna tell Wanda with me?” 

“It would be my honor.”

-

Harley still wasn't over the fact that he could hold Peter's hand and Peter could hold his. He didn't think that he would ever be over that, actually.

He would have to ask Peter about his love language, because it seemed like he enjoyed the hand holding just as much as Harley. They didn't unlink their hands during the entire journey from Harley's bed to Wanda’s room.

“Actually, I don't even know if she's in here,” Harley told Peter, remembering that she was in the gym the last time he checked.

“She is,” Peter decided. “So is Vision. Would we be interrupting them?”

“Uh…” 

Thankfully, the door opened before they could decide if they should knock or not. 

“You guys were being pretty loud,” Wanda called with a laugh. She and Vision were sitting on her bed, and Vision pushed himself up upon their .

Harley took a step into the room, and yet again, he felt Peter stay back, not allowing himself to enter the room. Before Harley could let himself be riddled with confusion once again (Why was he waiting?), Wanda's voice called again, "Peter, you can come in."

Peter then deemed it appropriate to join the rest of the group in the room, a smile on his face as though there was nothing wrong. Maybe Harley was just overthinking something that might have just been one of Peter's quirks. Either way, it seemed as though Peter was ready to move on, as he greeted Wanda and Vision with seperate hello's. Harley chose that moment to also let it go, and held up their linked hands with a gigantic grin. 

“Oh my god,” Wanda nearly squealed when she saw. “Finally.”

Peter turned to Harley and raised an eyebrow. “Finally?”

Harley cleared his throat a bit and shot a glare at Wanda. “I may have been talkin’ to Wanda about you for the past few days.”

“Understatement!” Wanda exclaimed, pointing at Harley; Harley just glared harder. “Literally every time he talked to you, Peter, he would come to my room and die for no less than three minutes.”

While Harley was groaning, wallowing in his misery, he heard Peter laugh openly. “That actually explains a few things.”

“I’m happy for you two,” Vision spoke up, and Harley jolted, having forgotten that he was there. “I imagine your relationship will unfold in extraordinary ways.”

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Peter replied with a smile while Harley was busy simply grinning. His only hobbies included: grinning, and holding hands with Peter. 

Wanda got off her bed to walk over and gather Peter in a hug. (Harley had to drop his hand.) She whispered something in Peter's ear, but she had always been a good whisperer, and Harley hadn't a clue as to what she said. Peter said something indecipherable back.

She then stepped away to pull Harley into a similarly tight hug. To him, she offered, “Congrats, Harley. I wish you well.”

“Thanks,” Harley whispered. He knew he wasn't a good whisperer. 

“Okay, um.” Peter grabbed Harley's hand and gave it a quick squeeze before he dropped it again. “I'm gonna call Ned, and then I'll head out on patrol, so I won't be seeing you for a while.”

“You didn't eat,” Harley said, not skipping a beat. 

“Oh,” Peter let out, blinking. It seemed like he genuinely forgot. “Alright, I'll just…Can I make a sandwich or two while I call Ned?”

“You don't have to ask for permission, darlin’,” Harley gently reminded. He realized that he'd need to add enetering someone's room to the list of things Peter thought he had to ask permission for.

Peter looked a bit awkward as he backed out of the room. “Okay, I'll do that then. Uh, I'll see you guys later.”

The remaining trio gave their goodbyes as the door closed.

“Vis, I'll talk to you in a bit,” Wanda told the man (mandroid, in Harley's opinion), and Vision nodded before he phased through the wall.

“So,” Wanda started, plopping back down onto her bed, “did you tell him, or did he tell you?”

He joined her with a melodramatic groan. “God, Wanda, I just blurted it out.”

-

“So he just blurted it out?”

“Yeah man, out of nowhere!” Peter explained, in time with a swing. “You shoulda seen it, it was pretty fucking cute.”

“I bet,” Ned laughed, the sound loud and clear in Peter’s mask. “So then what?”

“Healthy communication,” was all Peter said as he gave a wave to a citizen two dozen feet below him.

“Oh, good. How’d that go?”

“Pretty well, I think. We talked about some relationship insecurities he had, and I told him about MJ.” Peter landed on a building, switching to running for a while as he neared Hell’s Kitchen. 

“Ah. Did he…handle that well? Did you handle that well?”

Peter gave a sardonic snicker. “Bold of you to assume that I ever don’t handle things well.”

“Peter.”

“Yeah, yeah, we were both fine.” Relatively. “We told Wanda, too.”

“Wanda Maximoff knows about your relationship?” Ned excitedly questioned, some of his fanboy-ness slipping out. 

“Yeah,” Peter chuckled. “I told you I was friends with her now.”

“I know, but it doesn’t make it any less cool.”

“I know, man.” Peter then caught sight of Daredevil’s running form in the darkness. “Hey, dude, I’m gonna have to go. Matt’s in my sights.”

“Okay, bro.” Ned hesitated, before he went on, “Hey, uh, I’m really happy for you. Tell me if Harley doesn’t treat you right, and I’ll be back in New York in an instant.”

“Overprotective much?” Peter sarcastically returned, but he was smiling anyway. “Thanks, Ned. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Karen, end call.”

“Call ended, Peter,” she said, her voice replacing Ned’s.

“Thanks, Karen. Could you also edit Harley’s name in my contact list? Change it to ‘Harls <3,’ please.” Peter had to spell out the heart, but he still thought it was cuter than an emoji.

“Done,” she told him right as Peter came up on Matt’s now still form. He landed right next to him, resisting the urge to childishly bounce up and down.

“What is it, kid?” Matt flippantly asked, and Peter followed him off the building, going in the direction of the part of town with the highest amount of criminal activity.

“I have a boyfriend.” He was basically the same as Harley, blurting it out. He had a boyfriend! 

“Holy shit,” Matt said, stopping as soon as they were on the next building. “Harley?”

“No, some other gay teenage boy I’ve met recently and formed a crush on. Yes, it’s Harley.”

“Kid, I’m so fuckin’ proud of you,” Matt said, and Peter could hear the smile in the man’s voice. Peter could picture what Matt would look like if he didn’t have his mask on: his glasses would have slipped down on his nose slightly, to the point where his crinkled eyes would be visible; he'd be grinning broadly, a genuine smile that only a handful of people got to witness, let alone have it directed at them. If Peter were lucky, Matt would reach out and give him a small side hug. 

And that’s what he did now. 

“I did tell you that you deserve this, right?” Matt asked, his grip on Peter almost bruising. “I definitely told you.”

“You did tell me,” Peter sighed. “And look where it got me. It’s all your fault.”

“Hmm, yeah. You’re welcome.” Matt released Peter, but neither of them made a move to leave the building. Neither of them heard anything; it was still cold out, of course, and crime rates always went down in the winter months. He and Matt still went out, though. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have stopped the weapons deal a few nights ago, and who knows what would’ve happened to Xander if Peter hadn’t stepped in. They always went out, regardless of supposed lowered crime rates.

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter chuckled. “So, I’ve got a boyfriend now. How’s your case coming?”

“I’ve basically got it worked out,” Matt shrugged. “The court hearing’s not for another week or so, so I’ve still got pl—”

Car tires screeched, quite a bit more than a few blocks away. There were three children, crying loudly, until they were suddenly cut off. Gagged. 

“South,” Peter unnecessarily told Matt, since they were already moving in the same direction, both obviously having heard the sounds. 

They usually stuck together. Not this time, though, not when children were involved. Peter was inherently faster, switching between running and swinging to where he heard the car, to where he had heard the children. 

Peter soon found himself in the midst of apartment buildings, cars casually going up and down the street. The city never slept, and Peter certainly hated that fact when he was looking for a specific car among the dozens upon dozens that passed by without a care in the world. None of these cars were displaying any signs of hurry, though, like the tire screeches had indicated.

Matt had changed directions, his distant footsteps making a sudden turn, jumping down onto street level.

“What did you find?” Peter asked, knowing that Matt could hear him, knowing that Matt would be listening for his voice, just as Peter was listening for his. 

“Fresh tire tracks,” Matt explained. “Multiple sets in front of a single apartment complex. There’s a set heading in your direction, and another in the opposite way. I’m following the other set.”

“I’ll find you later.” 

The same car’s tires screeched again, turning west. He was closer now, close enough to know that the car was larger than a sedan. A van, most likely, which was just too fucking cliche if this was a kidnapping ordeal.

Matt was now too far away for his soft and quick footsteps to be heard. 

Peter latched onto the edge of a taller building with a web, and he soared into the air. He was practically flying over the city, scouting for a suspicious-looking van, one that screeched around corners, one that almost definitely contained at least three gagged children. 

Peter caught himself with another web as he rounded a corner, now determinedly out of the apartment district, the high and low apartment buildings having suddenly switched to the classic decrepit warehouses. The stream of cars had thinned, and the dim street lights definitely added to the eerie atmosphere.

Tires screeched once more. Peter was close; close, as in Peter could see the van that matched the picture that his mind had built. It was three blocks down, it’s black paint job only allowing it to be seen when it passed a street lamp. It was driving haphazardly at best, definitely going over the speed limit. 

“Karen, put a lock on that black van up ahead. No license plate, Ford. Thanks.”

“Done.”

“Can you get a read on the contents of the van yet?” he asked, now only one block away. He stopped swinging, limiting his travel to the less obvious and more stealthy option of running. 

“Three children, ages unknown, all female. Two adult males are with them in the back, armed. Two more are in the front seats, also armed.”

“Shit,” he cursed. Of course they were armed. That wasn’t often an issue—hell, sometimes Peter got a free knife out of it. But children were involved, and he had no plan, no backup. Well, actually, his backup’s steps had just returned to his hearing range, so the other lead must have proved to be a bust. 

Still no plan, though, and still children accompanied by armed men.

He ran past the van, unnoticed until he chose to jump down to the street level, landing several meters in front of the vehicle. The driver swerved, nearly crashing into a street light, but Peter once again moved in front of them, this time close enough to stop the car before it crashed.

The van was no longer in motion, stopped by Peter's arms and probably the brakes, and three men unloaded immediately.

Peter still needed a fucking plan, but at least he could hear the children’s heartbeats. He just needed to get to them. 

“Evenin’ gentlemen,” Peter murmured, more to himself than anything as he bounded onto the van, kicking the exiting driver in the head as he went. “Fancy an illegal night out on the town?”

He reached the back of the van, and was pleased to see that the doors were already open. He was less pleased to see three burly men on the ground in front of him, guns out and aimed. Two men aimed their guns at the children (who Peter could hear sobbing and sniffling even with the gags), and the third had aimed his gun at Peter.

“Move, and we shoot,” the man on the left warned, one of the ones who had a gun pointed at the small girls. 

His Spidey Sense was far past tingling at this point. He had a rather large gun pointed at him, locked and loaded; his Sense was screaming.

Matt was getting closer, but not close enough. Peter needed to hold them off for just another minute, maybe two.

“You have 10 seconds to scram,” the one on the right said.

So much for another minute or two.

Peter now had a plan. It was one of his worst, by far.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, and dropped to the ground at the speed of light. 

A bullet was fired. He dodged. 

Matt’s speeding heartbeat could be heard. 

Two more bullets were fired, and he dodged neither of them, seeing as he was now in the van, shielding the tied-up girls with his body. 

Four shots went off. He didn’t know how many hit him.

The girls kept crying through it all.

Chapter Text

That fucking kid.

Matt was just two blocks away. He was two blocks away when he knew exactly what Peter was about to do, judging by the way his heartbeat spiked as he shifted one leg back, crouching slightly, murmuring a curse, preparing to jump. As if there were not multiple guns aimed both at him and where he would land on the ground.

In conclusion, Peter was an idiot. An impatient, self-sacrificing idiot.

But Matt supposed that he would have to wait to lecture the kid until after the sound of bullets firing stopped.

Matt soundlessly jumped down from the roof right behind one of the men, swinging his leg at just the right angle and with just the right amount of force, and the man was out cold. His gun fell to the ground with him, and a bullet fired aimlessly, thankfully not hitting anyone. The two others stopped shooting, shifting to look at Matt in surprise, before aiming their weapons again. Matt would have to get them out of the way quickly if he didn't want to get shot himself.

Moving as fast as humanly possible, he ducked and ran at the man on his left, launching himself at the man’s legs. The kidnapper collapsed to the ground, dropping his gun, and Matt flipped their position so that the criminal was on top of him. The other armed man didn't seem to want to shoot his partner, like Matt had predicted, which gave Matt enough time to knee the crotch of the man on top of him. Said man groaned, but stopped when Matt threw an oddly-angled punch at his head, rendering him unconscious.

Now, all Matt had to do was grab the gun from the ground, a hefty semi-automatic, and launch it at the last man. It hit him in the stomach, causing a loud and jolty cough to escape him, and Matt took the opportunity to throw his billy club at the criminal as well, and this time, the hit landed on the man’s head. He crumpled to the ground. Matt stepped over him to reacquire his club.

All of this happened in about a minute, give or take a few seconds. Good time, but now Matt had to worry about a) the boy currently bleeding out in a van, and b) the three crying girls underneath the boy currently bleeding out in a van. 

Even though he still hadn’t come down from his adrenaline rush, and even though his hands were shaking slightly, and even though the smell of the blood coming from Peter made him sick, Matt still had enough mind to know that Peter's heartbeat was definitely still there. So, against what he truly wanted to do, Matt prioritized the girls.

None of them were injured as far as he could tell, because thankfully, the only exit wounds in Peter's body were in his legs, which meant that the bullets hadn’t hit the girls. But the shifting of ropes against skin indicated that they were tied up, and the muffled nature of their cries pointed to gags. 

Matt was disgusted.

Sighing, Matt walked towards the girls, slipping his billy club away. Their heart rates picked up, and he cleared his throat as he crouched down in front of them.

“I'm here to help,” he told them, using his normal voice, rather than the gruff one people associated with Daredevil. He knew it would scare them. “And so is he,” Matt continued, gesturing to Peter's unconscious form. “But I need to move him to free you girls.”

They didn't respond (they were gagged, of course they didn't respond), but Matt was more narrating his actions than asking for permission. He knew he needed to be gentle with them, but getting closer to them and touching them was a necessary part of the process.

Matt moved forward at a pace that seemed too slow and too fast at the same time, and gripped Peter’s body, gently shifting him off of the girls. Even though Matt knew he didn't touch any of the wounds, the slipperiness of fresh blood coated his gloved fingertips.

He never wanted to wear these gloves again. 

“Okay,” he murmured, reaching out to the girls. They were all tied together, in a tight bundle, and he felt the knot in the front of their bodies. “I'm going to untie this rope, alright? Then I'll get your gags.”

Again, the girls obviously didn't respond as Matt swiftly untied the knot. The girls continued to sniffle as Matt, with still shaking hands, gently reached up to their faces, one by one, to pull away at the binds that kept a sock shoved in each of their mouths.

Matt was disgusted.

They gasped as soon as the socks were released, gulping down air. They had been breathing through their noses while the gags were in, but Matt knew the terror of being forced to do so.

“Wh-Who—Who are you?” one of them choked out. She seemed to be the oldest of the trio, but still no older than nine, by Matt's estimations.

“A guy just tryna help you guys out,” he mumbled, deftly untying the binds on their ankles. They had nothing on their wrists. “Alright, give me just one moment, and I'll make sure the cops are on their way.”

He turned to Peter's still silent and unmoving body (he had a pulse, and Matt could hear him healing already—he was fine), and tapped the boy's face, rapping his fingers against the undamaged mask. 

“Karen?” he called. “Karen, can you hear me?”

“Your voice is clear, Matt, yes.” Her voice was inside Peter’s suit, so she was able to call him Matt, even with the little girls around. It still startled him slightly to be called his name while in the suit, even if he knew that others couldn't hear her.

“What's the status on the police?”

“I contacted Officer Mahoney as soon as Peter arrived on the scene. His forces are one minute out.”

One minute? That close? Matt hadn't even heard them approaching, hadn't heard the sirens that were now blaring in his ears. He had just been so focused on—on—

Matt tried not to worry about the uneasiness of Peter's breathing.

“Thanks, Karen,” he quickly replied, remembering how Peter always made a point to be polite to his A.I. Then, to the girls, he said, “The police will be here very soon, alright? They’ll get you back home.”

“Wha’ ‘bout S-Spider-Man?” a younger one whined, and Matt resisted the urge to wince.

“He’s alright.” He was, okay? “He’s just gotta rest for a little bit, so he can heal back up. Don't you worry ‘bout a thing.”

A small fleet of police cars—three, four, Matt didn't care enough to count them—turned onto their street, sirens continuing to sound.

“Okay, okay. There's the police, they'll take care of you.” Matt shifted to push his hands underneath Peter, hoisting him into his arms. “Spider-Man and I gotta go.”

“Thank you, mister,” they chorused, their childish voices still trembling slightly.

“Bye, Spider-Man,” the same young one said as Matt began to walk away, holding Peter's body close to his, regardless of the blood.

Matt toted Peter down a full block, away from the police who were rushing towards the children, and ducked into an empty alleyway. He barely got out of view before he lowered Peter to the ground, propping him up against a dumpster.

“You idiot,” he muttered to Peter's unhearing form. “What the fuck were you thinking? I was right there, kid.”

He sighed. There'd be more time to lecture Peter once he was conscious.

Matt focused his hearing on Peter, and Peter alone. He had seven bullet wounds, and only two of which had exit wounds. Thankfully, none of the bullets were anywhere near his spinal cord, but one had hit Peter’s lung. It had ruptured the tissue there, and air was speeding out of Peter's lung. It had already partially collapsed. That explained his choked up breathing. 

“Karen.” 

“I have contacted the Tower and alerted the team of Peter's condition. Natasha Romanov is approaching.”

He didn't respond to her, instead choosing to focus on Peter's six other bullet wounds. Peter had been eating more, apparently, because his skin was stitching itself back together already. Now, that was a good thing for the leg wounds, but not for the other four, the ones in which the bullets were being buried inside Peter's body.

“Dammit,” Matt quietly sighed. “Karen, why is he out? Any head trauma?”

“He hasn't received any injuries other than the bullet wounds,” Karen assured. “He seems to be unconscious as a result of shock.”

“ETA on Romanov?”

“Three minutes out.”

Matt couldn't do anything other than sit there and put pressure on the chest wound that had caused the collapsed lung. Peter didn't even jerk under his hold.

Peter would live through this, Matt knew. He'd lived through worse on his own. But collapsed lung and hemorrhaging and shock and seven bullet wounds were all terrifying phrases, regardless of Peter's souped up healing ability. Understanding the insane rate at which Peter healed did jackshit for Matt’s permanent worry. 

The fact that Peter's blood was all over Matt's hands and suit certainly didn't help the situation, and being able to hear a lung deflating and deflating and deflating was a special kind of hell.

Suddenly, one of Peter's choked breaths got a bit too choked, and he coughed himself awake. 

At the same time, a speeding car could be heard coming down the street, nearing their location, but Matt hadn't heard it approaching until that moment. 

Seriously. He needed to be paying more attention. 

“Woah there, kid,” Matt rushed out when he heard Peter shift, trying to get enough leverage to push himself up. “Sit your ass back down.”

Peter wheezed out a cough, before he stuttered out, “H-Hey. Got sh—fuck—shot.” He then let out a groan as he tried to press a hand to his chest, curling up slightly.

“We can see that,” the woman behind Matt commented, and Romanov knelt down next to him. “Would that happen to do anything with the crime scene I just drove past?”

Matt gently took Peter back into his arms, ignoring weak protests. “That was us, yes.”

“DD, what—” Peter gasped, biting down hard onto his lip. A gush of blood expelled from a wound that must've reopened, coating more of Matt’s suit. “S-Sorry.”

“The girls are fine, kid,” Matt reassured, knowing that that was what Peter was trying to ask. He took hurried, yet smooth steps towards Romanov’s car, with her already rushing to get the door for Matt. “And don't worry ‘bout the suit.”

Peter hummed. “Alright. I’m gonna—” He hissed as Matt ducked into the car, and hacked out a cough as he was set down on his side. “Sh-Shit, man. Yeah, I’ll just, fucking hell, pass out again.”

“You do that,” Matt sighed, and closed the door. Peter held true to his statement, seeing as his choked breathing had leveled out again, his heartbeat steadying. Matt sped around the car to get in from the other side, the end where Peter’s head was resting. Matt sat down, not bothering to buckle up as he pulled Peter’s upper body into his lap. He continued to press down on one of Peter’s chest wounds in hopes of limiting airflow. His hands couldn't shake when they were applying force.

Romanov had kept the car running, and as soon as both Peter and Matt were situated, she sped away, disregarding any and all speed limits. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Murdock.”

Matt allowed himself to be shocked for all of two seconds before he took a deep, controlled breath. “I fucking hate spies.”

Romanov hummed. “Don’t we all.”

He tried not to be curious, really, he did, but— “How’d you know?”

“You forgot to disguise your voice.”

Shit. Something that easy, huh. Matt was really off his game tonight. He’d blame it on the blood still spilling from his kid. 

“Is he okay?” Romanov asked, feigning a casual tone. Her heart rate told a different story.

“He’ll be fine, he just needs to get five bullets removed.”

The quick beats sped up even more. “Five?” 

“Well, there were seven, but there’s only five still in his body.”

Romanov pressed harder on the gas pedal. 

“You're blind, aren't you?” she wondered, her voice now much tenser. Matt figured it had something to do with Peter's unconscious body in her backseat.

He blinked at the subject change. “Very much so, yes.”

“Pardon me if you find any of this offensive, but I've got to ask. How are you able to know what's going on?”

Matt snorted. “Just because I'm blind doesn't mean I'm clueless.”

“I mean,” Romanov exasperatedly corrected, “how do you know that Peter has five bullets inside of his body right now?”

Matt shrugged, repositioning his hands on Peter's chest. “I have good hearing.” He was surprised Romanov hadn't figured that out already.

“Right. So you can…what, hear the bullets inside of him?”

“Basically.” Matt neglected to explain how many years of practice it took to hone his senses to be able to pick up on an obstruction in someone's body—the way their blood flowed around it, the way he could practically taste the coppery flavor of blood on his tongue when too much of it spilled from a wound, the way the scent of a metallic bullet floated to his nose through layers of tissue, the way their muscles contracted around an intruding object. The way the sound of a bullet whizzing straight through a body sounded a hell of a lot different from the sound it made when it lodged itself between muscles. Romanov would never understand, so he saw no use in trying to explain how he made his way through the world. 

It was quiet for all of 30 seconds, the only immediate sounds being those of passing cars honking at them and Peter’s strained breaths.

“You sure he'll be fine?” Romanov said, again with the false casualness. 

“He's working on healing as we speak.” The bullets would have to be dug out, Matt knew, but at least his legs were getting better. “The main thing will be getting his lung reinflated.”

At his words, Romanov’s heart rate spiked even more, but she didn't say anything. Her facial muscles didn't even twitch.

Peter's face twisted slightly in his unconscious state, and he stuttered out a cough. 

“How much longer?”

The car’s brakes screeched, jolting both Matt and Peter out of position, but Matt prevented Peter from moving too much. “We're here.”

Matt threw open the car door as he pulled Peter into his lap, and exited the vehicle carrying him. Romanov’s own car door slammed, and her heels briskly clicked away, Matt following her at the same pace. They stopped in sync in front of a single door, Romanov murmuring an apology as they waited for a brief second. A lock mechanism clicked, and the door threw itself open. 

There were two men waiting inside, standing next to a gurney. One of the men was Rogers, but Matt couldn't identify the other. 

“Jesus, that's a shit ton of blood,” the unknown man remarked.

“Daredevil, what the hell happened to him?” Rogers asked, stepping forward with his arms held out in an attempt to take Peter from Matt. Matt disregarded this attempt, and set Peter down on the gurney himself.

“We'll explain later,” he dismissed, adjusting Peter's head so that he could get as much oxygen as possible.

“Just get him up to Medbay,” Romanov ordered, and the elevator opened. “Bruce is waiting.”

Rogers and Unknown Man hurried into the elevator, Romanov and Matt following them. Right before the doors closed, though, Unknown Man asked, “Wait, is he even allowed to come up with us?”

“Yes,” Rogers, Romanov, and Matt replied in unison, Matt being slightly more aggressive than the other two.

“Alright, then,” Unknown Man conceded, and the doors closed. As the elevator shot up, he continued, “Uh, he doesn’t look too good. What’s all—What’re his injuries?”

“I thought his A.I. briefed you on his condition,” Matt countered, raising an eyebrow. His hand was still firmly on Peter’s chest.

While Rogers mumbled something about how he didn’t know Peter had an A.I., Romanov filled Matt in. “Bruce was the only one to receive an alert, and all he told us was that Spidey was seriously injured before he went to prepare the Medbay.”

“I see.” The elevator doors opened, and Matt was guided by Peter’s gurney. They passed by several people as they rushed down the hallway. “He has seven bullet wounds—only two of them have exit holes—and a collapsed left lung. He’s only unconscious due to shock, but he’ll likely wake up once—” Matt racked his brain for Peter mentioning a man named Bruce “—Dr. Banner begins operating.”

Unknown Man whispered, “Man, what the fuck?” Rogers remained silent other than a harsh inhale.

 “Why do you think he’ll wake up?” Romanov questioned, pausing to open a door, and Peter was wheeled into a room. Matt figured it was an operating room, and another man was found inside.

“Anesthesia won't work on him,” Matt explained. “If his chest is cut open, he's gonna wake up. Don't worry about it, though, he knows how to handle it.”

“We can't operate on him without anesthesia,” the new man fretted, hurrying over to the gurney. “The pain will be excruciating.”

“I said,” Matt growled, “he can handle it. He needs a procedure, and no medicine has ever worked on him before."

"But—"

"Look, he has a collapsed lung and bullets are being trapped underneath his skin the longer we wait. Just trust me, and help the fucking kid out.”

Matt was losing his cool slightly. Thankfully, the man went with it.

“Fine,” he rushed out. “Just get him on the table. Nat, can you grab a pair of gloves and help me out a bit?”

Romanov complied, and Rogers helped Matt transfer Peter onto the operating table, laying him down on his back.

“He has a bullet in his right shoulder, one nestled in his left set of ribs, two on either side of his right kidney, and the last one is in his upper right thigh. Don't worry about the lower leg wounds yet, they don't have bullets in them; they've just gotta be cleaned.” Matt stripped down Peter’s suit, removing his mask as well, and held it out for someone to take. Unknown Man stepped forward to take it, and Romanov moved in to slice Peter’s shirt open with a pair of scissors. “His collapsed lung is on his left.”

“Sam, go out and wait with the others. I’ll call you in if I need any of you.” The man, who Matt had figured out was Dr. Banner, slammed a syringe equipped with a hypodermic needle into Peter's chest, pulling air out of his chest cavity. Matt had moved his hand just seconds before. Peter gasped in a sharp breath, still unconscious. “Nat, hand me that chest tube. Mr. Murdock, you may stay and help if you would like. Steve, stay in case Peter needs to be restrained.”

“You forgot to disguise your voice again, Mr. Murdock,” Romanov reminded him, a bit too late. 

Matt muttered a curse, and conceded to pulling off his mask. At this point, it almost seemed silly to keep it on, especially if he kept forgetting to disguise his voice. Besides, Peter would feel more comfortable if he saw Matt's face, so if Peter was more comfortable, then Matt could worry about Rogers’s silent shock later.

Dr. Banner was now holding a pair of surgical knives, his hands as steady as ever as he neared Peter’s chest. “You said he’s going to wake up as soon as I make the first incision, right?” Matt nodded. “Then he needs to wake up before I make any actual cuts so he doesn’t jostle my tools.”

“Right,” Matt huffed, and stripped down Peter’s pants as well. He hated to do so without Peter’s knowledge, but they were going to have to be removed at some point in order to get to Peter’s upper thigh wound. “Can someone hand me antiseptic?” It, along with a cloth, was placed in his waiting hand. He soaked the cloth with the antiseptic, and pressed it onto one of Peter’s leg wounds.

Peter jolted awake with a gasp, just as Matt knew he would. 

Matt blindly (hah) handed the antiseptic and cloth back to Romanov, and rushed to Peter’s head, ignoring the way Peter’s chest was intensely convulsing with every breath, and focused on Peter’s hacking coughs. 

“Kid, you’re fine,” Matt comforted, allowing Peter’s flailing hand to grab onto his. Peter squeezed tight, but at least he was aware enough not to break Matt’s fingers. “Focus on my voice, and take shallow breaths only. Your lung’s a bit fucked up.”

Through his calming coughs, Peter groaned, “When is it not?”

Matt smirked, and started to calm down himself. “Most of the time, believe it or not. Look, Peter, Dr. Banner needs to take out a few bullets and reinflate your lung. You gonna be alright?”

“Oh, hey, Bruce,” Peter greeted, craning his head up to look around the room. “Nat, Cap'n. DD, whatcha doin’ without your, uh, your mask?”

“They know. We'll talk about it later. You gonna be alright?” Matt repeated, but he was already waving Dr. Banner forward. 

“Yeah, I'll be fine. Bruce, you can go ahead and stab me.”

“When you put it like that, I don't really want to,” Dr. Banner admitted, but he started slicing through Peter's skin on his chest nevertheless. Peter didn't flinch. 

“Hey,” Peter called as Bruce started to move around tissue, and Matt hummed. “Someone needs t-to go out there ‘n tell Wanda ‘n Harls that I'm okay.”

“Want me to do it?” Matt wondered.

“That'd be good, yeah. Just make sure to come back.” Peter sucked in a breath as Bruce began to search for the bullet. 

“I can talk to them,” Rogers offered, already moving from his position by the wall.

“I'll do it,” Matt denied, and let his hand slip from Peter's grip. “I know Peter better.”

Matt marched out of the room while Peter murmured his thanks. Just outside the door, the people they had passed in the hallway earlier were waiting, some sitting on provided chairs and benches, others pacing. The two younger heartbeats in the hall belonged to Harley and a woman sitting on the floor, one of them crying, the other comforting. Matt figured the woman to be Wanda, and knelt down next to them.

Harley paused his comforting murmurs. “Mr. Murdock?”

Matt sighed. Peter held priority over Matt's identity, so secrecy be damned. 

“Hey. Peter wanted me to tell you two that he's fine.” A blunt statement, but Matt needed to get straight to the point so he could get back in there with his kid. 

“He said that?” Wanda quietly sniffled, but not in an exactly childish fashion. Her heart rate was all over the place, her breaths coming short, and Matt could practically smell the fear radiating from her. She was trembling from head to toe.

“Yes. Peter's tough,” Matt assured. “It takes more than a few bullets to take him down. He’ll be up and kicking in no time, I promise.”

“You, sir, better not be lying,” Wanda threatened, and Matt was suddenly met with the strange sound of…wind chimes? Why would there be wind chimes?

“Wanda, it's alright,” Harley hastily said, squeezing the woman's shoulder. “He wouldn't lie to us. Peter's gonna be fine, he said so himself.”

The wind chimes stopped, and to say Matt was confused would be an understatement. 

Wanda whispered a small, “Okay. Sorry.” 

Matt nodded silently, and straightened himself, turning to go back into the operating room. 

“Wait,” a man called, and Matt sighed, stopping. He just wanted to get back in there with Peter. “Sorry, I just—Sorry. Nevermind.”

The man’s heart was racing, but more than in a panicky way—he was enhanced. He was a bulky man, powerful, but he carried himself in a way that almost seemed small. There was mechanical whirring coming from his left arm.

“Peter's going to be fine, Barnes,” Matt told him, glancing in the man’s general direction. “Here, you know what?” Matt cracked open the door to the operating room. “Kid, say hi to your friends.”

Peter's voice floated into the hall, and Matt could hear the effort he was putting into not letting it waver. “Hi, Bucky, hi, Wanda. Hey, Harls. I'm alive and well.”

“There you have it. I'll see you guys once he's fixed up.” Matt swiftly reentered the operating room, letting out yet another sigh.

“You're not gonna see any of 'em, quit lying,” Peter quipped, now with an oxygen mask on. “Thanks for talking to them.”

“‘Course, kid. How's it going?”

“Lung bullet is out, ‘n lung itself will be fine in, like, an hour or two.” Peter reached his hand out again, and Matt took it without hesitation. “Bruce’s working on the, uh, the kidney ones.”

“He needs more blood,” Bruce distractedly commented, and gestured for Romanov to hand him a cloth. “But we obviously don't have any, other than...er—"

Peter tensed even further beneath Matt's grip, and he was quick to move on. “Hear that, kid? Too much blood loss. Maybe you shouldn't have gotten shot seven times.”

Peter groaned, but instead of being one of pain or panic, it was a familiar one of complaint. “Save the lecture till after I get s-some sleep. Oh, and Bruce, once I get that precious sleep, my blood will replenish much faster.”

“Big talk from a kid who gets about three hours of sleep a night,” Matt snorted. 

Bruce hummed, sounding intrigued. “If you wouldn't mind, I'd love to study the rate of your healing. Maybe—Wait, Peter, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

Peter tensed yet again, but he replied before Matt could intervene. 

“It's alright, Bruce,” Peter assured, but Matt could still hear his heart rate rising. “Maybe just—just don't say those things w-when you're holding my skin open.”

“Hey, why don't you tell 'em ‘bout that time with the banana and knife and, uh, folding chair,” Matt suggested.

“I know what you're doing,” Peter said, “but it's a really good story, so I’ll oblige. So, I was at the Toys R Us on Broadway Street, and really, I was just looking for—ouchie—for a place to eat, right? But, see, I had just come from a drug bust—”

Matt held his kid’s hand through the entire story, laughing at the appropriate moments, and soothing him whenever he had another coughing fit or a bullet was pulled out of his body. 

Yeah. The lecture could still wait.

Chapter Text

“And…that’s the last one!” Bruce punctuated his statement with dropping the final bullet into the container next to him. “I’ll just finish stitching these up, and then you can be transferred to a recovery room.”

“Right,” Peter acknowledged. “And, uh, how long will I be in recovery?”

Bruce reached for his needle, threading it with a hum. “The chest tube will need to remain overnight, but your lung will still take another day or two to inflate. In the days while your lung is still healing, you’ll need to take it easy, but you can leave the Medbay once I remove your tube.”

Peter’d had a few collapsed lungs before, he knew the routine. Regardless of his enhanced healing, air could only fill his lung so fast, and he understood that he would have to rest until his lung stopped being a little bitch. The first time he had a collapsed lung, he’d figured out what had happened by connecting the dots between an enhanced kick to his chest and sudden issues with breathing. He didn’t research it any further, and decided to not only keep patrolling, but also return to school and patrol again the next day. He’d passed out in gym during the school day from minimal airflow, and when it happened again while he was patrolling, he’d acquired some common sense, and realized that he needed to go the fuck home. The next time he had a collapsed lung, he still went to school, but reluctantly skipped his patrol. He’d certainly coughed less, that was for sure. 

Therefore, Peter was already nodding as Bruce continued, “Now, as your unofficial doctor, I’m going to have to warn you against going out as Spider-Man while your lung is still healing.”

“I know, I know,” he groaned. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete dumbass.”

“Hi, my name is Popular Belief,” Matt deadpanned. “Peter is a complete dumbass, and my proof is that he jumped at the opportunity to get shot seven times without a second thought.”

He didn't jump at the chance, necessarily. He just knew that as long as the girls were safe, it didn't matter how much he was injured. It never mattered how much he was injured. He would always heal. 

Peter sighed internally, forcing himself to answer like a normal person. “Actually, Matthew, my second thought was that the only way for me to get out of that situation would result in getting those girls shot, or worse.” 

“I was two blocks down, kid,” Matt emphasized. “You could’ve waited.”

“You heard those guys, Matt. They had no fucking idea what they were doing. Move, and we shoot, they said. You have 10 seconds to scram, they said. Someone was gonna get shot either way, and I preferred risking myself rather than the girls. It’s not like I’m dead.”

“Fuckin’ clearly,” Matt scoffed. “But really, kid, couldn’t you have just thrown a web bomb? If you could jump down there, you could’ve raised your arm a little bit. Their reflexes weren’t that good.”

“I―” Shit. “Uh. Yeah, that would’ve been a bit smarter. But come on, man, you know I’m a dumbass.”

Matt threw his hands up in the air, looking proud and slightly exasperated. “And now we’ve come full circle. You literally said that you weren’t a complete dumbass about a minute ago.”

“Stop using your lawyer tactics on me!” Peter cried, a sound that was unrelated to Natasha joining Bruce in suturing his wounds. 

“You walked right into that one, kid,” Matt shrugged. “No lawyer tactics needed.”

Peter groaned, and chose to execute his most famous rebuttal: sticking out his tongue and flipping Matt off with both hands. Then Bruce had to rebuke him with a small slap, because the doctor was still stitching up the wound on Peter’s right shoulder. 

“You aren’t helping your case,” Matt commented, chuckling slightly. 

“All I was trying to say was that I’m not enough of a dumbass to go out and patrol with a healing collapsed lung,” Peter huffed. “I’ve learned my lesson, I swear.”

Matt just hummed in a way that showcased how unconvinced he was, and Bruce looked up at Peter with a raised eyebrow before returning to his work, shaking his head.

Bruce and Nat finished stitching him back together within 15 minutes, seeing as they didn’t even have to handle his leg wounds, which had since scabbed over. Steve, finally leaving his quiet post by the wall, offered to get Peter a fresh set of clothes. Bruce shot him down with an exaggerated gesture to the chest tube inserted in between Peter’s left set of ribs.

“So if we’re done here, can I start making my way over to one of the recovery rooms?” Peter asked as he began to sit up, accepting the hospital gown Nat procured for him. He hated that he had been exposed during his entire procedure, but neither Nat nor Steve had made a comment about Peter’s extensive scarring, so as long as he left the room with the gown on, it was all fine. 

“Can you even walk?” Bruce incredulously countered. 

“Sure I can.” Peter made grabby hands for Matt, who sighed, yet took a dutiful step forward. By this point, Peter had made his way to sitting fully upright, and he slipped down from the operating table with Matt’s familiar support. Peter had laid his right arm over Matt’s shoulder, which, even though it pulled at his shoulder wound, was better than interfering with his chest tube on his other side. “Look at that. Standing up.”

“Mr. Murdock, would you please step away for one moment?” Bruce inquired, and Matt complied. Peter was proud to say that he only tilted slightly before he righted himself. Standing up on his own with a plentiful amount of holes in his body was painful, but certainly not something he hadn’t done before. Every move he made was unpleasant, to put it lightly, seeing as there wasn’t a single way he could shift without an injury making itself known. 

“Just use a wheelchair, Peter,” Nat implored, obviously taking notice of Peter’s trembling legs. 

Peter gave a weary, resigned sigh. “Yeah, whatever.”

Steve promptly left the room to retrieve a wheelchair, leaving Peter to struggle through putting on his hospital gown. At this point, Peter was simply glad that Natasha was standing in front of him, so that she couldn’t see the brand on his upper back. 

“You can just wear that over your tube,” Bruce explained. “It’s secured enough, and the gown is loose specifically for this purpose.”

“Right,” Peter muttered, and followed Bruce’s instructions. When he picked up his drainage unit, the gown hitched up awkwardly around the now raised tube. “I look stupid.”

“Nah, you look fine,” Matt told him with that smug smirk of his, and Peter shot him a glare. 

“You look like you’re healing,” Bruce corrected, and Steve reentered the room with a wheelchair. “Now get in that chair so you can leave this room, and play nice with the worried Avengers out there.”

“On that note—” Matt yanked his mask from the floor “—I’m going to leave. Peter, don’t be dumb, and tell your friends not to fuck up my identity.” 

“I can’t guarantee that I won’t be dumb, but I’ll make sure brief them on a secret identity,” Peter said, and gingerly sat down in the wheelchair. “I’ll see you in a few days, DD.”

“Try not to get shot in the meantime.” With that, Matt pulled on his mask and swiftly left the room, not answering any of the waiting Avengers’ questions.

“Alright, Peter.” Bruce sidestepped Steve to get in front of Peter. “I’m going to go up there and get you some food. I’m sure your healing’s been in overdrive to avoid the possibility of dying, so you’ll need to recharge. You can have however many guests as you want, and visiting hours are up till you crash. Good luck to you.” Bruce hustled out of there before Peter could even be grateful, and then it was just Peter, Nat, and Steve.

“You ready, паук?” Nat asked, facing Peter as she walked to the door with a quirk in her brow.

“Always am,” Peter sighed. He knew that Wanda and Harley were still the most freaked out, but judging by Pepper’s heartbeat out there, she was pretty worried as well. Hopefully seeing him alive would soothe their speeding thoughts. 

Natasha opened the door, and Steve wheeled him out into the hallway, where it immediately fell silent. Everyone on the team (plus Pepper) was gathered there, and it seemed like they had been waiting for the entire time. Weird. 

Peter gave them a jovial wave before he was bombarded with their attention. “Hello. I’m fine.”

Wanda hastily pushed herself up from the floor, appearing by Peter’s side in an instant. “Peter,” she whispered with a sort of reverence as she reached out her hand to cup his jaw. He leaned into it automatically. “I was so scared.”

He gave her a sad, understanding smile. “I know. I’m okay, though, look at me.” He did a full body gesture to his stitched up body, and hilariously, Nat went to his side to pull the same move, as if she was Vanna White.  

“I’m glad,” she said, simply and quietly. Her fingers fell away from his cheek, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake. She fell back to stand with Vision and Harley, the former of which gave Peter a nod. Harley was just staring at Peter, his brows slightly furrowed. Peter gave a confused stare back. 

Tony spoke next, loudly, though he remained in his spot as Pepper came forward to Peter. “You look great, Spidey. What kinda stunt didya pull to achieve that look?”

“Nat or Steve can explain it,” he replied, giving a one armed shrug before turning his attention to Pepper. He took a deep breath as she laid a hand on his head affectionately, and let it out slowly. It was fine. “Hi, Pepper.”

“I was worried, sweetheart,” she told him, in that permanently steady and calm voice of hers. For a split second, Peter was violently reminded of May as he looked up at her face. “You can’t latch onto my heart like that, only to go and get yourself shot.”

“I’ll do better,” he assured, genuinely. He kind of forgot that people cared about him now, and he hadn’t meant to make them worry. He knew he worried Matt, but to be fair, Matt worried Peter all the time, so it canceled out. But it was different now, he belatedly realized. Even the team members he hadn’t spent too much time with yet, like Sam and Clint, were in the worried crowd. They were in the back, studying Peter with matching concerned eyes, but it felt just as personal as Steve drumming his fingers on the wheelchair, or Bucky anxiously flexing his fingers from his spot at Nat’s side. 

Peter craned his head slightly to look at Bucky, whose eyes met his immediately. “You okay there?”

“Yes,” the man replied instantly, almost as if it was on instinct. Certainly too quickly for it to be an honest answer. “Are you…Are you okay?”

“I’m in tip-top shape, don’t even worry about it.” Peter knew that Bucky saw right through his shit, seeing as Peter was still plainly sitting in a wheelchair, his drainage unit in his lap, resting just an inch or two away from his thigh wound. Regardless, Bucky took a noticeably deep breath, and nodded.

Peter heard the elevator working, travelling down from a higher level, and he knew that Bruce would be in it, expecting to see Peter in a recovery room already. Peter tilted his head back slightly to look up at Steve, stage whispering, “We should probably get in one of the rooms with a bed in it, so Bruce doesn’t kill us when he gets down here.”

“Right.” Steve cleared his throat, and stopped rapping his fingers against the wheelchair’s handles. The man dutifully maneuvered Peter through the throng of people, all of whom shifted awkwardly to let the pair through. Even more awkwardly, though, was the way they followed him down the hall, quietly shuffling along. Peter chose not to mention it as Nat pulled open the door for Steve and him. 

"Hey!" Peter called, and Steve froze in the doorway, as did the Avengers behind him. "Don't say shit about Matt's identity."

Peter waited until the general mumbled consensus was that they wouldn't say a word until he told Steve that they could keep moving. He'd have to talk to them more later.

Wanda was the only one to follow the trio inside, and she aided Peter as he got in the bed, pulling back the thin blanket and holding his drainage unit for him. Steve deposited the wheelchair next to Peter’s bed, and gave a slightly aborted wave goodbye. 

“Steve,” Peter called, smiling slightly, and the man stopped to turn his head to look at Peter. “Thanks for helping out.”

“Least I can do,” Steve dismissed, but he mirrored Peter’s smile before he continued out the door. “See you in the morning, Spider-Man.”

Outside, Bruce finally arrived, and Peter chuckled at his loud sigh. Through the closed door, the man could be heard ushering the crowd into the elevator, muttering to them that they could all see Peter the next day. They all clambered into the elevator, and the only one to remain was Harley. Peter heard him settle into a seat, and Bruce didn’t say anything to him. 

Bruce gave an odd knock on the door (with his foot, it seemed), and with a flick of the wrist, Wanda opened it for him. Bruce carefully stepped in, carrying a glass of water in one hand, and two plates of food in his other, with one precariously balanced on his arm. Nat came forward to take the balancing plate from him, and she handed it to Peter. The glass of water and the other plate was set on his bedside table.

Peter took a bite of his first sandwich, which was loaded up with all of the trimmings imaginable, and popped a blueberry from his fruit cup into his mouth once he was done chewing. The other plate had a small salad, a twin sandwich, and two chocolate chip cookies the size of his hand. 

“Thanks, Bruce,” Peter offered, swallowing his food. He hoped that the man knew that Peter wasn’t just thanking him for the food.

“No problem,” Bruce replied, already inching towards the door. “I’ll be back in the morning to remove your tube. Get some rest, Peter.” He left the room with a little dip of his head. 

“I’ll be taking my leave as well,” Nat announced, though she quickly sidled up next to Peter’s bed. “You’re tough. Glad you’re still with us.”

Peter, having taken another bite of his sandwich, didn’t have time to respond before she, too, swept away from the room. Peter gave a questioning look to Wanda, but she just shook her head slightly. 

Peter swallowed again before he reached out to take Wanda’s hand, noticing that it was shaking slightly. “Hey.” She gripped his hand, staring at him with unshed tears in her eyes. “Are you alright?”

Wanda closed her eyes, and a tear slipped out in the process. “I’m okay,” she hesitantly replied. “I just wanted to…to feel you a little bit more before I left.”

Peter nodded uncertainly, knowing that his confusion was painted across his face. “Feel me?”

“Just—” She gestured vaguely with her other hand. “Your energy, I guess. I can basically, um, feel people’s auras, I think. You’re in pain, but you’re here, and you’re alive, and I just wanted to feel that again.”

Peter nodded again, this time with a bit more understanding. “Okay. I’m here, and I’m alive. Take all the time you need.”

She sniffed, and continued to silently hold his hand for another minute. Peter didn't allow himself to feel uncomfortable, instead just letting himself be quiet with her, soaking up her presence just as much as she was soaking up his.

“Okay,” she whispered, and released his hand with a watery smile. “I’m going to bed. Rest well, Пітер.” She bent down to give him a small kiss on top of his hair. Peter felt his eyes tearing up, and he wondered if she was ever going to be able to do that without him getting emotional. 

“You too,” he told her, and she left the room with a hum.

Peter sat there, alone on his bed, for a solid two more minutes. Quietly chewing his sandwich. Jiggling his foot on the bed. Listening to Harley as he slowly got up and approached the door. 

The door slowly opened, and finally, Harley stepped in. Peter watched as he pulled a chair from the corner of the room up to the side of the bed, and took the seat when it was arranged to be less than a foot away from Peter’s side. Peter finished off his fruit cup, and slipped the empty plate underneath the one on his bedside table, and took a quick sip of water. He then looked at Harley, who was looking back. 

They studied each other. Harley broke the silence.

“What’s your last name?”

The question caught Peter off guard, and he furrowed his eyebrows. “Uh. Parker.”

“Parker,” Harley echoed. “Peter Parker.”

“Harls, are you alright?”

“What’s your middle name?” Harley wondered, completely ignoring Peter’s question. 

“Benjamin,” Peter answered, but only after a second of hesitance. 

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.” Specifically, the shade of Ben’s favorite chair, the one where the man could often be found reading a book or a newspaper, the one that remained in Peter’s home until he had to go into foster care.

“When’s your birthday?”

“August 10th. Harley, what’s up?”

This time, Harley didn’t ignore Peter’s concerned question. “I really don’t know all that much ‘bout you, Pete.”

Slowly, Peter shook his head. “I…guess not. Not the basic stuff that people usually start off with, at least. But you know a bit more personal stuff.”

Harley knew about Peter’s love of Star Wars, Legos, and Star Wars Legos. Harley knew that Peter liked to make art, even if he hadn’t seen anything. Harley knew some of Peter’s traumas. Harley knew about Peter’s secret identity. Harley knew about Peter’s love of potatoes. Harley knew about Peter’s sensory overloads, and was able to calm him down from them. 

Harley didn’t even know Peter’s last name, but they knew the parts about each other that were a bit more buried, a bit more real.

“I was just thinkin’. While I was waitin’ for you to get outta surgery,” Harley explained. “I was just thinkin’ ‘bout how I didn’t even know your last name, or your favorite color, or your birthday, but if you had died tonight, it woulda gutted me.”

Ah.

“Harls—”

“I can’t lose you, Peter. I-I don’t—We barely know each other, we’ve only just begun datin’, but you’re just so fuckin’ important to me already.”

“Harley,” Peter said, keeping his voice firm, because Harley was spiraling. His heartbeat was wild, and his breaths were starting to get a bit harsh. The other’s drifting gaze snapped back to Peter. “I’m not gonna die. At least, not for a good while.”

Harley laughed a humorless laugh. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ve had worse, Harls,” Peter reminded him, because it was definitely true. He’d had so much worse, and yet, here he was.

“That doesn’t mean that you won’t die, Peter!” Harley wasn’t yelling, but his voice was getting more clipped. Peter didn’t like it. “How can you sit here and assure me that you won’t die? How can you—”

“I’ve tried, Harley.”

The other teen stopped dead in his tracks, the words dying in his mouth. 

Peter’s heart sank.

“I’ve tried it,” Peter repeated, now so much more tired than he was before. “I’ve put legitimate effort into trying to end my life, and it wouldn’t work. I gave up. I don’t think I can die, Harley, at least not yet.”

Harley’s eyes were wide, and his breathing was less harsh. It was quiet now, barely audible, shallow.

“Why?” 

Peter let his head fall back onto the pillow, and closed his eyes. His mind answered Harley’s question, flicking through the mental list of reasons that Peter had. The reasons all kind of jumbled together, taking form in a scrambled mess of hate and emptiness and grief and tiredness.

“I’m not sure if I really want to talk about that right now.”

“Will you ever want to talk about it?” Harley quietly asked, hesitant.

Peter’s eyes slipped open once more, and he turned his head to look at Harley. The other teen was scared, but he was trying to hide it. “I don't know.”

Harley very clearly didn't know what to say. Peter didn't really know what to say, either, seeing as he really didn't mean to open up about this tonight. Usually, Peter could pull from past conversations when he was talking about the fucked up parts about him, but the thing was, he’d never told anyone before. Technically, Bruce knew, seeing as they had talked about it very briefly during their first meeting. But all of Peter's attempts happened after May died, so it wasn't like he had talked to MJ or her about it. With Matt and Ned, well. Suicide didn't come up that often in conversation, unless Peter was making a casual joke about it. 

“I'm fine now,” is what Peter decided to say. It wasn't…super true, but whatever. “I haven't tried anything in almost a year.”

“Peter,” Harley quietly said, the name sounding like a plea on his lips. “That doesn't mean you're okay.”

“Probably not, but you don't have to worry about that now, I swear. I have things to live for now.” 

Peter had Matt, whom he'd had before as well, but they had grown closer. Peter was communicating with Ned now. Peter suddenly had a bunch of random adults who cared about him. Peter had a boyfriend, for christ's sake. 

He had things to live for. He wasn't about to attempt any time soon, he didn't think. 

It was quiet, uncomfortably so. Peter awkwardly reached for his glass of water and took another sip. Harley sighed.

“I don't want to lose you,” he repeated.

“You won’t,” Peter reassured, but now that statement had more levels to it. It was not only a testament to Peter's durability, but a promise. A promise to stick around, even if he didn't really want to. 

Peter scooted to the side of the bed, a few inches away from Harley. Harley was visibly confused until Peter patted the now empty space on his bed. His tube was on his other side, and Peter's shoulder was noticeably getting better.

“You want me to get in?” Harley wondered.

“We can cuddle?” Peter suggested, his voice lilting up at the end. “It's alright if you don't want to. I just thought that, uh, it'd help. Or something.”

Harley hastily stood up, quick to assure Peter. “No, no, you're right. It'd help. But you're hurt. I don't wanna make it worse.”

“I wouldn't suggest it if it was going to make it worse. Just don't lay on my shoulder.”

Harley raked his eyes over Peter for another second before he sighed, mumbling, “If you're sure.” 

Harley gingerly climbed onto the bed, and though Peter hadn't spent any time in a normal hospital bed before, he was pretty sure that this one was larger than average. Probably more comfortable as well. Harley slowly settled into Peter's side, his body curled up to fit itself along Peter’s. He rested his head on Peter's chest, giving it a few seconds before he relaxed, content that he wasn't touching any of Peter's wounds. Peter rested his right hand over Harley, his shoulder unaffected. It was probably almost completely healed by this point. 

“Okay?” Peter asked, because he was incredibly comfortable like this, and he was too exhausted to stay awake for much longer. 

“I'm good,” Harley replied. “You?”

“I'm good,” Peter echoed. He was beyond tired, but he needed to make one more assurance. “You won't lose me, Harley. I'm okay.”

“I hope so,” the teen mumbled, scrunching himself further into Peter.

Chapter Text

The moment Bruce walked into the room, his eyes widened comically, and he stopped walking so suddenly that it appeared as though he had run into a wall. Peter, having anticipated his arrival, having heard the man coming down in the elevator, having been planning the inevitable conversation, met Bruce’s gaze immediately, trying to signal to him that he needed to stay quiet.

Bruce blinked, but nodded anyway, keeping his gaze on Peter as he further entered the room. Well, maybe he wasn’t staring at Peter so much as he was ogling at the other teen that was currently curled into Peter’s side. Maybe the thing that Bruce was focused on was how Harley had an arm stretched across over Peter’s chest, and a leg intertwined with Peter’s own. Maybe Bruce was simply not anticipating such an intimate position between two people whom he hadn’t known were dating. Maybe it was that.

Bruce pulled the sleek swivel chair out from where it had been pushed into the small desk that Peter's recovery room offered. The doctor sat down and traded a clipboard and pen from the desk for a set of Peter’s folded clothes he’d brought as the chair swiveled across the floor. The action reminded Peter of the doctors he'd had as a child who’d ask him how things were going at school as they listened to his asthmatic breathing and prepared him for a flu shot, darting from one end of the room to another to collect supplies or jot down notes. 

Bruce glanced up at Peter a few times as he scribbled a few notes down on his paper, ticking off a box here and there, marking through a comment occasionally. After a quiet minute or two, he finally looked up and held Peter's gaze, the friendly glint in his eyes matching the small smile he pulled. With a hushed voice, he said, “You look incredibly awkward.”

In response, Peter rolled his eyes, not wanting to speak for fear that he would wake his sleeping boyfriend. To Peter's credit, he couldn't remember the last time he was in such close proximity with someone for such a long amount of time. Surely, while he was asleep, he must have simply melted in Harley's hold. But alas, now awake, he was insanely aware of every point of contact on his body, including the other teen’s head that rose and fell with Peter's every breath. 

Peter's right arm looped around Harley's shoulder, but carefully didn't apply too much pressure to the other’s body. The hand resting on Harley’s arm was still, other than the thumb that cautiously soothed circles into Harley's skin. Peter's other hand laid frozen on the leg that was tangled in his own, and his fingers itched to tap against Harley's thigh, still not quite used to the hot, tingling sensation that settled into his skin whenever he touched Harley.

Of course Peter looked awkward. He was still getting used to being touched on a regular basis, let alone straight-up cuddling.

“So…this is a thing, then?” Bruce casually asked, using his pen to gesture between Peter and Harley.

Again, not wanting to wake Harley quite yet, Peter silently nodded his head. He ignored the slight blush he felt in his cheeks.

Bruce returned his nod with a wholesome little grin, clearly happy to see them together. Peter was left to wonder if the man had seen it coming. He almost saw Bruce as an all-knowing man, but his childish worship of the scholar could factor into that opinion more than anything.

“You know,” Bruce started, rolling his swivel chair over to the bed in one smooth motion, “he’ll have to get up so I can check on your wounds.”

Peter sighed, but he had expected that, so he gave a small nod. Reluctantly, he removed his hand from Harley's thigh, lifting it to subconsciously sweep the hair out of Harley's face. In the last second, though, centimeters away from Harley's hair, Peter froze. He then decided that he would need to talk to Harley about where he was comfortable with Peter touching. Harley had already made it clear that everything Peter had done so far was good with him, and that fact extended to whatever Peter would want to do later on. However, they hadn't talked specifically about hair, and that hit a little too close to home for Peter.

Instead, Peter quickly redirected his hand to fold around Harley's shoulder, tapping gently as he murmured, “Harls? It's time to get up.”

Harley didn't immediately respond, other than a small twitch in his brow. A deep sleeper, then. 

“Harls,” Peter repeated, this time slightly louder. When he was met with nothing but a slightly hitched breath, Peter sighed, and stole a glance at Bruce, who was watching patiently, looking slightly amused. “He’s not waking up,” he complained, stating the obvious.

Bruce smirked slightly, and rolled to Harley’s side of the bed. “I got this,” he assured, and bent down close to Harley’s ear. Then, “Harley, I've got to help Peter.”

Peter didn’t understand how that phrase would do anything that he wasn’t already trying, but to Peter’s surprise, Harley’s heartbeat sped up, signalling his awakening, and his eyes blinked open with a sharp inhale.

“Wha—” Harley groggily mumbled, but Peter realized that his voice had a hint of panic to it. “Pete needs help? Why does he need help? Is he—Is he okay?”

“Uh, hi?” Peter jumped in, sensing that Harley was starting to freak out.

Harley craned his neck to face Peter, somehow looking surprised to see him, as though his arm wasn’t still laid across Peter’s chest and as though their legs weren’t still jumbled together.

“Pete,” Harley sighed, his body relaxing as he continued, “you’re okay.” Peter gave a slow nod, reassuring him. Harley responded with a relieved little smile that was probably the cutest thing Peter had ever seen, and turned to face Bruce, who was now 100 percent amused. “Then why d’ya need to help ‘im?”

Bruce gestured towards Peter. “All I need to do is make sure his injuries are healing up alright, but you needed to be off the bed for me to do that, so we had to wake you up.” The man had pasted on a sly little smile, but shrugged nonchalantly. “Figured that saying that he needed help would get your attention.”

Immediately, Harley flushed, and thumped his head back down on Peter’s chest, hiding his face. It seemed like a subconscious action, and now Peter was the one with a tint to his cheeks. 

Bruce affectionately rolled his eyes, and reached over to poke Harley in the back with his pen. “Gotta get up, Harley. Your pal’s got a few things that I need to check on.”

That got Harley moving, a hasty “Right!” falling from his lips as he pulled himself away from Peter, jumping out of bed and into the bedside chair with the speed and grace of someone who had just woken up. Peter, now alone on his side of the bed, felt cold without Harley snuggled up against him. He moved his hands to sit calmly in his lap after he pushed himself up on the bed, but every movement felt a little too controlled to be normal. He’d have to try to gain more opportunities to be as close to Harley as possible, because this cold feeling just wasn’t working out for him. 

Bruce sidled right up to Peter’s bedside, raking his eyes over Peter’s body. “So,” he began, glancing down at his clipboard, “let’s start with the bullet wounds, yeah?”

Peter glanced at Harley, and with one look, he knew that the other teen wouldn’t move from his seat unless Peter demanded it. Now, Peter didn’t really want Harley to leave the room; his presence was comforting, and Peter guessed that Harley liked knowing that Peter was alright. However, Peter was going to be exposing his chest and legs in order for Bruce to properly look him over. Thus far, Harley hadn’t mentioned anything about the scarring on Peter’s arms, which Peter was only slightly surprised about. But underneath his gown, both he and Bruce knew that it was a massacre of past injuries, each scar more severe than the last.  

But…Peter trusted Harley, he knew that much. Harley wouldn’t be disgusted by the scarring, he was too good. 

Peter looked back at Bruce, and nodded a single time before reaching up to pull at his gown’s collar. It slid easily out of position, inching down to expose his right shoulder. In doing so, the freshest bullet wound was revealed, but so was every other scar he had surrounding it: two wounds resulting from normal, criminal knives, one from a surgery knife, and evidence of a bite mark. Peter didn’t remember where he got all of his scars, but he certainly remembered each of those. 

While Bruce leaned in to look closer at the healed bullet wound, Peter once more glanced at Harley. He caught the other’s eyes wide, looking at the scars lining Peter’s shoulder, but soon Harley felt Peter’s gaze, and snapped his eyes up to shoot Peter a hesitant smile. Peter found no disgust, no pity, no fear, no judgement in Harley’s face. Peter returned his small smile, flooded with relief. 

Turned out trusting people was fine, sometimes. 

“Incredible,” Bruce breathed, and Peter was reminded of the situation at hand. “Not even a scab. Do they always heal like this?”

Peter looked down at his own shoulder, where his healed bullet wound blended in with all the other purple-ish scars. “No, actually. The rate of my healing corresponds with how much I eat, and, well. Lately, I’ve been eating a lot more than usual.”

“Makes sense,” Bruce mumbled. “Do they still itch, even with the accelerated healing?”

“Oh my God, yes,” Peter groaned. “Like you wouldn’t believe. The newer ones are always worse, but sometimes the old ones itch too. I used to have itch cream, but eventually it was something I had to live without.” Too expensive. “I’ve gotten used to it, though.”

“Thought so.” Bruce set his clipboard and pen down on the side of Peter’s bed, and rolled his chair over to a small drawer, pulling out a tub of what Peter recognized to be itch cream. When Bruce was at Peter’s side once more, he set the tub on the bedside table, and gathered his stuff from the bed. “That’ll help. Just tell me when you run out, and I’ll give you some more.” 

“Thanks, Bruce,” Peter said, smiling warmly. Technically, it wasn’t a gift, it was more so part of his medical treatment. But it certainly felt like a gift, especially considering how few people knew how terribly some scars itched. Peter, as he said, had gotten used to the random itches he felt spring up surrounding his new scabs and freshly healed scars—always having to consciously keep his hands away from his wounds, and forcing himself to stop itching when he had subconsciously attempted to soothe the irritation. Itch cream was a luxury he had missed.

“Of course. Let’s check the other ones now, shall we?”

As he worked, Bruce explained that he was simply checking that none of the wounds had gotten infections, and that there was no unanticipated irritation. All of the injuries had healed up nicely, each one looking similar to the last. 

Harley stayed for the entire examination, never saying anything in response to more and more of Peter’s tattered body being revealed. Peter found himself blushing when he had to strip down the upper half of his gown to allow Bruce to see new scars on his abdomen, knowing that Harley’s eyes lingered on his bare chest before he politely looked away. 

 “They all look great,” Bruce commented, making a few notes on his sheet. “Now then. I can take out your chest tube, but how’s your breathing?”

Peter took a cautious breath to measure his pain level. “Not terrible,” he decided, focusing on resisting the urge to cough on his exhale. “Hurts, ‘course, and it’s a bit tight. But that’s pretty average for a collapsed lung, yeah?”

“Average indeed,” Bruce agreed, and once more rolled over to the counter to set down his note-taking tools, trading them out for a pair of gloves, dressing tape, and a pair of scissors. “Let’s say we remove that tube of yours, hm?”

“Ready when you are.” Peter once more pulled down the top of his gown, raising his left arm to make the site more accessible. “Have at it.”

“I’ll cut the stitches,” Bruce narrated, doing exactly as he said, “and when I tell you to, take a deep breath in, and I’ll pull out the tube. And…breathe.”

Peter followed instructions, taking a sharp, deep breath as Bruce gripped the tube, swiftly yanking it out of Peter’s body. Before Peter could overanalyze what it felt like to have a tube slide out of his body, Bruce applied new bandages to the insertion site. 

“Alright,” Burce announced, smiling, once he had disposed of his materials. “My custody of you is over. I’m going to request that you don’t patrol for the next two days, just while your lung finishes reinflating. Not to sound like a broken record, but make sure you rest, Peter. We don’t need you screwing up your lung again.”

“I promise to rest, Bruce,” Peter solemnly swore. “I appreciate you fixing me up.”

“It’s no problem. See ya, boys.” The man grabbed his clipboard once more, and left the room with a small wave over his shoulder. Once he was in the hall, Peter heard him mutter, “I’m still not that kind of doctor.”

“Well.” Peter looked at Harley, who was getting up from his seat and pulling out his phone. “It’s about eight right now. I say we take some of that prescribed rest of yours.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, actually,” Peter agreed thoughtfully. He had a nightmare last night, that much he knew, but he couldn’t remember it. All he knew was that he wasn’t fully rested in the slightest, and normally, that’d be just fine. However, rest equalled healing. Plus, Harley had said we, not you. (Meaning: possibility of cuddling.) “Would you mind grabbing my clothes?”

Harley’s eyes darted about the room in search of Peter’s clothes, murmuring, “Got it,” when he finally found their place on the counter, where they were neatly folded. He passed them to Peter, who had started to push himself up. When Peter paused awkwardly, looking from Harley to the clothes in his lap, Harley seemed to connect the dots, and flushed. “I’ll be waitin’ outside.”

Once Harley had fled the room, Peter got up as quickly as he could, which was actually a pretty average pace, and pulled off his gown. Then, cautiously, he eyed his body, searching out the new scars. The swell of disgust he felt when he studied his body was quickly pushed away, replaced with a detached survey of his injuries. He didn’t know how the chest tube wound would heal, and it still had bandages on it, so that would be a mystery for a few hours. But the bullet wounds blended in well, just a bit pinker than the ones surrounding them.

Satisfied, he finished changing into the short-sleeved shirt and sweatpants he was given. They were the generic clothes that he hadn’t worn since he’d gone shopping, but they were still comfortable, so he didn’t mind. Plus, the team had seen his arms by this point, seeing as he had chosen to reveal them during training yesterday. None of them had said anything, so traipsing about the Tower with his arms visible seemed alright. 

“Alright,” he announced as he walked back out through the door, having swiped his new itch cream, and Harley looked up from where he was just staring at the floor. “Where to?”

“Well, my room certainly has a bed,” Harley suggested, and they walked together down the hall and to the elevator. “How about we watch a movie, hm? If we happen to fall asleep, then so be it.”

Peter reached to take Harley’s hand in his own, and their fingers intertwined immediately. “Good with me.”

When they got up to their floor, Peter took a minute to listen for Wanda’s breathing. She was still asleep. He made a note to have a small chat with her once he’d had proper snuggle time with Harley. She had looked absolutely devastated, and he just figured that something might’ve been up.

"Can I please come in?" Peter asked as Harley opened his door. He gave his free hand a quick shake at the rush of nerves.

"Of course, darlin'," Harley responded easily. 

Peter stepped in.

“Fri, please pull up The Emperor’s New Groove,” Harley instructed. Peter watched as a panel of Harley’s ceiling opened, and a television lowered. The lights dimmed, and the movie popped up on screen automatically. Peter wondered if his room could do that.

Harley plopped down on his bed, quickly arranging his sheets and pillows to look a bit nicer than the jumbled mess they had been. When he was done, he settled down underneath the covers, then waved Peter over with a goofy little smile. Peter returned the smile, albeit a little less goofily, and climbed into the bed. 

When all Peter did was lay on top of the blankets, Harley looked at him questioningly. “Don’t ya wanna get under?” Then, as an afterthought, “I mean, unless that makes you uncomfortable. You don't have to.”

“Ah, no, it’s alright,” Peter hurried to say, and adjusted his position, pulling the blanket over him, his legs immediately finding Harley’s and draping over them. “I just didn’t really wanna intrude, y’know?”

“No intrusion,” Harley assured, putting his arm over Peter’s shoulders and drawing him closer. “Mandatory rest time. All is welcome.”

Peter simply hummed, already feeling his eyes grow heavy as he watched Kuzco dance across the screen. The song that accompanied his grandiose movements was softly playing, enough so that Peter could easily ignore it as he nestled his head into the crook of Harley’s shoulder, allowing himself to focus on the steady vibrations that coincided with Harley humming along with the song.

“Sleep well, darlin’,” Harley whispered, gently squeezing Peter’s shoulder. Peter let out a satisfied little sigh, and followed Harley’s directions.

-

Harley believed that watching Peter as he slept was not creepy for three reasons, which were as followed:

1. Peter had been filled with bullets not twelve hours ago, and, not long afterwards, had told Harley that he’d attempted suicide before. Harley was still healing emotionally, thank you very much.
2. Harley had fallen asleep during the movie, just as Peter had, but he had simply woken up a bit before Peter. It wasn’t as though Harley had been watching Peter for an hour, just for about ten minutes now.
3. Peter was adorable. Harley was allowed to admire his boyfriend. 

Peter hadn’t moved from his original position, legs still mixed up in Harley’s own, head still burrowed in Harley’s shoulder. The sleeve of Peter’s left arm was a tad bit ruffled, pushed up so that the already-short sleeves revealed all of his arm. All of the damaged, pale skin.

For the past ten minutes, Harley had been tracing over Peter’s scars. Fingers ran lightly across raised skin over, and over, and over again. He didn’t know the stories of all but one of the scars that he studied. The one that he focused the most on, the one that he was slightly hesitant to touch, the one for which he actually knew the history, was the one that he had caused.

Peter’s shoulder, being exposed and such, showed off the burn scar that looked like a splatter of pink skin; it was darker and concentrated in the center, and thinned out into lightened lines and dots as it extended, the damaged skin dissipating as it expanded.

It was the one that Harley had given him when they first met.

Harley had never really apologized for that, had he? He had certainly meant to, but, well. It just never happened. 

As he gently smoothed over the tight skin on Peter’s shoulder, the guilt hit Harley hard. He was the cause of one of Peter’s scars. A severe-looking one at that. Peter didn't deserve that, didn’t deserve the effect of Harley blindly following the lead of his family. Peter wouldn’t have had to go through the pain of the injury or another huge scar added to his collection if it weren’t for Harley. Harley was just as bad as the rest of the Avengers had been.

Except they had all apologized. Harley hadn’t.

Interrupting Harley’s thoughts was the tensing of Peter’s body as he woke up and realized where he was. Knowing that sometimes Peter took a hot second to gather his surroundings after waking up (especially in the case of a nightmare), Harley let his hand drift back down from the other’s arm—away from his shoulder—in order to gently track the other scars.

Peter tensed even further when he figured out what Harley was doing, so Harley froze his movements, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. 

“Do—Do they bother you?” Peter quietly asked, voice slightly rough with sleep. The movie’s credits played in the background; Harley barely noticed.

“Hmm?”

“The, uh. My scars. Do they bother you?”

Harley’s face twisted instinctively, and he was glad that Peter’s head was still angled so that Harley’s expression wasn’t visible, seeing as Peter would most definitely assume that Harley was disgusted. Rather, Harley was shocked by Peter’s neverending distaste with himself. 

“Of course not, darlin’,” Harley rushed to assure. “They’re a part of you. The only thing I don’t like about ‘em is that they’re a result of your pain.” Harley resumed tracing a slash wound on Peter’s forearm. “If anythin’, they’re a sign of how much you put into your work, how much you care.”

Peter’s head craned up to look at him, his face colored with shame, somehow. “A few of them are a bit ugly, I’ve gotta say.”

“They can’t be ugly if they’re on you,” Harley countered.

Peter leveled him with a flat look. “They’re scars, Harls. Damaged skin. Imperfections. They’re not supposed to be pretty.”

Harley grabbed Peter’s arm loosely, where several pale pink lines encircled his wrist, visible underneath the webshooters that Peter must have kept on during the surgery. Jokingly, Harley examined the scars there with a comical amount of attention, holding Peter’s wrist too close to his face for it to really count for anything. After a few seconds, he let Peter’s wrist go with a shrug, huffing, “Looks fine to me.”

“Harley—”

“They. Don't. Bother. Me.” Harley emphasized each word with a tap to different scars lining Peter’s arm. He suddenly wished that he could have instead given each of them an affectionate peck, but for one, Peter would probably not have been okay with that, and for two, Harley had no idea where that thought came from.

Peter relaxed back against Harley with a sigh. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Don’t gotta thank me for thinkin’ you’re attractive.” Harley relished in the small blush he saw form on Peter’s cheek. “I am sorry, though.”

“For what?” 

“Y’know, your, um.” Feeling slightly awkward now, Harley almost wished that he hadn’t ruined the moment, but when was a better time to bring it up than now? “The scar on your shoulder.” To clarify, he gave that one a gentle tap as well.

Peter chuckled slightly, to Harley’s surprise. “Forgot about that one, honestly. It’s fine.”

“No, Pete, I really am sorry,” Harley insisted. It was almost as though Peter was dismissing this, when Harley did something seriously fucked up. “I was just followin’ the team’s lead, but I felt bad right after I did it anyway, ‘cause it was just really shitty of me to do. I hurt you, and that’s just—”

“I forgive you.”

“―not okay,” Harley finished, before he realized that Peter had interrupted. “Huh?”

Peter shrugged against him. “I forgive you, Harls. You’re right, it was pretty shitty, but I accept your apology. All good.”

“Oh.”

Peter chuckled once more. “Sorry, it’s just that you were starting to ramble a little, and I know what it’s like to need to apologize.” Peter reached up to blindly tap his hand against Harley’s cheek. Harley thought the action was oddly affectionate. “So. I forgive you. I hold no hard feelings over our first meeting.”

“Uh. Thanks.” He guessed it made sense that Peter forgave him so easily, because Peter truly was a kind person, but it just seemed so…undeserved. But Peter wouldn’t lie to Harley about how he felt towards him, right? Harley trusted him. “I appreciate that.”

“‘Course,” Peter said easily, giving a small pat to Harley’s stomach, and, with one huge sigh, relaxed further into Harley’s body. Harley took hold of his hand and smoothed his thumb Peter’s knuckles. They both directed their attention to Hercules, which had started playing automatically at some point. It was still early enough in the day that no one would judge them for staying in bed. 

It was nice.

Chapter Text

“Oh, okay.”

Peter eyed Natasha, who, like usual, looked and spoke as though she knew everything. At this point, though, Peter didn’t know what she could have known from seeing Harley and Peter walking into the kitchen, or why those words were the first ones that came to her mind upon their entrance. Harley, on the other hand, must’ve had a better idea than Peter did, because he heaved a sigh and covered his face with his hand. 

“Hey, Sam!” she suddenly called, and received an answering grunt from Sam in the common room. “You owe me and Clint ten bucks.”

“What?” Sam cried, and Peter heard him spring up from the couch and thump into the kitchen. Clint closely followed with a victorious grin. “When did it happen?”

“Don’t know,” she shrugged, still casually looking over Peter and Harley. “When did it happen, boys?”

“When did what happen?” Peter muttered to Harley, slightly exasperated.

“Uh. I think they’re talkin’ about…y’know.” Harley gestured between himself and Peter. “Us.”

Peter, regretfully, flushed immediately. “What? How do they already know?” 

Harley glanced at Nat before addressing Peter. “Nat kinda just knows things. I figured that she’d be one of the first to realize.” Then, still looking at the woman in question, he said to her, “We got together yesterday. What was the bet about?”

Natasha smiled what appeared to Peter to be a genuine smile. “Oh, well, Clint and I said that you guys would end up together in less than a week. Sam, on the other hand—” Sam pouted as he forked over the ten dollars to both Nat and Clint “—thought it’d take a bit longer. Turns out he was wrong.”

“But it doesn’t matter that I’m wrong, ‘cause either way, it’s good for you two,” Sam concluded, his melodramatic scowl vanishing from his expression, replaced with a welcoming smile. 

Peter felt Harley grip his hand, and he molded theirs together like usual. They fit together well, Peter’s hands being only slightly smaller than Harley’s, but Harley also had appropriately sized hands to go with his large frame. Harley’s hands were less rough than Peter’s, though, calluses only in places where Peter knew tools would rest while he was working. Peter’s hands, however, were laden with calluses, and holding a hand that was so smooth and soft in comparison felt odd, but nice.

...Maybe Peter understood how the others had seen this coming. His thoughts simply could not stray from Harley.

“Thanks, guys,” Harley offered, and Peter sent them a nod and a smile that mirrored Harley’s. Harley turned back to Peter, and squeezed his hand. “I’ll scrounge us up somethin’ to eat. Why don’t you sit with Nat, hm? Rest a bit more.”

Peter rolled his eyes, complaining, “You don’t gotta baby me,” but he sat down next to Nat goodnaturedly anyway. If he was honest, it did feel better to sit down, even if it was just his lung that was sucking at the moment. 

Sam and Clint joined them at the table while Harley muttered something about an English muffin and the lack thereof and how they probably didn’t have enough protein, anyway, so eggs would have to do. 

“You look like you’re doing better,” Natasha commented, finally bringing up the elephant in the room that was the solid memory of the Avengers surrounding Peter in his wheelchair while he tried to assure them that seven bullets weren’t too bad. “Seems like a bit of sleep did you and your bullets well.”

“It did indeed,” Peter admitted. “Can't even feel the bitches anymore.” They didn’t even itch, what with his fancy cream and all. (They didn’t even itch!)

“Aw, c’mon,” Sam groaned. “I get shot a single time and it takes me a week to be up and kickin’ again, and you get to be walking around the day after seven bullets?”

Peter noticed that despite Sam’s joking demeanor, his tone went just slightly hysterical when he said that last bit, almost as if he was reminding himself of that fact. Peter also noticed that Clint bit the inside of his cheek at those words, and Natasha’a heart fluttered. He decided not to bring it up.

“Go and get bit by a radioactive spider, and then you can be a bit more like me.”

Clint shook his head. “I still think that story is wild as shit.”

“You live with the Hulk,” Peter deadpanned. 

“Point,” Nat agreed, taking a sip of her tea. “But, in all fairness, you are one of the oddballs around here.”

“Vision literally exists.”

“I said one of the oddballs,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “An enhanced 17-year-old who’s stronger than our supersoldiers combined, has enhanced senses and healing, and happens to be able to stick to surfaces of all kinds.”

Peter muttered his agreement, but Sam took issue with Natasha’s words. “Hold on. I thought it was your suit that made you…sticky.”

“Sam, do you, like, ever pay attention?” Clint wondered. “He casually sticks to random shit all the time!”

Sam whipped his head back to Peter and and Peter shrugged, reaching for an orange in the bowl on the table. Picking it up, he lightly tossed it into the air, and twisted his hand so that he caught it with the back of his hand. The orange stuck to the skin there at his command, and he waved his hand around to demonstrate its stability. He unstuck it to toss it towards Sam, who had been watching with wide eyes, and fumbled to catch it last second. 

“Got a shit ton of microscopic hairs on my skin that makes me, y’know, grippy.” He pointed to Nat, remembering her comment about his powers. “You forgot the sixth sense. And the speedy running. And the souped-up flexibility, and the ability to talk to spiders.”

“Hold the fuckin’ phone,” Harley interjected, and set down a plate of five or six pieces of toast in front of Peter, pushing a knife and jelly towards him with his other hand. “You can talk to spiders?”

Peter kept his lips plastered in a neutral position as he reached for the jelly. “Yeah.” (He absolutely could not. Ned had taken a solid few months to discover the truth.) “Not, like, telepathically, or anything. Chitters and such.”

Peter caught Nat narrowing her eyes at him slightly, but Sam cut in, “I do not wanna think about that anymore, so let’s go back to the sixth sense you glossed over. What, can you see ghosts or some shit?”

 “No, it’s not like the movie, fuck off,” Peter chuckled. “It’s basically weaponized anxiety. I know when there’s danger around me, or if someone just walks in the room, or even when someone’s about to try to kick me in the leg, just like Clint’s doing right now.”

“Man!” Clint grumbled, and his foot underneath the table receded back to where it belonged. “I was trying to see if you could sense it, or whatever.”

Peter just rolled his eyes, and caught the orange that Sam threw back to him with his left hand, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth with his right. “Sam, you’re literally in my field of vision.” He swallowed the toast, cleared his throat, and kicked Clint’s foot away again. “Stop trying to test it out.”

“We don’t need to test it out anyway,” Nat pointed out. “He’s dodged enough of our attacks for this explanation to make sense.”

Peter hummed, finishing off another piece of toast. “I didn’t dodge nearly enough knives. But I do think that my Sense helps a little bit with my knife throwing practice.”

Nat eyed him, and, as if testing the waters, she replied, “It would also probably help being the one to throw them, not being the target.”

“Ah, so that’s what I was doing wrong,” Peter said, mimicking her thoughtful nod. This was the first time anyone on the team had responded to one of his jabs with a joke, and he had to say, it was refreshing to understand that they were all apologetic, and simply move on. Sure, he’d had fun watching them squirm every time he brought up their fights, but he was pals with the Avengers now. Nat seemed to understand that he was ready to joke around with them about it.

“I can give you some pointers on that, if you’d like,” Nat offered, casually, as if it wasn’t the Black Widow who was suggesting knife-throwing lessons with Peter. 

Peter already knew how to handle his knives. He knew how to adjust his grip quickly as he tossed a large blade from hand to hand. He could twirl and spin a knife like a drummer could a drumstick. He knew where to stab in order to hurt, not kill, should he ever need that skill. He could disarm a knife-wielding enemy in hand-to-hand combat with ease. He had taught himself how to throw knives when Ned had first mentioned how cool it’d be, but it was a hard talent to acquire, even for someone with his impressive hand-eye coordination. 

So Peter knew how to throw knives, yes, but he also knew that he had much room for improvement, and Natasha Romanov was literally right there, offering to give him some “pointers.”

“I’m down,” he replied easily.

“Not ‘till after your restin’ period is over,” Harley decided, and placed a plate filled with scrambled eggs in front of Peter, next to his toast, along with salt, pepper, and hot sauce. Peter murmured his thanks as Harley took the seat opposite of Peter, getting started on his own, much less full, plate of toast and eggs. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter mumbled. “All the fun stuff needs to wait.”

Harley and Peter ate their breakfast, Nat continued to sip at her tea, and Sam and Clint were just there for the show. The focus of the conversation ranged from Sam telling stupid stories about Steve and Bucky, Natasha peppering in a few stories that even Sam didn’t know, and Clint filling in the space with anecdotes about some odd times he’d had in the vents. 

“And Pepper knew I was there immediately,” Clint snickered. “She said she could practically taste the smell of burnt hair, and she knew it couldn’t be her, so she just looked up, and, well.”

Sam laughed along with him. “Wait a sec, was that that time you came into the gym smelling like someone had poured a vat of Febreze on you?”

Clint nodded an exaggerated, solemn nod. “My punishment, you mean.”

Now Harley was laughing, too. “Wait, I remember now. Wanda forbade you from comin’ in the gym without a shower first, right?”

Peter, who had been quietly following the story, smiling along, snapped up at the mention of Wanda. He needed to talk to her. Turning down his hearing aids just slightly, he listened to ensure that she was awake and alone in her room; she was. Peter could hear her flipping through papers of some kind, and proceeded to stop listening to her, since it felt like he was eavesdropping.

The conversation at the table was still going on, so Peter stood up silently, not wanting to interrupt. He took his and Harley’s empty plates over to the sink, quickly washing them individually, drying them thoroughly before he placed them in their cabinet. He walked back over to the table, setting a hand on Harley’s shoulder to get his attention. 

Harley hummed, looking up at Peter. “Hey. Where’re you goin’?”

“I'm gonna go check in on Wanda, make sure she’s alright,” Peter explained. The other Avengers, having paused their chatting shortly while Harley and Peter talked, resumed their conversation.

Harley’s lips twitched into a small frown. “Oh, alright. Uh. Just lettin’ you know, she doesn’t usually like to talk about—about it.”

“It?”

“Uh, yeah. It.” Harley shrugged. “I don’t really know the full story, ‘cause she’s hardly told me about it, so I had to learn some details from Clint.”

Clint looked over when he heard his name mentioned. “What about me?”

“Peter’s gonna talk to Wanda, since she got a bit freaked out last night,” Harley said. “I was just tellin’ him that he probably wouldn’t get, y’know, the full story.”

“Oh.” Clint’s expression clouded over just slightly, racked with a sudden onslaught of shadowed emotions, before it cleared again and he looked at Peter. “She—You—” Clint sighed. “Good luck.”

“Uh, okay,” Peter hesitantly replied, now much more worried than he had been. What the hell had happened? “I’ll…see you guys later.”

Harley reached up to squeeze Peter’s hand before it left his shoulder. “See ya.”

Peter quickly moved to the elevator, entering it and requesting for FRIDAY to take him to his floor. 

Apparently, Peter now had to prepare himself for a story. He hadn’t known there was a story attached to Wanda’s intense emotion last night, he had just assumed that she had gotten a little upset seeing her unconscious friend go into surgery. He hoped that Wanda would talk to him about it, but it sounded like there was a slim chance of that happening, especially if Harley hadn’t even got the story from her. Either way, though, it didn’t matter. He was there to offer comfort, not pull a nasty memory out of her. 

He got out of the elevator, approaching Wanda’s door. She was still by herself in there, still flipping through papers. He ran a hand through his hair and knocked quietly, knowing that through the silence of her room, it would ring out. 

“Who is it?” she softly called. 

“It’s Peter, Wanda.”

There was shuffling around, and a few seconds later, Wanda opened the door, except she was standing there in front of him, not having used her magic to let him in. 

She smiled up at him, a small, gentle thing, and opened the door further to allow him inside. She closed the door behind him and gestured for him to sit down on her bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, moving to sit in her usual spot across from him. 

“I’m doing good,” he said truthfully. “It’s just the lung now. I’m mostly healed up.”

“Це добре, це добре,” she murmured, looking a little distracted as her eyes left his face and traveled down his body, studying him. It was like she was trying to make sure that he was, in fact, healed up, as if his shirt and sweatpants weren’t there.

“I just, uh. Wanted to make sure you’re alright, y’know? Because you didn’t really seem alright last night, and I thought we could, like, talk a little about it.” Peter was fiddling with his hands now, trying repeatedly to crack his knuckles, but none of them were popping. 

Wanda didn’t say anything; she simply stilled as she considered Peter for a solid 30 seconds. Peter tried to not feel awkward underneath her steady, unreadable gaze, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he had said the wrong thing. The general consensus had been that Wanda probably wouldn’t really want to talk to Peter about whatever was bothering her, so should he have just left her alone? No. No, he couldn’t have left her alone, not when she had seemed so comforted by simply being in the same room as him last night. She wasn’t in the right mindset to be left alone at the moment. But then again, sometimes, when Peter was feeling rather very upset, he’d prefer to be alone, so maybe Peter was just making it worse by being here, since really, he didn’t know Wanda all too well yet anyway, so who was he to assume and just—

Wanda broke out of her trance, getting off the bed in one swift motion, and Peter’s harried thoughts came to a screeching halt.

She walked over to her desk and grabbed a box that was resting on it, one that was identical to the two others that resided on her bookshelf, one that Peter hadn’t noticed when he came in. She sat back down on the bed, the box now placed in her lap, and Peter could sense the metaphorical weight of that box, that plain, light blue box, with its plain, light blue lid.

Peter knew Wanda could’ve just gotten it with her magic. She didn’t, though, and he felt that that had some significance to it.

She opened the box, setting the lid aside with great care and Peter watched with bated breath as she pulled out the first item. She studied the paper first, and a look came to her eyes that Peter recognized the moment he saw it, for it was one he knew intimately. It was an expression that he himself had worn many times before, and it would continue to grace his face for many years to come.

Wanda was grieving.

She finally flipped the paper towards Peter, and he discovered that it was a photograph. The film that was used resembled something from the early 2000’s, showcasing a young man, perhaps a teenager, with shaggy blond hair and a beard that was just barely starting to form on his face. He was pale, but not dangerously so, and his face was accented by the bags beneath his eyes that in no way looked new. It looked like a passport photo, for which he was not meant to smile, but his lips quirked up slightly, indicating that he was trying oh-so hard to follow that rule.

“This,” Wanda said clearly, “is my brother. Петро. Pietro.”

Wanda was grieving.

Peter slowly reached out and lowered Wanda’s hand, because it was starting to tremble as she showed him the picture. 

“You can tell me about him, if you’d like,” Peter offered. Sometimes it was nice to think about them while they were living, not about what it felt like when they were gone.

“He—He was my twin,” she explained quietly. “The funny one. He always found a place for a joke in conversation, even when we were with HYDRA. And he was stubborn a-and kind, and I just looked up to him so much. ” She sniffed slightly, tears forming in her eyes, but none fell. “You…you remind me of him, Peter.”

Peter got chills.

He said nothing, but laid a hand on Wanda’s knee in support. 

“We joined the Avengers when they were fighting Ultron,” she continued. “We thought that we could do good with, uh, HYDRA, but it turned out the Avengers were doing actual good. He was s-so excited to finally join the fight. His power was speed, you see, and he f-felt that he could put it to good use fighting Ultron in Sokovia.”

Peter remembered Ulton, or more like when the story of an entire country being raised from the ground infected news everywhere. He knew that Tony was the one to bring Ultron to life, meant as a way to protect the entire world, but it all backfired. What he hadn’t known, however, was that Wanda had been so involved.

“Pietro…He saved Clint and a small child from being executed by Ultron. I-I felt him die. It was as if our souls were shared, and his was ripped from mine. His body was filled with bullets.”

Wanda choked on a breath, and the tears finally spilled over. 

“Oh, Wanda,” Peter murmured, and gathered her shaking form in his arms. She collapsed into his hold, her arms slinking out from where she had been holding herself to clutch at Peter’s shirt. He squeezed her tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

“Last night, you, when you—” She gasped in a breath. “So many bullets, there were so many, and you—you were j-just laying there, and I—All I could see was Pietro, and I th-thought you were going to die just like him.”

Oh.

Fucking hell, Peter. You reminded Wanda of her fucking dead brother.

“I’m here, Wanda,” was all he could think of to say, anxious to comfort her. “I’m okay, I promise.”

She tightened her hands on his shirt, probably stretching it, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. 

“I know,” she breathed. “I know you are. It’s just…hard sometimes. And it was just t-too similar.” She lifted her head from his chest, and gave him a weak, watery smile. “It’s not bad you guys are so alike. I loved my brother, and I love you too.”

“You—Uh.” Shit, shit, shit. “I love you too, Wanda.”

He did. He cared deeply for Wanda, and at this point, she had grown close enough to him that they genuinely interacted like a pair of siblings that actually got along. He just hadn’t realized that he actually had another person in his life that he loved, and it felt dangerous to have that kind of addition. Matt and Ned were the only ones to survive his Luck, but Wanda was strong. He could care about her. 

She squeezed his torso at his words, almost as if she understood how strange it felt for Peter to say those words. At the same time, though, she untensed in his arms, finally calming down, and he knew that he had helped. 

“Why don’t you tell me a bit more about him?” he suggested gently, eager to comfort her further. 

She pulled away from his hold, but remained close as she reached for the plain, light blue box. They were side-by-side, shoulders touching, legs lined up against each other as she pulled out another piece of paper from the box.

“Pietro doodled this for me to cheer me up when we were younger,” shexplained, showing Peter the drawing. It wasn’t particularly good, but it was clear that Pietro had put no small amount of effort into it. It was a small forest, each tree decorated with individually-drawn leaves, and a tiny dog in a clearing, sitting in the center of the page. “I don't think he knew I kept it.”

“It’s…adorable.”

Wanda giggled. “He never did get any better at drawing.” She set the drawing to the side, and pulled out another photo.

“Holy shit,” he gasped. “You guys…were absolutely precious.”

The picture was of Wanda and Pietro, no older than seven, and they were laughing. Laughing at what, he didn’t know, but they were absolutely delighted by something. Crooked teeth showing, their smiles were free, genuine. 

Peter looked at Wanda, waiting for her to explain, but she was still focused on the picture, a sentimental smile on her face. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she finally diverted her attention back to him. 

They shared a look of total understanding, and Wanda breathed a sigh of what seemed like relief. 

She set the photo to the side, and continued to pull out item after item. Peter listened to all of the stories she had to offer.

Chapter Text

The removal of his bandages was painless, seeing as Peter’s tube site had completely healed over, not permitting the gauze to pull at any dried blood. He wadded it up with detached haste, and tossed it in his trash bin. 

As soon as the wad of bandages made an impact in the can, there was also a knock at his door. 

“Come in, Harls.”

Harley opened Peter’s door, stepping in with a call of Peter’s name. Peter responded with a hum as he distractedly walked out of his bathroom, examining the scar that his site left. It was definitely minor, and hardly changed anything about his torso.

“Oh—” he heard Harley say, and Peter finally looked up to greet the other. Harley, however, had looked away, his cheeks flaming red. His heart rate was rapid.

“What?” Peter questioned, knowing that he was missing something. 

“Pete, your, uh, you don’t have a shirt on.” 

Oh, Jesus everloving Christ. 

How the hell had he not noticed that he just waltzed out of the bathroom without his fucking shirt on?

Now that he had noticed, he could feel the chill of the air conditioning against his back, and goosebumps rose on his skin just as quickly as his face heated up. He swiftly swiped his discarded shirt from where it laid on his bed and pulled it on hurriedly. His breathing hitched in the process, and he hacked out a cough while he was still working his arms through the sleeves. When the shirt was finally on, he had to lean against the wall to brace himself as he tried to work through his coughs.

“Jesus, Pete,” Harley fretted, rushing over to Peter. His hands hovered over Peter’s body, not quite sure how to help him as his coughs quieted down. 

“Shit,” Peter breathed as he finally calmed, and he reached up to brush away the tears that had formed during his coughing fit. He took a deep breath to make sure his coughs were done, and his lung only protested slightly, letting him know that he should exhale as his chest felt as if it were tightening. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t apologize,” Harley dismissed, finally deciding to lay a hand on Peter’s back to soothe circles between his shoulder blades. “Was it your lung?”

“Nah, my asthma finally made a comeback,” Peter joked, but then Harley’s face grew even more concerned, so Peter rushed to assure him. “Kidding, kidding. Yeah, it was my lung. It’s fine.”

“Didn’t sound fine,” Harley muttered, his eyebrows furrowing. He was studying Peter, looking him up and down, as if he would be able to medically examine him that way.

Peter gave Harley a small pat on his shoulder before sidestepping him in order to get away from the wall. “I’ve had collapsed lungs before, you know. This is normal.”

“Normal. Right.”

Peter shrugged. He was just glad that Harley had seemed to move past seeing Peter shirtless, something Peter himself was trying to forget.

“Did you need something?” Peter wondered, redirecting the conversation.

“Oh.” Harley rubbed at the back of his neck in a classic move of bashfulness. It was definitely adorable. “Well, you’d gone up to talk to Wanda a while ago, and I tried to just be patient, y’know, but I just wanted to check in with you. See how it went.”

Peter smiled at him, slightly touched by his concern. “It was alright, she’s just grieving like the rest of us.” He shrugged, trying to explain it without revealing their entire conversation to Harley. “We cleared the air a bit, and I think I made her feel a little better. I’m leaving her alone while she spends some time with Vision.”

Harley’s face looked slightly surprised. “So she…actually talked about it with you? Like, she told you what happened?”

“Yep.” He didn’t know why she did so, seeing as Harley had said that she wasn’t even able to get the full story out to him. Well, maybe he knew why: from his experience with sharing traumatic memories with someone, it really depended on how he thought they’d react. Maybe Wanda had a better idea of how Peter would handle the story of her brother and his death than how Harley would. Peter’d certainly had plenty of experience. 

“Well that’s…interestin’. How was she?”

Again, Peter shrugged. “Upset. But she got more comfortable the more we talked about it.”

“Good,” Harley acknowledged, and proceeded to fall silent.

Peter absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair as the awkward silence enveloped them. Harley seemed satisfied with the knowledge that both Peter and Wanda were okay, and now it appeared that he didn't know what to do with himself, standing with Peter in his near-bare room. 

“Wanna go back downstairs?” Peter suggested.

“Sounds good,” Harley immediately agreed, huffing out a breath of relief. They stepped out of Peter’s room, and Harley hesitantly reached for Peter’s hand. Noticing the unsure nature of the action, Peter was quick to grasp Harley’s hand in his own to reassure him. 

They went back down to the main floor, immediately moving to the kitchen when they both heard voices coming from there. Upon entering, they were greeted by the sight of Tony animatedly presenting something to Steve and Bucky, who seemed to be fixing up something to eat, and Natasha, who was on what must have been her fourth cup of tea. When they realized that Harley and Peter had joined them, their attention was redirected. 

Bucky gave a small wave to Peter, clearly studying him. Peter responded with a hesitant smile. He knew that the man was still worried for him, but Bucky’s form relaxed slightly, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw in Peter’s expression.

“Boys!” Tony exuberantly cried, drawing Peter’s attention away from Bucky. Tony seemed energetic, despite the permanent dark circles residing beneath his eyes. Peter watched as his eyes immediately fell down to where Harley’s hand met his own, and the man grinned. “I believe congratulations are in order.”

Both Peter and Harley blushed at that, but Peter was the first to recover, rolling his eyes. “Make sure the party has presents.”

Tony then lit up in a different sort of way. “Speaking of presents…” Tony made grabby-hands towards Nat, who tossed a…pair of glasses (?) to Tony. The man yelped, fumbling with them at first, before the glasses finally settled in his hands. “Careful,” he stressed.

“You said you made them indestructible,” Natasha rebuted, raising a brow.

Tony opened and closed his mouth, no sound coming out, and looked down at the glasses. “That’s right,” he finally declared. “I did. Forgot.” 

With that, Tony tossed them to Peter in the same way Nat had done, except Peter didn’t fumble with them like Tony did. Studying them, he noticed that there was a whirr of near-silent technology within them. They certainly looked normal, though, with black brims that switched to white halfway down, and had a flared rectangular shape. They looked nicer than the glasses he’d worn as a child with shitty eyesight, that was for sure. 

They also sparked a memory—they were akin to the glasses he had caught sight of while in Tony’s lab, the ones from the blueprint. That explained the humming technology coming from the seemingly rudimentary object.

“Well? Put them on,” Tony beckoned.

Peter followed the instructions, slipping them past his ears with ease. They fit perfectly—secure, but not exactly tight. Peter had no idea glasses could be so comfortable. The only thing was that they didn't exactly change his vision…at all. Last time Peter checked, glasses were meant to aid one’s sight, which, of course, wasn’t something Peter needed. 

Then again, knowing Tony, the man probably had a different use intended for these glasses, just like he did with the hearing aids Peter currently donned. Peter looked at Tony in anticipation of the expected rambling explanation.

“Right!” Tony took a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ve connected the dots somewhat between these and your hearing aids, but I’ll explain a bit more. These glasses are meant to reduce the amount of strain your eyes have to deal with in regards to your enhanced eyesight. Correct me if I’m wrong—and I don’t think that I am—but your vision must work in the same way that your hearing does, in that you put a constant amount of effort into not letting it overwhelm you. Now, I designed these glasses to limit the amount of light that gets to your eyes, just like your hearing aids can limit how much you hear. There’re sensors on the brims of the glasses, one on each side, that can either increase or decrease the amount of light intake. Right now, it’s at its lowest setting, which just means that your vision isn’t affected at all. But if you tap a finger to the left side, go on, and hold it there, the brightness setting on the world will go down.”

Without a word, but certainly with growing excitement, Peter reached up to press against the left sensor. Instantly, the world around him began to dim, to the point where it resembled the effect of sunglasses, back when those actually worked on him. 

Truth be told…sunglasses indoors weren't exactly ideal, per say. His setting was almost uncomfortably dark. Sure, if he were outside, the glasses would be perfect, but in the well-lit kitchen, they just weren’t necessary. 

But then it was less dark.

And then it was less dark. 

And then it was hardly dark at all. 

Peter realized that just his eyesight had adjusted to the new amount of light, just as they did when it was pitch black. He could feel his eyes almost relax as they no longer had to strain so intensely to ensure that Peter wasn’t living in a constant sensory overload. The world looked the same to him, but his eyes didn’t have to do half as much work. 

When he had first gotten bit, Peter’d had to train all of his senses to not absolutely fuck him over. He hardly even knew how he did it—he just knew it took plenty of time and plenty of sensory overloads for him to control how much of the world he let in. Matt had certainly helped, giving him exercises such as picking out one voice to listen to out of hundreds, or getting him to search for the scent of just one ingredient in a restaurant. Controlling his sensory input had become a subconscious effort, but it still took work, and when he couldn’t keep up with it...Well. It was like he was back to day one of his powers.

Tony was still quietly standing in front of him, awaiting Peter's assessment, and Peter could feel everyone else’s eyes on him as well. 

“It’s…incredible,” he told them all. “Relieving.”

Tony’s face split into an extremely proud grin at Peter’s words. “Wonderful! Spectacular!” He gave himself a literal pat on the back, and Peter chuckled, enjoying the man’s excitement. “What did I say? Master gift giver!”

Steve huffed. “Except for that time you gave Pepper a giant stuffed animal.”

“It was a bunny, thank you,” Tony shot back, glaring at Steve, but the action was without heat. 

“I certainly appreciate the glasses,” Peter interjected. “Thank you so much, Tony. You’ve helped a lot.”

Tony’s momentary spite was forgotten, the glare wiped from his face as he essentially preened at Peter’s appreciation. “It’s the least I can do,” he dismissed. “If there’s any way I’m able to help out the newest Avenger, then I’ll always be quick to do so. Besides, the glasses and aids help the most basic things. You shouldn’t be in pain because of your powers.”

All Peter could think was, Woah. Because holy shit, Tony was right—why the hell should Peter suffer because of his powers? It shocked him that this was the first time he was considering this, but Peter supposed that he’d always thought of powers and pain as a package deal. And sure, maybe in the sense of guilt and general burdens, they were a package deal; however, he was supposed to be stronger because of his powers, and physical pain shouldn’t be a part of that, right? If he was constantly hindered by an aspect of his powers, then what the fuck? What the fuck. Why?

“You’re right,” Peter agreed, his lips twitching up into a proud-of-himself smile. “Thank you,” he repeated, hoping that Tony caught on to the fact that Peter wasn’t just thanking him for the gift.

If he did, Peter couldn't tell. Tony left the kitchen with a peace sign and a promise to be holed up in his lab until further notice before anyone could get a word in edgeways. 

“You look sharp, Spidey,” Bucky commented, now with a bowl of what looked to be curry in hand. Steve was dishing one up for himself. “You’re lucky Tony made ‘em a normal shape, not some of those dumb aviators he likes.” 

“I like ‘em too,” Harley was quick to add, and pulled Peter’s shoulder so that they were facing each other. “Yeah. They look really good on you.”

Peter felt his face heating up slightly. “Gay,” he teasingly muttered, but sent Harley a tiny smile to show his thanks. 

“Oh, Gods, they’re soft,” Natasha loudly proclaimed, jokingly shoving a hand out in front of her to shield her eyes from Peter and Harley. “Get you and your affection out of here.”

Both Peter and Harley chuckled, and decided that they would follow her instructions as they left the kitchen once more.

-

Peter was in his element, Harley could tell. 

He was in his element a lot, actually. He was in his element while fighting, while joking around with the team, while providing comfort. He’d also mentioned that he loved to make art, but Harley had yet to see him in his element in that area, so that hobby had not yet joined the list. 

But Peter was certainly in his element now, in the lab with Harley, studying his damaged suit. The atmosphere was a lot different from the last time they were in the lab together, during which Peter was silent and closed-off, trying to stave off the memories flooding his mind. Now, Peter could be heard muttering to himself about the needed improvements he would have to make, and his actions were a lot more steady, no shakiness noticeable in his hands. 

Peter was in his element, and while Harley would also be in his element should he join in on the engineering, he was content to watch his boyfriend have a bit of fun. 

Peter sighed and set down the pencil and notepad he’d been using to make notes, and picked up his mask. Harley watched, slightly confused, as Peter replaced his glasses with the mask and sat down in the chair behind him that had been pushed away a while ago.

“How would you feel about a new suit, Karen?” Peter asked into his mask, and Harley almost didn’t get it. But he was a bit of a genius, so he was able to work out who Karen was and why Peter was seemingly talking to himself with his mask on. 

“Yeah,” he continued after a brief pause, “I know that we’ve had this one for a while. But the patches are starting to get a little too noticeable, and I’d need to make seven more of them. Plus, one of the bullets hit—Wait, yeah, no, I know you know that…No, no, you don’t need to show me the schematics again, I was just talking to myself, kinda.” Another pause. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m right, we’re both right. I guess I need to revamp the tech in here…make it more efficient, probably.”

“We have all the materials you’d need for a new suit,” Harley interjected, getting the gist of Peter’s conversation with his A.I. “I’m not sure how you got it that advanced the first time ‘round, but Tony Stark lives here. We have access to, like, every piece of technology ever.”

Peter looked up at Harley, the white eyes of his mask centering in on Harley’s face. “Seriously?”

“‘Course. You’re a science guy like the rest of us, I don't see why you shouldn’t.”

“Holy shit, thanks!” Peter stood up and pulled off his mask again, revealing his bright smile. “That’ll make this so much easier than scrounging around in dumps for parts!”

Harley blinked in shock. “Hold the phone. You made your suit usin’ supplies from dumps?”

“Well, the techy part of it, yeah. I got a lot of wires from old computers. The suit itself is mainly spandex, and some of my materials I used were from my engineering class at Midtown.”

“That’s…really impressive.” Harley also hadn’t had a ton of money growing up, so when he worked on cars in his youth, he went to junkyards for the cars he could fix up and the tools he needed to repair them. But a superhero suit. Made of old computer parts and discount spandex. That’s another level. 

Peter blinked, and pulled on his glasses once more. Harley noticed a very slight tint to his cheeks as he did so. “Well, y’know. It’s really only my mask that’s advanced. I could manufacture just enough mechanics to get the eyes to move with my own expression, and Karen just needed some good programming.” Then he gasped, and picked up his mask looking around. “You have a holographic system in here, right? Do you think I could hook her up to that?”

Harley accepted that Peter had moved on from the topic of his impressive engineering, and conceded to nodding and launching the holograms up in front of them with a flick of his wrist. The action was designed to be recognized by FRIDAY, and it was one of many that control the movements of the many holograms now surrounding them. 

Peter searched the blue lights with bright eyes, and Harley couldn’t help but stare at him as he did so, admiring both his fascination and beauty. He’d be a dirty liar if he claimed that Peter wasn’t intensely more attractive when he was happy, invested, in his element.

(Also, the glasses were hot.)

Peter found what he was looking for in the mess of blue, and confidently reached out to slide out the keyboard from one of the holograms. He then less confidently wiped away the other holograms, but looked pleased when his keyboard and connecting screen were the only things that remained. 

He turned to face Harley, hands still in the air. “This…is so cool.”

“Right?” Harley agreed, intrigued as Peter pulled the laptop that Harley had put on his side of the workstation towards him. Peter also grabbed his mask and a cord that he plugged into both the laptop and his mask, connecting the two. He took a moment to type some information into the laptop, pressed the controls that Harley knew would transfer the laptop’s data to the hologram, and a revolving image of the Spider-Man mask popped up, now colored in holographic blue light.

“That was quick,” Harley commented. 

“It’s easier to use this thing than I thought,” Peter shrugged. “Now then…let’s just…Hey, Fri?”

“Yes, Peter?” she responded.

“Can I add my A.I. to the speakers in here?”

FRIDAY paused, and Harley knew why. “Tony’s gonna have to approve that request,” he explained. “She’s probably asking him now.”

Harley’s phone vibrated in his pocket with a message, and he pulled it out to look at the new thread. 

old man: What the hell are you two doing up there and why did FRIDAY just send a request to add an A.I. to my system?

Harley smirked, and relayed the message to Peter. “Give me a sec to explain it to him,” he said. 

you: pete’s got an AI that he wants to hook up to the speakers in here cause he’s workin on his suit. he’ll probably want to add her to the system too

old man: He wants to add his A.I. to my system.

you: probably. somethin wrong with that?

old man: ...No. But I want to check the situation out before he adds the A.I.

Harley slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked back up at Peter, who paused his typing to turn back to Harley.

“You can add Karen to the speakers, but if you wanna add her to the Tower’s system, then you gotta wait til Tony gets down here.”

Peter nodded his thanks and returned to typing, his pace slowly picking up speed until it stopped suddenly when he turned again towards Harley. “Hold on, how’d you know that I wanted to add her to the system?”

Harley shrugged. “Just assumed that that would be the natural progression, or somethin’. She would have access to some control in the Tower, which would help you out in the long run, especially if you wanted to control the lights or implement your own protocols to help out. Plus, she’s the A.I. you’re used to, so it’d make sense that you’d prefer her over FRIDAY.”

Peter looked at Harley for another second before nodding slowly and returning to his typing. “Guess you’re right. I mean, I am a lot more familiar with Karen, and I have actually wanted to make a blackout feature on the mask for sensory overloads, but I never could because I know the material of the mask would get to me. I just thought…that if Karen were a part of the Tower, she could be used more specifically towards me. Is that…okay?”

Again, Harley shrugged. “Should be. I think Tony trusts you. Plus, it’s not like you want full control of the Tower, you just wanna add your tech to the system. I don’t think there’s anythin’ wrong with that.”

“Well, we’ll see, I guess.” Peter went quiet for just a few seconds as he typed, before stepping back from the keyboard. “I think that should work. Karen? You there?”

“I’m everywhere,” a new voice said, filling the room. Her voice was human-like and calming, but it seemed like it had some…personality to it.

“You’re literally sitting on the table, shut up,” Peter immediately responded.

“Fine, then,” Karen said. “Yes, I am settled into the speaker system. Happy?”

“Very,” Peter replied, and pushed away the hologram. 

“So that’s Karen?” Harley asked, even though the question was basically useless. 

“Who’s asking?” Karen responded, and yeah, Peter's A.I. definitely had a bit of personality in her. Harley was, once again, impressed. He knew that JARVIS had had a personality that matched perfectly with Tony’s, and that FRIDAY had a more reserved, less perfected version of that. This level of programming, though, done by a teenager with limited supplies, was a true show of talent.

“That’s Harley,” Peter said. “Be nice.”

“Oh, that’s Harley,” Karen echoed. “Then I will most certainly be nice.”

Peter once more blushed, and it intensified slightly when Harley asked, “Did you tell her about me?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter huffed, which led Harley to smile because Peter definitely told his A.I. about him. 

“So if she’s not in the system, how is she hearin' us?” Harley asked, mercifully letting the subject drop. He could totally tease Pete about that more in the future, though.

“There’s a mic in the mask,” Peter explained. “She can pick up what we’re saying and respond, and she can also use the sensor in the mask to pick up our body heat and see what we’re carrying and such. It's helpful during patrol.”

“Sounds impressive,” Tony piped up, at which Harley startled, because he hadn’t heard the man enter. Peter, however, had obviously heard the man, and only offered a shrug in response.

“It’s basic sensor technology,” he dismissed.

Tony hummed, waltzing over to Peter’s workstation and pulled up the hologram that Peter had closed. “How quick did you get your A.I. into my speakers again?”

When Peter didn’t answer, Harley filled in for him. “A minute or less, I’m pretty sure.”

“Sounds even more impressive, especially with a system you aren’t familiar with whatsoever. What’s your A.I.’s name, Spidey?”

“My name is Karen, and I can speak for myself,” Karen quickly answered, and Tony chuckled.

“Good for you, Karen,” he approvingly replied. “So, Peter, I’ll be honest; I don't really care that you want to put Karen in my system. I know you won’t, say, fuck over my security systems.”

“I’m not a dumbass, Tony,” Peter easily shot back, but he seemed relieved. “All I’d want to do is have her be able to do shit without having to use my phone or my mask.”

“She’s in your phone?” Tony questioned.

“Yeah, I uploaded her soon after you gave it to me. It was a lot easier to add her to a high-tech system rather than the beat up phone I had a while ago.”

Tony looked like he wanted to talk a bit more about that, but instead he just nodded. “Well, you can go ahead and add her to the system. But I’m gonna watch and see how far you get, and then we can talk more about how you’re going to implement her.”

A smile broke out on Peter’s face, and consequently, a similar one appeared on Harley’s. “Really?” Peter excitedly asked as he turned back to the hologram and began typing again. He tried a few commands, none of which worked, before he finally found the combination of keys that pulled up a screen filled with lines and lines of code. 

Peter was able to begin typing again after a few seconds of just studying the code appearing in bright blue light. Harley might not have had a mind fit for coding (he mainly excelled at engineering, math, and physics), but he knew from the way Tony’s eyes widened slightly that whatever Pete was doing was impressive. 

As Peter switched to another line, Tony stepped up beside him and studied the code Pete was implementing more closely.

“You’re switching languages a lot,” the man commented. “Python there…then you went to C++ before going back to Python…and now you’re just…Why the hell are you coding in Whitespace?”

Harley watched as Peter rapidly alternated between the space bar and tab button, ignoring all other characters.

“I know for a fact that you switch languages too,” Peter responded, not looking away from the hologram. “Makes it harder for people to understand what the hell you’re even coding, so it’s difficult to hack. Esoteric languages like Whitespace are even less known, so I picked one to learn to just randomly add into my codes for fun. My other coding friend learned the Cow language, so I went with one of the other stupid ones.” Peter gestured to the screen, which was almost filled with, well, white space. “That’s literally one word. I’m switching back to Python after this.”

“I learned INTERCAL back in university to just annoy the fuck outta my professors,” Tony chuckled. “Maybe I’ll pick up Whitespace now, too.”

As the two laughed about programming languages of all things, Harley realized he was surrounded by nerds. But Peter was in his element, and when Peter was in his element, Harley was happy. 

Chapter Text

Peter spent the rest of Saturday resting, which included finishing the installment of Karen into the Tower, and reestablishing his Mario Kart prowess over Harley, and later Sam and Clint. 

When Sunday morning finally arrived, Peter awoke from a short, dreamless sleep that came after a nightmare, and his first thought was, It’s been one week.

He’d been attacked and captured last Sunday, and it had only been a single week since then. In that week, Peter had joined the Avengers, contacted his best friend for the first time in over a year, and ended up with a boyfriend.

The phrase “It’s been a long week” had never felt more true.

“Wild,” Peter muttered to himself. Then, to Karen, he asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s a quarter after eight,” she replied easily, and Peter was pleased to hear her voice ring out in his room. “I think you should go ahead and eat breakfast.”

“I don’t disagree.”

He hopped in the shower, once again ignoring his reflection in the mirror, and sped through his routine. It was only when he was putting on his usual sweatpants that he discovered an odd sound coming from a few floors down.

“Karen, is there a, uh, dog? In the Tower?”

“It seems so.”

That would explain the sound of panting, of claws clicking against tile, of a tail beating happily against the floor. What hadn’t been explained, though, was why Peter could hear a dog on the common floor, surrounded by the cooing of several of his teammates.

Peter went down to the main floor with a new purpose, and found Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Bruce, and Pepper in the common room. They were all sitting on the carpet in a circle, and to Peter's great surprise and amusement, there was a Pitbull bounding from person to person in the circle, like a brown blur in a race with no competitors.

“Wh—” Peter tried, but seemingly lost his voice when the dog’s eyes found him, and consequently rushed past the circle of adults to leap at Peter.

Paws landed at Peter’s waist, making it so the dog was standing on their hind legs, and their white-spotted nose was attempting to sniff at Peter’s face. They barely came short, and Peter was quick to crane his head downwards to allow the dog to sniff all across his face, before their tongue snuck out and planted a big one on Peter’s cheek.

Peter, now openly laughing, looked back up at the chuckling people watching from the floor. “Who on Earth is this fella?”

“Oh, that’s your new dog,” Pepper explained casually, with a bright smile. “The employees at the shelter named her Coco, but she doesn’t answer to it, so we figured you could rename her whatever you want.”

“Oh, okay.” Peter continued to enthusiastically pet the dog attached to him, before he snapped his head back up and furrowed his brows so hard it felt like he could get wrinkles from that action alone. “Full stop. This is my dog?”

“Yep,” Pepper confirmed. “You said you had always wanted one, but could never have one. Well, now you can have one.”

“You—Oh, hi, honey!” The dog had given Peter a small headbutt to gain his attention once more, and she proceeded to pull away from him to re-center herself on the ground. When she pawed at his feet excitedly, he joined the adults in sitting on the ground so he could pet her with more focus. “So you’re…giving her to me?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Pepper reiterated. “We can all help take care of her, if you’d like, but she’s intended to be your buddy, and she seems to have taken kindly to you.”

“I—” Peter was going to object (What did he do to deserve this? Why was she being so nice to him?), but the Pitbull nudged her head beneath Peter’s hand to get him to smooth over her face, and he let out a breath. “Thank you…so much. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she easily replied. “Now then, will you give her a new name?”

Peter’s mouth moved before his brain could even think about it. “Stellina.”

Pepper chuckled, presumably at the immediacy of his answer. “That’s pretty.”

“Little star,” Bucky translated, a small smile on his face. “You’re giving her an Italian name?”

“From the Italian lullaby Stella Stellina,” Peter explained. It was the first time he had spoken Italian in a while, and he felt warm at how his accent immediately molded back into his mother tongue. Usually, he spoke in English, even in private (most of the time). There were still times, however, that he mentally reverted back to the language, especially if he was extensively remembering his family members, most of whom were of Italian lineage. Speaking Italian reminded him of his time spent with his biological and non-biological family.

One of his only memories of his mother was her singing Stella Stellina to him as a child. Stellina had been his top choice for a dog’s name for as long as he could remember.

“I think it fits,” Steve commented. The gargantuan man then scooted across the carpet to get closer to Peter, and thereby got closer to Stellina. Stellina, who had been excitedly attempting to crawl into the space between Peter’s crossed legs, got her attention diverted by the new person. Peter expected her to leave his lap in favor of Steve’s affection, but she just looked at the man and gave a little squeak that accompanied a yawn before turning back to Peter.

Peter was in love. 

-

pete <3: [image attached]

pete <3: ahhh???? <333849!@!

The picture was of Stellina taking a nap on Peter’s bed, most of her body being covered by his blanket. However, the one part of her that was visible (her nose) was poking out from beneath the covers in a way that Harley could only describe as mind-blowingly adorable. He expressed this opinion by sending Peter a series of exclamation points in response.

“Whatcha smiling at, Harley?”

Harley snapped his head up at Sally, who was eyeing him with a teasing glint in her eye. 

“Oh, uh, my friend got a dog yesterday,” he explained, unsure of whether or not he should call Peter his boyfriend in front of the other’s old friends. “He sent me a picture of her.” 

“Share with the class,” Betty prompted, already getting up from her chair to move over to Harley. “You know Mr. Harrington struggles with the printer, so it’ll still be a bit before he’s back.”

The whole of the AcaDec team joined her, excluding Flash, who continued to do whatever the fuck he was doing on his phone. Harley, recognizing that he couldn’t avoid the hoard of his teammates, sighed, and pulled up the picture of Stellina. The result was a resounding chorus of cooing and Awww’s. 

“We spent, like, all day yesterday gettin’ her accustomed to her new home,” Harley said, grinning as he put up his phone. “He said he’d take her to a park this morning. I’m just sad that he went without me.”

“Doesn’t he, like, also have school, though?” Cindy wondered. “Or are you friends with an old guy who sends you pictures of his dog.”

Of course these smartass kids would find holes in his story that he hadn’t realized existed. He almost flailed for a lie that would hide Peter’s identity even further, but decided to just tell them the truth, since he doubted they would connect the dots between Harley’s "friend" and their old friend who had disappeared over a year ago.

“No, he’s our age, he just graduated early.”

They accepted his answer without any further arguments, and it was then that Mr. Harrington bustled back into the library with a stack of papers.

“Sorry for making you guys wait,” Mr. Harrington hurried to apologize. “The printer works against me. Abe, could you come up here and pass these out while I explain?”

Abe sauntered up and took the stack of packets from Mr. Harrington, and Harley was one of the first to receive his. He distractedly looked down to examine the packet, expecting it to be a random personality test or something similar, which wasn’t uncommon with the director of the AcaDec team once the season was officially over. (Betty was the one who organized the extra practices to make the team better, but Mr. Harrington mainly wanted them to have fun in the off-season.)

However, the paper was most definitely not a personality test, indicated by the blaring text on the page: 

Stark Industries Field Trip

Harley whipped his head up to gauge the reactions of his teammates, but was shocked to find that none of them seemed particularly surprised, though many seemed appropriately excited. 

“Now, as I’m sure most of you know,” Mr. Harrington started, “the Academic Decathlon team here at Midtown was given a standing yearly invitation to a tour of Stark Industries since we won at Nationals two years ago. It’s that time of year again, and our trip will take place this Wednesday. These forms must be returned tomorrow, and since you all are the smartest kids in this elite school—” Mr. Harrington’s tone was one of exaggerated snobbiness “—I’m sure you can handle that.”

Harley read further down the permission slip, noting that it mentioned that no payment from students would be required, as Stark Industries would handle the costs of transportation and dining. He flipped to the second page of the packet, breezing past the it’s-not-our-fault-if-your-child-is-injured-by-some-bullshit-they-pulled waiver, and secretly rolling his eyes at the NDA. He lived there. 

“So you guys did this last year too?” he asked, not to anyone specifically. 

“Yeah, but it was super interesting, so I don’t think any of us mind doing it again,” Sally explained. She looked around the room, as did Harley, taking account of the others’ enthusiastic nods. “Exactly. We got basic access to the different departments, plus a few demonstrations, so for nerds like us, it was basically heaven.”   

“Sounds fun,” Harley murmured. He knew it would be fun too, since he had intimate knowledge of the Tower. Back when he had first come to New York, Tony and Pepper had given him near all-access, and he was allowed to roam around in the labs. He had a small collection of friends, made up of interns closer to his age to department heads as old as Tony, maybe older. All they knew was that he lived at the Tower, but none of them knew the extent of his relationship with the Avengers or Tony and Pepper. His friends and casual bystanders had all learned by now not to question the situation, and just let him play around with what they were working with. Sometimes, he even helped them out if they were stuck on a particular issue. He wondered if he would see any of his familiars on the trip.

“That concludes today’s practice,” Betty announced. “Remember to bring these back tomorrow if you want to be on the trip on Wednesday.” 

-

When he heard Harley arrive at the Tower, Peter chose to just meet him where he was on the common floor, Stellina in tow.

He and Stellina had been working on learning her name, and it was going well, not that Peter had much experience. She was a smart girl, and took his praise and affection like it was gospel. It could have also been the treats that Pepper had so kindly bought for her.

But other than that, she was already a well-behaved dog: well past the age of a puppy, she was already house trained, and was able to recognize Peter as her owner, sticking by his side without fail. While when he had first met her, she was just as rambunctious as one would expect a touch-starved shelter dog to be, she had calmed down exponentially by noon, and was content to lay by Peter’s side and nap while he pet her and spent some time texting Ned. 

Now, though, she was back to her excitable state upon realizing there was a new person in her presence. 

“Hey, Stellina!” Harley said, using a high-pitched voice that Peter knew must have been reserved for dogs, but he found it hilarious anyway. Stellina seemed to like it, seeing as she rushed over to him, greedily soaking up his attention. “Hello, sweetie!”

Peter chuckled as he joined Stellina at Harley’s side. “I feel like I should be upset that Stellina got greeted before I did, but honestly, I understand.”

Harley rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and got up from his crouched position. “Heya, Pete,” he mumbled, resting his forehead against Peter’s shoulder briefly. He raised his head again to smile at Peter. “How was your day?”

“Oh, y’know,” Peter shrugged, smiling at Harley in return. “Busy with this gal, but good. How ‘bout you?”

“Average. Took a math test, probably did well on said math test, got a field trip form to tour Stark Industries, had a lengthy conversation with a friend discussin’ which animals had chins and which didn’t.”

Peter paused, thinking. “Well, I think humans are…like, the only ones right? ‘Cause—” Hold up. “You have a field trip to the Tower?”

Haley grinned sheepishly. “With the AcaDec team, yeah. It’s on Wednesday, ‘n it just looks like a tour of the lower levels.”

“Does anyone on the team actually know that you live here?” 

It seemed like living at the Tower would be something Peter would want to keep quiet, as if it were another type of secret identity. Who knew how much attention Harley would get if everyone knew that he lived with Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, and the Avengers. 

“Abe’s the only one on the team that knows,” Harley shrugged. “He’s cool ‘bout it, though. He’s known for months and hasn’t said a word.”

“But…the rest of the team will probably figure it out once they’re here and you’re in your home, right?”

Harley shrugged again, and looked back down at Stellina as he continued to pet her. “I guess, but I’ve decided that I really don’t mind. We’re all gettin’ NDAs anyway. They can’t legally spread information around.”

Harley wasn’t lying about not minding, so Peter just nodded his understanding. “It’s your decision.”

Harley smiled at him, but looked a bit hesitant as he asked, “...Do you wanna go on the tour with us?”

Peter blinked, all of his thoughts screeching to a halt.

“Why?”

“Just wonderin’.” Harley looked as though he regretted saying anything, which immediately made Peter feel bad. “Figured that you haven’t seen your old friends in a while. Plus, you don’t really know much about the public floors of the Tower, and since I like it down there, I thought that you would too. And it’d be more fun if we were together.”

It was true that Peter had been curious about the busy workplace just levels below him, but the issue was clear: he’d have to interact with his old teammates after disappearing over a year ago. Would they even want to see him? He’d always been friendly, but Peter didn't think any of them really cared enough about him to be upset that he was gone. 

There was also the issue of explaining why the fuck he was just in the Tower, not associated with any organization that would grant him a tour. And a few of them would probably wonder about how he knew Harley. Peter had been a poor nobody at school, the nerd who stuck to his group of exactly two friends. How could he explain how he went from that to living with one of the richest guys in America (the world?) and the fucking Avengers? Any lies he could think of wouldn’t hold up; the most viable option would be to claim he was an intern, but he was 17 and probably unable to hold an internship, and didn't know any of the workers in the Tower, which would look suspicious. 

Was he just going to present himself as Harley’s random-ass boyfriend, and leave it at that? 

Yeah, that seemed about right.

“Can I think about it?” Peter asked, deciding that he would talk to Ned about it. “I can let you know tonight.”

“It’s fine with me,” Harley assured, looking slightly relieved. Peter wondered if he had thought that Peter would be upset. “You don’t need to sign any forms or anythin’ since you live here, so take your time. Your only deadline is Wednesday.”

“I didn’t realize that you’d have to fill out a form to go into your own home,” Peter laughed. “That’s dumb as hell.”

“I know! All I could think about when Harrington was explainin’ the trip was how goddamn ironic the whole thing was.”

Peter and Harley spent a bit more time conversing while Stellina soaked up the attention between them. He then checked in with Wanda once more, who, like him, seemed to prefer being in the privacy of her room when she wasn’t socializing with others. Stellina laid on the floor as Wanda and Peter did a quick Ukrainian recap on how to conjugate modal verbs in the future tense, which included would, should, and could.  

“Молодець!” she praised, putting away the whiteboard for the day. “Я пишаюся тобою.” 

“Дякую,” he replied, his posture straightening slightly with the compliment. 

“So now that we’re done with Українська for today, why don’t you tell me about your patrol last night?”

“Went well,” he shrugged. Last night had been his first night back out on patrol since Friday, since he deemed his lungs healthy enough to go back out. “I went to Queens instead of kicking it with Daredevil, and I’ll probably do the same tonight. The winter months are usually more mild, so all I did was stop a minor mugging and help a little girl get back home.”

“Why was she out in the first place?”

Peter chuckled lightly, remembering the girl’s rambling explanation. “She thought she lost her stuffed animal at the park a few blocks from her apartment, and decided it would be best to go back on her own to find it.”

A small smile graced Wanda’s face as she shook her head slightly. “Sounds like something I would do. Are situations like that common?”

“Well this is New York, so…yeah, there’s a lost kid in Queens, like, every other night. One time, this kid thought he saw a dragon from one of the cartoons he watched flying outside of his apartment, so he went outside and followed it till he got lost. Turned out to be one of those small planes that fly the flags, y’know? Probably something like an insurance company advertisement.”

“Kids are so…odd,” Wanda observed. “They should never grow out of it.”

She then proceeded to tell him about how Pietro, when he was young, had believed there was a bunny that would hop across the house, dusting things off; in actuality, it had been his parents with a feather duster. They exchanged stories of dumbass kids until Peter dismissed himself to return to his room. Stellina immediately got up as he did, and sat with him as he settled in on the floor of his room. Too bad she couldn’t follow him as he suddenly changed his mind and chose to move to the ceiling instead. 

He pulled out his phone, quickly opening his and Ned’s conversation thread as he rested against the wall, stretching his legs out across his ceiling. 

you: may i tell u a tale and receive advice from u in return

His reply was as quick as ever, having responded in just a few seconds. 

gitc: im working on homework but u can call and i can multitask  

Peter smiled to himself and conceded to Ned’s terms, calling him without hesitation. Ned picked up before the first ring was done.

“Hey,” Peter greeted. “What kinda homework?”

“Lab report,” Ned explained. “Dissected a pig in Bio, so I found my report from sophomore year and I’m basically copying that, minus the data we collected.”

“Now aren’t you glad we did that?”

“The second time was no less disgusting, so I will never be glad we did that.” Ned faked a gag, and Peter shook his head with a smile, despite knowing Ned wouldn’t be able to see his reaction. “So what’s up?”

“Well, remember when the AcaDec team won the invitation for a yearly tour of Stark industries?”

Ned sighed forlornly. “Yeah. I’m still upset that we didn’t get to do it that year.”

“They just had to renovate the Tower right after they invited us, huh,” he complained, rolling his eyes. “But look. I might have another chance at the tour.”

“Would that have anything to do with the fact that you live in the place that’s being toured?”

“Kinda. It’s time for this year’s tour, and Harley invited me to come along. I think I’m allowed to because there’s nothing anyone can do to stop an inhabitant of the Tower from just…being in the Tower, right?”

“I don't think anyone will kick you out. They might think it’s weird, but if you can prove you live there, it’ll be fine.”

“Well, I think the fact that my A.I. is in the system is proof enough,” Peter pointed out. “Or Tony’s A.I. can vouch for me.”

“So no problem there. What advice did you want?”

“Well, the entire AcaDec team will be here.” Peter shook out his hand that wasn’t holding his phone, trying to release the nervous energy that had built up just thinking about what would happen. A jolt of panic ricocheted throughout his body. “I have no explanation for why I left and why I live at the Tower now. I don’t even know how I would answer any—any of their inevitable questions, and I know Flash is gonna be there, so he probably won’t leave me alone about it if I try to blow him off, but honestly, I don’t think any of them would leave me alone at this point, just because it’s been so long and they’ll want—”

“Hey,” Ned interrupted. “Take a second, man. You’re okay. Breathe.”

Peter automatically stopped talking and focused on calming his mind and body at Ned’s instructions. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, man. Nothing to apologize for.”

Ned had always been equipped to help Peter out with any anxiety he faced, usually able to recognize his triggers and notice when Peter got a bit too nervous for comfort. He was always willing to try to calm Peter down, and it appeared that Ned hadn’t lost that instinct.

“Now then. It’s time for the debunking.” He sounded so pleased with himself, and Peter fondly rolled his eyes. This was why he wanted to talk to Ned anyway. “You can just tell them the truth about why you left: you graduated early. No lies even required for that one. As for why you live in the Tower now, I think you’ll be able to just shrug or something. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

“But they won’t just drop it,” Peter complained.

“Well, Flash might not, but you know how to handle him,” Ned confidently said. “Harley could probably also handle him, like just pull the protective boyfriend thing. But I think the rest of the team will be cool about it. They know your life has been fucked and they’re probably used to spotty explanations from you, Spider-Man.”

“You gave lame excuses too, Guy in the Chair.”

“So they’ll just be extra used to it! I mean, it’ll be a bit awkward for sure, but I don't think there’s reason to panic over their reactions.”

“It’ll probably be good to catch up with them, too,” Peter begrudgingly added, knowingly adding more to the ‘Pros’ side of going to the tour. 

“And you’ll get to see the labs, bro! How is that not the most exciting thing ever?”

A smile spread across Peter’s face. “You’re right, you’re right. I guess I’ll go.”

Chapter Text

Peter Parker collected panic attacks like Peter Piper collected pecks of pickled peppers.

Well, he collected anxiety attacks too, but if he included anxiety attacks, the alliteration of the analogy didn't sound as fun.

What he meant was, Peter’d had just about every form of panic attacks and anxiety attacks imaginable. It wasn’t too hard to believe, what with his generalized anxiety disorder diagnosed ever since he was seven, and his massive array of PTSD-induced triggers. Peter was a panicky guy, and as a result, he’d amassed quite the batch of symptoms.

The panic attacks were sudden. Sometimes, he couldn’t stop a trigger from appearing in his life, and he always got sent into one of his many types of attacks. There were the ones that were thought to be “typical”: hyperventilating, general terror, crying, the works. He had different ones too, though. There were the ones that came with a flashback, during which he had to figure out how to come back to real life on his own. There were the ones where he went completely non-verbal, barely even able to move, hardly able to comprehend his surroundings. Sometimes those happened because of reminders of Skip (like the one he’d had after dinner with the Avengers—though that one had been a bit short), but sometimes they were the result of a completely random trigger. Then there were the ones that popped out of nowhere, without any cause that Peter could discern. Those commonly involved chest pain and headaches, as well as the classic shortness of breath and shaking all over. Those were the ones where he thought he was about to die.

His anxiety attacks were the ones he could feel coming. The ones with a known cause, a cause that he was aware was stressing him out. At some point in his life, he’d had every one of the symptoms that Google told him were associated with anxiety attacks: the chills, the hyperventilating, the hot flashes, the nausea, the sensation of choking. The restlessness, the apprehension. The dread for what was to come. 

The anxiety attacks were short, excluding the buildup to the attack. He could usually tell that he was having an attack, whether it was of the panic or anxiety variety, but the anxiety attacks could be identified way faster. He was used to them, and was well-versed in dealing with them. They were never easy, sure, but in a sense, they were certainly more simple than the panic attacks. He could recover from them within an average of 15 minutes, and could move on with his day like normal afterwards. (A nap was preferred, but sometimes that wasn’t really convenient, so he often had to do without.)

This? This rocking on the floor, legs pressed against his chest, hair a mess from his hands running through it too many times, chest stuttering with breaths he was trying to calm, dog claws pawing at his arm in an effort to gain his attention, this frustration of knowing what was wrong, yet not being able to just fix it, to just stop being so goddamn nervous? This was an anxiety attack. 

“Shit,” he seethed, exasperated by the way shakes racked through his body, jolting him out of his repeated, rhythmic rocking.

Google never said anything about the bitterness, and sometimes the outright anger that showed its face during some of his attacks. 

Stellina planted her paw on his arm again, her claws just barely scraping against his skin. He reached out to pet her, to assure her that he was fine, but his hand was shaking so hard he had to pause and just…stare at it for a moment. The moment passed, and he tried to gently lay his hand on her back. Unfortunately, his restless state didn’t allow his hand to be acting in such a focused way. He regretfully pulled his hand back from her, aggressively shaking it out as he went, and resumed gripping his other arm.

Why was a simple field trip affecting him like this?

After a particularly harsh gasp, Peter gave up on his current position, and thumped his forehead down onto his knees, bringing his hands up to clasp around the back of his neck. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to breathe properly. Failed. Tried again, this time trying to momentarily untense his body. Failed, but less severely this time. His body tensed back up on the next inhale. 

This was a fucking process. 

“Peter,” Karen’s voice came. “It’s been 15 minutes. Would you like for me to call Harley?”

“No,” Peter rushed to breathe out. “He, he’s, uh. He’s doing homework, and, and I can’t, um, bother him with this.” After he finally got his sentence out, he reversed his head position, letting it land on the door he was resting against with a thunk. He kind of wanted to scream. He settled for continuing to pant.

“Would you like for me to give you breathing counts? Read the weather?”

No breathing counts, he thought. Sometimes it helped if she did that, and sometimes it didn’t. Right now, it just sounded annoying. 

His hands crawled up to cover his face, not blocking his mouth, but instead pressing into his closed eyes until bright spots decorated his dark eyelids. 

“Try the…try the weather.”

“Tonight, it’s cloudy, but there’s no threat of precipitation. The high was at approximately 3:43 earlier today when it reached 49 degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature has been falling since, currently settled at a windy 38 degrees. Throughout the night, it should cool by four more degrees. I recommend that, if you plan on patrolling tonight, you keep moving as much as possible in order to prevent your blood from slowing. When you return to the Tower, make sure to raise the temperature in your room so that your body temperature doesn’t remain low.”

By the time Karen was done with the report and the accompanying advice, Peter had fully untensed his body twice more (having had to restart the first time), and had successfully kept it relaxed. This made it easier for him to understand the concept of breathing, and he was in the process of his second full breath consecutively. 

Stellina’s paw returned. Again, he tried to gently rest his hand on her back, smoothing over her fur. This time, he was able to continue to pet her as he kept breathing and breathing and breathing. Two fingers on his opposite hand tapped gently against his knee in sync.

According to Karen, seven more minutes had passed when he realized that he was no longer being harassed by the fear that kept him huddled up on the ground. With a final, huge exhale, his legs unfolded from his chest, and he pushed himself away from the wall so that he could just lay on the ground. Stellina was satisfied to simply curl up by his legs, no longer begging for his attention. 

“Life sucks,” he complained.

“Anxiety sucks,” Karen corrected. “What caused the attack?”

“Just the stupid field trip tomorrow. I don’t even know why it’s bothering me now—I was fine with it last night, and for most of the day today, and even when Harley told me he turned in the forms. Just…seeing all my teammates again is a bit of an event.”

“So is it really wise to go?”

Peter snorted. “Probably not, no. But I think it’ll be good for me. Closure.”

“Closure?” His A.I. sounded incredulous.

“Shut up,” he retorted. “You know I’m right. I'll be able to, y'know. Just see some old friends, maybe explain a thing or two, who knows. Maybe then I could stop worrying about the situation so much.”

“Seems like the healthy kind of thinking you’d be taught to do in therapy.”

“Exactly! Why would I need therapy if I already know all the Healthy Things?”

Karen was quick to respond, “I believe it's very clear that you still need therapy, even if you can think logically every now and then.”

Peter sighed, deflating slightly. “Maybe. Therapy might come when I’ve wrapped up everything else. Perhaps then I’ll be able to complain to a stranger about my issues.”

“You can’t keep pushing it off, Peter. You’re in a stable, supportive situation now. Other than your own mental block, I can’t find a single reason why you shouldn’t get the help you need.”

Peter sighed again, this time more dramatically. “Well, at least you don’t sugarcoat it.”

“You didn't program me to,” she replied haughtily. Peter flipped off the system’s sensors in his room.

-

Harley was sitting on his bed, his leg bouncing up and down nervously as he checked the list on his phone. Alert his S.I. friends that he’d be in the lower levels with his class tomorrow? Check. Make sure that Peter still felt comfortable going on the field trip? Check. Tell his family to not embarrass him, even though he had no idea how much they would adhere to that? Check. Make his peace with exposing himself as a resident of the Tower? He was working on it.

He was mostly fine with it all. He trusted everyone on the team, minus Flash, but Flash hardly had any power at the school now. The bully friends that had been Flash’s backup had all graduated last year, and Flash was very clearly alone now. It didn't stop him from being an asshole, but he was quieter about it, less sure. His only social life was the AcaDec team. Harley kind of felt bad for him, but the boy’s loneliness didn’t excuse any of the unnecessarily harsh comments made to his teammates and bystanders in the hallways. Harley didn’t have to like him, but he could understand him, at least a little. 

All that was to say that even Flash couldn’t make Harley feel insecure about revealing his homelife. No one on the team could legally tell others about what they learned on the trip anyway. 

The thing that was causing Harley’s slight hesitation was how much he was used to his secrecy. Most of his school friends thought that he was living with an uncle and aunt named Anthony and Virginia respectively. They thought he had a few older cousins who visited his home often. They thought he had recently met a new friend who had graduated from high school early. The thought that the light bruising occasionally visible on his arms was from boxing practice with some of his cousins. They thought that Harley lived in an apartment complex that was near a parking garage.

To Harley’s knowledge, no one suspected that he lived in the goddamn Avengers Tower, with the two goddamn heads of Stark Industries and the goddamn Avengers, and that he was a goddamn Avenger. 

He and Tony had agreed that while Harley was still settling into New York, finding his place at his new school, it’d be better that no one knew about his particularly strange living situation. But Harley had been in New York for over six months. He’d discussed it with his family during dinner that night, and came to the decision that he was ready to be more open about what his domestic life was like. 

So, like. Harley was cool with it all.

It was just a rather big change. 

Since Abe already knew everything (minus the whole Iron Lad thing, but whatever), he had promised to try to get their teammates off of Harley’s back should they put two and two together, and of course Harley was appreciative of that. It was still slightly overwhelming. 

Once Harley had gotten home from school that day, he’d told Peter about his general concerns, and Peter had been quick to offer his support. He’d just said that it was completely Harley’s decision, and that an identity reveal was always hard to comprehend, let alone actually enact. Harley was quick to trust Peter’s views on identity reveals, because it just so happened that Peter was the proud owner of the most talked-about secret identity in America.

He had expressed this to Peter. He added that he didn't think that his domestic life was much to worry about compared to Peter’s identity. Peter had been quick to rebuke him for thinking that, because “comparing their lives would do nothing for either of them.” Peter had said that both of their identities were big parts of their lives, so Harley revealing his living situation held the same amount of weight as Peter revealing his superhero persona. 

Harley really liked Peter. 

He sighed, and flopped back onto his bed. The only conclusion he had come to tonight was that there was no reason why he should continue to hide his life from his teammates, though his underlying stress about doing so was still valid. 

He decided that he’d burn that bridge when he came to it. Right now, he was just slightly exhausted, and sleeping in his rather warm bed after a confusing mental back-and-forth sounded pretty good right about now. 

What he hadn’t realized when he fell asleep was that it was only nine o’clock, which was pretty damn early by his standards. He woke up a whole hour earlier than he needed to the next morning, and found himself incapable of falling back asleep. 

He decided that he might as well just get ready for the day and pull a Tony with his spare time: head down to the lab.

Not seeing Peter in either the living room or the kitchen was an odd experience, since Peter was usually up and about by six in the morning, awakened by a nightmare. Harley was glad to not see him huddled up in the dark, though; it meant Peter was getting his rest. Harley quietly grabbed a muffin from the empty kitchen before heading down the hall to his lab, where his relief immediately diminished.

Peter was sitting in Harley’s lab on his side of the workbench, though he didn’t appear to currently be working. Instead, he was looking expectantly at Harley through the windows of the lab, his face shining with sheepishness. He gave Harley a meek wave as Harley entered his lab. 

“Morning,” Peter offered simply. 

“I thought you were sleepin’,” Harley returned, taking his spot across from his boyfriend. “Instead, you’re workin’ on…”

A new suit, he finally noticed. It didn’t look too much different than his older one, to be honest, but there were no inconsistencies in the fabric where Peter had either originally run out of the fabric he was mainly using for his suit, or where he’d patched up the places where his suit had been cut open. The biggest change was the set of black lines running along the seams of the suit, all meeting at the spider emblem on the chest. The picture that Harley’s mind provided was one of an incomplete spiderweb. 

“Sorry,” Peter said, suddenly sounding guilty. His fingers swept through his hair, and Harley watched the slight curls flop back into place. “I thought that I was, like, allowed in here, but you probably wanted to be alone in here. I’ll leave.”

“Hey,” Harley quickly interjected, and Peter paused his collection of the materials he’d been using. “I don’t mind. You’re always allowed in here, Pete. Besides, I wanna know what’s new with the suit.”

Peter relaxed, and set his supplies back down. “Well, most of it is the same. It’s all still spandex, because even though I can probably make something better with Tony’s materials, I like the brand I’ve kinda created with the spandex. But that black line thingy? That serves two purposes: it helps inflate the suit so it’s easy to get off, and it’s my new heating system.”

“But didn’t your older suit inflate too? I don’t remember the black thingy bein’ there.”

Peter shrugged. “It did. It wasn’t as efficient as it could be, though, and it was the mechanics in the emblem that did all of the work. I figured that too much tech was stored within one spot, so it’d probably be safer to spread it throughout the suit. Same thing with the new heater system. The power runs through the entire suit, not just at one main hub in the center.”

“It’ll probably allow for easier improvements in the future,” Harley added thoughtfully. “Seein’ as you won’t have to sort through about 500 wires jumbled together in a clump.”

“Excuse you, my wires were always neatly organized. And I don’t even have that many wires now, ‘cause I figured I could just use a circuit board and attach individual units. The control center is a lot smaller now, it almost looks like it blends into the spandex.”

Harley saw that Peter was right: the black spider design that was essentially the power center for Peter’s suit was now only slightly raised in comparison to the fabric surrounding it, almost as though it was one of those puffy stickers, maybe a bit thinner. 

“How long did this take?” he asked, looking back up at Peter. 

“Well, it’s not even completely done. I’m almost done insulating the heating system, just down by the legs. And I spent some time planning this during the day today, so It wasn’t like I ju—”

“Peter has been building this suit for six hours and 47 minutes, up until the point you entered the lab, Harley,” Karen interrupted Peter, giving Harley the answer he wanted. 

“You didn’t sleep.” Harley looked over Peter’s features, analyzing him a little bit more than usual. He didn’t notice anything different about the way Peter looked. Well, he noticed the bags beneath Peter’s eyes, but those were always there, and they hadn’t seemed to intensify as a result of Peter’s all-nighter. 

“Took, like, an hour long nap,” Peter offered, shrugging. “Couldn’t properly fall back asleep after I woke up, so I wanted to go ahead and get my new suit out of the way so I didn’t have to patrol with a holey suit again. Gave me something to do.”

Harley hummed, finally pulling up holograms on his side of the bench. “Same mind.”

“Oh, I thought you’d just gotten up early for your trip.”

“Nah, we still have to get to school at the same time.” He pulled out his model car, painted yellow and about a foot long, out from the storage beneath the bench. He flipped open the hood, nabbed a pair of tweezers, and adjusted the miniature engine so that it connected to its socket, turning it into the car’s power bank. The car hummed to life in his hands, headlights turning on. “I just figured I could work on my project for robotics.”

He set the car down, and pressed the button that acted as one of the taillights. The car shifted, and, while playing the Transformers theme song, molded into the yellow autobot.

“Is that…Bumblebee?” Peter’s tone was originally near-incredulous, but he busted out laughing when Harley gave a very serious nod.

“My teacher just said that our project had to resemble a car, and it needed to move. I think I might get extra credit for this.”

Peter snorted, leaning down to study the intricacies of the robot. “Like you need it.” 

“Let me have my fun!”

-

Harley came around the corner, entering school property at a slightly faster pace than usual. Abe rolled his eyes, pocketing his phone as he walked up to meet his friend halfway. 

“The day of our field trip is the day you decide to take your time headin’ to school, huh?” he called, giving Harley a routine push to his shoulder. 

Harley chuckled, righting himself with ease, like he always did. “Oh, you know me. Spent a bit of time in the lab this mornin’, ended up gettin’ sidetracked.”

“That’s not an excuse, that’s just announcing your nerdiness.”

Abe stumbled when Harley retaliated by shoving him forward, using his backpack to push him past a throng of shuffling students, navigating them both easily to the library.

“D’ya think I could hold my ground if I worked out as much as you do?” Abe wondered. Harley had always been a strong presence, and while Abe had once been a pretty fit teenager compared to his AcaDec teammates, his best friend knocked him out of the park. 

“Dunno,” Harley smiled, shrugging. “You should try it.”

“Ah!” Mr. Harrington exclaimed, setting down the clipboard that contained the team’s attendance sheet. “There you two are. You were our last ones.”

“We woulda been here earlier if Harley wasn’t such a nerd,” Abe mumbled, depositing his backpack where the rest of the team piled theirs. 

“We’re both on the same Academic Decathlon team,” Harley pointed out, thumping his bag next to Abe’s. Abe waved him off and sat down next to Charles, who was already chatting with Sally about the trip. Harley took his place on Abe’s other side.

“Now that we’re all seated,” Mr. Harrington started, “everyone get back up. We’re headed to the bus station.”

As the team obediently followed Mr. Harrington’s words, a thrum of excitement shot through Abe. He’d gone on the trip last year, sure, but he didn’t expect it to be any less fun. He bet that the Tower would have some new things for them to view this year, since places of science and math were ever changing. Although it was easier to tease Harley for being a nerd, Abe had to admit that he and his friend weren’t much different. A tour of Stark Industries was essentially Abe’s dream vacation.

Plus, the idea of Harley touring his own home was absolutely hilarious to him. Abe would be lying if he said that he wasn’t excited to watch Harley act as though he didn’t know the Tower inside and out.

“Dude, why didn’t you just stay at home?” Abe asked once they got onto the bus, preparing for the 45 minute ride to the Tower. 

“This way, I get the whole field trip experience,” Harley explained, pulling out his phone. “We never got field trips this cool back in rural Tennessee.”

Abe chuckled, trying to imagine what it would be like not living in one of the largest cities in America. “Where’d you guys go, the local farm?”

“There was no local farm. Farms were common. Drove by six of ‘em just to get to school.” He sent a text to someone, but Abe didn’t catch who before Harley put away his phone. “We got a field trip to the sheriff’s office, though.”

“Riveting,” Abe murmured, before straightening, remembering a new topic to focus on. “So how’re you gonna manage hiding the fact that you’re visiting your home?”

“I simply won’t.”

Well, that wasn’t what Abe was anticipating. When Harley had told Abe about his living situation (his best friend lived with Tony Stark, what the fuck), he’d been sworn to secrecy. And now… 

“You’re just gonna tell the entire team?” he questioned. He was starting to worry for Harley’s sanity. 

“If they ask, I’m telling them,” Harley confirmed. “Talked it over with the family, and they were like, ‘If you think you’re ready, then go ahead.’ And I think I’m ready. Besides, we all had to sign NDAs anyway, so it’s not like anyone here will publish this shit in the news or somethin’.”

Abe thought it over, and decided that there wasn’t really a huge reason as to why Harley shouldn’t be honest with his friends. Abe had always supported him no matter what, and this wasn’t any different. 

“Do I get to brag about being the first to know?”

“Oh, of course,” Harley laughed. “It’d be cruel of me to restrict you of that right.”

They talked about the trip for a few more minutes (with Harley generally theorizing about what it’d be like, and Abe confirming or denying any of his ideas), before they silently agreed to slip into their stereotypical teenage behaviors: being glued to their phones. 

Abe flipped through his playlists on Spotify, and decided on the mellow tones of Arcade Fire to accompany his gazing out the window. Every now and then, he’d look over to Harley, and each time, his friend would be texting someone with a slight smile on his face. Abe wasn’t one to pry into others’ business, but he couldn’t figure out who Harley could be texting. All of his friends were either on the bus with them or in school—well, except for the graduated friend who sent pictures of his dog. 

Abe mentally shrugged, if that was a thing. It wasn’t his business. If Harley wanted him to know who he was texting, he’d tell Abe. 

The bus trip passed quickly, and before he knew it, students were unbuckling their seatbelts as the bus slowed to a stop in front of the Avengers Tower. As they unloaded the bus, Abe filtered out Mr. Harrington’s voice reminding them of the behavior policies in favor of staring up at the tall building. How were buildings even allowed to be this large?

Mr. Harrington corralled them to the entrance to the Tower, raising his voice slightly over the sound of the team’s excited chittering. The single freshman alternate could be heard gasping in awe as the team finally entered the lobby of the Tower. The rest of the team, however, went dead silent.

Abe didn’t realize why until his gaze finally landed on a person that brought forth lingering memories and questions in his mind. The boy was standing past the secretary’s desk, close to the rear elevators. He was wearing glasses. His sweatshirt matched the blue Midtown one that Betty was wearing. His hair was styled differently from the last time Abe had seen him. He smiled the same shy smile that had usually painted his face around the team.

There were a thousand things that Abe wanted to say, but Flash seemed to be the only one who could find his voice. 

“Parker?”

Chapter Text

The chorus of his old teammates’ heartbeats accelerated in unison as they all eventually noticed Peter standing alone in the lobby of Stark Industries. Then Flash opened his mouth, and Peter took a deep breath.

“Parker?”

The name seemed to ring out in the lobby, especially since there were only a few non-student bystanders: the secretary, the security guard, and a few workers waiting for the elevators. Peter was just surprised that it hadn’t been a derogatory term that left Flash’s mouth. 

Words didn't seem to want to form, so all Peter offered was a slight wave. He quickly found Harley in the crowd of high schoolers, and he relaxed slightly when he saw his boyfriend smiling, waving him over. Peter found himself obeying the request, his feet carrying him over to his old friends without his brain’s permission. 

Harley moved to the front of the group, and Peter sidled up to him like it was nothing. He didn’t mean to pretend to not notice everyone else, but on instinct, that was exactly what he did. It was easy, too, because no one except for Flash had said anything yet. 

“When does the tour start?” he casually asked Harley, avoiding his teammates’ gazes.

Harley furrowed his brows, and turned to look up at Mr. Harrington inquisitively. Peter noticed that Mr. Harrington had to shake himself out of his haze in order to answer the question. 

“The, uh, the tour guide should arrive in, uh, about ten minutes. Or less.” Mr. Harrington’s usual smile finally rose to his face, bright yet hesitant. “Peter. It’s lovely to see you again.” 

Peter smiled in return, opened his mouth to respond, and was then interrupted by all of his old friends at once. 

“Peter!”

“Dude, what happened?”

“Why are you even here?”

“Do you know Harley?”

“We missed you!”

Peter took a step back, and Harley gently laid a hand on Peter’s back. They looked at each other, Peter looking for support, Harley looking to support. After receiving a slight nod and a reassuring tap to his back, Peter turned back to the team.

“Good to see you guys too,” he said, chuckling slightly. He took a breath. He took another. He decided that he could, in fact, do this. “I graduated early. Sorry I couldn’t keep contact with any of you.”

“Wait!” Sally called, her eyes wide. “Would you also happen to have a dog that you got over the weekend?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter confirmed, tilting his head back to Harley. “How…did you know that?”

Cindy was the one who spoke this time. “Harley showed us pictures of the dog! He said she belonged to his friend that graduated early!” She grinned, looking very genuinely excited. “That’s you, right?”

“That’s me.” Peter flashed them a smile, and he realized that he couldn’t remember if that matched the character of the Peter they knew. The Peter of now was quite a bit different from the Peter from the practices he seldom attended, the Peter of Decathlon Nationals, or the Peter who was grieving his girlfriend and aunt. Peter didn’t even know who the Peter of now was, so how was he meant to act around these people who knew him as someone that didn’t exist anymore?

“Why are you here?” Flash asked, repeating his question. He stood at the edge of the crowd, no longer surrounded by the bullies that goaded him on in sophomore year.

Peter shrugged. “Harley invited me. Figured it’d be cool to come.”

“Wait, no, Harley?” Mr. Harrington spluttered, obviously barely keeping up with the conversation. “You weren’t supposed to invite anyone, this trip was specifically for the team! We could get in trouble with Stark Industries if we break the terms of the contract.”

Harley shrugged with the same nonchalant attitude that Peter offered. “We won’t get in trouble. I asked Tony, he said it was fine.”

Peter smiled knowingly. Mr. Harrington didn’t.

“Tony…Tony who? Who said it was fine?”

“Tony Stark,” Harley explained. Peter snorted, elbowing Harley for his vagueness. Harley’s neutral face faltered slightly, his lips quirking up, but he pulled it together.

“What the fuck is going on?” Betty cried, sounding slightly exasperated and very confused. Peter felt just a little bit bad, but this was already going better than he’d imagined. “You don’t know Tony Stark, do you?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Peter heard Charles mutter to someone, who Peter assumed to be a freshman. The 14-year-old looked unbelievably lost. 

“Well, I live with him.” Harley pulled his hand away from Peter’s back, instead using it to gesture to him vaguely. “Peter also lives with him. We live here. Which is why Tony didn’t mind him taggin’ along.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Betty sighed. “I have even more questions.”

Abe pulled away from the group slightly, moving up to stand closer to Harley. “Harley actually lives here, I can vouch,” he confidently stated. “He’s been here for, like, six months. I was the first to know!”

“Bullshit,” Flash decided. Mr. Harrington had seemingly chosen not to give a shit about the current vulgarity. “You guys don’t live here, this is the Avengers Tower.”

Peter nodded, sarcastically tapping his chin in thought. “Yeah, we live with them, too.”

(What the fuck was Peter doing? Why was he acting so casual? He was freaking out, but all he could think to do was make sarcastic comments that probably didn't help the situation. Everything about this was so goddamn chaotic. What the fuck? What the fuck.)

“Fri?” Harley called, glancing up at the ceiling. “Me and Peter live here, right?” 

“Last time I checked, yes,” FRIDAY confirmed. Peter caught the freshman flinching at her voice. The old-timers of the team simply raised their eyebrows, looking away from the ceiling and back to Harley and Peter with open mouths.

“Tony Stark’s A.I. knows you guys?” Cindy breathed. 

“Pete’s A.I. knows us too,” Harley quietly joked, clearly trying to direct his words only at Peter. However, Abe, standing right next to Harley, heard what Harley had said and repeated it in shock. Loudly.

“Since when does Parker have an A.I.?” Flash demanded. His voice was back to the harshness that Peter was used to.

Remember when Peter had thought that this was going better than anticipated? This was no longer true.

“None of your business,” Karen sassily replied, which surprised even the old-timers, and Peter let his head fall into his hand. Harley chuckled lightly from beside him, and smoothed his hand across Peter’s back.

The faces of his friends continued to fall deeper into confusion, and Abe cleared his throat. “Let’s recap: Peter’s back—welcome back, Peter. Peter’s going on the trip with us, apparently, and he somehow lives in the Tower with Harley. He also has an A.I.” He looked between Peter and Harley. “Is that everything?”

Harley quirked an eyebrow at Peter and moved his hand down from Peter’s back to offer it to him between their bodies. Peter ticked his head in consideration, took Harley’s hand in his own, and smiled at the team. 

“We’re also datin’,” Harley tacked on, a sly little grin growing on his face.

“Congrats, you two are cute,” Sally offered with hardly any hesitance. “But that’s, like, the least surprising thing about this whole interaction.” Several murmurs of agreement supported her statement. 

Peter shrugged in response. It was the most surprising thing to him, but Peter’s friends didn’t know how truly unequipped for a relationship he was. Actually, the most surprising thing was that Peter was capable of forcing himself to stand in front of his old friends and hold a conversation with them, despite how uncomfortable he was. Again, though, they probably didn't understand the amount of effort it took for Peter to enter the elevator with the intent to go down to the lobby to wait for the team. 

“Yeah, like, I’m still wondering why you couldn't keep contact with us,” Cindy pointed out. “You didn’t have to go completely off the grid, did you? What happened?”

Peter shrugged for what felt like the millionth time. “Hell if I know,” he dismissed, before nodding towards a woman heading their way. “Our tour guide’s here anyway, so we best settle down.”

Peter was thankful for the distraction their guide offered, since he wouldn’t have to be incessantly questioned while the team was paying attention to her. They turned towards the person whom he was referencing, a petite woman in casual clothes and with braids that cascaded down her back. The color of her acrylics matched the deep blue of her sneakers. She wore a lanyard that signified, in bold letters, that she was a certified guide. She looked to be college-aged, only a few years older than the older team members. Regardless of her informal wear and young age, her stature was self-assured and calm, perfectly prepared to handle a hoard of high school nerds. 

Despite obviously wanting to continue their interrogation, the team obediently fell silent as their guide settled to a stop in front of the group. Peter subtly drifted closer to the back of the crowd, Harley quietly following.

“Hey, Midtown,” she greeted, a smile lighting up her face. It seemed genuine, which wasn't what Peter had expected from a guide who'd probably given this tour dozens of times. “My name is Sarah, and I’ll be your guide for today.”

As she swept her eyes across the group, Peter noticed her make eye contact with Harley. Surprisingly, she waggled her eyebrows at him, and he gave a discreet little wave in return. The moment passed, and she looked away, turning to pull something out of the tote bag she bore.

Peter glanced at Harley in question, but his boyfriend just smiled slightly, a brief wave of his hand indicating that he'd tell Peter later. 

Peter nodded minutely, and tuned into what Sarah was explaining.

“—all just for security reasons, really,” she was saying, clutching a stack of lanyards in one hand. “You’ll just scan these to get past the security checkpoint, and continue to wear them throughout the trip, lest anyone have any questions about your right to be here. They'll time out once I log that you've left the Tower, so just think of them as souvenirs.” Sarah pulled the first lanyard from the stack and held it out as she called, “Sally Avril?”

Peter watched as Sally cut to the front of the group to acquire her pass, soon replaced by Betty, then Abe, and by the time Harley moved past his teammates to reach Sarah, Peter finally blinked with a realization. His name was not going to be called. 

While Peter tried to figure out what to do about the inevitable issue—Play dumb? Leave? Tell her the truth?—he heard Harley's hushed tones explain exactly what Peter had been thinking. 

“The kid I was standing with won't get a pass, so don’t be confused,” he muttered to Sarah, who nodded evenly, no shock to be seen on her face. Peter looked away from them right before she laid eyes on him, barely able to avoid being caught staring. “I invited him.”

“Of course you did,” she replied easily, and with that, Harley walked back to Peter with a small smile and his pass in hand. 

“Thanks for that,” Peter whispered as Sarah continued to call out names. “You think ahead.”

“As always,” Harley responded, just as quietly. 

When Sarah breezed past the “P” last names without mentioning a Parker, Peter felt Flash’s gaze on him. The boy clearly wanted to say something to him; Peter could practically hear the words that wanted to fall from Flash’s mouth—Guess you’ll always be forgotten, huh, Parker? Clearly, however, Flash had learned to calm himself in Peter’s absence, seeing as Flash eventually turned away from Peter and refocused on Sarah. 

She was soon done handing out lanyards, and explained that the team would have to individually scan their passes at the security checkpoint before they moved on to the museum portion of the tour. Apparently, there was an Avengers exhibit in the Tower that Peter had no idea even existed. This was why he’d thought it was a good idea to go on this trip in the first place—he knew fuck all about this place.

The team filed through the security line, and blessedly, Peter and Harley were being left alone in the back of the line. The person in front of them was the freshman, so the only attention they got from the kid was a curious glance before he looked away. 

“So you know Sarah?” Peter asked, sliding his eyes between their tour guide at the front of the line and his boyfriend. 

Harley nodded, fiddling with his pass. “I’m friends with a few workers here. I didn’t even know that she’d be givin’ the tour, though, ‘cause I only know her as an R&D intern tryna get her graduate.”

“Cool,” Peter murmured. He didn’t know Harley had actually interacted with Stark Industries employees, but he supposed that since Harley’d been at the Tower for months, he was bound to explore a bit. “You think you’ll recognize anyone else?”

“My guess is that we’ll talk with one or two department heads. I know the head of the engineerin’ department, since that’s mainly where I end up when I’m on the lower levels. Who knows, though.”

“Not me,” he agreed, and watched as Harley swiped his pass across the scanner like the kid in front of them had done. A small light blinked green, and Harley passed through the metal detector as the security guard nodded while he checked his computer. Peter assumed that FRIDAY would be aiding the search of visitors. 

“Fri?” Peter whispered, knowing that she would pick up his voice. “You gonna let me through without a pass, or am I gonna be kicked out?”

When the A.I. responded, her voice was so quiet that Peter doubted that anyone else around him would be able to hear it. “You’re clear to go. Just walk through.”

The scanner blinked green automatically, and Peter passed through the metal detectors. There was a sudden beeping coming from the detector, and Peter froze as the security guard called out to him. 

“Got any metal on ya?” the man said in a bored tone, and Peter racked his mind for what could set off the detector. Sarah had said that they were allowed to carry phones through it, so it wasn’t that, and Peter wasn’t wearing a belt, nor did he carry weapons—

“Your wrists, Pete,” Harley quietly and calmly reminded, and Peter looked up to see the whole team watching him silently. Peter pushed up his sleeves slightly (don't let the team see the scars, hide the scars) to reveal his web shooters, which were definitely there and definitely metal. 

“Yeah, you gotta take those off n’ go back through,” the guard sighed, sending a jolt of panic through Peter, not for the first time today. He couldn’t remember the last time he took his web shooters off. “Lemme just…Hold on.” The man sent an almost accusatory glare at Peter, pointing at his computer screen. “Seems as though you’re good to go. A.I.’s got you approved.”

Thank the gods for FRIDAY. She knew him too well.

Peter offered the guard a small nod, but the man wasn’t even looking at him anymore. Turning back to the team, he saw that they were all still staring at him in question, minus Harley, who looked slightly amused. Peter just shrugged, and joined his friends. 

“What was that about?” Flash questioned, his voice projecting across the group. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Sarah calmly stated before Peter could retort. “FRIDAY bypassed the security system and said that he’s okay to continue, and that’s what counts.” In the silence that followed Sarah’s explanation, she nodded, and pulled out her phone to examine what Peter assumed to be the schedule. “Alright. That door ahead of us leads to the museum part of the tour, during which you will be given 20 minutes to explore the exhibits. I will be walking around the room if you have any questions, but other than that, it’s free reign.” She smiled and opened the door. “Have at it.”

There was a second of hesitation from the crowd, but the moment passed when the freshman kid breathed out, “Sick.” The team broke out into excited chatter and filtered into the museum. 

As Peter and Harley finally entered the room, Peter discovered what all the hubbub with the museum was. To start, Peter liked how dark it was. It was a change from the usual onslaught of light in the more typical museums he’d visited in his earlier years of education. The sources of light in the room originated from six separated displays, forming an arc around the outer edges of the room. Peter was quick to realize that on each of the pedestals stood an outfit that correlated with the six Avengers that had emerged at the Battle of New York: Iron Man, Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Thor, and the Hulk. Peter grinned to himself when he saw that the only article of clothing on Bruce’s display was a pair of shorts. 

“Where’s your display?” he whispered to Harley, nudging him with a smirk.

Harley batted him away and rolled his eyes goodnaturedly. “Shut up, these are the originals.” He eyed Peter then, a small glint in his eyes that Peter loved. “Mine’s in the next room over.”

Peter’s own eyes brightened at that, suddenly very excited for this aspect of the tour. His mouth opened to express this fact, and perhaps tease Harley a little bit more, but his eyes caught a lingering form standing nearby, edging closer to them. 

“What’s up, Flash?” he called out to the boy, making Harley jolt slightly and turn to find the teen in question. 

Upon being called out, Flash cleared his throat and approached Peter and Harley more confidently. Peter’s Sense buzzed mildly, merely a reminder of all the shit he’d had to take from Flash in the past. It didn’t match the malice-free expression Flash wore, or the hands meekly hidden in the pockets of his jeans.

“Been a while,” the boy commented.

“Indeed it has,” Peter calmly replied, nodding deeply before he clasped his hands together. “Cool, what a great catching-up we just had. We—” he gestured between himself and Harley “—are gonna check out the exhibits. You—” he gestured to Flash “—can also check out the exhibits. Away from us. Cool? Cool.”

He turned away, Harley quickly doing the same. He hadn’t even taken a step, though, when his Sense pinged again. He didn’t let himself give in to the instinct yank his hand away, though, because he’d somehow retained the training Flash had bullied into him that allowed him to keep his secret identity. He waited for Flash to grab hold of his wrist before he stopped walking, turned back to glare at Flash, and yanked his hand away. 

“Uh…” Flash looked lost. Peter rolled his shoulders, and fully turned back to face him. “I just, y’know.” He shrugged.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Harley groaned. “No, Flash, we do not know. We’d love for you to finish a damn sentence so we can get back to the field trip, though, so get on with it.”

Peter snorted, and covered it with a very fake, very unconvincing cough. 

“Okay, Jesus,” Flash grumbled, falling slightly back into the character Peter knew. But then he jumped right back to confusing Peter: “I’m sorry. I was a piece of shit to you at school, and I’m trying to be better. Cool? Cool.”

Flash was the one to turn away this time, having echoed Peter’s farewell, and Peter was almost too goddamn stunned to do anything about it, because what the fuck just happened? The key word there was almost, though, seeing as Peter still had a small bit of sense in him and managed to call out to Flash quietly enough that he wouldn’t attract the attention of the team. 

Flash stilled, seemingly debating whether or not he should continue to leave. Peter didn’t blame him. 

“What—” Peter shook his head, deciding that it wouldn’t be best to voice his internal cacophony of what the fuck just happened. “Was that real, or…” 

It felt like a joke. It felt like Peter was walking the prank. It felt like some camera guy was about to jump out from behind one of the Avengers displays. It felt like Flash was about to burst out laughing, land a punch to his arm, and call him a gullible idiot for thinking that anything Flash just said was genuine. 

None of that happened, though. Flash, still turned away from Peter, nodded sharply. 

Peter blew out a sharp breath, and his eyebrows seemed to be permanently raised. He shot a glance at Harley, who didn’t seem any less shocked than Peter. Harley met his eyes, and Peter shrugged.

“Okay…” he said hesitantly. “Um. Thanks.”

Flash nodded once more, and took Peter’s acceptance as permission to leave. He fled to the Hawkeye display, where he refused to make eye contact with anyone else viewing the exhibit. 

Harley cleared his throat. “That was, uh, pretty odd.”

“It’s usually pretty damn hard to catch me off guard, but that just about did it,” Peter admitted.

It seemed like it really was possible for people like Flash to grow as human beings. Oddly enough, his mind provided a connection between his old bully and the criminals Spider-Man stopped nightly. One of Peter’s main values was that everyone deserved a chance to redeem themselves. Flash seemed to have found that chance.

Of course, it wasn’t like Peter was just going to forget being called Penis at least once a day for two years, but whatever. There were worse things.

“So how about this field trip, huh,” Harley casually commented, similar to how one would mention the weather. Peter honest to God giggled, just because it contrasted so severely with the event that had just come to pass. 

“Let’s just head to the next room and hope no one follows us,” Peter declared, grabbing hold of Harley’s hand and leading him through the next door. He felt several of his friends’ eyes on him, but with a seemingly mutual decision to leave him alone, they all averted their eyes. 

The next room was formatted differently, in that there were lights other than the ones lighting the displays. Besides that, only some of the displays had suits—for instance, Wanda didn’t have a suit, so part of her display was a looping video of her powers in action. 

Harley’s exhibit, though, was the one that attracted his attention (of course). He had the replica of the suit, but Peter was more interested in what the text on the display had to say:

Iron Lad is the most recent addition to the Avengers. Taking inspiration from Iron Man, Iron Lad both formulated and constructed his own suit. Iron Lad has not yet revealed his identity to the world.

[More information to be added.]

“Harls, what’s this part mean?” he asked, pointing to the last line. 

Harley hummed, leaning a bit closer. “Since I haven’t revealed anythin’ about myself, they can’t really include much ‘bout me. Plus, Tony says that the missions I’ve been on aren’t really well-known to the public, so it’d be kinda weird to include random information about some HYDRA mission. When I get to go on independent missions or, like, the major missions, they’ll add more stuff.”

“Makes sense.” 

Peter stepped away from Harley’s display as Cindy, Betty, and Sally joined them in the room. It wasn’t like they would be able to figure out Iron Lad’s identity from seeing Peter and Harley examining the display, but Peter was still paranoid about those kinds of things. 

“Oh, didn’t know you guys were in here,” Sally voiced, heading towards Peter and Harley, as opposed to taking interest in the displays. 

“Kinda sped through the first room,” Harley shrugged. 

Cindy grinned, firing rapid finger guns at the pair. “‘Cause, ‘cause. You know the Avengers already. ‘Cause you live here. So you don’t need to read about them.”

“Spot on,” Harley confirmed. Peter eyed him as he carefully placed his hands in his jean pockets. Harley appeared calm and comfortable to the untrained eye, with his stupid perfect hair and stupid perfect smile and stupid perfect easy-going posture. However, despite only knowing Harley for nearly two weeks, Peter was able to recognize signs of discomfort: hidden hands, wiggling toes, biting his cheek. It also certainly helped to be able to hear the sudden quickening of his heart rate when Cindy spoke so bluntly, and it couldn’t hurt that Peter knew about the internal strife Harley had dealt with in revealing major hidden aspects about his life.

So, Peter, like a good boyfriend, took over the conversation. 

“The facts they have on the displays aren’t even that cool, anyway,” Peter told them. “Everyone knows that they’re good at their jobs. What plenty of people don’t know is that the Falcon gets pissed as all hell when he goes on runs with Captain America and Bucky Barnes because they lap him so much.”

Perhaps it was a bit of a cheap move, pulling random facts about the Avengers out and showing them off to his friends. But then again, no one ever said Peter was a good conversationalist.

“They go on runs together?” Sally asked in disbelief, seemingly taking Peter’s distraction. Harley relaxed slightly, and that was all that mattered.

“Who else would they go on runs with?” Betty muttered, but smiled nonetheless. “What about the Black Widow? Any secret info?”

“Natasha does yoga,” Peter shrugged. “I think her runs happen even earlier than the boys’.”

Betty nodded in approval while Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Absentmindedly, he pulled it out to check the text.

nat: Stop talking about me, I'm a spy. Tell them about Clint instead

Peter furrowed his brows, and showed the text to Harley, who read it with a growing smile.

“She's probably watching on Fri’s cameras,” Harley explained. “Seems like a very her thing to do.”

Peter looked up, scanning for the sensors that laid in every room of the Tower. When he found them, he flipped them off and looked away without a second thought.

“Who?” Sally wondered.

nat: Well screw you too

“Natasha,” Peter answered, typing out a reply. 

you: yeah yeah i’ll shut up 

“She’s texting you?” Cindy excitedly asked at the same time Betty questioned, “She’s watching us?”

Abe and Charles joined the crowd now, Charles calling out, “Who’s watching us?”

Peter and Harley heaved twin sighs. “The Black Widow, aka Natasha,” Peter told them, while Harley nodded.

“She’s texting Peter,” Cindy said to the newcomers at the same time Betty said, “She’s watching us on security cameras!”

“This feels sorta repetitive,” Harley murmured, and Peter hummed his agreement. 

you: see what u’ve done

nat: You started it

you: ur a child.

He could feel the eyes of the spectators searching for what he was typing on his phone, so he sighed and flipped it around to show them. Appeasing their Avengers-related curiosity was easier than having them badger Harley or him about their own lives. 

“Dude!” Charles exclaimed, whipping his head up upon reading the texts. “You can’t just call the Black Widow a child! She’ll fucking kill you, man.”

Peter shrugged, and his phone buzzed in his hold. He turned it back around to read Nat’s new message, both to himself and the crowd: “She says I have name-calling rights, so she won’t kill me.”

“Dude.” Charles frantically looked around the room for cameras and listening devices that he wouldn’t be able to see. “That’s freaky.”

“That’s life,” was all Peter said as he watched the remainder of the team walk into the room. The younger kid seemed to want to look at the displays, but he ended up following his teammates in joining the crowd surrounding Peter and Harley. 

This was exhausting, to be honest. Peter couldn’t wait until the actual tour took place, and the team would be distracted. 

“What’s going on?” Seymour wondered, and Peter was not willing to do this again.

“I was just busy congratulating you guys on a good AcaDec season,” he blurted before anyone else could say a word about Black Widow or texting or cameras or where have you been for a year and why do you live with the Avengers and how do you even know Harley, Peter? 

“That’s—” Sally was starting to say, but Abe interrupted. 

“That’s really kind of you, Peter,” he finished, eyeing Sally pointedly, and Peter untensed slightly. Harley gave a small chuckle. “We worked pretty hard. Sucked that we couldn’t win Nationals, though.”

“We tried our best,” Betty said with the tone of someone who had said that one thousand times before. Peter was just glad that she went with his cover story.

“Maybe the real Nationals were the friends we made along the way,” Harley sagely proclaimed, running his fingers across his jaw as though he had a beard to stroke. 

“You’re a nerd,” Peter stage-whispered to his boyfriend, leaning in close, and Harley shooed him away with a smile. 

“You guys seem to be done,” came Sarah’s voice from where she was standing in the doorway, and the team all turned to face her. “Your 20 minutes are up, and we can get to the nerdier parts of the tour now. Please find the guest elevator in the next room over.”

The group did as she asked, locating the oversized elevator residing in what seemed to be a room reserved for the use of an elevator. Sarah took her place at the front of the group and scanned her pass to open the elevator for the group. Without being prompted, the small crowd of students, plus Peter and Mr. Harrington, loaded into the elevator, Sarah joining them once they’d settled. The elevator doors closed, and Sarah began her speech.

“We’re headed up to floor 22, which will start our tour off with the computer science department. The employees we’ll be visiting work to design the programs for Stark Phones, as well as future projects for Stark Industries. You'll be able to view some of the programs that the employees are currently working on, and they can show you some of the programming work they had to do in order to get the job. Who here wants a future in computer science?” 

Peter looked around the elevator as Sally and Flash hesitantly raised their hands. 

“It's certainly a fulfilling career, and S.I. might have a place for you two,” Sarah told them with a wink. The elevator then slowed to a stop, and Sarah stepped out, standing to the side to let the crowd file out.

The elevator had spit them out into the middle of a busy workplace with no preamble, and Peter looked around the office with a smile slowly lighting up his face.

It was essentially the dream workplace for science nerds. Aside from rooms splitting off to the side (seemingly meant for private work), the office space appeared to be one big group project. There were at least two employees to a desk, collaborating across one or two monitors, each having their own keyboard. There was a person avidly watching a small robot roam around the room, taking notes on a tablet as it did flips across the floor. There was another person slightly ahead of the robot, setting obstacles in the path (a pencil, a rock, a textbook, escalating in size to a chair), cheering each time the robot launched itself over the obstacle. The tracks that the robot moved upon propelled it into the air over and over, easily accepting the weight again when it was time for it to land.

“What are the odds I could get a job here?” he murmured to Harley, who chuckled.

“Extremely high,” Harley responded. “Though, it'd probably be good for you to go to college, yeah?”

“Probably.” That was an issue for another day.

“Oh, hey, the kids are here,” one employee pointed out, and about ten other workers turned to face the crowd. The only ones to continue working were the two who were examining the robot.

A person came forward, fiddling with a tablet and blowing stray pieces of hair out of their face with tiny puffs of air. They gave a small smile, and Peter felt a pang of familiarity.

“Hello, Midtown!” they greeted, giving a quick wave. “My name is Xander, pronouns they/them, and I'm the team leader for this floor.”

Peter had previously met several people he'd helped on patrol while he was in civvies, but Xander presenting themself as a part of Peter's tour hardly a week after their attack was so out of the blue that he had to hold back his gasp of realization. 

Part of him was immediately concerned that they would figure out his identity, but he knew the likelihood of that happening was slim to none. He had a voice modulator for a reason, and as long as he kept to not showing outright displays of strength or anything, he'd be in the clear.

Still, though. Always weird to know someone, only for them to not recognize the connection. 

At least Xander looked to be healed up, no bruising appearing on their face and their lips free of swelling. 

“I'm just here to tell you a bit about this department and show you around,” they explained, and the crowd of students nodded with anticipation. “But before we begin, I’ll tell you a bit about myself. I’ve been working here for almost six years now, since I started here in my fourth year of college. I’ve got a bachelor's and master’s in computer science, and I'm working on my doctorate. And I like M&M’s.” They shrugged, and with the motion, the strands of hair they'd originally blown away fell back into their face. They gave a slightly crooked smile. “That’s basically everything to know about me, so let's get on with it.”

Xander took the crowd towards the back of the workspace, and Peter caught glances of the computer screens as they went. Many of them were lined with code, and some included simulations of projects the employees must have been working on. One of the monitors displayed what seemed to be customer reviews of the current Stark Phone. 

As the group settled in the back, Charles was quick to raise his hand. Xander gestured for him to ask his question.

“What goin’ on with the robot buddy over there?” he wondered, pointing to the robot Peter had noticed earlier. It seemed to be done with the jumping trials, as it was now darting between two employees, coming to a halt in front of them and receiving a coin to compartmentalize before it seamlessly turned back around. 

“Ah, the interns on this floor and the ones on one of the engineering floors are collaborating for their nine-weeks project,” Xander explained. “The prototype’s name is Gabby, but sometimes we call her Grabby because her main function is to grab things for her operators. The engineers built the body, and the programmers down here are working on the coding. The end goal is to be an aid for bed-ridden people, but smaller and cheaper than those currently on the market. If Grabby succeeds and is approved by the board, then S.I. will commercialize her, making her a part of the intern-led product line.”

Stark Industries seemed like a good place to start out in the STEM field. Providing experience and giving interns footing for a spot in the real world? Peter could get with that. 

Xander went on to explain the day-to-day lives of the floor 22 employees, and later pulled out the codes that they programmed as a part of their interview at Stark Industries. They ended the segment of the tour by accepting more questions, which were mainly asked by Sally and Flash about how they should go about becoming good candidates for Stark Industries employees.  

“Well, that concludes your time on floor 22,” Xander told them, and to punctuate their sentence, Grabby was sent around the group, depositing a Starburst on top of each student’s shoe. 

Peter’s was yellow. Harley’s was pink. They both made a slightly disappointed expression, which resulted in a trading of flavors. Pink was Peter’s favorite, and evidently, Harley’s favorite was yellow. Peter had to admit that being candy partners was certainly a good sign. 

With a final wave to Xander and the other workers, Sarah guided the group back to the elevator, where she then explained that they’d be going to the 29th floor next, one of the engineering floors. Specifically, the chemical engineering department, which was no closer to what Peter would want to do with his life. (Something with chemicals? Something with biology? He didn’t have it figured out yet, which was why he was more focused on surviving his teenage years.)

While Peter had been immediately excited once he’d stepped out of the elevator into floor 22, he had quite the opposite feeling on this floor. He was met with a steady thrum of his Spidey Sense once he exited, which wasn’t that bad in of itself. But when a flick to the head from Flash didn’t come, or when no one threw a harmless piece of paper across the room, he was set a bit further on edge. 

“What’s wrong?” Harley whispered to him, and even just him saying that sentence gave Peter a sick feeling in his stomach. “You gotta weird look on your face.”

“I don’t know yet,” Peter murmured, looking around the workplace. Satisfied with the integrity of the building, and pleased to see that no chemicals from the labs would explode, Peter moved to scanning the people. He didn’t want to assume that one of the employees was about to cause a ruckus, but when his Sense had a sudden spike when he took note of one specific worker, he knew that he had to keep watch on the man. Peter subtly pointed toward him to tell Harley, “It’s him.”

There was another man talking to the group now, assumedly the team leader for this floor. Peter wanted to be listening to him, he really did, but the longer the Dangerous Man just sat there, the higher Peter's stress level got. He couldn't pay attention to the tour while he was trying to figure out what the fuck was about to happen. 

“Do ya know if he’s gonna, like…attack us?” Harley quietly questioned. “Or is he just a villain in his off hours?”

“Trying to figure that out.” The most Peter could do right now was analyze the man, putting all of his Spider-Man habits into use.

Peter filtered out the background noise of employees chatting and lab tools clattering, centering in on the Dangerous Man. His heart rate was faster than most, certainly faster than what a heart should sound like when a person is just sitting and typing. His breaths were extremely focused, occasionally taking a forceful sigh to calm down. His legs were bouncing and his eyes weren’t focused on his computer screen, instead darting around the room. Oddly, he glanced at the tour group the most, and his mouth would twitch every time he did so. His tongue would often dart out to wet his dry lips. 

He was nervous about something. Very fidgety. Of course, the man could just have anxiety or something, but Peter’s Spidey Sense certainly correlated with nervous, fidgety people. The Dangerous Man was waiting for something. Or, perhaps, waiting to do something. 

The man’s hand twitched away from his keyboard. His next glance at the AcaDec team was slightly prolonged. 

“I think,” Peter whispered, taking a halting breath and itching to activate his web shooters, “I think that civilians need to leave.”

“Textin’ Tony,” Harley replied. “Actually…Here—” he handed Peter his phone “—you’ll probably be able to word this better.”

Peter took the phone easily, Tony’s contact name already blaring across the screen.

you: this is peter. the tour is on floor 29 and there’s a guy that’s setting off my sixth sense. he’s probably gonna try to do smth soon and ppl might need to evacuate. he’s suspicious as all hell

He sent the text, and went back to watching the Dangerous Man while he waited for Tony to respond. There was another glance towards the team, another swipe of his tongue across his lips, and another forceful sigh. Then his hands reached—not twitched—beneath his desk, and he subtly began to pull at something there. 

Peter’s heart was harshly thumping in his chest as the Dangerous Man removed a metal object, smaller than the average cell phone, from beneath his desk. 

He fiddled with the object for a second.

He pressed a button on the object.

He set the object on his desk. 

The object emitted a very faint beeping.

you: bomb

you: he’s got a bomb

Chapter Text

“Harley,” Peter quietly, steadily, oh-so-calmly said, handing the phone back to him, “I’m gonna go defuse a bomb. Back me up?”

Harley easily accepted the phone, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.”

They slipped away from the group, but because the team wasn't necessarily big, they were caught by both Sarah and the speaker for the floor. Peter could hear Sarah quietly calling out Harley’s name in question, but Peter didn’t let that distract him from the steady beeping coming from the bomb that only he and Harley knew about. 

“Pardon me, what are you two doing?” the presumed team leader asked, now drawing the attention of both the whole team and the Dangerous Man that Peter was approaching.

"One second," was all Harley offered to them. Peter filtered everyone else out, focusing instead on the now standing Dangerous Man, whose expression shifted from confused, to defensive, to a mask of pleasantness.

“You should probably go back to your tour, hm?” the man suggested once Peter was standing directly in front of him. 

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Peter smoothly replied. “Take a seat, please, and tell me how much time we have before your little explosive goes off.”

Gasps were heard around the room, but Peter ignored them.

The man's eyes hardened, but his mouth settled into a smirk that almost made Peter roll his eyes. “You have five minutes.”

Peter’s face set into an unimpressed expression. “Liar." When the man's face colored with shock, Peter repeated, “How much time.”

“Four minutes,” the man answered this time, more hesitantly.

Peter shook his head.

“Two.”

Peter rolled his shoulders and muttered, “That’s more like it.” The Dangerous Man had yet to sit down, so Peter swiftly knocked his legs out from under him, tumbling him to the ground. “Harls, keep an eye on him, will you?”

“Sure,” Harley replied, and as Peter turned to the bomb, he saw his boyfriend move towards the man on the ground. That was when he stopped paying attention to Harley, though, and more to the literal ticking time bomb right in front of him.

Peter reached for a convenient screwdriver on the empty desk right next to him, and that was when some employee shouted out, “Kid! What the hell are you doing?”

“Dismantling a bomb.” He steadied the screwdriver over the single screw on the device, and when his Spidey Sense didn't scream to notify him of a lid trigger, he smoothly removed the screw. “Now please be quiet, and let me do my thing.”

The civilians must've picked up on the absolute seriousness in his voice, because they all fell dead silent. Satisfied, Peter lifted the lid and examined the interior. Right away, it seemed like a classic movie scenario, a jumble of multi-colored wires criss-crossing each other. This time, Peter really did roll his eyes. 

Quickly, he thumbed through the wires, finding the set of two that were connected to the detonator. Red and green. How seemingly perfect. He gently moved those two wires to the side, ignoring them completely. 

Peter knew that the Dangerous Man had to be smarter than going with the most obvious solution to a bomb detonation. He worked at Stark Industries, for Christ’s sake. The damned wires had to be trick wires, and if Peter made a misinformed move to cut them, the bomb would be detonated. 

Instead, Peter began to scrutinize the innards of the device more, searching for the true detonator. He located it by finding what appeared to be one of the wires mixed in with the trick ones. It didn’t follow the flow of the other wires, though, instead connecting to a slim cylindrical device found just below the trick detonator. The det cord, firmly attached to the blasting cap of the real detonator, was the true culprit here.

There was a chance that the blasting cap would still detonate even if the det cord was cut. Carefully lifting the fake detonator from atop of the legitimate one, Peter used his other hand to ease the blasting cap from its base and out of the device, pulling the det cord along. 

“Anybody got wire cutters?” he questioned, and when a worker rushed over to where he was glued to his spot with slim wire cutters in hand, Peter felt extremely lucky to be on an engineering floor. “Thanks.”

He clipped the det cord, finally fully removing the detonator from the device. He held the fragile object between two fingers and his thumb, ensuring that it was stuck to his skin so it wouldn’t fall to the ground. Peter let himself relax slightly as his Sense dimmed. It was still humming gently, a reminder that he was still holding an explosive object, but the immediate threat was gone.

Peter finally looked up to eye his pale-faced audience, and smiled. “You guys probably shoulda evacuated, but whatever. Bomb’s dead, we’re not. Hooray.”

Cindy started crying. Everyone else just stared at him, wide-eyed and shaking. 

“Harls, has Tony replied yet?” Peter asked, turning to face him. Harley was crouched behind the Dangerous Man, who was still on the ground and had his arms held tightly behind his back by Harley. The man also appeared to be speechless, staring up at Peter in shock and no small amount of terror.

Even Harley looked a bit ghostlike, but he was able to respond to the question with a resolute, “No.”

Peter sighed. “Alrighty, then.” He tilted his head minutely to glance up at the ceiling. “Fri? Would you mind calling the bomb squad to get them to take care of this?”

“Right away,” she replied. “Apologies for being of no use to you, Peter, but Boss is attending a meeting and is unable to respond. It also seemed wise for me to comply with your request of silence.” 

“It’s fine,” he shrugged. “Probably for the best. Though you should maybe get Tony’s attention and notify him of the whole situation, y’know?”

“Sounds appropriate,” she agreed, and then the floor was left in silence once more. No one made a move to leave, or even say anything. The only sound was the consistent sniffling coming from Cindy. Peter doubted that many people in the room were even able to comprehend what happened. The first time Peter defused a bomb, his mental state was quite similar to theirs. Though, after three years of vigilante work, he was near-familiar with this rodeo. As long as he still held the position of authority that came with holding an explosive device, he’d be fine. The minute he passed that authority off to the bomb squad, though, his brain would let him work through the experience, and he’d need to take some time to calm down. 

But that was later. For now, he needed to deal with the present responsibilities.

Peter glared at the Dangerous Man on the ground, who was no longer setting off any alarms in his head. In fact, he seemed rather vulnerable now, no threat to be found. 

“What’s your name?” Peter inquired, his voice hard and allowing no room for squirming or resisting. 

“Uh. Brian. Fitzgerald.”

“Brian Fitzgerald,” Peter intoned. “Why the hell did you bring a bomb into S.I. and knowingly set it off in the presence of close to 15 other employees and a group of literal children, Brian Fitzgerald?”

“Um—”

“That was a rhetorical question, Brian Fitzgerald; I’d rather not further traumatize our current audience. The police will ask you the same question, you can provide them with that lovely answer of yours.” Peter crouched down to get eye level with Brian, and offered a smile that was too sweet to actually count. “You get to shut up now, lucky you. You wouldn’t want to anger the 17-year-old kid who just completely fucked over your plan to blow this place to bits, would you?”

Brian mutely shook his head, and Peter answered with an approving nod. He then met Harley’s eyes, telling him, “You could release him now, if you want. I don’t think he’s gonna go anywhere.”

Peter heard more than saw Harley tightening his hands on the skin of Brian’s arms, and Brian winced. “I’d rather not,” Harley admitted. 

Peter nodded with understanding, and straightened himself. Gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows a few feet away, he found the flashing lights associated with emergency vehicles nearing the Tower. He then heard the elevator working, as it had been this entire time, except now it was on the way to their floor. 

The elevator doors opened to reveal the Tower’s security, led by a man in a suit and a greying beard. Four men decked out in fancy uniforms and weapons charged past the man in the suit, past the tour group, past the other employees, and past Peter to collect Brian from the ground. Harley quickly released him, and the security personnel lifted Brian from the ground. They all but carried him back to the man in the suit, who glared at Brian before looking up to the still-silent crowd. His gaze changed from one of judgement to one of resignation.

“My name is Happy Hogan, and I’m the head of security here at Stark Industries,” he announced, his voice ringing with authority. “I apologize for today’s events, but rest assured, Brian Fitzgerald will be handled and kept well away from the Tower from now on. You all may have the rest of the day off, and the company will provide for any necessary therapy.” His eyes flitted to the group of high schoolers, and his gruff exterior softened slightly. “So sorry, kids.”

There were murmurs of thanks from the crowd as the security team reentered the elevator. It was the first thing that any of them had said, so Peter hoped that they were starting to get out of their shock. He knew that he’d then have to deal with actual emotional reactions and even more questions, but it was better for them to actually process their newfound trauma than it was for him to avoid interrogation. 

“Pete,” Harley said, coming to stand next to him. “Tony just replied ‘Shit.’” He shoved the phone in front of Peter to display the message. 

Peter’s eyes floated across the singular reply. He blinked, and let out a small burst of laughter. It wasn’t quite hysterical, but it was certainly nearing it. 

“Alright, then,” Peter nodded. “Guess he’s on his way.” 

“Hey, uh—” Betty voiced, clearing her throat when it seemed like she couldn’t get through her sentence. “Hey, Peter?”

Peter looked over to her, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Did…Did you just defuse an—an actual bomb? Like, you just—you just stopped an explosion?”

He eyed the blasting cap still firmly resting between his fingers. “Uh, yeah. I did.”

Betty nodded, a slow, hesitant motion. “Okay.”

It was quiet for a second more, before an employee blurted out, “You know, Brian was a complete asshole.”

There were a few chuckles, and someone on the other end of the room added, “He always ate my goddamn lunch from the fridge. It said Anna, not Brian.”

More laughter. Another person mentioned, “I don’t think he ever gave back that stapler I let him borrow.”

Even the AcaDec team was giggling at this point, with zero context as to who Brian Fitzgerald was. Peter himself had a smile on his face, but he was still careful not to jostle the blasting cap. 

“You know what was also kinda shit of him to do?” the worker closest to Peter offered. “Buildin’ a damn bomb. Who does that?”

There was a millisecond of hesitation from the crowd—Should we joke about this?—before the entire room erupted into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that only a jumbled group of close friends and strangers with shared trauma could understand. In the same way that Peter often joked about terrible things that had happened to him, these teenagers and employees were able to share a laugh over their near-death experience. 

That was how the bomb squad found them, laughing their asses off, the hysterical joy getting even more intense every time another employee peppered in comment about Brian. Peter was the first to sober, though, because it was time to pass off the Authority. 

While the other occupants of the floor calmed themselves down, Peter hurried towards the heavily-armoured people (though they could hardly even be recognized as people, with their clunky protective uniforms swallowing any distinguishable form).

“Here,” Peter shortly said, thrusting the blasting cap out to the squad. One of them rushed forward with an explosion-containing case, and another gently took the device from Peter and placed it in the case. 

Another member of the squad came forth, settling right in front of Peter. “What is your name?”

“Thomas Patrick.” (He was still at risk for being discovered by CPS, after all. Peter Parker wouldn’t exist to the outside world until he was 18.)

“Were you the one to defuse the bomb?”

“Yes,” Peter answered simply. He figured that he’d be questioned, but he was more worried about the civilians who would also be questioned. He knew that none of them had been involved, but now they had to put up with being interrogated, because of course they would, there had been a bomb in the building. 

“How did you manage to do that?” 

Peter could hear an audio recorder coming from one of the other members. The civilians were now fully quiet in the background, waiting to hear what Peter had to say. 

He shrugged. “I’ve attended a STEM-based high school, and in my engineering classes, we’ve talked about bombs a time or two. I spent a bit of my own time researching them further, which included some talk of how to defuse a bomb.” Again, he shrugged, trying to seem like a normal smart-ass kid. “I didn’t really know that I’d be able to defuse it, but I had a good shot.”

All lies, minus the part about researching bombs in his freetime. 

(It probably didn’t comfort anyone in the room to hear Peter voice that he didn’t feel confident in his ability to defuse the bomb, but he privately knew that he would be able to do it, and that was enough.)

“You should have called us immediately,” the man chastised. Peter couldn’t help but ignore everything that he was saying, since he didn’t particularly feel the need to rely on the squad. It certainly didn’t help that the interrogator was so impersonal with what could have been a severely traumatized teenager. After all, Peter had yet to even see the man’s face, with the huge mask of his suit blocking everything. 

Nevertheless, he mumbled an admonished, “Sorry.” 

Meanwhile, two members of the squad split off to filter through the room, asking the same questions to each person they came across: What is your connection to Brian Fitzgerald? Had you known about the bomb in any sense? 

“How did you know that Brian Fitzgerald had a bomb?” 

Peter resisted a smile at the thought of what he could say: “Oh, you see, I have a sense for danger. That’s how I knew. He set off my little danger alarm, and I figured it was time to stop the danger.”

Instead, he said, “He was acting weird, like fidgeting a lot. So I was watching him instead of paying attention to my tour. He pulled a weird thing out from beneath his desk and set it down. Then I heard a beeping, and, well. I’ve seen action movies, and I thought the worst.” 

Another armoured person stepped forward, having just come from interrogating the civilians. “No one else has reported hearing a beeping. How did you manage to hear that?”

Briefly, Peter panicked at the hole in his story, but he thought quickly. Years of keeping a secret identity would do that to you. 

“I have hearing aids, you see,” he explained, gesturing to his ears, where he did, in fact, have his aids in place. “They amplify some sound frequencies that other people don't usually hear, so I guess I was the only one able to hear the beeping.”

The interrogators nodded in approval, satisfied with Peter’s bullshit excuse. They were obviously about to go on with their questions, but were interrupted by someone else arriving on the floor. 

“Leave him alone,” Tony ordered, ignoring the gasps that erupted from the crowd upon his arrival. “In fact, if you’ve got the bomb in hand, you guys can just go ahead and go.”

“Uh, sir, we—” the man before Peter tried, but again, Tony interrupted.

“Whatever further investigation you need to conduct can be handled by the Tower’s security team, if they deem it fit. You may leave now.”

The bomb squad was silent for a second, clearly wanting to resist, but with a nod from the head honcho interrogator, the team filtered out of the floor, past Tony and into the elevator. The bomb was gone. 

With a huge sigh, Peter let himself slowly lower to the ground in a crouched position, huddling up with his head in his hands. He felt Harley place a hand on his back, a steadying and heavy pressure. 

“You alright?” his partner asked, his voice quiet.

Peter let out a small, slightly overdramatic groan before he straightened himself. “All good, all good. Just…y’know. Calming down. Adrenaline crash and whatnot.” Now standing, he let his head rest on Harley’s shoulder. “How are you?”

“Bit of the same. Probably less than you, though.”

Peter hummed noncommittally. “Still stress. Stressful. Yeah.”

Tony sidled up next to them, having said a few words that Peter hadn't heard to the civilians. “Sorry I missed out on the party.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Peter mumbled, not looking up at the man. 

“Thanks for handling that, boys,” Tony went on. “Pretty impressive that you didn’t reveal anything about yourselves.”

“Revealed that I can defuse a bomb with ease,” he reminded. “That’s gotta look suspicious.”

“I think that they care more about the fact that you saved their lives than about how you did just that,” Tony mused, and Peter could hear the smirk in his voice. “Speaking of which, I think they’re expecting a debrief of some sorts from you. I offered what little comfort I could give, but I hate to break it to ya, you have a bit more shit to do before you can call it a night.”

“Can’t call it a night while the sun’s still out,” was all Peter said in response as he pulled away from Harley. He gave a tired smile to his boyfriend, who returned it. Peter then turned back to the tour group and employees, chatting amongst themselves quietly and awkwardly. 

When it became clear that Peter’s attention was focused on them, they fell silent pretty quickly, watching him with bated breath. It was clear that they thought that he was still the one with the Authority, but he’d passed it off to the bomb squad long ago. 

“So, like…are you guys okay?” he asked, and immediately wanted to scream at how lame that sounded. Cut him some slack, his brain was still catching up. 

“Oh, y’know,” Abe shrugged, a crooked and tired smile crossing his face. “Could be better.”

“But we could also be plenty worse,” Mr. Harrington pointed out, and Peter had to hide a wince, because that probably wasn’t a great thing to remind the group of. “We have you to thank for that, Peter. You saved our skins.”

“I don't know about—”

“Dude, no,” Flash interrupted, but for once, Peter didn’t think that he was about to say anything scathing. “You literally saved our lives. That wacko had a bomb, you stopped the bomb from going off. That’s the definition of saving someone’s life.”

“Yeah, Peter, c’mon,” Cindy interjected, her tears dried and her eyes fierce. “I’m not really sure about anything that just happened, except for the fact that we’re still here ‘cause of you. Thanks.”

Peter opened his mouth to assure them that it was no big deal, but Sarah stole his moment. “I mean, I don’t know you, but you’re helluva saint for not letting us die.”

“It’s gonna be a story for the office for ages,” another employee added. “Like, ‘Hey guys, remember that time fucking Brian brought a bomb to the office, then that random teen from the field trip straight up defused that shit?’ Sounds like one good inside joke.”

The other workers nodded their agreement, giving similar sentiments of appreciation. 

And really, Peter didn’t have the emotional capacity for this right now. He fell silent, and unfortunately allowed his thoughts to drift to seeing his old AcaDec team blasted to smithereens. A bunch of innocent civilians, hardly recognizable from the explosion. Harley’s blank face covered in gashes from shards of glass, his cold, dead eyes staring up at Peter. Peter, the only one able to survive the explosion, being alone with the bodies of those he could have saved. 

Woah, there. Take a fucking chill pill, Peter’s brain. 

Harley was suddenly next to him, his arm slung over Peter’s shoulders, and Peter found himself able to speak. 

“It was no problem,” he dismissed. “You guys woulda done the same for me.”

“What, defuse a bomb?” Betty asked, smiling slightly. “Yeah, we would if we could.”

“And that’s all that matters,” Peter nodded, somehow robotically making his way through the conversation. Everyone was fine. Brain Fitzgerald was gone, and the occupants of floor 29 were safe. His Spidey Sense was calm. Harley was with him, keeping him grounded, reminding him of his very much still beating heart. 

“Alright, folks,” Tony announced, stepping into the conversation. “Seems as though the show’s over.” He turned to his employees first. “As I’m sure Happy told you, any therapy that you need due to this event will be free, hurray. You guys can leave, if you want.” As the employees nodded mutely and began to pack up their belongings, Tony then swiveled to the AcaDec team. “Same goes for you all. You just let Harley here know, so he can let me know, and Stark Industries will compensate for the damages to your sanity.”

There were a few mumbles of, “Thank you, Mr. Stark,” from the teens, who were staring awe-struck at the man, the myth, the legend. They had apparently forgotten about his presence while they were busy thanking Peter, but they were definitely aware of him now. 

“Alright, cool,” Tony hummed, seemingly to himself. “Betcha that we’d oughta get you kiddos outta here, yeah? Call your guardians, let ‘em know what’s up? Maybe call in sick for school tomorrow?”

Mr. Harrington took that as his cue to step up as the student’s chaperone. “Thank you, Mr. Stark. We’ll start to head out. I’m…assuming that Peter and Harley will be staying here?”

Tony, without even looking at the two in question, replied, “Yes, that’d be correct. I’d like to apologize for everything, ever, and wish you all a lovely rest of your day.”

With awkward little waves to Harley and Peter, the team filed into the waiting elevator. The doors shut, and hence, they vanished from view. 

“You’ll give me their numbers, right?” Peter wondered, tilting his head to look at Harley. 

“Certainly.” Harley gave Peter’s shoulder a squeeze, and followed Tony into the other elevator. The employees who were just about to leave ended up moving to the side, letting the trio through, nodding at them as they passed. Peter couldn’t find it within himself to feel guilty for stealing their elevator ride, and he offered a nod in return. 

Blessedly, Tony was near silent on the way up to the residential floors, humming to a tune that Peter was too tired to examine. Peter let himself lean into Harley, who had chosen to lean against the wall to support them both. He was also obviously very tired, but he still accepted Peter’s weight easily. 

He gave a few quick taps to his right hearing aid, letting the sounds of the world dim, and allowed his glasses to fade his surroundings. 

Peter relaxed. 

Chapter Text

Stellina was the one who greeted them once the trio arrived on the main floor, and she excitedly led them to the common room, where Bucky and Natasha resided. Harley grinned as he watched Peter ease himself to the ground to properly greet his dog. 

“Hey, baby,” he whispered to her, trying to express his love even with his muted state of mind. “How are you, hm? Oh, you’re good aren’t you, yes you are.”

“Harley,” Tony quietly started, “I’ve gotta go down and have a chat with Happy. You guys good to handle the family?”

Harley hummed his assent as Nat and Bucky approached the teen crouched on the floor. From their soft eyes and downturned lips, Harley knew that they both had heard what had happened. But concerned family members were not new to Harley (though, now that he thought about it, the concept might’ve been new to Peter), so he could hold onto his sanity for long enough to assure them of his well-being. 

“Alright, I’ll be back.” With a pat on Harley’s shoulder and a nod directed toward Nat and Bucky, Tony returned to the elevator. Harley was left with a slightly in-his-head Peter and two anxious spies.

He scooted past Peter, who seemed to be glued to his spot on the ground with Stellina, and shuffled towards the adults. Nat welcomed him with her concerned gaze and gentle hands that whisked across his body, checking for injuries that she wouldn’t find. Bucky chose to wait until Nat was done with her investigation, and when she nodded, the man pulled Harley towards him and essentially folded his body around Harley’s smaller form. 

“Sorry, kid,” Bucky muttered, his voice low and gruff. “Tower’s supposed to be safe.”

“We live in a society,” Harley sardonically returned. Despite the extreme sarcasm in his voice, he let himself relax into one of Bucky’s rare hugs. The ex-soldier was still getting used to casual physical contact, and Harley was one of the only ones to receive hugs from him. 

Bucky grunted, and deemed that fit to be a response. Harley gently uncoiled himself from Bucky’s hold and gave him a tired smile. 

Tired smile. Tired eyes. Tired movements. Tired thoughts. 

Everything about Harley’s current state was tired, tired in a way that he hadn’t experienced in a hot second, tired in a way that would only result from a major adrenaline crash. Of course, he understood that Peter’s adrenaline crash was likely more severe than his own, since Pete was the one to actually de-escalate the scenario. Still, though. Bomb threats weren't fun. Worrying about the livelihood of your friends wasn't fun, either. 

Harley watched Nat join Peter on the ground with Stellina. He glanced up at her and gave her a tired smile that mirrored Harley’s own. The two seemed to have a silent conversation, the result of which led to Natasha laying her hand on Peter’s shoulder. From there, it seemed to be a domino effect: Nat settled into a more stable criss-cross position on the ground, Peter let himself tip over and be supported by her body, Stellina curled up between Peter’s splayed legs, and they both resumed petting her. 

The position seemed oddly…familiar. Not familiar in the sense that Harley recognized the position, but familiar in the sense that Peter and Nat appeared to be familiar with each other. They both seemed comfortable, and Harley knew that touch didn’t come easily to either of them. Nat had trauma that led her to have a naturally closed-off personality, and had to take time to allow herself to be open to friendly touches. Peter…Well, Peter had to have some kind of trauma that he hadn’t disclosed to Harley, but Harley assumed that whatever Peter was doing in the time between leaving school and before the Avengers took him surely didn’t involve many friendly interactions. 

How they ended up comfortable enough with each other to find themselves in their current position, Harley didn’t know. To be fair, though, Harley spent most of his days at school. He didn’t know everything that happened between Pete and the Avengers while he was away. 

He glanced at Bucky, who also happened to be eyeing Peter and Nat, and shrugged. Harley stepped around the duo on the floor, and lowered himself in the spot across from Peter. Bucky joined him mere seconds later. They both began to pet Stellina, who was basking in the attention.

Peter glanced up at them, and his eyes crinkled with a small smile. After Harley returned the look, Peter visibly rested more of his weight on Nat’s steady body. Harley chose to mirror his boyfriend, letting his head fall on Bucky’s shoulder. It was the man’s flesh one, which meant Harley could feel him tense beneath his touch. But they’d been in this position before, and Bucky soon relaxed, just as Harley knew he would.

Surrounded by his safe people, he let his mind rest, which apparently led to him drifting asleep. That hadn’t been Harley’s plan, but regardless, his eyes struggled to blink open a while later as he felt his pillow Bucky shift beneath him. He let out a small groan and groggily lifted his head, stretching his limbs out.

“Sorry,” Bucky offered, but he, too, began to stretch, hefting his body up from the floor. 

“All good,” Harley dismissed. “How long was I out?”

“About an hour and a half,” Nat’s voice came, answering before Bucky could process the question. She had moved to one of the couches, legs carefully folded and her phone in her hand while some reality show played on the TV in the background. Stellina had also moved, curled up and sleeping next to the woman on the couch. 

“Where’s Pete?” Harley wondered, noticing that he was resolutely missing from this equation. He accepted Bucky’s hand to help him up as he looked around the room. 

Natasha simply pointed upward, and Harley’s eyes followed her direction. 

“Oh.”

Peter gave a meek wave from where he was in the corner of the ceiling, sitting casually and scrolling through his phone. Harley’s initial response was a wave of panic, a quick thrum of alarm eclipsing his body, because the first and only time he’d seen Peter in that position was during his sensory overload. However, Peter looked to be fine now, relaxed and decidedly not clamping his hands over his ears. 

“You okay up there?” he asked, and Peter sent a thumbs up his way. “You sure? You seem a bit quiet.”

Peter shrugged, and set his phone in his lap. (It didn’t fall to the ground, much to Harley’s relief.) Peter lifted his hands and began signing to him, and Harley tried not to let himself deflate all too much—he still hadn’t learned sign language, let alone upside down sign. 

“He doesn’t really feel like talking,” Natasha immediately translated, gazing intently at Peter. “He doesn’t feel bad, but…” She patiently waited as Peter’s hands had a few false starts, figuring out what to say. “Sometimes talking takes a kind of energy he doesn’t have.”

Peter nodded his assent and gave the group obeying the laws of gravity another thumbs up. 

“Alright,” Harley conceded. Though he did feel drained, and had felt this way many times before, Harley had never felt the need to preserve energy by not talking; if that was what Peter was describing, that is. He might’ve not had a full understanding of his boyfriend’s current state, but just because he didn’t understand didn’t mean that he couldn’t offer support. Knowing that Peter took comfort in proximity, Harley took a seat on the couch that was nearly directly below Peter, but enough to the side that they’d be able to see each other without craning their necks. 

Before Harley could join Nat in watching the dumb reality shows that she occasionally enjoyed, Peter caught his attention again by snapping his fingers. 

Harley looked up to see a question on Peter’s face. His boyfriend pointed at him, then made the universally-recognized symbol for OK. Now that was something Harley could understand. 

“I’m okay,” he replied with a shrug, but Peter’s expression immediately turned doubtful, with an eyebrow raised and a straight face. “Really, I am. I mean, like, I’m tired and a bit stressed and maybe a bit traumatized, who knows, but I’m not boutta have a breakdown. I’m stable for now.”

Peter’s eyes searched Harley’s own, and probably put some of those lie-detecting skills to use as he scrutinized Harley's well-being. Harley was as truthful as he’d ever been, and Peter seemed to realize that as he gave a solid nod. Peter also had a firm grasp on how people dealt with trauma, if Harley had to guess, what with spending his nights rescuing civilians from surely traumatic events (not to mention the boy’s own baggage, but Harley thought that went without saying). He understood that Harley didn’t currently need to delve into his newfound stressor.   

Harley knew he’d be a bit scarred from the day’s events. Peter knew that, too. But they also knew that they could handle it together.

With another nod, seemingly more to himself than anything, Peter looked away from Harley, focusing on the show playing. Harley did the same, taking in the loud, intensely-tanned women and their emotionally stunted, frighteningly-chiseled boyfriends on screen. 

Nat’s legs came to rest across Harley’s own, allowing her to stretch out more and provide Harley with subliminal consolation. Bucky had returned to his spot on the floor, having stretched enough for the position to remain comfortable. He maneuvered to let his back rest against the front of the couch, close enough to Harley for him to feel the man’s body heat.

Emotionally scarred? Sure. Safe, comfortable, and happy? Yeah, definitely. 

-

Peter watched as, over the course of one episode of the so-bad-there’s-no-way-it’s-real reality show, all of the Tower’s residents trickled into the common room, having heard of the day’s events. Steve and Sam had taken seats next to Bucky, and Clint settled in next to Nat. Wanda and Vision also chose the floor, sitting closer to Peter than the super-soldiers. Bruce sat on the other end of the couch, next to Tony, who had cozied in right beside Harley. Pepper had been the last to join them, assumedly having been busy with damage control. She took the spot next to Bruce. 

The scene reminded Peter of a family. 

After that thought broached his mind, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to throw himself out a window, or break down in happy tears. He resigned to continue to sit in silence on the ceiling. 

Peter couldn’t think of them as a family, he decided. It hadn’t even been two full weeks since they kidnapped him, and that sentence alone illustrated how stupid he was being by trusting them at all in the first place. But that fact couldn’t be changed; he trusted this godforsaken group of people, and that was that. 

But even then, the concept of family for Peter was dangerous. Dangerous for them, dangerous for him, either or. 

They were his team. He could support them, they could support him. That was how teams worked. He loved Wanda, sure, and she had said that she loved him, yes, but teammates could love each other. Love didn’t mean family. Wanda was his teammate, his friend. His teammates were his friends. His team. Not a family. 

(His mind reminded him of the common television trope in which a team escalated to found family. Peter swept the thought away.)

Regardless of what Peter’s mind was trying to label them as, the Avengers were great at providing comfort. Most of them didn’t even say anything in regards to the bomb, other than Tony, who had muttered, “Glad that shit’s done,” as he arrived on the common floor. Everyone else simply extended their warm smiles and soothing presence to a silent Peter and an exhausted Harley. They took both of those obstacles in stride, letting Clint or Nat translate anything Peter had to say—which wasn’t much, just simple assurances that he was fine—and allowing Harley to use their bodies as pillows as he floated across the line of wakefulness into sleep. 

(Family, his mind recognized. Team, his brain corrected.)

Unlike Harley, Peter knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep right now; it just wasn’t how he functioned, how he dealt with slightly harrowing experiences. And, though the Avengers’ intent was well-meaning and thoughtful and surprisingly helpful, he didn’t think it was good for him to be around this many people at the moment. Though he was fine for now, he knew that he would eventually stress out over their company. If he wanted to ward off a breakdown, he’d need to exit the vicinity.

See, Karen? Peter knew the Therapy Things. 

Peter carefully unfolded his body from its huddle, taking a second to stretch out his legs before he crawled across the ceiling until no one was resting directly beneath him. He smoothly dropped himself to the ground, and caught Sam’s full body shudder. 

“Now that was creepy,” the man asserted. “It looks less fucked when you’re in your suit.”

Peter shrugged in response, and raised his hands to sign, "Then my goal was accomplished." He waited for Clint to translate before he tacked on, "I'm heading out for patrol. Someone tell Harley where I am when he wakes up, please."

“Do you often patrol while it’s still light out?” Bruce wondered once Clint finished talking. 

"Not often," Peter replied. "But I've done it enough."

“Have fun, Питэр,” Wanda smiled, wiggling her fingers at him in a wave. 

He nodded towards the team and left the common floor in favor of his own. When he got to his room, he received a text from Nat, despite having just left her presence.

nat: Have you eaten

Peter blinked, scrutinizing the text, before remembering that no, he hadn’t eaten. Now that he thought about it, he could feel what felt like hollowness in his stomach, his breakfast long gone. He told Natasha as much. 

nat: Get something from the kitchen before you go out

you: okay

He dropped off his glasses and aids in his room and followed Nat’s instructions, mindlessly walking into the kitchen. The second he arrived there, though, Peter realized that had no idea what to eat. 

The kitchen was filled with all sorts of food, obviously. But the more he thought about his options (such as assorted yogurts, the many bread products, cereal, salad, leftover grilled chicken, apples, chips, and an endless amount of oranges), the more Peter felt lost. He knew he should eat, seeing as his body was now more used to getting its appropriate amount of nutrients than the near-starvation he experienced on the streets. The thing was, food didn’t sound all too appealing to him at the moment. 

He could probably just patrol without eating. He’d work up more of an appetite after exercise. Besides, it wasn’t like he absolutely needed food right now. He wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t feel great, per say, but Peter didn’t really need to feel great, he didn’t even deserve to—

nat: What did you grab

Peter stared at the message, mind blank, before quickly typing out an acceptable response. 

you: i think i’ll just eat after patrol

He went to put his phone away and pull his folded mask out of his pocket, but Natasha’s reply came too quickly for him to ignore. 

nat: That won’t end well. You need food for energy. 

nat: Wanda said that she and Vision made a bunch of smoothies earlier as part of Vision’s cooking practice. There’s lots left over and she encourages that you try them

Peter once more just stared at his phone, his brain unable to rationalize her suggestion. When Peter must have taken too long to respond, Nat texted once more. 

nat: They’re light, but have plenty of nutrients. Healthy, but they taste good. You can have an actual dinner once you come back

Soon enough, Wanda also texted him:

wanda: drink the damn smoothies peter. im offering, remember? its okay to accept what youre offered

Right. He was being stupid. Just eat, Peter. No need to be like this. You’ve been eating normally for the past few days. Just be normal.

(But if he had been eating normally for the past few days, did he really need to eat right now? He should have enough energy, he’d had plenty of food. He had breakfast this morning, what did he need a snack for?)

nat: Peter. 

you: sorry. i’ll have some smoothies

He sent the same message to Wanda, along with a thank you. They both texted that he didn’t have to apologize. He didn’t respond.

He opened the fridge to find seven glasses of smoothies, all different colors, ranging from a bright yellow to a pale pink to a dark green. It seemed that Vision got plenty of practice in. 

Minutes later, he was halfway through what tasted like a blueberry-strawberry-banana combination, and the green one that smelled distinctly of kale and raspberries was set out, waiting to be consumed. At this point, he was glad to have obeyed Wanda and Nat, seeing as he was a whole lot hungrier than he had thought.

Look at him, eating when he was supposed to—he knew the Therapy Things. That knowledge just took a little persuasion in order to be put to use. 

As soon as he’d finished the smoothies, he quickly cleaned and dried the glasses so he could put them away. He then returned to his room to strip his jeans and shoes, but he decided to leave his sweatshirt on over his suit—it was cold, and he wasn't in the mood for unnecessary shivering. With a flick of the wrist, his gloves unfolded from his sleeves, smoothing out underneath his web shooters. It mimicked the technology that controlled the eyes on his mask, a feature he’d added when he’d built the suit that morning. He slipped on the mask and shook his head out to make sure it was stable and molded with the rest of the suit.

"Does my window open?" he signed to the emptiness of the room, sliding the curtains to the side to reveal his floor-to-ceiling window. He placed a hand on the glass, feeling the chill of the material through his suit. Then his hand started to move upwards with the glass as the window slid into the ceiling.

“That would be a yes,” FRIDAY smoothly replied, pulling a chuckle out of Peter. He signed his thanks toward the A.I., and promptly jumped out of the window.

Air whipped past him as he let himself freefall for what could have been hours, but was more likely a mere two seconds. He closed his eyes, appreciating the so-cold-it-almost-hurt wind lashing across his body.

A deep inhale, a steady exhale. His eyes shot open.

The sounds of the city filled his ears, and he welcomed them. This was his true skill, his purpose. Who was he if he couldn’t put his powers to use, if he couldn’t respond to the cries of help that set his senses on fire. 

During a series of flips, he got even closer to the ground—so close, in fact, that if Peter were in a movie, this would be the point where the falling person would recognize their inevitable end. Their life would flash before their eyes, and they would acknowledge that it was a fine life, and they would make their peace with death, accepting their fate.  Peter never got that acceptance, though. He knew that no matter how high the fall was, or how hard the ground was, there would be no relieving necrosis for him. The curtains wouldn’t close for a long while, and just as a freefalling person becomes resigned to their expiration, Peter had become resigned to his longevity.

He activated his web shooters, latched onto a building, and waited for the web to drag him away from the ground. As his body was pulled elsewhere, Peter reached his other arm down. His fingers brushed against the pavement for a brief second. 

He fired another web towards another building in another direction, nearing another block of cement, dodging another chance of death. Another web, another swing, another rush of adrenaline. Another cry for help.

“Let’s do this, Karen.”

Chapter Text

Peter had the bomb. He had the bomb, he could defuse the bomb, he knew what to do. All Harley had to do was just sit there and keep Brian Fitz-fuckface trapped while Peter did his thing. A simple job, really. Still, Harley’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest.

His team was here. Sarah was here. Innocent employees were here. And they could all die if Peter couldn’t defuse this damn bomb.

But no, Peter could defuse the bomb, he had said he could and that meant he would. Harley trusted his genius, senseless, idiotic, badass of a boyfriend. Peter would get them out of this, and, as always, he’d save countless lives just because he could. 

That was the last thing Harley thought before Peter shouted a curse quickly followed by an explosion. Harley’s mind whited out with sensory input and pain, before the whiteness turned dark. 

Harley’s eyes shot open, his body stiff with alarm and confusion. A single word, a name, fell from his lips without any coherent thought. 

“It’s okay, Harley, Peter’s okay.” Tony was directly in his field of vision, kneeling down in front of him. “Hey, hey. Harley, can I touch you?”

Harley swallowed and forced himself to nod. Tony’s hands fell to rest on his knees, soothing circles into Harley’s jeans. Harley looked down to meet the man’s eyes and found no strife held there, only softness swimming in pools of dark brown.

“Peter’s on patrol,” Tony explained, and Harley felt his muscles relax at that single clarification. 

“Everyone’s okay?” he asked, though it sounded more like a plea, begging for everyone to be okay, safe, unscathed. 

“Everyone’s fine, honey,” Pepper interjected, adding her gentle reassurance to the conversation. Harley caught her eyes next as she moved from her spot beside Bruce to instead settle down in front of Harley as well. Looking around the room, he realized that his family members were still in their original positions, splayed out across the room, ignoring the ongoing reality show. All eyes were instead on Harley, warmth radiating from their expressions. 

“Okay,” Harley breathed. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Are...you okay?” Bruce softly asked.

Harley lifted his hands up to rub at his closed eyes until he saw colors flashing behind his eyelids. One deep breath later, he hummed, “Yeah, just, y’know. Nightmare.”

Harley could feel Tony’s eyes on him as the man considered Harley’s state. “Do you wanna talk about it? We can schedule a session with your therapist, if you’d like.” 

“It was just ‘bout today,” Harley shrugged. “If you think I should see David, I have nothin’ against it.”

“It’s your choice,” Pepper reminded. “If you don’t want to yet, then that’s perfectly fine. But you experienced a traumatic event in a setting that you thought to be safe, and therapy should help you process that.”

Harley nodded in easy agreement. Therapy was just another concept that he’d adjusted to since he moved to New York. In Rose Hill, mental illness was thought to be faked; if a rumor spread about someone needing therapy, eyes were rolled and slurs were spat. Harley knew that the misconceptions were harsh—contact with Tony throughout his teenage years led to a tolerant mindset—but there wasn’t much he could do to prevent the words of others from ingraining themselves into his mind. He’d internalized the belief that if he went to therapy for anything, he was weak. The morally conscious part of him didn’t blame anyone for going to therapy if they needed it, and no hateful words ever broached his mind. Harley had just convinced himself that therapy would be of no use to him. 

When he moved in with the Avengers, therein began the process of his understanding. Everyone on the team had frequent therapy sessions, and there was no shaming to be found. In school, the subject of mental illness was broached with care and sensitivity, and if someone happened to have anxiety, no one thought differently of them. 

By the time he’d grown fully attached to the Avengers, he’d seem them all get hurt a dozen times over. That, along with some retrospection about his iffy Tennessean upbringing, led him to accept that therapy could encourage a solid mental health. 

Intermittent sessions with one Stark-employed Dr. David Marshall began, and with his guidance came relief. Harley was confident that the man could support him through this, too. 

“I’ll go,” he agreed. “Could you see if he’s free tomorrow?”   

“I’ll check his calendar and give him a call,” Tony said, before pushing himself up from the floor like the old man he was. “In fact, I’ll do that now.”

“Thanks,” Harley called after the man as he left the room. He then followed Pepper’s lead and settled back into the couch, leaning against the now-upright Natasha. She wrapped her arm around him, gave him a firm kiss atop his head, and began humming a soothing tune that was barely heard over the sounds of The Bachelorette.   

The team continued to watch until Sam proclaimed his hunger. By then, Tony had rejoined them, and heartily agreed. Steve offered his help to Sam in making the meal, and the crowd proceeded to shuffle to the kitchen in order to congregate around the chefs. 

Harley couldn’t help but think of Peter, who, by Wanda’s account, had been out on patrol for two hours now. The teen, like Harley, had dealt with a bomb threat and ended up skipping lunch. However, unlike Harley, Peter had pulled an all-nighter the night before, and was currently out in the cold of New York’s winter. Harley was undoubtedly concerned, but Peter had been doing the vigilante gig for years; he knew his limits.  

After he’d eaten and enjoyed the company of his family until he was exhausted, Harley excused himself to his room to get some more sleep. Stellina followed him up to his room, seemingly able to understand that she would get some sleep as well if she went with him.

Despite Peter likely being even more drained than Harley, though, Harley figured that he’d be waiting a while for the hero to get home. When he couldn’t shake his worry for his boyfriend, he asked FRIDAY to alert him when Peter returned home so that Harley could check in with him. Satisfied with the knowledge that he’d wake up upon Peter’s arrival, Harley let himself collapse on his bed—carefully dodging Stellina’s already sleeping form—and was out like a light.

-

Peter had quickly realized that the night was going to be a quiet one; the only issues he’d dealt with in hours were the ones that had arisen early on: some drunkards getting a bit too violent with each other, a car theft, and a crying girl who had lost her cell phone. Still, he stayed out through the night to ensure that he was available should anyone be in harm’s way. 

Eventually, he’d wound up in Hell’s Kitchen, waiting for Daredevil to make his appearance. When Matt inevitably sidled up to Peter atop a building, they’d spent the time catching up while their ears scoured for danger. Peter had grown used to the idea of talking to someone once more, his mind having calmed from the hours of solitude, so conversing with Matt was possible. Peter had apologized for not visiting on Sunday, even though he’d already left a note on Matt’s coat hanger on Monday. Matt had simply said that he was “happy to not see Peter on Sunday, ‘cause if he saw that Peter wasn’t resting properly, he’d have to riot.”

Peter told Matt about Stellina, summed up the actual field trip part of his field trip, and peppered in details about the bomb.

“Of course the man would bring a bomb on your field trip,” Matt had huffed. “It’s not like you could ever have a normal teenage experience.”

After a while longer of mindless chatter, Peter felt himself finally tire out, and Matt noticed as well. With a meaningful head tilt, Matt ordered Peter to return to the Tower to get some sleep. Seeing as he’d been out there for hours upon hours and had only resolved three incidents, Peter conceded easily. 

Peter landed on the window looking into the kitchen on his floor, which opened inwards once FRIDAY recognized his presence. It was the window he’d designated as his entry point into the Tower after his first patrol, but maybe now he could also enter through his own room.

Peter had expected the Tower to be completely silent, since, with a glance at the kitchen’s clock, it was half past three in the morning. However, as soon as his foot touched the hardwood floor, he could hear FRIDAY’s voice say, “Harley, Peter has returned home.” After her alert, she began playing a peppy tune that Peter could probably set as the tone for his phone’s alarm. 

Peter listened as Harley steadily woke up and padded out of his bed, then out of his room, then into the kitchen. Peter stepped forward to greet a sleepy Harley, whose hair was ruffled with sleep and mouth was opened in a yawn. 

“Uh,” Peter faltered. “Hi, Harls.”

Harley gave a smile and gestured Peter over to him, arms open and ready to provide a hug. Peter approached his partner without hesitation, taking his mask off and placing it on the counter as he went, and slumped forward into Harley’s arms. The two folded around each other effortlessly, like that was how they were meant to be. 

“Hey, darlin’.” Harley leaned his head against Peter’s, his body and mind still working to wake up. “How was patrol?”

“It was fine, just a bit empty.” Peter soothed his hand across Harley’s back and pulled away from the hug just barely. “What’re you doing up?”

Harley hummed, letting his looped arms fall to Peter’s waist. “Just wanted to know when you got home.”

Peter realized what Harley meant immediately. After all, it was the same concern he’d had for his aunt and uncle soon after his parents’ deaths, and it was the same concern MJ had had for Peter once he told her about Spider-Man. It came with caring for someone, he supposed, though he’d grown unused to the attention. 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Peter gently asserted, despite knowing from experience that his words wouldn’t be able to convince Harley. He could only continue to survive and prove to Harley that Peter wasn’t about to disappear.

“Can’t help it,” the other shrugged, smiling sheepishly. He then ticked his head towards the refrigerator. “Heard that there was some food for ya in the fridge.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Peter mumbled as he carefully unwound his body from Harley’s and walked over to open the fridge. He quickly found the plate of what smelled like chicken wraps that hadn’t been there before he left for patrol. There was a note on top of the plate, and he pulled it out of the fridge.

“Wanda said that she’d make you some dinner.” Harley crossed his arms—not in a huffy way, but more like he was bundling up—and let his weight rest against the counter. Peter accidentally let himself stare for a second too long at his extremely attractive boyfriend, and Harley gave him a knowing little curve of his lips. “Since, y’know, you didn’t eat with us.”

Peter nodded and focused his attention on the note, which was written in Ukrainian. It translated to, “Please don’t ignore this. It was no trouble to make, and I’m sure you’re hungry. Enjoy.”

Peter sighed and placed the note on the table, setting down the food right next to it. Wanda was right, as usual: he was indeed hungry, and she knew that by telling him that it wasn’t a hardship to make him food, she could ease his guilt. She might’ve known him too well. 

Peter yielded to the note’s decree, and bit a chunk out of the wrap. Loaded with grilled chicken, lettuce, mozzarella, and a mustardy sauce, it was just as sapid as everything else Wanda had made. 

“Did she write this in Ukrainian?” Harley wondered aloud, reaching out and grabbing the note to study it. “She totally did. You understand this?”

Peter hummed his confirmation and swallowed his bite before explaining, “She’s been teaching me since, like, my second day here. I’m not exactly fluent yet, but I know enough to hold a fairly in-depth conversation with her.”

“That’s...quick. And insanely impressive.”

Peter shrugged, immediately dismissing the praise. “I like languages, I guess.”

Harley sat down at the table across from Peter, crossed his arms on the surface, and set his chin on top of them. “How many do you know?”

Peter mentally counted as he chewed through his wrap. “Seven, if you include Ukrainian.” 

“I’ll certainly include it, holy shit. Can you say somethin’ in, like, any of ‘em? I just wanna hear what it sounds like.” 

“L'italiano è la mia lingua madre. Mi ricorda mia mamma e mia zia,” Peter smoothly replied, grinning when Harley’s eyebrows shot up. “Sai, sei davvero carino, tesoro. Carino da morire.”

“That sounds...really pretty. What’d you say?”

“Just that Italian is my mother tongue, along with English. Speaking it reminds me of my mamma and my aunt.” He regarded Harley with a glint of mirth in his eyes. “And that you’re cute as hell.”

“Oh—” Harley chuckled a little, a bit nervous as a light rose painted his cheeks. “That’s. That’s gay.”

Peter shrugged, a smile toying at his lips. “Maybe so.”

“You, uh—Italian reminds you of your mom and aunt, you said?” Harley stammered, trying to pull the conversation back on course. 

“My mamma would teach me Italian while my dad taught me English,” Peter elaborated. “After they died, my aunt and uncle continued the process, with Aunt May teaching me Italian and Uncle Ben teaching me English. It was a bilingual household, since my mamma and May both had Italian immigrant parents. They thought it was important that I understood my heritage. Speaking Italian...It’s like reliving times when they were all still alive.” Sensing the weight he just created in the conversation, he grinned. “But it’s also just a language. Most of the time I just use it to talk to myself. It used to surprise a bunch of people at school.”

A little smile crossed Harley’s face. “I’m sure. But that’s still really cool. I’m not really good at learnin’ languages. Wanda tried to teach me, but it just wouldn’t take.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“She talkin’ trash ‘bout me?” Harley laughed.

“No…” Peter exaggerated the length of the word, making it sound like she definitely was talking trash about him. When Harley rolled his eyes, Peter continued, “Kidding, kidding. It was just something she might’ve mentioned.”

“Yeah, well. At least I tried.”

“I’ll give you credit for that.”

Soon enough, Peter finished his dinner, and he was relieved to have eaten it without any trouble. He supposed that Harley had offered a distraction from Peter’s own thoughts, which the other couldn’t have realized. He was simply there to be in Peter’s presence, assumedly comforted by companionship after the day they’d had. But that didn’t mean that Harley wasn’t affected by his early wake-up time, and his blinks were gradually getting longer, his eyelids getting heavier. 

“We should probably go to bed,” Peter suggested, grabbing his plate and taking it over to the sink. 

Harley hummed, pushing back his chair and standing up to stretch his arms out and above his head. “Sounds rather appealin’.”

He patiently waited as Peter went through the process of washing his plate, loading it with soap and dousing it with water, drying it gently and putting it in its cabinet when he was done. He snatched Wanda’s note and his mask, and they walked to the rooms together, their hands linking automatically. Stellina emerged from Harley’s room and trotted over to Peter happily. They wished each other a good night before dividing and entering their own spaces, Stellina following Peter without delay.

Peter stripped down his suit and undergarments quickly, replacing them with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. He laid Wanda’s note on the pile of similar ones that he’d been receiving at the Tower. He brushed his teeth, and stared into the mirror for a second. He analyzed his reflection, he scrunched his nose, he left the bathroom. Standing in the middle of his room, he thought, I would like to be with Harley now, please. 

Harley knocked on his door as soon as Peter finished his thought. Peter, without hesitation, walked over to open the door, revealing a sheepish-looking Harley, brushing his knuckles together nervously.

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder towards his room. “Do you wanna—”

“Yeah,” Peter interrupted, which he quickly felt guilty about, but Harley’s relieved expression melted that feeling away. 

Despite how much Peter just wanted to go into Harley's room and soak up his partner's comforting presence, he couldn't let himself enter without first asking: "Can I please come in?"

"Of course, darlin'."

Stellina settled on Harley’s floor, and the couple soon found themselves in a position on the bed that was starting to feel a little familiar: Harley laid on his back, while Peter chose to rest on his side, cuddled into Harley’s torso with his head on the other’s chest. He could feel Harley breathing, and the sound of his heart was amplified tenfold. Harley ran a hand up and down Peter’s arm, a soothing gesture that faded as Harley fell asleep. Peter was quick to follow, the day’s affairs finally catching up to him, a wave of unmitigated exhaustion washing over him.  

If he had a nightmare that night, he certainly couldn’t remember it in the morning. 

He awoke before Harley, which didn't surprise him. Their arrangement had shifted through the night, with one of Harley’s arms draped over Peter, the other shoved beneath his own body. Peter’s legs were trapped by one of Harley’s. They were both on their sides at this point, facing each other. Peter took the time to study Harley’s facial features without having to worry about accidentally catching the other’s eyes. Harley had nice eyelashes. Good brows, too. 

He was once more supremely aware of all the points of contact the two had. He wasn’t bothered by it, of course. The intimacy was just another thing he was steadily getting used to.

Peter didn’t know how long he laid there in silence, his mind going on tangents that weren’t all bad, for once. He thought first of Harley, and how great he was. Which was...really great. Peter hadn’t realized that he could attain someone who offered their support so readily. (Of course, MJ had been infinitely supportive. It just took them a bit longer to form that connection.) 

He then thought about Wanda, and how great she was. She had been his immediate confidant and ally within the Tower, allowing him into her circle without hesitation. She made him feel comfortable with a group of people he would never have imagined that he’d be comfortable with. 

Speaking of that Group of People, Peter proceeded to think about how great they were. Which. Well, they kidnapped him. That fact hadn’t promised his eventual approval of them. However, not to remove them of all blame, the Avengers had definitely improved in morality since they abandoned SHIELD’s harsh instructions. They had originally kept him trapped in the Tower, but they soon reversed that ruling and welcomed him to their home. They defended him to Nick Fury, allowed him to be independent, and were merciful in the face of Peter’s neverending panic. Tony gifted him sensory aids, Pepper gave him a dog. Peter could safely say he liked the Tower’s inhabitants. 

Peter no longer felt at risk for being kicked out on the spot, arbitrarily or not. He was a legitimate Avenger, and he figured that at least a few members of the team actually enjoyed his presence. 

It also certainly helped that Peter no longer had to worry about running from the team of professional superheroes, but the fact that those previously predatory heroes were now housing him was slightly paradoxical.

But all that was to say that here, in the Tower, surrounded by people who were working to help him, and here, in Harley’s bed, surrounded by his boyfriend’s companionship, Peter was content.

He was still studying Harley’s face when the other’s eyes lazily blinked open and his mouth developed into a soft smile upon seeing Peter’s face. He hummed and closed his eyes again, snuggling even closer to Peter. Peter welcomed him with ease, his body stretching out slightly to accommodate Harley’s bulky form. 

“Morning,” Peter offered simply, grinning widely as Harley let out an answering groan into Peter’s chest, his way of protesting the state of wakefulness. “You don’t gotta get up, don’t worry.” (Yesterday, he'd heard someone tell Harley that he could take the day off school. Harley had readily agreed.)

“Sure hope not,” Harley mumbled. “M’cold.”

Peter responded by pulling the covers up further so as to envelope them fully. He also raised his torso slightly, making eye contact with Stellina, who had been half-awake and laying on the ground for a while now. 

“Stellina!” he quietly called, his voice pitched higher to call her attention. She opened her eyes, and, upon seeing Peter, stood up. She neared the bed, her tail wagging. Peter patted an empty space on the bed, welcoming her to take the spot. “Come on up here, Stellina. Plenty of room, babe.” 

She seemed to clue into his instructions and launched herself up to join the cuddle pile. She carefully padded over to their legs, nestling in on top of the covers by Harley’s legs.

“Heard that dogs are basically heat radiators,” Peter explained. “Still cold?”

Harley hummed as he folded in closer to Peter, his head nearly covered by the blanket. “Hm. No.”

Peter chuckled quietly, and they stayed in bed until Harley woke up enough to become slightly restless. Eventually, they had to resign to the fact that they were both fully conscious, and separated to take their showers. 

They reconvened in a matter of 10 minutes, hair tousled and damp. Peter reported that he heard two people out and about on the common floor, and the two silently agreed to join them, Stellina in tow. She received a bowl of food upon their arrival, already prepared by Bruce. 

“Did you two sleep well?” the man asked, gently petting Stellina as she practically inhaled her breakfast. 

“Yepparooni,” Harley chirped as he grabbed a gallon of orange juice from the fridge and poured himself a glass. Upon taking a sip, he grimaced. “Gah. Forgot I just brushed my teeth.”

“He neglected to mention his 3 a.m. wake up call when I got back,” Peter pointed out under his breath. Nat, drinking her tea, let out a small snort. 

Harley shrugged and drank more of his juice. He grimaced again. “Still slept well.”

“Well, that’s good,” Natasha commented. She set down her newspaper—Did people still read those?—and pointed her pinky finger at Harley. “Tony said that David is ready to meet you whenever you want. Just text him and head down to his room.”

Harley nodded, but Peter tilted his head in question. “David?”

“My therapist,” Harley explained. “I asked Tony to schedule a session with him today.” To Nat, he said, “I’ll eat a bit of breakfast, then I’ll head down there.”

The conversation easily moved on, with Peter and Harley partaking in an All-American breakfast (cereal and orange juice), and Nat reading some of the newspaper’s stories aloud. Apparently, the TSA security at LaGuardia Airport discovered a sword in a traveler's carry-on bag. The man’s identity and origin weren't disclosed, but Peter would hardly be surprised if the man was a New Yorker. Some wild shit went down among the city’s population. 

Soon enough, Harley excused himself to head for his therapist’s office, which was evidently only a few floors down. He left with a small wave to Natasha and Bruce, a drifting hand on Peter’s shoulder, and a swipe across Stellina’s fur. Nat followed the teen with her eyes as he exited, and, after a thoughtful sip of her tea, turned her steady eyes towards Peter. 

“You know, you’d benefit from some therapy, too.”

Peter blinked, and set down his glass of juice. “What makes you say that?” Nat just raised a brow, and Peter gave up his disguise of innocence. “I’ve been fine without it.”

“Surviving,” she corrected, “not fine. I know you have nightmares, and I’ve bore witness to at least three of your panic attacks in the past two weeks. Who knows how many more you’ve had that I haven’t seen. You have outright symptoms of PTSD and depression, and I’ve been led to believe that you may have an unhealthy relationship with food. It’s also evident that your extensive vigilante work has affected your viewpoint on yourself and the world. Plus, I’m sure that anyone that has any connection to HYDRA needs some sort of counseling.” She shrugged. Took another sip of her tea. “Correct me if I’m wrong, though.”

Peter cleared his throat. “Bruce? Anything that you’d like to add?”

The man looked up from his phone, eyes wide. “I’m not getting tangled in this.” Mumbling, he continued, “I don’t think she’s wrong.” 

“Maybe just a bit blunt,” Peter commented, eyeing Nat. He was deciding whether or not she was overstepping her bounds. For now, he’d entertain her. “I’ve never been diagnosed PTSD or depression, but you’re probably right.”

He tried to ignore the embarrassment bubbling up inside of him at being called out on his mental issues. Everyone else in his life had simply left the matter alone upon realizing that he wasn’t quite comfortable with talking about it. Which, again, brought forth the dilemma of how much he should let the woman go on about this. She’d known him for less than a month, which didn’t exactly translate to an extremely close friendship. Then again, he still trusted Natasha. He figured that she had his best interests in mind. 

“And why haven’t you been diagnosed?” she asked. 

“Never took the time.” (Shame, probably. Or maybe just a lack of time and resources.)

“Now you have time. Besides, you don’t need to be diagnosed with anything to go to therapy. It can help anyone, regardless of their official mental state.” She finally set down her mug, the tea finally gone. She hopped onto the counter she’d been leading on. “Have you ever considered therapy?”

“Yeah,” he responded honestly. “Just was never fully convinced.”

“And why’s that?”

“Are we sure that this isn’t a therapy session in of itself?” he pointed out, looking around at the near-empty room. 

“It’s not,” Bruce interjected. “This is just how she is.”

Peter hummed, and resigned himself to being a bit more truthful with Nat. “Didn’t seem worth the money. I’ve never had an excess, per se, that I can spend on some cure for my rusty ol’ brain.”

“Well, now there’s plenty of money,” Nat smoothly replied, pointing out the obvious. “Anything else?”

Peter raised his arm and waved it slightly, showcasing his web shooters. “Secret identity. Heaps of my trauma relate to the mask.”

“The team’s therapists are all personally employed by Tony. Extensive background checks, plenty of contracts, and routine surveillance. No secrets are at risk with our psychologists.” She raised a brow. “What else.”

A shudder ran through Peter, and he decided that this was probably the limit to the conversation. He quickly drank the rest of his juice, took his glass and bowl and spoon over to the sink, and washed them all thoroughly and methodically. He felt several glances from Nat and Bruce land on his turned back. He dried the dishes, put them away. Natasha was still waiting for a response, an explanation, an excuse. 

“I'm going to take Stellina for a walk,” he offered instead. 

He watched as a brief flash of regret flashed across Nat’s face. He held no resentment towards her for her statements, though. Everything she had said was true, and he’d allowed the conversation to go until the point where he became uncomfortable. No boundaries had been crossed. 

Peter just needed some time to think. 

“Okay,” Nat softly replied, as though she were on thin ice with Peter. (She wasn't. He didn't feel the need to clear up the misconception at the moment, though.) “Have fun.”

Bruce gave him a hesitant wave as Peter walked away, and he responded with a solid nod that he hoped conveyed that he wasn't upset. He clicked his tongue to get Stellina’s attention, and together they went back to his floor to acquire her collar and leash. They then left the Tower through the back exit, reserved for residents. 

Peter walked a safe route along the streets surrounding the Tower, something he did with Stellina three times a day. Originally, it was just a way for her to get her exercise in; now, the walking allowed Peter to ruminate about Natasha’s suggestion.

Of course, she hadn't been the first to mention therapy. May had, after Ben died. She’d reiterated her suggestion after Peter finally told her about Skip. Both times, he'd brushed it off, and she let him, acknowledging that it was all his choice anyway. Ned and MJ had both recommended it, too. Simple remarks here and there, a meaningful gaze after he said something that toed the line of mentally ill. Matt had hinted at professional help as well, but he soon realized that Peter was not afraid to hit back with a, “It’d be a good idea for you, too, Murdock.” They often joked about it instead of acknowledging the idea seriously. 

Now, though, Peter wondered what it'd actually be like if he had a change of heart and tested out a therapist. Nat had certainly offered good points. But before he could further consider the suggestion, he had to work through the last reason that he’d neglected to tell Nat.

Peter was shit at opening up. 

Oh, he'd done it before, sure. Even recently, he’d consensually trauma-dumped on Harley about his past with MJ. But a stranger? That was nearly laughable.

Peter understood where his reluctance to share his problems came from. As an orphan thrust into the hands of his loving aunt and uncle, he feared burdening his newfound caretakers. As a classmate, he worried that by chatting about his strifes, he'd be insensitive to those of others. As a hero, he pushed aside his own issues in favor of the problems of civilians. 

A ruthless cycle, to be sure. But it was all he'd ever known. He only told May about Skip after the trauma risked breaking him. He'd only established communication with MJ and Harley because he didn't want to be the cause of any of their issues. 

But maybe it was time for Peter to follow the lead of those around him, and get some damn help. He was only 17. His problems weren't going away; they would only snowball from here. 

He wasn't convinced, no. But he was mature enough to accept that therapy wasn't going to kill him. 

With his free hand, he pulled out his phone. He opened up his messages with Nat, and typed the same response he'd told May, Ned, and MJ when they'd brought the same suggestion forth: 

you: maybe.

This time, it wasn't a complete lie.

Chapter Text

“He said: maybe,” Natasha reported, looking up from her phone.

“Great!” Tony exclaimed, but his grin soon evaporated. “But was that an I-might-actually-do-that kind of maybe, or was that an I’m-just-saying-this-to-please-you-but-I’m-not-even-considering-it kind of maybe?”

“If Peter wasn’t actually considering therapy,” Bruce said thoughtfully, “then would he really let Nat go on for as long as she did?”

“He is pretty polite,” Clint reminded. “He might’ve just not wanted to cut her off or anything.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky retorted. “He may be polite, but Peter takes no shit. Even way back when Nat and I took him to get his stuff, he had no issue sassing it with us.”

While Steve confoundedly repeated, “Sassing it?” under his breath, Wanda nodded in agreement. “Peter’s gone through too much to let people walk all over him,” she said. “If he didn’t want to hear Nat go on about therapy, he wouldn’t let her.”

The group murmured their concurrence, all having been subject to Peter’s snark. They were also well aware of aspects of Peter’s not-so-sunny history, seeing as they were the ones to inflict a year’s worth of turmoil. Their influence on his life was partly why they had gathered to discuss Peter’s options. They all fully understood that, ultimately, they had no right to plan out Peter’s future, or to force him into therapy, or to even believe for one second that Peter had any reason to listen to their opinions, but. They also cared about Peter. They had all seen him in the throes of trauma; they saw themselves in the teenaged hero. Peter regarded his trauma in an unhealthy way, to say the least, and therapy was certainly helping them, so why not try to help Peter in the same way?

“Okay, so let’s say he’s seriously considering it.” Sam turned to Tony, pointing at the man. “Do you have therapists lined up for background checks?”

“Several, already done,” Tony easily returned. “They’re all aware of the surveillance they’ll undergo, and they’re all chill with only taking on one client. NDA’s have been signed. All we need is Peter’s consent.”

“Which he—I think we just need to be patient for that,” Wanda interjected. “Nat planted the seed, so to speak, so we’ll just have to wait and see how he feels about it.”

“Yeah, yes, yep.” Clint nodded enthusiastically. “If we keep talking about it, it might seem like we’re trying to pressure him into this.”

“That’s the last thing we want,” Natasha agreed. “It’s Peter’s decision, and Peter’s decision alone.” She then lifted her phone to glance at the text she’d just received, and she almost jolted in surprise upon reading it, as though she were a child getting caught pulling way too many cookies out of a jar. 

“What is it?” Steve questioned, noticing her reaction.

She cleared her throat, and began reading the message aloud. “Do you guys know that thing that happens when you’re at a really loud party, or several conversations are going on at once, but then you hear your name, and you can immediately notice that someone’s talking about you, even though you weren’t trying to listen in on the conversation at all?” She paused, assumedly waiting to receive the next text. “Yeah. It’s called the cocktail party effect.” Another pause. “Turns out it can happen when you’re just on a walk with your dog around the block and the Avengers start gossiping about you.”

Bucky chuckled at Peter’s succession of texts, and Sam simply said, “Ah.”

“How the hell—” 

“Language!” Tony blurted, interrupting Steve.

“Sorry, Peter,” Wanda offered, looking up slightly, as though that action would direct her words to the teen. “We weren’t talking shit.”

Nat received another text, and her lips quirked up into a smile upon relaying it. “‘It’s alright, Wanda,’ he said. ‘I know.’”

“Did he say anything else?” Bruce asked, not-so-subtly scooting closer to Nat in an attempt to read the messages. She rolled her eyes and held up a single finger to tell him to wait. 

“He just said to let him think about it some more,” she told them. “And to maybe include him in future discussions of therapy.”

“I knew this wasn’t the best idea,” Sam mumbled. 

“Not the worst you guys have done, considering.” Bucky elbowed Sam mildly, a small smirk appearing on his face. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam huffed. “Guess that it’s better to collude ‘bout his well-being than it is to plan his demise.”

Nat’s voice came again, reading from her phone. “That’s for sure.”

-

Satisfied with his interjection, Peter pocketed his phone and entered the Tower’s elevator. The team wasn’t wrong when they said that Peter wasn’t willing to be walked upon. And, well, maybe they weren’t exactly walking on him by discussing their ideas about him and therapy, but they could’ve at least waited until he was back to talk about it a bit more. 

Truth be told, it wasn’t like they’d said anything bad. In fact, knowing that Tony had already arranged for multiple therapists to take Peter as a client was awfully touching. Still, there was a certain point to be made by his intrusion—secret discussions couldn’t be that secret when the person of interest had super hearing.

Stellina nudged her head beneath his hand, and he chuckled, conceding to petting her. “I know, hun. They’re a bit odd, aren’t they?”

She began panting, as if to say, “Yes, yes they are, Peter. They should’ve waited to have their little talk until you had decided what to do about therapy. Then you could’ve been involved in the discussion beyond the sense of accidentally overhearing your name and tuning into the conversation while you weren’t even in the building. In fact, maybe you should prolong your decision just to spite them.”

Yeah. That must’ve been what she was saying. 

“That’s a great idea, Stella.” 

Peter vanished into his room, not quite ready to interact with anyone. He’d been slowly personalizing his room over the past several days, with laundry beginning to accumulate and his blanket never laying decidedly neat. But it still couldn’t cater to his hobbies—he owned no tools, no books, no pencils to draw with, no paper to draw on. The majority of his belongings had been left behind when he moved into his foster home, and he had to abandon even more when he fled from Richard. His chemistry books were in dumpsters, his art supplies had been destroyed, and his lego sets were but a distant memory.

He wanted his belongings back. He didn’t want to buy more, he didn’t want to receive gifts, he just wanted his stuff. 

Unfortunately, reviving his old possessions wasn’t necessarily possible. So, forgoing any of his old pastimes, he pulled off his hoodie and shed his pants. A little bit of morning patrol never hurt anyone, he decided as he slipped his mask on. 

Just as he was about to ask FRIDAY to open the window, he caught his name in conversation once more, several floors down. (He didn’t usually eavesdrop this often, he swore. But, really. Who wouldn’t listen in on conversations about themselves, given the chance?) 

“Where’s Pete?” Harley’s voice came, accompanied by the sound of elevator doors closing. Peter glanced at his phone—Harley’s therapy session must’ve only been 45 minutes. 

“He was on a walk with Stellina, last I know of,” Wanda answered, her voice much louder now that Peter was also in the Tower.

“He’s probably back by now,” Bucky tacked on. “His morning walks with Stellina are rarely longer than 30 minutes.”

Sam scoffed, mumbling something about spies and how they pay attention to the weirdest things. Then, louder, he told Harley, “Shoot him a text.”

“Smart thinkin’,” Harley agreed, and his ensuing heavy footfalls indicated he was leaving the group. “Therapy went well, by the way. See y’all in a bit.”

The team said their goodbyes to Harley, and the teen was apt to follow Sam’s advice—Peter’s phone buzzed with a message from his partner, followed by another in quick succession.

harls <3: wrapped things up with the local shrink

harls <3: could we have a quick chit chat 

The subsequent pang of anxiety in his gut was akin to a fisherman latching onto his stomach with an oversized fishhook, and Peter soon found himself being hastily reeled in by the cruel harbinger of fresh seafood and dread.

Regardless of the ominous Can we talk? text, Peter took a deep breath, as though that action alone would remove the jagged metal obstruction from his intestines, where it was mucking things up and making his hands shake with sudden nervousness. He ignored their shakiness and pulled his mask off, resigned to a surely devastating conversation with Harley. He typed out an easy agreement and sent it. By then, the elevator had arrived and spat out Harley on their floor.

Peter pulled his sweatpants and hoodie back on, and meandered out of his room to join Harley in the kitchen. As he walked, his mind was but a flurry of assumptions, reasonings, and conclusions; they all formed the general consensus of Harley being near furious with Peter—possibly to the point of coming to his senses and demanding a break up. 

Stellina silently nudged her head beneath Peter’s hand once more, pulling him out of his thoughts. The wag of her tail was surely meant to tell him to be a bit more rational, and to remind him that Harley was a wonderful person who seemed to actually enjoy Peter and their relationship. Or perhaps it was simply an indication that she was happy to be petted. Who could say?

By the time Peter turned the corner into the kitchen, he had schooled his expression into one of carefree pleasantness, and the shake of his hands had all but vanished. He was still working on dislodging that fishhook, though.

“Hey,” he offered, somewhat soothed by Harley’s toothy grin. “How was the session?”

“All went well,” Harley said, welcoming Stellina’s excited affection as she bounded up to him. “The doc recommended a few copin’ strategies, but was mainly just someone who could listen.”

“That’s great, Harls.” As pleased he was to not be immediately faced with a Harley itching for confrontation, Peter desperately wanted to pry the hook from its resolute clutch. “What did you, uh, wanna talk about?”

“Oh!” Harley exclaimed, as though just now remembering that he’d sent the text to Peter. “I was just thinkin’ that it was high time we go on a legitimate date, hm?”

Just like that, Peter was freed. To keep with his fishing metaphor, Peter felt it best to describe his relief as whatever a fish must feel like after it successfully wriggled its way out of an inexperienced fisher’s hands, flipping its way back into the sea scot free.

Peter would’ve liked to take a picture of Harley’s face, eagerly beaming at the prospect of a date, and present it to the absolute cold corndog of a fisherman who thought he could ruin Peter’s day.

(Maybe his anxiety made his metaphors slightly convoluted. It was fine.)

“I’m certainly all for it,” Peter quickly replied, triumphantly keeping the relief out of his voice. “Any ideas?”

Harley’s smile turned a bit sheepish. “I was hopin’ you’d have some. After all, you’ve spent more time out in the city than I have. Maybe you could take me to one of your favorite spots…?”

“Well, uh…” Peter hastened to dismiss, hesitant to offer an idea that Harley wouldn’t like. 

“C’mon, I’ve only been to a few tourist-y places with Steve and Bucky, some random stores with my friends, and a weird hole-in-the-wall doughnut shop with Nat—I'm fairly sure that it was a drug front. I’m open to anythin’, I’m but a humble small town kid who’s never laid eyes on a skyscraper and lives solely on wheat and milk straight from the cow’s udder.”

Peter laughed, and, in contrast, he nodded seriously. “And I’m a city boy with big dreams and empty pockets, and I had to look up a picture of a tractor the first time I saw the word in a book.”

“You see my point, darlin’.” Harley leveled Peter with a gaze that was seeping with genuinity, and Peter didn’t even think it was on purpose. “Whatever you suggest, I’ll be perfectly happy with. So long as you’re with me.”

“Sap,” Peter immediately shot back, clearing his throat as Harley rolled his eyes. “Kidding. But, so, uh. If I were to suggest a little lunch at this deli place in Queens, you wouldn’t object?”

“Sounds lovely,” Harley assured, his lips curling upwards as he stressed the lovely. He reached for Peter, settling a hand on his waist. Peter tensed at the new point of contact, but no sooner than he tensed did he relax, basking in the affection. “Wouldya like to go now? It’s lunchtime.”

Peter jokingly checked his wrist, where no watch could be found, just his web shooters. Then he remembered that there was a clock in the kitchen, and he looked over to see that it was just before 12. He then pulled out his phone to check the time, and noted that the kitchen clock was ahead by three minutes.

When he looked back up, Harley was raising an eyebrow at him. “Should we find you a grandfather clock, or do you deem it a suitable time for lunch?” he asked. 

Peter rolled his eyes, but nodded regardless. “We’ll have to take the subway, if you don’t mind.”

“Good with me.”

Harley removed his hand from Peter’s waist, and Peter substituted the contact by taking hold of the other’s hand and intertwining their fingers. Stellina followed them into the elevator, and Peter asked FRIDAY to stop on the common floor before heading to the ground level. Peter explained to a confused-looking Harley that he wanted to drop off Stellina in the care of the team, seeing as she’d already had her morning walk and was probably ready for sleep. 

Peter poked out of the elevator to goad Stellina to exit, and called out to Bucky, Sam, and Steve, who he could hear chatting away in the common room.

“Could you guys keep an eye on Stellina?” he asked, his voice slightly softer than a shout. “Harley and I are heading out.”

“On a date?” Bucky replied, and even though Peter couldn’t see him, he could hear the smile in the man’s voice. His teasing overshadowed Steve’s softer response assuring Peter that they’d watch Stellina. 

“No, we’re off to set fire to the Statue of Liberty. Yes, on a date.”

“Same thing!” Bucky then let out a grunt of surprise, accompanied by Sam’s chiding. Peter assumed that Sam had elbowed Bucky as a way to remind him that committing arson and going on a date were actually not the same thing.

“And we’re off,” Harley declared as the elevator doors closed once more. 

They left the Tower and walked briskly through the cold, occasionally bumping shoulders as they went. It was only as they began to navigate the subway station that Harley voiced his curiosity of their destination. 

“It’s a place called Delmar’s,” Peter explained. “I used to go there all the time, but I haven’t seen Mr. Delmar since I graduated.”

“How come?” Harley asked, his question innocent. 

Peter’s answer wasn’t quite as innocent, but he decided it was about time to tell Harley a bit of the story. “I left my foster home soon after I graduated. I’d decided that I didn’t want to try the system again, so I resorted to running from CPS, since I was—am—underage. I had to distance myself from the people who knew me, because my social worker had visited the home soon after I left, and notices were posted that I was missing. I didn’t want to risk someone reporting a Peter Sighting.”

“Oh,” Harley breathed, and they entered the busy subway car. His voice quieted. “That sounds like it sucked. But why are we goin’ back now, if you’re still underage?”

Peter smiled slyly. “Mr. Delmar doesn’t know my birthday. As far as he knows, I’m 18 now. And I doubt he’d actually report anything, seeing as I’ve got a nice haircut and clothes with no holes. I don’t look like the stereotypical homeless kid avoiding CPS.”

Peter’s lighthearted tone apparently convinced Harley to keep his concerned comments bottled up, because he quipped, “And you seem to be lackin’ a smudge of dirt right above your eye, so obviously there’s no way you could be homeless.”

They filled the near hour-long subway ride with quiet chatter. Eventually, a pair of seats opened up, and since they were the last ones standing, they occupied them immediately. At the next stop, though, a fatigued woman and a little boy whom Peter assumed to be her son boarded the train, and Peter didn’t hesitate to stand up again, offering the mother his seat. Harley was quick to follow, and the woman smiled graciously at them as she and the child settled down. For the rest of the ride to Queens, they got to listen to the stream of consciousness that was the small child’s rambling. Peter had to admit, the possibility of giraffes with green spots rather than brown was indeed a very important consideration. 

When they emerged from the underground depths, it was just short of a ten minute walk to Delmar’s. Even though they’d only been out in the cold for a few minutes, the chill of the air had begun to seep into Peter’s bones. Knowing from years of experience that it would take ages for his body to reheat itself later, Peter pulled out his phone to turn on his suit’s heaters.

While he was typing, the ever-curious Harley glanced over to see the screen. “I’m sorry, but are you textin’ your A.I.?” 

“No need to be jealous, Harls,” Peter teased, pocketing his phone once he felt heat spreading across his body, shooing away the December air. 

“Not jealous,” Harley mumbled. 

“Spoken like a person green with envy.” They turned the corner, and Peter smiled as he laid a hand on the familiar door’s handle. “Here we are.”

The store was just as Peter remembered it, though he supposed that not many changes usually took place within a year and a half. A single customer was busy strolling through the grocery aisles. There was a large brown-striped cat with legs painted in white resting on the counter. Behind that counter was none other than Mr. Delmar.

“I’ll be with you in a second,” the man said, unhurriedly writing something down. 

Peter and Harley approached the counter, listening as the owner mumbled numbers under his breath, tapping the paper with the lead of his pencil. Peter looked over the counter to see that Mr. Delmar was playing a game of sudoku. 

When the man finally decisively filled in a spot with a bold number four, he finally set down his pencil and sudoku book to peer up at his customers. “What can I—”

Clearly, the man recognized Peter. Clearly, he seemed well aware that he’d been without one of his regulars. 

Still eyeing the puzzle, Peter said, “I think the four should be in the last space of that column.”  

Harley let out a quiet snort. Mr. Delmar blinked, looked back down at the puzzle, frowned, and erased the bold four. There were still traces of the dark lettering when he looked back up at Peter. 

“Mr. Parker,” the man said at length, the frown replaced with a welcoming smile. “Been a while, hasn’t it. How’ve you been, Peter? Surely you’ve not been betraying the best sandwich shop in Queens by paying a visit to that disgrace of a deli across the street.”

“Didn’t even notice it,” Peter replied, even though he definitely had, even though he definitely thought it smelled delectable as he and Harley had walked past. “I’ve been good, though. You?”

“Better than I deserve, eh?” Mr. Delmar said with a wink. “But let’s stop with all the gushy stuff, and how’s about we get down to business. Number two, right?”

Peter grinned unabashedly at the man’s memory. “Please. With pickles. And can you—”

“Smush it down real flat? I sure can, Mr. Parker. And what for the newbie?”

Harley looked surprised at being addressed for the first time in the interaction, but he was quick to answer nonetheless. “I’ll have the same as him, please. Without pickles.”

Mr. Delmar smiled knowingly to himself. “There’s always one of ‘em that likes the little bastards, and one of ‘em that doesn’t.”

“I take it you don’t favor ‘em?” Harley assumed. 

“What? No, I love ‘em.” Mr. Delmar shook his head, and Peter smirked at the confused look on Harley’s face. 

While Mr. Delmar hustled to construct the sandwiches, Peter focused his attention on the lounging cat. “Heya, Murph. How’s that counter, hm? Comfy, I’m sure.”

“He’s not about to respond, Peter,” Mr. Delmar called. “Why don’t you introduce me to your new pal.”

Peter glanced at Harley, gaining his approval with a small nod. “This is my partner, Harley.”

Mr. Delmar looked up at that, assessing Harley with the eyes of someone who had known Peter a bit too long to not become a smidge protective. “Did you find him in Texas or something? Got yourself a real cowboy there, Mr. Parker.”

“I’m from Tennessee, sir,” Harley answered for Peter, laying on that southern charm. 

Mr. Delmar grunted as he wrapped up the second of the sandwiches. “Same thing. No pickle for you—” he handed a sandwich to Harley “—pickle for you.” That one went to Peter. “That’s five dollars.”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. “They’re five each, Mr. Delmar.”

“Yours is on the house,” he said simply. Looking at Harley, he added. “His? Five dollars.”

Harley paid for his meal without any objections.

They left the deli with a promise from Peter that he’d stop by more often.

“He’s an interestin’ guy,” Harley said thoughtfully, before taking a bite out of his sandwich. “Makes a helluva sandwich.”

“Yeah.” Peter took a bite of his own. “Shit at sudoku, though.”

Chapter Text

The thump of his backpack on the floor was very quickly followed by his phone vibrating in his pocket with a text. Falling back onto his bed, Ned fished out his phone to see a text from Peter, asking if he would want to talk. Ned grinned immediately, not only because of the prospect of talking to Peter, but with the knowledge that Peter totally timed his text to correlate with the time that Ned would get home from school.

Instead of answering with a text, Ned tapped the call button on Peter’s contact. The phone only rang once before Peter answered the call. 

“Hey dude!” Ned greeted.

“Hey Jude,” Peter replied in turn, in a sing-song voice that sounded nothing like Paul McCartney, but Ned laughed nonetheless. “How was school, man? Do any cool science-y things? Or really, anything remotely cool at all?”

“You know it, man. Ate some shit school pizza, but it was the highlight of my day, of course, since it came with a yogurt parfait.”

“I’m gonna be honest, Ned. Shit school pizza and some vanilla yogurt does not sound like a match made in heaven. And I eat everything, you know that.”

“You don’t eat peppermint,” Ned reminded, ignoring Peter’s comment simply because it was absolutely correct. 

“I got a peppermint candy cane last year from a kid who was thanking me for helping him find his dog. Don’t tell him this, but I threw that shit away the second I was out of sight.” Peter made an exaggerated gagging sound, and Ned hummed sympathetically, holding back a laugh. 

“My lips are sealed. But that was how my day went, how goes it for you?”

“I...” Peter started, drawing out the singled word for as long as he deemed appropriate, probably aiming to drum up suspense. Ned faked a loud yawn, jokingly indicating that Peter ought to get on with it. “...went on a date!”

“Dude!” Ned exclaimed, suddenly seeing the necessity of the suspense. “How was it? Where’d you go? Did you have fun? Did Harley have fun? Spare no detail.”

“It went well, we went to Delmar’s, I had a wonderful time, and Harley also seemed to have fun,” Peter said, rapid-firing his answers just as Ned had spit out his questions. “Then I pointed out that place that the fake Avengers robbed? Remember? With the Chitari weapons? Did you know they turned that place into a coffee shop?”

“Can't say I did.”

“They did it earlier this year, at some point. Then, since we were in Queens, we walked to my old apartment so I could share my woes of nearly always being late to school.”

“Guess the subway trip was about 45 minutes, right?”

“Plus walking time, right. He drives to school, y’know. Braves the morning traffic. A courageous soul.”

“Yeesh,” Ned responded emphatically. At least his commute to school had been reduced to a quick and easy 15 minute drive, living in the suburban realm of Boulder. Traffic wasn’t usually awful, as his school was on the outer edges of the inner city. His old commute to school certainly wasn’t something Ned missed about New York. His neighborhood didn’t smell like garbage and exhaust fumes, either, so that was great. He told Peter as much, and received a laugh which crackled through the phone receiver. 

“Betcha miss complaining about those things, though,” Peter pointed out. “What’s there to complain about in Colorado?”

“You’re not here,” Ned answered immediately. “Had to make new friends and everything. It was like elementary school all over again, and there’s not nearly as many Star Wars nerds here.”

“Yeah, do you think they even know about Star Wars over there?” Peter asked. “Probably not, right? Do you guys even have TVs? Or is Star Wars more associated with Ronald Reagan’s proposed space laser defense system?”

Ned laughed, despite knowing that Peter was deflecting. “You mean his Strategic Defense Initiative? I think the books and movie series are a bit more popular than that.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Peter intoned. Ned gave him a few more seconds, knowing from years of best-friendship with him that Peter would eventually address Ned’s confession. Sure enough, after Ned gave him time to mull over his thoughts, Peter continued, “I miss you too, of course. It was hard, y’know, not having my best friend for a year. I know you had a shit time too, if our call the other day was any indication.”

“Yeah,” Ned sighed. “My parents were definitely worried, for both me and you, and even Allie, with her nine-year-old little sister wisdom, knew that something was wrong with the whole situation.” After his admission, Ned could practically hear the guilt seeping from Peter’s pores and through the phone. “But we’ve got the band back together, so all that’s over with now. It’s okay.”

Peter sighed, a tired little thing, and hummed noncommittally. “Guess so.”

Ned knew Peter still blamed himself, even though he’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place—Peter had just done what he needed to stay safe, and unfortunately, staying safe involved losing contact with Ned. It was fine. Ned understood. Peter’s anxiety-riddled brain didn’t allow him to accept that Ned was just happy to have his best friend back, long distance or not. Ned could only hope that Peter would find a way to sort his thoughts out soon.

“I’m thinking of going to therapy,” Peter blurted. 

Well. That was certainly a way to do it.

“Really?” Ned wondered, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. He and MJ had made numerous attempts to get Peter to seek help, but he’d been adamantly against it. “What…what changed?”

“I guess…the idea is a bit more realistic now. The team said that their therapists are legally sworn to confidentiality, and even though I know that normal therapists are too, it just feels safer to talk about Spider-Man issues knowing that they get all sorts of confidential information from the Avengers.”

“That makes sense,” Ned softly encouraged, almost afraid that his interjection would stop Peter from talking. 

“And, well. I’ve been through a lot lately, I guess, and I’ve matured a bit in my perspective. I’m just thinking that if I continue to let my problems go unchecked, my brain will melt within another year or two.”

“As a very scientific guy, I can assure you that brain melting would be inevitable. Your head would be filled with sludge.” Ned considered the idea for a second. “Like a strawberry smoothie, but a bit off. Like maybe someone added Worcestershire sauce to it for some reason. And the strawberries were rotten. And you didn't blend it long enough, and the chunks of strawberry won't go through your straw.”

“That’s…surprisingly accurate,” Peter noted, a bit of earnest fascination in his voice. “But yeah. Money isn’t a problem anymore either. So really, the only thing that’s stopping me from trying it out is some wild ingrained fear I have. Which, now that I think about it, therapy would probably help sort that out.”

“I think you should try it. Objectively, trying new things is good; just don’t ask Allie, ‘cause she tried okra last week and now swears against trying new things.”

“Was it fried?”

“Nope. Boiled.”

“That’ll be it, then.” Something shifted in the background. “Oh! Stellina has joined me.”

“Tell her that I’d die for her.” Ned heard him say exactly that to the dog, and he smiled. “Let me know what you decide about therapy, though.”

There was a pause so quiet that Ned could hear Stellina panting in the background. “...I think I’ll do it,” Peter replied at length, as though he’d had to reach down his throat and twist and pull at his vocal chords to get the words out. 

Ned couldn’t help the thrum of excitement sent through his body. “That’s great! I’m super proud of you. You won’t regret it.”

“Thanks, man,” Peter laughed, sounding a bit relieved. “The team will be glad to hear it. Harley too, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I forgot to ask; did Mr. Delmar grant Harley the stamp of approval?”

“Well, Harley’s sandwich wasn’t overpriced, so…”

“That’s a yes, then.”

“I was certainly relieved. He—” Peter cut off, his voice returning in a matter of seconds. “I’m being summoned for dinner, it seems. I’ll text later, yeah?”

“Sounds good. Catch ya later, epic skater.”

“In a while, million-dollar smile.”

“That one wasn’t as good,” Ned teased. 

“Yeah, I know,” Peter sighed. “See ya, man.” 

Peter hung up, leaving Ned to smile to himself. Man, he’d really missed Peter. The only phone call Ned would ever tolerate was one with Peter. Screw making doctor’s appointments, he can just do that stuff online. Peter, though. Peter, he could call.

Ned let himself relish in post-Peter happiness a bit further, before his eyes widened and he cursed softly.

“Forgot to walk the dog!”

-

There was a gunshot, loud and obtrusive and uninvited, reverberating in Peter’s mind. It was so loud that the sound itself was like a ball in a pinball machine ricocheting off the sides of its prison, occasionally knocking down some Batman villain, or destroying a miniature Death Star from Star Wars—bright lights and explosion sound effects accompany the destruction before the ball hits the Death Star again and the chaos starts all over. 

It was so loud, in fact, that it woke Peter up.

The first thing on his mind was, Someone's dead. 

Then he realized that, according to his already fleeting nightmare, Harley's dead. 

Peter didn’t think that he’d ever get over the sheer terror that overtook him each time he woke up wholeheartedly believing that at least one person in his life had died. 

Of course, that wasn't what he was contemplating at the moment. In fact, he didn't have the mental capacity to think of anything other than getting the fuck out of his tangled sheets and out of his bed and out of his room. 

His Spidey Sense was the only thing that prevented him from tripping over Stellina in his race to leave his room. She was awake and sitting on the floor, not in bed with him. Peter didn't have the wherewithal to consider that it was most likely himself that had awoken her.

He rubbed his fingers against the palms of his hands. No bloody slickness. Just checking.

The hall was dark, his eyes were blurred with panic, and his legs were shaking. None of those factors deterred him from stumbling down the hall to reach Harley's room. He knocked on the door, loudly enough to hopefully wake Harley—He was not dead. His heartbeat rang clear and true in Peter's ears. He was not dead.—yet quiet enough to hopefully not wake Wanda, and to hopefully not concern Vision.

Harley was a deep sleeper. That was why he wasn’t responding to Peter's incessant knocking. Unfortunately, as previously discussed, Peter wasn’t in his right mind. His partner’s heartbeat was the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the ground with, with. With what emotion, he didn't know. Grief for someone whom he’d already lost, or grief for someone who wasn’t even gone?

Peter's ears were ringing so persistently that he’d completely missed what had developed between his failed attempts at waking Harley and seeing the drowsy teen in front of him, replacing the unyielding door.

“Pete—FRIDAY said—What's—”

Peter barely registered Harley’s words before he collapsed not to the ground, but on the ever-so-steady, ever-so-alive Harley. 

Immediately, Harley's hands jumped to support Peter, a grounding pressure. Harley led him further into his dark room and sat them down on the carpeted flooring, cooing nonsensically all the while. Peter couldn't focus on anything other than that fact that Harley was here, alive and well, and not shot to death on the sidewalk after their date had concluded. 

“Darlin’, hey—” Harley tried, before he was presumably interrupted by a particularly harsh sob from Peter. “Hey. Peter. You're gonna need to take some time to breathe.”

Breathing was, in fact, a concept that Peter usually understood. His understanding, however, couldn't hold a candle to the ongoing panic that came with the belief that Harley was dead, nor the overwhelming relief to find out that he wasn't.

Therefore, Peter could only shake his head in the limited space that Harley's shoulder allowed. He clung even tighter to Harley's shirt, which could've been unknowingly ripped by Peter's strength. Peter might've even whined, reduced to resembling the sounds of a wounded animal. Peter lifted his head to try to look at Harley, but he only got a glimpse of him before his eyesight was shadowed by a black static.

“Woah, hey, stick with me, Pete,” Harley's urgent voice cut through the sound of blood rushing past Peter's ears. “Put your head back down, there you go, don't go passin’ out on me. Breathe, Pete.”

Peter tried to do as instructed, he really did, but the best he could give Harley was a choked breath that turned into another sob. Harley encouraged him regardless, and he registered Harley's hands moving from their place on Peter's back to rest one on the back of his neck. The other hand drifted farther down, soothing circles into Peter's waist. That sensation was the only thing Peter was able to hone in on, but nonetheless he made another attempt at a proper breath, one that could possibly give him the oxygen he so desperately needed.

“Good, good,” Harley praised when Peter's body didn't immediately reject the air. “Okay, uh, yeah. Try to focus on my heartbeat, Pete. That helps, yeah? Focus on my heartbeat.”

And so, desperate to end the seemingly neverending torture, Peter fought through the panic to remind himself of Harley’s heartbeat, incessantly reassuring him that Harley was alive. He didn’t do it consciously, but after a few seconds of focusing, his finger started tapping to the beat of Harley’s heart. 

“Okay, good. You’re doin’ great, Peter. Breathe with me.” Harley took a massive sigh, and Peter followed automatically. He was slightly more successful. “There you go. You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re safe.”

Harley’s safe, Harley’s safe, Harley’s safe. 

Peter could calm down a bit quicker after that. He slowly lengthened his breaths, ensuring that his exhales were longer than his inhales; Harley held him all the while, continuing his mantra of You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re safe. 

“I’m okay,” Peter finally whispered. “Sorry, uh. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Harley assured, just as quietly. “Just glad you came to me.”

“Had to make sure you were okay.” Peter lifted his head again, and the black lined his vision once more. He was able to keep himself upright, though, and the static faded to show Harley’s concerned face. “I…You, uh, died. In my dream. Nightmare.”

“Shit, Pete,” Harley lamented. “Wait, you—you don't have to tell me. Or maybe, like, wait to calm down a bit more?”

“I’m fine now,” Peter said, then winced. “Well, uh. Nearing it. Almost there, though, so I can talk about my stupid dream.”

“Do you want to talk ‘bout it?” Harley asked, still unsure.

“I don't see why not,” Peter lied, ignoring the chorus of Don't burden him! Don't worry him! inside his head. Harley was well down the rabbit hole of concern, there was nothing Peter could do about it now. “I don't really...remember much from it, all I know is that you died in the same way MJ died. The details are a bit fucked, but that was the general sentiment.”

And it was only now hitting him, the implications of the idea that they died in the same way. What was Peter doing, infecting Harley with the same destiny? Because surely it was destiny, right? Dead loved ones were all Peter had ever known. Harley was well and truly in the category of loved ones, and that didn't bode well for his fate. Peter had known of that theme, had been stupidly aware of how Harley was at risk when they started dating; and yet, Peter became his boyfriend without hesitation. 

Was Peter fucking insane?

“Oh, Pete,” Harley sighed. “That's terrible. But a nightmare connectin’ your trauma to your current relationship doesn't make you, like, insane or anythin’.”

Better question: Could Harley read minds?

“But I—You’re at risk. By being with me.”

“No, I’m not.” Harley’s voice was so earnestly unyielding that Peter blinked in surprise. “I’ll wager a guess and say that, since you’ve lost so many people, you believe yourself to be the cause. Is that right?”

Peter nodded quietly, finding no room to disagree.

“That just isn’t how it works. It’s your own mind twistin’ up the past. I am at risk, but not ‘cause of you. I’m an Avenger, and I'm livin' in the very detectable Avenger headquarters. I’ve been at risk ever since I moved here, and I’ve known that. Any danger I could be in has nothin’ to do with you. Our relationship doesn’t affect my fate.”

“But. MJ—”

“Michelle died ‘cause of a murderer's whim. She was just one victim of a likely many. You weren’t even with her when it happened.”

Peter deflated. “I couldn’t save her.”

“It doesn't seem like there was anythin’ more you coulda done,” Harley replied, his voice softening once more. “You did all you could, as fast as you could, and that’s what matters.”

“And what if the same thing happens to you?”

“You won’t be alone. You’re not alone anymore, Pete. Savin’ me won’t be your responsibility and your responsibility alone. Surely between you and my overpowered family and their miracle-workin' doctors, I’ll pull through.”

Peter sagged against Harley, as though his body had been cut from a puppeteer’s strings. His head dropped once more, and he could feel the other shift to accommodate Peter’s body a bit more.

Peter took a bit too long to respond, so Harley continued, “I’m safe right now, though, and that’s all that matters. We’re okay.”

“You’re right,” Peter admitted. “Logically, y’know? But my…concept of relationships, I guess, has been ingrained in my perspective for a good while. Logically, I can’t dispute anything you’ve said. It’s just that it’s all hard to wrap my head around.”

Harley hummed, still essentially cradling Peter. “It’ll take time, yeah. I’ve got faith in you, though, and I’ll be here to help.”

This hadn’t been a conversation that Peter’d had with MJ, and needless to say, he was glad to be having it with Harley. The tension and shakiness of Peter’s panic had dissolved the longer Harley had talked. The only thing that remained was a certain looseness that could only come about by being comforted through a panic attack. Peter’s pure adoration for Harley certainly helped him feel relaxed, too. 

Hard truths were spoken this evening (early morning?), but Peter obviously needed to hear them. Harley’s sentiment contrasted severely with Peter’s mentality. Matt was occasionally able to pull Peter from a whirlpool of doubts and intrusive thoughts, but the man had his limits. There was only so much Matt could do when he was battling his own inner demons. Harley was now a facet of Peter’s support system; tonight certainly made that point clear. 

“Pete?” Harley said once Peter had been quiet for a moment too long.

“I’m alright,” Peter assured, lifting his head to gaze at Harley once again. His vision remained clear. “You help. Thanks.”

Harley nodded, clearly relieved, and leaned his head forward to rest his forehead against Peter’s. Peter could feel Harley’s soft breaths heat the air between them. 

They held eye contact for a moment, before Harley broke it to scan across Peter’s face. Peter closed his own eyes, relishing the moment of peace, and when he reopened them, Harley’s gaze was decidedly resting on Peter’s mouth.

A shiver went through Peter, and he pulled his arm to resolutely wrap around Harley’s back, reinvigorating his hold. 

They made eye contact again, Harley’s heart beating almost as fast as Peter’s. Peter cracked a smile, feeling awfully warm.

“Hey.” Harley’s voice was softer than it had been all night. 

“Hey,” Peter whispered back.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yeah.”

They were both smiling into the kiss, but they made it work. Harley giggled into Peter’s mouth, and they broke apart to calm themselves. 

Peter stared at Harley’s bright grin, shining through the dark, and he thought, This boy makes me so fucking happy. He said as much, and Harley’s smile only grew. Heat swirled within Peter as he leaned back in for another chaste press of lips, and his skin burned where Harley grasped the back of Peter’s neck. When he pulled back, there was a blush on Harley’s cheeks so intense that Peter thought he’d be able to see it even without enhanced eyesight. 

“All good?” Peter asked. 

Harley nodded vehemently, breathing out, “Yeah, yes. You?”

“I’m great. Sublime, even. One could say I’m positively groovy.”

Harley chuckled, tilted his head forward once more, and mumbled, “You’re so—” Peter caught his lips again, interrupting him. He guessed that he’d never find out what Harley thought he was.

Chapter Text

Harley tried to keep his shifting to a minimum so as to not disturb Peter, but he had been sitting on the ground for a while now. Aches and pains were inevitable, no matter how much he didn’t want to move.

Because why would he want to move? Peter appeared to be the most at peace Harley had ever seen him. He wondered if this was how relaxed Peter was when he was dead asleep—Harley had never seen him in that state, because in the few times Harley had observed Peter sleeping, he’d either been having a nightmare or sleeping rather lightly.

But, despite having slumped against Harley's body, Peter was definitely awake, occasionally pressing kisses to Harley’s shoulder. Every time he did so, Harley found his heart rate skyrocketing. He was in heaven. 

However, the ever-observant Peter could detect Harley’s discomfort, and he huffed out a small laugh as he clambered out of Harley’s hold. 

“Booo!” Harley half-jokingly complained. Peter let out a snort in return and offered Harley his hand to help him up. Harley immediately grasped it, exaggerating a groan as he got to his feet. “I’m too old for this.”

“We’re both 17.” Peter pulled Harley closer to him, and swooped in to peck Harley on the nose with a grace that Harley doubted he himself could ever manage. Harley’s stomach soared. “Now then. Would it be too forward of me to invite myself to your bed?”

“What—um. You don’t mean, like, uh—”

“To sleep, Harls,” Peter clarified, very obviously failing in hiding a laugh. “I don’t really wanna go back to my poor little old bedroom, all alone, where I can despair in my solitude. Maybe I could write in my journal about it, being banished by my boyfriend to the depths.”

“Do you even have a journal?” Harley asked, hardly concerned about Peter’s comedic ramblings as he pulled the other towards his bed. “I doubt you do, honestly.”

“You’d be correct. I’ve been made. Abort mission.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Harley laughed as Peter faked an escape attempt. Peter gave in easily to Harley’s consistent pull, and they tumbled into bed together. 

Sleep didn’t necessarily come easy for either of them. Every time Harley’s eyes started to droop, he would think about the fluttering of his stomach when Peter smoothed a hand across his back while giggling into a kiss. And then he’d be wide awake once more, always thankful that Peter wasn’t able to see the red of his cheeks, what with Harley’s head being tucked into Peter’s chest. Though, now that Harley thought about it, Peter could definitely hear the pounding of Harley’s heart, so maybe he wasn’t hiding much.

If the intermittent kisses Peter laid atop Harley’s head were any indication, Peter seemed to be having the same problem. 

Eventually, Harley was able to drift asleep, tiredness taking over the incessant gay gay I’m gay for my boyfriend part of his mind.

When he awoke, stretching as he yawned, he was still on his side, his head resting atop Peter’s chest rather than burrowing into it. He craned his head upwards and blinked blearily at Peter, who was, of course, already awake. Peter smiled down at Harley, and after he returned the smile, he caught sight of what Peter was entertaining himself with. 

“Is that my copy of A Wrinkle In Time?” Harley murmured, only slightly accusatory.

“Good morning to you, too, dear,” Peter chuckled, and oh, that was a pet name that Harley certainly enjoyed. “It was on your nightstand, with a shit ton of dog-ears in it, so do you blame me?”

“I do not.” Harley suddenly remembered the pencil that was laying atop the book, and he jolted. “Wait, have you gotten to—”    

“Yes, yes I have, and might I say that your little annotations are the best things I’ve ever read. It’s like a peek into your mind.”

“Exactly,” he huffed. “Did you get to the part—”

“The part where you labeled Calvin as ‘the coolest motherfucker you’ve ever had the pleasure of reading about,’ and that you ‘wouldn’t mind if he—’”

“Alright!” Harley interrupted, slapping his hand over Peter’s mouth. “No need to go on. I know what I wrote.”

Peter stuck his tongue out, and Harley yelped as he pulled his hand away to wipe it on Peter’s shirt. “You had that coming,” Peter reasoned, before he gently tossed the book back onto the nightstand. “Now c’mon, get up, I smell waffles.” 

They didn’t bother getting dressed for the day, especially not since Peter could smell the waffles cooking. If they smelled, then they were almost done, and the two wanted their waffles hot and ready, thank you very much. Stellina, who had ended up in Harley’s room at some point in the night, followed them down to the common kitchen, where Bruce immediately set her bowl of food on the ground. 

Harley’s eyes widened as he realized that almost every Tower resident was gathered in the kitchen. Pepper was the only one he couldn’t see, since she’d been at work for about an hour now. It was a rare occurrence for the whole team to be present for breakfast, since Wanda wasn’t much of a morning person, Vision usually didn’t have a reason to be in the kitchen without Wanda, and Tony spent most of his time in his lab. 

Despite the oddness of the situation, Wanda gave Harley and Peter a small smile from where she was clutching a cup of coffee like it was her lifeblood. Vision, from beside her, offered the two a small wave. Tony grunted something along the lines of, “Morning.” He seemed to be rather distracted by his tablet, which was probably acting as a substitute for his lab. 

“Boys!” Sam called, snapping in their direction. Using his other hand, he manhandled a batch of waffles onto a plate. “Just in time. Someone get this plate out of my way.”

Peter rushed to help Sam, moving the full plate out of the way so Sam could load up another. Peter tried to hand the ampler plate to Harley, grabbing the second, less plentiful plate for himself. Harley simply frowned and nabbed the second plate out of Peter’s hand, leaving the full plate for Peter. Harley doubted he could even eat that much, and he told Peter so when the teen frowned a frown to rival Harley’s. 

“Just give the rest to Stellina if you don’t finish it,” Nat suggested to Peter, her ever-present tea mug warming her hands. “I’m sure she’d love the treat.”

“No way,” Peter instantly denied, and he pulled the plate farther from Stellina, even though she was nowhere near it. “It isn’t healthy.”

Peter and Harley sat down at the table, where Peter quickly began to tuck into his meal. Harley eyed Nat, who had a knowing smirk on her face as she watched Peter eat, and knew that there wasn’t a chance she’d give the waffles to Stellina, either. Harley smiled to himself and started on his own food. 

He nudged Clint, who was sitting to his right. “Is there a family meetin’ or somethin’? Mission send off? Why is, like, everyone here?”

Clint shrugged, and continued to scroll through his phone. “Coincidence, as far as I know. Nat and Bruce were already here when I got down here, but they were silent as all hell. Then Sam came down and started making waffles, and eventually even Tony showed face.” 

“Fri said I’d regret missing out,” Tony mumbled, proving that he was still listening to the conversation, despite his eyes being glued to his tablet.

Satisfied that he wasn't missing anything, Harley shrugged, and the meal continued on in peace. Nat and Steve were talking about something that Harley couldn’t quite hear, and Peter and Bucky were chatting about Stellina, with Bucky enthusiastically petting Stellina. Harley was left to wonder why they’d never had a dog before.

Peter looked comfortable, talking to Bucky; relaxed. He watched Peter grin widely, resisting a full out laugh and shoving Bucky away lightly as the man made no move to resist his own laugh. Harley blinked with the realization that Peter looked rather at home here. He looked away and smiled to himself, pleased with the thought.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked back to see Wanda looking down at him with an impish smile. She leaned down to him, her voice softly saying, “Now, you know I wouldn’t read your mind without your say so. But I’m…feeling something a bit different about you two. Care to share, or are you leaving your wingwoman in the dust?”

“Shoulda known you’d sense it,” Harley replied, trying to quell the quick beating of his heart.

“Can’t help it,” Wanda shrugged, and he knew she was right. She was able to control her abilities to aid her in fights, and she was able to stop the thoughts and dreams of others from entering her psyche.  But her powers were sensitive to others’ emotions regardless, so of course she’d be able to feel the spark of warmth between Harley and Peter. “What is it, then?”

“We kissed,” Peter offered, now also leaning back to face Wanda with a bright look on his face. “Could that be it?”

Wanda’s expression grew to match Peter’s, while Harley was left with what must’ve been the world’s most prominent blush. “That’s probably it, yes,” she answered with poorly disguised excitement.

“Oh, to be young and romantic,” Steve teased, clearly having heard the not-so-hushed conversation. 

“He says, knowing full well that he went on maybe two dates as a teen,” Bucky said reminiscently. Steve elbowed him hard enough that Bucky swayed slightly in his chair. 

Tony had put down his tablet at Peter’s proclamation, and the look on his face scared Harley a little. “Now do you want me to give you condoms and—”

“Nope!” Harley waved his hand in Tony’s general direction, covering his face with his other. “I already said no. Not necessary.”

He heard Peter repeat, “Already?” while Natasha repeated, “Not necessary?” in that especially taunting tone of voice she occasionally employed. 

“Actually, it is completely necessary for sexually active teenagers to be safe in their activities, and to use condoms for p—”

“Oh my fucking God, Vision!” Harley interrupted, now completely covering his face and ignoring Steve’s chastisations of his language. “I didn’t mean—I know it’s necessary, Christ. It’s just that, we, y’know. We’re—”

“—not doing that any time soon,” Peter concluded, his tone firm. Harley risked a glance at his boyfriend, and took in his red face and slight frown. His expression allowed for no argument. “Please trust us to ask for help if we need it, since we’re already well aware of the risks of sex.”

Wanda stepped in and gently laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He relaxed at her touch, and she said, “Sorry, Питэр. We didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries.”

“It’s alright,” he replied, the tension having vanished from his face. He looked up at the team, who were quietly gauging his reaction, having been thoroughly scolded. “As you were.”

If there was one thing the Avengers were good at (other than destroying a few aliens), it was changing the topic. Clint immediately launched into a story about a time he and his family had gone to play laser tag—the competition had been fierce between himself and this random teenager, and he’d ended up losing to the boy. It was a story Harley had heard before, and he knew not to point out the fallacies in it; Clint was an absolute beast at laser tag, Harley knew from experience. It was the SHIELD training that did it, probably. He’d just succumbed to his child-loving urges and had let the boy win. Beating an Avenger had surely made the kid’s day, so Harley couldn’t say he blamed Clint one bit. 

If Peter’s squint was any indication, he probably picked up on the unlikeliness of the loss. He, too, must’ve found it best not to call Clint out. 

By the time both Harley and Peter emptied their plates and declined seconds, there came a lull in the conversation. Peter fiddled with this fork, spinning it between his fingers as he filled the silence. “So, uh. I decided that I’d like to try out therapy. If that’s okay.”

The quiet returned in the moments after Peter’s statement, mainly because woah, that was a big step in the right direction, one that Harley had hardly anticipated. By the reactions of the team, he didn’t think they saw it coming either. Peter was looking down at his empty plate. Harley was sure that their silence wasn’t helping. 

“Sounds like a wonderful idea, Pete,” Harley replied, smiling reassuringly, and glaring at the others to at least say something. 

“Of course it’s okay,” Nat spoke up. “I’m the one who encouraged you in the first place. I’m glad you’ve thought about it more.”

The rest of the team gave similar sentiments, while Tony leaned across the table slightly and turned off his tablet. “Is there an age preference for the doc? Gender preference? Date of appointment? Gimme the deets.”

“Jeez, Tony,” Bruce sighed. “Cool it a little, yeah?”

“No, it’s, it’s okay,” Peter interjected. “Uh, I guess young enough for me to relate to, but old enough to have some experience? As for gender, anything but male. And I guess…I can try it out soon. I guess. Before I change my mind. I guess.”

“You guess, hm?” Tony smirked. “Should I wait for a more definite answer, or do you want to pick out a candidate?”

“I guess,” Peter returned with a matching smirk. Then he corrected himself, “To the second option, I mean. No time like the present.”

“Let’s get to it then,” Tony suggested, rising from his seat. “Meet me in my lair when you’re ready.”

As Tony left the kitchen, Sam called after him, “Stop calling your lab a lair!” to which Tony responded by flipping the man off without looking back. 

Peter also rose from his seat, dishes in hand, but before he could get to the sink to wash them, Wanda swooped in to place a firm kiss on his forehead. They exchanged a few words in Ukrainian, and damn, Harley would really like to be successful at learning languages. But he could appreciate the moment for what it was: affection between two would-be strangers who were quickly approaching the status of close friends, if they weren’t there already.

After grabbing the rest of the empty plates (despite the protests of several), Peter went through his dishwashing routine. Harley never quite understood the appeal of the process, but it obviously provided Peter with some amount of comfort, so Harley let him be.

Peter came over to him and set a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Harley hummed and patted the other’s hand, and Peter followed after Tony. Conversations at the table had since resumed, and Harley let out a small laugh as he heard Sam and Bucky debating the implications of Thor being a god—did people pray to him? Could he answer their prayers? Could he smite people if he so chose? (Bucky argued yes on the last question; Thor could control lightning. Personally, Harley thought he could smite people, but wouldn’t. If Thor wanted to settle his differences, he was likely to simply punch the offender.)

He yawned and beckoned Stellina over for a pet or two, and in that moment, his brain stuttered to a halt. 

“Shit!” he exclaimed, standing up so suddenly that Stellina jumped back, and all eyes turned to him. “I’m so late for school! Why didn’t y’all tell me?”

“Oh, is that what’s got you so worked up?” Nat asked, clearly unconcerned, which confused Harley somewhat. “Tony excused you for another day. You are still recovering from an encounter with a bomb, after all.”

“Oh.” Harley slumped back into his seat, relieved. “I’d just thought that my recovery would only sanction one day of missed school.”

“I’m sure the other field trippers are also missing school,” she countered. “You have a bit more experience compartmentalizing these types of things, but it was still a traumatic experience. You don’t need to go back to school quite yet.”

Harley hummed noncommittally. He was happy to not have to go to school, but as it was, he hadn’t thought about the bomb in close to 12 hours. He felt like he was abusing his right to a mental recuperation by not going to school when he thought he could handle returning. Of course, his therapist would say that trauma responses vary, and Harley could be triggered by something he’d consider inane. David also said that just because Harley was feeling fine most days, there might come a day where his anxiety-filled experience would be all that he could think about. Maybe staying home for another day wasn’t too bad of an idea. 

Stellina returned to Harley’s side, satisfied that there would be no further disruptions, and Harley happily settled into his second day off. 

-

“How about this one?” 

Tony swiped across the hologram again, which now displayed a woman looking to be in her late twenties. Her hair was a bit shorter than shoulder length, dark brown, loosely curled. Her smile was soft, eyeliner and blush accenting her expression. She wore at least three necklaces. Peter could see a peek of a chest tattoo poking out from behind her cardigan. 

“Going off of vibes alone, she seems like someone I’d wanna know.” Peter leaned in closer, as though he could judge her personality by examining her nose piercing. “What’s her name?”

“Dr. Lauren Perdue, psychiatrist, 29 years old, moved here from southern California three years ago. Favorite color is green, owns two pet birds, and prides herself on her poker face. She likes Scrabble, and it's her life goal to be able to use…uh. ‘Fergalicious.’ She wants to use fergalicious in Scrabble. Is that even a word?”

“Of course it is,” Peter stressed. “That’s a pretty detailed report.”

“She wrote a lot on her application. Her background check didn’t reveal much that we didn’t already know.” Tony scrolled down on the hologram, humming to himself. “She’s mainly worked with abuse victims, but for a time, she offered temporary services to victims of a severe flood in Louisiana.”

“...I like her,” he decided. She just looked like a comforting presence, and, well. Peter liked Scrabble. Peter also liked supplying his talents in order to help others. “Does she know that she’d be helping out Spider-Man?”

“She knows that her client would be someone who lives in the Tower, and is aware of the severity of her confidentiality contract. Everything else is up to you to reveal.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Choosing when to reveal my identity. What an amazing idea, one I had never considered before, ‘cept for, like, one time, but she'd said that she'd  already suspected. By golly, I would’ve never thought—”

“Is your rambling my penance for kidnapping you and subsequently taking off your mask?” Tony sighed.

“Rambling and stealing the hearts of all the team members,” Peter taunted.

Tony snorted. “Yeah, well, you’ve gone and accomplished that,” he mumbled distractedly as he pulled out his phone. 

“Wait, what—”

“I’ll go ahead and give the doc a call, if you wanna give her a try. You can always check out another candidate if you and her don’t match well, there’s no pressure there. Not everyone clicks with a therapist on the first meeting, either, so maybe plan to have more than one session with her.”

Peter resigned to not having his interjection acknowledged, and he nodded. “Makes sense. Uh, yeah. Could you schedule a session for tomorrow, or is that too soon?”

“No time like the present, as they say,” Tony sagely said, before his eyebrows furrowed. “Er, more like ‘no time like tomorrow’ in this circumstance.”

“Now that just sounds like a procrastinator’s anthem.”

Peter left Tony to call Dr. Perdue, and received a text within 30 minutes to let him know that the appointment would be at three o’clock the next day. 

So Peter was really doing this. Huh. When he’d told Matt about his considerations on patrol last night, the man had been more surprised than Peter could say for himself. He was more proud than anything, though, telling Peter that it was about time for one of them to gain some sense. 

“Maybe your sessions can count for the both of us,” Matt had said. Peter had simply laughed and shook his head. (He’d always figured that if either of them ever went to therapy, Peter would have better odds. Matt…yeah. Matt was Matt, and Peter didn’t think anyone would be able to get his stubborn ass to change his mind.)

The day went by lazily, seeing as Bruce had randomly lent Peter a copy of The Hobbit. Harley had joined Peter in his reading spell, putting A Wrinkle In Time to good use. Nearly an hour into their silent reading time, Bucky came into the common room with his Tolkien book, and settled in on the opposite end of the couch. 

Dinner was excellently prepared by a nearby pizza place, and the team (including Pepper) dished up their plates and reconvened to watch a few episodes of a good old fashioned sitcom.

Patrol, sleep, an unpleasant dream that Peter couldn’t remember, and it was the next day. 

Since Harley had decided to return to school, he had to leave early on with a small kiss goodbye that had Peter feeling especially glad that he’d brushed his teeth the moment he woke up. Peter proceeded to bide his time until his appointment, and at 10 till three o’clock, he was anything but calm. 

“If it doesn’t go well, I give you permission to blame each and every one of us,” Wanda offered when she caught him pacing in the previously empty common room. 

“You say that like you don’t know I’d rather die than blame you for something that you can’t be faulted for,” Peter steadily replied, trying to calm his ingrained worries. “Besides, it can't be the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. Dr. Perdue looked like she could handle anything I threw at her.”

“And handle it she will,” she confirmed, stepping forward to wrap Peter in a hug that he readily accepted, despite it halting his pacing. “It’s what she's paid for, after all. You’ve just gotta trust her. And yourself.”

“A daunting task,” he mumbled into her shoulder. 

“Now,” she declared, separating the hug while still keeping her hands on his shoulders, “go down there and get some psychiatric care. I’m proud of you. I love you. Go team.”

Peter couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in him, and he nodded seriously. “Love you too. Go team.” 

The walk to the elevator (with Stellina in tow, of course) felt like the walk he’d had to endure to get back to his old condemned apartment that time he ran out of web fluid while on patrol. He asked FRIDAY to take him to one of the conference room floors, where his session would take place. Apparently, Tony had several rooms dedicated to therapy sessions, which made sense, what with the team members each having an individual therapist. Tony had explained that another floor was the designated therapy location for Stark Industries employees—the sessions were covered by the health insurance the company provided. 

Peter found Dr. Perdue’s office almost immediately, since the rest of the floor was empty, and the doctor herself was sitting in a waiting chair outside her room. A bright grin lit up her face once she spotted him, and she stood to greet him.

“Lauren Perdue, at your service,” she said, her voice warm enough to scare off any chance of snow in New York. “Call me Lauren, if you want. Pronouns she/they. May I shake your hand?”

Peter blinked, and answered by sticking out his hand as an offering, which they took immediately. Her hands were as warm as her voice. “Peter, he/him. Nice to meet you, Lauren.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, sporting an awful British accent that matched the sarcastic curtsey they did, during which they gripped an imaginary skirt. 

Peter liked her. That much he could tell.

“You good to go?” they asked once they'd righted themself, gesturing towards the door to their office. 

“I, yeah, just…” God, this was embarrassing. Lauren waited him out, so Peter forced himself to ask, as if reciting a script, “Can I please come in?”

A brief look of confusion passed Lauren’s face, but their expression quickly softened. “Yes, of course. Come on in.”

Peter wasn't quite sure why he was so relieved, but the small knot in his stomach unclenched slightly.

“Can Stellina come in too?” Peter wondered, resting a hand on her head. She had been rather politely sitting right next to him, her tail wagging eagerly. 

Lauren smiled, warm and bright. “I’d be honored. I was wondering if I’d get the chance to pet her.”

They walked into the room. Peter took a deep breath as they went, his nerves cooling.

For an office meant for a possible therapist candidate, it was surprisingly well furnished. The arm chairs were plushy, the lighting was warm, and there were four plants dotted across the room. There was a tote bag next to one of the chairs, which Peter presumed to be Lauren’s. 

Lauren took a seat, and Peter followed suit, with Stellina laying on the carpet to his right. She pulled her bag into her lap as she said, “So, it seems like I’ve been doing a majority of the talking, which is perfectly fine with me. But I wanted you to have a chance to choose the course of this session, so riddle me this: do you want to jump right into the deep end and sort out the iffy stuff, or would you rather join me in a game of Scrabble? I assume Mr. Stark showed you my application.”

Peter only had to think for about two seconds before he answered, and they began pulling out Scrabble supplies from their bag. 

“Would you mind grabbing that table?” they requested, indicating to a table pushed off to the side of the room. “Actually, you know what, it might be a bit heavy, so I’ll—”

Peter had brought the table to the space between the two chairs before Lauren could finish her sentence. 

“Oh! Thanks, Peter.”

And so the Scrabble game commenced. Lauren used the opportunity to chat about their birds, both the ones they had now, and the ones they’d had growing up, which she had loved equally. In turn, Peter talked about Stellina, and how she had been a gift from Pepper. Little by little, the bouncing of his leg slowed, and Peter dared to ask the question that had been dogging at his mind. 

“Am I supposed to talk about my issues right about now?”

Lauren looked up after she had spelled the word dispense and tallied up her points. “That’s for you to decide. This session can go any way you want it to. We can just sit here playing Scrabble the entire time, or we can start working out why you’re here and what you’d like to work on. Whatever you want.”

Peter gazed at his letters, working out the word psyche, which he added onto their dispense. She smiled and marked his points. 

“I think I should start talking about my…stuff. I just don’t really know how,” he admitted. 

“I can ask the questions, if you want. It might be easier.”

And ask she did.

“Have you ever gone to therapy?”

“If one session with the school counselor when I was a freshman counts, then yeah.”

“Do you count it?”

Peter didn’t hesitate. “No. It didn’t help.”

Lauren reached for their bag again. “Do you mind if I write down a few things you say in my handy dandy notebook? It’s just for my shitty memory, so I can look back on your comments later on, if you choose to continue our sessions.” Peter nodded his consent, and she pulled out a small journal and pen. “Why’d you go to school counseling, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Ask any question you want,” he replied genuinely, though he didn’t know if he could answer everything. “My uncle died near the beginning of freshman year. My aunt thought I should just have a go with one session, and the school system agreed. It didn’t quite go well, so I discount it completely.”   

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she steadily offered, making eye contact before Peter looked away and they jotted something down in their notes. “And I also apologize on behalf of the psychiatric community for your school counseling experience. Hopefully this goes a bit better.” She winked, and Peter returned it with a smile. 

“Well, I like you, so you have a head start. Mr. Mitchell wasn’t fun company.”

“I feel ya there. You mentioned your aunt. Could you tell me about her?”

“She died, too,” he answered hesitantly, gauging their reaction. 

Her eyes went even softer than their naturally soft state, and she said, “Peter, that’s awful. I’m sorry, and I understand if you’d like to change the topic.”

“No, uh, it’s okay. She was the kindest person you’d ever meet, and she had the smile lines to show for it. May was a nurse, so she wasn’t home often, but when she was, I spent every moment with her that I could. Time was precious, more so than I knew.”

“Very philosophical of you,” Lauren remarked, and he smiled slightly. “Should we keep chatting about May, or would you like to revisit her later?”

Peter genuinely thought about it, desperate to make this shit work for him. “We can move on. May is a good few sessions on her own, I reckon.”

“I look forward to learning more,” they murmured, scribbling in their notebook. “Now. Are there any symptoms you’d like me to know about right off the bat? Any triggers? Topics to avoid for the time being?”

“Uh…” Peter paused, watching as Stellina performed an army-crawl-like maneuver to get closer to his feet. “There’s a lot.”

“Tell me what you want and can.”

So Peter delved into what topics he deemed okay to relay at this point: frequent panic and anxiety attacks, sensory issues (that he didn’t yet connect to Spider-Man, though he was sure the time would come soon enough), and Natasha’s report on his eating habits. As for triggers, he mentioned being alone with men older than him, raised voices, touch that he didn’t consent to, and certain sounds and phrases that reminded him of not so great times. Lauren never once asked him to elaborate as she calmly nodded and recorded his words, and he was grateful. 

“Well, seems like there’re plenty of opportunities for me to get in there and do my thing,” they concluded, facial expression open and nonjudgemental. It made Peter want to tell her more. “Can I ask what your home life is like?”

“It feels safe,” he quickly responded, and it took him a solid second to register what he just said. He had, for one, mentally categorized the Tower as home. And, for two, he'd truthfully referred to it as a safe setting, in which he felt comfortable. “Oh.”

“You look like you just had a lightbulb moment,” she noted, intrigued. “Care to share?”

“I just—” For the first time in the session, he had to take some time to gather his thoughts. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to call somewhere home, I guess. God, that sounds sappy.”

“Maybe,” Lauren acknowledged. “But it also sounds true. Tell me more.”

“I haven’t felt safe since May died. It’s been all go, you could say. Nothing ever compared to the way my apartment in Queens made me feel, and for a long time, it felt like I could never replicate that feeling.”

“That makes sense—you seem to have some good memories there.”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed. “But the memories until a few weeks ago were…not as good. But after I moved here—” he didn’t mention the rocky start to his stay at the Tower “—I just felt…welcome. I think it’s safe. And I guess I didn’t realize that I just…really like it here.”

Lauren smiled, and closed their notebook. “That’s certainly a fun revelation to have, and I’m honored to have seen it in action. Are you comfortable to chew on that thought and revisit it at our next session, should you choose to see me again?” Her voice lilted up at the end, indicating for him to share his preference. 

“Uh. Yeah,” he decided. “Tony will help me schedule our next appointment, so that should be good.”

“Well, you’re quite literally my only client, so my calendar is clear. Also, I won the game. Try again next time”

Peter laughed, shaking his head. “I figured as much. But, just. One more thing I wanted to tell you, I guess.” He stared at her nose piercing as she nodded encouragement. “I’m Spider-Man. That info will probably be helpful for future lessons.”

He listened as their heart rate spiked, but their facial expression revealed nothing except warmth—it seemed that she hadn't been lying about her poker face. “I’ll have to write that down,” she teased.

“Does surprise lead to forgetfulness?” 

Lauren laughed, and shook their head. “My memory has nothing to do with my emotions, believe it or not. And I’ve gotta say, I knew I’d be in for a treat once I signed up to take on an Avengers Tower resident.”

With Peter leaving the session more surprised than Lauren seemed—seriously, she seemed unshakable—he swore to see her again soon. They offered him another hand shake, which he accepted with exaggerated formality. They gave Stellina a pet as she trotted out of the room, and gave Peter a two-fingered salute as he left their sights.  

As Peter entered the elevator, he heard Lauren mutter to herself, “I met Spider-Man. Cool.” 

Stellina panted as the two rode the elevator to Peter’s floor, and Peter chewed on his revelation indeed. His mind was rushing to come up with ways to contradict the thought, but he couldn’t get past the word safe. He felt safe at the Tower, with the team whom he’d never imagined to feel safe around, at a time in his life that didn’t particularly allow for safety. 

Harley was waiting for him in their kitchen, reading his book. He stood as Peter entered, dog-earing his page. 

“How’d it go? Is Dr. Perdue nice? Are you gonna go again?” He looked nervous, eager, caring. 

Instead of answering, Peter pulled him into a hug. Harley was quick to respond, wrapping his arms securely around Peter and pressing a quick kiss to Peter’s temple. 

Holy shit. 

Peter was home.