Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harley spent a majority of the rest of the day on-and-off messaging Spider-man, Abby, and replying to the group chat—and though he’d never admit, he did spend more time on one than the others. Spidey was funny, and he knew the same memes and references Harley did, which was a plus. 

When Tony came home, it was half past six and he brought home dinner. He looked, somehow, lighter despite the bags under his eyes. Steaks, still piping, with roast potatoes and asparagus as sides for him and Pepper. They talked over food, and Tony mentioned to Harley he found him a bodyguard. He didn't add much to that effect, but mentioned the man would be arriving Sunday, at around three. Pepper would insist on calling it afternoon tea. 

After, Pepper went upstairs to her at-home office—likely cataloguing everything she’d done for ‘working at home’—but Tony stayed behind, mentioning to Harley he needed to speak with him.

Harley, of course, like at any time that phrase had been spoken to him, felt an instant rush of fear that was gone in a moment. It happened so quickly he almost felt lightheaded, but it was more of a metaphysical thing rather than all the blood rushing to his head. He had to remind himself he hadn't done anything—well, besides plan to build a weapon using Tony’s A.I., but it was nonlethal—and he was worried for likely no reason at all. 

Tony agreed, stepping over to the couch where he’d previously indicated he’d like to speak to Harley. A casual, calm, setting. It made the teen wonder, heart attempting to quicken its pace—though, he wasn’t sure if that was possible within his body. 

Tony sat down with surprising grace, given how tired he looked, sipping at water. Pointedly, not the coffee he had been going for when he first entered the house. Harley sat on the opposite couch, weary—but also the loveseat had simply been his to sit in all day and he was still clinging to that laziness. It was like a blanket of comfort that he didn’t want to give up just yet.

“So, I met some vampires today,” Tony started, keeping a neutral expression on his face. Rubbing his hands together, as if he needed something to do with them. Restless, or cold, maybe. “For the cases the initiative is working on.”

It wasn't Harley’s fault how he tensed up. How his mind flashed the image of the last vampire he’d seen, teeth bared and dripping with blood. A crazed expression and the red eyes that hung in the middle like a centre-gemstone. The screaming, the pain, the sickly pale skin and too-thin frame being able to hold him down easily. He may have been a vampire, but it wasn't of his choice or will. Harley would likely never admit the fact aloud, but a part of him was genuinely scared of other people like him. Vicious, with the power to do so much. Take someone's humanity so entirely, end a life so quickly. The feeling of warm blood draining from a person’s body, leaving a lukewarm corpse. Not that he knew what it was like. The fear was just… always on his mind. 

He swallowed, pushed it all down like he knew best and forced his tone steady. 

“Yeah?” He prompted Tony to go on. Even though he was fighting back the image of the diner. Even though he absentmindedly clutched his wrist. Even though he could hear the man’s voice in his head, alongside a steady calm-ness he knew to blame his instincts for. It felt far out of place, enough that he could identify it. Like a kid who cries at the fact they’re tired, hating that their body is dictating their actions.

Tony nodded. “Sweet couple. Nice house. The rest is classified, but-” he took a small note card out of his blazer’s breast pocket. Fiddled with it in his hand, for the moment. “I talked to them about you.” He admitted in a much more sombre tone. Less Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Tony Stark; more Tony, The Mechanic. 

Tony vouching for them made Harley a little less tense, for the soul fact he trusted the man implicitly, but fear was a tactile thing. Skimming the surface, tracing every ounce of Harley’s nerves and holding them harshly in its grasp. Tony told them about him? “Why?” He felt a little clueless. To find commonplace? Small talk?

“I want to make sure I'm doing things right.” Tony looked at Harley with such honest determination, it took him far too long to figure out why. Harley had to remember that Tony didn't have all the answers, like he always guessed. That thought, alone, made Harley feel a little small. He didn’t like that thought. The mix of emotions is overwhelming. Shifting, Tony held the paper out for him. “They gave me this.”

With tentative hands, he takes the paper. It's just a number, scribbled on in quick pen. 

“If I’m… not able to help you with something related to your instincts, please call that number.” He rubs a hand against his face, “Given my line of work,” he doesn’t specify, Harley understands anyway, “I wanted you to have this number, too. It's a landline, so you can’t just message it, but it's there if you need it.”

The gravity of what Tony is implying sits like a rock in his stomach. He knows what Tony means, the merit it holds, but he doesn’t like the thought. Tony, Iron man; the hero, the martyr. Harley knows he’s said things like this before, mentions death like it's a sure thing as long as he’s an Avenger. He tried retiring, after Ultron, but nothing was ever that simple. Now, it seems like his main goal is keeping Harley set for however long his life may be. 

He doesn't know what to say, but he takes the card, and on a whim moves to sit beside Tony. He hugs him, for all he can’t bring himself to say. Imagining Tony, gone, was like imagining his sister or Ma. Tony was the closest thing he had to a father — the man everyone kept calling ‘his dad’, even. Harley didn’t want to think of him being anything other than alive. Let him live in ignorance for a little longer.

Harley rests his head, on Tony’s shoulder, willing a single stray tear to stay within the confines of his lashes. And they sit there, for a moment. Two. Three. Tony’s hand starting to rub his back and just held him in a way he didn’t know he needed. Better yet, in a way he didn’t detest. Harley feels comfortable in Tony's side, the sweet buzzing of his instincts curling into something he didn’t quite mind. A soft hum, happy and content that Tony is there.

Harley doesn’t know how long they sit there, but eventually Tony does speak up again, hand stuttering in its movements but ultimately going on.

“There’s another thing.” When he pulls back, Tony looks like he’d eaten a lemon, trying to control the flavour’s effect on him. Pained, almost.

Harley felt on edge, immediately. The same anxiety from before threatened to claw up his throat, bubble in his stomach. His instincts didn't bother to flair, though, he still hated that fact. Even worse, he tried to relax, in turn. Like his body was attempting to assimilate his old self into this… different one—a vampiric one, he knew. It didn't know if it wanted to be a vampire or a human. 

“What is it?” He questioned, trying to stay calm. Keeping his expression neutral. He didn't quite understand his lack of fight, but in the face of Tony… his hindbrain's fallowness was apparent for those who had eyes to see. Tony was too caught up in breaking news, while Harley’s was too pliant to even think it was an issue with anything but himself. 

“Steve was with me today.”

It took Harley a moment. Maybe two. He was trying to find out an overly-external meaning—he felt like he was missing context clues with the anxiety clogging his brain. But like turning on a lightbulb, it clicked on eventually. Steve, Tony’s friend. Captain America. Captain America was with Tony while meeting the vampires. He knew.

At that, his instincts finally seemed to react, flailing into something akin to worry. Worry… sort of. Protective-ness? Anger, but not for him—though he didn't know what for. Whatever it was felt primitive, and Harley did not like that. 

“Oh.”

Steve knew he was a vampire. Steve was with Tony when he met the other vampires. Captain America knows he's a vampire—gosh that sounds like a joke. But Tony’s face was too grave. Too open. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, Rogers must have found out only incidentally. From a way he couldn't yet fathom but would make sense if Harley asked. He wouldn’t, though. If he didn’t ask, it wouldn’t complicate things. There was no going back now.  

“Right,” he swallowed. Right. “I’m—okay. He’s a superhero, it probably wasn’t the craziest thing he’d seen.” Harley assured, not really knowing if that was for Tony or himself. He knew how Tony reacted, a calm and cool composure, he’d seen magical aliens and gods. Vampires was far from a stretch. Not to mention, Steve was an advocate for Mutant Rights—an ongoing issue, even before the Sokovia Accords original ratification. Basically the people’s princess at this point, accepting in every way to anyone. He’s notoriously gone to protests, before he was exiled, standing up for all types of issues. It wasn’t too hard to guess how accepting he’d be. Harley shouldn’t be worried. 

Something in Harley felt annoyed, if he had to pick a word for the feeling. Not at Tony—never at Tony—but oddly at the fact it was Steve Rogers. But, Harley couldn’t stress on the fact. He didn’t need Tony’s assurance to know it wasn’t purposeful, he trusted him implicitly. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony told him. Genuine, but Harley already knew that. 

His hand twitched spasmodically. Harley set an assured smile on his face, tentative. Not as if the situation was ideal, but as if it was fine. Nothing they could do now. “It's okay..” He acquiesces, instinctive to make sure Tony didn’t blame himself, but not necessarily untrue. “It was bound to happen, sometime—someone was likely to find out.”

He made it sound flippant. Tony’s face was still grim, but not for the fact he didn’t believe Harley. The look on his face was unknown to Harley, as a whole, beside the pain. Maybe he was just really sorry. Harley didn’t linger on it. He forced his face into a more convincing ‘it’s fine’ look, and hoped it conveyed well.

The man sighed. “Okay, then.” He didn’t sound too assured. Harley didn’t linger on it. He nods, a few times, looking into the distance for a moment, thinking a mile a minute like the genius he is, before snapping his attention back to Harley. Back on track. Back to the next pressing matter. Harley guesses it must be exhausting being a genius, so many things rushing through his brain at a mile a minute. Never focusing, over obsessing — if he ever met with a psychologist, Harley would be sure the man would be diagnosed with O.C.D. on the spot. Maybe A.D.D., too.

Harley waits, patiently, for the next topic he knows Tony wants to bring up. He has that look on his face that means there's a few things they should talk about. He’s never really sugar coated things, if he doesn’t want Harley knowing specifics, he doesn’t say anything about it, but that's often an extreme.

“So, another thing,” he starts, expectedly. “I’ve officially hired some personal security. For you.” It's a leading statement, Harley already knew that part. This, he knows, is Tony telling him who.

His voice is still shining through a particular shade of ‘he's not quite comfortable’ so, really Harley has no clue how he should prepare himself for the information. He keeps the smile on his face, and steels himself. His instincts take the information in stride.

♡

Harley finds himself on the roof. Sitting there, thinking about the vampires Tony told him about. He hadn't put much thought to them, in a way hadn’t put two-and-two together that he wasn't alone in this endeavor. That the Sanctum was only crazily prepared with entire fake cartons because they had other people who required those services. That, when the book Strange gave him talks about vampire customs, there are people actively living those lives. 

He knew, in a vague sense of things, vampires existed. He exists. But he also saw a version in his nightmares, of his loved ones going though what he is. It makes his stomach churn, especially with the potent smell of blood—not how blood smells, now, but the over-consuming coppery smell when his wrist was torn open and—

Yes, he knows vampires exist, but the way Tony talked about them was so usual. So normal. Like how they have normal lives, normal relationships, and it doesn’t affect them as much as Harley feels it weighing him down. When he thinks of vampires as a corporeal concept, a lot of it consists of the old laws he read about. The history. Lady Elizabetta, in her old styled dress. Kardiá, decorated in jewllery—a far cry from the adaptation of thralls. It's all old-world, and a little hard for him to imagine, but he knows people must be living that life. He knows there must be societies and organizations, covens and conglomerates. 

The idea forms a pit in his stomach, unexplainable to him. Despite how smart Tony claims him to be, he can't figure why he feels alone at the information. Really, he isn't. Tony brought him to New York to help him, almost immediately. His sister hasn’t once treated him like he was something to truly be afraid of, as if he was just a mutate. Pepper is a constant beacon of unchanging, she treats him just as she always has. His mom… hasn’t really talked to him, but he knows she must care because of how much effort she put into helping him find things to eat, those first few weeks. He has friends, and yeah they don’t know, but somehow Harley knows if he told them they wouldn’t be adverse to him. Or so he hopes. Still, the thought of telling them is terrifying, but the sentiment is helpful. 

He’s not alone. He has people. Sure, not vampires, but really he doesn’t think that’d matter as much as the book says it would. Really, what are they to do, bond over the flavour of blood they like? That’s not exactly normal, or something Harley is interested in.

He’s fine. Really, he is. It’s a stupid feeling.

It's Sunday already, in theory. The sun had long set and dawn is hours away, but he couldn’t sleep and the clock in his room read ‘01:29’ when he left it. That being said, he’s still in his pajamas, a soft long sleeve and red flannel pants. He toed off his slippers before sitting on the wall blocking the edge of the roof, so they don’t fall and he isn’t walking out through the front door in the middle of the too-early morning. So, his feet are dangling as he looks over the city. He’s on the corner, more so he can instead see Central Park and all that encompasses it. It’s still so odd to him, how there's a single rectangle smack-dab in the middle of the city, but looking at it from this angle makes it seem more like a controlled beauty. He can hear the occasional car horn and distant sounds drifting from Time Square and all those big, important things New York is known for. The lights to the Stark Towers are still on, glimmering as beacons, while the old Stark Tower in the distance is shrouded in darkness and construction scaffolding. 

Its new scaffolding, likely someone bought the place and wanted to revamp everything. Tony had told him about the sheer amount of non-important rooms in the tower—too many for Harley to visit all of them, but he’d sometimes walk him through while on call, way-back-when. An entire ballet studio on the training floor, an explosion-proof testing room for Tony’s suits, the main training room that really could’ve been seen as a multipurpose paintball or laser tag arena. Anyone who bought the building likely wouldn’t need that.

He turned back to Central Park.

Two police are patrolling around, he can see from where he’s sitting. It must be closed. He didn’t really think parks like that closed, but he doesn’t spend much time questioning it either. He turns his focus to the streets below. To the opposite end. He thinks he can see a theatre in the distance. It is a very simple looking building, on the outside, but he remembers seeing it listed as such on his G.P.S.—there's nothing special on the outside, and he can only remember it for that fact. The buildings beside it are just as boring, as if they’re only supposed to blend into the background of New York City. 

Except— 

Two figures sit atop a building, two down from the theatre. He could just barely see them. Something in him trills, though, and somehow he knows one of them must be Spider-man. One hands the other a cache of items, much too big for them to be holding so casually. The first, who handed it over in the first place, seems to pick up another bag from the rooftop, and they split ways. The first swings away, extra metal limbs growing from his suit and glinting in the moonlight, while the second sits for a moment before running off southbound. Jumping roof to roof—Harley thinks he sees horns on the person’s head, but he can’t be sure. 

And then there’s Spider-man—he can only be Spider-man, with the silhouette approaching. It looks like he’s planning on heading down Harley’s street, not for him but just passing through. He’s a blur of glinting metal against street lights and so many false limbs aiding his swinging. They kept the cache close, while he was almost graceful in his movements. Harley was enamoured, if he had to put a word to it. 

Enamoured, and maybe too obviously staring because the hero’s gaze flew over him, and the next moment he was shooting a web to the rooftop. Flipping with such grace Harley could only hope to emulate — impossible as it were, Spider-man was enhanced and Harley was sure that contributed to his abilities. He easily landed in a crouch, his metal limbs holding the case to his back, which was now much more obviously a reusable shopping bag. 

His white sclera seemed to glow in the darkness, the street lights not high enough to capture the rooftop, but the moon doing a portion of the work for what Harley saw. In a way, it showed off the sheer engineering that went into making the suit. And, even though he knew the hero was now standing a few feet away at least, it felt so close. Just the two of them, standing on the rooftop.

“Hey, whatcha doing out here?” Spider-man greeted, “It’s, like, midnight.” He sounds a little out of breath. A little like he’s chasing an adrenaline high. Harley doesn’t know why he knows what that sounds like. 

Harley couldn’t help but smile, just at him talking. He doesn't know why. Doesn’t know why his instincts are quiet at hearing him, listening and waiting on his every word. He tries tamping down the smile, it only half-works

Harley hears his mouth work before he can stop it. A little too honest for how little he knows Spider-man, but he’s half distracted by the moonlit sclera. “I just- uh, couldn’t sleep ‘s all.”

He turns, forcing himself to look away from the mask’s eyes, feeling some sort of embarrassment wash over him. Why did he say that?

He hears whatever’s in the bag — something obviously in plastic — get set down, and Spider-man’s metal soles clank on the rooftop. And, with a voice a little calmer, he can practically feel Spider-man get closer. His steps echo, as he speaks. “Are you… okay?”

“Yeah.” Harley doesn’t know if that's a lie. He doesn’t think it is. Or, that's what he tells himself. He doesn’t expand on it, either way. 

There’s a beat. A silent moment. Harley goes to move his hair out of his eyes — it's getting a little long in the front, he’ll need to get it trimmed — when he realizes he’s not wearing his glasses. He tries not to stiffen at that. He knows, logically, it's likely Spider-man already knows. Saw him the first time they met, alongside just now. It doesn’t make him feel any better. He doesn’t know why he even left his room without them on. He never does that. Or, tries not to. The first few days after he got them, he was admittedly a little forgetful. The beat of silence, of a moment where nothing happens outwardly, passes.

“Well, I mean, you’re awake… and I’m awake— the sky’s awake.” He referenced, and Harley could hear the smile in his words. He could practically hear the scene in his head with how often Abby had played Frozen, when it came out.

“So we have to play!” Harley finished, with a well humored huff. “The sky’s not even awake.”

Spider-man scoffed. “Well then the city is awake. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Harley repeated, a small smile tugging at his lips. Amused, eyes trained on the hero. And then, softer, forcing his eyes away, again, and instead at said city. The place of bright lights, the epicentre for superheroes, one of the places on earth that never gets a moment of stillness. So unlike Tennessee, even in Nashville, Harley could always find at least one moment of unmoving. “You know, I don’t think I really let it sink in, when people called this ‘the city that never sleeps’.”

Spider-man, a New York native, he could imagine would understand what he meant. Maybe. Look at the constant moving and apply basic laws of motion. Forever it will be moving, unless the stop is a forced thing. And, even then, Harley thinks New York would bounce back within a few weeks. She's resilient like that.

The man, the hero, hums contemplatively. Agreeably. “Never.” He looks back toward the city, as well. Taking in the skyscrapers, the brownstones, the unique buildings, the beacons of heroism—all of it. “Manhattan is… one of a kind. Queens is quieter, but nowhere near what you’re used to, I can imagine.”

“Well, I’ve never been to Queens after midnight, so I really couldn’t make a good comparison.”

Spider-man hums at the sentiment, but doesn't comment further. He stares into the forever changing night. The cars driving by, the people heading to the nearest metro—likely walking home from bars or something of the like. Car horns and laughter intermingling within the sound barrier, dancing in the air. The lights are so bright Harley couldn't find a star if he tried, and trust that he’s tried. He feels a sort of easy camaraderie standing beside the resident hero of Queens, perfectly silent. Harley can hear his heart beating in his chest, he didn't think that happened much anymore, but it's loud in his ears. 

The white sclera, so reflective he could almost see himself in it, turned to him again, abruptly. Harley’s hand starts fiddling with the collar of his own shirt, no necklace there to occupy his hands. It makes him antsy—or maybe that's just the way Spider-man looks at him. God, he can't even see his eyes, and Harley’s own eyes buzz in anticipation.

Anticipation? Sorry. Harley feels pinned under the contact. 

“So, uhm, your eyes are really cool.” He starts with, and Harley has to blink away for a moment. Anstyness gone, buzzing a distant memory. Tension fills his spine, his shoulders, he looks down. No longer at the white sclera. His instincts flair, but he can't identify the feeling, but he's not sure he needs an explicit answer when he goes physically ridged. It's enough for the hero to notice.

“Sorry! I mean, like, the red looks sick but they're nice green, too. And, I just wanted to tell you, but I kinda assumed I was seeing things the first few times—sorry. I mean, it's just really cool how they’re sometimes red, and I’m kind of curious how that works. But, it's like, sick. And I'm…rambling.”

His words spill out of his mouth like he's the owner of a very leaky faucet. It calms Harley, ever so minuscully. But, he doesn't have many words, in turn. 

“Thanks.” He says, soft. It's painfully neutral, but with the lack of eye contact he's sure it's read as a little pathetic. Harley doesn't care much. He tries not to care at all, but Spider-man sounded worried he’d offended Harley, somehow, and that settled something unpleasant in his chest and head. 

There's a genuine curiosity in Spidey’s tone that gives him pause. Genuine amazement, at that. Like he's a nerd, experiencing something new. Knowing Tony’s knack for mentoring really smart protogees, Harley assumes he is.

He doesn't quite want to explain the eyes. Telling people about him makes him want to crawl out of his skin and hide during daylight, like a bug or rodent. But, at the same time, talking to Spidey feels like an electric current to his seemingly undead body—it's not, really, but it's part of the metaphor. There's a small, inhuman part that wants to tell Spider-man everything, and keep him at arms length all the same. 

He seems to just be waiting, under the moonlight, with Harley. Like good friends, checking in, providing company. Harley wants to smother that flame. Harley wants to feed the fire. Harley doesn't know what his mind is telling him. It's confusing, and annoying, and he's sick of it.

He swallows, turning his body a little away from the web-slinger. Harley would assume them friends, after all. Friends tell each other things. Friends are honest. And Spider-man is waiting kindly for him, the warring mentalities playing on his features without his say. 

“They weren’t always like that—they’re not really green.” Harley admits, stepping closer to the ledge and sitting, again. Feet dangling, slippers off, and not looking at his conversation partner. It's a truth. It, unfortunately, has to be followed up by a lie. A half-lie, in his opinion. Could he be counted as a mutate? He's not sure. He’d have to look the definition up on google, but for the meantime, it is the excuse he uses.

“I’m a mutate. Got my- uh, abilities a few months ago.” He doesn't specify because he knows he doesn't have to. Most mutates get their abilities during less than savoury moments, he doesn't imagine Spidey will ask. He likes to think of it not as a lie, but somehow it still settles a weird unease in his gut. 

But, he thinks it might encompass his abilities in a more normal way, and that's why he does it. By how Spider-man doesn't react, a part of him thinks Tony might've said something similar, to keep his secret. Being a mutate sounded a lot more normal than a vampire. A blood sucking, heart barely beating, creature of the night — he being awake past midnight doesn't help.

“My eyes are red because of it. Tony made the glasses I wear, and it hides them.” There's a careful moment, and Harley knows he's being honest. He doesn't think anyone else, besides family, had seen him without the glasses, so he’ll thankfully not have this conversation again. He trusts Captain Rogers won't question things, somehow—likely because he believes Tony to handle all things on that front. Either way, he flounders for something else to say. To change topics, maybe, and be done. A segue. “Its not the most… usual, and I’d rather not have the media hounding me, asking me things I haven’t even quite figured out for myself.”

He watches Spider-man’s expression carefully, as much as he can with the eyes being a lonely indicator. But it's immediate in how he nods, understanding. “Very understandable. I don't think—I mean it took me, like, a year to even consider Spider-man as an option, after I got bit.”

Pause. Got bit? Like… Harley stills. His mind laser focuses on that word, and ignores every glaring factor otherwise because Spider-man just implied he got bit to get his powers. Was Spider-man a vampire? 

Logically, he should know it's unlikely. Like the vampires Tony had just met, he would’ve most definitely told Harley about Spider-man. But Harley’s hindbrain can't think of anything else in the moment, and something in him stirs. Something instinctive, trying to reach out immediately, without clarifying the hero’s words. Finally, finally, his eyes meet the centre of Spidey’s sclera trying to feel for it. A friend, a confidant—it chants like a mantra — potential, safe, connection. 

Something fails, there's a flicker. It’s immediate as the connection doesn’t go through, a wave of unease that makes it feel like his heart fell out of his chest. Like an immediate drop in blood pressure that leaves him clammy and sick. So strong that he has to keep his face neutral. It takes him too long to notice the chanting has stopped, that the mantra was his instincts. Everything he should have known, should have realized in an immediate action, floods his brain like the lights turned back on, and leaves a weird emptiness in his stomach. 

With his voice feigning skepticism—anything to ignore the awful feeling in his gut—Harley makes to ask. He needs to, even though he knows it's nothing vampiric. “You got bit? What bites you to make you spider-man?”

“A spider, apparently.” The hero replies, with a hint of exasperation in his voice. It confuses him, too. “Highly radioactive, by the way.” He adds, as a second thought. “No one told me that part, beforehand.”

Harley, still feeling the after effects of his stomach getting thrown into left-field, does his best to reply. Normal. He feels like he’s about to throw up. Nausea hits him like an eighteen-wheeler going eighty on a fifty-five. Normal feels really hard. “Somehow I doubt being bitten by a spider was your idea.”

Spidey throws a hand to his chest, mock scandalized. “What do you mean? Of course I wanted to be bit by a radioactive spider in middle school. Average day, you know. Life of an avenger!” 

It takes Harley a few moments to load all of his words, to kick his brain back into gear so he can process as the feeling tries to settle. He has to focus on the sentence for his stomach organs to un-knot themselves and he picks the first thing that sticks out. “You were in middle school?”

He likely didn’t mean to, but having given two separate statements on when he got his powers, Harley is acutely aware any part of that means Spider-man is around his age. He’s been Spider-man for years now, Tony had told Harley about him when the guy first appeared online. It was something like in his first year of high school, and a year before that Spider-man was in middle school. The same time as Harley. And, somehow, Harley doesn’t think Tony would bring a middle schooler to a fight about politics in Germany. Harley was left home when he was ten and trying to help. That being said, Tony is absolutely crazy enough to bring a high schooler, likely no matter the year. The focus helps displace some of the sick-feeling, but also sets off a few revelations.

Holy shit. 

“We’re the same age?” Harley blurts, the information coming to him like a flickering lightbulb.

Despite wearing a suit that covers his whole face and features, Spider-man’s expressions are too easy to read. His sclera’s widen, and he goes ridged. “Uhm, no?” But it comes out too high pitched for anything else to be the case. Holy shit.

So much is happening in such little time, and Harley has a distinct feeling that its because of the late hour. Too many things are being said. Too many things are happening without his allowance or realization, and the hero beside him is clearly in the same boat. He doesn’t know if he wants to stop it, though. Despite his stomach’s unease, despite the fact he’s forgotten his glasses, the blanket of night seems weighted and comforting. His anxiety still festers, but it's a lingering thing. It's not going away anytime soon, which somehow makes it a little more manageable.

Harley can’t help the giggle that bubbles up his throat, too soft and not as held back as he should be. It’s late at night, though, and the huff of a laugh Spidey lets out is telling. “Don’t laugh at me.” The hero says, attempting to sound indignant but it's more a resigned kind of thing. 

He laughs again, more unbridled, but attempts to school his expression. He tries keeping a straight face, but every so often his lips quark up and it's a challenge to keep his composure. He flattens the hand on his chest, faux flattered. “Do you slip up with all the girls or is it just me?”

It's clearly not something Spider-man is totally upset that he’s let out—though that might change in the morning—but right now Harley is playing off his reaction. He kept his own eyes searching for a shift in demeanour, in body language, but it didn’t come. It helps that Harley is tired, as well, or he likely wouldn’t have dropped such a line for Spider-man, of all people. It’s a stupid line, too, but he can’t help it. 

Spider-man huffs, taking a single moment, before doing something that makes Harley’s chest stutter in a beat. He looks Harley up and down—a very deliberate action, as Harley would just have to move his eyes. Spidey is wearing a mask, it’d hide something like that. But, no. It’s a genuine slight movement of his head. “Just you,” it feels like Harley’s knees go weak, “Not everyone requires my… services nearly as often." He jokes.

Harley’s mouth goes dry, thinking of different kinds of services instead of what's truthfully implied. Saving. Superheroes save people. Definitely not whatever images he has to keep his mind from conjuring. Nope. 

It took effort to blink those away. His brain is taking far too long to stay on-track.

He tries his best to keep his expression neutral—the same goal he’s kept the entire conversation. The hero didn’t mean that. He’s sure of it. But if his face could flush, it would, and he’s worried for a second that it does, but it can’t. It hasn’t. The way Spider-man’s body language is almost appraising says something different, but for his own sanity he can’t really focus on that. Harley pointedly doesn’t squirm under his pinning gaze. 

There’s something different about this moment, the night, and it makes every nerve stand on end. 

Harley shakes it all off, mentally, and tries moving on. His eyes scan the rooftop, really just to look anywhere but Spider-man. “It was only twice,” he scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. 

“Saving you, and walking you home. I’m a neighborhood hero, you know.” He exaggeratingly boasted, “Saving kittens from trees, helping old ladies cross the street—all that warm, fuzzy stuff. Very multifaceted, which brings it up to a few more than that, at least.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. But, don’t forget I saved you, too,” he adds, just to counter. He doesn’t know if it's okay, it feels fragile bringing up such a situation, but Spider-man replies too quickly for the mention to settle.

“My guardian angel, truly,” He agrees, deadpanned. ”But that, unfortunately, doesn’t negate anything.”

“‘Gaurdian angel’?” Harley mimics, feeling the word out skeptically. “I was thinking more ‘Knight in shining armour’. If anyone's the angel, it’d be you. Always swooping in—flying with your webs. It's all very angel-like.” He insists. 

Spidey pauses for a second, stares, but ultimately shakes his head. “Nope. You’re definitely the angel.” It comes out a little more like a whisper, and once again the air seems to charge around them. It’s happening much too often. He clears his throat, seeming to catch it too. Neither will say anything, because it doesn’t feel real. It's not even a real crush, just some old fashioned celebrity adoration—Harley misses the way that only excuses his own thoughts. “I’m the one with the armour, after all.” He gestures to himself.

This time, it's Harley’s turn to look him up and down. It's dramatic. It goes with the flow of their conversation. It's not because the metal clings to his body or highlights every muscle, every angle. 

“I suppose that's true.” He really needs water, he decides. It's so dry.

Another moment stretches between the folds of midnight satin. Sweet, soft, despite their own rough edges. It's somehow salacious, electric. Harley feels a buzzing behind his eyes and he can’t for the life, or death, of him take his eyes away from Spider-man. Lights in the distance echo off of buildings, flickering from green, to yellow, to red. The world still spins, and yet it feels like a surfeit pause. Harley breaks it with an incidental yawn.

Tire fills his head, cloudy and hesitant. It blurs things, slightly, and makes his movement feel a tad off kilter. He’s far from austere, but even his composure is slipping and he just knows he should go to sleep soon. 

“I think that's a sign you’re getting tired,” Spider-man chides, not unkindly. 

Harley can do nothing but nod in admittance. Slow and languid, sleep is finally beckoning him. 

Spider-man stands a little straighter, “I should get going. I’m keeping you up.”

It's not true. Harley was up before he saw Spidey. Had been sitting on the roof’s ledge like it was the most normal thing, too-early in the morning. “I liked the company.” He says instead of all that, but it's honest. More than he thinks he should be.

And it's for a moment, that the sclera soften their wide-eyed stare, and his lower cheeks widen. He's smiling. It's so obvious, and Harley feels honored to see it. “Anytime.” He promises. “Well— I’m in this part of the city from, like, seven to twelve most nights, now. Little later, little earlier, depends on the day.”

Harley nods at first, understanding, but there's a hitch. He tilts his head. “I thought you patrolled Queens?”

“I did—I do, just— we have a new set of patrol routes.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “No days off?”

“Most nights, I said,” Spider-man reminds. “I’m off on Wednesday and Sunday. And, I'm only out so late on Saturday—I have to go to ‘base’ after, though.”

“Base?” Harley questions.

Spider-man shrugs. “Top secret, unfortunately. Even from the boss’ son.”

The reminder of Tony is sobering from their conversation. It's a realizing thought that Tony is likely asleep, two floors below, and Harley is up on the rooftop talking to Spider-man. He swallows. “Right.”

Spider-man turns to pick up the reusable grocery bag. Harley almost forgot about it; he stands in tandem. With it closer, he can see how it’s a bright green with a simple leaf silhouette on it. It crinkles when Spidey picks it up. Harley looks at it, a question on the tip of his tongue.

He doesn't have to speak it, before Spider-man is reaching in and grabbing something inside. He throws it at Harley, whose hand reaches out instinctively to grab it. “Have one, I have too many.”

Inspecting the bag, he can see better of what it is. A plastic bag of hard candies, ‘organic’ and natural flavoured and a select few numbers as a brand name. He doesn't even know if he can eat them, but that's the last thing on his mind. “Where did you get these…?”

Why does he have a bag full of bags of hard candies? Thinking back, there were two bags of bags. Harley feels like he has many questions on the matter. 

“M— Double dee gave ‘em to me. I think he got them from a woman he… helped. Something like that. I dunno, really. I just have to figure out what to do with all this candy.” 

Harley laughs. He can't think of a reason to deny the bag, nothing that seems inauspicious within keeping his non-eating-normal-things secret under the guise of night. So he takes them, and thinks he could give them to Tony or something. 

“I have… no clue.” He admits, drawing a blank. His mind is becoming much more sluggish. 

Spider-man sighs. “Me, neither.”

Harley ends up yawning again, just as he's sliding his slippers back on. Spider-man yawns as a reaction. Harley snickers, because of it, to which the hero replies with a half-hearted ‘hush’—and it's like the night is just for them in the moment. They both laugh, Harley slides his slippers back on. He walks away from the edge, eyes still buzzing and a fuzz still clouding his vision. 

“Have a goodnight, Spidey.” Harley gives a half-wave, other hand holding the bag of hard candies.

Spider-waves back, but he’s wiggling each finger individually, and Harley thinks he sees the same sort of smiling silhouette from before. “Bye, Angel.” He adds a wink, and it's quite odd with the sclera but Harley feels himself smiling as he opens the door to inside. 

He decides to get a drink before bed, but is out like a light soonafter. 

♡

Here's the thing about Harley Keener: he wasn’t always so personable, at least he doesn’t think so. He’d been an outlier. Seen as too outgoing for the smart kids, and too smart for everyone else. He was never in band or theatre, and kept to himself. Got bullied for doing things as mundane as asking furthering questions and raising his hand in school—already in classes ahead. He was bullied, until one day Tony surprised him with an unplanned weekend he was staying in Rose Hill, by picking him up at school in Harley’s mustang he couldn’t yet drive. 

Everyone loved him afterward. Teachers who once didn’t intervene, nor did they speak to him, started telling him he was a prodigy. Middle school felt entirely different, with people actually liking him—girls asking him out, parties, hanging out with people his age. It doesn’t mean they liked his mannerisms, but with such a change he didn’t think it was much of a hassle to amend himself. He dressed according to Abby’s standards, asked her to help him with his outfits despite her being younger. She always had a good eye. He learned to flirt, in the weird sort of way middle schoolers attempted to be older beyond their years. It only got better in high school. He’d never assumed it’d be like a movie, popular kids defined and separated, but it was pretty damn close. 

Harley was liked, and known, by pretty much everyone. He knew Tony Stark, Iron man, was smart like him, too. He was well dressed and when he answered questions in class, he got smiles instead of rolled eyes. ‘Wow, you’re so smart’ from girls, as he slowly started to figure he liked guys better. Didn’t bother saying anything until the summer after his first year—everyone came back talking about how they made gay marriage legal, and he learned which friends where amenable about that kind of thing. Some people were… less inclined, but after Harley was basically outed, it didn’t matter. He was still popular, so it was cool to be gay. He was people’s ‘gay-best-friend’, despite it being a little demeaning at times, and he played the role perfectly. 

Every single person who reached out before the new school year, this year, only did so after finding out he was taken in by Tony Stark. Harley ignored their messages. Harley had messaged a few people he’d be leaving the next year, just before he boarded a plane to New York, and none of them replied until the news stories came out. 

Harley hadn’t been an idiot. He knew a lot of the people he surrounded himself had only done so for the fact of his connections, his wits, his achievements, but were shallow. He just didn’t expect everyone he’d known to be like that. It stung, when he had one circle he considered ‘actual friends’ and it had simply turned out to be nothing.

When Harley wakes up from a nightmare, it's of those same people finding out what he is. Looking at his red eyes, and sharp teeth. It's the façade breaking. It leaves him panting and clutching his chest. It’s them, alongside Spidey, and his current circle finding out. Whenever Harley blinks, he can see their faces. Disgusted, horrified—one asking if he’s killed anyone.

He’s shaking. Violent, rippling when he wakes up. Tears are in the corners of his eyes, and his throat feels hoarse. He’s seventeen. Tomorrow, he knows, is the thirtieth of September and then it's thirty days until he’s eighteen. He shouldn’t be so shakable, but he feels like he wants to sob. He did, a few times, when he was first turned, only within the dark confines of night. He knew the reality, assumed how his life would be changed. He would grow old, watch everyone he loved die, and have to deal with it all—its a reason why he didn’t want to admit it was the case.

But it feels like too much, now. 

He gets up immediately. He can’t handle the silence of the room, and he’s on the verge of having a full blown panic attack, another if how he woke up was any indicator, and throws himself into starting his day. Doesn’t check the time.

He throws on a simple outfit, all black and more casual than he wears to school. Cargo pants with a long sleeve top that clings to his body, rather than how a henley would be slightly looser. He doesn’t put his hair up, and it hangs in a cool-sort-of shag around his face. To match the look, he pairs Doc Martins, and since there’s yellow stitching he makes a split second decision. His heart feels like it's beating out of his chest, he feels like he can barely breathe, and therefore doesn’t put the unnecessarily heavy necklace on. 

When he makes the decision, it leaves his skin with an underlying itch that only goes away when Harley settles for a small pair of false gold earrings and a few gold-tonned rings he’d found at the scrap-yard in Tennessee—it's crazy what you could find in trashed cars. He has no clue if they’re real, but they settle the feeling in his bones and he goes on. 

Harley makes to grab his glasses, but after last night is so prominent in his mind, he dosn’t want anyone looking at his eyes right now. Instead, he takes a pair of his old ones, plain black sunglasses that make him look like a douche while inside. He doesn’t plan on staying inside, so it doesn’t matter.

He can tell, through his bedroom window, that it's still dark out. He likely didn’t get much sleep at all, but he can’t stand being inside right now. He feels trapped, and part of him is yelling to go. Walk around for just a few moments. Check the perimeter. Protect, keep safe.

In other words, he sneaks through his window. F.R.I.D.A.Y. doesn’t have access to any feeds in his room, and he’s quite sure—despite having never truly tested it—that he could get past her sensors outside with his newly enhanced speed. He just needs to take a walk, then he’ll come back. Start his day, like nothing happened. He won’t even be out long, he’s sure. Plus, it's safe. Spider-man mentioned new patrol routes, right? Surely someone is out there. He’ll be back before the sun has fully risen, and if he’s not, Tony and Pepper don’t really expect to see him up early on weekends. 

But, he’ll be back before sunrise, so it doesn’t matter.

Harley slips his phone into one of his cargo pockets, and glances forlornly at his backpack where mismatched pieces of a weapon lay, waiting for him to finish such a task of building it. He looks away, and focuses on getting out.

It's a simple affair. On his way down, he shuts the window with inhuman speed, and he runs until he’s halfway down the block. It's a little difficult, since he had only tested his speed before he started drinking real blood, and the results are clearly much different. Stopping, after going so fast, almost makes him topple over. He doesn’t though, and is able to walk it off. He keeps his sunglasses on, letting his hair flop a little into his eyes, and starts walking. He doesn’t need F.R.I.D.A.Y. spotting him. 

He makes his way down the street, moon still cresting the sky, and he checks his phone for the time—shut off the A.I., and set it on airplane mode, so it's nothing more than a glorified watch—it reads ‘04:52’. He thinks it's enough time to clear his head.

He’s gone out before, ‘snuck out’, but it was back in Rose Hill where his mother likely wouldn't notice his absence in broad daylight, let alone at night. He’d take his car and see what he could do down the quiet old roads—not quite street racing when it was just him, but definitely illegal within the same strain. Not like he was going to Mexico, just some rounds within the rolling hills Tenassee had to offer. 

This feels different. The feeling he gets when thinking of Tony knowing… Tony, actually looking for him. The man has always let him be pretty free in how he does things, letting him exist within his own space a lot while still being supportive and there, it's different than his mom. His mom would assume he’d be home, if she were to ever find he wasn’t home, and not worry. Still, Tony trusts him, and he trusts Tony would give him space if asked. Yeah, he didn’t want to worry Tony, but if the man found out he was out without anyone nearby, and claimed to need a moment, Tony would back off. Still, there's something in his chest that feels odd at the prospect. Not enough to stop, though, and that's all that matters.

He keeps walking. Keeping to the sidewalks, peering down alleys every so often with curiosity. The smell of New York is a sort of smog that he gets a whiff of, every so often, and Harley decides it coincides with every time he looks down the alleyways—he therefore stops. Looking ahead, walking aimlessly. 

He passes the theatre and turns right, since left is the more central side of the city. A part of him craves to find a moment of quiet. See if it's possible, despite his conversation hours before, deciding it doesn’t exist. Even now, morning on the mend, there's people driving down the streets every so often. Runners, dog walkers, shop owners opening their wares to survive another day in this epicentre. The city is moving, slow as it may be, but moving nonetheless. Harley thinks that moment of solace, of silence, may come with an unforeseen beauty, delusional. He keeps looking for it.

He keeps walking.

He passes more row houses, apartments, hotels, a cafe that coffee is practically wafting from even so early in the morning, a community garden, and it keeps going until Riverside Dr. It seems to hit him he’d walked so far, but it doesn’t stop him, not even seeing a twinge of light in the sky. The moon is alone, and it prompts him to look over the railing. 

It's a park, below, it seems. Seating and tables, a place for runners that is completely clear. He forgets himself. Forgets this isn’t quiet Tenassee with parks that don’t quite close, and don’t quite have the funds to be sending more than one officer to patrol—though, really he stays in his single station—and jumps the fence. 

The park looks quiet, and it's so close to what he wants. What he needs to see. A moment of still, of peace, of safety. Just to be sure.

He’s over the fence, it wasn’t a very big fence, and keeps walking. He follows the path for a moment or two, before remembering he has free will and pathways are simply a suggestion, he steers off. He walks off into patches of trees, letting them shade him from the moon as he walks. He feels in his element, a word like solitude. He’s alone, physically, but the world is spinning and so many people are still buzzing with life. The park is quiet. He doesn’t see anyone. 

He looks around, looks up at the moon for the moment after. He shoves his sunglasses up onto his forehead; the moon reminds him of white sclera. He wonders if Spidey made it back to the base okay. Feels a small fuzzy cloud behind his eyes, and rubs them. He’s not tired, and if he was he wouldn’t be able to sleep. It’s likely just residual sleep. 

He walks around the basketball court, through some trees, catches sight of a car going passed on the nearby highway and the illusion is shattered. Multiple cars are passing by, interspersed by very short bouts of silence. He stares at the street for a moment, and in a blink he’s through the highway and on the opposite side. He can see the Hudson. It's a small jump down from the highway’s ledge, but the fall from his window was worse. It outputs him into another park-like area. A greenway, a small hill, a small running track, and then he’s standing before the water.

The Hudson River, moving but still. Showing off New Jersey, from where he stands. The moonlight is much brighter, reflecting in the water. Harley only thinks for a moment before snapping a picture, but pocketing his phone then, for good. 

He sits, under the light. It's a little chilly; the cold front is making quick work of the city, and the constant wooshing of river-air doesn’t help. Harley feels a shiver pulled from the depths of his spine, but doesn’t make a move to start walking back. Sometimes the cold is a welcome, biting, thing. Not quite pain, but the edge to it is something he craves in the moment. 

Very slowly, he forgets completely the contents of his dream. It's replaced with the calm he found, but the knowledge of it doesn’t go away. The fear is like a brand on his thoughts.

♡

Tony invites Harley to help him make things for ‘afternoon tea’, at around one. By then, he’s swapped to his usual glasses. 

They work in unison to ready a new teapot Pepper had purchased. Tony said she got the set on auction and Harley balked when he heard the price. It was a simple navy blue thing with flowers. Harley would’ve never guessed.

They don’t yet make the tea, but Tony wants to start with some pastries. Tony is not particularly good at making pastries, hence why he called in Harley for guidance.

“So, like, what? You wanna impress this guy?” Harley questions, pouring flour into a glass mixing bowl, while Tony measures out sugar. “I thought you already knew him?”

Tony does not measure it well, his hand twitches and part of it spills. Harley doesn’t mention it, but files it away for later. “No, nothing like that,” he starts to explain. “But this is more of a… business proposal. He’s the best at his job, yes, better than anyone else I could think of—” its a glaring complement, but doesn’t quite…sound like one “—but Pepper and I were… weary of how he’d react to a job like this.”

The way Tony says it has Harley partly concerned. He doesn’t know if it would be too late or invasive to read up on the man—the leaked files—but he doesn’t have to for a small implication to hit. “He’s done this before.” It’s not a question, at first. “With Hydra?”

It makes sense. Harley knows the basics. The Winter Soldier, Hydra’s greatest weapon. 

Of course they’d make their greatest weapon into someone’s personal security, and not just a gun. Likely some sick fuck to show off some sort of gaurd-dog to others, within their profession. Harley doesn’t like the implications. Tony nods, anyway, solemn in his expression. 

“They did,” he verbally confirms, before taking a knife to level the poured sugar, this time over the container to catch the excess. He’s methodical, he’s always methodical in the kitchen and knows how to make three things, max, which will always take him hours. This matches that energy, but the mechanical movements are a stark contrast to his usual indecisiveness and slow-ness about cooking. He’s between uncomfortable and detached, and really Harley wouldn’t blame him. “But he actually…offered, and Steve mentioned you seemed to grow on him, already.”

His eyes widened. “But I didn’t do anything? We’ve only talked, like, twice,” Harley insists. 

“Kid, almost everyone in my ‘line of work’ has at least heard of you, and quite a few of them ask after you.” 

“He was more implying he met you, thinking back on what he exactly said, but apparently you’re like a pretty big topic among the heroes,” Gwen had told him. Harley really didn’t think that was real, at all, actually. Thought Spider-man might’ve been a one-off thing. Johnny Storm, a coincidental second. (Or first, in chronological order…) But the heroes actually talking about him? Wondering about him? Also, did James Barnes really count as a superhero? Harley didn’t think he did, but the way Tony implied made it seem as so. Like he, Steve Rogers, and The Winter Soldier were equals by happenstance. Well- It’d make a little sense, he’d guessed. James Barnes was at that meeting Spider-man was at, he was likely involved in the “United Avengers’”’s—still a stupid name— affairs.

His mind flitted back to Gwen talking about it, knowing that fact, and another fear came to his thoughts. Oh god, how many people did Johnny Storm say they were ‘talking’ to? Did Tony hear that? Worse, did Spider-man hear that? Harley swallowed. He wouldn't say anything about it, just in case, but kept an acute sense of Tony’s attitude for the rest of the conversation. He didn't want to be caught off guard. Anything too-flippant would be a concern—Tony had a penchant for talking on certain topics with an aloof air, and Harley was simply thankful for the fact it was a constant about the man. Enough, that he’d be able to catch it.

“That's somehow not very assuring,” Harley joked, despite how honest the statement was. And then, just because it was such a statement, “Really?”

Tony nodded, giving him an amused look. “Most of the Avengers knew about you, before. Have asked about you, for that long already. Now they have a face to the name, and you’re ‘mysteriously’ living with me, they’re gonna ask questions, kid.”

He had a point, but it was stupid and Harley didn’t like his point, so he rolled his eyes. “As long as it's only good things.”

Tony pours one sectioned out cup of sugar into a pyrex mixing bowl, and moves on to the next. They need three white and one brown—which is an excessive amount, but Harley’s going off a box of recipes his grandmother once had. 

Tony scoffs, almost offended Harley would think otherwise. “I don’t think there’s anything I could say that wasn’t a thousand times better than how I acted in school,” he points out. “You’re a good kid, Harley.” He follows it up, entirely more genuine. 

It's an immediate addition, told so far away from joking territory—a stark contrast from his words before. Harley hasn’t quite gotten used to how Tony can say it so easily, so earnestly. It still leaves Harley feeling a little wrong-footed, not understanding how Tony is so frivolous with his care, when he wasn’t before. Needless to say, Harley switches gears. He doesn’t acknowledge the sentiment.

“Right.” He turns to his mixing bowl, thinking something up. There's a bout of silence before the first thing pops into his head. “Well, anyway, that reminds me. Apparently the news thinks I’m your secret lovechild, or something, and so did my friends.” He references them, before specifying—realizing Tony actually knows who he’s talking about. “Gwen and Harry,” he doesn’t mention Johnny, feeling the topic at imminent risk. Just in case Tony had heard about it, maybe he can keep away any mention of the teenage-hero, and he’ll just… forget. 

Tony raises an eyebrow, contemplative for a reason Harley can’t quite name. “I mean, that's not so farfetched, though I don’t think we look too much alike.” He comments lightly, “Though, I guess you do have my smarts.”

Tony sorts out some more sugar as he thinks on it, while Harley sections puff pastry dough for the raspberry sweets that are Abby’s favourites. He cuts them in squares, but adding right angles about a millimeter in on the corners to fold over the jam, later.  “Less that. More, you have a suspiciously placed Stark Tower in Memphis,” 

“Oh yeah, that would do it,” Tony agrees.

“So, what is that about?” 

“Tenassee holds one of our warehouses—our main warehouse, in the states. When we shut down weapons, Pepper oversaw it’s immediate switch in operations, and is multifaceted to multiple of our product umbrellas. It’s huge, and so pretty close to Memphis, so I thought, why not? It's also not like the other Stark Towers, barely a tower in the first place. More like, a… vertical mall for all Stark Industries products.” 

Harley gave him a flat look, replying lightly. “Yes, of course. My mistake. A vertical building… a miniature tower, that's just called Stark Tower.”

“See, now you’re getting it.” Tony smiled, joking, but changed the subject. “Now, sugar’s done, what's next on that fancy list of yours?” He gestured to where Harley’s phone was open, ingredients written down for Tony’s sake.

Harley didn’t need to look, though. “Eggs, three of them.”

Tony grabbed the eggs, commentating again on one thing or another, and it was like that how they finished the different batters for whatever pastries Harley knew best. Tony sectioned batter out from all three bowls—two different doughs, one for croissants and one for apple fritters, as well as a batch of sugar cookie dough—and they made the main parts as usual. In the latter half, Tony said he had ‘plans’ for. And, when the man took out a carton of blood from the fridge, Harley’s minor suspicions about what he wanted with the dough was proven right.

“Okay, so, here’s what I’m thinking.” Tony started, having told Friday to pull up a hologram board for notes. “I called John this morning—one of the vampires I told you about—and he gave me a few tips that I thought were really nice.” 

He brought his hand up to the hologram, and to Harley’s surprise, swiped once for a set of pre-written notes to appear. Harley felt just about ready to cry when his brain caught up to what he was seeing. Ratios and equations, a half-drawn memo of a measuring cup, and notes around every number or result. A lot of ‘b = blood’, described to be the unknown minimum amount needed to consume an item based on its water content—seemingly being a large factor. Harley knew that, in slight, but to this extent was such a Tony thing to find out. Overly thoughtful, and he was presenting it with a sort of hopeful look, one he only gets when it's truly that important. Yes, Tony goes out of his way to do a lot of things for people that are so huge it's almost alarming, but a lot of times he does it as a given. His love language is gift giving, often. 

But this is one of the few times where he cares only to help. Hopeful, in the way he knows how important this is to Harley. While he doesn’t understand in full, Harley is acutely aware about how much of himself he’s changed to accommodate the Keeners. He’s much gentler with kids, still flippantly aloof at times but also making sure Harley and Abby knew the time he spent with them was invaluable. Like a dad would’ve been.

Oh.

Oh.

Harley doesn’t cry. He’s not a kid anymore, but he does have to blink away the heavy weight in his eyes and swallow once like there’s a bubble in his throat. He knew Tony acted like the closest thing he had to a father, knew Abby called him ‘Pops’, but he perceived it as a joke that just… stuck for her. Like a nickname. But, Abby was much too methodical about everything she did for it to ever be an accident. She was much too caring and always threw her heart into everything she did. Harley was a little late to the party, realizing the fact Tony was literally their dad.

Tony always took time out of his day to talk to them. Responded to their messages as soon as he could. Took Harley in, for god’s sake. So soon after he saved the world, he was back to taking care of Harley. 

“I was thinking we could make you some specialty pastries, and also widen the things we could make you.” He explains, Tony’s eyes skimming over his own notes as if preparing to explain them. “Pepper and I have been looking over staff for the house, best cooks and all that, and we can get them to sign NDA’s so they can cook whatever.” 

Its kind. Its too kind. That crying feeling comes back and Harley has to shove it away. The thing is, you don’t really understand what you have until it's gone, and food is one of those things. People eat all the time, whatever they want, and the slow realization that he couldn’t have things he liked anymore—everytime he gets a craving for something simple like ice cream or chicken and dumplings, he likes the thought but a simple taste on his tongue is repulsive. He can’t stomach it, can’t eat it, it’s still so surreal.

And Tony, who is his dad—his dad!—went out of his way because he knew that, and he cares so, so much.

“Tony, this is…” Harley doesn’t have words. He takes a shaky breath, he feels a little feint. This is so much, even if it doesn’t seem like it. The thing with all those vampire Tv. shows and movies don’t mention is this side of things, and if Harley had any creative writing bone in his body he would write about it. “Thank you.”

Tony looks back at him, smiles, doesn’t wave him off like he normally would if it were anyone else. Like he would with anyone else. “I promised I’d help you, kid. I meant it.”

Harley nods. Turns back to the board. It takes seconds to scan, a lot of the messy work was clearly done in Tony’s head, so it's mostly just answers and things he needed to write down for a visual. In short, it's easy to understand from Harley’s perspective, yet still, he asks. “So, what's the golden number?”

Tony lights up, turning to the board. “Well, there are a few of them—”

And like that, Tony’s off. Explaining everything. Things like: the higher the water content, the less blood needs to be in the item. Further, the amount of blood in an object can replace eggs in most situations, so any baked good can be made just fine, if it requires eggs. It has the differences between animal blood and human blood when it comes to making items more palatable, and how they affect the flavours. Things that would’ve grossed him out, when he first got to New York, but having gotten all of this information from another vampire—and Tony’s own calculations—and suddenly it's less gruesome than he first imagined.

The golden numbers end up being 30: 610, milliliters of blood to dry grams. Liquid grams that are both not water-based and not blood require less than that, somewhere around ten milliliters—there are exact measurements, but Tony rounded up to be on the safe side. Harley is simply glad he has a dad like Tony. 

His instincts trill at the acknowledgement, and it's one of the few times he doesn’t feel entirely annoyed by them.