Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter Parker loved his friends. 

He wasn’t afraid to say it. Sure, he’d probably catch all sorts of shit for using flowery language if he was within Flash’s braindead earshot, but it was true: Peter really, truly, wholeheartedly loved his friends. He’d kill for them. He’d die for them. He’d commit all sorts of questionable semi-illegal actions for the sake of them.

Right now, though, he wanted nothing more than to strangle them with his bare hands.

—

It had started with an - albeit suspicious - request from MJ to walk her to her locker.

“Just wanted to talk to you,” she shrugged. “What’s wrong with that?” There was nothing wrong with it; but MJ wasn’t someone who liked to be walked anywhere. I’m not a dog, he could imagine her saying. I can walk on my own just fine. But he couldn’t see a reason to turn her down - not that he wanted to, either; it was nice spending time with her, even if he had a somewhat sneaking suspicion that she was keeping something from him.

They were about halfway to her locker when she stopped dead in the corridor. “Did you hear that?” 

She turned to him, pausing, and Peter strained his ears. He… couldn’t. Nothing other than the usual chatter and pipes and scuffle of feet on the tiled hallway. The hallway they were in was surprisingly empty, actually, for out-of-class hours. Peter turned back to her, but as he opened his mouth she shushed him, her eyes narrowing as her head tilted. “I think it’s coming from over there.”

She pointed to the thick door to the janitor’s closet.

Peter turned to it and took a few cautious steps before pressing his ear to the door. Movement. The rustle of clothes, the sound of breathing. “There’s someone in there…” 

“Ned?” There was a thud before a surprisingly familiar voice called out, and Peter’s stomach dropped a little as the familiar accent hit his ears - though it was muffled through the thick wood of the door. “Is that you? Can you let me out of here, now? I dunno if this is a weird prank or something, but it’s not actually all that funny.” 

“Harley?” Peter blinked in disbelief, and he heard the jingle of keys as MJ slid one into the lock. The door swung open and he stood for a moment at the other boy glancing back at them looking equal parts annoyed and confused. “What’re you-”

There was a sudden shove, and he was sent tumbling into the room and into Harley. He whipped around, hair standing on edge but spidey-sense surprisingly and confusingly silent before - oh. MJ stood at the threshold, a triumphant glint in her eyes as she slammed the door shut behind her and plunging them into darkness.

Oh.

Oh.

“MJ?” Peter called, alarmed as he detached himself from Harley and stood up straight again, trying to reorient himself in the cramped and crowded space. “What the hell?”

“Welcome to the Get Along closet,” MJ’s muffled voice came through the door more clearly than Peter would like. “You two need to sort out your shit, and it seems like the only way you’re gonna do that is through exposure therapy.”

“We live together!” Peter cried, knocking on the door. “That’s more than enough exposure, now let us out , MJ!”

“Not until I see some progress. I’m sick of listening to this shit everyday.” Peter thudded his head against the wall, and Harley made a pained noise behind him. MJ’s voice came again, “I’m locking the door, by the way,” she said loudly, like the jingling of keys wasn’t enough to go by. “The super-duper strong lock should hold. So don’t try to break out of here, Peter. No normal person could.” There was another, longer pause, and Peter could hear her amused snort. “You’d have to have, like, superpowers or something to do that.”

There was a final jingle of keys, then silence.

“Hey!” Peter called, banging harder. “MJ! Hey! Let us out!” He could feel a horrible spiraling panic pinch his chest, and he hit the heavy wooden door harder. “Hey, Anyone! Let us out!”

“It’s not gonna work,” Harley muttered next to him, but Peter kept on banging. “Door’s too thick or something. No one heard when I tried.” Eventually, he pressed his back a little further against the wall with his fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. It was too dark in here. Much, much too dark. Too dark, and too cramped, and-

-and it wasn't her fault, obviously; it was partly his fault for not fucking talking to his friends like they asked him to, so really he deserved this. How were they supposed to know about his… aversion to small spaces if he didn’t talk to them? The thought didn't comfort him as much as he would have liked. The claustrophobia, the darkness, the everything had his breathing picking up a little, his chest tightening as he bumped into the side of the closet as well. There seemed to be barely any space in here, barely any air - Peter was sure that if he stretched his hands to his sides he could touch both walls with his fingertips.

It was too dark, other than the tiny glimpse of light that crept in through the crack of the bottom of the door, but it was still hard to breathe as he pressed further into the warmth next to him, a reminder that he wasn't alone while simultaneously retreating away from the walls that were closing in, and-

“Hey!” Harley snapped, shifting uncomfortably. “Personal space, dude.”

“Sorry,” Peter gasped, jerking away. His voice sounded thin, even to him.

Harley frowned, and Peter could barely make out his expression in the dark. “Are you… okay?”

“I’m just, uh,” Peter swallowed, wondering how bad of an idea it would be to break down the door in front of Harley, super strength and secret identity be damned. “Not a fan of small spaces. Or the dark. Neither, really. Particularly in combination.” He took a couple of steadying breaths, and once he could breathe again somewhat normally (-focus on the crack under the door, focus on the crack under the door, focus on the crack under the door, there’s light light light-) he cleared his throat.

“So, she got you too, huh,” Peter said a little weakly.

“I think she put Ned up to it,” Harley sighed, leaning back against the wooden walls. “He was acting weird anyway. Figures. Should’ve seen it coming.”

His eyes slid shut, firmly pressed together, only opening every now and then to confirm that the light was still under the door and he wasn’t, in fact, under ten tons of rubble from a collapsed car park. Or a condemned warehouse. “You should have,” Peter muttered a little spitefully (though he knew deep down he was more frustrated with the circumstances than with Harley, right now), his eyes still trained on the crack of light under the door while counting his breaths in time with each odd number he counted.

“Says you! You’re dumb enough to get pushed into a broom closet? What the hell’s wrong with you?” Harley gritted out.

“Hey, smartass,” Peter said lightly, still tapping a finger with each number he counted before just giving up and sinking to the floor. It was a little dirty, but it was lighter so that was a win in his book. “You’re in here, too.”

“Because it’s Ned!” Harley defended, scooching back a little against the wall against the brooms and mop buckets with a displeased huff. “He’s like, the least threatening guy around.”

A few moments passed in silence, and Peter needed to talk because sitting here in silence was going to kill him. “How’d you even end up in here?"

“I don't want to talk about it,” Harley muttered. Peter winced.

The bell rang, muffled but distinct. “We’re missing class,” Peter said with a glance up at Harley, fingers brushing out to trace the crack under the door.

Harley shrugged. “I’m more worried about sleeping here.”

“MJ wouldn’t do that to us.” He paused, a little bit of bitterness creeping into his tone, “...Ned wouldn’t do that to us.”

It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. But it was still annoying. It was her way of helping - and most of the time, when it came to stuff like this at least - she was right. She liked to pretend she wasn’t an emotional person or like she didn’t care about petty fights or whatever, but he knew that the bickering bugged her. She thought she was helping. It wasn’t fair to get mad at her, even if the way she went about… ‘helping’ was a little childish, in his opinion.

“...How’d she even get the keys to the janitor's closet, anyway?” Harley asked once the dust had settled and they had both made themselves comfortable.

“I don’t even know,” Peter muttered, head resting on the wall behind him, “I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming.”

The two faded into silence again.

Moments passed and the quiet stretched between them, the air feeling staler by the second. Finally, Harley stood, brushing off his pants. “Okay,” Harley declared, cutting off Peter’s spiraling panic again. “I’m done. We’re not staying in this closet until MJ decides otherwise. How do we get out?”

Peter hesitated, eyes pinching shut as he allowed himself to feel pathetic for his next suggestion. “We could call Mr. Stark…”

“Absolutely not,” Harley shot him down. “I'm not that desperate. How’d we even explain that, anyway?”

“Good point,” Peter muttered and tried not to feel any more pathetic than he already felt. “Maybe we can pick the lock or something?”

Harley shifted from his place next to him, “Do you have your phone on you or something? I think mine fell out of my pocket when Ned shoved me inside...”

“I thought we weren’t calling Mr. Stark,” Peter asked confusedly, head tilting up to where he assumed Harley’s head would be.

“For the flashlight, not to phone help, dumbass.”

Peter wanted to smack him. Instead, he handed the phone over. Cooperating would get them both out of here faster. If giving into MJ’s stupid get-along idea got him out faster, he didn’t care.

“The locks have been stuffed with something,” Harley let out a pained noise. “She was expecting this. It looks like chewing gum or blue-tack or something."

“Okay,” Peter says as he accepted his phone back from Harley. He took a breath, and closed his eyes a little tighter. When did he shut his eyes? “That's fine. That’s cool. No problem. No biggie.”

“Any other ideas?”

Peter cracks an eye open, flicking the flashlight on to scan the room quickly. “The roof?” he suggested after a moment. “It looks like there's a vent or something.”

“You got a screwdriver on you?” Harley deadpanned.

There was a sharp, hot burst of anger that laced through his chest. “Shut up,” he snapped, shrugging off his shoes. “I have an idea. Lift me up.”

“What?”

He could hardly climb up the ceiling via wall with Harley standing here watching uselessly - so they would have to do this another way. He doubted Harley could punch through a solid metal grate, either, so this would have to do.

“Lift me up,” Peter repeated, louder. It was a slow process - it took a couple of fumbled attempts before he managed to get a foothold in Harley’s hands and managed to get a grip on the ceiling. He stuck his hand into his pocket, ratting around for his phone again before flicking the flashlight on, wincing at the bright light. He shone it up towards the grate, missing a couple of screws and thankfully a little thinner than he’d originally assumed.

He smacked a fist to it with a rattle, testing the strength. 

Harley makes an unimpressed noise. “You’re not gonna be able just punch through it, you id-”

Peter put a little more force into his next swing, using just enough strength to pop the screws loose and the vent filter rattled as it fell to the side. Dust cascaded down, making both boys cough.

“You were saying?” Peter asked a little smugly before coughing again. “It’s all dusty,” he wheezed, and Harley sneezed below him. 

“It’s probably rusted to shit,” Harley muttered from below him. “Lucky shot.” 

In this position at least, he could sort of pull himself up with his feet now on Harley’s shoulders. The vents were probably wide enough for him to squeeze through, but he didn’t trust putting his weight on them. “Ew,” Peter muttered, shifting uncomfortably as the vent groaned under his weight. He pressed against a panel, just to test it - wincing when it gave way too easily. No way he was crawling through that. 

The last thing he needed to do was fall through the roof into the hallway. Or maybe even into the middle of a class.

“Any luck?” Harley asked.

“No,” Peter muttered, climbing back down and dropping onto the floor. He flicked his phone on regardless. “I might just guilt Ned into letting us out."

“That gonna work?”

“Depends if I can guilt him enough to overturn his fear of MJ.”

peter parkour: Dude. what

It was a couple of moments before his phone buzzed in response. “What’d he say?” Harley asked, leaning over. Peter stuck a hand out and half-heartedly shoved him away. “Is he coming to let us out now?”

“Can you wait like two seconds?”

chairguy: Bro im sorry

chairguy: It had to happen she made me do it

peter parkour: Let us out

chairguy: I cant im in class

peter parkour: I DONT CARE

chairguy: Sorry bro mj said she’d be back for u after class

peter parkour:  IM MISSING CLASSES

chairguy: Idk what to tell you man shes scary

peter parkour: I cant believe youd do this to me

peter parkour: I thought you were my guy in the chair.

chairguy: I AM

peter parkour:  You locked me in a closet.

chairguy: MJ DID IT WASNT ME

peter parkour:  You knew about it :(

peter parkour:  Harley is my new guy in the chair now ig

peter parkour:  Maybe ill get his help for all my cool stuff.

chairguy: You dont mean that

peter parkour: I do 

chairguy: Ok. enjoy your next 40 min of closet time :)

peter parkour: Ned.

peter parkour: Ned wait

peter parkour: Ned no i didnt mean it

peter parkour: NED IM SORRY WAIT COME BACK

chairguy: Sorry cant hear you im learning rn :)

peter parkour: NED PLEASE

chairguy: Think about what you said and you can apologize in person

peter parkour: I hate you both im going to get into the school records and lower your gpa by 3 pts

chairguy: You can try :)

chairguy: You think you can out-hack ur guy in the chair?

chairguy: brb getting yelled at for texting in class

“Ned’s useless,” Peter muttered, shoving his phone back into his pocket with more force than necessary. He’d crossed the line between guilting and flat-out annoying, and now Ned definitely wasn’t coming. Figures.

Peter slid back down to his place on the ground, legs criss-crossing beneath him. “You gonna stand there the whole time?”

“You’re sitting on the floor?” Harley shot back, incredulous.

“Yeah? What else am I supposed to do?” Peter shrugged, leaning back. Dust coated the corners, and the faint smell of old cleaning supplies clung to the air - but at least it was further away from the now-open vent that had dust cascading from above. “Standing isn’t gonna get us out faster.”

“But it’s dirty.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Don’t be so precious, country boy.”

“Shut up.”

A tense silence followed, broken only by the muffled sounds of the hallway outside and the occasional creak of the old door. Peter tapped his foot anxiously, each tick amplifying the claustrophobia gnawing at him. His chest tightened again - What if no one came? What if they were stuck here for the rest of the day? What if MJ actually forgot about them?

She wouldn’t. He knew that. It didn’t make him feel much better, though.

“You wanna play Angry Birds?” Peter blurted suddenly after another few moments passed. Anything was better than sitting there doing nothing, spiraling into panic. He’d lose his mind if he sat here, doing nothing other than thinking about how dark and small and cramped the place was, and he was sure his lungs would stop working if he-

He switches his phone back on, and the light illuminates the darkness of the closet. He focused on the sliver of light under the door, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. Light. There’s light. It’s fine.

Ned wasn’t coming. MJ definitely wasn’t coming. No one would let them out until classes let out at least - save the janitor actually unlocks the door for them. Peter hadn’t seen the man around much, anyway. He doubted that the one time he desperately wanted to he’d suddenly be there.

Parker Luck strikes again.

Harley glanced at him, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Or Tetris,” Peter offered, feeling a little desperate now, glancing down at the screen while steadily avoiding looking at Harley. “Your choice.”

“...Sure,” comes Harley’s somewhat hesitant response. “Fine. Whatever, nothing else to do,” he exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath. “Pass it here.”

Another ten minutes or so pass, the phone switching between them occasionally. Harley had ended up settling down beside him somewhere despite complaining about the dust bunnies gathering in the corners, but they'd ended up with their knees knocking together as they leaned over each others shoulders to watch the game. It didn't take very long before frustration picked back up again.

Harley squinted at the screen, frowning with concentration. “You suck at this,” Peter said after Harley’s third attempt to launch a bird that sailed miserably past its target.

“I’m trying!” Harley hissed, his thumb jabbing the screen. “I’ve never played this before! What am I supposed to do?”

“It’s a game made for kids,” Peter deadpanned.

“And yet you still have it on your phone,” Harley shot back.

“Sue me. I like to enjoy life a little. Maybe kill some time on the subway. Or, when we’re, say, trapped in a broom closet.”

“Shut up,” Harley muttered, handing the phone back.

Peter snorted, phone clicking off and sending them both into darkness. “No? Because it’s actually your fault we’re in here in the first place.”

“My fault?” Harley echoed, a touch hysterically. “I was tricked into being locked into a broom closet. How's that my fault?”

“You’re dumb enough to fall for Ned’s bullshit when he can't keep a secret to save his life.” Sorry, Ned, Peter thought to himself. But also fuck you. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you!”

“Hey, smartass,” Harley grit out, tensing next to him, “I didn’t see you get your way out of here either.”

“I’ve never been locked in a broom closet before, so excuse me for not having a plan!”

“Neither have I!” Harley exploded, throwing his hands up.

Peter crossed his arms, his voice stubborn and biting. “If you’d just been, like, a normal person, we could’ve gotten along fine. We wouldn’t be here.”

“The more you talk, the harder I want to hit you,” Harley growled.

“Likewise.”

“I should’ve shoved you into the roof vent when I had the chance. Maybe if you fell out the other side, you’d at least be useful enough to let me out.”

“The door would still be locked, dumbass. And even if it wasn’t, why would I?”

The tension boiled over as the bell rang. Peter didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly Harley’s hand was fisted in his hoodie, and Peter’s own grip was locked around Harley’s jacket collar. The confined space only made things worse - Peter’s back hit the door with a dull thud as Harley shoved him, the frustration radiating off them both.

“Get your hands off me!” Peter growled, grappling to push him back as they clumsily made their way up from their position on the ground.

“You first!” Harley snapped, their foreheads knocking together as Peter lifted a leg up to kick against the other boy - not hard enough to do serious damage, but hard enough to get him to let go.

Before he could meet his target, though, the door suddenly swung open. Without the support, both boys stumbled out in a heap onto the cold tile floor of the hallway. Peter groaned, his elbow smacking the ground, and Harley rolled off him with a muttered curse. MJ stood over them, unimpressed, arms crossed. Beside her, Ned winced, his guilt written all over his face.

“You know,” MJ said dryly, “the whole point of this was for you two to stop fighting.”

The hall was bustling now, students pausing to stare at the scene. A few looked concerned; most just seemed confused. Peter sat up a little quicker at the sight of the onlookers, “ why would you think that that would work? In what world would that make him more tolerable?!”

“Fuck you,” Harley snapped.

Peter shoved him over as he got to his feet, dusting the residue grime from his jeans off. “Great idea, MJ,” Peter gritted out. 

“Yeah,” Harley grumbled, brushing dust off his jacket. “Worked a treat. We’re totally bonded now.”

“I hate you,” Peter muttered. MJ rolled her eyes, but Peter jabbed an accusatory finger at her. "No offense, but you're an idiot. You're smart, but I think that's the dumbest shit you've ever pulled.” She scoffed, but Peter frowned at her. "I'm serious. You pull that again and I'm spilling orange juice in your book bag."

Her eyes narrowed, "You wouldn't."

Peter held firm. "Try me."

"Hey, yeah, no," Harley interjected, jerking a thumb at Peter. "I agree with him. Don't do that again, actually."

MJ shrugged, before shooting him a wry grin. "Hey, I think that's the first time you've both agreed on something. Guess it worked."

Peter just stuck his tongue out at her in response.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t mind patrolling with people on call with him. Usually.

He liked the quiet, somedays. It made it easier to focus on the streets, to listen for shouting or footsteps or anything like that. But deep down, a lot of the time it felt lonely. He didn’t like being by himself for extended periods - and while Karen helped with that, she wasn’t a complete replacement for company. Not really.

Now, though, he was regretting joining the call.

“So, wait, you’re telling me you’ve never had a churro?” Ned was saying, his voice incredulous.

“Not never, just not recently,” MJ replied, and Peter could picture her shrugging, completely unbothered by the horror in Ned’s tone.

He jumped across a rooftop, catching himself on the edge and swinging over the rooftop with a muffled grunt. The noise didn’t stop the conversation, and he stood, brushing the grit of the rooftop off of his suit and continuing across the city skyline. 

It was nice. Mostly quiet, aside from the chattering in his ear, but it was peaceful in a way that he enjoyed.

“You live in New York and you’ve never had a churro?” Harley snorted, completely ignoring her, and there was the sound of shuffling as he probably shifted around in bed. Maybe he was on his laptop again, with the cheap headset that always left that dumb wave in his hair. “What’s next, you’ve never had a bagel?”

MJ’s voice came through, dry as ever. “Oh, I’ve had a bagel. Once. Years ago. Life-changing experience.” Peter could hear the faintest hint of a smile in her tone. “I’m more of a funnel cake person anyway.”

“Funnel cake?” Ned sounded scandalized, and Harley gagged. “MJ, we’re in New York. How do you live here and not eat churros? It’s like… a rule.”

Peter was trying to listen, but he was only half-paying attention to the conversation. He was sure there was something down the block, but there wasn’t any yelling or anything just yet. There were a couple of bars around here, anyway, so maybe it was just stupid people doing stupid things after one too many drinks. He made his way over in the direction of the noise just in case, jumping across another stretch of roof and almost fumbling the landing at the miserable noise Ned let out.

“It’s not a rule,” MJ countered. “If it were, I’m pretty sure Peter would’ve mentioned it.”

Peter snorted at the sound of his name, stepping down onto a lower level. “You guys know I’m here to stop crimes, right? Not to be a referee on MJ’s awful taste in food?”

She let out a scoff, but Ned ignored it. “Peter, you’re from Queens,” he said. “You should be ashamed. How can you let her slide on this?”

“I’ve been busy,” Peter defended, scanning the streets below. Now that he could see it, there were a couple people gathered inside the bar talking loudly, but it didn’t look like anything was happening just yet. No fighting just yet. Maybe they were just being loud. “Y’know, stopping crimes and stuff. Taking down bad guys. Catching car-thieves.”

“Half the time, all you do is help old ladies cross the road and feed the stray cats by Delmar’s,” Ned replied flatly. “This is more important.”

Peter rolled his eyes, about to fire back when the talking turned into the rising noise - now shouting - below. He shifted, leaning forward to get a better look just as a brawl erupted inside the bar. Chairs scraped against the floor, and the distinct sound of glass shattering echoed out onto the street. One of the women on the sidelines screamed, and Peter sighed, already feeling the headache forming.

“Uh, what’s happening?” Ned asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Bar fight,” Peter answered tersely, flipping off the rooftop and landing with a thud. The impact barely registered as he straightened, pulling open the door and stepping inside. The arguing had escalated into punching and swearing, and Peter ducked as a glass sailed through the air and hit the wall behind him with a shattering noise. He yanked one of the men back, snatching the chair he’d been about to use as a weapon right out of his hands.

“Booooring,” Harley drawled through the comms. “Where’s my crazed maniacs? Where’s my comic book villains? Gimme the Joker, Peter. I want to see you fight the Joker.”

Peter snorted, sidestepping as another glass shattered against the bar. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

“Who’d win?” MJ mused.

Peter ducked a punch and quickly webbed one of the more aggressive fighters to a nearby table. The man let out a drunken shout of frustration, struggling against the webbing, but Peter ignored him.

“Peter, obviously,” Ned said, like the good friend he was. “He’s got superpowers. The Joker is just a guy.”

“A guy who fell into radioactive goo,” Harley corrected. “It’s, like, radioactive versus radioactive. It’d be a draw.”

Peter winced as his fist connected with a particularly beefy guy’s jaw, and the man dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. Peter cringed, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. Ouch, he was going to have an awful headache tomorrow.

“Peter has spider powers,” Ned argued a little more emphatically.

“Yeah, but all those powers gave him was an iron deficiency and poor circulation,” Harley countered. “The Joker could just crank up the AC, and Peter would fall asleep and go into hibernation or something.”

"He's sticky, too," Ned defended, and MJ snorted.

“It’s not hibernation!” Peter gritted out, his talking absorbed by the sound of the fight as he ducked under another swing. “And that’s not my fault! But I’m kind of busy breaking up a bar fight, remember?”

His spidey sense blared, and he dodged a glass that one of the webbed-up drunks had somehow managed to hurl at him. The man’s aim was terrible, but the constant dodging was starting to wear on Peter’s patience.

“You think they’d serve churros here?” Harley asked after a beat.

“At a bar?” Ned scoffed. “Are you stupid?”

“A little,” MJ said nonchalantly.

“Hey-!” Harley protested, his voice cracking in indignation.

“Can you guys shut up?” Peter hissed under his breath, narrowly avoiding another punch before he let out a frustrated noise. He fired off a rapid series of webs, sticking the last few brawlers to the floor. They struggled against the restraints, drunkenly swearing and groaning, but the room was otherwise quiet save for the occasional grunt. Peter exhaled, relaxing as he leaned against one of the tables.

“...I still think the Joker would win,” came Harley’s voice, and he almost turned and shouted into his comms but the sight of the bartender stepping out from behind the counter had his jaw snapping shut.

He clutched a towel in his hands, wringing it nervously. “Thanks for stopping that bar fight, Spider-Man,” he said, his voice shaky but sincere.

Peter gave him a small two-fingered salute and a practiced smile despite the fact that it was covered by the mask. “No problem, sir.”

The bartender hesitated, then gestured toward the bar. “Can I get you a drink?” he offered, “On the house.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh, no thanks. Can’t be swinging and drinking, y’know?” He mimed a wobble, as if he’d drunkenly tumble into a building. The joke fell flat, but the bartender seemed undeterred.

“Just one,” the man insisted. “You really saved my ass back there.”

Peter stalled, something a little like nervousness rolling in his stomach. He didn’t drink. He couldn’t drink. The thought of alcohol made his stomach churn, and sure, his metabolism would probably burn it off before it could affect him, but still - it wasn’t happening.

“Um…”

In his earpiece, Ned was scrambling. “Don’t tell him you’re underage,” he begged. “Peter, don’t tell him you’re underage.”

Peter opened his mouth, then shut it again. His mind was blank, the pressure mounting as the bartender waited expectantly. Finally, the man took a step back, reaching for a glass. “I’ll just get you something small.”

“Say you’re allergic?” Harley suggested, “Maybe, like, related to you’re spider-ness. Can spiders drink alcohol?”

Shut up, Harley, he wanted to hiss, but he couldn’t say anything to him in front of the bartender. He watched with another rising panic as the man lowered the glass under the tap and started to fill it.

“What don’t normal people drink?” Ned asked, “Maybe say something like-”

“I’m pregnant!” Peter blurted out. 

“-medication,” he finished flatly.

The bartender’s face morphed into a look of surprise. The words hung in the air for a moment, and Peter wanted nothing more than to reach out and cram them back down his throat. The man froze, his hand hovering mid-air, while Peter immediately regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.

In his ear, MJ’s voice was deadpan. “You’re an idiot.”

“Dude,” Ned whispered, his tone a mix of awe and horror. “You didn’t.”

 Harley howled with laughter in his ear, and Peter winced at the volume. “Oh my God,” The other boy wheezed. “Oh my God. I can’t breathe. This is the best day of my life.”

The bartender blinked slowly, as if he were trying to process what had just been said. “...Congratulations?” he offered hesitantly. Then, as if realizing how awkward that sounded, he corrected himself. “No, wait - congratulations! Is it a boy or a girl?”

Peter’s face was on fire. He could feel the heat even through the mask. His brain short-circuited, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “It’s an, uh…”  he hesitated, blanking. “It’s a… spider.”

“A spider?” Harley shrieked with joy in his ear, and Peter suppressed another wince. Ned lost it. “Oh my God, Parker, you’re such an idiot! You’re pregnant! With a spider!”

The bartender looks a little paler, now, all the relief and joy that was on his face before draining away. Peter didn’t blame him. His joy had died now, too.

“A spider?” the bartender repeated, his expression shifting from confused to horrified.

“Yep,” Peter doubled down, popping the ‘p’ and regretting every decision he’d ever made. “Y’know. Eight legs. Eight eyes. Uh. Arachnid.” He raised his hands, doing the little gloved-finger wiggle to mime legs, and the man looked sick. 

The man’s haunted expression didn’t change. “A… spider? How does that… How did…?”

Harley howled with laughter again, and Peter wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “Long story. Anyway, I, uh, gotta go!” Peter said quickly, shooting a web at the ceiling and yanking himself upward, turning around to shout, “thanks for the offer!”

He scrambled out of the bar faster than he’d ever moved in his life, and once he was safely perched on a rooftop, he pressed his hands to his face and groaned. His earpiece crackled with the sound of Harley’s uncontrollable laughter, Ned’s wheezing breaths, and MJ’s… judgmental silence. Peter was miserable.

“Dude,” Ned finally managed, his voice still shaky. “That was bad.”

“It wasn’t - okay, it was,” Peter admitted, flopping onto his back and trying to ignore the heat staining his face. “But it’s not my fault! I’ve got you idiots in my ear, and-!”

“ Pregnant,” Harley said, still laughing. “That’s the excuse you went with? Really? You couldn’t think of anything better?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Peter demanded, his voice muffled by his hands.

“Literally anything else,” MJ said. “Medication. A strict diet. Allergic to alcohol. Driving, Peter. Driving would’ve been better.”

“With a spider?” Harley wheezed again, and Peter wanted to snap at him. Mostly, he was just sufficiently humiliated.

Peter groaned again, staring up at the stars. “This is awful.” 

Harley’s laughter started up again, and Peter sighed, knowing he’d never live this down.

Chapter Text

Peter wasn’t sure how to fix things with Harley, but he was sure as hell good at making things worse. So naturally, he leaned into that.

—

In his shoes. In his clothes. His pockets, his pencil case, his locker. They were everywhere , shifting from mint green to yellows and pinks and whatever they had available. Peter had long been banned from Tony’s workbench; the one time the man had gone to actually grab a sticky note and found each unopened packet he’d had missing he’d lost his mind.

The Avengers were finding them under gaming consoles, in DUM-E’s clasped hand, pasted over the buttons for different floors in the elevator. Or, the one Peter was most proud of, is when Clint had been caught in the crossfire, tearing open (what had looked like ) an unopened bag of chips.

He’d been less than pleased when a rainbow wave of papers had fallen out. 

—

There was a single flash of bright fluorescent pink staring down at Harley. He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Blinked again.

“How the hell-?” he muttered, craning his neck up from his pillow, squinting at the harsh light.

After stumbling out of bed and then on to the bed and a futile attempt to jump and grab it, Harley resorted to chucking random objects at the ceiling. A wrench, a rolled-up t-shirt, a book - nothing worked, other than leaving little dented marks in the ceiling. By the time he gave up, he dropped back onto the bed and glared at it. It’d fall off eventually.

What annoyed him the most, though, was how Peter seemed to be able to stick them everywhere. How had he managed the ceiling, though?

He angrily threw on a hoodie, before making his way to the common room, jamming the elevator door close button.

 “ How did you manage this? ” Harley yelled, storming into the common area where Peter sat eating cereal like nothing was wrong. “ Why is there a stupid sticky note on my ceiling, Parker?!”

Peter looked up innocently, a spoon halfway to his mouth before his gaze flicked back down to his phone disinterestedly. “What sticky note?”

Harley threw a cushion at him. “You think I don’t know it’s you? What’d you do, get a ladder? Did you crawl up there yourself like some - I don't know, some sticky note obsessed freak?”

Peter shrugged, but his lips quirked up and Harley knew . “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He let out a frustrated growl, torn between tearing Parker apart with his bare hands or storming off. The latter, unfortunately, won out.

—

The next morning, Harley groggily opened his eyes, stretching lazily in bed until he caught sight of it. Same spot. Same taunting handwriting. The sticky note was back.

He stared at it for a long moment, disbelief settling in before frustration boiled over. "No. No way."

Climbing onto his bed, Harley squinted up at the note, trying to make out what it said. The letters were loopy, just slightly tilted to the right, and even from a distance, he could tell it was Peter’s smug handiwork.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

Grabbing a shoe from the floor, he hurled it at the ceiling with more force than necessary. The note wobbled slightly but stayed firmly stuck, mocking him. “What the-?”

Next came a water bottle, a book, and finally a pillow, which only succeeded in denting the ceiling slightly. None of it worked.

“How the hell is it still up there?!” Harley shouted, exasperated. He flopped back onto the bed, glaring daggers at the offending square of neon pink.

But later that night, after hours of stewing in irritation, he knocked it down with a broomstick. He snatched it up, read the stupid note - Sleep well? - and crushed it in his fist, muttering, "I’m going to kill him."

—

The following morning, he woke up and instinctively glanced at the ceiling.

It was back.

“How do you keep doing it?!” He cried, although he didn’t even know if Peter could hear him or not through the thick walls. "Why is there another stupid sticky note on my goddamn ceiling, Parker?!”

Peter’s laughter echoed faintly down the hallway, and Harley threw his pillow at the door in retaliation. 

—

The third morning, Harley woke up cautiously. His eyes cracked open, and he stared up at the ceiling, fully expecting to see another neon-colored sticky note mocking him from above. Each morning, it had been the same story: wake up, blink blearily, and find some pastel square stuck up there, taunting him with Peter’s irritatingly cheerful handwriting.

But today? Today there was nothing. No obnoxious splash of color. No words like Rise and shine or Sweet dream s scrawled in looping script. Just the plain, white ceiling staring back at him. He blinked once, then twice, just to be sure. Still nothing.

Harley let out a long sigh of relief, letting his body relax against the mattress. Maybe Peter had finally gotten bored. Maybe someone else had become the target of his relentless bullshit. Maybe Harley was finally free. He rolled out of bed, stretching lazily as he shuffled toward the bathroom. It was shaping up to be a good day already. No pranks, no petty annoyances to deal with. He grabbed his toothbrush, glanced up at the mirror, and froze.

There it was. Neon yellow this time, stuck haphazardly in the corner of the glass, mocking him with its mere presence. He didn’t even have to read the words to feel the wave of frustration bubbling up inside him.

Still, he leaned closer, squinting at Peter’s annoyingly perfect handwriting.

Morning :)

Harley groaned loudly, letting his head drop against the mirror with a dull thunk. I’m going to kill him, he thought, glaring at the offensive little square of paper. He ripped it off with more force than necessary and crumpled it in his fist, tossing it toward the trash can. It missed, of course, landing pathetically on the floor, but he didn’t care. He was too busy wanting to strangle the other boy with his bare hands.

—

The fourth morning, Harley woke up with a sinking feeling in his gut. He didn’t even need to look at the ceiling to know it was back. Still, he opened his eyes cautiously, squinting at the ceiling… and there it was. A new sticky note, a bright mint green square that practically glowed in the early morning light, and although Harley couldn’t see what words were scrawled across the paper, they made his blood boil before he even had a chance to read them.

Frustration bubbled up as he grabbed the broom he’d left leaning against the wall - a necessity after the first two mornings of trying and failing to throw stuff to knock them down.

He jabbed at the note with the handle, his muttered curses growing louder with each failed attempt. The broom scraped against the ceiling, but the sticky note held firm, as if mocking him with its stubborn refusal to fall.

“Come on,” Harley growled, putting more force into his swings. His arm ached, and he could feel his temper rising with every second that the note stayed stubbornly out of reach. Finally, with one last, desperate jab, it fluttered down like a taunting flag of surrender.

Harley snatched it out of the air, his eyes scanning the loopy handwriting.

You’ve been slacking.

Harley had long since run out of sticky notes. He’d long since given up, but now he wants to jam the stupid piece of paper down Parker’s throat. The paper crumpled in his hand as he let out a frustrated noise. “I’m going to kill you, Parker,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his grip tightening on the crumpled note.

Harley stormed into the common area, still fuming and headed straight for Peter as soon as he saw his stupid mop of brown hair poking over the top of the sofa. He barely got a word out before Bucky intercepted him, the older man grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt like an unruly cat.

“Watch it,” Bucky said firmly, planting Harley on the couch with a stern look. “Whatever you’re about to do, don’t.”

Harley scowled but reluctantly stayed put, his arms crossed and his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. Peter, on the other hand, leaned out safely behind Bucky, before he pulled a face. The other man couldn’t see it. Harley wanted to rip him limb from limb.

“You’re dead, Parker,” Harley growled, his hands twitching with the urge to launch himself over the back of the couch. Peter stuck his tongue out in response, and Harley lunged forward.

Unfortunately, Bucky was quicker, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him back down. “Enough,” Bucky said, his voice laced with exasperation. 

Harley slumped down onto the couch, feeling completely and thoroughly stumped.

—

By the fifth morning, Harley was exhausted. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to open them because he knew his day would be immediately ruined. The minutes ticked by before he was sure he’d lay there for a full ten minutes, psyching himself up, telling himself it was just a piece of paper. Just one little square of colorful shitty one-liners, and after he knocked it down and set it on fire he could continue on with his day. He could handle it.

Finally, he stretched, counted to ten, and opened his eyes. He blinked. Then blinked again.

He could not handle it.

The entire ceiling was covered in those godawful sticky notes. It was a mishmash of colors - yellows, pinks, blues, greens - overlapped in a chaotic patchwork that covered every square inch of his ceiling. They crept around the edges of the walls, and how was he going to get this down? How did Peter even manage this?

Harley stared in stunned silence, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to process the scene before him. When he finally found his voice, it came out as a strangled scream, muffled by the pillow he grabbed to bury his face in.

It didn’t help. When he pulled the pillow away, a flurry of sticky notes rose up like a fluorescent-colored wave of hellfire from where they had drifted down overnight, scattering across his bed, his floor, his desk. They were everywhere.

“How did he do this?” Harley whispered, his voice tinged with genuine disbelief. He genuinely might cry. This was insane. He was not a heavy sleeper, but somehow Peter had managed to turn his room into a sticky note covered nightmare without him waking up. It defied logic. It defied reason.

Harley clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing. He needed to get him back.

—

Harley tried.

He’d scrounged up all the cash he had access to and went to a twenty-four-hour corner shop at five in the morning, and proceeded to buy out their whole supply. The exhausted looking checkout worker barely batted an eye at the amount of money he forked over just for sticky notes.

Once he was back in the tower, he covered the kitchen. The whole fridge. The counters were lined with them. He even crammed them into Peter’s favorite cereal box, stuffing it so full that the lid barely closed, anyone else who eats it be damned. They line the corners of the hallway of their shared floor like those little guiding lights on airplanes that he’s never liked. Then, as a final touch, sets a plastic bin full of the un-peeled sticky notes and leaves it cracked above the door.

And then he waited.

Peter was always up first. Which was weird, because the guy never seemed to sleep. Bucky and Steve were up early, too, but they seemed to stay relatively confined to their own floor. Tony wouldn’t be up for another few hours. Natasha rarely ate in the kitchen in the mornings; Harley didn’t know where she was half the time, and he figured that was probably for the best. Clint would either sleep in till noon or eat out at five in the morning, and there was rarely any in between.

After about another half an hour ticked by, the sound of the elevator door opening jerked him upright from his slouched position on the barstool. There was the sound of tired, shuffling footsteps, and Harley caught a glimpse of brown hair, but it was much, much taller than Peter’s height. 

And then he saw the goatee.

“Wait,” Harley blurted, stumbling to his feet just in time to see Tony shove the door open tiredly, empty coffee cup in hand. “Tony, stop-”

Before the man could register what he was saying, a cascade of sticky notes rained down on him like confetti, covering his hair, his shoulders, his coffee mug.

Tony said nothing. He made eye contact with Harley, his expression unreadable, before stepping back into the elevator and leaving without a word.

Fuck.

—

A few hours later, Harley found a note taped to his physics book.

 It stared at him, its neon yellow hue almost mocking, as he picked up the book with a wary frown. His first instinct was to assume it was Peter’s doing, but something about it felt... off. It wasn’t Peter’s usual loopy handwriting, and it wasn’t his usual style. Just one note on his textbook? This was subdued. Tame, even. Suspiciously tame.

He peeled it off and squinted at the words.

Stickynotes are now banned in the tower. FRIDAY will incinerate you on sight if she sees one.

- TS

He let out a scoff at the sight of it. What the hell? But the closer he looked, it was Tony’s handwriting. He’d dumped about three hundred individual sticky notes on him this morning at some ungodly hour. Maybe he was getting sick of their shit.

“What’re you looking at?” Peter asked, his voice light but laced with curiosity. His eyes darted toward Harley’s hand, catching sight of the yellow paper. Without a word, Harley turned it toward Peter, who immediately leaned in for a closer look. Peter’s eyebrows raised, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached out and plucked the note from Harley’s fingers.

Ned, intrigued, leaned over Peter’s shoulder. “What’s it say?” he asked eagerly. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of the initials at the bottom. “Taylor Swift?” he whispered, eyes wide in awe, and MJ smacked him over the head in response.

—

It started with the sticky notes, and now here he was - hands and knees digging around in Peter’s empty room to try to find something, anything to determine how he was doing it. There wasn’t a ladder or anything like that. There was no way he could climb up Harley’s walls every night. There was no way.

But Harley had no idea how he was doing it.

Getting more than a little desperate, he’d started ratting around for something, anything he could use to get Parker back. There was nothing in the closet, nothing in his desk, either aside from screws and fancy broken bracelets. Now, he was half under the other boy’s bed, in the process of digging out a shoebox. Harley wasn’t even sure what he’d been expecting when he crouched by Peter’s bed and reached for it - maybe some embarrassing childhood keepsakes, maybe something incriminating he could use as leverage. Whatever it was, he hadn’t gotten far before the door flew open and Peter barreled into him like an overeager linebacker.

“What the hell, Parker?!” Harley yelped, struggling under Peter’s weight.

“What the hell, you ?!” Peter shot back, his face red. “Stay out of my stuff!”

Harley glared, still pinned. “Stay out of my ceiling !”

“Fine!” Peter shot back, pressing down harder on him, before his eyes flick to the box and he pales. “What are you doing in my room? What are you - did you-”

“What are you doing,” Harley spat instead. “How do you do it? How do you do it overnight? I'm not a heavy sleeper!” he hissed a little hysterically. “I go to sleep and there’s a new one on my ceiling every day!”

Peter grinned, but the edge of his amusement was sharp. "Trade secret," he said, sitting back just enough to let Harley breathe but still keeping him pinned. Then, he leaned down, head next to Harley’s. He inhaled sharply, before the other boy whispered into the shell of his ear, “...Maybe it’s magic. Maybe I’ve got, like, sticky note minions or something."

Harley growled, shoving Peter’s shoulders. “Cut the crap, Parker. I’m going insane over here. Every night, there’s another one. Every. Single. Night. Do you know how much it’s messing with me? I’m gonna lose it!” Harley let out a frustrated growl, thrashing under Peter’s weight. “What kind of psychopath wakes up every morning and thinks, ‘Hey, I’m gonna ruin someone’s day with neon-colored paper’?”

Peter shrugged, the motion far too casual for someone currently pinning another human being to the floor. “I mean, you did start it. Remember the whole fridge fiasco? Or the cereal box incident? Pretty sure Tony’s still mad about that.”

“I started it?” Harley sputtered, incredulous. “You covered my ceiling first! You threw it at me in the lab! This whole sticky note war is your fault, Parker!”

Peter tilted his head, pretending to think. “Technically, it was an artistic expression of irritation. You just escalated it.”

Harley’s glare was venomous, but his struggle to wriggle free was getting nowhere. He huffed, flopping back against the floor in defeat. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“I’ve heard that a few times,” Peter said breezily, finally shifting his weight and letting Harley scramble to his feet. Peter stayed crouched, eyeing the scattered comics and, more importantly, the box Harley had been reaching for. His playful smirk hardened into something more protective. “What were you doing with that?”

Harley, brushing off his shirt, paused and followed Peter’s gaze. He straightened, defiance flickering across his face. “None of your business.”

Peter stood up, stepping between Harley and the box like a guard dog. “It’s completely my business. That’s my stuff.”

“Well, maybe your stuff shouldn’t be under your bed if you don’t want people finding it,” Harley shot back, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He was curious, sure, but the way Peter tensed made something tug at the back of his mind - like maybe he shouldn’t push too hard.

Peter folded his arms, his posture rigid. “What, so you just root around in other people’s rooms when you’re bored?”

“Only when I’m trying to figure out how the hell you’re pulling off this shit,” Harley countered. “Seriously, Parker, are you, like, sneaking in at night? Do you have a ladder stashed somewhere?”

“No, I climb up your walls and stick them individually while you sleep,” Harley let out a strangled noise and Peter rolled his eyes, moving to pick up the scattered comics and subtly pushing the box further under the bed with his foot. “It’s called sarcasm, Keener. Look it up.”

Harley didn’t respond immediately, watching Peter with narrowed eyes. 

“Fine,” Harley said after a moment, throwing up his hands. “Keep your secrets.”

Peter smirked, stacking the last of the comics. “Will do,” he gave a half-hearted salute, before grinning. “Sleep tight tonight, Keener. Who knows? Maybe your ceiling will get covered again.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t stop with the sticky notes-”

“You’ll what?” Peter interrupted, leaning in slightly. “Cover my room in them? Fill my shoes? Line my cereal boxes? Oh wait, you already tried all that.”

Harley’s glare could’ve melted steel. “You’re so dead, Parker.”

“You’ve been saying that for days, yet here I am, alive and well,” Peter quipped, finally letting him up. “Face it, Harley. You can’t win. Not against me and my-” he gestured dramatically, “-mysterious sticky note skills.”

Harley stood, brushing off his shirt and pointing an accusing finger at him. “I’ll figure it out. One of these days, I’ll catch you in the act, and then-”

“Then what?” Peter asked, crossing his arms. “Gonna write me a strongly worded sticky note?”

Harley was going to murder him.

He frowned more , but Peter’s smirk didn’t waver as Harley stood there fuming, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. For a moment, it looked like he might actually follow through on his threats and tackle Peter into the stack of comics still sprawled across the floor. Then Harley took a deep breath, a slow and deliberate inhale that promised nothing good.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Peter shrugged, his grin widening. “Kinda, yeah.”

Harley took a step forward, then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Fine,” he said, his tone almost chipper. “You wanna play games, Parker? Let’s play games.”

Peter blinked, the sudden shift in energy catching him off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harley didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and marched toward the door. He stopped just before leaving, glancing over his shoulder with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll see,” Harley said ominously, before the door clicked shut behind him.

Chapter Text

“What's your phone passcode again?” Harley’s voice crackled through the earpiece, easy and familiar.

Peter swung between the buildings, his fingers tightened around the webbing. The city lights blurred beneath him, and he barely registered the wind rushing past. He was only focused on scouting a possible location for Beck - not because he actually thought the guy would be there, but because he needed something to do, something that felt like progress. It was a small lead. Peter would follow it up regardless. And, honestly? He just wanted Harley on the comms. If he died, at least someone would know where he went.

Not that he was planning to die, but, y’know. Just in case.

His tracker was still out of the suit. He didn’t want Mr. Stark knowing where he was or tracking his movements. His phone was a risk, too, because Tony could definitely track that - but if he left it in his room, he’d be fine. So here he was, calling Harley through his suit while the other boy attempted to get him a believable alibi.

Peter arched over a rooftop and let himself free-fall for a moment before slinging another web. “Seven-five-one-five-nine.”

“Why the hell is it so long?” Harley breathed. “I just have one of the scribble ones. It's literally just a straight line.”

“Because you're stupid,” Peter muttered, half paying attention, half scanning the area below and ignoring Harley’s squawk of offense. “And it’s the Lego Death Star set piece counter.”

“Nerd.”

Peter was already moving on. “Maybe you should tell him I’m going to a party or something, because I don’t know how long this is gonna take.”

There was a pause, then Harley exhaled loudly. “Sure.”

Peter could hear the other boy unlock his phone and tap the screen. “Hey Tony, is it cool if I go to a party tonight?” Harley murmured as he typed, and Peter couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. His amusement was short-lived. Movement below caught his attention. His stomach twisted. Something wasn’t right.

A trap.

His Spidey-sense prickled just as he landed in an alleyway, a small enclosed space - a little too enclosed, and it made Peter more than a little claustrophobic. There was no buzzing wrongness that the drones brought, but there was a sharp shriek of panic from his spidey sense. No drones, but people with guns. A lot of them.

Perfect.

Meanwhile, Harley was still talking. “Will you be drinking?” he asked, relaying Mr. Stark’s texts.

“No,” Peter answered, twisting out of the way as a bullet whizzed past his head.

“Will you be doing drugs?”

“No.” A second volley. He flipped off a dumpster, webbing a guy’s hand to the gun he was raising.

“Will you be having sex?”

“N- fuck!” A blow landed hard against his knees, his leg twisting wrong. Something popped. White-hot pain shot up his side, and he staggered with a strangled cry, biting down on his lip to keep from yelling.

“Are you okay?” Harley’s voice jumped an octave, panic edging his words.

“Fine,” Peter said, a little strained. He rolled out of the way, breathing through the pain, and webbed the guy who hit him to the wall. “Just hurt my leg a little. Give me a second.”

A beat of silence. Then-

“Sure, but why the fuck are you going?” Harley read aloud. A pause. “Wait, where are you going? You don’t call me Tony. Who the fuck is actually texting me? Where’s Peter? Who has his phone? If I come down and Peter’s not in his room I’m gonna be so pissed,” Harley read, voice rising in panic. “He’s coming down!”

“Do something!” Peter hissed, dodging a swing and slamming his fist into a guy’s jaw.

“I don’t know what to do!”

“You suck at this!” Peter shot back, panic crawling up his throat. God, he should’ve gotten Ned on the call, he would’ve known what to say. Harley was great but when it came to stuff like this he was more like a discount guy in the chair. Harley made another panicked noise. “Tell him-” Peter scrambled, “tell him we’re fucking at the moment, and I’ll get back to him!”

Silence.

Then, in a horrified whisper: “He’s seen it. He’s… not saying anything.”

Peter groaned, half from pain, half from pure, unfiltered embarrassment. He didn’t have long to fester in the humiliation, though, because another man was raising a gun to fire at him. A few more hits, a well-placed web to the last guy’s face, and it was over.

Peter stood there for a moment, panting. His leg still hurt a lot, but at least he could walk. Mostly.

—

When he finally got back, he all but collapsed into Harley’s bed, and the other boy stared at him. “How’s your leg? Do I need to get out my first aid kit, or-”

“Nah, it’s back in place,” Peter muttered into the pillow. “Just hurts. It should be good in a day or two, though.”

“Well, if you need help showering…” Harley grinned, and Peter smacked him over the head with a pillow. Harley yelped, laughing as he tossed a sleep shirt and some sweatpants at Peter. Peter caught them easily, sighing as he sat up.

He showered quickly, leaving the suit in the bathroom. By the time he made it back to bed, exhaustion was settling deep in his bones. He dropped onto the mattress gingerly, wincing at the lingering pain. Harley slid in next to him, careful of his leg, pressing up against his side in a way that made Peter feel warm all over.

“I can’t believe you made me type that,” Harley muttered into the quiet room. “I mean, it’s funny, but you’re gonna have to see him tomorrow, right?”

Peter let out a long-suffering sigh, burying his face into the pillow. “That’s a tomorrow problem.”

—

The next morning, Peter regretted getting out of bed the second his foot hit the floor. His entire body ached, his leg protested violently the moment he put weight on it, and - yeah, okay, maybe dislocating it last night and then stomping it back into place hadn’t been his best idea. But he was stubborn. He could walk it off. Probably.

Harley was still buried under the blankets, snoring softly, and Peter only hesitated for a second before dragging the other boy out into the kitchen. If he stayed, he might just let himself sink back into the warmth and safety of the bed, but he was too hungry for that. 

Harley let out a miserable noise as Peter tugged on his arm, but Peter didn’t feel all that bad. He deserved it after how useless he was yesterday.

When they get into the kitchen, Peter tore open the new box of Poptarts. Harley let out a scoff at the fact that he couldn’t be bothered to actually toast them, but before he could open his mouth to retort Mr. Stark stepped into the kitchen, beelining for the coffee.

Harley shot Peter an impish grin which he firmly ignored. Peter shoved off the counter, making his way over to the barstools with the box of Poptarts but another sudden shooting pain in his leg had him wincing at the movement. Tony’s eyes snapped to him.

A moment of silence passed. Then another.

Then, the man pressed his hands to his face, exhaling slowly like he was trying not to combust on the spot. “You’re limping. Why are you limping?” Peter opened his mouth, but before he could get a single word out, realization flickered across Tony’s face. His hands slowly slid down as he stared at Peter like he’d just committed an unspeakable crime. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Peter blinked. 

Tony gestured vaguely between him and Harley. “You - he - last night-”

Harley leaned against the counter with a shit-eating grin, and panic dropped through Peter’s stomach, face flaming. “Oh my god,” Harley echoed, but with way more glee. “Holy shit.”

“It’s not what you think,” Peter blurted a little desperately, ignoring the feeling of heat crawling up his neck.  

"I don’t care," Tony muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don’t care, I don’t want to know, please don’t tell me."

"He doesn’t want us to cram it down his throat, Parker," Harley said, grinning. "He wants us to keep it in the bedroom."

Tony pressed his knuckle back to his face, turning to jam the espresso button on the coffee machine a couple more times. “I’m not - it’s not like that, I’m not-”

“He’s joking,” Peter muttered miserably, glaring at Harley, who was still looking entirely too happy for Peter’s taste.

 “I don’t care,” Tony cut in, glaring at Harley before turning back to Peter with the exhausted air of a man who had seen too much. "But that doesn’t change the fact that we need to have a talk. Because clearly, something is going wrong if you’re still feeling it a whole day later.  You’re limping. You have an insane healing factor, Peter, so whatever you two are-" He winced, visibly pained. "No. Okay. We need to have a talk."

Harley's grin vanished instantly. "No."

Peter didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

"Yes," Tony snapped, pointing a finger at them. "I don’t want to do this any more than you do, but if you’re gonna be having-" he winced again, like the words physically hurt him, "-sex, you two need to know how to do it safely -"

"Please, no," Harley begged, looking like he wanted to melt into the floor.

Peter let out a strangled noise, half mortified and half actually in pain as he covered his face with both hands.

"-because I’m a responsible adult," Tony continued mercilessly, ignoring both of their visible suffering. "Peter, I know you said you didn’t need the sex talk, but god knows how bad you are at asking for help when you need it-"

"Not with this," Peter hissed desperately, face burning. "I don’t need-"

"-and Harley, not to be an asshole, but I’m ninety percent sure your school probably just relies on abstinence talks and the whole ‘no sex ‘til marriage’ thing."

There was a beat of silence. Then Harley shrugged. "No, that’s fair."

Peter was going to die. Right here. In this kitchen.

"No, that’s not fair!" Peter blurted out hysterically. "I am not having Mr. Stark give me the sex talk!"

"It’s not just the sex talk, it’s the safe sex talk, since you two clearly need it," Tony corrected, folding his arms.

"I don’t-"

"I wish I could pass this off to Bucky, but God knows what they taught him back then."

"I’m sure Steve taught him plenty," Harley muttered. Peter let out a pained noise. Tony looked like he had physically aged ten years in a single conversation. Still, he powered through. Because of course he did.

If Peter had to sit through a full-on in-depth lecture about everything from protection to communication to boundaries, he might very actually seriously commit a crime.

"FRIDAY, lock the elevator."

" No," Peter said, betrayed. "I will climb out a window," he threatened.

"Take me with you," Harley muttered desperately.

Tony pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing hard enough that it looked like he was trying to erase the last five minutes from his memory. Peter wished he could do the same. Or maybe just phase out of existence entirely. Either would work.

"Fine," Tony said, snapping his hands away and fixing them both with a pointed glare. "I don’t want to do this any more than you do. Whatever. But I’d like to circle back to the fact that this is both of your faults. But Harley-" he turned his focus onto the other boy, finger jabbing in his direction. "-be gentle with Peter. And Peter-" the finger moved, stabbing in his direction like an accusation "-web him to the wall if he’s too rough."

Peter choked on absolutely nothing, his face going hot in an instant. "Mr. Stark!"

"I’m serious! Because Harley’s an idiot, and if he can’t control himself and he actually hurts you Bucky’s going to castrate him. You both need to learn your limits, and-"

Peter needed to stop him. Right now. Tony could not be allowed to finish that sentence. He could not let these words be spoken into the universe where they would haunt Peter forever. He needed to shut this down, and he needed to do it fast.

He just had to say something so horrifying that Tony would drop the conversation immediately. He just needed to find something enough to traumatize Mr. Stark, just one terrible, humiliating, irredeemable thing-

"I like it rough," Peter blurted out, face red, before his brain could stop him.

The silence was instant and absolute.

Harley made a strangled sound somewhere between a snort and a sob, clutching his stomach like he’d just been physically wounded by the words. Tony froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He looked like he was buffering. Or dying inside. Possibly both.

Peter, meanwhile, could feel his soul actively trying to leave his body. His face burned hot as humiliation flushed across his cheeks. He couldn’t breathe.

Tony, after a long, painful pause, let out a single, brittle, "I…"

Peter sat there, horrified beyond words, and waited for the ground to mercifully swallow him whole.

"I…" Tony tried again, but the words failed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled through his nose, and visibly pulled himself together. "I did not need to know that."

Peter gripped the edge of the counter. "Can we go?" he begged a little hysterically, voice cracking.

Tony waved a hand at them in the most defeated gesture Peter had ever seen and he leaned on the counter like he was in pain. "Go. Please. I’m going to go… do something stupid."

Neither of them hesitated. Peter practically tripped over himself sprinting out of the kitchen, leaving his Poptarts scattered across the counter behind him, with Harley right on his heels. As soon as they reached the elevator, he jammed the button frantically until the doors slid open, and threw themselves inside.

The second the doors clicked shut behind them, Peter collapsed against the wall, sliding down until his knees were drawn up to his chest. He let out a noise of pure, unfiltered misery.

Harley, on the other hand, completely lost it. He doubled over, gasping for breath between bouts of hysterical laughter. "What is your deal, dude?" he wheezed out, struggling to breathe. "Why do you - why do you always do this to yourself? It’s like - I can see it happening because you pull this face right before you say the worst possible thing, and I can just tell it’s coming, now, and-"

Peter let out a keening noise of distress, pressing his forehead against his knees. Harley nearly fell to the floor, fresh laughter wracking his body.

The elevator came to a stop. Peter never wanted to move again.

Chapter Text

Peter had been dreading this moment all month. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Christmas; it was the fact that this year, for the first time ever - (or, second, if he counted his time in the warehouse. Peter very firmly chose to ignore that year. He didn’t even know the date, he could hardly celebrate that year anyway) - there would be no tradition. There wouldn’t be Peter and May in their little shoebox apartment, their takeaway Christmas dinner, their homemade gifts. It wouldn’t be watching whatever garbage Christmas Hallmark movies they could find curled up on the couch - May with a glass of wine, Peter with orange juice. The bowl of gummy bears and candy canes scattered across their broken coffee table.

His mouth watered at the thought of the minty sweetness, the sugary crunch that made the holidays feel official. But now, with his mint allergy, the thought of even looking at one was enough to make his stomach churn.

He wasn’t even sure why he still had this obsession with them. Maybe it was the tradition, or the way they’d always been part of the holiday celebrations, like the star on top of the tree. Peter had a soft spot for tradition. Though, he probably shouldn’t, now. Nothing was normal about Christmas in the tower - it was his first time, and he had no idea what it was going to be like. But as Steve had hauled out a tree and others had pulled down boxes of baubles from wherever they’d kept them, it felt a little less intimidating and a little more familiar.

Clint sat cross-legged on the floor, methodically unwrapping delicate baubles and tossing them over his shoulder, relying on Peter’s reflexes to catch them without breaking anything. Clint was too laid-back to care if he missed, but Peter was all too eager to impress. He wasn’t about to let anything hit the floor on his watch.

Meanwhile, Harley was struggling with tinsel. It was wrapped around his arms like a glittering snake while he tried to un-knot it from the tangled mess it had been in once he’d pulled it out from the storage box. Peter watched, and no matter how hard Harley tugged, it only seemed to tighten. Peter could hear his frustrated noises, even from across the room. 

“Looking good, Harley. Really festive,” Peter teased, watching as the boy wrestled with the shiny strand. “Need a hand? Or maybe two?”

“Shut up, Parker,” Harley grumbled, twisting his body in an awkward attempt to the tinsel that was wrapped in his arms. It didn’t seem to care, staying tangled no matter how many times Harley tried to fix it. "You wanna do this instead?”

Peter grinned, stepping closer to the mess. “Nah, you’re doing great. Really got the ‘tornado chic’ vibe going.”

Tony leaned against the doorframe, watching with a flattened and unimpressed gaze. “How are you failing at Christmas decoration? What is wrong with you two?” he took another swig of his coffe, his tone dry.

“I’m doing good,” Peter sniffed as he caught another bauble and hooked it on the tree. “Don’t lump me in with him, please.”

He tried to keep his focus on decorating the tree - really , he did, but his gaze kept drifting toward Steve and Bucky. They were carefully hanging candy canes on the opposite side, and that was it. Peter’s focus snapped like a rubber band. He wasn’t sure why, but seeing the familiar red-and-white striped hooks made something inside him tighten with longing. The memory of his childhood Christmases - sitting by the tree, candy cane in hand - flashed through his mind. 

He had to have one.

“Hey, are those candy canes?” Peter asked, already moving toward the other side of the tree without thinking.

“Don’t even think about it,” Bucky said, his voice firm, not even bothering to look at Peter as he hung another candy cane.

Peter grinned and picked up the pace. “Come on, just one. I’ll risk it.”

Bucky turned, his posture tense as he held the candy cane up out of Peter’s reach. “Nope. Not happening.”

Peter paused, feeling a twinge of frustration. He tried a different tactic, tilting his head and pouting. “Please? It’s Christmas.”

“No,” Bucky said flatly, his face unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Peter groaned, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated disappointment. “You can’t deny me this, Bucky. It’s tradition! Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s tradition for you to have an allergic reaction?”

“Well, no, but-” Peter lunged for the candy cane, half-heartedly, like he might catch it if he were quick enough. But Bucky sidestepped easily, his expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch of amusement.

Before Peter could attempt another grab, Bucky made his move. With a single, smooth motion, he body slammed Peter onto the couch, sending the air whooshing out of Peter’s lungs and leaving him sprawled beneath Bucky’s unyielding weight.

“Nice try, kid,” Bucky said with a satisfied grunt, holding the candy cane just above Peter’s head.  

Peter groaned, sprawling out dramatically across the cushions. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky replied, brushing his hands off before he pointed a finger down at Peter, the gesture like a father scolding a child. After another miserable noise from Peter, Bucky smirked, brushing his hands off before turning back to the tree to see Steve’s amused expression. “Time out, kid.”  

From the sidelines, Tony’s laugh was muffled by his mug. “You really wanna risk killing yourself for a sugar rush, huh?” Clint snorted, tossing another bauble to Peter, who caught it with less enthusiasm this time. 

Peter flopped back onto the cushions, arms spread wide in mock surrender. “You’re the worst.”

From across the room, Clint chuckled, his voice muffled by the latest bauble he tossed over. “Really getting into the Christmas spirit there, Pete.” He was enjoying this more than he should.

Tony’s laugh echoed from the doorway, muffled by his peppermint coffee. “You’re gonna risk your life for a candy cane, huh?”

Peter rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. “They’re not even real mint, probably! There’s so much sugar and preservatives it probably cancels out whatever allergic reaction I’m gonna have, right?”

“Still not risking it,” Bucky said, and Steve, hanging another candy cane, nodded in agreement.

“Don’t kid yourself, kid,” Tony glanced up from his drink, clearly unimpressed. “You’re not touching one. Don’t make me ban candy canes from the Tower entirely.”

Peter sat up, indignant. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” Tony said flatly.

There was a movement from across the room, and Peter’s head whipped toward the tree again, his eyes narrowing. Harley was making a beeline for the candy canes and Peter stiffened, every muscle in his body tensing as the other boy reached for one.

Peter immediately straightened, his eyes narrowing. “Put that down.”

Harley blinked innocently. “What, this?” He twirled the candy cane between his fingers like a baton.

“You don’t even like candy canes!” Peter snapped.

Harley was clearly enjoying this. “Maybe I’ve developed a taste for them. What’s it to you?”

“Oh, not this again,” Tony said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Peter, stand down. I’m canning it here and now. Don’t make me ban all the candy canes, Peter.”

“They’re not even real mint!” Peter argued, his voice rising with frustration. “I could probably eat five and be fine!”

“Nope,” Tony said decisively.

Peter folded his arms, glaring at Harley as he unwrapped the thing and stuck the end in his mouth. Peter’s hands balled into fists, but he couldn’t do anything. Instead, he flopped back onto the couch. “I hope you choke on it.”

Clint snorted from his spot on the floor, where he was digging through another box of ornaments. “Really getting into the Christmas spirit there, Peter.”

—

Peter saw them everywhere after that. Candy canes dangled from every available surface, from the tree branches to doorframes, and even in places they didn’t belong - like Harley’s desk lamp, the coffee maker, and, somehow, in the shower. It was like the universe itself - or Harley - had conspired to mock him.

“Again with this?” Bucky said, folding his arms. “Didn’t we already do this dance with the cookies? He’s gonna end up in the medbay.”

Steve sighed, hanging another candy cane on the tree despite his misgivings. “We’ll keep an eye on him,” he said. “Hopefully, he’s learned his lesson.”

But Peter hadn’t learned his lesson. Not even close.

When Harley came back with a fresh stash of candy canes, Peter’s patience snapped. He saw Harley with at least two bags of them in his hand, and watched as he half-heartedly tossed them from the open doorway onto his bed, just leaving them there.

The second Harley disappeared down the hall, he pushed his way inside.

The mint burned his tongue, and his stomach churned with every bite, but there was this incredible, overwhelming sense of satisfaction and he refused to stop. Harley wasn’t going to win this. 

Not this time.

—

Peter regretted it about two hours later.

The medbay lights felt too bright, and the sterile smell only made his churning stomach worse. He was hunched over on one of the exam tables, pale and clutching his middle like it might stop the searing pain that shot through his stomach. 

Everything hurt. 

Harley stood nearby, arms crossed, looking far too entertained. Peter tried to block out the self-satisfied grin plastered across the other boy’s face, but it was impossible. He didn’t even have the energy to glare at him properly, not with the way his stomach kept twisting in protest.

Tony entered, took one look at the scene - at Bucky’s tired expression - and sighed in the way only an exasperated mentor could. “ So, let me get this straight,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose like it might keep the headache at bay. “You, Peter, you thought this was a good idea?”

Peter groaned, slumping forward a little more and clutching his stomach.  “It was a terrible idea.”

“Dumb doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Harley snorted, pulling up a chair. He planted his feet on the edge of Peter’s bed, the smugness radiating off him like heat. “This is literally natural selection. You knew it would hurt you, then you do it anyway.”

“Harley, shut up ,” Peter muttered, too weak to even glare at him , but he mustered enough strength to weakly swat at Harley’s leg, though it felt more like a pathetic nudge. “If you say some stupid shit like ‘bless your heart’ while I’m over here actually dying,” Peter muttered, his voice low and ominous, “I’m going to unplug all of this other equipment and strangle you.”

Harley’s grin stretched even wider. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another candy cane with a punchable look of smug-ness that made Peter wanted to punch his face in. Before Peter could lunge - or collapse - Bucky’s hand shot out and he snatched the candy cane of Harley’s hands.

The crack of it being crushed in Bucky’s vibranium hand was louder than anyone expected. 

“My candy cane,” Harley said mournfully, staring at the sugary sticky candy chunks now coating the floor.

“Serves you right,” Tony said tiredly, rubbing his temples. “You’re gonna kill Peter at this point. Stop antagonizing him.”

Harley just let out a displeased noise and plopped his boots back on Peter’s bed like it was his personal footrest. Peter, still clutching his stomach, shifted uncomfortably to make room before snapping, “You’re not in the barn anymore, so stop acting like a farm animal.”

Harley’s grin vanished, and for a second, Peter thought he might actually let it go. But then Harley’s hands curled into fists, and he leaned forward like he was going to reach across the table to strangle him. Before things could escalate, a metal hand clamped down on the back of Harley’s shirt, yanking him up like an unruly cat.

“Enough,” Bucky said firmly, holding Harley midair while the younger boy flailed uselessly. “What is wrong with kids these days?”

“Boomer,” Peter muttered, deadpan, though his voice lacked its usual energy.

Bucky didn’t even bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, he dropped Harley unceremoniously into the chair and turned to Tony. “They’re your problem,” he said flatly, before turning and walking out of the Medbay altogether.

Tony crossed his arms, looking between Peter, who looked like he might pass out, and Harley, who was pouting. He sighed, before h e turned to the younger boy, pointing a warning finger.

“Harley, if you so much as look at another candy cane today - no, if I see so much as one more candy cane anywhere in this tower, you’re scrubbing the lab floors with a toothbrush for a week ,” Tony said, pointing a warning finger. “And Peter…” He hesitated, glancing at the pale, peppermint-poisoned mess slumped on the table. “ you’re officially banned from all candy canes for life, and-” Peter let out a pitiful noise, “-a ctually, I think the stomachache is punishment enough.”

Harley raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t blame me. He’s the one who broke into my stash.”

“I feel like I’m giving birth,” Peter moaned pathetically, hands pressed to his face. “I’m dying, Mr. Stark. This is actually gonna kill me.”

“Good,” Harley muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Tony.

“I’m gonna get Cho. Peter, don’t die, and Harley…” Tony trailed off pointing a finger in his direction. “Just stop. Now both of you, behave ,” he snapped before turning on his heel and walking out.

As the door slid shut, Peter shifted, finally lying back against the Medbay bed. “You’re insufferable,” he gritted out to Harley, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Right back at you,” Harley replied, and they sank into a comfortable - albeit miserable on Peter’s part - silence. 

Worth it.

Chapter Text

When Peter woke up, he felt awful.

He had a splitting headache. His throat was killing him. He couldn’t even breathe properly - his nose was completely blocked, forcing him to suck in air through his mouth, which only made his dry throat ache even more. He felt like absolute garbage, his body heavy and sore like he’d been hit by a truck.

Peter tried to roll over, to shift into a more comfortable position, but the effort sent a wave of nausea rolling over him. The thin sliver of light that peeked in through the cracks in the curtains made him want to cry. He let out a weak groan, tears prickling at the corners of his vision. The room was too bright, his feet were too cold, and the blankets were too rough. 

It was too much. Everything was too much.

With a defeated whimper, Peter pressed his face back into the pillow, blocking out the light, the ache, and the world around him. Maybe he’d wake up and feel a little better later on.

—

He was wrong.

There was a knock at his door, and Peter groaned softly at the noise - each tap aggravated the throbbing pain in his head. He wanted to yell at whoever it was to leave him alone, but even that seemed like too much effort. Instead, he buried his face deeper into the pillow, willing the world to go away.

“Peter,” Bucky’s voice called through the door, too loud for Peter’s liking. “Steve made breakfast.”

“Not hungry,” Peter croaked, his voice rough and barely audible.

“You gotta eat breakfast, kid. I know you skipped it yesterday,” Bucky continued, completely unfazed by Peter’s protest. “Come downstairs, or I’ll be back up in five to drag you down to my floor, PJs or not.” Peter let out a pitiful moan but knew Bucky wasn’t bluffing. With (what felt like) a monumental effort, he rolled out of bed - almost collapsing as his legs wobbled beneath him. The world tilted alarmingly, and he grabbed the edge of his nightstand to steady himself. 

Was he… concussed? He didn't think he’d hit his head or anything, but maybe he didn’t remember. Hm. that was concerning. He often didn’t remember hitting his head whenever he managed to concuss himself, but then again… that probably wasn’t great.

Shivering, he grabbed a hoodie and pulled it over his head, the fabric barely helping the cold that seemed to seep into his bones. He forced himself to the elevator, leaning heavily against the wall as it descended to Bucky’s floor.

He still didn’t want breakfast. He wanted to crawl back into bed and cry.

When he stumbled into the kitchen, he felt like he was half asleep. Bucky looked at him, his brow furrowing. Steve stood abruptly as Peter dropped into a chair, his shin colliding with the table leg.

“Ow,” Peter muttered, setting his head on his elbows as he willed himself not to fall asleep on the table.

Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky, then back at Peter. “Okay, something’s wrong. He’s not supposed to look like that.”

“Are you sick?” Bucky asked, squinting at Peter and glancing over the parts of his face that weren’t hidden by his arms. “I didn’t think you could get sick.”

“No,” Peter argued flatly, though his voice sounded weak even to himself. It was probably the sore throat. “I can’t get sick. It comes with the radioactive blood.”

“You’re sick,” Bucky said with the certainty of someone who had seen this scenario a hundred times before. “I’ve been dealing with stubborn sick idiots for too long. I know what a stubborn sick idiot looks like.”

Peter glared at him, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that he was squinting. Everything was still too bright. He just wanted to sleep.

“I’ll... call Tony,” Steve announced, already reaching for his phone. “You corral him back upstairs with a hot lemon and honey.”

“I’m not sick,” Peter repeated, though the thought of going back to bed sounded far too appealing to argue further. He stood slowly, his body swaying slightly, and allowed Bucky to guide him back to the elevator.

By the time he was tucked back into bed with a steaming mug of lemon and honey sitting on his nightstand, Peter didn’t even bother protesting anymore. The warmth from the drink soothed his throat just enough to make him feel marginally less miserable. As he buried himself under a nest of blankets, he figured that maybe being corralled wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

—

Tony stepped quietly into Peter’s room, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the walls. He paused at the doorway, watching the lump under the covers shift slightly before he cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know you could get sick,” Tony said, and Peter cracked an eye open to stare at him.

“I don’t,” Peter shot back hoarsely, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow. His voice was muffled, but he figured the man would hear the frustration and leave. Why did everyone insist he was sick? He just felt bad. It happened every once in a while. No biggie.

Tony raised an eyebrow and gestured at the ceiling. “FRIDAY, give me the rundown. Is he dying or just being dramatic?”

Peter groaned as the familiar hum of the AI filled the room. “Scanning now, Boss.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but Mr. Stark was still standing there and FRIDAY was still talking and he just wanted to sleep. He let out a miserable noise and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Temperature elevated,” FRIDAY announced gently, lowering her voice which Peter figured might have been for his sake. He thanked her silently. “Heart rate slightly higher than baseline. Likely due to a weakened immune system from prolonged lack of sleep and over-exhaustion from too many pa-.”

“I don’t get sick,” Peter insisted, his voice firm despite the rasp.

“Not usually,” FRIDAY agreed, her tone softening. “But your body has been under significant stress. Without proper care, your immune system is compromised.”

“I didn’t get sick in the warehouse!” Peter snapped, peeking through the blankets and ignoring the fact that that was a blatant lie. Half the time, he was on the brink of some infection or carrying a low-level cold that he stubbornly ignored. But he’d never had some fancy AI diagnose him with ‘being sick’ so it hadn’t exactly been a priority.

Tony crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Well, you’re sick now, genius. And I’m not going to argue with an AI that’s probably smarter than both of us combined.”

Peter huffed, but he didn’t have the energy to retort.

“He’s not dying, Boss,” FRIDAY reassured after a pause, and Peter let out a snort.

“I could have told you that,” he muttered, blinking at the man before pulling the blankets back over his face.

Tony gave a small nod, his gaze softening as he looked at Peter’s hunched form. “Alright, kid. If you’re not dying, I’ll leave you to rot in bed for a while. Sleep. Hydrate. And don’t make me come back here with soup.”

“Not hungry,” Peter mumbled, but the words barely carried as his breathing evened out.

Tony sighed, stepping forward and pulling the blanket down over Peter’s shoulders so he could breathe properly. “Get some rest, kid.”

And with that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

—

“I feel miserable,” Peter muttered, his voice muffled as he burrowed deeper into the cocoon of blankets. His head still throbbed, his throat still burned, and every joint in his body felt like it had been dragged through sandpaper.

Harley didn’t even glance up from his spot perched on Peter’s desk, one leg propped on the chair while he flipped another page of his Spanish textbook. “You look miserable too,” he deadpanned.

Peter glared half-heartedly from the depths of his blankets. “Why are you here again?” he asked, his voice edged with tired exasperation.

“Emotional support,” Harley replied without missing a beat, his pen tapping lazily against the book.

“You’re not very supportive.”

“Not my fault Spider-Man’s a baby when he gets sick,” Harley shot back, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smug little smirk that Peter wanted to punch right off his face. He would if he could muster the energy to move.

“Keep talking,” Peter grumbled, shifting just enough to glare harder, “and I’m never helping you with your Spanish homework ever again.” Harley snorted, muttering something under his breath as he flipped another page. “What was that?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Harley said quickly, though a faint flush crept up his neck. He hesitated, glancing over at Peter with a wry grin. “I just said… maybe if you actually rested, you wouldn’t be distracting me so much and maybe I’d even pass the next exam on my own.” Peter let out an amused snort, because that was a lie. “ And, you probably wouldn’t feel so miserable.”

Peter blinked at him, caught off guard by the gentle tone.

“But more importantly,” Harley added, his smirk returning just enough to cover whatever vulnerability had peeked through, “if you don’t rest, I’m gonna fail Spanish because you’re the only person I know who can conjugate verbs without looking like they want to die.”

Peter huffed a laugh despite himself, the sound cracking in his dry throat. “You’re hopeless.”

“Yeah, well,” Harley drawled, his grin widening, “so are you, Parker. Now shut up and sleep before I have to start conjugating ‘to bitch about being sick’ in Spanish.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but he sank further into the blankets, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

—

When Harley got sick a week later, Peter made sure to annoy him just as much.

Chapter Text

Incredibly, awfully, it started at lunch.

“I mean, dude,” Ned tilted his head a little as he looked over his burger. “You were a little emo a couple years ago.”

Peter leaned back in his chair. “I wasn’t emo,” he insisted again, crossing his arms over his chest like that would somehow make the accusation bounce off him. “I was just… I was tired. I’d just gotten superpowers and I couldn’t sleep because the kitchen tap kept dripping and our apartment was the size of a shoebox. That’s not being emo, that’s insomnia.”

“Emo,” Ned repeated, his grin widening as he popped a fry into his mouth. “You had the whole brooding thing down, dude. Hoodies. Quiet stares out windows during math class. It was a vibe.”

“It wasn’t a vibe!” Peter shot back, his voice a climbing an octave and a touch too loud. A couple of nearby students glanced their way, but he ignored them, jabbing a fry in Ned’s direction for emphasis. “It was sleep deprivation! There’s a difference.”

 “Sure,” Ned said, dragging the word out like he didn’t believe him at all. He turned to MJ, who was still absorbed in her book, though Peter could see the faintest twitch of her lips. “Back me up here.”

MJ didn’t look up, her finger lazily tracing the edge of a page. “He’s right,” she said, her tone neutral, but Peter could tell she was enjoying this. “You just needed some eyeliner and an MCR shirt.”

“You only caught the tail end,” Ned cut her off. “It was bad, dude.”

“It was not-!” Peter groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” he muttered, his voice muffled by his palms. He peeked through his fingers to see MJ’s lips twitching upward.

“I am,” she replied lightly, finally flipping the page. “But facts are facts, Peter.”

“Emo,” Ned said again, leaning closer. “You were all…. Mysterious.”

Peter straightened, narrowing his eyes at his best friend. “I was keeping a super important secret!”

“Sure,” Ned snorted, not missing a beat. “That’s why you had that old-”

“Don’t,” Peter warned, sitting up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. He jabbed a finger at Ned, his eyes wide with panic. “Don’t you dare bring that up.”

Ned’s grin turned upwards a little more, and Peter’s stomach sank. “You know the time I’m talking about,” Ned continued, ignoring the clear panic in Peter’s eyes. “When you-”

“Stop,” Peter begged, reaching across the table as if he could physically stop the words from leaving Ned’s mouth.

“Absolutely not,” Harley drawled from his spot across the table, finally joining the conversation. He rested his chin on his hand, his grin sharp and smug before he looked over at Ned. “Please continue.”

Peter shot him a withering look, though the heat crawling up his neck probably ruined the effect. “You’re not helping,” he snapped.

“I’m not trying to,” Harley replied breezily, and he leaned back, clearly settling in for the show.

“The MCR poster,” Ned breathed, and Peter wanted to slam his head into the table.

“Ned, I swear-” Peter started, his voice strained.

“You had it up on your wall for months,” Ned continued, ignoring Peter’s weak attempts to cut him off. “Right next to the periodic table of elements, which, honestly, just made it funnier.”

MJ let out a soft snort, finally lowering her book. “You had an MCR poster? And you’re still trying to deny the emo thing?”

“I-” Peter sputtered, his ears burning. He turned to Harley for backup, but the other boy just raised his eyebrows, his grin widening. Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It wasn’t a phase, okay? I liked their music. That doesn’t make me emo!”

“It absolutely does,” MJ said, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Look,” Peter said, taking a deep breath and pressing his palms flat against the table. “I wasn’t emo. I was a teenager dealing with, you know, stuff. Big, life-changing stuff.”

“Like being emo,” Ned supplied unhelpfully.

“Like getting superpowers,” Peter corrected, his voice rising slightly. “And trying to keep it together while still, you know, passing algebra.”

Harley was openly grinning at him now, and Peter’s stomach twisted. “I don’t know, Parker,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Sounds pretty emo to me.”

He should have known that wouldn't be the end of it.

—

The quiet knock on Harley’s door was soft, almost hesitant. Peter shifted on his feet, balancing a poorly wrapped package in one hand. Inside the room, there was a muffled groan, a sound that barely reached the door. Peter took it as an invitation. With one firm nudge of his shoulder, the door creaked open.

Harley was a lump of blankets on the bed, his hair sticking out in every direction. He barely stirred, only muttering something unintelligible before turning over.

“Happy birthday,” Peter announced, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him. 

The morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains, casting a golden glow on the cluttered room. Peter crossed the room, dropping the box down onto the bedside table before making his way onto the bed and unceremoniously flopping onto it. The mattress dipped, making Harley groan louder as he buried his face deeper into the pillow. 

“Wake up,” Peter insisted, jabbing a finger into the cocoon of blankets. “I got you a birthday present.”

“It’s Saturday ,” Harley moaned, his voice muffled. “Let me sleep in.”

“You’re such a baby,” Peter muttered, settling back against the headboard. The warmth of the bed and the smell of Harley - or his hair products, mostly - was familiar. It made the room feel cozy.

Harley finally stirred, rolling over with the grace of a sloth and cracking one bleary eye open. Peter immediately felt a flicker of unease creep up his spine. There was something about the way Harley looked at him - half-smirk, half-something-else - that set off alarm bells.

“Mornin’,” Harley drawled, his accent thickened by sleep. He shoved the covers off and sat up, his movements slow and deliberate. “I got something for you.”

Peter blinked, thrown off. “...For me?” he asked cautiously. His head tilted from the place where his was resting against the headboard, eyebrows knitting together. “It’s not my birthday. I’m supposed to give you the present.”

Harley snorted, already climbing out of bed. “Sweetheart, this is my present.”

Peter’s unease deepened as Harley strode over to his closet, yanking the door open with a creak. The other boy rummaged inside for a moment before pulling out a paper-wrapped package. Without ceremony, Harley tossed it toward Peter, who caught it instinctively.

“What is it?” Peter asked, holding the package at arm’s length like it might explode. His tone was skeptical, his eyes narrowing as Harley turned back to him with a Cheshire grin.

“Take a look,” Harley replied, leaning casually against the closet doorframe. The amusement on his face was practically radiating.

Peter hesitated, peeling the fabric wrapping back one corner at a time. The first glimpse of black fabric made him pause. Then he tore off the rest in one swift motion. The contents of the package came into full view, and Peter’s stomach dropped as he stared down at the assortment of clothing. When he finally looked up, Harley’s face was pure smug satisfaction.

“No,” Peter said, the word snapping out like a reflex.

“Yes,” Harley replied immediately, his grin widening as he sauntered back toward the bed. He slid in next to Peter, their shoulders brushing as he leaned far too close for comfort, pressing against Peter’s side. He wanted to throttle him. “Please?”

“No,” Peter repeated, incredulous. He jabbed a finger toward Harley’s chest as if that would stop the insanity. “Harley, no shot .”

“It’s my birthday,” Harley said simply, shrugging like that explained everything.

Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He could already feel the fight draining out of him, worn down by Harley’s unrelenting audacity. “Fine,” he muttered, shoving the pile of clothes under one arm as he stood. “But I’m using your bathroom.”

Harley let out a mournful noise as Peter stalked toward the door. “What, you’re not even gonna let me see your reaction?”

Peter shot him a flat glare over his shoulder. “I’m going to kill you,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Peter ignored him, placing the package down on the counter with exaggerated care. He peeled back the last remnants of wrapping and laid everything out. A black MCR t-shirt. A black skirt. Chains. Bracelets. The fishnets. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Peter groaned, gripping the edge of the counter like it might steady him. “I’m not doing this,” he called out through the door.

“You are,” came Harley’s infuriatingly cheerful response. “C’mon, Parker. For me?” There was another muffled beat of silence. “Pretty please?”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His own expression looked somewhere between disbelief and resignation. “I hate you,” he hissed back.

“No, you don’t!” Harley called, his voice practically a sing-song.

Peter sighed, his head dropping forward. Fine. Fuck it. Whatever.

Getting the clothes on was a humiliating experience quite like no other. He didn’t make eye contact with the mirror as he wriggled into the skirt. 

Once everything was on, he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment. He felt like a walking, talking billboard for every questionable life choice he’d ever made. The skirt swished faintly as he shifted from one foot to the other, the fabric brushing against his legs in a way that was both foreign and disconcertingly comfortable. 

The fishnets, though? Awful.

"There's makeup too ?" Peter asked, his voice thick with disbelief. His eyes darted toward the little unopened packets that had spilled out of the gift (if you could even really call it that) just a couple of brushes, a compact, some mascara, and lipstick .

Harley gave a muffled snort from the other room. "You can do it. It's not that hard."

Peter rubbed at his temple. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that Harley wasn’t entirely wrong. Over the years, he had learned how to use makeup - but just concealer for the bruises that lingered too long, foundation to mask the occasional black eye when May got suspicious. Lipstick and mascara, though, he’d never touched before.

"Fine," Peter muttered, leaning toward the mirror. He grabbed the mascara first, inspecting the weird wand with narrowed eyes. After a few awkward attempts, he managed to swipe it across his lashes without poking his eye out. Progress. Then the powders, then the lipstick.

He stepped back and stared at his reflection, trying not to think too hard about the image staring back. The fishnets were… there. The skirt ended halfway down his thighs, and the MCR shirt hung comfortably against his torso. The chains jingled faintly when he moved.

Peter’s cheeks flushed. 

“Ready?” Harley called through the door, his voice laced with amusement.

Taking a deep breath, Peter pulled the door open, stepping out with his arms crossed tightly over his chest before he tugged the skirt a little lower. He was acutely aware of how the fabric swished around his thighs as he adjusted it for the fiftieth time, his fingers twitching with the urge to tug it lower. Harley was lounging on the bed, scrolling through his phone, one leg casually propped up. At the sound of the door creaking open, Harley’s head snapped up. His expression went from neutral to utterly delighted in the span of half a second.

Peter wanted to wipe that stupid grin off his dumb face.

“I hate you,” Peter muttered, his voice low and venomous as he tugged the skirt down a little more, though it wasn’t really going to make a difference.  

Harley tossed his phone onto the bed and stood up, moving with the kind of confidence that only someone who wasn’t wearing fishnets could muster. “C’mon…” he teased, the drawl making it sound more like a dare than a request. “You can’t be mean today. It’s a rule.”

“I’ll fight you,” he shot back, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the way he kept fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“In a skirt?” Harley asked, tilting his head. His grin widened as he crossed his arms, mirroring Peter’s defensive stance.

“What, you think I can’t?” Peter’s tone was sharper now, though his voice cracked slightly at the end. Peter felt the irrational urge to tackle him, though he wasn’t entirely sure how the skirt would hold up. “How do you - how did you even get my measurements?” he demanded.

“FRIDAY,” Harley replied smugly, and Peter wanted to tear his eyes out.

Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you,” he said again, with more feeling this time. There was a beat of silence, then two. “Well,” Peter said after a moment, trying to regain some semblance of control, “since this is apparently your birthday present, I guess I didn’t need to bother giving you mine.” He sniffed, trying to sound indifferent, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Harley’s eyes widened, and he let out the most mournful noise Peter had ever heard. “Hey, no wait! I didn’t say that - what’d you get me?”

“A cowboy hat,” he said, his tone dry. “With the word dumbass embroidered on the back.”

Harley’s gaze flattened. “I think I like mine a little better.”

“I’m kidding,” Peter said, finally breaking into a small grin, tugging on the skirt again before giving up and deciding to just drop down on the bed. He jerked his chin toward the small box on the table. “It’s not much, though, so don’t get too excited.”

Harley turned and snatched up the package before he ripped it open. His grin softened a little at what was inside. “It’s… a toolbox,” Peter explained, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “Because you keep misplacing Mr. Stark’s stuff, and he gets mad about it.”

“He’ll cope,” Harley snorted, already running a hand over the surface of the toolbox appreciatively. Then, in one swift motion, he reached over, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulled him in for a quick, warm kiss. Peter let out a surprised but pleased sound before Harley pulled back. “Thank you for the present,” Harley murmured, his voice quieter now.

Peter blinked, caught off guard by the sudden affection. “Does that mean I can take this off now?” he asked, the words flat but hopeful.

“Not a chance,” Harley shot back without missing a beat. 

“You’ve got a little…” Peter started, waving a hand at Harley’s lipstick-smudged mouth. 

“Kiss it better?” the other boy grinned, and Peter shoved his face off him.

“Go wash your face.”

Harley stood, snorting, and wiped his face with his shirt. “I’m hungry. You want breakfast?”

—

Peter shifted uncomfortably on the counter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the chains around his neck jingling faintly with every twitch of his shoulders. The skirt rode up a little too much when he sat, forcing him to tug at it every few minutes. His knee bounced anxiously as he glared at Harley’s back.

“I don’t want to be here,” Peter said flatly, his tone more annoyed than embarrassed, though the latter was bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

Harley didn’t even glance at him. He stood at the stove, flipping eggs. “Trust me, I’m well aware,” the other boy shot back, his voice dripping with amusement.

Peter let out a groan, pressing his hands to his face. “Are you doing this because I pissed you off or something?”

Harley finally turned his head, flashing a grin that was all teeth. “Is it so hard to believe I just wanted to see you in fishnets?”

Peter stared at him, deadpan. “Yes.”

Before Harley could respond, the soft chime of the elevator echoed through the room, making Peter freeze. His eyes darted toward the source of the sound, dread coiling in his stomach. Harley turned slightly, his grin widening, and Peter wanted to lunge at him. “Uh-oh,” he said, his voice sing-song as the elevator doors slid open.

Clint stepped out, before his casual stroll came to a sudden halt when his gaze landed on Peter. The archer blinked once, twice, before his lips curled into a slow, disbelieving smile. Peter pressed his hands into his eyes, his mortification palpable. “Don’t even say anything,” he warned, his voice muffled through his palms.

“Oh, Peter,” Clint said, his tone laced with mock pity.

Peter whipped his head around, chains jangling as he pointed a finger at the older man. “Clint, I swear to God, don’t you dare.”

Clint crossed his arms, clearly reveling in Peter’s discomfort. “Has Bucky seen this?”

Peter’s blood ran cold. “Clint,” he said, his voice low and threatening, though it lost some of its edge when he stumbled slightly on the counter.

Clint’s grin widened. “Or Tony? Oh my God, I’ve gotta get-”

“Shut your mouth!” Peter hissed, practically lunging forward. His movement sent the skirt flaring slightly, and Clint’s laugh echoed through the room.

The archer raised his hands in mock surrender, stepping backward into the elevator. “Sorry, Pete,” he said with a two-finger salute as the doors began to close. “You’re making this too easy.”

The doors shut with a soft ding, and Peter sat back with a groan, glaring daggers at Harley, who was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Silence stretched between them for a moment before Peter finally broke it. “I hate you,” he muttered, his tone venomous.

Harley shrugged, his smirk unshaken. “You’ve mentioned.”

—

The next arrival, unfortunately, was Bucky. 

Peter didn’t make eye contact with him, although out of the corner of his eyes he could see the man just quirk an eyebrow as Peter crossed his legs and shoveled eggs into his mouth. He didn’t say a word, just gave a faint snort before heading to the fridge. Peter released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Natasha was next. She stepped into the kitchen, her gaze landing on Peter almost immediately. Unlike Clint, she didn’t laugh or even crack a smile. She simply cocked her head, arched an eyebrow, and walked out without a word. P eter blinked after her, unsure if her reaction was better or worse.

“You good there, Parker?” Harley asked, finally breaking the silence.

Peter stabbed at his eggs with unnecessary force. “Peachy,” he muttered.

Harley hummed, clearly not buying it. “Hey, Bucky,” he called out, his grin returning. “You want some eggs?”

Bucky shook his head, grabbing a bottle of water. “Steve already made breakfast.”

Harley leaned against the counter, his expression turning sly. “D’you like his new look?” he asked, jerking his head toward Peter.

Bucky’s lips twitched as he gave Peter another once-over. “Not like I can judge,” his lip quirked up a little, though his tone was flat. “The things I did for Steve when I was younger-”

“Okay, ew, ew, no!” Peter blurted, clapping his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear this, actually. Please.” Bucky chuckled, stepping closer to ruffle Peter’s hair. Despite his annoyance, Peter couldn’t help but lean into the touch, but the moment Bucky’s hand slid away the irritation returned full force.

Natasha reappeared shortly after. Peter tried to avoid looking at her, but it was impossible not to feel her eyes on him. Without a word, she reached out and pressed something into his palm. Peter hesitated before glancing down. His breath hitched as he stared at the small bottle of black nail polish sitting in his hand. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Natasha said nothing, her expression unreadable as she turned and walked away.

Peter stared after her, the nail polish cool against his palm. “I hate all of you,” he muttered under his breath, though his voice lacked any real heat.

—

Peter slouched against the elevator wall, arms crossed as he tried not to trip over the chains jangling around his neck and wrists. The fishnets were itchy, the skirt felt way too short, and the bracelets dug into his skin whenever he moved his wrists. This was officially the worst day.

“I want to go to the lab,” Harley said after a pause, his tone far too chipper for Peter’s liking.

“I don’t,” Peter grumbled, shifting his weight.

“Of course you don’t. I’m sure you’d much rather go back and rot in bed.”

“I didn’t start the day like this,” Peter muttered, pulling at the hem of the skirt for the thousandth time.

Harley smirked, looping an arm through Peter’s. The move sent Peter’s bracelets clinking, and he shot Harley a withering look. “You’re coming whether you like it or not.” 

Peter raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I could throw you across the room right now if I wanted to,” he said, voice deadpan but laced with just enough seriousness to make Harley pause.

Harley’s smirk didn’t falter. In fact, it widened. “Hot,” he murmured, his tone dripping with mischief. Peter’s hands itched to smack him, and he very reasonably resisted the urge to punch him. “As nice as it is to have you threatening me in that skirt-” Harley continued, and Peter flushed instantly, “-we both know you won’t, because you can’t be mean to me on my birthday.”

“What are you, five?” Peter gritted out, his cheeks still pink.

“Not quite. I’m six now,” Harley snorted, grinning. Peter glared at him, resisting the overwhelming urge to headbutt him.

“Look, Mr. Stark’s not up there,” Peter said a little desperately as the elevator doors slid shut. “He’s still in bed after Ms. Potts found out he hadn’t slept in two days-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harley cut him off. “I’ve got stuff to do, and you’re coming with me.”

Harley hit the button for their floor and Peter scowled. “I thought we were going to the lab.”

Harley turned to him, his grin still infuriatingly smug as they descended. “Without my fancy new toolbox? Please.” The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. “Wait here, please.”

“I’m not a dog, Harley,” Peter snorted, leaning back. “I’m not just gonna-”

Before Peter could finish, Harley pressed him against the elevator wall with a kiss, the other boy's hand coming up to cushion his head so he didn't smack it against the metal behind him. The action was so sudden and smooth that Peter let out a muffled noise of surprise, his wide eyes snapping to Harley’s face. Harley’s hand rested firmly on Peter’s shoulder, and he froze as he felt the other boy’s other hand slide down his side. It stopped at his waist for the briefest second before continuing lower, brushing over the edge of Peter’s skirt before disappearing underneath as it skimmed his outer thigh. Harley kept moving, hiking Peter’s leg up and around the other boy’s hip before he rubbed a little circle on the meat of Peter’s upper thigh.

Peter’s breath hitched, and a strangled, broken noise escaped his throat. 

“Stay,” Harley said firmly, his voice soft but commanding, his blue eyes locked on Peter’s.

Peter swallowed hard, his hands gripping the elevator’s railing as he nodded dumbly. His knees felt weak, and the cool metal of the railing was the only thing keeping him upright as Harley stepped back. “Hold the elevator for me, please, FRIDAY?” Harley asked brightly.

“Of course, Harley,” the AI chimed back.

Harley shot Peter one last infuriating grin before turning and striding down the hall, shouldering into his room and leaving Peter to lean against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. A moment later the other boy reappeared a moment later, toolbox in hand and standing next to Peter like he hadn’t literally just sucked the air out of his lungs.

“I hate you,” Peter muttered, his voice weak but still carrying a thread of annoyance.

Harley just grinned. “You’ve mentioned.”

—

The lab was quiet. 

Too quiet, in fact. Peter hesitated at the threshold, half-expecting Tony or someone else to pop up from behind a workbench with some smart comment about his outfit. But the room was empty, the only sounds the soft hum of machinery and the faint whoosh of the ventilation system. Peter let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as he slid into his usual seat. 

Harley, however, had other plans. He stepped into his usual place, dropping his brand-new toolbox onto the workbench with a loud clunk. Peter winced at the noise and side-eyed him. “This is why Mr. Stark doesn’t like you using his tools,” he said flatly. “You’re gonna break them already.”

Harley ignored the comment as he started rummaging through his supplies. Peter slumped further into his seat, his hand sliding into his pocket. His fingers curled around the nail polish Natasha had handed him earlier. He stared at it for a long moment, sighing long and miserable. “ Fine ,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Unscrewing the cap, Peter began idly painting his nails. He was awful at it - but granted, it was his first time. He’d never done it before. He faintly remembered May painting his nails once, years back when he was just a kid - but he couldn’t remember what color or how old he was. Just that he’d seen her do it once, and he wanted to do it, too.

For a blissful moment, there was peace.

Then came the telltale click of a phone camera and the faint sound of a photo shutter. Peter froze, his hand mid-stroke on his index finger. Slowly, he set the nail polish down, his movements deliberate. “...What was that?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm as he turned to Harley.

Harley didn’t even look guilty. He tapped his phone, turning down the sound. “Oops,” he said with a shrug, but his grin gave him away.

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Harley,” he said slowly, rising from his chair.

Before Harley could dart away, Peter lunged, knocking him back against the workbench. Harley yelped as his phone clattered to the floor. “Ned and MJ wanted a picture!” he blurted out in his defense, holding up his hands as Peter loomed over him.

“Oh, did they now?” Peter snarled, grabbing Harley by the front of his shirt. With surprising ease, he hauled him off the ground until Harley’s feet barely brushed the floor.

Harley blinked down at him, his expression somewhere between sheepish and impressed. “Hot,” he muttered again, wincing as Peter’s grip tightened.

“ I thought, ” came Tony’s voice, cutting through the tension, “I said no more canoodling in the lab.”

Peter and Harley both froze, their heads snapping toward Tony, who stood in the doorway looking both pained and mildly amused.

“You did,” Peter said after a beat, his voice flat. “I was just about to send him down the garbage disposal chute, actually.”

“On my birthday?” Harley whined, and Peter resisted the urge to shake him as the other boy glanced up at Peter with exaggerated betrayal.

“Shut up about your birthday,” Peter hissed, his tone mutinous.

Tony crossed his arms and as he glanced over his awful, horrible outfit. “Peter,” he began, his voice heavy with exasperation, “what the hell .”

“You shut up too,” Peter snapped, pointing a finger at him in warning. Harley, meanwhile, had latched onto Peter’s wrist, trying to steady himself. Peter didn’t let up, and held him a little tighter as he glared at him.

Tony looked scandalized. “Hey, this is my lab, still. You can’t come in here and bully me.”

“I can,” Peter shot back without missing a beat, his expression daring Tony to argue. Harley snorted in Peter’s grip.

“He doesn’t care if it’s your birthday, either,” Harley added with a grin.

Peter took a deliberate step back and let Harley drop fully to the floor with a yelp and thump , just enough that he wouldn’t smack his head on the edge of the workbench,  before he brushed his hands off on his skirt. “If you keep talking about your stupid fucking birthday,” Peter muttered low enough for only Harley to hear, “you won’t make it to your next one.”

Harley looked up at him with a grin, and Peter resisted the urge to kick him, or maybe step on him. “Nice view from down here,” Harley said cheekily, his hands reaching out to give Peter’s ankle a playful squeeze.

Peter twitched. Mr. Stark let out a pained noise, and Peter did kick him, then.

Chapter Text

This was such a bad idea.

Peter stared at the faint glow of his laptop screen, turning up the brightness to keep himself awake as he heard the telltale shuffling of papers from Ned’s end of the line.

"What’s the server code again?" Peter asked, stretching.

"Uh,” Ned said after a muffled clatter follows through his headphones. “I forget. Wait, let me find it, I think I wrote it down… somewhere ."

Peter leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. His eyes flicked toward the clock in the corner of the screen. It was only ten. That wasn’t… too bad. Sure, probably wasn’t the best time to start up a new Minecraft server, but he’d made worse decisions - and something about the idea of logging on, zoning out, and just existing in a different world was a little too tempting to resist.

Peter was so addicted to games like this - he’d never had gaming consoles or video games when he was a kid - he was too young when he was with his parents, and Ben and May always thought they were a bad influence. All that did was make him and Ned go all-out on sleepovers, staying up so late eating junk food and yelling at the screen they’d get sick.

This was such a bad idea, he thought again.

He tugged at the drawstrings of his hoodie, pulling it tighter around himself as Ned’s fumbling continued. Peter’s lips quirked upward in a small smile despite himself. This wasn’t smart. He’d pay for it tomorrow. He wasn’t about to regret it now, though.

"I dropped it in the chat," Ned’s voice finally broke through, triumphant. "Pretty sure that’s the right one. I’ve got like four servers bookmarked, and they all have weird names, so… fingers crossed."

"Smart," Harley’s drawl cut in, and Ned made an offended noise.

The game loaded up, the pixelated world coming into view. It was… nice. Nostalgic. There was something so fulfilling about punching a tree and making your first set of stone tools that scratched an itch Peter didn’t know he had. 

It started out simply, as all things do. 

They’d split up and wandered around the map by themselves, mostly - Peter had been grinding for materials and collecting wood. Ned was caving, and Harley was… somewhere. But it was peaceful, and relatively quiet with the game’s music playing quietly in the background.

The calm was short-lived.

"No!” Ned cried, his voice cutting through the quiet and Peter jumped out of instinct.

“What?” Harley asked, sounding a little stressed. “What’s wro-”

“ No!” Ned shouted again, more emphatic, “No, dude, there’s a creeper! " Ned’s panicked shriek blasted through Peter’s headset, making him jump. “I’m getting ambushed! There’s like four of them! Is there a spawner or something-?”

“Creepers don’t have spawners,” Harley cut in flatly, though it was cut off by the sound of Ned’s scream.

Peter flinched, his heart skipping a beat as he instinctively glanced around in-game, even though he wasn’t anywhere near Ned. "Dude, calm down!"

"It’s in the cave with me!" Ned’s voice cracked, high-pitched with genuine terror. "It’s hissing-" A death message popped up in the corner of the screen, and Peter couldn’t hold back the laugh that bubbled up. "Shut up," Ned snapped, though his tone was light, the frustration only half-serious.

There was another beat of silence.

“...I think we need a house,” Peter suggested. He’d just been stacking chests on top of each other next to a bed and a torch. It was a pretty pitiful setip.

"I’ll build," Harley said confidently, cutting in before Ned could start complaining about not saving his co-ords. "I’ve got the best taste out of all of you. I’m basically a professional."

"Sure," Peter snorted, the disbelief clear in his voice.

"I am!" Harley insisted, his voice climbing an octave in indignation.

Peter smirked, his eyes narrowing as he continued mining. He could picture Harley now, probably sitting cross-legged on his bed with that exaggerated pout he always wore when someone didn’t take him seriously.

"Yeah, okay, sure," Peter teased, letting his voice drip with mock sincerity, before he let out an offended noise as he watched Harley’s character come into view and smack him with his fist. “Hey!”

“That’s for doubting me,” the other boy scoffed, before turning around. Peter smacked him right back. It went back and forth, before Peter pulled out his stone tools and killed him. "Fine," Harley huffed. "Build your own house then."

"With pleasure," Peter shot back, grinning so wide it almost hurt.

The argument didn’t last. They fell back into the easy rhythm grinding and building, though progress was slow at best. The pixelated sun rose and set multiple times in-game, though the world outside Peter’s window remained dark and still. His eyes burned, his back ached from sitting too long, and his fingers felt stiff, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Eventually, though, he yawned so hard his jaw cracked and he winced, rubbing at his dry eyes and blinking away the blurriness as he leaned back in his chair. "I think I’m gonna log off for a bit," he said, his voice raspier than he’d expected.

"Boo," Ned complained immediately. "It’s only-" There was a pause, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Oh. Shit."

"What?" Harley asked, his voice wary.

"It’s like two-thirty," Ned said, a mix of alarm and disbelief in his tone.

"So?"

Peter groaned, glancing at the clock on his screen. "So, it’s Tuesday. We’ve gotta be up in like… four hours."

"Oh," Harley mumbled, realization dawning. "Shit."

"Yeah, no duh, shit," Peter muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. Harley made a noise like he was going to argue, but Peter left the call before he could hear anything else. He sighed, stretched, and promptly fell into his bed.

—

Peter woke up the next morning feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. His limbs were heavy, his head pounding, and he didn’t want to move. He felt awful, but he was sure Harley was feeling the same way. That, at least, made him snort in amusement.

He couldn’t bring himself to regret playing for so long last night, though. It had been fun, if a little obnoxious. It was fun, and despite the lingering exhaustion it was worth it.

(That’s what he told himself as he fell asleep at his desk and accidentally slammed his head into the table during the first class.)

—

The next day they were back on.

Peter was deep in concentration, meticulously placing blocks to finalize the roof of his new house. He could almost feel the satisfaction of progress - although he kept accidentally falling off the little dirt pillars that he’d been using as scaffolding - until Harley broke the silence.

"We should share a house," Harley declared, his tone insistent and already edging toward the kind of whine that Peter had no patience for at this hour. Harley’s character had stopped moving, standing idly on the screen as if waiting for Peter to come around to the idea.

“I've already got one,” Ned replied.

“I'm not sharing,” MJ said flatly.

“I wasn't talking to you,” Harley snapped, before his tone softened. “...Peter?”

"No," he replied flatly, not even glancing away from his screen as he focussed on sorting through his inventory. "I've already built it. I don’t need any more rooms."

Harley groaned audibly, the sound exaggerated enough to come through Peter’s headset and reverberate in his ears. Peter could practically see the dramatic flop Harley was probably performing in his chair. “C’mon,” Harley tried again, his character hopping up and down near Peter's half-finished front door. “Mine looks like ass. Yours is huge. Gimme a room.”

Peter didn’t even look at the screen, already knowing Harley’s character was probably still standing there, doing absolutely nothing productive. “That sounds like a you problem," Peter muttered, placing another block with an air of finality. “Build your own house, Harley.”

"Please," Harley pressed again, his drawl taking on an almost pitiful tone. "We could put our Minecraft beds together…"

Peter froze mid-block placement, the silence in his headset deafening. “I don’t want to hear this,” MJ’s dry voice cut in, saving him from responding and dragging the conversation straight into a deadpan eyeroll.

Peter flushed, glad none of them could see the way he shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Harley!” he hissed, focusing back on the game as he tried to ignore the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

"What?" Harley asked innocently. "I’m just saying-"

"Build your own house, Harley!" Peter shot back, his tone firm as he maneuvered his character to place another row of oak planks on the second floor.

"Please, Parker," Harley wheedled, his voice softening like he thought it would actually work.

"No!" Peter snapped, finally turning his character to face Harley’s blocky avatar.

Silence fell for half a beat. Peter thought, for a moment, he’d finally gotten Harley to back off, but then a sword swung out of nowhere on his screen, slicing into his character with a sharp thunk-thunk sound. His health bar dropped alarmingly fast.

“Harley!” Peter shouted, his hands fumbling on the keyboard as he tried to equip his shield before scrambling to equip his own weapon.

"Don’t make me homeless!" Harley shouted back, laughing as Peter’s character stumbled back into his own doorway.

"You’re insane!" Peter yelled, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he retaliated.

Out of nowhere, a burst of sound blared through the headset, startling them both. Peter’s hands slipped on the keys, and Harley’s character missed an attack, and with a snort he realized that he couldn’t understand a single word of whatever song was playing.

“MJ,” Peter groaned, his focus breaking as he stared at the screen in disbelief. “What the hell?”

“I left like ten minutes ago,” MJ’s voice came, devoid of any emotion. “I’m watching anime now. Don’t mind me.”

“Then why are you still in the server?” Harley asked, clearly annoyed, though his character was still advancing on Peter’s.

“Because I didn’t feel like closing Minecraft,” MJ replied simply. There was a clinking sound, probably her sipping from a drink, and Peter sighed. “Carry on."

"Unbelievable," Peter muttered, though his focus snapped back to Harley as the other boy’s character sprinted at him again.

"Pay attention, Parker!" Harley taunted, landing another hit.

"Stop killing me!" Peter shouted, his voice cracking with frustration.

"I’ll stop when you let me move in!"

"Never!" The shouting match escalated, and Peter’s jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. He was half-afraid he was going to accidentally crush his mouse.

And then, without warning, the screen froze and the server disconnected message popped up in big, blocky letters.

"What-" Peter started, his voice cutting off as the game unceremoniously booted him back to the main menu.

“What the hell?” Harley shouted, his voice cutting through the silence. “Did it just crash?”

“No,” Peter said slowly, his voice cold as realization dawned on him. “Ned shut it down.”

“Yup,” came Ned’s voice, loud and unapologetic in Peter’s headset. “I couldn’t listen to you two screaming anymore. You’re welcome.”

Peter’s hands clenched around his mouse again, and for a moment, he thought he might actually break it. “Ned,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, his hands trembling with pent-up frustration as they hovered over the keyboard. “I was about to win,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Keep telling yourself that, Parker,” Harley said, and Peter could hear the grin in his voice.

"I shut it down," Ned repeated over them, clearly trying to sound reasonable. "You guys were gonna blow something up, and MJ’s over there trying to enjoy her anime. It was for the greater good."

Peter exhaled sharply, as he slumped back in his chair, running a hand down his face. "I’m gonna kill you, Ned."

"You can’t," Ned said cheerfully. "The server’s off. You’re gonna thank me tomorrow when you actually get some sleep.” 

“Ha ha,” Harley jeered.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Peter muttered.

“We were dating?” Harley choked out. MJ just sighed, and he could hear the volume of her show increase.

Peter groaned, pulling his headset off and tossing it onto his desk. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. He felt exhausted, but the adrenaline still coursing through his veins made it hard to relax His frustration lingered, but a small, begrudging smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  

It was a bad idea. But it was a little fun, too.

—

Peter settled into his chair as he adjusted his headset. This was actually something he’d been looking forward to all day. He’d always loved Minecraft - he’d forgotten how fun it was to grind and build and daydream about the little structures he could build during a particularly boring class. He figured today he’d build a little farm - mostly decorative, although it could be functional, too.

He spawned in his house at the foot of his bed, and dug through his chests to get started. He frowned at the screen in front of him. Maybe he’d misplaced his tools? He turned to the next chest. Then the next. Then he’d gone down to his half-finished basement and ratted through the barrels just to be sure.

“...Where’s my stuff?” Peter’s voice cut through the quiet. It was too quiet. Harley never just shut up for no reason.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harley replied innocently, but Peter could hear the smirk behind the words. It was the same tone Harley used whenever he’d done something he found funny, even though all it made Peter want to do was punch him.

“My stuff,” Peter repeated a little emphatically, leaning forward as if getting closer to the screen would somehow solve the mystery. “I had, like, a whole stack of iron. Gold. There were four diamonds. I was gonna make an enchanting table.” His voice rose slightly with each item, the disbelief mounting.

“Oh,” Harley said after a beat, lazy and casual and Peter’s grip tightened on his mouse. “I made a pickaxe. And a shovel.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. His hands hovered uselessly over the keyboard as the words sunk in. “What?” he sputtered, his voice climbing an octave. “That’s my stuff!”

“Finders keepers,” Harley said smoothly, and Peter could practically hear the shrug in his tone.

“Not finders keepers!” Peter snapped, the heat in his voice growing. “It was in my chest!”

“Wasn’t an ender chest,” Harley pointed out, his logic infuriatingly calm. “Didn’t have your name on it, either.”

“It was in my house!” Peter countered, his voice cracking slightly in his frustration.

“Shitty house, dude,” Harley shot back with a dramatic sigh. “If you’d let me build it, I would’ve added some cool traps or something. Too bad you suck.”

Peter stared at the screen, his character standing motionless in the middle of his blocky home. His fists clenched, and he could feel his ears heating up, though whether it was from anger or embarrassment, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“I hate you,” he muttered, already opening his crafting menu to start gathering materials again.

“You don’t,” Harley corrected, his drawl thick and unapologetic. “You’ll thank me when I find more diamonds.”

Peter muttered something under his breath that Harley either didn’t hear or chose to ignore. Whatever, he needed to focus on getting back whatever Harley had taken. He’d go caving again, probably, if he could find that cool crevice that hadn’t been raided yet. There was a whole cave system down there, and it probably had at least whatever Harley had stolen.

Meanwhile, Harley’s laughter occasionally echoed through the headset. Peter didn’t know what he was doing, but he guessed that the other boy was probably wasting the rest of Peter’s resources. Hours passed in relative silence. Peter’s eyes burned from staring at the screen too long, but he refused to log off before Harley. Not this time.

When Harley finally announced his departure with a lazy, “Alright, I’m out,” Peter felt a surge of vindication. “Don’t miss me too much, Parker,” Harley added with a grin that Peter could hear over the call before he disconnected, leaving Peter alone on the server.

Peter leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-quiet screen. Now was his chance.

He snuck into Harley’s house, though Peter thought it looked more like an oversized shoebox. The chest sat in the corner, and when Peter opened it, and his eyes widened at the sheer amount of loot inside. Harley had been hoarding - not just Peter’s stuff but resources from all over the map. A grin tugged at Peter’s lips as he methodically emptied the chest, taking everything. Iron, gold, food, tools - it all disappeared into Peter’s inventory.

But he wasn’t done.

Carefully, Peter dug beneath the floorboards of his own house, hollowing out a space to stash his brand new items in barrels, before covering them back up until it looked as if nothing had been disturbed. He stepped back, admiring his work, and let out a satisfied sigh. It wasn’t flashy, but it was effective. No one would find it unless they tore the place apart.

“Fuck you,” Peter muttered to the empty server, and he logged off.

—

Peter logged on again, half-heartedly adjusting his headset as he braced himself for whatever bullshit Harley had inevitably caused while he was offline. But as his character materialized in the game, Peter’s stomach dropped.

His house - or what was left of it - was a disaster. Lava cascaded down the front, hissing and bubbling as it consumed the remnants of his carefully placed blocks. The perfectly aged gradient of copper stairs he’d spent hours mining and aging and waxing were gone. Explosions had carved a crater where his base used to be. The deepslate walls he’d agonized over, the marble he’d painstakingly placed, the spruce wood he’d traveled thousands of blocks to find - it was all gone.

It had taken him hours. And now it was gone.

For a moment, Peter just stared at the screen, his jaw tightening

“Harley!” Peter hollered, yanking his headset off and slamming it onto the desk. The soundproof walls absorbed most of his shout, but he wasn’t about to leave this confrontation to a voice call - though he knew the other boy was online. His stupid little gamertag was hovering behind the mess.

He stormed out of his room, his socks skidding slightly against the smooth floor as he marched down the hall. His knuckles rapped against Harley’s door - or, rapped wasn’t the right word. He banged on it, hard enough to rattle the hinges. Without waiting for an answer, Peter shoved the door open, the sharp click of the handle echoing in the room.

Harley was lounging in his gaming chair, feet propped up on the desk, his headset slightly askew. His expression was the very picture of nonchalance, but there was a stupid, smug grin  that only fueled Peter’s rage.

“You destroyed my house!” Peter accused, pointing a finger at Harley as he stalked forward. “I’m gonna kill you!”

Harley didn’t even flinch. Instead, he leaned back precariously in his chair, the wheels creaking under the strain. “Relax,” he said, his drawl infuriatingly calm. “It’s just a-”

Thwip.

Harley froze, his eyes widening as Peter’s web shooter fired. A thick line of webbing shot across the room, sticking Harley’s arm to the wall.

“Hey!” Harley exclaimed, his composure finally cracking as he tried to tug his arm free.

Peter didn’t answer. He fired again, webbing Harley’s other arm to the opposite side of the wall. Harley stood, arms up by his head - his chair spinning away uselessly - as he glared at Peter. “Dude,” Harley said, his voice climbing an octave. “What the hell?”

Peter didn’t bother replying. He was already back in his own room, slamming the door shut behind him before he slid into his chair and into his space by the computer.

Harley’s voice crackled through the headset. “Peter! Don’t you dare-”

Peter ignored him. His character burst into Harley’s house - a structure that was now, admittedly, far more intricate than Peter’s had been. Although Peter had a feeling that that was more from stealing resources and copying house designs block by block, because he’d seen what Harley was capable of when left to his own devices.

But Peter wasn’t here to admire Harley’s craftsmanship. He was here to destroy it.

He started with the chests. One by one, he emptied them out, dropping them into a hole and lighting them all with flint and steel. He could practically hear Harley’s blood pressure rising as Peter meticulously set fire to everything.

“Jesus, man,” Ned’s voice cut through Harley’s misery. “I remember why we stopped playing video games when you came over, now. This is exactly why.”

“I don’t care,” Peter muttered, his hands gripping the mouse with a vice-like intensity as he lit TNT blocks around Harley’s house.

“Peter, stop!” Harley’s voice was frantic now, the sound of him struggling against the webbing faintly audible through the mic. “You’re overreacting!”

“Oh, I’m overreacting?” Peter snapped, his character backing away as the first explosion rocked the house. “You burned my house down, Harley!”

“It was a joke!”

“This is my punchline,” Peter retorted, setting off another chain of TNT.

“Parker!” Harley shouted, his voice climbing to a yell as another section of his house crumbled into smoldering ruins. Peter’s laughter was sharp and vindictive as he watched the everything explode. “You’re such a dick,” Harley grumbled.

“Me?” Peter spun his character around, glaring at the screen like Harley could feel it. He probably couldn’t, though, considering he was still stuck on the wall. “You’re the one who started this!”

“I didn’t think you’d lose your mind over it,” Harley shot back, still pinned to his wall.

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you burned down my house!”

There was a beat of silence before he could hear Harley grumble. “I can’t believe you webbed me to the wall,” he muttered. 

Peter snorted, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, well, maybe you’ll think twice next time.”

“God, you two are the worst,” Ned muttered, and Peter could hear the sound of him shifting around through his mic.  “I’m never playing with you guys again.”

“Sure, Ned,” Harley drawled. “See you tomorrow?” Ned groaned before he disconnected. “So,” Harley said after another beat of silence.

“The webs will dissolve in an hour,” Peter said, and he could hear the sharp intake of breath from the other boy.

“Peter-” he started, but he disconnected before he could say anything else.

“Totally worth it,” he murmured, sliding the laptop shut and crawling into bed.

Chapter Text

Harley enjoyed team lunches, for the most part.

Everyone was talking and eating and enjoying themselves, and Harley was in his usual position in the space next to Peter. The only thing, though, was whenever he went to open his mouth to make a joke, he always stopped himself. The words caught in his throat, the conversation continued, and the urge to cut in fizzled away.

He didn’t want to make Peter uncomfortable again. He still wasn’t entirely sure where the line was, and he didn’t want to upset Peter again; so he kept his mouth shut and excused himself to the kitchen for a moment, just out of sight.

He could still hear the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware filtering out into the hall, but he just… didn’t want to go back yet. Instead, he grabbed a glass of water and leaned against the counter. It was stupid. Really stupid. But the thought of accidentally upsetting Peter again just wouldn’t leave him alone.

"You look like you wanted to say something," a voice drawled behind him.

Harley startled, whipping around to see Bucky leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, looking at him with that unreadable expression he always had. Not quite amused, not quite concerned. Just watching. Harley swallowed, looking away.

"It's… dumb," he muttered. Bucky didn’t blink. He just lifted an eyebrow, waiting. Harley sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You were there when he got mad about… y’know, me saying stuff in front of other people, right?" He winced at his own phrasing, glancing at Bucky like he might need to explain further.

"I was, yeah," Bucky said, his tone slow and even, like he wasn’t sure where this was going yet.

Harley exhaled through his nose, nodding. "And we talked, and it’s fine now. I get why it bugged him, and I’m not gonna be too forward in front of other people anymore, but…"

Bucky tilted his head slightly. "But what?"

Harley dragged a hand down his face. "I liked the dumb pickup lines," he admitted, voice tight, like the words were physically painful to say out loud. His face was already burning. "It was fun. And I keep thinking of so many good ones, but now I don’t wanna use ‘em because I’m not sure if they’d be funny or if I’d be crossing a line. I mean, even if they’re still not in front of other people, I don’t wanna make him uncomfortable, y’know?"

Bucky didn’t respond right away. He just watched Harley for a long moment, like he was picking apart every word, every twitch of his expression.

Then, finally, he gave a single nod. "Okay."

Harley squinted up at Bucky, still reeling. "Okay?" he repeated a little warily. "What's okay?"

"Okay, that makes sense," Bucky said, like that explained anything at all. "If you like saying them, and he used to like hearing them, then the problem isn’t the pickup lines. It’s the timing, right?"

Harley frowned, mulling that over. "I mean… yeah?"

"So time it better," Bucky said simply. "No one's saying you gotta cut 'em out entirely. Just - pick your moments. Maybe don’t drop one in the middle of dinner with an audience if it’s not family-friendly."

Harley exhaled sharply, rocking back on his heels. "I just don’t wanna make him uncomfortable again."

"Then you won’t," Bucky said, like it was that easy. "You already know where the line is. Now you just gotta learn how to walk it. And it’s supposed to be something flirty. It’s supposed to make ‘em flustered, not shock them because it’s crass."

Harley shifted, chewing the inside of his cheek. He didn’t like overthinking things. He liked being able to just say whatever popped into his head, no filter, no hesitation. But Peter mattered. More than a couple of dumb jokes. And if this was how he had to do things, then fine. He’d figure it out.

Then, with a smirk, he glanced down at Harley. "Now give me the line."

Harley blinked. "What?"

"The pickup line," Bucky clarified, grin widening. "C'mon. Hit me with your best shot."

Harley immediately turned a mortifying shade of red. "What? No,” he hissed, whipping around to poke his head into the kitchen. Everyone else seemed to be distracted, thankfully, but people still had enhanced hearing if they were listening in. “No! Dude - Bucky, I mean - no, I'm not-" He flailed vaguely at the air. "That's not - I'm not gonna-"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Give me the pickup line, Harley."

Harley gaped at him, feeling like the world's biggest idiot as he floundered for an escape. Unfortunately, there was none. Bucky was standing there, arms crossed, and blocking the exit from the kitchen.

Harley groaned, slumping in defeat. "Fine," he muttered. He cleared his throat, barely able to get the words out past his own embarrassment. "Uh… ‘Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re-’"

Bucky snorted before he even finished.

Harley cut off, humiliated. "Shut up! Peter would’ve found it funny! I think!"

Bucky shook his head, looking entirely unimpressed. "You gotta do better than that," he said. "I had better game in the forties."

"Oh yeah?" Harley shot back, still red-faced but now fueled by sheer spite. "Well, what would you say, then, huh?"

Bucky didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved - quick, fluid, completely unbothered - pressing a hand against the fridge beside Harley’s head and leaning in.

Harley immediately forgot how to breathe.

He’d been expecting, what, exactly? A lazy response? A dumb old person line? He hadn’t been expecting this. Hadn’t been expecting Bucky to move. And up close, Jesus Christ, he was big.

Harley wasn’t short, but Bucky had mass. Broad shoulders, solid muscle, and a sheer scale that made the space between them shrink to nothing in half a second. The metal arm caught the light, gleaming beside Harley’s head, and fuck, he wasn’t even that close, but it felt like Bucky was everywhere.

And the smirk.

That lazy, knowing smirk that said he was completely aware of what he was doing, of how fucking ridiculous Harley looked right now, pinned in place in the kitchen. And, look. Harley was only so strong. He could only take so much of this because goddamn was he gay and he hadn’t expected this.

Harley swallowed, hard.

Bucky lowered his voice, slow and deliberate. "Do you believe in love at first sight, doll, or should I walk by again?"

Harley made a high-pitched noise that was in no way dignified, and Bucky grinned. Then, just as easily as he’d closed in, he leaned back with a snort, dropping his arm and stepping away like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just reduced Harley’s brain to absolute static.

"That’s how you gotta do it," Bucky said, still amused, like this had been a demonstration instead of a targeted assassination of Harley’s entire existence. He sucked in a stuttery breath, trying to get his shit together, running a hand through his hair.  

"Yeah," he muttered weakly. 

Bucky tilted his head, still looking far too entertained. "You look like you’re still thinking way too hard about this."

Harley was. He absolutely was.

But there was no way in hell he was admitting that, because how the hell was he supposed to do that to Peter? He wasn’t - he wasn’t as big or as ripped or built like a fucking tank. He had some muscle, sure, but he was softer than not and if anyone was built it was Peter. Peter had abs harder than the fridge behind him.

Harley groaned. "Because I am! I just - look, I suck at this, okay? I don’t know what’s funny and what’s just too much anymore, and now I’m overthinking every little thing-"

"Yeah, I noticed."

"-and no matter what I do, I’m probably gonna say the wrong thing, and I like messing with him, but I don’t wanna, y’know, push too hard, and-"

"Alright," Bucky cut in, shaking his head. "Fine. You know what? I’ve got an idea."

Harley dragged his hands down his face. "What," he muttered miserably. "Unless it involves fixing my entire personality, it’s not gonna help."

Bucky just grinned. "I’ll give you all my old lines. From when I was dating around."

Harley blinked at him. "What?"

"You heard me," Bucky said, arms crossed. "Take ‘em or leave ‘em."

Harley scowled. "That’s not gonna help-"

"Fine," Bucky shrugged, already turning away. "Your loss. But, if you’re really go for it, just go nuts. Just don’t make him uncomfortable. I’m sure he’s fine with flirting, as long as you’re not being crass."

"I’m not crass!" Harley defended. Peter didn’t seem to particularly mind crass, either, when it wasn’t in front of other people. It’d always give him that cute little flush and it felt like Harley had done something right, but now he was just being… paranoid. " I’m-" He hesitated, deflating slightly. "I’m... trying."

Bucky snorted, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Good luck, kid."

Harley scowled at him as the man walked out of the kitchen. He watched him go, then took a breath and squared his shoulders before following. Maybe this was gonna go fine. Or maybe Peter was gonna throw something at him. 

He didn't need to use Bucky’s line. The line was boring. It had worked, a little, because it was unexpected.  

He just needed to catch Peter off guard.

—

Harley… didn’t have good lines. Contrary with what he wanted other to people to think, he just had a really big mouth, and a worse brain-to-mouth filter.

But now he was planning. Plotting. He’d even googled pickup lines a little desperately, but half of them were bland. He needed the exciting ones. He needed to scare the shit out of Peter, a little, because that was unexpected. But now, he just wanted to ease Peter back into it. Start slow.

Harley was hunched over his notes, the pressure of the assignment making his brain feel like mush. The room was quiet, except for the faint scratching of pens against paper and the occasional miserable noise from Peter, who was trying - and failing - to stay awake. Harley had been pretending to focus on his work for the last twenty minutes, but really he’d just been watching the way Peter absentmindedly traced doodles on his paper when he thought no one was looking.

“Peter," he said, his voice suddenly lower and more serious, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking… a lot of math-related thinking, specifically…”

Peter blinked, sitting up straighter now and frowning at him. “...Yeah? Are you okay?”

"Are you a 45-degree angle?” Harley blurted.

Peter blinked. “…What?”

Harley didn’t even flinch. "’Cause you're acute-y."

The line was met with complete silence.

Peter stared at him for a moment, his lips twitching in a mix of disbelief and suppressed laughter. "Did you just…” he started, but his voice trailed off. He elbowed Harley, shaking his head. “That was so bad, Harley. You can’t just say math terms and call it a pickup line.”

Harley poked his tongue out. “That was alright though, right? That’s an acceptable line that you don’t hate?”

“It is,” Peter hummed. “As long as you don’t imply all your insane sex stuff in front of Bucky or Mr. Stark, or… any of the other Avengers, actually, we’re good.”

“But anything not in front of them is free game?”

Peter snorted. “Go wild. If that’s the best you’ve got, I think I’ll be okay.”

Harley… was going to make Peter regret that.

—

Harley was only half listening. In his defense, he also thought Peter was only half paying attention to what he was saying, too; he was just talking to fill the silence.

“I mean, it’s not like I need the chemicals from school or anything," he was saying, twirling a pen between his fingers as he sprawled across the bed. "But it’s still nice to mess around with my formula once I’m done with the actual assignment, y’know? But Bradley - oh my god, Bradley - he hovers, dude. Like, full-on looms over my shoulder, breathing down my neck like some kind of science goblin. No concept of personal space. Just-” He huffed, gesturing vaguely. “There. In my bubble. At all times. Like, I swear, I can hear him blink. I’m trying to mix a solution and suddenly I’ve got Bradley’s hot breath in my ear-”

"Hey," Harley cut in smoothly.

Peter blinked, mid-rant. His mouth hung open for a second before he squinted. "...What?"

Harley turned his head, flashing him a grin. "Are you a fire alarm?"

Peter’s brain short-circuited. "What the hell-?"

"'Cause you are really fucking loud and annoying."

There was a beat of stunned silence. Peter stared at him, absolutely offended, his jaw dropping as about five different emotions flickered across his face in rapid succession; outrage, betrayal, sheer disbelief.

Then he lunged.

“You asshole!” he cried, laughing a little incredulously as he tackled Harley onto the bed. Harley wheezed as Peter landed on top of him, pinning him down with an elbow to the ribs. “What sort of line is that? In what world -”

“It’s funny, right?” Harley gasped, trying to shift Peter’s weight off of him but failing miserably.

Peter shoved him harder into the mattress. “I thought you were going for smooth !” He pressed him down one more time for good measure before rolling off with a huff, flopping onto his back beside him.

Harley grinned up at the ceiling. He was getting a reaction, at least. Even if it was because the line was so nonsensical and outright insane.

“That was smooth,” he insisted half-heartedly. “And you said it was free game!”

“That was not smooth,” Peter deadpanned, pushing himself up and heading to his desk to grab a textbook. “That was so - so bad-”

"It was so smooth," Harley said, smug, "that you can't even remember what you were talking about a second ago."

Peter frowned, nose wrinkling. “I was talking about… uh…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Something about my lab partner?” Harley laughed triumphantly. “That doesn’t mean it worked!” Peter interrupted, jabbing a finger at him.

Harley smirked. “You’re saying I should make it more insane.”

“Absolutely.” Peter threw himself back onto the bed, stretching out. “Sweep me off my feet. Give me something creative.”

Harley hummed to himself, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation. “Okay. Creative. I can do that.”

—

The lab was quiet.

Just the steady hum of machinery and Peter’s mindless murmuring as he fiddled with his shooters as Harley kicked his feet up on the bench, sketchbook in hand as he drew up a new prototype for the glove. Sure, Tony had probably already designed, like, the most efficient possible gauntlet, but fuck that. He wanted to make his own from scratch. At least it fired, now, although it didn’t do anywhere near enough damage as the actual suits.

Peter was leaning against the counter a few feet away, absentmindedly spinning a wrench in his fingers, half-zoned out in that way he got when he was too exhausted to function but too stubborn to leave. Harley knew he probably should’ve just let him rest, but there was something about the silence - the fact that it was just the two of them, no Tony, no one else - that made him itch to say something.

Something stupid.

Something dumb enough to test the waters but not dumb enough to get himself punched.

Peter was still barely paying attention when Harley straightened up, taking a breath. "Okay, I gotta ask you something."

Peter blinked like he’d just been pulled out of a daydream, slowly dragging his gaze up to meet Harley’s. "Yeah?"

Harley turned toward him, forcing himself to stay casual, even as his stomach twisted a little. This was fine. This was just messing around. Peter could take a joke, and if it went weird, then he’d make a joke out of that too. That’s how this worked.

He leaned in just a bit, just enough to see if Peter would react.

"Are you a toaster?"

Peter squinted, clearly not following. "...What?"

"A toaster," Harley repeated obviously, crossing his ankles.

Peter’s brows furrowed. "I’m gonna say no. But I feel like that’s not the answer you’re looking for."

Alright, no backing out now. He was committed. Harley took a breath, shifted his stance, and delivered it with the smoothest voice he could manage: "Because one bath with you would send me straight to heaven."

For a second, Peter just stared.

Harley hadn’t really known what to expect; maybe a quirked lip, maybe an eye-roll, maybe Peter just going red and telling him to shut up. But he hadn’t expected this. Peter snorted, before his eyes widened and he laughed with his body shaking like this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

Harley blinked, not expecting that reaction. His smirk faltered into something closer to surprise - then mild offense. "That was supposed to be sexy, Parker," he muttered, feeling his face heat up. "Not a joke."

But Peter’s not upset or offended; he laughed out loud and he seemed to be enjoying it, so Harley took that as a win. But it wasn’t exactly the speechless reaction he was going for. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, goddamnit, it was supposed to be sexy.

Peter just shook his head, wiping at his eyes. "Dude-" he choked out, "you just hit me with a toaster-bath joke and expected me to - what? Swoon?"

"Yes!" Harley huffed, crossing his arms. "That was me being smooth. Suave! Not-" He waved a hand at Peter, who was still giggling, " this ."

Peter finally managed to settle, grinning as he leaned forward against the workbench. "Look, I appreciate the effort, but zero percent of me was prepared for that," he leaned back, still smiling. "You get points for effort, though."

Harley scoffed. "I don’t want pity points for effort. This doesn’t feel like to be a win."

"Listen, you won in the sense that I’ll be thinking about this for the rest of my life." Peter grinned. "So, y'know. Take that however you want." 

Harley sighed dramatically, sinking down into his chair. That was a step up from before, at least. Maybe he just needed to go bigger. Bolder. Something so extreme it’d make Peter speechless, because so far at least he hadn’t been punched, and that was a good sign, right?

—

Harley had been sitting on this particular awful idea for a while now. Just letting it marinate. Like a fine wine, or a really terrible, rancid joke he absolutely should not say but absolutely had to. The kind of joke that had no socially acceptable setup. No normal way to introduce it. No good excuse for why it had popped into his head in the first place.

So, naturally, it was perfect.

The only problem was timing. He needed the right moment, the right vibe. Peter was smart; he’d sniff out Harley’s bullshit in an instant if he wasn’t distracted enough. He had to be off his guard, comfortably rambling about something he actually cared about, or something that got his brain working at full speed. Maybe even just a little preoccupied if Harley was lucky enough.

Luckily, that was not a difficult state to catch Peter in.

Right now, he was sprawled across the floor, highlighter cap between his teeth, absentmindedly clicking his pen while he rattled off some long-winded explanation about genetics. Dominant and recessive traits. Hereditary patterns. Something about genetic markers. Harley was half listening, half watching the way Peter’s hands moved, the way his brows furrowed in thought, the way his foot tapped against Harley’s every so often, completely unconscious of the movement.

Perfect.

Harley took a slow breath, squaring his shoulders like he was psyching himself up for battle. This was going to go terribly. He knew that. He welcomed that.

He tilted his head, pretending to look thoughtful. "So, DNA is, like, a recipe then, right?"

Peter paused just long enough to side-eye him. "I mean… sure?" His voice had that wary edge to it, the one that said he knew Harley wasn’t this dumb but wasn’t sure where this was going yet. "It’s more like a blueprint, though, but I guess-"

"I'm going to suck your dad's dick so I can taste the recipe."

He delivered it so casually, so effortlessly, that for a second, Peter didn’t react at all. His lips kept moving like his brain was still mid-sentence, still trying to catch up to the words that had just been said to him.

Then, finally, his brain did catch up.

Peter blinked. Stared. His mouth slowly fell open, and Harley could see the exact moment his soul left his body.

“My dad’s dead,” was all Peter could get out after a few beats of silence.

Harley nodded like that was a minor detail. “...and?”

Peter sucked in a slow, pained breath. He let out a low whine or a groan; something that sounded like an animal after stepping on its paw, "You’re horrible at this," he breathed, "You know that, right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

"I know that,” Harley confirmed, turning a page in his notebook idly, trying to suppress a grin. “I'm not gonna stop, though. It's funny."

"For who?"

Peter was staring at him in the exact same way people stared at car crashes. Morbidly fascinated. Fully horrified. Harley finally looked up at him, smiling easily. “Your reactions are funny to me.”

Peter let out the kind of strangled groan. “There is literally nothing funny about you saying you wanted to suck off my decade-dead father, you little cowboy freak.”

Harley furrowed his brows. "But it was a compliment?"

Peter’s hand tightened on the textbook page hard enough to tear. He looked like he hadn’t even noticed. “ How ?”

Harley opened his mouth, prepared to bullshit something, but then… stopped. Thought about it. Yeah, actually. How was it a compliment? “…You know, I don’t actually know now that you asked,” he admitted, nodding to himself. Peter gaped at him. "But I bet you never heard that one before, right?" Harley nudged him with an elbow, still grinning. "Points for creativity?"

"Negative a thousand points for saying you want to blow my dead father."   

Harley blinked at him. “Says the one who put on Brokeback Mountain because he wanted to learn to ‘speak the language’ of my people.”

“I didn’t realize it was porn!” Peter exploded. “I thought it was a cowboy movie! Leave me alone!”

"There's like one sex scene, you baby."

"I’m not a baby!" Peter shot back indignantly. "You’re a baby! I’m pretty sure I’m older than you!"

“You better hope I’m not a baby,” Harley pointed his pen at him, “because that makes you a pedophile. Jail time.”

Peter’s mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. His face flickered through at least five different emotions, none of them coherent. Then, finally, he pressed his face to his knees and muttered, “How the fuck am I genuinely dating you? This is insane. I want to put this pencil through my brain.”

Harley, still grinning, stretched his arms above his head. “That’d be negative a thousand points for you, then.”

—

The kitchen was warm with the smell of coffee and eggs, the quiet clatter of dishes mixing with the occasional murmur of conversation. Steve and Bucky had invited them down for breakfast again, and despite Harley’s initial grumbling about waking up early, he had to admit; it was nice. Cozy, even.

Harley’s eye caught on a kitchen appliance.

"Are you a - oh. I already did the toaster one, didn’t I?" Harley paused, glancing up from his breakfast. "Shit.”

Peter snorted. “You did. But you have to give me a line, now.”

“You liked my others?” Harley asked, lip quirking up. Peter laughed. Fuck. Harley began to desperately wrack his brain for anything he'd heard, anything he remembered that wasn't awful. Think fast, Keener.

Bucky's voice broke the silence. “What, Harley finally listen to my advice?”

“God, I hope not,” Steve muttered and Peter paled, realizing that Bucky and Steve were, in fact, within earshot. “Yours were so cheesy.”

“Mine aren’t cheesy,” Harley grinned before turning to Peter, whose face had become a little more horrified. Shit. He was still thinking of a line. He still didn’t have one. How could he have spent so long scrolling through pickup lines on Reddit and not remember a single one?

“Peter,” Harley began slowly. Stalling. 

“Don’t,” Peter begged.

Harley ignored him. “Did you fall from heaven?” Shit, what was the other half that hasn't been overdone? What was something he hadn’t heard before? Something unexpected? There was a pause, and Peter stared at him a little confused. Concerned, even, as he shoveled a forkful of pancake into his mouth like he needed something to do with his hands. Harley still hadn’t thought of a line. The silence stretched, and he blurted, “...Cause that'd… explain what happened to your face.”

Wow. Jesus fucking Christ, Keener, what a save.

Peter choked so hard on his food he nearly fell out of his chair.

Bucky, completely unfazed, just sipped his coffee and drawled, "Go get him, tiger."

Harley whipped around as Steve stepped around the counter to start smacking Peter on the back, trying to clear his airway. "Shut up, " he hissed, glaring at Bucky like this was somehow his fault.

"Respect your elders," Peter wheezed, barely able to breathe but still managing to piss Harley off.

"You’re supposed to be on my side!" he cried, scandalized.

When Peter finally got enough air back into his lungs, he grabbed his fork, pointing it directly at Harley like it was a weapon. "That was I think the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard. Genuinely. You’re impressively bad at this, and if you ever try to drop one while I’m eating again, I will stab you to death with whatever utensil I have in my hand."

Bucky, not even pretending to hold back his laughter, just snorted into his coffee.

—

Bucky leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, watching Steve sip his coffee with that annoyingly knowing look on his face. "I'm just saying," Bucky muttered, tilting his head toward the ceiling, "Harley's struggling with pickup lines, and it’s dumb, but it’s also kinda funny."

Steve hummed, taking another slow sip before setting his mug down. "I think it’s sweet," he said. "Besides, you were just as bad, if not worse."

Bucky scoffed, sitting up straighter. "I was better than him."

Steve snorted, eyes twinkling. "Barely! ‘If I had a nickel for every time you made my heart race, I’d be richer than Rockefeller.’"

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. "That was sweet. Fuck you."

Steve only grinned. “‘If you were a ration book, I’d save all my coupons just for you.’”

With a loud, indignant groan, Bucky dropped his phone onto the table and pushed himself to his feet, jabbing a finger at Steve across the room. "Oh, come on! That one was solid!"

Steve just shook his head, laughing into his coffee. “‘They say a kiss is the best way to keep warm in winter, care to test that theory?’”

Steve choked on his coffee. "It was cold!" Bucky defended, stepping closer and swatting at Steve’s shoulder. Steve batted his hand away with an easy laugh. "We had no heating! And you were such a little runt back then, too, and-"

“‘I may be shipping out soon,’” Steve interrupted, grinning, “‘but I’d sure like to write home about you.’”

Bucky snorted. "That one worked, fuck you, Stevie." He stepped in, voice dropping just a little. "I still got game, you ass."

"Sure," Steve sighed, the sarcasm in his tone obvious as he glanced away.

Bucky pressed in closer, letting his hands rest on Steve’s hips, effectively trapping him against the counter. His smirk turned into something softer, more teasing. “You forgot that ‘I don’t need a pin-up when I’ve got a real beauty right in front of me.’”

Steve let out a short, surprised laugh before Bucky kissed him, firm and confident, pressing him deeper into the counter. Steve barely had time to let out a pleased noise before Bucky deepened the kiss, metal fingers tightening against his waist-

"Hey, Bucky?" Peter's voice came from the doorway. "I was wondering if - oh.”

They sprang apart like guilty teenagers. "Yeah?" Bucky turned to ask, face a little flushed while Steve slid out from behind him, shifted to subtly wipe at his mouth. 

Silence.

The kid was bright red and looking everywhere but at them. “Um. Doesn't matter. Sorry for - I just remembered that I've gotta go somewhere, actually...”

And then he turned and ducked out of the door, and Bucky let out a bark of laughter. Steve groaned and pressed a hand over his face. "You're awful," he muttered, low enough for only Bucky to hear. "I’m never leaving this apartment again."

Chapter Text

Peter knew this was a bad idea. Objectively. Morally. Logistically. Every part of his brain was flashing warning signs, blaring alarms that screamed this is not the time nor the place, but he was also incredibly stupid when it came to Harley Keener’s hands, so none of that really mattered.

His back hit the hallway wall with a dull thud, and Harley’s mouth was on his, hot and insistent, the weight of him pressing Peter flush against the cool surface behind him. Peter whined softly into the kiss, knees already going weak as Harley’s fingers - god, his fingers - slid past the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Jesus,” Harley was murmuring in his ear, voice all rough and warm that shot straight to the warm pooling in Peter’s stomach. “You always this needy, sweetheart?”

Peter didn’t even have the presence of mind to snap back, just let his head tip back against the wall, mouth falling open as Harley-

The elevator chimed.

Harley’s hand vanished so fast it was like he’d been electrocuted, and Peter nearly crumpled to the floor right there, his legs threatening to give out completely. He barely managed to stay upright, his dazed brain still scrambling to catch up when-

Oh, God.

Steve was staring at them, absolutely horrified.

The elevator doors slid open behind him, casting a fluorescent halo around his very stiff, very awkward frame. His gaze was locked firmly somewhere inside the elevator, like he was actively trying to burn a hole into the metal so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge what was in front of him, looking every bit as humiliated as Peter felt.

"Team dinner," Steve said after a long, painful beat. His voice was a little strained, like he’d just run a mile. "In twenty minutes. If you want to come. If you’re not… busy."

Peter made a noise. A wheezing, choked-off sound that was meant to be words but came out as some kind of mortified death rattle. Harley, who was also looking a little flushed, very carefully shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped a full foot away from Peter. "Right. Yeah. Thanks," he said, nodding way too casually for someone who had just had his hands down Peter’s pants.

Steve nodded stiffly, still very much not looking at them, then reached back and blindly slapped the button to close the elevator doors. A second later, he was gone.

Peter let out a slow, agonized breath, then promptly collapsed against Harley’s chest, hands clutching desperately at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this wretched plane of existence. "Oh my God," he moaned miserably, face burning. "I’m never going to be able to look him in the eyes again."

"Sure you will," Harley said breezily, though Peter could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, his own embarrassment only slightly more contained.

"I won’t," Peter insisted, voice muffled against Harley’s shoulder. "Oh my God, Harley. This was your idea. Why did you-"

"My idea?" Harley scoffed, sounding personally offended. "You were the one sticking your freezing fingers up my shirt asking me to-"

"Shut up!" Peter yelped, hands flying up to slap over his own face, ears burning. "I-"

"To be fair," Harley cut in, "this is our floor. He should’ve just used FRIDAY to tell us."

Peter groaned, finally pushing off the wall and stumbling towards his room. "He doesn’t like using FRIDAY," he muttered. "He likes to walk."

"Well, hopefully, he’s learned his lesson," Harley said cheerfully, following him inside.

Peter barely made it to the bed before faceplanting straight into the mattress, letting out another pitiful groan. Maybe if he just stayed there, reality would erase itself and take this entire experience with it.

Unfortunately, he knew better. Bucky was absolutely going to drag him out of this room and into that godforsaken dinner whether he wanted to go or not. Goddamnit.

Maybe Steve would forget.

—

Steve did not, in fact, forget.

Peter realized this approximately five minutes into dinner. Tony leaned back in his chair while Peter was elbowing Harley for trying to steal the chicken out of his stir-fry, and casually threw out, "So, you two just can’t keep your hands to yourselves, huh?"

Peter almost choked on his food, face flushing red. Harley just snorted.

"Stark, shut up," Bucky said flatly, barely looking up from his plate. "We’re all adults, and you’re arguably the worst out of all of us."

Tony scoffed. "Excuse me?"

Bucky just raised an unimpressed brow. "You wanna say that again after we’ve all had the pleasure of watching your sex tapes get leaked multiple times?" A horrible, tense silence fell over the table. Tony opened his mouth, then immediately shut it. "That’s what I thought," Bucky said, shoveling another forkful of food into his mouth.

Harley elbowed Peter. “Hey, you hear that? At least we didn’t get a leaked sex tape.”

Peter did choke that time, letting out a panicked sound and gasping as he tried to dislodge the food from his throat. Tony made a miserable noise. “Harley, shut your-”

“Calm down,” Bucky said flatly. “He’s like this because you’re encouraging it. Stop feeding into it.”

Clint snorted beside Tony, who gaped. Peter was already struggling not to shrivel up and die of humiliation, still sucking in stuttery inhales but no longer choking to death, nearly dropped his fork when Tony suddenly waved a hand and snapped, "I’m not encouraging it!”

Bucky raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re reacting.”

“I don’t want to hear what my kid is getting up to, Barnes! I don’t want to know about our kid having sex!"

It took Peter a second to register it, over the still choking an all, but he heard it. Our kid. He felt his throat tighten, heart lurching into his ribs in a way that felt warm if everything wasn’t currently so mortifying. Tony wasn’t even looking at him, too busy making that face - the one he got when he was trying very hard to repress a horrifying realization.

And then Harley, of course, had to ruin it.

"Too bad," he said cheerfully, setting down his glass. "I’m fucking your kid. Live with it."

Tony audibly gagged.

He looked like he was debating whether or not to electrocute Harley, turned helplessly to Bucky. "You’re supposed to be his guardian or whatever too! You can stop them from torturing us!"

Bucky, unbothered as ever, just shrugged and went back to eating. "Steve’s ma walked in on us more than once," he said. "Circle of life." Steve, who was attempting to drown himself in his drink, made a strangled noise. "As long as no one gets pregnant and no one gets hurt, I don’t care." 

Peter made a horrified, miserable noise. "Oh my God."

Tony jabbed a finger at him. "I am not giving them the talk. That’s not my job."

“Oh my God,” Peter groans, louder. “We don’t need the talk!”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at Tony, ignoring Peter completely. "Where’d all that cockiness about adopting him go? Isn’t that a parent’s job?"

"Fuck you, Barnes."

"I’ll do it," Bucky simply. “I don’t care.”

Peter groaned, finally setting his fork down. "We don’t need the sex talk," he begged. "Please, Bucky. Mr. Stark. Oh my God, we’re eating. Can you just-"

"Too late," Bucky interrupted, jabbing a fork in his direction. "Prepare yourself." Peter let out a long, exhausted breath and dropped his head into his hands. Jesus Christ.

—

The knock on Peter’s door came way too fast.

He barely had time to consider jumping out of the window before Bucky stepped inside, looking like a man on a mission. “Okay,” Bucky said, shutting the door behind him. “Sit down.”

“No,” Peter begged immediately, taking a step back toward the window. Maybe he should jump. It wasn’t too high. He could survive.

“Peter,” Bucky sighed, already looking exhausted. “You have no shame. I know you and Harley were getting handsy in the hallway, don’t get shy on me now.”

Peter groaned, face burning. “We’re not - It’s not like-”

Bucky’s deadpan expression didn’t change. “Don’t act like a blushing virgin, kid. Everyone here knows you’re not.” Peter wanted to die on the spot. He pulled a blanket over his face in sheer mortification, only for Bucky to yank it right off him. “You’re not hiding from this,” Bucky said, unbothered. “Steve nearly cried when he walked in on you two before. If I have to be subject to his bitching, you two have to suffer the consequences.”

“No,” Peter insisted, already making a break for the door. He was not about to sit here and listen to whatever Bucky had planned. He refused . Bucky, unfortunately, was faster. He looped an arm around Peter’s waist and threw him back onto the bed like he weighed nothing. Peter bounced once, then sat up, hissing, “Bucky!”

“You’re really gonna leave me alone , unsupervised, with your boyfriend while we talk about sex?” Bucky countered. “You know how awful he is. You sure you don’t want to stick around to shut him up?”

“This is blackmail ,” Peter seethed. “I’ll take him with me and web him to the tower roof until you leave.”

“Absolutely not,” Harley said, scrambling backward out of Peter’s reach. “No way in hell, dude.”

“Good,” Bucky clapped his hands and shoved Harley back onto the bed next to Peter. “Glad we all agree. Now, let’s get this over with.”

"Alright," Harley shrugged. Then he grinned at Peter, elbowing him in the side, before glancing back up at Bucky. Peter knew he was going to make this as miserable as possible for all of them. "What do you know about gay sex?"

Peter immediately kicks him in the shin.

Bucky didn’t even blink. "Kid, I fought in World War II. You think the ‘40s didn’t have gay people?"

Peter whimpered. "Please stop talking."

"Anyway," Bucky continued, as if Peter wasn’t physically curling in on himself like he could hide away from the conversation, "first things first: prep is important. If you just go in without prepping, you’re gonna have a miserable time."

Harley’s smirk faltered slightly. "Prepping?"

Bucky gave him a look, before turning to Peter. "Jesus Christ, you don’t even know the basics?"

Peter wanted to die. "I do," he insisted, voice muffled behind his hands. "Oh my God, Bucky, please-"

"Well, he clearly doesn’t," Bucky gestured at Harley. "Prep. You gotta stretch it out first, otherwise, you’re looking at a bad time. Lube is non-negotiable. And you gotta go slow-"

"Okay!" Harley interrupts, shifting uncomfortably, and a part of Peter thought, good. You should regret this. You say things because you think they’re funny, but your actions have consequences, asshole . "I get it-"

"Do you?" Bucky challenged. "Because I don’t think you do, considering you just asked me what prep is-"

"Jesus Christ," Harley groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I know what it is, I just wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud!"

"What, you thought I was gonna get embarrassed?" Bucky scoffed. "Kid, I was a Howling Commando. We used to have to share barracks. You think I haven’t walked in on worse?"

Peter whimpered again.

Harley, now visibly regretting everything, threw himself backward onto the mattress and groaned. "This isn’t funny anymore. Oh my God, I hate this."

"Should’ve thought of that before you started being a smartass," Bucky said flatly, lip quirking upwards.

“Alright, we get it,” Harley forced out. “Use lube, go slow, don’t be stupid-"

"Also," Bucky barreled on, not letting them escape, "you absolutely need to be checking in with each other throughout. If either of you ever feels uncomfortable or wants to stop, you stop. No discussion, no guilt-tripping, none of that bullshit. You two are idiots, but I don’t want to hear about either of you hurting yourselves because you were too embarrassed to communicate."

Peter hated that it was actually… good advice. He peeked out between his fingers. "…We do that," he muttered. Maybe. Peter wasn’t great at talking, but he wasn’t awful.

“I want to believe you,” Bucky said flatly, “But I’m not stupid. I see when Harley’s got a half-bandaged bite mark because you can’t control your strength, and I notice when you’re in pain when you’re sparring. I want to believe you’re just being an idiot on patrol, for once, but I feel like I should know better by now.”

Peter groaned louder, pressing his head back into his knees,

“That’s why you’re getting barricaded in a room with me until you have a better understanding of safe sex practices. Because you’re both idiots, and Stark is useless,” Bucky continued mercilessly.  “And speaking of safety, you two need to be careful about hurting each other.”

Peter groaned. “We know -”

“No, you don’t. It’s easier to hurt someone than you think,” Bucky interrupted. “When me and Steve first-”

“Oh my God ,” Peter moaned, pressing his hands to his face like it could physically shield him from whatever was about to come next.

“-When me and Steve first started out,” Bucky continued, talking louder, “he was tiny. Pre-serum. He was a little runt, and it’s real easy to put someone out of action for a day or two if you're not careful. I've done it once, and you feel real awful afterwards, so don't do it. Simple. It's easier to mess up if you're inexperienced, and neither of you want that. Peter especially. You’re stronger than you think, and I don’t want you losing control of your-”

“I won’t ,” Peter half-insisted, half-begged.

“I’ll be fine,” Harley snorted. “Besides, I’m usually the one who-”

“Harley,” Peter warned.

“-and even when he is the one-”

“ Harley .”

“-he usually doesn’t last very long anyway,” Harley finished, and Peter tackled him straight to the floor. They hit the carpet with a thud , Peter already grappling with Harley like he was trying to choke the smugness out of him. Bucky stared at the ceiling as if praying for patience. Then he sighed, reached down, and hauled Peter off like he weighed nothing. He dumped him back on the bed, far away from Harley.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky said flatly, completely ignoring the wrestling match that had just taken place. “It only takes a second to hurt someone. It doesn’t matter how long-”

“We’ll be careful ,” Peter hissed, humiliated. “God, can we go now?”

“No,” Bucky said simply. “Protection.”

“Oh my God ,” Peter said, louder .

“Do you use any?” Bucky asked flatly. “Condoms?”

“No?” Harley shrugged. “It’s not like Peter’s gonna get pregnant.”

Bucky closed his eyes again. “Doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. “It’s not just for pregnancies. It’s for diseases, too. Do either of you have any clue how many cases of everything I saw in the war?"

"Oh, good, we’re bringing World War II into this again," Peter muttered into his knees "That’s great . Exactly what I needed to hear."

"When was the last time either of you got tested for anything?" Bucky pressed on, ignoring Peter’s misery.

“I got tested when I moved in,” Peter muttered, looking away. That had been humiliating, but also a relief.

“I… uh,” Harley hesitated. “I mean. For all you know, I’ve never been with anyone, and Peter was the one throwing himself at me.” Bucky raised a flat eyebrow. Harley huffed. “I was only with, like, one person.”

“Who’d been with how many people?” Bucky asked.

Harley winced. “Okay. Fine. I get it. Jesus.”

“You’re getting tested too.” Harley groaned, flopping back against the bed. "Anything else?" Bucky asked, arms crossed, clearly relishing their suffering. "Any questions? I’m only doing this once, so-"

"We have the internet," Harley groaned. "I can just google something if-"

Bucky’s entire face twisted into something beyond disgusted. "Jesus Christ, is that why you two are like this? Is the internet your only point of reference?"

Peter, still curled up on the bed in absolute agony, propped himself up on an elbow and drawled sarcastically, "Well, I had one other time-"

Bucky leveled him with an unimpressed look, and Peter’s jaw clicked shut.

There was a long, horrible silence, then Bucky sighed, like the burden of knowledge was just too much to bear. "Do you know how to put a condom on?" Peter groaned and pressed his face into the blanket, but Bucky ignored him.  "Shut up," he said unempathetically as he turned to the other boy. "Harley? You know? You need me to show you?"

Peter lifted his head just in time to see Bucky - fucking hell - pulling a condom out of his back pocket. "Oh my God," Peter whispered, staring in pure horror. "Oh my actual God. "

Harley flushed a deep shade of red. Peter stared at him.

"I still don’t know why we need condoms," Harley interjected, probably in a last-ditch effort to regain control of the situation even as his face was still flushed. "Like, once we get the all-clear test-wise-"

Bucky didn’t even blink. “We don’t know everything about Peter’s genetics,” he started, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. “For all we know, he could get pregnant.”

The blanket was yanked off Peter’s face just in time for him to let out a high-pitched, strangled noise. "Excuse me?" he croaked, eyes wide with absolute horror.

Harley was staring at Bucky in equal horror. "No. No way. He would have noticed."

"Not necessarily," Bucky mused. "You ever heard of cryptic pregnancy?"

"Bucky, stop talking," Peter begged, pressing his hands to his temples.

Bucky did not, in fact, stop talking. "Or, some spiders lay eggs." 

Harley’s entire body jerked back from Peter, looking physically ill. "No. No way. Nope. Nope." 

“It’s true,” Bucky shrugged. “He could lay eggs in you or something. So you need to use protection .”

Harley paled. Peter made a sound of utter horror, gripping his own head like he could physically stop hearing this. “What the fuck, Bucky?!”

Bucky just raised an eyebrow. “I’m serious. You ever look into that?”

“No! Why would I?!”

“You should,” Bucky said, unbothered. “It’s a safety concern.” Peter covered his face. Harley looked like he was genuinely reconsidering everything about his life choices. “And speaking of safety,” Bucky continued smoothly, as if he hadn’t just suggested Peter might lay eggs in his boyfriend, “-there’s a few other things we should go over."

Peter peeked out between his fingers. "Like what?" he demanded, a little hysterical. "How to build a nest? How to sedate Harley so he doesn’t eat me after? Do I need to mark my territory or something?"

Harley choked on his own spit. Bucky didn’t even blink. "Not particularly, but the mark that’s still healing on his neck says plenty." Peter made a noise like he was dying. Harley pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I’ll get you a box if you don't wanna buy them yourselves,” Bucky offered, tearing the condom open. “I don’t care. Just let me know what size. Or I could guess, but-”

“Please,” Peter wheezes. “Don’t buy us-”

​​Bucky ignored him, shoving the wrapper back in his pocket. "Anyway, next thing - I get you’re not using them, but do you know at least how to?"

Peter’s hands dropped. Harley squinted.

"What," Peter said flatly.

"Do you need me to show you?" Bucky shrugged.

"Oh my God," Peter groaned, slumping forward. "Shut up."

Harley was now an aggressive shade of red, physically recoiling like the condom might attack him. "Bucky, what the hell-”

Bucky, still completely unbothered, tore open the condom packet. “I’m just gonna use my fingers because I don’t have a banana or however they teach you these days. Alright, so you just pinch the tip-”

“Bucky,” Peter shrieked. “Please. We've seen Steve’s sex-ed PSA. We know what you're gonna say. Please let us leave."

Silence.

Bucky pulled the condom off his fingers, staring at Peter. "...The what?"

Peter’s mouth opened and closed uselessly. He could feel Harley’s eyes on him. “I - nothing,” Peter backpedaled immediately. “Forget I said anything. Or - I’ll tell you if you let us leave.”

Bucky’s lip curled up slightly, like he was absolutely filing this information away for later. “Nice try,” he said. “Any other questions?”

Peter did not, in any way, feel bad about accidentally outing Steve's godawful PSAs. This was Steve’s fault for interrupting them in the hallway in the first place. His face burned as he stared into the bedspread, gripping at the fabric like it would give him something else to focus on. He hesitated, then squeezed his eyes shut and forced the words out before he lost his nerve. “Um.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Peter? Just give it to me. Say it, and then we can go back to pretending this never happened.”

Peter inhaled sharply. “Is it… isn’t it supposed to hurt? Just a little?”

There was a beat of silence.

Bucky, for the first time since this nightmarish conversation started, looked momentarily out of his depth. “Uh.” He frowned slightly. “Probably not? I mean… this isn’t really my thing.” Peter barely had time to start hoping Bucky might move on when the man continued. “I can ask Steve, but-”

“What, you’re telling me Captain America takes-” Harley cut himself off when Bucky leveled him with a flat, unimpressed stare. “Right. Sorry. Shutting up now.”

“No,” Bucky said, turning back to Peter, ignoring Harley. “It might be uncomfortable at first, but that’s why you need to go slow ly so you don’t hurt each other. Your body’s not made for it, so yeah, it’ll probably feel weird at first. But that’s why you need to communicate. You might be sore the next day, but nothing major. If there’s a lot of pain, that isn’t normal. Both of you, go see Cho if that happens - Peter. I’m specifically talking to you, here. Don’t rely on super-healing to heal internal tearing safely.”

Peter, at this point, was contemplating dissolving into dust. 

Bucky continued undeterred, turning to Harley. “And as for you-”

Harley blinked, thrown off by the sudden attention. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Bucky started, tilting his head down in that terrifyingly condescending way, despite the clenched condom still in hand. It would be a little funny if Peter wasn’t so incredibly mortified. “Just so we’re clear, if you hurt him - physically or otherwise - I will murder you. Don’t be stupid. You hear me?”

Harley swallowed, glancing up at Bucky, his face flushed with a jerky nod.

Bucky held eye contact for another few seconds, then nodded once. Then he sighed, pulled another condom out of his pocket and flicked it at Peter who dodged like it was a grenade before he turned toward the door. “Have fun,” Bucky said flatly. “Don’t be idiots.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Peter let out a humiliated noise and flopped face-first onto the bed. He might actually die. Right here, in this bed, from sheer secondhand embarrassment. “Peter,” Harley groaned, throwing his hands over his face as he collapsed onto the mattress beside him. “I’m so gay. I can’t help it.”

Peter slowly turned his head to look at him. “I don’t know which one of us to be more ashamed of.”

Harley gestured helplessly. “It’s - he’s-”

“It’s Bucky!” Peter shot back, exasperated. “He’s like my-”

“I’m weak, Peter,” Harley said solemnly. “I’m so gay. I can only take so much ripped super-soldier standing over me with a condom in hand-”

Peter fake-retched. “You’re a freak.”

“This is homophobic.”

“You have awful taste!” Peter exclaimed. “He just gave us the sex talk and then threatened to kill you! How is that attractive? He’s, like, one hundred years old !”

“He could crush my head in one hand!” Harley argued back. “That’s hot , Peter! I mean, not like I’m into him, but Jesus Christ , I’d be stupid to not at least acknowledge-”

“I’m breaking up with you,” Peter announced. “I’m not listening to you talk about how hot my dad is, you’re such a-”

Harley flicked the condom at his forehead. “Too late,” he said smugly. “If we have to sit through this, you’re not allowed to break up with me now. Trauma bonding.”

Peter groaned into the mattress. “I hate you.”

Chapter Text

Smoking was a habit he’d picked up purely out of boredom.

Not cigarettes; the smell always made his nose wrinkle and they were expensive as hell. Besides, it wasn’t like he smoked a lot. Just every now and then with Connor and whoever else was there. Just an occasional thing, because Rose hill had nothing else to do.

But since he’d moved into the tower, God, did Harley miss it.

It wasn’t like he was addicted. It was just… something he missed doing. He could live without it. But there was something so satisfying about the drag of smoky air, of lighting the blunt. And the smell. He had tried once, up on the top floor on the roof and away from everyone else, but that was the one and only time, because it was the worst idea he’d ever had. He didn’t really seek it out, but if someone offered him some or the universe itself passed him the blunt, who was he to turn them down?

So when Peter crawled in through the window, dumping a bag full of god knows what on his desk, Harley was undeniably… interested.

“I’ll deal with it later,” Peter huffed exhaustedly, tugging off his mask and ratting through their dresser drawers for clothes. “I didn’t want to leave it there in case there were vultures, but I didn’t want to drop an insane amount of drugs off in front of a police station either. I just wanted to take a nap.”

“Go take a nap,” Harley shrugged. “Go take a shower then go to bed. it’s late, anyway.” He stood before dragging Peter into a hug, who slumped tiredly into him. “Go take a shower,” he murmured again, and Peter sighed. “It’ll be warmer than leaning on me.”

Peter let out a grumble but reluctantly shoved off of him before slipping inside the bathroom door, easily slipping inside and out of view. Harley could hear the shower start, and once Peter was safely distracted he turned to see what had been dumped on the desk.

He had… a bad idea.

—

Harley slid into the lab bench, leaning back on the chair, head lolling up to stare at the ceiling. This was such a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea, but he hadn’t smoked for so long, and he really, really missed it.

He was paranoid that Peter was going to be able to smell it in his room or on his clothes, and the last thing he wanted was for Peter to realize, or god forbid, to tell Tony.

The roof was an awful idea last time. Too high up to be high, and Harley had ended up on all fours desperately holding onto the concrete so he didn’t fall off the world for half an hour. It was miserable. His room was off-limits. Most of the tower was off-limits, or fitted with smoke detectors. The lab, though… Stuff was made to be set on fire. It was good with filtering air because of the chemicals, and even if that didn't work, Harley could just set something on fire to cover the smell. He pulled out his lighter, lit the blunt, and took a deep, long, inhale.

It was nice.

He sagged back against the chair, letting out a slow breath. It was probably mostly placebo, honestly, but just having the blunt in his hand relaxed him. He stretched lazily, took another drag, and flicked his eyes down to his sketchbook. He wanted to tinker or do something with his hands. He’d given up on that stupid gauntlet long ago; it was fun, but he’d burnt himself too many times to want to go back at it. Harley didn’t particularly feel like burning his hands right now, either. 

His gaze slid around the lab, before settling on Peter's bench, with the little web-shooter bracelets left along the bench. Harley stood to reach over and snag one, staring down at the metal.

They jammed sometimes. The web-shooters. Ned had pulled up a video of Peter slamming straight into a building last week at lunch, and Harley had a creeping suspicion Peter had broken his nose from it, if by the way Peter’s face had been red and bloody when he’d peeled off the mask had been anything to go by.

Maybe he could see if he could stop them from jamming.

He slid back down into his seat, took another slow drag, and got to work.

Peter had plans for the web shooters. Harley knew that because he’d stolen them as soon as he’d gotten his grubby little oil-stained fingers on them, and copied them right into his sketchbook. He flipped open to a page, and his eyes caught on the valve that was slightly too narrow for when the temperature changed. The web solution would thicken, and Harley figured it would be easy to fix that.

It wasn’t.

Half an hour later, Harley was staring down at the disassembled parts, eyes red and head a little lighter than usual. It wasn’t hard to think; he just felt… slower. Lighter. Like he could roll over and take a nap. But he couldn’t, now, because he needed to fix this stupid web shooter.

He sighed, leaning into the desk with his arms folded in front of him. DUM-E made a whirring noise next to him, and Harley tilted his head. “Thanks," he drawled, reaching out to take the lit blunt from the bot’s hand. "You’re the best, man."

DUM-E just made another noise.

He took another drag, stared back down at the half-finished sketch of the improved design, and then the lab doors slid open. He startled, dropping the blunt and letting out a curse as it fell into his lap and burned his legs. Tony snorted at the noise as he stepped into the room, striding across the room. "What’re you working on?’

"Uh," Harley started, panic shooting through his chest. He rubs at his eyes - fuck - they were probably red by now. He ducked his head, staring down at the half-dissected web shooter. "Stuff."

Tony just let out another amused huff, dropping into his desk bench and pulling out a stack of paperwork. Harley felt like he couldn't breathe, and he pinched the smoldering blunt and shoved it into his pocket. 

They sat in silence for a little while, and Harley couldn't breathe. Tony’s going to murder him. Tony was going to skin him alive and ground him so hard he’d never leave the tower again.

"Is something burning in here?" Tony asked slowly, head cocking over to Harley. "You set something on fire? It smells… like something." Harley ducked his head, hiding his face. He stared back at the half-destroyed web shooter. "You good, kid?" Tony asked. "You’ve been staring at the screwdriver for ten minutes."

"Uh," Harley said again, less eloquently. "I… no?"

"No?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "Yes, actually."

Harley didn't know what to say. His fingers tighten and untighten around the bracelet, and panic shot through him again. Damn. This wasn't fun anymore. This was scary. Why'd he think this was a good idea?

Tony stands, and Harley stiffened again as the man stepped next to him. "Harley…" the man started, and before he could think any better about it he glanced up at the man, whose expression tightened, and his lips twisted downwards. "Harley, what the hell?" Tony breathed, rubbing his temples. "Goddamnit. Are you high?"

"Uh," Harley said again, and Tony's expression tightened. "You’re… um. Back early."

"Yeah," Tony said flatly. "I am. Meeting ended early."

"Oh," Harley said a little dumbly. 

"What have you been up to?" Tony asked, leaning on the desk a little more. Harley pulled his gaze back to the web shooters. He asks it like he already knows the answer. Harley thinks he probably already does. "Do anything fun recently? Anything stupid, perhaps?"

Harley blinked at the table in front of him. 

"Any weed, maybe?" Tony tried, voice tightening. "Any weed in my lab? Full of dangerous machines and chemicals?" Harley let out a miserable noise, leaning forward on the desk.  "Don’t just lean on the desk and pretend I’m not here," Tony said flatly. "You’re not doing that here. I know I was awful at your age with shit like that, but that’s not excuse to-"

Harley groaned louder against the desk.

"Quit it," Tony snapped. "You're the one who decided to be an idiot, and even more so because you're bringing it into the tower. I get that it’s legal here, and I’m live and let live, but it’s also illegal because you’re a minor."

"As if you weren’t drinking the second you got to MIT," Harley muttered.

"Harley," Tony gritted out. "I don't want to hear it." There was a pause, and the man leaned on the desk a little more. "Okay. give it to me."

Harley blinked up at him from where his face was pressed onto the table. "...what?"

"The rest of the weed, Harley," Tony said flatly. "You’re not smoking in here. You’re not smoking in the tower at all, actually."

Harley let out a rumbly noise. "No." 

" No ?" Tony snapped. "Harley, give it to me."

"Let me use the rest of it," Harley insisted, reaching back into his pocket and fumbling for the lighter. "Hey, you wanna see a trick?"

Tony did not look like he wants to see a trick.

Harley handed the lighter to DUM-E, who took it. “Incendio!” Harley drawled flatly, and DUM-E flicked the lighter. The blunt lit up, and Harley let out a victorious crow. Tony reached out and snatched the blunt out of his hand, and Harley cried out in anger and misery as Tony crushed it between his fingers.  "What the hell?" Harley cried, leaning back in his chair. "Dude, I was using that!”

"I’m aware," the man responded flatly. "You’re not going to be using it anymore. Where’d you get it?"

"Peter," Harley shrugged, before his jaw clicked shut. He blinked up at Tony, wide eyed. "I didn’t mean that."

"Are you shitting me?" Tony growled, face twisting. "Fuck. what the hell, I didn’t know Peter-"

"He didn’t get it for me," Harley tried to correct. "I meant, like-"

"What did you mean?" Tony snapped. 

Harley swallowed. He couldn’t admit to getting them from Peter. Fuck, why’d he say that? He rubbed at his eyes a little more. "Uh," Harley tried and failed. "I meant, like…"

Silence.

"FRI, sweetie, get Barnes for me," the man said, exhaustedly. Harley tensed, gaze swinging up to Tony. 

"I, wait," Harley swallowed, sobering up at the feeling of panic that ran through him. "No, I… uh. Got it from school. From Flash. You know that asshole kid that picks on Peter?"

"Someone’s picking on Peter?" Tony's face softened for a second, before he snapped back into himself. "No. tell me later. I don't believe that you got it from school."

"Uh," Harley stalled, and then the elevator doors flicked open, and Harley wanted to slam his head onto the desk. He heard the sound of steel-toe boots on the floor, and covered his face with his arms. God, maybe if he’s just quiet and still they’ll go away. That was what you did for big animals, right? Bucky was big. Kinda like a bear. 

God. he was too tired for this.

"What’d you want?" Bucky asked, voice low and Harley groaned.

‘Someone’s been smoking weed in the lab,’ Tony said flatly, turning to look at Bucky. 

There was a pause before Bucky spoke. "No offense, Stark, but this one’s not mine. Why’d you call for me?"

"Because apparently he got it from Peter," Tony sighed. Bucky stiffened, gaze swinging down to Harley, who let out a miserable noise.

"...he got it from Peter?" Bucky asked, voice low and rumbly, before he turned back to Tony. "And you believe that?"

Tony let out an offended noise. "He tried to lie about it afterwards, I doubt he’s sober enough to think ahead." Harley let out an offended noise, opening his mouth to say something before he decided it was probably wiser to shut his mouth.

"You think Peter’s getting him weed?" Bucky drawled. "That kid? Really? Peter probably can't even metabolize it."

"Yeah," Tony shrugged. "But he’s got plenty of access to it."

Bucky paused, glancing down at Harley and squinting, before his gaze swung back up to Tony. "Okay. I'll check the kid’s room." Harley spasmed. Fuck. fuck fuck fuck that box of drugs is still on Peter’s fucking desk, and Peter had passed out as soon as he’d gotten out of the shower. Fuck.

"No," Harley blurted, and Bucky's eyes narrowed.

"No?" Bucky asked, and Harley panicked. He could not let them see that box. He stood, ducking around Bucky and scrambling towards the elevator, but stopped when a hand grabbed the back of his t-shirt and yanked him backwards. Harley stumbles back into Bucky's chest, who hauled him up so high Harley's toes barely grazed the floor. He scrambled to grab his shirt so it didn't choke him, and he struggled to pull out of the man’s grip. " I’m going to check Peter's room," Bucky said flatly, and the elevator doors dinged open. Bucky stepped inside, carrying Harley with him by the scruff of his t-shirt.

"Enjoy," Tony drawled, and that's the last thing Harley saw before the elevator doors slid shut. Once they were alone, Bucky dropped him and he stumbled to his feet. 

"You really get it from Peter?" Bucky didn't look at him when he said it, but Harley could feel the side eye.

"Not… not really," Harley said weakly. "Not, um-" Bucky didn't look like he believed him. The elevator door chimed again after a moment, but before Harley could dart out, a heavy, metal arm settled on Harley's shoulder to stop him from running. Harley shrunk under the grip, and Bucky gave a squeeze as they stepped out into the hallway. Bucky knocked once on Peter's door, and there was no answer. His grip tightened, probably subconsciously on Harley's shoulder. "He’s probably asleep," Harley muttered. "He was when I left."

Bucky knocked again, and when there was more silence, he gently opened the door. "Kid," Bucky called quietly. "I'm coming in."

There was still no response.

When Bucky quietly let the door fall open, through the darkness he could see that Peter was still buried under the covers where Harley had left him. Bucky hesitated before he hit the lights. Peter let out a groan, covering himself more to shy away from the brightness. Bucky’s gaze flicked over the room, before it settled on the large package on the desk. Bucky stepped forward and Harley tensed. Bucky’s gaze flicked to him, knowing, before he crossed the room in a few short strides. 

Harley pressed his hands to his face.

He heard the sound of the rest of the package being torn open, and Bucky's sharp intake of breath. "Jesus fucking-"

There was a lot. There was so much, and Harley had no idea how he’s gonna explain this one away. 

Bucky rounded back to the Peter, one of the smaller bricks of a powder in hand before he stepped in front of the bed. Peter was still asleep, and Harley kind of wondered if Bucky was going to haul Peter out of bed and shake him down. But he’d never really been rough with Peter. But with the way his metal fist tightened around the plastic, Harley kind of wondered if it was going to burst, and it was going to cover both Peter and Bucky in some white, fine, very much illegal powder.

Harley snorted at the thought, and Bucky whipped around to stare at him. Harley shrunk back against the wall. Jesus fucking christ. This was an awful idea.

Bucky turned back to Peter, reaching down under the covers, hand gently sliding into Peter's hair. The other boy let out a hum, burrowing into the touch, and Bucky relaxed a little. "Peter," he said gently, and Peter pressed his face further into the pillows. Another beat of silence. "Kid. hey. Wake up."

There was another long silence, then a miserable groan as Peter blinked awake. 

"Bucky?" he slurred, squinting up at him, Bucky’s metal hand tracing idly patterns in his hair. "What’re you…" his vision fell to the brick of probably-cocaine in Bucky's hand. "Where’d you get that?"

"Your desk," Bucky said flatly. "Where the hell did you get all this?"

Peter scrambled upright, sleep gone from his face. "Huh?"

"You have more cocaine than Stark’s done in his whole life. What the hell are you doing with all this?" Bucky tried again, though his voice tightened a little with something Harley couldn't place. Stress, maybe? He wasn't sober enough to think about this. "God, kid," Bucky said miserably, sinking onto the bed, and Peter relaxed against the headboard slightly once he realized Bucky wasn't furious with him.

Bucky stared at him after he dropped the brick of cocaine on the bed in front of him. "I… are you taking drugs?" Bucky tried, and Peter blinked up at him, shocked. "Are you okay? I - I've never, I don't know what to do or how to help you, but you know we can help you if you need it, right?"

Peter stared at him, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "What?"

Bucky’s face fell, and he hauled Peter into his lap in a tangle of limbs, pressing Peter into him. "Are you on something now, too?" Bucky asked gently, hand sliding along Peter's back in a comforting pattern. Peter shot Harley a shocked and confused look from where he was half-pressed into Bucky's shoulder, half dangling off the bed. "How much did you take?"

“What?" Peter asked again, pulling back a little clumsily to stare at him, settling back against the headboard. "Bucky, what are you talking about? I'm not-"

Bucky squinted at him for a moment, appraising him. "Can you count up by prime numbers?"

"Yeah?" Peter said, still confused. "I’m - why?"

"Follow my finger," Bucky said, and Peter batted the hand away. 

"No, Bucky, what are you talking about?"

Bucky paused. He glanced at the brick of cocaine, gently setting it aside on the bedside table. "Where are  you getting these drugs?"

"From patrol," Peter shrugged, frowning. Bucky winds his metal arm around Peter's side and tugged him in. Peter gives up, flopping against Bucky's shoulder with a hum. "I didn’t want to leave them before the cops came in case someone took them."

"Why didn't you give them to us to get rid of?"

"Because I was tired," Peter frowned. "I just got back. I just wanted to take a nap. I was going to do it tomorrow."

"But you don’t take anything?" Bucky asked, reaching out to gently squeeze Peter's arm, who quirked a lip. 

"No," Peter said flatly. "I don’t. I doubt it would even work for me."

Bucky looked relaxed at that. Harley shuffled back a little more, but the sound caught Bucky's attention, and he turned to him. "So what the hell are you doing, then?" Bucky says flatly.

"I'm really loving the difference in reaction, by the way," Harley drawled. "When I get slightly high I get dragged out of the lab, and when Peter has bricks of cocaine sitting on his desk he gets a hug. What the hell is this biassed bullshi-?"

"Harley," Bucky drawled, but Peter scrambled up a little straighter. Bucky didn't release the arm around Peter's side.

"You’re stealing the drugs?" Peter blinked at him, wide-eyed. "Harley!"

"It was just a little bit!" Harley defended. "And it was just weed! S’not like i'm doing lines of coke in the lab up there."

"You can’t just-!" Peter started, fumbling. "I - I got them from being Spider-Man, you can’t just steal the drugs I confiscated from criminals!"

"It was one time!" Harley defended. "I would have gotten it anyway, but I figured if you’re gonna give it all up it was just gonna go to waste, and-" Peter scowled at him, "-really, I'm like, saving the planet. Re-use, recycle, whatever."

Peter gaped at him, scrambling out of bed. "You’re-"

"It’s just weed!" Harley said again.

Bucky frowned at him. "You’re not stealing drugs. You’re not doing it in the lab, either. You’re gonna do something dumb and cut your hand off."

"Better than the roof," Harley muttered. "Fucking hate heights."

"You smoked on the roof?" Peter gaped. "Are you stupid?"

"No," Harley answered, at the same time Bucky muttered, ‘yes.’ Harley's gaze snapped up to the man’s. "Hey! You can’t talk, god knows what sort of drugs you guys took back in the day. Didn’t you take, like, heroin for cough syrup?"

Bucky does, to his credit, quirk a lip that time. "...no, you’re right. Steve was high most of the time, to be honest." Peter let out a startled laugh, and Harley feels marginally better. "But," Bucky continued, "that doesn’t mean you’re stealing drugs off the street whenever Peter brings them home and leaves them on his desk."

"Hey!" Peter interjected. "That’s not my fault!"

"You’re both idiots," Bucky muttered, dumping Peter back on the bed before standing. He looked back down at Peter, squinting at him. "You good from patrol? No stab wounds?"

"No," Peter muttered, before sighing. "Just a small one." Bucky stared down at him. Peter sighed, pulling up his shirt to show Bucky the freshly stitched stab wound. Harley grimaced, looking away. He still couldn’t do blood. It was worse when it was on Peter, too.

Bucky reached down, gently, to press his metal hand against Peter's side. "Any pain?"

"No," Peter grumbled, rolling away and shoving the covers back over onto him like a cocoon. "Your hand’s cold."

Bucky sighed, pulling away. He turned back to Harley. "Go eat something," he said flatly. "Don’t wander around high off your face on shit from the street. You'll get laced with something, and then you'll really be in trouble."

"I'm pretty much sober at this point," Harley muttered miserably. "Hard to enjoy yourself when you’re dragged down a couple floors by a supersoldier."

Peter snorted. Harley glared at him.

Bucky went over to the desk - taking the brick of cocaine with him - before scooping up the rest of the drugs under one arm. He gives them both one last look, especially at Harley, before the door clicked shut behind him. 

Peter shrugged further under the covers, before lifting an arm. "Come to bed," he said, and Harley hit the lights again before he slid in next to him, Peter curling around him. There was a moment of silence, and Harley let out a quiet breath. "Are you still, like… high?" Peter asked slowly, head resting against Harley's collarbone. 

Harley gave a low hum. "Not really. Not anymore, I don't think."

There was another long, hesitant pause. "Why’d you do it?"

"Huh?" Harley asked, head tilting down to look at Peter, but he couldn't really see him from this position. "What, why’d I take the drugs?"

“Why would you want to get high?” Peter asked cautiously. “I don’t… I've never really tried it, and after I got the bite I doubt it would even work with my metabolism. I just… what’s it like?”

“Nice,” Harley replies after a beat. “I dunno. I think it depends on the person, but it’s just… I can just sit and enjoy myself without thinking too hard.”

“I mean, yeah,” Peter muttered flatly. “You’re clearly not thinking if you’re gonna accidentally cut your hand off in the lab, high and unsupervised-”

“I was fine,” Harley snorted, arm wrapping around Peter's waist. “But I dunno. I don’t think you’re missing much. It’s just a habit I picked up.” Peter hummed, sinking into him again. Then Harley felt cold fingers pinch his side, and he let out a surprised noise. “What the hell was that for, Parker?”

“For stealing my stuff,’ he said flatly. ‘Don't do it again or I'll web you to the roof.”

Jesus christ. “Okay, message received. Now get your cold hands out from under my shirt.”

Chapter Text

Peter had had a long, miserable day.

First the pop quiz in chemistry - which should be easy. He could do chemistry. But he hadn't been sleeping, and the words had started to blur together on the page. He’d answered everything, but god it was harder than it should have been. Lunch was long, and he’d almost fallen asleep on Harley. Ned was away, MJ was content to read, and Harley was actually trying to study for once. It hadn't been bad, just… quiet. It had helped take out some of the headache, and feeling of sensory overload that was bubbling just under his skin. It wasn’t bad enough to really make him call Bucky or Tony to pick him up, though, so he was content to sit here for a little bit.

That was always humiliating. It shouldn't be; Bucky had told him not to worry and Tony had never minded when he came instead of Happy, but it still felt like it. It felt like admitting defeat or some other stupid little thing that Peter had against asking for help.

Whatever. He was too tired to think too deeply about that right now.

Patrol had been equally awful. He’d stayed out way later than he’d meant to, managed to get himself shot through the side - thank god the bullet had come out, he might actually have cried if he’d had to pull the tweezers out again - and he’d only just finished the long and miserable process of stitching himself up. Harley had tried to help where he could; he’d dragged himself out of bed, and Peter felt a little bad for waking him up, but Harley didn’t do blood. He only stared very firmly at the clean tiles and handed him whatever Peter asked for out of their medkit.

When he was finally done, Harley put everything away and helped him into bed. Peter dissolved into the sheets, because it was a long day, and he was tired, and he was ready for a long, boring weekend where nothing exciting happened.

—

When he woke up, the bed was empty and Peter’s day was immediately ruined.

He was still exhausted when he finally rolled himself out of bed, shrugged on a shirt, and stepped into the elevator. The ride was quick enough, and he stumbled a little blearily into the kitchen as he rubbed at his eyes. He felt like he was running on three hours of sleep. He probably was. He rounded the corner, one eye still shut before he slammed into something solid and warm.

He let out a startled noise, stepping back and clutching his nose, because ow, that hurt, before he stepped back, looked up, and the breath was sucked out of his lungs.

Peter… Peter was going to hell.

Because Thor was standing in the kitchen, staring down at him with an expression that was half amused, half concerned, with those pretty blue eyes and blond hair and muscly chest, and Peter was cooked. It was official.  Maybe it was still a dream, he hoped a little desperately as he pressed against his face a little harder. 

“Uh,” Peter let out a noise that sounded strangled. “I…”

“Are you okay?” Thor asked, leaning down to look him over. He had that accent that Peter had seen from old Youtube clips from when Loki had first invaded New York. They had that weird accent that was probably European or something, right? It was Norse mythology, so it was… something.

Peter stared up at him, face flushing. Thor regarded him again. “Did you hit your head? I did not mean to injure you, young…”

Peter stared a little longer, before choking out, “Um. Peter.”

“Umpeter?” Thor asked, lip quirking up.

“Just - just Peter,” he forced out.

“Peter,” Thor said again, and Peter tried desperately not to notice how the man saying his name like that made him feel, before his face shifted with understanding. “Peter!” He said again. “Starkson, correct?”

“Uh,” Peter forced out again, feeling very much caught off guard before there was a snort across the room.

“Correct,” Tony said, leaning back across the couch. Peter startled when he realized there were other people in the room, and as he caught Harley's eye, and his stomach sank. Harley grinned. Peter stepped back hurriedly, desperate to put some space in between him and the man - the god - and scurried around him into the kitchen. The sheer size of the man, though-

Peter let out a strangled breath, face still stained a dark red as he very firmly ignored Harley's gaze staring into his back.

“So, kid,” Tony called again, and Peter let out a distracted, ‘yeah ?’ as he stared unseeingly into the cupboard. “You met Thor. Thor, meet Peter.”

There were footsteps behind him, and he turned to see the man standing over him. “Starkson,” he greeted, voice deep and rumbly. “It is an honor to meet you.”

Something in Peter’s chest seized as he pressed up against the pantry door while Thor looked down at him, blond hair falling down to his shoulders. He was tall, too, and Peter - honest to god - had the immediate urge to reach out to touch the man’s chest before he snapped back into himself.

“I have heard much about you,” Thor offered, and Peter’s breath caught in his throat. “You are the Man Of Spiders, correct?"

Peter opened his mouth, to say ‘yes,’ or correct him and say, ‘it’s Spider-Man, actually’ or he could have even just kept his mouth shut and nodded. Instead, he glanced up at Thor, who was staring down at him, and Peter could see the muscles in his shoulders as they trailed down to his exposed arms, to his large hands, and-

Peter giggled.

He let out a hitchy, strangled noise immediately after, face bursting into flames. He stepped back again and made a little gurgly noise. “Um,” Peter tried, voice light and strained. “I… yeah. Man of - Spider-Man. That's me. I'm, um…”

Thor regarded him again with an expression he couldn't place. “Are you sure you didn’t injure yourself?” he asked again quietly, concerned. “Did you hit your head, possibly?”

There was another long miserable moment of silence, and Thor raised a hand like it was going to settle on Peter’s cheek to check that he wasn’t bleeding out from his head, and the sight of the man’s large hand being raised to him had him letting out a strangled noise.

Thor paused. There was a snort from behind him, and someone took pity.

“Point Break’s in our kitchen because he needed to talk to Strange about something, right?” Tony shrugged. “I don't really do magic. But he’s gonna be here for a week or two.” A week or two? Peter couldn’t deal with a week or two of this. He was going to keel over and die. He needed boring. He needed relaxing. He needed movie nights with Harley and not leaving his room.

Instead, he was standing here in the kitchen and staring into the god of thunder’s chiseled chest, hidden by the fabric of a t-shirt that Peter had never hated more in his life. He tried to glance behind him, to make out who else was in the room. He blinked, and Thor let out a rumble of agreement. “A week or two indeed, Man of Iron. I am sorry for intruding.”

"You're not intruding,” Harley grinned at Peter from around Thor's side. “Stay as long as you like. Right, Peter?”

The sound Peter made in response was less than dignified.

—

Peter had given Harley so much shit about his dumb little crush on Bucky. 

Which - it was barely a crush. Harley was just weak. But it was Bucky and he was huge and ripped and scary and Harley was weak for anyone who could crush his head with one hand. It was one of the things that he absolutely loved about Peter.

But the point was - it was barely a crush. He’d said something once, and now Harley was never going to live it down. They’d be eating dinner or cleaning up and Bucky would move behind him, or brush his side, and after Peter was sure the man was distracted and talking to Steve, he’d lean in and whisper, “You good? Need a moment?” like an asshole.

Harley did not need a moment. He was perfectly capable of functioning like a normal person, thank you very much.

Unlike Peter.

So when Thor arrived at the Tower and Peter completely lost his ability to form words, Harley knew. Knew he had been given a gift, and he wasn’t about to waste it. Peter had just… stopped functioning, completely. He’d ran straight first into the man’s incredible pecs, nearly broken his nose, and just nodded dumbly and stuttered out a couple of words, blinking up at him like a deer in headlights.

Harley had never known joy like this.

When they got back to their room, Harley shut the door and had barely taken a step before Peter whirled on him, face flushed. “Not a word,” he growled, and Harley barked out a shocked laugh. Peter scowled. “I'm serious, Harley.”

Harley laughed harder, and Peter pressed him back up against the door. Harley knew that Peter was just trying to be intimidating or shut him up or something, but it never worked because Peter was always too gentle and slow to shock him. Which was sweet, Harley had to admit, but now it was mostly funny as Peter held him by the shoulders and pinned him against the wall.

"Harley," Peter hissed out again, furious. He still had Harley pinned against the door, his fingers digging into Harley's shirt like he wanted to shake him, but all Harley could do was howl with laughter. His stomach hurt. His eyes were actually watering.

"What the fuck?" Harley laughed, barely getting the words out between gasping breaths. He wiped at his eyes, because god, he could actually cry right now, his stomach was cramping so hard. "Peter, oh my god, dude. I haven't seen someone fumble that hard since my sister tried to give the neighbourhood kid a dandelion and accidentally inhaled it. Jesus Christ, you’re-”

"Shut up," Peter begged, his face still burning red as he held Harley up like he wanted to slam him through the door. 

Harley sagged against the hold, still grinning like an asshole. "-So down bad. I get it, he's like, a literal god, but oh my god, Peter!" He started laughing harder, and Peter's face flushed darker before he dropped Harley entirely, stalking dramatically across the room to collapse face-first onto the bed. “But you can't have a crush on him! I can’t compete with that!"

Peter groaned into the mattress, dragging a pillow over his head like he could physically block out Harley's voice. "Oh my God, shut up."

Harley laughed harder.

He climbed onto the bed and poked at Peter's side, which earned him a halfhearted swat. "Nah, man, this is great. You gave me so much shit for Bucky, but the second Thor walks into the room your brain fries.”

Peter peeked at him through his fingers, scowling. "At least be flattered! You guys look kinda similar, blond hair and blue eyes, and maybe I just have a type or something?"

Harley’s laughter abruptly cut off, and he gave him a deadpan look. "Bucky has brown hair and brown eyes. If that's your excuse, why the hell were you giving me shit?" 

"Because he’s my dad! " Peter blurted out, as if that explained anything.

Harley blinked again. Then shrugged. "He's not my dad. It’s free game."

Peter gaped. "It’s not free game!" he argued incredulously, pushing himself up on his elbows. "He's like a hundred years old!"

"So?"

"So you shouldn’t-!" Peter cut himself off, floundering. "He’s with Steve!"

"Steve’ll understand," Harley said easily, stretching out on the bed.

Peter stared at him for a long moment. "I know you’re joking," he said slowly, "but I hate you right now."

Harley just let out a snort as he leaned back against the pillows. "Y'know what? If you can somehow get with Thor, I’ll be impressed. You have my full permission."

Peter sat up so fast he nearly knocked himself off the bed. “I’m not gonna get with Thor!” Peter hissed, face red. “He’s like a million years old!”

Harley shrugged, grinning. “Just sayin’. If you can, you should go for it. Literally a once-in-a-lifetime chance, dude. You have my blessing.”

Peter threw a pillow at his face.

—

Peter hadn’t said a word since they sat down. His tray of food sat mostly untouched, and he kept shooting side-eyes at Harley, who had, for his part, had barely moved either - aside from the occasional glance at Peter, looking both half-guilty, half-amused, and like he was bracing for impact. MJ and Ned, seated across from them, exchanged a look.

“Dude,” Ned finally said, lowering his sandwich. “What’s wrong? Did you guys get into a fight?”

Peter whipped his head around so fast Ned flinched. “He wants to fuck my dad!”

Ned immediately choked on his food, slamming a fist against his chest while MJ handed him her water bottle without even looking up from her book. Across from him, Harley groaned and dropped his head onto the table.

“Oh my god,” Harley muttered into the dirty surface of the table. “I said one thing.”

Peter threw his hands up. “One thing? You - fine! Go be with Bucky then if you like him so much. Take Steve too while you’re at it.” Harley went completely silent, which would’ve been victory enough if Peter hadn’t turned to look at him and found his entire face burning red. Peter’s stomach dropped. “What is wrong with you? That’s a joke. ”

Harley groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I can’t help it, Peter, I’m gay, leave me alone.”

Peter recoiled, absolutely appalled. “Steve? Steve too? ”

Harley lifted his head just enough to glare at him. “He’s Captain America, what am I supposed to say? No? ” Peter made a fake gagging sound, shoving his tray further away. Harley just snorted. “I mean, come on. I get why you don’t wanna admit it, but everyone with eyes can see the appeal.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “I’m scared that if my biological father were alive, you’d be attracted to him too.”

Harley tilted his head, considering. “Could your actual father crush my head in one hand?” His voice lowered dangerously. “If so, then probably yes.”

“I don’t know, how about you die and find out?” he said sweetly. Harley let out a groan, and Peter pushed his chair back. “Nope. I can’t do this. I’m breaking up with you.”

Ned, still recovering from his near-death experience, just stared. “Is this flirting?”

MJ turned a page. “I think so.”

Harley ignored them. “Peter, they’re super soldiers. Have you seen their hands? This is the most reasonable hear me out ever.”

“That’s not even a hear me out! ” Peter hissed. “Hear me outs are like - the emo fish from Finding Nemo and Sully from Monsters Inc. ”

“Fine! It’s not a hear me out! I’m just gay, and they’re strong! ”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “I’m strong.”

Harley squinted at him. “Yeah, but like…they’re built like fucking tanks, Peter. You’re strong, but you’re a twink.”

Peter didn’t even think. He lunged, tackling Harley out of his chair and sending them both sprawling onto the floor. As they wrestled, Peter got one arm pressing down just across his throat hard enough to have some look of alarm flashing through him. “I’m not a twink,” he hissed, pressing down harder. “Say it! Say I’m not a twink!”

Harley, wheezing, tried to pry Peter off. “Fuck you!”

MJ took a bite of her apple. “This is definitely flirting.” 

Ned groaned and dropped his head onto the table as MJ smacked Peter over the head with her book. He yelped, shoving off of Harley, who took the opportunity to stick his tongue out before sliding back into his chair. Peter shot him a glare, but for a moment, blessed silence settled over the table.

And then Harley took a deep breath and blurted, 

“Peter’s got a thing for Thor!”

The cafeteria seemed to go dead silent. Peter slammed both hands on the table so hard their trays jumped, then turned to Harley with the most murderous look imaginable. He raised his hands like he was going to strangle him again, but MJ, already anticipating his movements, casually held her book up as a shield.

After a tense beat, MJ snorted. Peter groaned and dragged his hands down his face. “So?” Ned said, unbothered. “Like… sure. I’m not surprised. If I was into dudes I’d probably have a thing for Thor too.”

Peter’s fingers twitched. “Ned,” he muttered dangerously.

“Well neither was I,” Harley continued, voice flat, “until the first thing Peter did was try to suck his tits.”

Ned’s eyes widened. MJ actually looked up from her book this time, raising an eyebrow as she glanced at Peter, who looked absolutely betrayed. “I wasn’t looking where I was going!” Peter spluttered.

“Sure,” Harley drawled. “Just so happened you also happened to get a faceful of-”

“I’m going to kill you.” Peter leaned in, voice low and menacing.

Harley ignored him completely, turning toward Ned instead. “He giggled,” he said, eyes alight with mischief. “Like a schoolgirl.” Ned clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. MJ hummed in vague amusement and turned another page, but Peter could see the smirk forming at the corners of her lips. “It was funny.” 

“Harley,” Peter warned again, voice sharper.

Harley just shrugged. “What? You did.” Peter exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to contain the overwhelming urge to throttle him. Harley smirked. “And, y’know, Thor’s built like a tank, too-”

Peter lunged again.

MJ smacked him over the head twice this time.

—

The next time it happened, Peter was in the gym.

The gym was normal. Predictable. It was still a little dented, and Peter still hadn’t gotten those custom weights that Mr. Stark had promised him ages ago. At this point, he was starting to think that the man just didn’t want him to have them.

But today - today was different.

There were a lot more people in the gym than usual. It was normally just him, Bucky, maybe Steve if he was in a training mood. But today, other people were sparring on the mats. At first he was worried he’d missed a training session or something; and then he saw that Clint was actively trying to tackle Thor - bold of him, really - and failing spectacularly. Nat was grinning at him, and Bucky was leaning against the wall next to Steve, watching it all with the kind of relaxed, thinly veiled amusement.

Peter was about to turn around and leave, because he didn’t have the social energy for this right now - when Bucky caught his eye and waved him over.

Peter hesitated.

And then he noticed that Thor was shirtless.

Oh.

Oh no.

A terrible, warm heat crawled up Peter’s neck. Thor had always been intimidating, but seeing him like this - bare-chested, golden-haired, rippling with power and laughing with the voice of a literal god - was just unfair. That wasn’t even remotely okay.

Peter fumbled his way over, trying very, very hard not to trip over his own feet, but Bucky’s lips were already twitching upwards in a knowing way that made Peter deeply self-conscious. “Hey, kid.”

“H-hey,” Peter managed, very much not looking at Thor.

Bucky’s smirk deepened, and Peter immediately didn’t trust him. They had barely started warming up before Bucky turned toward the god of thunder and, completely casually, said, “Hey, Thor. You wanna fight the kid? He’s pretty strong.”

Peter’s head snapped around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. Bucky just grinned.

Thor clapped a massive hand on Peter’s shoulder, grinning down at him. “A most excellent suggestion! Come, Man of Spiders, let us spar!”

Peter let out a slow breath through his nose, feeling Bucky’s barely huff of laughter beside him. Peter was going to kill him.

But first, apparently, he had to fight a god.

Peter shifted on the balls of his feet, trying very hard to ignore Bucky’s smug little smirk from the sidelines. “Uh - okay, so,” he started, clearing his throat as he stepped onto the mat, “how strong should I be? Like, I don’t wanna, uh-” He gestured vaguely at Thor’s entire massive form. “Accidentally hurt you or something.”

Thor just threw his head back and laughed. A big, booming, joyous sound that had Peter wanting to shrink into the floor immediately.

“Ah, young Peter!” Thor clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly send him sprawling. “Mortals should never concern themselves with such matters!”

Peter barely had a second to process that before Thor launched himself at him.

“Oh, shit -” Peter dodged - barely - flipping backward as Thor’s fist cratered into the floor where he’d been standing. Holy hell. Okay. Okay, Thor was way stronger than he’d accounted for.

A part of him was panicking, because he’d never actually met someone who was physically stronger than him post-bite. He’d always had to worry about accidentally hurting people or going too rough with sparring, and now Thor was strong enough to tank the hits. Not just strong enough, but he was barely even phased by that.

A part of him was terrified. Another, stupider part of him just chanted, hot, hot, hot, hot-

He scrambled back onto his feet, immediately going on the defensive. He wasn’t stupid - he knew trying to fight Thor head-on was a terrible idea. He had to be faster, more strategic. So he twisted and flipped, using every ounce of agility he had, ducking under wild swings and darting in for quick, calculated hits before flipping away again.

But it was Thor.

And Thor didn’t budge.

Peter’s brows furrowed. That was - huh. That was weird. Most people at least staggered when he used some of his strength. Anything more and his fist would go straight through them - but Thor barely even felt it. Okay. Change of plans.

With a burst of movement, Peter launched himself up and around, wrapping himself around Thor’s broad shoulders, trying to pull him off-balance- 

-only for Thor to simply slam him into the training mats like he weighed nothing.

Peter let out a sharp oof as the air rushed out of his lungs, his head spinning. He barely had time to register that Thor was now pinning him down, the broad hands pressing him into the mat, muscles taut and firm and-

Peter’s breath hitched. His face flushed.

Oh. Oh, no. This was a problem.

Thor grinned down at him, still perfectly fine while Peter was struggling to catch his breath. “The Man of Spiders is very strong! He fought valiantly! He lasted longer than any of you have so far!” Peter made a strangled noise.

Because. Because why. Why did he have to phrase it like that? Why did he say it like that?

Peter shoved at Thor’s chest, scrambling up, desperate to flee. “Okay! Great! That was - fun. Super fun.” He shot Bucky a warning glare before rapidly excusing himself. “I just - uh - remembered. I have homework. To do.” 

From the sidelines, Bucky’s shit-eating grin only grew. “Kid,” he called, voice dripping with amusement. “You just got here. You sure you don’t wanna stay a little longer?”

“I’m good,” Peter wheezed, already halfway to the exit. “Just - um, really important. Homework. Super important. You wouldn’t get it.”

He ducked out of sight, and collapsed against the wall with a miserable whine. God, he was fucked.

—

Peter was used to dinner at the Tower.

It was always a mess, but Peter had gotten used to dodging Clint’s grabby hands near his plate and pretending not to notice whenever Bucky stole Steve’s fries when he thought the other man wasn’t looking. What he hadn’t gotten used to, though, was Thor.

Because Thor was sitting right across from him. And talking. And laughing. And doing things with his hands when he spoke that Peter was definitely not paying too much attention to but also somehow hyper-fixating on. He was cooked. He kept his head down, pushing his food around his plate in a desperate attempt to look normal. He tried to focus on the feeling of his knees knocking against Harley’s, but every time Thor’s voice boomed across the table, Peter’s stupid traitorous heart did a thing, and his ears felt hot, and Harley was right there next to him, noticing everything.

Peter was hyper-aware of every single brush of contact, which was stupid because they sat next to each other all the time. But now Harley was grinning at him like he knew Peter was struggling not to stare too hard at Thor’s hands and face, and how his heart was definitely beating faster than usual. Harley bumped him with his knee, it sent a jolt of something horrible and fluttery through his stomach.

Thor was in the middle of some loud, dramatic story, gesturing wildly with his fork, completely oblivious to the way Peter was suffering. Harley was too aware, for his taste.

“And so I told the Frost Giant, ‘If you desire my hammer, you must first best me in combat!’ And do you know what he did? He ran! He ran, like a coward!” Thor bellowed, shaking his head. “Truly, they do not make warriors as they used to.”

“Mmhm,” Peter said absently, mostly because Thor was loud and he felt like he should acknowledge something.

Harley elbowed him, grinning. “You good, bug?”

Peter flushed at the nickname, elbowing Harley under the table and snorting when the other boy let out an oomf. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, though, Thor turned to him. “Man of Spiders!”

Peter jerked upright, almost knocking his drink over. “Yes? Sir? I mean - um, Thor. Um. Hi.”

Harley made a noise next to him that was either a strangled laugh or an actual attempt on Peter’s life. Thor, completely oblivious, beamed. “I was merely wondering - are you going to eat that?” He pointed at the takeout container next to Peter’s plate.

Peter blinked. “What? I - oh. Oh, uh.” He flushed, ears burning. “I - I was gonna, um, but, uh, no. No, I’m not. So, uh. Here.” He shoved it toward Thor, cheeks stained pink. “Eat it. Please. If you want.”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Harley snorted around a mouthful of food that turned into a sputtering cough, and Peter elbowed him harder. Bucky was already leaning over to Tony, saying something lowly with a grin that made Peter worried. Nat smirked into her drink. Steve sighed like this was the most predictable thing in the world.

“Oh my god,” Tony said, covering his face with one hand, barely hiding his smirk. His shoulders were shaking. He was thriving in Peter’s misery.

“What?” Peter asked, already knowing he’d walked into a trap but still somehow not sure how. The table was laughing. Bucky was grinning, all teeth, and Peter could feel Harley practically vibrating beside him as he thumped his chest and choked on his food, still.  “Why are you laughing, I don’t-” He cut himself off when Harley wheezed next to him, barely keeping upright. Peter whipped around, face hot. “I hate you,” he hissed, voice low and furious.

Harley gasped through his laughter. “No, dude, I love you, you’re such an idiot.”

Peter kicked him under the table. Harley just cackled. Meanwhile, across the table, Thor sat glancing between them in confusion. “What? What has happened?”

That just made the others laugh harder.

“Oh, this is so much better than I expected,” Sam snorted, glancing over at Bucky. The traitor. He’d told people.

Peter buried his face in his hands. His entire body was burning. “Please kill me.”

“No, no, hold on,” Bucky said, voice dripping with amusement. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm like he was so invested in this. “I think Thor was asking a question. You should answer, kid.”

Peter groaned into his hands, resisting the urge to sink under the table. “He asked if I was gonna eat this,” he said miserably, shoving the container toward Thor. “So, uh. Here. Take it. Please.”

Thor nodded solemnly, like Peter had just handed him something sacred. “Indeed. But I have another question!”

“Oh no,” Peter whispered.

Thor leaned forward, blue eyes bright with curiosity. “I do not understand why this is amusing to the others? But I am pleased to have provided entertainment.”

Peter let out a strangled noise that wasn’t quite human. He knew he should say nothing. He should not engage. He should just sit there quietly until they all moved on. But Harley, who had never once in his life done the right thing, grinned at him before turning to Thor. “Well, you are Peter’s favorite.”

Peter choked. “Harley!”

Thor’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “His favorite?”

Peter wanted to die. He wanted to be thrown into space. He wanted to dissolve into dust and never have dinner with these people ever again. He wanted to be hit by Mjolnir at full force and launched into the sun. “Oh yeah,” Sam said, leaning back, smirking. “Big fan.”

“The biggest,” Bucky added, nodding sagely. “Loves you.”

Peter spluttered. “I - what - I do not - shut up!”

Thor, somehow still not getting it, smiled proudly. “I am honored, young Spider-Man.”

Peter’s entire soul left his body. “You really don’t have to be.”

Harley - still stupid and smug and Peter was going to beat his ass later - elbowed Peter in the ribs. “C’mon, Parker. Don’t you have something to say to your favorite Avenger?

Peter was going to combust. His whole body felt hot, very aware of Thor still watching him, patient, waiting. Expecting. Peter cleared his throat, tried desperately to be normal, but... he struggled. “I - um - yeah, I mean. Uh. You’re - y’know. Cool.” He winced immediately. “Big hammer.” Jesus Christ, shut up. “Nice…cape.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Your hair’s very…golden?”

The silence that followed was only broken by Bucky snorting so hard his drink almost came out of his nose. Harley shook against Peter’s shoulder, wheezing with his head bowed against the table, his whole body shaking. Peter wanted to evaporate. Thor, completely unbothered, smiled. “Thank you, young one! I shall take this as the highest of compliments.”

Peter, head in his hands, whispered, “I hate you all.”

—

​​Thor left the next morning, off to do something Asgardian and important, and Peter felt relieved.

And also miserable.

Peter had watched him leave from the common room window, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of his cheek and slumped against the window with his arms crossed. There was a weird, heavy feeling in his chest. On one hand, he was sad. He liked Thor. Thor was… well, he was Thor. Big, boisterous, stupidly powerful, kind in a way that made Peter feel raw. He made Peter feel like a dumb kid with a crush again, in a weirdly good way. But on the other hand, Thor was also the cause of Peter’s deepest and most humiliating suffering over the last twenty-four hours, and now that he was gone, maybe Peter could breathe again.

He should’ve been used to people leaving by now. It was basically a requirement for being in his life. But that didn’t make it suck any less . And it wasn’t like Thor was gone forever or anything, obviously. He’d be back. Probably.

He sighed, forehead knocking lightly against the glass.

“Y’good, Parker?”

Peter startled, whipping around to see Harley, who looked entirely too pleased with himself. He scowled. “What do you want?”

Harley just plopped down on the couch next to him, still grinning. “Oh, nothing. Just checkin’ in. You seemed a little broody watching Thor leave.”

Peter groaned. “I hate you.”

Harley cackled. “Man, that was so funny last night. You straight-up folded just ‘cause he talked to you. I’ve never seen you turn that red before.”

Peter glared, shoving Harley’s shoulder a little harder than necessary. “I’m going to get Bucky to beat you up for being mean to me.”

It was supposed to be a joke. Supposed to be. Just a little verbal jab, something to make Harley roll his eyes or smirk and say something stupid back, because that was how their banter worked. But that wasn’t what happened. Harley’s smirk dropped, his whole body hesitating for a second. His expression shifted in a way that Peter had never seen before; his eyes a little too wide, breath hitching just slightly, like he’d been caught.

Peter frowned. “What?”

Harley immediately looked away, rubbing at his face. There was a faint dusting of pink across the other boy’s cheeks, trailing up to his ears. Peter squinted. Harley blushed harder.

Oh.

Oh, what the hell?

Peter reared back like he’d just been electrocuted, barely stopping himself from flipping over the arm of the couch. “Oh my god.”

Harley’s entire body tensed, then curled in on itself like he could somehow disappear into the cushions through sheer force of will. “Shut up.”

Peter pointed at him. “You like it.”

Harley groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “No, I don’t-”

“You want Bucky to beat you up!” Peter accused, voice going a little too high, because he was experiencing some very conflicting emotions right now. Horror, amusement, more horror. “I was threatening you!”

Harley slumped forward, face buried in his hands like he was praying for death. “I hate you.”

Peter gawked. “You’re into-”

“I will strangle you, Parker,” Harley warned, voice muffled against his palms.

Peter barely dodged the kick Harley aimed at his shin, scrambling up against the armrest. “Oh my god. Are you into that, too?” Peter snorted, barely dodging another kick. Harley lunged at him, and Peter yelped, practically falling over himself to escape as Harley swiped at him half-heartedly, face still burning red. “Dude. Dude.” Peter wheezed, breathless from laughter, even as he kept a wary distance. “That is so much worse than my thing with Thor!”

Harley lifted his head just enough to glare at him through his fingers, voice dripping with venom. “It’s really not.”

“It so is!” Peter shot back, a little hysterical. “Oh my god, how am I the normal one here?”

Harley groaned again, dragging his hands down his face. “At least I can string sentences together around him! First thing you did was run straight into his chest and-“

Peter shoved him, and Harley cackled, collapsing into the couch.

—

The room was quiet. Peaceful, even. Peter was so exhausted that he sank into the blankets a little more. His muscles had finally stopped aching, the weight of exhaustion settling comfortably over him like a blanket.

And then- 

“Peter.” Peter squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Maybe if he ignored it… “Peter, c’mon. This is completely reasonable.”

Peter sighed. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harley said, shifting beside him. “But hear me out.”

“No.”

“Okay, but-” 

Peter rolled onto his side, cracking one eye open. “Harley.”

Harley was already staring at him, looking way too alert for someone who was supposed to be going to sleep. “You have to admit it. The guy’s got a metal arm. That’s hot.”

Peter turned onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m ignoring you,” he muttered. 

“And you don’t do the whole broody assassin thing.”

Peter threw an arm over his face. “Oh my god.”

“Listen,” Harley continued, undeterred. “I’m just saying, if I’d met him before I met you, there’s a good chance I would’ve-”

Peter turned back to face him, expression flat. “You done?”

Harley grinned, all smug and unrepentant before his face softened, and he reached out for Peter’s hand. “The point is, I chose you, obviously.” Peter quirked a lip, “And I don’t care if you have a crush on Thor. Point is, I get it.” Harley rolled over on top of Peter, blinking down at him in the darkness. “And I think it’s funny. Why can’t you giggle like that for me?”

Peter growled, planting a hand in Harley’s face. “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” Harley grinned, before he leaned down to press a kiss to Peter’s forehead, who sighed and relaxed a little. “And I’m glad you’re with me,” he murmured, sinking back down next to Peter and pulling him into Harley’s chest. “Because I definitely can’t compete with Thor.”

“He’s a million years old,” Peter murmured tiredly. “I’m not actually gonna-”

“I know,” Harley snorted. “It’s still funny, though.” 

They settled into another quiet silence, and Harley shifted next to him. Peter blinked awake, his eyes narrowing. “…You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little.”

Peter huffed, rolling back over. “Go to sleep, Harley.”

There was a beat of silence.  “You gotta admit, though. Aside from all the emotional baggage that comes with it, the murder arm is hot.” 

Peter shoved him out of bed, and didn’t bother with anything else.

Chapter Text

Bucky stepped out of his room, stretching his arms above his head as he rolled his shoulders. His body ached, but it was a dull, manageable soreness - mostly from the stiffness of his shoulders and stress lines - but not the oppressive, all-consuming weight of exhaustion that had clung to him yesterday. He felt more present today. More himself. The sickly numbness that had turned his body into something distant, something alien, had receded. He could breathe without feeling like his ribs were caving in. He could think without the slow, suffocating fog clouding his mind.

And, more importantly, he was starving.

Whatever Steve had cooked up in the kitchen, Bucky was about to demolish it. He had no shame. He felt like he hadn't been fed in weeks, because after yesterday he was fucking starving.

He also needed to talk to Steve. Needed to break the news that he had a cat now. We, he corrected himself. We have a cat now. Because Bucky would rather give up his other flesh hand than let Alpine go anywhere, and if Steve had any objections, well… he just had to figure out how to work around them. Convince him with minimal fuss. Appeal to his big heart or whatever. Steve was a sucker for that kind of thing. 

The kitchen was warm and smelled like coffee, something vaguely sweet hanging in the air, and Steve was standing by the stove, facing away. His shoulders were relaxed, his back straight but not tense, and Bucky found himself pausing in the doorway, watching for just a second. God, he'd missed him.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, Bucky stepped forward, sliding up behind Steve and wrapping his arms around his waist in one smooth motion.

Steve startled just a little; just enough to make Bucky smirk against his neck - but then he relaxed, leaning back into him with a deep, steadying sigh. Bucky let his head drop forward, resting in the crook of Steve’s neck as he exhaled slowly, breathing him in. He smelled like soap and coffee, something warm and homey, and Bucky wanted to sink into him and never let go.

Steve let out a soft, amused hum. “You’re feeling much better today.”

Bucky made a low noise of agreement, pressing in a little closer, his arms tightening just slightly. Of course he was feeling better, feeling comfortable with contact. This was Steve. This was the one thing that had never changed. The one thing that had always natural. Normal.

Steve turned in his hold, twisting just enough to look up at him properly, but Bucky didn’t let go or ease up on the hold he had him in. He caged Steve against the counter with the weight of his body, pressing their chests together until he felt the slow, steady warmth of Steve’s skin through his shirt.

“I am,” Bucky said simply, his voice rough and low from sleep. He watched with satisfaction as Steve flushed, pink crawling up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. Bucky’s lips twitched. He leaned in, voice dropping just a little as he murmured, “I missed you, doll.”

Steve huffed out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, but the color in his face deepened. “What do you want?” he asked knowingly, eyes flickering between Bucky’s. “You only call me that when you want something.”

Bucky smirked, shifting just slightly, pressing him back against the countertop with an easy, effortless kind of pressure. His left hand settled on Steve’s hip, pinning him there, fingers flexing against the fabric of his shirt.

“I do want something,” Bucky drawled, his smirk widening.

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was trying not to grin, like he already knew he was in trouble, and then instead of arguing, he just pulled Bucky in.

Steve pulled him in, fingers curling tight against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky melted into him without hesitation with his grip tightening just before he tilted his head. The kiss was slow and deep, nothing hurried about it. Steve’s hands were solid and warm where they gripped his back, steadying, grounding - home - and Bucky chased the feeling, letting his flesh hand slide up along Steve’s side, pressing into every muscle, every ridge, just to feel him move, feel him breathe.

It was slow. Steady. Like the world could wait.

Steve made a small, pleased noise against his lips, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. It was a rare moment of quiet, a rare moment of just them, and Bucky wanted to sink into it, let himself drown in it.

And then the door creaked open from where Bucky had left it ajar.

Steve stiffened instantly, like someone had just yanked his soul out of his body, and Bucky felt his breath hitch as Steve tried to pull away. He kept the other man close, though, pressing another kiss to his lips before dragging his mouth along his jaw, drawing his attention back to him.

Steve barely exhaled the words, "Is Peter here?"

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet his wide, panicked eyes, and a slow, amused smirk pulled at his lips. "No," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Steve’s jaw before finally pulling away completely. "But I do have a surprise."

Steve narrowed his eyes at him, instantly suspicious. "Really?"

Bucky straightened, rolling his shoulders and trying to prepare himself. "Don't get mad," he warned.

"I'm not mad," Steve said immediately, which meant he was about to be mad.

Bucky heard Alpine skitter underfoot, and before Steve’s eyes could shoot down, he caught the man’s face and held his jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. Fur brushed against Bucky’s ankle - and probably Steve’s, too, if the way he startled was any indication. “Buck, what the hell-?”

Bucky hummed, pressing another kiss to Steve's lips. "We've got a cat."

There was a beat of silence. Then a hesitant, "...What?"

Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight slightly. "Cat. Her name’s Alpine."

Steve blinked at him, mouth opening and closing like his brain was short-circuiting. "Where did you even get a cat? You were in your room all day!"

Before Bucky could answer, there was a soft, offended mrrp from below them, followed by a thump and a sharp hiss. Steve had stepped on her tail, and Bucky barely had time to react before Alpine, now bristling shot away from Steve with a hissing screech and clawed her way up Bucky’s leg. Steve froze, looking horrified. "Oh my god-"

"Wow," Bucky deadpanned, scooping Alpine up with practiced ease. She instantly curled into him, purring up as she burrowed into his chest, the picture of pure innocence - which, Bucky knew for a fact, was bullshit.

Steve was still reeling. "She hates me."

"Yeah, well." Bucky shrugged, scratching under Alpine’s chin. "That’s on you."

Steve already looked exhausted. "Bucky-"

"We’re keeping her."

"We’re-" Steve made a strangled noise. "Bucky, we live in the Tower. There are rules. Tony has rules."

"Not our problem," Bucky said simply, watching Steve’s eye twitch.

"You-" Steve took a deep breath, visibly restraining himself. "This is why you need to stay in your room when you have bad days," he breathed incredulously. "You just adopt pathetic things to make yourself feel better."

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. "Don't call Peter pathetic."

Steve's mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again. "You’re awful," he finally said, voice flat.

"We're keeping her," Bucky repeated it just to be clear, because he was not about to debate this.

Steve groaned. "Bucky-“

"Don't tell Stark."

Steve gaped. "What?"

Bucky lifted Alpine a little, leveling Steve with a dead-serious look. "No pets," he reminded him. "He won’t know unless you tell him. So don’t."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. "Bucky…"

"Stevie,” he repeated in the same, exasperated tone before Bucky kissed him again before Steve could protest, half to shut him up and half because he could. Alpine, squashed between them, immediately let out an offended growl and dug her claws into Steve’s chest.

They broke apart with twin yelps, Steve stumbling back with a glare at the cat, who looked far too pleased with herself.

Bucky just smirked, holding her up like some kind of prize. "I'm keeping her."

Steve exhaled tiredly, but quirked up a lip when Alpine tipped back to headbutt Bucky’s jaw, and he let out a huff of laugher in response. "Fine." Bucky grinned up at him. “But,” Steve interjected. “This is it. No more kids and cats being brought home just because you think they’re sweet.”

Bucky snorted. “Fine.”

“And I’m not taking the blame when Tony finds out.”

“Good. What’s he gonna do, fight me?”

Steve looked less than impressed at that.

Chapter Text

Peter was sprawled out on Harley’s bed, one foot dangling off the side, idly tossing a pillow in the air. Harley sat at his desk, fidgeting with a screwdriver like he was in the middle of something important. He wasn’t. Even less important was the stupid argument they were currently having.

“It’s hard!” Harley argued, voice exasperated. Peter let out a loud, disbelieving snort, nearly dropping the pillow on his face. “I’m serious, Parker! When was the last time you actually tried to flirt with someone?”

Peter opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. “I’m not-”

“Exactly,” Harley cut in before Peter could even attempt to lie. Peter huffed, tossing the pillow at Harley’s head, but Harley caught it with one hand, unimpressed. “It’s hard,” Harley continued, leaning back in his chair. “You gotta put your heart and soul-”

Peter scoffed, and Harley ignored him.

“-into these lines, dude, and all I get is laughed at.”

Peter let out another scoff, but Harley ignored him. “Because you’re awful at them,” Peter shot back, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Prove me wrong.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Harley crossed his arms, looking far too smug for someone who had spent the past week butchering every romantic line known to mankind. “You heard me,” he said, kicking his feet up onto the desk, and then Harley looked at him and declared, “You’ve got a week.”

“For pickup lines?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, we’ll start easier,” Harley said, and Peter let out an amused noise at that. As if Harley was doing him a favor. “No, just… do your best. Flirting-wise.”

Peter sat up properly now, intrigued. “So what, I just gotta make you blush or something?”

“I don’t blush,” Harley shot back, immediately defensive. “Just, like… I don’t know. You know what? See if you can get me as speechless as Thor had you last week.”

“I wasn’t-” Peter cut himself off with a huff, face heating at the memory. “Fuck you.”

“That’s what I thought,” Harley grinned. “I bet you can’t. You’re too shy to like, openly flirt. The most forward thing you did was poison me, and no offense, Parker, but that’s not very sexy.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but then - he had a thought. 

He shifted forward, standing from the bed and stretching in a way that he hoped looked casual before sauntering toward Harley’s desk. He knocked Harley’s legs off with the barest touch, sending them back to the floor with a thump. Harley let out an offended noise, sitting up straight, blinking at him in confusion, but Peter didn’t give him time to react. Instead, he stepped between Harley’s legs and caged him against the desk, bracing his hands on either side of the chair.

Harley’s breath caught.

Peter leaned in, close enough that he could count Harley’s freckles if he wanted to, could see the exact moment Harley swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Peter’s face was burning, sure, but Harley’s ears were turning pink, and that was a win.

Then, before he could second-guess himself, Peter kissed him.

It was gentle, light, barely there, but Harley inhaled sharply like Peter had just punched him instead. Peter took full advantage of the moment, slotting himself into Harley’s lap, wrapping his ankles around the back of the chair to keep himself anchored. Harley’s hands shot to his waist, fingers tightening instinctively, and Peter felt a thrill run through him.

“What do I get if I win?” Peter murmured against Harley’s lips, his voice low, teasing.

Harley shuddered.

“Um,” Harley said, momentarily caught off guard. Peter grinned and pressed featherlight kisses along his jaw. “Uh,” Harley tried again, but Peter could feel the way his grip on his waist tightened like he was holding on for dear life. “I’m not-”

“You’re not what?” Peter pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Harley’s eyes, tugging him closer by the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m not… sure,” Harley breathed, eyes hazy, and Peter let out a laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek just to be annoying.

Harley made a strangled noise. Feeling particularly daring, Peter tangled his fingers into Harley’s hair, tugging lightly to tilt his head back, giving him more access. Harley let out a sharp gasp, eyes going wide, and Peter grinned into his neck.

“I bet you’re wrong,” Peter murmured against his skin, voice smug, breath warm against Harley’s pulse. “And I’ll win. Can’t be that hard.” Harley let out a choked noise, and Peter shifted, the movement pressing them even closer together. It took about two seconds for realization to dawn on Peter, and oh .

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Peter barked out a startled laugh against his skin, and Harley opened his mouth like he was about to argue, but Peter didn’t give him the chance. For a brief moment, guilt twisted in Peter’s gut. Maybe Harley had a point. Maybe Peter didn’t flirt enough. Maybe Harley actually wanted him to, and Peter hadn’t been paying enough attention to what Harley wanted. Maybe Peter had been missing something.

Well. He had a week.

He was going to woo the absolute shit out of Harley Keener.

—

Harley was in the way.

Not intentionally, probably, but that didn’t change the fact that Peter was standing in the kitchen, staring at the back of Harley’s head while he loitered in front of the pantry. He was just standing there, staring at the shelves like he was trying to figure out what he wanted. 

Peter knew what he wanted. He wanted his Happy Bears. He wanted his daily dose of lead and probably illegal chemicals. He wanted to get into the pantry. So, naturally, he just walked up behind Harley and slid his hands under the other boy’s shirt and over the bare skin of his waist.

Harley yelped, jolting like Peter had hit him with a live wire, but Peter just rested his chin on Harley’s shoulder like this was normal. Which, to be fair, it kind of was - Harley ran warm, and Peter’s hands were always cold, which meant that surprise contact usually made Peter grin at least a little.

"What-" Harley half-laughed, voice still tight from the shock. "What do you want?"

Peter hummed, fingers flexing slightly where they rested against his skin. "You're so nice to me," he said dryly. "But you’re actually in my way."

Harley opened his mouth, looking like he was about to argue, but Peter was already done with this conversation. Before Harley could get a word out, Peter picked him up, hands gripping his waist before he lifted him off the floor like he weighed nothing, and deposited him a few feet to the side before Harley even had time to process what was happening.

Harley stumbled slightly, blinking like his brain had stuttered, and when he turned to gape at Peter - already rummaging through the pantry like nothing had happened - he looked halfway between stunned and deeply betrayed. Peter, meanwhile, casually tore open his bag of Happy Bears and popped one in his mouth, crunching down (why was it crunchy today?) as he turned back around.

Harley was still staring. Peter’s lips quirked up. 

Harley’s face was burning, and Peter caught the slight pink tint in his cheeks. He wasn’t letting that one slide.

There was a pink creeping up his neck to his ears, and Peter made direct eye contact as he chewed. He knew he should say something flirty, should lean in and call Harley some ridiculous nickname, but… yeah, no. He wasn’t good at that. Harley was right when he said Peter was too shy for that. Somehow sliding into Harley’s lap was less intimidating than potentially botching a pickup line.

So instead, he just winked and then turned away, acting like he hadn’t just manhandled Harley out of the way at all. The other boy let out a quiet, strangled noise.

Yeah. Peter was definitely doing that again.

—

Harley was busy.

He was trying to read, at least, sunk deep into the couch cushions with his book propped open in his lap. The common room was quiet for once, and it made it easy to focus. Until there were footsteps behind him and cool fingers skimming across his collarbone. Harley barely had time to register the touch before Peter was right there, leaning down so close over the couch that Harley could feel his breath warm against his ear.

"You know," Peter murmured, voice low and entirely too smug, "you're really cute when you're focused."

Harley nearly dropped the book.

His grip faltered, fingers twitching against the pages as his brain short-circuited. His face burned hot, and he knew he was blushing, could feel the heat crawling up his neck and into his ears. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to pull himself together, but Peter was already gone - grinning as he walked away, not even looking back, like he hadn’t just wrecked Harley’s entire ability to function.

God damnit.

—

Harley gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on the stupidly heavy box as he hauled it toward his workbench. 

The thing was packed with spare parts - half of which Tony would end up shipping down to R&D, but not before he and Peter got the chance to pick through the good stuff. Harley had barely made it halfway when Peter swooped in.

“No, no,” Peter interrupted, sliding in front of him. “Let me get that.”

Harley barely had time to react before Peter was easily grabbing the box out of his hands - and Harley huffed at the fact that what he’d been struggling to haul was easy enough for Peter to balance on one hip. Harley rolled his eyes, but the heat creeping up his neck was damning.

Peter didn’t even look at him - he just smiled, all smug and self-satisfied, pretending like he wasn’t actively trying to get a reaction.

“Shut up, Peter,” Harley muttered, crossing his arms, very aware of the way his face was burning.

Peter ducked next to him before Harley could retreat, pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek before he grinned, carrying the box over to the bench like it was nothing.

Harley sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to ignore his burning face.

—

It was getting progressively more difficult to act like a normal person.

All he could think about was how he’d be sitting there quietly, minding his own business, and then Peter would silently slot into the place next to him, his cool hands on Harley’s shoulders or waist or hips. How soft his voice had sounded. How easy it had been for Peter to make him completely lose his mind in the span of five seconds.

How he’d call him cute. Harley wasn’t cute. Harley was cool. Sexy. All rugged, cowboy, Southerner charm. He wasn’t cute.

This was getting dangerous. Harley was hanging on by a thread. The teasing, the casual touches, the way he kept invading Harley’s space so easily then slipping away without a second thought - it was driving Harley up the damn wall. And now, as he walked past the dining table, arms full of snacks, just trying to mind his business, Peter was suddenly there again.

Harley barely had a second to register what was happening before he felt a sudden tug on the back of his chair. The world tilted beneath him, and before he could even think about reacting, he landed squarely in Peter’s lap with a startled grunt, snacks nearly tumbling out of his hands.

He went rigid.

The warmth of Peter’s chest was solid against his back, the firm grip still lingering on the fabric of his shirt making it very clear that this had been intentional. Harley’s heart skipped a beat. He was sure Peter could feel how tense Harley was, how the second he pulled him into his lap, Harley’s entire body locked up. Peter, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content, resting his chin against Harley’s shoulder like he hadn’t just manhandled him out of nowhere.

“Peter, what the hell?” Harley demanded, voice shaking slightly, and oh, he sounded wrecked - though whether it was from confusion or the fact that Peter’s arms were now casually resting against his waist or the fact that he was on Peter's lap, he wasn’t sure. Peter just grinned into the skin of his throat.

“Relax,” he murmured, letting himself go boneless against Harley’s back. He nuzzled into his shoulder just enough to make sure Harley felt it, basking in the way Harley practically vibrated from the sheer effort of trying to act unaffected. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Harley made a strangled sound in response.

Harley had no idea what to do with that information. His entire body was on fire. Every neuron in his brain was screaming. His first instinct was to shove Peter off, to pretend like his face wasn’t heating up - but at the same time, Peter was warm, solid, smug, and - oh, God, he could feel his breath against his neck.

He was absolutely, unequivocally doomed.

He could feel how Peter fought back a laugh, peeking up at Harley’s face, only to find that he looked - wow. His ears were definitely burning. He was sure cheeks were flushed a shade of pink that Peter was definitely saving to memory, and he was also sure his expression was caught somewhere between murderous and devastated and humiliated.  

“…You good there, cowboy?” Peter teased, voice deliberately slow, soft, and infuriatingly close to Harley’s ear. Harley let out an aggressively unsteady breath, knuckles whitening around the bag in his hands. Peter’s cold hands slid to rest on his stomach, and he inhaled sharply.

After a moment Harley let out an aggressively unsteady breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before managing to choke out, “I hate you.”

Peter couldn’t help it - he laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full-on laugh, arms tightening around Harley’s waist as he buried his grin into Harley’s shoulder. Harley made a noise that was something between a groan and a whimper - which only made Peter laugh harder.

Harley was so, so screwed.

—

Harley was so done.

Peter had been relentless all day. The teasing, the lingering touches, the way he kept leaning in too close just to watch Harley short-circuit - he was having fun with this, and Harley knew it. Every time Harley tried to brush it off, Peter would find a new way to fluster him - brushing his fingers against Harley’s when passing him something, leaning over his shoulder in class with way too much unnecessary contact, dropping a casual “you always look this cute when you’re mad?” when Harley got snippy.

By the time they made it back to the tower and into the elevator, Harley was seconds away from snapping. When the elevator started moving, he turned to Peter, ready to finally say something, except he never got the chance because Peter moved first.

In an instant, Harley found himself backed against the elevator wall, Peter pressing in close, eyes half-lidded and full of something dangerous. Harley sucked in a sharp breath, heartbeat hammering against his ribs as Peter’s hands settled on his waist, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

“Something you wanted to say, Harley?” Peter murmured, his voice all smooth confidence, his breath ghosting against Harley’s lips.

Harley melted. Like, physically melted. His shoulders sagged against the elevator wall, fingers curling into Peter’s hoodie like he needed something to ground him. Peter took the opening immediately, crowding in closer, their backpacks thudding to the ground beside them as Harley stumbled back impossibly further, knees buckling - only for Peter to catch him.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

Because Peter got the hint, in one smooth motion, he lifted Harley, hands gripping his thighs as he pressed him fully against the wall. Harley let out a startled breath, instinctively wrapping his legs around Peter’s waist and clinging to his shoulders, his fingers digging in a little desperately.

Peter’s face was right there, his nose brushing against Harley’s as he murmured, “I’m not gonna drop you.” His voice was softer this time, gentler - but that only made it more than worse, because his hand slid under Harley’s shirt, cool palm pressing against his bare hip, fingers kneading into his side.

Harley let out a strangled gasp, his last shred of self-restraint snapping like a rubber band. He grabbed Peter’s face and yanked him in, crashing their lips together in a way that was more desperate than he would ever admit. Peter growled against his mouth, and if Peter wasn't currently holding him up, Harley might have actually collapsed because he'd never heard that sound from Peter before. The other boy gripped Harley even tighter as he kissed him back, deep and slow and way too good.

And then the elevator chimed, and Harley barely had time to process what that meant before Bucky stepped in. 

For a horrific, eternally long moment, nobody moved. Peter’s entire body locked up, his hands still firmly on Harley’s waist, Harley’s legs still hooked around him, and both of them still very much in the middle of something.

Peter almost dropped Harley on the spot, and the other boy made a startled noise as his grip tightened, legs scrambling to find the floor while Peter hurriedly set him down, both of them rigid and oh my god Bucky was going to kill him. Peter wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, heart pounding, looking mortified. Bucky’s expression was unreadable as he turned toward the doors. And then - because the universe had it out for them - the man's lip ticked up, the barest hint of amusement flashing across his face.

Harley wanted to die.

He was sure he looked like he wanted to dissolve as he leaned against the wall, red to his ears, hands clenched into fists. Peter barely breathed, anxiety thrumming under his skin, but Bucky just faced forward, completely unbothered.

The doors opened onto their floor, and Harley bolted, scrambling out like the room was on fire. Peter went to follow, but before he could take a step, a metal hand landed on his shoulder. Harley watched from the safety of the doorway as he froze. Slowly, he tilted his head up to meet Bucky’s gaze, appropriately ashamed, face on fire. Bucky just gave Peter a look that was incredibly unimpressed, but not unkind. Then, with all the nonchalance in the world, he muttered, “Save it for your rooms.”

Harley felt his soul leave his body.

“I wasn’t-” Peter tried, voice high and strained. Bucky just raised an eyebrow. Peter shut his mouth with a shaky nod, then scrambled out of the elevator, Bucky snorting behind him.

By the time Peter actually got inside his room, Harley was already face down on the bed, his hands clamped over his face. Peter shut the door behind him, staring at the ceiling for a long, miserable moment before exhaling sharply. “Well,” Peter started, voice cracking so hard it nearly echoed. “I’m never doing that again.”

Harley shot up immediately, eyes wide and panicking because no, that had been so fun and he wanted Peter to do that again, and- “Wait!” he blurted. “No, I - don’t stop just ‘cause-”

“I meant in the elevator, dumbass,” Peter snorted, dropping down onto the bed beside him, still very much on fire.

“Oh.” Harley blinked. Then, something softer, more relieved,  “Good.”

Peter just groaned and shoved a hand into his face, effectively smothering him. Whatever. Still felt like a win for Harley.

Chapter Text

Harley hadn’t meant to say anything controversial. Not really. He just… kind of wanted to win an argument for once. Preferably in front of Peter, who he was sure most of the time just argued for the sake of it. 

“I’m just saying,” Harley said, waving his fork idly. “If you think about it, I’ve got a pretty decent amount of upper body strength. I lift. I fix things. I carry heavy-”

“You do not lift,” Peter interrupted, flatly.

Harley turned to him, affronted. “That’s not fair. You have super strength. That’s not a fair comparison.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward with a small, delighted scoff. “What are we comparing to? A bear?”

Harley blinked. “I was thinking… like… an average human? But-”

“No, no, no. Let’s go down this path,” Peter said, pressing his hands flat to the table as he leaned in more. “What’s the biggest animal you think you could take in a fight?”

The table paused. MJ glanced up from her sandwich. Ned groaned, and Harley had the feeling they'd already had this debate before. Harley squinted, furrowed his brows, and weighed his options. “Uh… a goat?”

“A goat?” Ned echoed, incredulous as he blinked up at Harley.

“They have horns!” Harley protested, a little defensive. “And they're territorial! But they're not, like, super big.”

“If one slammed into you, you’d be on your ass,” MJ said flatly, not even looking up as she stabbed her salad.

Harley jabbed his fork at her. “Shut up! What about-” He turned to Peter, “Okay, before powers, when you were just… normal-”

“-Gee, thanks-”

“-what’s the biggest animal you could’ve taken?”

Peter didn’t hesitate. “A cow.”

Harley stared. “A cow?”

“Cow tipping. They’re not smart. Just push them over.”

“In a fight, though. That’s like a bull without the horns,” Harley said, trying to imagine a scrawny, pre-bite Peter lunging at livestock. “And they’re solid. You ever been near one? You've probably never even seen one in real life before!”

"That doesn't change my answer."

"They’re like refrigerators with legs!"

“But they're less aggressive too,” Peter argued. “I could take one.”

“You were a blind asthmatic, Peter,” Ned said, completely deadpan. “Shut up.”

“I could’ve done it! ” Peter protested, leaning forward.

“Sure,” Harley drawled. “Just smack it between the eyes and hope for the best.”

“I’d use the element of surprise," Peter leaned in with a wry grin. "Come from behind. It wouldn't even see me coming.”

Harley snorted, leaning on his hand. “You’re so dumb.”

“And you think a goat is scary, so,” Peter shot back smugly, popping a fry in his mouth.

“Okay,” MJ said, cutting in, “realistically, I think I could fight a goose. They're nasty. But they’re light. You just grab the neck.”

Everyone stopped. Harley’s eyebrows shot up.

“That’s horrifying,” Peter muttered.

“I grew up near a pond,” MJ said simply.

“Okay, wait,” Ned said, throwing down his fork, suddenly invested. “New question: If all four of us were dropped in a pit and had to fight an animal as a team, what could we take?”

“Hippo,” Peter said immediately.

“You’re out of your mind,” Harley shot back. “A hippo would destroy us.”

“We’d work together!”

“It’s a hippo. Have you seen those things? They kill more people per year than sharks!”

“But - okay,” Peter reasoned, sitting up straighter, “we have strategy. I jump on its back-"

"We're still going with the scrawny blind asthmatic version of you, right?" MJ drawls, and Ned nods. Peter ignored them.

"-MJ goes for the eyes. Harley can be bait. Ned can be moral support or something.”

“I’m not supporting this decision at all if you drag me to fight something that can eat me in two bites,” Ned said firmly.

“I like how I’m the bait,” Harley muttered.

“Just take the compliment, he's calling you a snack,” MJ muttered, and Peter choked.

“I'm not being bait!” Harley hissed.

MJ raised her brows. “Why?”

“You go for the eyes, Peter jumps on the back, Ned supports you guys or whatever, and I watch from a safe distance with a taser.”

Peter laughed, and the sound made something warm settle in Harley’s chest. It felt normal. It felt stupid, and warm, and familiar.  

—

Harley was tired.

The kind of tired that lived in his bones and settled in the heavy drag of his eyelids. It clung to him like a second skin as he shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing a hand over his face and yawning so hard his jaw clicked. The lights were too bright. The hum of the fridge too loud. He’d slept, technically - if you counted three hours curled sideways on a couch under a throw blanket - but it didn't feel like it. He blinked slowly, blindly, and yawned again.

He wasn’t expecting company. So when he looked up and saw Peter already in the kitchen, hunched over the counter with a mug in hand, he blinked in surprise. Peter looked up, too. Frowned a little. Like Harley had interrupted something. Or maybe like he was still half-asleep and not ready for interaction.

Harley squinted at him, the surprise fading into mild irritation as he opened the fridge and leaned in. Cold air hit his face. He grabbed the milk, nudged the door shut with his hip, and turned.

"You're still thinking about yesterday, aren't you?" he asked, voice flat with the kind of grogginess that didn’t have room for games.

Peter narrowed his eyes over the rim of his mug. "I think you could do better than a goat."

"Oh." Harley blinked, confused for a second. Then his brain caught up. "Uh… thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” Peter took a sip of whatever was in his mug - probably some disgustingly sweet abomination of hot chocolate that was more marshmallows than liquid. “But I think I could do better, too.”

Harley raised a brow as he grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. “Oh, could you?” he drawled. He reached across the counter and snagged a cereal box that Peter had left out on the counter without a second thought.

Peter looked unbothered. “Yeah,” he said seriously, resting one elbow on the counter. “I think if I play my cards right, I could take a horse.”

There was a choked sound from behind them. “Jesus, what-”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter blurted, spinning around and his voice cracking like he’d been slapped across the face. Harley’s head whipped around. Tony Stark was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a phone in hand and an expression that could only be described as deeply tired. He raised an eyebrow. “I - I didn’t mean-” Peter stammered, straightening up so fast his mug nearly tipped. “It wasn’t - I just meant-”

Tony held up a hand. “I don’t want to know,” he said firmly. “Please, don’t tell me.”

Peter flushed so red Harley was sure he could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Nice one,” Harley muttered under his breath as he poured the cereal into his bowl. Peter elbowed him in the ribs, hard enough to make him grunt.

Totally worth it.

Chapter Text

They were barely back inside their room with the door closed when Peter whirled around, eyes bright and expectant.

“Did you get it?”

“I did,” Harley hummed, lifting a brow. Peter practically launched at him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, slyly slipping behind Harley’s back and into his backpack with practiced ease. “Impatient,” Harley grinned.

“I am,” Peter agreed without shame, fingers curling around the cool aluminum of the can. He pulled back just enough to flash a triumphant grin, the dim light catching on the sharp gleam of his teeth.

“You sure it’s not gonna make you sick again?” Harley asked, tilting his head.

“Not if I drink too much,” Peter said breezily, pressing a quick kiss to Harley’s jaw, voice muffled against his skin. “Not too fast.”

Harley sighed, dropping his bag onto the floor. “Just one.”

“Just one,” Peter promised, but the glint in his eye made it clear that his definition of one was subject to change.

He stumbled backward onto the bed, and Harley followed before he slid down and popped the tab with a quiet hiss. Foam fizzed up, and Peter crawled into his lap easily. Harley didn’t let go of the can completely; he wouldn’t be surprised if Peter tried to swallow the whole thing in one go, so he guided the can to Peter’s lips and watched him take a slow sip.

Halfway though, Peter’s head tipped back and Harley watched him swallow.

He didn’t move, just let Peter settle, hands warm where they bracketed his sides. Peter took another sip, then lifted the can toward Harley’s mouth in offering. He just pressed another kiss to Peter’s jaw, and the other boy shuddered before he tilted his head back and finished another mouthful.

Peter pulled the can away for a second, licking the taste off his lips before suddenly pressing it into Harley’s chest, guiding him back onto the mattress. Harley let himself be pushed, blinking up at him in surprise as Peter straddled his hips, taking a long, deliberate drink.

By the time he finished, he exhaled a slow, pleased sigh, rolling his shoulders as if the tension had drained right out of him.

“Probably still gonna be a while,” Peter muttered, leaning back and tossing the now-empty can onto the bedside table with a clatter.

Harley smirked, hands already sliding up under his shirt. “We got time.”

Peter rocked forward, pressing them closer, and Harley wasn’t about to complain. It was soft and slow and nice and gentle. Peter stayed straddling him, grinding down slowly. Harley just lay back, looking up at him, hands coming up to hold him by his hips.

“You're not normally this patient,” Harley squeezed his hip, and Peter let out a sigh, pressing down onto him again.

“Mm,” was all Peter said, before he looked down at him. “I want to wait until it hits a little more.”

“What, when you’re high?”

Peter flushed and looked away. He shifted like he was gonna pull back out of embarrassment, but Harley pulled him back down onto him. “I… liked it. I didn't have to think as much, and everything wasn't as… much?” Harley’s hand slid from his hip up his shirt, splaying out over his side, and Peter swallowed. “I… not that it’s bad, normally. But when I was… it was like everything was dulled, a little bit. I wasn’t, like, hyper focused on the tap dripping or the air conditioner.”

Harley frowned at him, squeezing his hip again. He’d go insane. He had a bad enough attention span as it was.

“Everything’s just… softer,” Peter breathed, and Harley’s hands pressed into him a little firmer. Peter just let out another little sigh, relaxing further. He leaned down for a kiss, his elbows on either side of Harley's head to hold himself upright. Harley's hand slid further up his shirt, and Peter let out another gasp, though it was a little delayed.

Peter kept rocking forward, but Harley held him still. The kisses got less purposeful and coordinated, before Peter missed his mouth before kissing his jaw, and then he was trailing kisses down the column of Harley’s throat.

He shifted his hips forward again, and Harley wanted to hold him still to drag it out, but Peter pressed forward with enough strength that Harley couldn't stop it. He let out a groan as Peter rocked into him, because god Peter was so strong.

He blinked up to see Peter staring down at him, eyes dark and gaze half lidded, and Harley swallowed. He reached up to kiss him again, but Peter just used one hand to press him into the mattress, following him and pressing his lips to his. He rocked forward again and Harley let out another low groan.

Peter’s fingers came up to grab his forearms, pressing him down gently but his grip a little too tight, and Harley realized that Peter was losing his control a little bit. The caffeine must be hitting him a little more, now.

“Peter,” Harley murmured, and the other boy ducked into his throat with a rumble like a purr, pressing into him. “Hey, sweetheart, look at me for a second.”

It took a long, drawn out moment as the words worked their way through Peter's brain before he pulled back to stare down at him with that same look, pupils blown.

“Harley,” he breathed, leaning down to kiss him again, and Harley tilted his head away so he could keep talking while Peter sucked a mark into his throat.

“Roll over,” Harley said quietly, and Peter ground down on him again a little mindlessly. His hands were still pinned, and Peter was losing control of himself quickly enough, so he tried again. “Peter, roll over. Let me up.”

There was a noise like a growl or a grumble, but after a few beats the hands on his arms retreated and Peter pulled away. Harley took the time to flip them over, Peter landing sprawled underneath him and looking disoriented at the shift.

“You okay?” Harley murmured, lips brushing Peter's temple as he settled in between his legs. They still had too many clothes on.

Peter’s pupils were completely blown, now, and it looked like he could barely make out what Harley's saying, and god , he was a little jealous because he’d never had anything that had put him flat on his ass like this. Weed was alright the couple of times he’d tried it, but he’d never been this brainless.

Harley brought his hand up to cradle Peter's jaw, and he leaned into the touch with a hum, eyes sliding shut. His face was still cool, but every part of Peter was cool; he was never really warm, and that was why he was such a little gremlin for physical contact.

“Peter,” he tried again, “are you still with me?” Peter let out a sound like a hum, canting his hip up to meet Harley's, and they both groaned. “Okay,” Harley breathed, “Okay, sweetheart.”

He pulled back and Peter let out a miserable noise that was like a growl that faded into a whine, but it cut off when Harley tugged off the other boy’s shirt. Peter blinked up at him, his hands reaching up to grab at his shoulders. Harley kissed him again, deeper, pressing him into the cushions as his hand snaked down his stomach to palm against Peter through his pants.

The other boy bucked up, hands tightening on Harley's shoulders. Harley broke the kiss and Peter let out another miserable whine. His fingers tightened on the material of Harley's shirt, and he thought that if Peter wasn’t careful he was going to rip it off him. He pulled his own shirt over his head, and Peter's eyes fell to his chest. His hands reached out, tracing down his collarbones and down his ribs and over his stomach before his fingers dipped into the waistband of Harley's shorts.

He let out a low noise like a groan, pressing into Peter, who let out a pleased noise in return, rocking back up to meet him.

Harley stuck his hand in Peter's pants, and the other boy writhed underneath him. He pulled away after a beat and Peter tried to chase his hand, and heat pooled in Harley’s stomach a little more. He sunk back down onto Peter, the hand in between them slowly undoing his belt and fly and shrugging the pants off his hips, because Peter was so out of it he could barely do it himself

Peters tried to get Harley's pants off him, but he was so clumsy and uncoordinated he was just gonna tear them off. Harley held him down, and while Peter was strong enough to throw him off, he didn't. He just slumped back pitifully with a whine.

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Harley murmured into his ear, hand tracing over him over his boxers. Peter keened. "We can stay up all night. No rush.”

Peter let out a noise like a high-pitched whine that didn’t even sound entirely human, and Harley took pity on him.

The hand on his Peter's shifted, thumb tracing over his lips before carefully pressing into his mouth. Peter’s eyes slid lower, gaze darkening as Harley's thumb weighed down on his tongue. It was stupid and more than a little risky with the fangs and the fact that Peter wasn’t completely himself now, but Harley wasn’t gonna be able to get this view of Peter out of his head for the rest of his life . He almost pulled his finger of Peter's mouth, and the other boy whined, but the noise cut off when Harley slid a hand into his boxers to take him into his hand.

Peter’s hips canted upwards, sliding into his palm and fucking into his hand, sucking on Harley’s fingers with his hands clenched tight around Harley shoulders. He was already so wound up it only took a minute before he was coming into Harley's hand with a cry.

Harley tried to help him through it, but Peter’s hips stuttered and he pulled back with an oversensitive whine, pulling Harley down with him. Peter rolled them so he was half sprawled on top of Harley, nosing into his collarbone with that deep rumble Harley could feel against his chest. He was still painfully hard, but he also wasn’t sure if grinding up into his very drugged out boyfriend - even if he’d agreed to it beforehand - was a polite thing to do. Not that Peter would care, but still.

Peter let out another sigh, and Harley could feel lips on his throat again. 

“You with me, sweetheart?” he murmured, wiping his hand off on his pants before they came to settle on Peter's sides, firmly pressing up and down. Peter let out a shuddery breath at the pressure, pushing his head further into Harley’s throat.

Then there was a noise like a hiccup, and Harley pulled back, alarmed. “Are you okay?”

Peter followed, letting out another wet noise, and suddenly there were tears on him. “Sorry,” Peter breathed shakily. “Sorry, sorry…”

“What's wrong?” Harley asked, dread rolling through him. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“No,” Peter whispered into the column of his throat, breath still hitchy. “No, you’re just so nice to me. So nice. So nice, Harley.”

Jesus Christ, he was so out of it.

“You’re so nice,” Peter said again, mouthing alone his neck, his hand sliding down Harley’s chest to his hip. “You’re so nice to me. I love you. I love you, Harley, I love you…”

Harley couldn’t breathe. Everything about him - even like this, half-drugged out of his mind - was so soft and sweet and tender, and Peter was so perfect for him.

Peter paused when he shifted on top of him, and when he grazed Harley he must have realized he was still half hard. Peter stared up at him, and Harley didn’t know what to say before Peter said, “I want you to fuck me, now, please.”

He blinked at the emotional whiplash, but Peter ground down on him again a little more desperately, and whatever else Harley was about to say died on his tongue. Instead, he shifted Peter again, pressing him down into the mattress and slotting a knee between his thighs. Peter relaxed, head lolling back bonelessly onto the pillows beneath him.

Harley tugged Peter’s boxers down over his hips and thighs and the rest of his legs before tossing them easily to the side. Peter barely stirred, just staring up at him with those dark eyes that Harley hadn’t really seen on him, before. It almost made him a little nervous. 

He leaned down again, pressing a gentle kiss to Peter’s lips as a hand snaked up his thigh to press against his entrance. Peter let out a noise like a hum or a whine all in one, head rolling to the side while Harley gently pressed his fingers in and out of him.

Peter clumsily pulled Harley down to mouth at his throat. He picked up the pace, curling his fingers a little and Peter’s hips stuttered beneath him, letting out another noise like a breath that wasn’t quite loud enough to be a whimper, his teeth and thighs clamping down on Harley’s neck and wrist as he rocked back into his fingers.

After a beat he relaxed again, and Harley slowly eased his fingers back out. Peter was so still Harley almost figured he’d fallen asleep before his legs fell open and he stared up at him, waiting.

“You sure, sweetheart?” Harley murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of his temple, and Peter sighed. “I don’t wanna hurt you when you’re all…”

“Please,” Peter breathed, head tipping up to catch him in a lazy, half-aware kiss. “‘M gonna be pissed if you don’t.”

Harley let out a surprised snort, kissing him a little more firmly as he held himself over Peter with one hand, the other pulling himself out of his pants. “Okay,” he grinned against Peter’s cheek, “but only cause you asked so nicely.”

He pressed inside, carefully, slowly, and Peter was so soft and warm and he made such a nice sound as he settled inside of him, the fingers on his shoulders tightening their grip. Peter let out another strangled noise like a moan or a whine but not quite, and Harley waited a beat for him to adjust to the stretch despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to bury himself in Peter completely.

Peter’s head tipped back and his curls grazed Harley’s cheek. One of his hands released his shoulders, reaching back to grab at the wrist from where he was holding himself up, and Harley got the hint, shifting to slot his fingers into Peter’s and gently pressing them into the mattress.

Peter let out a low, satisfied hum. “Keep moving, please…”

“You’re so polite like this,” Harley leaned into him, and Peter’s breath caught in his throat as he started to fuck into him. “So sweet, still. You’re so fucking out of it, though, oh my god, Peter…”

There was another low sound like a whine or a moan and Harley grazed that spot inside him that had him shuddering. Harley fucked him through it carefully, because Peter got so easily overstimulated but he never seemed to want him to stop; so Harley just slowed down to let him ride it out before Peter was back and clinging harder and begging wordlessly into his throat, words slurred and half-there but just as desperate.

“Please,” he huffed against Harley’s skin in something like panting or breathing or moaning but Harley couldn’t be too sure. “Please, Harley, please, please, please…”

“Faster?” Harley offered idly, pressing into him a little more, a little deeper, and Peter whimpered and clutched at him a little harder. 

“Please,” Peter cried out, and Harley drove into him a little harder with a grunt. He was just so soft and relaxed against him, and he pressed Peter down into the mattress, shifting to drive into him a little more firmly. The other boy let out a shaky noise like a sob when Harley slammed into him, keening and tightening his fingers on Harley’s shoulder with his spare hand.

Harley didn’t slow down, though, even when Peter wailed and tipped his head back and shuddered underneath him, and it was only after he clenched so nicely around him and sobbed from the overstimulation of it all that Harley fucked in as deep as he could and stayed there. Peter scrabbled at the sheets with his free hand, head tipped back before he went limp beneath Harley, completely melting into him. After a couple of moments, Harley slowly pulled out despite the miserable little noise that Peter made and settled down beside him, only for the other boy to swing a leg over his hip and pull himself even closer, pressing in like he couldn’t stand any space between them. A sputtery little purr rumbled in his throat, quiet but too insistent to be anything other than a purr, like he was barely aware he was doing it.

"Can I have another one?" Peter murmured into his neck, lips brushing warm against Harley’s skin.

"What?" Harley asked, blinking down at him. " Already? Jesus, Peter, give me a second to recover before-"

"The drinks," Peter cut in, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to Harley’s jaw.

Harley let out a surprised snort, shaking his head. "No," he said flatly.

Peter let out a miserable huff, burrowing further into him, and Harley sighed, tugging him even closer. The huff quickly faded into another quiet, contented purr, Peter’s chest vibrating gently against his own, and Harley couldn’t help but relax.

Okay. Maybe they should do this a little more often.

Chapter Text

The training room smelled like sweat, ozone, and something vaguely metallic that probably came from the synth-weights Tony had installed last week. Peter bounced on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement, or maybe just his usual restlessness. He'd just finished a round of sparring with Steve and had managed to pin the man twice in a row, much to everyone's surprise.

"That's five for me," Peter announced proudly, grinning as he jogged back to the bench. "Which makes me undefeated today, by the way."

“Please,” Sam groaned, lying flat on a yoga mat and using his towel as a pillow. “You only win ‘cause you’ve got super strength. It’s not like you’re some martial arts prodigy or something.”

"It’s only 'cause you’re stronger than everyone else," Clint argued too, rubbing his shoulder. "That wasn't technique. That was just strength. It’s cheating.”

Peter paused mid-sip of his water, blinking. "Excuse me? Are you saying I only win 'cause of my strength?"

Natasha arched a brow from where she was stretching. "He’s not wrong. Your footwork’s a mess. You just kind of… bulldoze."

Peter scoffed immediately, waving off the accusation like it was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “I could beat you all without the spider-strength,” he declared, chest puffed out. "I could totally do that. Easy. Piece of cake."

Bucky gave him a long look. "That sounds like something a teenager says right before they break their arm."

"Which is why I’m gonna do it right," Peter shot back. “Mr. Stark! Can you help me build a thing?”

Tony snorted, looking up from his phone. "A thing, he says. You’re gonna have to narrow that down for me, Underoos."

"Something that lets me fight without my strength," Peter said, now practically skipping toward him. "Like, that dulls my muscles or whatever. So I can prove it’s not just spider strength making me awesome."

Tony gave him a once-over, eyes narrowing. "You want to nerf yourself for fun?"

"For science and also bragging rights," Peter corrected.

Tony sighed, but his lips quirked up. "Alright. Lemme see what I can do. I’ve been messing with some neuro-electromagnetic interference systems anyway. Figuring out how pulses affect muscular strength."

Peter blinked. "Wait, seriously? You just have that lying around?"

Tony shrugged. “From when I first made Rhodey’s braces. Figured out how to dull skeletal muscle contractions with a controlled EMP emitter so it doesn’t interfere with important muscle systems."

Peter tilted his head. "Important muscle systems like...?"

"Your heart, dumbass," Tony said, whacking him lightly on the forehead.

"Oh," Peter said, wincing. "Right. Yeah. That’s pretty important."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Give me ten minutes and I’ll give you your training wheels."

—

Ten minutes turned into twenty, but when Tony returned, he had a sleek, wrist-mounted device that looked a bit like a watch and a taser had a baby.  

The prototype wasn’t much to look at; just a small black bracelet that fit around his wrist, adjusting to size. It wasn’t unlike his webshooters. Then, Tony handed him a remote the size of a car key, and Peter shifted on the gym mats a little impatiently. "Controller goes from one to ten. Each step increases interference to your skeletal muscles. One is like an off day. Ten is like… you’ve just been hit by a truck, okay?"

Peter’s eyes lit up. "Cool."

Tony raised a finger. "We’re starting at one."

He pressed the button.

Peter shifted his weight. "Huh. Just feels kinda tingly. Like I slept on my hand or something."

"Perfect," Tony said. "That's the idea. Dulls the signal, but you’re still mobile."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “Perfect. Let’s crank it.”

"Let’s not jump-”

Before anyone could stop him, Peter reached over and jammed the ten.

His legs gave out instantly. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, letting out a startled yelp as his knees buckled and he went limp. Tony lunged forward and caught him under the arms, barely managing to keep him from cracking his head on the floor. Peter grasped at his shirt, fingers scrabbling like he was wearing thick gloves. They wouldn’t curl. Wouldn’t tighten. Wouldn’t move the way he wanted them to.

"What the hell," Peter gasped, breath hitching and fingers twitching uselessly as he clung to Tony’s shirt uselessly. "Mr. Stark, I can’t move."

Tony huffed, bracing him upright. "You wanted no strength, kid. Ten’s the real deal. Like I said - one is an off day, five is a ballpark human, ten is you’ve just been hit by a train. That’s the scale."

Peter stared down at his legs like they’d betrayed him personally. His thighs trembled, knees splayed out, and his arms hung like deadweight from Tony’s shoulders. "Okay," he rasped. "Okay. Go to seven."

Tony frowned. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Peter nodded, gritting his teeth. "I can do seven. Just gimme a second."

The older man sighed and dialed it down. At seven, the pins and needles sensation faded into something like pure weakness. Peter’s legs still trembled, but he could stand. Sort of. If he concentrated. If he braced himself with his hands, which still felt clumsy and numb.

But he was up. Wobbly, sweating already, but up. He grinned.

"Alright," he said breathlessly. “I’m gonna go kick some ass."

When Peter stepped onto the mat, Bucky looked him up and down, frowning. “You good? You’re moving weird."

Peter spread his arms, grinning like a lunatic. "This is me at, like, thirty percent power. Maybe less. Come at me, old man.”

Harley leaned over to Tony. "Is it weird that I kind of want to see this crash and burn?"

"Nope," he said, leaning back. "Not even a little."

Bucky stepped onto the mat. "Alright, kid. Let’s see your technique." Peter braced himself and promptly tripped over his own foot. But to his credit, he rolled with it, coming up in a clumsy crouch, grinning like he’d meant to do it. “Sure you’re ready?” he asked, one brow raised.

Peter didn’t answer. He threw the first punch. Bucky caught it effortlessly. 

Then, with what looked like no effort at all, he lifted Peter clean off the floor by the throat.

Peter’s legs kicked out automatically. Normally, he’d use the momentum to wrap them around Bucky’s arm and swing himself into position to kick the guy square in the face. That was the plan. That had always worked. Except this time, nothing happened. His abs weren’t cooperating. His core felt like jelly. He couldn’t even lift his knees to his chest. Instead, he dangled helplessly, fingers scrabbling at Bucky’s grip on his throat.

“Put him down,” Steve said sharply from the sidelines.

Bucky didn’t even glance at him. “I’m not holding him tightly,” he replied, only mildly defensive. He tilted his head, eyeing Peter. “He’s kinda cute like this. Less of a nuisance.”

Peter glared at him with a snarl.

“You think you’re funny ‘cause you brag about that one time in Germany-” Peter knew that was a sore spot for the man. “-but you’re literally so weak without your powers. You have no formal fighting training. Just… sparring.”

Peter’s eyes flashed. “I’m going to kill you,” he hissed out mutinously, voice raw.

He kicked out again, catching Bucky’s hip, but it didn’t have enough strength behind it to actually do anything. Bucky didn’t even flinch. The man just raised an unimpressed eyebrow, like Peter was a particularly determined chihuahua.

From the corner, Harley’s voice piped up, far too cheerful. “You know… for science, I think I should fight Peter next. Just as a baseline. To compare the average person to powerless Peter.”

Peter groaned, still dangling.

“You wanna go, Keener?” Bucky asked, finally letting Peter drop. Peter landed like a sack of laundry, hissing as he scrambled upright.

“Yeah, I do,” Harley said with a grin. “Let me have a go.”

Peter actually laughed. “You’re gonna get your ass handed to you.”

Harley barreled into Peter with the enthusiasm of a kid at a foam pit. Then, in a move that shocked absolutely everyone - including Peter - Harley managed to twist, leverage his weight, and knock Peter back to the mat. Peter didn’t bounce back up.

“What the fuck?” he breathed.

Harley blinked. “Holy shit. I’m stronger than Peter?”

Peter stared up at the ceiling, cheeks flushing with genuine irritation. “No. No, you’re not.”

“You’re lying on your back.”

Peter sat up, scowling. “That was a fluke. You’re like... Barely stronger than a wet cat.”

Harley smirked. “And yet, here you are.”

Bucky didn’t try to hide his laughter. Peter stood again, shaking out his arms. “Okay, new plan. I fight Harley again, but this time I don’t suck.”

“No powers still?” Steve asked from the sidelines.

Peter hesitated. “...Yeah.”

Tony held up the controller. “You sure?”

Peter glanced at Harley, who looked far too smug. “Seven,” Peter said. “Leave it at seven.” Harley cracked his knuckles. “Round two,” Peter muttered.

Sure, he didn’t know how to win without powers when he was fighting Bucky, yet, but hell if he was going to let Harley  take him down. Peter barely had time to roll his shoulders before Harley came at him.

“No powers, no excuses,” Harley said, voice light but eyes locked in, practically buzzing with the kind of energy Peter only saw when he was on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid or incredibly impressive. Or both.

Harley didn’t hesitate. He lunged, a little wild, clearly not trained in form the way Bucky was, but there was something behind the swing - weight, momentum - that made Peter’s instincts flare. He ducked under the first hit, laughing, hands up to block.

“You trying to take my head off?”

“For science,” Harley shot back, swinging again.

Peter pivoted, trying to dodge and counter with a hook of his own, but his arm was slow - delayed, clumsy. Harley caught him mid-motion, used the opening to drive forward, and the next thing Peter knew, he was flat on his back, the mat cold against his spine, Harley’s forearm pressing lightly - but firmly - across his chest.

Peter blinked up at him, stunned.

What the hell just happened?

Harley grinned down at him, sweaty curls falling into his face, his weight balanced expertly across Peter’s hips like he’d done this before. He hadn’t. Peter would know. But right now, he was pinned. Pinned.

By Harley .

“Oh my God,” Harley said, laughing breathlessly. “I’m stronger than you.”

“No, you’re not,” Peter muttered, trying to twist, but Harley shifted with him, adjusting his leverage and keeping him planted.

“Oh, I definitely am,” Harley crowed, the shock giving way to sheer smug delight. “This is crazy. Is this what power feels like?”

“You weigh more than me,” Peter argued weakly, scrabbling at Harley’s wrist.

“You still got those little bird arms under there, sweetheart?” Harley teased. “Gonna fly away?”

Peter made a sound that was almost a growl and bucked his hips to throw him off, but Harley stayed. His center of gravity was locked in, and Peter tried again; this time twisting to the side and reaching for Harley’s elbow, but it was like his body wasn’t answering correctly. He couldn’t get the torque. He couldn’t-

He was stuck.

“Oh my God,” he breathed.

Harley leaned in a little, enough that Peter could see the realization dawning in his eyes. “You really can’t get up.”

Peter stared at him, heart hammering. “Get off.” Harley tilted his head, blinking, but didn’t move.“I said get off.”  The words were sharp now, angry in a way that surprised both of them.

Harley sat back immediately, scrambling off of him like he’d been burned. Peter rolled to the side, panting, not quite able to hide the flush of embarrassment crawling up his neck. “Dude,” Harley said softly. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t trying to humiliate you.”

Peter didn’t answer. He stayed crouched, elbows on his knees, hands flexing uselessly. They still tingled from the suppression bracelet. Still weak. Still not his.

“I just thought it’d be funny,” Harley added, and when Peter looked up, he could see the guilt written all over his face. “You said I couldn’t take you.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter muttered, “apparently I was wrong.”

He pushed himself upright, slowly, legs trembling slightly with the effort. He wasn’t used to this - to needing to put in actual effort just to stand. His pride was a burning knot in his throat, and Harley’s concerned stare wasn’t helping. “Peter…”

“I’m fine,” Peter snapped. “It’s fine. It’s what I asked for, right? Total depower. Mission accomplished. I’m just a regular guy.”

Bucky, from across the mat, raised an eyebrow but didn’t step in. Tony had his arms crossed, standing beside the control panel, watching them with a complex mix of curiosity and caution. No one was laughing. That was almost worse.

Peter shook out his arms, like it’d fix the weakness. It didn’t.

“I want to go again,” he said, already squaring up.

Harley looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “You literally just got flattened.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter snapped, rolling his shoulder and ignoring the aching protest from his muscles, “I need to figure out how to fight without my powers, right? Isn’t that the whole point? Let’s go.”

“I don’t think-”

“Let’s go.”

Harley’s brows furrowed. He stepped back into position slowly, like he didn’t really want to do it, or like he wasn’t sure it was a good idea anymore.

Peter didn’t wait for him to decide. He charged.

He aimed for Harley’s center of mass, trying to get under his guard, to drive him back. For a moment, it almost worked - his shoulder connected solidly with Harley’s ribs and they staggered. But then Harley shifted his weight, gripped Peter’s side, and threw.

Peter hit the mat again with a sharp exhale, stars flashing behind his eyes. 

“Dude - dude, are you okay?” Harley was kneeling beside him immediately, hands fluttering like he didn’t know where to touch. Peter didn’t answer. He lay there, chest heaving, staring up at the ceiling with a look of stunned disbelief.

He wasn’t invincible. Not even close. And without his strength, without the abilities that usually cushioned every blow, everything hurt. The sparring mat felt like concrete. His pride was already bleeding out across the floor.

“Peter…”

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice low.

Harley fell silent.

Tony finally walked over, crouching down beside them. “You done proving a point to no one?” Peter shut his eyes.“I get it,” Tony said more gently. “You wanna be able to hold your own without the spider gimmick. But you’re not starting from zero, kid. You never had to learn how to fight like this.”

Peter opened his eyes, blinking up at him. “Then teach me.”

Tony arched a brow. “I’m not the guy for that.”

“Then who?” 

A pause.

“You already fought him,” Tony said, nodding toward Bucky, who had been silently observing from across the room. “And lost. Badly.”

Peter looked toward Bucky. The man met his gaze, unreadable.

“I’ll train you,” Bucky said finally, voice gruff but not unkind. “ Actually train you, this time, instead of just working defense. But you gotta pay attention. I will train you, if you’re serious.”

Peter sat up slowly, every muscle shaking. He looked over at Harley, who still looked vaguely horrified, and then back to Bucky.

“I’m serious,” he said, before flopping back on the mat exhaustedly. “I don’t ever want to be this useless again.”

After a beat, Peter huffed, and Harley nudged his ankle. Peter ignored it, head tipping back.

“I say we put the bracelet on Bucky and get Harley to fight him, this time.”

Harley let out a noise like a hiccup, and Bucky snorted. “No way in hell, kid.”

Chapter Text

“Dude,” Ned said, glancing around the huge, open space. There was water, Peter had snagged a medkit from the tower, and how bad could bug spray really be? Besides, there was plenty of room. This place was perfect. “How is your house this cool? You have two fridges. For snacks.”

Flash, who was halfway to tossing his backpack on the couch, glanced back with a shrug. “Yeah, one’s for drinks. The other one's for food. My mother got mad when I kept putting Capri Suns next to the raw chicken.”

“That’s so cool,” Ned darted to the living room, gawking at the massive flatscreen and the unobtrusively sleek surround system mounted to the walls. “Is that the new console?”

Flash’s expression shifted just slightly - but it was the kind of pride he tried to hide behind practiced indifference. “Got it last week,” he said, a little too casually. “Haven’t really had time to break it in yet.”

Ned let out something between a squeak and a gasp and bolted for the console, fingers hovering reverently over the controller. “You haven’t played it yet? You’re insane. You said you didn’t get it until next month!”

“I didn’t. My father did. Said it was an early grades gift or whatever. Peter’s been helping me study,” Flash shrugged, but his lips quirked up. “You can play it if you don’t drool on the controllers.”

“I can’t make that promise,” Ned said, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Peter. Peter, come look-”

Clunk .

A sharp metallic noise cracked across the counter. Both of them flinched like someone had fired a gun.

Peter stood there, entirely unfazed, as a can of fly spray spun lazily on the counter where it had landed. He cracked his fingers slowly, knuckles popping in succession. “Alright,” he said, tone too calm to be trusted. “Down to business.”

“Noooope,” Flash said immediately, his face twisting. “I… have a bad feeling about this.”

“Where did you even get that?” Ned asked, staring at the can like it might start hissing on its own.

“Bodega on thirty-forth,” Peter said. “You know the one next to the laundromat? Guy didn’t even ask questions.”

“It’s fly spray, Peter, not crack!” Flash hissed. "Absolutely not. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You’re gonna die.”

“Get the ice bucket. I've got the med kit.” Peter just gave him a long look, then nodded toward the counter where he’d set out a bucket of ice water, a towel, and the slightly dented Stark Industries first aid kit that had definitely not been stolen. He kicked at the tabletop and pointed. “Everything we need,” he said. “Now go on. Light mist. Let’s do this.”

“Peter,” Ned said nervously. “I know we said we were gonna do this, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea. You’re gonna die, and we’re gonna go to jail, and Tony Stark is going to personally end us.”

​​“I’m not gonna die,” Peter said, dragging a stool toward the counter. "Besides, it's for science. I need to know, Ned. Help me out, you're my guy in the chair."

Ned looked between him and the can and visibly swallowed. “...Okay. Okay, I got this. This is fine. I can do this. I’m doing this for science.”

“Please just spray me,” Peter said, deadpan. “I am begging you to stop psyching yourself up.”

Flash looked like he wanted to leave. “You’re gonna die,” he muttered, folding his arms.

“I’m not gonna die.”

“You’re gonna die and we’re gonna go to jail. Tony Stark is going to murder us and use our bones for spare parts.”

Peter rolled up his sleeve and presented his arm like he was about to get a flu shot. “Just do it already!”

Ned hesitated. He looked at Flash. Flash raised his hands and backed up a step.“You do it. I’m not going near him with chemicals. He looks too willing.”

“Hurry up!” Peter barked, eyes gleaming. Ned flinched again, then held his breath, aimed the nozzle carefully at Peter’s arm, and gave it a short, quick spritz. Nothing happened. Peter blinked. “Huh.”

Then he coughed. Just once.  Then again, harder. It was sharp and tight, like his lungs had turned inside out.

“-Oh no,” Ned whispered.

“Do something!” Flash yelped.

Peter’s shoulders hunched, his hand clapping over his mouth as he wheezed, and that was enough for Ned to panic. He grabbed the ice bucket and immediately dumped it over Peter’s head in one go, water splashing everywhere. Peter made a horrible choking noise.

Peter made a strangled noise as he stumbled back, dripping and gasping.

“What the hell!” Flash shouted, stepping away from the splash zone. “You didn’t say waterboarding was part of the test!”

The living room door slammed open. 

“What the fuck is going on-?”

Harley.

He froze in the doorway, eyes taking in the scene in a split second: Peter wheezing, dripping wet and pale, hunched over and dripping; Flash standing by the kitchen counter in horror; Ned holding an empty ice bucket and water all over the floor.

“Oh my god,” Harley said, already digging through his backpack. “Are you seizing? Peter, are you seizing?!”

“How the hell did you get in?” Flash shrieked, before whipping around to stare at Peter. “Did you leave the front door unlocked!?”

Peter just continued to wheeze, and Harley moved.

Harley didn’t even hesitate. He slammed his backpack onto the counter to rip it open, hands already moving for the zipper pocket. There was panic in his movements, clipped and fast, and Peter, hunched over and wheezing, caught the glint of the EpiPen just as Harley turned toward him. 

“No-” Peter croaked, raising a trembling hand. “Harley - don’t - kff -”

“Stop talking,” Harley snapped, voice low and tight. He pulled out a small case and snapped it open, already pulling the cap off an EpiPen with his teeth.“You’re wheezing. You sound like a vacuum cleaner trying to die. I told you not to do this, you promised-”

“I’m-” Peter coughed again, doubling over for half a second. “-fine, just - don’t waste it-”

“You are not fine!” Harley was practically vibrating with panic, EpiPen already in hand as he stepped closer. “You’re literally wheezing! I told you not to do this!”

Peter grabbed his wrist, eyes wild. “Don’t! They’re expensive!”

“They’re not fucking coupons, Peter!” Harley shouted, stepping forward further with the pen already uncapped. “You could be dying!”

“I’m not, fuck off!”

“Hold still, I swear to God-”

Peter moved. It was fast, but sloppy - he was still choking on air, blinking through blurry vision and dripping ice water down his sleeves. He swatted at Harley’s hand, missed the first time, but caught the second. The pen clattered to the floor. Harley lunged after it, and Peter used his full weight to shove him back against the counter, forearm pressed to Harley’s collarbone.

“Don’t,” Peter rasped, chest hitching with another half-cough, half-growl. “They’re expensive.”

“You idiot, you can’t breathe -” Harley tried to shove him off, but Peter twisted, still stronger than he had any right to be. One hand slammed the drawer shut next to Harley’s hip, the other scrambled for the EpiPen and flung it toward the sink. It hit the wall and bounced behind the dish rack.

“I said no,” Peter growled, breathing ragged, but firm.

Then his knees buckled. His body sagged all at once, like the adrenaline had run out of him mid-sentence, and he slumped forward, his forehead hitting Harley’s shoulder with a soft thunk before the other boy caught him with a surprised noise. He was freezing. Water soaked through his clothes into Harley's shirt, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t even think about it. He gritted his teeth, arms locking around Peter’s narrow frame and tugging him in closer.

Peter shivered violently, breath catching, but it was steadier now - still uneven, but not collapsing in on itself. Harley could feel the shake in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled like claws into the fabric of Harley’s hoodie, and he just held on tighter.

“God, you’re such a dumbass,” Harley muttered into Peter’s hair.

Peter didn’t say anything. Just coughed once, softer now, and let his whole weight rest against Harley’s chest like his bones had melted. He swayed dangerously, and Harley grabbed him by the shoulders, carefully pressing him back against the countertop. “You’re wheezing. Can you even breathe yet? Jesus Christ, Peter . Sit down before you pass out.”

Peter just tipped his head into Harley’s shoulder with a sigh, and the other boy held him up. “Okay,” he muttered. “Maybe… maybe that was a little stupid.”

“A little?” Harley snapped. “You’re gonna give me a goddamn heart attack.”

Peter just shrugged.

“You could’ve gone into anaphylaxis,” Harley continued, jaw clenched. “You could’ve died, and for some science experiment? You don’t even know what’s in that shit-”

Peter made a small noise, somewhere between a wheeze and a laugh.

“Don’t laugh,” Harley snapped, hugging him harder. “You’re not allowed to laugh right now. I’m so mad at you-” Peter murmured something unintelligible against his collarbone. “What?”

“I said you’re warm,” Peter rasped, barely audible. “Your chest is warm. I like it.”

That derailed Harley for a second. Just a second.

Then: “Yeah? Good. You’ll like it even more when I choke you out for scaring the shit out of me.” Peter snorted into his shoulder. He still hadn’t moved.“You’re dripping on my socks,” Harley added, dryly. “I hope you know I’m burning these clothes.”

“Worth it,” Peter muttered.

“Jesus Christ,” Flash muttered. “What is wrong with you people.”

“Why is he wet?” Harley snapped, turning to stare at him as he held Peter a little tighter.

“I panicked!” Ned said, voice cracking. “I thought he was going to explode or something!”

Peter finally caught his breath again and let his head fall back, still wheezing faintly as he laughed. His whole shirt was plastered to him, and he looked half-frozen. Harley cursed, already stripping off his own jacket and dumping it on Peter. “I’m calling Bucky,” he growled, reaching into his back pocket for his phone.

Peter’s eyes widened. “ No . No, don’t. Don’t call Bucky.”

“I’m absolutely calling Bucky.”

Peter’s eyes shot open. “No - no no no no-”

“Too bad,” Harley muttered. “He needs to know how stupid you-”

Peter lunged.

Peter made a noise of protest and lunged again, slipping on the tile in his socks. His hand closed around Harley’s phone too tightly. The crunch of shattering glass echoed through the room. Ned winced. “Oh my god.”

Peter looked down in horror. “I didn’t mean to-”

“My phone,” Harley barked. “Jesus Christ , Parker.”

Peter winced. “Shit. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorry-”

“You broke my phone,” Harley hissed.

“I panicked!”

“You panicked?” Flash echoed, half-laughing, half-horrified. “What the hell is happening right now?”

“This is flirting,” MJ’s voice cut in from the couch, entirely unbothered. She didn’t look up from her phone. “They do this all the time.”

“ This is flirting?” Flash looked pained. “He’s dying.”

“They’re both dramatic,” Ned said wisely. “This is foreplay.”

“Peter's flirting is poisoning people or being poisoned.”

“Peter.” Harley pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “I swear, if your airway had closed - if I hadn’t been here - Jesus. I help you and you crush my phone!” Peter didn’t answer. He just blinked at him, eyes glassy, lips pale. He looked wrecked. Waterlogged. Kind of stupid, in that way that made Harley want to strangle him and wrap him in ten blankets simultaneously. Peter just let out another snort. “Shut up, idiot,” Harley growled. “You’re wet and stupid. Get in the shower.”

“I’m cold.”

“ Yeah, because you let Ned dump a bucket of ice on you!”

“I don’t want to shower! I’m already wet!”

“You smell like chemical warfare and bad decisions, and you owe me for just destroying my phone and throwing an EpiPen across the room when I tried to jab you!”

“Sorry I didn’t want to get stabbed by another needle again,” Peter muttered. “I’m sick of them.”

Harley’s expression softened for a second before it flattened into exhaustion. “Don’t argue. Flash!” he turned toward the other boy. “Give me some clothes that aren’t covered in literal poison or soaking wet!”

“Stop yelling,” Peter murmured, half-falling into Harley again. “My ears hurt.”

“Good. That’s karma.” Harley shoved him upright with both hands. “Move. Come on. Before I actually stab you.”

Peter didn’t fight it. Just stumbled forward, dripping the whole way to the bathroom, while Harley stalked behind him and scowling the whole way. He kicked the bathroom door open and shoved Peter through it. “Strip. Rinse. Don’t touch anything.”

Peter blinked at him, dazed, water still dripping off his chin. “You’re so bossy when you’re scared.”

“I swear to god-” The bathroom door slammed behind them, and Harley was already turning the knobs in the shower, muttering curses under his breath. “Shoes off. Shirt off. Come on, you big idiot,” Harley barked, dropping to his knees to yank Peter’s soaked sneakers off with more force than necessary. “Can’t believe I’m doing this. Figure out how to undress without inhaling literal poison.”

Peter swayed in place, shirt clinging to his ribs. “You’re very nurturing,” he said hoarsely, lips twitching at the edges.

“Shut up,” Harley snapped, grabbing the hem of Peter’s wet shirt and yanking it over his head with one rough pull. “This isn’t nurturing, this is rage. Righteous, well-earned rage.”

His jeans followed next, dragging uncomfortably down soggy legs, and Peter stood there dripping like a drowned cat, arms hanging at his sides, steam curling around him as Harley herded him into the shower stall like livestock.

The second the warm spray hit him, Peter hissed and flinched back, shoulders curling.

“Yeah, no shit it stings,” Harley said, reaching past him to adjust the pressure. “You let Ned spray you with literal RAID. On bare skin. Do you know what’s in that stuff?”

Peter mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said I didn’t think it’d actually work, ” Peter said, blinking water out of his lashes. “And it didn’t, technically. So.”

Harley groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

Peter leaned against the wall, letting the water pour down over him. He was still shivering, but his breathing had mostly evened out now, aside from the occasional hoarse cough. Harley grabbed a washcloth and started scrubbing - roughly - at his arms.

Then he stopped. Stared.

“What the hell is that? ” Harley grabbed Peter’s forearm and turned it gently under the light. A red, angry rash bloomed up his bicep, patchy and raw-looking, spreading from the area they’d sprayed.

Peter blinked down at it. “Oh,” he said blankly. “That’s new.”

Harley’s heart jumped into his throat. “ That’s a chemical burn, dumbass. Shit. We should’ve - god, you should’ve told me it burned, or stung, or something- ”

Peter leaned his head back against the tile, letting the water run down over his neck and collarbone. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion, but he was smiling. Barely.

“You’re freaking out,” he said softly, like it was an observation.

“No kidding. You have a rash. ”

Peter’s smile widened, slow and sleepy. “You care.”

“I will kill you.”

“You won’t,” Peter said, eyes slipping closed. “You’re soft.”

Harley looked at him. Just looked.

His face was flushed from the heat of the water, wet curls sticking to his forehead, and that stupid grin still lingered at the corner of his mouth like he thought the whole thing was kind of funny. He looked wrecked. Raw. And still - somehow - so Peter.

Harley cleared his throat and stepped out of the stall. “Don’t drown. I’ll get the clothes.”

He left the door open a crack and grabbed the pile Flash had dropped off. A hoodie that was probably expensive. Sweatpants. When he turned back, Peter was still under the spray, head tilted up, eyes shut like he might just fall asleep standing up. Harley stepped back into the stall and reached past him to shut off the water. It squealed and sputtered to a stop, leaving only the echo of water dripping from Peter’s shoulders. He blinked his eyes open slowly.

For a second, they just stood there. Close. Steam curling between them. Peter’s breath ghosted across Harley’s cheek. Harley didn’t move. Peter’s eyes flicked down to his mouth.

Harley’s heart hammered against his ribs.

But instead of leaning in, he reached up, grabbed the towel from the hook, and threw it directly at Peter’s face. Peter sputtered, caught it one-handed, and glared through the cotton. “You’re the worst,” he rasped, voice still rough.

“You smell like pesticides and bad decisions. Dry off.”

Harley stepped aside to give him room, though not much. He was still vibrating with leftover panic, and his hands weren’t exactly steady as he helped tug the hoodie over Peter’s head. Peter let him, arms limp, small sounds of discomfort slipping out whenever the rash pulled too tight or the fabric dragged wrong.

He didn’t say anything, though. Just watched Harley with that same soft look, quiet and content.

“You need to put something on that rash,” Harley muttered, toweling off the back of Peter’s neck. “And drink something. And never do that again.”

“I might,” Peter said, tone teasing. “Just to see if you’ll freak out again.”

Harley narrowed his eyes. “I’m telling Bucky.”

Peter blinked. Froze. “You’re not.”

“I’m telling Bucky, ” Harley repeated. “Because someone has to parent you and apparently it’s me half the time and I’m too young and don’t want to be your dad, so-”

“ Narc, ” Peter said immediately, pointing at him with the hand that wasn’t holding up his waistband. “You’re a snitch. I can’t believe you would betray me like this.”

“I will take a picture of your rash and text it to him.”

“I will delete your contacts and flush your phone down the toilet.”

“With your phone, dumbass, since mine’s in pieces.”  

Peter groaned, flopping onto the closed toilet seat dramatically. “This is abuse.”

“You’re lucky he doesn't have your location tagged,” Harley muttered, shoving the sweatpants at him. “Get dressed. You’re on thin ice.”

“I am ice,” Peter muttered. “I’m freezing.”

Harley tossed a second towel over his head. “Yeah, well, maybe next time don’t volunteer as tribute in your own backyard death experiment.”

“Still worth it,” Peter muttered under his breath.

Harley shot him a glare, and Peter just grinned.

—

The elevator chimed softly as it reached their floor, the smooth doors sliding open with that mechanical hush Peter had come to dread. He stepped forward first, hoodie damp against his spine and the inside of his sleeves cold where the fabric clung to his rashy arm. His hair was still wet, curls plastered to his temple. He looked like a drowned rat and felt only marginally better.

Then he saw the figure waiting just outside the his door, arms crossed, one shoulder pressed to the wall like he’d been there for a while.

Bucky.

Peter froze. “Oh my god,” he muttered.

“Peter,” Bucky said flatly, lifting his chin. “Nice of you to show up.”

Behind him, Harley stepped out of the elevator too, carrying both their bags and still kind of dripping from the shower spray before. He gave Bucky a brief nod, completely unapologetic. “He’s fine,” Harley said, tossing Peter’s bag toward the door. “No ER trip. Just chemical burns and deeply questionable judgment.”

Peter narrowed his eyes and muttered, “Traitor.”

Bucky turned fully to face him now, expression flat but sharp enough to draw blood. “You let your friends spray you with bug killer, ” he said, like he was trying to say it slow, trying not to raise his voice even though every word came out tight. “On bare skin. ”

“I didn’t let them,” Peter said quickly, defensive. “It was science. A controlled experiment.”

“It was you getting a rash and nearly going into anaphylaxis in someone’s kitchen . ”

“It was a mild reaction,” Peter argued, hugging his arms to his chest. “I didn’t even need the EpiPen!”

“That’s because you fought Harley for it,” Bucky snapped. “And then threw it across the room. ”

“I didn’t throw it-”

“You absolutely threw it,” Harley muttered from behind him. “It bounced off the counter and landed in the sink.”

Peter groaned and looked away.

Bucky stepped closer, voice low now. Not angry - worse. Disappointed. “You didn’t even tell me where you were going. And I had to find out from Harley that you were wheezing on some kid’s kitchen floor because you wanted to see if insect repellent could hurt you. ”

Peter’s jaw locked, hands tightening around the hem of the hoodie.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bucky said. “I’m not being dramatic. You’re allergic to half the chemicals in that stuff and you know it. ”

“I was trying to be proactive,” Peter muttered. “You always tell me to try new solutions.”

“That’s not a solution, Peter, that’s pesticide. ”

Peter scowled and crossed his arms. “Okay, well - now I know. So, experiment complete. ”

Bucky gave him a long look. Then scrubbed a hand on his jaw, expression pinching. “You’re a moron,” he said finally.

Peter’s scowl deepened. “You’re a narc.”

“You’re grounded.”

Peter’s head snapped up. “You can’t ground me!”

“I can if you’re gonna keep being an idiot with a death wish.”

“I’m practically an adult! ” Peter shouted, but it came out cracked, his throat still raw.

“Then start acting like one,” Bucky said sharply, turning and walking toward the elevator past him. “Shower, cream on your arm, and you're checking in with Bruce before bed. If he says you need meds, you’re taking them. No arguments.”

Peter just stood there, bristling, watching Bucky’s back retreat before the elevator doors slide shut. Behind him, Harley patted his shoulder. “You did kinda ask for that.”

Peter shot him a murderous look and muttered, “Still a narc.”

—

His room was quiet by the time Bucky came back.

Peter was curled up on the bed in one of the oversized hoodies that Steve had accidentally shrunk in the wash, buried under a couple of blankets and a tube of prescription cortisone cream on the bedside table next to him, half-squeezed and abandoned. The computer in front of him was playing something low - some Youtube video he was hardly watching - but the sound was fuzzy and far away. His arm was propped on a pillow, the rash red and angry across the inside of his forearm, still glistening from whatever lotion Harley had slathered on before leaving.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. Just walked in slow, hair half-tied and loose around his face. He looked tired. Not mad anymore, just tired.

Peter didn’t look over when he sat on the edge of the bed, just reached for the blanket and dragged it up higher around his shoulders. “I said I was fine,” Peter muttered, not quite making eye contact. “You didn’t have to do the whole...dad lecture thing in the hallway.”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment, fingers braced against the bed’s edge like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. Then: “You scared me.”

Peter blinked.

“I don’t care if you were trying to prove something,” Bucky said, still quiet. “I can’t get a text from Harley saying you’re breaking out in hives and choking because you doused yourself in poison and not assume the worst.”

Peter looked down at his lap, picking at a frayed thread on the hoodie cuff. “I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he muttered.

Bucky reached forward and gently caught his wrist - careful, careful of the rash - and turned it just enough to examine the swelling. His touch was soft, metal thumb brushing the inside of Peter’s arm just once, and he relaxed at the coolness on the burned skin with a hum. “I know you weren’t,” Bucky said, pulling back after a beat. “But I had no idea where you were.”

Peter swallowed hard, guilt prickling somewhere deep and sharp behind his ribs. “Didn’t think it was gonna get that bad.”

Bucky sighed. “It always gets bad, kid.”

Peter let his head fall back against the cushions, hair still damp and curling against his temple. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, chest rising and falling beneath the blanket.

“I thought maybe... It is important to know,” he muttered, “But… I don’t want to do anything like that in the Medbay. I’d rather to it with friends and an EpiPen because it makes me feel less like I’m being experimented on and more just… like I’m doing something dumb.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked for a second like he was chewing over the words, like he was trying to figure out which ones wouldn’t come out too sharp.

“I get that,” he said finally, low. “I do.” He looked down at Peter, who was still curled up in the blanket like a half-drowned cat, damp curls sticking to his forehead and neck. “But, kid… you’re so dumb.”

Peter let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re supposed to say I’m brave or whatever.”

“You are brave,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Brave and reckless and just… profoundly stupid.”

That earned him a faint, watery laugh. Peter scrubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie. “I just…” Peter hesitated, looking down at the welts along his wrist, red and puffy. “I didn’t want to be poked at, you know? I wanted it to be… my terms. Even if it went bad.”

Bucky exhaled slowly and reached out again, brushing a careful thumb against the underside of Peter’s wrist where the rash was worst. “You get to want that. But you don’t get to scare the hell out of people who care about you just because you don’t want to feel like an experiment.”

Peter’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He didn’t answer, just nodded a little.

“You do dumb shit like that again,” Bucky said, voice gentler now, “and I’m gonna make you write a pesticide essay and how dumb that idea was, since you’re such a nerd who needs to know. In MLA format. With citations.”

Peter let out a broken snort. “Double spaced?”

“Single. I want to feel your suffering.”

They sat in silence for a while, the kind that wasn’t awkward, just... quiet. The kind that felt like breathing room. Eventually, Bucky moved to stand. He reached over, gentle, and pressed his laptop closed with one hand. “You need to sleep.”

Peter made a noise of protest - something between a whine and a sigh - but didn’t argue. Just rolled over until his face was mashed into the pillow, and let out a dramatic, muffled: “I’m still dying, by the way.”

“You’re not dying,” Bucky said as he tugged the blanket higher over his shoulders. “But if you keep pulling stunts like that, I might.”

Peter groaned, rolling over into a pillow. His voice was muffled when he spoke again. “You gonna narc to Mr. Stark, too?”

Bucky huffed a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Nah,” he said. “Just me. I’m punishment enough.”

Peter peeked up with one bloodshot eye. “You gonna make me write that essay about pesticide safety?”

“I might,” Bucky said, leaning forward just enough to brush a hand through Peter’s hair. “Or maybe I’ll make you watch the entire OSHA training series. No fast-forwarding.”

“Cruel and unusual,” Peter muttered, but he leaned into the touch, just a little. 

Bucky stayed there with him until his breathing evened out again.

Chapter Text

Harley was curled up in bed, one leg bent and a bag of sour gummy worms balanced precariously on his chest. The only light in the room came from the soft glow of his phone screen, where he was scrolling through twitter mindlessly without even really reading. His body was comfortably slouched, cocooned in his worn-out hoodie, the buzz of late-night silence humming peacefully around him.

And then-

Wham.

A hand smacked against the window, and he jumped with a startled noise. The window frame ripped up, and before Harley could fully process it, Peter half-fell, half-scrambled through the window in his regular clothes - pajamas - not even the decency of spandex or whatever material Peter usually wore on patrol.

He landed awkwardly, tripping over the sill and collapsing in a heap on the floor, gasping like he was in pain.

Harley bolted upright, phone flying off the bed, gummy worms scattering across the sheets. “Jesus - what the hell?”

But then he caught a look at Peter’s face. His pupils were blown wide, frantic. Not Spider-Man vigilant. Not even Peter-post-patrol exhausted. No - this was pure, heart-stopping terror. Like something had genuinely shaken him to his core.

Harley’s stomach flipped.

He shoved off the bed without a second thought, knees hitting the carpet hard as he dropped down next to Peter. His hands hovered for a split second, twitching to grab hold but unsure where. “Peter,” he said urgently, eyes scanning him for blood, broken bones, burns, something. “Peter, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Peter made a noise. A horrible, breathy, wrecked sound and suddenly launched himself forward - arms locking around Harley’s ribs like he was drowning and Harley was a life raft. Harley staggered back a bit under the impact, but instinct kicked in and he caught him, arms circling tightly. Peter’s whole body shuddered against him.

“It tried to kill me,” Peter choked out, voice trembling and ragged against Harley’s chest.

Harley blinked, his brain tripping over itself. “What?”

Peter trembled again, fists fisting into the back of Harley’s hoodie. His breath was warm and shaking against Harley’s neck. “It tried to kill me,” he repeated, louder this time - desperate, horrified.

Harley’s chest tightened. His arms squeezed tighter around Peter instinctively. “Hey, you’re okay,” he murmured, trying to comfort even though he was struggling to keep up. “What tried to kill you? What happened?”

He started to pull back to look him in the face, to check his eyes, maybe grab his phone and call someone, but Peter didn’t let go. He clung tighter, shivering.

“Peter,” Harley tried again, voice firm. “What tried to kill you?”

Peter’s voice came out high and brittle. “It jumped at me.”

Harley froze. “...It what?”

“I just - I was brushing my teeth, okay? I just wanted to brush my teeth, and it launched itself off the mirror! It - it touched my hand - oh my god , it touched me- ”

Peter shook like he’d just been stabbed. Harley’s brows furrowed. “Wait. What the hell are you talking about?”

Peter’s voice cracked. “There was a spider, Harley!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Harley, stunned and completely caught off guard, snorted. He couldn’t help it. Peter jerked back just enough to glare at him.

“You’re laughing?” he snapped, voice indignant and still shaking.

Harley tried to contain it. He really did. He clamped a hand over his mouth, his chest trembling. But then he snorted again, louder. “You - you came flying through my window like you were being chased by a demon and it was a spider?”

Peter shoved him, hard. “It’s not funny!”

But Harley was already cracking up, collapsing backwards onto the carpet. “Oh my god, you’re serious-”

“I am serious!”

Before Harley could even sit back up, Peter climbed over him and pinned him down. Hands planted on his chest, knees bracketing his sides, furious eyes staring down at him. Harley wheezed. “Dude-”

Peter hissed, “It’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious,” Harley corrected, eyes bright with laughter even as Peter glared at him like he wanted to commit murder. “You’re Spider-Man. You are a spider. They’re just little guys, man! There's nothing scary about them!”

Peter recoiled like he’d been personally insulted.

“They’re an abomination,” he snapped. “They’ve got eight eyes. Who needs eight eyes? No one! That’s horror movie behavior! And I’m not a spider! I’m mostly human!”

Harley was crying laughing now, trying to breathe. “Mostly?”

Peter narrowed his eyes, then shoved him again for good measure. “I swear to god,” Peter growled, “If you don’t help me get it out of there, I’m gonna web you to the top of the Tower.”

Harley laughed harder. “I’m not an exterminator!”

Peter jabbed a finger at his chest. “You’re not scared of them, right?”

“No?” Harley choked out.

“Then help me. Please. If you don’t hate them, go in there and get it out of my bathroom.”

Harley flopped his head back against the carpet with a groan, still grinning. “Fine. But I want it on record that this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever made me do.”

Peter climbed off him, arms crossed, sulking. “It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” Harley said, finally sitting up and dusting himself off. “But I’ll do it. Because I love you. And also because I want to know how funny it would be to throw it at you.”

Peter paled. “Don’t.”

“I won’t,” Harley snorted. “Lead the way, horror movie victim.”

Harley pushed himself to his feet with a dramatic grunt and started following Peter through the hallway. Peter moved ahead of him, half hunched, arms crossed tightly like he was trying to make himself smaller. Every few steps, he’d glance behind them like he was making sure Harley was still following.

Harley smothered another laugh and bumped their shoulders as they passed through the dimly lit living room. “You know, for a guy who can punch through concrete, you sure spook easy.”

“It touched me, Harley.”

“You’ve literally had people shoot at you.”

“They weren’t hairy and leggy and falling from the ceiling, okay?” Harley’s lips twitched, but he held back. Just barely. Peter hesitated in the hallway outside the bathroom, like the door itself might lunge at him. “It’s in there.”

“No kidding,” Harley said, voice dry. “This thing better be terrifying.”

Peter gave him a tight, panicked look. “Be careful.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “It’s a spider, not a bomb.”

“Same difference,” Peter muttered, but stepped aside, gesturing toward the door impatiently. Harley sighed and pushed it open.

The bathroom looked normal. Dimmed lights. Steam still fogged the mirror. A half-unraveled roll of toothpaste lay on the counter next to Peter’s toothbrush, which had clearly been dropped in terror.

Harley stepped inside, barefoot and utterly unfazed. “Alright, where’s the little bastard?”

Peter lingered in the doorway like he was waiting to bolt again. “Check the top of the mirror. That’s where it launched from.”

Harley glanced up.

And there it was. A chunky, black-legged spider about the size of a quarter, frozen on the ceiling above the mirror, perfectly still like it was waiting for the next unsuspecting toothbrush user to arrive. “Oh,” Harley said, grinning. “You meant that spider.”

Peter made a strangled noise behind him. “Yes! That’s the one!”

Harley looked at it again, hands on his hips. “Dude. It’s not even that big.”

“It has joints, Harley. You can see them.”

“It’s a spider. That’s how they move.” Peter shuddered. Harley turned, dead-eyed, toward the bathroom. “Alright, Jesus. Hold on.”

He padded back into Peter’s room and crouched to grab one of Peter’s ratty old sneakers, but Peter made a strangled noise. “No! Don’t kill it!”

Harley blinked. “You just shrieked like you got stabbed.”

“I didn’t say I wanted it dead!” Peter cried. “I just want it gone! There’s a difference!”

“You want me to negotiate with it?”

Peter jabbed a finger toward the glass cup that held his toothbrush. “Grab that and paper. You’re not smooshing it. It has a family.”

“You want me to try to catch it?”

“Please just get it out of here,” Peter begged.

Peter flinched behind him as Harley slowly lifted the cup, reached up, and swiftly trapped the spider in one practiced motion. It didn’t even have a chance to move. “Boom. Gotcha.”

Peter exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire time. “Oh my god.”

Harley held the cup up and squinted inside. “He looks kind of offended.”

“He should be. He invaded my personal space.”

“You’re the one who has spider DNA, dude.”

“That doesn’t mean I like them!” Peter said, scandalized. “It’s not the same!” He turned, carefully keeping the cup level, and started walking towards the large windows in Peter’s room. Peter followed, but kept a healthy distance. “You’re not just gonna let it go out there, right? What if it comes back in?”

“Then I’ll train it to become your sidekick,” Harley said as he cracked the window. “We’ll call him Legs. He’ll ride on your shoulder like a pirate parrot.” Peter made a noise of pure betrayal. Harley grinned, tipped the cup outside, and gave it a quick shake. The spider tumbled out onto the fire escape and skittered away, probably just as traumatized by this entire interaction as Peter was. “There. All good.”

Peter peered cautiously around Harley’s shoulder, then took a giant, relieved step back. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know.”

Peter was still tense, arms wrapped tight around himself. Harley turned to look at him properly now, taking in the mussed curls, the faint flush to his cheeks, the fact that his whole body had gone wired-tight like he hadn’t let himself breathe for the last fifteen minutes.

Harley’s amusement softened. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You good?”

Peter huffed out a breath and scratched his arms like he still felt the thing crawling on him. “I really hate spiders.” There was a pause. “You sure it’s not gonna find its way back?”  

“If it does, it knows better than to mess with me,” Harley said, shifting beside him. Peter huffed, shuddering, and leaned in for a hug. Harley pulled him in without a second thought. “You okay now?” he murmured. 

Peter didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “I really thought it was gonna crawl in my mouth.”

Harley chuckled, voice low as he pulled away and made his way towards the door. “You’re such a drama queen.”

Peter stuck his tongue out, and Harley closed the door in his face and made his way back into his room. 

—

It was an hour or later that Harley stirred. Not because of a nightmare or a noise from the street outside, but because the door creaked. He blinked blearily, head still heavy on the pillow, and turned toward the sound. The door to his room was opening very slowly, as if whoever was coming in thought they might get away with it if they moved slow enough. A shadow moved in the gap. Then a pause. Then a quiet footstep. Another. And then Peter, still in his pajamas, sleeves tugged over his hands, hair all over the place, eyes wide like he expected another spider, or maybe to be kicked out.

Harley didn’t say anything. Just squinted at him for a second, then - without lifting his head - reached down and peeled the blanket back.

Peter shuffled forward instantly, but he crept in like he expected the bed to bite him. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Harley felt the chill of him as soon as he slid under the covers - his skin cold from the hallway, the bathroom, the fact that he’d probably stood frozen outside the bedroom for ten minutes too long, working up the nerve to ask.

He climbed in beside Harley without a word, curling up on his side and facing inward, knees brushing Harley’s under the blankets. He still felt tense, like he hadn’t let himself fully relax, like he was listening for legs on the ceiling, still. Harley blinked at him. “Couldn’t do it, huh?”

Peter sighed against the pillow. “Nope.”

“Big scary spider room got you spooked?”

Peter pulled the blanket higher over his nose. “It touched me, Harley.”

“You said that already.”

“And I’m saying it again because it’s important. You weren’t there. You didn’t see it.”

“I did see it. It looked like a Crunch bar with legs.”

Peter made a strangled sound and pressed his face deeper into the pillow. Harley, still warm with sleep, slung an arm around him and let it rest there lazily, tucking it under Peter’s side without needing permission. Peter didn’t flinch away. If anything, he let out a quiet sigh and leaned into the weight of it.

“You’re unbelievable,” Harley mumbled, amused, letting his eyes drift shut again. “You’re probably the strongest person in the Tower, and you’re taken out by a spider the size of a quarter.” Peter muttered something unintelligible. “What was that?”

“I said I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” Harley said, voice soft now, fond. He leaned his head down and rested his chin lightly on the top of Peter’s curls. “Wanna switch sides? I’ll take the side closest to the window in case another one tries to sneak in.”

Peter made a noise of genuine panic. “Don’t joke like that.”

“I’m not joking. I’m the designated spider bodyguard now. You think I let just anyone crash in my bed and hog my blankets?”

“I’m not hogging-”

“You’re definitely hogging. You came in like a scared cat and stole all the warmth.”

“Don’t call me a cat.”

“You hissed at me earlier.”

Peter huffed, small and annoyed. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“Lies,” Harley murmured, already letting his eyes close again, chin still tucked comfortably on top of Peter’s head. “You’ll be back tomorrow with a tragic tale about a centipede or something.”

Peter grumbled again, but quieter this time. “Centipedes are terrifying, too.”

“See?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Peter shifted closer, until his forehead was tucked right under Harley’s chin, and he pressed into Harley’s chest and exhaled a breath he’d been holding since the bathroom. Harley shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher over both of them. Peter exhaled, his whole body relaxing at last, and Harley rested his chin lightly on top of the hoodie-covered curls.

Harley didn’t move. Just smiled to himself in the dark.“ Night, bug.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say, mostly-human.”

Peter’s voice was muffled. “Night, jackass.”

—

Peter liked mornings on Steve and Bucky’s floor. The air felt soft and lazy. He could pad barefoot into their shared kitchen in one of Harley’s hoodies, raid their better-stocked fridge, and ‘help’ Steve with breakfast while Bucky inevitably wandered out late, sleepy and vaguely annoyed.

‘Help’ mostly meant eating chocolate chips straight from the bag and molding questionable pancake shapes on the griddle. This morning, Steve was gamely letting Peter decorate his own plate with mutant, happy-faced bears while real pancakes and eggs sizzled away behind him.

"See," Peter said, gesturing proudly with his spatula, "he's smiling because he doesn't know you're about to cut his little head off."

Steve raised a brow. “That’s horrifying.”

“That’s art.”

There was a pause as Steve turned back to flip his stack and Peter wandered to the pantry, rummaging around for more chocolate chips or syrup or whatever else he could sneak past Bucky’s no-sugar-until-after-breakfast rule. “Just don’t knock over the-”

Peter screamed. 

It wasn’t a startled yelp or a quiet gasp. It was a full-bodied, violent, glass-shattering shriek.

Steve spun so fast the spatula flew from his hand. A jar of jam slipped from Peter’s fingers and hit the floor, glass cracking on tile. In one smooth motion, Steve crossed the kitchen and grabbed Peter, one arm around his waist and pulling him backwards, the other holding him close as he positioned his body between Peter and the pantry like they were under active attack.

“What did you see?” Steve demanded. His voice was low and sharp.

“I-” Peter was shaking, eyes huge. He pointed, lips trembling. “It moved.”

Steve stared into the pantry, hand automatically shifting lower like he was ready to pull Peter behind him and dive to the floor. “What moved?”

Just then, Bucky burst into the kitchen, barefoot, hair dripping wet, towel still slung over one shoulder with sweatpants slung low over his hips and a gun gripped tight in his hand. He skidded to a stop at the threshold, eyes wild, chest bare.

“What’s going on?” he barked, gaze flickering over Peter’s terrified face as he cowered behind steve before locking on to the closed pantry. “What happened?”

Steve, still tense, kept his arm looped around Peter but flicked a glance toward Bucky. “Pantry. Something moved.”

Peter, still white as a sheet, peeked out from behind Steve’s arm. “It was a spider,” he whispered.

Silence. Steve blinked. Relaxed a little. He looked down at Peter.

“A spider?”

Peter nodded mutely. Bucky lowered the gun. Peter did not relax. “You’re telling me,” Bucky said, voice flat, “that you screamed like that because of a spider.”

“It was huge!” Peter insisted, voice cracking, fingers winding around the man's bicep a little tighter, pressing further into his side like he could hide better. “It scurried! It was right there! It touched the syrup bottle, Steve, it’s contaminated-”

Bucky looked like he aged ten years in ten seconds. “I thought you were getting murdered.”

“I was,” Peter hissed, already backing up further as Steve cautiously approached the pantry.

Steve held up a hand to calm him. “I’ll open the window.”

“Don’t let it run toward me!”

Steve cracked the pantry door open wider. The spider - a very normal-looking brown thing with a whole lot of legs - scuttled along the back wall. Peter made a strangled sound and practically leapt onto Bucky, arms wrapping around his neck, feet scrambling to avoid the floor completely.

“What the hell,” Bucky muttered as Peter scrambled higher, legs wrapping around his waist like he was trying to sit on his shoulders.

“Save me,” Peter hissed as he clutched the man’s shoulders and clung to his back.

Bucky stood there, arms out like he didn’t know what to do with them. He was shirtless. Still damp. Holding a gun in one hand and Peter in the other. Steve looked over his shoulder, lips quirking up in amusement. “He’s climbing you.”

“Yeah. I'm aware.”

Peter, half-draped over his shoulder now, hissed into Bucky’s neck, “Don’t let it get me. I can feel it thinking.”

Steve calmly nudged the syrup bottle out of the way, grabbed it with a jar, crossed the room to the window before finally dropping it outside. “There,” he said easily. “It’s gone.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asked, still refusing to come down. “You saw it go out? You watched it go out?”

Steve nodded. “Yup.”

Peter hesitated. Then slowly started to climb down, limbs shaking.

Bucky stood, head tilted up, eyes shut as he let out a tired breath, still holding his gun like he was debating if he should shoot Peter instead. “Don’t you have, like, spider senses?” Bucky said finally. “Enhanced reflexes? Can cling to walls?”

“Yes,” Peter said, stepping carefully away. “And that’s how I survived.”

"You climbed me instead!" Steve bent to grab a towel and started mopping up the shattered glass and jam. “You’re Spider-Man,” Bucky repeated. “Spider. Man.”

Peter lifted a finger. “Spider- themed man.” Bucky stared at him. “I didn’t choose the branding,” Peter defended, ignoring the fact that he very much did, instead fluffing his hair and checking his shoulder like there might still be legs on him. “It’s ironic. You know, like poetry or something that MJ would read.”

Steve huffed lowly and handed Peter a dishcloth. “Clean up your murder scene.”

Peter took it with a grumble and crouched beside him. “It’s a completely reasonable reaction to have. You can’t make fun of me.”

“Nope,” Bucky said, finally holstering his weapon - though really, it was just clicking the safety back on and sticking it in his pocket - and dragging a hand down his face. “Not in a million years.”

Peter sighed dramatically. “I knew I should’ve stayed in bed.”

“Good thing you didn’t,” Steve said, smile crooked. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

Peter looked down at the gooey, cracked jar of jam and back at his disfigured happy bear pancake on the counter. “…It’s still a good morning,” he said, mostly to himself.

Bucky rolled his eyes and turned for the hallway. “I’m going to finish my damn shower.”

"Don't take too long." Steve gave him a long look, then handed Peter a plate and some eggs. “Go sit down.”

Peter did, humming happily, eyes darting once toward the pantry just in case. Just in case. Because he knew that spider had backup.

—

It was a normal afternoon in the lab. Or it had been, up until five minutes ago.

Peter was halfway through rewiring a micro drone when he spotted it; eight-legged, twitchy, and way too big, skittering across the floor like it owned the place. He shrieked. Loudly. Bolted backwards so fast his chair tipped and rolled across the room, clattering into a cabinet. “Mr. Stark!”

Tony didn’t even flinch. Still bent over his workbench, he calmly tightened a bolt on his latest repulsor prototype, barely glancing up. “What, bug in the code?”

“No! Bug in the room! A real one, there’s a spider!”

That made Tony look up slowly, expression unimpressed. And then Peter was behind him, gripping Tony’s shoulders like a human shield, peeking over his back with wide, horrified eyes. “Don’t let it get me, please, I’m begging you.”

Tony squinted toward the floor. “It’s harmless.”

“It’s trying to kill me!”

“It’s the size of a quarter.”

Peter dug his fingers into Tony’s jacket. “It’s the size of terror.”

Tony smirked, clearly enjoying himself, until the spider made a sharp turn - directly toward him. It moved fast. Tony made a sound that could only be described as a very dignified squawk and stumbled backward, knocking into the lab bench. Peter yelped and scrambled away in the opposite direction, sliding across the floor on his socks and ducking behind the 3D printer.

“Traitor!” he hissed. “You were supposed to protect me!”

Tony, brushing dust off his shirt, narrowed his eyes at the spider now in the center of the lab like it paid rent. “They like you,” he said darkly. “You’re probably emitting some kind of freaky spider pheromone.”

Peter froze, voice cracking as panic crossed his face. “What.”

“Maybe that’s why they keep showing up! We never had this many before you got here, and they’re always hovering around your desk!”

Peter looked visibly ill. “You think I’m attracting them?! Like - like a nest?!”

“Oh god,” Tony said, deadpan. “You’re their leader.”

“ Take that back !” Peter hissed, paling.

Right as Tony started laughing, the door to the lab swung open and Harley walked in, carrying a half-eaten granola bar and looking deeply unimpressed. “What the hell is going on in here?” he asked.

“There’s a spider,” Peter said immediately, pointing toward it like it was a war criminal. “It’s hunting me.”

Tony leaned casually against the table. “It’s one of his disciples.”

“Not funny,” Peter snapped, still crouched like he was being held at gunpoint.

Harley sighed like this was the third time today. “Where?”

Tony pointed. Harley spotted it instantly, still sitting on the lab floor like it owned the place. With a long-suffering sigh, he walked over, plucked an empty beaker off the bench, and calmly trapped the spider in one clean motion. Peter flinched so hard he knocked over a stool. “Careful! What if it jumps?”

Harley just stared at him. Then, dramatically, with great ceremony, he walked to the window, cracked it open, and gently released the spider to freedom. Peter just stared, wide-eyed and slightly breathless, as Harley shut the window again.

“You good?” Harley asked dryly.

Peter slowly stood, brushing imaginary filth off his hoodie. “No. I’m traumatized. I need a tetanus shot.”

“That’s not-” Harley started, then gave up. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m sensitive,” Peter corrected.

“You’re Spider -Man.”

“Spider- themed man.”

—

Harley was halfway to unconsciousness when the scream came.

It wasn’t just a shout or a startled noise - it was a full-body, throat-shredding yelp of genuine terror, followed immediately by a thump, a scramble, and something that sounded suspiciously like someone jumping onto the toilet lid and knocking over a bottle of shampoo, loud enough for him to hear through the sound-dampening walls.

He sat bolt upright, heart pounding, hair wild. “Peter?”

Another noise - this one more of a sob - and then, shrill and gasping, “Harley, please, oh my god, there’s another one in the bathroom!”

Harley blinked at the ceiling. Took a breath. Then dragged himself out of bed, half-asleep, still shirtless and only wearing pajama pants, and stomped down the hallway. He didn’t knock. Just shoved Peter’s door open and said, “Dude. It’s three in the morning.”

Peter was standing on top of the sink. On the sink. Arms wrapped around himself, hoodie sleeves bunched up near his elbows, face pale, eyes wet.

“There’s a spider,” Peter whispered, like it had a gun.

Harley ran a hand down his face. “You screamed like you were being murdered because a spider is in your bathroom?”

Peter pointed, shaking slightly. “It’s under the edge of the towel rack. It crawled at me, Harley. It made eye contact. It knew.”

“Do you want me to kill it, or give it a little relocation pep talk?”

“I want it gone. Gone, Harley,” Peter hissed. “I - normally I’m catch and release, but this one is an asshole. I can feel it. It’s got bad vibes. I want it gone. Like, removed from this plane of existence. I want it smited.”

Harley cracked his neck and grabbed a plastic cup from the sink. “You’re lucky I’m in a merciful mood. This one gets banishment.”

“I tried to trap it under the wastebasket and it dodged. It dodged , Harley.” Harley sighed and shuffled off to the kitchen to grab a plastic cup. He returned with it and a firm commitment to never let Peter live this down. Peter pointed again from his perch on the sink. “It’s there. It’s huge.”

Harley rolled his eyes and crouched, peering under the towel rack. “It’s like, the size of a nickel.”

“It’s huge.”

“Coming from the dude who can bench a truck,” Harley muttered, and slowly, carefully, slid the cup over the spider. It scuttled right before he could trap it. Harley yelped, flinched back, and nearly knocked the cup into the tub. Peter laughed. Actually laughed at him, loud and wheezy and triumphant from where he was perched up on the sink and hiding like a coward. Harley stared up at him, scandalized. “You think this is funny?”

Peter was still hugging himself, cheeks pink and wet with leftover adrenaline tears, but he managed to say between giggles, “You screamed.”

“I did not scream.”

“You screamed .”

“I shrieked. It’s different. You try being half-asleep and getting dive-bombed by a spider trying to make a break for it.”

“You shrieked like a goat,” Peter said with a grin.

Harley scowled, reset the cup, and this time caught the spider underneath. He slid a piece of junk mail from Peter’s desk under it and very, very carefully held the whole thing like it was a live grenade.

“I’m only doing this because I’m already up,” Harley grumbled, inching toward the window. “And because you’re too traumatized to stand on solid ground.”

Peter huffed. “My hero.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Harley muttered as he stepped out of the bathroom and forced the bedroom window open. He leaned halfway out into the night air, peeled the paper back, and went to shake the spider onto the glass outside. Only, he underestimated the angle. The paper bent. The cup slipped sideways.

He shrieked again. The spider landed on the windowsill. Harley flailed backward with a “shitshitshit!” and fell right into Peter’s laundry hamper.

Peter howled from his position, doubling over on the sink, laughing so hard he nearly slid off the edge. “You okay?!”

Harley shot him a glare from the floor, still tangled in jeans and the scent of Peter’s laundry detergent. “Last time I come help you.”

The spider - after its near-death fall onto the windowsill - was once again secured inside the cup, this time with Harley using a much sturdier flyer from Peter’s pile of homework. Harley glared down at it, now clinging to the transparent plastic like it was planning revenge.

“Okay. Round two,” he muttered, stepping back toward the window with renewed caution.

Peter, still perched on the sink, had quieted enough to watch the process with narrowed eyes and a mischievous little smirk. A bad sign. As Harley lifted the cup again and started leaning out the window, Peter snorted, “Don’t trip this time, dumbass.”

Harley froze. Looked over his shoulder. Looked at the spider. Then back up at Peter. The other boy blinked. Realized. “Wait - Harley. Harley, no-”

Harley grinned, wicked and slow. “You sure you’re not a spider?”

“Don’t,” Peter said, instantly pale, already trying to scoot further back despite the very obvious limit of the sink. He went white. “Harley. I swear to god, don’t you dare-”

Harley threw the cup.

“ Oh my god !” Peter shrieked as he launched himself off the sink with a thud, dodged the cup with superhero reflexes, and bolted from the bathroom like a missile. “You asshole!”

The cup clattered harmlessly to the floor - empty. The spider had stuck to the inside during the throw, completely fine. Harley was already on the floor, laughing so hard he had to brace himself on the edge of the tub. “I barely lobbed it! You moved like it was a grenade!”

“You threw a spider at me!” Peter’s voice came shrill from the hallway.

“You said you wanted it gone!”

“From my room, not at my face!”

Harley wheezed, wiping his eyes, still bent over. “God, you’re dramatic. You act like I aimed it for your jugular.”

Peter stomped back in, hoodie askew, hair wild, fists clenched. “You’re lucky I didn’t web you to the ceiling.”

Harley lifted the spider cup, still intact. “You're fine,” he said cheerfully, and popped the window open again. This time, he leaned out carefully, holding the cup flat as he flicked the spider onto the ledge with a gentle shake. It crawled off into the night like it wanted no part in any of this. Peter crossed his arms. 

“If it finds its way back inside, I’m blaming you.”

“If it finds its way back inside, it deserves the bathroom,” Harley said. “Rent-free, no notes.”

Peter looked offended. “I hate you,” he muttered.

Harley turned, grinning, and dropped the cup into the sink. “You screamed.”

“I did not.”

“You screamed like I threw a snake.”

“You threw a spider . At Spider-Man.”

“And you still flinched. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “I’m gonna kill you.”

“Not if I get you first,” Harley teased, walking past him toward the hallway, bare feet dragging. “C’mon, Spider-Baby. You gonna sleep in your own bed now that the monster’s gone?”

Peter didn’t answer. Harley stopped, looked over his shoulder. Peter was hovering outside the bathroom, arms crossed, clearly unsettled.

“…I don’t want to sleep in here,” Peter muttered, barely loud enough to carry across the room. His voice was small. Embarrassed. Like he already expected to get laughed out of the doorway.

Harley sighed, lips still pulling up. “You want my bed?”

There was a beat. A hesitant pause. “…If you’re offering.”

Harley walking back into his room, dropping down into the bed. Peter wordlessly followed, sliding in next to him. Harley reached over and flicked the bedside light, and the room sank into darkness. Peter shifted, hesitantly sliding in next to him. He smelled like toothpaste and body wash and fear, and maybe they were actually on to something about the pheromones, if Harley was being honest.

Peter paused for a moment, curled up on his side near the edge, but after a minute or two, Harley felt him inch closer. One breath at a time. A shift of his knees. Then a slow lean forward until his forehead barely brushed Harley’s shoulder.

He let out a soft sigh. “I know it’s stupid.”

Harley didn’t say anything to that. Just lifted one hand and reached under the blanket to press it lightly against Peter’s back, then began running his palm in slow, lazy circles up and down his spine. His shirt was soft. Thin. Peter made a small noise and melted a little closer.

“I just-” he started, then stopped. “It was fast. Like. Really fast. I didn’t even see it at first, it was just suddenly there - on the sink. And then it leapt. ”

“Pretty sure it was just trying to escape,” Harley murmured, voice thick with sleep. “It’s not a trained assassin.”

“It touched me.”

“I know,” Harley said solemnly. “I was there for the wailing.”

Peter shuddered again and leaned in tighter, pressing his face against Harley’s collarbone like he could burrow into the warmth and safety and never leave. Harley let him. He shifted slightly and tilted his chin until it rested comfortably against Peter’s curls.

Peter went quiet for a while after that, just breathing. His hand found Harley’s shirt and held on loosely, fingers bunching the fabric. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” Harley muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to the crown of his head. “Otherwise I’d be charging you spider tax.”

Peter grumbled something unintelligible and pressed his cold toes against Harley’s shins in retaliation. Harley jerked, swore, and almost kicked him out of bed right then and there.

But Peter just laughed, soft and sleepy, and it was enough to make him stay.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harley noticed was that Peter wouldn’t sleep on his back.

He noticed it when they were in bed, Peter was finally home, safe and alive and not yet happy but he was getting there. He didn’t say anything about it. Peter wasn’t particularly open other than that one minor meltdown in the Medbay, and Harley didn’t really want to push. Peter just crawled into bed that first night back like he was half-expecting it to vanish out from under him. He barely looked at Harley, but he didn’t let go either. His fingers had found Harley’s the second he’d slid into the space next to him, tangled them together and hadn’t let go since.

And still, he wouldn’t lie on his back.

It was automatic. Mechanical. He climbed under the blankets, turned onto his side, and didn’t move. Harley went to take his usual spot - between Peter and the door, the way it’d been the couple times that he’d stayed over - but Peter stopped him with a hand on his chest and a soft, unspoken tug.

“No,” he murmured, barely audible.

Harley frowned. “You sure?”

Peter didn’t answer. He just guided Harley to the wall side of the bed and slotted himself in front of him, curled protectively in the space closest to the door. He didn’t push Harley away, though; as soon as Harley settled, Peter pressed back into him, soft and warm and still a little tense. Even though he wasn’t facing Harley, he definitely didn’t seem to be opposed to touch or like he didn’t like physical affection now. He’d been clingy in the Medbay, too, but it was more like he wanted to face the door more than anything.  

Harley wanted to hold him.

It was subtle. Gentle. Harley wrapped his arm around Peter’s waist, felt the tension start to bleed out of his spine. Peter let out a low, almost involuntary noise - somewhere between a sigh and a hum - and shifted back until his spine was flush against Harley’s chest, until they fit together like they always had.

Harley felt the breath leave him slow. Careful.

He didn’t fall asleep fast. Peter’s breathing evened out eventually, but Harley’s didn’t. 

Then, after ten minutes or so, he realised Peter was still moving. It wasn’t big or dramatic. Not tossing or turning. Just fingers twitching where they touched the sheet, just subtle little motions like a tic he couldn’t quite shake. Harley cracked one eye open and looked down. The faint light from the city outside spilled in through the curtains, dim but enough to catch motion.

Peter’s hand moved. Deliberate. He was drawing.

No. Not drawing. Tracing.

Harley squinted. The shapes were letters. Big, loopy, messy ones - worn soft into the sheets. He traced them over and over again. Not neat. Not artistic. Just repetition. Just muscle memory. The same word, again and again.

P-e-t-e-r.

The breath caught in Harley’s chest. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. He watched.

Peter’s mouth moved silently, and Harley realized he was mouthing the name, too. Not whispering it, just forming it. Just saying it in the dark to no one. Harley’s eyes flicked to the small tattoo on Peter’s wrist. The numbers, the little black bold zero-forty-two inked into his wrist.

He didn’t want to know why.

Peter didn’t talk about Oscorp. He didn’t talk about what happened in that month he was gone. Harley hadn’t asked the specifics of what had happened. Not really. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. But every time Peter whispered his name into the dark like it was the only thing keeping him there, Harley knew he couldn’t afford not to find out.

Not when Peter still wouldn’t lie on his back. Not when he still faced the door, body locked in high-alert stillness, even as Harley held him close from behind. Not when he traced his own name into the sheets like he needed to remember who he was.

He was home. Safe. Alive.

They’d get to the happy part.

—

Bucky didn’t like the silence.

It wasn’t even true silence. The TV was still on, flickering blue and white across the dim room, casting light across Peter’s cheekbones and shadowing the hollows beneath his eyes. But the kid wasn’t watching. He wasn’t there . He was curled up like he’d folded in on himself. Knees pulled to his chest, face slack and distant, body too still.

He’d had a nightmare. A shit one, if the way he’d wobbled down to Bucky’s floor and knocked on his door like he wasn’t supposed to be there was any indication. He hadn’t seen much of Peter lately, to be honest, because the kid had spent so much time holed up in his room; but this was different. Like he’d just… shut down. Withdrawn into himself without Harley next to him anymore.

Bucky had seen this before. He’d done this shit himself, in the long spaces between missions when he’d sit with his back to the wall and stare without blinking, because blinking was trust and trust got you killed. He swallowed hard.

Peter hadn’t said much since Oscorp. The footage Bucky had seen said plenty.

Bucky sat on the opposite end of the couch, one arm stretched along the back cushions, careful not to touch. The distance was deliberate. Not because he didn’t want to be near him - God, he did; he kind of wanted to just gather the kid up in his arms - but because he’d learned the hard way that reaching out too soon, too fast, could startle people back into the wrong places.

And Peter didn’t need that. 

Harley was at school,  and Bucky figured that the kid probably needed a break.But it was clear Peter didn’t want to be alone, so he’d come to their floor. Steve was out running. Bucky had offered the couch. Peter hadn’t asked for anything. Just sank down and stayed small. He tracked the way Peter’s fingers twitched. The way his eyes flicked toward the door and back again. Always toward the exits. Always counting. Always waiting. It was like looking at a mirror from years ago.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled slowly through his nose. “You hungry?”

“...Not really,” Peter croaked after the silence stretched.

“You eaten anything today?” Bucky asked instead. A flicker of something guilty crossed the kid’s face. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

It was easier to focus on doing something. Bucky moved around the kitchen and fixed a plate anyway. Grilled cheese, soup, and the cut fruit Steve had shoved into a container earlier that morning. Comfort food. The kind of thing Steve used to coax him into eating when he’d been too out of it to remember how hunger felt. He plated it gently, walked over, and set it on the coffee table in front of Peter without a word. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough to reach.

He sat back down. Peter didn’t move.

Bucky stared at the plate, then at Peter. Something cold and old curled low in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since handlers and trigger words and white walls. He looked away, jaw tightening. Steve always waited. Always gave him time. Autonomy. The chance to come back on his own. But that had been Steve. And Peter wasn’t eating. Peter looked like he’d just… wither away into the couch if Bucky didn’t do anything. The kid needed to eat.

He didn’t want to be that guy. But right now, Peter needed a command, not a choice. So Bucky closed his eyes. Forced out the guilt. Let his voice go low. Calm. Measured.

“Eat.”

Peter startled. Not big, not dramatic. Just a flinch. Shoulders twitching, breath catching in his throat. His eyes snapped to the plate like he’d only just registered it was there. He stared for a beat. And then he obeyed. No argument. No hesitation. Just compliance. 

It felt like getting hit in the gut.

Just reached forward with slow hands and picked up the toast. Ate like it was just another task. Like it had nothing to do with hunger at all. Bucky swallowed, hard. Peter ate slowly. Half the sandwich. A few spoonfuls of soup. Bucky didn’t push. 

God, it made him feel sick.

He waited until Peter had eaten about half and looked like he couldn’t eat more, then reached over - slowly - and took the plate back, careful not to make him flinch again. Bucky took it gently from his hands, fingers brushing his.  He set it aside. His hand hovered for a second, then rested lightly in Peter’s hair.

“Good,” he murmured, voice rough. “Good job.”

And that was when Peter finally reacted. Peter made a noise. Small and broken, like someone had reached into his chest and loosened something clenched. He leaned into the touch, head tilting into Bucky’s palm like he hadn’t even realized he wanted it.

Bucky stood up, carried the plate away, and rinsed it. Every move measured. The floor creaked when he came back. Peter hadn’t shifted. Still curled up like he was holding himself together with tension alone. Bucky sat down nearby, not touching him yet. Let the silence stretch.

Peter shifted. Wavered. Like he wanted to move toward Bucky but wasn’t sure he could. Wasn’t sure if he was allowed. God, Bucky hated that look. That hesitation. The pause for permission. He swallowed. Voice low, steady.  "Come closer."

Peter moved immediately.

No questions, no pause. Just slid across the cushions until he was flush against Bucky’s side, head tucked under his arm like he could disappear there. He sagged, all his weight folding into Bucky like he was giving up on holding himself upright. Bucky wrapped an arm around him, ran his fingers through his hair again, slow and steady.

Peter made a soft, grateful noise and slumped sideways until his weight leaned fully against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

"This okay?" he murmured, after a minute. Voice quiet. Careful.

Peter leaned into him harder. Nodded, face pressed to Bucky’s shoulder. Not a word. Just a slow lean. Like he was making himself part of Bucky’s side. Bucky ran his fingers gently through the kid’s curls, trying to ignore the fact that he felt like a fucking handler . That his voice had carried the same rhythm they’d used on him; simple, authoritative, final.

Eat. Sleep. Kill. Obey.

He hadn’t even realized it was coming out of him. Like muscle memory. Like a scar.

He looked down at Peter. The kid wasn’t scared anymore, at least. Not of him. Not in this moment. His eyes were closed, breathing steadier. A little slower. Like being given an instruction had let him stop making decisions for a second. Bucky hated that. Hated that it worked. Hated that he’d learned how to do it.

But most of all, he hated that Peter needed it.

And he wasn’t stupid. He knew why. The obedience reflex. The frozen look. The subtle shifts of posture when someone barked a command - Peter had been taken, hurt, twisted in all the thousands of little ways he wasn’t talking about yet. Probably wouldn’t talk about unless he had to.

So Bucky wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t ask. Not unless Peter wanted to give it. But he’d watch. He’d wait. And if the kid needed someone to act like a soft-spoken version of a bastard from HYDRA just so he could remember how to breathe -

Then that’s what Bucky would do. Even if it gutted him and if it made him hate himself a little more. Because the kid had already been through too much, and Bucky knew exactly what it felt like to flinch when someone offered you freedom. Knew what it meant when following orders felt safer than choosing.

So he’d offer safety. He’d be the quiet voice that said eat, and sleep, and you’re okay now. Even if he had to swallow his pride and drown the ghosts of every handler that had ever told him the same. He looked down again, watched the way Peter shifted into him, fingers curling slightly as the kid let out a long, shaky sigh.

Bucky just held him a little tighter.

Peter was still here. Still trying. Still reaching. There were fingerprints in the soup bowl, warm and real. The way he’d melted at a soft word. The quiet way he’d sought touch, permission, comfort. 

Bucky rested his cheek on top of Peter’s head and breathed.

He remembered how Steve used to wait. Never gave orders unless he had to. Never told Bucky what to eat or when to sleep, even when he needed to. Because he wanted Bucky to want it. But Peter wasn’t eating. And Bucky wasn’t Steve. He just needed the kid to stay alive. He’d worry about freedom later.

Peter shivered. Bucky adjusted the blanket. Held him tighter. "You’re safe," he murmured. "You’re home."

Peter didn’t answer. He was still breathing. That was enough for now.

—

Tony heard the kid before he saw him. Or rather - he didn’t hear him, which was the giveaway.

No footsteps. No doors. Just a sudden shift in air pressure behind him, the kind that tickled the back of his neck and made every reflex in his body that was trained from living with spies and super-soldiers say someone’s there. He didn’t jump. Not this time. He’d been getting better about that.

“Jesus, Peter,” he said, not turning around. “Ever heard of walking in like a normal person? Announcing your presence? You’ve been spending too much time with Nat.”

The kid didn’t answer. Just hovered behind him for a beat longer than strictly necessary before stepping into view. Loose T-shirt, sleeves hanging long. Collar stretched wide, like it had been tugged. And the webshooters - their newest version, still waiting for a sync - sat untouched on the far corner of the table. Exactly where Tony had left them yesterday.

Peter didn’t even glance at them.

“Thought you were gonna run a trial,” Tony said casually, nudging a wire toward the interface node. “See if the new ejection port worked better with the heat seals.”

“I will,” Peter said. But his voice was flat. Noncommittal.

Tony looked up.

The kid had sat down in the corner of the lab’s long desk, not the chair - never the chair lately, not unless it had a wall behind it. His legs curled up tight, one knee hitched toward his chest. He was perched like a bird, watching the room like it might turn on him.

His eyes kept darting to the door.

Tony set the pliers down. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Not that I don’t love the broody little assassin vibe, but that’s twice now you’ve skipped the bench and three times you’ve ignored the shooters. You wanna talk about it?”

Peter blinked at him, then away. Jaw clenched. “I just don’t want to use them right now,” he said.

“Right,” Tony muttered. “And I just happen to be a six-foot Norwegian model. I would’ve thought you’d been begging to go back out there as soon as you could. Now you’re not even touching the parts of the suit you need to do that.” He leaned back on his stool, crossed his arms. “Seriously. What gives?”

Peter didn’t answer.

Instead, he shifted again - just slightly - so his shoulder was angled toward the door. Not blocking it. Not quite guarding it. But aware. Watching.

“I just…” Peter trailed off. “I don’t like the way they feel.”

“What, like the metal?” Tony asked, brows pinching. “Are they too small now, or something?”

Peter just gave a shuddery shrug. Tony leaned over and tossed a jumper over in his direction, because the kid always complained about how he was cold. The hoodie was soft, oversized, still a little covered in grease, but most people would’ve caught it and shrugged it on without thinking.

Peter just batted it out of the way.

Not dramatically. Not like he was panicking. But fast. Sharp. The sweater now sat folded - neatly, precisely - in his lap. He didn’t make a move to put it on. He frowned at Peter, eyes settling on the stretched-out collar of his T-shirt, like the kid had been tugging on it a little nervously. Tony looked down at his hands. Tapped one ring against the arm of his stool. The kid didn’t move. Just sat back in the chair and watched, like he wanted company but didn’t know what else to do. Tony exhaled. Quietly. Like it might spook him.

“You ever stand still for so long,” he said carefully, “you forget you’re allowed to move?”

Peter’s head jerked slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

“That used to happen to me,” Tony continued, keeping his tone light. Conversational. “Right after the cave. I’d just freeze. At press things, board meetings. Thought it was trauma brain, but nope - turns out you stay motionless for hours in a box long enough, your nervous system thinks stillness means survival.”

Peter was still watching the door. His fingertips brushed the edge of the desk, twitching faintly, like they wanted to tap. They stayed still instead.

“I’m not…” Peter frowned, trailed off. “That’s not what’s happening.”

Tony nodded. Didn’t press. Didn’t ask what was happening. The answer was already in the way the kid didn’t move much or how he moved a little too quietly. How even the T-shirt collar was wide, dragging loose over his collarbone like he’d stretched it to be that way.

He didn’t ask about the webshooters again, either.

Instead, he picked up a tablet and tapped the screen on. Flicked idly through schematics. Gave Peter silence to fill - or not.

After a moment, Peter unfolded a leg and let it dangle off the edge of the desk. Then the other. Like he was reminding himself he could move.

—

The movie had been Harley's pick; some dumb sci-fi comedy from the early 2000s that made him nostalgic for popcorn-sticky floors and broken recliner seats in the Tennessee town theater. It wasn’t good, exactly, but it didn’t need to be. Peter had been laughing, shoulder-shaking snorts that made Harley grin more than the actual film.

He was doing better. Not great. Not perfect. But better.

Peter hadn’t flinched when Harley bumped into him earlier. Hadn’t frozen up when their hands touched grabbing the popcorn bowl. He’d stretched out on the bed like he used to, long limbs everywhere, socks mismatched. And now he was tucked back into Harley’s lap, spine to chest, arms loosely curled around Harley’s knees where they bracketed his sides.

Harley was trying to pay attention to the movie, but Peter kept talking.

"Okay but - look - he’s holding the laser backward. That’s literally backward, he’s gonna-”

"Peter."

"No but listen, that’s like handing a chainsaw blade-first-”

Without thinking, Harley laughed and reached around, clamping a hand lightly over Peter’s mouth. It wasn’t tight. Just a gentle, familiar shut up, the way Peter had done to him plenty of times.

But the moment his palm touched Peter’s face, everything went wrong. Peter jerked violently, like he’d been electrocuted. His whole body snapped taut and twisted, limbs thrashing to scramble backward. He hit the edge of the bed and tumbled off, landing hard on the floor in a heap of flailing arms and gasping breaths.

“Shit - Peter!”

Harley launched forward, scrambling to the side of the bed.

Peter was on the floor, half-crushed between the bed and the wall, eyes wide and wild. His back hit the far corner and stayed there, chest heaving. One hand was braced against the floor, the other halfway raised like he couldn’t decide if he needed to punch or push or protect himself.

“Hey. Hey, it’s me,” Harley said, hands raised, staying low. “It’s just me, Peter, I didn’t mean to - I wasn’t thinking.” Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t move. He was still staring, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly parted like he couldn’t get enough air in. Harley’s chest ached. “Oh, fuck,” he breathed. “Peter, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean-”

He didn’t even know what he did mean. It was a joke. A dumb reflex. But Peter was reacting like he was terrified, and Harley felt sick.

“I’m not gonna touch you, okay?” he said quickly. “I swear. Just - you’re safe. It’s just us. Just the movie. Nothing’s gonna happen.”

Peter’s breath hitched. Then, suddenly, he moved. Not away. Not out the door. Forward. He surged toward Harley, crawling over the carpet until he was half on top of him, arms locking around Harley’s shoulders so tight it drove the air from Harley’s lungs.

“Okay - yeah, okay-” Harley said breathlessly, holding him back.

Peter didn’t shake . He didn’t cry. He just clung , muscles braced so hard Harley could feel the tension in his jaw where it pressed against his shoulder. He was too stiff to collapse. Too wired to curl up. But he hovered, pressing Harley down against the floor, weight heavy across his thighs and ribs.

He was positioned so he could see the door.

So he could watch it.