Chapter Text
The universe hated Peter Parker. This was a fact of life.
Sometimes, though, he did get lucky. The best part about having Mr. Stark as a mentor wasn’t the tech, the flashy rides, or the incredibly cool lab full of things Peter wasn’t technically supposed to touch but totally did when Tony wasn’t looking.
It was the food.
The fridge was always full. Always. Like, magically. Peter had never seen it being stocked, but somehow there were always cold sodas, leftover pizza that wasn’t even crust-hardened yet, and those fancy fruit things that came in plastic cups and cost way more than they should’ve. It was a miracle. It was luxury. It was heaven.
That and access to literally the most advanced tech on Earth. But food definitely ranked high.
“Can you pass me the torque driver, kid?” Tony asked, bent over the table with a magnifying visor pushed halfway down his forehead. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, a smudge of grease on his cheekbone, and a coffee stain on his shirt. Peter reached out blindly to the tray of tools and handed it over without looking, his other hand still inside the casing of the gauntlet they’d been working on for the past two hours.
“Thanks. Your spider brain’s good for more than swinging around rooftops.”
Peter made a face. “Pretty sure you’re the one who taught me not to look away while soldering.”
“And yet here we are,” Tony muttered, but there was no bite in it.
The hum of the lab was comforting. FRIDAY had lowered the music to a soft ambient track, and the clink of metal and the faint hiss of electronics filled the room like white noise. Peter had his legs curled up under him on the rolling stool, back arched awkwardly to reach inside the open casing of the gauntlet, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. The new suit was going to be insane. He could already tell.
Peter was just starting to figure out how to re-route the charge to the repulser without overheating it when the lab doors hissed open behind him.
He didn’t think much of it. People walked in and out of the compound all the time - Rhodey, Pepper, random delivery guys who were immediately intercepted by security - but this time there was no familiar cadence of Tony greeting someone, no FRIDAY offering a name or clearance level.
There was just a beat of silence.
Then a voice, sharp, curious, and definitely not from New York.
“Who’re you?”
Peter startled so hard he nearly shorted the capacitor. He jerked his head up and whirled toward the entrance, legs scraping against the metal stool.
The guy standing in the doorway wasn’t anyone Peter had seen before. Blonde hair. Sharp jaw. Old T-shirt with grease smears, and jeans that looked like they’d been used for twenty years. He had the same kind of build as Peter, lean and wiry, but there was something completely different in how he held himself - brash, almost cocky. Southern. Definitely Southern, if the weird, enunciated drawl was anything to go by. And, apparently, not big on greetings.
Peter blinked. “Who’re you?” he blurted before he could remember to be polite.
The guy wrinkled his nose, unimpressed. “You first.”
“Shit,” Tony muttered from behind Peter. He stood and pushed up his visor with a grimace. “That’s not how you greet someone. And I forgot you were coming,” he added, stepping out from behind the workbench.
“You always forget,” the kid said, and this time there was a twitch of a grin on his face. It was sardonic and amused all at once.
“Did you bring everything this time? Clothes? Toothbrush?” Tony asked, stepping away from the bench. Peter blinked.
“Yes,” the boy drawled, with heavy sarcasm. “I always do. It’s in my room. Now who’s this?”
Tony gestured between them, exasperated. “Harley, meet Peter. Peter, Harley.”
Oh.
Peter’s eyes widened a little. This was the Harley? The Harley Keener? The kid from Tennessee that Tony sometimes mentioned offhandedly with a weird mix of fondness and something else, like he couldn’t quite believe he still kept in contact with the kid. Peter had always figured Harley would be older, maybe more polished. Not so... rough around the edges.
Harley’s expression had shifted into something a little cautious, eyes flicking from Peter to the tools, then to the gauntlet laid out on the table.
Peter smiled - big, open, bright - because that was what he was good at. Making friends. Appearing harmless. He offered a wave and scrambled quickly to nudge the edge of the red and blue fabric under the table with his foot, concealing it beneath a stray towel.
Too late.
Harley’s eyes tracked the movement.
“You working on something?” he asked, voice casual, but his gaze was sharp.
Peter’s mouth worked for a second. “Yeah - uh. I help Mr. Stark with the tech sometimes. Just for the suit. The - uh. Spider-Man one.”
That earned a twitch of Harley’s brow. “Suit, huh? I’ve seen some of those videos. That guy’s crazy.”
Peter felt himself flush. “I mean, he’s trying his best.”
“You ever find him?” Harley asked, glancing toward Tony. “Last time I was here, you were looking for him.”
Peter’s stomach dropped. He looked to Tony, hoping for a redirect, a quip, a distraction - anything. Tony didn’t offer one. “Yeah,” he said dryly. “He’s sitting right next to you.”
Peter froze. Completely.
His lungs forgot how to work. He felt his hands go clammy, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Then Harley laughed. Barked it out, full and open, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Sure, Tony,” he said, mouth curling. “And I’m Captain America.”
Peter blinked. He kind of wanted to throw him. Just to be funny. Something hot and idiotic surged up inside him.
"...I could be Spider-Man," Peter said, because why the hell not? The words had barely left his mouth before he realized how serious they sounded. Too serious.
Harley turned to look at him, eyes running over him for a brief second, appraising; and then broke into laughter again - this time harder. He snorted as he leaned over slightly with a laugh, and Peter kind of wanted to suplex him just for the hell of it.
Tony snorted. “You asked for that, kid.”
Peter shot Tony a look, half-exasperated and half-confused. “Who is this guy? What’s he even doing here?”
Harley, finally managing to catch his breath, wiped at his eyes. "I stay here once or twice a year. Tony lets me crash when I need a break from... home. Or whenever I set something on fire and my ma gets mad. Just short stays to make sure I’m still on the inheritance documents."
Tony snorted, and Peter blinked. "Wait, what? You just... hang out here?"
“Yeah,” Harley said with a shrug, his grin barely fading. “It’s better than being at my place. Small town, not much to do. And I don’t get to blow stuff up like I do here.”
Tony, distracted by something on his tablet, didn’t seem to be paying much attention. He nodded vaguely. “You’re not blowing anything up without my approval this time.”
Peter’s jaw dropped. “He just gets to stay here? Are you like, his mentor, or something?”
“Not like that,” Tony said quickly, his voice tinged with a half-apologetic laugh. “I’m not a responsible person. I’m not playing house, the kid’s mom is fine with it as long as I return him in one piece.”
“Hey,” Harley chimed in, still smiling. “If you’re looking for a mentor, Peter, I don’t think Tony’s the guy for that. I’d be happy to fill the role.” His grin widened, and Peter raised an eyebrow at him, half-suspicious.
“I don’t need a mentor,” Peter said quickly as he flushed, his face heating up under Harley’s amused gaze. “I just want to eat his food.”
“Ah,” Harley said knowingly, leaning back with a sly smirk. “That’s why you’re here. Can’t say I blame you.”
Tony chuckled, looking between them with a glint in his eye. “Well, at least Peter’s got his priorities straight.”
Peter felt the heat in his cheeks spread, irritated at how Harley’s teasing made him feel all embarrassed. How does this guy get under my skin so easily? “Well, I wouldn’t say I only care about the food,” Peter muttered. “But free food is pretty high up on the list, I won’t lie.”
Harley raised his hands in mock surrender. “I respect that. Can’t argue with that logic.” He winked at Peter, and Peter’s face reddened even more. He was so glad Tony wasn’t paying full attention to this exchange, or he’d never hear the end of it. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Tony, who was focused on his tablet again, clearly tuning out the conversation as usual. “Speaking of. Just got out of the longest car ride of my life, where’s my pizza?”
“Order it yourself.”
“You’re such a baby,” Harley snorted, and Peter blinked at him. It was weird, seeing someone his age act so… normal around Mr. Stark. “FRI, can you get me the usual? And, uh, whatever… Peter wants, too.”
Peter ducked his head in thanks and settled down in his bench. Harley just hummed like he belonged here.
—
Ned fidgeted with the LEGO Death Star piece in his hand, the plastic block clicking softly as he twisted it between his fingers. His face was pinched with worry, even as he flicked through the instruction manual. Peter flopped on the floor behind him.
“You sure it’s the Vulture?” Ned asked finally, voice low. “I mean… maybe it’s just a guy with wings. A different guy with wings.”
Peter shook his head. “No, it’s him. Same tech. Same pattern. I’ve been tracking the drop sites from Staten, then Queens, and now Brooklyn. It’s definitely him. And I think I’ve found the next one.”
Ned didn’t look convinced. “So… what did Mr. Stark say?”
Peter’s head rolled over to blink up at him. His hand squeezed the fabric of the mask a little tighter. “He said to stay local. ‘Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,’ remember? Just keep helping old ladies and chasing down bike thieves.”
“Well… that’s good stuff to do?”
“It is good stuff,” Peter admitted, sighing. “But this is bigger. I tried talking to him and told him I could help. But he doesn’t trust me. He won’t let me help.”
Ned looked up at him. “Maybe he’s just trying to keep you safe.”
“Yeah, and in the meantime, people aren’t safe. There’s alien weapons out there. Kids on the street getting hurt. Mr. Stark’s too focused on the big picture - he doesn’t get that the little stuff is the big stuff. I’m not gonna sit around while my neighborhood burns. I can’t be a friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man if there’s no neighbourhood.”
Ned opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Just…” Ned said softly, “be careful, okay?”
Peter offered him a crooked smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “When am I not careful?”
Ned didn’t answer. He just held the LEGO piece in his hand a little tighter and watched his best friend disappear out the window.
—
Peter knew the second FRIDAY told him someone was at the elevator that it was Harley.
It’d been a couple months since he’d been back, and Peter missed him. Not too much. But enough that he’d been looking forward to texting him each day and had marked down his name on the calender.
He didn’t even pretend not to perk up, practically springing from the workbench and nearly smacking his head on the low-hanging light. His goggles were still on, one of his gloves half-unstrapped, and he tugged both off in a rush, tossing them on the table without much care for where they landed. He told himself it was because Harley was cool to hang out with. Easy. Familiar. Nothing to do with the way Harley sometimes leaned too close to read over his shoulder or the way he laughed like it slipped out sideways, unexpected and low and a little bit scratchy. Nothing to do with the way Peter’s stomach felt a little weird whenever Harley smirked at him, all sharp teeth and knowing eyes.
So, yeah. He was excited. Not that excited. Just… normal excited.
The elevator dinged and Peter bounced a little on his toes, brushing his hands on his jeans, which were already stained from solder work. The doors opened and-
Peter froze.
Harley looked like hell.
His hair was messier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. There was a split along his bottom lip, nearly healed but still red. His clothes were wrinkled and a little dirty - same hoodie as the last time he was here, but more threadbare now. And under his eyes, dark circles had settled like bruises.
Peter’s breath caught. “Hey.”
“Hey, sweetheart,” Harley said with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Peter blinked. “I - I’m not - shut up,” he muttered quickly, ducking his head to hide the warmth spreading up his neck. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
Harley stepped into the lab, dragging a duffel bag behind him. “Close. Bus from Tennessee. Then subway. Then I walked the last twelve blocks. Not a lot of trucks involved, but I appreciate the concern.”
“You - you bussed it from Tennessee?” Peter stared. “Why didn’t you - does Mr. Stark know you’re here, yet?”
“I told FRIDAY,” Harley said, then turned to the ceiling. “Didn’t I, babe?”
FRIDAY’s voice was politely amused. “Mr. Keener requested to be let up. Mr. Stark has been notified.”
“I’m gonna go talk to him in a minute,” Harley added, turning back to Peter. “You gonna tell me I look like shit again or are you gonna offer me some water or somethin’, damn.”
Peter flinched. “Right - yeah. Of course. I - hang on.” He turned, rushing to the mini fridge in the corner and pulling out a water bottle, and he offered one to Harley, who took it with a faint smile and a quiet thanks before slumping into a chair. “You okay?”
Harley looked at him for a beat too long, like he was thinking about how to answer. Then he exhaled and said, “Yeah. Just tired.”
Peter didn’t buy it. Not really. But Harley was watching him with that look again, the one he used when he didn’t want someone to dig deeper. “Okay,” Peter said, even though it wasn’t. “You, um… you staying?”
“That’s the plan,” Harley muttered, cracking the cap off the bottle. “At least for a while. Gonna talk to Tony about it.”
Peter turned back to Harley. “Seriously. What happened?”
Harley shot him a look that was more fond than annoyed. “You always this nosy, sweetheart?”
“Only when someone I care about looks like they haven’t slept in a week,” Peter said before he could stop himself.
Harley blinked at him. Then grinned, slow and wide. “Well, damn. That almost sounded like a confession.”
Peter flushed instantly. “I didn’t mean - I was just-”
“Relax,” Harley drawled. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Peter said, but he was still pink to the ears and couldn’t quite meet Harley’s eyes.
Then the lab doors hissed open again. Tony stepped in, took one look at Harley, and paused. “You look like shit,” he said.
“Peter already said that,” Harley replied, lifting the bottle in a mock-toast.
Tony raised a brow. “Everything alright?”
Harley waved him off. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Peter caught the shift in Tony’s face. Worry, tempered with something else. A flicker of guilt, maybe. Or recognition. But Tony just nodded slowly and clapped Harley’s shoulder. “Alright. You want me to send someone for your stuff?”
Harley winced and shrugged. “Yeah. Yes, please. And, uh. If my ma calls, maybe don’t answer. Or do, unless you wanna get yelled at.”
“I’ll sic Pepper on her,” Tony said, voice a little gentler than usual. He squeezed Harley’s shoulder again. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it, and I’ll get some stuff set up in the meantime.”
Harley gave a crooked smile, and Peter’s heart did a wobbly thing.
Tony left, and with nothing better to do, they settled into the lab like they always did, familiar rhythm kicking in as Peter showed him what he was working on - web fluid modifications, a tracking system he’d been tinkering with. Harley leaned in close to inspect the prototype and Peter tried not to shiver when his shoulder brushed against Peter’s.
“You know, if you keep blushing every time I talk to you, I’m gonna think you’ve got a crush,” Harley said casually.
Peter spluttered. “I do not - I’m not-”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You just like lookin’ at me. That’s cool.”
“Harley!”
Harley laughed, easy and warm, and Peter buried his face in his hands.
But when he peeked through his fingers, Harley was already looking at him again, softer now. Like something in his chest had unclenched just from being here.
And Peter, flustered and warm and still glowing faintly pink, didn’t say a word about how Harley hadn’t said where he’d come from. Didn’t ask why his hands were shaking or why he winced when he stretched. Didn’t ask why he wanted to stay. He just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and kept showing him his work like everything was normal. Like Harley had always belonged here.
Because he did.
—
Ned leaned forward across the lunch table, voice low and urgent. "Have you... heard anything? About... the bird problem?"
Peter, halfway through peeling the label off his juice bottle, froze. He glanced up quickly, then to the side. MJ sat across from them, scrolling on her phone, earbuds in but not really in - one of them dangled uselessly over her shoulder. Her fingers moved, but her eyes hadn’t shifted in five minutes.
Peter swallowed. "I’m not… uh, sure what you mean."
"You do know what I mean."
"No, I know," Peter mumbled, glancing at MJ again. Her thumb hovered for a second before scrolling again, just a little slower. "I just. It’s fine. It’s - handled."
"Handled how? Handled like, ‘he’s in prison now,’ or handled like, ‘he’s maybe definitely still flying around Queens with stolen tech?’" Peter didn’t answer. His fingers shredded the corner of the juice label and left the remains crumpled in his palm. "Okay. Cool. Totally comforting," Ned muttered. "Just saying. You can talk to me. Even if we have a... captive audience. "
MJ raised a middle finger without looking up.
Peter smiled nervously, but didn’t respond. The silence stretched for a moment, too long, too tense. He knew MJ was listening. Knew she could always tell when he was hiding something, even if she didn’t call him out for it. He was about to change the subject when a weight pressed against his side.
Peter startled slightly, then looked up just as Harley slid into the seat beside him, tray in hand, hip bumping his. Their shoulders brushed - close enough that Peter could feel the heat through both their shirts.
Peter blinked.
Harley didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned forward, grabbed a fry off Peter’s tray like it was nothing, and popped it in his mouth. Peter flushed. The crumpled juice label crushed tighter in his palm. "Hey," Harley said, like it was any other day. Like he hadn’t just disrupted a secret superhero code-conversation. "Y’all talking about the sad state of our love lives again?"
Ned groaned. "No, but now we are."
“Great. Because I’ve decided we’re all going to Homecoming alone and that’s depressing.” Then, Harley nudged his arm. “Unless you’re coming with me, Parker?”
Peter blinked again. The juice label cracked under his fingers. "Wait - what?"
Harley smirked. "It’s either that or I’m standing solo under the gym bleachers holding a punch cup and crying about how New York doesn’t appreciate Southern charm."
"I - what-"
"It’s a joke, Parker."
"I... don’t think I’d look good in a corsage."
Harley laughed, head tilting back for a second, eyes crinkling. Peter couldn’t look away. Could barely remember how to think, honestly. "That’s okay. I’ll get you a boutonniere."
"What if he says no?" MJ asked, without looking up.
Harley didn’t miss a beat. "He wouldn’t. Besides, Mr. Stark already rented a car and said he’d get someone to pick all of us up."
That got MJ’s attention. Her gaze flicked up - skeptical, unimpressed. "I can drive myself."
"Oh, I’m sure you can," Harley said, grinning. "But it’s free. And are you really gonna turn down free stuff from a billionaire?"
MJ opened her mouth. Closed it. Her lips twitched, just a little. "Nothing’s free."
"Yeah, but this feels like it might be."
Peter was still trying to figure out how to breathe. Ned kicked him under the table. He jumped. MJ’s lip quirked up like maybe she was looking forward to it too.
Maybe he was kind of...looking forward to it.
—
The ferry fell apart.
He lost the suit.
—
Without the suit, it had first felt like the world was falling out from underneath him. He had no patrols to do. He had no bad guys to catch, no little ego boost every time someone waved him down for a photo, and no satisfied feeling every time he managed to stop a robbery-in-progress.
The truth was, Peter was miserable.
His grades were shot. His teachers had started pulling him aside, asking if everything was okay at home. He lied to them. Said he was tired. That he was distracted. That he’d get it together soon. He didn’t tell them he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. The fact that he used to patrol until dawn most nights had shot his sleep schedule, and now he still couldn’t sleep. He’d lie awake, eyes wide open and twitchy and hyper-focused on every sound on the street outside.
And it wasn’t just school. Everything felt off. He was constantly sore, constantly on edge. The suit was gone. Mr. Stark had taken it back after the ferry. And Peter had convinced himself he didn’t need it, that he could prove himself without it.
But lately, he wasn’t so sure.
He wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t eating right. And the streets were getting worse, not better. He was tired. Really tired.
But Homecoming? Homecoming sounded like something normal. Something he could hold onto. Something that meant he wasn’t completely falling apart.
And Harley was going to be there. Sitting beside him in the fancy limo Mr. Stark had rented - or bought, maybe - probably laughing and warm and a little bit smug. Peter didn’t let himself think too hard about why he was looking forward to that. He just let it be something good. Let it be easy. He needed that right now. Something easy. Something bright.
And maybe Homecoming could be that thing.
Peter stood in the doorway, and something in the air felt different. He felt different. Maybe it was just the nerves, or maybe it was the anticipation of finally making it to Homecoming, but there was a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t shake.
He glanced back at May, who was standing near the kitchen, humming to herself as she stacked dishes in the sink. She looked up at him with that smile - warm and soft when she blinked up at him.
“You look good, Peter,” she said with a playful wink. “Are you sure you’re not trying to impress some cute girl tonight?” She grinned. “Or boy?”
Peter flushed, suddenly self-conscious about the way his clothes hung on his frame. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt, not quite sure how to answer. “Uh... I don’t know about that. Just trying not to embarrass myself in front of a crowd.”
May let out a soft laugh, walking over to him and adjusting his tie. "You’re going to be fine," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Just remember to have fun."
“Thanks,” Peter said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “I’ll try. I... I just want to make sure everything goes well.”
May chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. "I know you do. And I’m proud of you. No matter what happens tonight, you’re doing your best, and that’s all that matters."
Peter’s heart did a little flip in his chest before she stepped back, straightening up as if preparing to send him off into the world. "Alright, Mr. Parker. Go have a good time. Call me if you need a ride home, or if you need anything."
Peter nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I will. I promise.”
May’s smile softened. "I larb you. Now go enjoy your night."
“I love you too, May,” he said, and his phone buzzed. “Oh, shoot. They’re here. I’m gonna be late, I-”
“Go,” May waved him off. “Don’t keep them waiting. Have a good time! But not too good!"
“Ew,” he muttered, and she laughed as he clicked the apartment door shut.
As he walked down the stairs, he felt that small knot in his stomach loosen just a little. No matter what happened at homecoming, no matter how badly he was going to embarrass himself tonight in front of Harley, it’d be okay. He knew that when he came back, May would be there. Waiting for him. Ready to offer that same smile and bad cooking, and for now, that was enough.
—
Peter waited just outside the main doors of the gym, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The music inside thumped against the glass in waves - too loud, too eager. The sky behind them had darkened, dusk casting soft purple over the sidewalk.
Strings of colored lights flickered through the windows like blinking stars, and he could smell popcorn from the snack table. Laughter from inside spilled out every time someone opened the doors. MJ was already halfway up the stairs, rolling her eyes at the decorations, and Ned was waiting just behind her. Peter lingered just outside the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of his too-loose dress pants. His suit jacket felt weird against his skin, too stiff in the shoulders. He tugged at the sleeves, then glanced sideways.
Harley, for once, wasn’t trying to race ahead of the group. He hung back near Peter, thumbs fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. He hadn’t brought a tie. His jacket looked borrowed. Maybe stolen, or sort of like one of those off-the-rack department store tuxes that somehow still managed to look good on him. The jacket was too big in the sleeves, his tie a little crooked, hair a tousled mess like he'd styled it with his fingers and then given up halfway through.
Peter caught his arm. “Hey, uh - go on in, okay?” he said, glancing between Ned and MJ. “I’ll catch up.”
Ned gave him a look, like he knew exactly what Peter was about to do, but didn’t say anything. MJ shrugged and nudged Ned through the door. “Don’t be weird,” she called back over her shoulder.
Which - yeah. Too late.
Peter took a breath and shifted a little closer to Harley, nerves jangling in his fingertips. They stood there for a second longer than they needed to. The kind of silence that curled around Peter’s stomach and made his lungs forget how to do their job. The cold breeze ruffled Harley’s collar and Peter almost shivered. He turned to him.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter now that they were alone. “Thanks for coming. I - I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”
Harley raised a brow at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Peter shrugged, one shoulder jerking upward. “I don’t know. You just don’t really do dances. Or people. Or - like, social things.”
Harley grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. Figured I’d make an exception. You asked.”
The way he said you made Peter’s heart hiccup in his chest. He swallowed.
They stood in silence for a moment. Harley’s hair was messy in that way Peter always noticed too much. He smelled like something cheap and familiar. Like motel shampoo and duct tape. His sleeves were a little too short. There were fresh scrapes on his knuckles.
Peter looked down at his own shoes.
“Look, I - I kind of wanted to tell you something,” he said, shifting his weight nervously. “It’s not, like… a huge deal or anything, I just…”
Harley tilted his head. “You okay?”
Peter’s breath stuttered. “Yeah. Yeah, totally. Just… Can I ask you something kind of dumb?”
Harley raised an eyebrow but didn’t seem surprised. “You always do.”
Peter tried to laugh. It came out strangled. He scratched at the back of his neck, eyes darting down to his shoes. “I just-” He inhaled sharply. “I thought maybe, if you’re not with anyone tonight, we could - y'know. Go together. Or, not go-go, I know we’re already here, obviously, but, like… like go together. As a thing. A date. Kind of.”
Harley blinked. “What?” The silence that followed was awful. Harley stared at him. Blinked once. Then recoiled like Peter had slapped him. “Wait - what? ”
Peter’s stomach dropped. His mouth went dry. Peter’s heart stuttered. “I mean, not if you don’t want to! Just. It’s cool if you don’t, obviously. I just… thought I’d ask. Because you - because of how you-”
“You mean like a date?” Harley asked, and his voice had an edge to it that Peter hadn’t heard before. Not mean, exactly. Just… caught off guard.
Peter’s hands curled in on themselves. “Yeah. I guess. Sorry.”
Harley’s face twisted, confusion and something surprised crawling across it. “You’re asking me out?” he said, almost a laugh, like it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. It still sounded strained as he glanced around. “Dude, no. I’m not a-” He cut himself off and stepped back. “I’m not gay, what the hell.”
Peter froze. “Oh.”
Harley laughed, short and nervous. “Jesus. No offense, but, like - God, no. That’s not - I’m not-”
Peter looked at him, eyes wide. His chest felt like it’d collapsed inward. Peter flinched. His ears were burning. “I - I didn’t - just, you call me sweetheart all the time, and you kind of-”
“That’s just a Southern thing,” Harley snapped, eyes wide and panicky. “It doesn’t mean I wanna kiss dudes, Jesus-”
Peter’s cheeks burned. He took a step back like he’d been hit. “Oh.” Peter’s voice was small. He nodded quickly, head ducked. “Yeah. No. Sorry. I - that was stupid. I didn’t mean to… I just thought…” he took a breath, ignoring the burning humiliation crawling up his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make things weird, or-”
Harley huffed. “Then maybe don’t hit on your friends at school dances.”
Peter flinched like he’d been slapped. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he didn’t say anything right away.
“I just thought,” he said after a second, voice too soft, “we were friends enough that it wouldn’t - wouldn’t ruin anything if you… weren’t. Which you’re not, obviously. I wasn’t trying to make it weird. I wasn’t even expecting a yes. I just - felt like I should be honest.”
“Yeah, well, don’t,” Harley said. It came out meaner than he probably meant it to - flat and defensive, almost desperate. His eyes wouldn’t meet Peter’s. “Just don’t say shit like that.”
Peter’s stomach twisted.
“You’re the one who flirts with me,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “You - you call me things and touch my arm and sit too close, and it’s fine, I like it, I liked it. But then I say something and you-” His voice cracked and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Harley exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he muttered. “You just-” He stopped himself, jaw tight again. “Just don’t do that. Okay?”
Peter nodded once. His throat was tight and his chest ached in that raw, humiliated way that made it hard to breathe. “Okay,” he said. “I won’t.” He laughed, but it came out wrong. Shaky. His voice cracked and he hated that it cracked. “Just forget I said anything.”
He turned, fast, heat creeping up his throat. His eyes burned.
Harley opened his mouth like he wanted to say something - anything - but nothing came out. Peter didn’t wait. He turned before Harley could say anything else. His face was burning and his shoulders curled in on himself like he could disappear into his shirt collar. He pushed down the hot sting building behind his eyes.
He ducked his head, moved fast around the corner of the gym, tried not to feel anything. Just kept walking.
Of course Harley didn’t mean it like that. Of course he wasn’t-
God, Peter was so stupid.
He stepped out from in front of the gymnasium, blinking hard, trying to breathe around the lump in his throat. He stepped out into the side lot where the limos were pulling in, blinking against the glare of headlights. Voices drifted through the night air - some loud, some laughing. A car door slammed. Peter looked up instinctively.
That’s when he saw her.
Liz, climbing out of a car, her dress catching the streetlight. She smiled at someone inside the vehicle. Peter followed her gaze. The man behind the wheel was older. Sharp around the eyes. Familiar. Too familiar. From the ferry.
The breath caught in Peter’s lungs froze entirely.
The Vulture.
—
The universe hated Peter Parker.
Spider-Man didn’t get to have a homecoming.
—
The heat clung to him in strips. Smoke curled off the wreckage behind him, lazy and indifferent now that the worst of the flames had died. Peter stumbled. His knees buckled, palms skidding across gravel that scraped at already raw skin. The hoodie - what was left of it - clung to his side like tar, melted into the curve of his ribs, and every breath dragged the pain deeper. He bit down on a sound, teeth gritted so tight it felt like they might crack.
He couldn’t stop. Not here.
The sky was still dark with smoke, but the stars were coming through. They blinked down like they didn’t care, cold and small.
The plane was down. The fires were out or smouldering. He just wanted to get home. He just wanted this night to be over.
His phone rang, and his fingers fumbled for it, wrist trembling as he tried to dig into the pocket of pants that were more ash than fabric.
The screen lit up with a hairline crack webbing across it. He exhaled, half-shaking, and hit answer. Didn’t even think about it. Just tapped, knuckles smeared with blood, thumb too big for the screen.
"Peter?" Tony’s voice came sharp and startled through the speaker. "Jesus, kid - are you okay? What happened? I lost visual, FRIDAY said you-"
Peter laughed, except it came out wrong. Wet. Thin. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye. His arm ached from shoulder to fingertip. “Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I’m good. I stopped him. I think.”
"Are you hurt?"
“Yeah,” Peter said, head tipping forward like it was too heavy. “But I’m… I’m not too hurt. Hoodie melted. Side’s all…” He made a vague motion that didn’t help. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
There was silence on the line, then Tony again. Softer. “Peter. You didn’t need to do that alone. That wasn’t the plan.”
Peter’s body jerked with a sudden flare of heat, and not the kind licking at his ribs. His chest cracked open with it. He gripped the phone harder, ignored the tremble in his hand. “You weren’t there,” he said, voice tight and too high. “You told me to stop. To wait. And what, let him get away? Let him kill someone else? I couldn’t just do nothing.”
"I was handling it, Peter. There were contingencies. You didn’t have to go in blind-"
“I’m not a kid!” The words tore out of him before he could catch them. He braced one hand on the ground, pulled himself forward another foot. Every inch scraped the edge of agony. “You didn’t think I was a kid when you dragged me to Germany!”
There was a sharp pause.
“I didn’t drag you-"
“You threatened to tell May! ” Peter exploded, the force of it cracking something open in his chest. Rage burned through the exhaustion, through the aching weight of each breath. “What was I supposed to say, no?! I was fourteen and scared out of my mind and you - you made it sound like it was no big deal. Like I’d just be tagging along.”
Tony’s voice went small. “I wouldn’t have actually-”
“I don’t care,” Peter snapped. His voice shook with it, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. “You don’t get to say that now. You don’t get to say you didn’t mean it when I’m here, crawling home like roadkill. I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. You were right. I don’t think this is going to work out.”
His lips were cracked. He tasted blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and whispered, “You can keep the suit. I just… I think it’s better if I do this on my own.”
“Pete, come on. You’re - look, I’m sorry. There you go. World famous Stark apology. Now let’s just talk-"
“Don’t call me,” Peter said, quietly this time. The anger drained from him all at once, left him cold and buzzing. “Please don’t call me.”
He ended the call before Tony could say anything else. Let the phone drop into the dirt. It landed face-down, screen blinking weakly once before going black.
For a moment, Peter didn’t move. The pain came back in waves - his ribs, his thigh, the place just under his collarbone where something sharp had gone in and come back out. His body was heat and weight and hollow space.
Then he pushed himself up on shaking arms.
He just had to get home.
The fire from the crash still licked at his ribs, and every inch of Peter’s body screamed as he dragged himself through the streets, hoodie shredded and half-fused to skin in blistering welts. The phone call had drained what little he had left, left him shaking and soaked in cold sweat as he pulled himself along back alleys and shadowed sidewalks, one busted sneaker dragging behind the other. No one looked twice. It was late, and he was careful, sticking to the quiet edges where lamplight didn’t quite reach.
Every movement cracked something open inside him. The ache in his side flared each time he breathed too hard, too deep, too much. His wrists trembled. His hands were raw. But he didn’t stop.
He was too empty to stop.
When he finally reached Queens, the sidewalk turned familiar beneath him in that hazy, distant way - like walking through a dream stitched together from memory. He blinked through sweat and smoke, palms scraping the bricks as he crawled up the fire escape, metal biting into his knees and fingers. One slow rung after another, he made it to his window. The one he always used when sneaking in past curfew. A safe point. A checkpoint. Just this one last thing, and he could fall into bed and maybe stay there for a week.
His fingers fumbled the window open, and he dragged himself inside in a silent heap as he collapsed onto his bed.
Dark. Still.
His breath caught. Too quiet.
No TV playing softly in the background. No faint snore from down the hall. No rustle of blankets from the couch where May sometimes fell asleep waiting for him.
Peter crept forward on aching limbs, careful, so careful. He didn’t want to wake her. Didn’t want her to see him like this, melted and bloodied and broken. His vision doubled, but he found the bathroom door by instinct. Just wanted to wash his hands. Get the soot and ash and blood off before she saw.
He pushed the door open. Then the world stopped.
There was a smell. He knew that smell. Sharp and hot, copper curling in the back of his throat. It shouldn’t be here. He blinked, breath caught in his chest. Blinked again. Time slowed down. The floor. The blood. The tub. The way her body was folded awkwardly over the edge, like she’d fallen. But it was too careful, like someone had placed her there. There was a gun, too.
Peter didn’t understand. They hadn’t owned a gun. Had May ever owned a gun?
His fingers went cold. His knees buckled silently under him and he leaned on the doorframe, mouth slightly parted, but no sound came out. He couldn't hear anything. Not his heart. Not his breath. Not the city outside the window. The world had gone quiet, like everything had been swallowed.
May.
No.
No, no, no, no, no-
“May?” It came out broken. Barely a whisper. “May-”
She didn’t move. The blood had dried. The note was taped to the mirror. He didn’t read it. His vision swam, hands trembling as he stared, something hollow ringing in his ears like someone had struck a bell deep in his skull.
Dead. She was dead. She was-
He couldn't breathe. His knees finally gave, and he slumped against the frame, staring. It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to yell at him. Scold him. Hold his face in her hands and call him a dumbass for coming home with half his hoodie melted into his skin and freak out about him being Spider-Man. She was supposed to ask if he wanted tea. Or frozen peas for the swelling. Or ask if he’d eaten. Anything.
But she didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Would never move again.
His stomach heaved, but nothing came up. Just dry, gasping breaths that hurt more than anything the Vulture had done to him. He couldn’t feel the bruises anymore. Couldn’t feel his hands, or the scrapes torn open over his ribs. He felt the hole. The place where something soft and living had been carved out of him and left raw.
It echoed.
He dragged in a rattling breath, then another. The air burned his lungs. Too sharp. Too empty. It didn’t belong here, in this house that smelled like warm laundry and May’s favorite lavender lotion. A place where there should’ve been footsteps and music humming from the kitchen, and the whirr of the microwave heating leftovers.
He blinked hard, like maybe if he did it fast enough, the scene would blink away too. But May didn’t move. Her hand dangled over the side of the couch. Her eyes were open. He couldn’t look away, even when the stench of copper and blood made him gag.
Peter let out a sound - croaked and wet, barely human. He curled forward, burying his face in his knees, hands in his hair. Tugging. Clawing. Like if he pulled hard enough, he could wake himself up. Like if he scratched deep enough, he could change the channel in his brain.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to her. Not after everything. Not when he’d tried to do everything right. He’d fought the Vulture. He’d stopped the plane from crashing. He’d - he’d saved people.
He wasn’t supposed to come home to this.
He wasn’t supposed to lose her. She’d been all he had left. And now-
The walls were too quiet. No one was coming. No one could come. The police wouldn’t help. Tony wouldn’t answer. Not after he left the suit. Not after he told Peter to stand down. He should’ve stood down. If he had, maybe - maybe-
He blinked through the tears streaming down his face. Every time he breathed, they came harder. Faster. Like something vital had cracked, and now everything was spilling out. She was supposed to be safe.
He thought he’d won. He thought he’d done something good.
The note blurred in the corner of his vision. It was waiting. Mocking. Neatly placed. Peter stared at it. He didn’t want to know what it said. His head swam, body aching, bones sore in a way that no bruise could explain. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to be ready. He wanted this to not be real.
The hallway creaked quietly in the silence. He didn’t move, but his heart stopped. Not May. Not her. Something else.
A flicker in the corner of his vision. A blur in the hallway. His body went rigid before his brain caught up, before anything rational could click in and say you’re not alone.
Too late.
Pain exploded across the side of his head as something cracked against his skull. The bathroom floor rushed up to meet him. He didn’t have time to react, didn’t have the strength to twist, to dodge. Not this time. His limbs went numb, and his body hit tile with a sick thud.
Boots stepped into his blurred vision. Black. Clean. Unfamiliar. Then there was a voice, muffled and cold.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the toe of a boot nudging his side, and the blood on the tiles behind it.
—
Tony hadn't even changed out of the ruined suit when he stalked into the lab, still reeking of scorched jet fuel and disappointment. The tension in his shoulders refused to let go, and his fingers were still twitching from the crash landing, the smell of burning wreckage haunting the back of his throat.
“Happy,” he snapped into the phone, not even waiting for a response before launching in. “You said you were keeping an eye on the kid.”
“Tony-”
“No, don’t ‘Tony’ me right now, okay?” He grabbed a wrench off the nearest workbench, tossed it to the floor. It clattered, harmless but sharp, like it could puncture the pressure boiling in his chest. “You said, and I quote, ‘I got it handled.’ So forgive me for being a little confused about how exactly that turned into Peter single-handedly taking down Vulture on a crashing plane.”
“I didn’t know he was gonna go rogue, alright?” Happy shot back, his voice distorted slightly through the phone, like he was breaking up, which was stupid because he was on a Starkphone and the signal shouldn’t be breaking up right now. “You pulled him from the internship, Tony. He wasn’t supposed to be involved.”
“Yeah, and apparently the second I stop breathing down his neck, he’s throwing himself into explosions and near-death stunts like it’s a school play.” Tony laughed bitterly. “Christ. He could’ve died tonight. You know that? No suit. No backup. No - no goddamn reason to take that risk except some overinflated sense of duty I probably helped cultivate.”
Happy went quiet on the other end. Tony didn’t blame him.
He paced, boots grinding into the floor like maybe if he walked enough, he’d bleed off the guilt clinging to his spine. He hadn’t stopped shaking since the flight back. Since seeing the wreckage. Since seeing Peter in the footage he could scrape up - bloodied, bruised, burned, but alive, and refusing help.
God. The kid had told him to stay away. Tony could still hear the words in his head, raw and sharp like glass to the gut. “I think it’s better if I do this on my own.” He hadn’t known what to say. Still didn’t. Whatever. He’d fix it, eventually.
He’d give the kid some space for now.