Note to Readers: I'm going to be on vacation for two weeks without access to a computer, so the third part won't be up 'till about July 26th.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the King's horses and all the King's men,
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
All the King's Men
Peter has dealt with scrapes and cuts and bruises, and things physically much worse than this kind of abuse, but even as he knows that his body is already healing itself with no speed any other human could match, it still burns his soul.
He turns up the water until it's scalding hot and there's steam wafting off of his body, but he still doesn't feel clean, and he thinks that maybe he never will. Because he's grown up with Harry, he's trusted Harry and he maybe sort of still does even though he doesn't, and Harry is still one of the first people he'd go to if he ever needed help, because some part of him still firmly believes that no matter what Harry may say or do, he would never really hurt Peter.
And that just makes everything so much worse.
The water for the coffee boils eight times before Harry finally hears the shower turn off, and the quick, quiet movements of Peter on the floor above his head. There are six bathrooms in his family's mansion, and Peter knows the house like the back of his hand, and Peter purposefully chose the one that was furthest away from the kitchen, and therefore, Harry.
He knows, somehow, that he's numb and he's pushing everything away and it's going to hit him like a train wreck when his mental walls finally bend under the pressure. But for now, he pours the coffee into two mugs, and one of the mugs is Peter's favourite, and he still remembers that Peter likes a lot of sugar in his coffee because he's always had a sweet tooth.
And when Harry's reaching for the sugar, he smashes a glass in the process, but leaves the shards on the floor because it's just one more thing that he can't fix.
So Harry ladles in three spoonfuls, and sets the mugs on the large dinner table, and tries to pretend that he didn't purposefully smash the glass Peter had drank from earlier.
Harry had dumped some of his own clothes just inside the bathroom door, but Peter puts his own clothes back on, because the whole house smells like Harry, like some kind of monster under his bed that he just can't get away from because he's too scared to move or even turn on the light.
The clothes smell like Harry, too, and Peter doesn't want to smell like him, because that would feel like a declaration of ownership and Peter doesn't want to feel like he deserves to be here right now.
So he leaves Harry's clothes on the floor, and gives his hair one less towel dry, and goes downstairs.
It feels like descending into hell, except that Peter thinks that Satan pities him right now.
It had never occurred to Harry that Peter might just leave – god knew he was more than capable of it – but now that he realizes that it's possible, he also realizes that it isn't, because Peter doesn't run away and Peter doesn't hide, not the way Harry wishes he could, so he sits down at the table (in his father's place) and his body tries to convince his mind that he does want to continue breathing.
He knows he's hurt Peter, and that thought seems so small and insignificant compared to the intensity of the damage he's done. But he still remembers Peter's body under his, hot and pliant and oh-so-good, and Harry bites his lip and wants to beat away the memory that is savagely beautiful, but he can't, because he did it and it's done and nothing in the world could ever, ever change that.
And sanity reels when he realizes that he wouldn't want anything to.
Peter trots down the stairs the way he's done countless times before, and every jolt of every step hurts and burns, but he grits his teeth and doesn't make a noise. The kitchen is through another two hallways, and he manages to make it there without thinking too much about what's waiting for him there, because if he thinks too much about it then he'll run and run and if he does he'll never be able to face this.
Pull out a chair. Sit down. Look at Harry. Easy, simple commands that make him clumsy and weak and only his reflexes keep him from tumbling out of the chair and onto the floor when he takes a seat.
And then he looks down at his coffee, and he can smell that it's just the way he likes it, and the silence is choking him.
He thinks that maybe if he hadn't ignored the way his spider-senses were tingling before, if he hadn't trusted Harry more than himself he would never have had that drink, but Peter's not naive enough to blame himself for what happened, but on the other hand he's not cruel enough to blame Harry.
He wants so badly to believe that there's no one to blame.
"You still like lots of sugar, right?" Harry blurts out suddenly, and the repercussion is like a gunshot, because it shatters the silence and Peter's body goes tense like he's about to jump out the window.
"Yeah," Peter says, and he sounds like he's just run a marathon screaming the whole way. "Yeah, it's… okay, Harry," and the way Peter says his name is soothing, and gentle, and they both know that it's not the coffee Peter is talking about.
But Harry can go with it.
"I can change it," Harry says, his own voice desperate and frantic and almost angry, because he should be the one soothing Peter, not the other way around, but that's wrong too because he shouldn't be anywhere near Peter.
"No, you can't," Peter replies, and his voice shakes for a split second, and Harry wants to throw his mug at him except that he knows Peter would let it hit him, because he'd trust Harry not to throw it in the first place.
Please, please, can we talk about the coffee.
"I could," Harry says, and his voice is as clumsy as his words, "I could, Peter, I could change it if it's not—"
"Not what?" Peter interrupts sharply and suddenly, but he doesn't sound angry. Just… sad and despairing and more lost than when Harry had let him cry on his shoulder for his Uncle Ben, years ago.
"Not okay," and Harry's voice is a whisper, and he rubs at his eyes in an attempt to destroy tears that aren't going to happen.
Peter takes a sip of the coffee. Then a long drink. And then an ironic smile. "Really, Harry. The coffee's okay."
Harry just looks at him, and he knows Peter so damned well, so well that in almost any situation he could say exactly what he'd do.
But not this situation, because this is something he's never had to think about because it never should have happened.
But he supposes that he always knew it would.
But he wants to believe that Peter is going to be all right, that he can be all right, because if Peter can come out of this okay then maybe he can, too.
Peter thinks it's an paradoxical thing, but a strangely fitting thing, that the sun is only setting now. Maybe some unimaginative person would call it poetic irony.
But Peter, Peter just finds it funny.
He finds this whole situation funny, so funny that a laugh rises in his throat, and it comes out quiet and sounding more like a sob than it has a right to, and all he wants to do is crawl into his bed—in his old bedroom, at Aunt May's—and sleep until his body heals and his mind heals and he can get through this.
But the sky is getting dark. And the people who thrive in it are coming out.
And he has to go soon, and he has to be someone who can deal with pain and rape and murder and hatred and violence, be someone who lives in it every night but isn't touched by any of it, because he's faceless and nameless in every way that counts.
And he's never wanted to be that someone more than he does now.
So he stands up, and Harry says softly, "You didn't finish your coffee."
And he can't help but reply, "It's not as okay as I thought it was."
Harry knows why Peter is leaving him, and he knows that Peter can't really stay, doesn't want to stay. But some selfish part of him says that the city was fine before Spiderman appeared, and it'll survive one night, just one night without him. And that same part says that if he asks Peter to stay, he will. He stands, and follows Peter down the hallway.
"I want to change it, Peter."
Peter flinches visibly at the sound of his name, and Harry knows that he said it like it was a lifeline. Maybe it is.
"You can't."
"I want to fix it."
"You can't, Harry, you can't. Please—"
This is so selfish, this is so selfish, but he's always been and what makes him think that he can dramatically shift his character because of one event? "Stay."
"No." But Peter isn't moving anymore, and Harry moves closer, and knows he shouldn't touch him but puts a hand on his shoulder anyway.
"Stay with me."
"I already did."
That hurts. So Harry steps around so that they're face to face, and his hands are on Peter's shoulders, and he knows that Peter could break both his arms if he wanted to, but Peter doesn't want to. And Harry knows it. Because Peter is young and guileless in a way Harry barely remembers, and he knows that Peter could hurt almost anyone except for him.
And he wishes he could say the same.
"Harry—"
Shut up, Harry thinks desperately, and kissing him has the same effect that the words would have had, only words wouldn't have earned him a bitten lip, a bruised back, and a dent in the wall.
"Ow, Peter," Harry mumbles, straightening with a wince.
"Ow, Harry," Peter replies sardonically, but his eyes are wild and his hands are clenched into fists. But he hasn't run. Not yet. And Harry knows how to make him stay, and this time it won't take drugs or tricks or anything but words and promises that Peter knows to be empty, but Peter will want to fill them, and so he'll stay.
And Harry wishes he didn't know how to use people this way. But wishes never got anyone anything, so Harry wishes because he knows he doesn't have to worry about them coming true.
"I love you."
"Harry, don't you dare—" For the first time, there's emotion in Peter's voice, and it's something like anger, only more explosive and dangerous, but not to Harry, not the way anger would have been.
"I love you," Harry repeats, and for a second he's terrified that it might be true.
He moves closer again, and Peter is backing up even though Peter could throw him through a brick wall without breaking a sweat, because Harry has more power here, and his father taught him how to flaunt such power without making it overly obvious.
His father taught him, and that makes him stop and stare at Peter and want to take everything back, and this time he really does want to destroy the memory.
If only so he'll feel just as guilty next time.
It takes him a second to realize that not only has Peter touched the wall, he's also crawled a bit up it.
"Peter—"
"Harry, I have to go." Peter starts to move up the wall faster, but Harry reaches up and wraps his fingers around Peter's wrist, and feels him tense so hard that his left foot slips from the wall for a split second.
"No, you don't," and Harry jerks Peter's arm, and Peter is strong enough to resist that, and he does, but the only thing holding him to the wall is the sticky pads on his fingers and he manages to stick only enough so that he slides back down to the floor instead of tumbling.
"Harry, let go of me."
"There's no Doc Ock. There's no"—Harry swallows—"there's no Green Goblin tonight. You can stay."
"What makes you think I want to?"
"You don't," Harry says simply, but doesn't let go of his arm. And Peter doesn't move.
And then the sirens sound, and Harry feels Peter jerk out of his grip.
"Peter—"
There's a flash of white-hot pain, and suddenly he's lying on the floor, dazed.
Harry sits up, and puts a hand to his mouth, still shocked, but gratified to find that he's not missing any teeth – Peter didn't hit him overly hard. And when he looks up, Peter is standing there, frozen and looking like a deer caught in headlights, and then Harry blinks, and Peter is gone, all caution thrown to the wind.
The curtains blow dramatically in the breeze, and Harry wants to start laughing hysterically again, but goes to find the scotch instead.