Peter really, really, really hadn't planned on going anywhere other than the Sanctum Sanctorum to get everything cleared up with Doctor Strange after his dinner with Harley, but the ever-present Parker Luck seemed to follow him like a black cloud, no matter how many times he tried to shake it.
He already felt like a fucking idiot for almost breaking down in front of Harley. That was not part of his plan. It had never been, in fact. He'd been determined for three years to keep to himself, and for the most part he'd been incredibly successful. But there was something about Harley, something familiar in a way he couldn't quite explain. He was comfortable around him, even when he didn't want to be. Harley was easy to talk to, and he was incessant with his questions and his curiosity. Peter had tried to minimize their interactions while still coming across as polite, but he figured Harley would think it strange that he never asked him where he worked (or what he even liked to do, for that matter). He never asked him anything too personal, and never made any concerted efforts to carry on a conversation with him. He had hoped that his lack of questions for his new roommate would lead to the same lack of effort on Harley's part, but the other boy didn't seem deterred in the slightest. In fact, it just seemed to encourage him even more.
And it wasn't anything personal, really, Peter's lack of questions and curiosity. He wanted to get to know Harley, in fact. He had a feeling they'd be really good friends, under any other circumstances. But he'd learned that he simply had to maintain his walls, if he wanted everyone else to stay safe. It was no easy feat when it seemed that Harley had brought a ladder, climbing gear and possibly the hardest head Peter had encountered, outside of Morgan. He wasn't about to let Peter shut him out, no matter how hard he tried.
Frankly, it was a little annoying.
It was because of his incessant questions that Peter had broken the plate, and he thanked whatever force of nature that seemed to be out there looking out for him in that moment to prevent Harley from questioning it. He hadn't even seemed to notice that Peter had been gripping it so hard in his hands that the sheer pressure he'd applied had been the reason it shattered. He'd just been concerned with Peter, and the subsequent injury it had wrought.
It was becoming infuriatingly difficult to be rude—or, really even, annoyed—with him.
So, Peter had made his escape from their impromptu dinner faster than he'd planned on, feeling like he'd already revealed too much about May (and himself) in their short conversation.
The cut on his hand had been a stinging annoyance and as soon as he'd gone in his room to get changed, he'd pulled out his emergency first aid kit while simultaneously yanking the makeshift bandage off. The cut was deep, deeper than he'd initially thought, and he grimaced as he pulled out the necessary materials to fix himself up. He made quick work of it, barely registering the sting of the needle as it dug into his callused palm, methodically stitching the skin back together before tearing the thread with his teeth and managing to tie it off without too much difficulty.
His stitches had gotten neater, after three years of patching himself up with no help, and he hoped his healing factor would keep this particular one from scarring. He had plenty of other wounds that had scarred, though they tended to be larger ones that he couldn't tend to quickly enough on his own. He could do without another scar. He had enough reminders of battles lost and wounds licked to last him a lifetime, thank you very much.
Once he was satisfied with the condition of his hand, he pulled the suit on, tugging his jeans and a t-shirt on over that. Then, he slipped his threadbare winter coat over his shoulders and wrapped an old scarf around his throat, hiding the collar of the suit. Sighing, he tucked the mask into the pocket of his coat and made his way towards the door, grabbing his mittens out and slipping them on as an afterthought. No need to have Harley asking questions about the impromptu stitches he'd given himself.
He found he had no need to hide any part of himself, because by the time he came back out, the kitchen had been cleaned and the lights were out. Harley's bedroom light shone out from under the crack in his door, but apart from that, the rest of the apartment remained dark.
Peter shook his head and slipped out the front door, locking it behind him before he raced down the six flights of stairs and onto the street below. It had started to snow, and he tugged his scarf higher against the cold, knowing it would do little to ward off the icy chill. He was due for a new coat, but he hadn't quite squirreled enough money away to buy one this season, and besides, there were only a few more months of winter left. He'd get a new one when they went on sale at the end of the season, if he could swing it.
He wouldn't be able to do that if Strange refused to help him. He'd have to quit his job at the school, and frankly, he wasn't sure he wasn't going to quit even if Stephen did erase Morgan's memory. It was too risky, being even that close to her, even if she would no longer remember him.
He heaved a sigh and paused his walk to look up at the sky. He couldn't even see the stars, despite the late hour, with the way the snow was falling. He closed his eyes, reveling in the feeling of the snowflakes landing on his lips, cheeks, and lashes; cold, light, pinpricks of sensation that grounded him as he tried to clear his head.
Was he doing the right thing?
He shook his head and opened his eyes to continue his walk. Who was he kidding? Of course it was the right thing to do. He had an obligation, to Pepper, to Morgan, to Tony, to keep his family safe. Even if he missed the feeling of being known, and loved. He wouldn't risk their safety and happiness for his own. He refused.
The streets were empty, save for a few stragglers here and there, and he'd already made it ten blocks away from the apartment. He knew he should probably put his mask on and start swinging, if he wanted to get to the Sanctum Sanctorum before midnight, which was the polite thing to do. Most people weren't fond of late night visits from strangers.
Letting out another soft breath, he slipped into one of the alleyways around the corner of the block he was about to exit and pulled his mask on. It provided instant warmth to his cheeks, which had flushed from the cold, though the mask had stayed warm, tucked against him in his coat pocket. Then, he took a couple running steps before scaling the wall and climbing his way up the nearest rooftop.
When he reached the top, he took stock of the city below him, taking in the sight of the twinkling lights. It was a sight he found he never got tired of, no matter what perch he landed on.
He leapt from the rooftop, letting himself freefall for a second before he shot a web, quickly falling into the steady rhythm of thwip, swing, and pull. His body moved on autopilot, and he suddenly longed for the distracting voice of Karen to pull him out of the turmoil that brewed in his mind. But he'd made a choice to give that up, along with everything else he'd once held dear.
He didn't know if Stephen Strange would help him. For three years, he'd been alone. He knew the wizard wasn't going to remember him, and while he preferred that it remain that way, he also knew he had to do this, for Morgan's sake. Her safety, the safety of everyone he loved, was more important to him than being known.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost didn't hear what sounded like a bomb going off, about three blocks back, opposite the direction he'd been headed. It was loud enough to startle him out of his self-pity party, and he almost missed a swing as the ground shook below him. Sighing, he quickly changed course, backflipping mid-air to head back towards the source of the explosion. He was definitely going to be late to the Sanctum. Who even knew if they'd open the doors after ten for him? He shook his head, frowning as he sent up a silent prayer that they'd still let him in if he showed up looking like shit.
Then, he reached the site of the explosion.
It looked like a business center of some sort, and he could see the lights that shone off the edge of the East River in the alleyway behind it. The sign that had previously advertised the name of the place had been blown to bits, hanging in shattered pieces above the doorway, whose doors would typically be underneath, were missing. A few letters from the destroyed sign littered the concrete beneath, and he could make out an O and a T as he let himself slowly down from his web, trying to assess what was happening. The street was eerily quiet, like New York hadn't quite woken up and acknowledged the sound of the blast. Snow continued to fall around him, making the quiet night even quieter, and his ears rang from the lack of noise after such an intense explosion.
He let out a soft breath and crept through the ruined front door and into the foyer. He felt his eyebrow raise under his mask as he took in the sight. Metal beams had fallen, and there were sparks of electricity crackling from ruined wiring that had come dislodged from the walls. That, and the floor thirty feet in, was missing. It looked like it had caved in, and he could see the ruins of what appeared to be a previously pristine and sterile white lab below.
Maybe it was a gas leak. He tried to reason. With how quiet everything was, he wouldn't be surprised. It didn't seem like anyone was there, and he really hoped it wasn't the alternative and he was about to find some bodies in the middle of a research lab. But he knew he needed to check, to be sure. No doubt someone had already called the police, but with the way the snow was coming down, it would likely be a while before they would be able to arrive.
Carefully, he approached the edge of the ruined floor and began to lower himself down, cautiously clinging to the destroyed architecture until he managed to get to the bottom. He sighed and began sifting through the cracked plaster and fallen beams, carefully moving things so he wouldn't accidentally impale someone, should they being lying unconscious and out of his view.
"Hello?" He called. For a moment, only silence answered, before he heard what sounded like a glass container shattering suddenly. His frown deepened, and he turned to find the source of the noise, his spider-senses flaring slightly in warning. He took a steadying breath and began to cross over the rubble, looking for whatever had caused the ruckus.
Something moved in his peripheral, and he snapped towards it, the hair on his arms raising. He could barely see it in the dim lighting, but it a brief flash of one of the fallen, sparking lights glinting against it revealed whatever it was to be made of metal. It slithered slowly away from him, it's movements like that of a snake, and dread suddenly flooded him. The movement was familiar, and he didn't like what it reminded him of.
"Hey!" He called, stepping quickly after it. It continued to slither away, and he gave chase, huffing determinedly in his attempt to catch it. He followed it around a fallen iron beam, into what seemed to be a slightly cleared area. He could see cabinets that hadn't been destroyed on one side, and a glass-walled office, the lights still somehow shining, on the other side. In the middle of it, there was one beam that hadn't been cleared away, and under it lay a figure. Peter inhaled sharply and raced forward, the slithery mechanical arm already dropping out of his immediate attention. He dropped to his knees beside the body, quickly checking to make sure whoever it was, was alive. His eyes slid over her wild, curly hair, landing firmly on the coke-like bottle glasses that he was so used to staring at during lectures, often distracted by the rainbow halo they created around her when the light hit just right.
Oh fuck.
Fuckity fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Of course—of course—he should have known. The twisting metal arms that sometimes showed up in his nightmares of May's death. The ruined sign on the concrete of the busted out front doors. The letter's on the ground. 'O' and 'T.' OTTO RESEARCH, the same research division Dr. Olivia Otto had told him about shortly before he'd interviewed at Morgan's school, when she'd encouraged him to stop by and check out her latest work. He'd been too busy with everything else that had been going on, but he'd promised to visit in the near future, when his schedule opened up more.
Peter wasn't stupid.
He'd entertained the notion of Doc Ock existing in his universe. He'd entertained the idea of all the villains from Peter Two and Three's universes existing in his own, but he had never even stopped to consider that they wouldn't look anything like the men he'd met. Of course, he should have. His own alternate selves hadn't looked much like him, outside of their shared hair color. And yeah, okay, maybe the fact that his favorite professor's name was Olivia Otto should have given him sort of warning, but he'd never even thought to put those pieces together. He'd only ever known her as Dr. Otto, and she didn't act like the Otto he'd met in the slightest.
Olivia Otto Octavius.
Doc Ock.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He ran a gloved hand over his mask, trying to process the second biggest mess he'd just landed himself into in less than a week.
Fuck. He thought again, before scrambling to check her pulse. It was there, strong and steady, but she remained unconscious, her eyes fluttering under her closed eyelids. He took another deep breath and began trying to remove the beam from where it had fallen on her. He didn't think it was actually injuring her, at least not terribly, and he was pretty sure she'd been knocked unconscious in the fall, probably having hit her head on the unforgiving concrete floor when she's been pinned by the beam. He could see now, the four arms that were trapped under the beam with her, two of which seemed to be completely useless, and the one that had come to find him, content to be trained on him in a manner that seemed to feel like it was watching him.
"Would you mind?" He asked it, grunting as he pushed against the beam. It seemed to register what he asked it to do, and wriggled into motion, moving to shove against the iron structure with him, the second arm joining in shortly after it did.
They seemed to have a mind of their own, the arms, and he recalled exactly what sort of trouble that had gotten Otto Octavius into when he'd shown up in this universe. He tried to push the thought from his mind, instead choosing to focus on what was in front of him here and now.
When they successfully managed to remove the absurdly heavy beam off her, he dropped down to check her pulse again, pointedly ignoring the soft whirring of the mechanical arms as they watched him. Her breathing was still steady, and without the beam over her midsection, in the faint light from the office, he could see the contraption the arms were connected to around her waist, under her lab coat. He took a shaky breath, and gripped her under her arms, adjusting her to where he could pull her along without the interference of her newfound limbs. He began moving, dragging her carefully along until he reached the area where he could see the broken lights of the upper level above them. He looked at the arms that were connected to her, that steady feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach, and frowned.
"You guys planning on helping me get her up there?" He asked, panting. The added weight of the limp arms was not very fun and trying to maneuver through the rubble without injuring her any more than she already was, was no easy feat. The two functioning arms seemed to consider him for a moment, clicking their little claw like appendages—that more so resembled mouths than anything else—before they straightened and began to make their way up the wall, the other two arms dangling as limply as the body they carried. Peter followed suit, pulling himself up beside them while keeping a close eye on them. They clearly didn't want her to get injured, if the way one of them had come to find him for help and the way they carried her carefully up and out of the rubble was any sort of indication.
When they both managed to reach the edge of the ruined first floor, Peter pulled himself up and made quick work of making sure Dr. Otto was lifted the rest of the way up without hitting her head. Once they were both settled safely enough away from where the ground dropped suddenly off, Peter allowed himself to fall back, panting.
What the hell was he going to do, now?
First, all the shit with Morgan, now the same enemies he'd fought three years ago were finally deciding to show the other versions of themselves here? Had he not done his penance? Was his being alone for three years not enough for the fates to decide to give him a break?
God, he was just so fucking tired.
He inhaled sharply at the sudden whir that occurred to the left of him. He sat up, noticing the two working arms seemed to be trying to repair their non-working counterparts. Peter knew he should be calling an ambulance to get Dr. Otto some help, but he wasn't really sure how the arms would react to that.
"Hey!" He said, instead, swatting lightly at the one that had led him to his injured professor. It turned towards him, red light in the center glowing steadily. "Stop that." He instructed. It seemed to consider him for a moment, clicking its appendages again before pointedly ignoring him and returning to the task at hand. "Goddammit." Peter muttered. "Stop that!" He repeated, swatting harder at it. It stopped, and instead twisted to grab his ankle, scooping him up and dragging him into the air, making the blood rush suddenly to his head, before it slung him against the opposite wall, forcefully.
The wind was immediately knocked from his lungs, and Peter groaned as he tried to peel himself out of the dent he'd made, coughing sharply and recognizing the tale-tell sharp pain that indicated one, if not several, of his ribs had been fractured.
Oh, to hell with that.
He grunted, glowering at the arm as it continued tinkering, pointedly ignoring him. The contraption around Dr. Otto's waist made a sharp whirring noise, as Peter continued to try and catch his breath before suddenly one of the non-operating tentacles whirred to life, suddenly twisting and clicking, as if talking to the two arms that hadn't been temporarily disabled.
Well, fuck.
"Alright, assholes. That's enough. I've had a really shitty week, your owner, or mistress or whatever the fuck the good Doc is to you guys, needs a hospital. I'm pretty sure for you guys to survive, she needs to be alive."
"Hello, Spider-Man."
"Jesus, Christ!" Peter practically stuck to the ceiling as he jumped at the sudden sound of Professor Otto's voice, and he tried to calm his racing heart as he lowered himself back down. "Oh, hey, Doc." He tried to greet her casually, waving cheerfully from his spot by the dented wall that he'd previously inhabited, moments earlier. Olivia sat up, and Peter took a few steps forward uncertainly, not knowing if he should make an attempt to help her with the way two of the arms were watching him. The third arm was whirring softly, but Peter couldn't see what it was up to, behind the professor's slender frame. He had a feeling he knew exactly what it was doing though. Repairing the final arm.
Great.
"Listen, Doc, I think we need to have a long chat." Peter started, cautiously raising his hands, and stepping forward.
"Do I know you?" Professor Olivia asked, tilting her head as she began to get to her feet herself. Peter watched as the fourth arm suddenly activated, and they rose behind her, hovering and clicking softly as they stared at him. He swallowed, hard, at the sight.
"No." He said slowly, steadily. "I'm just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man." He tried to take a steadying breath, and the Professor tilted her head. The fizzling lights of the shattered fluorescent lights shone brightly against her glasses, and he tried not to stare directly at it, his entire body suddenly buzzing in warning.
Move.
The warning came from deep inside him; some primal force, and Peter obeyed, without hesitation. He dove past Dr. Otto, scrambling to get himself out of the front doors and away from the destruction her little science experiment had wrought. It suddenly became crystal clear that whatever she'd been doing to activate the arms had caused the explosion. Peter Two's Doc Ock had had a neurological degenerative disease, which had allowed the arms to take control of him. Peter wasn't sure if Professor Olivia was destined to suffer the same fate, but the look on her face told him that she was definitely more foe than friend. That, and the fact that it felt like his spider-sense was screaming at him to get the fuck out.
He slid past her, under one of the arms as it shot out after him. Peter slung a web, pulling himself out the front doors by managing to attach the web to one of the streetlamps outside. He skid across the icy sidewalk, and winced as the cold cut through the thin fabric of his suit, chilling him to his aching bones. He scrambled to his feet as soon as he was clear of the wreckage of the research office, high tailing it for the alleyway to the left of them, determined to lead her away from the street that housed civilians and other businesses. He'd seen the East River behind her building, and he prayed he would be able to trick the arms into somehow getting in the water. Between the cold and the water, he was pretty sure he could disable them, without any civilians getting injured.
Halfway down the alleyway, he glanced over his shoulder, only to find no one was following him. Huh. He paused, scratching at his head, before his senses flared in warning again. He immediately dropped into a roll at the sensation, and one of the tentacles shot above him, right towards where he'd been, seconds prior.
Shit, these things were fast. Possibly faster than the Doc Ock he'd fought three years ago.
Great.
He jumped back up, shooting a web, and pulling himself forward, trying not to wince against the sensation in his ribs; a biting pain to accompany the sudden movement. He could hear the arms racing after him, pulling Professor Olivia along as she let out a low chuckle.
"I thought you wanted to talk! We could be friiiiends, little spider!" She called after him.
"No thanks! All good in that department! Plenty of friends here! All booked up in fact! I'll have you get in touch with my secretary!" Peter yelled back, doing a flip to give himself more momentum to get away. She let out a sharp, witchy cackle and Peter grimaced at the noise. This was not the sweet, goofy and socially awkward professor he was used to. He shook his head, and finally cleared the end of the alleyway, racing forward and forcibly skidding to a stop on the small concrete path, gated in at the edge of the river. Below that, the ground dropped out suddenly, but there was a rocky shoreline that glimmered in the moonlight, the black water beating viciously against it. The East River was known for its notoriously strong currents, and it seemed that even the cold winter had been unable to deter it, or even freeze it.
He glanced back over his shoulder, only to see Doc Ock halfway across the area he'd sprinted across, her mechanical arms carrying her steadily forward.
"Oh, but my darling little spider—" One of the arms shot forward, the other three keeping her balanced as it gripped Peter by his ankle, yanking him off his feet for the second time that night. They moved forward, sharply and Dr. Otto smiled, her teeth glinting sharply in the moonlight. "I think we would make such good friends." Her grin widened, and fear flooded through Peter as he twisted helplessly in her grip, trying to grasp at the arm with little success. Two of the other arms shot forward, one moving to restrain him before he could even think to use his web shooters, the other moving directly in front of his face and spraying some sort of gas in the air, making him cough and sputter as he tried not to inhale.
Immediately, his head began to spin, and a sudden rush of vertigo overtook him. Combined with his upside-down position, he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't going to be sick. He suddenly felt like it was three years ago, all over again; like he'd been dropped back in the body of a stupid high school kid, staring down one of the greatest threats he'd ever faced, the initial person he'd tried to help that had ultimately resulted in May dying. He froze at the reminder, whatever drug she'd used on him working double time as it dissipated in his blood stream. The arms holding him cinched tighter, rendering his limbs even more useless as his body fought against the gas she'd sprayed. Professor Olivia stepped closer, towards the edge of the concrete path, the arms extending over the water, stretching far enough out that if he was dropped, it would certainly be in a deeper part of the river, about twenty feet from the shoreline.
It was the beginning of January, one of the coldest months in New York, and the dark, swirling water of the East River rushed swift and quick below him. He could see the ice gathering on the bank of the river, hyperaware of everything as he tried to quell his panic. He knew he was drugged, and he knew there was little he could do, now. Dr. Otto smiled, sickly sweet at him from the shoreline, her new arms dangling him over the frigid water below.
"But since you don't seem to want to play, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this little meeting short, my dear."
Sheer panic flooded Peter.
He couldn't seem to think of what to do, suddenly terrified to the brim of what was about to happen, his body seemingly resigning itself to the fate it knew was coming.
He had a problem with the extreme temperatures, and he had a feeling he was about to be drowning in freezing, icy water. He had a tendency to get cold, and fast. Way too fast for him to control.
A while ago, when he and Tony were still getting used to each other, he'd brought it up. It was after his fight with the Vulture, after he'd been dropped in a pond after having been tossed around like a fucking ragdoll. He'd gotten cold then, the chilly water a contrast to the warm summer air as it flowed over him too quickly for him to try and do anything other than breathe and kick for the surface. Tony had rescued him, shortly after, and used the suit he'd provided him with to regulate his body temperature. Later, when they talked about it more in depth, and after Tony had apologized for not being there the way he should have been, he'd asked Peter what happened. Peter had told him how his limbs had locked up and he'd gotten so cold so quickly it was hard to force his body to comply with the movements his brain demanded.
"Sounds like a thermoregulation problem to me." Tony had said, his eyebrows shooting up as the words left his mouth. He'd hummed quietly, thoughtfully, to himself before pulling out his phone and searching if spiders were capable of just that. They'd been less than shocked to discover that they couldn't, another unfortunate side-effect he'd seemed to gain, thanks to his radioactive spider bite. Tony had made sure to install heaters in all of his suits, after that. He also had made sure Peter never went out without a coat whenever it started to get cold, and during the winter, he'd sent heated cars to pick Peter up for their weekly lab sessions and drive him home.
And since then, Peter had never had to try and test it again. He was sort of regretting not doing so, now. Maybe he would have been able to train himself to get used to the cold; maybe he could have built up some sort of endurance for it.
But he was really never going to catch a break, was he? His world was still spinning, his head pounding, and his vision blurring, whatever she'd sprayed him with clearly working, if the goal was to make the recipient practically lose all motor function and sense of balance.
That was his last thought before the arm that was holding him hummed, and proceeded to release him into the briny, icy water below, the wicked sound of sharp laughter ringing in his ears as the water flooded over him, the freezing temperature immediately immobilizing him as his nerves screamed in distress at the shock.
His body was so panicked, he was unable to do anything other than give into the sudden, heady rush of unconsciousness that raced through him.
Peter slipped into the abyss of senselessness.
Harley tried to not absolutely lose his shit at the sight of Spider-Man in a wounded heap on his living room floor.
With the kitchen light fully on, he assessed the prone figure, trying not to panic. He knew he should probably call Pepper. She was the one that handled all the new superhero recruit bullshit, and they'd been trying to find a way to contact Spider-Man for a while, after Tony's death. He'd seemingly disappeared into what seemed to be almost obscurity, after that whole debacle a few years ago at the Statue of Liberty. Pepper had been trying to keep tabs on him since then, though her endeavor had been quite unsuccessful. They wanted to recruit him to help with Avengers-level threats, since he'd evidently helped Tony in Germany and while trying to take out Thanos, but no one could seem to catch him, let alone get a good tail on him in more recent years. It seemed he was content to keep looking out for the little guys, now that things seemed to be slowing down a bit in terms of otherworldly threats. No one knew who he was, and Tony seemingly hadn't kept any files on him, so they were shit out of luck in that department. But there was something else, something inside Harley that warned him against it pulling out his phone and dialing Pepper up to tell her he'd located the hero she'd been trying to find, and he had learned a long time ago to trust his gut instinct.
So, he didn't.
Instead, he kept the bat tightly gripped in his hands as he crept forward, using the end of its handle to flip the living room light switch on.
The masked vigilante didn't stir in the slightest, despite the sudden bright light that flooded the room. Even Harley blinked against it, but it did nothing to disturb the figure on the floor. Harley frowned and dropped the bat on the couch, certain that he wasn't going to be attacked—not that Spider-Man would attack him, but frankly, one could never be too certain—anytime soon. He settled his hands on his hips and assessed the splayed-out body of the costumed figure. He wasn't entirely certain Spider-Man was a friend. He had broken into their home after all, seemingly making Peter's window his entry point before passing out in their living room. Harley made a mental note to ask Pepper to install some sort of protection on their windows after today but decided to put a pin in the thought so he could focus on the more pressing matter at hand.
He had never heard of Spider-Man breaking into people's houses. He rescued people; he was a hero for Christ's sake.
So why the fuck was he unconscious on their living room floor?
He stepped closer, barely drawing in a breath, and took in the sight before him. Spider-Man's suit was torn in several places, ragged and ripped at the seams in others, and he was soaking wet. Harley was pretty sure there was puddle under him, and he was visibly shivering. He was completely unconscious, but his body didn't seem to have received the memo, his limbs shaking in an effort to warm him. Harley's nose wrinkled as the salty scent of the East River met his nostrils. He frowned, stepping around the unconscious body and making his way towards his bathroom to grab an armful of towels. Hesitantly, he began to drop them on the prone figure, trying to give him some sort of warmth that would hopefully stop his body's trembling.
How the fuck did Spider-Man end up in their living room, soaking wet and reeking of a river Harley would never dare to step foot in? The water there was nothing to joke about, with its random pockets of notoriously strong currents that would pull someone under without warning. It was a very dangerous river, and at this time of year, it had to be absolutely frigid. What the fuck had Spider-Man gotten himself into that it had landed him in its icy waters?
He frowned, his mouth twisting as he tapped his foot, uncertain of how to proceed. After another brief moment of hesitation, he stepped closer, dropping into a crouch and tucking the towels tighter around the costumed hero with practiced movements, trying to remember Natasha's training session on how to stop someone from getting hypothermia in stranded conditions. It had been ages since he'd gone to one of her classes, and he was about ready to kick himself for forgetting her lessons.
Harley's frown deepened as he went to roll Spider-Man over, and he was surprised to find that despite the hero's solid looking figure, he was fairly light weight, and he was able to move him with little effort. He managed to roll him onto his back and he grabbed another stack of towels from the bathroom to drape over him before standing back up and crossing his arms over his stomach as he bit at his thumbnail.
Then, he was struck with a thought.
A warm bath.
Nat had said if they had access to warm water, to use it, but to make sure it wasn't too warm. If someone was in the throes of hypothermia, hot water would practically scald them. Lukewarm water was best if they were turning blue, and then if they regained consciousness, they could slowly increase the temperature to bring their core temperature up to a normal range. He paced back into the bathroom and began to run the water, checking the temp under his fingers. When he was satisfied it was warm enough (but not too warm), he plugged the stopper and made his back into the living room. He cracked his back and neck before bending down and grabbing the edge of the towels underneath the prone superhero. Carefully, he began tugging him towards the bathroom, finally managing to get the figure through the door and close enough to the shoddy tub that he'd be able to get him in it without too much difficulty. He checked the temperature of the water again, and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. Spider-Man may have been light while flipping him over, but he was still all muscle and it had given Harley a bit more of a workout than he'd intended on doing that day. Oh, well. He needed to hit the gym anyways, before he and Pepper tested out the new suits he'd been working on.
Besides, if he could somehow recruit Spider-Man for Pepper, here and now, he was going to. It seemed the fates had dropped this gift, wrapped in red and blue spandex, directly in his lap.
Yeah, his luck didn't seem to be on track to end any time soon.
Carefully, he grabbed the unconscious invader under his arms, his masked head lolling to one side as Harley attempted to get his limp body into the warm water. He was still shivering, his teeth clicking together under the mask, and Harley grunted with the effort of trying to move him. He supposed he probably should have taken him out of the suit, but he wasn't really sure that was the best idea. Boundaries and privacy and all that jazz. He was pretty sure if he ever collapsed into unconsciousness that required he be cared for by a stranger, he'd prefer to wake up with his clothes still on, and he had a feeling whoever was under the mask probably felt the same way. It was obvious he wore the mask and suit for a reason, if his dodging of all Avenger's related events in the past three years was any sort of indication. Harley knew he'd fought for the Avengers before, and he couldn't help but wonder what had made him stop doing just that.
After a bit of wrangling, he finally managed to get him over the lip of the tub and under the warm water. The trembling of Spider-Man's body intensified for a moment, and Harley fought to keep his mask-covered head above the water, fighting against gravity and an unconscious body that both almost forced him to lose his grip. He persevered however, and slung Spider-Man's arms over each side of the tub, forcing him to stay upright with his own weight. Not ideal, and probably uncomfortable, but Harley couldn't think of another way to keep him above the water as he tried to figure out what to do next.
He bit his lip, settling himself on the edge of the tub and staring at the unconscious figure in the warm, shallow water. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Peter was still gone, and he'd left his bat in the living room, out of reach. If Spider-Man suddenly regained consciousness and flipped shit at the sight of him, Harley was screwed. They didn't know much about Spider-Man, but Pepper said he seemed to fit into the 'class nine' category of physical strength. The same category as Thor and Captain America. And that was solely on a principal guess, they didn't actually know how strong he was, seeing as they hadn't been able to have his strength tested in a controlled environment at the compound.
Slippery bastard.
Harley glanced over him again, wondering briefly how he looked like he was made of solid muscle but didn't seem to be that heavy. Maybe it had something to do with his name. Spider-Man. Clearly, he had at least some of the abilities of a spider, but—once again—they didn't know enough about him to know for sure. No one even knew how he'd gotten his powers, let alone what all he could actually do. Pepper had a file on him, but it was mostly empty.
Harley wondered if he'd be able to fill in some blanks for her, after this evidently fateful meeting.
He let out a soft huff, contemplating whether or not the hero was going to wake up any time soon. He was starting to get a little worried. He didn't know how long he'd been in the icy water of the East River, and he was pretty sure he should have woken up by now.
It went completely against the code of superheroes and their secret identities, but Harley wasn't entirely sure his chest was rising and falling to indicate he was breathing, and he needed to make sure he was. He certainly couldn't tell with the mask he was wearing, and a dead superhero wasn't going to do anyone any good. Besides, Harley was pretty sure Peter would flip his shit if he came home to find Spider-Man dead in their bathtub, especially after he'd revealed that his aunt had allegedly died because of him. Plus, if he was soaking wet from the river, his mask was probably just as wet. He was probably accidentally waterboarding the poor guy.
"Okay." He said quietly, brow furrowed. "Spidey, if you're in there somewhere, conscious, now's the time to let me know. If you don't talk, I'm going to pull your mask up a little bit to make sure you're breathing." He waited, but the unconscious figure didn't budge in the slightest. Harley blew out a sharp breath. "Okay. Listen, man. I'm not going to take the mask completely off, but I am going to pull it up. I have some decency." He muttered as he leaned forward and felt along the seam of the throat of the suit, finally finding the small catch, evidently the spot where the mask met the rest of the suit. Carefully, he tugged at it, peeling it back, up and over his neck, and slightly over the base of his neck, up, up, up, to where it rested just below his nose.
Spider-Man's teeth were chattering, and his lips were blue.
A frightening shade of blue, at that, and strikingly familiar, despite the blood that lined them. Harley inhaled sharply, as the recognition wriggled like an incessant maggot at the back of his mind. His hands shook, and he dropped his hands into his lap, brow furrowed sharply.
No. There was no way.
He was wrong. Surely, he was wrong, and surely his mind was just playing tricks on him. There was only one way to know for certain, though. He lifted his hands, hesitantly reaching forward once more, only to gently roll the mask up higher, over his nose and slightly above his eyebrows, and his heart stopped.
What.
The.
Fuck.
And suddenly everything clicked as he was met with the closed eyes and sharp features of one Peter Parker, still unconscious, his face a bruised mess, blood leaking slowly from his mouth. He was breathing, very slowly, through his nose and Harley tried not to lose his absolute mind at the sight.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
Peter was Spider-Man. His roommate was Spider-Man. The same Spider-Man they'd watched on the news earlier that night. The same Spider-Man that Harley had joked about drinking with. The same fucking Spider-Man that had allegedly resulted in Peter's aunt's death.
Oh, fuck.
"Okay." Harley blew out a sharp breath. "Okay, that explains a lot." He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying not to feel like he was going insane. What the fuck had Morgan gotten them into? Did she know about Peter's alter ego? Was this the other big secret she had clearly been keeping from him? Jesus Christ, she was in way over her head. He was pretty sure they both were. Pepper was going to kill him for letting this get so far out of hand.
Everything was starting to make sense, with this one little puzzle piece being added to his collection of clues, but Harley was at a complete loss as to how to move forward. Peter didn't trust him yet, and it was clear he had good reason not to. Was he really willing to risk the guy disappearing on him by letting him know he knew he was Spider-Man before he got the answers he sought? Peter seemed flighty enough already, and Harley had no doubt he would disappear off the face of the planet to keep his alter ego a secret.
Harley didn't know what the fuck was going on, but if he hadn't been certain before, he was now. Morgan clearly hadn't been imagining everything she'd told him, of that much he was certain. This whole situation was simply driving his determination to get to the bottom of things. Like, why the fuck did everyone forget who Peter Parker was? Obviously it had something to do with the fact that he was Spider-Man. They'd thought Tony hadn't kept any information on him to help keep his identity a secret. But Harley knew Tony and based off of what little information he'd gleaned from Morgan, Peter had been a very important part of their lives, prior to his sudden erasure from known existence. He took a sharp breath, suddenly being drawn back to his conversations with Tony before the final battle with Thanos.
'I'm doing this for Peter.' The memory of the conversation with Tony suddenly flooded Harley and he inhaled sharply.
Peter, it seemed, had been Tony's motivating factor; the whole reason he had decided to risk everything and travel through time to fix things. Harley didn't know a lot, but he knew Tony wasn't the kind of man who did anything for just anybody. Peter had been important to Tony, and subsequently Morgan, and as such, he was important to Harley.
Fuck, he was in such a predicament. He was already planning the bitching out Morgan would be receiving as he stared down at the unconscious figure—his unconscious roommate—in the bathtub. He had an obligation to both Morgan and Tony. He'd already fucked things up with Morgan and she was clearly being spiteful by withholding this information, but he didn't want her to be more upset with him than she already was, especially now that he'd started to piece everything together.
She hadn't been lying when she'd called Peter her brother. He owed it to her, and to the memory of Tony, to help fix things.
But he also knew he had to consider his obligation to his adopted mother, Pepper.
Spider-Man was one of the last few heroes who managed to dodge the Accords, the details of which were still being ironed out, even now. The original document had been nowhere near perfect, and a lot of the new up and coming heroes that seemed to pop up every other week didn't seem too keen on signing on. Superhero oversight was a tricky operation, but Pepper had been determined to see it through, especially after Tony's death. Harley, for his part, didn't care much either way. He understood the importance of the Accords, and he agreed that superhero oversight was necessary. He'd seen what destruction could be wrought, but he also knew it was hard to regulate people who were trying to do the right thing in the heat of the moment. He'd been there, himself, a few times, though he honestly preferred to stick to the lab for now.
Either way, this whole situation was putting him in a fucking predicament that he really didn't want to be a part of. He knew that Morgan would be absolutely furious if he reported Peter to Pepper, what with her whole parent-scheme-style trap she'd clearly been concocting for god only knew how long. On top of that, he'd just started to get Peter to open up. If he said something now, who knew how quickly he would disappear out of their lives again?
On the flip-side, if he didn't tell Pepper, well, she was going to kill him. And Morgan. And, quite possibly, Peter himself.
Either way, he was fucked.
He blew out a sharp sigh before biting his lip so hard he was unsurprised by the flood of copper that filled his mouth.
What the hell was he going to do now?
With trembling hands, he reached down for the drain of the bathtub, allowing it to drain before slowly rolling Peter's mask back over his face, taking a steadying breath.
Okay.
He could do this. After all, he'd been keeping plenty of secrets up to this point. What was one more?
Natasha Romanov had been keeping tabs on Peter Parker for two months, and for good reason.
Everyone seemed to think that her best friend was Clint Barton. And it wasn't that that wasn't necessarily true, but what they failed to consider was that Clint Barton was more like her brother. There was something deeper that tied her to Clint; they had surpassed the level known as friendship. She trusted him endlessly with her life, and she considered him to be some of the only surviving family she had left in the world. She held him to a different standard than she did the other Avengers.
And because Clint was family, she'd found—over time—that her best friend had actually been Tony.
Now, gun to the head, knife to the gut, blade. To. The. Throat, there was no way in hell she'd ever admit that aloud.
But it was true.
Initially, all he had been was a mission; simply another box to check off on a long list of names Nick Fury had given her to prove herself after her recruitment to SHIELD. But she had seen something far deeper in him, lying underneath all of that bravado and wit, hiding a man who was so broken and bruised that his only survival instinct was to lash out at anyone who offered a helping hand. She knew the feeling all too well because she'd been in his shoes, once upon a time.
He'd been a complete asshole, that first year. He came off as a snob; a party boy who had more money than he knew what to do with. But Natasha had been taught how to read people from a very young age, and she knew he knew exactly what he was doing. He'd perfected the art of pushing people away. Pepper had been at her wit's end with him, Rhodey was frustrated by his alcoholism, and Happy looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole anytime they all started to get into an argument.
Natasha had watched it all unfold. There had been a feeling that had pooled deep in her stomach, something familiar and aching. She saw a mirror image of herself in Tony; a different path she would have taken, had she not had Clint interfere in her life, before it was too late.
After his birthday party, when he'd asked what she would do if it was her last birthday ever, and after Fury had revealed her as one of his Agents, Tony had been incredibly wary of her. He'd kept her at arms length for quite some time, but Natasha had always had an affinity for slipping her way under people's armors and finding the chinks that allowed her full entry. Tony had been stubborn, practically fighting her every step of the way, but they'd ended up getting closer and closer after numerous shared missions.
When he'd separated with Pepper for a short while, during the whole ordeal with Ultron, she'd briefly entertained the notion of a relationship with him, purely out of curiosity. She'd never acted on it though, having already screwed up enough relationships to have learned her lesson and know that it would only end badly. Besides, he was clearly meant to be with Pepper, and she quite liked the other woman, so she'd quickly driven the thought from her head. Instead, they'd remained tentative friends. She'd been a shoulder to cry on for him while he and Pepper worked everything out, and they ended up having regular drinking nights together in the meantime. Clint would supervise, every once in a while, just to make sure they didn't burn the Avengers Tower down, but ever so slowly, she began to chip away at his walls. He'd done the same to her, both of them tipsy on liquid courage and the need to talk to someone who could maybe understand, and she had soon found herself telling him about Yelena, and her life pre-SHIELD and the Avengers. He hadn't judged her, and it had been nice to find another person she could vent about her traumatic childhood to outside of Clint and her therapist.
Tony had shared in return, his own childhood a fair rival for hers. Of course, he hadn't grown up in Russia and trained to be a child assassin, but Howard Stark had certainly been no picnic for him, either. Nat could understand bad parents. She had her own father issues.
And then, when the Accords were happening, she'd taken his side. He'd been right. They needed oversight. And she didn't think the Accords were all that sound, but it was a start. She wanted to be better, to do better. She had a lot of red in her ledger, and the Accords had seemed like a nice splash of bleach that could help fix it. But Bucky had thrown a wrench in everything.
She'd known him, as a young girl, in the Red Room. He didn't seem to have any memory of her, and she didn't know whether to be grateful at his lack of memories (since his tortured screams still haunted her nightmares, even now), or hurt that he had forgotten her.
She'd seen Steve's face, the reflection of how much Bucky meant to him etched so clearly in the lines of it, so sharply it was almost painful to look at. She'd done a lot of bad things in her life, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to hurt Bucky. She was, frankly, furious with Steve for not telling Tony about Bucky's role in his parent's deaths. But the little girl inside her, who had watched the Winter Soldier every morning in the middle of a frozen Russian courtyard, looking into his pale, blue eyes so empty, and so, so, sad seared in the forefront of her mind, and she'd let them go.
Tony had never forgiven her for it.
They'd decided to move past it though, after Thanos, for the sake of keeping in touch since Clint had disappeared and she was the only one staying at the Compound, trying to hold the fort down by herself while Pepper and Tony had begun to raise Morgan and Harley. Tony would contact her frequently, but he was cold and removed, and Natasha had never been able to find a way to get them back to where they had once been. Her betrayal had been too great, and she knew she had to pay the price.
They had never gotten the chance to make amends, and by the time she'd returned from the dead, he was already gone.
So, when Morgan had text her, two months and twelve days ago asking for help, she'd gone right to work. She couldn't explain why to Morgan, unsure if she would understand just how deeply she'd hurt the girl's father, so she made it her solemn mission to mend her past mistakes by helping Tony Stark's final legacy. She hadn't really believed Morgan, not at first, but she did what she always did when trying to find someone who had disappeared. After being an agent for SHIELD for as long as she'd been, she had plenty of resources at her fingertips to aid and abet her on her little mission.
What she'd found had shocked her.
Peter Parker barely seemed to exist. He simply popped up on the radar one day, freshly 18, no credit line in his name, no family to speak of and with a driver's license photo that featured the saddest brown eyes she'd ever seen, outside of Tony's. Something about him pulled at the shriveled part of her soul, which she was pretty sure Clint would tell her was sympathy, and she knew she couldn't not look further into the kid.
At first, he seemed like any other young adult, living on his own, trying to make a name for himself.
But she quickly realized that he was far more reserved than any of his classmates, or the people in the little extra credit lab class he attended. And he was smart. Very much so. Natasha had been a little impressed, to be completely honest. And concerned. Morgan had hacked into New York University's grading system to find him, and the thought of her being unable to protect the child of the man she'd betrayed haunted her. They were both wicked smart, and she wasn't sure she'd joined in on something much bigger than she'd prepared for.
So, she kept close tabs on him after that, and finally managed to tail him on his way home one day. She sat in a parked car on the street below that night, and at around 9:30, his window suddenly pushed up and open only for the red and blue costumed suit of Spider-Man to slip out.
Ah.
Morgan hadn't told her that little bit of information, but everything was starting to make sense. She vaguely recalled fighting alongside the kid, at the airport in Germany, but she'd never caught his name. At least, she was pretty sure she hadn't.
She started keeping a closer eye on him, after that.
It was how she'd ended up here, trailing him quietly as he slipped out of his apartment. He'd managed to lose her briefly, when he'd started swinging away, but she'd found him when she'd gone to explore the awful racket that had occurred, several blocks away. She caught up to him as he came darting out of the building, followed by a slender woman with wild, curly hair, Coke-bottle glasses and four extra mechanical limbs.
She frowned, and gave chase, following carefully behind them, making sure to stay hidden, and watched as the kid was scooped up and unceremoniously dropped into the swirling water after getting sprayed with some sort of gas, before she could even think to intervene. He sank like a stone, and she waited until the eight-limbed woman sauntered away before making her move, satisfied she wouldn't be spotted.
She dove into the East River, immediately regretting her decision to do so as soon as the frigid, briny water began to soak into her hair and suit. Fuck the cleaners, she was going to have to throw this one out after this whole ordeal. She managed to find him, blood already pooling in the grimy water as she kicked deeper to reach his sinking body. With concerted effort, she managed to grab him by the collar of his suit. They hit the bottom of the river, and with burning lungs, she pushed as hard as she could to launch them towards the surface. They'd been lucky enough to land in a spot where the current wasn't pulling at them too strongly, and when she broke through the surface, she tugged him with her. She gasped as soon as soon as she was met with the cold January air, practically freezing the salty water to her skin and hair as she tugged him higher up against her while he coughed and spluttered in her grip.
"Listen to me, kid. You have to kick. Help me out here." She panted, trying to keep them both above the water. He seemed completely disoriented, and she wondered again what the woman with the metal tentacles had sprayed him with. In the entire three months she'd been tailing him, she had never seen someone take him out. He was agile, incredibly fast and quick on his feet. Whatever the mad scientist had done had clearly fucked him up. She panted, and could hear him doing the same under his mask as they began to swim for the shoreline. He was muttering incoherently under his breath, and she had to redirect him a few times to make sure he wasn't getting off track from the course she'd set for them.
By the time they finally managed to reach the shoreline, behind the now vacant building, she was exhausted. The same seemed to be felt by the kid, and she huffed as she clambered out of the water, only to turn around and drag him fully out of the dark wetness behind her. She fell back on the rocky shoreline when she was done, panting heavily, and the kid did the same.
"Gotta get.." he was mumbling again, fumbling unsteadily as he tried to push himself to his feet, still panting heavily. Natasha frowned and forced herself to stand, moving to steady him. He jerked away from her outstretched hand, wrapping his arms around himself as he finally managed to get to his feet on his own. "Dangerous." He warned, though it sounded more like something a drunk person would slur. He was clearly still delirious, and Natasha refrained from smacking herself out of frustration.
"Let me help, kid." She said, gently. He jerked away even harder after her statement, like she'd burned him. Natasha frowned at the reaction, and went into crisis mode. Whenever she rescued someone who had clearly been under a state of duress, they tended to all react the same way. They didn't want to be touched or offered any sort of physical comfort, and she had quickly learned how to calm them down. "Alright." She said, tone turning soothing. "Let me help you get home, okay?" She stepped forward cautiously, and he stepped back on trembling legs in time with her. Her frown deepened and she held her hand out towards him, waiting. "It's okay to ask for help." She assured him, voice soft. "Let me help you." He eyed her warily, as warily as one could while wobbling like a drunk, but Natasha had perfected her patience a long time ago. She suppressed the shivers that the cold January attempted to wring from her, the biting cold and falling snow making her hands go numb. She could only imagine how cold he was after having been submerged for an extended period of time. "We have to get you somewhere warm. Your suit is soaking wet, and you look like you're about to pass out. Let me help you."
"You're the Black Widow," he said, suddenly, recognition dawning as his face as he stumbled back from her. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He cursed, wobbling on unsteady feet. He kept backing away from her, and Natasha approached him steadily, like approaching a wounded animal that could lash out at any moment.
"C'mon kid. I'm just here to help. Let me take you home. You look like shit." She said, but he wasn't having any of it. He turned tail suddenly, taking a few faltering steps in an attempted escape before he dropped to the ground, shivering. Natasha sighed and reached his side in moments, dropping down beside him and gently settling her hand on his arm. "Don't make me call in backup." She warned, quietly. He looked up at her, face still obscured by the mask and Natasha let out another sigh. "Let's get you home, okay?" He nodded slowly, and allowed her to get him to his feet. He leaned heavily against her, very clearly still disoriented. She considered, briefly, calling Pepper and bringing him in now, but she had a feeling he'd flee at the earliest possible chance if she did that. So, instead, she let him lean into her side as they made their way back through the alley way and onto the street. Snow kept falling, and Peter's shivers intensified. She worried he was going into shock, and unable to determine what he'd been sprayed with, she hoped it wasn't killing him.
It was their first real meeting, as far as she was aware (and despite Morgan insistence otherwise), and she had a feeling the kid had a habit of getting himself into some sticky situations.
She hailed a cab when they reached the edge of the street, pulling out a wad of cash from her soaking suit, and the cabbie rolled the window down, eyeing her with something akin to wonder. She loathed when people looked at her like that.
"You're the Black Widow." He said incredulously. No shit. She thought, though she didn't voice it aloud. "And that's Spider-Man! Oh holy shit, I've got to get a picture with you guys! My kids will be so excited." Nat cleared her throat and leveled an even look at him.
"Next time. I've got $600 here, and I need you to not tell anyone about this." She said, holding the cash up. His eyes lit up at the sight, and he nodded eagerly.
"You got it, lady. Get in." She pressed the cash into his palm before bundling Peter into the backseat and crawling in after him. She gave the cabbie an address several blocks from the apartment she knew Peter lived in, certain he wouldn't want to be followed home by a nosy cab driver.
They rode in silence, the driver smiling nervously in the rear view mirror the entire way there. Peter had slumped over, practically into her lap at some point, and Nat kept her hands at her side, letting him rest where he was most comfortable. He was just a kid, and he'd been through hell. Far be it from her to take any comfort he was seeking—unconsciously or not—away.
When the cabbie finally rolled to a stop, Natasha got out, lugging Peter after her. She waved and blew a kiss to the cabbie, rolling her eyes to herself when she'd turned back around. Men were the easiest to read, and most of them only wanted the same thing.
"C'mon, kid." She said, grunting as they stumbled out of the car, Peter leaning heavily into her again. He seemed resigned to the fact that she was determined to help him, and she was grateful he was no longer fighting her every step of the way. She could hear the cabbie's tires squealing as he drove away and she hooked her arm around Peter's waist to steady him before she began walking them the last few blocks towards his street. He huffed against her, struggling to take deep breaths, and she could feel the wetness of his suit, pressed against her side. He was freezing cold, and she tried ignore it, hoping she could get him upstairs and in his apartment before he collapsed.
When they finally reached his building, they paused in front of it, both of them panting from the exertion. Nat looked up at the creaky, old building, frowning. Then, she began to head for the lobby doors, tugging Peter alongside her.
"No...no! No front door." Peter slurred suddenly, pulling and stumbling away from her, gesturing towards the fire escape instead. "Roommate will hear." His words were barely coherent, but Natasha didn't have the strength to argue. Instead, she schooled her facial expression it what she hoped resembled patience and gestured for him to lead the way. He did, his feet slipping every once in a while, and she was worried, as she followed him up the fire escape, that he was going to fall and then she'd have to try and catch him, his unsteady climbing providing no relief to her worries.
They were both panting by the time they reached his floor, and he weakly shoved his window up, falling through it unceremoniously. She winced at the noise he created, and crept in silently after him. He hadn't moved from where he'd landed on the floor, so she nudged him to his feet, watching as he swayed in place, looking lost, even under the mask. Carefully, she flipped the lamp by his window on before creeping down the hallway, gently guiding him by his arm, meeting no resistance for the first time since she'd pulled him from the water. They ended up in the living room, and she left him standing in the center of it, looking dazed and confused in the new location she'd managed to corral him into.
She'd never seen him like this, in the two and a half months she'd been observing him, and she tried to quell her worry, making her way silently into the kitchen and grabbing a glass from the cabinet to fill with water before she returned to rooting around in the fridge in an attempt to find something for him to eat. She was frustrated by the lack of real food, the refrigerator half-empty and yielding nothing that would be any sort of help in bringing him back to reality. She let the door fall shut quietly and turned, unaware of her elbow catching the glass she'd set on the counter, prior to her hunt for food.
She watched as time seemed to slow down, her reflexes not reacting fast enough for her to catch the fragile cup as it teetered on the edge of the counter before falling and connecting with the unforgiving wood below it.
Well, shit.
"Peter, what the fuck, dude!" A shout sounded from his roommate's room, sleep-laden and annoyed, as the glass shattered against the ground and Natasha froze, glancing towards Peter. He was still standing in the middle of the living room, staring at his gloves as if they were the most fascinating things in the world, completely unbothered by the noise she'd made and his roommates annoyance.
Shit. She thought again, frowning.
"Peter." She hissed. He didn't even seem to register what she was saying, and she glanced down the hallway, where the bedrooms were located, taking note of the way the light flicked on under the door that clearly housed his roommate.
Shit. She needed to leave. Now.
If his roommate spotted her and reported her, she could get in major trouble for identifying Spider-Man and not turning him over for the Accords.
Fuck.
"Peter!" She hissed again, but he didn't even glance her way. She let out a sharp breath of frustration and raced on silent footsteps towards the front door, flicking the lights out as she went. "Goddammit, kid." She muttered, quietly opening the door as she tossed another look his way. "Don't die, you hear me? I'll be back." Then, she was sweeping out the front door, pulling it closed quietly behind her, right as she heard what sounded like Peter falling to the floor inside.
Well.
Whoever his new roommate was, he was in for quite a surprise. She waited on the other side of the wood, listening intently for any sort of noise, wondering when Peter had moved someone in without her noticing. She could hear the soft patter of footsteps, followed by a hushed exclamation of shock that she couldn't quite make out. She blew out a sharp breath. Hopefully his roommate wasn't a complete jackass. She was annoyed that whoever it was had seemingly moved in while she'd been busy and unable to keep tabs on Peter, but she went up a silent prayer that everything would be okay without her supervision.
Morgan was going to kill her if something happened to Peter under her watch.
Sighing, she made her way down the six flights of stairs, quietly letting herself out of the building and pulling her phone out. She flipped through her contacts, and when she found who she was looking for, sent a quick text.
Aunt Nat ⧗: hey, kid. we need to talk. ASAP.
She waited, as a text bubble popped up, tapping her foot.
Tiny Terror ⎊: that doesn't sound very fun, but ok. I have school on Monday. pick me up after? I'll tell mom you're coming.
She rolled her eyes at the mild attitude that shone through the young girl's text before sending her own.
Aunt Nat ⧗: fine. hope you're ready for a serious conversation.
She locked her phone and glanced up towards the window that she knew housed the kid she had grown to care about in the few months she'd spent keeping tabs on him, watching from her spot on the street below as the living room light flicked on. She blew out another steady breath and shook her head.
Morgan had some serious explaining to do, and if Natasha didn't like what she had to say, she was going to be calling Pepper. Threat of ruining her relationship with Morgan or not.
Peter woke up with a mouth that felt like it was full of cotton and his heart thundering in his chest.
He couldn't remember anything after falling into the icy East River, and the flash of wicked fast, twisting metal arms above him.
Everything after that was blank.
He had no clue how he'd ended up back at the apartment, let alone out of his suit. He didn't even remember getting out of the river. The last thing that he could remember was falling in the freezing fucking water, his limbs locking up on him, and the sudden, sinking certainty that he was going to die.
So how the hell had he ended up back here?
A knock sounded suddenly on his door, and it took everything in him to not completely jump out of his skin as it reverberated through his room.
"Peter?" A voice sounded uncertainly from the other side of the wood, and panic shot it's icy fingers down Peter's back.
Shit.
Harley.
He sat up and leaned over the side of his bed, frantically trying to locate his suit. Where the fuck had he put it when he'd gotten home?
"Peter, you in there?" Harley called again. He took a breath to answer, but his ribs screamed in protest. He glanced down at them, taking note of the dark blue, purple and black that mottled them. Ouch. "I'm coming in." Harley said, when Peter still didn't answer. He couldn't find the words to protest, to busy trying to scramble out from the sheets that had twisted around him while he'd slept, trying not to breath too deeply and upset his body. He could see the suit, in a wrinkled pile by the foot of his bed, and directly in eye-line of the door if it opened.
"Just a sec, Harley!" He called back, finally managing to take a deep enough breath of air to allow him to form a sentence. He detangled himself fully from his sheets, falling out of the bed with a less than graceful tumble onto unforgiving floor below. He grunted, trying not to wheeze as his ribs creaked in protest. "One minute!" He panted, wincing sharply as the pain smarted in his side. The doorknob stopped wiggling and Peter kicked his suit under his bed before shooting to his feet and snatching a t-shirt off the floor and tugging it over himself. He didn't want to risk Harley asking where he'd gotten bruises that brutal, and he tried not to groan a the memory of his torso meeting the unforgiving sensation of the ruined cinderblock he'd been thrown against. He took a short breath and untwisted the lock on his bedroom door before leaning fully in front of the small crack that he provided.
Harley was waiting, and watching him expectantly, though there seemed to be a sort of nervous air about him. "Everything ok?" Peter finally managed to ask, still winded. Harley nodded slowly.
"Yeah. I'm good." He looked him up and down, his face twisted into some odd expression Peter couldn't quite identify. "Are you?" He asked, and Peter cleared his throat as Harley pointed at his left eye. It suddenly stung, and he realized, with a start, that it was bruised too. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd managed to do to accomplish it while he was blacked out on whatever Dr. Otto had sprayed him with.
"Yeah." He coughed into his hand, trying to school his expression. "Doing great." Harley's eyebrow raised.
"Care to explain the black eye?" He asked, patiently.
"I have a black eye?" Peter asked, attempting to feign ignorance. Harley gave him an odd look. "No, sorry, I was kidding." Peter corrected, clearing his throat. "It was a joke. Not a very funny one. Yeah, um." He coughed, shaking his head as he tried to think of how to explain it. "My acquaintance and I went out for drinks. Guess I had a few too many. Kinda blacked out. Not sure what happened." It was incredible how quickly he was able to twist the kernel of truth into his lie, and he prayed Harley wouldn't ask much else.
"Hm." Harley said, clearly contemplative. He was watching him closely, and maybe Peter was being paranoid, but it felt like he was looking right through him; right down to the core. Like he knew something Peter didn't.
He hated the feeling.
He blinked and shook himself. You're being an idiot. Yeah, that was it, it had to be. He was letting his nerves get the best of him. Harley didn't know anything. Peter had just had a really shitty week, and he was looking way to deeply into every interaction.
"So…" He said, staring back at Harley. "We good?" Harley looked him up, once and down, his sharp blue eyes narrowing a bit. Peter waited, trying to keep his breathing evening as the weight of the other boy's gaze settled on him. He had to keep his cool. Finally, after what felt like ages, Harley's face relaxed into that easy going smile he wore so often, and Peter felt like he could breathe again.
"Yeah, man." Harley said. "We're good." He stepped back from Peter and turned down the hallway. "I'm making pancakes for breakfast." He called, over his shoulder, making his way towards the kitchen. "I've got some movie-grade, industry-strength makeup to cover your black eye, if you need it." He continued. Peter glanced over his shoulder towards his suit, still peeking slightly out from under the bed. He slipped out of the room, pulling his door firmly shut behind him to trail Harley down the hall. "Doesn't look so good showing up to your second day of work with a black eye after a night out of drinking with acquaintances." Harley continued, placing emphasis on the final word. Peter tensed up at the sound of it, a little uneasy. He couldn't gage exactly what the hell was going on, but he had a feeling everything was most certainly not 'good,' despite Harley's assurances otherwise.
He couldn't remember what had happened the night before, but it seemed like he might just have his work cut out for him.