Peter sat in a bar, afterwards, his mind reeling and his hands shaking.
The visit to the Sanctum Sanctorum had been wildly unsuccessful, to say the least. All hope of getting Morgan to forget had been shot dead in the water, three hours prior, and all he could do was wander into the nearest bar when he'd finally stopped swinging away from the Sanctum, his eyes burning and his throat tight. He'd stumbled inside after tugging his street clothes back on and tucking his mask in his pocket. He'd sat, ordered a drink, and began to nurse the whiskey as soon as it was in front of him.
God. He didn't even like whiskey.
It was, admittedly, smooth as he took several deep sips of it, but when the taste fully hit, his eyes watered as the liquid burned a trail of fire down his throat. He'd turned 21 the month prior and he hadn't even realized it, let alone celebrated it, so he figured it was only fair to try and lick his wounds in a bar. After all, he was finally old enough to do so.
He felt out of his depth here though, for a couple of reasons. To start, most every adult who had been a role model to him seemed to have an aversion to drinking. May had all but refused to touch alcohol, and he couldn't remember a single time while growing up that she or Ben had any sort of liquor or wine in the house. Tony, for all his drinking habits prior to Peter meeting him, had quit shortly after the incident with Adrian Toomes.
"I wanna be present for everything, Pete." That's what he'd told him, at least. And he'd meant it, too. He'd quietly confessed that he'd always had a small problem with alcohol, and had warned Peter against it. "If you absolutely have to, you can drink here. I would rather you be safe than anything else. Its risky business, you know. And, if you don't want to drink now, even better. I'll take you out for your twenty-first instead, to celebrate you waiting. Promise. But, if you ever have a hankering to try it before that, I'm here for you, kid." He'd meant that, too. And logically, Peter knew he couldn't blame him for dying, even though some small part of him wanted to.
Tony had only gone back in time to fix everything because of Peter. Pepper had told him as much, at the funeral. She hadn't meant it in a harsh way, at all. In fact, even though she'd been crying, she'd smiled that watery smile of adoration that she'd once held for him—when she'd still known who he was—and told him that Tony had always thought of him like a son. Peter knew she hadn't meant to make him feel bad, but he couldn't help it. One of the last few adults that had had any sort of impact on him had died, just to bring him back to life. It wasn't fair, plain and simple. And Peter never told Pepper, but the responsibility of that knowledge was like a sucker punch to his solar plexus.
Tony had died for him.
He'd never get to see Morgan grow up, wouldn't ever be able to walk her down the aisle at her wedding if she ever got married, would never be able to see his grandkids, could never kiss Pepper again, or fuck around on stupid new projects in the lab with Peter.
He'd never get to take him for that drink he'd promised.
So, no, Peter didn't really know bar etiquette, or even really, what to order. He'd seen scotch and whiskey on the shelf of Tony's office, once, when he'd been helping Pepper file some paperwork one weekend, before his trip to Europe and the whole mess with Mysterio. She'd smiled when she'd caught him looking, and shook her head fondly. "He was saving it for when you were old enough. I always told him it was a bad idea to keep it in the office. But you know he never listened."
So, Peter had ordered a whiskey in Tony's honor. Not that the older man would have been exactly pleased with Peter's current predicaments, or the fact that he was trying to drink said predicaments away for the evening.
But he wasn't there to stop him, was he?
Peter stared down at the ice-cubes clinking softly in his glass, focusing on the pleasant buzzing in his eras, rather than the thoughts that ran through his mind, trying to catch his attention. He picked the glass up and threw his head back to swallow the remainder of the dark amber liquid. The bartender met his gaze from the other end of the counter, and he set his glass back down. She'd told him her name was Josie and asked what his choice of poison was as he'd first settled himself into his seat. He'd seen the smile that had tugged at her lips at his ID, but she served him regardless.
Peter met her gaze and gestured as politely as he could for another. She stepped forward, pulling the bottle with her and filled his glass, the wrinkles around her eyes tightening as she hummed contemplatively. "What's got you so down, kid?" She asked, settling her elbow on the counter when she was done. She began using a rag to clean out the glass in her other hand and Peter suppressed a snort at the question, staring down at his now-full glass before he took another long sip, ignoring the burn once more.
God. How the hell did Tony like this stuff enough to regularly drink it?
"Hard to explain." He muttered, finally looking back up at the woman.
She snorted in return and gestured around the mostly empty bar that surrounded them. There was a couple, sitting down at the other end of it, their heads bent as they whispered over their drinks. He'd seen them when he'd come in; always hyper aware of the things going on around him. He'd taken note of the dark, sort of curly hair the woman had sported, along with a leather jacket. The man beside her was facing away from him but Peter could see the rippling muscles beneath his sharp gray suit, and he'd made a mental note to keep an eye on them. Anyone with that much hidden muscle tended to pose a threat, much as he wished that was something he didn't have to consciously worry about.
Now though, he paid them no mind. "No one'll over hear us. Everyone here is a regular, and they tend to mind their own business." Josie said, following his line of sight, a soft smile tugging on the corner of her lips. "Besides, I don't know if you know this, kid, but people tend to talk to their bartender like we're their therapists. There's probably nothing you could say that would surprise me, at this rate. Pretty sure I've heard it all." She winked conspiratorially and Peter laughed wryly before he downed the rest of his second drink while Josie raised an eyebrow. He was sure she had heard a lot of crazy things, owning a bar in the middle of Hell's Kitchen. But he was also sure that his stories were crazier than anything she'd ever heard before.
"Yeah, well, I appreciate it. But honestly, I just need another." He said, gesturing to his glass. Josie let out a disgruntled noise but nodded and didn't press further. Instead, she filled up his glass up again before stepping away towards the couple at the end of the bar.
"Jones, you had better not be giving him any shit about…" The rest of her sentence aimed towards the couple at the end of the bar was lost on Peter as he allowed the pleasant white noise that had begun to crackle again in his ears tune her out. He could already feel the alcohol buzzing through him, making him unreasonably warm, especially with his suit still on under his street clothes. He sighed, and briefly pondered taking his coat and scarf off but even through the fog of his alcohol-addled brain, he managed to remember that his suit would be visible under the the collar of his thin t-shirt.
Oh, well. He'd manage. Better too warm than too cold.
He sighed and fiddled with one of the little black straws on the counter, plucking one out of the cup that held them before plopping it into his own glass and watching as the liquid inside rippled with the impact. As much as he wanted to share with someone else about everything he'd been dealing with, he knew it wouldn't be fair to dump all of his problems on a random civilian like Josie. Besides, he should have known, the moment the large wooden doors had swung open and revealed Wong's face, that shit was going to turn sideways. But that stupid little optimistic side of him—the one that wouldn't seem to give up, despite all of their circumstances, then and now—had hoped otherwise.
And it had almost paid off, that sliver of hope.
Almost.
"Spider-Man?" Wong had pulled the door open a little wider at the sight of him, his expression dubious. "What are you doing here?" They hadn't spoken since their first meeting, and he'd been hesitant against letting Stephen cast the spell to begin with. Peter wished he had listened then. If he had, maybe everything that followed would have worked out on its own. Maybe.
"I need to see Stephen Strange, please, sir. It's very important." Wong pulled the door open wider, and stepped aside to allow him entry.
"Do you understand that I should be reporting you to for the Accords at this very moment?" The older man asked, as Peter stepped inside. He'd nodded, and Wong let out a soft harumph. "Hm. You don't seem too concerned about that." Peter had shrugged, unsure of himself.
"I actually came to ask for some help. The Doctor helped me out, a few years ago. And I need his help again, now." He'd managed to keep his voice steady, despite the way Wong was looking at him with his forehead pinched, and his mouth pursed.
"I'm afraid Stephen is unavailable at the moment." He'd said, folding his hands into his robe as he settled them over his stomach, his eyes unreadable as they settled on Peter. "Perhaps, I can help you in his absence." Peter knew that wasn't an option. If there was any person, outside of Morgan, who would have any sort of recollection of him now, he could only assume it would be Strange. And maybe it was a stupid idea to expose his face to the wizard again, given all of the circumstances, but he'd naively hoped that it would jog some sort of recognition in Strange.
"I don't think you'll be able to. Thank you, though." Peter had said, hurriedly. Wong tilted his head and seemed to be looking for something in Peter's masked covered face. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder to gesture out towards the street and began to backtrack his way through the door and down the steps that lead up to the Sanctum. "I'll just be going. I'll have my people call his people. No biggie, thank you though, Mr. Wong um, sir." Wong's brow furrowed even deeper, and his hum of disapproval made another appearance. Then, he did that sneaky little snazzy hand movement, and there was a flash of orange sparks, and suddenly a portal was opening up directly underneath Peter's feet. Only pure instinct afforded him the movement of shooting a web to catch himself, but he had been just a second too late and the portal zipped closed as he fell, cutting the web in half and causing him to land with a huff inside the same dungeon the Wizard had tried to keep the multiversal villains entrapped in, three years prior. But this time, Peter was the one inside one of the glass-walled prison rooms.
Well, fuck.
He pushed himself up to his elbows, grunting as he finally managed to clamber to his feet, frustration rising in his chest. "Goddammit." He muttered. He didn't know much about how exactly Strange and his merry cult of wizards operated, but he certainly hadn't expected to end up on his ass in their dungeon at the behest of what he could only assume was Stephen's only friend. Tony hadn't seemed particularly fond of him the first time around, and despite his help three years ago, Peter wasn't feeling particularly fond of him now. After all, he'd let Morgan somehow remember, and now, Peter's carefully constructed life that kept everyone he loved as far away as possible was about to come crumbling down around him.
He was snapped from his thoughts by Wong's sudden appearance through another circular portal, his face sympathetic. "I apologize for the tricky tactics, Spider-Man. Not a fair fight, I'm afraid." He'd shrugged, as if he couldn't help it. "Why are you looking for Stephen?" He asked.
Peter glowered at him. "If I answer, are you going to let me out? Or am I going to have to call my spider friends for some assistance?" He didn't really think Wong would believe that line, after all it wasn't as if Peter were like Scott Lang and had control of all arachnids within the vicinity, but he'd found people tended to believe the weirder rumors.
Wong didn't seem amused at his questions, and instead lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "That depends. Is releasing you worthy of a treason charge?"
"What the fuck is everyone's deal with trying to kidnap me? Even the fucking wizards, now? Jesus fuck, the Accords might be the worst thing Tony signed off on." He muttered before pausing to reconsider his own statement. "Okay, maybe not the worst thing." He conceded, not really caring if Wong heard him talking to himself. Wong didn't interrupt him though, so Peter continued to grumble huffily under his breath, dusting off the front of his spandex as he did. I so do not have the time or patience for this bullshit, he thought, staring down at the large brown blotch of dirt on the front of the suit. He frowned, dreading the thought of trying to sneak it down to the laundry room without Harley catching him. "Fuck. I hate laundry." He muttered, mostly to himself. Wong raised an eyebrow at that, his hands still folded patiently in the arms of his robe as he waited.
Peter let out a heavy sigh and he crossed his arms over his chest, rubbing with one hand at the bridge of his mask-covered nose. "How do I put this without sounding like an insane person?" He asked aloud, without really expecting an answer; not that Wong seemed keen on providing him with one. He let out a sharp breath. "Fine. Dr. Strange cast a spell for me a few years ago. It was a memory-loss spell. But one of the people it was supposed to work on still remembers, and is potentially in a lot of danger because of it. Do you see my predicament?"
Wong's face had gone stoic at his words, and his voice was quiet when he finally was ready to answer. "Do you remember the name of this spell?" He asked. Peter shook his head. Wong's eyes narrowed and he finally removed his hands from the robe, twisting his hands to summon another portal in the glass that entrapped Peter. "How about I make us some tea?"
And that's how they'd ended back upstairs, a steaming cup of leaf-water clasped between Peter's gloved hands. He didn't bother to lift his mask to sip, too polite to explain that he ran on coffee as if it were his lifeblood and how he bitterly hated what many people considered to be its caffeinated rival. Instead, he chose to hold the warm porcelain loosely, letting the heat emanating from the steaming liquid warm his frozen fingers.
He really needed to figure out how the hell Tony had installed a heater in his suit. He could find the scrap metal for it, if he really needed to, but with winter on full effect, he was sorely missing Karen and her ever-present positivity and ability to know exactly what he needed.
Fuck. He'd kill to have that heater right about now.
"So." Wong said, pulling him from his ever-distracting thoughts once they were seated across from each other. "Walk me through what, exactly, you asked Strange to do."
Peter had frowned at him and raised the cup of tea to his face, breathing in the minty-ness of it before settling it back in his lap. "Um. Well. It's sort of a long story. But the gist of it is my secret identity got out a few years ago. Before they really started cracking down on the Accords." Wong nodded, gesturing for him to continue. "A lot of shit went down…" He continued hesitantly, unsure of how much Wong knew about the events from three years prior. Dr. Strange was supposed to make everyone forget, but it was clear it didn't work with Morgan, and Peter didn't really know who else might have escaped it. When Wong didn't interrupt, he continued. "I messed up the original spell he tried to cast. And shit got out of hand, fast. There were people from other dimensions showing up left and right in our universe, I met two of my alternate selves, and my Aunt…" He took a steadying breath and cleared his throat, shaking his head as he fought the tears that threatened to spill beneath his mask. "The details aren't that important. What is important, what became very clear to me, to Doctor Strange too, was that the only way to fix things was to make everyone forget who I am." Wong stirred the spoon in his tea at the word-vomit, considering Peter carefully.
"And just who, exactly, forgot your identity?" He'd asked, after a pregnant silence.
"Everyone." Peter confessed quietly. Wong settled back into his cushioned chair at that, and hummed again.
"I'm sorry, Spider-Man. But I'm afraid I can't help you with this." He said finally. "And neither will Stephen." The man sighed, settling his cup back on its saucer, his eyes trained on Peter's face, his voice deadly soft, but unyielding. "Spells like that are very dangerous. They cause a lot of issues, and they're difficult to maintain if not cast correctly. I'm sorry. But we're forbidden from messing with magic like that. It could ruin someone's life."
He'd said it as if the spell wasn't the very thing that had already ruined Peter's.
"I understand your identity is secret. Sometimes I wish the same could be said for my own, and I respect that you keep people safe. I have never agreed with the Accords, so as long as you don't say anything about showing up here, I won't say anything about meeting with, and speaking to you." Wong continued, standing as he spoke. Peter nodded, numbly. He wanted to plead his case, to explain that his nine-year-old sister was in danger simply because she seemed to be the only person who remembered him. And she had made it abundantly clear that she was as determined as a fucking hound dog on a deer's scent to keep it that way, despite his warnings. But he didn't argue with the decision. Because it wouldn't do any good, would it? He'd begged and pleaded with whoever seemed to be dictating the path of his life to give him some reprieve, but it hadn't done him much good thus far, and he had a feeling it wasn't about to get any better. So, instead, he thanked Wong for the tea, and the generous promise to keep his visit a secret, and he left. He pulled the civilian clothes he'd stashed in the nearby alleyway on over his suit and swung through the wintry streets, looking for somewhere to drown his sorrows.
Because Peter was in pain.
And he knew pain all too well.
He knew it at different, varying levels. He knew it at its most intimate, when it hurt to breathe not just in the physical sense, but to the point that it really felt like taking a lungful of air would do more harm than good, even while his skin remained completely unblemished. There was something far sharper to mental pain than physical, he'd found. Physical pain could be overcome. He knew that, from experience. Hell, shortly after he and the Green Goblin had gotten into their fight at Happy's apartment, when he was still trying to process May dying in his arms, he'd been shot by the cops in their confusion of trying to find the culprit of all the destruction. The pain of that had been something he hadn't had to experience, up until that point. And frankly, he'd pushed through it, fighting alongside his alternate selves to try and fix the problem he'd inadvertently created. Sure, his shoulder had burned with that aching, sharp sting of a bullet lodged in there, something he hadn't been able to tend to during the fight. But he'd had to shut that part of his brain off, ignore it for as long as possible.
He discovered he was good at doing that with physical pain. Sometimes, it seemed, too good.
It was a skill born out of necessity, but he reaped the consequences in the form of scars. He could compartmentalize that physical pain, pushing it down to a dull throb, but his body, with all of its healing capabilities, didn't seem to agree with this method.
By the time he'd gotten somewhere safe, after leaving Ned and MJ at the Statue or Liberty, he'd let all pretenses fall away. Immediately, he'd felt the brunt of the bullet that had torn through his shoulder, a fiery hot pain that knocked him to his knees as he scrambled for the medical supplies, the ones he'd managed to snag from the FEAST shelter while on his way to the recently abandoned building he'd helped evacuate a few weeks earlier. He'd sat in the middle of that empty living room on the fourth floor, medical supplies spread out around him, his hands coated in his own blood, a plan for his new future forming in his head, as he clenched his jaw and prepared himself to dig around for the bullet embedded in his skin.
Lucky for him, May had been taking night classes for nursing in the months leading up to her death, and she'd practiced a few skills on him at home, showing him how to complete stitches and offering up the best solutions for common wounds he'd had. They'd never been naïve to the nature of his alter ego, and May had been adamant that he know how to fix himself up in case something happened to her and he couldn't get to a hospital. He hadn't wanted to dwell on a thought like that at the time, but May had insisted he be prepared for the worst.
"I won't be around forever, Pete." She'd whispered, once, shortly after Tony had died and Peter had tried to take his frustration with everything out on the criminals that roamed the city, only to end up with his ass practically handed to him. They'd sat in the warm bathroom light, and she'd wiped the blood from a cut on his lip before pulling out her supplies. "You're gonna have to know how to do this without me, eventually." He'd laughed, at the time, and shaken his head, but May had insisted on showing him how to thread the needle, and how to hold it properly so he could get the neatest stitches in the quickest possible fashion.
He knew, later, to be thankful for that incessant insistence that had driven her. It's what had kept him alive so long, after all. Once Ben died, and after Tony followed suit, when his life was in shambles from his encounter with Quentin Beck, despite all the adversities that they faced, May remained rock solid. She hadn't even cried when Ben died. Not in front of him, at first. Instead, once they'd started to fall back into a routine, she'd explained that they'd needed to move somewhere else, somewhere more affordable. They ended up in the very same apartment that Tony had finally found and used to recruit him. She'd been as steadfast as she'd ever been, those first few months on their own, but one night, Peter had woken up to her tucking him tighter into his blankets, his face slightly damp with her tears when she'd kissed his forehead, thinking he was still asleep.
He'd sort of learned from her how to control his pain. She'd have been furious if he ever told her that, while she was still alive. She would have insisted that feeling your feelings was much better than keeping them locked away, and Peter wouldn't have had the heart to tell her that he knew she did it because it was easier that way.
Instead, he'd never brought it up. Another one of his many regrets, he supposed.
But his body didn't let him forget. He may not always remember the initial sting of his wounds, but his skin ensured that the scars that had faded into it showed a physical map of his pain for anyone to see, if they were looking closely enough.
His shoulder burned with the reminder of it, once he was seated in the bar, nursing his whiskey as if it were his lifeline. Something about the alcohol flowing through his veins was making him feel warm and fuzzy, as if he'd been sitting by a roaring fireplace. His hands were tingling, and he tugged at the collar of his shirt.
Okay. He thought. So maybe drinking alone at the bar wasn't the best idea.
He wasn't even sure how close to home he was, now that he was thinking about it. He'd wandered into the bar while his mind was still racing from his encounter with Wong. He sighed and threw the rest of his drink back, ignoring the taste as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He closed his eyes and hummed to himself before gesturing towards Josie for his check. She gave him a once-over, then cut off her conversation with the woman at the end of the bar and began to meander her way towards him, check in hand. Vaguely, Peter wondered where the dark-haired woman's companion had gone, but he was too tired to really give it any thought.
"You're taking a cab, right kid?" Josie asked him, hesitantly sliding his check towards him. He glanced down at it and pulled out his wallet, a pathetic twenty and a five glaringly alone in the leather that encompassed it. He bit his lip and looked back down at the check, the numbers blurring from the alcohol that clouded his mind. He could make out a three and a zero and he rubbed at his blurry eyes, offering Josie a pathetic smile. She simply grunted and grabbed the twenty held between his fingers before pressing the five back into his palm and curling his fingers around it. "I think you need it more than I do, tonight. Pretty cold. Might be hard to find a ride. Best to have a little extra on you for nights like these. You can settle up with me later." Peter offered her a grateful smile and stood on shaky legs.
"I'm good for it." He assured her. "I'll bring it back this week."
"You'd better." The hair on Peter's arms stood on end at the voice behind him, and he turned, coming face to face with a smiling, dark-haired man. The same man who'd sat at the end of the bar with the woman. His smile was pleasant, but Peter's eyes were drawn to the red-tinted glasses that sat perched on his nose. His gaze travelled down to the white walking cane hanging from his wrist, and he swallowed hard. "Can't have people stiffing Josie here," the man said, still smiling. "Otherwise, she might not feel so generous in the future."
Peter stumbled back a step, his lower back connecting with the edge of the bar, hard.
Goddammit.
How the hell had he not realized? He should have known, the moment he'd gone into the bar, that luck would not be on his side. Of course he would know someone in this stupid dive bar. That damn Parker Luck was really deciding to fuck with him this week, huh? And of course, of fucking course it would be the same man May had hired to be his lawyer.
What had been his name?
Matt.
Matt Murdock.
Oh, fuck.
He was struck with the name, his brain flaring red in warning at the familiarity of it. Why? He questioned internally, feeling himself go number than before. Why me? He already had way too much on his plate to be dealing with even more bullshit. He just wanted to go home, curl up in bed with a bottle of water and Tylenol on his nightstand to nurse the headache that was already beginning to form behind his eyes.
But no. Instead, he had to deal with this.
He swallowed hard, his heart racing under his ribs. "I'll cover the rest of his tab, Josie." Mr. Murdock said, stepping closer and holding out a crisp twenty in Josie's direction. She smiled and took it, shaking her head. Peter watched, his tongue heavy and unwilling to move to offer up any sort of thanks.
"You keep paying for every stray that wanders in here, and you're going to be broke all over again, Murdock." Josie said, tone teasing. He shrugged and gestured to the woman at the end of the bar. She rolled her eyes and threw back the rest of the drink before rising gracefully to her feet and reaching Matt's side in a few quick strides.
"Oh goody." She muttered, eyes raking sharply over Peter. He swallowed again and made an attempt to move around them. "Another case of yours I don't know about, Matty?" She asked, stepping back a foot to allow Peter to pass her, no longer caged in by their collective presence. Matt hummed at her question and shook his head.
"Nah, just a kid who's down on his luck, it seems." Matt tilted his head, that pleasant smile still painted on his lips.
"I'm fine." Peter said shortly, irritation flaring in his chest, despite the circumstances. "Thank you for paying." He continued, forcing himself to soften his tone. Despite his anxiety and the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, he couldn't help but be polite, the manners May had instilled in him from a young age rising to the surface. "You didn't have to." He stepped closer towards the door, wanting nothing more to escape out into the cold January night. But Matt seemed unperturbed by his attempt to escape, and he turned to follow him, his companion following suit, her hands shoved deep in her leather jacket, a scowl still on her face.
Note to self, Peter thought, no more Hell's Kitchen.
"Sure you don't need a ride home?" Matt asked, and Peter tried not to let his irritation show on his face as he shook his head at Matt's question.
"I'm fine. I'll get a cab."
"Let us walk you out." Matt insisted. The woman pursed her lips, looking like she wanted to argue but she ultimately remained silent, watching them with sharp green eyes. Matt followed Peter out the door, trailed by the woman.
Peter bit his lip, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to get out of this mess without getting asked any questions. He was far too tipsy to lie like he normally could, and he dreaded the thought of something coming up that would give him any sort of indication that Matt would recognize him. He knew everyone was supposed to forget, but with Morgan's memory clearly not having been wiped, he didn't want to push his luck. They hadn't known each other long before Strange had cast the spell, so Peter prayed if anyone had forgotten, it'd be the lawyer.
"Matt." The woman said, raising a dark eyebrow, though her face remained otherwise stoic as they reached the curb of the street outside. "We've still got to meet up with Karen for that report. She's waiting for us. And I'm real fuckin' tired of how she bitches when I show up even five minutes late. She almost threw a book at me, last time."
"It'll be fine, Jessica." Matt said, shrugging her hand off his shoulder. "The least we can do is be good citizens and make sure the kid gets in a cab." Jessica rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. Peter shook his head, grimacing.
"I'm fine. Really. Thank you for paying. I'll get you back, I'm sure." He declined, taking another step away from them. Right when he thought he was in the clear, his foot slipped on the icy pavement, and he almost fell. Matt's hand shot out right as he began to stumble, grabbing his shoulder. He tried not to flinch at the man's attempt to steady him, seemingly unaware that his thumb was digging sharply into the scar tissue of Peter's shoulder, directly where the bullet had torn through him, a little over three years ago. It was a thick, mottled, silvery scar that was sensitive to touch—even now—and having something pressing sharply against it was uncomfortable, to say the least. Instead of protesting, he grit his teeth and twisted himself out of his grasp, sidestepping in the opposite direction only for Matt's cane to shoot out—something he wasn't entirely sure was unintentional—causing him to trip again. He stumbled, legs still unsteady from the alcohol burning through him, but he was met with Matt's sturdy, steadying hands on either side of him, gentler this time, surely much more gently than his previous grip and the hard concrete that had originally awaited him.
"Careful there, kid." Matt said, his sightless eyes trained on him. It was sort of unnerving, Peter found, but he refused to say anything about it, biting his tongue until he tasted blood. "How're you going to pay me back if you've got a broken neck?" His eyes sparkled in the light of the streetlamp, and Peter's head spun as he tried to figure out how the hell to get away from them.
This was so not his week.
"Leave him alone, Matt." Jessica said from her spot beside him, tugging her leather jacket tighter around her and pushing the dark sunglasses that were perched on top of her head further up. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, her eyes trained on Peter as she took a deep drag from the cancer-bearing stick perched between her fingers. "The kid couldn't hurt a fly in his current state." She raised an eyebrow at him and blew out the smoke. Peter tried not the wrinkle his nose as the cloud settled over him, and he saw the wry grin that briefly crossed her lips before disappearing back into that frown she seemed incapable of losing track of.
A lone cab came barreling down the otherwise empty street and Peter wrenched himself from Matt's grip—still firm on his shoulders—to wave it down. The driver rolled to a stop beside them, and Peter went for the door, feeling a little sick.
"Um. Thank you. For paying my tab. I'll stop by later this week and pay for your drinks." He said, and Matt nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer from his spot on the curb. He pulled the door to the cab open and offered a weak wave in their general direction. Matt didn't move, and Peter swallowed, realizing he couldn't see the gesture. He dropped his hand, frowning, and Jessica rolled her eyes.
"He's waving, Matt." She said, tone bored. Peter suppressed another grimace, but Matt lifted a hand to wave back. Peter smiled tightly and climbed in the cab, pulling the door shut before telling the cabbie his address and resting his head against the cool glass of the window.
Goddammit. He thought, blowing out a breath as his head continued to spin. He tried to keep the bile from rising in his throat, closing his eyes, and trying to even out his breathing. What the fuck was he going to do now? Wong had made it abundantly clear that neither he nor Dr. Strange would be helping him anytime soon, so all hope of making Morgan forget had been thrown out the window. Add to the mix the fact that Harley was clearly heavily involved with the Starks, plus the fact that their professor was a variant of a villain Peter had fought three years ago, and the fact that he couldn't seem to stop running into people he knew from his past and god only knew how the next week was going to go—especially with the coffee date he'd inadvertently planned with Pepper.
Fuck. He'd almost forgotten about that. He let out another sharp breath and shut off the thoughts swirling in his mind, pushing them all down as he focused on the cab that carried him home. He'd worry about it after he got some sleep. After all, it was a new week. Maybe he would be able to figure something out that would help him escape all of his current predicaments.
One could only hope.
Peter woke up the following day, ridiculously hungover.
He groaned and rolled out of bed, stumbling into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. There was still no sign of Harley, and no further texts to let him know he was even alive. Peter tried not to dwell on it too much as he popped another two Tylenol, vaguely aware that it likely wouldn't have any effect on him with his fast-acting metabolism. Instead, he made himself busy, rummaging around in the cabinets to find a blueberry bagel and some cream cheese, a simple breakfast that wouldn't exacerbate the pounding behind his eyes. He ate in a daze, barely registering the taste before he slipped out the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder, sunglasses high on his nose to block out the brilliant winter sunshine.
The streets gleamed in the bright light, the blinding white of the freshly fallen snow from the storm the night prior burning his retinas despite the shade covering his eyes. He winced against it and made his way to the coffee shop on the corner. Clearly one cup of homemade coffee wasn't going to cut it, if the pounding in his head had any say on the matter. He ordered quickly, smiling tightly at the over-enthusiastic barista, trying to focus on each menial task at hand.
He went to school in a daze, barely paying attention to any of his classes. By the time the day had come to an end though, he'd sobered up completely, though his headache seemed content to remain. His last class of the day was supposed to be with Dr. Otto, but she'd been absent on campus all day. He'd hoped she'd show up for work and that he'd be able to start resolving at least one of his issues, but her classes were cancelled, per an email from her TA. No explanation was provided, and Peter couldn't help the worry that rose in his chest. He'd only known Professor Otto since the beginning of the semester, but he'd grown to love her class and the challenging questions she asked, as well as the animated way she'd taught her lessons. He knew that it was bad that she had created the same devices that Dr. Octavius from the other universe had, and he couldn't help but worry about her, despite the fact that she'd tried to kill him only a few days earlier. If she was anything like Dr. Octavius, it was highly likely that she wasn't in full control of her actions. He wasn't sure of her motivations for creating the arms, but he knew he had to find her to try and help. He couldn't risk another super powered villain running around with a grudge against him, not again. It was how he'd lost everything to begin with, and he was not about to have a repeat of that, especially with Morgan, and seemingly the entire Stark clan, popping back up in his life.
He found no sign of Professor Otto on his way home, either. He stopped by the destroyed lab to check, slipping past the cop who'd been stationed outside once he'd turned to smoke a cigarette in the same back alleyway Peter had run down the Saturday before in his attempt to escape Doc Ock.
The lab was still empty, police tape covering the place as Peter clambered through the rubble as quietly as possible. He made his way through the gaping crater in the first floor, finding that much of the debris had barely been touched on the ground level. He followed the route that he'd followed the arm through, quietly making his way through the rubble. The beam that he and the arms had managed to move off of Olivia still lay in the center of the room, and he sidestepped it, beelining for his destination. The lights had been turned off in the office, but it didn't look like it had been touched otherwise and he sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for the small reprieve.
Maybe he'd actually be able to get some information and start unraveling why his Professor had decided to follow the same dark path her alternate self had. He sighed and flipped on the light, peering out the glass door to make sure the cop outside hadn't gotten curious and decided to come investigate. He knew he hadn't made any noise, but he didn't want to risk getting caught when he was this close to getting some answers. He blew out a steady breath when he didn't see any movement and turned towards her desk.
There was a large computer set up on the large oak-wood desk, accompanied by what seemed to be a flourishing orchid, despite its location. The sight of it rang a dim, familiar bell in the back of his mind but he couldn't figure out why. Frowning, he decided to ignore it and began rummaging in the drawers on her desk. There wasn't much to be seen, and he sighed in frustration as he plopped down in her cushioned chair. He ran a hand over his face and pulled his mask off to rub at his eyes.
Why couldn't he catch a break, just this once?
He swiveled in the chair, ready to admit defeat when he saw the safe on the wall. He stood, worrying his lip, and approached it, staring at the daunting combination lock. He'd never had any experience with picking locks, so he wracked his brain for every conversation he'd had with his Professor for some sort of clue that would help him with the daunting keypad that awaited him.
"Ah, my wife, Rosalie." The picture had sat on her desk, a beautiful woman with light blonde hair and smiling brown eyes. She'd been wearing a sundress, and her head was thrown back with laughter, Dr. Otto's lips pressed to her cheek, frozen in time. "We didn't get nearly long enough on this earth together, but she'll always be the love of my life." Maybe she'd used her wife's name? Peter held his breath as he typed the numerical code for her name in on the pin pad. 7672543. The safe beeped loudly and the light blinked red. Peter winced at the noise and tossed a glance over his shoulder, looking for a sign that someone had heard him. When no one appeared to drag him out, he let out another sigh and returned to wracking his brain for any sort of clue.
"We got married on October 19th, 2016." The words rang in Peter's ears, a memory from the first month in her lab, when he'd stayed late to help her clean up after everyone had left and accidentally knocked the picture over. "I wanted to get married as soon as it had been legalized, but Rosie insisted that we plan a proper wedding. 'We've waited this long, Liv, what's another year or two?' She always acted as though we had all the time in the world. If only we'd known what was going to happen." She'd traced the outline of her wife's face, a sad smile on her face. She'd caught herself, then, and clapped her hands together before changing the subject.
Peter shook his head once and blew out a breath before typing in the date. 101916. The lock clicked, and Peter had to stop himself from squealing with joy at the sound. Slowly, he twisted the heavy handle and pulled. The safe door swung open, and he was met with the sight of several folders, color coded and organized. His eyes skimmed over their labels, landing on Stark. He blinked and reached for the file, feeling the weight of it as he pulled it out of the safe and flipped it open.
His eyes scanned each page as he flipped through them, his mind racing to keep up with the information in his hands. It seemed to mostly be an assessment of the Stark Industries business, highlighting in particular, the electromagnetic research division they'd recently announced. The file was full to the brim, and Peter returned to the desk, paying no mind to the fact that the safe was still open. He sat down and continued to read, flipping through the carefully organized file. At the end, there was a tab labelled STAFF, and he ignored the myriad of other documents to turn to that particular set of pages.
The first page had information on Happy, and Peter felt a small smile tug at his lip when he saw the picture used for him. Happy would have hated it. He shook his head and flipped through, seeing several other high-level employees, people he'd met once or twice at dinner parties, before he found Pepper's page. She was smiling brightly in the photo, and she looked younger than she had when he'd met with her in the Dean's office. When he was done looking at her pictures, he noticed all the hand-written notes written in the margins. He squinted down at them, trying to make sense of the loopy writing. The same loopy writing that Professor Otto used on her chalkboard during class.
Contacted—business?
One note read, right near Pepper's name. He blinked. Was Stark industries helping fund her research? Fuck. This was going to be so bad for Pepper, if everything Dr. Otto had been up to with said funds got out. His own involvement with Stark technology had almost ruined them, before Strange had cast the forgetting spell. He could only imagine what the headlines would read if it got out that the Stark's were somehow involved with a possible super-villain.
He swallowed and skimmed over the remaining hand-written notes. In the left corner, near the top, there was a sentence.
Why no further contact? Seem to be blocked.
His eyebrows drew together, as he pondered what it could mean. Blocked how? From business deals? He could only hope.
The other notes didn't make much sense either. Odd things seemed to be highlighted on the page and Peter couldn't figure out why. He read through the rest of the paper, taking everything in.
Reached out to secretary, no response.
Asked R. about contact. Informed about daughter.
M. is key.
Peter froze on that particular note, his fingers tracing the slanted, loopy handwriting. 'Informed about daughter.' Peter didn't know how, but something was telling him Morgan was involved in this, too.
M. is key.
Morgan is key.
The key to what, exactly?
His chest tightened and he pursed his lips.
How the hell had Morgan gotten involved in this too? He wondered. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his hands over his face again. He jumped at the loud crash above him, springing to his feet and racing across the room to shut out the lights. He was shaking when he made it back to the desk, collecting the file and webbing it to the front of his suit. He crept out of the office and towards the rubble, taking note of the flashlights on the upper floor. There were two voices, talking quietly, presumably the beat cop and his partner. Peter waited until their footsteps faded, then quietly crawled out of the ruins of the floor, pulling himself over the edge and sprinting for the door. The moment he hit the pavement outside, he shot a web and pulled himself away from the ruined research center, aiming for home, even as his mind continued to race.
When he finally got home, Harley still wasn't there. He crept through his window as quietly as possible, then listened for the tell-tale signature racket that Harley always seemed to make from the moment he woke up, only to be met with silence once more. He breathed a sigh of relief, and de-webbed the file from his chest, setting it with shaking hands on his desk. He opened it back up to Pepper's page, ripping the piece of paper out of it and staring at it, as if it would provide more answers than questions, this time around.
He settled it back on the desk and slipped out of his suit, changing into a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and running his hands through his hair, plopping down into his desk chair as he tried to piece this new mystery together. He knew Morgan was insanely smart, but what the hell had she done to catch the attention of his professor? Sure, most everyone knew about Morgan, she'd never been a secret to the world, but most people respected Pepper's firm, public requests for privacy. Obviously not the vulture-like paparazzi, but for the most part, even they could barely get a glimpse of her. So why the hell did Professor Otto have an interest in her? He knew the note couldn't be talking about anyone else. Pepper's page was the only one with such intricate notes, and the only person with a name starting with 'M' that was directly involved in her inner circle…was Morgan.
Peter's head spun as he tried to process all of it. He knew he shouldn't, but he hoped he'd see the little hell-raiser later in the week so he could actually get to the bottom of things.
He was snapped from his planning when he heard the sound of the front door unlocking, and the signature sound of Harley finally making it home.
"Dude!" His roommate called out, and Peter could hear the clatter of his keys being hung up on the hook by the door. He scrambled to his feet, slammed the file shut and slid it in the draw of his desk and darted into the hallway, pulling his door shut behind him. He realized he was still holding the page about Pepper, and he folded it in half and shoved it deep into the recesses of his pocket.
He exited the hallway, and Harley grinned when he spotted him, tossing his satchel on the couch. "Guess who didn't show up for class today?" He asked. Peter bit his lip, knowing the answer to that question already. Hell, he had some of her personal files in his room and a page covered in her writing in his pocket solely because she hadn't showed up for class.
Harley continued into the kitchen, unperturbed at Peter's lack of a response and settled the groceries Peter hadn't even noticed he'd been carrying on the counter. He pulled three rolls of cookie dough out of the bag and shoved the remaining groceries in the fridge and turned the oven on preheat before turning back towards Peter with his eyes bright. "Dr. Otto! She was a no show. We were the first class of the day, and apparently her TA didn't even know she was going to be absent. I'm sure you got the email they sent out a few hours ago. I wonder what's going on. I've heard she never misses, especially this early in the semester." He shrugged and whipped a knife out of the wooden block of knives he'd brought with him when he'd moved in. He cut through the plastic with ease, still chattering absentmindedly as he prepared a tray of cookies for the oven.
"Yeah," Peter said, the papers he'd found in Olivia's office burning a hole in his pocket. He didn't take any sort of pleasure in lying to Harley, but he knew getting him involved any further than he already was, would only end in disaster.
"It was weird that her TA didn't give an explanation or anything, right?" Harley put the tray of cookies he'd made in the oven, setting a twelve-minute timer. Then he made his way to the sink, washing his hands with a contemplative expression. "I hope she's alright. Usually when something like that happens it's because of a death in the family." He frowned and Peter fought the urge to reassure him that she was fine, as far as he knew. Probably off destroying something—when she wasn't leaving cryptic notes about his sister in her office—but he'd yet to see anything about her on his police scanner yet, so he couldn't be entirely sure. He still didn't even know why she'd decided to create the arms in the first place and it wasn't like he'd been exactly provided with the opportunity to ask, before she'd unceremoniously drugged him and dropped him in the East River.
Not that he was holding any grudges about it or anything, even if he couldn't seem to get the salty, briny scent of it out of his hair, despite the numerous showers he'd taken since then. Bygones were bygones, and he didn't actively resent her for having what he could only assume was a psychiatric break. He still hoped she was okay; he hadn't been lying, after all, when he'd told Dean Reynold's that her class was his favorite. If anything, he just wanted to help her. Especially since Morgan was somehow involved in all this too.
"Yeah." He murmured. "I hope she's okay too." A silence fell over them, only the soft sound of Harley humming a tune Peter didn't recognize between them. He bit his lip, thinking. Harley continued to move around the kitchen, seemingly perfectly at peace. "Hey, Harley?" He said, his stomach clenching nervously.
"Hm?" The other boy hummed, not looking up as he continued to roll up balls of gooey dough for the second tray of cookies.
"What's with all the cookies?" He couldn't quite bring himself to ask the question he'd really wanted to ask, but Harley didn't seem to notice his hesitation. He shrugged, opened another packet of cookie dough, and began rolling more dough, not even turning around to answer Peter.
"Oh, there's this bake sale tomorrow night and I was asked to make some cookies for it." He waved a hand dismissively. "Apparently I'm not allowed to bribe a bakery, because it all has to be 'homemade' or some shit. Like I'm not gonna just going to go to the store and buy pre-made cookie dough. Yeah, right. I don't have time to make a hundred cookies from scratch." He rolled his eyes and Peter smiled tightly, slightly amused at his antics.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and took a steadying breath. Before he could think twice about it, the question he'd originally intended to ask was spilling out of him. "You kind of have a thing for Spider-Man, right?" The other boy laughed; his head thrown back with the movement of it.
"Random, but yeah, you could say that I guess." Harley said, finally tossing him a side-ways glance. Peter cleared his throat, knowing he had to tread carefully. If Harley knew who he was, like he thought he did, he needed to make sure he didn't show all of his cards right away.
But deception had never been Peter's friend.
"What do you think of the other Avengers?" Harley's laugh died on his lips at the question, but he tried play it off by coughing. He turned and leaned back against the counter, tossing a dish towel he'd used to dry his freshly washed hands over his shoulder and crossing his arms over his chest. He was smiling, but his eyes were different. They weren't bright, like they usually were. Peter tried not to let that deter him.
"The other Avengers?" Harley repeated, the question clear in his inflection. Peter just nodded, curiosity flaring in his chest. Harley was a lot of things, and it was clear that when the rubber met the road, he was a great liar, if everything Peter guessed to be true actually was true. The antics he'd clearly been up to behind Peter's back proved that in their own merit. But that didn't stop the fact that Peter could see through the façade now. His feet shuffled, and Peter could hear the rapid thudding of his heart, despite the composure on his face. "Yeah, they're pretty cool." He said agreeably. Something shifted in his face, so subtle, Peter probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been watching him so closely.
"Who's your favorite?" He ventured to ask, trying to keep his tone casual. Harley considered him, his smile remaining in place, but his eyes scanned Peter's face quickly, looking for something. Peter tried not to let his anxiety show as he met his gaze.
"I'd have to say Black Widow, probably." Harley said, finally. "Espionage and all that seems like quite a trip, huh?" It was a challenge, without being stated aloud. Peter knew that. And he knew he needed to back down.
But he'd never been much good at that, either.
"Oh really?" He asked, casually. "I figured it'd be like Iron Man or something." Harley's expression slipped, for the briefest of moments, and Peter's heart raced in his chest. Gotcha. He thought, his own eyes narrowing slightly. If he could get any more information on Harley and his connection with the Stark family, maybe he'd be able to figure out what to do about Morgan. All he needed was for Harley to confirm his theory of him being their adopted son, so his questions wouldn't come across as unusual. And if he wasn't right, he certainly didn't want to look like a presumptuous idiot.
"Isn't he everyone's favorite?" Harley quickly rectified his expression, offering a dazzling smile that would have fooled anyone else. "By default?" He continued, shrugging as he turned back towards the stove, and pulled out a tray of chocolate chip cookies. Peter's stomach growled at the sight and Harley's eyebrow quirked, a genuine grin slipping back over his features. He continued on, scraping one of the cookies off the pan and settling it on a paper towel, reaching out to offering it to Peter, who took it. "I mean, c'mon. The man sacrificed himself for the greater good. Pretty sure that automatically makes him everyone's favorite." Harley smiled wryly, and Peter knew he if he tried to push it, he'd be made. He need to let it go, for now. He had enough to worry about with Morgan's antics to try and also deal with Harley potentially knowing the same information.
He knew that.
But that still didn't stop the next question that slipped out of him, unbidden.
"You know, you never really talk about your sister. What's she like?" Harley almost dropped the pan of cookies at the question, but he caught himself, straightening quickly.
"Which one?" Harley asked, a sneaky smile slipping over his lips. "I have two."
"Oh." Peter blinked. He could have sworn Harley had only mentioned one sister in his interview for the apartment. Then again, Peter had been incredibly distracted with the events of Morgan's flyer, at the time. Maybe he'd misheard him. If he had two sisters though, maybe everything he knew—or rather, thought he knew—was wrong. "I thought you had only mentioned one." Harley's smile thinned a bit, but he didn't disagree.
"Yeah, well, I don't get to see Ariel all that often right now, seeing as she lives in Tennessee with my mom." Peter frowned at that but Harley didn't seem to notice. "Sometimes it's just easier to say one rather than having to explain my whole family dynamic. It's a little complicated." His smile was tight at the edges.
I'll bet. Peter thought.
"I get it." He assured him. He certainly understood strange family dynamics. "And your other sister?" He prodded gently, his chest tightening.
"She lives with my adopted mom." Harley said, shrugging dismissively. "What's with all the questions tonight? Normally you hate sharing with the class, but you want to know all my deep, dark secrets today?" He wiggled his eyebrows and Peter smiled tightly, taking a bite of the cookie to distract himself. It was warm, the chocolate chips perfectly melted and the center just gooey enough, like Peter loved. He chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged, trying to keep everything about himself casual.
"Yeah, I dunno, it's just we've lived together for almost two weeks now and we barely know anything about each other." He said. Harley snorted at that, and deposited another cookie onto Peter's napkin before turning and putting another batch of cookie dough in the oven. When he stood back up again, he crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, staring at Peter, hard. Peter tried not to flinch under the weight of the other boy's gaze, suddenly feeling like he was in trouble for something.
"Well, who's fault is that?" Harley asked, his tone coming out surprisingly gentle as he tilted his head to assess Peter. "You're the one with the double-decker vault doors on the past, Parker. I'd probably open up more if you did, too." Peter ducked his head, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. He heard Harley sigh. "Listen, Parker. You got, what, four…five good questions in? Why don't you let me ask five. Then you can ask me as many as you want, in return. But for every question you ask, I get to ask one, too." Peter stared at his hands, considering the offer.
It wasn't the worst idea. He needed to ask questions that would get him more information about Morgan's schemes, and if he was careful, maybe, just maybe, he could get this to work in his favor.
He lifted his head and met Harley's gaze. "Alright." He conceded. "Fair's fair. Fire away." Harley looked a bit taken aback, but he masked it quickly, clearing his throat.
"Wow. If I had known how easy this would be, I would have let you come to me in the first place." He teased. Peter rolled his eyes, and gestured for him to get on with it. Harley jumped up on the counter and folded his arms over his chest, watching him carefully. Peter tried not to squirm under the weight of his gaze.
"What's your least favorite food?"
Peter made a face.
"That's your first question?" He asked, incredulously.
"Hey, hey, hey, now. I didn't judge your questions. Besides, it's like you said: we've lived together for nearly two weeks and we barely know anything about each other. Gotta cover all the bases. Now, c'mon. Answer." He grinned dopily and Peter refrained from shaking his head in exasperation. He could answer a few stupid questions to get to what he really wanted.
"Alright, fine." He said agreeably. "Least favorite food? Carrots. They're disgusting. And mint chocolate chip ice cream. It's a crime against humanity." Harley let out a burst of laughter at that and shook his head.
"Seriously? Mint chocolate chip ice cream? Damn, Parker! Who hurt you?" Peter rolled his eyes and held up four fingers.
"Four left, then it's my turn." Harley nodded and forced his laughter to subdue.
"Alright, alright. Question two. Hm…how'd you end up here?" Peter frowned at that, twisting his hands in his lap, under the counter where Harley couldn't see. "Like, New York. I mean. Born here, raised here, what?" Peter raised an eyebrow.
"Technically that was like three questions." He said and Harley rolled his eyes.
"Technicalities." He said, waving a hand dismissively. "Spill, Parker." Peter couldn't help the grin that was slowly creeping across his face, so he shrugged instead.
"Alright. Fine. I'm from New York. Queens, to be exact. Born and raised." Harley nodded, his brow creasing thoughtfully at the new information. Peter knew he'd probably have to lie for any other questions, but if they started with a base of honesty, it was much more likely that Harley would believe whatever he fed him after.
"Okay. Cool. See, we're learning so much about each other!" Harley said brightly. "Now I know you were born here; I know you have some freaky food aversions and I'm going to have to open your eyes to the delights that can be derived from carrots—like, c'mon Parker, carrot cake? You're gonna sit here and act like that shit's not delicious?" He rolled his eyes to punctuate his point. "Please." Peter simply raised an eyebrow at him, and Harley shook his head. "Alright, hmm…question three…let's see…" Peter waited, and Harley clapped his hands together, suddenly. "Okay, yeah, here's a good one for you. Can I throw you a birthday party?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "Absolutely fucking not. We already talked about this, Harley." Harley's shoulders slumped dramatically at the response, and he heaved a heavy sigh.
"Fine. But that officially makes you lame." He said, pointing accusatorially at him. Peter ignored his dramatics and gestured for him to continue. "Alright, fine. Question four: what'd you mean when you said your aunt was killed because of Spider-Man?"
A frown slipped over Peter's lips at the sudden change in the line of questioning and he stared at Harley, taken aback. He hadn't expected that. So far they'd kept it relatively simple, sticking to the basics. He wondered if this was Harley's attempt to let him know he knew who he was. And it certainly didn't help that he didn't talk about May with anyone, anymore. He didn't like reliving the details of her death and his own role in it.
But if he refused to answer, who knew what Harley would think? He'd agreed to answer the questions the other boy asked, and he hadn't exactly set parameters on what qualified as an acceptable question. Besides, he'd opened the door on questions about family when he'd asked Harley about his sisters.
"Um. Well." He took a breath. "She worked for a shelter. FEAST. I'm sure you've heard of them, they've still got a pretty big presence here in Queens." Harley nodded but didn't interrupt. "She was one of those people that could light up a room the minute she walked in…honestly, it might be lame, but she was kind of my best friend." The confession made his heart ache. It was true. May had been the one person he could tell anything. He'd hated keeping his alter ego a secret from her, and when she'd finally found out, she'd gone deathly pale and hadn't said a word, simply turned, walked out of his room and out the front door. He'd been too shocked to follow her, still surprised at her appearance in his room while he'd been half-naked and attempting to shimmy out of his suit.
And then he'd heard her screaming in Italian in the hallway. He'd opened the front door to find her red-faced, pacing, and absolutely furious as she continued cursing into the phone, switching to English when she ran out of all the Italian curse words she knew. "Tony fucking Stark you had better get your irresponsible ass over to my apartment immediately before I go to the fucking papers and tell them about how you have put my only son in danger. This is child endangerment, Stark! He's fucking fifteen! Don't think I won't do it, asshole!" She'd hung up the phone and Peter had stepped back from the door as she stormed back in, her small frame shaking with rage. "Peter Benjamin Parker, sit your ass down and. Start. Talking. Now."
Tony had showed up less than ten minutes later looking slightly queasy as May corralled him into the apartment and interrogated them both for four hours, repeatedly threatening to ruin Tony for putting her kid in danger. Peter's mentor had been somewhat terrified of her, after that. He made sure Peter followed her rules about his alter-ego to a T from that moment on, sending Peter a warning text anytime he was going to get home late, sometimes even calling him to make sure he got back in time for his curfew, insisting that he liked being alive and preferred to remain that way. He had absolutely zero desire to risk May's wrath, and after the talking-to that she had delivered and Peter had witnessed, he found he couldn't blame him.
He felt his lips curl into a half smile a that memory and he blew out a small breath. "Anyway," he continued, "She was trying to help some people. People who had a lot of problems. Spider-Man showed up to help, but shit went South, way too fast. She died trying to help him get them home. Wrong place, wrong time, I guess."
"Geez." Harley murmured, letting out a soft sigh. "I'm sorry, Pete." Peter shrugged.
"It's okay. I miss her every day, but there's not much I can do about it now." He shook his head and waved his hand. "Alright, no more questions like that for now, yeah?" Harley nodded in agreement.
"Yeah. I should have asked you about that later. Sorry, again. I didn't mean to put a damper on things." Harley said, and Peter shook his head.
"No, it's alright. I'd be curious too." He wiped his hands on his jeans and met Harley's gaze again, forcing a light smile. "Okay, last question then it's my turn. What do you have for me?"
Harley tilted his head again, clearly considering him carefully. "Alright, I've got it." He said decidedly, after a moment. "What'd you think about that article that just came out about Black Widow and Spider-Man?"
Peter's breath caught in his throat. "The what?" He asked dumbly. Harley grinned and shook his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Oh, c'mon man. You haven't seen it? It's been plastered all over every news site ever since the Daily Bugle published that photo of them together. Have you been living under a rock?" He rolled his eyes, still smiling easily and Peter tried not to let the panic show on his face.
Spider-Man and Black Widow?
He couldn't remember a time where he'd met up with Natasha, not since the last time he'd seen her at Stark Industries, when she'd worked with him on his hand-to-hand sparring. But that had been a long time ago, and he hadn't had any contact with her since.
Or so he had thought, up until that moment.
"Can you show me the article?" He asked, his mouth dry. Harley grinned and nodded enthusiastically, unaware of the ongoing turmoil in Peter's brain.
"Yeah, one sec." He pulled out his phone and scrolled for a second before Peter's phone buzzed, a link to a news article popping up in his texts with Harley. He clicked the link, blinking rapidly as he read the title. Breaking News: Black Widow and Spider-Man Caught Getting Up-Close and Personal on Late Night Rendezvous. Is the Spider-Menace in Spider-Love? His brow furrowed, and he scrolled further down, stopping when the picture appeared on his screen. It was a little blurry, but it was obviously himself and the notorious Black Widow, his arm slung low around her back, her own arm holding on to him in return. He blinked, dumbfounded.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
When did this happen?
"Harley?" Harley looked up again from his task of making cookies, his face curious.
"What's up, Parker?"
"When did this happen?" He asked, trying to keep his breathing even. Harley shrugged.
"Um, the article showed up last night, but apparently the picture was from the day before."
Oh, fuck. Peter thought, still staring at the grainy photograph. Doc Ock. The East River. How had he gotten home that night? He couldn't remember. He had sort of figured that he'd managed to pull himself out of the briny waters on his own and had made it home on autopilot. But it was becoming increasingly clear that his blackout of that timeframe didn't match up with the events he'd created in his head.
Fuck.
"You really didn't see it?" Harley asked, curiously. Peter shook his head numbly.
"No, um—I—no." He stuttered, and Harley's face was sympathetic, but amused.
"Do I need to start sending you news breaks on all the stuff the Avenger's get up to?" He asked as Peter's gaze returned to the photo. "I honestly couldn't believe it myself. Who knew the Arachnids of the group were hooking up on the down low?" He shrugged, but there was something in his tone that suggested he knew it wasn't true, like he was almost challenging Peter to dispute it.
Peter didn't take the bait though. Instead, he clicked the lock on his phone and stood up from his barstool, biting his lip. "Can we finish twenty questions later?" He asked, his voice not sounding like his own. Harley tilted his head at him, his face quizzical and raised his shoulder in a half-shrug.
"Yeah, man. That's fine. You okay though? You look super pale." Peter pursed his lips and nodded.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I just…I need to go knock out some homework." He lied. Harley nodded slowly, his face pinched in thought. Peter provided no relief, turning heel, trying to keep his footsteps even and light as he retreated, despite the panic rising in him. When he reached his room, he wrenched the door open and slipped in side, shutting it behind him and clicking the lock into place.
It was suddenly, glaringly obvious what had happened that night at the river. He'd been made, somehow. The only thing he could think of as an explanation was that Morgan had somehow involved Natasha, though he wasn't sure why she'd be willing to help a nine-year-old kid track down New York's most infamous vigilante. Natasha had always been the calculated, cool-headed one out of all the Avengers, and Peter couldn't seem to wrap his brain around the fact that she'd be willing to help Morgan with her insane scheme to make everyone remember him.
He threw his head back against his door, wincing at the pain that radiated from his skull at the impact. Quietly, he let his legs slip out from under him as he slid to the floor, pulling out the piece of paper that held Pepper's smiling face, his eyes immediately drawn to that one, key, hand-written note.
M. is key.
Yeah, no shit. He thought. But how, exactly?
If he'd been in over his head before, it felt like he was completely submerged now. If Natasha was involved, it wouldn't be long before everything he'd worked to keep secret for the past three years was exposed, completely out in the open for everyone he cared about to see.
Now what?