Peter woke up way too early, anxiety curling in his chest from a dream he couldn't quite remember. He lay in bed trying to salvage another half hour of sleep when his phone buzzed with a message from Harley.
Peter replied instantly and then frowned as the conversation continued.
"FRI, is Stark awake?"
There was a pause and then, "He is now."
Peter winced and made a mental note to preface that question with Please don't wake him up next time.
But fine, if he was up, he'd want to know. So Peter and Tony found each other in the kitchen and silently worried over the messages together.
Tony tried calling Harley, but it went straight to voicemail. His phone must've been off.
He did say the battery was dying. Hopefully he'd just turned it off himself.
Tony looked like he'd only just rolled out of bed—his hair stuck up at odd angles, as he stood squinting blearily at the coffee maker. But instead of starting it up, he turned away, opened a cabinet, grabbed a stainless steel water bottle, and filled it at the fridge.
Pete eyed it with bemusement.
Tony noticed. "What?"
"Nothing," Peter said, eyeing the bottle. "Just… since when do you drink water before noon?"
"I'm cutting back on caffeine."
Peter narrowed his eyes. "Voluntarily?"
"Yes." Tony said, like this somehow wasn't alarming behavior. Then he grabbed a banana and Peter tried not to stare at him like he'd grown a second head as he peeled it and actually ate it. Never mind water. Since when did Stark eat before noon?
Tony was checking his phone again. "You okay with Happy taking you today?"
"Yeah, of course," Peter said—but couldn't help the next question. "Are you worried something's wrong?"
Tony hesitated a beat too long. "Not at all. I'm sure everything's fine," he said, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm just gonna hang back, see if I can get ahold of him."
Peter didn't press, but the unease crawled higher in his chest.
"I better get going," he mumbled, standing and grabbing his backpack. "Text me if you hear from him?"
Tony nodded. Then he glanced at the bowl of uneaten cereal and frowned. "Take extra money for lunch. You're going to be starving."
He handed over a fifty.
Peter rolled his eyes. "You know school lunch is free, right?"
He slid the bill back across the counter.
Tony just slid it right back. "You don't like the cafeteria. Go get lunch off campus if you want."
They had this same argument every other day. And every time, Peter ended up taking the money. He stashed most of it as part of his Christmas present fund, intent on giving Stark a taste of his own medicine, for once.
But he did wonder… did Stark not pay attention to how much food cost? Was he guessing? Or did he just think Peter's metabolism needed enough funding to feed a small village?
"And take this," Tony added, handing over the metal water bottle. "If you're not going to eat, at least stay hydrated."
Then Tony turned and finally fired up the coffee machine.
So much for cutting back.
Peter was distracted all morning, his gaze flicking to his phone every few minutes in the faint hope of a new notification.
His fingers toyed absently with the metal water bottle Tony had handed him that morning—only now noticing the sleek Stark Industries logo etched cleanly along the side. Great. No wonder Flash had clocked it immediately.
"Flexing the merch doesn't make you look smarter, you know," Flash had called over his shoulder in the hallway, smirking. "Or richer."
Peter hadn't responded. He didn't have the energy for it today. But he made a mental note to be more careful about what he grabbed on the way out of the Tower.
He was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't even notice his backpack was missing until after gym. He'd been one of the last to leave the locker room and had already made it halfway across the gym floor before the absence registered.
His heart sank.
It didn't have anything valuable in it—just several weeks' worth of finished assignments he'd meant to turn in.
It could've been swiped during Advisory. Or maybe while everyone was changing for gym—there'd been a lot of shouting and goofing around. But as he circled the edge of the court, something odd caught his eye: a flash of blue fabric, wedged between the backboard and rim of one of the basketball hoops.
His backpack.
Peter sighed.
Flash Thompson had been giggling obnoxiously on his way out of the locker room, so it wasn't exactly a cold case.
Peter glanced around. The gym was mostly empty now. No witnesses. Good.
He picked up a basketball, bounced it once, then launched it toward the hoop with a little too much precision and force to be natural. The ball struck the bag dead-on. It tumbled loose and hit the floor with a thud, landing right at his feet.
Nothing was missing. But the message had been clear. His stuff was fair game in Flash's escalating pettiness.
He was going to have to stop leaving anything important in the bag.
By the time he jogged into second period, he was technically late—but that didn't matter. Mr. Gaines, the eccentric, perpetually disheveled physics teacher, rarely remembered to take roll on time. Usually, he just counted the quizzes at the end of class to figure out who had been there.
Peter liked Gaines. A lot.
The classroom always smelled faintly of scorched coffee and something vaguely ozone-y—like it had once been struck by lightning and never quite recovered. Weird science quotes and half-sincere philosophical questions were always scribbled on the board. Today's read: What is time? Wrong answers only.
As Peter slid into his seat, Gaines was already mid-demonstration. A steak knife in one hand, a hammer in the other. A large potato speared on the tip of the blade and held suspended in the air.
Peter blinked.
"What property of the potato," Mr. Gaines demanded dramatically, "allows it to violate the expected laws of polite society?"
He whacked the end of the knife handle loudly with the hammer, causing a few students to jump, and the potato inched its way upward along the knife blade.
"You all predicted the potato would fall. Why isn't it cooperating?"
"Inertia." Peter whispered under his breath.
Mr. Gaines pointed at no one in particular. "It's inertia."
Peter cracked open his physics textbook and quietly flipped several chapters ahead, thumbing past the introductory review material they'd been covering all week. He wasn't trying to be obvious about it—he just couldn't sit through more of Newtons Laws of Motion without doing something useful.
Not that Peter didn't like listening to the lectures. Mr. Gaines made the material sound interesting, even if it was stuff Peter already knew. The lectures gave him something to half-listen to while he worked ahead—drifting through the syllabus, solving problems from chapters the class wouldn't reach for weeks.
By that Friday morning, he'd filled page after page in his notebook. Neat columns of numbers, equations, sketches of simple machines and circuit diagrams. He didn't really think it was a problem.
Until a classmate passing behind his desk slowed just enough to glance at Peter's open notebook. His brow wrinkled in confusion—then contempt.
"Nutjob," the kid muttered, not quite under his breath.
The boy slid into a nearby seat, nudged the kid beside him, and jerked his chin in Peter's direction. The second student glanced over, saw the open book, the pages already filled, and rolled his eyes.
"What a show-off."
Peter's pencil froze mid-equation.
His face flushed hot. Slowly, quietly, he closed his notebook and slipped it into his bag like he'd been doing something wrong.
Maybe he shouldn't be working ahead in class. Maybe it did look like he was trying to prove something. That wasn't his intention at all. He just… liked the work. It helped him think and helped him feel more calm.
But now he felt… embarrassed. Stupid. Like he'd broken some unspoken rule.
And, anyway, it seemed a little risky to be carrying all that work around. Especially if his backpack was going to keep disappearing. Probably best to turn it all in now and get rid of it.
When the bell rang and the classroom emptied, Peter hung back and approached Mr. Gaines's cluttered desk.
"Smith," Mr. Gaines said crisply without looking up, typing with theatrical irritation as he attempted to submit attendance for the wrong period.
Peter cleared his throat. "I just wanted to turn this in, sir."
He set the thick stack of papers on the desk.
Gaines blinked at it. Then pulled his glasses down to his nose and started flipping through.
His brow lifted. Then lowered. Then lifted again.
"You did all of this?"
Peter nodded, feeling nervous now.
"You went home and did all the work for the first six weeks?"
"Some of it in class. But I was listening," he added quickly. "I wasn't trying to—"
Gaines leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "Oh. You're one of those."
Peter tensed. "Is… that bad?"
"No, no." Gaines waved a hand vaguely in the air. "It's just… now I have to do something about it. Can't have you stagnating in here, can we?"
He spun his chair and began sorting through the chaos on the opposite end of the desk. Papers rustled. Mugs clinked. Somehow, miraculously, he emerged with a fresh schedule change form.
"Sherry's going to be unhappy but really, when is she not?" he muttered. "Let's see…I've got room in the AP Physics class. I'll put you in, but you'll have to change out your 3rd period class. And then that will get you on track for Modern Physics with me, next year, or perhaps Astronomy, whatever your preference."
Peter stared, mouth agape and then quickly shut his mouth. He'd just wanted to turn in his work.
"And if you can fit Electrical Engineering, I'll put you down for a spot in my 7th period class. As long as you don't mind seeing my ugly mug twice a day, I think that will be a better option than that small group instruction garbage they have you in."
He scribbled a signature onto a schedule change form and slid it over to Peter. "Take this to Sherry Lott in guidance."
"I—um." Peter picked it up carefully, still blinking.
"But I highly recommend you figure out what to do with your 3rd period class before you take this to her. I cannot stress this enough—go do the legwork and then take all your requests to guidance."
Peter nodded slowly. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
"No problem." Gaines said, turning back to his computer. "Godspeed. Quarkspeed. Relativistic luck and all that." He waved Peter away.
Peter stepped into the hallway, the form crinkling slightly in his hand. If two separate teachers, and MJ and Ned thought that his schedule should be changed…then he supposed he should look into it again.
A more challenging physics class and a whole period to study electrical engineering did sound fun. He chewed on his lip.
Peter carefully stashed the schedule change form in a folder.
He and Ned had both agreed—English with Ms. Mendez wasn't exactly cheerful, but it was anlways interesting.
Her classroom felt like a cross between a private study and an antique bookstore. The scent of paper and ink hung faintly in the air, and unlike the harsh fluorescents of most classrooms, the overhead lights were always off. Instead, warm pools of light spilled from a mismatched collection of lamps—tall floor lamps, little brass ones with green glass shades, even a raven-shaped lamp that perched ominously near her desk.
On her desk sat a chipped mug in the shape of a skull that read, Alas, poor Yorick!
They weren't sure if Mendez had a penchant for the macabre, or if dark short stories were simply what sophomore English was all about. But so far, they'd read The Monkey's Paw, The Lottery, The Scarlet Ibis, and The Landlady—an interesting, if slightly chilling, introduction to the semester.
Today's author was Edgar Allan Poe.
Peter knew enough to recognize today would be equally grim. But he didn't mind grim. Grim made sense to him in a way sunshine and small talk sometimes didn't.
He read The Tell-Tale Heart quietly at his desk, eyes flicking over the lines while his pen scratched steadily across notebook paper. When he finished his analysis, he turned it in and then kept reading—two more Poe stories devoured before the bell rang.
Students surged toward the door in a wave of scuffed sneakers, rustling paper, and swinging backpacks. It was the lunch hour rush.
Peter and Ned lingered, as they always did, letting the crowd clear before making their way to the cafeteria to pick up a tray of food, and then to the quiet shade of the courtyard to meet up with MJ.
As the room emptied, he used the moment to check his phone again.
Still nothing.
No word from Harley. No update from Tony.
Peter's chest tightened, but he told himself not to worry. Tony had stayed back "just in case," and if something was really wrong, Peter trusted him to handle it. If Harley would just talk to him.
"Peter?" Ms. Mendez called from her desk. "Can I speak to you for a minute?"
He blinked, startled. "Uh…yes, ma'am."
She held up the short story assignment he'd just turned in, "I wanted to talk to you about your analysis of The Tell-Tale Heart."
Peter's stomach dipped. "Oh. Okay."
Had he completely missed the mark on that one? He thought it made a lot of sense. More sense than The Lottery, at least.
Ms. Mendez waited as the last few students drifted out. Ned lingered by the door, unsure if he should leave, but she didn't seem to mind his presence. She turned back to Peter with a thoughtful smile and tapped a finger lightly against the paper.
"Your interpretation of the narrator's guilt… the way you described it as something that 'sinks into the body and echoes until it finds a way out'—that was an especially striking line. Very perceptive. And your imagery? Beautifully done."
Peter's ears burned. He shifted his weight and avoided her gaze, staring intently at the edge of her desk. "Oh. I just… wrote what made sense."
"Are you a fan of Poe?"
Peter gave her a blank look. Who was a fan of this stuff? He hadn't liked it, exactly. He just happened to relate to the main character's subconscious feelings of overwhelming guilt. But he wasn't going to admit to that.
She must've read something in his expression because she chuckled. "Had you read it before?"
"Oh. No, it was my first time."
"Well, I'm impressed," she said, and handed him back not just that paper, but the others he'd turned in throughout the week—each one marked with a bold red A at the top.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he joined Ned at the door.
"No way!" Ned shook his head, grinning, as he caught a glimpse of the grades. "She didn't like my brilliant theory that the old man was the real villain."
"That's what you wrote about?" Peter laughed.
"Of course!" Ned nodded, completely sincere. "Poe clearly says the old man had an evil eye. My Lola calls that the masamang mata. She says it can curse you—make you sick, make you do stuff. The narrator wasn't a murderer. He was possessed. It was self-defense."
Peter shook his head, still grinning. "I'm amazed that take didn't at least earn points for creativity."
"I know, right?"
They stepped out into the sun, but Peter's smile faded as he glanced down at his phone again.
Still nothing.
The short trek from the cafeteria line to the courtyard was, without fail, the most challenging part of Peter's day.
Balancing his tray with a white-knuckle grip and robotic precision, he followed Ned through the shifting tide of upperclassmen. Some of them pretended not to see him. Others genuinely didn't. Either way, Peter was begrudgingly grateful for whatever past-life training allowed him to move like a ghost through the chaos.
It was loud and overstimulating to the point of nausea—but not as hard as it had been the first day. That day, he hadn't even made it inside the cafeteria. So, technically, this was progress.
Hopefully, by the time the weather turned and eating outside wasn't an option, he'd be able to handle it.
MJ was already waiting on their usual bench, the one tucked into the thin shade of the courtyard's only tree. Her sketchbook was open across her lap, pencil gliding smoothly across the page, though she paused mid-line to study Peter with a gaze that was calm, sharp, and entirely too perceptive.
"What are you so nervous about?"
"Nothing," Peter said quickly, with a shrug that was meant to be casual but probably wasn't.
Did he look nervous? He felt nervous, sure—but he hadn't realized it showed.
He hadn't eaten all morning. Not because he wasn't hungry—he was starving—but because his stomach had been twisted in a knot since before sunrise. His phone had been stubbornly silent through every class, and the longer Harley's silence stretched, the tighter the knot became.
But Tony must've known just when Peter's lunch period was, because he hadn't even sat down yet when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Peter nearly dropped the entire tray.
His fork clattered to the pavement, and a carton of milk tipped sideways as he fumbled for his phone, breath catching in his throat.
MJ caught the milk before it spilled and raised a quiet eyebrow. She didn't say anything else—just watched him, expression unreadable.
Peter didn't notice. His eyes were already fixed on the glowing screen.
Mr. Potts
Just wanted to give you a heads up.
His heart skipped a beat, then launched into a sprint.
Heads up? That could mean anything. It didn't sound good.
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Peter's hands trembled slightly.
"Dude," Ned said softly, leaning over. "Everything alright?"
Peter didn't answer. He barely breathed.
Mr. Potts
I left to pick up Harley. We're headed back to the tower now.
Peter exhaled and sank heavily onto the bench like someone had just let the air out of him.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "It's all good."
He set his phone beside his tray and tried to look interested in the food. But his thoughts were racing. Something had happened—something big, if Tony had personally gone to get him. What was going on?
He felt Ned and MJ still watching, but he cleared his throat and focused on peeling open the milk carton, hoping they'd take the hint.
To their credit, they did—mostly.
MJ shifted the conversation with easy grace, launching into an effort to convince Ned to join Acadec. "You already memorize trivia for fun," she pointed out.
Ned grumbled about overcommitting to too many clubs. MJ rolled her eyes and called bullshit. Ned muttered, "And then there's Flash," and that seemed to be the end of that argument.
Peter nodded along, but he wasn't really listening.
His phone buzzed again, and he snatched it up.
Mr. Potts
We'll be back before you. I texted Happy—he'll give you a ride after school.
Figured you'd rather come straight home than go galivanting around the New York library circuit, or whatever you crazy kids do for fun.
Peter read it once. Then again. A third time, just to be sure.
They'd be back before him?
Peter:
He's with you now?
The reply came fast.
Mr. Potts
Yeah, he's asleep. And his phone's dead. If you were waiting to hear from him, I didn't want you to worry. I've got him.
Peter stared at those last three words.
His shoulders dropped—first an inch, then another. The knot in his chest loosened, and his fingers relaxed around the carton he hadn't touched.
Harley was safe.
With Tony.
And if something was wrong, if something had happened—Tony would fix it. Peter didn't know how, but he believed that now. The way you believe a dam will hold. The way you believe in gravity.
He drew in a deep breath—his first real one all day—and picked up his fork.
It was going to be okay. He just had to make it through the rest of the day. Then he'd be home. And Harley would be there.
And whatever happened next… they'd figure it out.
Peter sat near the back of the chemistry room, where his inattention would be less noticeable. Tucked into the corner, he could quietly scribble calculus problems or doodle chemical diagrams in the margins of his notes, and no one would really see.
Things were getting better—at least a little. Wednesday's lecture on lab safety had been particularly brutal. Peter had barely kept a straight face while Mr. Harrington lectured about eye wash stations and the dangers of leaving a Bunsen burner unattended. Half the stuff he worked with in the Tower lab could melt glass if left unsupervised for too long. And honestly, even if he did screw up in class, it wasn't like he was at any real risk. His quick healing would have him patched up before anyone could even hand him a bandage.
Still, today's assignment wasn't much better—just a simple worksheet on bond energy. It was prep for their first real lab experiment next week, but it didn't take him more than ten minutes to finish.
Now he was idly doodling in the margins again, sketching a rough model of the molecular structure in his web fluid. That was what he'd been calling his polymer formula in his mind lately. It was just like spider silk.
He smirked to himself as he recalled the old lady who'd yelled at him in the alleyway. Even that Karen had agreed, Peter was practically an overgrown spider swinging around on the strands.
Across the room, someone groaned dramatically—followed by a thud that might've been a forehead hitting a desk.
Harrington let out a world-weary sigh, like he'd aged five years since the bell rang.
"Guys," he said, slumping back on his lab stool. "We've been over this. This is not some obscure trick question. It's literally right there in front of you. How many potassium-chloride bonds are broken? Look at the units you just listed in part A."
Peter bit back a smile and went back to his sketch.
A moment later, footsteps approached. He glanced up just as Mr. Harrington dropped into the empty seat beside him, clipboard in hand.
"I can't help but notice you're done early," Harrington said, tapping Peter's worksheet lightly with the end of his pen. "Again."
Peter shifted in his seat. "Yeah, I, um… I just like chemistry."
"That's great. It really is. But, finishing the work in less than ten minutes..."
Peter's face heated with embarrassment and he lowered his eyes. "I'm not trying to be a jerk about it. I'm not trying to show off or anything."
"No, no, no," Harrington said quickly, raising both hands in surrender. "You're not. You're just, you know, beyond what this class is designed for. Did you take chemistry your freshman year, perhaps? Before you transferred?"
Peter hesitated. He couldn't exactly say 'I think I learned organic chemistry while working for Hydra.'
"Not officially." he offered.
Harrington gave him a long, thoughtful look. "Right. Well. I still think you're going to be bored out of your mind in here if we don't get you moved up."
Peter hesitated, biting his lip. He pulled out a paper from his bookbag. "I have a form to request schedule changes." The page had spaces for each period, in case he needed to change the entire day.
Harrington smiled, a little relieved. "I'd be happy to sign it."
By the time Peter walked into 6th period calculus, he was actually feeling pretty good.
Harley was safe with Tony. That cold, tight pressure in his chest had finally started to ease. He had several signatures on his schedule change form now, and a quick visit to Mendez's room had earned him another—approval to move into her 4th period honors section. That freed up a slot for AP Physics, which in turn made room for AP Chemistry. All he had left to change was calculus.
So, when he slid into his seat and pulled out the calculus packet he'd been working on during lunch, he didn't think anything of it. He'd gotten ahead over the week, just like in his other classes. And he especially liked calculus.
The classroom was still settling—chairs screeching, paper rustling, students talking louder than they needed to.
Peter quietly worked ahead for some time, lost in his own world. But after a while, Mr. Scalise's voice cut through the chatter.
"Mr. Smith."
Peter still wasn't completely used to the fake name, so he didn't even look up at first.
Scalise cleared his throat, sharper this time. "Mr. Smith."
Peter startled, looking up. The teacher stood at the front of the room, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
"We're not on independent study here," he said flatly. "The instructions are on the board."
Peter blinked at the whiteboard. There were a few problems hastily scrawled in dry erase marker. They was just estimating limits, not anything complicated.
"Oh—sorry, I thought—" Peter quickly flipped to the correct page. "I just got ahead a little, so I figured I'd keep going."
Scalise's lips thinned. "This isn't a choose-your-own-adventure, Mr. Smith. Stay on task."
Peter bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. "Yes, sir."
He tried to focus on the board. Tried to look normal. But his phone vibrated faintly in his pocket, and his hand twitched instinctively toward it.
His pulse ticked up.
He glanced down, slowly and discreetly pulling the phone halfway from his pocket just to peek at the screen. Nothing urgent. Just Happy confirming he was on his way.
Still, he lingered, double checking there was nothing else, just in case.
"Put it away," Scalise barked from across the room.
Peter flinched. "Sorry. I just—"
"You're not here to check your messages," Scalise interrupted coolly. "You're here to learn calculus. Put it away and keep it there."
Peter swallowed hard and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He could feel half the class watching him now, like the center of a spotlight he didn't ask for.
Okay. So, not going quite as well as the rest of the day. But maybe he could still salvage it.
After class, he waited for the last of the students to shuffle out before stepping up to the front, schedule change form in hand and a neatly stapled stack of work tucked under his arm.
"Mr. Scalise?" Peter asked cautiously. "I, uh—I finished most of the assignments listed on the syllabus already. I was wondering if I could turn them in now?"
Scalise looked up from his laptop, brow furrowing as Peter held out the packet.
He took it without a word and started flipping through the pages.
"You did all of these already?"
Peter nodded. "Yeah. I just like to work ahead. I wasn't sure if I'd lose them—my backpack keeps going missing—so I thought I'd turn them in."
But Scalise didn't look impressed. His eyes sharpened.
"You sure you didn't use any 'outside help' on these?"
Peter blinked, confused. "What?"
"They're too clean. No corrections, no scratch work. And several weeks of work all complete in a matter of days?" Scalise stared at Peter in complete disbelief. "You're telling me you didn't copy from an answer key? Use a calculator that shows steps? ChatGPT? WolframAlpha? Any of the other thousand shortcuts your generation uses to pretend they understand something?"
Peter felt the blood drain from his face. "No. I didn't cheat. I swear."
Scalise tossed the packet onto the desk with a scowl. "You're new, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt this time. But if I see anything else like this—conveniently perfect, suspiciously early—I'll assume it's not your own."
Peter's mouth opened slightly. No sound came out. He slowly lowered the form in his hands.
"And I suggest," Scalise added—not unkind, but firm—"you spend less time trying to impress people and more time actually learning the content."
Peter nodded mutely, cheeks burning.
"Understood," he whispered.
He tucked the schedule change form silently back into his folder, turned, and walked out of the room.
He didn't remember much of his hour in small group instruction, or his walk to the curb after. Just the familiar hum of the city and the throb of embarrassment pulsing behind his ribs.
Happy didn't ask questions when Peter climbed into the car and closed his eyes. He just turned on the radio and left him alone, probably assuming Peter was just tired after a long week.
Peter fiddled with the water bottle Tony had given him that morning, turning it over and over in his hands as the elevator hummed quietly beneath his feet. His leg bounced. His nerves buzzed.
He could hear voices before the elevator even stopped.
They sounded like they were arguing. Peter tensed, wondering if he was about to walk in on a repeat of their last conversation.
"Please tell me it was some kid from school."
"It's not going to happen again, so don't worry about it."
"Damn right it's not going to happen again!"
"I don't want to talk about it, Tony."
The elevator doors slid open and both voices immediately cut off.
Peter stepped out, water bottle still gripped loosely in one hand, his heart pounding harder with every step. The hallway was quiet, but tension hung in the air.
He didn't know why Harley had texted him so early that morning, or why Tony had gone all the way to get him and come back in record time. He didn't know what had happened—or why they were arguing now—but he was desperate to find out.
He rounded the corner into the living room, eyes scanning and landing immediately on Harley.
Slouched at the edge of the couch. Backpack at his feet. And his face—
Peter stopped in his tracks, breath catching in his throat.
A deep, purple bruise marbled Harley's left cheekbone, climbing into the skin beneath his eye. One eye was slightly swollen, lips split at the corner.
Peter stared, unblinking. Trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Harley cleared his throat softly. "Hey, Pete."
He didn't sound like Harley. He sounded so defeated and uncertain.
A spike of white-hot fury surged up from somewhere deep in Peter's chest. His hands clenched before he could stop them—reflexive, protective, violent. The water bottle groaned under the pressure, its aluminum sides collapsing inwards. The cap shot off, clattering to the floor as water spattered, then dripped steadily onto the carpet.
Tony stood up abruptly from the couch. "Whoa—okay. Let's take a seat, yeah?"
Peter didn't move. Couldn't. His eyes were locked on Harley's face, his fists still clenched around the ruined bottle.
"Holy shit." The words escaped under his breath before he could stop himself. "What happened?"
Harley turned his face slightly, as if trying to hide the worst of the bruising. His cheeks flushed pink, and he cleared his throat again, more awkwardly this time. He looked away.
And just like that, Peter's anger cracked. Guilt rushed in to fill the space where fury had burned hot.
Of course Harley was embarrassed. Of course he didn't want to be seen like this.
Peter let out a slow breath, forcing his fingers open, letting the crumpled bottle fall to the floor with a soft clunk. His hands were still shaking with unspent adrenaline, his body still thrummed with the need to fight someone. But he ignored it.
"Hey," he said more gently now, stepping forward. His throat felt tight. "I'm so happy you're here."
He dropped into the seat beside him, careful, tentative. Then he looped an arm around Harley's shoulders—hoping it wasn't too much. He didn't know how this uncertain, nervous version of Harley would respond, but Peter wanted to hug him so badly.
Harley turned into the hug and wrapped his arms around Peter, squeezing him almost too tight.
Everything about Harley felt off. He felt thinner. His heart fluttered against Peter's ribs, too fast. His entire body was tense. Harley always felt solid, steady—like someone who didn't rattle easily. Harley had always oozed calm before. It all felt wrong. He felt wrong.
Peter held on, unsure what else to do.
"You okay?" he whispered, knowing it was the wrong question even as he asked it.
Harley nodded into his shoulder and pulled away, keeping his face turned. Avoiding Peter's eyes.
"What happened?" Peter asked again, quieter this time.
Harley's shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. "It's not important."
Peter's stomach twisted. It was the way he said it—flat, tired, like he believed it.
Tony bent down beside them, quietly picking up the mangled bottle. "I'm gonna grab a towel," he muttered, and padded off.
Harley's gaze dropped to the floor. "He's mad. Says he isn't, but…"
Peter shook his head. "No way. Not at you."
"Yeah. He said that too." Harley gave a short, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "But he wants answers and I don't have any for him. It's going to drive him insane."
Peter sat back. He didn't know what to say to that. He wanted answers too. And it didn't make any sense for Harley to refuse to tell Stark who hurt him.
"Who are you protecting?" he asked quietly.
Harley's gaze snapped up, startled. Like the question had landed somewhere too close to the truth.
Bingo.
But before Peter could press, Tony returned, towel in hand.
Harley stood abruptly, grabbing his backpack. "I'm gonna shower. Been in these clothes forever."
Peter watched the door to the guest room click shut behind him.
His hoodie was soaked. His hands still trembled faintly.
"I'm sorry about the water bottle," he mumbled.
Tony crouched beside him, shaking out the towel. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Honestly, I'm surprised you don't accidentally break things all the time. Sometimes I forget you even—"
"I have super hearing."
Tony froze.
Peter rushed ahead. "I can hear everything. Especially when I focus. It's usually just background noise—but at night, or when it's quiet, I can pick stuff out."
Tony's face went blank in a way Peter had only seen a handful of times—his brain clearly running through every past moment, recalibrating.
"When Harley was here last time, he got a voicemail. I wasn't in the room when he played it, but I heard some of it."
Tony's expression sharpened. "Who was it?"
Peter lowered his voice. "Some guy. Older. He was yelling. Something about Harley's mom. Money. It was threatening."
Tony exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Super hearing," he muttered to himself before scrubbing a hand over his face. "Why did I think this would be a good day to start cutting back on coffee? I'm going to need a second arc reactor just to power through the weekend."
"Sorry." Peter bit his lip.
Tony waved a hand half-heartedly. "One kid casually dropping a bombshell that makes me want to replay everything I've said in the past two months, and another walking around beaten to a pulp and pretending nothing's wrong. The two of you should come with waiver forms for heart attack and aneurysm risk."
Peter thought about Stark's attempt at being healthier this morning and felt a concerned pang in his chest. Was Peter so stressful he was causing Stark to get sick?
He glanced at him sideways, a worried crease in his brow. "Are you okay?"
Tony looked over, read the question behind the question. His gaze softened slightly. "I'm fine, Pete."
Peter's fingers twisted in the hem of his sleeve.
"Is Harley going to stay here for a while? Because he can't go back home. Whatever's going on. He can't go back."
Tony drew in a breath. "I know, kid."
"You should tell him that," Peter said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. "So he doesn't wonder."
Tony stilled. His gaze flicked back to Peter.
Peter met his gaze. "Are you gonna talk to him?"
"Yeah, Pete. I'm gonna talk to him."
"Don't let him deflect."
Tony snorted. "What do I even need those books for?" he muttered nonsensically to himself. Then he reached forward, ruffling Peter's hair gently before resting a hand on his shoulder. Peter wished—just a little—that it had been a hug.
"We will talk about the super hearing later," Tony said.
"I know."
"Like, extensively."
"I know," Peter said again.
"I'm glad you told me, kid."
Peter nodded again, this time more confidently. "Yeah. Me too."