Peter perched on a kitchen stool, absently tapping his fingers against the polished granite in front of him, feeling the faint, satisfying tug as his fingertips adhered and released from the surface. He smirked quietly to himself. It was becoming a game now, seeing what he could stick to without anyone noticing.
He'd tried almost every material in the kitchen as he waited for Harley to wake up. And then he wondered if there were any materials that he couldn't stick to. Peter knew now that the setae on his skin were generating an electrostatic field, so, theoretically, he'd be able to form the sticky bond even through clothing. But what about shoes? And what thickness of clothing? And did the surface have to be smooth? What about that banana? Would he stick to the banana?
"You okay, kid?" A plate of pancakes slid in front of him and Peter almost jumped as Stark pulled his attention back to breakfast. "You're looking at the bananas like they offended you."
"Oh, no, they're fine." A flush crept up his neck. "I'm just thinking." He really needed to reign in the weirdness this morning.
Stark's gaze lingered a moment and then he passed him an envelope from that morning's stack of mail.
Peter looked at it with wide eyes. "Is this mine?"
He nodded. "Your first bit of mail that isn't a book order. Go on, open it up."
Peter grasped it nervously. It was from Midtown Tech. Should he open it right then? He swallowed hard, his mind racing with possibilities. What if he didn't get in? What if he wasn't good enough? But Mr. Stark would find out eventually, wouldn't he? It didn't really matter if it was now or later.
He took a breath and ripped the paper open. He pulled out the sheets of crisply folded paper and scanned one with mounting confusion. "I have no idea what I'm looking at."
Mr. Stark came to stand beside him and peered over his shoulder.
"Looks like your raw scores…and wow. Yeah, you did pretty awesome, kiddo."
He wiggled his fingers in a 'gimme' gesture, and Peter handed over the papers, feeling a strange mix of hope and dread. Tony skimmed through the first page quickly, his eyes flicking over the numbers. Then he paused at the second sheet, and a smile tugged at his lips.
Without a word, he handed the second sheet back to Peter. "Here's the one you're looking for."
Peter's gaze quickly settled on the bolded words at the center of the page and he read them aloud. "Congratulations. You've been accepted to Midtown School of Science and Technology."
For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The words felt surreal, but there they were, solid and undeniable.
Tony clapped him on the back with a hearty thud, the sudden contact jarring Peter from his daze. Then, in a rare, unguarded moment, Tony's hand slid to Peter's shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Congrats, bud, I knew you'd get in."
Peter's shoulders instinctively climbed up to his ears, his body tensing for a split second at the unexpected touch before settling and recognizing that he liked it. He was used to Pepper's little pats and squeezes, and he was used to Stark occasionally steering him around with a light touch on the shoulder. But this felt almost like a hug. It felt like Stark was proud of him.
And just as quickly as the warmth had settled over him, the man let go, stepping back to with casual ease.
"Don't think I've forgotten you need to open the rest of those presents today. We had a deal. And Pepper will want to get you some more clothes before school starts." Tony returned to flipping pancakes leaving Peter to stare at the letter and think about the lingering feeling of the almost-embrace.
He stuck himself to the letter and released it a few times as he smiled to himself.
A few minutes later Harley strolled in, yawning and staring at his phone. "Morning."
"Hey." Peter frowned at the sight of him. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept at all. The teen was still focused on his phone as he sat next to Peter. "Everything alright?"
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah." Harley stashed the phone in a pocket and perked up. "Are those pancakes?"
Then Pepper joined them and Peter was struck by the domestic feel of it all. He was eating pancakes in this bright, sunny kitchen and it felt so much like he was part of a family, it almost hurt.
He adhered and released his fingers to his plate a few times as he carried it to the sink. Then, he absently thought to try sticking his feet to the kitchen floor, too. He was wearing socks, so he gave it a little more effort, thinking he'd have to overcome the fabric—and promptly went down like a ton of bricks, his foot rooted firmly in place and the plate rolling on the tile.
"Jesus, kid!" "What the hell just happened?" and "Are you okay?" erupted all around him as he scrambled to rise, fumbling to unstick his foot in his embarrassment.
"Yep! Yeah, I'm good, thanks." Peter's face burned red as Mr. Stark, Pepper, and Harley stared wide-eyed at his uncharacteristic clumsiness. He picked up his plate and made it the rest of the way to the sink in as dignified a manner as possible, but internally he was kicking himself. Of all the stupid things. Did he really have to try that right then and there?
Peter's face continued to burn as he rinsed the plate slowly and hoped they weren't still staring at him. Luckily Harley spotted the letter.
"Hey, are these your test scores? And your acceptance letter? Holy cow! Why didn't you say anything?" And then everyone's attention was blessedly turned towards that, instead.
Peter really needed to be more careful about toying with his abilities in front of everyone. He didn't want them to know about what he could do, and he wasn't sure why. He trusted them. But the topic of his enhancements, his strangeness, his otherness, was a little… well, embarrassing. His abilities were cool and all, but they also represented everything that was so very wrong with him. He had used these enhancements in another life. Hydra had valued him for these abilities. Hydra had probably given him these abilities. And when he thought about it like that, it never failed to wipe the grin right off his face and made him shudder instead.
He didn't want to bring it up. He didn't want to discuss it. He wanted to be normal.
So, when the congratulations had died down again, and breakfast was done, Peter suggested the most normal thing he could think of. "We could put together one of the Lego sets and watch a movie."
Harley scoffed, "Why would we build a Lego set when we could build something real? Let's go to the lab."
Okay. That sounded good, too, honestly. Especially since Mr. Stark had cleared his weekend. And, sure, maybe hanging out with Tony Stark in his lab, surrounded by Ironman armor and other futuristic tech was not the most normal Saturday morning experience. But the three of them working together in the lab reminded him of those early days together at the compound. And maybe that was as normal as Peter was going to get. So, he followed them to the lab.
Harley seemed excited, too, flitting from one worktable to another. He wanted to see all the updates, check out all the new designs. He even opened a few projects to get started on, though quickly abandoned one in favor of another.
But after an hour of that, Peter began to suspect that Harley's excitement was really something else. It was like he was trying to cram as much into his last day as he could. Or, perhaps he was trying to distract himself by never sitting still for too long.
"What about the haptic feedback glove? Tony said you solved the problem with the material stability." Harley asked with a hopeful glance at Peter.
"I did fix it. I think." Peter's gaze flicked to the cabinets where he stashed all the likely candidates as well as the failed formulas. All 276 of them. It had been a nice distraction over the summer. "We have a few options we can try out."
"Let's get started on that."
Peter laughed uncertainly. "Yeah, okay. But how much can we realistically get done in one day? We'd need a week just to get all the electrodes embedded and calibrated."
Harley narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like a challenge."
Stark hummed in agreement from across the room. He spun in his chair to face the teens. "Challenge accepted" He pointed to a ceiling censor. "FRIDAY, order a few pizzas. We're going to need sustenance for the upcoming engineering bender."
Peter raised an eyebrow, unsure if they were joking. Harley was already on his feet, stretching like he was about to run a marathon, while Tony cracked his knuckles with an exaggerated flourish.
Peter stared at them, his grin growing despite himself. "Is this for real? Because it sounds ridiculous."
Harley started rolling his shoulders. "Oh, man, this is going to be like that one time a couple years ago… Pepper got so mad at you."
"Hush." Mr. Stark glared as he checked the empty pot of coffee. "We'll need to hydrate—just plain water for you, Pete—but not so much hydrating that you'll need a ton of bathroom breaks." He glanced at the clock. "We've got about 16 or 17 hours ahead of us, depending on how long we can fend Pepper off at bedtime."
"You're not serious." Peter asked in disbelief.
Harley smirked, tossing a screwdriver from one hand to the other. "Oh, he is. Our record stands at 19 hours, but we wasted too much time having breakfast today to beat that. It's not much compared to Tony's personal solo record of almost 72 hours, but…"
"Yeah, that sounds healthy," Peter shot a look at Mr. Stark, who pretended not to hear. "Exactly how does one 'fend off' Pepper, anyway?"
"Not easily," Tony huffed under his breath.
"She used to get called away mysteriously to put out minor but suspiciously sudden PR fires and interdepartmental disputes at SI. But that doesn't happen anymore now that Tony is a responsible, considerate grown-up."
"Shut up," Tony muttered, shoving Harley lightly on the shoulder.
"Ouch!"
Across from him, Tony and Harley hunched over a prototype haptic glove, the table between them cluttered with materials—spools of conductive thread, flexible polymers, and tiny vibration motors. They'd spent several hours experimenting with different combinations until they settled on the most promising build —something flexible, responsive, and durable.
While the glove material cured in a nearby machine, Tony and Harley pivoted to programming different simulations to try out. But Peter's attention drifted to a set of vials on the far side of the lab bench. They contained remnants of his failed polymer experiments, cloudy liquids swirling like miniature storms in glass. Tony had muttered something about disposing of them, but Peter couldn't. They weren't right for this project, but perhaps they could be useful somewhere else? Formula 98 and 212 in particular deserved a second look.
He'd shot one out of a syringe and though it had emerged as a liquid, the polymer had quickly hardened into a strong thread that stuck to almost anything it touched. That was really cool. Too cool to just toss in the garbage, at least.
With a quick glance to ensure Tony and Harley were engrossed in their work, Peter slid the vials into a pocket. Then he rejoined them, eager to get back to work. It felt good to be a part of a team and see all the pieces come together into a workable, functional prototype. Peter could see how endless hours could pass in the lab in the blink of an eye when you had good company working with you.
But so many hours in close proximity made it all the more apparent that something was up with Harley. Every few minutes, he would snap a piece of equipment together with unnecessary force or tap his micro pliers rhythmically against the table, the metallic clinking echoing through the lab. It was bizarre, seeing the typically relaxed teen so unsettled. His body stayed in nervous motion, and he frequently glanced at his phone, though it never seemed to get any notifications. And Peter caught him biting his thumbnail more than once—something he'd never seen Harley do before.
His restlessness was beginning to make Peter nervous. Stark didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he made no mention. He just kept handing Harley tools as they both hummed energetically together like a pair of worker bees. If Peter drank some coffee he could probably match their manic energies. But coffee was forbidden to him, now.
By lunchtime, Peter's curiosity gnawed at him. Stark had kicked them out to eat their pizza in the penthouse kitchen and "stretch their legs for a few minutes" before they'd be allowed back into the lab. So maybe Mr. Stark had picked up on Harley's restlessness.
They sat side by side at the kitchen island, scarfing down pizza. It was quiet in the penthouse without Tony or Pepper, and Peter felt the weight of unsaid words pressing in.
"You could stay longer," Peter blurted, his voice cutting through the silence. "Work with us in the lab for a few more days.
Harley looked pained. "Pete."
"I bet we could perfect the simulated temperature range. I actually just read a paper on skin's thermoreception and I think we can take advantage of the relative perception—"
"Pete!" Harley's hand shot out, resting firmly on Peter's arm, halting his ramble. "I need to get back."
"Oh." The word felt heavier than it should have, sinking into Peter's chest. He dropped his gaze to his half-eaten slice, tracing patterns in the greasy cardboard box. Peter's chest tightened. Was Harley bored of hanging out? Was he eager to get home?
"I have… work," Harley mumbled the weak excuse.
"Yeah." Peter replied softly.
"But I'll be back again soon. Probably around Thanksgiving break."
Peter's brows knit together. "That's, um… in November, right?"
"Yeah. Fourth Thursday of November. I'll come up right after. Tony will get me a ticket."
Peter nodded, but the weight of Harley's impending absence was already settling over him like a shadow.
After a few moments of quiet, Harley stretched and stood up, ruffling Peter's hair playfully before grabbing their plates. "Come on. Let's get back to work. I want to hear more about that paper on thermoreception you read."
Peter managed a small smile and followed Harley back to the lab, where the glove material had finished curing. The lab felt different now—the earlier buzz of excitement had dulled into something quieter, more subdued. Still, Peter found comfort in the familiar hum of machines and the soft clinking of tools.
By the time Pepper demanded their release from the lab, they'd already fine-tuned most of the basic haptic sensations and were already coming up with ideas for the next time they had a chance to work non-stop all day.
Stark downed the rest of his coffee, apparently preparing to get back to his own projects now that Harley and Peter were leaving. "Good work, boys. That was a surprisingly fun diversion. And I mean it when I say this— that was some very fine engineering from the two of you. I'm impressed."
Peter blushed under the praise, and even Harley glanced at the floor with a small, satisfied grin. Peter didn't want to end the evening.
"We should work on it again the next time Harley visits. There's so much we can do, too. It's got a lot of potential, even beyond the world of gaming I mean."
Stark nodded. "What are you thinking?"
Peter shrugged. "Virtual surgical training that surgeons can actually feel."
"Cool, I like that one." Harley thought for a moment. "How about actual surgery? Use the glove to remotely operate with those skinny little rods, what are they called?"
"Laparoscopes I think."
"Yeah! Any remote operation of a robot could be improved, really. Remotely disarm a bomb with haptic gloves. Remotely steer a rover on Mars..."
Mr. Stark watched them quietly, a small smile on his lips as he listened to their brainstorming. Most people would argue that Tony Stark couldn't possibly ooze pride for anyone besides himself, yet here he was, doing just that. And Peter was loathe to leave.
It wasn't too late by the time they got back to the penthouse. It was still dark outside, after all. The city lights still glimmered against the night sky, casting faint reflections on the windows. The wakeful energy of the city at night combined with their adrenaline rush from a successful lab day. Neither of them felt like sleeping, so they went to Peter's room to watch a movie. Harley's flight wasn't until the afternoon anyway.
While Peter changed, Harley pulled all the cushions off the living room sofa and dragged them into his room, arranging them into a makeshift couch on the floor.
"Okay," Harley announced, flopping dramatically onto a cushion. "Are we going with nerdy essentials or a more general pop-culture education?"
Peter bit his lip, considering. "Nerdy essentials."
Harley grinned wide, pleased with the answer. Any movie was an education for Peter, but he was glad to pick something they'd both enjoy.
Peter left to grab drinks and make sandwiches. The penthouse was quiet. Pepper had gone to bed the moment she confirmed both boys had actually made it back from the lab. So, no one should have been talking, but Peter clearly heard a distant, angry voice.
He paused with the lunch meat still in his hands and tilted his head to the sound. It wasn't Harley's voice, that much was clear, and it had a strange recorded-quality. Too late he realized it was a voicemail, and he really shouldn't be listening. But the words had carried through the still air and been heard regardless.
"…your bitch of a mother. She owes me. I'll take it right out of your damn garage, kid. Don't think I won't. If I can't get in I'll just take it out of your room. And tell her I never want to see her again. If she even turns up, I…"
Peter tried humming to himself to drown it out. Harley would not want him to hear this, whatever it was.
But what if he was in danger? Peter stopped humming, bit down on his lip and listened. But it seemed the voicemail was finished.
He hurriedly made the sandwiches and ran back to the room, careful of the plates he was laden down with. He didn't want to drop yet another dish today, or worse, wake Pepper.
He drew up short and paused in his own doorway. Harley sat on the floor, his phone clutched tightly in one hand, the other raking through his hair in frustration. His face was tense, his jaw set in a way that made Peter's stomach twist.
"Everything okay?"
Harley jumped, nearly dropping his phone. "Jeez. You're like a cat, sneaking around like that. Do you even make noise when you walk?"
Peter raised an eyebrow, silently waiting. Harley was good at changing the subject, but Peter could be patient. He set a plate down in front of Harley and took a seat next to him, watching quietly.
"I narrowed it down to Stardust, Serenity, or Rogue One. Want to pick, or should I?" Harley asked, his voice light, but his eyes flicked nervously to Peter's.
Peter didn't take the bait. "What's up? You look worried." He nodded toward the phone. "And you've been checking that all day."
Harley hesitated, then gave a casual shrug, his expression almost convincing. "Just doom-scrolling. No big deal."
It was a lie. He knew that, but what was he supposed to do with it? Should he press? Would Harley press if the roles were reversed? Peter frowned, turning the question over in his mind. Harley wouldn't push him to talk—he'd pick up on the signals and respect Peter's privacy. Right?
"You pick, they're all new to me," Peter said finally, settling onto his bed as Harley stretched out on the floor cushions.
He split his attention between the movie, his growing sense of concern, and his deep dissatisfaction with himself.
Harley was so good at being a friend. He made it look easy, but Peter was finding it pretty hard. He didn't know how to make someone feel comfortable enough to share what bothered them, couldn't take their mind off of things, or make people laugh like Harley could.
Peter frowned. He was an awful friend, wasn't he? A good friend would know what to do and what to say.
And who was that guy on the phone, anyway? And why was Harley in a rush to get back? Should he tell Stark? Peter frowned and glanced back at Harley. But the teen had already drifted off.
"Could you get the lights, FRI? And turn down the tv as low as it'll go," Peter whispered. He could hear the movie well enough anyway, whatever the volume was. FRI wordlessly adjusted everything as Peter drew the covers up around him and finished the movie in near silence.
Peter woke with a start, his heart pounding from another nightmare. The darkness of the room pressed in, feeling hot and suffocating… but then he heard it. The slow, steady rhythm of another's breathing, soft and even. He wasn't alone. Harley was still there.
Peter settled back down onto his pillow as he watched the other boy's outline in the gloom. His pulse began to slow, his own breaths syncing with the rise and fall of Harley's chest.
The weight that usually sat heavy on his heart after nightmares began to ease. His friend's presence was reassuring, even asleep. It felt like he had someone there to watch his back. He could let his guard down and rest. Whatever shadows haunted him at the edge of his dreams, they couldn't come find him here, not with Harley just feet away.
Peter closed his eyes again, letting the quiet comfort of another's steady presence lull him back to sleep. His last thought as he drifted off was how he'd never experienced this before. The fight to get back to sleep each night was normally a long and frustrating one.
He drifted off easily for the first time in his memory, and his dreams were peaceful. No nightmares. No shadows lurking in the corners of his mind. Just the quiet reassurance that, for now, for this moment, he was safe.
When morning light crept through the curtains, Peter was still asleep, his breathing even and undisturbed. And when he finally stirred, it was with a quiet, contented sigh.
