Chapter Text
The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was a heavy, suffocating thing that settled over the bedroom like dust on a grave.
Tony stared at the space where Peter had stood, where Morgan had been, and his hands were still trembling beneath the blanket. The scarring on his fingers felt like a brand, or like something obscene that he should have hidden better. He should have kept it away from her. His daughter. His baby girl, who had looked at him like he was something risen from a horror film.
He may as well have. He’d practically clawed his way back from the dead; how was he any different to monsters on TV screens?
"Tony," Pepper whispered again, and her hand found his under the covers, her fingers threading through his, careful of the twisted skin.
He turned his head slowly, and looked at her. She was beautiful and exhausted and trying her hardest. There were lines around her eyes that hadn't been there five years ago, and there was the beginnings of silver threading through her hair. There was exhaustion etched so deep into her face it looked like part of her bone structure.
She was still beautiful. She would always be beautiful.
But she looked like she had been carrying the weight of the world, and he had just added another ton to the load.
"She's got my nose," Tony said, his voice sounding distant, like it was coming from underwater. "I saw it. When she was... when she was yelling. That's my nose. God help her."
Pepper's tears were still falling, silent tracks down her cheeks. "Tony-"
"And your eyes," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. He couldn't stop now that he'd started; the words were tumbling out, bitter and broken. "Of course she got your gorgeous eyes. Lucky kid. But the hair... that curl, the color..." He laughed, and it sounded like glass breaking. "My mother's hair. Mama's hair. I used to have curls like that when I was small, before I grew up and everything went to hell."
"Tony, please-"
"She's gorgeous," he interrupted, and his voice cracked on the word. "She's absolutely gorgeous, Pep. She's perfect. And she already hates me."
Pepper made a wounded sound and leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, but Tony kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his jaw tight.
"I guess I'm just like my father," he said quietly, almost conversationally, like he was commenting on the weather. "I suppose I didn't break the cycle after all. Howard probably looked at me like that sometimes. Like I was a monster. Like I was something scary that had wandered into his perfect life and ruined everything."
"Don't," Pepper gasped, lifting her head, her hands coming up to cradle his face, forcing him to look at her. "Don't you dare say that. Don't you dare compare yourself to him. You are nothing like Howard Stark."
"Aren't I?" Tony asked, and he smiled at her, sad and empty. "I'm terrifying. I scared her already. I show up after years of absence and expect her to love me just because of biology. Just because of blood." He pulled one hand free from hers and gestured vaguely at the door. "She's got a father, Pep. He's down the hall right now, rocking her to sleep. He's the one who earned it. Not me."
"Peter is her brother," Pepper said firmly, though her voice was shaking. "He loves her, yes, but you're her father. You and me. We made her."
"Making her wasn't the hard part," Tony said. "The hard part was everything after. And I missed it. I missed all of it, and now..." He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Now I'm the boogeyman. I'm the thing she has nightmares about. And Peter... Peter's her safe place. He's her home."
Pepper was crying harder now, her composure cracking, and Tony hated himself for it. He hated that he had come back only to make everything worse; all he’d done so far was hurt the people he loved most in the world.
"He's been so good, Pep," Tony said softly, opening his eyes again, staring at the ceiling. "You can't deny that. He's been... incredible. Better than I ever could have been, probably. Even if I'd been here."
"Stop it," Pepper choked out. "Stop doing this. Stop punishing yourself."
"Someone has to," Tony replied, and he turned his head away from her, toward the window, where the afternoon light was fading into something cold and gray. "I’m… I think I might try to get some rest. It was a long flight back."
"Tony-"
"Please."
She hesitated, her hand hovering over his shoulder, then withdrew. He heard her stand, heard the soft rustle of her clothes, the catch in her breath as she tried to take a deep breath.
"I love you," she whispered. "We will fix this. I promise."
Tony didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the window until he heard the door open and close, until he was alone in the room with the beeping monitors and the ghost of his daughter's screams.
He lay there for a long time, staring at nothing, feeling the hollow in his chest expand until it consumed him entirely.
—
Down the hall, Peter sat on the floor of his bedroom with Morgan curled in his lap, her tears soaking through the shoulder of his t-shirt, her small body trembling with the aftershocks of her breakdown.
He rocked her slowly and carefully, one hand stroking her hair while the other rubbed circles on her back. He'd been doing this for twenty minutes now, maybe thirty - time had lost its meaning somewhere around the third sob.
"It's okay, bug," he murmured for the hundredth time. "You're okay. I've got you."
"I want you," Morgan murmured into his neck, her voice hoarse and broken. "I don't want him. I want you."
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, and the guilt settled like a stone in his stomach. "I know, Morgan. I know you do. But Mr. Stark... he's your dad. He's really your dad."
"He's scary," she whispered, and her arms tightened around his neck until he could barely breathe. "His hands were scary. And he looked at me like... like he wanted to take me away from you."
Peter's heart cracked open, bleeding into his chest. "No, no, no - he would never, Morgan. He loves you. He's just... he's been gone a long time, and he missed you so much. He just wants to know you."
"I don't care," Morgan said, but her voice was smaller now, exhausted. "I don't want him to know me. I want you."
Peter didn't know what to say to that.
He just held her tighter, rocking her as her breathing slowly evened out, as her grip on his neck loosened by degrees. Eventually, her weight went heavy against him - she'd cried herself to sleep, her face pressed against his collarbone, her small hands fisted in his shirt.
Peter sat there for a long time, not moving, and staring at the wall across from him.
He should put her in her bed. He should... do something. But he felt paralyzed, like he was trapped on the floor, between the girl in his arms and the man she'd left bleeding emotionally three rooms away.
A soft knock at the door made him jump.
He turned his head, expecting Tony, but it was Pepper standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, her eyes red-rimmed but her expression composed. She looked at the two of them, at Morgan asleep in his lap, and something complicated crossed her face.
Love, maybe. Sadness.
Guilt.
"Peter," she said quietly. "Can we talk?"
He nodded mutely, not trusting his voice. Pepper stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, then crossed to the small armchair in the corner - the one Peter usually sat in when he read to Morgan at night. She sat down heavily, as if her legs couldn't hold her anymore, and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees.
"How is she?" Pepper asked.
"Asleep," Peter whispered. He adjusted Morgan slightly, cradling her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Stark. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for - I should have prepared her better. I should have explained more, I should have-"
"Peter," Pepper interrupted, her voice firm but gentle. "Stop. This is not your fault."
"It feels like my fault," Peter said, and he couldn't keep the misery out of his voice. "She's so upset, and she's confused, and I just... I didn't know how to make her understand. I didn't know how to make her see that he's... that he's her dad."
Pepper was quiet for a moment, studying him.
Peter felt exposed under her gaze. He still felt so stupid and raw and inadequate despite the fact that he'd been trying so hard for five years to do everything right; to be what Morgan needed - and now he'd failed at the one thing that mattered most - helping her accept her real father.
"You've been incredible," Pepper said finally, and her voice was thick with emotion. "Peter, do you understand that? What you've done for her - for us - it's beyond what we ever could have asked for. You've been the most amazing big brother she could have had."
"I'm not her brother," Peter said automatically, exhaustion filtering in. "Not really. Not by blood."
"Family isn't blood," Pepper said. "You know that better than anyone. You've been her family. You've been... you've been everything to her."
Peter looked down at Morgan's sleeping face, at the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks, and his chest ached with love and fear.
"I don't know how to convince her," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I don't know how to make her understand that Mr. Stark is her dad. He should be the one she wants."
"She's four," Pepper said softly. "She's scared and she's overwhelmed and she doesn't have the capacity to understand what she's feeling right now. She just knows that her world changed today, and she's trying to hold onto the thing that feels safest."
"Me," Peter said, and it wasn't a question.
"You," Pepper confirmed. "And that's not wrong, Peter. That's not bad. You are safe. You are her safe place. But she needs to learn that she can have more than one safe place. That she can love more than one person."
Peter shook his head, frustrated. "But she doesn't want to. She doesn't want him. And I don't know how to... I don't know how to make her want him without hurting her or making her feel like I'm abandoning her. I just… I don’t know. I’m no good at this. I don’t know what to do."
Pepper was quiet for a long moment, her fingers steepled under her chin. When she spoke again, her voice was careful.
"Peter... have you considered that maybe part of the problem is that she sees you as her father figure? And that if she sees you acknowledge Tony as your father figure, she might follow suit?"
Peter blinked, confused. "What?"
"She calls you dad," Pepper said. "She has for... well, for a while now, hasn't she? Even if you correct her, that's how she sees you. That's the role you fill in her life. And if you keep calling Tony 'Mr. Stark' - if you keep that distance between you - she's going to sense that. She's going to think that if you're not his son, then she doesn't have to be his daughter either."
Peter felt his face heat up, embarrassment flooding through him. "I... I don't..."
"Peter," Pepper said, leaning forward, her eyes earnest. "What I'm suggesting is... maybe it would help if you stopped calling him Mr. Stark. Maybe you should acknowledge that he's your dad, too."
Peter stared at her, his mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out. His face was burning now, hot with shame and something else - something that felt dangerously like hope.
"I... I can't just..." Peter stammered. "That's not... he never asked me to..."
"He invented time travel for you," Pepper said flatly. "He moved heaven and earth to bring you back. He died, Peter. He died to save you, and then he came back and the first thing he did when he woke up was make sure you were okay."
Peter's throat closed up.
"He's been your father in every way that matters for years now," Pepper continued, her voice softer now. "And I think... I think he's probably more upset that you aren't calling him dad now than he is about anything else, honestly. He loves you, Peter. You're his son. He just doesn't know how to say it any more than you do."
Peter looked down at Morgan again, at her peaceful face, and he thought about Tony - about the way he'd looked when Morgan screamed at him.
The devastation in his eyes. The way he'd pulled his hand back under the blanket, hiding himself away.
"I don't know if I can," Peter admitted, his voice cracking. "It feels... presumptuous. I feel like… I'm claiming something that isn't mine."
"It is yours," Pepper said firmly. "It's been yours. You just have to accept it."
Peter was quiet for a long moment, the silence broken only by Morgan's soft breathing and the distant hum of the house's systems. He thought about calling Tony "dad," and thought about how it would feel, how it would sound.
Terrifying. Impossible.
Like something he'd wanted for so long he'd stopped letting himself want it.
"What if he minds?" Peter asked carefully, not looking up. "What if... what if he doesn't want that? From me?"
"Peter," Pepper said, and there was something in her voice that made him look up - a fond exasperation, a warmth that made his chest ache. "I think he's probably been waiting for you to call him dad since the day he brought you home the first time."
Peter's face burned hotter, embarrassment and hope warring in his chest. He ducked his head, pressing his cheek against Morgan's hair, hiding his expression.
"Okay," he murmured. "Okay. I'll... I'll try."
"Good," Pepper said, and she stood up, crossing to him. She crouched down beside him and put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "You're a good kid, Peter. You've been the best thing that ever happened to this family, in a lot of ways. Don't forget that."
Peter nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Pepper stood up again, smoothing her clothes, and walked toward the door.
She paused with her hand on the knob.
"He's hurting," she said, not turning around. "Tony. He's taking this harder than he's letting on. If you could... if you could talk to him. When you're ready. It might help the both of you."
"I will," Peter said. "I promise."
Pepper nodded, then opened the door and stepped out, closing it softly behind her.
Peter sat there for a long time, holding Morgan. He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled her strawberry shampoo. He thought about Tony's face and about the way he'd looked when Morgan rejected him. He thought about all the years of "Mr. Stark" and "kid" and the careful distance Tony had maintained, and how maybe that distance had been as much Tony's fear as it had been Peter's.
He looked down at Morgan and whispered, "We're going to fix this, bug. I promise. We're going to fix it."
Morgan stirred slightly in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and Peter held her tighter.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would try.
He would call Tony "dad" and he would help Morgan understand that she could love them both, that there was room in her heart for all of them.
But for now, he just sat in the fading light and held Morgan and waited for the courage to do it, even if his knees cramped from where Morgan was sprawled across him.
—
Peter found him an hour later, still lying in the same position, staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes.
The room had grown dark, the only light coming from the hallway through the cracked door. Tony didn't look up when Peter entered.
"Mr. Stark?" Peter's voice was tentative, barely above a whisper.
Tony blinked slowly, like he was coming up from deep water, and turned his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy. He'd been crying, Peter realized, or maybe just lying there too long without blinking. "Hey, kid," he said, and his voice was rough, scraped raw. "She okay?"
"She's asleep," Peter said, hovering in the doorway. "In her room. I... I put her down."
Tony nodded, a small movement, and turned his head back to the ceiling. "Good. That's good."
Peter hesitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His hands were sweating. He'd rehearsed this in the hallway and muttered the words to himself like a script; but now that he was here, looking at Tony's broken expression, he couldn't remember how to start.
"Mrs. Stark talked to me," Peter blurted out, then immediately wanted to take it back. He stepped further into the room, close enough to see the way Tony's jaw tightened. "She said... she said maybe I should call you... that maybe it would help Morgan if..."
He trailed off, mortified, his face burning.
Tony turned his head again, frowning slightly. "If what?"
Peter swallowed hard.
"If I called you dad," he muttered, staring at his shoes. "So Morgan would see, and she'd know… that it's okay. That you're... that you're her dad, and also… but only if you don’t mind. I know it’s…" He couldn't finish. He stood there, mortified, waiting for Tony to laugh or tell him that was ridiculous or-
Tony laughed.
It wasn't a happy sound, exactly - it was wet, broken, a little bit desperate - but it was real. He brought one hand up to cover his eyes, his shoulders shaking with it.
"Oh, kid," he said, his voice thick. "Oh, Peter. You think I mind? You think I'd mind that?"
Peter looked up, startled. Tony had dropped his hand and was looking at him with something raw and open in his expression, something that looked almost like relief.
"I don't mind," Tony said softly. "I don't mind, Peter. I just... I didn't think you'd want to. After everything. After how I left you, and how I scared her."
Peter shook his head, feeling his throat close up.
"I missed you," he said, and the words came out choked, broken. "I missed you so much, and I was trying to do everything right for her, but I didn't know how, and I just... I missed you."
He was crying now, embarrassingly, tears spilling over his cheeks.
He wiped at them with the back of his hand, hating himself for falling apart. He was being selfish again and making this about him when Tony was the one who'd been through hell.
But Tony was reaching out, his scarred hand extending from under the blanket, grasping at the air between them.
"Come here," Tony said, his voice rough. "Come here, kid."
Peter moved forward, tentative, and then Tony's hand found his wrist and tugged. Not hard - he didn't have the strength for hard - but insistent. Peter let himself be pulled as Tony guided him down to sit on the edge of the bed.
"I can't-" Peter started, worried, eyeing the medical equipment as he glanced down to make sure he didn’t knock into anything. Tony was still so fragile under the blankets, and Peter didn’t want to ruin this, too. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," Tony said, and he tugged again. Peter let himself be moved until Tony had arranged him with surprising determination; until Peter was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed beside him, their shoulders pressed together, Tony's good arm coming up around Peter's back. "Just... just stay there. For a minute."
Peter went very still, barely breathing, terrified of moving wrong and jamming an elbow into Tony’s gut or moving too fast or somehow causing pain - but Tony just held him, his hand gripping Peter's shoulder, his face turned into Peter's hair.
"I missed you too," Tony said quietly, and his voice was shaking. "Every day. Every single day, Peter. You and Harley and Pep were the last thing I thought about, you know. When I... when I went. I thought about you, and I thought about how I never said it. How I never told you."
Peter turned his head, pressing his face against Tony's shoulder, his tears soaking into the hospital gown. "Told me what?"
"That you're my kid," Tony said simply. "That you've been my kid since the day you walked into my lab and I saw myself in you. That I love you. That I'm sorry I left."
Peter made a wounded sound and curled closer, careful of the tubes and wires, his hand coming up to grip Tony's arm.
"I love you too," he whispered. "I love you, and I'm sorry I didn't say it, and I'm sorry I took your place with her, and I'm sorry-"
"Stop," Tony said, his arm tightening. "Stop apologizing. You didn't take anything. You saved her. You saved all of us, just by being here. You’ve been so good for her, Peter."
They sat there for a long time, pressed together in the dim room, neither of them speaking. Peter could hear Tony's heartbeat through the thin gown and he could feel the rise and fall of his chest. It was fragile and it was real, and it was more than Peter had let himself hope for in five years of nightmares.
He was home.
Eventually, Tony's breathing evened out, his grip loosening as sleep pulled him under. Peter stayed where he was, watching the monitors. When he was sure Tony was asleep, he counted to three hundred. Then, finally, he turned to look at Tony's face in the blue light.
When he was sure Tony was deeply asleep, he extricated himself carefully, tucking the blankets back around Tony's shoulders, and slipped out of the room.
He felt lighter.
Broken open, but lighter. Maybe that was a step in the right direction.
—
The dinner happened three days later.
Tony had moved to the couch - insisted on it, despite every objection - and Morgan had been coaxed downstairs with promises of mac and cheese and the rare treat of eating in the living room instead of at the table. She was still wary and clinging to Peter's hand whenever she got the chance, but she wasn't screaming anymore. That was progress.
Baby steps, but steps nonetheless.
Peter stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Pepper arrange plates on the coffee table while Tony tried to look casual while obviously positioning himself so Morgan wouldn't have to see his hands. Morgan sat on the floor by the coffee table, her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest while she eyed Tony with suspicious, red-rimmed eyes.
"Peter," Pepper said, her voice light and casual. "Could you help Morgan with her napkin?"
"Sure," Peter said, moving forward. He sat down on the floor next to Morgan, arranging the napkin in her lap, and then - his heart hammering - he looked up at Tony. "Dad, can you pass the mac and cheese?"
The word felt enormous in his mouth, terrifying and sacred.
He hadn't said it yet, not directly to Tony. He'd practiced in the mirror, whispered it to himself, but saying it out loud, in front of everyone...
Tony froze, the serving spoon halfway to his own plate. His eyes went wide, then soft, something like wonder crossing his face. "Yeah," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Yeah, of course. Here."
He passed the dish, and Peter took it, his hands shaking slightly. He spooned some onto Morgan's plate, then his own, hyperaware of every eye in the room.
Morgan was staring at him, her rabbit forgotten in her lap.
"You called him dad," she said, her voice accusatory.
Peter swallowed. "Yeah, bug. I did."
"But he's not your dad," Morgan said, her lower lip trembling. "He's my dad. You said."
"I know," Peter said carefully. "But he can be both, right? He can be my dad and your dad. Like... like how you love bunny and you also love your blanket. You don't have to choose."
Morgan frowned, processing. She looked at Tony, then back at Peter, her small face scrunched in concentration.
"You want him to be your dad?"
Peter looked up at Tony. At the man who had invented time travel for him and who had held him while he cried and had somehow become the center of his universe without him noticing. "Yeah," Peter said softly. "I do."
Tony's eyes were suspiciously bright. He cleared his throat, looking down at his plate. "Works for me," he said gruffly. "Always wanted a built-in babysitter."
"Tony," Pepper said, but she was smiling.
Morgan was still frowning, still working through it. She looked at Tony again, longer this time, taking in his thin frame, his scarred hands, his careful expression. "You have to be nice to Peter," she said finally, her voice stern as she squinted up at him. "If you're his dad, you have to be nice. That's the rule."
Tony laughed, surprised, the sound warm and genuine. "I can do that," he said. "I promise. I'll be very nice to Peter."
"And me," Morgan added, her chin lifting. "You have to be nice to me too."
"Absolutely," Tony said, and his voice cracked slightly. "I'll be nice to you both. Best behavior. I'll even..." He glanced at Pepper, something mischievous creeping into his expression despite everything. "I'll let you have ice cream after dinner. Both of you."
Morgan's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Tony," Pepper warned, but she was fighting a smile.
"Really," Tony confirmed. "What do you say? Friends?"
He extended his hand toward Morgan, scarred palm up, waiting. Morgan looked at it for a long moment, then at Peter, seeking confirmation. Peter nodded encouragingly.
Slowly, tentatively, Morgan reached out and placed her small hand in Tony's. "Okay," she said. "But Peter gets the big scoop. Because he's the best."
"Fair," Tony said, his voice thick, his fingers closing gently around Morgan's hand. "Peter definitely gets the big scoop. He's earned it."
Peter felt his throat tighten, watching them - watching Tony's thumb brush over Morgan's knuckles, watching Morgan not pull away. It was small and fragile and she was looking at Tony’s hands like they might bite her if she moved too fast, but it was something.
"Thanks, dad," Peter said, and he meant it for both of them, in different ways.
Tony looked up, met his eyes, and smiled - a real smile, tired and broken but hopeful. "Anytime, kid," he said. "Anytime."
And somehow, despite everything, it felt like the beginning.
—
Peter had been waiting for this for three months.
Harvard was good for Harley - Peter knew it was, intellectually. The research opportunities, the connections, the way Harley's eyes lit up when he talked about his engineering courses and the startup he was consulting for on the side. It was everything Harley deserved, everything he'd worked for since Tennessee.
But that didn't mean Peter had to like the distance.
When the flights back to New York had petered out, it had been three months of FaceTime calls where the time delay made them talk over each other. Three months of weekends that never quite lined up. Three months of aching, specific loneliness that sat heavy in his chest whenever he walked past Harley's empty room in the Tower.
So when Harley had shown up at the door at ass o’clock that morning - unannounced, duffel bag over his shoulder, smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing to Peter's heart - Peter had barely let him get two feet inside before he was on him.
They'd made it to Peter's bed, technically, but Morgan had interrupted with a nightmare within an hour, and then there'd been dinner, and Tony's physical therapy, and a thousand small obligations that had kept Peter's hands to himself even as Harley kept looking at him with those eyes, kept brushing against him in hallways, kept whispering things against his ear that made Peter's knees weak.
Now it was nearly midnight.
The Tower was quiet. Morgan was asleep. Pepper had gone to bed. Tony was supposedly resting, which meant he was probably up in the lab messing with lower stress things just to give his hands something to do, which meant he wouldn't surface for hours.
And Peter had finally snapped.
He'd found Harley in the kitchen, stealing leftovers from the fridge, and without saying a word he'd grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the elevator. Harley had raised an eyebrow, grinning, but he'd followed.
They'd ended up on the medical floor - empty, sterile, quiet - because it was the closest private space Peter could think of that wasn't his own room (where Morgan might look for him) or Harley's (Morgan had used as another play room when Harley was away).
"You're being stupid," Harley muttered as Peter shoved him into one of the medbay cots, the metal frame cold against the backs of his thighs. Harley's hands came up to grip Peter's shoulders, steadying himself. "You didn't even shut the door this time, Parker."
Peter shut him up by pressing their mouths together, hard and desperate, tasting the remnants of the coffee Harley had been drinking.
He shoved Harley a little more firmly against the metal-framed bed, hearing the soft gasp as the cold surface met warm skin through Harley's thin t-shirt. His hands slipped under the shirt, palms sliding up the familiar planes of Harley's ribs, and he groaned into Peter’s mouth - low and wrecked already, and god, Peter had missed this. He had missed the way Harley's breath hitched when Peter touched him just right, and missed the heat of his skin, and he’d missed the way he tasted.
"It's pretty much closed," Peter breathed as he pulled away, his lips finding the line of Harley's throat, sucking a mark into the skin there that would last for days. Harley tilted his head back, giving him access, his hands coming to settle on Peter's waist and pulling him closer. "Closed enough."
"Your definition of 'enough' is concerning," Harley managed, but his voice was already going rough, his hips rolling forward to meet Peter's.
He slotted a knee between Peter's thighs and Peter ground down on it with a groan that Harley swallowed up, his fingers tangling in Peter's hair and tilting his head back. Peter's mouth fell open, mindless, as one of Harley's hands thumbed at his waistband, teasing.
Peter rocked forward again and Harley let out a noise - this broken, desperate thing that Peter loved, that he'd been hearing in his dreams for months. It went straight to Peter's gut, heat pooling low and insistent.
He dropped to his knees in front of him, the tile hard and cold even through his sweatpants.
"That's good enough," he murmured, mouthing along the line of Harley's clothed thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath his lips. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Harley's pants, tugging just enough to tease. "No one's here, and-"
Harley's hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and Peter could feel the hard length of him straining against the fabric, pressing against Peter's chin. He turned his head, nuzzling against it, breathing in the familiar scent of Harley's soap and skin and want.
"Less talking," Harley rumbled above him, his voice thick with it. Peter looked up, met his eyes - half-lidded, blown wide with pupils, staring down at him with an intensity that made Peter shiver. "More doing."
Peter swallowed, his throat tight with anticipation.
He turned to bury his face against Harley's inner thigh, breathing in deep - Harley here, warm and alive and his. Then he pressed a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to Harley's clothed length, feeling him twitch beneath the fabric, before pulling back just enough to make Harley chase him.
Harley's hips followed him forward, seeking friction, and Peter grinned up at him - feral and fond and desperate.
His thumbs came up to hook around the waistband of Harley's pants, pulling down slowly, torturously.
Harley groaned at the temperature change, at the air hitting heated skin, his hands tightening in Peter's hair. Within a second, though, Peter was on him - lips wrapping around the head, tongue sliding along the underside, and Harley let out a louder noise, his head falling back against the wall as his hips rolled forward.
"Careful," Harley warned, his voice strained as he pulled Peter's hair back just enough to meet his eyes. Peter blinked up at him, pupils already blown wide, his lips swollen and wet. Harley rubbed his thumb along Peter's jaw, then guided himself against Peter's cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Your fangs. Don't cut me, or I'm never gonna let you hear the end of it."
Peter hummed around him in response - not quite a laugh, but close - and then he swallowed Harley down, taking him deep into his throat.
The groan that ripped out of Harley was worth everything, the way his hands tightened almost painfully in Peter's hair, the way his thighs trembled against Peter's shoulders.
And then Harley was pulling him off by his hair, gentle but insistent, and Peter let out a mindless whine at the loss, his lips chasing him.
But Harley was spinning him around, maneuvering him with that surprising strength he had - farm boy strength, Peter always teased - and then Peter was leaning back against the metal bed frame, the cold bars pressing into his back, looking up at Harley.
Harley planted his knees on either side of Peter's hips, caging him in, grabbed Peter's hair again with one hand and himself with the other, and then he was guiding himself back to Peter's mouth, his eyes dark and focused.
"Open up," Harley ordered, his voice rough.
Peter obeyed, his jaw going slack, and then Harley was sliding past his lips again, deeper this time, and he began to move in earnest - shallow thrusts at first, testing, and then deeper when Peter's hands came up to grip his thighs, pulling him closer.
Peter choked around him, his eyes watering, and Harley stared down at him with something like worship, tilting his head back as he pulled at Peter's hair, angling him just right.
He stared at Peter's teary eyes, the way his mouth was stretched around him, the way he looked completely wrecked already - and then he shoved himself deeper, down Peter's throat, and Peter choked around him, his throat constricting, his hands scrabbling at Harley's thighs.
He gripped tight enough to leave bruises - those little fingerprint bruises that Harley loved to find later, that he would press against in the shower and remember this. Harley groaned at the pressure, his hips stuttering, and he pulled Peter's head back a little further, adjusting the angle so he brushed against Peter's fangs with every thrust.
Warmth pooled in Peter's stomach, arousal coiling tight and hot, because he was so strong - spider-strength-strong, could-break-Harley-in-half strong - but here he was, on his knees on the cold hard medbay tile, letting Harley use his mouth and take what he needed.
The trust of it, the surrender, made Peter's head spin.
Harley let out a strangled groan as Peter made another hitchy, desperate sound around him, and he pulled away for a second - just long enough to let Peter gasp in a breath, his chest heaving, spit trailing from his lips to Harley's cock.
But Peter followed him, leaning forward, swallowing him down again before Harley could even ask.
"Fuck," Harley breathed, his hands tightening almost painfully in Peter's hair.
He held Peter still then, his hips snapping forward, fucking into Peter's mouth with abandon - harder than before, chasing his own release with single-minded focus. Peter gasped around him, his head gently knocking against the metal bed frame behind him with a wet sound that would have been embarrassing if he had any dignity left.
He let out a groan that vibrated around Harley, and Harley shoved in impossibly deeper, hearing Peter gag around him, feeling the way Peter's throat worked-
He pulled off suddenly, completely, holding Peter there with a hand in his hair.
Peter stayed, his mouth open, his eyes half-lidded and completely fucked out, his chest heaving, his face flushed and tear-streaked and covered in spit. He looked debauched. He looked perfect.
All it took was a few frantic strokes from Harley's own hand, his eyes locked on Peter's face, on his swollen lips, and then he was coming - spilling over Peter's cheek, his chin, his parted lips, marking him in stripes of white that stood out stark against Peter's flushed skin.
Peter let out a noise like a groan, shuddering, his own arousal throbbing untouched in his pants.
He pulled back slightly, slumping against the medbay bed frame behind him, his legs spread open, his head falling back. Harley stood over him, one hand clutching at the metal bars for support, his breathing rough and uneven, his chest heaving.
He looked down at Peter - at his mess, at his complete undoing - and his hips twitched forward mindlessly, his oversensitive cock grazing against Peter's cum-smeared face.
Peter sighed, a satisfied, exhausted sound, and turned his head to press a gentle kiss to Harley's thigh, his lips brushing against trembling muscle. Harley shuddered at the feeling, his hand coming down to stroke through Peter's hair, petting him in a way that had Peter’s throat melting into a purr as his eyes slid shut automatically.
For a couple of moments it was calm, and quiet, and Peter's eyes were drifting shut.
His body was thrumming with unspent arousal but his heart full with having Harley here and the weight of three months of loneliness finally lifting.
Harley was just about to haul Peter up, his hands under Peter's arms, muttering something about returning the favor and bending him over the bed properly, when the door was pushed open entirely.
The sound of it - metal on metal, the pneumatic hiss of the hydraulics - made Peter's eyes snap open.
Harley froze, his hands still gripping Peter's arms. They both turned, slow and horrified, toward the sound.
Tony stood in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, his eyes wide and his face pale.
For a long moment, nobody moved. Tony's eyes tracked from Harley's flushed, bare chest, down to Peter on his knees, his face streaked with evidence of exactly what they'd been doing, his lips swollen and his hair wrecked. Tony's mouth opened. Then closed. Opened again.
"What the fuck," Tony snapped, his voice cracking on the words, horrified.
He turned away abruptly, his hand coming up to cover his eyes, the tablet clattering against the doorframe.
"What the hell are you two doing in here? The medbay? Seriously? Is nowhere sacred to you two little-"
"Mr. Stark," Peter tried to interject, his voice wrecked and barely audible. He scrambled backward, pressing his face - still smeared, oh god - against the back of Harley's legs like it would somehow hide him, like he could disappear into the floor. His face was burning, mortification flooding through him in waves.
"Don't 'Mr. Stark' me, Peter," Tony said, his back still turned, his shoulders rigid. "What the hell?"
“I - da-”
“Do not let this be the first time you call me dad away from Morgan, Peter,” Tony pointed a finger. “Do not do it. What the hell is wrong with you both?”
"It was empty," Harley defended, his voice higher than usual, his hands fumbling to pull his pants up, to cover himself. His face was flushing red, visible even on his neck. "And Morgan barges into Peter's room all the time, so-"
"So you come to the medbay?" Tony whipped back around, his hands thrown in the air, his expression a mixture of disbelief and utter horror. His eyes landed on Peter again, still on his knees, hiding behind Harley like a child, and he made a strangled noise. "Jesus, I mean - this is supposed to be a sterile environment! I don't - god, I don't even want to know where else-"
"Can we go?" Harley snapped, his embarrassment converting to defensive anger, his face flaming. He stepped sideways, trying to block Peter from view, which was absurd given that Tony had already seen everything. "Okay, we get it, just-"
"You clearly don't get it if you're fucking in the medbay!" Tony let out a miserable noise, dragging his hands down his face. "Jesus Christ. You didn't even lock the door! What if Pepper or Morgan walked in?"
"She wouldn't be down here!" Peter argued, his voice muffled against Harley's legs. He finally scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand, trying to clean himself up, knowing he was just making it worse, smearing it.
He wanted to die.
He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.
"But okay, fine! We've learned our lesson, we're leaving, let's-"
"Peter Benjamin Parker," Tony snapped, and the full name made Peter let out a miserable groan, sinking his head into his knees. He was vaguely aware that this position put him eye-level with Harley's crotch again, which was not helping. "No. Neither of you two are leaving until you've scrubbed down this whole goddamn floor and everything in it."
He stepped inside the room, ignoring their twin sounds of protest, and rummaged through a drawer near the sink.
He pocketed a bottle of some high-strength painkiller, then pulled out a bottle of industrial-grade disinfectant and a stack of sterile wipes and turned back to them, pointing a finger that shook slightly - with anger or suppressed laughter, Peter couldn't tell.
"Seriously," Tony said, his voice flat and dangerous. "You're cleaning these floors. You're not pulling this shit anywhere other than your rooms with your doors locked. If I walk in on this again, Harley's getting castrated."
Harley let out a snort, his bravado returning now that he'd recovered slightly.
"Sure," he drawled, leaning back against the cot and crossing his arms, trying to look casual despite his disheveled state. "I know for a fact Pepper walked in on worse."
Tony leveled him with a flat stare that could have stripped paint.
"I don't care. Do as I say, not as I do or whatever. I own the Tower, you're welcome to stay here but I'm not having you guys get freaky in a sterile, medical environment." He pulled a miserable expression, his nose wrinkling. "Peter. Wipe off your face properly."
Peter let out a humiliated noise that he would deny until his dying day - a high, wounded sound - and sank his head further into his knees, his arms wrapping around his head like he could block out the world.
He heard Tony make a disgusted sound and leave, the door hissing shut behind him.
For a long moment, there was silence.
Then Harley let out another snort - a laugh, barely suppressed. Peter felt him shift, felt him crouch down beside him. "So," Harley drawled, his voice still rough, his hand coming to rest on Peter's shoulder. "No head?"
Peter kicked out at his ankles without looking, his foot connecting with Harley's shin. He heard Harley yelp, heard him lose his balance, and then the satisfying thud of Harley's head connecting with the metal bed frame on his way down.
Peter smiled into his knees, listening to Harley curse, and thought that maybe - just maybe - the mortification was worth it for three months of absence finally, finally ending.