Chapter Text
The five days leading up to Christmas are, Harley thinks, some of the best days of his life.
Christmas itself is, somehow, even better.
D E C E M B E R 2 0 , 2 0 1 8
Peter wakes him up at noon, his grin wide and a Santa hat sitting crooked on his head, hair a mess where it sticks out from under the hat and eyes shining. “Up,” he tells Harley, hits him with a pillow and snickers when Harley whines. “C’mon! Get up! Up, up, up! Let’s go!”
“I’m guessing your headache is gone,” Harley grumbles, yanks his blanket up to his nose and glares at Peter half heartedly. Peter’s grin widens. “That’s a shame. You were quiet and cuddly when you had it.”
“I was also contemplating jumping off a bridge just to make it stop,” Peter snorts, then swings the pillow again, this time aiming at Harley’s torso, outright laughing at the yelp that Harley lets out. “Come on, lazy ass! It’s past twelve and Miss Angie and Abbie are getting here in two hours and I wanna make them cookies ‘cause I might have told Abbie there would be sweets when they got here and I need to not fuck that up ‘cause if I do then they might hate me but also the last time I tried making cookies by myself was when May and I still lived in the apartment and the entire building had to be evacuated and the fire department showed up and it was a mess so I need you to get up—” another hit with the pillow, just to emphasize his rambling even further, “—and help me make a shit ton of amazing cookies for your family!”
Harley huffs, rolling his eyes, but he kicks his blanket off and pushes himself into a sitting position, crinkling his nose at Peter, lips tugging into a sleepy little frown. “They wouldn’t hate you,” he says simply, matter of factly. “I don’t think it’s possible for them to hate you. Pretty sure Ma is already waiting for us to get married or something, but when I called her out on it and reminded her that we’re literally still in high school, she acted like she had no clue what I was talking about.” Peter snickers at that, even as a blush climbs up his face. “Point is, they love you, so just, like, chill out. It’s fine.”
Tossing the pillow onto Harley’s bed, Peter reaches down and tugs on Harley’s arm impatiently. “Then I wanna make them love me even more,” he says. “Babe, seriously, get up and help me, I am begging you. Robby is already awake and, last I saw, he was having a really weird conversation about being patriotic with Captain Asshat and I really don’t want to walk back into that alone.”
For a moment, Harley considers this, squints at Peter with pursed lips and a thoughtful expression, before he lets out a long sigh and says, “Okay, fine. But I’m in charge of making the cookies.”
“Oh, thank god,” Peter breathes. “I was seriously worried about burning the tower down.”
“They’re just cookies,” Harley says, getting to his feet with an incredulous look on his face. “How do you fuck up cookies so badly that you need the fire department to show up? What did you even do?”
Peter shrugs, turns around and crouches down a bit, already knowing that Harley hates walking when he’s just woken up. Harley latches onto his back like a koala, lets out a happy little hum when Peter stands back up, giving Harley a piggyback ride out of the room. “I forgot to set a timer,” Peter tells him. “And then I kind of left to go on patrol, and when I got back, it was… not good. Very much not good.”
Harley smothers his light laughter against the material of Peter’s sweatshirt, only to pull back a bit and look down at said sweatshirt with a frown. “Isn’t this Ned’s?”
“Yeah, I think so. It was in Harry’s room, but it looked comfy, so…”
“Of course it was,” Harley scoffs, shaking his head with an amused smile. “At this rate, all of our friends are just gonna move in here. Half of their shit is already on your floor.”
Humming, Peter makes his way into the kitchen and carefully moves to set Harley down on the counter top, before turning to him with a little grin. “I mean, I wouldn’t complain if they did. Maybe we can convince Tony to give us a floor. Like, all of us, y’know? Me, you, and the others.”
A few seconds pass, those words sort of hanging in the air between them. Thankfully, the kitchen is empty, other than the two of them, so no one is there to see the way Harley’s features brighten considerably, reaching forward to tug at the collar of Peter’s—Ned’s, actually—sweatshirt and pull him in, not giving a shit about morning breath or anything, just planting a kiss on him and pulling back with a toothy grin as he says, “Maybe not yet, but, I mean, if we all stay in New York for college, then I’d rather have a floor here than live in dorms. So, we’ll see, but I’d definitely be down for that.”
Peter reaches up to fix his Santa hat, murmurs, “Awesome,” and leans in again, only to pout childishly when Harley pushes his face away. “Harley,” he whines, jutting out his lower lip. “What the hell?”
“I thought we were making cookies,” Harley says, giggling a bit at the absolute betrayal on Peter’s face. “You didn’t drag me out of bed to kiss me, Parker. We have, what? A few hours, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response, already knowing the answer. “So, we gotta get started. Go grab two bowls, a bigger one and a sorta, like—like, a medium sized one, and I’ll grab the ingredients.”
“Fine,” Peter sighs, but he has a pep in his step as he crosses the kitchen to grab the bowls. He pauses for a second when he has the bowls in hand, looks up at the ceiling with the ends of up lips tugging upward, and says, “Hey, Fri? Play Pentatonix. Just their Christmas music, please. And put it on shuffle.”
Almost instantly, Away In A Manger starts to play. Harley grins at him. “You remembered that?”
Peter rolls his eyes, placing the bowls on the counter with a look of faux offense on his face. “What, you thought I wouldn’t? I promised Robby three things, Harley. One of them was to make sure to play Pentatonix around Christmas because you like their music. I keep my promises.”
“You’re sappy,” Harley snickers, grin widening.
“Well, yeah,” Peter says, like it’s obvious. “You just figure that one out, Keener?”
Harley hops off the counter, his clothes a slept in, rumpled mess, blond curls sticking up in random places, but Peter just sees the best person in the world. It must be obvious, too, some kind of awe on his features, shining in his eyes, because Harley’s face goes a little red and his smile turns a little sheepish and he just shakes his head and starts gathering ingredient while telling Peter, “Actually, I think I figured it out when you tried to write me that poem, like, two weeks into our relationship.”
The awe on Peter’s face instantly melts as he cringes. “Can we pretend that never happened, please? That was was literally the worst thing I have ever made, ever. It was horrible.”
“It was sweet,” Harley corrects. “I mean, you clearly have no idea how rhyming works, and your handwriting is almost impossible to read, but I thought it was cute.”
“I’m pretty sure I accidentally called you a frog,” Peter deadpans.
Harley snorts. “You totally did, but it’s the thought that counts.”
“Okay, moving on,” Peter says quickly, ignoring the way Harley laughs at him for it. “This is everything we need, right? For the cookies?”
Nodding, Harley places his hands on his hips, head tilting slightly to the side as he scans over everything placed neatly on the counter. “Yeah, that’s it. I mean, assuming we’re making chocolate chip cookies? I kinda just guessed and grabbed the chocolate chips, but if you had another kind in mind, then—”
Peter shakes his head. “No, that’s perfect. Where do we start?”
They burn the first batch.
“It’s your fault,” Harley grumbles, uses a spatula to slide the burnt cookies onto a plate with a crinkled up nose. “You distracted me, like the little heathen you are. I can’t believe this.”
Peter scoffs, already taking out a new cookie sheet to spoon more cookie dough on. “I’m not the one that started it! You’re the one that decided to do your stupid little kiss me face! What was I supposed to do, ignore it? Last time I tried that, you started throwing things at me!”
“I threw marshmallows,” Harley counters, but a smile tugs at his lips, despite him trying to keep pulling this annoyed act. “And you caught literally all of them in your stupid mouth. Try again, Spider-Man.”
“Well, your kiss me face makes me want to kiss you!” Peter defends, throwing a hand out in some kind of flabbergasted gesture. “You know that! You distracted me!”
Harley snickers. “Shouldn’t you have heard the timer, though? Y’know, with your—” he sets the spatula down, wiggles his fingers towards Peter’s ears, “—super hearing and shit? I figured you’d stop.”
Peter goes back to spooning the dough onto the cookie sheet, grumbling under his breath.
“What was that?” Harley asks, mostly teasing. “I don’t have your super hearing, babe. Gotta speak up.”
With a drawn out sigh, Peter keeps his eyes down on the cookie sheet, but raises his voice enough to be heard when he admits, “When you’re, y’know… when we’re that close, and—and kissing, or whatever, you kinda, like… I dunno. You just, like—you take over my senses. Like, all of them. I didn’t hear the timer go off ‘cause I was just, like—um—I was focused on listening to you. Like, your heart, and stuff.”
For a long moment, Harley doesn’t react, just blinks a bit and processes those words slowly, parts his lips and then seals them shut, over and over again, until he decides that he needs to see Peter’s face, reaches over and lightly tugs on Peter’s sweatshirt until he gets the hint and turns a bit, looks at Harley with a small hint of reluctance, as if he has any reason to be unsure of Harley’s reaction. Harley shakes his head, grins, wide and toothy, heart thudding in his chest, and says, “Eighteen, Pete. Don’t forget that.”
Peter sinks his teeth into his lower lip, gnaws on it nervously, but nods nonetheless, eyes shining. “I know,” he murmurs. “I just—I dunno. That’s not, like… too much, is it?”
“No such thing as too much,” Harley tells him instantly. “Not with you. Not with us. Promise.”
Before Peter can respond to that—though, really, he looks a bit speechless—Friday cuts in, telling them, “Sorry to interrupt, but I feel the need to remind you that Miss and Little Miss Keener will be arriving in approximately sixty seven minutes. If you start now, you should be able to get the rest of the cookies done by the time they get here.” Then, as soon as she’s done talking, White Christmas starts to play.
Harley grins. “How about we don’t burn this batch?”
Despite the fact that Peter is still visibly reeling from what Harley said, he winds up returning the grin, shaking his head a bit. “That’s probably a good idea,” he says, pulling open the oven to put the cookie sheet inside. “Fri, set the timer, please! And don’t let us ignore it this time!”
(At the end of the day, after Angie and Abbie are shown to their respective rooms for their week long stay, all the cookies—baked to perfection, of course—have been consumed, leaving a couple handfuls of crumbs on an empty plate in their place. Peter looks proud about this. Harley thinks it’s adorable.)
D E C E M B E R 2 1 , 2 0 1 8
“Okay, wait—wait—wait a fucking second, oh my god—”
From Harley’s left, Pepper lets out a laugh, looking over at where Tony is cursing loudly as he angrily mashes the buttons of his controller, glowering at the TV. From his right, Abbie grins, leaning back and looking like the textbook definitely of relaxed and smug. “Bein’ mad is just makin’ it worse,” she says matter of factly, not even a trace of stress or worry on her face as she easily maintains first place, dodging random items and managing to deflect red shells and blue shells alike, somehow always managing to have exactly what she needs to keep her lead. Harley is in second, Pepper in third.
Tony—a sore loser that’s been in last place in every single Mario Kart race that they’ve had so far—lets out some kind of irritated huff. “I swear to god, one of the gremlins fucked with the game.”
Harley snickers, throws a green shell behind him that manages to hit Pepper, who only lets out a quiet rude before speeding down the track again. “I cross my heart, old man,” Harley says. “None of us messed with the game. Our tournaments are very important to us. Literally, if any of us were caught cheating, we’d probably be murdered in cold blood. You can ask Friday if you wanna make sure, though.”
“Whatever,” Tony grumbles, slouching in his seat and glaring at the TV, as if blaming it for all of his problems, and lets out a loud groan when he falls off the track for the third time in this lap alone. He lets the controller drop to his lap and buries his face in his hands, muffling his frustrated cursing in his palms.
“Oh, sweet,” Peter says, making his way into the room with a little pep in his step, hair damp from a shower and lips tugged up into a smile. “Mister Stark’s still losing?”
Rather than responding, Tony lets out another, louder, much more hopeless groan.
Peter snickers, settles into a recliner and leans back with a drawn out sigh. “Sounds about right. I mean, no offense, Mister Stark, but you really suck at Mario Kart. Like, you’re really, really, like, insanely bad at it. I tried helping you learn how to play it, too, and I’m, like, the best at Mario Kart and I’m also an amazing teacher, so it’s gotta be something wrong with you. Like, fundamentally, or something.”
Tony lifts his head to send Peter a half hearted glare. “Didn’t May teach you manners?”
“Nope!” Peter says chirpily, grinning back at him. “I don’t even know what that word means.”
“Peter, dear,” Angie says, leaning forward from where she’s sitting next to Pepper in order to peer at him with a small, amused smile. “Not to be crude, but that’s bullshit. The entire time you and Harley were down in Rose Hill, you were the textbook definition of polite.”
Harley smirks, just a bit. “He was even polite when he was cussin’ out dad’s grave.”
“I’m sorry,” Pepper says, brows furrowing a bit, though she doesn’t take her eyes off the TV, where her and Harley are both trying to steal first place from Abbie. “Peter did what to someone’s grave?”
Peter doesn’t look remotely sorry, even as he pulls a look of faux innocence and bats his eyelashes at Pepper and tells her, “I just told him some things. Like how he fucked up by leaving Harley and that I hate him even though I never met him. Y’know, normal stuff that people say to people’s graves.”
Pepper lets out a long, slow sigh. Tony looks proud. “Does May know about this?”
“Yes, she does,” Peter nods. “She high fived me and took me and Harley to get ice cream.”
“That’s it?” Tony asks, having given up completely on Mario Kart, tossing the controller over to Peter so that he can play the next race. “I feel like that deserves a trip to Disneyland and some nice tech upgrades, just for the hell of it. And if you’re so polite, then why do you keep sassing me, Parker?”
The way that Peter shrugs does nothing to hide his soft laughter. “You’re just so fun to sass, I guess.”
Tony rolls his eyes, getting to his feet. “Whatever. Sassy teenagers, rigged video games—I’m done. I need a break. Anyone want anything from the kitchen? I won’t get it for you, because I’m lazy and can’t be bothered to carry more than two items at a time, but not asking would just be rude.”
He gets a few murmured no’s and thank you’s, but Peter speaks up to say, “Yeah, actually, uh—can you bring me an ice pack. I kind of, um—kind of tripped and hit the corner of my dresser, and my side’s kind sore. Not, like—not badly, but, like… an ice pack would be nice. Please and thank you?”
Instantly, three pairs of eyes shift to him, all with various level of disbelief and concern. Peter flinches, offers them a sheepish smile, then grimaces when Tony asks, “Just sore? Are you sure, kid?”
“Pretty sure,” Peter says, shrinks back against the recliner and waves a hand dismissively. “Barely hurts.”
“You said the same thing when you fractured your wrist,” Harley deadpans, eyes narrowing. “Your pain tolerance is kind of insane, Pete. Seriously, are you good?”
Abbie scoffs, rolls her eyes even as she wins first place and sets her controller to the side. “He ran into a dresser,” she says, looking incredulous as she glances where Harley and Tony, who are wearing their concern on their features, and Pepper, who hides her concern in her eyes as she subtly scans over Peter, as if searching for more injuries. “Y’all are actin’ like he got shot or somethin’ crazy. It was a dresser.”
Despite the eyes on him, Peter finds himself snickering. “Yeah, guys,” he says, a bit cheeky and thoroughly amused. “It was just a dresser. Calm down.”
It was very much not a dresser, that much is clear—while they came up with the excuse of Peter wanting to nap for a bit to keep Angie and Abbie from asking questions, he had actually been on patrol for a few hours, trying to fit in the time to do so whenever he can, still trying to make up for how much time he missed over the summer, when he had still been healing—but none of them can exactly say that, not with people who haven’t been entrusted with his identity around. So, with a grumble, Tony lets it go, heading into the kitchen with a dramatic eye roll. Pepper is sporting a pursed lipped frown, but she drops it, as well, though she does take out her phone and type out a message to May to let her know.
Harley, however, is a stubborn shithead, and he will not shrug it off. Instead, he tosses his controller to the coffee table, glances around for some kind of idea to get them away. It hits him suddenly, when his eyes land on the extravagent Christmas tree in the corner of the rooms, wrapped presents piled beneath it neatly. He sits up, leans forward, eyes going a bit wide as he say, “Shit, Pete, we didn’t—the thing we made for May is still downstairs. When’s she gonna be back from training with Helen?”
“Oh, shit,” Peter breathes. “She’s supposed to be done soon. We didn’t—it still isn’t wrapped.”
“She’s gonna see it,” Harley says. “We gotta—”
Peter is already on his feet, sore ribs and Mario Kart forgotten. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon.”
Harley makes sure they go through the kitchen to get to the elevator, grabs the ice pack that Tony is already holding out for him to grab, Peter either not bothering to comment on it or too focused on the obvious emergency that is making sure May doesn’t find her gift to even notice. Though, honestly, Harley’s pretty sure Peter’s aware this is a double motive sort of thing and probably just doesn’t care, because it really would kind of suck if May discovered what they made for her four days before Christmas. Still, Harley doesn’t let himself worry about that once they step out of the elevator and onto the Parker’s floor, reaching out to grab the sleeve of Peter’s sweatshirt (and this one is actually his, surprisingly, not one of their friends) and spins him around. “Injury first, gift wrapping second.”
“I promise, I'm fine,” Peter huffs, but doesn’t really fight it more than that, already reaching for the hem of the sweatshirt and pulls it up to let Harley see the bruising along his ribs. “See? It’s not bad.”
“Looks worse than a little sore,” Harley points out, rolling his eyes. “Friday?”
Peter murmurs a quiet oh my god under his breath, but looks more fond than anything else, the only sign of impatience or annoyance being the way he taps his foot while Harley frowns at the bruising and Friday says, “Mister Parker appears to only have bruised ribs. They should be healed by morning.”
“See?” Peter says, a toothy grin on his face. “Just some bruises. Just like I promised.”
“Yeah, well, just bruises isn’t exactly comforting to me anymore,” Harley tells him, not exactly clipped, but definitely a little tense. He tugs Peter’s sweatshirt back into place and gentle presses the ice pack over where the bruises are, letting the fabric act as a barrier to keep Peter from getting too cold. “It was just bruises before you almost died, too, so I’m probably gonna be paranoid about bruises forever.”
With a small frown, Peter uses one hand to replace Harley’s in pressing the ice pack to his side, the other reaching forward to card through Harley’s hair before cupping the side of his face gently. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I kind of try to block that entire mess of things out of my brain, so I didn’t think about—”
Harley shakes his head slightly, a smile tugging on his lips. “Nah, it’s not really that big of a deal. Just don’t get too annoyed when I freak out a little too much at something tiny like this.”
“You don’t freak out,” Peter tells him. “You worry. It’s cute. I like when you worry about me.”
Harley crinkles his nose. “That’s really gay and, like, super cheesy, Pete.”
Peter rolls his eyes. “That’s kind of the point of me saying it, asshole.”
“Jesus Christ,” Harley huffs, some kind of laugh bubbling from his chest as he steps forwards and kisses Peter’s grimace away, lingers there because he wants to and then pulls back with a happy little glimmer in his eyes. “Okay, so, now that I’m not worried you might be dying, we really do need to wrap May’s gifts. And Pepper’s. Actually, did we wrap literally anything other than what we’re giving each other?”
With a soft giggle, Peter shakes his head. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Great. Perfect.” Harley pulls Peter by his free hand to the living room before letting go and collecting the various tubes of wrapping paper sprawled out on the floor. “Time for a gift wrapping party.”
“With a Christmas movie?” Peter questions, quirking a brow.
Harley scoffs. “Fucking obviously. And it’s my turn to choose, so we’re watching Elf.”
D E C E M B E R 2 2 , 2 0 1 8
The thing is—and Harley really didn’t think this would be a problem, thanks to all the high quality coats and jackets and sweaters and hoodies that Tony and Pepper made sure to stock his closet with the second it started getting a little chilly outside—it’s fucking freezing. Like, actually, according to his phone, in the lower fourties and probably going to drop, and Harley’s from Bumfuck, Tennessee, so he’s not really used to it being this cold for extended periods of time. As in, more than ten minutes, or some shit.
“It’s really not that bad,” Peter tells him, through chattering teeth and four layers of clothes.
Harley snorts. “You look like you have hypothermia.”
Peter doesn’t dispute that—because, really, it’s true—and instead turns to Bucky, who has his hands stuffed in his pockets and his hair tucked into a baseball cap. “Tell him it’s not that bad, Bucky.”
Bucky glances at them, amused. “It’s pretty damn cold, kid.”
“Ha!” Harley point a victorious finger at Peter, then immediately regrets it when the icy air seeps into the bare skin of his now exposed hand and up his sleeve, sending goosebumps along his arm. Quickly, he shoves his hand back in his sweater pocket to regain warmth, but maintain that smug look in his eyes as he bounces on his toes and sing-songs, “Told you so! It’s cold as shit and I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Peter tells him, huffing out some kind of laugh. “And, I mean, look how pretty it is! I literally grew up here and have been to Central Park enough times to never want to see it again, but it’s all, like, winter-y right now! I think it’s worth getting a little cold for, don’t you?”
For a moment, Harley just makes an noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, before saying, “It’s nice to look at, but out of the three of us, I don’t have super healing. You two might be cold, but I’m probably going to get an actual cold from this. Getting sick is not worth taking Grandpa Assassin for a walk.”
Bucky grimaces at that, looking at Harley in some kind of confused bewilderment. “Grandpa Assassin? I thought you said I was like a cool uncle. When did I become Grandpa Assassin?”
“Eh.” Harley shrugs dismissively. “It depends on the day. You’re, like, that one weird show I always saw commercials for but never actually watched. Uncle Grandpa? That’s you. That’s exactly you.”
“That sounds like a horrible show,” Bucky states, somewhere between deadpan and matter of fact.
Harley shrugs again. “I mean, I just said I never watched it, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Also,” Peter cuts in, brows raised, “saying that we’re taking him for a walk feels… dehumanizing.”
“Uncle Grandpa Dog.”
Peter blinks, then blinks again. “Okay. Okay, sure. Why the hell not?”
Bucky reaches up to adjust his hat and sighs.
D E C E M B E R 2 3 , 2 0 1 8
Maybe…
And this is just a maybe—a very small, very tiny maybe.
But maybe… maybe Harley can be kind of petty. When he wants to be. And especially when he feels like it’s very much justified. Like, for example, when he feels a sneeze coming and purposefully turns his head, looks Peter dead in the eyes, and sneezes directly on his boyfriend. Just. Just because he can.
Peter, on his part, looks equal parts grossed out and incredulous. “Seriously? Did you really just do that?”
Around them, their friends try to muffle their laughter, watching the way that Harley defiantly juts his chin in the air, an almost challenging glint in his eyes. He pitches his voice—or, he tries to, but his throat is all scratchy so it’s hard to talk normally, let alone like this—and he tries to imitate Peter when he says, “It’s totally worth getting a little cold for, don’t you think?” Then, with a croaky version of his regular voice and a childish glare, he says, “Fuck you, Parker. I hate you. I actually, completely, totally hate you.”
“Pretty sure that’s not what I said,” Peter points out.
“It is almost exactly what you said and I hate you even more for denying it.”
“Oh, really?” Peter asks, not exactly condescending, but definitely amused, a smile tugging at his lips and a quirk to his brows that makes them look like they’re doing a little dance. Harley huffs, glares harder, and stubbornly nods. Peter snickers. “If you hate me so much, then why are you still sitting on my lap?”
From the love seat, MJ says, “Lap sitting is usually not a result of hatred.”
Harley looks over at her, features screwed up in some kind of confusion. “What?”
“If you hated him,” Ned says, “then you would not be using him as a pillow right now.”
“Okay, first of all—” Harley has to stop, coughing into his fist a bit and pretending not to notice when Peter’s features go all soft and worried on the edges and he rubs gentle circles against his back. Once the coughing fit is done, he levels his glare on Ned and tries again. “First of all, I’m not using him as a pillow. More like a glorified teddy bear. And, secondly, it’s his fault that I’m sick, and when I’m sick, I’m clingy, so he has to deal with it. He brought it upon himself, like the asshole that he is, and I hate him.”
That soft around the edges look melts into something fondly exasperated as Peter rolls his eyes, circles his arms around Harley’s waist to pull him closer, until Harley gives in and tucks his head under Peter’s chin and melts against his chest, and then he coos, “You’re such a baby. Just a big, dumb, cuddly baby.”
The way that Harley pinches Peter’s arm does little to hide the way he snorts. “Shut up, jackass.”
“Ah, young love,” Harry says, sprawled out on the other couch, head lulling back to rest in Flash’s lap. “Can’t wait until I have that special someone I can say I hate, call a jackass, and still get cuddled.”
Flash looks like he has absolutely no clue how to react to Harry’s head being in his lap, a little wide in the eyes and at a loss for words. Only Harley seems to notice this, has to turn his head to muffle his snickering against the fabric of Peter’s sweater, while Ned hums in agreement and says, “Couple goals.”
“Absolutely disgusting,” MJ states. Then: “What movie are we watching next?”
“Gremlins,” Harry instantly answers. “I will pay all of you a hundred bucks, I wanna watch Gremlins so bad, I swear to god, I’ll do anything, just—I have not picked a single movie yet, please—”
The TV flickers on automatically and Gremlins starts to play.
Harry looks up at the ceiling with pure love in his eyes. “Friday, I would die for you.”
Friday sounds some kind of pleased when she says, “That isn’t necessary, Mister Osborn.” And, a moment later, almost teasingly, she asks, “Mister Thompson, are you alright?”
“Um—” Flash is staring directly at the TV, not even blinking. “What?”
“Your heart rate is slightly faster than normal. I am programmed to assure there is nothing wrong.”
That’s not a lie, per se, but she usually just does a silent scan for injuries, doesn’t ask out loud, especially when the reason why is so obvious. Harry looks delighted. Flash looks mortified. “I—I’m fine, thanks.”
“Dim the lights, Fri,” Peter cuts in, if only to save Flash from spontaneously cumbusting. “Volume up.”
They settle into a sort of silence after that. When Harley looks over, approximately twenty minutes into the movie, Flash has gone from stock still to more relaxed, a lot less tense, though he’s still a little wide eyed and red in the face. Harry is watching the movie intently, but he’s also sporting a smile with his eyes half lidded, letting out content little sighs as Flash timidly plays with his hair.
Cute, Harley thinks, before promptly passing out with his head resting on Peter’s shoulder, knees curled up to his chest, blanket draped over both of them, sleepy and happy and so, so warm.
D E C E M B E R 2 4 , 2 0 1 8
Good news: they don’t burn the cookies this time.
Bad news: Steve and Sam fucking ate them all.
“Are you kidding me?” Harley asks, beyond exasperated. The plate is empty, save for the crumbs, the evidence of their sins. “We just spent two hours making those. They were supposed to be for tomorrow.”
Steve, on his part, looks genuinely guilty. “I’m so sorry,” he says, in that way that shows his sincerity, that borderline fear that somehow this will be the thing that reverses his months upon months of earning everyone’s trust again. “Bucky just said he saw cookies, and we didn’t think to ask if we could have any.”
Sam—bastard bird man, Harley thinks bitterly—lacks even the most minuscule hint of remorse. “They weren’t even that good,” he says.
“Oh my god,” Harley breathes, feeling, not for the first time, like he should be the adult here, because all the actual grown ups that live in this stupid tower tend to act like annoying, intolerable children. “Oh my god. Okay. Fuck you guys. I hate baking. I hate it, and I hate you, and now you’re in charge of making more cookies for tomorrow. And you have to make some just for Pete and I, since you destroyed all of our hard work like a bunch of fucking assholes and only Captain Fucknuts actually seems to be sorry about it. Fuck you, specifically, Sam.”
“What happened?” Peter asks, coming into the kitchen with his face scrunched up in confusion. Harley almost gets mad at how adorable he looks, finds it rude that he’s being cute during a time like this.
Instead of voicing that irrational, nonexistent anger, Harley points at the culprits. “They ate the cookies.”
Peter—and this, Harley thinks, proves that they’re meant to be together—looks like he’s been stabbed in the back, widens his eyes with pained betrayal, and Harley almost cheers in victory when Sam’s face starts to twist in guilt. “You ate the cookies? Like… all of them?” At two silent, almost fearful nods, Peter’s shoulders slump, and Harley knows it’s mostly an act played up to make Captain Shitbrain and Metal Bird Man (Not Vulture) feel bad, but even he starts to fall for it when Peter softly asks, “Why?”
Steve starts to explain: “Bucky said—”
Sam is quick to say: “We’ll make more—”
(Two hours later, Harley and Peter have a plate of fresh cookies, just for them, that they happily munch on in the living room while watching A Christmas Story and listening to Steve and Sam bicker over how many more they need to make for tomorrow. In Harley’s book, he considers this a pretty good win.)
D E C E M B E R 2 5 , 2 0 1 8
Christmas is fucking exhausting.
It’s fun, and nice, and they open gifts and eat the cookies that were supposed to be made by Harley and Peter but were remade by Steve and Sam instead. There’s mugs of hot chocolate and a big dinner and movies upon movies and music upon music—at one point, Robby decides to make it as obvious as possible that he’s from Tennessee, asks Friday to play some weird country Christmas song that even the Keener’s have never heard of before, but it’s actually pretty good, so they listen to it on repeat for a bit before going back to more movies and more cookies and much, much more hot chocolate.
Peter gives him a cat.
A kitten—an actual, tiny, little black and orange baby kitten that’s small and adorable and curls up in his arms and purrs like a little engine and he fucking loves her the very second Peter steps into the room with her and tells him that she’s his. “It’s, like, tradition, I guess,” Peter says, sits next to Harley on his bed and watches the way the kitten settles and sleeps. “For holidays, I mean. We kinda—I mean, I’m technically half Jewish, but my parents weren’t religious, May and Ben weren’t either, really, and we just celebrated Christmas for the hell of it, and it’s not like we were ever, like, dirt poor, but we weren’t exactly rolling in riches, y’know? And sometimes they’d lose their jobs or have to miss work, so, to save money, for the holidays, it was always one big gift, one little gift, and something from the heart. This, um—she—” he gestures to the cat, “—is kind of the, um—your big gift. I dunno what made me decide on this, but I saw a shelter while I was on patrol a few weeks ago, and I just—I went in, and I saw her, and that was it.”
“I love her,” Harley promises, holds her to his chest and gently pets her until she falls asleep pressed to where his heart is. “She’s so tiny, I feel like I’m gonna break her, oh my god.”
Peter grins, looks down at his hands, where his fingers are twisted together, a nervous tick, and he stammers out, “I don’t—I mean, you’ve never said if you’re more of a dog person or a cat person, and you never really said you wanted a pet, but—but, I mean, just this past summer alone, a lot of shit happened, and I was just trying to think of a gift that could, like, help, you know? And I don’t know if you’ll even want to keep her, but it just—it felt right. I don’t know.”
Harley shakes his head. “Peter, I love her. You hear me? I love her. I’m keeping her. You’re the best person ever and I hope you realize that she is now our second, and youngest, child. Miles has a sister. I don't even care if that sounds weird, that's how happy about this I am."
“Jesus Christ,” Peter says, but he says it with a laugh, that nervous energy melting away and something happy and giddy and grateful replacing it. “Thank you, by the way,” he adds, after a few moments of nothing but the quiet sound of the kitten’s purr. At Harley’s silent tilt of the head, he explains, “Just, for, like… I mean, I could be super cheesy and thank you for everything you’ve done for me since we met, ‘cause you changed my life the second you came into it and made it so much better and—yeah. But, um. I’m not gonna be super cheesy, and I’m just gonna—I’m just saying thank you for the projector.”
“Oh.” Harley shrugs, grins a little, kind sheepish. “You like it? The projector?”
Peter brightens instantly, bops his head in an enthusiastic nod. “Are you kidding me? It’s so cool! And it’s—I mean, it’s special. Gift from the heart. I love it.” Then, as if to prove his point, he reaches into the pocket of his sweatshirt and digs out the small cube, letting it sit in the palm of one hand as he uses the other to turn the little device on. “Fri, dim the light.”
As requested, the lights go down, and a moment later, the small, smooth cube projects the night onto the ceiling—a more simple function of the projector, really, as it was built with Stark Industries level holographic technology, but Peter seems more than content to have this simple projection rather than something more 3D, at least for the moment. Harley doesn’t question it, just tilts his head back and looks up and admires his handiwork, takes note of how realistic it looks, just like—
“Recognize it yet?” Peter asks, smile audible in his voice.
Harley furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Peter says, “that this isn’t just the sky. You build the history feature into it. Guess when this is.”
“I don’t…” Harley looks, tries to think back, but, other than when they went stargazing back in Rose Hill, they haven’t really been under the stars that much—at least, not where they can see them. “I don’t know.”
Peter grins, sort of tilts over under their sides are pressed together. “Yeah, I didn’t really know, either,” he admits, chuckling lightly. “I kinda just looked it up, so I don’t know how I was expecting you to know. But, it’s, um—I put the date in as the third of May. Which was, y’know. First kiss. So…”
A beat of silence, and then Harley laughs. “Cheesy,” he says, but he’s grinning. “Very cheesy.”
“You like cheesy,” Peter says, reaches over with his free hand to scratch behind the ears of the purring kitten, and Harley honest to god forgets that it’s a holiday, forgets that there’s a bunch of people in the living room probably waiting for them to go back out there and keep watching movies, but Harley thinks he’s good here, thinks he’s done enough Christmas and just wants to lay down with his super cheesy boyfriend and his adorable new kitten and just look at this projection of the stars. Peter seems to agree, reaches over to place the cube on the night stand and then kind of tips them both back until they’re laying down and quietly asks, “What’re you gonna name her?”
As if knowing she’s being talked about, the kitten lets out a tiny meow, either still asleep or barely awake, and Harley’s heart swells. “I don’t know yet,” he says, voice soft—it’s a fragile feeling moment, and a noise too loud might make the whole thing shatter. “I wanna get to know her before naming her.”
“That’s adorable,” Peter coos. “We can just call her Kitty Keener until you figure it out.”
“Kitty Keener,” Harley repeats with a small little giggle, carefully rolling onto his side and letting the cat gently rest against the mattress and kind of just—looks at her for a second, and then looks at Peter, and he is in awe. “You got me a cat,” he breathes, not much louder than a whisper, like it’s just settling in. “Pete, you—holy shit. I can’t believe you gave me a cat. How are you actually the most amazing person ever?”
“I’m not—” Peter stops, turns his head to hide a bashful grin against the pillow. “It’s not a big deal.”
Harley scoffs, shuffles a bit and yanks the duvet over them and reaches over, kind of careful and cautious so as not to disturb Kitty Keener between them, but he manages to pull Peter closer, until their foreheads are pressed together and Peter can’t try to hide his smile. “It is a big deal,” Harley corrects. “It’s a big deal because it’s from you. Literally, it would be a big deal if you gave me a pile of garbage, but you got me a fucking cat, Pete. This is the best. She’s the best. You’re the best. I’m so tired and I might start crying.”
The airy little chuckle that Peter lets out feels like a small brush of warm air against Harley’s face. “If you start crying, I’ll start crying,” he says. “And I already cried, like, ten times today.”
“Eight times,” Harley tells him. “I know it was eight times because seeing you cry made me cry.”
Peter laughs a little louder. “MJ’s right, we are gross. We’re literally the worst couple.”
Shuffling just the slightest bit closer, Harley shakes his head, just a little bit, and murmurs, “I think we’re the best couple, actually. Like, the best of the best. Just like you’re the best.”
There’s mirth glimmering in Peter’s eyes as he lets out an airy chuckle. “You’re definitely tired,” he muses softly. “You’re repeating yourself. And I’m ready for a nap, so we should probably sleep for a little bit, before someone comes in and drags us back out to watch A Christmas Carol for the thousandth time.”
“But…” Harley pouts, and it’s partially because he really is getting really sleepy, but he’s also just a clingy asshole when he wants to be, and, right now, he wants to be. “I was gonna kiss you.”
Peter’s grin is fucking stunning. “You still can. And then sleep.”
Harley nods, almost business-like. “And then sleep,” he agrees. “But kissing first.”
The way that Peter rolls his eyes and giggles under his breath is, somehow, for some reason, on Harley’s list of top ten most wonderful things to ever see, ever, and it looks like Peter has something to say, some kind of snark or comment or something, but Harley doesn’t really have the brain power to wait and listen to what it is, just tilts his head and nudges their noses together and then kisses him, kisses him and sighs into it and thinks of 2017, where him and his Ma and Abbie had sat around a small, cheap Christmas tree and exchanged cards because they couldn’t afford actual gifts and how he hadn’t been unhappy last year, no, but he definitely wasn’t happy, either, had been stuck in between and waiting for the chance for change, and now he’s here, almost ten months after moving to New York, over seven months since he started dating Peter, and somewhere in between there, he made this place his new home.
Next year, he thinks, with a hand moving to rest on the nape of Peter’s neck and pull him impossibly closer, will somehow be even better than this one, and, for the first time since he was a kid, since his dad left and things fell apart, he can’t wait for the new year, can’t wait for the nerdy New Years Eve loser party their friends are gonna have, can’t wait to see everything that follows after it.
He’s excited. There’s no dread, no worry, no uncertainty. Just real, raw, genuine excitement.
It’s addicting, almost, feeling this good, this upbeat and joyful. It’s better than any drug could ever be and he never—not now, not in a thousand, not in a million years—he never wants to let this feeling go.