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It was five in the morning and Harley’s back was hurt. Not a throbbing pain from lifting an engine block the wrong way or the sharp pain of Morgan’s feet kicking into his back from trying to climb his back. No, it was from pacing around the wooden floor for the last hour.
Peter was supposed to be back by twelve. That was the promise. The one promise they made. Harley figured out the whole Peter-Spider-Stick-To-Walls-Thing junior year when he shot a Nerf gun at Peter’s back to surprise him and Peter...well, he didn’t react well. He screamed “that hurt like a buttcheek on a stick” while clinging to the ceiling. It’s a little challenging to believe he isn’t Spider-Man when he’s hanging upside down.
At first, Harley wanted to beg for Peter to quit. He wished to wrap the boy in bubble wrap and never let go. How is this boy, this beautiful, fragile boy, the hero of New York? After Tony’s retirement, Thor’s disappearance, Natasha’s death, and Steve’s whole “going back in time to be with a married woman'' thing, Peter absorbed their responsibilities. His wide-eyed, talented, beautiful boyfriend, held the world on his shoulders.
So, Harley tried to understand. The first two weeks while Peter was on his nightly patrol, Harley stayed up. He googled Spider-Man, read any article covering his fights, the videos of him slinging webs, and searched the habits of spiders. Do they sleep like humans? No, they have daily curricular periods of rest. Do they thermoregulate? No. What do spiders eat? Bugs, other spiders ( so they are carnivores? Harley asked Friday. Yes, but Peter does not. Do not fret, mini-boss. From my knowledge, when Peter bites you while you two are laying in bed, they are called “hic-” Thanks, Friday! You can stop talking now! Please, stop talking. And don’t tell Tony about this.) Harley learned all he could about spiders. When he found a spider crawling on the toothpaste canister one morning, instead of burning the entire bathroom, he called Peter to move it outside (Yes, he knows he should have done it himself, but this is growth, okay? One step at a time. One leg in the pant at a time or however that shithole saying goes.)
Instead of fretting about how Peter, who rams his hip into the island on his way to get coffee every morning, could possibly survive out there, he finds ways to help. He upgrades the suit, makes new marks of the suit, rewrites the web formula using gallium to strengthen the web. He practiced sewing to help sew any wounds Peter would come home with, he bought New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream pints for the nights when Peter needed a reminder of the good in the world. He made sure to keep water bottles in his nightstand for the nights' Peter had nightmares and needed someone to comfort him. Harley tried hard. He tried so hard to be the supportive boyfriend that Peter deserves. But, sometimes, trying isn’t enough. Ben & Jerry’s ice cream doesn’t ease the worries of if Peter is safe, if he is actually taking care of himself, if he got lost in Connecticut again. Which is why they made the one promise. To be home by twelve, and if he wouldn’t be, to send an hourly update. Yet, here he was, alone at five in the morning, Peter having gone MIA a little after 11pm.
The first hour, Harley wasn’t terribly nervous. Yeah, he spammed Peter’s phone, but he also understood that Peter could be forgetful. Hour two, he called Peter only for it to automatically go to voicemail. That’s when Harley turned on the news (despite having notification for whenever the word Spider-Man appears in the news). But, no breaking news, no new villains, just Brian Stelter breaking down the media news. It was silence.
Harley didn’t know if he preferred silence or if he preferred the news live-streaming a fight with Spider-Man and the newest outlaw with a vendetta against New York.
By three AM, Peter’s voicemail inbox was full and Harley was anxious. He kept the news on in the living room and went to the kitchen. Pulling out yeast, salt, flour and a handful of other ingredients, Harley began to work. He combined the ingredients, floured the counter, and kneaded the dough. The smell of bread flour and olive oil soothed his nerves. The tacky texture molding against his palms helped mediate his anxiety. As the bread was proofing, Harley looked at the news again. Nothing. No updates. But an hour had passed. An hour. No Peter. No updates. Silence. Harley had debated calling Tony about an hour into MIA Peter, but he knew the man. He knew late night wakeups made his knees ache and heart clench.
Harley had nothing left to do. He could only wait. The bracelet Peter had made him was wearing thin from the constant tugging ( No, Harley. Bracelets are cute. Morgan told me herself. It even has Spider-Man’s colors!). What he wouldn’t do to tease Peter about that corny bracelet again.
Harley moved the bread to the oven to keep proofing and went to his bedroom. The honey-colored walls and earth-toned bedsheets didn’t comfort him like before. Walking into the room and not tripping over Peter’s shoes didn’t feel right. Seeing Peter in his worn-out “I Love Tony Stank” shirt while playing with Morgan felt right. An empty room felt wrong.
The lump in his throat began to grow. His lungs weren’t expanding like they normally do. Why aren’t they expanding? His head felt light-headed. Why the fuck is the floor moving? He needed to calm down. His hands clawed at his neck until it was red and raw. He needed to calm down. He pulled at his hair until his scalp burned. He needed to calm down. He stared at the windows and tried to regulate his breathing. He needed to calm down.
The honey-colored room turned black.
When he woke, the sun was peeking into the room. The walls looked like they were dipped in gold. A quick glance around the room confirmed his worst fears. No Peter. After a stabilizing breath, he slowly walked to the living room. Moving too fast might cause another attack. He couldn’t afford that. He needed to be vigilante. Now was not the time to let his stupid fucking emotions get the best of him. Turning the corner to check the news that he forgot to turn off, his heart stops.
Oh god.
This is it.
This is the end.
The door to the apartment is cracked open.
He never left the door open.
His dad, the one good thing his dad ever taught him, was to keep the doors locked. ( It’s a way people get in, son. Never let that happen. Doors are an easy way around a wall.) Whenever his dad drank, he either became a deadbeat or a poet. This was the latter.
Harley could feel his throat closing up again. His heartbeat became more prominent. Tapping the knot on Peter’s homemade bracelet, a glove encased his fist. ( Okay, Morgan said it was cute. I said it was useful. At least you can protect yourself, right? But I’ll make sure that never happens.) He pressed his back against the wall and slid to the floor. Laying his stomach on the floor, he crawled to the door. Clenching his hand, he makes it to the door and looks around.
Nothing. Nothing?
That doesn’t calm Harley’s nerves. It only raises them. An open door is never a good sign. The silence around an open door is never a good sign. It’s only the calm before the storm. Harley prepares to check the next corner when a noise in the kitchen alerts him of his guest. He turns to face the noise and sees a glow coming from the kitchen. Preparing for the worst, he slides his way there (which, by the way, fucking hurts, it isn’t as cool as it is in the movies). But, when he arrives in the kitchen, there are no bad guys.
No one is lurking in the corner.
No one is pulling a gun.
Nothing. Nothing? Again?
He stands up, acknowledging his possible paranoia, and walks towards the fridge, left open. As he closes the fridge, turns around, and begins to panic about Peter again, he sees an open window. Walking over, metal fist held like a weapon, he looks out.
There, Peter is, eating a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk, looking over the skyline, watching the sky turn bright orange.
“Oh, my god.” Harley gasps as he crawls through the window onto the fire escape. A shudder combs through his body as his hands touch Peter, sliding around his shoulders, pressing tight. Tears escape his eyes and he tucks his head into Peter’s hair, murmuring his relief. “You’re okay. Oh my--holy fuck. You’re okay. I was so worried. Dumplin’, you scared the fucking shit out of me. What happened?” Harley asks, pulling away. His eyes rake over Peter’s body where he removed the suit to his stomach, checking for injuries. His eyebrow has a gash, his lip is split with dry blood, knuckles bruised, arms covered in scratches. His left ribs have red and blue bruises, swollen. As he looks back up to Peter’s face, he sees his eyes. Somehow empty but full of unshed tears.
“Oh, hun, it’s okay.” Harley breathes pulling Peter back in. He drops the ice cream and collapses to his knees, arms wrapped around Harley’s stomach. The tears reign down, rushing across his cheeks and onto Harley’s hoodie. Harley karts his fingers through his hair, filled with debris and caked blood. Peter’s shoulders shake with broken sobs and heaved breaths. Harley praised Peter in a hushed tone with the hopes of alleviating his pain. As the sun rises and the purr of the city grows like a lazy cat, Peter’s weeps subside.
“Do you want to talk about it, Pete?” Harley tries to continue speaking, to tell Peter he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, but Peter immediately changes his posture. His shoulder scrunches up and his hands tighten on Harley’s hoodie. “Hey, hey, darlin’. We don’t have to talk, okay? We can just be. But let’s get you inside. Clean you up. Some food that doesn’t come out of a pint. A bed to comfort you.” Harley goes to help Peter up, but he slumps further against the escape. Harley, concerned, squats next to Peter as Peter moves to dangle his legs off the escape. Harley mirrors his position and softly slips his hand to rest on Peter’s thigh. Together, they watch the sky turn into an electric blue. They watch the women leaving for work in power suits, the men returning from bakeries with flour on their shirts. The kids running on the crosswalks in backpacks as big as them, the puppies strutting across the sidewalk hoping to find loose hotdog toppings.
As Peter’s shoulders sag, his breaths return to their normal pace, and his face relaxes, Harley stands. He holds a hand out to Peter and as his now steady hand slides into his, Harkey finds himself smiling. A soft smile, one only for Peter, for the moments when he needs someone else to burden the weight of the world. They ease into the window and Harley disposes of the half-eaten ice cream and crooked spoon. He rests a hand on the curve of Peter’s back and walks with him to the bathroom.
He fills the bathtub with warm water and eucalyptus bubbles, a scent Tony designed to not overwhelm Peter but to soothe him. Harley washes Peter’s back and massages soap through his growing locks. Peter’s eyes fall shut and he leans against the tub, any remaining anxiety from the night fleeing his body. Harley drains the tub while grabbing Peter’s favorite towel (it’s a gift from May that was meant to be folded in the shape of an elephant but looked more like a deformed butterfly. Now, it is tucked away in the closet to preserve May’s apartment’s scent of honey, burnt cookies, and cheap detergent. Not the best smell, but one of home.) and wraps him in it. Peter dries off while Harley grabs the first aid kit and begins to patch him up. After putting on the band-aids and applying antibiotics to his gashes, Harley places a kiss on each abrasion. He kisses Peter’s eyelids, his nose, the scar on his chin from a nasty scooter accident as a kid, and his lips. A soft kiss, nothing forced, rushed, or aggressive, but a simple one. An I love you reminder. A you’ll get through this reminder. A reminder that Peter deserves love.
Once Peter is dressed, hydrated, and filled with food they move to the bed. Harley adjusts the pillows so Peter can lay on his back comfortably and let his ribs rest. Harley lays on his side, staring at Peter whose eyelashes cast delicate shadows across his cheekbones. He traces his finger over his eyebrows, carved jawline, swooping collarbones, rugged arms, and holds his hand. Peter squeezes his hand three times.
I love you.
Harley repeats the gesture.
He knows they’ll be okay.
They always are.