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it is not a prophecy, but it feels oddly close to one. the sorcerer is beaten and battered and bruised, hands shaking as she tries to cast counteractive spells to slow peter down. peter isn’t in the best shape, either—it’s much harder to dodge magic than it is to dodge bullets, after all—but the sorcerer was already weakened when this began, and peter is gaining the upper hand with ease, shooting out webs to restrain her. his plan is to tire her out and wait until back up arrives, having already alerted tony, who promised to get doctor strange on the line to help out, and it looks like it’s working, her actions becoming slower, magic getting weaker, attacks easier and easier to dodge.
peter thinks he’s won, gets closer to web her up properly this time, fairly certain that she’s too weak to be able and get out of them now. the sorcerer looks panicked as he approaches, and peter tries to hold out his hands to make it clear that he’s not going to harm her.
her hands reach out, far too fast for peter to realize it’s happening before it’s already happened, and she grips him by both of his wrists, pulls him closer with strength that she shouldn’t have, strength that combats his own, until they’re nearly nose to nose and she’s staring directly into his eyes through the mask.
“you have a big heart, spider-man,” she whispers, the iris’ of her eyes swirling with various different colors as she bores into his very soul. “oh, you love. you ache with how much you love. it hurts you, does it not?”
“w-what—” peter tries to pull his wrists free, but her grip feels like vibranium cuffs, impossible to break free from. “i don’t—”
the sorcerer hums, the sound high and light and drifting through the air like a breeze. “everything you do,” she says, “you do it for them. when is the last time you did something for yourself?”
it’s just words, really—meaningless, out of nowhere words that shouldn’t effect hm—but something about the way she speaks makes goosebumps crawl along his skin. it doesn’t feel like just words. it feels like she’s seeing right through him, reading him like a book. he tries to pull his wrists free again. “what are you—?”
“peter parker,” she murmurs, a swirl of dark red overtaking the rest of the colors in her eyes. there’s flashes of black and white that strike like lightning bolts, there one moment, gone the next. her voice is heavy with something he doesn’t understand, but he’s too busy going stock still in sudden fear to even notice.
his voice cracks when he says, “i’m not—i—i don’t know what you’re talking about—”
she tightens her grip on his wrists to the point of pain. “so much loss,” she whispers. “so much pain. oh, you’re in agony, peter parker. your big heart weighs you down and your love feels sharp and deadly. you fear everything, don’t you? you fear not being enough. you fear making things worse. oh, but yourself—that is what you fear the most. you are afraid of you.”
“let me go,” he tries, voice hushed. he can feel her breath brushing against his face and it only serves to remind him that, somehow, she has trapped him like this. somehow, he is stuck.
her lips curl into a twisted smile. “there is a boy.” she pushes closer, until their noses really are touching, and the colors in her eyes begin to mix with streaks of lighter reds and pinks and dark, sultry purples. “you love this boy. more than you have ever loved before.” her head tilts, just slightly, and she ghosts out, “harley.”
the way she says harley’s name has peter’s heart thudding in unexplainable terror. “stop.”
“i am not telling you anything you don’t already know, peter parker.” she seems to grow taller, all of a sudden, towering over him with her eyes flashing green and blue and orange. “what i say is what i see, and what i see is pathetic. you love so much it hurts you and still you continue to love. you lose so much and blame yourself for it, yet you continue to put those around you in danger. every decision you make is to make everyone else happy while you wallow in your own agony and no one seems to notice when you’re hurting. you suffer alone, peter parker.”
“stop it!” peter snaps, yanking his hands back, finally mustering enough strength to break free from her grasp. as soon as he’s got his arms available again, he shoots out web after web, pinning her back against the alleyway wall. by the time he stops, she’s plastered to the bricks.
the sorcerer does not seem bothered by this. instead, she continues to stare at him, her eyes an unsettling, unwavering yellow. “you suffer alone,” she says again. “and you deserve it.”
a lump forms in peter’s throat and he can’t seem to bring himself to speak. her gaze is stuck to him—she does not move, does not even blink—and it makes him feel sick. his stomach twists and pulls and he doesn’t even realize he’s throwing up until he’s already yanked up his mask and fallen to his knees.
behind him, he hears the telltale sparks that come with doctor strange and his portals. two sets of footsteps echo against the bricks, one of which hesitates only a moment before rushing to peter’s side. a gentle hand lays on his shoulder. “kid? are you okay?”
peter wants to shake his head, wants to scream and cry because it feels like the sorcerer reached into his chest and twisted everything out of place. something about him feels unexplainably and inexplicably wrong.
“peter?” tony says.
but peter will not shake his head or scream and cry, because what the sorcerer said rings true. he will do anything to make the people around him happy, even if that means swallowing back his words and putting on a smile and lying bittersweet through rotten teeth.
and that is exactly what he does.
he swallows back his words and he leans back on his haunches, looking up at tony with a twisted, fake smile, and he says, “i’m fine.”
“you’re throwing up,” tony points out.
peter shakes his head. “swung into the wall too hard and got sick. no biggie, mr stark.”
it doesn’t look like tony is fully convinced, but he does not push any further, instead helping peter to his feet and guiding him away from the end of the alley, towards the vacant street. peter does not mean to, but he looks back before they turn the corner and he sees, as stephen works on using a spell to restrain the rogue sorcerer, she still stares after peter.
when they meet eyes—hers now void of any color, instead an empty, soulless black that seems to steal the light around her—she smiles.
harley looks at him.
that’s all it take, just one look, before he’s stepping forward and pulling peter into a secure embrace. peter’s throat feels clogged up and he can’t seem to choke out any of the reassurances that he always tries to give, can’t tell harley that he’s fine because it suddenly feels hard to breathe and all he can do is twist his fingers into the material of harley’s sweatshirt and hold onto him like a life line.
“breathe, pete,” harley murmurs to him, a gentle caress of his hand brushing up and down peter’s back to coax him into relaxing. peter’s chest heaves with every choppy inhale and uneven exhale and harley hugs him tighter.
“i—” peter heaves for air, lungs complaining.
harley shushes him, gentle and soft. “you don’t have to talk yet,” he says. “just breathe with me. we can talk about it later, okay?”
peter nods, presses his forehead to harley’s shoulder and melts into him, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. all he can hear are the sorcerer's words playing over and over in his head, a map of his own mind mocking him.
there is a boy, she had said. peter wraps his arms around harley’s waist and tries to push closer to him. you love this boy. more than—
peter’s heart skips.
more than you have ever loved before.
harley runs his fingers through peter’s hair and leads them over to the sofa to sit down, still hugging him tightly. peter tucks his head under harley’s chin and shivers. harley pulls him closer and peter thinks, you suffer alone.
harley presses a kiss to peter’s forehead. peter already knows he will never speak up about what is wrong. he will never share that burden.
you suffer alone.
and you deserve it.
and this, peter already knows.