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"I'm not-" Harley says, still staring past the glass plane and into the fair view of the city down below him. His hair primarily accosted, and tangled, in strung knots from the countless runnings of his fingers through his scalp. "Really-"
"Good," Tony assesses in turn - just as equally transfixed upon the other, his own hand nursing a late night drink - which lightly rattles off from the amount of ice grazing across his glass.
He imagines - with some minor fraction of intuition - that the man is only half humoring him here. His knowledge to his drinking habits, or lack of in recent years, well studied to the point of expecting, and projecting, his knack for hosting 'lone visitors'. A remedy that's especially furthered into existence by last decade's near death experience.
His collection of crystal tumblers, in affect, are then thusly subsided after the one drink. And just as promptly, they are easily forgotten - left untouched till the next coming of haunts. In which some lingering ghost of his past comes to defecate on what's essentially become a quaint and viable slice of life.
"He can take care of himself-" The man then continues, glass still taken into a circular rotation - even in spite of its liquored emptiness.
Though Harley only catches the action as the means of a half reflection - his face still prominently glued to the skyline. Itself distorted and feigning impartiality.
"He's not Superman-"
"Well, neither are you," Tony snorts, amusement echoed by the same chorus of ice as before. Then, - "kid," he continues with a cool breathe, "you can't protect him anymore than I can."
...
"What's the matter-?'
Peter halts in his steps, though his immediate face remains passive - the inquiry to such a question found only within the specs of glimmer that reside above the deep rings of chocolate brown of his eyes.
"Its nothing-"
"Pete," Harley mutters, their halting happening just at the foot of the entrance of the former Stark Tower. The present alias - Avengers Tower - not completely withstanding in congruency either. "I can't read your mind here - but-"
"Its nothing-"
"Its not. This-" he motions with a flick of his own wrist, "is your, 'I'm trying to carry the entire world on my shoulders' look."
"That's not a thing-" Peter softly snides - his elbow crooked to reach around Harley and onto the chrome handle of the glass door.
"I assure you, it is. Though it shouldn't be - now what's the matter-?"
"...its just-" he pauses, taking heed with a quick sweep about the lobby - the motion letting loose a fistful of curls as he goes, "'web' things - ya know? The usual."
"Again. Not usual," Harley says, "it shouldn't be you against the world here-"
"Its not. It's... - there's the Avengers-"
"Some help they are. Where the hell is Cap and his soldiers again-?"
"Tony then," he sighs, once more steering their path by heading into the main elevator.
A security guard had nearly come to halt their steps then - but the quick, and by now rehearsed, reach around for their passes had occurred in slide.
"Fine," Harley mutters, crossing the threshold and into the iron carriage, "keep running into fire - but-"
"I don't run into fire-"
"Swing - leap - whichever," he retorts, "just - at least count me in this stupid little suicide squad of yours."
...
"What the hell was that-!?" Peter shouts as they swiftly land atop a vacant rooftop. The moon crescent and minuscule against the faint lights of the heaven bound skyscrapers towering around them.
"You're welcome-"
"You," Peter stills, "you could have been killed-!"
"You were the one being tossed around like a ragdoll," Harley argues by way of defense - his words crucially poignant as he solemns a lone finger to the webslinger's abdomen. "If it hadn't been for me-"
"He grabbed at you," Peter says "just look at your shirt-!"
"You can only take so much, Pete - in this case, three mentally-controlled, electronically-powered, telescoping, prehensile titanium-steel tentacle arms-"
"You aren't an Avenger-!"
"And you're not indestructible-!'
...
The evening air seems to shift - with Peter appearing from the rafters that cross over the main sitting room of the penthouse. An entrance that isn't surprising in the least - though Peter hasn't made an appearance via skylight since last weeks argument. Which is both worrisome and tedious, to the point where Harley rightly wants to cuss him out while simultaneously wishing to pull him in close.
And it is, by specific attirement, in fact Peter Parker who comes to greet him - and not the masked 'neighborhood' hero.
"I'm sorry-" they break in similar strides. Each seemingly wishing to reach and take hold by will of their own submissions, but both just as equally terrified in prospects to actually be the first into caving.
"I know you can take care of yourself-" He says.
"And I know you just worry-" Peter mirrors.
"But I can't just stand back and let you get hurt," both defeatedly resign.
...
The bottle of familiar caramel hue is striking - itself a third empty, but easily accessible and feasible for the taking. It isn't by any means a stranger to his world - rather, its every part of him as it is his father, or even Tony for that matter. He'd taken to it a handful of times before - when life had opted to favor elsewhere. Be it by the countless times he had been beaten to a pulp by his peers, the lack of a proper schooling before his coming to New York, or even the eventual end of the relationship between he and his mother.
This time, however, the need to drown in sorrow wasn't as damaging as those times before - with the decision balancing upon whether or not this night in question was the beginning to his losing of Peter Parker.
"Friday-?"
"Yes, Mr. Keener?"
"Call..." Harley takes a moment, the bottle fisted between loose fingers that are readily trembling as he stares it down. Under the white light, the caramel takes a bronze tone - near gold, but not quite radiant enough to be of any actual worth.
"Nevermind-" He then whispers, drawing the liquor into a circular rotation - as Tony often did when 'entertaining'.
He forgoes the glass container a moment after - a relic that may be crafted from actual crystal than glass - if a certain billionaire playboy had opted for such luxuries. Which, knowing him-
"Mr. Keener?"
"Yeah?" He asks, startled out of thought - looking past the television playing 'The Emperors New Groove' and into the ceiling where the voice didn't necessarily reside - but, often than naught, where Harley's mind had chosen to personify it.
"Mr. Parker has arrived."
...
"What are you doing here?" Harley immediately asks, opening the door in a rather underdressed manner. His attire being that of a black tank top and sweats - a dispelling contrast to the neat sleek suit that Peter Parker was currently adorned in.
He had thought the evening would end with him passing out amidst his plight in reliving some earlier Disney films - with or without the bottle - and yet the knock that had echoed from the door after Friday's announcement had been adamant in its pursuit in his pausing of the film.
"The evening ended early," Peter then says by way of a shrug. His words feigning to steer - though motions easily striding to simply bypass his reasons.
"So...?"
"So-" he repeats - his hands making quick work to remove his jacket - which, to his looking, is comically stuffed and brimmed to the pockets with snacks, "I assumed maybe I would be welcomed."
His brow is thusly cocked then - a definitive achievement to Harley's shift in attention which hones in on the medium sized bag of Skittles found within his left side breast pocket.
"Well Emperor Kuzco is about to be poisoned-"
"Sounds great."
...
"So you...left her?"
"Yeah," Peter nods - looking to the crushed flower pinned to his lapel - a white rose that, by now, has lost the majority of its pedals. His jacket, for all purposes, is draped over the far end of the sofa - casually resting besides a forcibly removed, and matching, tie.
"I sorta have a track record for that-"
"Was she mad?"
"Carlie Cooper doesn't get mad - she gets- well, furious-"
"So she slapped you-?" He asks with a laugh. Then - mainly in lieu of the other's unbroken silence, "deservingly probably - guess that's part of the job by now too-"
"You'd understand," Peter then surmises with a sigh, his head thusly crooning back to fish for the crumbs nestled at the bottom of the Dorito bag.
"I would have smacked you too, Pete-"
"You would have brought me some ice though-" he finishes, speaking from in-between his obnoxious chewing, "even if I didn't need it."
...
"Do you believe in destiny, Pete?"
"Destiny?" he asks, fingers still traveling through the array of books on the shelf before him, "as in - like astrology-?'
"No - that star shit is bullshit-"
"Right," Peter says - dropping yet another textbook into the others open arms, "that's bullshit - and yet the personal brand of bull you're about to spew isn't."
"I'm kidding," he then says with an offhanded chuckle, retaining an ear to the other but venturing forth down yet another case of shelves, "what sort of destiny are we talking here-?"
"Well, do you think you were destined to be...- ya know?"
"Oh," Peter pauses, his turning justified in taking the other in with a tilt to his looking, "I don't know... I - well, maybe. Its - I never thought I'd be more than I am, I guess. Certainly not a," he whispers, "superhero-"
"But you're so damn good," Harley says as if a much needed point to an otherwise nondisclosed argument. "You have - peak heroism. Virtue - kindness - the right mind of judgement-"
"Thanks-?"
"I just," he tries to continue, "think that you were always destined to be great is all."
"Noted," Peter nods with a brief flush to his cheeks, "and really - that's uh, sweet? But...what's your point?"
"Well," Harley says, "if not for your 'night job' - you wouldn't have ever met Tony. And he's practically our hero-"
"Don't let Mr. Stark hear that or he'll never let you live it down."
"Well, its true - isn't it?"
"In a way, yeah," he nods.
"And meeting him myself was by total accident - and if not for my mother kicking me out - well, I wouldn't have met you-"
"Like destiny then," Peter finishes with a small smile. His stopping just beneath a top shelf incredulous as he spots the book he had been in search of. "Uh - Harls-?"
"Got it," the other says, closing into his space and reaching up onto the tips of his toes.
"Well, I guess I couldn't imagine not knowing you," Peter then confides once the teen had reserved the text, the quip to his lips dangerously pleased as he came to regard him, "but - I wouldn't give any credit to your mother here - sorry, but...by all means, if you'd prefer it to be destiny - then I must give my thanks."
...
"We are not having this conversation again-"
"Then drop it," Harley retorts with a leveled glare - the tuffs of his side curls lightly singed from where the flames had danced too dangerously close for Peter's liking.
"You ran into literal fire this time-!"
"Well, if you don't want me running into fire then don't run into fire, Peter-!"
"I'm the one with powers here!" Peter shouts - tearing forth the confines of his mask. Revealing, in haste, the rush of harsh tears openly streaming down the curvatures of his face, "I have to save and protect people, Harley. I have to protect you - don't you get that? You... I can't - not again-"
He roughly grates his arm into his face then, the motion bringing sweat and mucus to the forefront of his cheeks as he releases a hollow cry that is lost somewhere between frustration and hysterical irony.
"How do you think I feel-?" Harley then mutters, denying the sight of the sound as he briskly maneuvers to the closest fire exit, "I watch you...constantly - from behind a screen - I -" he breaks, his back presented to the other - with his fists balled to the sides as he traces the outline of the steps before him, " - or behind caution tape - and I just can't, Peter... I may not have your abilities - for fucks sake I'm as average as a guy can be - but-...".
"You," he starts again - his tone shifting into something much more somber. His turning gradual - with the gravitational pull too daunting to fight any longer. "You might be -...you're the one for me," he forces with a fracture to his voice, "Its like - like gravity - how much... I can't...you may be a hero, but even heroes need someone to look after them. And I can be that for you, Peter... I can be everything - anything - you need, if...if you'd only just let me!"
"I...I don't...-"
"Its okay to not be okay, Pete-" Harley then finishes - waiting only an appropriate amount of time before choosing to delve down into the stairwell, the door slamming shut behind him.
...
Two weeks is much harsher of a sentence than one. And as before, the days drone on - with the absence of Peter Parker, or Spiderman, respectively felt as the hours pool together into a single entity.
Never had his home felt of so much silences - not since his mother had shattered his heart upon his giving her his secret truth. Which had gone on for just as long, ending only once she had bestowed him with her own parting words on the matter.
"I'm sure he'll come around," Pepper assures to him one evening - a ceramic mug offered and pressed into his calloused hands. A treat that's become customary since his first appearance within her care.
"I shouldn't have-"
"Worried?" She intervenes, "why not? Who wouldn't? I'm sure Peter must understand the precarious nature of his routines-"
"No," he sighs, encompassing the mug with both ends of his palms, "I basically told him I loved him-"
"Is that all?"
Harley frowns at the immediate accusation - or rather the question, whichever case it may be - because surely giving his heart to someone was worth more than a singular and definite 'all'-
"Harley," the woman then tries once more, displacing her own drink with a naturally light smile rooted upon her lips, "Peter wouldn't care over something as trivial as that - he cares for you. The you that you are."
"Yeah? Well, I've thought that before-"
"Hey," she cools, a crisp touch to his cheeks that is mainly made of manicured nails, "sweetie - there isn't a damn thing wrong with you, okay? I don't care what anyone has told you before - you are worth more than any of them put together. And Peter knows that."
"He," she then stalls, her petting of him light and motherly in nature, "is much like Tony in how much of an idiot he likes to pretend to be... - if only to shield his own heart."
"...how do you possibly cope with that-?"
"Cocoa," she smiles, brandishing her hand to reclaim her own mug - which she then offers as a resounding 'clink' against his own, "and the knowledge in knowing that despite what he says, he needs me. Not out of codependency, mind you - but of love and a mature knowing of having someone there for you."
...
"I'm not-," Peter says, feet teetering upon soles from the open skylight - his posture balanced on the ceiling as if he'd been on equal footing to the earth. And though looking much like a Bat-man, Harley isn't too perplexed by the sudden intrusion - his turning to him done with an impassive curt of his head.
"You're not what?" He then asks, speaking calm and well mannered, "again, you aren't a billboard sign-"
"I'm not okay," Peter surmises, dwindling down - his body propped up by the back wall that sits opposite Harley's spot on the couch. And he looks every bit as comfortable as he feels - with a stark white velveteen blanket wrapped about his shoulders. With Peter, all the while, showing signs of distress within the cross hairs of fabric that make up his costume - the faint trail of iron hanging between them as they simply stare at one another.
"Okay," he then nods - watching as Peter thusly pulls his mask free - the motion a clear opening to give his truth, to let Harley in on the knowledge that he is exactly as he says he is.
"... you're right."
"Come here," Harley then directs of him - the opening of his arms a welcoming sight that pulls his blanket into a luxurious blinding cape.
And Peter goes to him - despite the strain and grime of his 'uniform' - his fits given and granted, and secluded into Harley's chest as he finally gives into a terribly pathetic cry.
"I'm so sorry, Harls-"
"Its okay-" he soothes into his hair, hands rotating in small inconsequential circles around the dip of his back side. "you're okay - I'm here, Pete...I'm always here."
...
"What if I were to let you, Harley?"
"What-?" Harley asks, staring over the house of cards that the two of them had been in the middle of assembling together. The earlier cries of their reunion already settled, and apologies granted in waves of endless babbling.
"On the roof," Peter clarifies, his fingers idly toying with a face card - the king of hearts from what Harley could make of it, "you said you'd be anything I needed-"
"I did," he admits with a crucial nod - with any such shield of deniability pointless and imprudent in reason.
"So what if I let you-?"
"Well," he begins again, "I guess that would depend on what you want-"
"And if I said everything?"
"Everything meaning-?"
"Whatever everything's worth," Peter says with a pucker of his lips - the hefty intake of air suddenly crafted before it's just as quickly released - and forcibly set upon the indefensible structure.
"Low blow," Harley then sighs, devastated as he whipped a three of spades at the others face - his home, and therefore throne, nothing but a mere pile of cards as before.
"I'd say it was very high actually-"
"And I'd say that you're being rather flirty, Parker-"
"And if I am?"
Harley retrieves the lone card that had fallen onto the floor - the joker's face a garish grin that is equally terrifying as it is comical.
"...do you even know what you're asking for?"
"I have an idea-"
"And yet you've only ever shown interest in women before-"
"That's the first thing that comes to mind?" Peter asks with a curious dip to his head. His hand still in hold of the king.
"It's the only thing that matters," Harley says, "I've played this game before - and it didn't work out... He only wanted to say that he could, and I stupidly came out to my mother for him-"
"That's not stupid - you're not stupid, Harley." He pauses, "and while, yes... I haven't ever considered-"
"Which is why I can't risk-"
"Shut up," Peter says, his eyes ever determined as he uprooted the legs of his chair - his body regaining stance, and dwindling in close to drape over the table between them. "I'm not saying this because I want to experiment with you, Harley - I'm saying that I've wanted to kiss you since Dr. Octavius fucking decided to lay a hand on you."
"...you," Harley then brimmed with a quaint smile, "need to watch your fucking language, Pete."
...
"You're my hero," Peter mutters into the crevice of Harleys armpit - his spot once again found between wrapped arms, this time in absence of his suit - and instead, comforted, and concealed, by a matching hoodie and a pair of shorts. Both of which, belong to - and pleasantly reek of - Harley Keener.
"What-?" Harley asks, prying his head up from where it had lolled to the back end of the sofa. His eyes half diminished and hidden behind a curtain of messy blond curls.
"Were you asleep-?"
"I wasn't not asleep-"
"Its two in the afternoon-"
"Sleep isn't dictated by time," the other relents with a yawn - his arms ever trying to pull the brunette in closer to his chest. "Sides - I have an adorable and comfy boy in my arms - how could I not-?"
"Well, you could certainly be doing other things with such an adorable and comfy boy-"
"Oh?" He resounds with a light laugh - the gawkish display of teeth taking pride in the bottom half of his entire face, "enjoyed round one, did ya-?"
"Yeah," Peter nods, his body relegating to a turn about - lips ever teasingly light as he planted a delicate kiss to the base of Harley's crown.
"You missed-" the other then snorts.
To which - "shut up," Peter muses along to - idly hovering before succumbing to a secondary kiss, this time marked and leveled upon the others chapped lips.
"so..." Harley then whispers once Peter had pulled back to regard him again - fondness transparent and unabashedly appointed, even after their dirty turn about - in which Harley had orchestrated Peter into dispelling such a flurry of vulgar words that would have surely made even the great Tony Stark blush, "a hero, you say?"
"Yeah," Peter smiles, "you are."