Chapter Text
~ Harley ~
Harley wakes with a throat-searing gasp and jerks upright. He’s moving before he realizes where he is, when he is. It’s only after his elbow slams into his headboard with a bang that he stops to take stock of his surroundings with dry itchy eyes. Softly lit by the lamp on his nightstand, he recognizes his bedroom in his Midtown apartment.
On the floor, a worn quilt that his ma made him before he left for New York sits in a heap—the green and pink patches reminiscent of the rose bushes outside her kitchen door. Beyond the quilt is the general mess of the room: the things he must have knocked off the nightstand in his panicked scramble are tumbled across the floor, mixed with the dirty-but-not-dirty-enough clothes piled between the bed and the crappy DIY dresser with the missing knobs that he never bothered to email the company about. Across the room beside a small square window that overlooks the brick wall of the building next door is his desk topped with a variety of mismatched mugs and his suit jacket draped over the back of the beat-up dining room chair that functions as his desk chair.
No one else is here. He’s alone.
He closes his eyes and lets his head falls back as he sucks down air and wills his heart to stop racing. His ears strain, listening for anyone in the apartment beyond his bedroom door. Something thumps against the floor in the apartment above him and he nearly chokes on his tongue.
He has gotta get out of here. He’s gotta go. He’s gotta— He’s gotta—
With shaking hands he tears the sheets away from his legs. His legs tremble but hold him up as he glances over the mess around his nightstand. He slaps aside a half-empty water bottle and a brand new bottle of painkillers and disconnects his phone from the charger.
He leaves the rest. It’s a problem for later. He needs to be moving. He can’t be here. He can’t .
He pulls on a hoodie from the floor and doesn’t bother putting on socks before cramming his feet into his boots, snagging his keys from the bowl on the table, and slamming the door behind him.
~*~
Wheel under one hand and shifter under the other, the road disappearing under his front bumper and stretching long in his rearview, he can finally breathe. This is where he’s meant to be. This is where he’s most himself. This is where he’s safe. So long as he’s moving no one can get him.
The town he passed through grows small behind him and the road ahead is open and wide. Make-shift wood and barbed wire fences flit past his windows. He downshifts into fourth gear and opens the throttle.
~*~
Exhausted but at home in his skin once more, he tosses his keys into the bowl on the table and stops dead.
There’s a mug beside the sink. He swears it was on his desk this morning. It had to of been. He hasn’t washed dishes in weeks. Heart rabbiting in his throat, he slowly turns and takes in his apartment. It looks normal. The couch is just as threadbare and grandma-ish as it was the day he picked it up from the thrift store. The bowl of goldfish crackers from last night is still on the TV stand and the throw is crumpled on the end of the couch where he left it. His bedroom door is standing open and his bed is just as bare as he left it and what he can see of the space is empty. He doesn’t hear anyone moving around in there but now that he’s thinking about it, it smells like coffee in here. It’s faded like it was made hours ago but he left before the sun was up and it’s long since set.
Someone has been here. Someone made coffee and—
There’s a scrape at the front door and the knob turns.
Harley shuts down. One moment, he’s standing in his kitchen staring into his bedroom and the next he’s gone. Non-corporeal. Bodiless and adrift in a blank empty space where no one can hurt him. Where no one can put manacles on his wrists and force him to stand for three days. Where he doesn’t hunger or thirst. Where there is no dark hole in the ground and he’s not in it listening to the groaning of planks overhead and wondering how long it’ll take for them to give in to the rot he can smell and bury him alive.
“Harley, come back buddy. You’re safe. It’s okay.”
He returns to awareness with a jarring mental snap and flinches away from the hands on his forearms. His sore elbow slams into the counter behind him.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay. It’s me. Harley, look at me kiddo. You’re safe.”
He blinks hard and Tony resolves in front of him, brown eyes wide and full of concern and guilt. He turns away. He can’t stand seeing it anymore. It’s the whole reason he came back to his apartment rather than continue to stay at the tower.
“Welcome back, traveler,” Tony tries to joke but it falls flat as his hands continue to hover between them. Like he’s ready to catch him should his legs give out.
“Ever heard of knocking?” he says but his voice is faint. He forces himself into motion, dodging around Tony to get to the kitchen table where he gratefully sinks into a chair.
“Ever heard of answering your phone?” Tony quips back, sitting in the chair across him, eyes watchful.
Frowning, Harley pulls his phone out of his pocket and clicks the button on the side. Nothing happens. He charged it. He knows he charged it. It was plugged in this morning…wasn’t it? He holds down the button and the screen comes to life. Did… Did he forget to turn it on? He doesn’t remember turning it off but… there’s a lot he doesn’t remember lately.
“Sorry,” he mutters as notifications start popping up, one after another. Tony, Tony, Tony, Donna, Pepper, Tony, Tony, Tony. He tucks it into his hoodie so he doesn’t have to watch. “Sorry,” he repeats. “How long have you been here?” His eyes catch on the pile of laundry spanning the gap between the living room and kitchen. That wasn’t there a minute ago. “Playing maid?” he asks.
“Someone needs to,” Tony says. “If that heap got any bigger the Avengers would have been called in to fight it. I got here around lunchtime to see if you wanted to grab a bite.”
His eyes flick to the clock on the microwave and he winces. It’s nearly midnight. “And when I wasn’t here you decided to hang around and drink all of my coffee instead of going home?”
Tony’s half-hearted cheerfulness falls away. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“And your trackers?”
“Showed you zipping down the coast at well-over the speed limit.”
He winces again. “I just needed some air.”
“I get it. Trust me, I do, but I need to be able to get ahold of you, buddy.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I thought it was on.”
He catches Tony staring at his wrist and realizes his sleeve rode up, revealing the slowly scarring scab around his wrist and the nasty bruises that won’t fade quickly enough. He tugs his sleeves down to cover them and Tony tears his eyes away.
Tony leans back in his chair and clears his throat. “I have something else I need to talk to you about.”
He eyes him warily. “Sounds like I’m not going to like it.”
“I’m not sure, to be honest.” He scratches at his chin absently as he avoids his gaze. The sound of his coarse facial hair under his fingernail is the only sound in the apartment. “I got in touch with an, uh, old friend and I asked him for a favor. He, shockingly, he agreed.” He faces him and their gazes lock. “Nat and Clint aren’t tracking down your kidnappers as quickly as we expected.”
Harley’s heart palpitates. “What does that mean?” he asks quietly. Dirt under his fingernails, falling away under bare feet, dropping into his hair, filling his lungs. He shuts his eyes and forces out a breath for eight seconds before taking a new one.
Tony waits until he opens his eyes before he says, “Nothing bad but we all want you to be safe. This is just a precaution, okay? We don’t think they’re coming after you again but the fact is, they’re still out there, and until we know where we all want to make sure you’re protected. Understand?”
He shakes his head, pulse racing. “What are you saying? Are you gonna lock me away? Send me off to some safe house to rot? What—,”
“No, no nothing like that,” Tony assures him quickly. “I— That old friend I mentioned? He’s going to keep an eye on you. That’s all.”
“What? Who is this guy?”
Tony pulls a face, drumming his fingers restlessly against the table. “His name is Peter Parker.”
Harley waits. “Okay?” he says after a beat. “Who is Peter Parker? How do you know him? What’s he gonna do that you can’t?”
Tony sighs. “Our history is a whole can of worms we don’t want to get into but…” He looks him in the eyes. “He’s the only one I trust with you. No matter what he thinks of me, I know he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. He agreed to start tomorrow morning.”
~*~
He’s expecting someone Tony’s age. Someone who went to MIT and joined the military with Rhodey and got picked up by special ops or became a Navy Seal. Or maybe someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. Someone who works with Agent Coulson and grew distant from Tony as Tony became more and more of a fly in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Avenger soup. Or an old fling of Tony’s that could be from any profession.
He’s not expecting some guy barely older than him, clad in an ESU-sweater, wrinkled jeans, exhaustion lines, and a scowl so deep it looks like it was carved by Captain America with a hatchet.
“You’re my bodyguard?” he asks. He doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism as he looks him up and down. His shoes are duct-taped. His hair hasn’t seen a comb in…maybe ever. This guy doesn’t look like he can take of himself, never mind anyone else.
“I wouldn’t say bodyguard,” the guy, Peter, says. His gaze sweeps nonchalantly around the lobby of Stark Industries and does a double-take at the box of donuts propped open on the security desk. His expression brightens, scowl lifting. “Hey, are those for guests?”
Harley rolls his eyes. “Have at it.”
“Awesome! I dropped my bagel on the subway. It went right between the car and the platform. How does that even happen? My luck is fucking incredible.”
“Great,” he responds dryly, trailing after Peter’s ratty, stained backpack as he zips across the room. He tugs his sleeves to make sure they’re covering his wrists. “That’s exactly what I look for in a not-bodyguard. Awful luck. Very reassuring, thank you.”
Peter grins at him over his shoulder, bright and amused and gone in a blink as he turns and snags the last three donuts out of the box. Harley doesn’t realize he’s no longer moving until someone nearly walks into him. That smile. He shakes his head. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. Him and Tony don’t get along or something so there’s no way he’s going to like him. Cute or not, he’s still sort of an ass.
“Lead on, Gold Leader,” Peter says through a full mouth.
Lip curled, he watches Peter shove the second half of the donut in with the first and chew it with bulging cheeks. Awful. This man is awful. “Why gold?” he asks as he heads for the executive elevator that will take him to the top of the tower.
“Red and gold? Iron Man? And I’m already Red Leader so that leaves you with gold.”
The doors open automatically at their approach and they step into the elevator. It ascends without him having to tell F.R.I.D.A.Y. what to do. “So hold on. We’re both the leader? How’s that supposed to work?”
Peter quirks an eyebrow and his lips twitch into a smile that shows clenched teeth. Much less attractive than the one he glimpsed in the lobby. It makes him feel better somehow.
“You don’t think two leaders can work together effectively?” Peter clicks his tongue. “Typical one-percenter mentality.” He shoves another donut in his mouth.
He narrows his eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The doors slide open to reveal Pepper’s assistant, a mild-mannered man with impeccable posture and perpetually manicured hands. Harley automatically straightens up and hides his own ragged nails and grease-stained knuckles behind his back.
“Morning Atticus,” he greets, biting back the usual, ‘how are you?’ Atticus isn’t the type to appreciate small talk.
“Good morning, Mr. Keener. Mrs. Potts-Stark requests your presence at the board meeting this afternoon.”
He bites back a groan and forces a smile. “Of course. I was already planning on attending.”
Atticus lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t call his bluff. “Goodbye, Mr. Keener.” He nods at Peter and then steps past them into the elevator.
“Pleasant guy,” Peter murmurs, watching the doors slide shut over his shoulder as he takes a large bite of his final donut.
He shoots him a sharp glance but can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. Yeah, the guy is abrupt and direct to the point of rudeness at times, but honestly, it’s refreshing. Especially when he has to deal with the two-faced, smooth-talking board of directors.
He swallows a miserable groan and continues down the hall to his personal lab/office. It’s where he always starts his day, no matter how many yucked-up suits want his attention. Afternoons are for meetings and he’ll go to whichever ones he has to without a single complaint, but mornings are his.
The door slides open and the familiar smell of engine grease and hot metal greets him like an enthusiastic puppy waking him with a full-face tongue bath. He breathes it in and for a moment he feels right in his skin, but only for a moment.
A sneaker squeaks on the polished floor behind him and then Peter whistles low and long. “Damn. Mr. Stark really put out for you, huh?”
He grits his teeth and keeps his back to Peter as he strides over to his favorite workbench. He places his palm flat on the slate gray top and it comes to life. Soft yellow lights zing across the surface, chasing each other like a few dozen games of Snake all going at once until his latest project is fully formed, exactly where he left off last week.
“Get comfortable,” he says, already getting absorbed in his work, “but don’t touch my stuff.”
Peter grumbles something, but he’s not listening as he pinches the display, pulls it up in front of him, and expands it until it obscures the room beyond.
This is what he was made to do.
~ Peter ~
The lab is interesting for all of two minutes before his brain decides it can’t take in anymore fancy rich person tech. Seriously. Was there a memo that went out to all the megakajillionairs that says everything has to be touch-tech? It all has to be sleek and shiny and light up pretty colors. Where’s the personality? Where’s the grit? It’s all U.S.S. Enterprise in here but he’s always been a Millennium Falcon kind of guy.
He plops down on a spinning stool and glares at Keener’s back as he pulls up another light display and poke, poke, pokes away at it.
‘Don’t touch my stuff,’ he mouths silently at his back then rolls his eyes and kicks off another spin. What a spoiled brat.
Stars are birthed and die. Babies are born. Lives are lost, mourned, and remembered. The line at the DMV moves. Finally, finally, an alert pops up across all of Keener’s displays telling him it’s time for lunch.
“Oh thank God,” he bursts.
Keener flinches, knocking a tray of bolts to the floor. The tray hits with a bang and bolts scatter across the floor. Everything goes still.
“Did you forget I was here?” he asks. He makes a half-hearted attempt at sounding playful but isn’t surprised when it comes out waspish. It’s boring in here. And he’s hungry. Food doesn’t go as far as it did pre-spider bite. If Keener was a better host he’d have—
He’d have responded by now. Or moved.
Peter cocks his head and gets to his feet. Keener doesn’t turn to face him. He stays unnaturally still—chin almost to his chest—his shoulders rising and falling as he breathes too fast.
Aw shit.
Stark warned him he’s been skittish since the kidnapping but he didn’t say shit about this level of PTSD. If he’d mentioned it Peter could have looked up what the hell he’s supposed to do.
“Hey,” he says quietly as he approaches. Keener doesn’t move. He makes an annoyed sound in his throat then raises his voice and says, “Hey Fri, what’s the protocol here?”
“Hello, Peter. It’s nice to speak to you again. I’m not sure what you mean.”
“What am I supposed to do when he… gets all… like this. All locked up and quiet.”
“There is no protocol.”
“Seriously? How often does this happen?” Maybe it’s an extreme response that only happens rarely. Maybe this is the first time. Maybe—
“That information is provided on a need-to-know basis and you do not need to know.”
Peter rolls his eyes. Tony’s an ass but this at least tells him that it must be pretty frequent if he told F.R.I.D.A.Y. to keep mum about it. That pisses him off. “So what am I supposed to do?” he snaps. “Do I touch him? Do I not touch him? Do I talk to him quietly until he comes back? What do I do?”
“He usually becomes responsive again after a minute or two. Talking can speed things up.”
“Great. Thanks,” he says dryly. All of this would have been fantastic to know before having the guy’s life put in his hands. Fucking Tony and his fucking secrets. “Hey, Stark Jr., you mind venturing back into the real world and doing as the humans do? You know, walking, talking, eating. Lunch specifically. The usual song and dance.”
“Lunch,” Keener mumbles. He blinks.
“There he is!” Peter coos. “The beautiful bouncy billionaire-to-be returns. What was it that set you off? The bang?”
“What?” Keener asks. His eyes aren’t quite focused on him but he’s not stuck anymore. He blinks again and looks down at the workbench and then at the bolts scattered around at their feet.
“When the tray fell. Was it the bang that triggered you?”
Keener shakes his head but he thinks he’s still coming back from his episode.
“Come on,” he says, frowning at Keener as he slowly turns and looks at him. “Let’s get lunch. They still have the meatball subs at Joe’s counter?”
“Joe?” Keener echoes. His gaze goes distant and Peter has to resist the urge to snap in front of his nose.
“Yeah, Joe. Does he still run the Italian counter in the cafeteria? If not we shouldn’t bother. I’m gonna be so bummed if they changed up his special sauce.”
“Joe’s sauce,” Keener mumbles, frowning hard. Then his expression clears. “Yes, Joe’s there.”
“Awesome!” he chirps but he’s still frowning as he takes in the way Keener is acting. He’s met robots with more life and personality than he’s showing. He didn’t have a problem glaring and scowling and slinging sarcastic zingers at him before. He must be spooked still. Well, good thing food cures all ills. “Your sugar daddy said you guys would cover my meals so you’re buying, right?”
“Yeah,” Keener murmurs then turns on his heel and leads the way out of the lab without bothering to sweep up the spilled bolts.
They’ve probably got help to do that for them. Friggin’ billionaires.
~*~
Somehow he manages to convince Keener to buy three meatball subs while he shoots the shit with Joe who hasn’t aged a day, thank gosh. He was old as fuck last he saw him and he hasn’t gotten any younger so he can’t have many days left in him.
“Make sure you keep kicking, old man!” he shouts, walking backward as he trails behind Keener. “This city wouldn’t survive without your special sauce.
Joe guffaws and shouts back, “We all miss having you around, Pete. Try stayin’ out of trouble for once, you miscreant.”
He lifts his fist. “The man won’t keep me down.”
Joe grins and shakes his head, then drops a basket of fries into the fryer.
Smiling, Peter turns back around and startles. Keener is stepping onto the elevator, sandwich bag in hand, and appears to have no qualms ditching him.
“Hey!” he shouts, sprinting across the room. He barely manages to catch the doors. Once they reopen he steps inside with a glare. “You know, I expected that you’d try to ditch me at some point but taking my lunch is a low blow.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Peter narrows his eyes at him and steps to the side so they’re both facing the door rather than each other. “You alright? You still seem out of it.”
“I’m fine.”
He snorts. He’s heard that one before. Usually out of his own mouth when he’s in over his head and has no idea how to get back to the surface. “Sure,” he mutters.
He has a job. He’s supposed to keep Keener from being attacked or re-kidnapped. Tony said it would only take a few days for Nat and Clint to track down and apprehend the people who kidnapped him a week ago but until then Keener is vulnerable. That’s it. Keep Keener physically safe for up to three days—probably less knowing Nat—and then he’s outta here. He’s got no business poking his nose into his mental health issues. None. And he doesn’t want to.
~*~
He should have appreciated lab time more this morning. Sure, it was boring, but at least there was only one rich asshole to deal with and he didn’t have to listen to him talk.
“Ms. Potts,” one of the smarmy dicks in black says smarmily.
“Mrs. Potts-Stark,” Pepper corrects coolly.
“Yes, of course,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Have you considered the ramifications of this endeavor? There’s no profit in—,”
“Yes, Mr. Weston, I have considered the ramifications,” Pepper says, folding her hands in front of her on the long conference table. “You’re correct that there isn’t an immediate profit to be made, but as you can see from this slide, we project there will be considerable profit to be made long-term by making the simple switch to the biodegradable plastic housing, not to mention the good PR we can drum up by advertising the change.”
“PR,” Weston spits. “All this upheaval for a publicity stunt?”
There are murmurs of agreement from the other suits in the room but Pepper keeps her eyes laser-focused on Weston as she says, “It’s not a publicity stunt, it’s a progressive change we’re making to set a new industry standard. It’s an easy change to implement with very few negative drawbacks.”
“What about this plastic then?” someone else asks, an older woman with coarse black hair hanging to her shoulders. “How does it perform over time? What tests have been done?”
Pepper smiles, thin-lipped but genuine. “Thank you for asking. Harley?”
Keener’s head snaps up from his dour contemplation of the grain in the table. He faces Pepper.
She raises her eyebrows and addresses the room. “The biodegradable plastic is one of Mr. Keener’s projects. Would you mind explaining your testing process and what you found?”
“Sure,” Keener says.
Pepper gestures to the presentation at the front of the room and Keener takes the hint and gets to his feet. He starts talking before he makes it to the front. “The first thing you should know is what we mean by biodegradable.”
Peter leans back against the wall at the back of the room and lets the clearly rehearsed speech wash over him. No one has questioned why he’s here and he’s not sure if he should be offended that they’ve disregarded him so completely or relieved that he doesn’t have to offer justifications to any of these greasy money-mongers. Pepper smiled at him when he walked in behind Keener and that was nice. For all of his issues with Tony, he’s always had a simple and easy relationship with Pepper.
Keener’s presentation ends and after a few questions from the board, the meeting ends with a 5-4 vote to switch to the biodegradable plastic. Pepper smiles in satisfaction at the success but Keener just stares out the window at the city skyline.
The meeting adjourns and they all file out of the room. Pepper passes them in the doorway. Leaning close to Keener she whispers, “Good job,” and squeezes his elbow, then she’s gone down the hall towards her office while the suits queue up at the elevator.
Keener slows to a stop, blinks hard, and looks over his shoulder at Pepper as she slips into her office, then back at the suits, then finally at him.
Peter raises his eyebrows. “Don’t wanna take the elevator with those bags of hot air? Can’t blame you. Stairs?”
Keener glances again at the suits and pulls a face. “Can’t. They’ll get all uppity if they think I’m avoiding them.”
He sighs. “Then lead on, Gold Leader.”
Keener rolls his eyes and it strikes him that this is the most present he’s seen him since the incident with the bolt tray. What did it? What brought him back? He glances over his shoulder at Pepper’s office door while he follows Keener towards the elevators.
“Mr. Keener,” blusters one of the suits as they approach. It’s that Weston guy that got all bent out of shape earlier. He was one of the four that voted against the switch. “It’s good that Stark is letting you sit in his place at these meetings but when do you suppose he’ll return?”
Keener’s expression darkens. “You know why I attend these meetings, Mr. Weston. You know it’s not as a subject-matter expert, though I am that.”
“Of course, of course. The transition, but that won’t be taking place for a good long while yet. You have a long way to go before you’re qualified for a real seat at the table.”
Keener’s jaw ticks but he manages a closed-lip smile as the down-facing arrow above the elevator lights up and the doors open with a ding.
“After you,” Weston says, gesturing.
“Ah, I’m going up actually. Have a good night.”
Weston doesn’t quite manage to squash the nasty look that slips free at the simply uttered remark and wordlessly enters the elevator. A few of the other suits nod at Keener before following suit and then the doors slide shut.
Keener releases a pent-up breath and shakes out his hands.
“Trouble in paradise?” he asks mildly.
“Shut up,” Keener responds without looking at him.
The second elevator arrives and whisks them up to the top. This time when Keener steps into the lab, he doesn’t relax and release an unconscious sigh of relief. Instead, he stalks through the door and stops short, staring at the bolts still scattered across the floor.
For a moment, Peter worries he’s going to slip back into the distant state but as he closes the distance between them he notices he looks confused rather than upset.
“Impossible to get good help nowadays, am I right?” He perches on a table and kicks his heels as Keener peels his eyes away from the bolts and frowns at him.
“What? No one comes in here except me.” With an eye-roll, he adds, “and Tony sometimes.”
“So what were you expecting then? Clean up fairies? A very dedicated roomba?”
He shakes his head and doesn’t answer as he grabs a broom.
~ Harley ~
“Alright, thanks for watching my back but I’ve got it from here,” he says as he fits his key in the lock and opens the door to his apartment. He doesn’t expect Peter to follow in behind him but he does, staring around the place with a curious expression.
“Got what?” he asks distractedly as he cocks his head, staring at the couch.
“Got…everything,” Harley says, nonplussed and too exhausted to parse whatever is happening right now. He doesn’t need this. He needs to figure out what he missed today while he was out of it. He needs to rest. Alone. “You can go home or whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Peter turns and regards him, hands curled around the straps of his backpack that, as far as Harley knows, he didn’t take off all day. “That’s not how this is going to work,” he says slowly.
“What do you mean? You did the bodyguard thing and now I’m going to do the sleep thing and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He waves a hand at the still-open door.
“That’s not what I was hired for.”
“What are you talking about?” he snaps. “Tony said you were going to shadow me and make sure nothing happened.”
“Right. It’s less bodyguarding and more chaperoning. So is this where I’m sleeping?” he asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the couch.
Panic wells up inside him. “No,” he says, choking it back. “No, you’re going to sleep wherever it is you always sleep. You’re not staying here. Get out.”
Peter shrugs off his backpack and tosses it behind him blindly. It lands on the center cushion. “That’s not what I was hired for,” he repeats. “You can shut the door. If it makes you feel safer I can do a sweep and make sure we’re the only ones here.”
Harley does not shut the door. “Get out.”
Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “You were kidnapped a week ago and the perpetrators are still out there.”
An involuntary shudder ripples through him. Dirt, dark, damp. Cold. Alone. Three days. He grits his teeth and shoves back the memories “I’m fine,” he snarls. “Get out of my apartment.”
“Make me,” Peter says, fire in his gaze.
Harley drops the door and it swings shut on automatic hinges as he stalks across the room and gets in Peter’s face. “What would you even do if they showed up, huh? You don’t carry a gun or a taser or anything. Whatever’s in your backpack won’t help me because by the time you get to it they’ll have already knocked us both unconscious. So tell me, why are you here?”
Peter steps forward until their chest bump and hisses, “I’m here to protect you. It’s what I do so shut up and let me do my job. Do you want me to do the sweep or not?”
Bile rises in the back of Harley’s throat. “I don’t want you here,” he says.
“Too bad. Is that a yes to the sweep? I’m assuming it’s a yes to the sweep.” He stalks off down the short hall that leads to his only bedroom and bathroom.
Harley doesn’t try to stop him. This is bad. This is very bad. Why couldn’t Tony have picked a less stubborn bodyguard? He can’t deal with this. It’s too much.
He grips his sleeves so they’re snug around his wrists and when Peter returns with an all-clear, he stalks into his room and slams the door.
~*~
He lays awake in bed for hours. He’s hot in his long sleeve henley but he doesn’t take it off. He can’t sleep knowing Peter is only one thin door away and that he’ll hear everything and probably rat him out to Tony. None of the neighbors have complained about yelling but every morning when he wakes his throat is scratchy.
He can’t deal with this. It’s too much. He can barely deal with the nightmares themselves. The very last thing he needs is a witness.
Despite his best efforts, he drops off sometime in the wee hours of the morning and it doesn’t take long for the night terrors to find him.
~*~
His head pulsates with every beat of his thundering heart. His mouth tastes like death and the pungent odor of dirt and worms slams his sinuses with every breath. He yanks his arms but the chain holds fast. His shoulders are already aching from the strain of holding up his body weight—toes scrabbling in the dirt, thick manacles cutting into his wrists. How long has he been down here, strung up like deer waiting to be skinned and picked apart for his meatiest chunks?
It feels like hours but it’s impossible to tell. Too dark. Too quiet. His throat is raw from screaming for help but none has come. It’s just him, shivering in the t-shirt and jeans he put on without a thought to the weather because he planned on staying in the lab all day. The wooden beams overhead groan and a trickle of spring rain begins to form a puddle near enough that it splashes against his bare feet as each drop breaks the surface tension.
He’s going to die here. They left him to die. He’s going to freeze to death, or starve, or his body is going to give out. Maybe he’ll get lucky and the ceiling will fall in before then. Maybe it’ll rain so much that this hole they’ve buried him in will fill to the brim and he’ll drown.
He yanks hard on the chain suspending his arms above his head and something gives way. Dirt pours over his head, spilling over his shoulders, into his ears, his mouth, filling his lungs as he screams.
~*~
“Hey!”
He sits up with a gasp, surprised to find his lungs clear and his wrists unbound. Something bumps his bed and he lashes out, flailing numb arms blindly, too breathless to scream, kicking legs that are hopelessly tangled in his sheets.
Something catches his arm. “Harley, it’s me!”
He rips his arm free and lurches away until his skull finds the headboard with a dull crack!
“Dammit, Harley open your eyes!”
It’s only then that he realizes he’s not still trapped in the black. He rips his eyes open and finds he’s in his bedroom, softly lit by the lamp on his dresser across the room. Peter stands at his bedside, wide-eyed and alert.
“Get out,” he croaks as the full-body shivers set in. “I don’t want you here.”
Peter shows him his palms. “Okay, okay.” He backs to the door but pauses in the doorway. “Has this been happening every night?”
“Get out!”
He raises his palms to his shoulders and steps out of the room but leaves the door open a crack.
As soon as he’s gone, Harley drops his face into his hands and trembles as his tears flow.