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Peter Parker didn't believe in ghosts. Sure, he watched Buzzfeed Unsolved: Supernatural to an unhealthy degree, and he lived in a world where people came back to life every few years, but he didn't really believe in ghosts .
Well– that wasn't entirely true. There was one ghost he maybe sort-of believed in.
You see, Stark Industries was– supposedly– haunted. Referred to as the Stark Industries Phantom (or the Sip, for short), you couldn't go anywhere in Stark Industries without hearing rumors about the Sip.
Adam, one of Happy's security guards, was constantly complaining about the windows that seemed to open by themselves. Jessica, head of the interns, kept talking about reports of opened cabinets that should've been locked. Eden, who worked with Peter on some of the Avengers tech, once claimed they saw Bucky's metal arm try to walk off the table by itself late one night.
Hell, even Clint seemed convinced. Peter once overheard him telling Nat (who was rolling her eyes) about “some other entity" in the vents.
His eyes had darted up towards the ceiling as he said, "There was all this banging, and it wasn't me."
"Next time, just turn off your hearing aids,” Nat had snarked.
Now, as a man of science and certified Shaniac, Peter tried to reason away the evidence of the Sip. Thor's missing poptarts, open windows, unlocked cabinets.... that could all be explained by careless interns. The banging in the vents could be overeager pigeons. Peter liked to imagine that maybe they were just very big Avengers fans. Maybe even one of them even dressed up in a little mini Hawkeye pigeon costume.
Hey, New York was a weird place. At this point, superhero pigeons were just as likely as actual ghosts.
Or, apparently, it could all be the fault of the sandy-haired boy currently scaling the side of Stark Industries.
"Hello?” Peter asked, staring out his window.
The boy looked up at Peter, smiling brightly. The sight of him made Peter’s breath catch in his throat; illuminated by the silvery moonlight, this man looked gorgeous. His skin was dotted with freckles, his blonde hair was effortlessly tousled, and Peter could see a hint of muscle where the sleeves rode up on his forearms. He was exactly Peter’s type.
He even had perfect teeth– even and straight, so white they practically gleamed, like the teeth of a cliche playboy love interest in an animated TV show.
"Hey."
Oh, that accent . He could be Peter's cliche playboy love interest any time he wanted.
"What are you doing?" Peter asked, mildly surprised words were even coming out of his mouth.
"Scaling Stark Industries," the boy said nonchalantly, looking too relaxed for someone standing on the thin ledge of a skyscraper. "Mind if I come in?"
Glancing around to make sure none of his Spiderman tech was out and not entirely sure if this teenager was even a threat (his Peter tingle didn’t seem to think so), Peter backed away from the window. When the boy hauled himself into Peter's room, the edges of his MIT sweatshirt rolled up, exposing a tanned, toned stomach that made Peter's mouth go dry.
He was officially too gay for this.
The boy stood up, brushing himself off. “Thanks for the assist. Climbing the tower is a lot more work than I thought it would be."
"No problem." On instinct, Peter held out his hand for the other boy to shake. He may not have learned stranger danger, but Aunt May had always taught him to be polite. “I'm Peter, I'm Mr. Stark's personal intern."
"Harley Keener, I'm Tony's personal nuisance."
Harley Keener.. the name sounded vaguely familiar. Peter was sure he'd heard it somewhere before– suddenly, it clicked.
"Oh my god, you're the guy whose garage Mr.Stark crashed into!"
Harley's face split open into a wide grin that sent a flurry of radioactive butterflies straight to Peter's stomach. “So the old man does talk about me.”
Peter found himself grinning too, stuffing his now-sweaty hands into the pockets of his jeans. Wow, and these were his bad jeans, too, all ripped and with the color fading. Way to make a great impression on Mr. Stark's cool, genius protege, he thought sarcastically. With the way Mr. Stark described some of the stuff Harley Keener had done, he was smarter than Mr. Stark, and definitely smarter than Peter.
"He said you were really good at engineering stuff," Peter said, trying not to gush. " I mainly work in biochemistry, but Mr. Stark has been teaching me how to build and design tech."
"Biochem, huh?" Harley let out an impressed whistle. "You must be pretty smart yourself." He paused. "Hey, wait, aren't you the same Peter who almost blew up the Avengers lab when those goo guys attacked?”
Peter groaned internally, wanting to slam his head into Captain America's shield. Of course that's the story Mr. Stark told everyone about him. He hadn’t been anywhere near his Spiderman gear when those weird radioactive slime creatures invaded the Stark Industries a few weeks ago, but he did have access to a bunch of strong chemicals that probably had magical properties. The slime monsters had been decimated, but so had a few windows, half the floor, all of Clint’s favorite coffee mugs, an Iron Man suit, and the top secret results from one of Eden’s experiments.
"Yeah, that was me. Embarrassing, right?”
"No, it was cool! The way you knew the acid wouldn’t corrode the vibranium but instead turn into small shards of shrapnel? That’s epic. And, besides, I've blown up a shit ton of Tony's stuff. You're in good company.”
He clapped Peter on the shoulder, and the warmth of his hand bled through the plaid jacket he was wearing.
"Is that why you have to break in through the windows? Mr. Stark banned you for blowing up too many things?"
Harley laughed. "On, he didn't ban me." He gestured towards the open window. "This is for a bet."
"A bet?" Peter raised an eyebrow. “He’s a billionaire who could probably purchase the entire state. What are you even betting for?"
"Pride, mostly." With a snicker, he added, "Literally, in this case. I told him I could break into his tower and steal something without getting caught.”
“Oh my god, you’re the Sip!”
“The what ?”
“The other interns think the tower is haunted,” Peter explained. “It seems like someone keeps opening windows and moving things around.”
Harley laughed loudly, throwing his head back. It quickly became Peter’s favorite sound.
“I told Tony I had cryptic potential! He never listens.”
“How is the bet going?” Peter asked, eager to see Harley again, even if it meant helping him steal from Mr. Stark.
Harley let out an exasperated sigh of defeat, collapsing into Peter’s office chair. “Not well. He must’ve increased security, because I can't even get into the building undetected. There’s alarms on every. Single. Window."
"Not mine," Peter blurted out before he could stop himself.
Harley did a double-take, a hopeful look in his eyes. "There's no alarm on your window? Why not?"
Don’t tell the hot stranger that you’re Spiderman. Don’t tell the hot stranger that you’re Spiderman. Don’t tell the hot stranger that you’re Spiderman.
"It's a privacy thing," Peter lied. "I like having the window open, and my aunt thought it'd be weird if Mr. Stark knew every time it happened."
“Oh, this is perfect . Peter, you’re officially a genius!”
Peter's cheeks heated up of their own accord, and he quickly changed the subject, hoping Harley wouldn’t notice. "What happens if you win this bet, anyway?"
"Tony has to plaster the Tower with pride flags for the entire month of July."
Hot guy is gay, hot guy is gay, hot guy is gay–
"Pride month is June," Peter said stupidly.
Harley winked, and Peter was half-sure he was going to faint from the heat in his cheeks. "Exactly. It won't mean anything to June."
He glanced down at his watch, which Peter could've sworn was one of those pink Hello Kitty ones.
"Oh, shoot, I gotta go. Thanks again for your help, and don't tell Tony, okay?"
With another wink, Harley slipped out the open window, leaving Peter alone in his room with the memory of bright eyes and a melodical laugh.
Harley Keener was going to be the death of him, and it was going to be utterly fantastic.
The next day, Peter caught himself staring at the window even as he tried to work on his calc homework.
He couldn't help but wonder where Harley was now, if he was wearing another too-big MIT sweatshirt, if he was thinking about Peter.
He’d even mentally debated leaving his window open, just in case. But as the clock struck midnight, feeling stupid but still disappointed, he shut his window, slumping against it. Of course Harley hadn't shown up. He probably had cool, smart things to do with all his cool, smart friends. Peter was stupid for thinking they'd had any connection just because his window was the only one without an alarm on his window.
Harley didn't even know Peter was Spiderman. Did Peter really think Mr Stark's genius protege would want to hang out with a high school loser with two friends and too many Lego Star Wars sets? It was stupid to even think–
Tap. Tap. Tap .
Peter jolted at the sound, spinning around and peering out the window. There was nothing but inky darkness and the shadows of buildings, and his Peter tingle remained resolutely silent. So what had made that noise?
He yelped embarrassingly loudly as a small pebble appeared, hitting the window.
Tap. Tap. Tap. More pebbles hit the window in quick succession.
What the hell?
He quickly undid the latch on his window, hoping he wasn't about to get one-hit KO’d by a rock, and looked around.
Harley Keener was standing on the ledge of the window next door, smirking as he aimed another pebble at Peter's windowsill.
"Harley!" Peter said, aiming for exasperation but unable to keep the lovesick giggle out of his voice.
He backed away from the window, letting Harley slip inside The familiar butterflies were back again, a swirling storm of tingling warmth in his stomach. Harley somehow looked even prettier than he did before. The baggy hoodie had been replaced by a simple t-shirt that gave Peter a mouth-wateringly perfect view of his arms. Yeah, those were definitely muscles.
“Hey, Peter,” Harley said, stepping further into the room and closer to Peter, until Peter could smell Harley’s wildflower scent.
“Really? You’re throwing rocks now?”
“It’s romantic, thank you very much,” Harley drawled, fiddling with the black gloves on his hands.
Ignoring the blush-inducing comment in favor of the weird gloves, Peter asked "What are those?"
"What, did you really think I'd free-climb Stark Industries?" Harley held up his fingers, and Peter could see that there was some kind of technology on the fingertips. “They're modeled after Spiderman's suit. Like you know how he can stick to walls? Of course, mine aren't nearly as his good as his.”
Peter laughed. Of course Harley would recreate a Spiderman suit to scale the tower. "Spiderman's suit isn't sticky, he is.”
"Really?" Harley glanced down at the gloves. “That explains why I couldn't figure out how to perfect these. And I guess you'd know, right?"
Peter froze. He couldn't believe Harley had figured out he was Spiderman so quickly. Of course his type would be the kind of person who could figure out his biggest secret in seconds. "What are you talking about?"
“I mean, you're the expert on Avengers tech, right? That's what Tony says, anyway."
The fear faded into a warm glow that Peter was ninety percent sure had nothing to do with Harley's proximity.
"He does?"
"Yeah, he talks about you all the time," Harley insisted. "You're, like a real genius."
Peter snorted. “I don’t know about that. I can barely figure out antiderivatives for my math homework.”
"Can I see it? I'm pretty good at calc."
"Uh, sure, I guess. If you want to, of course." Peter gestured towards the unfinished worksheet in his desk. Harley learned his shoulder to see the problem, making a tiny noise of disgust that shouldn't've been as adorable as it was.
"I hate these problems," Harley grumbled, grabbing a pencil and scribbling out the answer. His handwriting was somehow worse than Mr. Stark’s, not that Peter really cared, with Harley in his space like that. "Using substitution is hard to do, but if you play around with the numbers, you can figure out the antiderivative quickly enough. It's a sine squared equation, see?"
Harley set down the pencil, looking smug. Peter kind of wanted to kiss the smirk off his face.
"Thanks, Harls. You're my hero."
To Peter's relief, Harley didn't mention the nickname. That would've been mortifying. They'd only known each other for two days, no matter how easily they clicked.
"Anything for a fellow genius protege adopted by a billionaire,” Harley replied.
He looked Peter up and down, as if evaluating him. Before Peter could get too self-conscious, though, a mischievous grin spread on Harley’s face.
"D'you want to help me win the bet?"
Peter’s mind sparked up with a dozen ways it could go horribly wrong. But with that smile playing on the corners of Harley's lips, Peter didn't think he could say no if he tried.
"Sure," Peter said, sounding slightly breathless even in his own ears. "What do you need from me?"
As it turned out, the entire bet had technically been Peter's fault Mr. Stark had been insisting that his security was too good for anyone to break in, much less a couple of slime monsters getting all the way to the Avengers lab. Harley, of course, had snorted and said he could totally break in, and Tony would never know.
Thus, the bet was formed: by June 30th, Harley had to get into Stark Industries, steal something recognizable from the tower, and get out without being noticed by Mr. Stark or the security guards.
Harley had spent the last few weeks poking around, finding the cameras, and coming up empty on weak spots or things that would be easy to grab without someone noticing. He really was responsible for all those rumors about the Sip. Peter was impressed– not that he wasn’t impressed by everything Harley Keener did.
"There's cameras at every stairwell, so while I can get in through your window, I can't leave this floor," Harley was saying, his roughly-drawn floor plan spread over Peter's bedroom floor. "And I have the access to the labs, but it'd still be recorded in the security logs that I unlocked the door, plus the camera would get a perfect view of me going in.”
"There's a break room on this floor," Peter recollected, pointing it out on the floor plan. "There’s a camera outside, but there isn’t one inside the room. And there’s plenty of Avengers-themed novelty items in there, like coffee cups and stuff like that.”
"That might work!" Harley exclaimed. "Can you vent-travel there?"
Peter glanced up at the vent grate on his ceiling, getting excited just because Harley was. Could this really work?
"Well, we've still got three weeks. Might as well try, right?” Peter said.
Harley stood up, jumping slightly to dislodge the vent grate.
"It's do or do not, Peter,” Harley tsked with a wink as he pulled on his sticky gloves. "And I really like doing things, if you know what I mean.”
Watching Harley pull himself up into the vent, Peter struggled not to blush as he wondered if Harley knew that hot people quoting Star Wars was his biggest weakness, or if Harley just made references like that on a regular basis. He wasn't sure which one would be better.
They fell into a pattern over the next two weeks. Every night, Harley would arrive at his windowsill, with a charming smile and bright eyes that sent Peter’s heart racing. Peter would let him in eagerly, and hey’d spend the next hour talking about Peter’s work on the Avengers tech and his life at school, and Harley would reciprocate with funny stories at MIT and his early days of knowing Mr. Stark. And when they ran out of that line of conversation, Harley would segue into his wild plans for stealing something until Harley slipped out his window to go home.
If Peter had any hope of his little crush going away, those hopes were dashed within a few days, because Harley was hot and just as smart as Mr. Stark said and he got all of Peter’s nerdy little references and could fire back the perfect witty retorts and Harley was just so, so perfect.
It almost made Peter's chest ache, how much he liked Harley. And it was impossible for him to shake the feeling that Harley– with all the winks he'd sent at Peter, and all the jokes about how many romance tropes they fulfilled, and the way Harley sometimes looked up at Peter through his lashes, with his eyes glimmering in the artificial lights of the Tower, a soft smile playing on his lips–
Had Peter mentioned he was too gay for this? Because he was definitely too gay for a cute guy with a Southern accent to come bursting in through his window every night with that look on his face, solving all of Peter's problems with a wildflower-scented smile.
Of course, as soon as that stupid bet got brought up again, Peter's fantasies popped like a soap bubble. They were sitting on Peter’s bed, and Harley was talking about coffee cups. Because Harley only had a week before the deadline for the bet with Tony, and Peter was trying to ignore the sharp sting of irritation at the reminder that Harley was only here for his window. Peter would likely never see him again after Harley completed the bet.
"So we know the vents can access the break room from here, and if the door is closed, the cameras can’t see into the room. So I guess our only choice is what cup we– Peter? Are you listening?"
"What? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm listening,” Peter replied, pulling his eyes away from Harley’s lips.
"Are you sure? You’ve been acting weird the past few days.”
"No, really, I'm fine. Coffee cups, right?"
"Yeah, coffee cups.” Harley was looking at him weird, and Peter could tell he didn’t really believe him, because Harley was perceptive like that. But he kept going anyway. “I really want to take Tony's cup, because it fits the theme of the bet really well, but–
"Does it even matter what cup you pick?" Peter asked, craving the days when their little midnight conversations were about anything other than the stupid bet.
"You're right, let's just get this over with, right?" Harley said with a pinched smile
"Yeah, perfect, and then we never have to talk about vents or coffee cups again,” Peter snarked.
Harley's smile had completely disappeared. “Okay, seriously, Peter, did I do something wrong? Because I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable or anything."
"No, it's not that , "Peter said quickly, trying to alleviate the guilty expression on Harley's face. He winced internally, knowing he was digging himself a deeper hole. Harley was going to ask what was wrong, and Peter wouldn’t be able to explain himself without giving away his stupidly massive crush, and then Harley would definitely leave, window be damned.
"You know you can talk to me, right?" Harley’s warm hand closed around Peter's in a soft, reassuring gesture that made Peter's heart melt.
The words started slipping out faster than Peter could stop them.
"It's just there's only one week left in this bet, and I don't want you to win."
Harley fake-gasped, one hand grasping at his heart dramatically, and Peter was immensely grateful for the lightheartedness. "Peter! You don't mean to tell me you've been a spy for Tony this entire time? How could you?”
“What? Harley, no, I'm Team Gay Pride Iron Man all the way, it's just–” He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the confession, resolutely not meeting Harley’s eyes. “I like you, Harley Like, a lot. Because you're pretty much exactly my type and you're stupidly gorgeous and one of the smartest people I know and I don't want you to stop coming through my window because seeing you is the best part of my day and I–”
Peter's brain stalled at the sweet, steady pressure of Harley's lips on his. His hands found Harley's neck of their own accord, fingers tangled in his blonde curls, one hand cupping his cheek. Sparks danced in Peter's stomach even as Harley pulled away, his warm hands on Peter's sides.
"Sorry," Harley breathed out, his eyes locked on Peter's lips. "I probably shouldn't have interrupted you. Please continue rambling about how perfect you think I am.”
"Shut up, " Peter laughed, playfully slapping at Harley's arm.
"What? I think you're cute when you're rambling," Harley said. He leaned in for another kiss, short and sweet. "And by the way, Peter, you're also gorgeous and smart and perfect."
After that day, it wasn't about the bet anymore. Harley still showed up every day, but now half the time he was carrying a (plastic) rose or something else cheesily romantic. They'd spend the night laying on Peter's bed, talking and cuddling and giggling and kissing until they fell asleep. Peter didn’t think he’d ever felt happier.
"Oh, shit!”
With a loud thud, Harley (shirtless, because Peter didn't think he'd ever get tired of that view, and Harley knew it) fell out of Peter's bed.
Peter sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Harley, it's like six am, what's wrong?"
"The deadline's today,” Harley groaned, quickly getting up from the floor and throwing on one of Peter's Midtown High sweatshirts. "I gotta steal something."
“Just go grab a coffee cup, like we talked about a week ago."
“I can’t. It's early enough in the morning that there’s going to be people in the break room.”
“So all that planning was for nothing? You’re a mess, Keener," Peter snickered. "Maybe you could plaster Stark Industries with pride flags anyway. As a prank."
“Well, I wouldn’t say it was for nothing. I met you, didn’t I?” Harley leaned down, leaving an exaggerated kiss on Peter’s forehead. "And it's not just about the pride flags, it's also about my personal pride."
He glanced up at Harley, smiling, only to see that Harley was staring at him with his realization face on.
"What are you thinking?" Peter asked, fondly exasperated.
Harley grinned brightly, and Peter fell deeper in love, if that was even possible at this point. He pulled out his phone, snapping a photo.
"I'm asking Tony if stealing his personal intern's heart counts."
"Harley."
“Hey! Technically, you fit all the criteria. Trust me, this’ll be perfect.”
Gazing up at Harley's gorgeous expression in the hazy light of dawn, Peter couldn't help but agree. This was perfect.