Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One of the first things that Peter noticed about Tony was that he never sat down before a race.

He was always moving - he paced around the room, then grabbed the back of the chair and leaned over the edge of it, then turned away before he could commit to staying still for too long. 

Peter just rubbed at his eyes and squinted at the screens behind him. The track was large - nothing larger than what they were used to, but the corners were tight. It’d be difficult, but they’d manage. They’d always managed.

Tony, however, wasn’t content with just managing.

“Turn three is where they’ll try to bully you,” Tony said, stopping in front of the TV and glancing back at the route. Madrid blinked back at them along the blinking white lines that followed the track. “Ferrari’s been taking the more aggressive approach all weekend. Norman’s strategy seems to be devolving into brake late and pray, which is certainly something.”

“So we’re playing chicken at 300 miles per hour?” Harley drawled, tipping his head into his hand and leaning on his elbow.

“We don’t play chicken,” Tony corrected flatly. “We’re playing smart. I put effort into this car, and you’ve got the downforce to your advantage. Use and abuse it, Keener. Let the car do the work, aero grip is your friend.”

Harley didn’t have many friends.

He was currently slouched against the table, helmet resting beside him with his arms crossed like he was being lectured about a curfew instead of strategy before he risked his life in a multimillion-dollar car. He looked bored, or smug. Or both, maybe, if he squinted.

Peter was standing off to the side with his notepad tucked up against his chest, one shoulder braced against the wall behind them both. He was relaxed, but only relaxed enough that he could see every exit and keep track of every unfamiliar face - while also making sure Harley didn’t do anything catastrophically stupid before lights out.

Babysitting duty, as Tony called it.

Assistant position, the ad posted for the job had said.

Peter tipped his head down, pen running absently across his notepad. He didn’t look up when he snorted, “I doubt he even knows what aerodynamics are.”

Harley’s chair creaked as he leaned around.

“Hey,” Harley shot back at him, squinting, before some annoying sly grin crept at the corners of his mouth. “I know the four principles.”

Peter stared up at him flatly, eyebrows arching despite himself.

Harley gave a sly grin, twisting on his swivel chair to tip his head up to Peter, before he counted off on his fingers, “lift, weight, drag, and thrust….” before he finished and wiggled his eyebrows, “in no particular order.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose.

Across the room, someone snorted. Probably one of the people loitering at the edges of the room, but Peter didn’t bother figuring out who. They weren't the liability.

Harley looked too pleased with himself; he winked at Peter - he actually winked - and something in Peter’s chest tightened with irritation, face burning. He crumpled the corner of his notepad and without thinking, ripped off the page he’d been doodling on - then promptly lobbed it at Harley’s stupid, smug head.

Harley caught it one-handed without looking.

Show off.

He unballed the paper slowly, dramatically, and Peter seethed as Harley’s gaze flicked over it. His grin widened, and Peter wanted to punch him. Sure, the pay was pretty good for an “assistant” position. Yeah, the benefits were nice. It was great having healthcare and not worrying too much about rent, either.

But Harley fucking Keener…

“Are these cars?” Harley asked, fingers smoothing out the paper against the table as he glanced over the drawings. “Wow. And here I was thinkin’ you were just doodling my name in little hearts. I didn’t know you actually did anything back there other than sit and look pretty, Parker.’

“They’re airflow diagrams,” Peter snapped. “And give that back.”

“Nuh uh,” Harley crowed, leaning back. “Finders keepers losers weepe-ough-”

Peter smacked him over the head - gently, once he’d remembered Tony was still in the room, but put a little more force into it again when he realised that the man was very much not paying attention.

Harley snatched the page closer to him before Peter could swipe it back. “They’re cute.”

Peter bristled. “It’s not cute.”

Harley held the page closer to his chest, “sure you are.”

“Yeah, well, anything’s cute compared to you,” Peter shot back. “I almost dressed the roadkill on the way to your place this morning because I thought you’d partied too hard and collapsed on the street.”

Harley paused, then laughed, low and delighted. “You can dress me anytime you want, sweetheart.”

Peter had a very real, very vivid urge to maul him. Maybe bite off an ear. Beat his head in with the tablet on the table.

Before he could do that, Tony clapped his hands. “Alright, that’s enough,” he called tiredly, rubbing at his face again. Peter’s cheeks burned as he slunk back to his usual spot by the wall. “If you two want to flirt, do it after the race when I'm not responsible for a multimillion-dollar death machine. And also when you’re not versing fucking Osborn again. We need to kick him out of the qualifying, Harley. Run that asshole off the road.”

“He’s not driving,” Harley tipped his head back to meet Tony’s gaze again. “Just a reminder, it’s his kid in the seat, not actually him.”

Tony waved a hand. “Same thing. Same name, same asshole.”

Peter’s nose wrinkled. “What?”

“You okay, princess?” Harley snorted, and Peter’s grip tightened around his pen.

Tony cleared his throat a little louder as he tapped at the display at the front of the room. “Harley. Downforce increases as velocity increases. That means at higher speeds, your tires are effectively being pushed harder into the track. Bernoulli’s principle-”

“Pressure decreases as velocity increases,” Peter murmured automatically.

Tony grinned at him. “Exactly, the air moves faster under the car, lowers pressure, and the car gets sucked down. That's why you don’t fight it.”

Harley leaned back in his chair, tipping far enough back that Peter stepped forward just in case he fell and cracked his head open a couple of hours before the race. “So you're saying the car wants to help me.”

“The car wants to obey physics,” Tony corrected. “Whether that helps you depends entirely on whether you're smarter than the car.” 

“You tried to take turn six flat out yesterday,” Peter added.

“And I lived.”

“Barely.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, and Tony glanced between them. Peter kicked Harley’s chair back upright, and Harley growled as he twisted around to glare at him.

“This is why I keep you around,” Tony tipped his head at Peter, grinning. “Someone needs to counterbalance his terminal overconfidence.”

Harley scoffed. ‘I’m not overconfident.”

“You almost ate pavement last race,” Peter snorted.

“Only because Osborn cut me off,” Harley argued. “And he got a penalty for that and everything, so that's absolutely not my fault.”

"Doesn't help that you sped up,” Peter snorted. “Even Tony told you to move-”

“But then I would have lost my space!” Harley argued, twisting around with a frown.

“Right,” Peter hummed. “Much better that you risk ending up in a fiery explosion smeared against the side of the track wall.”

“But I didn't end up smeared against the track wall, so the risk paid off.”

“Great strategy, Harley! Why don't you gamble your savings away just because you're on a winning streak while you're at it?”

“That is not the same thing. This is skill, not-”

“Luck?” Peter finished, eyebrows arched. “You're lucky until you're unlucky. Maybe just focus a little less on winning and a little more on trying not to die.”

“I've never died in my life.”

“I'd hope not,” Peter muttered.

Harley looked like he wanted to argue, but Tony waved a hand. “Enough. Tires. You’re starting on mediums, and try to watch degradation after lap twenty-five. If Ferrari pits early, we stay out. Clean air is worth more than fresh rubber here.” 

Tony finished with a final, pointed look at Harley. 

“Drive smart. Drive angry. But don’t be stupid.” 

Harley stood, stretching, helmet tucked under his arm. “No promises.” Peter followed him toward the door, close enough to reach out but far enough not to be obvious. “Hey,” Harley glanced back at him as they walked. “You nervous?” 

Peter didn’t look at him. “I’m always nervous.” 

“About me?” 

“About everyone,” Peter said. “You’re just the one actively tempting fate.” 

Harley grinned. “You worry too much.”

Peter huffed a breath. “Someone has to.”

—

The tent smelled like expensive cologne and hot asphalt. 

Each place smelled differently; Paris had smelled more like burnt sugar, LA like cigarette butts. That was the one major perk of this job - other than working up close and personal with the Tony Stark and his new driver, he also got to travel with his tickets paid for. 

Other than working up close and personal with Tony Stark, he also got to babysit his kid occasionally. 

Morgan sat cross-legged on a folding chair that was definitely not designed for someone her size, clutching her tablet in both hands. The screen showed the live race feed, tiny cars skating around the circuit with graphics layered over them in bright, excited colors. She was leaning so far forward Peter kept one hand hovering near the back of her hoodie. 

He had no idea what he was doing. 

Babysitting was not in his job description. Neither was child psychology, or preventing toddlers from face-planting into concrete, or explaining why race cars could not, in fact, be pink with unicorn decals. But Pepper had handed Morgan over with a distracted smile and a “you’re great with her,” which was demonstrably untrue, and Tony had already been half-deaf and shouting into his headset.

So here they were.

Peter crouched beside Morgan’s chair, one knee on the ground, one hand braced against the metal leg so it wouldn’t wobble. He could hear Harley’s voice cutting in and out between bursts of engine noise if he strained to listen to Tony across the room.

“-telling you, you’re burning the rears-”

“I’m not, the grip’s fine-”

“Harley, I can see the data-”

“You can see the data, I can feel the car-”

Peter winced slightly. Harley had managed to develop Tony’s worst traits. Morgan gasped, loud and sharp. “He’s gonna do it!”

Peter startled. “Do what?”

She pointed at the screen. “That thing. The zoom thing. The vroooom.”

Peter followed the motion just in time to see the Mercedes car slip into a gap that barely existed, tires kissing the edge of the curb as Harley took the corner tight enough to make Peter’s gut clench.

Tony swore in three languages. Morgan parroted her father in a similar cadence.

“Jesus Christ,” Peter muttered, already half-risen.

The car shot out the other side intact. Morgan squealed and she bounced in her chair, which tipped alarmingly onto two legs.

“Oh no-” Peter lunged.

He caught Morgan around the middle just as the chair went over, tablet slipping from her hands. He snagged that too, somehow, as Morgan shrieked with laughter instead of fear, legs kicking as he steadied her against his chest.

“I’m flying!” she announced.

“You are absolutely not,” Peter said, heart hammering. “You’re grounded. Permanently. Sit still, please.”

She beamed at him, unrepentant. “Harley’s winning.”

He glanced back at the screen. The leaderboard flashed up; Mercedes, then Ferrari snapping at his metaphorical heels. Storm’s name burned bright in second, and Osborn’s just behind him.

“Yeah,” Peter relaxed a little, gently setting Morgan back down to peer at the tablet. “He is.”

The rest of the race was tense. Even Harley had quieted, and instead it was just Tony shouting directions into his headset.

There were only three laps to go when Tony barked, “Defend inside, force him wide.”

“Got it,” Harley said, and for once there was no joke in his voice.

The cars shot past on the screen, side by side, only inches apart. Peter held his breath. Morgan clutched his sleeve.

Then-

Mercedes crossed the checkered flag first, by a hair. Barely, but enough.

The tent exploded.

Morgan screamed. Peter laughed, startled by the sound of it. Tony whooped, tearing his headset off and punching the air as someone clapped Peter on the back hard enough to jolt him forward.

“He did it,” Morgan cried, dropping her tablet on the table with a thunk. 

Peter watched Harley slow the car, waving to the stands, helmet bobbing as he pumped a fist out the window. The relief hit Peter all at once, sharp and dizzying. He hadn’t realized how tightly wound he’d been until it snapped loose. 

Harley climbed out of the car, grinning and sweat-soaked. He slapped hands with the crew, pulled Storm into a laughing half-hug when he wandered over, second-place medal already around his neck. Johnny threw an arm around Harley’s shoulders for the cameras, all sunshine and easy charm. Harry stood a little further away, third place medal carefully hung around his neck. His smile was tight, but it was carefully pressed into place so the cameras wouldn’t catch anything different.

Osborn was probably off throwing things by now.

Peter stayed back near the tent, Morgan perched on his hip now because she’d refused to stay seated. She waved enthusiastically every time Harley’s face appeared on one of the big screens.

The podium ceremony was a mess. Champagne sprayed, Harley laughing as he drowned Johnny and Harry indiscriminately. Cameras flashed. Music blared. The crowd roared. Peter watched from the edge, arms crossed loosely, Morgan’s head tucked under Tony’s chin beside them. 

Harley spotted them eventually. He peeled away from the swarm, still dripping champagne, and made a beeline for the tent. “Hey!” he called, breathless. “You see that pass?” 

Morgan shrieked. “You won!” 

“I did!” Harley scooped her up without hesitation, spinning her around until she dissolved into giggles. “Did you cheer?” 

“She almost fell,” Peter said dryly. 

Harley’s head snapped back. “What?” 

“She didn’t,” Peter added quickly. “Because I am excellent at my job.” 

Harley grinned at him, eyes bright. “Knew I hired you for a reason.” 

“You didn’t hire me.” 

“Details.”

Pepper stepped back into the tent while Peter took Harley’s helmet to set it aside. She congratulated Tony, kissed Morgan’s hair, took her gently from Harley’s arms. “He has to go do the winners’ room,” she said softly. “You’ll see him after.” 

Morgan pouted. “I wanna see Harley now.” 

“You will soon,” Pepper promised. “He’ll be back before you know it.” 

Harley gave a grin, ruffled her hair, then vanished toward his next obligation.

The tent settled a little after that. Everyone had mostly filtered out to go celebrate the win while Peter started to gather everyone’s belongings. 

Babysitting, security, and assistant. The roles blurred together in moments like this. He didn’t mind. 

Peter adjusted Morgan on his hip as she yawned. By the time the paddock started to empty out, Peter was exhausted. The race was over. Won. Finished. The worst of the danger had passed, statistically speaking, which meant his body had decided now was the perfect time to inventory every ache, every shallow breath he’d taken without noticing, every muscle he’d locked and forgotten to release. Adrenaline was a terrible houseguest. It never cleaned up after itself. 

Morgan had fallen asleep against his shoulder sometime between the podium chaos and the slow migration back toward the team area.

When Pepper returned, the tent was nearly completely quiet. He didn’t see her often - she was mostly working on brand deals and using these big events to network and secure brand deals - but he liked when he got to see her. Tony and Harley burned bright and chaotic, pulling attention like gravity, while Pepper quietly made sure nothing actually collapsed. 

He liked that about her. He liked that she noticed things without needing credit for it. “I’ll take Morgan,” Pepper said gently as she reached out and took the sleeping girl from him. “You’ve got Harley’s stuff, right?”

Peter lifted the strap of the driver’s personal bag where it hung over his shoulder, helmet tucked securely under his arm. “Got it.” 

“Thank you,” Pepper said before she smiled at him and stepped back out of the tent. Peter stood there for a moment longer, listening to the thinning sounds of celebration, then headed toward the garage. 

Harley was still in the post-race viewing room; the strange, ritualistic little space where the top drivers were required to sit and watch highlights of the race they’d just lived through, as if seeing it again from a different angle might make it more real. Peter didn’t envy him that.

He collected Harley’s spare gloves, his water bottle, the discarded balaclava that smelled like sweat and champagne. Then, he pulled the car around and waited. 

When Harley finally - finally - emerged an hour later, he looked exhausted. Loose-limbed, flushed, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline. He dropped into the passenger seat of the team car without looking, sprawled bonelessly. Peter watched him for half a second longer than necessary. Then he popped the boot, slid the helmet and bags into place, closed it with a solid thunk, and got behind the wheel. The engine purred to life. 

“Where are we going?” Harley asked, already leaning his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded. 

“Your hotel,” Peter replied easily, pulling out smoothly. 

“Oh.” Harley cracked one eye open. “Cool. Which one?” 

“I don’t know, it’s Spanish.” 

There was a pause. 

“Is it a good one?” Harley asked. 

“No, it’s terrible. I chose it just for you.” The pause lengthened. 

“The last place wasn’t a penthouse,” Harley said thoughtfully. “And it kind of sucked. The elevator was creaky.” 

“I thought you liked to live on the edge,” Peter replied dryly, eyes on the road. 

Harley laughed, unbothered. “Yeah, but not like that.”

Peter didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Harley wouldn’t ever notice the trade-offs Peter took; he wouldn’t notice that Peter had booked his own place - the cheapest hotel within a reasonable distance, quietly taking the cash bonus Tony had offered instead, and funneling it straight into the black hole of his student loan balance.

Harley lived in a world where someone else always cleaned up the mess, paid the fee, smoothed out the rough edges for him.

Not out of malice, or anything like that. But that was just… how it was, for him.

The car slipped a little further into the city, the lights streaking past. Harley shifted in his seat a little restlessly. “You think they’ll let me throw another party at this new place?”

Peter exhaled through his nose. “Depends. Are you going to trash it again?”

“I never mean to trash it,” Harley responded, genuinely offended.

Peter glanced over at him. Harley already kind of looked half asleep, his hair still damp with sweat and champagne soaked into his collar. By the time they pulled up into the hotel, Peter’s shoulders ached in that deep, familiar way. The building rose out of the street, with glass and stone and warm, golden light spilling from every window. The kind of place that smelled faintly of citrus and money. Valets lingered by the entrance, and people turned when Harley stepped out of the car with their phones already half-raised. 

Harley didn’t even notice it. He stretched, arms up over his head, spine cracking audibly. 

Peter got out on the other side and went straight to the boot. 

Helmet. Two bags. A garment carrier. A pair of shoes Harley had kicked off in the car at some point without comment or apology. Peter stacked it all up before he passed a few things to the lingering bellboys, straps digging into his shoulders, fingers numb from gripping too much at once.

Harley wandered toward the entrance, already letting himself be pulled into one of the women at the counter’s attention. Peter followed, fumbling with his phone to preemptively pull out the booking reference number. 

Inside, the lobby was tall and empty and echoing, marble floors reflecting chandeliers that looked like someone had tried to crystallize sunlight. The air was cool, and everything smelled like perfume. Harley drifted, attention already fading from the woman at the counter, and instead chose to drop into the waiting area’s couch.

At the front desk, Peter shifted the weight of the bags and gave his name, Harley’s name, and the reservation details. The receptionist smiled too brightly at Harley’s reflection in the polished surface, then snapped back to professionalism when Peter cleared his throat. 

While Peter handled key cards and incidental charges, Harley wandered in a slow circle around the lobby. He posed for a photo. Signed something, then leaned in close to say something that made a fan laugh too loudly. He didn’t look back once. Peter didn’t expect him to.

By the time they reached the elevators, Peter’s arms were trembling slightly. He adjusted the bags again, careful not to drop anything, careful not to let irritation leak out where it could be seen. 

Harley leaned against the mirrored wall of the elevator, fingers absently picking at something between his teeth. “Hey,” Harley said suddenly, eyes transfixed on his phone. “You hungry?”

Peter clicked his tongue. “...A little.”

“I'm hungry,” Harley finally looked up, although there was still a soft light emitting from his screen. He smiled expectantly. “You think there's anything good around here?”

Peter didn’t look at him. “Are you asking my opinion, or are you asking me to look for you?” 

Harley grinned at the reflection of them both, shooting him a smug smile. “A little bit of both.”

Peter huffed, adjusting his glasses with an eyeroll. “Fine, cheeseburgers?”

“Is that the best you can come up with?”

“It’s the best I can afford.”

Harley winced. “Yeesh, do you really not get paid much?”

“Not enough for what it entails,” Peter muttered. “Anyway, I’m not talking about my salary with you. It’s cheeseburgers, something cheap around the block, or it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

The comment seemed to shut Harley up. The elevator doors opened with a soft click, whirring wide until the penthouse was fully exposed.

Light flooded the hallway. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a city that stretched forever, all terracotta rooftops and distant hills, bathed in the soft glow of early evening. The suite itself was enormous; too big, really. Open-plan luxury, minimalist furniture that probably cost more than Peter’s car, a view that felt curated rather than accidental.

Harley let out a long whistle. “Damn, this is nice.”

For once, Peter had to agree. The penthouse was majorly out of his own price range, but if it made Harley’s mouth shut for even half a second, Peter was happy.

He walked straight past him and found the bedroom. He dropped the bags there, one by one, shoulders sagging as the weight finally left him. He stood still for a moment, eyes closed, letting the quiet press in. Light pooled across the floors - pristine, white tiles that glimmered under warm lights. The foyer was devastatingly modern, with sharp lines and harsh corners that screamed ostentatious.

Peter took a moment to drink in the view as he inhaled through his nose, shutting his eyes as if relief would come.

When he came back out, Harley was already at the fridge and helping himself to the bottles of something alcoholic that didn’t have prices and looked like they probably cost too much, something that looked like it was at the upper end of whatever liquor was stored in the fridge. 

“...Are you paying for that?” Peter asked, exhausted.

Harley jumped, turning around with a sheepish grin. “If I can't see the prices, I don't gotta worry about it.”

Harley twisted the cap off easily, took a swig, then wandered toward the windows like this was all just an extension of his own living room. 

Peter stopped a few feet away from him and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since I know you aren’t paying for it, that’s gonna end up on my card since Tony would shove you through Pepper’s paper shredder if he knows you’re drinking when it's strictly against motorsports rules.”

“Don’t worry, sugar, I can pay you back some other way,” Harley raised an expectant eyebrow, leaning against the countertop with a look Peter wanted to furiously erase from his mind. 

“You know how to write checks?” He replied sardonically.

“Think less about money.”

“Ew. How about a hundred bucks?” Peter tried.

“Something less monetary…”

“What, like you’re running out of it?” Peter wrinkled his nose. “And, no, gross. That’s breaching like, five contract laws.”

“You’re boring,” Harley declared loudly, spinning on his heel to rifle through the many cabinets.

“It never described blowjobs as a form of payment on the job description, and that’s not going to pay off my student debt,” Peter rolled his eyes, digging for the penthouse key in his pocket. “Speaking of, I’m going to complete my real job by getting your bags. Don’t smash a hole in the wall and concuss yourself while I’m gone.”

Harley answered with an incoherent sort of agreement, eyes falling back onto his phone.

For a second, he let himself imagine that this was the part where Harley would say something real, or something thoughtful. Something that acknowledged the view, the day, the win, the way the city looked like it was holding its breath. 

Harley sighed. Peter’s shoulders tensed. Harley stretched, rolling his neck. Took another sip. 

“This place is too quiet,” Harley said. “I’m gonna throw another party.” 

Peter closed his eyes. “Okay,” he said, voice flat with exhaustion. “Please don’t die.” 

Harley laughed, bright and careless, and Peter turned back to the elevator to fetch the rest of his bags.

—

Peter absolutely did not get paid enough for this. 

He knew that in the abstract way that everyone knew that they were underpaid for the emotional labor of their job description politely pretended didn’t exist.

But tonight, standing in the doorway of a penthouse that had been converted into a nightclub by sheer force of personality and terrible decisions managed to crystallize that thought into something sharp and mean and personal.

Nothing - absolutely nothing - in the paperwork Tony had slid across the table months ago mentioned babysitting a motorsportsman like a bouncer or making sure he didn’t fall out of a window because he got too drunk. Nothing about the “security” clause said anything about drinking - probably because Tony wasn’t aware Harley was the one doing the drinking, while he was also bound by some of the most aggressively specific behavioural clauses in Formula 1, and absolutely not one who seemed to treat those clauses like vague suggestions written in pencil.

He’d lost Harley in the crowd again. 

Fuck.

It was impressive, really, given that Harley was six feet of loud, overly forward mess of a human being in his fancy designer boots, but Madrid had done well. The people here knew how to party, and Harley took full advantage. 

People spilled everywhere; onto the balcony, in the hallways, clustered around speakers and glass tables and each other. The kitchen had dissolved into drinking challenges. The bass from the music thudded loud enough that Peter could feel it in his teeth.

The penthouse was still disgustingly dark.

For a party that probably could be heard 3 miles over, it was nearly pitch black with the lights turned low and warm and strategically placed so that faces blurred and hands disappeared into shadows. It wasn’t an accident, either; darkness gave plausible deniability. Darkness mean that no one could say for sure who was holding what, or how often, or how much.

And if someone was drinking? 

Well. It didn’t have to be Harley who was drinking.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment in one of the hallways, sucking in a sharp breath and already dreading just how many NDAs he’d have to sign by morning. There would be so many NDA’s. His hands were already cramping just thinking about it.

He stepped further inside the penthouse, letting the elevator doors slide shut behind him and sealing him into the problem.

The living room was a disaster. Furniture had been pushed back to make room, and something sticky coated the glass table. A lamp had been knocked over. Someone had draped a jacket casually over a piece of art that Peter was fairly certain cost more than his entire education.

People shoved past him without apology, bodies warm and too close enough to make his claustrophobia flare up. He swallowed, tensed, and got to work scanning faces to try to find Harley. Too tall. Too skinny. Too quiet.

Someone laughed too loudly near his ear, and he grit his teeth. 

Harley wasn’t immediately visible. Peter hated that feeling; the sudden cold drop in his stomach when his primary responsibility slipped out of sight. He moved deeper into the room, carefully weaving around the crowd of drunk partygoers. He spotted a familiar driver from another team near the makeshift bar, already halfway gone. A sponsor he recognized from press photos, next, and then someone he definitely didn't trust leaning too close to the balcony railing.

He needed to find Harley.

This was the job. This was always the job. People always thought that his job was just calendars and emails and polite smiles and carrying bags - which was partly true; but his flavor of assistance also included martial arts training and a more subtle type of security. It meant proximity. It meant staying sober while everyone else didn’t to track down the one idiot who shouldn’t be drinking in the first place, and-

He found his way back to the bar first.

It was an improvised sort of thing; the countertops were cleared, the bottles were lined up without any order or category, and no prices were anywhere, because prices implied limits.

Hands reached in and out, pouring freely. Peter’s eyes flicked over the labels, noting what could get Harley into trouble and what could be plausibly deniable if someone else was holding it.

“Hey,” someone said, leaning into his space. “You lost?”

Peter looked at them flatly. “No.”

They smiled like that was an invitation. Peter stepped around them without further comment. The music shifted, and the crowd surged. For a terrifying second, Peter thought he might actually have lost him.

Then he saw Harley.

He was perched on the arm of a couch, one knee up, drink in hand that Peter immediately realised was not water. He was laughing, head tipped back, light catching in his hair. A woman sat too close to him, hand on his thigh like it belonged there.

Peter’s jaw tightened.

He crossed the room in a straight line, ignoring the way people tried to slow him down, until he was standing directly in front of Harley. Harley noticed him instantly, grin widening like he’d just spotted his favorite toy.

“There you are,” Harley said brightly. “I was wondering how long it’d take you.”

Peter leaned in, voice pitched low. “What are you drinking.”

Harley blinked at him, exaggerated innocence settling in. “...A beverage.”

“Harley.”

“Relax,” Harley said. “It’s not what you think.” 

Peter looked at the glass. Looked at the bottle behind the bar. Looked back at Harley. “It’s exactly what I think,” he said.

Harley sighed dramatically. “You’re such a buzzkill.”

“And you’re violating a clause that could cost you millions,” Peter said, keeping his voice low and even. “So we’re even.”

The woman pressed against Harley’s side - young, beautiful, very aware of where she was - stilled when she heard the tone. Her hand, which had been resting comfortably on Harley’s thigh, slid away, suddenly uncertain. Harley rolled his eyes but set the glass down on the table beside him before he leaned back to loop an arm around the woman’s waist to pull her closer. “Happy?”

“No,” Peter said. “But this helps.”

Harley leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, breath warm and faintly sweet. “You’re supposed to be blending in. You’re drawing attention.”

Peter looked around.

The room was a wreck, the half-lit mess of furniture and bodies pressed together, spilling laughter and noise. Someone had turned the music up again; the bass rattled through the walls and shook the windows. There was nothing subtle about any of it.

“You threw a party loud enough to wake neighboring countries,” he snapped. “I’m not the problem here.”

Harley laughed, delighted, and - just to make a point - slung an arm around the woman beside him, pulling her in closer. She laughed too, clearly enjoying the attention, leaning into him like this was exactly where she wanted to be.

Peter wrinkled his nose despite himself.

“Wow,” Harley said, eyes flicking over Peter’s expression. “Jealous?”

“No,” Peter said automatically. “Annoyed.”

“Same thing,” Harley replied slyly. Peter’s expression soured further, and Harley caught it and grinned wider, sliding his hand a little lower.

 “Hey,” Peter said, sharper now. “Harley, what are you doing.”

Harley shrugged, unapologetic. “Enjoying myself.”

“Not on the couch in full view of strangers,” Peter hissed, and Harley grumbled, leaning back and tugging the girl with him. 

“Why’ve you got such a stick up your ass?” Harley muttered, thumbing just under the hem of the woman’s dress. “When was the last time you got some, Parker?”

Peter’s face burned. “None of your business, and that is extremely inappropriate for you to-”

The woman laughed as Harley murmured something in her ear. Then, without another word, he slid off the couch, hand still at her waist, steering her toward the hallway like the rest of the party didn’t exist.

Peter followed two steps before reality caught up with him. “Hey - where are you going?”

Harley glanced back over his shoulder, lip curling up. “Unless you want to stick around and supervise,” he said lightly, “I’ll be busy for a bit.”

Peter stopped dead.

“You are unbelievable,” he snapped.

Harley laughed and disappeared into the master bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Peter stared at it.

For a long moment, he just stood there, noise crashing around him, heart pounding with a mix of fury and disbelief. Then he marched down the hallway and knocked, hard. “Harley,” he hissed. “Get out here and help me fix this.”

No response.

He knocked again, louder.

“Harley!”

A pause.

Then Harley’s voice, muffled and entirely too amused. “Can’t hear you right now, I’m-” a sound from the woman, then laughter, “-very busy.” Peter clenched his fists. Another pause. Then, far too smug; “...Unless you want to join…?”

“I hate you,” Peter snapped.

More hushed laughter from inside. The door stayed shut.

Peter stood there for a long second, breathing through his nose, counting backward from ten like it might save him from homicide charges. He stood there another second - long enough to seriously consider banging his head against the doorframe - before turning back toward the living room.

The place looked worse now.

Someone had spilled something red across the table. Cushions were on the floor. The empty glasses had multiplied. Peter stepped through the room, and he lowered the music one notch at a time until it was just loud instead of deafening. He redirected people away from the balcony with firm hands and firmer smiles. He confiscated bottles that had wandered too far from plausible deniability and replaced them with water no one wanted, and his already minimal knowledge of Spanish failed him through the fast, drunk slurring of the partygoers.

By midnight, the damage was undeniable.

A lamp lay shattered near the window. The rug was sticky in several places. Someone had knocked over a chair and never bothered to right it. Peter stepped carefully around broken glass, rolling up his sleeves, already resigned as he stripped off his jacket, draped it over a chair, and got to work.

This was his life, apparently.

He gathered unbroken bottles first, lining them up along the counter, checking labels out of habit. He wiped surfaces with hotel towels. He righted furniture. He confiscated anything that could plausibly end up in a headline, and flushed whatever looked like it wasn’t prescribed down the toilet, all while the music pounded and people danced and laughed and pretended this wasn’t going to be a problem in twelve hours.

He cleaned. Down the hall, laughter drifted intermittently from behind the closed door.

Peter ignored it.

Time slipped past in an unpleasant blur. At some point, he checked his watch and felt a fresh wave of irritation crash over him.

At 1:47 a.m, he started shepherding people out. 

“Okay,” he called loudly. “Party’s winding down. Let’s start heading out.” A few people groaned. Someone booed, weakly. Someone else laughed like it was a joke. Peter smiled tightly. “Hotel staff are being very patient,” he added, which was code for this is your last warning.

That did it.

He started guiding people out with gentle but firm pressure at elbows and shoulders and directions. “Elevators are this way.” “Let’s get you some air.” “You can finish that downstairs.” He woke people up where they’d passed out - on couches, on the floor, once in the weird angle of half-under a table.

“Hey,” he murmured to a man drooling onto a throw pillow. “Time to go.”

The man blinked blearily. “Is - is he okay?”

Peter didn’t ask who he was. “He’s great,” he said automatically. “You’re leaving.”

Peter had apologized to hotel staff four separate times already. He had tipped obscenely. He had promised, with a sincerity he did not feel, that this would never happen again. He had ordered taxis for strangers whose names he never caught until the app threatened to lock him out. He double-checked destinations, leaned into open windows to make sure people were conscious enough to answer basic questions. He had shaken awake men who slept like the dead, had physically escorted one woman out while she loudly insisted she was “basically family.” 

At some point, he realized his jaw hurt from clenching it.

By the time the penthouse finally fell quiet, it was close to three. The silence rang.

Peter stood in the middle of the living room and let it settle. The wreckage was… improved. Not fixed, but enough that the hotel wouldn’t blacklist them on sight. Enough that Pepper could plausibly negotiate the rest in the morning.

Peter sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He felt hollowed out, because this is where he was at, now. Babysitting a grown man who could pilot a car at lethal speeds but couldn’t be trusted with a drink or a decision. Babysitting someone who flirted like breathing - openly, constantly, indiscriminately.

Including with Peter.

Harley flirted with everyone. That was the thing. With fans, with strangers, with cameras; but that didn’t mean anything. It was just how he was. Loud and messy and overconfident. And annoying.

He’d learned long ago how to detach - how to do the work without letting resentment curdle into something sharper or bitter or anything like that. This was temporary. This was transactional. He told himself that like a mantra.

Still.

There was something uniquely humiliating about scrubbing champagne out of a rug while the person responsible for it was down the hall, very clearly not worrying about consequences. Peter straightened slowly, back aching, and looked around the room again.

Then, just to make sure Harley hadn’t died or overdosed or managed to fall out of a window, he walked down the hallway toward the guest rooms.

Harley’s door was closed. Of course it was. Peter lifted his hand to knock, hesitated, then rapped lightly anyway. “Harley?”

No answer. He leaned closer, forehead resting briefly against the wood. Exhaustion made everything feel muffled, unreal.

“Harley,” he tried again, quieter. “Are you still awake?”

Nothing.

He pressed his ear to the door. For a horrible, breathless second, he thought he heard something - movement, a voice, the soft sound of something that made his stomach twist. His pulse spiked, sharp and sudden, face burning.

Then- 

Snoring.

Loud and unmistakable, and Peter sagged with relief so intense it almost hurt. He stepped back, scrubbed a hand down his face, and turned away. He wasn’t paid enough to unpack whatever had happened in that room. Harley was alive. Asleep. Tomorrow’s problem.

Back in the living room, Peter finished the last of the cleanup. Bottles into bags. Towels into piles. Windows cracked to air out the stale mix of perfume and alcohol and heat. When he finally made his way to the bathroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror and startled.

He looked terrible; his eyes were bloodshot. His hair was a mess. There was a faint smear of something sticky on his sleeve that he didn’t want to identify. 

“Ugh.”

The shower was hot enough to sting. He stood under it longer than necessary, forehead pressed to the tile, letting the water pound some of the ache out of his shoulders. When he stepped out, he pulled on the change of clothes he kept in the car for emergencies like this - soft t-shirt, worn jeans.

Back in the kitchen, he paused.

The expensive bottle Harley had been drinking earlier sat abandoned on the counter, a third of it still left. Peter stared at it for a long moment.

Then he poured himself a glass. He drank it slowly, leaning against the counter, eyes half-closed. It burned pleasantly. He didn’t feel guilty. He was tried. After, he wandered over to the flipped couch cushions before he decided that he at least deserved to abuse the penthouse’s multiple bedrooms, set an alarm on his phone, and crashed.

—

Peter almost smashed a fist through the side table in an attempt to mute his phone.

He missed the days when he could enjoy luxury hotel beds and views that looked like the default screen of his laptop. When mornings stretched into afternoons and his only job was getting Harley between places and buying him coffee. Before 

But here he was, one burning headache away from quitting and returning to university.

He rolled over, almost submitting to the silky sheets. A feather-soft blanket sat over his chest, hanging over the edge of the bed after he’d kicked and turned in an attempt to sleep. 

He’d left Harley, who’d disappeared into the master suite with a brunette on his hip. Peter’s job on paper was to supervise the driver in all situations to ensure he wasn’t in danger. However, he was willing to break the rules if he didn't have to stand in the corner of the bedroom while Harley hooked up with a stranger.

His alarm buzzed again.

He glanced over to the glowing screen, hissing as he was met with thudding pain within his skull. He hadn’t even drunk, and yet he was dealing with consequences he didn’t ask for.

It read 7:02. Too early. Far too early.

The room was nearly completely dark, except for the light that peeked in from under the curtains. He knew from last night that the view was picture-perfect, something he wouldn’t have in the three-star hotel he was supposed to be booked into. He’d have to call them after he found the will to get up. Yesterday had slipped away from him, with Harley cutting corners on the race track and having a celebratory glass of something Peter knew was forbidden and throwing a party-

The party. He paled, gut swimming with nausea.

He kicked off the sheets, feet met with ice as his skin brushed the tiled floors. A shiver vibrated through his spine, an early morning chill nipping at his forearms. 

The room was cleaner than he’d been used to in the past. It wasn’t the first time that Peter had had to supervise a party like an underpaid casual relief teacher. He was lucky for this small slice of silence to remain mostly untouched after the party.

He slipped on a fluffy robe and a pair of hotel slippers, glad he’d promised himself that he’d leave time to shower after last night. Then, he ventured out into the penthouse, lips pressed together in concentration. His mind had been clouded with exhaustion only a few hours before. Even before he’d finished that expensive bottle that he knew would waste away, the night felt like a broken record of reprimand, confiscate, dispose, repeat.

There was an uneasy silence to the penthouse. A dimmed buzz that hung like static electricity, and all that remained was the echo of the loud music and the remnants of a party that went too far. Peter felt his migraine burn sharper at the thought of how many calls he’d have to make.

Cherry red that he’d missed under the dimmed lights had spilled across a tabletop, having left a marinating stain on the expensive wood. Something dark and sticky sank deep into the side of the couch cover, glistening with an amber sheen like golden syrup. The kitchen was trashed with broken glass he’d missed glittering in the early morning sun that streamed through the windows, and the countertop was dripping with sticky liquor that pooled onto the floor.

Clearly his attempt to clean had been futile, with every glass picked up replaced by another. 

He knew he’d have to formally apologise to both the cleaners and the staff. With a sigh, he clicked his pen and scribbled it down in his notebook.

Now, the next course of action: awaken sleeping beauty from his century-long slumber. 

And that in itself was Peter’s first hurdle of the day. His preference would be to avoid knowing what happened behind those closed doors and simply knock. Knowing Harley, the man wasn’t about to make it easy for him.

He started by making coffee. Very strong, very sugary coffee to at least bribe him out of bed.

The master suite was at the opposite end of the penthouse, giving him enough time to regret taking this job as he ventured through his sorry attempt at cleanliness. But before he could consider reapplying for an engineering degree, he was standing in front of the shut door. 

He stood outside Harley’s bedroom door with a paper cup of coffee burning his palm and a notebook tucked under his arm, staring at the wood like it had personally wronged him. He raised his hand to knock, breath catching in his throat. One sharp rap. He let his hand fall back to his side.

“Harley,” he said. His voice sounded rough even to his own ears. “It’s morning.”

No answer.

“Harley?” He tried, cursing himself for the croak that exited his throat. Peter shifted his weight, spine protesting. He knocked again, harder. Still nothing. His stomach did a small, stupid flip - annoyance dressed up as concern, concern dressed up as obligation. He leaned forward and pressed his ear to the door before he could talk himself out of it. “Harley? Are you still awake?”

For one long, horrifying second, there was a noise that made Peter’s soul attempt to leave his body. A low, breathy sound - half moan, half choke - and his brain obligingly supplied every possible interpretation at once. His face heated. His jaw clenched. He stood there, frozen, experiencing a deeply personal regret about his life choices.

Then the noise resolved itself into a snore. Loud. Wet. Utterly unashamed.

Peter closed his eyes and counted to five. He did not scream. He considered it.

His hand hovered over the golden door handle, fingers brushing the hardware hesitantly. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for movement.

After another breath, his last moment of silence for the next seventeen hours, he pushed the door forward and braced himself.

The room was quiet, except for the quiet snores of the driver and his accomplice. They lay under a thin sheet, one just opaque enough to save Peter from a sight he didn’t need to see this early in the morning.

Harley was sprawled diagonally across the bed, limbs everywhere, one arm flung above his head, the other hanging off the mattress. He was shirtless, skin warm and golden in the early light, hair a disaster of his sandy curls mashed into the pillow. There was a woman next to him - Peter had not known her name last night and certainly did not know it now - curled into Harley’s side, her leg thrown over his thigh like she had claimed territory.

For the first time, Harley looked, well, peaceful. Peter almost felt bad for changing that. He didn’t feel so bad when he remembered that he’d be at the end of the chopping block if they were late. Michelle was his friend, but she also had no shame in chewing him out.

Harley had an arm slung around the waist of the woman like it belonged there. His foot hung off the side of the bed, poking out at an angle that Peter knew would ache when the man eventually rose. He looked graceful. Too graceful for the hour. Too much like Adonis, with warm sunlight spilling across his chest and golden hair that glowed from the morning light.

They looked obscene. Effortlessly, unfairly obscene.

Peter’s first thought was not professional. It was petty and sharp and immediate: of course he looked like that. Of course he woke up beautiful after being an absolute menace to society. 

Something sharp and ugly curled in his chest. While Peter had stayed up in an attempt to clean, Harley had had one of many great nights, whether it was sleep or something else, and was allowed to look so put together at the horrific hour. 

His second thought was worse: if Harley didn’t wake up in the next ten minutes, Peter was going to murder him with a pillow.

Peter had half the nerve to throw off the sheet and rudely awaken the man. The meaner the better. If Harley wasn’t cursing his name like a sailor, it wasn’t nearly as satisfying. Peter wouldn’t have the smooth sensation of contentment in his chest. Judging by the shorter figure beside Harley, throwing off the paper-thin sheet was about to cause more problems than fix. And create more emails of apology out to whoever the lady was associated with.

He stepped into the room, shoes silent on the carpet, and cleared his throat loudly as he poked Harley with the edge of his clipboard and waited for the man to stir. For someone who stayed up past unholy hours of the morning, he could sleep through anything. 

“Morning,” Peter said, flat. “Party’s over.”

Harley snorted, shifted, and buried his face deeper into the pillow. The snoring resumed, undeterred.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. His head throbbed in time with his pulse. He walked around the bed and nudged Harley’s shoulder with two fingers. “Up,” he said. “You have a schedule.”

Harley groaned, long and theatrical, and rolled onto his back. His eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy, pupils blown wide. He squinted at the light, then at Peter. “Oh,” Harley said, voice wrecked. “It’s you.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “Tragically.”

Harley grinned, lazy and unrepentant, and reached out blindly. Peter didn't even think about it. He stepped forward and put the coffee into Harley’s hand. Their fingers brushed. Harley’s skin was warm. Peter ignored that too.

“God,” Harley muttered, taking a sip and wincing. “You’re an angel.”

“I’m your employee,” Peter said. “Different thing. Anyway, Harley, it’s six past seven and you’ve got places to be.”

The man snorted quietly from under the sheets. “Hah, six, seven.”

Anything but the opportunity for immature jokes.

“You’re such a child,” Peter sighed. “Get up.”

“It’s too early,” the man groaned like a petulant toddler, hand pushing blonde hair from his eyes with the hand that wasn’t holding the scalding coffee.

Peter had half the nerve to throw water over his face. “Get up or I’m getting the blow-dryer and aiming it at your face.”

“Go fuck yourself,” the man replied with zero conviction, head loling sideways across the pillow. Shiny hair fell back across his forehead.

Peter moved towards the ensuite, pressing his feet harder into the floor. “It’s nice to be appreciated sometimes,” he declared.

Harley groaned loudly, peeling the sheet off his skin. The woman behind him stirred, but fell silent after a moment, stretching out an arm from under the covers. She blinked blearily, eyes unfocused, and looked at Peter like she was trying to remember who he was. 

The woman shifted again, clearly awake now, eyes flicking between them. Peter turned to her with a tight, polite smile. “Morning,” he said, smile strained. “I’m going to need you to leave.”

She groaned, rolling onto her back, squinting against the light. “What time is it?”

“Too late,” Peter replied. “There’s a car downstairs that will take you wherever you want to go. I’ll call it.”

She looked at Harley, who gave a lazy shrug and another sip of coffee.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

She opened her mouth, possibly to argue, possibly to flirt, possibly to ask who the hell he was. Peter cut it off with a gentle but immovable gesture toward the door.

“Shoes,” he added. “Lobby is to the left. Elevators are very forgiving this time of day.”

She stared at him for a second longer, then sighed and extricated herself from Harley with visible effort as she eventually gathered the sheet around herself and shuffled toward the bathroom, muttering under her breath. Peter turned away, already grabbing his phone. 

Peter turned away, already grabbing his phone.

By the time she emerged dressed and annoyed, Peter had arranged a car, confirmed checkout extensions, and emailed three people. She left without another word, and Harley watched her go with half-lidded eyes, not particularly invested.

“Text me,” he said, to no one in particular.

Silence settled, and Harley took another sip of coffee and winced again. “Why does my head feel like it’s full of gravel?”

“Because you drank like someone trying to erase a decade,” Peter said, pulling up a chair and sitting. His legs felt like they might not hold him much longer. He opened his notebook and looked at his schedule. The neat blocks of text felt vaguely insulting.

Harley squinted at him. “Did I do anything stupid?”

Peter did not look up. “Define stupid.”

Harley laughed, then immediately regretted it. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. “Okay. Fair.”

“No, not fair. Get up.”

He rolled upwards, perching himself at the side of his bed. “Okay, mom.’”

Then he stood up and stretched.

Peter stiffened, aware Harley wasn’t wearing anything.  The driver rolled his neck. There were audible cracks and another groan, low and gravelly. Actively avoiding looking anywhere lower than Harley’s face, Peter clicked his tongue. “MJ has scheduled an interview with Betty at eight.”

“Can you tell MJ to schedule later interviews?”

“Your itinerary doesn’t allow room for later interviews,” he pursed his lips, digging through Harley’s first bag. “And, MJ has instructed you to refer to her as Michelle.”

“Michelle,” Harley drawled, exaggerating her name sourly, “needs to get that stick out of her ass.”

“MJ is the reason you currently aren’t suspended from Formula 1.”

Harley let out a humorless snort like he didn’t believe the statement. ‘Sure,’ he drawled, his voice closer to a rasp. Peter reminded himself to find another water bottle for the man.

Harley turned and raised his arms above his head to stretch out his spine. His torso was pulled taut, tanned skin covered in tiny red scratch marks Peter didn’t want to question.

“Take a shower,” Peter turned around and moved towards the door. “Or at the very least, put on some clothes.”

“What, you don’t like the view?” Harley looked behind him, although it felt almost like an accusation.

“I don’t need an eyeful of you at seven in the morning.”

Peter could hear Harley’s devilish smirk. “That wasn’t a no.”

“Fine then, no.” Peter restated, rubbing his eyes. He wasn’t giving Harley any more opportunities to fuel that ever-growing ego.

“Sure,” he teased. Peter really considered finding that blow dryer.

“Any other questions?” Peter said flatly.

“You’re ignoring me,” Harley said.

“I’m informing you,” Peter replied. “Whether you absorb it is between you and your impending regret.”

Harley shifted, propping himself up on his elbows. The sheet slipped lower. Peter did not look. He had learned the hard way that looking was a mistake.

“Why did you let me throw a party,” Harley asked, voice softer now, edged with something like accusation, “if you knew I had all this shit today?”

Peter paused. He finally looked up.

“Because you’re an adult,” he said evenly. “And because stopping you would have required either physical restraint or a tranquilizer gun.”

Harley frowned, considering that. “You could’ve said no.”

“I did,” Peter said. “Six times. You laughed. Once you promised me a watch. It was a bad watch.”

Harley smiled, slow and charming, like he thought he was cute. He wasn’t. “Next time,” he said, “tell me to be smart.”

Peter closed the notebook with a soft click. “Sorry,” he said. “Next time I’ll tell you you can’t throw any more parties at all.”

Harley’s eyes widened. “Woah, woah, wait - hold on. Let’s not be hasty, Parker.”

Peter stood, joints popping in protest. He was bone-tired, and whatever anger he’d had left over from last night now felt more dull than sharp. He had spent the night cleaning up after a grown man who could pilot a car at speeds that defied physics but couldn’t be trusted with an open bar and his own impulses.

He loved this job, he reminded himself. He did. Mostly.

“Shower,” Peter said. “You have twenty minutes.”

Harley saluted him with the coffee cup. “You’re a tyrant.”

“I know,” Peter said, and left the room before he could say anything worse. He had to get ready himself and catch up with MJ to work on Harley’s public relations.

While she also dealt with interviews and press conferences, Michelle Jones was responsible for dictating Harley’s reputation to the public. After last night’s party, she had her work cut out for her. 

Peter felt the weight of his phone sitting heavy in the pocket of his jeans. She was one of his two closest friends and he cherished being able to work so closely with her. But he hesitated calling, knowing that she wouldn’t hold back on pointing out any incompetence. Like she could see the guilty look etched across his fault.

Harley may have been the one to throw the party, let the guests in, and hook up with a stranger the night after a race. But Peter was the one responsible for it all, for Harley’s well-being and the disgusting state of the hotel afterwards.

He needed another coffee.

And Harley needed to shower. Currently, he wandered the penthouse like a ghost, and Peter wasn't having it. His eyes never left his phone, drawn to whatever social media he was so enthralled in.

Peter’s jaw tightened, wishing he worked for someone with a little more urgency. He stood beside the coffee machine, fingers tapping the edge of a mug as he waited for caffeine to brew.

From across the room, Harley was pacing with the energy of an elderly woman after knee surgery.  

Coffee was one thing. But it wasn’t instant enough. Not even pure black espresso could solve whatever grudge Harley was in.

So Peter did the next best thing.

He opened the freezer door, pushing past the boxes of complimentary snacks, and dug through the ice tray. Walking fast enough that he couldn’t stop to regret what he was about to do, he moved towards the man and pressed a chunk of ice into the nape of Harley’s neck.

It took a second for the man to protest, but as Peter stood there with ice pressed into his skin, Harley stiffened. His body pulled taut, jaw locking before he pulled away with a shout, wiggling like he’d been shocked with a taser. “What the fuck was that for?”

“You looked tired. I was making you awake.” Peter clicked his tongue. “It never fails to work.’

“You’re an asshole,” Harley replied with full conviction.

He raised an eyebrow, pressing the mug into Harley’s frozen hand. “You wouldn’t last a day without me.”

“Bet.”

“No, no, no bet,” Peter waved his hand. ‘C’mon, go shower. You smell like sweat. Did you even shower after yesterday’s race?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Who do you think, you stupid-”

Harley drank his coffee like it was medicine. “You’re mad,” he observed.

“I’m tired,” Peter said. “There’s a difference.”  

Peter started reading from the schedule. “Physio at nine. Simulator at eleven. Lunch is a protein thing you’ll hate. Media at two.”

Harley groaned again and flopped backward. “Media where?”

“Here,” Peter said. “MJ scheduled you for an interview with Betty Brant. Short-form, low impact. Don’t flirt.”

“I never flirt.”

Peter looked at him.

Harley grinned. “Okay, I flirt.”

Peter continued with an eyeroll. “After that, sponsor meet-and-greet. Then dinner with the team.”

“Can we cancel dinner?”

“No.”

Harley sighed, dramatic. “You’re killing me.”

“You’re doing that yourself,” Peter replied. He clasped his hands tightly, forcing a tight smile. “Anyway. Get dressed. The interview is supposed to be ‘casual’.”

Harley groaned and leaned back against the counter. “I hate casual. Casual is a trap.”

“Good thing we have the scheduled dinner tonight, then,” Peter went on. “Black tie.”

“I hate those too.”

“Woe is you,” Peter said flatly, downing the rest of his coffee before moving to open the rest of the curtains.

“You look like shit,” Harley called from the kitchen, standing up. “Did you even sleep last night?”

Peter turned, slowly, to stare at him. “...what?”

“Last night,” Harley waved a hand, idly flicking through his phone. “When’d you end up leaving, anyway?”

Peter felt fucking mutinous. “...I didn’t,” he said very calmly, very carefully, because if he didn’t, he would explode. “The place was such a mess I stayed here and cleaned. All night. I slept in the guest room.”

Harley paused. “Oh. You didn’t have to do that.”

Peter sighed, relaxing his shoulders a little. “I know, I guess. But that’s also my job. You race and win and drink, and I clean it up and make sure you’re presentable for your next public viewing.”

Harley’s expression shifted, just a little. Something like guilt flickered and was gone, replaced by a grin that was softer around the edges. “You could quit.”

Peter laughed before he could stop himself. It came out sharp and humorless. “And do what,” he said. “Sleep?”

Harley reached out again, this time not for the coffee. His fingers brushed Peter’s wrist, light, absentminded. Peter stilled without meaning to.

“Hey,” Harley said. “I’m not an idiot. I know you do a lot.”

Peter pulled his hand back gently and tapped the notepad. “You have fifteen minutes to be showered and dressed, or I’m dragging you down to the car shirtless.”

Harley sighed dramatically. “I’m never drinking again.”

Peter made a noncommittal noise. “You coming to the interview?” 

“Yes.”

“Good. Betty likes you.”

“She likes punctuality.”

“She likes your face.”

“She likes yours, because yours pays well.”

Harley snorted. “Women love me.”

Peter turned and smacked Harley’s stupid smug head with his notebook. “For the last time, get dressed. I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”

Harley did a dumb little salute, ducked back into the master bedroom and closed the door behind him, leaving Peter standing in the sun-drenched aftermath of the party.

Right, Peter thought, sliding his worn notepad back onto the table and taking in a sharp breath to steady himself, back to cleaning.