Work Text:
There was a beat of silence as Harley focused, hands being as steady as they could while he fixed Peter’s monstrosity of a mistake.
“Do you think I have lice?” It was phrased as a question, a kicker to the situation they were in. And that situation was because Peter thought it would be a good idea to skimp out on going to the hairdresser for a professionally done haircut.
Harley grinned, a smile hidden from Peter as he flicked the back of his head. “If you do, you’re paying for my treatment.”
A snort, like he was picturing it, “I’ll just shave your eyebrows off and call it a day. Free of charge.” Harley tilted his head to the left as he sorted his curls.
“I’ll pull your teeth out. Not free of charge.”
“Aw, look at that guy holding the door open for that lady,” Peter gushed, which then turned into giggles as the said man pulled a cart up to his chest, and hopped on as he rolled downhill to return the cart to its original spot.
“Peter—no, don’t laugh.” Harley scolded without looking up from his phone.
The teen spared a confused glance at his brother before bringing his full attention to the spectacle happening outside the car. His snow cone was rock hard. The girl who was working at the snow cone place seemed to hate her job, but Peter at least expected her to lather his large serving with extra syrup.
The man he’d been watching walked up to a shopper, and Peter could hear their conversation, devastatingly loud.
“Do you have any unwanted jewelry or coins I could have?” He asked, polite but snappy. His eyes were locked onto the other like they were a mouse.
“I don’t have any cash on me. Sorry.” She blurted, stuffing her bags into the backseat before closing it with a huff.
He inched closer as she opened her car door and practically flung herself into the driver seat, and Peter didn’t want to say he was discriminatory towards unhoused people, but the glare the man gave her was one of a hawk. He couldn’t help the tingling of his spider sense spark in the back of his skull.
“I never said anything about money,” the clicking of his tongue sounded like a bullet to Peter’s ears. With the sag of his shoulders, the man set off in another direction.
The color draining out of Peter’s face must’ve been visible from Harley’s peripheral because when his brother turned his head to face him, Peter did too, albeit slowly, realization hitting him forcefully.
“I just laughed at something cruel.” He whispered, like he was stating his sins. And he was.
The cold ice of his snow cone felt like a brick in his hand.
Harley smirked, although it had no bite in it. Just in that fond way when Peter thinks the world is all sunshine and rainbows sometimes. “I told you not to.”
Menus fluttered all throughout the restaurant, heavy with purpose as stomachs rumbled.
The two decided to eat pho for lunch, which would probably hold Harley off till dinner and Peter, for an hour. It was the quality time they were spending together, anyways, so actually fulfilling the Spider-Teen’s metabolism wasn’t the goal.
“Chat, what should I get,” Peter wondered aloud to himself, eyes skimming the plastic covered menu.
Harley hummed back in response, turning the page to look at appetizers.
A light thump of something hitting plastic made Harley look up. Peter wasn’t looking at him, but the wide grin on his face made him groan internally. Another thump, and then another, becoming increasingly faster before abruptly stopping. Harley just stared, eyebrows slightly raised in anticipation.
The cheeky face of his brother made the corner of his mouth quirk up. It was like a secret language between them, the energy goofing up as one was about to be dumb.
His chest stopped rising, constricted to hold his laughter, lips pursing like he was also keeping air trapped in his mouth, and weezed, “miso beef…”
The air let out like a fart and Harley snorted, hand coming up to cover his mouth. It was the most ridiculous thing to laugh at, brain rot humor, but it was him and his brother, who were they to not be stupid?
Peter choked on his laugh, spit flying out onto the table as he desperately tried to hang on to the embarrassment, but it was swept away when Harley laughed louder and grabbed a tissue to wipe it away.
Tears sprang into his eyes as he added, “Mr Beast cheesing.”
Indie rock spewed from the radio, turned low enough for the pair to both enjoy it. The car engine rumbled like it always did, Harley’s classic beat up truck, still hanging on after—so, so many generations that Peter couldn’t even remember.
They were waiting for Happy to pull up and hand off money like they were some drug lords. It had been a very pitiful call, with Harley and Peter on their hands and knees begging Happy to just bring them their wallets because they didn’t like spending Tony’s money. It felt like a charity case. Yet that was unsaid, the message got across and the unhappy man ended the call with an affirmative sound.
Now they wait.
A fit dude walked out of the store, all bags fit into one hand as he pulled out his car keys with the other. Sun-kissed skin, black hair that was parted, and such a normal face that Harley immediately took notice of the confidence radiating off him.
“He’s hot, carrying all his bags with one hand.” He drooled. Peter wiped it away in his imagination and watched as the dude approached his car.
“You know I can carry more than that, right,” his eyes inspected every shiny piece of metal that was on the car, which was, everywhere. It was a hunk of a thing, like a mom van, Peter mused.
His brother ignored him. The car pulled out of the parking space, slowly started its way to the stop sign, and ran it. Turning the corner so sharp that it almost hit another car, earning a honk as the presumed hot guy drove away with a straight face.
Uncomfortable but manageable silence engulfed the car.
“Well,” he smacked his lips, unbothered as he looked at his cuticles, “would you look at that? Your crush is a bad driver.”
Harley groaned, butting the steering wheel with his forehead. “Shut. Up.”
When they entered the store, Peter immediately took notice of the mischievous glint in Harley’s eyes and followed his eyesight, aimed at an electric scooter.
Harley was already on it by the time he opened his mouth, “No, no, Harley, no, what if someone actually needs that? Get off—ow.” The scooter came to life and hit his foot, most likely on purpose by the smirk on his brother’s face.
“Pssh, Pete, there’s another one, let’s just have fun!” He persisted, even puffing out his lower lip and making his eyes huge. All that did for Peter was make him mildly horrified.
When he took too long to answer Harley sped off, a decent amount of speed that little thing carried, and Peter tripped on his own foot from trying to catch up. “I hate you.” He muttered.
After a few minutes of shopping, Peter got used to making his best poker face while passing by people.
They were in an empty aisle browsing on sale candy when Peter spotted the most perfect Easter eggs. Gasping, he slid up to Harley and wiggled his eyebrows in question. “Do you wanna have an Easter egg hunt at the tower?”
“Hell yeah!” The answer was immediate. “I ate all my candy from last week. This will set me up for one more.”
“‘Kay, let me check the price on these though,” converse squeaking on the tile floor, Peter was off to find an employee.
When he came back, speedwalking in excitement because they were so cheap oh my gosh, he barely even noticed the group across from the aisle they were in until he was five steps away from Harley when a sharp pang pierced his skull and he bounced out of the way of a ball aimed at his head.
Placing the eggs in the cart, he excused the ball as a mistake. “They’re like one buck a piece, so let’s buy… five packs?”
The boy occupying the scooter wasn’t looking at him, but currently staring daggers at the group of kids around their age across from them.
“Okay, let’s do six then…” trailing off, he listened to one of the kids scoff.
“Dude, you missed.” A boy said, rummaging to find another ball.
“No I fucking didn’t, he just somehow dodged.” The offender—as context clues suggest—said.
There was a snicker before a full on laugh, which was quieted down before speaking, “It’s gay powers. The homosexual possession, hide your kids!”
Harley stood up quickly, electric scooter rattling as he sidestepped over it. His eyebrows were furrowed, mouth in a firm line like he was annoyed. An illusion. Peter reached out a hand to pull him back but he just shrugged it off, and then he tried again, grabbing his clothes because he couldn’t make a scene, he couldn’t because Peter Parker didn’t make scenes. He endured.
Harley Keener didn’t endure.
Shrugging him off once more, more gruff into it, he walks over to the group, sleazy. They all stop laughing collectively, one at a time, each quieter in question.
Once he’s close enough Harley right hooks the guy who threw the ball, kicks him in the gut, and while he’s folding like a lawn chair he uppercuts the dude who insulted his brother, and kicks him in the nuts for good measure.
With a huff, he scans the remaining people, jaw clenched. Wide eyes stare back at him.
Radio static fills Peter’s ears as he blinks back into reality, looking at the staff door burst open and multiple security guards spill out. Without thinking he rushes to Harley’s side, pulls him by the collar, and sprints out, grinning.
The car shakes with how much force they put into slamming themselves in it. They sit there for a minute, adrenaline high and pumping.
With wet eyes Peter launches himself at Harley, face burying into his shoulder at the awkward position. Disbelief bubbles out of Harley’s mouth as he laughs, at the group of bullies, at them running out like hell, and at the fact that even happened.
He puts his hand on Peter’s back, leaning in to hug him too. “We can buy those stupid eggs somewhere else.”
The person under his hand starts to shake, and he immediately pulls back to face his brother, only to hear the most loud belly laugh.
“We forgot about your scooter!”