Chapter Text
"So this was Harley, huh?" Peter murmured, picking up the photo frame from where it sat on Tony's desk. There's light layering of dust covering the glass, a surprising lack of care for something Tony holds so dear. Although, Peter thinks, maybe it was too hard to see pictures of Harley smiling, all white, slightly crooked teeth shinning under the camera's flash. Too hard to look at a boy smiling like he holds the world in his hands when now, even if he could hold the world, it would only fall through his palms. A soft exhale, one Peter hadn't even thought about taking, brushes most of the dust off the frame.
Peter never had gotten the chance to meet Harley, though, in between the lines of stories told by Tony, Pepper, Happy, and even Rhodey, he felt he'd gained a good idea of who Harley had been. One of the first things he'd ever learnt about him was that he'd liked engineering. The first thing Harley had ever built sat in a quiet corner in the back of Tony's workshop, out of harm's way. Or perhaps, out of sight and out of mind. So Tony didn't have to think about the life of a boy he'd never see again. It sat in a glass case, proudly labelled as "Potato Gun Mark I". Supposedly, he'd barely even been eleven years old when he'd made it. Which, holy shit was that impressive. And based off of the information written about some of the Iron Man suits in the Avengers Museum (and, again, what Tony quietly told him as he lead Peter through said museum), he'd also been one of the first people to work alongside Tony on his suits. Which, again, impressive as fuck. Honestly, every time Peter learnt something knew about Harley he mourned the fact that he had never gotten the chance to meet him. He felt they would've been friends. He hoped that they were friends in another universe. A universe where Harley had stayed.
Perhaps, initially, he had been getting ahead of himself when he'd instantly assumed Harley had to be smart if he was interested in engineering. After all, Peter had always had an interest in writing, whether it be film writing, story writing or even just writing stories in the newspaper. But that didn't mean he was good at it. Sure, he was good enough at it to be above average but that didn't equate to his writing being good. However, if the science tests stuck onto the fridge with the A+'s scrawled in the top corner were anything to go by, Harley was really smart. Probably smarter than Peter himself, if he was honest. He'd always wondered why the tests were stuck on Tony and Pepper's fridge instead of Mr. or Mrs. Keener's fridge, but it felt insensitive to ask. Like running your nails over an open wound— not enough to do any last damage, but enough for it to sting. And when he'd tried to ask Rhodey, the man had awkwardly scooted around the topic, brushing it off as something he really shouldn't worry about. And also something he really shouldn't ask Tony and Pepper about. Emphasis on the 'not asking Tony' part. Not that he had ever intended to. Tony had never been an open book about the things that truly mattered to him, and a certain southerner had always mattered more than he was ever willing to admit.
Supposedly, Harley had also been good at baking, a fact which Peter envied. He could barely make a box cake mix on his best days! And the fact that this guy could bake loaves of bread with so much ease he did it weekly? Absolutely insane. Last week, when Pepper had made a loaf of sourdough that, in Peter's opinion was delicious, he'd heard her and Tony talking about it later that night, when he should've been asleep. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but sometimes he just… picks up on things. Like radio frequencies, if you will.
("It's not as good as when Harley used to make it," Pepper had murmured, and Tony had only sighed in response.
"Of course it's not," He'd agreed. No attempt at comfort or reassurance. Just a simple statement that had been said with enough certainty that it might as well have been written into the laws of the universe. "Nothing could live up to Harley's bread. That's what he always used to say, anyway. And Harley was always right, wasn't he?")
Tony sighed, placing down the screwdriver he'd been holding. His hands clench around the edge of his workbench, and Peter had half the mind to place the photo down. Set it down so the picture faced the workbench and apologise. Say they never had to talk about Harley again, if that was what Tony wanted. Let it sit there and gather dust like is had been before Peter had picked it up and disturbed it's rest.
But… The bright grin on Harley's face in the picture… It was hard to look away from, is all.
"Yeah," Tony said after a moment, his eyes falling shut as if to hold back tears from falling. Peter sees the shine of one rolling down his cheek anyway. He doesn't mention it. "That…That was Harley. Circa 2014. His school held a science fair that year, and he won first place for whatever his project had been on."
Peter doesn't remind him of the fact that the same project he claimed not to care that much about sat in his living room upstairs. It was on how Captain America's Super Soldier Serum could've been made along with proposed adjustments to make it more safe. A deep blue ribbon was pinned to the paper board, proclaiming in bold letters: "1st Place!". He doesn't mention the fact that he's seen Tony staring at the project from the couch many times over. He doesn't mention that Tony would, without a doubt, no exactly what the project was about. Hell, he could probably directly quote some of the things written down.
"Me and Pep didn't get to go to the actual fair, but he came back to the tower pretty much immediately after to show us his work." Tony chuckled, a sad, almost mournful sound, so distant from the usual, teasing, happy sound Peter had grown used to. He doesn't like the sound at all. "You should've seen him. He looked so happy about it, practically on top of the world. Didn't think anything could bring him down until…"
Tony doesn't speak for a moment, though, eventually, he shakes his head, as if physically ridding himself of the thought. "Well, it doesn't really matter, does it?"
Yes it does! Peter wants to cry. It does matter! Tell me what happened to him!
But he doesn't say that. It's unfair to demand such a thing of a man still grieving the life of a boy who'd never grow beyond eighteen years old.
"Right." Peter agrees, setting the photo back down on the workbench, where he imagines it'll go untouched, just like the rest of Harley's things still littering the workshop.
The two sit in silence for a moment, letting it swallow them as if even thinking of Harley is a physical weight they now have to carry. It doesn't feel as hard to carry as Peter imagined. Perhaps selfishly, he's glad it doesn't feel that hard to carry. He'd rather not be buried under the weight of a person he'd never had the chance to know, no matter how badly he wanted to.
"…I'm sorry you never found him." Peter says after a moment, pushing back the voice in his head that says that he shouldn't say anything more. That it's the wrong thing to say. That Tony will push him out for reminding him too much of Harley. But, you miss all of the shots you don't take, right?
"It's fine, Roo. You couldn't have done anything about it anyway."
No. He supposes he couldn't have done anything.
"So, you're really sure about this, bambino?" Tony asks, eyeing the computer screen with more distaste than Peter could remember seeing on him ever. Not even when May had given him a serving of her infamous meatloaf, which, for the record, had somehow managed to taste worse than it looked. They'd ended up ordering take away that night, courtesy of Tony himself. "I mean, I really don't mind getting you a better place. Or better yet, you could just stay in the Tower until you get a bit more cash."
"I would normally disagree with Tony, but he might be onto something, baby." May said from her seat beside Peter. On the table in front of them sat Peter's laptop, opened to an apartment listing in Cambridge. And, sure, maybe it didn't have the best reviews, but it was cheap! The cheapest one that he could find with actually working utilities. And it even came furnished! At the price it was, it felt like daylight robbery when he'd signed the lease, and he half expected the real estate agent to call him, telling him that he couldn't actually have the apartment. Yet as the days ticked down towards his move-in date and he received no phone call, he could feel his excitement building.
"It's really not that bad." Peter sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's in walking distance of MIT, all the utilities are working, there's not any mould." He shrugs, almost as if saying 'what can you do?' Like moving into that apartment was his only choice. "I really don't get why you guys are so caught up about this. You're-" He pauses, sending a look towards May and Tony. "-The ones who wanted me to go out of New York for college in the first place!"
"I know we said that but-" Tony starts, cutting himself off with a low growl when his phone starts to vibrate. He pulls the device from his pocket, mumbling a barely audible 'I have to take this,' before stepping out into the hallway. The beats of his heart slowly grow quieter, fading back into the symphony of heart beats that made up the background noise of his apartment building, a calming noise in the back of his mind. It was weird to think that soon he would have to grow used to a whole new symphony, grow used to each small irregularity that came with each person in the building. Would each apartment still breathe with life in Cambridge? Or would it be a different feeling?
God, he couldn't wait to find out.
"Okay, is no one going to point out the glaring issue here?" Ned huffs exasperatedly, frantically gesturing to the laptop screen with his hand. "That apartment is haunted."
"No it's not." Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes. "It's probably just someone hearing things at night and chalking it up to the last possible explanation. Ghosts aren't real."
"Said every horror movie character ever!" Ned exclaims, stepping forward to scroll through some of the reviews of the apartment. "See! Look: '1 Star. Apartment itself was nice, but, the bathroom and kitchen sink taps often turned on at night at full force and, upon further investigation the taps always turned on on their own. Would not recommend for this reason.'"
"So it has leaky faucets, big deal." Peter huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can fix that easily! Give me, like, an hour max to fix it."
"'0 stars. The TV kept turning on in the early hours of the morning despite no one else being the apartment besides me. The lights would flicker throughout the day and randomly turn on at night.'" Ned read, exchanging a look with May. Both of their faces read the same amount of worry that Peter couldn't help but think was for nothing. Seriously, there was no way they believed that these ghost stories were true! Not when there are perfectly obvious and perfectly reasonable explanations for everything these people are talking about! "Really Peter-"
"So it has some faulty wiring! Again, I can fix that." Peter huffs exasperatedly. "You're making this all out to be worse than it is, guys. Like, I understand that you don't want me to move out, but this is hardly that bad. "
"'0 stars. If I could give it less I would. The place is obviously haunted. Windows and doors kept opening at night, especially the one to the fire escape. Even when blocks were put in place that wind couldn't move (piles of books, heavy bags, even the arm chair at one point), I still woke in the morning to windows and doors open. Would not recommend to anyone that isn't looking to be possessed. But if you're into that stuff, don't let me stop you.'" MJ read out from where she was leaned against the back of Peter's chair, levelling a look with him.
"… So, the place is prone to some fairly strong winds, big deal!" Peter defends, though the argument sounds weak even to his own ears. "I can… I can deal with that."
"Peter," MJ sighs, reaching over and shutting the laptop. "I get not believing in ghosts, okay. They hardly seem real. But when you have this many reviews-" She pauses, gesturing to the laptop with an open palm. "-All reporting things that can really only be blamed on supernatural forces, you have start believing it as some point. Or, at the very least, realise that it's probably not a safe place for you to live."
"Yeah, well, I'm Spider-Man. And if anyone can live there, it's me." Peter settles on eventually, clenching his hands into fists. 'At least then, no one else will get hurt.' Goes unsaid.
"But what about Peter Parker?" MJ asked, an exasperation present in her voice that had nothing to do with being tired. "Spider-Man might be able to deal with all this, but what about Peter Parker? The self-sacrificial, overly generous, idiot with zero self-preservation skills I call my b-" She pauses, swallowing around a lump in her throat and looking away. "I call my friend. I don't want you to get hurt, Peter. Please."
Peter turned to the side, looking down at his laptop. The Stark Industries logo sat proudly in the top left (bottom left? How did you decide what was the top and what was the bottom of a shut laptop?) corner of it, almost taunting him. There was an Iron Man sticker underneath it, proclaiming that "Anyone Can Be A Hero. But It Takes A Real Hero To Get Through The Tough Stuff!" He always liked to look at it whenever he needed a small confidence boost throughout the day, or when he was struggling in his studies or whatever else. And, if it takes a real hero to get through the tough things, Peter has to move into this apartment. That is his challenge now.
He chooses to ignore the voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Tony telling him not to move into the apartment. That it was a horrible idea, one that would only end terribly for him. Nope. It was not there, what are you talking about?
He looked away from the laptop before he could think about it much more.
"Well, it's too late for warnings, okay? It's too late." Peter huffed, looking out the window. The clouds wouldn't judge him. They wouldn't. They'd been with him through every hard maths class, every lesson that seemed to drag on for hours, everything. They would not judge him. Despite this, he's half expecting to look out the window and see 'DON'T MOVE INTO THAT APARTMENT, SPIDEY!' written across the sky in lines of fire. The sky, however, is clear. Johnny had probably learnt from the last time he'd written a message in the sky addressed to Spider-Man that was leaning just a bit too personal. "I've already signed on the lease-"
"WHAT?!"
"And I've signed off on it for the next six months-"
"PETER!"
"You know, I'm still not sure about this, Pete." Tony sighs, setting down the last stack of boxes from his hands. "You're sure you don't want to come back and live in the cabin? The tower at least? There's always room for you, you know?"
"I'm sure, Dad." Peter huffs, already reaching for the box cutter to unpack the first box, a box of things for his living room. His living room. Not May's. Not Tony's. His. "Really. And I promise to visit when I can. I'm a good son, I won't just leave you to die in your cabin while I go explore the world."
"I know, I know." Tony breathes, holding his hands up defensively. The fact that Tony doesn't even react to his joke is possibly the biggest, most vibrant, waving red flag Peter has ever seen. And he lives lived in New York. He's seen a lot of red flags, to say the least."I just… Whatever. It's fine. I just don't want you to regret this later on."
Peter pauses, hands tightening slightly around the photo frame he'd just picked up. He briefly glances at it, and, upon seeing a bit of blue (correction, at least half the photo is blue) and a flicker of orange, he places the photo frame back into the box. Best to not poke the already awake and slightly annoyed bear, right?
"Dad? Are you sure it's nothing?" Peter asks, turning around so he can look at Tony.
Tony stays silent, staring at the boxes he'd just placed down as if they'd killed his first born. Or, perhaps, more like they'd told him of the death of his first born, a death he hadn't been prepared for. Admittedly, Tony looks more like he's looking through the boxes, looking to the spot on the ground they now occupy. Almost like he's trying to find something that should be there- something that isn't. Peter stands frozen, unsure of whether or not he should ask Tony if he's okay. Eventually, he turns back to his own box, continuing to unpack what he can.
The next time he looks over at Tony, the man's eyes are locked on the couch that had come with the apartment. It's an olive-y colour, though, Peter can tell it's colour has faded over time. There's a few stains on the couch, long since ingrained into the threads of the fabric to the point that Peter is certain not even the best cleaner could get them out, though Tony's eyes seem focussed on a specific one. A coffee stain near the end of the couch. Thankfully, not looking at the red stain on the arm of the couch. Peter doesn't want to focus on that one.
"This was Harley's old apartment." Tony mumbles after a minute, settling his arms over his chest. "And…It just has bad vibes. I don't want what happened to Harley to happen to you too, Roo."
Peter lets out a quiet, barely audible "Oh", eyeing the space around him with a newfound interest. Sure enough, there's a few standout things that he'd brushed off earlier, that suddenly seemed much more important. Namely, the closet that he'd been strongly recommended to not enter, the scattered cutlery and dishes he can see through the slightly ajar cabinet doors, and the papers all marked with a school's logo Peter doesn't recognise shoved under the couch. Like memories he shouldn't have seen.
A cold chill brushes past his back like fingers dancing along his skin, and Peter instinctively turns to check if he'd left the window open, despite not having opened it. It's still closed. He chooses to ignore it.
"I-I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't know..." Peter trailed off, looking back at Tony. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"It wasn't a big deal." Tony shrugs, eyes drifting over to the dinning space. Under one of the chair legs, a paper had fallen and since gotten stuck. He walks over to pick it up, and, despite being further away, Peter can still make out the scrawl on the top of the page. Harley Keener. "I thought I'd be fine. But it's just… different, being back here after…"
"You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, Dad." Peter says, lightly kicking the now empty box at his feet to the side. It lands just in front of the couch, blocking off the papers under it from Peter's sight. He's thankful for it. Out of sight, out of mind and all. "It's okay. I can do this on my own if you don't want to stick around."
Tony hesitates, squeezing the test paper in his hand to the point that it begins to scrunch up. His grip loosens after a moment before he takes a few long strides from the dinning room to the living room. Peter catches a brief glance at the red writing on the top of the page, a bright 90% staring back at him. For a second, he swears he sees a droplet of blood staining the page, but before he can get a good look, Tony's arms are wrapped around him. Probably just an ink stain, right?
Tony's hand runs through his hair, smoothing out his curls with an ease Peter had never had. Almost like instinct, Peter's head falls to rest on his shoulder, letting a soft smile fall on his lips as he feels a few, barely-there kisses being pressed to the back of his head.
"You'll call me if anything happens, right?" Tony murmurs, pulling back from the hug to look Peter in the eyes. His hands remain on Peter's shoulders, a comforting pressure Peter can't help but savour. Despite his own insistence, as the people around him repeatedly told him that moving into this apartment was a bad idea, he had slowly began to believe them. And the faint tingling of his spider sense in the back of his mind that had lingered there since he stepped into the apartment wasn't helping much either. So, the comfort was very appreciated.
"Yeah." Peter breathes, swallowing back his fear in order to give a confident sounding response. "Yeah, I'll be fine." Peter avoids looking Tony in the eyes, instead looking towards the ground where the crumpled test paper Tony had been holding now laid. He places the toe of his shoe on the edge of the paper, slowly tugging it closer to him. The movements are small enough that the paper barely makes a sound, which Peter is silently grateful for. It would really suck if he had to explain to Tony why he was stealing the test results of a guy he didn't even know. Especially when his only answer was just that he felt like he had to.
"Peter, promise me." Tony says, a look in his eyes that tells Peter that for once, there's no joke in his words. No teasing remark, no sarcastic quip, just a rare show of complete honesty from the man. "Promise me you'll let me know if anything, and I mean anything happens, okay?"
"Alright." Peter agrees, nodding slowly. "I promise you that I will let you know as soon as anything happens, Dad."
"Good." Tony sighs, tugging him into a hug. Peter stumbles, losing his footing and as a result, his grip on the test paper. Tony chuckles quietly as Peter stumbles, resting his head on the top of Peter's to muffle the noise. It doesn't work though, not with Peter's enhanced hearing.
"Well," Tony breathes, patting Peter on the shoulder as he pulls away. A faint grin rests on his face, the lingering traces of his amusement still there. Peter decides, probably not for the first time, that he likes how it looks on his father. It's much preferred to the look of annoyance he often has when dealing with business partners, or when dealing with Steve. And it's much more preferred than the look he has when he's on the brink of death. Peter would prefer to never see that look again, never hear his father's heart stop again. "I guess I'll be heading off then, bambi."
"Here, I'll walk you out." Peter offers, slipping out of Tony's grasp in order to walk the man to the door. Despite his efforts though, Tony only wraps an arm around his shoulder, pulling Peter into his side as they walk.
When Tony's left, Peter walks back into his apartment, intending to look at the test paper from before. He doesn't know why exactly he's drawn to it. It's not like he ever knew Harley, or that he'd need this test. He'd already finished high school, so it wasn't like he could use it for test answers. Not to mention they hadn't even gone to the same high-school when they had been in school. But it's just… something about it. It's like when his spider-sense tells him to swing through a certain neighbourhood, one more time, just in case. And he's grown to trust his instinct more than he trusts common sense.
But when he walks back over to the living room, where the paper should've been, it's nowhere to be seen. He checks everywhere the paper reasonably could've gone, under the couch (he chooses to ignore the rest of the papers there for the moment. Maybe another day when he has more time), under the armchair, under the living room table, he even checks under the dining room table! But no matter where he looks, he can't find it.
Almost as if it had been moved. Moved by something almost human in it's nature. Because wind couldn't carry paper through a closed window, through closed doors. If it had been a gust of air, then it wouldn't be completely missing. It would, at the very least, be in the living room still. But it… It couldn't have been anything remotely human. Because he didn't move it, and Tony hadn't taken it and there was nobody else in this apartment.
"Whatever," He mumbles, walking back to the living room. "Probably just…Hidden with the other papers, right?" Peter crouches down next to a new box, blindly reaching over to the living room table to grab his box cutter, which, should in theory, be an easy task. But as he pats his hand against the wood, he feels nothing.
He glances over to the table— his box cutter should be easy to find. It's bright red for goodness sake! But it's just… Not there. And he knows it's not under the table or anywhere else in the living room because if it was he would've seen it when he was searching for the paper earlier. Peter sighs, pushing himself up to stand and wandering into the kitchen.
When he'd first been touring, he'd seen that some cutlery had been left in the kitchen drawers. So, if he couldn't find a pair of scissors (or his box cutter if it had somehow ended up there), he could use a knife to open the rest of the boxes.
"Seriously? How many other places could a knife be?" Peter mumbles as his third drawer comes up with a lack of a knife. Not just a sharp knife, any kind of knife. Which, if there's forks and spoons and even spatulas in here, surely there should be at least a butter knife. But the drawers are empty.
Peter feels before he hears the clattering of cutlery against the one of the counters (seriously! He had counter space here! It was, perhaps, the most exciting part of his new apartment.), his spider-sense screaming at him to turn around! Danger! Danger! TURN AROUND! Logically, he spins around, and almost immediately freezes as he sees, presumably, where all the knives he'd been looking for had ended up. Lined up in arches on the counter with the blade pointed directly at him.
"Oookay," Peter whispers, slowly closing the gap between the drawer he'd been at and the counter. Maybe it was stupid to approach the counter with every fucking knife in this kitchen on it, but he really needed to get those boxes open. "Nothing weird here…Not at all."
He wraps his hand around a knife's handle, specifically one of the less sharp ones. Even if everything was perfectly normal and that nothing was wrong with them what do you mean? If the knife were to be alive, then he would probably have a better chance of surviving it if he was stabbed by a knife on the duller side.
A sharp knife, one of the ones that are closer to the edge of the counter, slides off. Had he not had his spider sense, it would've gone right through his foot. Or, his shoes, anyway. Before he's had the chance to properly process the knife, one of the cabinets above the sink slams open, the plates inside of it clattering at the force of the movement. "What the fuck?" Peter murmurs, eyeing the other cabinets around him as if they would be next. But that's stupid because it was clearly just a really strong, one-off gust of wind Peter hadn't felt that had blown open the cabinet.
He turns around to the window in the kitchen. It's still shut. Every window in this apartment is shut.
What the fuck.
Peter turns on his heel and almost sprints the short distance between the kitchen and the living room. He feels like a child, running for the safety of the covers of his bed after turning off the lights at night. It seems accurate to describe his current situation. In both scenarios, the person is running from danger that is not there. There is nothing dangerous about his current situation.
It's fine.
He's fine.
Peter crouches down in front of the box once more. He attempts to slice the tape holding the box shut, yet every time he tries to slide the knife down the tape, it stops, almost like there was something blocking it from passing through the tape fully.
"God." Peter groans, placing the knife on the table and burying his face in his hands. After a moment, he pulls his hands away from his face, sighing tiredly. He just wanted to be done unpacking. Was that really too much to ask? He reaches over to the living room table, and—
"You have got to be kidding me." He mumbles as his hand wraps around the plastic handle of his box cutter instead of the handle of his knife.
Peter swears he can hear the universe laughing at him.
Now, Harley has had his fair share of house guests in his time. Or- Maybe house guests wasn't the best term. Partially because his apartment was, well, an apartment. And you know. Not a home. And also because it wasn't his apartment anymore. Sure, his stuff was still scattered around the apartment whether it be shoved in the closet at the end of the hall or hidden under the sink for some reason. He was still wondering about that decision, even months later. Everyday he mourned the loss of Spitfire, his beloved childhood plush, long since lost behind cobwebs under the sink. And probably also water damaged. That poor lion. But, regardless of the items of his that were still in the apartment, it wasn't his anymore.
Mostly on the account of Harley being dead. Partially because his father had long since moved out. But, he'd like to believe that if he can still interact with the objects in the apartment it is in some way, still his home. Or, as close to a home he could have as a ghost, anyway. And it wasn't like there was anyone who could argue with him about this. He had yet to meet another ghost, mainly because he was the only ghost haunting this apartment, and trying to haunt the entire building was far too much effort.
Regardless, there's been a handful of people who have moved into the apartment since he'd died and, within that handful, most had moved out by week two. Sure, maybe he's partially to blame for some of them. Maybe. Only partially though! For the most part, the people who moved in were just cowards. Like, really, your furniture moving around at night is not that scary! Not, 'I-just-watched-someone-get-murdered' level of scream worthy anyway. It was almost like they were trying to get him exorcised! Or, wait, that's demons, isn't it? How do you get rid of ghosts? Harley had never taken the time to learn when he was alive and he'd honestly just love to know what to avoid. For future reference.
Perhaps the most interesting of these guests was this Peter guy. Peter Parker, based off of the name on the back of his Midtown High jumper. And it wasn't just because he'd somehow brought his mentor back to his apartment and that said mentor still missed him. Even if that was a big part of it.
But, well, he was also really cute. Like, really cute. And also a fucking nerd. Like, really, who needs this many Star Wars posters? Or Star Trek posters for that matter. And seriously? Academic Decathlon? Really, could he have gotten a more stereotypical nerd? All he needed was those big square glasses and he would tick every stereotype. But, still. A really cute nerd.
Oh, and there was also that whole thing where he just… Barely reacted when he found a collection of knives pointed directly at him. It wasn't in the 'Panic later' kind of way he'd seen a lot of people do, more so in the 'Wow, Tuesdays, am I right?' kind of way. Which was… Intriguing.
Anyway, regardless of Peter's lack of reaction to what would've had most people turning tail and running, that didn't matter now. Not when Peter was passed out on the couch, curling tighter into himself to savour what little warmth his sweater could provide.
Believe it or not, Harley was not a completely heartless person. Sure, maybe some of the pranks he pulled were kind of mean, and maybe he should just leave the people living in his apartment alone. But where was the fun in that? And, okay, sure, maybe the fact that his first idea upon seeing Peter passed out on the couch was to empty out his boxes of belongings and just place his stuff everywhere, (he could picture it now. A whole feature wall of Star Wars posters right across from the toilet) wasn't really helping his whole 'not entirely heartless' case. But even if it had stopped beating a long time ago, he still had a heart. Really! He'd pulled it out of his chest once. It was there.
And then he'd looked back over at Peter. Peter and the small shivers that wracked his frame every few seconds. He buried his face against the fabric of his sweater, as if the thin fabric would be able to soothe his shaking. And well, shit. Not helping him would've been like kicking a stray puppy out into the cold. And rain. And directly into oncoming traffic. And-well, okay. Idea understood. So he went looking for a blanket.
And the fact that the only blanket he could find happened to be one of his old blankets was pure coincidence. He looked everywhere! No blanket in sight! Zilch, nada! And no, he hadn't gone into the bedroom. Invasion of privacy, hello? As much as Harley didn't think ghosts could be arrested, he'd rather not test that out, thank you very much. And no, his earlier snooping through Peter's things did not count as an invasion of privacy. It was out in the open! What else was he meant to do?
"Can't believe I'm doing this…" Harley mumbles, draping the blanket over Peter's shoulders with as much delicacy as one would take when handling an ancient artefact. Though as Peter's shivering slowly came to a stop, he can't help the soft smile that grows on his lips. He reaches forward, gently brushing some of Peter's hair from his face, yet the curls only fall back into his face as if it's the position they were always made to sit in. Harley's hand lingers on Peter's cheek a moment longer than it needs to. A moment longer than what is probably reasonably acceptable.
But Peter shivers softly, his head tilting towards Harley's hand. Wait, what? No, no, no. This guy should not be able to feel his hand, or sense where he is, or anything. Harley jolts away, physically recoiling as if he'd been struck. Harley phased through the table behind him, his breath coming in fast and uneven as he stared down at his hands. Instead of their usual glass-like appearance, they were real. Not solid, but visible. Translucent.
"Shit." Harley breathes, clenching his hands into fists as they slowly fade back to their usual appearance. What they should look like. "Okay, shit. That wasn't meant to happen."
Peter sighs, bringing a hand up to attempt to rub the sleep from his eyes. 5 am is much earlier than he'd prefer to be awake, all things considered. He hadn't even been awake this early when he had school. And you'd think that, having finished high school and being able to choose his own classes, he could sleep in a bit longer. But today, that wasn't the case. Because unfortunately, Stark Industries was too far away for him to officially work at, and as much as he was sure Tony would gladly let him do it anyway, it would raise more than a few eyebrows if he chose to work in an entirely different city from where he lived.
So, it was time for Peter Parker to get into the job market.
"Is a job even worth it if I have to wake up this early?" Peter mumbled, setting his phone down on the bathroom counter. He pulls one of the towels out from under the sink, decidedly ignoring the razor shoved at the back of the cabinet. The previous owners must've just forgotten it. Probably.
He ignores the smell of blood that the razor reeks of. Whoever had left it probably just… nicked themself with the blade a few times too many. Probably. Hopefully.
Peter also chooses to ignore the small splatters of red that stained the tile of the shower. It was probably just hair dye! Probably. If you ignored the smell of blood that came from it.
He didn't want to think about the alternatives.
Later, Peter steps out of the shower, holding his towel around his waist with one hand while he fumbled around for his toothbrush with the other. What would've been an easy task had he decided to turn on the lights had turned into a far more difficult one, especially as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness surrounding him. Though, eventually, he manages to grab both his toothbrush and toothpaste, finally ticking the first thing off on his schedule. Or, well, schedule was a…Nice way of putting it. A more accurate term would be rough planning of how he wanted his morning to go should the world be on his side today.
The world was not usually on his side.
As he leans down to spit out his toothpaste, his spider-sense begins to tingle at the back of his mind, urging him to turn around! He looks up from the sink, staring at the space behind him in the mirror. It is…Disturbingly empty. Which is weird, because there shouldn't be something behind him in the mirror, he lives alone.
Yet even still his Spider-sense buzzes in his ear, warning him of a danger he can't even see. But…There's literally nothing there! Literally! The mirror is empty- Wait it's what now? That's…Wrong. There should be something in the mirror. He should be reflected in the mirror, but he's not.
Peter blinks and the mirror is back to normal, his own, slightly perturbed expression looking back at him.
He stares down his reflection for a minute, and at the lack of change in it, he shakes his head, as if he could physically clear his mind.
"God, get it together, Peter." He mumbles, reaching over to grab his phone off the counter. "You cannot start seeing things after one bad sleep."
It's only when he turns around to head out of the bathroom that he finally spots what his spider-sense had been warning him about. As he turns around, he finds a man standing there. A see-through man, but a man nonetheless. Peter yelps, stumbling back and almost falling back into the sink. He barely manages to catch himself on the edge of the counter as he looks up at the man with wide eyes.
"What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost, darlin'." He drawls, and his southern accent almost makes Peter swoon. Almost. Because he's better than that. Not much. But better.