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Peter stared at his bathroom mirror, his suit removed to give him room to tend to his injuries, but now that they were stitched up, he was just... stood there. Staring. He remembered the days he didn't have any scars. Back when he spent his days at school and his afternoons at Tony's lab. Back when he had a curfew for his patrol and as much as he definitely did break it sometimes, he mostly kept to it. Back when Tony was alive. When Nat was alive. When Steve hadn't abandoned them. When Wanda still baked him cookies whenever he was cramming assignments. When the team had dinner together at least once a week. Back when Aunt May was alive. Back when his friends remembered him. Back when falling through the sky filled him with adrenaline instead of peace. Back when he could eat more than one meal in a day.
Hell, meal wasn’t even accurate. Most the time it was more of a snack, usually right before the classes where his scholarship paid for his rent, just enough to keep his stomach from growling so loud that someone came asking questions.
Peter missed it. Missed being able to eat enough for his accelerated healing to actually be accelerated for anything other than deadly injuries. Missed not having to fight for his life. Missed not having to wear long sleeves at all times regardless of the weather because he hated the thought of anyone seeing the countless scars and connecting them to Spider-Man's injuries, or perhaps worse, seeing them and asking if he was okay. He wasn’t sure he could handle someone asking that with any level of sincerity.
His fingers trailed across one of the bigger scars, wondering if it would ever heal, even if he one day managed to make enough money to eat properly. Probably not. It was healed now. Not fast enough to avoid the scar, but healed nonetheless. Peter grimaced, staring at his mangled body. At least he would never have to lose another partner. He would never want to let anyone get close enough to be disgusted by the scars, so that at least would forever diminish the temptation to fall in love despite the danger it would put whoever loved Spider-Man in.
Unloveable. Probably the safest thing for him to be – safest for the universe, as well as for himself. Unlovable and alone.
He slammed his fist into the mirror, shaking the shards of glass out of his hands quickly. The shattered thing just stared back at him, the image now repeated across its surface a hundred times. Peter left the room, refusing to see it anymore. He was fine. He had to be fine.
Looking at the time, he groaned, dragging his hand down his face and scavenging through his tiny apartment for a shirt that didn't desperately need washing. He needed to deal with his clothes soon. For now though, he would focus on getting himself together in time to get to class before it started. This professor hated when people came in late, and Peter was starting to risk the man actually screaming at him if he were late to another class.
He scanned himself quickly as he stepped out of the apartment, checking for any blood he might have missed, but he was fine for now. Good.
It was a close one but he made it to class on time. His professor glared at him, but didn't say a word, so Peter would take that as a win. He groaned softly to himself, letting his head fall into his arms. He hadn't slept more than an hour at a time in nearly a week and it was starting to hit him. Whatever. He was fine. The city needed him.
The professor began to speak and Peter felt eyes on him, he lifted his head to look to where he presumed the professor was glaring at him, but the man for once hadn't seemed to notice Peter's not-quite-a-nap. He scanned the class for the eyes he could still feel, only finding their owner when he looked behind him, catching the intense stare of a guy around his age with dirty blond hair. 'The southern one', Peter's brain supplied helpfully, 'at least if his accent tells me anything.'
The boy didn't move from where he sat, staring, despite Peter's own attention now focused on him. That was... unusual. Most people at least pretended they hadn't been staring when they were caught in the act of doing so. The boy however, just smirked and lifted one hand in a tiny wave, seeming unbothered by being seen staring. Peter tried not to frown too much before quickly turning back to the front. He didn't know what the boy wanted, but whatever it was, Peter didn't have the time or energy for it, that much he was sure of.
The class passed fairly quickly all things considered, and Peter was ready to thank the professor for his speed and get out of that class as soon as possible, when he added "just one last thing". Peter tensed at the words that followed. A group project. As in, a group of two. No exceptions, no arguments. There was an even number of students, so it would have to work. There was no getting out of this. That was fine. This was fine. He could just... He could just find someone who was willing to work separately, or maybe he could just do the whole assignment on his own and find someone happy to freeload. That was fine.
"Hey," A southern voice cut through Peter's racing thoughts from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and the boy who hadn't stopped staring all class just smirked again, "You, me, we're doin' this, darlin'."
Peter blinked. He definitely didn't know this guy. What was going on? Did he know something about Peter?
"I don't even know who you are?" Peter pointed out.
"I'm Harley, you're the kid Professor Cole hates."
Peter frowned, squinting at the boy. He wasn’t wrong, the professor definitely hated Peter, but that didn't really explain... well... anything at all, really.
"So why would you want to work with me?"
The boy – Harley – shrugged with a grin, leaning forwards as though to whisper a secret, though when he spoke, it was at the exact same volume, although it did carry a secretive tone.
"I'm hoping if I work with the person he hates the most, he will stop giving me extra marks I don't deserve just because he knows who paid for my tuition fees."
Peter raised his eyebrows. Most people don't complain about extra marks. Peter would, sure, but he knew he was weird for that. Not according to this kid though. He had to wonder who it was that the professor was favouring Harley, but he didn't dare ask. After all, he couldn’t have the other guy think he wanted to be friends.
"Sure, whatever," Peter agreed eventually, "What part of the assignment do you want to do, I'll do whatever you don't want an we can work separately until we put it all together."
"Damn, hate me that much?" Harley teased, "Didn't realise working with me was such a horror for you."
"I'm just busy a lot. I don't have time to sit around body doubling, and what time I have to work on assignments is usually inconvenient for others."
"No judgment here. Give me your number and I'll message you what I'm doing. Sound good?"
Peter hesitated, not loving the idea of being close enough with a classmate to share his number, but he supposed it was for class work and he really didn't have a better option. He shrugged and did as he was asked.
The following two weeks were odd. Harley kept sitting near him – always either beside or behind, so he could continue with his habit of staring. He had gotten what he wanted – the professor still hated Peter even with Harley's influence, and they were working together on the assignment, so why did he keep staring?
It was the fact that Harley seemed acutely aware of Peter that made him both need to go to class and need to avoid it at all costs three weeks after that interaction. He'd been hurt badly on patrol, multiple gunshot wounds and a throwing knife imbedded in his thigh. He'd dealt with the wounds, but he knew he was limping still, his movement was tender at best. He could hide it enough from a casual observer, but Harley was anything but casual in his observations. Skipping seemed logical, but then again, something told Peter that Harley's response would to send him a hundred messages asking where he had been. The guy had made it clear over the time spent on the assignment that he was very much a worrier, and honestly, Peter didn't want to deal with that. He would tell Harley he rolled his ankle. Pretend that was all. It was fine. He would be fine.
Peter was once again half asleep through class, exhausted and in a whole lot of pain. Harley had sat behind him today, so at least Peter didn't have to focus too much on his expressions most of the time. Still, he pulled out a pathetically fake smile when Harley moved to stand in front of him after class.
"You're hurt."
"I rolled my ankle," Peter replied instantly, the lie practiced and therefore easy.
"You didn't move a muscle throughout class. Moving your arm wouldn't impact your ankle. Normally you fidget. What happened?"
"Nothing happened, Harley," Peter hissed, "I'm just tired. I thought I told you we weren't friends, just classmates working together on an assignment."
Perhaps the words were too harsh. Perhaps they were something he would never dare to say on another day. Perhaps he would regret those words plenty later, but for now he shoved past Harley and left without looking back the entire walk home.
He should have looked back.
Now, in his apartment and pulling the bandages off, finally having time to go digging through the wounds for the bullets he was yet to take out. He'd fallen asleep, crashed and exhausted, the wounds ignored, only bandaged by the webs he'd attached to stop the bleeding during the fight. He'd needed to get to class, so he hadn't stopped to dig them out. Now the wounds were starting to close and a knife was necessary instead of just digging his fingers in and grabbing the bullet. Neither version was particularly pleasant, but at least using his fingers meant he had a little more control. Surgery really wasn’t his skill set, but right now his body couldn't heal away an infection if the bullets stayed in.
His fingers covered in blood, blade deep in the second gunshot wound, Peter froze, the sound of knocking on his door spiking nerves. No one ever knocked. He didn't have people who visited him, no one knew his address. The only person who had ever entered his apartment was his landlord, and that had been after Peter had spent two days cleaning every speck of blood. If the man was checking in on the place now...
"Who's there!?" Peter yelled before mentally slapping himself. He could have pretended not to be home. He could have gotten away with it.
"Peter! It's Harley, from class, open up!"
Harley? But... but how did he know where Peter lived? Peter hadn't told him he–
"DID YOU FOLLOW ME!?" Peter yelled, staggering up to his feet in fury, before crying out as his foot slipped on the blood on the tiles and he fell.
"Peter!?" Harley's voice cried, but Peter was too busy berating himself for not cleaning up as he went to pay attention.
Another mistake.
The door shook once, then was flung open, Harley appearing, having clearly just busted through. Peter stared, wide eyed, through the open bathroom door and right at Harley. Fuck.
"Peter!?" Harley shrieked. Probably a gruesome sight then.
"Close the door, Harley," Peter growled, because dealing with Harley alone was enough right now. Neighbours would be even worse.
""Holy shit, you're bleeding– how!? you can't possibly have from falling that's too much–" Harley stammered, reminding Peter of exactly what he had been doing before the boy interrupted. Right. Not the best thing to randomly pause.
"I'm fine," Peter gritted out, digging his fingers into the open wound and dragging the bullet out. He wiped his hand on the rag next to him and grabbed the already threaded needle to begin sewing the wound shut.
"Holy shit– you– you got– you just–"
"Don't," Peter snapped, "I already know. Don't say anything."
Harley was staring at him, not analytical like he usually was, just outright shocked. Peter snorted, focusing back on his work. Once all three bullets were out of him he would deal with Harley. He didn't know how yet, but he would.
"What happened here?"
"Relax. The wounds are from last night. I'm just cutting the bullets out."
"What the actual fuck, Peter?"
Right. Not normal for most people. it was hard to keep track of what was and wasn’t normal sometimes.
"I need to focus. We can talk later."
"Your scars– I didn't– is this normal for you?" Harley whispered, stepping forward from where he had been frozen for so long.
"Somewhat," Peter gritted out as he cut into the final wound, "You're not supposed to know. No one is. So don't you dare tell anyone you saw any of this."
"You would think it would be impossible to sound threatening while doing fucking surgery on yourself, but you manage it."
Peter grinned, barely stopping himself from the playful shrug of his shoulders that would have torn his stitches if he hadn't registered it. Besides. This wasn’t the time to be playful. Nothing about this was funny. Harley was in danger now, because of Peter, and as much as he hated to say it, Peter did actually care about Harley, despite his attempts at indifference.