Chapter Text
Peter was running on empty already. With his day job wearing him thin and his patrols running longer and longer as the crime rate spiked, he was nearly ready to drop.
It was supposed to be a quiet night. A night where he stopped fights outside bars and protected women bouncing between clubs from handsy guys. And that’s all it was. It was the kind of night that he could run on autopilot and do his thing and then collapse into the comfort of his fluffy mattress under his thousand thread count sheets and gentle arms of his wonderful husband.
It was supposed to be easy.
But then he was thrown into the deep end without a second to catch his breath. (A metaphor that would soon turn to be too close for comfort.)
He was perched atop a roof, overlooking the amber lights of the city, when Karen notified him of an accident on the Washington Bridge. Taking a long sigh, he swung as fast as he could to the bridge, nerves growing more and more heightened as he approached and was getting the updated status.
Cars were piled atop each other, doors crushed like aluminum foil, glass littering the pavement, and people with blood soaked clothes stumbling out of the wreckage.
“An accident?” Peter asked aloud. “This isn’t just an accident. This is…” He scanned the area and heard a hysterical sob behind a very familiar car toppled upside down and an even more familiar blonde gripping to the railing of the Washington Bridge, almost completely blocked by the red Mustang.
Legs wobbly beneath him, he sprinted to the car, a gutteral “Harley!” ripped from his throat.
Harley looked up, hands shaky. “Spider-Man! Please I…”
“I’m gonna get you. Don’t worry,” Peter reassured. He approached the car and pulled it out of the way with ease, but the shock of the move was too much of a startle, and Harley’s weak grip loosened, sending him plummeting towards the water below.
Peter, knowing fully well what happened when he tried to web a falling person (a lesson he never wanted to relearn), he dove over the side, following after him.
There was a faint splash seconds before he hit the water.
“Karen. Swim goggles activate,” Peter commanded, chest tight. The dark water brightening up. “Karen. Scan for heat signatures.”
“One heat signature detected.”
Peter took a deep breath and plunged into the water, following the light that Karen was displaying. He didn’t know how long he was in the water, trapped in the confines of its rough, rushing waves. All he knew was that he had been under for too long and he hadn’t found him yet.
Finally, he caught sight of a familiar red flannel. Sighing in relief (not really sighing, he was underwater) he pulled the taller man into his arms and paddled to the surface, gasping for air as he broke free of the water.
“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay,” Peter muttered, running a gloved hand over Harley’s cheek.
He shot a long distance grappling web to the bridge and silently prayed that the pale, blue-lipped man in his arms would be fine.
His heartbeat was faint, but it was there.
It was fading, but it was there.
After a grueling minute, he was finally back on the bridge, laying him down on the (glass-free) ground.
“H-he was in the water for a couple minutes. I don’t… I don’t know how to do CPR, and I can’t with my, my mask. I… does anyone know CPR?!” Peter called out panicked.
A woman, uninjured but stopped from the traffic buildup behind the crash, jogged over. “I’m CPR trained.”
“Please. He fell in the Hudson. He… he was under for a couple minutes. But he’s, he’s alive, I can hear, I-I know it.”
She pushed the frantic man aside, and kneeled down, starting compressions.
Peter’s hands trembled, his body staggering back as he leaned against the cold shell of Harley’s Mustang, back sliding down until he was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest. His head throbbed from the tears that didn’t dare to fall. His eyes were glued to Harley, dizzy and lightheaded as he gasped for air listening to his heartbeat that was getting fainter and his ribs that were cracking under the pressure of the compressions.
Paramedics were arriving to the scene, helping the other people who he was too late to save.
He was too late. He was too late. He was too late.
Peter’s heart finally started to beat again when Harley spit out water (so much water) and hunched over as he coughed roughly.
Peter rushed to his side, holding his head in his hand. “Hey. Hey, you alright. You’re gonna be alright.”
Harley squinted, Peter’s name nearly slipping from his lips.
A mix of a relieved chuckle and sob escaped Peter’s. “Hi, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you all fixed up.”
Harley groaned. “We’re in the middle of an insurance switch.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” Peter asked incredulously.
“The bills are extortionate,” Harley murmured, still dazed.
“I love you so much,” Peter whispered in his ears. “I can’t lose you.”
“You’re not gonna,” Harley said. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“What were you even doing out this late?” Peter questioned. He lowered his voice. “Without your suit.”
“Overnight repairs,” Harley addressed simply. “And I was craving spring rolls from that 24/7 Asian market in Brooklyn. Thought you’d appreciate some late night pork buns.”
Peter laughed watery. “Did you get them?”
Harley shook his head, wincing at the pull to his sore muscles. “I was on my way there.”
“We’ll have to get those soon then.”
“I could really go for them right now…” Harley started.
“ You are going to get checked by real doctors and I will meet you there.” He gave his hand a soft squeeze. “I’ll bring you your favorite pajama pants.”
“Thanks, love.”
“I love you,” Peter whispered.
“Go help those paramedics. I’m sure they could use someone to rip some car doors off their hinges.”
“Will you…”
“I’ll be fine,” Harley cut in. “We’ll be fine.”
And seeing the way that Harley looked at him, drenched in water, and eyes a little glazed over, but the true adoration glimmering his baby blues, he knew that they would.