Chapter Text
Peter stared down at the burner phone resting on the desk.
There was an uneasiness he couldn’t shake, and he couldn’t figure out why. The unknown number had been useful, sure. Every piece of intel they'd given him so far had checked out. He'd shut down one of the trafficking rings two weeks ago, intercepted a new weapons deal last Friday, and all of it had been thanks to the texts he’d received. He’d done good work because of the intel he’d received from this number. He’d been useful.
But then there was the other side of it. He didn’t know who this person was, or why they were doing this. Sure, the intel was solid, but what if it was a setup? What if the next lead sent him walking into a trap? He also had that awful, permeating bad feeling. The last one wasn’t a fact-based point. He was biased, but sue him. His life was on the line, and he liked to trust the people who he was getting his intel from.
The truth was, Peter hated this blind trust. He liked knowing who he was working with. Karen, for example. She’d never lied to him. Ned, too - he always double-checked everything before Peter acted, and he always did whatever he could to make sure Peter wasn’t going to actively bleed out and die.
This? This was a faceless voice giving him orders.
He frowned, picked up the burner, and tapped out a message before he could second-guess himself.
Burner02: I want to know who you are.
He waited, and the moments ticked by as his foot tapped impatiently against the desk. A full minute passed, and Peter started to think he’d blown it. Maybe he’d scared the person behind the number off. Maybe they were done feeding him tips. Maybe this whole thing had been a mistake, a product of his paranoia getting the better of him.
He let out a sharp exhale, leaning back in his chair, when the phone buzzed in his hand. His eyes snapped down to the screen.
Unknown: One more gang, then we can meet. Find the boss deal with him.
Peter frowned, the knot in his stomach tightening. He did want to meet them, but there was something off about the tone. The way that they were talking put him on edge.
Burner02: I'm not taking orders from you.
The response was almost immediate.
Unknown: Sure you’re not.
Unknown: I'll send you the address later on.
Peter groaned, rubbing his palms over his eyes. Whatever. He had a new lead. And this time he might finally get to meet whoever was behind the texts. That had to count for something, right? This was progress.
But as he placed the phone back on the desk, the uneasy feeling lingered. It didn’t feel like progress. Not really.
—
Peter swung lazily between buildings, the cool night air rushing past him. His movements were slower tonight, less the usual effortless, acrobatic flow and more cautious, deliberate swings. He wasn’t wholly healed, but he felt better - enough to patrol, at least.
So far, it had been a quiet night. He’d caught a couple of sketchy characters loitering near an ATM, their heads ducking as soon as they caught sight of him perched on a nearby streetlamp. Later, a guy had been trying to steal a bike, fumbling with the lock like he had no clue what he was doing. Peter had let him go after dropping down and scaring the shit out of him.
He hadn't handed him off to the police. He hadn’t been handing non-violent people to the police in a while.
He knew what it was like to be so hungry that he would steal to eat. He still thought about the loaf of bread from the woman he’d taken during his first months in the warehouse. Now that he knew what it felt like to be truly hungry, desperate for something as simple as a meal, he wasn’t sure he could stomach it.
“Peter,” Karen’s calm voice broke through his thoughts. “You have an incoming call from Ned.”
Peter landed softly on a rooftop, crouching near the edge and glancing up at the stars that barely peeked through the city haze. “Patch him through, please.”
“Hey,” Ned’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “You in the suit again?”
“Patrolling,” Peter replied, glancing down at the quiet street below. “Why?”
“Is that a good idea?” Ned asked, concern threading his tone. “I mean… Harley seemed pretty shaken up after last week. And you’re out so soon?”
Peter’s brows furrowed. “Are you getting updates every time I put the suit on again?”
“Uh, yeah,” Ned said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your guy in the chair, dude. It’s like, a legal requirement at this point.”
Peter huffed a laugh, leaping down to a lower rooftop and walking along the ledge. “Does this ‘legal requirement’ also include getting notifications every time Mr. Stark messes with the suit code again?”
He wasn’t surprised that Mr. Stark had already been in the code so quickly after what happened last time. But it was exhausting - it was a petty way to try to one-up each other without tipping the other off; Mr. Stark would put the Baby Monitor program back in, more invasive with upgraded software in the suit while Peter and Ned would continually disable it. Or try to, at least.
“It does,” Ned muttered. “Funny you mention that. But dude, at this point this is kinda on you.”
“Me?” Peter squawked, nearly missing a step and windmilling his arms to stay balanced. “How is this my fault?”
“You got caught last time, remember? And, like, it’s happening more often. You’re getting sloppy, man.” Peter fell silent, and Ned paused. “Wait, that’s not, like, advice. Don’t hide injuries, okay? If you’re dying tell someone, dude.”
Peter snorted, the sound echoing in the quiet. “Sure, sure. But could you maybe help me out with the code thing? You’re better at this than I am.”
"Okay, dude," Ned yawned. "I'll fix it."
“Same shutdown code as last time?” Peter asked.
“Same one,” Ned confirmed. “I'll probably have to lock out FRIDAY from your room completely, though. FRIDAY's code looks like a mess now." Peter grimaced. Probably the results of Mr. Stark's pissed off, coffee-fueled night of working. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Night, dude.”
“Goodnight, Peter,” Ned replied before the sound of him disconnecting came through.
Peter leaned back on his heels, taking in the cityscape. “Hey, Karen,” he murmured, as he settled down on a rooftop edge. The faint glow of the skyline stretching before him, and this - these quiet moments and the view that came with it - was his favorite part of being Spider-Man. “All quiet tonight? I can’t see anything happening. It’s been nice.”
Another moment passed, and Peter frowned at the lack of response. “Karen?”
For a moment, there was no response. Then Karen’s voice crackled faintly, softer than usual. “Yes, Peter. The area appears secure.”
“Are you okay?” Peter frowned at the odd tone. She’d been more quiet than usual lately, too - he didn’t think that the suppressors in the suit should have altered any of her personality or anything; it was a completely different compartment. “Are you sick? …Can AI get sick?”
There was silence. No witty comeback, no reassurance, just a lingering void that made Peter’s stomach churn.
“Karen?” he prompted again, his voice tinged with worry. Before she could - or would - respond, his focus snapped to the sound of a panicked yell somewhere below. “Hold that thought,” Peter muttered, standing and leaping across the rooftop and sliding into the alleyway below.
—
The knock at Harley’s window was hesitant, almost shy. Harley glanced up from where he was half-sprawled in his chair, feet propped on the desk as he lazily scrolled through his phone. He raised a brow but didn’t bother masking the surprise in his voice as he called out, “It’s open!”
Peter knew he shouldn’t be here. This was a bad idea - coming back and seeing Harley in the mask was only inviting trouble. Peter knew he’d probably say something stupid or give away more than he should. Really, he knew there was no benefit to coming back.
But he wanted to, and he didn’t know why.
The window slid up, and Peter slipped inside with practiced ease, landing lightly on the floor. “Hey, look at you. Not bleeding out this time,” Harley remarked, spinning lazily in his chair to face him.
“Impressive, I’m sure,” Peter quipped, brushing some invisible dust off his suit.
“You’re always impressive,” Harley shot back, and Peter let out an amused huff, shaking his head.
“What’re you doing?” Peter asked, nodding toward the mess of papers and a textbook on the desk.
“Homework,” the other boy said miserably, his head falling back dramatically against the chair. “You’re not any good at Spanish, are you?”
Peter smirked. “ Soy un experto, ” he replied smoothly, his Spanish accent passable enough to earn an unimpressed look.
Harley planted a hand right into Peter’s face, shoving him back with zero effort. “Show-off,” he muttered, glancing down at his workbook. “If you’re gonna be a smartass, then help me with this.”
Peter slid closer, leaning over to scan the page. “What’s the problem?”
“All of it,” Harley deadpanned, pointing at a particularly page of questions.
Peter plopped down onto the empty edge of his desk with one leg swinging idly, pulling the workbook closer to face him. Harley perched his head on an elbow from his place next to him before he leaned forward to watch Peter work.
Ah. He remembered finishing this.
“So what’s tripping you up?” Peter asked, scanning the page. His finger stopped under a line of text. “This one? ‘¿De dónde es tu amigo?’”
“Yeah, that,” Harley admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “The articles are messing me up. Like, when do you use el versus la ? And I don’t get why chairs are apparently girls and desks are dudes. Is there a pattern? Or is it random?”
“There are some patterns,” Peter shrugged, reaching down to grab Harley’s abandoned pencil and spinning it between his fingers. “Like depending on the nouns that end in ‘o’ verses ‘a’ and a couple other things. There are exceptions, though. But objects don’t actually have genders - it’s just grammatical. For la silla - the chair - you use la because it’s a feminine noun. El escritorio - the desk - is masculine, so you use el. ”
Harley squinted at him, his lips quirking up in mock suspicion. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, but okay. What about amigo ? Why’s that not la if it’s a girl?”
“Ah, because it’s not about the noun there. It’s about who you’re talking about.” Peter tapped the workbook. “If it’s a male friend, you use amigo. For a female friend, it’s amiga. Gendered endings like that only apply to people or animals, not inanimate stuff.”
Harley groaned and slumped forward theatrically, his forehead hitting the edge of the workbook. “I hate this. I do engineering. Math . I’m bad enough at English.”
Peter nudged him with his elbow. “It’s not that bad. Look, let’s just break this down. What’s this question asking?”
Harley read it slowly, his tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth. “Uh... ‘Where is your friend from?’ Right?”
“Yeah!” Peter confirmed, tilting his head a little. “Now you just answer it. If your friend’s from Alabama, you’d say, Mi amigo es de Alabama. If she’s a girl, change it to Mi amiga. Easy.”
Harley nodded slowly. “Okay, okay. I think I get it. This is still dumb, though,” he huffed, and Peter kicked him.
“Quit whining. What’s next?” Harley pointed to the next question, which was even longer. “Oh, you’re gonna love this one.”
Harley groaned, tossing his pencil into the air and catching it with unnecessary flair. “I already regret asking you to help.”
Peter laughed, leaning back in the chair. “You brought this on yourself.”
“You suck,” Harley muttered.
“I’m leaving,” Peter declared suddenly, closing the workbook with a dramatic snap. “You’re just using me for homework.” He started to push back from the desk, but Harley reached out to grab him.
“Nooo, stay,” Harley whined, pulled at Peter’s arm and tugging him back down. Peter, caught off guard, stumbled a bit, his chin knocking lightly against Harley’s head.
“ Ow, ” Peter muttered.
Harley just grinned. “Leave when you finish this question,” he bargained, sliding the workbook back in front of him, and Peter heaved a dramatic sigh. Harley elbowed him in the gut.
“Fine,” he muttered, pulling the chair toward him. “Swap,” he ordered, nudging Harley off the seat. “Let me sit down if I’m gonna be stuck finishing this for you.”
Harley leaned over Peter’s shoulder, watching as Peter scrawled something in the margins. His head hovered just close enough to make Peter aware of every breath.
“Okay,” Peter said, pointing at another question. “Your turn. Give it a shot.”
“I don’t know it,” Harley replied instantly, sitting back with a groan.
“You do,” Peter pressed, tapping the workbook as Harley let out an unhappy huff. “Think about it for a second.”
“I think I’m an idiot,” Harley grumbled, but there was no venom in the words. Peter didn’t have time to retort before he felt Harley’s arms snake around his waist, the movement slow, almost tentative. Peter froze as Harley rested his chin on his shoulder, a soft hum escaping him.
Something inside Peter twisted. This could be normal, couldn’t it? He could sit here, maskless, without hiding. This could be normal. Would it really be so bad for him to know?
Of course it would be.
And yet, when Harley brushed too-soft lips over his shoulder through the fabric of his suit, Peter’s thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. The warmth of Harley’s chest pressed against his back, and Peter felt himself faltering, overwhelmed.
“Harley-” he began, his voice shaky as he gently untangled himself and stood. “I’m should head back.”
Harley frowned, but his expression was more resigned than surprised. “ Boo ,” he muttered, flicking a pencil at Peter as he slipped back into the chair. “Fine. Go. Leave me to figure out the gender of chairs or something.”
“You’ve got a fifty percent chance to guess it right.” The pencil bounced harmlessly off Peter’s ribcage and he resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at him solely for the fact that it would be hidden by the mask. “I’m sure you’ll survive,” Peter said, shooting Harley a mock salute before stepping toward the window.
“Come back soon,” came Harley’s voice, half-muffled from where his cheek was pressed against the desk. He’d already given up on finishing his homework, Peter figured with a wry grin.
As he pulled the frame open, he glanced back. Harley was watching him, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. Something about it made Peter’s chest ache, but he shoved the feeling down, slipping out into the night before he could think too hard about it.
—
“I dunno, I think he's good for you man,” Ned said as they watched Harley struggle with a vending machine at the other end of the cafeteria.
“What,” Peter muttered back, exhaustion creeping up on him. Ned shot him a look , and Peter very much did not appreciate it. “I'm not - I don't like Harley like that. That's not how-”
Ned raised his hands in mock self-defense. “I never said that. I just said-”
“I know what you said. I feel like it's implied at this point,” Peter grumbled back, eyes turning to fall back onto Harley, who looked about a second or two from hitting the thing. “Anyway, did you fix the suit again? And my room? Like, I don’t want to be paranoid or anything, but…”
“I did,” Ned says before taking a bite of his apple. “But like, are you still sure that this is a good idea? Harley said he thought you were gonna die the other night. And to be honest, I can totally see you pulling something like that,” he frowns. Peter opened his mouth to object, but Ned cut him off. “No, dude. Don't even lie to me." Ned frowned. "I’m not gonna lie, I still get nightmares about that time you called me while you were dying on that random rooftop, man.”
Guilt pierced his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said, and Ned just gave him a sad sort of smile.
“You’re not,” he sighs. “If you were, you wouldn’t be asking me to hide serious injuries from Mr. Stark.”
Peter slouched further into his chair, his head dipping low as guilt settled heavily in his chest. He picked at the edge of his sleeve, unable to meet Ned’s gaze. “You don’t have to live with him, dude,” he muttered, his voice defensive and weary. “He’s so overprotective and controlling. It’s-”
“That’s what parents are like, Peter,” Ned interrupted, his tone flat but firm. “If my Lola knew I was sneaking out to beat people up in spandex at night? She’d never let me leave the house again. Grounded for life . That’s what parents are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be crazy overprotective.”
Peter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he could without the words coming out jagged and defensive. He didn’t want to admit that maybe Ned had a point. He couldn’t admit that he wasn’t sure what being parented like that was supposed to feel like anymore, and that every overstep from Tony felt like something he should fight tooth and nail every step of the way.
Beside him, Ned sighed. He leaned back, his gaze softening as he watched Peter. “I think you’re not used to it after… last year, and that’s fair. I get it. But he’s looking out for you, dude.”
Peter bit his tongue, his gaze flicking back to Harley, who was now letting out a string of accented swears and Peter couldn’t help the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I just-” Peter hesitated, his voice dropping lower. “It doesn’t feel like looking out for me. It feels like I’m being watched. It feels like he’s waiting for me to mess up.”
“Maybe,” Ned said, shrugging as he took another bite of his apple. “Or maybe he’s just worried about you.”
Peter clenched his jaw, his gaze still locked on Harley. He didn’t want to talk about this - didn’t want to admit that maybe Ned had a point. He couldn’t, not when everything in him felt like Tony’s overprotectiveness felt like suffocation more than care.
“It’s not that simple,” Peter muttered, more to himself than to Ned.
“Sure it is,” Ned replied, taking another bite of his apple. “You’re just making it complicated.”
Peter shot him a glare, but it lacked any real heat. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his messy hair. “I don’t want to talk about Tony.”
“Fine,” Ned said, though his tone suggested he was anything but. “We’ll talk about Harley, then.”
Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Oh, come on. ” Ned leaned forward, his apple momentarily forgotten. “You’re staring at him like you’re waiting for the perfect moment to make a dramatic confession. It’s very ‘TV high school romance,’ dude. Very cliché.”
“I’m not-” Peter started, his voice rising, but Ned raised a hand to cut him off.
“Relax. I’m just saying he’s good for you, man. He keeps you grounded. And yeah, maybe he’s a little… extra sometimes,” he said, nodding toward Harley, who’s frustrated muttering was almost drowned out by the hum of the vending machine, but Peter caught enough of the accented curses to know that Harley was seconds away from either breaking it or getting himself electrocuted. Peter’s lips twitched in something resembling a smile, but it didn’t last long.
“I don’t like Harley like that,” Peter muttered, the smile dropping from his face as he crossed his arms. “That’s not - he’s just-”
“Your friend. A really good friend, who you sometimes visit in spandex and have slept with at least once,” Ned snorted.
“Dude.” Peter’s eyes darted back to Harley, who had apparently given up on brute force and was now aggressively shoving coins into the machine. The sight tugged at something in his chest, something warm and uncomfortable and absolutely not romantic.
It wouldn’t work, anyway. He could hardly date anyone while he was swinging around in spandex, and it wouldn’t be fair of him to hide that from them, either. He’d be risking death without telling them. He’d be risking them if he did.
He was already enough of a burden on Mr. Stark and Ned and MJ. He wouldn’t force that burden on Harley, too.
His gaze flicked over to the other boy as - with one final shove - the bag of chips he was after finally fell. Harley snatched it out of the machine before turning to catch Ned and Peter’s eye, a triumphant grin on his face as he held up his prize.
Peter couldn’t help it - he laughed.
“See?” Ned said, nudging Peter’s arm. “Good for you.”
Peter rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He just watched as Harley tore into the chips with a satisfied grin, the warmth in his chest refusing to fade.
—
He did it again.
He found himself dangling by a support beam above Harley’s room, tapping on his window after another uneventful patrol. The other boy glanced up from his place where he was sprawled across the bed, hair mussed and face half-pressed into his pillow while he idly scrolled through his phone.
Peter knocked, and Harley glanced up and smiled once he saw Peter's masked face. He tilted his head back in invitation, and Peter pulled open the unlocked window and climbed inside as he dropped down onto the carpet with a little wince. The stitches were healed, but he was pushing his luck with hand-to-hand combat.
“Jesus, Spidey,” Harley snorted, pushing himself up on the bed. “You look like you lost a fight with a dumpster.”
“I’ve never lost a fight in my life.” Harley leveled him with an unimpressed stare. “Not with a dumpster, at least. But it was in an alleyway,” he shrugged. “Besides, I thought you said you wanted to see me again!”
Harley snorted, scooting over to make room on the bed. “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d actually listen, though. I'm impressed.”
Peter crossed the room and sank onto the edge of the bed, clearly exhausted. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the mask twisting in his fingers. For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence as whatever Harley watched filtered in the background.
“No more homework this time?”
“Are you offering?” Harley quirked a lip as he turned to face him.
Peter just shrugged in response. “I've got all afternoon."
“Come lie down,” Harley said, scooching over and leaving the space open beside him. Peter did, gratefully sinking down onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh.
“What’re you watching?” he asked.
“Brainrot,” Harley replied lazily, turning the screen to show Peter whatever garbage he was watching.
Peter craned his neck to glance at it, but it pulled one of the muscles in his back. Or, not the muscle, but it aggravated the old half-healed bullet wound, and he winced.
“Relax,” Harley said quietly, his voice a touch amused. His hand moved slowly, hesitating at the edge of Peter’s shoulder. “You feeling okay?”
Peter’s heart pounded so loud he was certain Harley could hear it. “I…” His voice failed him, and all he could focus on was the feeling of the space where Harley’s fingers met his upper-arm, feather-light. Why? What was his problem?
“You’re not fine,” Harley said softly, his tone almost teasing but laced with concern. He didn’t move away, though. If anything, he seemed closer now, his knee brushing against Peter’s. “You look like you’ve been run over by a truck. Twice.”
Peter managed a weak laugh, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. “Three times, actually,” he joked, though it came out more breathless than he intended.
“Impressive,” Harley's lips twitching into a half-smile. “You’re holding up okay, though?”
“Yeah,” Peter nodded. “Just tired.” His voice barely registered above a whisper, the proximity making his throat feel tight. He wanted to shift, to move away, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He didn’t want to.
Harley seemed to notice because his hand finally rested lightly on Peter’s shoulder, fingers warm through the thin fabric of his suit. “Then stop pushing yourself so hard,” Harley murmured. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, dummy.”
Peter’s breath hitched. He swallowed hard and, before he could second-guess himself, nodded slightly, just enough to break the tension hanging in the air. “Okay,” he managed, his voice soft.
Harley stayed there for another beat, then leaned back, the intensity easing just enough to let Peter breathe properly again. “Good,” he said, breaking into a grin. “Now shut up and watch this trash with me.”
Peter exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well, you keep coming back,” Harley shot back, already shifting over to position his phone in a better space between the two. “So what does that make you?”
“Hopeless,” Peter muttered, and this time, it was Harley who laughed.
After a few moments passed, Harley broke the silence again. “I do have, like, actual medical supplies now if you need them. I’ve got painkillers. And numbing gel, whatever that does.”
“Numb things, probably?” Peter tilted his head with a wry grin, before it fell away into exhaustion again. “And don’t worry about it. I don’t think they’d work on me, anyway.”
Harley turned to look up at him again, from that position of his face half-pressed into the pillow. He was still so close, and for some reason it felt like he just couldn’t breathe. Not in a way that was stifling, either, and that was the weirdest part about it. He’d never really felt like this before in a way that wasn’t usually accompanied with that awful rising panic.
Peter let out a shaky breath that sounded embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. “I’m fine,” he said again quietly after a few moments of Harley squinting at him distrustingly - though his voice betrayed him, cracking slightly at the end. He swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of how close Harley was. He didn’t trust himself to say anything without tripping over his own words. The other boy leaned in slightly, his expression softening, and Peter’s breath caught. The air between them felt heavy, but not in a way that made him uncomfortable. It just felt… different.
“You sure?” Harley breathed as he shifted, tilting his head and staring at Peter that has him biting his cheek. There’s a moment of silence, then two, and Harley slid in closer so that they’re face to face. Peter’s sure he’s stopped breathing by that point.
Harley moved again, slower this time, and his hands fell on the space by his neck where the mask met the rest of his suit. Peter froze, watching him carefully, but didn’t pull away. He wasn’t sure if it was trust or something else entirely, but he didn’t move when Harley’s fingers gently tugged at the edge of the mask, pulling it up to expose the pale skin of his neck.
Peter’s hands instinctively moved to rest over Harley’s once the mask was pulled back just enough to expose the curve of his jaw. Harley stopped, but only for a moment. “You trust me, right?” Harley asked, his voice barely above a whisper with a look that Peter didn’t have the brain power to identify right now.
“Right,” was the shaky response he gave back. Peter couldn’t feel his face.
When the mask was pushed up to the bridge of his nose, Harley paused, searching what he could see of Peter’s face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he leaned in and suddenly Harley’s lips were on his.
The kiss was soft, almost hesitant, but Peter felt like his entire body had short-circuited. He melted against Harley without meaning to, leaning into the touch as the kiss deepened, the other boy’s hand finding its way around Peter’s waist and the other resting on his shoulder pushing him down. Their teeth clacked together awkwardly but neither of them cared. It was overwhelming in the best way, and for a moment, Peter forgot about everything else.
It felt soft and overwhelming but he needed more of it at the same time, and when Harley pulled away for air ice pierced his stomach. His heart sank as guilt clawed its way to the surface, cold and sharp. He couldn’t do this. Not like this.
This had gone way too far.
“I-” Peter broke the kiss, his hands coming to rest on Harley’s shoulders as he pushed back gently. “Wait, stop.”
Harley froze, his expression shifting into something between hurt and confused. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Peter reached down, fumbling to pull his mask back over his face. “I can’t,” he said, his voice muffled and his heart hammering in his chest. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.”
Harley let out a mournful noise, but he pulled back and blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Oh,” he said softly, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”
“It’s not-” Peter started, struggling to search for the right words and against feeling the weight of his own inadequacy. “It’s not you.”
“Yeah, no, sorry,” Harley interrupted him, waving a hand away dismissively. “That’s my bad.”
“No - I liked it. I just-” He blurted, and Harley’s eyes flicked back up to him. “It’s not you. I promise. It’s me.”
“Doesn't sound like it,” Harley muttered, settling back on the bed with an unhappy puff of air.
“It wouldn’t - this wouldn’t work,” Peter tried to explain as he turned to face Harley. “You don't even know who I am!”
“I don’t care,” Harley murmured, turning his head to stare at him with a look in his eyes that made Peter’s chest ache. “You’re Spider-Man. That’s enough for me.”
“It’s not enough for me,” Peter said quietly, standing. “I’m sorry. You deserve better than half a person. You deserve better than someone whose name you don't even know.”
Harley forced himself upright, frown twisting his lips. “Then tell me!” He snapped. “Tell me your first name! Or don’t! I don’t care . It doesn’t matter !”
Peter shook his head, a horrible feeling of guilt and misery swirling in his stomach. “It does,” he said softly, sadly, while refusing to meet Harley’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Without another word, Peter turned, pulling the window open and stepping onto the ledge. Harley stood frozen, watching as he climbed out. Peter hesitated for the briefest of moments, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back. He disappeared out of the window, leaving Harley alone in the empty room.