Chapter Text
To be completely fair, Peter hadn’t meant to arrive at the battle just as the Avengers did. In fact, he usually did everything he could to avoid it. He didn’t want to have to deal with the snide remarks and the absent-minded attacks that they always sent his way. Didn't want to have to fight off two sources of attacks at once: one set of attacks coming from the guys who were supposed to be on his side, and the other from the actual enemies. He especially didn’t want to miss the appointment he had made with the homeless shelter down in Queens. They were only serving Thanksgiving dinner from five to seven, and that was one of his favorite meals they offered. And yet, according to the giant, yet rather helpful clocks displayed on one of the glowing billboards surrounding him, the time was approaching 6:30. With the vicious way both of his enemies were attacking him, he knew he wasn’t getting out of this any time soon.
When Peter had arrived on the scene, he could hear the various expletives coming from the team of heroes on the other end of the street—a sure sign that the team had clocked his presence.
“Howdy, folks!” he greeted amicably, though he knew it was pointless. “Anyone wanna explain why we’re currently fighting an army of weaponized and rather overgrown Sea Monkeys?”
Much to his chagrin, he only received exasperated grumbles in response. Which made sense, seeing as the team of heroes didn't particularly favor him.
The Avengers had been trying (and failing miserably) to get a hold of him for almost a year now. From what he could gather, SHIELD had deemed him such a perilous threat that they had sent the Avengers to bring him in. Of course, by “bring him in," they meant “beat him so far down into the ground that eventually he is so near death that you are able to take him to us so we can interrogate and perform experiments on him.” Or something. While he couldn’t help but think that being such a high level threat to SHIELD was something of a compliment, torture would not really help his current circumstances.
Tony Stark’s order of, “Nat, handle Spider-Man, would ya?” brought Peter back to the present.
“On it,” Romanov replied. In an instant, she was at Peter’s side delivering barely-avoided kicks to his relatively (read: extremely) frail body.
He hadn't always been this frail, but since May died about a year and a half ago, Peter had been relatively on his own. Well, that was if you didn't count the hell that was his first and only foster home. He got out of that shit shack a little too late for comfort, but it was hard to develop an escape plan with his foster father, Richard, constantly breathing down his neck. Once he was on the streets, it was even harder to find a source of food for his stupid insane metabolism than it was in that house. His body and health deteriorated way too quickly for his liking, and that was before he had injuries inflicted by the Avengers to heal alongside his nightly patrol injuries. Peter’s survival was fueled purely by the need to help others—and spite, of course.
Spider-Man might've been frail, but at least his Spidey Sense was still intact; it was pinging like crazy, forcing him to constantly turn between Romanov and the weird-ass alien like some sick form of hokey pokey.
“You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around,” Peter mumbled, “that's what it's all about! Hey!” He delivered a particularly hard kick to the shrimp fuckhead on his final shout and sent it flying into the street, where it bounced once, twice, three times before it came to a rest and promptly shattered like broken glass. “Oh, God, that's so weird, why do they do that, what the hell.”
As soon as the alien was gone, New York's miniature version of Iron Man replaced it, jumping in with, “I know right? Freaks me out every time."
Iron Lad wasn't much of an improvement if Peter was honest, because this kid had blasters. Blasters that would be pretty damn painful and at least a little difficult to avoid, if Peter's experience with Iron Man was anything to go by. Why make the already dangerous blasters more dangerous by giving them to a teen?
(Of course Peter knew Iron Lad was a kid, specifically one 17-year-old named Harley Keener. Stark's A.I., which had been just as hard to hack as Peter had anticipated, told him that Harley had moved into the Avengers tower close to six months ago from his home in Tennessee. The teen was currently enrolled in Midtown. Maybe he knew some of Peter's old classmates.) (Also, the dumbass had Lad in his name. If Harley wanted to maintain any form of a mature hero persona, he shouldn’t blatantly state that he was a literal child. Come on, didn’t Harley learn that in How To Be A Teenage Superhero 101?)
Iron Lad aimed a repulsor blast at Peter’s head, which he dodged just in time for it to only hit his right shoulder. He made no sound, despite the intense searing pain that would've knocked anyone else off their feet. Peter couldn't show weakness in front of his attackers, he couldn't show them that they actually affected him. Giving that away in turn meant giving them hope that they could capture him. So Peter made no sound.
“Iron Lad,” Romanov chastised, refusing to use his real name, “we all told you to keep away from Spider-Man. You know he’s dangerous.”
She threw three knives at Peter in rapid succession, all but one he dodged before rolling away from her next attack. One of the knives had lodged itself into his side, and boy, Peter was not jazzed about that. He let out a quiet hiss before he composed himself, ready for the next attack.
Iron Lad flew to the other side of Peter so that he was fighting next to the ex-spy as he groaned, “Nat, come on! I am in a literal suit of armor. I’m fine, and I will remain so.”
Romanov rolled her eyes. “You’ve seen what he’s done to Tony’s armor. The same thing could happen to you,” she told him, saying it like she'd said it a million times before. Peter smirked when he thought about how that meant they must've talked about him often. That smirk stayed on his masked face as he flipped over Romanov so he could web her to the stop sign they had been fighting near. She didn't even struggle, knowing from experience that it was impossible to get out of his webbing.
He turned back around to see Harley running, rather slowly might he add, towards him. Seriously, why would Iron Lad run when he could just fly a little?
“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you guys?” Peter shouted over his shoulder while trying to find the weak spots in Harley’s armor that wouldn’t cause him any pain. “I don’t want to hurt any of you! You’re the ones hurting me.”
That seemed to be a common theme in Peter's life.
Harley hesitated slightly before he told Peter, “We are under orders from SHIELD to bring you in.”
Great. It's not like Peter had heard that a million times before.
Peter jumped and spun through the air over Harley to rip out a panel on his neck, effectively powering down his suit in one fell swoop. The move was addmittedly based in luck; Peter had simply hoped that Iron Lad's control unit was in the same place as Iron Man's. Sometimes Parker Luck played in his favor.
He quickly webbed him to the side of the building close to Romanov, and began a slow approach towards the other teen. He totally did not revel in the sound of Iron Lad's quickening heart rate.
“And what fine lap dogs you guys are,” Peter retorted, Harley's words still itching at Peter's sense of logic. “Maybe if you thought for yourselves for once, you'd notice how we're both fighting against the same villain of the week? But no, you guys have to bring in one of the most valuable assets New York has to protect them from whatever fuckers decide to torment this godforsaken city.”
Peter took a breath, gathering his composure, and started to back away from where he'd gotten rather close to Harley. “I don't even know why I try to explain this anymore. It won't ever sink in with you guys.”
He let his webs grab hold of a building across the street, and flung himself away before the boy could respond.
Peter swung to a building where his own A.I., Karen, detected several heat signatures. Karen had been a valuable asset in battle ever since he created her back when he was trying to figure out the inner workings of being a random arachnid-themed superhero. He was a bit lonely at the time because he hadn’t told anyone about his alter-ego quite yet. He made her to be a sort of confidant for him, along with actually being able to help him in battle. He could rely on her not only for the intricacies of vigilantism, but as something of a friend.
Was that sad? That was kind of sad, wasn't it.
“Karen, show me where my new friends are,” Peter instructed, not taking the time to debate the level of self-pity he deserved.
“There are currently four heat signatures on the second floor, so I would recommend getting up there as fast as you can,” she replied.
He was already in the building. This posed an awkward question not many people thought about: should he use the stairs or the elevator to get to the civilians? Like seriously, which was faster? He knew that the stairs were safer during a fire, but what about an alien invasion? He decided on the stairs, if only because of the mental image of listening to elevator music on the way to get civilians out of a building that had a small chance of surviving the battle.
Peter ran up the stairs to get to the second floor and allowed the four people he found to stick to him in any way they could. Since it was only the second floor, he figured it was easiest to just jump out one of the windows. There were yelps of shock and fear as they quickly flew through the air, but they quieted by the time he landed and sent them off to go in the opposite direction of the fight. He could only hope he would not later find one in the midst of battle—sometimes civilians had hero complexes to rival Peter's own.
Once he saw that no civilians were coming back, he climbed up to and slipped into one of the third story windows to repeat the process.
By the time he was on the final floor, Karen had warned Peter that the structural integrity of the building was, as he had predicted, not doing so hot. He ran through the halls of the last floor, throwing anyone he saw over his shoulder. In the end, it was only three people, all of whom had apparently been watching him rush out of the building with the other civilians. Why they hadn’t made his job easier and gone down at least a floor, he didn’t know. Civilians could be insanely clueless.
Since he was currently on the 10th floor of the building, he had to get down to a lower level to safely get them out of one of the windows. He all but flew down the stairs until he could feel the building shaking. He looked up to see that they were on the fifth floor. That would have to do.
He jumped out of the first window he saw, and deployed one of his web bombs below him. He heard the fwump that indicated it had exploded into what was essentially a huge mattress made out of webs.
They landed on the sticky cushion and looked up to see the structural supports of the building finally give up. It slowly crumbled to the ground, and Peter heard one of the civilians he was holding onto start crying. That was pretty valid. He set them on the ground and turned to face all of them.
“Go to an open area far away from here,” he instructed, “and wait until you don't hear the tell tale sound of aliens getting their asses kicked to come back.”
They all nodded and sent a few grateful acknowledgements his way.
Peter heaved a deep sigh, and looked at the ground surrounding the dilapidated building. There were dozens of shattered aliens on the ground, and he startled when he saw Captain America fling yet another towards the mess. Rogers was the demise of the poor building—Peter should have seen that coming.
Peter reentered the fight, but it was coming to a close. There were only a few handfuls of Sea Monkeys left, and thank fuck for that. The shoulder wound from Harley was still aching, and the blood loss from, you know, being stabbed was starting to get to him as his adrenaline wore off. He really missed when his super healing was up to par. If it were, his blast wound would have been healing over by now. Something about not eating for a couple days really messed with his metabolism, but seeing as he was missing Thanksgiving dinner to be here, he'd have to struggle with these wounds for a while longer yet.
As Peter’s current sparring mate shattered, he looked around to see that the Avengers were quickly overpowering their own battles. That meant that in a few minutes, he was going to have to fight the adults once again.
Instead of putting up with that bullshit, he chose to launch himself into the air towards home, wary of jostling his injuries.
As he passed the spot where Romanov and Harley should have been, there was only melted webbing. He wasn't going home quite yet, then.
He landed to inspect his mess of webs, trying to ignore the rancid smell of burned webs. Stark must have come by to free his teammates. God only knows how long it took him to melt through Peter's webs, but knowing himself and his inventions, it must have been pretty damn long.
He once again departed the battlefield, only to be stopped not a minute later. There was a boy leaned up against the side of a building about a block down. But he knew it wasn’t a civilian—Harley Keener was slumped over, with the parts that composed his helmet on the ground next to him. He looked exhausted, and Peter didn't think that he was the one who caused that. After all, the only thing that he did was disable the weaponry on the other's suit.
Peter landed and approached the boy silently, not quite knowing what his plan was. Harley had his eyes closed, and oh God was he dead, but no, Peter could hear the boy’s pulse beating steadily. Harley didn't notice the vigilante’s presence until he was squatted right beside him.
Harley flinched slightly, and his eyes shone with fear. The sight made Peter’s heart ache. And his shoulder. And his torso. Holy fuck, he was in so much pain. But another look at Harley’s undeniably attractive face told him to ignore his own blaster wound from the boy, and let go of the words that had bothered him so much not 15 minutes ago, because Peter could handle himself. Harley needed help.
“C’mon man,” Peter chuckled quietly, “I told you I wasn't in the business of hurting people. Not really my style. I’m here to help.”
Harley looked skeptical to say the least, and he still didn't say anything. So, while he waited for Harley to realize that he couldn’t help himself in his state, Peter sat on the ground a few feet away from him.
Every now and then, Harley would shift slightly, and with that came a groan. Peter internally cursed the wounded boy, because fucking hell, he was trying to help! Peter himself had cuts lining his legs from whatever weapons those Sea Monkeys had, along with a blast wound and a goddamn knife in his side that he was resolutely ignoring.
Peter sighed as he watched another bead of sweat drip down Harley’s face, despite the chill in the air. He came to a decision and slowly crept forward, with his hands held up by his face. It felt like approaching a wild animal, and it didn't hurt any less the second time Harley flinched. His hands came to a stop right above the arc reactor, and he froze. Peter didn’t want to do anything further without Harley’s permission. Harley saw him as the enemy, no matter what Peter was going to do to help him. But when he looked up, a question of consent on his lips, Harley’s face had become infinitely calmer. His eyes were still wary, his expression still guarded, but he gave a reluctant nod for Peter to remove his suit. Relief flooded Peter’s body. Finally.
When he tapped the arc reactor, the suit fell off Harley’s body to form a neat little box on the ground. Peter looked at the other teen's body and came to the conclusion that Harley must not have been very used to getting hurt (which was fair, seeing as Harley was just a teenager. No, Peter was not a hypocrite.) His visible injuries didn’t look that serious, just bruising on his arms. Of course, the injuries underneath his clothing could have been a bit worse.
Before he began his first-aid, he listened for the Avengers a few blocks down, and noted that it still sounded like they were fighting. There must have been more Sea Monkeys than he saw before he left. Whatever, the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes could handle a few more glass-like shrimp bitches while Peter took care of one of their own.
“Karen, run a scan,” he mumbled. He could see the confusion in Harley’s eyes before a light from his mask briefly shined on Harley’s battered body.
“Iron Lad has one bruised rib, a minor concussion, two minor lacerations across his torso, several small cuts on his face, and light bruising across his body,” Karen replied.
Peter nodded and looked up to Harley in a silent question to take off his shirt, to which Harley nodded hesitantly. He produced a small first-aid kit he kept nestled in his suit—don't ask him how, a magician never revealed their secrets—and got to work.
While he was patching Harley up, Peter thought about how many times he had done so on himself. The last time was not even two days ago, from when he had to spare some of his limited sewing materials in order to stitch up a stab wound he received that night on patrol. Not a very kind gift, he had to say.
Peter was used to having to put himself back together, seeing as he'd been doing so for years. His best friend, Ned, had never done so because Peter hadn't let him. Peter knew it'd probably be traumatic to see your friend's blood on your hands. Actually, it was definitely traumatic—he would know. But soon after the Homecoming Fiasco, Ned had moved away. To Colorado. Where he wouldn't be stitching Peter up any time soon.
A bit after Ned left, there was...an incident. Peter wasn't able to—Peter couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save MJ, didn’t make it fast enough couldn’t save her couldn’t get her blood off his hands couldn't save—
May was killed in a car accident three months after MJ died. And then it was into the foster system with Peter, where he met Richard. And, well.
Here he was, finishing cleaning the cuts on Harley’s face.
Peter was thankful for the mask because when he realized he was almost sitting on top of Harley to reach his face, all his blood immediately rushed to his cheeks. He hurriedly jumped up, an apology and goodbye on his tongue when his wrist was grabbed and he flinched on instinct. The hand was then pulled away, with a single word uttered with it.
“Stay?”
Peter finally looked down to see Harley Fucking Keener, Iron Lad, the boy who had caused his shoulder to be throbbing all night, looking away with a slight tint to his cheeks. Peter opened and closed his mouth, no sound coming out.
And he sat back down.
And they sat in silence for who knew how long. Long enough for the Avengers to finish fighting, apparently, because Peter eventually heard them approaching quickly, calling out Harley’s name.
Peter moved to get up again, recognizing his time to escape, but hesitated. Then, mindful of his own injuries, he idiotically swooped down to wrap his arms around Harley.
Why? Who's to say. Peter could say the hug was for himself as much as it was for Harley's injured state.
The other boy froze, but before Peter could pull back to apologize, he felt arms slowly reach up and around him, and he could have cried. Scratch that, Peter totally cried. Iron Lad's ginger hold was Peter's first hug in...too long. The first time he had non-violent physical contact in just as long.
His skin was ablaze.
But as soon as he had started the completely unprompted hug, Peter ended it—the yells of the Avengers were getting closer, and he knew it was time to go. So, ready to depart for what felt like the sixth time, he nodded at Harley, who just stared back with the most confused (and slightly concerned?) expression one could manage.
Peter flung himself through the air to escape both the Avengers and Harley's eyes, and ow ow ow shit why did I do that what the fuck holy shit I hugged him why the fuck did I hug him shit shit ow there is still a knife in my body ow.
Peter rounded the corner of a storefront a few buildings down and watched as the hoard of Avengers surrounded Harley, bombarding him with questions and concerned badgering.
Harley ignored the clamoring and looked straight at Peter, as if he could see through Peter's mask. Peter held his gaze once more before he swung away into the cold November night.