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Things have been...hectic, to say the least.
Harley keeps having to remind himself of that. It helps ease the guilt when he sees Peter’s disappointed face from missed lunches or sliding into bed late. If he opens up his calendar and sees it—a color coded mess of a family calendar that actually belongs to only him—he knows that practically, it’s fair. He has too much on his plate. He wants to make everyone happy, doesn’t want to disappoint, it’s just—
Sometimes, he does.
He doesn’t want to. He wants to make everyone’s lives easier, doesn’t want to feel like a burden, so he does a lot. So much. Too much, probably. But even when he’s doing everything he can possibly manage, losing sleep and working so fucking hard, he’s still can’t get it right. No amount of doing enough leads to being enough.
If he skips his call with Maggie to watch a movie with Peter, she’s upset.
If he skips a movie with Peter to talk to Maggie, Peter slinks off to their bedroom in a pout.
There’s never a win, is there?
“Get it together, Keener,” he mumbles to himself. He’s sitting in the lab, finally finished with some wiring in Peter’s suit and settling in to clean the joints of his own. Naturally, he’s cycling through everything that still needs to be done. He cleaned the apartment bathroom that morning, loaded the dishwasher, and took out the trash. He went to class, finished all of his school work on his schedule, turned in a big project. Lunch with Tony and Rhodey went really well, despite his overeating on the complementary table bread (in defense, it just kept coming and who was he to refuse?) and his time in the lab has been productive. He’s gotten through almost everyone’s suit upgrades, working so Tony can attend some important SI gala in Prague. It’s been so productive, in fact, that he thinks he’s going to be able to get home in time for a late night movie with Peter. A good kick off to a long weekend.
Except. Fuck. He’s supposed to go fix Betty’s washer tomorrow.
He’s so lost in thought (working the tweezers in his hands and his schedule in his mind) that he barely notices when Peter walks into the room, until his brain catches up with the tightness of his fiance's shoulders, the too hard set of his jaw, the crease of worry dissipating from between his eyes that shows minuscule relief. Harley sets aside the pieces to his suit and tries to decipher what's wrong.
“Peter,” he says weakly. It’s not even close to August or October, so no missed birthday or anniversary. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I-?” Peter groans, putting his hands to his hair. “What are you doing here? It’s after nine! The reservation was at seven.”
“What reserva-?” Fuck. Harley scrambles to pull up his calendar and is horrified to see there’s nothing there. “I forgot to write down May’s birthday dinner, and I got so caught up in the lab. Baby, I’m so sorry.”
Peter covers his face with his hands. “It’s fine. I was-you didn’t answer your phone. I was worried, but it makes sense you’d be here.”
“Peter.”
“It’s fine, Harley. I’ll see you at home.”
Peter turns to leave, and Harley shoots up from his desk enough to halt the other man’s steps. “No, please don’t leave, Peter, I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Peter says sharply. “I know you’re sorry, and you’re busy, and you have a lot going on. You’re always sorry and busy and have a lot going on.”
“If you know that, why do you say it like it's a shitty excuse?” Harley asks.
“And you knew that tonight was important because May’s going away for a year!”
“And I’ve been doing about five million other things, I’m sorry I forgot to write it down!”
“And your phone being on silent?”
“Peter, it was one missed dinner--”
“ It’s not one missed dinner, and you fucking know that!” Peter steps back as if he didn’t mean to yell. His chest is heaving. He looks tired, Harley realizes, about as tired as Harley feels all the time, and a fresh wave of guilt washes over Harley, prickling at his skin and rolling through his stomach. “Harley, it’s not just one missed dinner. It’s a bunch of missed dinners, it’s not speaking to you for more than two minutes before you walk out the door. It’s living in the same house and feeling alone, all the time. It’s me, looking like an absolute ass because I keep insisting that my fiance is going to show up, and he never does. It’s all of those things, Harley, all the time.”
Harley swallows down the urge to bow his head and cry for forgiveness. “That’s not fair, Peter. I have so many responsibilities. You know that. I fix the Avengers’ shit, I fix our shit, I help our friends and I have school, school work, I do my internship, and—”
“I know!” Peter wrings his hands as he walks closer. “But I’m so damn tired of being the last on this list, Harls. Why am I always last?”
“You aren’t, how can you even say that?”
“When was the last time you spoke to Maggie?”
“...three hours ago.”
“When was the last time you saw Tony?”
“Lunch today, with Rhodey.”
“When was the last time you saw Bruce or Sam, or Thor?”
“Three...three days ago.”
“And until right now, when I have to hunt you down to find you and talk to you, when was the last time you saw me?” Peter looks like he’s gonna cry. “And not when I was sleeping or when we were on a mission. When was the last time the two of us had some actual time together outside of the fucking field?”
Harley doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to tell Peter that he doesn’t have time for anything, that he can’t just push off the things expected of him. How does he tell Peter that he does what he does for a reason, that he doesn’t want to disappoint anybody, that he needs to be valuable and—
“You can’t even think of it. You can’t even remember how the last time we had an actual conversation was when you had a nightmare and we talked all night so you didn’t have to think about it. Seven weeks ago.”
Harley turns to hide his tears.
“Whatever,” Peter whispers. “I’m going to stay at the Leeds’s tonight.”
Harley’s head jerks back to his fiance. “Peter…”
“It’s just for tonight,” Peter tells him. A hand reaches out and cups Harley’s face. “I just...I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“I’ll be home—”
“When?”
Harley fidgets. “I just have a little cleaning on my suit to do—”
Peter’s hand slides from Harley’s face and squeezes his shoulder. “Goodnight, Harley.”
“Peter, please.” Harley reaches for him, but Peter uses that damned agility to slide from his grip and back up. “I’m—
“Sorry,” Peter huffs. “Yeah, I know. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harley. I love you.”
At least they have that. “I love you. And I’m…”
Sorry. Yeah, I know.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” he asks instead. He’s not going to push Peter when it’s clear a decision has been made. He stays where he is, hands shaking, wishing he could find the words he needs.
)-(
1:16 am and Peter’s still staring at the ceiling of Ned and Betty’s apartment.
He hates nights like these, where he sits and has to deal with the war between justified frustration and guilt.
On one hand, Peter feels like he’s right. His fiance is supposed to be someone he can spend time with. Relationships are meant to be nurtured with time and intention. They’re not to be set to the side, right?
One the other hand... Peter, how selfish can you be? Harley’s life doesn’t revolve around you, and you think that’s a problem?
His hands twist tightly into the blanket he's under and he groans.It's not like he wants all of Harley's time. Some of it would be nice, though. Even if the other man is running himself ragged—
Wait.
The thought brings an abrupt halt to his train of arguing. Even if the other man is running himself ragged. Peter turns it over in his mind.
Harley never forgets to do one of their shared chores.
He’s on the calendar to fix Betty and Ned’s washer.
He’s being groomed to be the new Tony, the new mechanic of the Avengers, one of the heirs to a massive enterprise.
He’s in his final semester of school.
He’s a superhero.
He’s a son, a brother, a dedicated friend.
He doesn’t have enough time in the day.
Peter? Peter is finished with school. His only duties outside of work are Avengers-related, and even that isn't too much for his plate. Things are relatively quiet for crime fighting. And while Peter is handy, he isn't mechanical like Harley. People don't think of him as the go to for those kinds of things. They immediately think of Harley.
Peter will also say no to people. Maybe they always ask Harley because, for some godforsaken reason, Harley just won't say no.
“Fuck,” he hisses. The war in his mind gives way to guilt, and the sourness of it sends his stomach rolling. “Fuck, Harley. ”
He scrambles to his feet. It only takes a few seconds to gather his overnight bag and phone charger. He tries to call Harley, thinking the other man is probably awake and in the lab (like he always is after a fight), but there’s no answer. With a muffled fuck for every step, he slaps on the bracelets that hold the nanotech of his suit and leaves his bag at the door.
Nanotech glides over his clothes and he settles into the feeling of his suit. Karen greets him as he shoots a hand out and prepares to fly through the city.
“Hey, Karen,” he says lightly. “Give a call to FRIDAY for me? Harley isn’t answering his phone, and I need to know where to look first, the lab or home.”
“Neither,” Karen replies. “Harley is on fourth and ninth dealing with a threat.”
“ What? !” Peter comes to a stop on the edge of a building, almost losing his footing. “Why wasn’t I notified?”
There’s a pause that Peter dreads. “Harley instructed the system not to call anyone. And, Peter, FRIDAY has just alerted me that he’s being transported to the tower hospital facility.”
“Why?”
“The threat is identified as a Doctor Oc--”
“What? He took on Doc Oc by himself? For how long? Why wasn’t anyone else there?”
“He insisted to FRIDAY that he could handle the situation himself. Harley has been fighting fo half an hour, except--”
Peter’s speed increases as he heads towards the tower. Karen doesn’t say anything else, and blood rushes in his ears. He needs to know more. “Karen, what else? What happened? ”
The pause as the systems communicate feels like a lifetime.
“Harley was thrown at a life-threatening velocity due to interference with his thrusters. FRIDAY believes it had to do with rust from neglectful cleaning."
“I’ll be home!”
“When?”
Harley fidgets. “I just have a little cleaning on my suit to do—”
Peter’s hand slides from Harley’s face and squeezes his shoulder. “Goodnight, Harley.”
Shit . After a fight, Harley either works his fingers to the bone in the lab, or can't focus enough to do it. The realization that he probably didn't clean his suit because he was worked up about Peter and their stupid fight sends Peter flying faster. He needs to see Harley, needs to make sure Harley's okay. Nothing matters more than that.
"Goddamn it," he hisses to himself, urging his arms to move more efficiently and frustrated when he can't make himself go faster. "Please be okay, please be okay —"
He makes it to the tower in record time—still not fast enough. He's crawling through the windows on the hospital floor, listening for where Harley might be located—
"We just need him to wake up," Peter heard Dr. Cho murmur. "Unfortunately, he hit his head rather hard and we simply don't know what will happen. It's so difficult to tell with these things."
Peter taps his wrists. The suit retracts as he hurries down the hall and towards a recovery suite. Dr. Cho startles when she sees him, but Tony simply holds out an arm. Peter ducks into it, head settling on Tony's shoulder and taking the physical support from his mentor.
“Besides the hit to his head, is there anything else? Is he okay?”
“From what we can tell, yes,” Dr. Cho tells him. “He’s a little bruised and battered, but the suit took most of the damage. When he wakes up, his recovery time will be minimal. Honestly, my prescription will be some pain meds and a hot bath.”
“So he’s okay,” Peter breathes.
“He’s okay,” she repeats. Looking between Tony and Peter, she offers a comforting smile. “I’ll leave you two with him for a bit. Call for me if anything changes.”
Once she leaves the room, Tony’s hand reaches for Peter’s hair. “What’s going on kid?”
"We fought," Peter croaks. Has he started crying? He must have, because Tony’s shirt is suddenly wet where his head lays. "I was upset with him for not spending time with me, and he didn't come to May's dinner, and I—god, I was so selfish. He's probably killing himself making everyone happy and I yelled at him."
"It's not selfish to want some time with your fiance," Tony tells him. "And even if it is, that's not bad, alright? Hear me loud and clear on that."
"But I yelled at him."
"So maybe there are better ways to communicate," Tony agrees. He squeezes Peter's shoulder. "You are right about something, though: Harley is probably killing himself making other people happy. When life gets busy, he doesn't know how to take care of himself."
"I've noticed."
"Yeah, but you've never experienced it this badly. Man, freshman year of high school was rough. I may have sent him to boarding school, but the kid was still doing everything for everyone else. It got so bad that his grades started slipping and his headmaster called saying his teachers were wanting to send him to the hospital. It isn't that bad yet, but I was beginning to wonder."
"Why doesn't he take care of himself?" Peter mutters. "Tell people no, take a day to himself, ask for help?"
"Because he doesn't know how," Tony says. "Nobody's ever taught him or let him have the chance. He's always been everybody's go to. It's something we have to teach him."
"How, though? How do I get him to take care of himself when he's not even home?"
"Pete." Tony pulls back. "I love you and I'm not trying to be hurtful. But you just gotta try harder. There's nobody that Harley loves more than you. If anyone can get him out of the lab, get him a sandwich and some sex and sleep, it's gonna be you. He'd do anything for you."
Peter knows Tony is right—his brain is already filing away ideas on how to get Harley home: things he can say to people to divert their needs to others; what can wait a day or two. They're going to be married, so...why not have a shared calendar? Harley follows the calendar religiously. Peter can implement time for Harley to have to himself. Can make sure he eats and sleeps and rests.
This isn't about him and moping around because he wants time with Harley. This is about Harley and his well-being.
Tony ruffles Peter's curls and drops from the embrace. "Have some time with him. I'm going to go grab some coffee, but you should get some sleep."
Peter looks to Harley in the bed. He wants to talk to his fiance's sleeping form. He wants to apologize and maybe cry and find some way to ensure that he wakes the hell up. There's no way the last memory they have together is going to be Peter walking away.
"This is my fault," he whispers, mostly to himself. One of his hands reaches forward and links with Harley's--it feels cold, and it makes Peter's stomach roll. "I'm so sorry, baby, I know that I seemed angry, and I...I was. But you have to wake up to hear about how sorry I am, and how things are going to be different from now on. We can especially talk about how you will clean every fucking nook and cranny in your suit before you touch mine. I mean...honestly, I should have never made you feel bad about doing that. God, I—damn it. I should be saying this to you, awake and mad at me, and...hopefully forgiving. I love you, Harley.
"So just...please, okay? Please wake up."
)-(
Harley wakes up to the smell of coffee. Tony is standing over him, smirk in place behind the curve of his mug.
"Figures," the older man shakes his head. "You're a cliche, Keener."
"Excuse you?" Ouch, it actually hurts to talk.
"You've woken up twice now, and it looks like this one is gonna stick. Third time's the charm, and it's my Columbian roast that does it."
"You're an ass," Harley grunts. "Water?"
Dr. Cho moves into his line of sight. His mind is clear enough to note where he is, to close his hand around the cold glass being pressed into it, to focus on Dr. Cho’s expectant smile.
"We're glad to see you awake, Harley," she says. “I’ll go let Peter know.”
Tony snorts and nudges the good doctor. “He already knows, Helen. Best for us to stay back if Harley’s okay.”
“Everything looks good.”
Tony and Dr. Cho have barely left the room when Peter comes sliding in. He’s dressed in pajamas, sock covered feet counteracting his reflexes as he scrambles to a stop. He looks a little pale, a little tired, and barely restrained. “Harley, you’re... hey .”
“Come on, darlin’,” Harley offers quietly, hesitantly, arms opening. “It’s okay.”
Peter leaps across the empty space and dives into Harley’s arms. His words are a babble of “I love you” and “I’m so sorry baby, I am so sorry” and “This is all my fault.” Harley runs his hands down Peter’s back and does his best or reassure him. This only seems to upset Peter more, who makes garbled noise and pulls back.
“Harley, you...you shouldn’t be comforting me right now. I’m so sorry."
"No, I…" Harley lets his forehead meet Peter's. "I'm okay, honey. I should be apologizing too, you had every right to be upset—
"No, I couldn't see that you weren't taking care of yourself—"
"That's not your responsibility—"
"I'm your life partner, Harls, I should have been paying attention and doing more—"
"We both should have been doing more," Harley settles on. Peter agrees, his hands twisting into the blankets at Harley's side. "I love you, Peter, and you are a priority in my life. I'm going to treat you like it, I swear."
"And you, Harley Keener, are loved," Peter tells him in return. "You are cared for, and I'm going to make you know that. I promise you that."
"Sounds like a deal," Harley says. "Do you think I could kiss you now?"
Peter was always better at action over words, anyway.