i know cpr
Harley’s heart races. He runs over to the crumpled pile that is this guy on the floor and gives him a once-over.
“Fri, can you run a scan on whoever this is?”
“Spiderman. Heart rate is inconsistent and he appears to have a broken rib.”
Spiderman. Harley remembers that name. He came blitzing over the news last night after a fire in - Queens, maybe? Brooklyn? And Tony had mentioned that name before, too, during one of his long rants about the idiots he works with. Does that make Spiderman an Avenger? This guy isn’t what he imagined. Scrawny for a superhero.
“Uh, tell Tony to prep the med wing. No spine damage? Can I pick him up?”
“He has no spine damage. If you can carry him to the elevator, Mr. Keener, I will bring you to the medical floor. If you cannot, I can request Captain Rogers. Spiderman has requested that I not tell Sir about his injuries in the past.”
That would be one hell of a way to meet Captain America.
“Why? Why shouldn’t Tony know?”
“The last time Spiderman returned to the Tower with similar injuries, Sir gave him a lecture.”
Harley looks down at the guy in front of him. He’s not beat up too bad, honest. Harley’s seen himself with worse. And a broken rib, well, there’s no cast for that, he would know. Years spent in hospitals have prepared him for this.
“Alright, Spidey. Guess it’s just me and you tonight.” He sighs. As he wets a washcloth and finds the peroxide, he chats to this room. It’s a weird fucking night. He sits on the ground next to the vigilante. He doesn’t quite know where to start. This guy deserves privacy. Harley reaches out and pulls the smooth fabric above Spiderman’s mouth. onto the bridge of his nose. He looks just like every other white guy Harley’s ever seen. Definitely on the young side, though, because there’s no stubble or sharp jaw. He doesn’t see any blood on the top half of his face, seeping through the mask. It’s more like he just collapsed exhausted here, with the way his knees are brought to his chest and hands tucked beneath his head. “Y’know, I’m only here for a month, and I’ve already wound up back home. You picked the right place to pass out. With the one guy here who doesn’t know or care who you are. Vigilantes are a pretty New York thing, right? I mean, it’s not like there’s a dude named Spiderman running around Tennessee.”
“Not that it wouldn’t be nice, though, having someone to save the day. All of New York is weird. Rose Hill, that’s where I’m from, is weird. I think it’s me. I think I’m the one carrying it around. There’s a kid here, Peter, I think he’s with his aunt tonight, but he’s just different. Good different. Still different, though. It’s hard to explain. You probably understand. I don’t think a dude in a glorified onesie who goes around fighting crime has had an easy life. Maybe I’ll get into whatever this is. Maybe, if I lived up here, I would. Not that I have any time to do that shit.” He pulls a series of butterfly bandages across a cut on Spidey’s cheek. His skin is soft. Light from the city outside catches his lips gently. He’s beautiful, in a bloodied and bruised way.
“My ma has cancer, you know. Ain’t a book out there that teaches a 16 year old how to deal with a terminal parent. But I see these kids out here, man, and they’re living a different life. I saw a group of girls get into a Maserati. I didn’t even know what that was. Back home, it’s just me, Mom, and my sister, Rosie. Rosie’s only 12. Mom’s sick and working herself to the bone. All the rest falls on me. I barely have time to breathe, nonetheless deal with all of what you do. Getting hurt, fighting, all that legal shit. I sometimes think it would be nice to have a secret identity. I want a break from being Harley sometimes, you know? I want to be able to go to New York and not have to worry about my mom getting to treatment on time tomorrow. I want to walk around town without getting harassed. I want my parents to go to my high school graduation. I want some of that weight off my shoulders.”
“And I don’t want my sister to worry about all that, either. I want her to have a childhood like the kids up here, the Maserati girls. I want her to have an easy life. She deserves that, you know? Being a Keener is a curse. We’re not meant for good things. My father left, my mother has maybe a year left, and I’m here cleaning up a vigilante. I’ve given up on that for myself, yeah, but Rosie has a future ahead of her. She’s smart and kind and way too mature. I wish she didn’t have to be. I know why I have to be. I’m the older brother. And since my dad’s not in the picture, I’m supposed to be the ‘man of the house.’ What even is that? I’m only a kid, honest, but I’m not? Ugh. I sound delirious. Good thing you’re, well, unconscious. Tony might kill me for not taking you up to the medical floor. I don’t care. I’ve spent enough of my life caring for everyone around me. Ain’t no one in my life that’s gonna come around to save me.” He can at least choose to do this, right? It’s not like the illusion of choice he has back home. He could have brought this Spiderman guy up to the med wing.
But he’s here.
He’s here because this is where he wants to be.
The next day, Tony doesn’t say anything about Spiderman. Harley called his mom and Rosie that morning. The homefront is being held down like water in Rosie’s small hands. And Morgan found Harley again, so he’s building a 5-year-old appropriate contraption with her. Peter’s on the other side of the room. He’s, apparently, just doing straight up math. He has his whole life to live here. Harley’s going to soak up all that is New York while he can. This includes Morgan yanking around his fingers as he tries to make a puzzle toy for her.
“Mommy says I shouldn’t be in the lab.” Morgan quips nonchalantly as if the wrath of Pepper Potts isn’t a force to be reckoned with.
“Why not?” As long as Morgan’s talking, she’s marginally easier to monitor. Her endless energy is more focused. And she likes talking. She gets that from Tony.
“It’s dangerous. And she says that Daddy says some things I shouldn’t hear in here.” Harley snorts at that. “Why can you go in here?”
“Well, princess, I’m a little bit older than you. Back home, I have my own lab. I know how to be safe.”
“And your mommy lets you play in the lab?” Before Harley can respond, she starts again. “Why isn’t your mommy here?”
For a moment, a fleeting moment, Peter and Harley make eye contact. There’s something in Peter’s brown eyes - I will interrupt if you need me to. He’s probably assumed by now that Harley is walking out of something back home. And, as much as he wants to say yes, please, save me from this conversation, he doesn’t. That’ll just make things more complicated.
“Princess, you know my mom’s sick. She’s back at home right now so she can get her medicine.”
“How long will she be sick?”
Is now the time to explain a terminal diagnosis to a child? Harley looks up to Peter, just about ready to accept that silent offer. But as soon as they make eye contact, Peter looks away, almost ashamed.
“I don’t know, princess. But let’s get back to this, shall we?”
Morgan is more than ready to get her little fingers on this toy. Their conversation fizzles back into the chatter that’s specific to someone trying to follow the reasoning of a small child. And Peter keeps stealing glances at Harley, but it’s not something he can decipher. Having friends is like trying to speak a language that you grew up in, that you were expected to learn and love and connect with, but stumbling over the unfamiliar words.
But, he’s learning.